Leon sees Noel.


He's standing with their friends and looking right at her. She makes passing eye contact and gets flustered, looking away quickly. A nervous laugh in her own conversation grants her an exit and she wanders out of his line of sight.  Loud music, beer, cigarettes. Warm weather brings them all out, a giant tribe of homies basking in the summer like lizards in the sun.

She sits on the deck steps, the back yard is huge. Everything is so green. The smell of charcoal and chlorine are light in the air. People are talking, grilling, listening, drinking, smoking. It's beautiful and she's so in love with all of it.

"Whose house is this, anyway? Do we all live here?"

An older man walks up from behind and sits down next to her. He is small in stature with white, curly hair retreating from his forehead in typical fashion for his age. He's leaning in toward her and smells like french fries. A sticky grey tongue drags across her cheek and he kisses her deeply with his fingers creeping into her eye sockets. She pulls back with no success. His arms extend unnaturally, wrapping around her body while his clothing flakes away like burnt paper exposing corpulent, white skin that quivers with every movement, like a giant larvae. Panic threatens to consume her, she can't move and no one has noticed what's happening. She's suffocating under the weight of his undulating form, but makes the choice to accept and give in completely to the repulsion, gaining calm clarity.


Noel sees Leon.

Doctor Emerson's Exempliphonic Whistle

When a legend is created, origin names it as the legend in order to uniquely identify it and ensure that the object behaves as such.

The legend, now, is yours, my friend. How lucky you are to have this fabled whistle brought into your life. Use it wisely and with great caution, for you are now it's keeper.

The following information is furnished exclusively for the possessor of the whistle. Dispose of this material immediately if you are not the holder of said object and purge your eyes of what you've seen.

Before you begin, please read all instructions carefully.

General Warning: Prior to transference, the exempliphonic whistle is imbued with tightly coiled energy. At the moment it becomes uncoiled, kinetic aftershock becomes a threat. The resulting force may cause damages and/or injury. Proceed with care.

1. Keep the unpacking area clear of obstruction and debris.

2. Position the crate in the standard fashion.

3. Wedge the end of a crowbar into the opening between the slats and pry carefully.

4. Once a plank is loosened: take two steps back, rotate 180 degrees and speak these words clearly. "By the charm of generic conservation in the dim light of daybreak, I (insert your given name here) admit you into my life and accept, fully, the impact of doing so."

5. Your whistle is ready to use!

"Rum... rum..." I murmur.

A woman looks in my direction and motions to my friend "Get him, the fuck, out of here."

We'd been there for hours, it was a fair request. My brain was fighting hard to escape my skull, I had no idea what was going on, the pain is blinding. Alex takes my hand, her touch is gentle and her skin is soft. I'm immediately comforted as she leads me to the door.

It's hot outside, I feel like I'm suffocating. The air is thick and my feet do not want to carry me. I lean forward and try to move with her. I'm traveling in slow motion toward a vehicle that is miles away, I barely know someone is with me.

"Rum... rum..." I murmur.

guns. we go to the gun range. i love to shoot them, but i can't lie, they produce a small intense ball of terror in my gut. it makes me second guess every move i make. knowing that the piece of equipment in my hand could end life is intimidating. my hands shake when i hold it. it's a feeling that i'm sure will pass with familiarity. i'd like some time to take the gun apart and put it back together. to feel all it's parts. i enjoy the feeling of the metal on my fingertips and the weight of the gun in my hand. the entire experience is good, even the fear. the bullets are slick with lubricant of some sort. the casings are hot. "You ladies gonna keep your brass?" the guys that are shooting the hand cannons next to us are really nice, even though they look like they might hunt faggots for fun, but we are ladies, after all. i'm a pretty good shot, despite my trembling. most of my bullets end up where i intend them to be, a peppered head on a pink man-shaped target. i'd like to go more often, to shake the fear off, hug it right to nothing. absorb it and turn it into a steady hand. i fall in love with the little old lady in the far lane shooting all by herself. she's inspiring. it's really hard to remember to not swing around with a loaded gun in your hand. don't look into the business end. no selfies with guns. always point down range. keep your finger off the trigger. i feel fully confident shooting 22 ammo. i want that confidence with bigger bullets. baby steps to reasonable goals.

high school. teenage life. smells, textures, visions, needs, desires. that weird girl that sits alone by her locker eating lettuce. i wasn't weird. was i weird? i had one friend for the sake of having one, i didn't care about anyone at school, really, but it didn't stop me from feeling anxious about what any of them thought of me. it seems like basic human nature to try and fit in, or at least think of the ways that you might, even if you don't pursue them. i thought plenty of what to wear, how to present myself. do i put make up on? how will i act normal if i'm all painted up and out of sorts? i had already done modeling and hated it. what do i look like? how do i feel? who am i? why aren't those things good enough for other people? i settled pretty naturally into slightly too large flannels and airwalks. the comfort of a found place becomes apparent in the confidence you carry yourself with. even once i was dating that football player, i still didn't care about interacting with the entourage. i guess i didn't really care about him, either, but it seemed like the right course of action. date the guy, go to the parties, meet the popular people, fit in. they're all as insecure as the rest of us ever were. and, they're not really any better at disguising it, we're all just too preoccupied with our own shit to see. i feel lucky and pretty fucking satisfied to have accepted myself at such an early age. accept and don't expect. i say it to myself all the time. everything happens, what will you do? will it all come to you as you expect it? will you accept that? what's the point of resistance and anger if it's already happened. now it's just pouting. the ebb and flow of it all can be staggering, but i constantly remind myself of how small it is. each thing. is small. and life is long. shit, even days are long. i've grown. i've adapted. i've evolved. i've procreated. i've influenced people. i still eat lettuce. fewer people think i'm weird. i've lived and made my world a better place.

I'm sleeping on the couch, sweating. Tossing and turning keeps me in that weird area of consciousness that brings the most intense dreams. I open one eye. The tv is on, Kiley is watching it, the volume is low. I tell her about my weird dream as I brush damp hair off my cheek. My phone is in my other hand and it vibrates. She leans in to watch me check the message. As I unlock the screen, a video feed starts to play. It's all black and red and filmed from an elevated angle. A woman is running through a wooded area and looking behind her, she's quite obviously in a state of hysteria. It's me, it's...me. I'm watching myself run away from something. My heart beats hard in my chest as I try to make sense of what I'm looking at. Kiley is barely there, like a dispersing cloud of smoke. Am I still dreaming? I look at my hands. They are empty and I feel leaves and earth beneath my swiftly moving feet. Small branches lash my skin in passing. I press on to the clearing I can see ahead, knowing nothing. Fresh, cold air hits my face and my last footstep hits nothing. I give in to the fall and close my eyes, arms spread wide. I sit up quickly with one hand on the wall beside me, the other clutching the sheets. I don't move, but my eyes slowly find the door to my room and I know they're watching me. I can hear hushed voices and the tapping of a ballpoint pen on a clipboard.

"Is this behavior uncommon in this ward?" asks the clipboard.

The woman replies "No sir, panic is a basic in a prison."