by Jane
Marcybear,
This is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. But it’s something I have to do, that’s for sure. Your mother and I haven’t been happy for a very long time. I wanted to wait until you were older, out of high school maybe, or even college, but I can’t. I’m so very unhappy and I can’t spend another day of my life living like this.
I think that you’re old enough to hear the truth. You’ll be a woman soon enough, and I don’t want this letter to be filled with lies. I know that you always thought that I didn’t stand up to your mother but it’s nothing like that. When you were little, your mother and I had some knock down, drag out fights. She’s hit me before, and I’ve been violent with her. Unintentional on my part, since she’s hardly a physical threat, but hey...even at 5’6” and 140
pounds she’s scary as hell with a hammer in her hand. Believe me.
She and I stopped having sex years ago, and I know you don’t want to hear that, but men have need, baby. Nothing I did mattered. I tried all of the romantic things I could think of. I made her dinner, lit candles, put on music and danced with her. I tried taking care of the laundry and dishes so she could relax. Nothing worked.
You’ll always be special to me Marcy, I think you know that. I’ve been sober for seven years now. You probably don’t remember me when I drank. I did a lot of stupid things when I was drinking and for everything I did that made you uncomfortable or sad, I’m so very sorry. Sometimes you were the only good thing in my life, the only place I got unconditional love, and for that I thank you. But it was inappropriate for me to look to you for that kind of kindness and warmth and I will regret for the rest of my life the things that happened between us. It put everything out of whack but I don’t know how it could have done anything else. I hope that you have enough of a childhood left that you can still find that innocence and hope again.
I am and will always be your father. I may not be in your life for awhile but you are always in my heart. When I find a place to exist in this world, I’ll reach out to you and help you with whatever it is you need. Until then, be brave and have faith in yourself. You’re a beautiful, intelligent young woman. I know that you will be someone to reckon with when you grow up.
Love always,
Daddy
3. JIMMY
(A Series of Emails)
AOL Mail ----------------------------------------------------------Subj: Re: Re: Re: Out of town Date: 8/20/2007 10:39:34 PM EST "Michael P. Gonzalez" To: "[email protected]"
You just have a great time. I’ll keep an eye on Jen. I’ll be cruising by anyway, it’s part of my beat, so it doesn’t take much effort to take a peek in on her. Can you put $20 down on the Giants for the Superbowl? I know, I just have a hunch. Fuck the Colts, that Manning is overrated. And I don’t think Wayne will ever be the man that Harrison was. And Dallas Clark is still a beast. Be sure and check out the Cirque de Soleil at Times Square, lots of naked ladies, plus a dwarf and Satan. Good times. And if you hit the Mustang Ranch - cash, baby, cash. Ask for Kati - tell her Michael sent you. She’ll take extra nice care of you.
Later,
Michael
AOL Mail ----------------------------------------------------------Subj: Re: Out of town Date: 8/20/2007 9:23:15 PM EST "Jimmy Dugan”
To: "[email protected]"
Yes, it’s for sure now. Could you just peek in on Jen now and then? It’d make me feel a lot better. She’s been a little bummed out lately, you know, the miscarriage and all. It’s been three months, but she still gets upset. Can’t watch a commercial with a baby in it for the love of God. Any good shows in Vegas? You want me to put a bet down for ya?
Peace,
Jimmy
AOL Mail ----------------------------------------------------------Subj: Re: Out of town Date: 8/20/2007 10:39:34 PM EST "Michael P. Gonzalez" To: "[email protected]"
So you’re going to Vegas finally? SWEET!
Michael
AOL Mail ----------------------------------------------------------Subj: Out of town Date: 8/20/2007 9:23:15 PM EST "Jimmy Dugan”
To: "[email protected]"
Hey buddy I need to ask you a favor. Call me or get right back to me. I’m heading out of
town.
Jimmy
4. X
(One Letter)
January 15, 2004
Mirka Hodurova,
Editor
Hillside Magazine
421 Rockford Avenue
Ames, IA 50010
Dear Mr. Exodus,
Thank you so much for your submission “Eternal Damnation.”
While I did find it a fascinating read I don’t think it is appropriate for this publication. You might want to try a more horrorific publication such as Cemetery Dance or Weird Tales. As much as I can appreciate the love you dissect here between your two protagonists (and that’s what we focus on here at Hillside Magazine, love and hope and sunshine and daydreams) the fact that the poem represents a young, nubile virgin and some sort of horny demon really wouldn’t resonate with our readers.
Now, I never do this, but as a personal note, I wanted to let you know that your poem really was something that I personally enjoyed. If I was 10 years younger, and you were no doubt, ten years older, I’d take a trip to your little hometown and be your Mrs. Robinson. You no doubt have an active imagination and some experience with the ladies as well. I must admit that your poem, a unique mix of erotica, blood-worship, and science-fiction (I hope) aroused me like nothing I’ve read in a very long time. I promptly went home to my beleaguered husband and surprised him with a “nooner” as you kids call it. He hasn’t looked at me the same way since then. And for that I am eternally grateful, damned or not.
Sincerely,
Mirka
5. GORDON
(One Report)
SUBJECT EVALUATION: GRDN
REPORT #0087
SUSPECT BEHAVIORS: Fixation on insects,
i.e., ants, flies, and subsequent
destruction of domiciles and environment;
moved on to lesser animals, i.e., mice,
hamsters, squirrels, rabbits and the
stalking,
torture and killing of said
animals; lead to more ritualistic and
sacrificial ceremonies involving skinning,
garden implements, and in one case,
with a riding mower. NOTES: Watch for
breaks or acceleration to human life.
PARENTAL UNITS: Mother is absent and cold,
an alcoholic who is rarely seen as being
affectionate or warm to the young man;
father is ex-military, war veteran, special
unit, disciplined and athletic, pushes for
success at all costs and dedicated to
causes. NOTES: Ideal situation for
manipulation, contact IA to work the
military angle and VICE to push the drug
sources into further action, i.e., crack,
heroin.
POSSIBLE ASSIGNMENT(S): Wide range of forces
could benefit from the genetic research that
is ongoing, i.e., chip implant,
microwave DNA rehabilitation, etc. Could be
an asset to any branch of the armed forces,
but ideally, special forces, and discreet
units, ie., special ops, rangers, berets,
and units.
end session //
officer #X6714
Taiari_Axel
APPROVED
6. ASSIGNED
(One Letter)
January 12, 1998
Dear Mr. Wrigley:
After weeks of hunting the Amazon basin we finally had some luck. Once I’ve gotten through to the medicine man (he’s the ONLY one who will talk to me about these things) I should have a better idea of whether we’re on the right track. We know that it definitely did
originate in Germany. We are still trying to find unequivocal proof that it did pass through his hands. Much of the artwork has his signature. Many of the artifacts that were owned by Hitler are no longer with us. This object has been especially hard to track down, and the proof is fleeting at best.
We should be here another couple of weeks. Even if we do find it, I will need additional time to run some tests – carbon dating, core samples, litmus, and much more. Agabu says that he can start ruminating with it, channeling the spirit to see if it is indeed the entity that we spoke about. It has been very elusive. For as far back as I can trace its origin, it moves every seven years, changes host and form, and usually moves a great distance as well. It has not come back to the same region of the world, not within a thousand miles of any previous location. Very interesting.
One final thought. I am aware of your urgency to obtain this item, but in the meantime, you will have to be patient. I’m sure the Cubs will do just fine without any “special” help. Although, as I’ve said before, you need to find that goat, and kill it. Until you have cleansed that space, and offered up a sacrifice, it cannot be reversed. I know, more mumbo jumbo. But isn’t it all?
Sincerely,
Matthew Stewart
International Imports
736 West 52nd Avenue
New York, New York 00010
Phone: 212-148-8219
Fax: 212-148-8220
http://www.internationalexports.com
[email protected]
7. ROLAND
(Three Postcards)
Hey honey,
Rocky and I are having so much fun. We’ve hit six states so far. My ass hurts from so much time on the bike, but a little Corona and lime goes a long way towards easing the pain. I hope that Grandma is taking good care of you. I promise that I’ll call when we stop next time. Oh, almost forgot. Happy Birthday! Tell Grandma to give you some extra ice cream, and you can pick out one new Playstation V game from the catalog. Nothing too violent please. See you real soon.
Love,
Mom
• • • • •
Hey honey,
I’m fine, just wanted to check in. Looks like we won’t make it back in time for Thanksgiving but I promise that I’ll be home for Christmas. You wouldn’t believe how beautiful this great country of ours is. I’ve seen so many amazing things on the road. And I can tell you, every hotel and motel looks exactly the same. Especially after a couple of beers! Some mornings I’m not even sure what town we’re in! Ha, isn’t that funny?
Love,
Mom
• • • • •
did i miss christmas? dear god, i’m so sorry but i really haven’t been myself lately
and i know that you want, but well, it’s hard to say but...it’ll be okay i promise
i will bring lots of gifts real soon
mom
ps-tell grandma to answer the phone i need to ask her something very important. urgent!
CHAPTER TEN
May 13, 2024
1. JACOB
I wake up in total darkness as if floating in a pool of salt water. My senses are at once absent and heightened. I am not cold or hot. I am not in pain or numb. I simply am.
The last thing I remember is flying down the road in my old red Mustang. Candy Apple red. The guards at the gate collapsing. Flying past the towers. Free. And then everything short-circuited. I passed out to the smell of burnt flesh and singed hair. And now I am here.
“Hello?” I try. “Am I dead? Hello?”
Silence. I cannot focus on any one thing, there is only black. And in the distance now, the soft red glow of a single round object.
“Jacob,” the anti-voice resonates. It is like a deep bass chord, reverberating. And yet, I can understand what he is saying.
“Jacob,” the voice repeats. “I can’t have you running away. I still need you.”
“Who are you? For what?”
“It’s hard to explain, and I’m not sure if it would make sense if I took the time to try, but I guess I owe you that much at least. This whole thing, this experiment, well...it’s like cooking. The main protein or assortment of ingredients that you put into a dish are what determine the outcome. I’ll give you two examples.”
I stare into the void, the nothingness wrapped around me, unsure of what is happening. But I listen. I listen with every fiber of my being. This could be the gateway to the next life. It could be a lesson before I enter heaven. Or hell. I pay attention. He continues. Whoever he is.
“Take something as ubiquitous as ground beef. What can you make with it? You can use it in tacos, or chili. You can make hamburgers, or meatloaf. There are so many options. There is so much potential. We are all born as flesh Jacob. We are all beef. Some are born prime filets, some are ground into chuck. Some are manipulated into an award winning entree. Some of us just rot and go bad.”
I am suddenly hungry, despite the sickening understanding that seeps into my pores. And yet, what is a more perfect food than a grilled cheeseburger? I would salivate if I could find my mouth.
“Here’s another example, Jacob. I love Chinese food. There are so many dishes and regions: Szechuan, Mandarin, Mongolian, Cantonese, Hunan. Many varieties of curry: red, green, yellow. Sweet or spicy. But take a simple stir-fry. In order to make a certain dish, you must have the ingredients that define that dish. Take Kung Pao Chicken. What makes it Kung Pao Chicken? Well, first of all, I’d say chicken. I’d also say the peanuts. You add chili peppers, garlic and onions. Those ingredients, plus a few more like soy sauce and sesame oil, as well as rice wine and peppercorns get you to your dish. If you want to make that particular dish, then you must have those ingredients. If you want a certain outcome, then you must have a certain input. Change the soy and garlic to teriyaki and ginger and you have a different dish. Change it to curry and coconut milk, again a different dish.”
“Okay,” I mutter.
“Jacob, I guess you could say that I am a master chef of sorts. But my ingredients are far more exotic than garlic and onions. I have tossed out the old food and am working on something new. You have a decision to make. I have been assigned to your case, yours and several others. Do you want to be a part of this? When you run away from me, I wonder if I really need the rice wine. Maybe the soy sauce is enough. Or maybe I should substitute something else. Or maybe I’m sick of Chinese.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s okay Jacob. You don’t have to. But you will in time. The question you have to ask yourself is this: Do you want to be the chicken or the soy sauce? Essential or replaceable?”
There is a pause as I contemplate what he is suggesting.
“Go back, Jacob. And be well.”
My stomach lurches and I spin in the darkness, unsure where gravity lies. Am I upside down, or right side up? I feel no wind on my face, and yet with a growing horror I realize that I am moving incredibly fast. A sliver of saffron light leaks through a crack, and up ahead I see the partial outline of a door approaching. It opens wider and wider, its gaping maw shining a brilliant light that blinds me, and with a rush I am through and it is over.
• • • • •
Walking down the streets of Libertyville, the palm trees swaying in the breeze, you can scan the horizon and it seems endless. I jangle the keys and insert one in the storefront. Time to open shop. To the left and to the right I see the other shopkeepers opening up. Coffeehouse. Dry cleaners. Jewelry store. Movie theatre. We all nod, and grimace as we open these doors. I wouldn’t call them jail cells, but they are.
2. MARCY
On the way through the metal archway, just before the light flashes and I feel my body torn apart atom from atom, my elbow hits the metal frame. A brief flash of coordinates, embedded in the structure. A smattering of numbers, symbols, letters and equations. I bump something that looks like a combination of a compass and a gyroscope and it shifts ninety degrees to the right. My elbo
w aches and as I reach down to rub it, it is gone. I have dissolved into pixels, smaller and smaller, and it hurts as if doused in gasoline, lit on fire, and then put out with a sledgehammer. But only for a second. Then I’m tumbling forward into the snow and down the hill, rolling to a stop.
Lying there I gaze up at the emptiness of the gunmetal sky. Gauze filled cotton drifts across my vision, floating in the wind without a care. I am not dressed for this climate and I leap to my feet, frantic breath pushing out a frosty white cloud. Wet and shivering there is nothing around for miles but snow and mountaintops. In the distance there is the odd exposed rock formation, and down below, way down below as far as my eyes can see, open plains covered in ivory fluff. I could be on an iceberg or in the Himalayas, I have no idea. There is no sign of life or civilization not a single building or light or road.
“Where the fuck am I?”
If I don’t get warm soon, I will die. It must be below freezing, but how far below I don’t know. My skin is going numb and my teeth chatter in my head like drumsticks on the edge of a snare drum. I spin around and around, neck twisting up and down looking for something. Anything. Back up the hill my tumbled shape has left a path down the mountainside. There seems to be an opening or crest, maybe a plateau up above. Squinting as the wind picks up, I brush the splinters of ice and snow away as they clamor about my face. There is a dull glow from above, a hint of yellow in a blanket of white.
Moving as fast as my legs will take me I run back up the hill. My shoes sink deep into the snow, up to my knees. If I had the energy I would start crying about now. Legs pumping, some heat returning to my extremities, the pain shifts from one appendage to another as feeling creeps back in. Up and up I go until I see the outcropping of something brown, rocks and a black opening. A cave.
Cresting the top of the hill I see the opening and the massive fire at the entrance to the cave.
“Thank God,” I mutter.
I run to the fire and rub my hands together. Grateful for the tingling of needles in my skin, I am quickly warming up. My clothes are already starting to dry standing next to this blast furnace. Gazing into the fire, shapes and outlines fight for my attention. Bits of metal lurk in the center of the fire, white hot coals next to orange and gray pieces of things that haven’t burnt up yet. Chunks of something that looks like a hubcap or wheel rim. Something that could be part of a ski pole. A pile of what I swear is nuts and bolts. Metal that hasn’t melted in this heat. My skin is tight as if working towards a crisp and I step back a bit to soak up my surroundings. Towards the back of the cave, with great relief, I spy another archway. A dull blue flame floats around it. At least I have a ride back. I walk towards it and trip over something. I glance down and notice a femur.
