Fiction

Lunches at Springs - Zach Lyons ‘23

“What can I start y’all with?” the waitress says.  

“I want a chocolate milkshake. Also I like your uniform,” Austin says before Kathy has the chance to speak.

“Whipped cream?” The waitress asks. 

“And don’t forget the cherry.”

Kathy offers a disapproving look and apologizes for her son’s behavior. She asks for water and sends the server on her way. Kathy can’t keep her hands still. She fiddles with and files through her purse, and places her wallet on the glass table along with her sunglasses. She scopes out the entire diner, and notices a picture hanging over the entrance to the kitchen. The large black and white  picture consists of a family in rows by generation. In the back are two grandparents, followed by a set of parents, and finally three children. When she looks back to Austin, he is wearing her sunglasses and freely giggling, before covering his mouth with his hands. Kathy can’t help but return a laugh. 

“This place seems nice, right?” Kathy says. 

“Yeah,” Austin says.

“I think we are going to like it here. What if every Friday, we come here to eat.

“Maybe.”

The waitress returns with the water and milkshake. Austin grins from ear to ear before inhaling half the beverage in one long sip. Kathy smiles, and orders food for each of them. She looks down to see her still hands. She deeply inhales, feeling lighter than air itself.

“Mom?” Austin grabs Kathy’s attention. “Every Sunday.”

…

“Do you feel different?” Kathy says, “no longer being a middle schooler and all.”

“Yeah. The ceremony was cool,” Austin says. “I’m really just happy to be done with the place.” 

They place their orders and look out the window at mainstreet. Kathy and Austin play a game where they guess the amount of cars that will pass over thirty seconds. When the food arrives—with the chocolate milkshake—Kathy notices his lack of appetite. Austin picks at his fries void of any animation. Kathy taps her fingers on the table while she interjects the silence with an elongated sigh. 

“So, do you want to have any friends over this weekend? That uh—Justin kid seemed nice enough.” 

“He said hi to me one time at graduation. That doesn’t make us friends.” 

“Then what does that make you?”

“I don’t know. Acquaintances I guess.”

…

“Don’t forget your medication.” Kathy says with a dose of eye contact. “We pay good money for those.”

“I know.” Austin says. “I wouldn’t dream of wasting your money.” 

He reaches into his pocket for the bright orange pill bottle labeled benzodiazepines. He takes two of the blue pills and plays with the bottle cap. He screws on the cap and reads the instructions sticker to pass the time. Kathy also fixates her attention on the bottle. 

“Austin, why is the bottle half empty?” She says with an accusing tone in her voice and crooked stare. 

“Why is the sky blue? I don’t know," he says, indifferent to the outcome of the threatening conversation. His eyes don’t leave the bottle.

“Cut the crap. You shouldn’t even be close to halfway done.”

“Sorry I guess I was too mentally ill to notice.” 

Austin puts the bottle back in his pocket and exits the booth. He stares at her, still sitting, waiting for her to say something. Yet, she doesn’t speak. Her lip quivers as she stares at her son. She slightly tilts her head, as if trying to understand him—his actions and what went wrong. She tries to speak but no words come out. Austin turns and walks out the door, letting it rattle on the way out. The entire diner is silent except for Kathy, rapping on the table. 

…

The door chimes and Kathy peers past the booth to see her son walking toward her in a turtleneck and cargo pants. He started his second year of college last semester. Austin forgets to call Kathy every Friday like they agreed, but she doesn’t hold this against him. Still, she worries. 

“Hey, how have you been?” Kathy says before Austin can even sit down. 

“You know. Living the dream,” He says in a joking tone. “I’m enjoying the year so far and made some new friends.”

Kathy nods in approval. She missed his face—the freckles, the bushy eyebrows. His hair is longer now, almost down to his shoulders. She notices he looks paler than before. Austin was always into video games more than sports so she shrugs it off. Kathy signed him up for soccer once when he was young. But he hated it. He would never wake up for the early morning Saturday games, and faked sick instead. Kathy started to worry for him when he stayed in his room on weekends, but she would rather him be safe. 

“You meet any nice girls?” Kathy says with a smile. “I actually have a few friends with daughters that—”

“Mom. Stop.” Austin says seriously. His words echo through Kathy’s head. 

“Look. I just thought—”

“We aren’t doing this again.” 

“Do you want to play the car game?” Kathy says with hesitation in her voice. Austin laughs before realizing that she is serious. 

“I’m not twelve anymore ma,” He condescendingly says. 

“Well… I’m about fifty, and I still think it’s a blast. But hey, what do I know?” Kathy smirks as she looks down at her plate.
“Fine. You’ve got a deal,” Austin says. 

Austin goes first, slowly remembering the rules as he plays. Austin finishes his turn and declares that thirteen cars passed like his prediction. 

“Don’t try to pull a fast one on me, that was fourteen,” She laughs. 

“I forgot how you used to cheat at this game,” he says back, laughing a little himself. 

“Me the cheater? You’re the one off at college who can’t count to fourteen.” She says. “Maybe that tuition money could be better spent elsewhere.” They make eye contact for a few seconds and both smile. 

…

Austin sits nervously at the diner table, his hand wrapped around Kai’s. Kai and Austin met at a bar six months back. They hit it off and have dated ever since. Austin hasn’t touched his anxiety medication in eight weeks. He aims to propose to Kai but wants him to meet his mother first. Austin has never brought a boy home to Kathy before, and her potential reaction scares him. Kathy walks through the doors and Austin points her out to Kai. Kai stands up from his seat to greet her with a hug. Austin relishes in the moment of seeing his two favorite people embrace. They sit down and engage in small talk for a short while before Kai leaves to use the bathroom. 

“So, what do you think?” Austin says with a hopeful tone in his voice. “It’s okay to be hone—”

“He’s just great.” Kathy amusingly says. “I can see why you like him, that’s for sure.” Austin’s nerves are settled. Kai returns from the bathroom and the group continues to enjoy each other’s company. Austin even introduces Kai to the world’s best chocolate milkshake. Over their lunch Austin notices Kathy’s persistent cough. However, he refuses to create a spectacle out of nothing. After lunch Kathy asks to speak with Austin in private. 

“Do you also have a lover you would like to share?’ Austin says. 

“I have some bad news,” she says, the words not wanting to leave her mouth. Austin’s face turns serious. “I went to the doctor’s last week, and they ran some tests. They think… they think that I have lung cancer. Nothing is sure, but I’m going back tomorrow to find out.” 

Austin feels the world falling, the room spinning, his words jumbling. Austin feels his throat swell. He offers to be there for her, no matter what happens, all the while he twiddles his thumbs under the table. After a minute or two, Kathy gets up to leave, since she knows he won’t leave first. Austin walks to his car and cries in the driver’s seat. Kai asks him questions, but Austin doesn’t feel like talking. Not now. 

…

“Hey! It’s so good to see you.” Austin greetingly says. “You look great by the way.” Kathy smiles at his lie. Due to the chemotherapy Kathy has lost over thirty pounds and her skin has lost most of its color. Kathy rarely leaves her condo most days and had to give up her boxer, Roxy. Her Sunday phone call with Austin is the highlight of her week. Since Kathy’s diagnosis two years ago, Austin promised to call her once a week and never missed a day. 

“You don’t have to lie to try and make me feel better,” Kathy says, her voice soft and scratchy. The two sit down and order food. Austin orders a milkshake for her as well as him, in hopes to indulge in the few fleeting moments of ecstasy they still have with each other. Kathy found out at her last appointment that the cancer is no longer responding to the chemotherapy, and that she has six months left. She doesn’t plan on sharing these details with Austin though. The last thing she wants is for him to pause his life to move home and take care of her. 

Behind Kathy is the framed photo of the owner’s family. Kathy is now clearly older than the woman in the photo. Austin has trouble wrapping his head around this. His mother, the beacon of light, his biggest fan, facing mortality's end, and knocking on death’s door. He taps on the glass of the milkshake to calm himself down and takes an extra dose of his anxiety medication.  

“I want you to make a promise to me,” Kathy says imperatively. “Whenever you think of me… don’t think of this. Don’t think of the coughing woman who can’t leave her bed. If I’m going to live on as only a memory, let it be one—where I’m fully alive.” Kathy holds back tears until she physically can’t anymore. Austin joins her in the crying and Austin switches sides of the booth to comfort her. 

“I know you’re scared. It’s okay to be scared,” Austin says sorrowly, in an attempt to be brave for both of them. For a few minutes they don’t make any noise. They bask in the silence. Nothing scary has ever come from silence. Rather, words themselves inflict pain and grief, while the absence of words creates serenity–temporary but potent. Austin drives all the way home in silence. All two hours. Listening to nothing but the vibration of the car engine and the occasional whirr of passing vehicles. 

…

Austin sits down at the booth he shared with his mother, this time not expecting company. He thought the funeral did her justice. The waitress walks over and recognizes him. 

“I’m so sorry to hear about Kathy. She was loved.” 

Austin nods at her condolence and orders. He looks over to the seat in front of him, almost expecting her to be there. He was pissed that she didn’t tell him of her terminal status sooner. But he was mostly looking for something to be pissed at—besides the world. He wanted something tangible. Something that he could hold on to and scream at before he collapsed on the floor once he was finished. 

The waitress returns with a single chocolate milkshake. He thought it was only right he had one more. He takes a sip and puts it aside. Still satisfied by the same recipe after all these years. He checks his watch and realizes he needs to start his drive home so he can pack. Austin and Kai are moving to California. He pays for his food and holds the bill in his hands for a few seconds before giving it back. His hands are calm, almost asleep. He stares at his beverage before standing up to do what he came here for. He removes the framed photo of a young Kathy from his backpack and walks over to the Springs “Hall of Fame.” The staff watches as he hangs the picture next to those of C-list celebrities and other life long customers. Each of the staff say a nice word to Austin before returning to their duties. Austin sits and admires the photo along with the plaque they made for her. 

Mother, friend, and the purchaser of the most chocolate milkshakes in Springs’ history.

Untitled - Carter Kodenski ‘28

Fog covers the Earth Like a blanket as the townspeople gather their supplies and their wit. A thin layer of snow and ice coat the ground, common with the Polish-Ruthenian February. The bridge over the flowing Bugs River stood tall. The year is none less than 1831. 115,000 Russian soldiers flood Poland as they try to extinguish the November Uprising of 1830. This story lays out a scene of a local village on the Bugs River attempting to slow the rolling, Russian army. 

February 2nd, 1831 

Birch tree's paper bark, as white as snow, peels away from the robust trunk. I save this paper-thin bark for kindle, something useful in these cold Februarys. My fellow militiamen hammer the tappers into the tall, birch trees, for I will do the same. Sap slowly flows out of the tap and into the bottle. The battalion leader calls out into the snowy meadow. The partly cloudy sky reveals the setting sun, as orange, pink, and blue colors run through the heavens. 

  We run back to the three cabins that house us. Fire fills the fireplace, as cooked potatoes, bread, and preserved fish are served to my battalion. Our hosts, local townspeople like us, cannot be described as anything but friendly. I converse with my fellow soldiers as they converse with each other. Nobody seems to mind what is about to occur. As we know it, thousands of Russian soldiers are rampaging through small, innocent towns, and we're the ones to stop them. My battalion stands 60 strong, with 2 other militias at ready with a combined total of 240 men. The November Rising is in full effect.  

  The night soon swallows the day. I shall stand guard until midnight, not to sleep, but watch. The cabin's door stands beside me as I clean my rifle. My rifle is American. It was sent over to Poland to be sold in small quantities. It was bought in Warsaw by me, a hunter who was sick of inaccurate muskets. In all the militias who will be fighting in this town, about 55 men hold an American rifle next to their bed. Another 65 have Prussian-made rifles. These rifles could turn the tide of this battle, for only a couple hundred Russians are supposed to arrive. 

  The hours pass quickly. The air is too cold to continue, even though my fur jacket and metal breastplate keep me warm. I turn to walk inside, yet I stop when galloping echoes in the distance. I warn the cabin of 20, yet their grogginess slows them down. The thuds grow louder. Everyone gets at arms. Midnight is set. 

February 3rd, 1831 

  The bridge stands tall over the flowing water. Fog makes any advances by the enemies cloaked. The galloping becomes louder and closer. Some raise muskets and rifles, until the commander yells to be at ease. A white flag is raised out of the fog, on the bridge. A mounted Polish Cavalry unit was fleeing from Russian-backed Cossacks in the East. They were merchants before the uprising, selling their Polish goods in Ukraine and Crimea. Their horses and men are about to freeze to death as they fall victim to the harsh winter. Their unit totals 30 men and 25 horses.  

  We send the Cavalry unit towards the main town for more supplies and aid. The town isn't far from our camp, but it takes 15 minutes to walk to the town. I finally get some sleep in the cabin. The night watch switches as I head into the large cabin with 20 other soldiers. I fell into a deep sleep, only to awaken into the day. 

  This day passes quickly. We only knew that the Russians were close, in marching distance. We clean our muskets and prepare our stand. Another 40 militiamen arrive from the town, as we knew that the Russians would follow the road and bridge near our camp. Our strategy seems simple. The new Calvary unit will flank some of the Russians as they cross the bridge. When the Calvary flanks, my battalion, now 100 men, will quickly attack from the woods and camp. We will retreat back to the town stand with the rest of the militias. Hopefully, the Russian force will not be the main force of 100,000 men. The Russians send small forces to pillage towns as they go. Their numbers should be in the hundreds. 

February 4, 1831 

  We were right about many things. We heard the marching in the distance, yet the scouts returned with terrible news. A couple hundred would be an understatement. A couple thousand would be more accurate. As the scouts returned, we alerted everyone at the camp. 50 men sprinted into the white forest of birch trees. 25 men stood on the North side of the road, in a meadow with small fortifications. 25 men, including me, stayed in the camp. The camp and field will get attacked first because of the lack of distance to the river. The forest is surrounding the camp, so the Russians will be ambushed in the camp from the soldiers in the forest.  

  At noon, we saw the Russians. They marched with their muskets in the air and their mounted commander. Their green uniforms stuck out from the white snow. As the first Russian soldier stepped onto Polish soil, everyone raised their weapon of choice. Yells flared from the Russians, as the Cavalry arrived. The Russians loaded their muskets as fast as they could. The unprepared started running for the camp to find some safety. 

  The first shot of the battle was fired by one of the Polish men at the camp. We were hidden well enough, so the Russians couldn't see us until they were in the heart of the camp. Smoke filled the cold air as the Russians charged at us. There were about 200 Russians flooding the camp. We observed the losing battle and ran for the forest. As the Russians chased in pursuit, 50 men emerged from the forest and fired their rifles. Some Poles took bottles of burning tree sap and threw the bottles towards the edge of the forest. The Russians attempted to charge the Poles in the forest, but were forced to retreat after a deadly countercharge. 

  The forest edge lit up with orange, red, and yellow as trees burned. The sugary birch sap fueled the wicked fire. The sky turned gray during the skirmish and snow pelted down onto the ground. We lost five men total in the skirmish, but we had to make haste through the forest and back to the prepared town. We could hear the Russians start to march again, ten minutes after the attack.  

  When we arrived at the town, it was already being attacked from the North. Waves of Russians charged at the fortified town. We stood strong as 280 men, yet the Russians had thousands. The field outside the town was lit by fire. The town only had five small walls, yet the fire acted as a wall against the charging attackers. The Polish Cavalry from the first attack finally arrived. The Calvary flanked the charging Russians.  

  The trumpet from the Calvary could be heard from miles away. The Calvary stood tall on their noble horses, for their swords and spears shone in the snowy air. Their charge rallied the Polish together and scared off the Russians from the North. The Russians retreated deciding that the town was not worth fighting for. But they attacked now from the South.  

  Once again, the Russians attacked in droves. 100 men at a time. They tried to get into the heart of the town. As history repeats itself, fire created a barrier between the town and the Russians. A Polish trumpet calls for the last charge of the battle. Many Poles sprint with sabers and bayonets. The cowardly Russians dispersed and lost all order. Calvary jumped over the fire to make sure the Russians were through. 

  The now disorderly Russians flee down the road as about 20 Poles and I pursue the enemy. People rejoice in the streets once we return to the town. Church bells ring as celebration begins. 

The battle is won.

Drinking in a Basement - Patrick Eskildsen ‘23

The typical high-school weekend night for Ken and his friends: sitting on silver barstools around the pool table and weight rack in Arnie’s basement. The three of them decided to get together since there were no other plans going on, and Arnie’s parents were out of town for business.

“What did you score this time?” said Arnie. Ken and Reginald sat their clanky bags down as they grabbed their seats.

“My brother stocked up on Millers,” said Reginald, “so I grabbed as much as we could stuff.” Ken plugged his phone into the music box and played his rock playlist. Come As You Are by Nirvana shuffled first. They passed out the beers and cracked them with a ceremonial cheers.

“Hey, Ken. How's the Belle situation treating you anymore?” said Arnie. He raised his can and drank from it. 

“I’m surprised Kyle hasn’t killed you yet.”

Ken was shocked that the conversation came up so quickly. He guessed there wasn’t any other drama going on. “He keeps giving me scary stares in the hallway,” he said. “I hate keeping my guard up at school. After last Chemistry class, I thought he was going to follow me into the bathroom and get me right there. I was shaking.” 

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the situation over the past weeks. He prayed someone would change the conversation.

“We should get the poker table out. I hope you all brought some cash with you,” Reginald said. Ken smiled as he patted his pocket to make sure he brought ten dollars for buy in.

Arnie reached into the cabinet next to the pool table. He pulled out a bottle with black and orange labeling and put it in the middle.

Arnie flashed the honey whiskey like it was golden nectar. He poured it into three red solo cups.

“This goes down like candy,” he said.

“Dude, that looks disgusting,” said Reginald, as he swirled it in his cup. “What was this, five dollars at the store?” He lifted his cup and sipped it. “It tastes like flavored rat poison. My older brother warned me to stay away from this stuff. He said it hits hard and fast.”

“That’s what she said,” laughed Arnie. “Ken, I heard Kyle wants to fight you at the party next weekend.” He racked the pool balls on the table for a break. “You think you can take him?”

This didn’t come as a surprise to Ken. He had known the day was coming, but for him it was just a matter of time.

“He gets crazy when he drinks,” Ken said. He broke with the cue ball. “I don’t know if I can talk my way out of this one.” He flipped his cup and threw away his can. “I just don’t know what to do,” he said. “Maybe we should get the chips out after this game.”

Reginald cringed. He held out his cup asking for a refill. “I think you have to cut ties with her and move on,” he said. “We should finish this bottle too. I can save the Millers for later.”

“I don’t know man. I think you are too far deep to look back,” said Arnie, as he slid the nine-ball in the middle pocket. “I’m stripes by the way. She’s so hot, and you really like her. Besides what is Kyle going to do about it? He was the one that broke up with her anyway.”  

Ken let out a deep breath. “I just feel terrible about it that’s all. He was a good friend of mine and now I feel like I have to hide from him,” he said. “I just messed everything up.” He moved to re-fill.

Arnie leaned down for his shot. “It’s not like they were getting married,” he said, “Just see where it takes you, I mean shit, we only have a couple more months left.” He lined up, “Left pocket... and that’s game, Ken.” He finished his cup.

“Damn it. Good shot,” Ken said. “You’re up big guy,” he motioned to Reginald while he racked up the pool balls.

“I’ll do my best.” Reginald stood and knocked over a poster.

Arnie reached to catch it. “What the hell, Reg!”

“I’m going to get my shit rocked,” Ken said, as he pushed weights on the weight rack. “He’s just going to pull me outside and just start swinging. I hope someone’s there to pull him off, so I don’t die.”

“Shut the hell up Ken, he’s not going to kill you,” Arnie said. Reginald put his feet up on the table. Ken noticed it took him a decent time to do so.

Reginald sat giggling, “Yes, he will.”

“I’ll kill you, Reg, you dumbass.” Arnie pointed the pool stick at Reginald’s head.

Ken slammed the weights. “I can’t run either. I’ll seem more like a bitch.” 

He walked over and took a seat. 

Reginald laughed. “Just take the beating,” He poured more in his cup.

“That’s enough Reg, Jesus.” Arnie wiggled the bottle. “It’s already almost up.”

Ken leaned his glass with his head sunk. “I just can’t believe myself anymore,” he said.

“Where’s the damn poker table?” Reginald said.

“Why doesn’t your drunk ass find it?” Arnie said.

“Let it be, goddamnit” Reginald said.

The room broke to a silence besides the hum of Oh La La by The Faces on the speaker. Ken knew the poker table was never coming out, and he was fine with it. He was bogged down with the situation as he had been for the past couple weeks. 

Why does he keep digging the hole deeper? Infinite scenarios run through his mind as they often do. He took a deep breath and slowed down. The music played while he said to himself. 

“Life goes on and it always will.”

Nocturne - Joseph Balto ‘23

Magnus lives only to listen to Chopin’s Complete Works on his old record player and sit on the musty green camping chair on his back deck and look at the Atlantic. The glacier-blue Atlantic, fjords with snow-capped peaks and evergreen trees, all just for him and his loyal elkhound Arya, his only friend left in this world.

There isn’t much for Magnus to enjoy in remote, coastal Norway. Aside from, of course, Chopin’s Complete Works and his camping chair on his deck. The record player’s needle is worn down, and the record is warped, but he doesn’t mind. It’s more genuine that way, nostalgic even. It’s not too dissimilar from the shack he calls his home. Huset til familien Bjornsons fiskeforretning (known to English speakers as Bjornson Family Fishing Headquarters) sits atop a worn-down birch pier. Supports are covered in algae, planks are chipped, nails are halfway exposed. He lives in the one-room shack, now dilapidated, covered in red siding, with the gas stove and the fireplace and a tiny twin bed he shares with Arya. He’s lived here for years, since he was old enough to live on his own, and no one bothers him up here. In late winter and early spring, the northern lights keep him company, but that’s it. Now, the only sounds he enjoys are coastal winds, waves, Arya’s barks, and, for the next few minutes, Prelude in E Minor, Op. 28, No. 4.

In an instant, Magnus’s sacred world dissolves. Arya barks frantically: she knew first. A teenager, clad in a neon green Patagonia puffy jacket and a yellow and red kayak, brand new from REI, pans from right to left in Magnus’s view. Obnoxious heavy metal blares from a Bose Bluetooth speaker, clipped by a carabiner to his red and green, 60-gallon backpack. The intruder looks quizzically at the scene to his left, at the record player and the chair and the pier and the dog and the old man staring at him. As the final chords of Prelude in E Minor warble, the teenager veers left toward shore.

“English?” he yells.

Magnus makes no reply, pointing to the Bluetooth speaker and the backpack with a furrowed brow and a small grunt. Then, slowly, as if to test the old man’s patience, the boy turns off his heavy metal. But Magnus can wait all day; he’s seventy-seven now. He’s waited for years and years, sitting on the pier in his chair with his elkhound and a record player. Most days, he waits for Vol. 1 to end, just to listen to Vols. 2-8.

The teenager drags his kayak onto the pier, takes his bag off, and as Heroic Polonaise, Op. 53 in A Flat Major begins, he offers a gloved handshake.

“I’m Reggie,” the teen says eagerly, but Magnus stares back blankly. He hesitantly returns the handshake, still irritated that his silence was interrupted.

“Reggie.” He tries again. This time, with his right hand free, he points to his chest, before presenting a confused demeanor and turning his pointer finger the opposite direction.

“Ja, ja, Magnus. Arya.” He quickly sits back down in his ancient green chair and closes his eyes, ignoring the teen, wishing he would leave. Reggie stays, though, opting to rub Arya’s belly. Magnus spies at them through the corner of his eye, and he sees a newfound perkiness in her bright, wide-open eyes and pointed ears. He’s disgusted. He’s jealousy, but the jealousy flames out into pity in a few short seconds.

Ballade No. 1 in G Minor begins to play, and with Reggie’s black gloves thrown carelessly against the shack’s outer wall, Magnus identifies a sizeable cut on the webbing between Reggie’s thumb and pointer finger on his left hand. It’s from rowing that darn kayak, cheap REI plastic, perfect for some American teenager searching for meaning in a meaningless European kayaking trip. 

Opened by the oar but infected by days of negligence, inflammation has spread all across the inside of the thumb, onto the back of the hand, and all around his pointer and middle fingers. From years of dealing with every variety of fishhook (and all their associated puncture wounds), Magnus knows exactly the illness, the severity, and the prognosis. He knows that the nearest village with an infirmary is 90 miles south, which is only 4 or 5 days away for an experienced kayaker, but for a teenager in cheap REI plastic, he certainly won’t make it until the infection hits his blood.

While Reggie is still plenty distracted with Arya, now playing fetch with a homemade yarn ball, Magnus enters his shack to look for his first aid kit. It’s a wooden box with rusty gold hinges and green felt inside. He knows the box with have all sorts of ointments and band-aids and moleskins for Reggie, if only he can find it. It was a gift from his late father, dead now for nearly two dozen years. Ever since he retired from fishing, Magnus hasn’t needed the box. He once brought it on his daily trips out to sea, but the fishing equipment simply collects cobwebs outside now. If Reggie has any hope of survival, it lies within the misplaced wooden box.

Magnus tunes into the record player again, now in the middle of the furious cadenza of Fantaisie Impromptu, Op. 66 in C Sharp Minor. He prays to Saint Anthony, a bit to Odin, too, for good measure. He flips bedsheets inside out and rummages through homemade cabinets. He frantically looks around the fireplace, the pile of firewood in the corner, and the mantle with its assortment of junk. He goes out the front door to overturn the upside-down fishing boat sitting adjacent to his house, mustering every ounce of strength inside of him like his own life depends on it. He throws aside fishing lines and nets and rods and all sorts of equipment, everything he took on his fishing trips, but for some reason, the first aid kit is missing.

Magnus returns inside, picking up a photobook. He’s not looking for the first aid kit anymore: he craves a distraction. Somberly, Etude No. 3 echoes from beyond the shack’s walls. Magnus takes a deep breath and opens the book. He sees himself as a baby with his parents, good to him for years in Oslo as a happy family of three. He thinks of how he pushed them away as a teen, pulled toward the sea and young love up north. Having estranged them, he turned to his first love for camaraderie and company, but eventually, he pushed her away, too, seeking solitude in the sea with his nets and lines and rods. His son was just four when he disappeared with his mom one night so long ago. Further from their shack to new life closer to civilization, and further from Magnus. Just two pictures sit in the photobook: baby Magnus in his mother’s arms, his father on the left, and the similar image of his son, his wife, and himself. His eyes dart back and forth. These people now haunt Huset til familien Bjornsons fiskeforretning, and he sees them everywhere, reminding him of his self-imposed loneliness. He lives for it, but he’d die to lose it, too. Magnus stifles tears, then remembers the key distinction between himself and his unexpected, suddenly welcome guest. Magnus is still healthy. Reggie has days left to live, and there’s nothing Magnus can do.

Reggie is lost, but Reggie doesn’t know that yet. For now, they wave goodbye as Nocturne in E Flat, Op. 9 No. 2 plays from the record player. Magnus sits in his green camping chair, the setting sun in his eyes, Arya whimpering in his lap, and he sobs.

Examination of Ego’s Unchecked Effect on The Mentally Unhinged - Liam Brune ‘23

Data collected and reported by William Branson

And Chris Zeigler; With Special Consideration

For the Green Grove Medical Center

Seattle, Oregon 98101

Published in 1997

Branson:

Here lies the beginning. One of an infinite, born like all the others with knowledge only that it will die and must leave in its wake what it can. Here lies my most important beginning, begun amid my middle; One which must reach its end before I mine. It is a work too important to be swallowed by hellfire, so I, in my limited life, must live, fully, in trying tenchant of my purpose, my fate, my Poulet de Heureuse if you will. Namely: To live in the backwards thoughts of the brainless.

The science behind mental deficiency can be easily explained by one simple fact:  

The insane are God’s failed aneurysms.

More Specifically:

In God’s half-hearted attempts to wipe people from this world, juices leak into their cranial cavities, ‘submerging’ their brain in liquid. The actions of the brain are carried out by electrical impulses, fired by neurons, which travel at the speed of light. Light travels slower in liquid, so the mentally feeble, their minds drowning in God’s wrath, have slow signaling in their brain, leaving them half-witted husks of humanity.

But what is it to be a husk? No one can know for certain, save the husks. That’s where I, the indominable, undammable, affluent I, come in.

I, along with my assistant, Dr. Zeigler, will gleam new, never before known, important insights about these ‘people.’

We start with our first subject: Jeffery Keener.

Take it away Zeigler.

Zeigler:

Subject shows clear signs of psychosis. Brain scans revealed no lesions, tumors, or anomalies, so his Erotomaniac and Grandiose delusions most likely stem from a combination of his recent trauma and longtime use of hallucinogens.

Subject is a patient at Green Grove Medical Center. He was checked into the hospital with burns and scorch marks on May 27th, 1994 and checked into the ward the next day. He is not viewed as a danger to himself or others, but his falsified view of reality is worth further study.

The goal is to challenge subject with mental stimulus in hopes that that he begins to recognize reality and confront his delusions. However, Subject may lash out at any direct insinuation, so subtlety is imperative.

[Taken from spoken, recorded transcript]

Branson: Get your head out of your ass, Keener.

Jeffery Keener (*designation 22934): What?

Branson: You’re not a space pirate or a fairy princess. You’re just crazy.

[Jeffrey Keener squats beneath a table and covers his face with his hands]

Jeffery Keener: That’s no way to start a conversation

Branson: Don’t be cute with me. Admit it! ADMIT IT!

Zeigler: Maybe we should pull back and…

Branson: ADMIT IT YOU SIDESHOW ACT PIECE OF SHIT!

[Branson climbs up onto the table. Jeffery Keener curls up into a ball underneath]

Jeffery Keener: Jeffery is not available at the moment. Please schedule an appointment and…

Branson: I AM ABOVE YOU!!! YOU WILL ANSWER TO ME!!!

Branson:

First contact was a complete success. I gracefully ingratiated myself into his world while keeping an imperceptible semblance of superiority. I could feel it. Understanding. I was so close to his world, yet so far above him. It was like looking through a human’s eyes from the throne of a God. Not that I’m a God. Not that they are human. Just close.

Once our connection, that between man and beast, was clear, I allowed Zeigler to do his little tests on Keener. He had me do them too, as a baseline of course. There were no other real people around. That’s Zeigler for you; always woefully unprepared.

[The following was taken from the PRE-EDITED May 27th, 1994 issue of the Seattle Times]

Welcome to the news. You didn’t come here to be happy.

Here lies tragedy – death dispassionately explained by a poor fucker at the end of her rope. A day began and ended, which to me, of course, means victims. A dopehead mother lit up her apartment with her kid inside. Both dead. Dopehead dad, William, slept through it. He’s fine. Happy days. The kid was named Rain, and the ‘victim’ was named Rose…

Written by Sally Fulton (fired on May 28th, 1994)

Zeigler:

I administered a basic cognitive test for Subject to take. The numbers were fascinating only in their uniformity. Subject’s results were not significantly different than the baseline.   

More so than anything else, I found his demeanor revealing. His fear and utter contempt for reality is staggering. He holds shocking hatred for those who have diagnoses alike his—as if his memory is at war with his emotions. Part of him knows he’s living in fiction, and it’s fighting to keep him there; Away from reality; Away from burning, rainfall, and wilting roses.

But he’s close to breaking.

Trial 2 should provide more insight on this phenomena, mainly because of the next *P-22 candidate, Trisha O’Halloran, a bipolar, former addict who bears a passing resemblance to Rose Branson.

[Taken from recorded transcript]

[Trisha O’Halloran lounges in chair. A hat covers her face]

Branson: Congratulations Madam, you have the honor of being the current being to whom I speak.

Trisha O’Halloran (*Designation 10143): Can my prize be you backing the fuck up and letting me sleep?

Branson: No. No time for that. Too much to do to wait for you to wake.

Trisha O’Halloran: Then how about you don’t come back at all. Problem Solved. Time saved.

Branson: We will do what we need to do now, and then it will be done.

[Trisha removes the hat and shows her face. Branson’s eyes widen, a steady paralysis infects his face]

Zeigler:

Subject had a clear reaction to visual stimulus that confronted the reality of his psychosis. No trace of phenethylamine* still remained in his system, so his body was ready for reality. His mind just needed a nudge:

[Continued]

Trisha O’Halloran: You really are a special kind of stupid. Even for this place.

Branson: Rose?

Trisha O’Halloran: What?

Zeigler: Ms. O’Halloran, would you mind reading this?

[Dr. Zeigler holds out his notebook. There is a sentence written in red ink. Trisha squints.]

Trisha O’Halloran: Rain, Rain go away, come again another day.

Branson: No! don’t let her go.

[Branson falls to the ground. Tears fill his eyes]

Zeigler

It’s… alive.

[Continued]

William Branson (*Designation 12509): You can’t let her go! I’M A GOD, GODDAMNIT! If I want her to stay then she should! She and Rose.

Zeigler: Who’s she, William? Who’s Rose?

William Branson: I close my eyes to the world, and they end. Fires burn, and they end. They end, they end, they end, but they shouldn’t! I AM THE KING IN THE DUSK!! Nothing ends unless I say it should.

Zeigler: It’s okay, William. You’re okay.

William Branson: Why couldn’t you let me live the life I made myself? It was nice in the dark. You burned away a man, Zeigler. Now you laugh and leave behind a husk. You should have let him… me… this, end with them. All of him that mattered, washed away with the rain.

Wilted with the roses.

It was nice in the dark.

—————————————————————————————————————————

Footnotes:

* Designation 22936: Severe Social Anxiety

* P-22: Individual meant to further engrain false reality in Subject’s mind

* Designation 10143: Bipolar Disorder

* Phenethylamine: A Powerful Hallucinogen

* Designation 12509: Schizophrenia (with Erotomaniac and Grandiose delusions)