The glory of being in the mess

I.

An ancestor’s voice leaps across a stage you painted,

From speakers you didn’t place,

And impresses upon you one fully realized thought:
That she understood every technical boundary of her voice

Her voice as an instrument,

Her voice as a calling.

Her voice as a cogent being, conveying raw emotion,

Just as mighty on a recording

That both passes through you as waves and takes up residence in your gut.

Her voice as encapsulating a moment, in whatever way you want to contextualize it.

Your rational side could say all kinds of things about the context, but that wasn’t why you came.

She was REJOICING in the parameters of what that instrument was capable of, and you did not leave that room unchanged.

You know she was singing to those who would come after, and to you.

She knew her voice was a living thing. Now so do you.

You start asking yourself,

“How did she find out?”

II.

First days of making theatre sets,

You make some questionable choices in materials.

Somebody has to TELL you that you probably can’t affix insulation foam to Eucaboard without using rubber cement. You figure out for yourself that you don’t paint corrugated plastic with acrylics, namely by doing it and seeing what happens.

You apply formal learning to a messy nonlinear process.

You fail a little.

You make things that make you a little happy.

You sit in the audience pretending you’re one of them, trying to see it how they do.

Your Capricorn moon attitude towards always quitting things that you’re not an instant expert at?

That starts fading off your radar, and when you change the dialogue with your inner critic, what else can change?

III.

I’m not telling you, if you can only draw an elephant right now, that you should restrict your artistic endeavors to creating elephants.

Consider:

There is an arcane triumph

A beautiful triumph

A needful triumph

A laughing-covered-in-wood-glue triumph

in glorying in the messiness of learning what your instrument can do

A Twist of Sacred Fate – Chapter 1

The long-abandoned Lowell Playhouse was irresistible to Miranda and her friends as an urbex destination. Built in the 1920s, the building sat vacant for the 40 years prior to being converted to a church for 5 years in the 80s. It was then turned into a concert venue that failed spectacularly by 2003, and had been empty ever since. It was eerie, there were a half-dozen urban legends set within its walls, and best of all, it was about as far from the police station as possible while remaining within the downtown area.

There were 5 of them, a good-sized team for a medium-sized two-story building. They made short work of getting over the simple chain link fence out back, with Caleb boosting everyone over before he scrambled over himself.

“Why didn’t they ever change the signage out front if it was a church?” Miranda was grousing good-naturedly as she caught her breath.

“I figure the sign was just too high up the building, no one wanted to fight with it. You can see where the lettering was when it was a church if you look hard enough at the brick out front,” Averill stated. They’d been the first to approach the building itself, and were squinting up at it critically.

Jordan didn’t say anything to the rest of them, just rolled eir eyes and barreled onward towards the stage door. The group’s online research had pinpointed this as the easiest point of entry – a prior group of explorers had stated they’d taped down the latching mechanism. Jordan shook the handle a few times and announced “it’s locked”.

Caleb fished in his pocket and produced a set of lockpicks, and had it open in just under 10 minutes. “Getting faster, bro,” said Averill with a grin. It was a point of mock-contention between them, to see who could outperform the other. “Yeah, yeah,” Caleb smiled, and everyone cautiously entered the dark building.

Miranda and Emma turned on their Maglites and they all surveilled the interior. The sun had left evidence of a prominent logo of a Pentecostal denomination on ugly faux-wood paneling, behind what could be better described as a dais than as a stage. There were a number of hanging lights aimed at this area. In rough rows were gross mold-infested upholstered chairs that clearly came from the church years as they had hymnal-holders still attached. Somewhat upright were a half-dozen microphone stands with no job to do.

“No wonder this place shut down,” Jordan said uneasily. “They didn’t exactly expend an effort to change it over.” With eir statement, the vibe shifted imperceptibly. Miranda gasped a little sharply and ignored the others turning to look at her. They usually didn’t notice what she did, in this case, that the building felt more hostile after Jordan spoke.

“Let’s get a few pictures,” Caleb said, in the tone of someone avoiding thinking about how the locale was making him feel by initiating the familiar ritual of documenting what they’d found. Emma and Miranda were most invested in the lighting and electrical equipment – Emma was an apprentice electrician, and Miranda had been on the drama tech crew for one fraught semester of high school with an overly angry teacher who’d thrown her out of the class for refusing to perform material he’d selected without her input. These two got in a friendly argument about whether this, that, and the other thing would still function if it had power to it. Miranda was trying to discount the uneasy feeling that each picture snapped was increasing the animosity in the air.

Averill, at this point, was cautiously traversing the stage. They knew better than to trod heavily on the elderly floorboards, but were picking their way carefully to the front edge. “Hey Caleb, want to take my picture up here?” they joked. “No incriminating pictures for the authorities”, they said at the same time as Caleb and in the same tone. Caleb flipped them off and continued aiming his flashlight into each of the hymnal-holders on the decrepit pews. He’d gone to a Pentecostal church once with his aunt and knew they usually contained donation envelopes, golf pencils, and people’s used communion cups in addition to the music books. He didn’t find anything that exciting, just a couple of very dead earwigs.

“I don’t think we should keep doing this,” Miranda said in a tone that wasn’t loud but somehow carried to each of them. All four of the others stopped and stared. Caleb’s thumb slipped out of his belt loop and he had to catch his arm from sliding, and Averill’s mouth was hanging open. “Oh my gods, no, not THIS as in urbex. You know it’s in my blood. I mean this building…” she struggled to find the words to tell a couple of atheists, a nominal Catholic, and a Buddhist that it didn’t want them there, and finally just said “we shouldn’t be here”.

“We’ve…we’ve had this discussion,” Jordan said, faintly baffled. “The legal ramifications are a risk we’re willing to-“ “No, I’m not talking about cops,” Miranda clarified. She was just going to have to say it, wasn’t she? “When Jordan said that” she gulped “that the renovations weren’t done in earnest, you know? That they didn’t try very hard? The building didn’t like it.” There was a lengthy silence and then a violent crash from the next room which none of them had entered yet, and a puff of dust came through the open doorway. “This is the part where we leave and don’t get picked off by the killer,” Jordan offered as e ran for the exit. Caleb and Averill were close on eir heels, and Emma clearly waffled, running their flashlight beam into the dark room beyond. “Guys stop, it’s just a music stand,” they announced, sounding equal parts relieved and shaky. “Say what?” asked Averill.

“A music stand fell over,” she repeated. The others slowly backed away from the door. “Is there a broken window? Did the wind knock it down?” asked Caleb, always a little too desperate to assert consensus reality in Miranda’s opinion. “It’s the middle of August, there hasn’t been wind in ages,” Jordan put in, still looking ready to bolt.

“I say we vote,” Miranda put in. “All in favor of continuing to explore?” Averill raised their hand slowly, not seeming extremely invested. “All in favor of GTFO-ing?” The other three raised theirs and Miranda said “let’s go then” and they all filed out and onto the overgrown dead grass on the side of the building shielding them from prying eyes.

“Shit, I left my water bottle,” said Emma. “You can get a replacement,” said Jordan, who’d always considered metal water bottles with band stickers extremely generic. “And I’ll get you the same stickers if you want.” “It’s not that, it’s that it’s got my name on the bottom in magic marker,” they said, biting their lip. “What the hell for?” demanded Caleb. Emma flipped him off and Averill followed her back into the church building, following their first rule of engagement: No one enters an unknown (or partially unknown) environment solo.

As Averill’s eyes adjusted to the darker interior, every hair on their neck raised. Maybe Miranda was right and something didn’t want them here, because it was 87 degrees with brutal humidity and it couldn’t possibly be cold that was producing the reaction. Then their eyes were used to the dimmer light and they involuntarily gasped “oh shit” when they saw that Emma was not only sitting in the pew next to her forgotten water bottle, she was staring straight ahead with her mouth open. Looking in the direction of the stage, but definitively through it.

“Emma?” they whispered. Fuck, why the hell were they whispering? This was no longer a church or a theatre during a show, there was no need to be reverent. “Reverent?” they asked themselves under their breath. They hadn’t heard that one since they were about 8. They’d meant to think “polite” and that had slipped into their thoughts instead. “EMma!” they said more forcefully. Emma didn’t look at them or even blink, just whispered “Shhh, it’s happening” and lifted one index finger. The “hold on, I’m clearly busy” gesture. “What? WHAT’s happening? Other than you’re staring at a stage being a creep! This isn’t funny anymore!” Averill got in front of Emma and those back-of-the-neck hairs were joined by all the ones on each of their arms and most of their torso as Emma just looked through them. Her eyes rolled up to show only whites and she slumped, still holding herself partly upright but with the vibe that nobody was home anymore. “MIRANDA!!” Averill screamed, having long since exhausted their patience and now completely terrified. Miranda and Jordan came running immediately, leaving Caleb as sentry.

The Faces

A story I wrote in high school that I just found, and liked enough to share. It’s about bullying

TW: Disturbing violent imagery, blood, implied verbal abuse

There are the faces. They are talking. They are laughing. I try to walk among them. To make my face a face like the faces I see that talk and laugh and cry and breathe and feel and love and think and know and hear and see. The faces gasp one gasp. The faces shriek one shriek. The faces point at me and seem to stare through me in horror. I turn my face to see what is behind me and see only the door I walked in through.

I smile and they scream one scream. Bodies grow slowly below the faces, a sinister light shining from them. Their hands hold whips. The bodies of the faces tie the whips to their tongues. They begin to whip me. The whips sting and burn. I scream, but the ears of the forest don’t hear the sound they have heard so many times before, that of a tree falling. I can not take the pain any longer. The salty taste of the blood, MY blood, that which I have tried so long to contain, floods my mouth. I cry out for mercy, and a face shrieks at the other faces. Startled, they stop smearing my blood on their faces, stop trying to be faces with one face. They stare at the One Face who has protested. It somehow communicates to them to leave. They leave. It binds my wounds and soothes my soul and gives me hope.

UnKansas

This is based on a true story, and was edited directly from a Messenger conversation I had with the person who experienced these events. No “girlfriend’s uncle’s college roommate” chain of story degradation occurred.

I hit Kansas around nightfall, which was my first mistake. While I was still traversing Missouri, GPS had had me get off of 70 onto 54 to avoid tolls. Nighttime was initially the nicest option for driving through. It was so dark, and I felt I was driving through a bowl of stars.

I was cruising along, and since it was a highway and not the freeway, there were intersecting roads occasionally. I saw an older sedan of indeterminate color sitting at one (it might have been faded tan or grey; couldn’t tell with the single sad intersection light bulb). I thought “I hope they wait and don’t cut me off in this giant nightmare van”. They waited. I happened to glance in my mirror a second later to check the trailer and looked back at the intersection. There was no car anywhere. Not in the intersection, not on the crossing road, just gone.

I kept cruising on, and after a while I thought “ok, 100 miles to empty, gonna fill up on gas”.

I started slowing down for this truck stop, but I took a really good look at it and thought “oh look, an opportunity to star in the first 5 mins of a Supernatural episode!” I went “nopenopeNOPE” and fucked off to look for the next one. The next 2 were closed, so I ended up at a 3rd. After I got gas, I went in to use the bathroom. I could hear some dude playing the arcade game in the hallway, and the girl at the counter laughing and talking to her 2 friends, and the entire thing just had this Weird Vibe. And some part of my hindbrain loudly gave instructions, which rattled me. “Ok, pee, leave quickly…but don’t run…they’ll give chase. And although you only see and hear 4 people… there’re at least 20 vehicles in the lot. You’re outnumbered…and it would be easy to be outmaneuvered.”

I left, and the counter girl and her 2 friends followed me out. Every hair on my body was standing on end. No one leaves the tobacco and the register unattended in a truck stop. The 3 spread out in a fan behind me, following me across the lot. I walked briskly to the van, popped the door, chucked the cat out of my way, and slammed the door…and they stopped once I got in, but stood waiting expectantly. I was out of the lot in 10 seconds flat.

I continued for another couple hundred miles before I started looking for gas again.

Here’s where it gets weird.

I saw a sign for a Love’s truck stop and thought “cool, this won’t be like that other place.” There were several vehicles, and the place was lit up like daylight. I was relieved…until the pump didn’t acknowledge my credit card…repeatedly. I went to prepay and the door was locked. I looked inside and realized no one was there…and turned around and saw that no one was in the parked vehicles, either.

I got back in the van, thinking I needed to Google gas stations, probably as a touchstone to normality to stop myself from gibbering. As I was about to change the maps from navigation to search, I heard footsteps on gravel approaching. The cats heard it too and started to growl. I looked up, looked all around the van, and I checked the mirrors. No one. No one. I fucked off as quickly as possible, adjusting my willingness to use Google while driving…at which point, I lost all signal and data. I remembered from reading the directions that 54 would take me to an interstate eventually, in New Mexico, so I just had to stay on 54. I saw a mileage sign for the next 3 towns, which were about 20, 45, and 80 miles away. I thought, ok, one of those.

First one, nothing. Second one, nothing…They were not even lit up with night security lights.

Third one had a gas station. It was a little small, but I made it in and out. Although I had gas, I needed a nap. While the locals looked human, they didn’t look friendly. I kept going, looking for a spot to pull over, a wide spot in the road, a big parking lot, etc., and finding squat.

I finally found a farm equipment place in the middle of nowhere and pulled into their lot, slid the seat back, flipped my coat over me, and went to sleep. I woke up about an hour and 20 later, pondered, and decided that I’d like more sleep. I woke up about 10-15 mins after that to a sudden cold snap.

Localized frost formed on the windows and around the van only. I fled. Still no signal or data, so all I could do was keep following 54. I drove for about an hour, still damn tired. I found another truck stop, and pulled in on the edge where I could easily leave. I got about a 30-minute nap.

The cats woke me up, and the same frosty bullshit was happening. As I gtfo’d, I noticed that the rigs that had had parking lights and had been idling were dark and silent. There was no one in the gas station itself as I went by.

I went on for another hour, still tired as I’d had 2 hours of sleep and 22 of driving. I found another truck stop. Same. Fucking. Thing. I was tired and pissy, but I’d had my 2 hours of sleep, and was like “You know what? Watch this shit!” and peeled out, driving angrily. The road went to absolute hell. If I had been driving my car, I would have gotten stuck; it was that rough and chewed. I was going up and down ridges. In. Kansas. They were not small ridges. There was no other traffic.

The towns I went through were either lit up but empty, or utterly dark and crumbling ghost towns. Still no fucking signal. It had been at least 2 hours since my last nap. I finally saw the sky in the east begin to lighten.

I came to another town, creepy as fuck, but at least this one contained people. After the town, the road smoothed out some. It started having an alternating 2 lanes, where it switched which side got a 2nd lane every couple of miles.

And I saw an older sedan of indeterminate color pull up behind me.

When it was my turn, I moved over to the right lane so they could pass. They didn’t, but they were not behind me either.

There had been no intersecting roads after the one they came out of.

Way behind me there was a semi, far enough that it wouldn’t catch up to me. It and I were the only things on the road.

And then, the sun came up.

I had cell data and signal, albeit sketchy and weak. It was enough to use.

I texted my sibling “I’m in buttfuck nowhere Kansas, close to Oklahoma panhandle. no data no internet connection. Getting gas. I have some of the route memorized, but need to get internet or data connection of some kind, sending this in case it finds some signal somewhere”. I tried not to think about it as the Last Known Text from the Victim, and drove on like my ass was on fire.

I crossed the border from New Mexico into Arizona that night, immediately before sunset. It felt like the closest escape of my life.

Spirit of Theater – a prayer

Spirit of Theater, guide my hands,

That the flies operate smoothly and the weights are correctly balanced.

Spirit of Theater, guide my hands,

That I hit my lighting cues with perfectly timed precision.

Spirit of Theater, guide my hands,

That my curtain cues are well-timed to showcase the performers.

Spirit of Theater, guide my hands,

That I operate the camera smoothly and skillfully.

Spirit of Theater, guide my hands,

That the sound levels and quality come out flawless on the other end.

Spirit of Theater, guide my hands,

That I place set pieces, chairs, or props correctly, regardless of whether they’ve been spiked.

Spirit of Theater, guide my hands,

That even in a time crunch, I always reach for the right tool for the task at hand.

Spirit of Theater, guide my way of being within this space,

That I do not detract or distract from the show, but enhance it unobtrusively.

to grasp! ~

A brief poem on divination.

Sometimes the swirl in the cup is not enough,

dead leaves prognosticating,

and you must take a hand in the telling of your own tale.

Putting the fingers to hewn stone, slick paper, coins or bones,

the message can still be obscured;

hard to say how your grip will slip against instants you glimpse,

minutes or years on.

the surface where you gaze

gazes back

and not every apple you bob for is a prize you can clench in

triumphant teeth

Oðinn Inspirer

A brief devotional poem to my patron, Oðinn, typically spelled Odin in English (the form I’ve used is the Old Norse spelling). I have taken the excellent 3-part advice entries on this blog into consideration. The link leads to part 1, for those who are interested in experimenting with this form.

Oðinn Geiguðr, who hung by your own hand,

Nine days and nights, to grasp the runes from beyond mortal ken,

Oðinn Gangleri, Hleifruðr, Farmagnuðr,

Who comes and goes and who makes clear the ways, behind him and before,

Oðinn Viðfräger, Ómi, Galdraföðr,

Well known for the words that trip effortlessly from your tongue,

Hear my plea –

That you stand beside me, Well of Strength, as I say

Hear my oath –

That I intend to do right by you, ever with your eye on the long game, in my handling of your gifts.

That I hope to never embarrass you before gods or men in so doing.

Hear my thanks –

Gangráðr, Vegtam, Óski,

You have my gratitude

And my allegiance.

***

The names used in this piece, in order of their occurrence:

Geiguðr – Dangler

Gangleri – Wanderer

Hleifruðr – Wayfinder

Farmagnuðr – Journey empowerer

Viðfräger – Wide famed

Ómi – Resounding one

Galdraföðr – Father of magical songs

Gangráðr – multiple interpretations; the one intended here is “Journey advisor”

Vegtam – multiple interpretations; the one intended here is “Way-tamer”

Óski – God of wishes

It’s a Wash

A creepypasta inspired by those extremely erratic alerts on my phone when a storm is nearby. If you worry about that kind of thing, the dog makes it through this story. Hitchhiker’s Guide references are always free.

Tim pulled his pickup truck into the driveway of his small adobe house and turned off the engine, glad to be home after being fired unceremoniously and unexpectedly. He looked over at the small box of items he’d taken from his cramped desk area, wondering how to feel about all this, and his phone’s digital assistant made a loud announcement that grated on his nerves.

“Rain in 68 minutes”, it asserted. He grunted. The weather app might have been useful in Grand Rapids, Michigan, where he was from, but it was generally wrong in Tucson. Still, it was supposed to be monsoon season at this point in July, so picking up some milk, bread, and dog food would have to wait until the next morning. Coming home from the store without dipping under a couple of low-slung bridges was a torturous route at best, and his truck’s A/C was out anyway. Though Tim had never seen the water reach that high in his 3 years in the desert, the underpasses were labeled up to 8 feet to alert people to the depth.

Tim slammed his keys onto the table in the entryway and patted Rufus, who joyfully trotted up to greet him. “That’s a good boy, you don’t care about my ‘inferior work performance’, do you buddy?” Tim asked, scritching Rufus behind the ears where he knew he liked it. Despite the fear of unemployment that yawned ahead of him, Tim was feeling strangely ebullient. He had just settled in with a beer and popcorn, and was twelve minutes into his favorite Batman movie when his living room exploded into light.

Tim squinted around in confusion once his eyesight recovered. His TV screen was black, and it and the electronics around it were smoking. Fire was licking up the curtains around the front window, and Rufus looked to be barking in terror, but Tim couldn’t hear anything except a distant ringing, like a children’s bell choir gone subtly wrong. At any rate, he ran for the kitchen, looking for the fire extinguisher. It was in its place under the sink, but by the time he pulled the pin, the fire had engulfed one entire wall of the living room and was headed rapidly for the front door. He grabbed Rufus’s collar and dragged the snarling poodle mix out said door before he could really think about what he was doing, snatching up the keys as he fled.

“Come on!” he told his dog, pushing him encouragingly, “load up!” At the command, Rufus leapt into his customary place on the passenger’s side, mostly through force of habit. He whined unhappily. As Tim hopped into the driver’s seat and turned the key, his phone announced “Rain in 60 minutes”. Tim frowned at this but paid it no real attention, other than noting that his hearing was back. Yeah, the palm trees were whipping their leaves a bit and the sky looked ominous, but you just never knew around here. Tim didn’t have to think about where he was going – he just started driving and was halfway there before he realized he was headed for his best friend’s house.

When he got to Jason’s, he saw a large green and black mass of something on the walkway in front of the house. He was confused for a second, then his heart leapt with terror as he saw two things – the massive saguaro in the front yard wasn’t standing…and sticking out from under the fallen saguaro was one of Jason’s prized Nike shoes. Tim leapt out, threaded his way around the charred mass of cactus, and tried to find a pulse, but Jason seemed to have been there for a while and his skin was clammy. A voice rose unbidden from Tim’s pocket. “Rain in 35 minutes.” He wished he’d turned that damn feature off, and also, it couldn’t have been more than 10 minutes, the drive wasn’t that long. Tim was distraught enough about finding his friend dead that it didn’t register with him that strongly.

Tim called an ambulance because he didn’t know who else he was supposed to call, and reported Jason’s address and what had happened. As he stared in morbid fascination at the black marks up and down the cactus, he realized they were burns in a fractal pattern. The hairs on the back of his neck and down both arms began to stand on end, and he heard Rufus barking frantically from inside the truck. Why should a mark from lightning creep him out like this? Tim felt increasingly that he just did not have the hang of Thursdays.

When he felt the little hairs seemingly take the opportunity to dance, Tim turned to head back for his truck to wait for the paramedics – and the lightning struck exactly where he had been standing a second before. Rufus’s barks had turned into growls, and Tim once again couldn’t hear, though this time it was much more painful. He felt something running down the side of his cheek and frowned. It couldn’t be raining; he couldn’t see any droplets falling. His fingers came away covered in blood. Still creeped out, but with his goosebumps beginning to settle down, Tim turned and saw – nothing. Until he looked at the dirt and saw a branching, twisted mass of…sand? It hadn’t been there, obviously, because he’d just walked through that spot.

Tim had never seen fulgurite before, except on Supernatural, but he remembered the episode about it firmly enough that he deduced he’d either pissed off a storm god in a big way, or there were an awful lot of lightning-related coincidences conspiring to rob him of everything and everyone he cared about.

At any rate, he was going to get the hell back in his truck and decide what to do from in there. As he settled into the seat again, the voice from his pocket announced blandly “Rain in 4 minutes”. As he pulled the phone out of his pocket in annoyance to turn off the feature, lightning hit the bed of his truck.

Tim still couldn’t hear, so he experienced the strike as an impact more than anything, but the searing flash from behind him that lit up the dashboard brighter than the brightest Tucson sun made it obvious. Suddenly in a worse panic than before, Tim turned the key and got nothing. Not even a little click. He screamed and punched the steering wheel. The truck didn’t honk.

Tim thought that if the storm was going to keep coming for him, Rufus would be in its path too, and he left him in the truck, with the (fortunately hand-cranked) windows as far open as he could leave them and a hastily-scrawled note for the paramedics so they’d know how to contact his sister down in Vail to take care of his beloved dog. The hair stood up on his neck again and he started to run blindly towards downtown, thinking vaguely that the taller buildings might make him less of a favorable target.

Tim was charging down the sidewalk of Granada Avenue, feeling the triumph of being within sight of the city services building – the tallest in town – when he began to feel the lightning strikes were herding him rather further north than he intended to go. His brief elation deflated when he tried turning onto Congress towards the landmark and it struck some 15 feet in front of him the second he made the move. He didn’t want to go north; there was nothing to act as a lightning rod up there. He managed to run along Congress as far as its odd little intersection with Pennington, and figured even partially heading eastward was progress. But the strikes got more frequent and more threatening the closer he tried to get to his goal. He fled, sobbing, as newspaper machines, outdoor café tables, and anything else in the way blazed with an unnatural light before igniting. He just wanted to live.

The lightning herded him north on Church Avenue for what felt like a marathon-length period. His legs were sore and wobbly. He couldn’t get much further without a break. As he crossed 6th Street, the lightning changed tactics, striking slightly further from him, but pushing him eastward instead. It couldn’t have done that 20 minutes ago when I was by the 20-story buildings?” Tim thought angrily, but it wasn’t like storms could be reasoned with. Especially not this one.

The lightning continued to push him, but its strength seemed to be petering out. Tim held out hope that he could get indoors somewhere, though every shop he’d passed was closed at this hour. He looked without hope at the large satellite building of the U of A campus whose parking lot he was being forced across, and shivered with fear as he drew near the set of railroad tracks that bisected this part of town. He figured maybe if he jumped across the tracks in two large leaps, he could make it without contacting the deathly metal that would surely spell his demise.

The lightning pushed him straight along the tracks, southeastward and under a small trestle bridge, and as he came out from under the bridge, he felt hope kindled within him. There was a small cement-lined tunnel just down the garbage-cluttered wash. The wind whipped up, driving sand into his skin, and a crumpled newspaper skittered across the back of his neck a split second after his hairs began to stand on end once again. Tim yelled involuntarily. As he paused with nameless trepidation before the threshold of the tunnel, the lightning finally hit its mark.

Tim came to a few minutes later, confused that he was in total darkness. The afterlife couldn’t possibly smell this much like moist rot. Squinting, he finally made out the light of the tunnel entrance at least several hundred yards distant. How the hell-?

His phone interrupted, the first sign that he could hear anything at all. “Rain started 40 minutes ago and will continue for 3 hours.” Not being from Tucson, Tim had never heard the stories about the tunnels where various people lived during the dry season. There was a pregnant pause and the distant light was extinguished as he heard the rushing flash flood.