Who cares?

The depth of humanity does not lie within the brightest corners of their mind, but rather the darkest.  I once heard a quote that stated something along the lines of how a person can eat dinner with someone every night for the course of their entire life, sharing conversations about every aspect of their lives, but if they truly wanted to know someone's core then they'd hang them over a volcano.  I believe that there is quite a significant amount of truth to that.

So when you meet someone who has the ability to walk through life's trauma as easily as they could stroll through a park then you've clearly met someone who is quite amazing.  That is, perhaps, the most empowering thing to watch someone do.  You see, at the end of the day, the things that one person can accomplish in their lifetime is something that thousands, or even millions, could have also potentially done.  Of course, because no two lives have been lived identically, those capable of such powerful lives may not ever get the chance to express them.

A person who currently resides in a Brazilian favela, as an example, could have potentially been the next Einstein had they been born in another country and to a far wealthier family.  Instead, their intelligence is reserved to the day to day survival of, essentially, street life.

Another person who is born into a wealthy family and with all the opportunities in the world may resign themselves to only valuing themselves based on the car they drive, or the clothes they wear, or their social status amongst their peers while otherwise being a person without substance. 

So, of course, it goes without saying that those who survive their struggles to come out the other side will learn things that others may never have the ability to learn.  A poor person will know far better on how to survive off of basic meals while a rich person would scoff at the notion of eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  The protein in peanut butter goes a long way when you're a growing kid.

It extends well beyond that, of course.  You give a poor person a ten dollar bill and it is far more likely that they will do everything in their power to make it up to you.  You give a rich person a ten dollar bill and they'd likely set it on fire by buying something of little to no meaning.  The amount a person can value something depends strictly on their understanding of what the value is.

So of course, when a poor person gives you the shirt off of their back then it is likely all they really have to give.  A rich person, on the other hand, could just go to the closet and pick out a nicer one. 

No doubt, of course, that there are plenty of rich people out there who have a deep appreciation for the poor.  There are also a plethora of poor people who are only poor because of their bad choices in life.  There is just a portion of me who really wishes that the world could understand that all people - rich, poor, and indifferent - could understand that we're all capable of good or bad equally and use that knowledge to learn to appreciate everyone. 

-Dustin S. Stover

The Blackened Page

The page blackens at a deadening fast pace.  The words flow from his finger tips in a fever dream state, and that is where the art comes in.  Taken out of context, the words lose all shape and meaning, yet when placed in the sequence of the blackening page, meaning takes shape.  A poetic sense of justice for a man who is just desperate to find someone to understand.

A consequence, then, of the hallucinatory agent he took mere hours ago.  His mental state at the cusp of going in any singular emotional direction - albeit, even if very temporarily, it feels the most pure to him as he experiences it.  The senses have heightened and he believes what he sees.  He writes as he feels.  The elegant poetry, while lost in the initial intent, forms a bond with what is between the lines.

He sees no monsters you typically hear the stories about with such substances.  The room just feels more vibrant.  His head takes the shape of his greatest desires and grandiose ideas.  Still, in the purity of his emotions, words flow.

This man knows a thing or two about where art comes from.  He indulges in every emotional state he can.  He justifies experiences with knowing that they will shape his tomorrow in ways he could not otherwise fathom, and won't fathom until he can process.

This is where his appreciation comes from, while also fully understanding just how slippery the slope of imposing emotions can be.  So he finds himself in solitude with his hallucinations, still bringing him pure, unadultered emotional madness.

A memory inside him sparks.  A long lost love - his childhood dog, the kind of love that is absolute and pure, without the messy complications of human complexity.  It is far from a pleasant memory, however.  He remembers wanting to protect the dog and being unable to as tears begin to flood the ground beneath his chair.

Still, the page blackens even more.

He processes the emotion even more, the only way he can in this state - nearly incapable of doing anything other than writing about it in some convoluted, twisted story.  He will spend tomorrow editing it to make sense, but right now it is more important to get the words upon the page.

The room is filling with his tears and he begins to feel claustrophobic, but still the words are pouring out of him.  They've taken control now, as his hands turn into blurs before his very eyes.  Still, the image of that dog - him standing in front of it while his mother holds a belt and is ready to whip the dog into shape - has been etching itself, detail by detail, as a pure emotional image inside his mind.  

The tears clear the top of the chair.  His face, feeling as though it is melting.  He is too far gone, but tomorrow he will question whether he over indulged.  His hands have never moved as fast as he sees them moving now.  The dog, whimpering behind his legs as it knows what it did wrong.  The man, only as a child, doesn't care what the dog did wrong.  He knows the dog doesn't deserve this.  He knows that he must stop his mother from doing the damage to the poor, innocent dog, but he is too small and easily gets pushed aside.

The tears are to his mouth now while his face begins dissolving into the salty liquid.  His hands, obscured and slowed by the water, now look like they are darting in all sorts of odd directions as the pool of tears splash around the room.  He must finish blackening the page.

The tears rush over his head as he takes his final breathe.  His head topples onto the desk between his arms, which are still extended to the keyboard.  The room is dry.  The memory has subsided.  For now, he dreams of things he could only hope to remember.

He awakes in the morning, feeling refreshed and new.  He looks at the blackened page.  It wasn't black.  In fact, there was only one line - "I love dogs."

- Dustin S. Stover

The Dangers of Religion: Volume 2

I will preface this entry with stating that I do not believe that religion inherently makes you a bad person. 

Now, having gotten that out of the way.

Ego.  Religion teaches the religious to be humble to a degree, but only to a falsehood.  The contradiction comes about once you delve into the belief that the religious is going to a heaven while the non-religious are going to hell.  This will inherently lead one to believe that, due to the sacrifices they've made in their lives for the religion they so choose to be a part of, they are better than those who have not made the same sacrifices.

Of course, this also must fall back on the faith in the religious themselves that they are correct in their religious perspective.  If the faith gets shaken at all, or they fall into a different religion - even a different sect of the same religion - then one must alter their lifestyle to accommodate that new system of beliefs.  So the faith that they are correct in their personal religious choice then also adds to the concept of their superiority.

The two fundamental ways in which Western religions choose to persuade their believers are through either happiness - typically by creating a sense of community between those who have joined, usually through song and events that cater to making people feel more connected - and through fear - the crowd in which strict lifestyles must be maintained or the threat of eternal damnation will be the most assured result. 

In the case of happiness, it leads one to feel superior in that they have a connection with those who they share their religion with whereas those outside of that bubble may appear to have less of that happiness.  Even though these people tend to have a significant less emphasis on eternal damnation, their community spirit leads them to believe that they have something others don't have.  This will obviously lead to a feeling of being better than others.

In terms of the fear strategy, these are the primary groups that sacrifice the pleasures of life more readily as a means to not offend their God.  Of course, when you sacrifice things like alcohol, drugs, premarital sex, cursing, and even to such great extents of healthcare for prayer then it is very easy to look at people who do these things as significantly worse off.  Add in that those people, at least in their minds, are going to Hell to burn for all eternity then it is clear to see how they would believe the religious perspective is has the higher ground, and thus must be more valuable as humans,

Going back to the faith aspect, however, it is also easy to see how the shaking of one's faith in their own perspective of their chosen religion would also be so offensive to their ego, which is fundamentally attached to the religion they are a part of.  It creates a very frail balance of believing to fill a meaning in one's life and keeping that belief structure just to support the individuals own ego.    Of course, the harder these people's lives get then the harder they can potentially grasp onto their religion.  A desperate clutching to ensure that their ego doesn't get damaged - a means to ensure their life's value doesn't slip away in the process.

-Dustin S. Stover

Small

Truly,

he felt there had to be

something

more in life than what he was getting.

That wasn't the case, of course,

as the more he took from life

the more he felt he needed.

Experiences have a means

to make a person feel small.

Small is exactly what he was.

Small, the way everyone is.

The conscious perspective of being

however,

made it that much more difficult to live with.

He admired people's ability to get lost

within their trivial existences

the way they put importance in

the shoes they wore

the cars they drove

the way they looked while ordering

their fucking coffee

while he just picked the clothes on top

of the clean pile

and hoped it matched.

He looked at art

and tried to understand the emotion

behind the paint strokes.

He listened to music

attempting to feel something new.

He listened to other's problems

with the hope

the sincere hope

that he could understand humanity

a little bit better.

But after a lifetime of doing these things,

he still knew

how very small he is

and how very small

he will always be.

-Dustin S. Stover

Accomplishing Fear

Once you know what you want out of life,

how do you go about accomplishing it?

The sickly, fickle, and trepidatious

nature of being human

ruins all the greatest things

we ever accomplish

if we ever accomplish

anything at all.

And when we don't,

we ruin other people's lives.

-Dustin S. Stover

There's no Tune

He tries to find the note, but it is like searching for something that doesn't exist.  The light feels blinding, The throbbing behind his eyes is mind numbing, but still he searched.

The guitar drops onto the guitar rack as he pulls out a bottle of pills.  He pops a couple to relieve the tension building behind his eyes, but it will take quite some time before the relief comes.  An argument forms inside his mind - does he give up on it all or does he fight to hold onto what he cherishes.

The keyboard, perhaps, will be easier to find the tune he searches for, so he sits at the bench.  His hands can't even reach for the keys - the effort feels to be too much as his eyes feel as though they are bulging out of his skull.

Years ago, it was discovered that he typed best while he wasn't looking.  It was as though he could sense the keys before they struck, and he could correct as he went along.  He opens his laptop and begins to type up a story, or song lyrics, or even simply words to fill up a page; however, as his eyes open, they reveal little more than a blank page. 

A memory appears as though it is filling the entire room.  A woman rolling her eyes and speaking about how much time and money are wasted on these instruments.  She takes a violin and smashes it into the desk, shattering it into a million pieces.  The words become more sympathetic, but not towards him.  "You are ruining our lives."

His eyes open again to reveal the keyboard in front of him still, but once again he does not reach forward.  He gets up and walks to his room without the note or tune being explored.

The bright light is still intensifying the pain behind his eyes.

Another memory - this one of a better time, a time of hope - fills his mind.  The notes come easy no matter what instruments he picks up, and he can hear them fitting so perfectly.  The beat he devours into on drums and the rhythm of the bass set the mood.  Synthesizer adds more atmosphere.  The melody of the lead guitar adds a real punch.  It doesn't even feel real at this point.

A lump works it's way up his throat before he swallows it back down.  It is a hard swallow, but he presses forward with it and it slowly reaches back down to his stomach.

An image of the broken violin fills his mind again.  Maybe this is what he should be doing, but he has lost everything else anyway. 

The headache has started to reside, but still fills a very prominent space. 

"Not tonight," he tells himself.  "Not fucking tonight."  He presses a key on the keyboard and it rings out, but it still doesn't fit what he is trying to find.  A chord, but still wrong.  He tries another position, but still wrong.  He glances back at the guitar, but interest just doesn't come. 

His head still has yet to escape the pain.  He closes his eyes one more time, reaching his finger and thumb to squeeze the bridge of his nose.  It helps slightly, but there is too much pain.  His eyes open, he gets off of the bench, and walks out of the room - flipping the light switch as he exits. 

Stumbling through the pitch black hall, feeling the walls for guidance, he eventually finds his bedroom.  His head hurts so badly that he refuses to even so much as turn on the light.  He knows where the bed is, he plops down into bed, and closes his eyes for one final time tonight.  Memories of the arguments, the broken violin, the feeling of worthlessness do not grant him the same luxury.

-Dustin S. Stover

Ranting

There's an abundance of evidence within humanity that it has never been the researched proof that dissuades personal beliefs, but rather, that emotions guide personal bias. Abortion is a prime example. Racism and prejudice in general. One could even go as far as to claim the plethora of religions as yet another. Whether someone believes in climate change or not. The support of politicians, and which side of politics you fall on. To be a human is to be perpetually lost within your own insignificance. Allowing one to invest significance in what justifies their own personal feelings is just a means to bring value to their lives without putting in substantial work to create the value. It is also quite the perplexing notion that those with the most conviction for their personal biases are also the ones most angered by those who disagree with them. Except, their's nothing perplexing about it once you consider that they've placed their entire value into their personal beliefs, thus leading to feeling insulted when someone disagrees with them.

-Dustin S. Stover

Not Your Hero

I am not your hero.
I wear the dirt on my face,
scars upon my brow,
and muck upon my hands.

The same as everyone else.

I am not your hero.
Despite your claims,
your desires to put me on a platform,
and despite the things I have helped with.

I just care, the way I feel we all should.

I'm not your fucking hero.
I'm just another person.
I'm just another person.
I'm just.

A hero wears a cape.
They do nothing wrong.
They rescue people from trains.
They have comic books written about them.

All I've done is listened.
And perhaps, offered advice.

So I'm not a fucking hero. 
I don't want to hear about how you feel that I am.
I don't want the praise of being a hero.
I am the same as everyone else.

I just cared.

-Dustin S. Stover

A Mildly Horrific Story

There was no frame of reference – like being in the void of space, only he felt gravity pulling him towards something.

His shoulder slams with too great a force into what feels like a cliff. His body bounces and spirals. The inertia makes him feel as though he is going to vomit, and he does, but there is no means for him to slow the spin now that his shoulder is dislocated, at best, and completely shattered if worse.

He feels his foot catch on something, but whatever that something is breaks and allows his fall to continue. His foot dangles without control, but at least he has stopped spinning.

A moment passes, just long enough of one for him to realize the excruciating pain he is in. He lets out a yell, a blood curdling scream from the bowels of his most miserable point of existence. The only comfort he received was hearing the echo of his own screams.

“This is a nightmare, it has to be,” he says aloud, but he knows that he feels it all. He knows, deep inside, that this is really happening.

He tries to recall the events that led to this tumultuous fall, which he realizes he is still in the midst of, but cannot remember anything before this point. It is as though his entire existence has never come to fruition and he is just living the journey into Hell.

A deep, boisterous howl of a voice comes from nowhere. “Now. Now is your time.”

As the voice finishes it's long bellow his body stops abruptly. His body slams into the most solid piece of anything that he has ever felt, and his whole body is destroyed. The pain is so intense that he can't even so much as whimper. The only point of relief is that he has stopped falling, but of course he can't even form enough of a thought to come to that realization.

Lying there, still absolute darkness and still in absolute pain, he can feel his heart beat start to slow – too slow, he thinks, but he is ready for death. He would be begging for it if he could form sounds.

A flicker of light forms in the distance, down a long hall that is now beginning to look like stone.

“Welcome,” the boisterous voice from before says from all around him.

A swarm of small creatures, half the size of a human – roughly the size of a child barely able to walk – pour into the room as the torch finally illuminates the room. He is surrounded by hundreds of the little things. Unable to turn his head, the one holding the torch walks to him.

The small creature, whose head is now looking down at him, is as black as the fall with what appears to be a gray ash covering his body sporadically. The creature looks back at the rest of the swarm, back at the man, back at the swarm, and then starts making a noise unlike anything the man has heard before. Before he knows it, every one of the swarm is on top of him, pulling the skin from his body and feasting.

The pain from before feels as though it had happened decades ago and this new pain sets in. The creatures' claws are all like dull, rusty knives cutting his skin away. His flesh rips away like cheap wrapping paper being cut by even cheaper scissors.

As the last piece of flesh had been devoured, the creatures scatter. As the light creeps down the hall, the man moves his eyes as much as he can to see nothing but exposed muscles – not a single piece of skin is left anywhere that he can see.

The booming voice enters his head once more, “Are you having fun, yet?”

The man just wants to cry, but nothing comes out. He wants to yell, but it all falls into silence.

The sound of rabid dogs strikes off in the distance. The howls are rushing towards the man. It sounds as though there are thousands of them, and they are very near.

There is no means for him to see what is happening as light never entered into the cavern, but a sudden slam of one of the dogs lands on his body followed swiftly by what feels like hundreds of teeth dig into his exposed muscle.

The first dog jumps down but immediately a second leaps atop him and takes it's chomp of muscle. He jumps down and the next. This agony continues for what feels like an eternity as the man still cannot make a single noise. He still cannot cry, and he cannot beg. The pain is, again, so intense that all his previous pain forces itself deep into the past.

As the final dog finishes his bite, it pauses and shifts its body. It then let's out a siren like howl before jumping down and leaving the man with nothing but the sound of hooves stampeding into the distance, but the man is entirely unable to hear anything any longer.

“How do you feel?” The voice booms into the man's mind again, but he is still unable to utter anything.

The room illuminates with the most intense light that anyone could imagine, but all that is left of the man are his organs and bones encasing them. His eyes dart around the room, but the light is blinding and nothing can be seen.

As his eyes adapt and he can finally see, dark, nearly see through, floating creatures flow towards him. He thinks about how it all must end at some point, it is his last form of hope.

The ghastly things hover over the remaining parts of his body, pulling each individual organ from the his skeleton. One of them positions his head so that he is forced to watch everything. His bones are shattered all around him, and what is still attached by the cartilage is cracked all over. Blood covers the walls, the floor, the ceiling, and the table in which he fell atop.

The ghosts each tilt what appears to be their heads towards the large hole in which the man fell from. As they do this, every organ – other than the brain – start turning black and shrivel into near nothing. There is no pain, but the man feels absolute disgust at the sight.

The ghosts vanish just as quickly as the light arrived, and his skull falls to the ground. The brain remains. He attempts to contemplate all that has happened to him, but nothing makes sense.

“I will give you the ability to speak to me now. What would you ask me?”

“Why are you killing me?”

“Oh, my dear son. This isn't death. This is life.”

-Dustin S. Stover


If you enjoy my writing then please purchase my collection of short stories, Happiness in a Void of Darkness.

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Theories on Work: Part Never-ending

There is a theory that humanity shifted it's focus on survival to a focus on pleasure, but I find this to be missing a major point.  While it may be true that humanity no longer has to struggle just to survive, and it may seem as though a focus on pleasure is the pinnacle of modern day societal norms there is a major mark about how miserable we all are throughout our normal lives.

We work day in and day out just to buy bullshit we don't need while living in houses and apartments that far exceed what we can afford to pay.  Out of a 24 hour day, if we spend 8 hours sleeping, that leaves 16 hours awake.  A typical work day is half that if you exclusively count hours on the clock but then you have to add the time it takes to get ready for work, the time it takes to drive to and from work, and the breaks you take that are off the clock. 

Let's say you're exceptionally quick to get ready for work and take a mere 10 minutes, but then it takes you 30 minutes to get to work.  That is already 40 additional minutes to your 8 hour work day.  Then an additional 30 minutes spent for your lunch break, which if you leave your job to get lunch will mostly be spent in your car driving to and from the location with, if you're lucky, half that time actually just sitting to eat.  After you clock out you have an additional 30 minute drive home.

So if we add all that together we get 9 hours and 40 minutes, which has now become your actual work day, which turns that 16 hour day into much closer to 6.

Next, there is dinner.  Preparing for dinner takes time, and then it has to be cooked.  By the time you can sit down and eat, another hour has passed, if not more.  That now leaves us with a mere 5 hours remaining of our day.

Of course, after spending so much time doing everything else, who wants to spend the remaining hours of their day leaving their house again to find something they enjoy?  That isn't even considering that those 5 hours are likely split between pre-work and post-work, which dependent upon how you split it could be dwindled down to a couple of hours.

Then there are the trips to the grocery store, picking up things you need that may have broke or worn out, taking care of the yard, cleaning the house, and all the other responsibilities brought on by being an adult.

Now typically, a person takes care of all their responsibilities on their off time, and this makes sense because they don't have time during work days. 

But that begs a question - where does a person's desire, hobbies, or interests fall in all this?  How does a person find something they enjoy?  How does a person find the time to discover themselves in all this mess?

Well, there is ultimately only 4 answers to this question:
1: They skip taking care of their responsibilities.
2: They skip work.
3: They skip sleep.
4: They don't.

The 4th answer is really the one I feel most people would find themselves in, but we all have to find a reason to continue our lives or else we'd all commit suicide.  So, how then, would one find a reason to continue their life?

I feel that the answer to that question should be answered in a later blog post.

As always, thanks for reading,
Dustin S. Stover




Also, if you find yourself interested in my writing and would like to help support me in continuing this endeavor, please be sure to click on the links below for the collection of short stories I have published.

Happiness in a Void of Darkness
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Definitely not a Story of Love

He looked at her while she didn't even so much as give a glance.  Every day was the same story.  He had this misguided belief that if she would just look at him then he had a chance with her, but we all know that a look is just a look with little to no meaning more than that.

Still, his gaze didn't falter. 

He watched as she spoke to many other people, usually in a sarcastic manner to ensure everyone around her knew of her place in the societal hierarchy.  She knew she was better.  That just made him desire her even more.

There is always that point in time when a person comes face to face with what they believe they want only to discover just how wrong it is for them.  This story isn't about that, though it will definitely feel as though it falls along that line.

Our lonely hero decides one day that he will force her acknowledgment.  He bumps into her causing quite an awkward moment. 

"Why the fuck did you bump into me, asshole?"  Her voice is shrill and condescending.

"It was an accident."

"You gross mother fucker, just leave me alone." 

And just like that, our lonely hero felt completely crushed.  Their eyes met, at long last, and only for her to shut all his desires down.

Of course, that was a few decades ago.  Our lonely hero has had many failures within those fateful years - all of which contained fruitful nuggets of information he learned from.  His memory of youth was little more than memories of many mistakes, the likes of which he would never want to repeat.

Our antagonist, on the other hand, made but one mistake.  One mistake that she has had to live with ever since - marrying the first person who treated her like the condescending bitch she was and letting him make her into his submissive housewife, a mother to his obnoxious and bratty children.  Her memory of youth was full of fond memories, memories of dominance and being wildly desirable. 

Our lonely hero rarely ever thought about women who rejected him, especially the one who called him a gross mother fucker.  Meanwhile, she longed for someone to idolize her the way he did back in those long since passed days.

She knew he stared at her.  She knew him running into her was an attempt to gain her attention.  That just made her even more fierce, thinking that was the way to ensure he kept going the way he had for so long.

That didn't work, though.  The last day he ever looked at her with longing eyes was the day our lonely hero performed his little stunt for attention.  It was also the day, he would never find out, that she met the man that would transform her from the fierce bitch into the docile puppy.

The hero of this story learned, in no short part from his experience here, that the amount of effort one puts into winning someone over does not equal the amount of love a couple has for one another.  The antagonist learned what it was like to put forth all the effort and never learned that equality was far more a sign of love than effort.

The two would go on with their lives, never to meet again.  He traveled throughout the world, finding meaning in every little thing he did.  She stayed in their hometown convincing herself that her life had meaning.

-Dustin S. Stover

Happiness in a Void of Darkness is my collection of short stories and can be purchased at either of the links below.
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Authenticity

It was a terribly gray sky, though the rain wouldn't fall.  He sat with eyes sharply peering at the peak of a neighboring house, yet if he was asked what he was looking at he'd have no idea.  He had no idea. 

The funky bass line roars and her voice rips the sky wide open, at least inside his mind.  There is a synthesizer that breaks up the sounds of traditional instruments while fitting so effortlessly that without knowing better you'd believe it was being keyed the way a piano would.  Jazz drums is always his favorite to listen to.

It was all fitting perfectly for his day.  Solitude, contemplating life's trials and temptations, gray skies darkening everything around, and music that felt as though it was just as much a part of the scenery as the clouds in the sky.

Of course, this says nothing to what he was seeing while staring at the roof top.  He was seeing his former life fading from present day into the past.  His best friend died a few short days ago from a drug overdose, yet he was entirely oblivious of his friend's habit.

He is reminded of some quote he heard many years ago - one he cannot fully remember - that states something about never truly knowing someone until they are under extreme suffering.  It never made much sense to him at the time as he simply believed he could know someone with relative ease, but now thinking about his friend he understood that he never saw him suffering.

He tries to summon memories of his friend suffering.  Memories clear from distant fogs in which he would get drunk with his friend over some girl or the loss of a job - that time he had to sell his favorite guitar to make rent that month.  There was a feeling, at the time, that this was suffering, but it wasn't.  It was the evasion of suffering and he only now has he begun to understand.

A tear creeps out of the corner of his eye as he begins to think back on all the little signs of heroin usage.  The lame duck excuses of being too busy to reply to a text message after days.  The memory of how often his friend had been sick within the recent months.

More than those memories and the feeling of stupidity crawling around in his mind, he found a great sadness in how he would never be able to laugh at some stupid shit a customer said, or share this great jazz he was listening to now with his friend. 

This is life, though, and he knows that no matter how he feels that he will have to get up tomorrow and pretend everything is alright with everyone he interacts with.  The only break he will get from pretending is the point in time he is at the funeral services, but even that will feel so impersonal as everyone else there will be feeding off of the emotions of one another.  Aunts and uncles will be crying immensely even though they hadn't seen him in years and people who only knew him in passing will be talking about how great of a person he was, how terribly he will be missed.

He begins to acknowledge that life is just one big swath of falsehood.  A display of what humanity is supposed to look like - a heroin addict near killing himself playing it off as though he is just a little sick, people mourning the loss of a life they knew nothing about, and even his job of interacting with people with a fake smile to sell whatever shit he was pushing onto the people.  It is all fake.

Could authenticity exist at all in a society that rewards the inauthentic far more?  The creeping thought of this was increasingly spreading throughout his mind.

He then remembered his friend, the moment in time the two met.  They sat on the back steps of a house, party in full force inside, and discussed just how fake everyone inside the party was.  How everyone was showing off in order to one-up one another or just to get laid, how it wasn't either one of their scenes. 

They both went back to an apartment - he couldn't remember if it was his or his friends - and listened to albums all night long, critiquing the guitar playing, the drums, the vocals, and how well it all pieced together.  He remembered how authentic they were with one another about it all, unashamed to hate a song or band the other loved.  It was the start of an authentic friendship.  It was the start of an authentic friendship, and now he had a greater appreciation for that than ever before.

-Dustin S. Stover

If you find pleasure in reading my short stories, please consider supporting me by purchasing my writing.  It allows me to continue to pursue this crazy little hobby of mine as I attempt to turn it into a profession.

My collection of short stories is called Happiness in a Void of Darkness and can be found at the following links:
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Knock

It started out as a humbling drive into the sunset but emotions grew, and before he knew it he was well above the speed limit.  In a world of automated cars, people who find simplicity by having the technology do all their work for them, and priorities have shifted to pleasure long ago it becomes an act of rebellion to be perceptive.  That is where the hero, or villain, of this story will reside.

His car is of a vintage nature, a time when there was a such thing as a driver and a driver utilized three pedals and a stick between the seats to control the speed and acceleration of the vehicle.  It was small, only having two seats as opposed to the modern cars with cabins of bed-like seats, and was built with the intention of putting a smile on the driver's face.  Now only a few would know how to turn a steering wheel as anything more than a novelty.

While cleaning out his great grandmother's home, years ago, he came across a collection of books.  He didn't even know what they were - it had been decades since the last one had been printed and now people just listened to books selected for them by the state based on their age, gender, and racial background.

Among the books were the likes of Nietzsche, Sartre, and Camus.  His grandfather, still remembering the old ways of reading, taught him the words within the book and talked to him about their meanings.  While this behavior was not strictly forbidden by the state, it had been almost exclusively pushed out of societal norms. 

Now our hero has found himself at odds with society.  Upon re-reading The Stranger by Albert Camus he began to see himself in the character - not so much the kind of person who could kill a person and then show no remorse for it, but a person who perceived the world through a detached emotion.  Another thing he began to notice was that everyone around him held no distinct emotion to their experience, no unique experiences.

His car, which had been handed down to him from his father whom got it from his father whom got it from his father, was weaving between the automated machinery.  Each vehicle altering it's speed automatically to allow him easier access - a design feature programmed by the early programmers of automated cars to ensure those who still enjoyed driving wouldn't be held up while they were breaking various laws.  It was also a way for the state to monitor people who drove themselves - see too many cars in a location altering their speed and you know you have someone driving themselves.

His wife, whom he shared conversation with before this drive, had proclaimed him mentally unsuitable for children due to his perception of the world.  To him, this was not only an insult but an absurdity.  He knew the people of the world were lost.  They are lifeless, thoughtless, selfless shells of the humanity that had existed for hundreds or thousands of years. 

He remembered when he first read Camus' classic, how it made him feel when he read about that fateful gun shot and ultimate murder.  He felt conflicted.  He knew it was wrong for that gun to be fired, he knew it was wrong to murder someone, but what else could he have done in the situation?  It was the first time our villain of this story realized that people could have choices, and from that point forth he begun being paralyzed by choices.  He didn't want to same soup for dinner than his wife cooked night after night.  That old car that had been passed down between the generations suddenly looked like a viable means to get from point A to point B, at least if he could learn how to drive it - so he did.

He saw the different races of people, whom he had never really had any real interaction with before since they were forced to go to school together, take the same jobs as one another, and eat the same foods as one another - all dictated by the state, of course, because the state believed it knew what would suit everyone best.  Suddenly, however, he wanted to try the other ethnicities foods.  What about that round thing that was shared amongst an entire family?  What about that steaming hunk of meat that would be sliced into several slices, each going to the children, mother and father?  He didn't even have names for these things as the only thing he had to eat was soup - night after night, with the same ingredients. 

The conversations he had with his wife about other ethnicities, trying different foods, and how odd it was that these people did not share things with one another is what led her to believe him unfit for children.  In his society, little did he know, it was always the wife's job to report abnormalities within the household to the state. 

In his rear-view mirror he saw flashing lights coming towards him fast, but he had no idea what this represented.  All he knew is that each of the other cars on the road were moving to the side and stopping, automatically, while his car kept right on moving.

At one point, he stood at the door of another family of different ethnic background, but he couldn't bring himself to knock.  He just wanted to ask them a few questions about their lives.  He had heard once, in passing, that every ethnicity spoke a different language.  He just stood at the door, he never knocked, and they never knew.

There was a loud THUNK into the back of the car.  A moment later the engine died, along with all the lights, and the fuzzy sound coming out of the radio.  The flashing lights came up on him fast, it was several cars, and surrounded him on every side.  Guns pointing directly at him.

"Your wife has told us how you think, what you feel.  You aren't allowed to think.  You aren't allowed to feel."

His final thought was about standing at that door - how he should have knocked.

-Dustin S. Stover

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A Mildly Depressing Chapter with Little Purpose

A handful of people sit, by pure coincidence really, while a jazz band plays covers of music spanning nearly a century. The band alters the songs drastically to fit their jazz style, but the lyrics remained the same as those ultimately influential tunes.

The small crowd, mostly of an ethnic majority, parades themselves in fancy clothes as though it is a fancy night, though they don't do a tremendous amount to support the band or the establishment. One couple buys a drink, splits it between the two of them. Another patron doesn't even turn from the bar to acknowledge the band's hard work.

A group of friends, though, found themselves here by chance and begin to thoroughly enjoy the music.

The awkward silence after the first song suspends in the dimly lit air as though it would last forever, but then the pianist announces the next song and continues anyway.

The audience hasn't a clue that this fateful night was not supposed to have a band – this was a special event that had as much publicity as the homeless person sleeping on a park bench not even a mile away.

The song's original context of a few minutes extends well beyond ten in this format and contorts in such a way as to not even be recognizable if it were not for the lyrical content, which only interjects itself at random points.

The group of friends are really enjoying themselves as one of them turns to another to announce that jazz is their favorite type of music to see live – the way the band members converse with one another using their instruments as though speaking their own distinct language no one else understands and taking the conversation in seemingly random ways has always appealed to him.

The audience finally claps as the song ends, all it took was that one person to start it all. The pianist announces the next song, a cover of a famous Beatles song.

The couple sharing the drink looks at one another in disengagement. The man at the bar still hasn't peered up from the drink in front of him, now on his third or fourth. The group of friends seem to to be the only ones engaged in the music at all.

The song ends with the group of friends peering around to one another, presumably waiting for someone to give acknowledgment of how good the band played their cover song. The acknowledgment never came.

Etta James was next on the list of covers. They really did it good justice, even though the voice was nowhere close. The guy at the bar turned around, even forgetting about his drink for a minute or two. The group of friends bobbed back and forth to the rhythm of the music. The couple, one of which had slipped outside to smoke on his cigarette, had abruptly put it out and slip back inside the door and enjoy the pleasantry. The woman declines another drink as she refuses to take her eyes off the band.

A group of college age kids walk by, peaking through the windows as they giggle to themselves about how few people are being entertained. A snide joke is made about how the business is such shit that it will be closed soon.

The patrons, nor the band, hear any of it. Their entertainment trumps what they would consider the ignorance of youth.

Etta James' song ends and a round of applause loud enough to be three or four times as many people as there were bursts out as the closing line ends.

The music continues while each of the patrons leave. The man at the bar walks out slowly and unnoticed. Next the couple of single drink smokers, not even remotely caring if they are noticed. Finally, all that remains is the small group of friends, two of which want to stay but know they can't. They leave, begrudgingly. The bland finishes their last song a few minutes after the group leaves with no one remaining to applaud their work.

-Dustin S. Stover

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The Perplexing Condition of the Youth and the Elderly

A child, young enough to be a great grand daughter to the old man, tells him a story about how a chicken makes a “po” sound. The old man sits confused as this is the most perplexing thing he has heard. “No, child, chickens make a 'cluck' noise.”

Noticeably upset, the child gets louder, as though the loudness will make the old man change his perception. It doesn't. The old man, worn from old age yet still defiantly stubborn, refuses to raise his voice as much as he refuses to change his mind.

The argument continues on like this for quite some time – the child now red in the face and flustered as she continues to convince the old man as to how wrong he is. The old man, having lived a great deal longer than the child, also knows her to be wrong, but as he tries to explain to the child that it is simply a matter of geographical understanding that has led each of them to the different perspectives the child interrupts with the explanation of just how wrong he is.

The old man attempts to change the subject now. Perhaps music would be a more appropriate topic, he thinks. Of course, the child has opposition to this as well. See, she is hip on all the modern music and the old man, well, his prime was decades ago. He couldn't possibly understand what constitutes as musical today.

He tries to explain to her how sounds have textures, how they create emotion with the various depths in which the instruments get played, yet modern music has little of this. Timbre, he calls it while describing what it is. Of course, the youth don't care. They know what sounds pleasant to their ears without the critiquing aspect. In a way, the old man is jealous at the simplicity of the little girl's life, yet he knows that eventually she is going to have to grow up and face the harshness of reality. Teaching her depth about the pleasurable things in life is just his way of trying to prepare her for the world to come - to look at things from a deeper perspective without suffering consequences in the process.

Then the child plays the old man a song – some new song that has a diabolically simple bass line with a few blip noises to hold time. She dances like a mad man as the old man sits back wondering what it is she is dancing to. It makes no sense to him as there is no rhythm to dance to, but he lets it happen anyway. He has gotten to that point where he understands resistance is futile and trying to understand her is worthless. Being perplexed stays, though.

He has to ask anyway, “what do you like about this music?” The old man asks in a very sincere, non-offensive way.

“I just like it. I don't have to know why,” the girl answers quickly.

The admiration of the simplicity fades into an annoyance, yet remains enough for him to still wish he could be so simple.

That, however, is when politics enters into his mind. Remembering the past, having watched so much happen that has led to the point they are at today – socially, economically, politically. The simplicity in ignorance is what has led to such a catastrophic state. The unemployment numbers may be down, but the average income is extraordinarily low compared to the cost of living. Slavery may have ended, but it has arguably changed to prison labor instead. Political parties work their damnedest to divide a country while neither side is working to benefit the society as a whole. This is the world this girl will have to face and the old man fears that if she can't even understand that her admiration for the song is nothing more than because of how familiar it is then how will she ever have enough comprehension to know that every action is equal parts good and bad – how will she know that the politicians she votes for, if she even votes, are going to use her lack of understanding to ensure they get her support?

The old man has lived too long, he feels, as he sees now that he is alone in paying attention. The rest of the world is like this small child – trying desperately hard to enjoy things as superficially as possible, and finding hope in the promises of those who would manipulate them for their own personal gains and the gains of those they support.

Teaching someone of any age to care is difficult, but a child? That is downright impossible when they feel they know better. Of course, the old man knows he can't live forever. He just wishes better for the future.

-Dustin S. Stover

White Light, Blinding Room

The light is piercing, almost painful.  A solid white room with the brightest sunlight I could imagine pouring in from above as though someone placed the sun directly outside the clear glass surrounds me.  Painted on the walls, with invisible ink, are all the mistakes I've made in my life.

The room is so blinding that I can't find the door.  I can open my eyes only with the smallest of cracks.  I'd hoped that my eyes would have adjusted by now - has it been days?  Months?  Years?  A lifetime?  It definitely feels like a lifetime.

The brightness may as well be a thousand tons of weigh pressing down on me.  Still, I find myself pawing at the walls in an attempt to find the door.  All I feel, however, is the texture of the painted mistakes slightly raised off the walls of this deadly white.

I feel like giving up, but I'm so lost within in this room that even if I had the capability of doing so I wouldn't be able to see my way to doing it.  This is why the light is so much more dangerous than the dark.  At least when you're in the dark you can use a flashlight if you'd like, or just stay peacefully blissful.

Still, the textures, as uncomfortable as they feel, give me understanding.  Understanding of how I got here, how I trapped myself here in this never ending cycle of blinding pressurized existence.

Strangely, though, the room is absent of heat.  It is freezing, the way the air feels in the dead of winter, open field, and snow littering the landscape as though it is all that has ever existed.  I, however, am not cold.  It is just a feeling of brisk, frigid cold air surrounding me as these mistakes are my main companion.

I suppose that since my choices have always been that of my own, I only have myself to blame.  Still, it feels like a strange sort of relief to curse something else even though it is only a momentary relief as I release that I, in fact, am still the reason I'm here.

It is better to keep my eyes closed; however, that is too simple.  I have to keep them open, hoping I can see the painted mistakes and have them point me to something I've not yet seen.  The cracks in my eye lids opened as little as possible, but it is still hopeless.  Just white.  My hands are the only vision I have.

Crawling on the floor just renders more risen painted lines, but it still feels absolutely hopeless in deciphering anything.  It would be easier to give up searching.  I just... can't.

Sometimes I wish I could just go back into the dark like everyone else, but if I can just survive this experience then perhaps I will have knowledge coming out the other end that surpasses what I could imagine.

Simply have to keep hope alive long enough to find out.

-Dustin S. Stover

Money is Survival

As though it wasn't enough, we have an entire society that worships money and all means to obtain it.  Now, there's the pitch.  The game is all the ways in which humanity cons itself to obtain it.

Why, though?  This question is equally damning for morality as it is a perplexing philosophical meandering into what happens to humanity once it's need for survival is replaced with the fruits of their labor with an idealistic piece of paper or an account controlled with a piece of plastic.

When I was a wee little tyke, elementary school is the earliest I can remember being taught this, I was told humanity needed three fundamental things to survive.  Now, even at the time I found one of them to be a rather arbitrary survival trait that was more dependent upon where the human was existing than anything else; however, those three items of necessity were food, clothing, and shelter.  For the sake of simplicity we will assume water falls under the food category.

I imagine, and research agrees, that before mass civilization existed those fundamental things were provided for in the small tribes, lacking in currency of any sort and essentially, if trading did exist, was done in a means that traded goods and items as opposed to using currency.

Currency changed that, of course.  No longer did someone have to give up their supplies or goods in order to gain someone else's.  Currency became a tool to enrich lives.

Again, for the sake of simplicity, I will leave out thievery and other nefarious means of accumulating currency and focus on the positive side of currency.

Tactically, this worked well because if two neighboring tribes or cities wanted to trade in this manner, it broadened everyone's lives with things they were not otherwise experiencing.

Now let me attempt to bridge this gap.  When times became hard and a farmer's crops didn't render enough food, currency alleviated that by ensuring that food could still be had.  Likewise if farm animals began dying off from some disease.  Currency then doubled as a tool for survival.

Now, in today's society, currency, or money, is our means of survival.  We don't have the land to grow crops on to eat, and even if we do most of us wouldn't know the first thing about growing our own food (or have the time).  Money is the requirement to put food on the table.  Without money we become homeless, we don't have shelter or clothing.  Essentially, those three necessities are now reduced to one singular necessity - money.

So what happens if one has to live off of such a small amount of money that they can barely afford those necessities?  Well, the easiest thing to do is attach a desire to wanting more of that money because, at that point, more money equals more survival, or, at the very least, better survival.

That leads us to our modern day.  Over 40% of the population in the USA can't afford the basic necessities.  Forty percent of the population in this country is struggling to survive. Forty. Fucking. Percent.

It is actually closer to 43%. (a quick google search will fill in the rest of that information for you).

If that many Americans are struggling to survive, imagine how many of those are wishing for more money.  If that is what they wish for, it is only natural for it to turn into a worship.  Afterall, the whole premise of things being worshiped is the wish for something else - in religions case, for a better world in the form of an afterlife.  People worship celebrities because people wish they were said celebrity.  Worshipping money is, like the other forms, an extreme form of desire.

The worshipping of money, though, is also what has created the idolizing of figures like Donald Trump, who exudes the image of wealth in everything he does - or at least attempts to.  That is also where the big con comes in.  Official record now states that he has told over 5,000 falsehoods and untruths since he became sitting president.  That isn't even in two years.

Better yet, a look into his history will show you how often he has conned people our of their money - a fake university, convincing city government to give him a substantial tax break for something he never returned on, all the way down to paying a company to make over an ice skating rink and then take all the credit - this being after he guaranteed they'd get their due respect.

And why has he done all this?  I can't imagine to answer the full depth of that question, but one very obvious and equally prominent answer is money.  Except, he doesn't need all of his to survive.

Of course, the average person isn't a con artist - they just want to survive.

-Dustin S. Stover

Humanitarians

We approached the big, brooding building.  It struck me the way an old plantation owner's house would strike a former slave, and perhaps that was the point.  No one buys a house like this without the intention of proving to those who gaze upon it that they are more important than everyone else around.

The giant white rectangle stretched three stories high and what felt like half a mile from one end to the other.    I'm not sure what I've done in my life to be affiliated with such people, but I find myself to be quite uncomfortable now.

The things we do for love, knowing it's futility and inevitable decline into the mundane, should always be a perplexing notion.  Here I am, though, walking towards the big double door entrance into a former slave owner's home.  A representation of every founding principle of a country that claims to have been for freedom.

The woman who answers the door, of course the mother of my fiancee, looks the part - a home maker wife of wealthy proportions with the most important decision of the day being what she will have sitting on the table when her all too wealthy husband gets home from fucking his mistress after a long day at work.  Or, perhaps, just the mistress's apartment he pays for.

Jamie never told me that this was the type of house she grew up in and, perhaps, that is why it bothers me so much now.  We met at a distribution of wealth protest on Wall Street.  Her and her well worn clothes and good weed, we spoke of how fucked up society was.  I was raised on the opposite side of the spectrum - getting a job at fifteen to help pay for rent and food for my siblings and mom, as her job didn't pay enough to support the rest of us.

That was years ago, though, and since then we've established a good routine of responsible adulting along with a healthy coping mechanism of occasional sex and limited communication, the way that married couples find themselves.

"Well good evening, Jamie.  I'm so glad you kids could make it for the weekend."  Jamie's mom gives her a hug and just peers at me while her head is behind Jamie's.

"It is good to see you, too, Mrs. Andrews."  Even the name sounds like she'd own slaves if she could.

The first thing I notice as we are walking through the massive, open entryway that stretches clear to the roof - balconies lining both sides with pillars supporting it all - is that there are women cleaning things.  Their french maid outfits look just innocent enough to be sexually submissive, but being fit upon black women seems quite an odd thing.  It isn't often, after all, that one sees African American women wearing french maid outfits in porn and where else does one see french maid outfits in today's society?

The deeper into this house I get, the more I feel like I am taking a trip back in time.

Jamie's attitude and demeanor instantly change with the scene.  Her flowing dress and unkempt hair now looking even more out of place on her body than I feel inside this building. 

One of the maids is sheltered off in one of the corners - a baby bump forming a relatively noticeable in the black and white dress she is wearing.  At least she isn't beaten for getting pregnant.

"Ah, kids.  Welcome, welcome.  Make yourselves at home.  I won't be long."  Jamie's dad, Roger, sits inside an office adorned by two big wooden framed glass doors, one of which is opened allowing the odor of cigar smoke to pour out of the room and into my nostrils.  Roger sits on a luxurious leather swiveling chair with a phone in his hand - an old phone that is still connected by chord to a box with physical numerical keys, hold and forward buttons.  I have no idea where he would forward a call to.

"The old fuck won't even know what hits him!" Roger's voice is boisterous and full of bravado, which leads directly into a cackling laughter before he says his good byes and hangs up the phone.

Out back there is a porch with an overhang and spacious seating.  It overlooks the yard which, in the distance, features a massive pond that is almost big enough to name.

"Do you have any new work coming in, poppa?"  Jamie says with a polite and subordinate tone.

"Oh, my little girl.  Don't you worry about me.  You know I'm always on top of the world."

"Oh, your dad, Jamie.  Never one to be humble, you know."

It is like I am sitting in some parallel dimension .

"Of course I have more work coming in!  The work comes to me!" 

The lemonade on the table seems more interesting than where this conversation is heading.

"What do you do for a living, sir?"

"Sir!  That's it, my boy.  I am a sir!"  Roger cackles with his boisterous laughter.  "I make deals, my boy.  I make deals happen.  What are your plans?"

"Me?  I was planning on starting a non-profit to help at risk children get off the streets and establish a new life."  Roger's boisterous laugh is more prevalent than the times before.

"Oh to be a youth again!  Wild dreams, wild dreams.  Let me tell you something, son.  You can't help other people.  You've only got to help yourself."

"You definitely help yourself a lot," Margaret, Jamie's mother, says under her breathe.  It is quickly ignored by everyone.

"Maybe, sir."

"Oh, daddy!  You have to show Kevin your collection!"  I swear that the Jamie I know was abducted once we got here and replaced with an identical copy.  The one I know would have scoffed at the idea of collections.

Roger leads me back through the massive open hallway and down into the cellar.  "This, my boy, is worth more than what most people will make in a year."  He pulls out a vintage wine bottle as I am noticing that the collection he is so proud of is a wine collection.  He holds out a bottle of unopened wine with what looks to me to just be old, but I'm sure he is right. 

"Wow, sir." 

And on it goes, Roger pulling bottle after bottle and telling me information that easily slips in one ear and out the other.  "This really is a remarkable collection you've got yourself here."  Maybe an hour has passed, or more, when I finally tell him we should get back to the girls.

"You go ahead, my boy.  I will be back up in a few minutes.  I've got to use the bathroom."

"Are you sure it is his?" Jamie's voice is weak in the distance, but still understandable.

"Yes."

"Hey, ladies.  That was quite a collection your father has, Jamie."

"Yeah, he has been collecting those since before I was born."

"Let me show you kids to your bedroom."  It comes as almost a shock that they wouldn't be forcing us to stay in separate bedrooms, but then again it is two-thousand and eighteen.

"What were you and your mom talking about?"

"Oh nothing, Kevin.  Nothing you need to worry about."

"I am going to go for a walk."  Jamie nods in agreement and gives her approval, but stays behind.

As I'm walking around the giant pond I am contemplating how easy it would be to get into the car and drive off.  The only things I've unpacked have been my toothbrush, soap and shampoo.  I wouldn't even need to grab those things they are so cheap.

"Oh, I'm sorry sir."  I was so lost in my own thought that I hadn't even noticed I had stumbled into someone else's thinking spot.  It was the woman with the baby bump.

"No, no.  I'm sorry.  I didn't realize anyone else was out here.  What are you doing out here?" 

She peers into the water without a response, but she had to have heard me.

"Do you mind if I sit next to you?"  Her hand gestures to the spot close to her.  I notice that this particular spot is shrouded in shrubbery to be unseeable from the house.  "Are you out here hiding?"

"No sir."  Her voice frail and fickle.  The lie is as clearly read as a children's book.  "What would you do if you got someone pregnant and you didn't want to keep it?"

"I mean, I would talk it out with the girl I got pregnant.  If she decided to keep it then I would do everything I could to be as best a father as I could be.  The act of creating the child would be equal part mine as her's and it isn't her choice to be born as the one who would carry the baby for 9 months like it wasn't my choice to be the one who doesn't."

Her eyes squeeze so tight that her face shrinks before a drop of water falls down her cheek.  The drop turns into a full stream as her body bobs as she is gasping for air.

"What if... what if she decided to have an abortion without... without you?"

I tilt my head back to the sky and take a deep breathe.  "Ultimately, I would hope I'd be a consideration in that whole ordeal.  I would really hope, but ultimately..."  A let out a sigh.  "Ultimately, it is her body."

"He says he will have me killed if I don't have an abortion."  Her voice is less frantic as her tears and gasping for air slow. 

"Is it your boyfriend?"

Her eyes squeeze tight like before.  "No, sir."

"Please don't call me sir.  We're all equals here.  Sir is just a bullshit word to make someone feel more important than others.  Even calling Jamie's dad 'sir' is my little way of mocking his smug ass."

She chuckles between gasps.  "It's his."

"His?"  I turn my head to face her.  Her face still pointed to the water, eyes closed with tears still flowing.  "Roger's?"

"Yes.  He rapes me.  Now he is threatening to have me killed if I don't abort his baby."

There's nothing I can say.  There's nothing I can do, but I know I have to try.  I put my arm around her and pull her close to me.  "I'm so sorry."

We sat there like that, not saying anything, for long enough for me to feel like someone was going to start looking for me soon.  "I know there is nothing I can do about this situation.  I am just so, so terribly sorry."

Jamie lays sleeping on the bed, but I shake her awake.  "Jamie.  Your dad.  She got one of the maids pregnant."

"He does that."

"What do you mean he does that?"

"She isn't the first one.  She won't be the last one.  Why do you think they all walk around wearing those outfits?  You think my mom wants to see short skirted black women running around the house?"

"Well, no, but..."

"Look, this isn't any of your business.  This is my house."

I look at my suitcase, still packed and ready to go.  I get my keys and grab the suitcase and begin walking out.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" 

"I'm going home.  I'm going home and I'm packing up all of the shit you have there.  You're not the girl I thought you were."

"Kevin, what the fuck?"

"Jamie.  The woman I fell in love with was someone who believed in equality.  Someone who believed that no matter what your social status was financially, you should always be regarded first and foremost as a human being.  Your dad raped a woman, got her pregnant, and now you're defending his actions by telling me that this is your house.  If you can't see the irony in that..."

"Any woman who takes the job here knows what it involves.  She should have been on birth control.  She is just trying to take my daddy's money."

"Fuck this."  I close the door behind me, but it wouldn't have mattered either way as Jamie was clearly not following me. 

As I approach the car I remember what started the whole argument in the first place.  I remember the look in that woman's face as it shrunk and began to cry.  I remember holding her in my arms and why my shoulder is still soaked.  I shove my bag into the car and run back to the spot I found her at as quickly as I can, using the light from my cell phone to guide me.  Not even a candle lights up anything inside the house.  The light from Jamie's bedroom is still as dark as it was when I walked out. 

I arrive, but no one is there.  Nothing, not even a trace.  I think about how it is perhaps the wrong place, but no, this place is shrouded from the house.  Nothing remains here.  I look all around for any signs of human life, but it is too dark and too late to find anyone.

Defeated, I turn and make my way back to the car, quickly, but no longer as fast as before.  Once at the car, I open the door but before I can get in I hear something faint. 

"Take me."

I look around, but it is no use.  It is still too dark and the light from the car door isn't illuminating enough. 

She crawls out of the woods beside the car, the woman from the pond still wearing that ridiculous maid outfit. 

"Get in.  Get clothes from the suitcase and change out of that bullshit if you want."

She slides into the back seat of the car as I start the car and drive off.  Her head rests upon the suitcase, her eyes closed, and her body looking at peace - a peace like she has never known before.

-Dustin S. Stover

What Did You Have for Dinner?

We spend our lives trying to develop into who we are going to be – who we want to be, even if we're unaware of that direction when we are thrust into this world. Unbeknownst to each and every one of us, we are up against a world that will try to defy us the opportunity of development in the direction fo desire, and thusly, spend our lives reacting to the variables that step into our path.

These variables can be anything – and they will likely be everything. Standing idly prevents the experiences necessary to gain insight into how to better ourselves for the future and the experiences will ultimately change our perspectives of what we want by drastic margins.

More often than not, the desires we have set for ourselves will also directly distract us from who we want to be. A prime example of this is a person who decides it is a wiser decision to get drunk as opposed to facing a problem in their life. For most, drinking will provide a far more immediate satisfaction – and perhaps facing the problem will never provide satisfaction in any other means than just no longer having that weigh on the individual.

As humans, we also always have problems that need to be solved. Whether it be a simple problem such as what to eat for dinner or something far more life altering like whether or not to put one's self into financial debt for the sake of making a loved one happier.

Every choice an individual makes alters their life and their future desires. Choosing to eat the same meal every day, for example, would make other choices take a higher priority. I once read that Einstein wore the same outfit every day so he never had to spend his time thinking about what he was going to wear. Some people, however, enjoy thinking about the little choices in life – thinking out what to make for dinner, to go back to that, fills some people with pride and enjoyment.

How, though, can one deal with choices they've made that end up blocking every desire they have for themselves? How does one live with a choice that forces them into sacrificing the things they were working so hard towards?

The perplexing thing about being human is how we can rationalize our emotions, complicating everything we do. One person can work a menial job their entire life and be satisfied while another can become rich doing something that doesn't bring their life meaning, and end in suicide. Hell, for that matter, their life can be full of meaning and still end in suicide.

Once one becomes aware of this, the weight of the consequences can become almost paralyzing. Of course, philosophers have lived this life throughout the history of humanity and, for the most part, told the tales of their meditative conclusions. But, really, was that the right choice?

And this concludes the random thought of the day. What did you have for dinner?

-Dustin S. Stover

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Burdens

To escape,
to run,
to hide,
to avoid.

The state of the world
is to believe
it is better
than change.

To escape,
to run,
to hide,
and avoid.

It is an easy desire
to behold,
and become
beholden to.

Especially when one
cannot fathom a change
or to even imagine
a better world.

To escape,
to run,
to hide,
and, of course, avoid.

The tactic that allows
the world
to become worse
and dictated by those who would benefit most
from that corrupt future.

But some of us
must feel the burdens
of your escape,
your running,
your hiding,
and your avoidance.


-Dustin S. Stover