The Midnight Veil

The dim lights overlooking the set of popular late night drama "The Midnight Veil" revealed a ghastly scene in front of it. A thick corpse laying prostrate on the ground, a gleaming silver knife protruding from the body sticking out like a shiny canoe upon a sea of blood. The thick metallic scent of blood, like the taste of pennies upon the tongue, crowded the room as the front door opened. Antonio Faluchi, the bronze skinned god of late night television strode into the room with the grace of an inline skater. A mask of pure shock and horror engulfed his face, as his singsong voice sweet as honey gasped as sputtered out. 

"Oh Annabella! Non!"

He ran to her side and cupped the woman's fragile hands in his own, like an eggshell protecting a delicious egg.  

"Non Non mon cheri! 'ou cannot die, we were supposed to.. l-ive- ACHOOO!" 

and so Gabriel Fuentes came through the mask, as his hurricane of a sneeze forced the scene to a halt. 

"CUT!" the director's voiced boomed. 

The Lights came up as the set woke up, PAs scuttling about like ants beneath a log that was just moved. Cameramen yawned and the Foley operator leaned on the thick boom pole. 

Lisa Hatterman, the actress behind the lovely Annabella Faluchi groaned as she rose from death, the thick faux blood pooling beneath her as the pallor of death makeup looked scraggly and unreal within the bright light.She looked over at her co-star. 

"Next time try not to sneeze on my face." 

"S-s-sorry." Gabriel stuttered out. 

He tried to stand up to get a bottle of water but tripped over his shoelaces, dropping to the floor below. No, Gabriel Fuentes is no Antonio Faluchi.

Truth in Lies bonus journal

 After the day my grandpa died, Grandma got us out of the house to try to cheer us up. It was hard, cause I was crying so much. We took her old gray 1985 Ford LTD. We drove listlessly through the streets, the whole time dark gray storm clouds loomed over ahead, blanketing us in a thick melancholy. A few minutes later we arrived at the old Ice cream shoppe. As Grandma and Johnny went inside, I waited outside, the dark clouds giving way to a heavy rainfall. A relief spread over my cheeks and eyes, cause I no longer felt wrong. 

For years my parents knew something was wrong with me, the other kids all progressed at a normal pace, but I had linear interests. A thick introspection that covered me like a miasma of stoicism. They would call me a robot, a lifeless statue, because my face would betray no hint of emotion. The specialists called me... "Emotionally challenged." and other fancy terms I barely understood. 

As Grandma and Johnny returned, Both with heaping scoops of rockyroad upon delicate waffle cones. Grandma approached me with a cone of Mint chocolate. I looked to her and said with eyes and cheeks soaked. 

"Look Nana, I can cry too." 

 

Balloon

The little yellow balloon soared through the sky, It was set free when a small child let go when a loud noise scared her. It kept going up, and up, and up, and up, and up. 

There's something so calming about the loneliness of such an existence, so far away from anything, all alone, but still looking down. I wish my life could be like that. 

The balloon kept going and going and going and going, until eventually the air pressure outside of the balloon was greater then inside of the balloon caused it to pop. All gone. 

Oddly enough the popping of the balloon was a tragic event to millions of lives. Weirdly enough if you'd believe that. But when the sun blows up millions of people seem to have had a problem with it.

How much espresso goes in a latte?

 The blaring cruel beat of my alarm violated my ears with a screeching call from the siren's embrace of dreams. I sighed deeply, the warm blankets and fluffy pillows begging me to stay in bed all day. But forced myself out of bed into the shower. The pulse of heat from the showers clearing out the kinks and folds of my back. Afterwards I continued the monotony of a morning ritual, toothbrush over teeth, exfoliating my face, shave, deodorant, etc. etc. Same with the clothing, wallet, keys, everything really. 

Once I made it to the kitchen, I decided to a classic breakfast,  Eggs on toast with a latte. I fried up the eggs with cheese, ham, spinach, and onions. I put the multigrain toast in the toaster, and set to work on steaming the milk for my latte, as I waited I started to program in the espresso. Wait a minute, was it 12 or 16 oz.? Wait a minute, what could it be? Why couldn't I remember, I cursed under my breath and threw my thoughts back into the past to desperately try to remember how much was it, why couldn't I remember? 

Annoyed that my eggs were starting to get burned and the toast was soggy and god everything was going wrong. Suddenly the solution to my problem hit me, I ran over to the closet and threw it open to find the man who I had locked in their a month prior. Fear in his eyes as he looked at horror at the knife with strawberry jam in my hand. 

"Hey quick question, how much espresso should I put in my latte?" 

"Mmmph brg mmmph!!" 

"Oh right I should take the gag out."

Sickly Blueberries

As the days slowly churned out, I found a simple dinner near the hospital to eat at. The first time I went their I was greeted by a dirty neon sign buzzed on and on, reading "Old town Diner." A miasma of grease and burnt grills assaulted my nose, the dim lights were a half-hearted attempt at a mood, but in reality several of the bulbs had burnt out and no one had gotten around to fixing them. A mournful singer from the 50's was wailing through the diner's speakers, singing about the good ol' days where women were women, men were men, and society was deeply, profoundly racist. Though to be fair society is still deeply and profoundly racist, and they were right about the changing of gender roles but it turns out that wasn't actually a bad thing but was actually really rad. 

I sat down at shiny tables, at first I thought it was well kept, but it turns out that it was a layer of grease across the whole table. A server approached me and I ordered a simple burger with fries.He bounced away as I took in the whole diner. Employees running about the pace in company t-shirts the color of sickly blueberries with the slogan "Make shakes great again." Big oof. 

A few minutes later the server came back with a steaming plate of fries and burger. I took a bite.

Love Train

 Daniel idly flipped through the TV channels, waiting for something enjoyable to flip on, when suddenly an advertisement for a show he had never seen before: 

"People all over the world, join in for the hottest new show of the summer. Love Train!" 

Images of sandy beaches, bikini clad women, tiki bars, and little umbrella drinks flashed across the screen, chitzy "Caribbean" music that honestly sounded like it was just made in the same factory as Caribbean music quietly droned on with the images, cutting to a picture of a modern train running on its tracks. 

"We took sixteen hot and heavy young studs and locked them all up on a train heading to Lovesville!" 

Further images of sixteen conventionally attractive white people (and of course one black guy for "diversity's" sake.) laughing and drinking martinis.

"Each week a different one gets voted out, leaving only one couple left!" 

The commercial cuts to a shot of the passengers forcing another one into a thick brown canvas sack. Screams can be heard from inside as they force open the door on the train car and hurl the unfortunate soul underneath the train car to their death.

"Let me tell you things are getting quite 'steamy' in here."

Further images of horrid violence as the passengers descend into further acts of violence and depravity. Stabbing each other, crying in the corner, rolling around in their own filth etc.

"Check in on Fridays at 6:30 And we'll see you on the Love Train!" 

Daniel clicked the TV off, he heard his wife calling from the other room.

"Anything on the TV today honey?"

"Eh, same old same old, nothing new today." 

Happy

The bright neon lights of the city flood the streets with an ethereal, mystical glow. I read a scientific article years ago that says such bright lights were used to simulate sunlight, to keep people awake and spending more money. Fascinatingly the light created another effect, it revealed a truth about the world around it. Watch, as we start at the outskirts of the city, the leftover light shows nothing but flaws, dirt, scratches, the human touch of living affixed upon the old stones. Whilst here, the grime couldn't be ignored. But as you approached the center of the city, the casino spared no expense in keeping the streets clean of that same grime. Thus I knew the Pontifex's words to be true, only through the casino could holiness be found.      

The casino at the center of the city acted as a beacon for my on my holy pilgrimage, and as my journey reached it's conclusion, The whole of the casino was laid out before me, and I began to weep, for I had finally seen the face of my god. Sublime white marble crafted into beautiful mathematically perfect lines, subtle gold trim that shone like the sun itself. Dauntingly massive, the whole structure struck me to my very core. I reverently stepped unto the soft velveteen red passage to the building. And came face to face with a statue of the Pontifex himself. 

The statue was true beauty. Perfect features chiseled into a stern but happy face. His eyes gently watching me, like a father watching his children play. His hands outstretched, offering me a place by his side. It was perfect.

After being baptized in the glow of the statue, I continued onward towards the casino doors, met by two blank faced guards. They simultaneously opened the door, allowing me into the temple of my faith. And I stepped inside. 

Ataraxia

 Here I stand at the center of so many conflicts. A lone island against the seas of anger, hate, violence. A gray miasma surrounds me. Truly Ataraxia is the solution, right? To find pure intellectual centrism, after all the solution to all societal ills must exist in the center, right? Through Ataraxia we are safe, bubble-wrapped from all potential dangerous worldviews, opinions, and perspectives. If severe clinical depression taught me anything. Is that trying to reach out from my own bubble is scary and painful. People will hurt you, your hands grow cracked and rubbed raw from pushing out. Your fingernails split and bleed as you claw your way out to find other human connections. 

 I used to believe that Ataraxia was the solution to all my problems. To deny, block out and refuse change. But to atrophy within my own thoughts solves nothing, and only serves to keep me scared of what could be. If I refuse to reach out, to find connection to my fellow man, I will never be saved. Only by understanding each other and trying, can we truly change for the better.