The Severance (Too Jung to Die: The Conclusion)

Nheshe's right hand instinctively raised as the gun fired.*

*Since its social mechanisms were still infantile, not having matured beyond that of a toddler, the betrayal of the androgyn's assumptive notion that it could trust this person made its pale pink blood boil. It wasn't Nheshe's fault...feelings were neither good not bad, they were just feelings (as Father Renfield would have consolingly declared).

The raised right hand (skin protected by an organic de-magnetic epidermis) deflected the bullet, and despite the frantic inaccuracy with which the shot was fired, the deflection sounded out a perfect, dreadfully harmonious “wheeessshhh”, sending the bullet into a perfect ricochet, which one might argue appeared to be an immaculately orchestrated piercing of Andrew's heart (no metaphor here).

Andrew sunk back into his recliner, and focused all of his shock-laden adrenaline on breathing steadily as he felt numbness begin to envelop his body.

Nheshe's left hand dropped the telephone as it began to weep acidic tears almost immediately. It knew there was nothing it could do to save the poor young man, since, in its current state of non-completion, super-humanoid development was still shy of any applicable medical knowledge or ability.

It emphatically apologized, and began to feel a harrowing new wave of a negative emotion it was unfamiliar with.

Nheshe's mind was racing as it frantically thought of anything it could do to remedy the situation. There was one particular skill it had going for it: its reading skills were far superior to any other known physical being, since it could blow through an entire book in a matter of minutes (often seconds), retaining at least a good 90% of the material in its memory.

Upon a careful scan, Nheshe recognized most of the books on Andrew's shelf (mostly theoretical metaphysics or fantastical fiction)...but there was a particular one it wasn't familiar with.

“What's this one, sir?”

Andrew looked up and saw Nheshe holding a Bible.

“Don't...that...won't help you...”

Nheshe's detected a hesitant modesty in the dying man's voice. It flipped through (/read) the entire thing from cover-to-cover in 94 seconds flat. A deeper, more overwhelming sense of guilt washed over it.**

Nheshe ran to the kitchen and grabbed a large knife (Andrew, though baffled, didn't have the energy to panic at the sight of this). Nheshe gripped the knife with its left hand, raising it high above its head as it placed its right hand on the counter. The knife came down quick and hard, penetrating the creature's thick skin, and severing Nheshe's hand from its body.

** “And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. For it is better that you lose one of your members than that your whole body go into hell.” Matthew 5:30

As his physical senses were reaching their full diminishment, Andrew expected to feel the shedding of some final tears...but apparently they were all getting hogged by that damned alien.

THE END

Nheshe (Too Jung to Die, Part II)

*KNOCK...KNOCK...KNOCK*

Andrew finally worked up enough courage to peek through the window.

Outside stood an androgynous looking man that appeared to have just been through a plastic surgery nightmare.

“Sir? Sir? Can you please open up? I know it's very late and I may look strange, but please, please give me a chance to speak with you. It's important...I honestly mean you no harm.”

Given the desert atmosphere he lived in and the fact that he'd already crossed the threshold of showing his visible presence, Andrew had no choice but to open the door.

“Oh, sir! Thank you, thank you sir!”

The “man”'s voice had a strange echo, as though his twin vocal cords were individually battling to be heard, each in their own distinct tone.

As the strange person swiftly pushed his way through the front door and gently shut it behind him, he burst forth a sigh (practically a gasp) of relief.

“I truly apologize for barging in here, but I'm afraid I didn't have much of a choice...”

The static of Art Bell's radio program fizzled out as Andrew's trembling hand made a (failed) nonchalant attempt to turn the volume knob to minimum during his strategic backsteps towards the recliner. “...what is this?!” he squawked.

“Oh my, you've been listening to Mr. Bell's program, haven't you?”

“What do you care?”

“That means you must have heard that desperate rant from my father.”

“Your...father?”

“Well, he's not a 'father' in the sense that you know the term...but he made me. And as it so happens, he ran off before I was finished.”

“Would you mind explaining...”

“My name is Nheshe. Regrettably I don't know too many details about how it all works, since I'm theoretically little more than a child, but I am what you would call a “work in progress.” My father, Dr. Renfield, was working on what they call a “Cook” of me before he was let go. However, before withdrawing he set me free, even though I had no desire to leave. He betrayed me...left me incomplete...I had so much yet to learn, and see...my skin isn't even done!”

Peach-colored residue dripped from Nheshe's hand as he held it out. Andrew also noticed that the creature's oddly placed eyebrows seemed to be gradually sinking beneath its moist skin.

“Now please, if I could only use your telephone...”

Nheshe frantically turned his gaze in every-which direction, before landing his glowing eyes on what appeared to be a phone-set on the kitchen counter. He approached it with modest urgency.

Andrew statuesquely stood by his recliner, as though his feet were nailed to the floor. The deteriorating atrocity before him was too much to behold. He discreetly inched his left fingers through the ajar drawer in his tea table, grabbing his pistol.

He pointed it towards the greasy, nervous entity, clenching his teeth as he fired.

Nheshe looked furious.

TO BE CONCLUDED...

Too Jung to Die

(The following is based on true events and contains excerpts from an actual radio broadcast)

Date/Time: September 10^th, 1997, 11:47pm

Location: Desert residence, outskirts of Reno, Nevada

After the thunderstorm caused a power outage, Andrew passed his time in a fluffy recliner, soon dozing off to sleep with his left thumb securely bookmarking a pulpy paranoid sci-fi paperback. On the table next to him lay a battery-powered lamp, a his mom's old clock radio, and a copy of The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche (Carl Jung).

//BUZZ, CLICK!\\

The power popped back on around 1:15 am, jarringly waking Andrew from near-REM level sleep. The kitchen lights seemed far too bright, and the radio was tuned into Art Bell's Coast to Coast AM (one of Andrew's famous pastimes during his occasional bouts of insomnia).

Tonight's broadcast was something rather unforgettable indeed, since a very frantic caller fought through a mesh of powerful static:

"I don't have a whole lot of time...um...I was a former employee of Area 51...let go on medical discharge a week ago...and...(crying)...don't know WHERE to start...they'll triangulate on this position really soon...

What we're thinking of as Aliens ...they're EXTRA-DIMENSIONAL BEINGS...an earlier precursor of the SPACE PROGRAM MADE CONTACT WITH...uh...NOT what they claim to be...INFILTRATED...the MILITARY ESTABLISHMENT...DISASTERS that are coming...the GOVERNMENT knows about them....and there's...SAFE AREAS in this WORLD THAT THEY COULD BEGIN MOVING THE POPULATION TO...but they...THEY WANT THE MAJOR POPULATION CENTERS WIPED OUT SO THAT THE FEW THAT ARE LEFT WILL BE MORE EASILY CONTROLLABLE....(crying, breaking up more)...I started getting..."

Silence. The broadcast went dead. Andrew tried not to freak out, considering the storm...but he soon realized that the lights were all on...an insinuation that the electricity was fine.

He turned the radio to other stations, and none worked. Perhaps it was a short-circuit from a surge? He tested another radio in the bedroom, but it was also on the fritz.

After what felt like an eternal auditory blackout (though it was only two minutes), both radios simultaneously popped back on, and there was an echo of Art Bell apologizing for the radio silence, and a baffled attempt to explain what may have happened. (For some reason) Bell's conspiratorial ramblings this evening seemed all the more convincing.

*KNOCK...KNOCK...KNOCK*

It was 1:30 in the morning, in the middle of the desert, but those deafening knocks could have easily been confused for gunshots.

Andrew stared at the front door, which, at a mere 20 feet away, in that particular moment seemed larger and more ominous than any door he'd seen, or even imagined, in his life.

 *BANG!*
 Andrew was promptly jarred out of what one would assume to be pure catatonia by another tremendously loud noise.

He jumped back and looked down at the Jung book, which had just dropped and (perhaps mockingly) opened itself to the page he'd extensively highlighted earlier that evening regarding synchronicity, and the defeat of assumed coincidence.

Andrew shut his eyes tightly and prayed that this was a dream.  Just then, there were three longer, stronger knocks at the front door.

TO BE CONTINUED

Son of a Bench

Christopher Brentley (age 37), in his charcoal-colored suit, took a seat at an empty bench beneath the atrium of a suspiciously quiet bakery. As he gently lay his suitcase down on the empty spot to his right, he noticed for the first time that one of the latches was broken (though the hook was still secure enough to keep it from popping open). After despondently attempting to mend the broken latch through brute force, Christopher immediately likened himself to a young boy attempting to fit a tubular block through a star-shaped hole, for, despite knowing that this would yield no success, he vented his frustrations by inflicting wrath upon inanimate objects.

This strangely triggered a sequence of seemingly arbitrary memories. Reminiscences these were not:

Age 8,

MOTHER:
“Honey, please swallow this. You won't get any better without it.”

Age 13,

TEACHER:
“If you don't score a 70% or higher on this exam, we can't let you participate in the Yellowstone trip.”

Age 34,

(EX-)WIFE:
“Of all the things you could have possibly done to destroy this...What are you, a child?!”

___________________________

Perhaps it's worth mentioning that Christopher's suit was stolen from a dumpster 8 hours prior, and it had 4 obvious tears: one in the left shoulder, two in the back, and one through the right pocket's bottom.

Mr. Brentley made a very conscious decision to ignore the thrift store employee's warnings as he tossed the (now acquired) mangled attire into a dumpster.

The contents of Christopher's badly scuffed burgundy suitcase were several dozen bundles of play-money. He frivolously tossed the suitcase off the bench (worthless green papers dispersing in the wind), and after a moment's reflection, he sorely lay down upon the bench (/his bed).

Common logic won't necessarily let us tie Christopher's' current failures to a simple phrase inciting a provocation of disobedience 29 years earlier, but that doesn't stop Chris himself from doing so.

--(Who cares if it was just medicine?)--

Age 38:

(please happen)

Did the Fire Make a Difference?

Daniel pressed the “delete” key for what felt like the hundredth time. In reality, it was more like 16, but when a copious amount of effort is invested in writing a story with no true resolution, each stroke wiping it away was akin to tearing off bandages stuck to sore flesh.

There was no way around it: he was wasting time now. His head gently landed on his desk before he dozed off. His dreams opened doors, but those doors closed the moment his keyboard reappeared in front of his face and he regained control of his consciousness. (If only there was a way to keep those doors open...)

Fast forwarding a year later =========>

Experimentation was inevitable for a college art student. Daniel's major wasn't art, but he intently hung around bohemian undergrads in hopes that it would expand his mind.

The largest step in his “expansion” was the long-feared but anticipated journey into psychedelic drugs. It worked for all of the greatest artists and musicians, so why not him?

After psychologically tiptoeing beyond his paranoia (a process which took several weeks), Daniel finally did his first hit. The “Spirit Molecule” twisted his mind into a new state. Within this state, he wrote a short story. His blog post spread like wildfire, and it wasn't more than a week before he started getting pursued by publishers.

His story garnered unending acclaim and popularity, spawning everything from t-shirts to internet memes and even a parody sketch on Saturday Night Live. It was rare that the short-form written word inspired such celebration in the digital age, but Daniel had broken down a new barrier with his unique flavor of rhetoric.

So what was the content of this pop-culture phenomenon?

It was a 478-word description of a coloring book page featuring a fireman saving a cat from a burning tree.

________________________________

Audience, please enlighten me

Because I'm probing for the secret

But there seems to be no key

Will I ever learn to find it?

No answer will satisfy

Because “true” success is all fake

And all the brilliant writers die

In mediocrity's cruel wake

Fast Food for a Thought

Fortunately, the hospital was within walking distance of Caleb's waking location. The fact that he ended up at Jason's party the previous night was a poor judgment call, but not one he had the right to sulk over. His genitals were burning as he came to, and panic swiftly washed over him. He was still terribly hung over, but sober enough to know what he needed to do.

His left hand felt the opposing side of the foreign air mattress, which was empty and icy. Rebecca was gone. He searched his pants with hopes he would find a phone number or at least some sort of note, but all he could muster out (aside from his wallet) was an open box of condoms and a crumpled receipt.

She wasn't just gone, she had left.

Rebecca felt it was necessary to “lose” her phone (this way, she had an excuse). She threw it in the trash as she passed the McDonald's around the corner from Jason's house. There wasn't a likely chance she'd see Caleb again, but she didn't want to take the risk of embarrassment. Her cell phone was very beat-up and the purple casing barely clung to it anyway, so the financial loss momentarily seemed a bit less significant.

For once, she actually felt something with him. Something just as terrifying as it was wonderful. Most people would be insane to pass up such an opportunity. Becca wasn't insane, she just always thought ahead...perhaps a little TOO far ahead. There was no way such incredible chemistry between two people could last. She recalled listening to her parents' sparkly-eyed conversation numerous times about how they first met at Fisherman's Wharf in the most perfect conditions imaginable, and the last time they told that story was 4 months before their bitter divorce.

Why put the effort in if that person is destined to find something better? If true love exists, it must only manifest in the most boring manner imaginable.

Caleb felt nothing of the sort for Rebecca. She was just “there”, but he was always open to new possibilities (despite being on his way to the hospital under suspicion that he may have gotten any variety of STDs – there was no implication that any condoms were actually used). As he randomly started cycling through the contact list on his phone during his stroll, he noticed that Rebecca's name showed up. What could it hurt? As he turned the corner and yellow arches appeared in the sky, he pressed the “Send” button.

An unusually specific pop song started sounding from the trash can. Caleb chuckled, out of equal parts disbelief and embarrassment. He pressed “End” and it went silent.

“What a slut”, he muttered to himself.

After Eight

“I had some dreams, they were clouds in my coffee”

1:04 a.m.

The clocks all seemed to agree, but something was awry.

The ever-present insinuation is that the passage of time is subjective to a person's conscious experiences, but Thomas knew that there was no conceivable way that less than a minute had passed since the last time he checked.

“Clouds in my coffee, and...”

The thin walls of his apartment subjected him to the 30-something widow's radio next door. Normally this would be just white noise, but this stuck feeling of being frozen in time would not let up, and the song, which he'd heard hundreds of times before, all of the sudden sounded like it was directed at him. Even if he had dreamed of an intimate encounter with Carly Simon, it wouldn't have felt more direct.

What was impeding his sleep? Well, having coffee after 8 p.m. couldn't have helped. The neighbor's radio seemed like it was just reminding him of a poor decision: a minor decision, one would assume, but a poor one nonetheless.
Why the hell would he drink coffee after 8? He hadn't slept in days, ever since Amanda left. Reality hadn't quite set in yet, and since Thomas was still in shock, he would rather prolong the numbness than have to face it freshly (...at least for a couple more days, please, God). He knew that one more night awake would begin to usher in delirium, and fogginess was currently the warmest blanket his mind could think of.

There HAD to be something wrong with the clocks. 1:04 a.m., still? Maybe time no longer exists, and he's just going to be stuck here in this moment until...until what?

This was it. He was going insane. Yet this was the relief he longed for...once reality crumbled, he could get what little enjoyment out of life he figured was still available.

His eyes berserkly wandered, and he felt like he was losing control. This was an ominous feeling: being stuck in time, and the song bleeding through the walls, prophesying his current state.

“You're so vain, I'll bet you think this song is about you”

He shut his eyes for 10 seconds, and then opened them to check the clock one more time...

Damn. 1:05.

“Don't you? Don't You?”

Socio/Economic Footnotes

Dear Mom and Dad,

I wanted to thank you, first of all, for being the unwavering support you've always been to me all of these years.

(Wait, didn't I write the exact same thing to you last year?

Fuck...I guess so.)

It's been cold down here. I hope it's been nicer up there (snore).

You know how expensive my full-spectrum omega vitamins are, right? (probably not as much as I'm leading you to believe.) This week my supply is pretty scarce. Since I already call you and ask for so much so often, I thought I'd write a letter this time. (You know, snail mail...just like you guys were always so fond of me doing in the past. Does my nostalgic creativity earn me any points?)

Don't feel obligated to send me money, though (I know you will anyway). If anything, what I really need is some new(er) shoes. Shoe sizes are weird, so a gift card will be easiest (though plain money is, of course, always better).

Mom, you always made me write thank you cards for my holiday and birthday presents. (Why? Because it's less personal and obligatory than a phone call. I get it now.) I imagine it was to bridge the gap between traditional courtesy and modern flippancy. I feel bad that I haven't made more of an effort in my adult life (not really).

I've been thinking a lot about college recently, and possibly going back (how else am I supposed to meet women? Online dating has been a joke). What do you think? I'd probably major in education (and minor in late night Taco Bell runs).

There's no structure to this letter, I apologize (actually, I don't regret it one bit, but I still need you to send me money without feeling like I'm being an ungrateful asshole. Perhaps if I act more scatter-brained you'll be more willing to upgrade me to a better therapist, which will in turn help me construct a more distinctive yet palatable personality. That way I can get laid more.).

I just wanted to say that I love you guys, but sometimes I get sidetracked (and I'm too much of a pussy to tell you genuinely with my own voice).
You guys tell me this so much, and I'm sorry if I sometimes seem distant and have stunted affection

(I don't know if I really love you anyways, since the two of you encapsulate an ironic hybrid between a crippling obstacle to my unattainable goals and an ego-boosting encouragement to my weak self-esteem...the deadliest combination imaginable. This “love” is most accurately allegorized as a vaulted wonderland of unhealthy comfort that I refuse to depart from).
I'm working on that, please understand (don't give up hope on me, sweet parents, for the final advantages have not yet been taken of you).

Hope to see you guys soon! (a white lie, but how else am I supposed to end this damn letter?)

Love (doesn't exist),

-Your Son

PS:  I am not your son.  You can call me the demon of sobriety.

Stamp's Arrow

“Sometimes when all th'cleanin's done and nobody ain't got th'urge to hang around the saloon, this chore's what tickles me best.”

Rudy was frivolously conversing with the only customer around, who had walked in several minutes before and still hadn't decided which liquor would strike his fancy that evening.
He was referencing the pistol he was cleaning on the back end of the bar. Even after practicing the same routine for almost 10 years, Rudy didn't consider himself much of a gun enthusiast or guru, but giving the public impression of such seemed to keep trouble at bay.

The quiet, lonesome man wearing a dark brown duster at the bar maintained a mild smile, and kept his cowboy hat tipped downward. Rudy started to realize that it was he himself who was doing all of the talking, so with a slight nod of embarrassment, he tried to break the ice more directly.

“Where're my manners! Name's Rudy, Rudy McKowen.” The man looked up briefly, and almost ashamedly bowed his head as he extended his right hand, which appeared to be caked in dirt, almost as though it was rusted. “Matthew Stamp. Like guns, do you?”
“Just about as much I can allow m'self to, given my position.”

Matthew pulled out his shiny revolver and placed it on the bar, barrel safely and symmetrically pointing sideways. “My gift to you...no longer of any use to me. Hopefully you won't ever need to dirty the trigger.”

Rudy was speechless for a few seconds. “Golly Mr. Stamp, that's awful kinda ya! You sure 'bout this?”
Matthew humbly nodded. “One condition though – a double of your finest, whatever it is.”
“Yess'r! Comin' up fer the finest gentleman this town's ever known!”

Rudy pulled the bottle of MacAllan 30 from his top shelf and poured liberally into a rocks glass. Stamp fondled the glass and sniffed it before sipping. He sipped three or four times before he snorted back some disguised tears, and chugged the rest whole. Instead of customarily slamming his glass down on the bar, he handed it directly to Rudy, not making eye contact the entire time. “Thanks so much. The drink and conversation was much appreciated.”

Matthew Stamp slowly sauntered towards the saloon doors.

“You have a marv'lous evenin', partner!” shouted Rudy as he wiped the man's glass.

Rudy's eyes slowly elevated upwards to the stranger Matthew Stamp's figure as it slowed to a halt before leaving the bar. Stamp was beginning to stumble. A squint from Rudy revealed a hole in the back of Matthew's coat, decorated by some fresh red stains.

Rudy McKowen bemusedly looked downward, observing the revolver lying on his bar, pointing left, like a shiny arrow.

Matthew Stamp walked outside, and followed the path set by his gun to his very last breath, which was just moments after he disappeared from the sights of the bartender and that lonesome six-shooter.