Ambient Horror: A Short Story

Despite centuries of genetic encoding telling me I should be afraid of the dark—or rather, of that which dwells in shadowy spaces—I am nevertheless drawn to it.

I have always been wired a little backward. I prefer chilled days over warm; clouded skies over sunny.

I have no explanation for this. I’m just weird.

A favorite form of exercise is going for night walks at the local park. Bathed in the glow of stuttering street lamps and an ever-vigilant Luna, my pace quickens as I listen to the spookiest playlists Spotify can muster.

This is the spell that brings the darkness to life.

Peripheral signposts morph into humanoid shapes. Shadows stare with lidless eyes.

Wooden branches grasp in the darkness; in protection, or in warning? They seem to send two conflicting messages, neither reassuring: “𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑢𝑠” and “𝑌𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒.”

The gooseflesh rises along with my heartbeat.

I am not alone in this place.

I am never alone.

I can hear them whispering.

The Unknown becomes a tangible thing. It waits for me—it waits for you—in spaces eyes cannot see.

The music plays on, weaving its ancient magic upon my soul. I hasten my steps.

I hear them getting closer.

I feel breath on the back of my neck—the prelude to an eternal embrace, but not one from a lover.

Colder.

Darker.

Filled with teeth.

“This is all in my head,” I explain to the night. Remember, I came here for this feeling. My pounding heart reminds me that I am alive.

A quick glance behind confirms what I already know. See? Merely shadows and wind, up to their usual tricks.

“I am perfectly safe.” I laugh to myself as I change the playlist to more upbeat offerings.

I pass beneath a shadow.

The Unknowable smiles.

Another Awesome Thing About Fan Cons

I posted the following to my Facebook page at the conclusion of my first day at Nashville's Comicon. 

Here’s something I love about fan cons: everyone smiles at you. I’m not just talking about vendors who are trying to sell you stuff, either. I mean EVERYONE. People seem genuinely happy that you’re sharing this space, this culture, this moment with them.  (For example, there was a panel dedicated entirely to cosplay positivity and how to encourage your peers.)

It may seem like a distant memory now, but the celebration of modern geek culture is relatively new. Back in the ages of yore, when I was a wee whippersnapper, “being a geek” was equated with being neither “popular” nor “cool.” If you were a guy who was into Dungeons & Dragons instead of, say, sports (or anything else requiring lots of violence and grunting), you were often verbally harassed...or worse.

But the times, baby, they have been a-changin’! Thanks largely to social media and the open and free exchange of ideas, acceptance of our inner geek flags has been widely embraced—even celebrated.

Most of us are introverts. We suffer from imposter syndrome and low self-esteem. We've been bullied. We've been told we were somehow less than others because we dared to love a fictional universe and the characters within.

But now, most of us have grown into empathetic adults who celebrate and encourage one another, because we have that shared experience in common.

It is a culture that transcends race and gender and religion and sexual identify. You're a geek? Cool! I dig your tshirt!

So we smile at each other. Most of us have never met, and will likely never cross paths again, but in this shared moment, we are family.

#nashvillecomicon

The Mop, Flopped

 I’ve gotta be honest with you: I hate the fairy tale cliché of “and they lived happily ever after.”

Really? Did they, though?

Sure, the dragon was slain and the destined king or queen anointed, but you’re telling me the royal couple never had a single fight over the kingdom’s finances? Never once got mad at their partner for forcing them to attend the prince’s royal PTA meetings? Never got sick, worried about retirement, or lost a close friend?

Okay, bad example. Most of us aren’t royalty. (At least, that we know of. I’m still optimistic.)

This is one reason I love Stephen King’s novels. When I was younger and more naive, I used to say he was a great spinner of yarns, but terrible at ending his tales. As I’ve gotten older, I understand that no, you don’t always defeat the monster. Not every mystery is explained. Sometimes, all you can do is survive—the story ends, the reader moves on to another selection, but your scars endure.

Trauma continues beyond the story’s end.

Now, if you'll indulge me, I’d like to talk briefly about Star Trek. (Minor spoilers for this season of Picard in the following paragraph.) Although we spent several years in the 90s watching Seven of Nine regain her humanity on Voyager, this week we learned that—despite Janeway putting her own career on the line on behalf of her friend—Seven was never accepted into Starfleet. She has been dealing with distrust and discrimination over her history with the Borg ever since her return. Voyager found its way home, everyone cheered, the credits rolled, and…

…it was not happily ever after after all. 

Some Trek purists have been angry at the show, complaining (among other things) that the characters aren’t the ones they remember. 

Remember the outcry over Luke Skywalker? He helped his father defeat the Emperor; he was a hero, for Force’s sake! True, but then he endured failure after failure: rejection by his first student, his own nephew turning to the dark side, a loss of faith in the Jedi teachings themselves.

He was never any less a hero for all of that, but he was still an imperfect person doing his best. His story went on, and it wasn’t always smooth sailing. 

While we’re talking about bothersome story tropes, another is “character overcomes extreme adversity to achieve Particular Thing, then magically never has any difficulty with Particular Thing ever again for the rest of their days.” (I can’t tell you how many tests I studied hard for back in the day that I couldn’t pass now to save my life, but I digress.)

Yes, characters are fictional, to be done with as the writer pleases. Sure, we can say that everything was perfectly hunky-dory from that moment on and call it a day. All was happiness and rainbows and adorable unicorn-kitten hybrids, forever. Aww.

But if fairy tales are lessons to reflect life, it isn’t fair to the audience—whether it’s children or adults—to lie to them.

Life is neither good nor bad; it is how one perceives one’s own existence that offers the ultimate—admittedly biased—judgment on the matter. You and I will struggle and will continue to struggle our entire lives. We’ll make plenty of mistakes; don’t worry about that. (It is best to own up to them, forgive yourself and/or others, and move on.)

When I was growing up, mom had a saying: “That’s how the mop flops.” At the time, I had no idea how much wisdom a mop (or the gravitational pull of Earth upon said cleaning accessory) had to teach me.

Life: It’s harsh and glorious and painful and rewarding and will always be as long as there is a story to tell.

Ah, but what a story!

We will always be retrieving flopped mops. Them’s the facts. The best we can hope for, really, is that at least our mops will be interesting.

Wishing My Sister a Happy Birthday

Here it is, right on time, two weeks after mom’s: Happy heavenly birthday Steph.

It has been an emotionally exhausting couple of weeks, so please forgive my lack of poetics for the occasion. The proverbial tank, as they say, is empty. Don’t let the recent social media jokes fool you—I am operating on mental and spiritual fumes. My gratitude goes out to everyone keeping me operational of late. (Just ignore all of those warning lights on the main panel. They’ll go away eventually. After all, emotional suppression is the American way! USA! USA!)

Eh...fuck it.

There’s a hollowness in the pit of my stomach that gets hollower sometimes, and today is such an occasion. It’s like stepping off that last step, only to discover the floor is several feet from where you expect it to be.

If you’re lucky, you’ll merely stumble, and you can play it off all cool like you meant to do it.

Then...there’s the other times. The full-on, flat on your back, glasses in the mud, breath-knocked-out-of-you whoopsie daisy.

It takes several minutes before you can breathe again and everything hurts like hell.

You know a life was well and truly lived when it is missed so many years later. I know many of you feel that loss, too. (If I manage to live up to even a fraction of that love, I know I’ll have lived an amazing life.)

But I selfishly wish hers wasn’t missed at all. I’d rather she be a text or call away. Better yet, an afternoon visit. I can’t help but feel like this is the “dark” version of reality. The other world is a brighter place. A joyful land. Song and merriment flow forth like a—

Sorry. We live here instead. That little jolt is grief’s raw essence. It is a reminder of the world you can’t have. Songs here carry weight; they lament pain and loss, but also celebrate triumph and hope and love. (Music must be handled carefully, as it is one of the most potent forms of magic.)

Life. Has. Meaning. That’s it; that’s the lesson. It goes above political infighting or corporate greed or petty differences. We should embrace every living moment—and each other—every chance we get, without exception.

Because your next breath? It isn’t guaranteed.

I never imagined life without a sister. I took that for granted, even while she was fighting cancer. I assumed it would turn out to be a notable-yet-triumphant chapter in the ’ole Graves Family Autobiography.

Aren’t the heroes supposed to win? Oh, if only that were so.

Fortunately, we were raised with an abundance of love. The regrets are few, and I know she forgives me. Her presence is always around even when it’s not her birthday.

It isn’t the same, of course. But love is such an amazing power that it can’t be dimmed by something as trivial as mortality.

That, friends, is reason enough to celebrate.

Fan Conventions: How Deep does the Rabbit Hole Go?

It’s difficult to express in words just how much fun a fan convention is if you’ve never experienced one. This weekend was my first “official” con.

Cons are basically the live-action version of YouTube rabbit holes.

Want to sit in on a panel discussion about UFOs and cryptids? Room 12, across the hall. Argue about Star Wars vs. Star Trek? Room 8 at 5:30, bruh.

We sat in on panels about the proper use of blasters vs. swords in LARP sessions and the future of the Disney theme parks. 

Are you worried about Grogu’s college years? “The Book of Mandalorian” panel was full of people speculating and biting their nails.

There was literally something for everyone. There were gaming rooms, both tabletop and video. Voice-acting classes. Crafting tables for the kids. Classes on self-publishing. Improv classes for RPGs. How to start a Podcast.

One room had a spaceship crew simulator with a dude dressed as a Federation admiral in command.

The vendor hall was full of excellent memorabilia and hand-made crafts. I could have spent a lottery’s worth of winnings and still come out wanting. 

One hall had a “what’s under his kilt” competition that required an adult ID. Amanda started to go in, but I reminded her that Grogu’s fate was still hanging in the balance and demanded discussion.  These are serious times, you know.

All-in-all, we were awake for 24 hours straight, which I didn’t think was even possible anymore. And were never bored once. Being surrounded by fans of all ages decked out in their cosplay finery, felt like being among friends.

Adventures in Civic Sanitation

So there I was, lugging an overloaded trash bag roughly the mass of a collapsed neutron star, both hands desperately clasped around the plastic handles in an attempt to maintain the bag's structural integrity. Amanda, who foresaw my immediate predicament, was helpfully trying to open the side door of the dumpster, to no avail.

The door was stuck.

I'm grunting and groaning, having seen the inside of approximately zero gyms during my decades of mortal existence. After all, don't they make machines for this sort of thing?

(Mental note. I really need to get some kind of machine for this sort of thing.)

Anywho, this dude shows up out of nowhere, throws open the top of the dumpster, and with one hand effortlessly tosses the disposable pillar of creation up and over the rim. Didn't even so much as grunt, the bastard.

The moral of the story is, I'm kind of smart and funny sometimes.

An Ode to Ashland City: a loving tribute to a town that smells of diesel fumes, regrets, and whatever that is coming from the river

By virtue of providing the only river crossing within a multiple-county radius, plus its geographic location smack-dab between Clarksville and Nashville, Ashland City is, essentially, a crossroads town.

Few folks actually come here on purpose. For most travelers, it is a quaint collection of antique buildings to glance at while waiting in traffic between more interesting destinations.

Situated on the corner of the town’s main intersection is a small Mexican restaurant. The front wall is mostly glass, offering a panoramic view of the town square: populated by the courthouse and a colorful assortment of lawyer’s and round-the-clock bail bonds offices. It is the best spot in town for watching people pass by… or various species of birds as they shit majestically on the antebellum courthouse’s roof.

Holiday decorations class up what is essentially the world’s largest bird communal toilet.

The view is so romantic, in fact, that locals often spontaneously propose to their sweeties over by the quarter slime dispenser. The way the midday sun catches the car exhaust billowing from muffler-less camouflage monster trucks is the stuff that magic is made of. When those wondrous fumes combine with the rich fragrance of a plate of soggy enchiladas, it is said that an angel gets its wings. (Which you can purchase with either mild or spicy dipping sauce at the chicken shop next door.)

No, folks who pass through without taking note of the town’s hidden treasures will never know the delights of the nightly caterwauling of our karaoke bars, or the musical harmony of Cheatham County’s finest careening down the avenue, sirens-a-blazin’. It’s traditional to stop whatever you’re doing and salute as they pass. You never know if they’re hauling one of your relatives to the pokey, so you always want to stay in their good graces. (Sending Thanksgiving turkeys to the bail bonds offices is a relatively new holiday tradition.)

Nighttime at the Bail Bonds house is one of the town’s best-kept secrets. Every fifth bond comes with a t-shirt and free balloons for the kids.

Even the local McDonald’s celebrates the spirit of community by intentionally slowing the drive-through to near-catatonic levels. This encourages everyone in line to show their love and support with courtesy honks. (The louder you honk, the more town spirit you have!)

Some say the railroad industry took a nosedive when the townsfolk dug up the tracks to make room for a new walking trail, but I say those discarded timbers give the woods personality. “Hey, kids, can you spot the rotting, termite-infested remnants of a once-thriving economy? C’mon, Charlene, don’t hit your brother. We can’t afford to bail you out of juvie again this month! Oh, look, an acorn.”

I know, you’re probably thinking, “Toph, old bean, are you trying to seduce us with your town’s rich culture and history?” No, friends, I don’t need to slap any butter on this sales biscuit. Next time you’re passing through, stop by one of our illustrious gas stations or fine automotive parts establishments. Tell me if you’re not dazzled by our rich atmosphere of slight disappointment.

You’ll barely regret it.

Strollin’ Through the Multiverse

Most nights, if the weather allows, I will drive a few blocks from the apartment toward the river, where there exists a convenient walking track. It is illuminated at night and sparsely populated during winter months, so there I am able to not only get in a few extra steps for the day but also to think.

Tonight, I happened to glance up to look at the stars. I’ve always been fascinated with the greater Universe beyond our atmosphere, and I love wondering what is “out there.” (Which explains my enthusiasm for space telescopes!)

During this particular gaze, I just so happened to be passing under a lamppost, and in that moment something truly remarkable struck me: I was looking at two completely different eras of cosmic history simultaneously. 

There was the contemporary glow of the post, newborn photons fresh and free and enthusiastic, traveling side-by-side with a caravan of ancient, exhausted-but-still-determined photons, ejected from their respective stars while dinosaurs still walked upon the face of the Earth…all striking my retinas at the same time.

All of that—at least from my point of view—happened in a single moment.

Which made me start to think a lot about perception and reality. When, precisely, is now? What, daresay, is reality? We already know there is more to the Universe than we can perceive with our meager assemblage of human senses. Our very conception of time kind of falls apart when gazing at the light of distant objects.

And let’s not even start on such trivialities as quantum superposition. Schrödinger’s cat is both dead and alive? Countless potential realities all exist at once until directly observed, thus collapsing probability waves into one, cohesive quantum reality?

Sir, this is a Wendy’s. Outside speculative particle physics is not allowed.

Whoops. My bad.

Blame those pesky misbehaving photons, fooling around acting like particles and waves and generally messing with our entire understanding of the universe. All we wanted to do was see, guys. Did we really have to drag cats into this?

An illustration of the double-slit experiment, which explains that, indeed, photons be wack.

My love of square burgers and felines aside, I find this stuff endlessly fascinating. In another life, perhaps, I was a “Science Guy.” Maybe I still am, just a couple of entangled particles away? 

Huh. Distant times. Infinite Tophers. I may be biased, but I’m definitely the coolest one.

At least until I'm directly observed.

12 Years

When someone you love passes on, the day they pass leaves a permanent mark on your soul.

Each year becomes a collection of new memories with a conspicuous hole in them; a place where someone was supposed to be.

The day carries an odd juxtaposition of somber and “carrying on,” which can be jarring—as a society, we tend to pause when a president or an athlete dies, but most of us regular folks don't receive that kind of recognition.

The world, and indeed life, keeps right on with its proverbial—if you'll pardon me for saying—bullshit.

It seems almost cruel to laugh, joke about nonsense, or plan for the future; that is, of course, exactly what she would want. Grief, if it’s any comfort, is at least a one-sided affair. (Granted, there are a lot of us on this side.)

Today is a day of grief for my family, not to mention pretty much everyone who knew her, but our lives, too, must carry forward.

No, twelve years is not enough to dull the ache. We miss you, Steph. You may be a hole in our lives, but your life gives that emptiness meaning. Over a decade later, that void still hurts because of how you affected us all.

Because of how you still affect us.

Love often hurts, but after all, it is the most powerful force in the Universe. It is no coincidence that some religions claim that God is love. Whether you believe that or not, you can’t deny that love can be healing and destructive; a fountain of both joy and pain. But man, let me tell you, is it ever important.

Never forget that.

Today, like every other day, we remember love.

Book Review: Midnight Library

A couple of years ago, I wrote a short story that attempted, in as few words as possible, to convey nothing less than The Meaning of Life. Whether or not my endeavor was successful I suppose depends on the reader, but at the very least, I knew what I was trying to say.

Fortunately, what I was trying to say is said most successfully (and with many more beautiful words) in Matt Haig’s book, The Midnight Library. It currently sits on a New York Times bestseller list, and for good reason.

Here’s the premise: in the transitional space between life and death is a library. The shelves are filled with infinite books; each one containing a different variation of your life. By flipping through the pages, you can jump in and out of endless possibilities of yourself, exploring different quantum universes. In one life, you might be a rockstar; in another, happily married with kids.

Of course, there are bad lives, too, and all variations in between. Infinite possibilities, all spread throughout the multiverse's largest library.

Nora Seed, our protagonist, is in a bad place at the start of the story. It is here I have to caution the reader with a trigger warning regarding depression and suicide: Nora initially discovers the library after determining her life is nothing but endless mistakes and not worth living. (Small spoiler: things get better, provided both she and the reader decide to hang in there.)

Think of it as It's a Wonderful Life marries Quantum Leap, then gives birth to a bouncing baby Sliders, and you’ll start to get the idea.

I’ll admit I shed actual tears towards the end because this book hit me on many different personal levels. There were times when I felt it was written specifically for me.

Maybe it was written for you, too.

Five out of five of the shiniest golden stars.