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Lost gray

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His cloths were the same, but he appeared out of place. He blended in with the people who once had him in a cage, exploiting his differences. They acknowledged him as Gray. Some days he appeared in charge of his life and other days he felt helpless. Gray longed for the day he would be reunited with his home and people who looked like him. For years Gray held on to the memories of home since crash-landing on planet Earth. With every piece of freedom he received, the image of home grew faint. When he looked in the mirror, he didn’t recognize home anymore. Every time a piece of himself seeped through his mask, his attention diverted, swept away from the truth. His mother told him many stories of a land that existed, filled with mental diseases called Earth. A thirst that could never be satisfied ran through the veins of people there like blood. There breathed greed, power, vanity, currency, and jealously. She never told him where the cure for these diseases rested. She only sa
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I finally pooped

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It was 1:30am after a grueling Day 3 on the Inca trail. I haven't pooped since day 1. I had hoped to hold it until we returned to the hotel the following night. But I knew when I crawled into my bag that this night might have other plans. It was such a strange mixture of feelings. On the one hand, there was almost an inevitability that pooping would happen this night. I was afraid if I stayed in the tent there might be an extremely embarrassing situation. On the other hand, I was freezing and I didn't want to leave the tent. I didn't want to wake up my travel companion. I was afraid that the poop might be a messy affair, and just maybe I could hold it for another day. After hours of tossing and turning, I decided I must get up. I put my freezing FiveFingers on my already freezing feet. Upon exiting the tent, I'm greeted by the most haunting, beautiful gift of a vista. It was a clear night, the first since we had started hiking. Machu Picchu Mountain was visible
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The stalker

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By then it was more than a routine. It was my life. Every day I would do the same thing. Every. Single. Day. Arrive home at five, brush my teeth, take my evening bath, eat dinner, and sit in front of my computer at twenty five minutes past five. Prepare myself, and then she would come. Amanda. At five thirty I would be listening for the sound of a door opening; the cue for her to enter the bedroom about a minute later. This was an exact schedule, set in stone, no exceptions. So every single day at five thirty I would be there, sitting at my computer, waiting for her. I wouldn't miss it for the world. My graphics card was so good it felt like she was in the same room as me. I'd spent a fortune on internet, so the streaming quality was pure gold. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't watching porn. This was the real deal. Middle school me implanted a virus in Amanda's computer when she had asked him to fix her computer. Something about her fonts. Anyway, it was a we
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The writer's fuel

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The walls of my den seem closer in tonight. I swirl the amber liquid in my glass. How long have I been in here? All night it seems. I look down at the typewriter; a few sentences written, nothing substantial. The dim light shines off the bottle on the side table.  Wasn’t there was more left?  I think. These long nights really do me in. I hear steps behind me. “Writer’s block, honey?” my wife asks. “How could you tell?” I ask, giving her a slight smile as I turn in my chair. “Well, for one, the whiskey’s almost gone,” she replies, smiling back. “I thought that was fuel for you writers?” she questions. “Maybe for Joyce and them,” I say, holding the bottle in my hand, the glass heavy and cool in my hands. “But for me, apparently whiskey is nothing more than an escape.” “An escape?” she questions, her tone becoming more serious. “What are you escaping from, Walter?” I give a heavy sigh. “Myself mostly; my thoughts, my fears that my writing will never be what it was, that t
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Ghost Referral Service

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Thank you for stopping by. Before you leave, would you mind filling out the short questionnaire on the desk by the door? I’m always interested in how people hear about me, and my Ghost Referral service. My name is Truman Dansforth, III. And, your here to ask me how you can meet with a certain ghost. Alrighty then, let’s get down to business. Please take a seat, as I take notes. “The ghost’s name?” “Cindy Mayberry.” “Family member, or lover?” “Well…she was my lover, but her life was cut short in a car accident.” “I see. And your name?” “Jake Harriman.” “I’m going to ask you to relax Jake, as I step outside the room for a moment to check on my poltergeist contacts in the next room. Would you like a drink?” “No, thank you.” When I walked to my spirit contact center down the hall, I had an odd feeling about Jake. I’m a sensitive guy who picks up vibes all the time. It’s probably why I have such success with ghosts. I’m use to people being
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