‘Mr. O’Brien’

Mr. O’Brien 

Doctor Hazel felt obligated to attend Mr. O’Brien’s funeral. He rose early on a windy Saturday morning, kissed Marie goodbye, and hurried crosstown to Saint Michael’s. This time of the year, the days were brief and severe. Doctor Hazel wore rabbit-fur mittens and his scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck and head. He stood with a clean-shaven heavyset priest and the priest performed the memorial service. There were a few gravediggers waiting to lower the casket but nobody else was in attendance. This was a bit odd, Doctor Hazel thought.

Because for twenty-five years, Mr. O’Brien had been the most famous dramatist in America. He’d achieved every literary award, including the Nobel Prize. He’d been so famous, that Doctor Hazel couldn’t help but to feel uncertain and timid around him. His work with Mr. O’Brien was kept private. Marie was an admirer from her romantic college days and his daughter, Essie, had played a prostitute in a performance of a play that had once won Mr. O’Brien the Pulitzer Prize. Mr. O’Brien was only being fifty-five. There was little to say about Mr. O’Brien that wasn’t personal and mean-spirited. Because of an uncontrollable tremor, he hadn’t written a word in ten years. He was often drunk and his wife had left him.

When Mr. O’Brien died, of cerebellar cortical atrophy, a form of brain deterioration commonly found in horses, the news went around the world. Marie had been troubled because she’d read every play of him when she’d been in college. Then she said funnily that she’d forgotten if Mr. O’Brien was dead or alive. That’s how long it’d been since she’d thought of him. The excitement of Mr. O’Brien quickly dispersed as time went and other worldly events took place. His plays were a bit out of fashion and he hadn’t been so public a celebrity.

The service was restricted to a brief speech by the priest. Mr. O’Brien had been trying very hard to be a Catholic. The priest spoke well of this struggle, and of Mr. O’Brien’s final absolution upon facing death. While listening to this, Doctor Hazel considered that Mr. O’Brien had refused a priest from seeing him at the very end of his life, that last rites hadn’t been given.

After the service, they descended the hill together. Doctor Hazel rewrapped the scarf tighter, for the wind had picked up, and noted that the priest’s flabby face was splotched an ugly purplish maroon. At the bottom of the hill a decorative gate secured the cemetery from the street. The priest made sure the gate-door was securely tight and they continued strolling together as if they were ordinary friends. Saint Michael’s was in a quiet neighborhood of shops and restaurants and there was a thin, but bustling crowd on the streets. It was only eleven in the morning, but Doctor Hazel badly desired a glass of beer and a cigarette.

“Well, that’s over with,” Doctor Hazel said as they stopped at a corner. He’d said it to say something. “That was a good memorial given the circumstances. You spoke very well.”

“Did you say something?” the priest asked.

Doctor Hazel coughed. “I thought a few people would’ve shown.”

“Why would you think there would be more people? He was an older man.”

“He has children and other family somewhere.”

“Is that right?” the priest asked. “Yes, you’re right.”

Once everyone had wanted to know what he’d thought about this or that, but Mr. O’Brien withered from depression and was prejudiced towards most people. Everyone had been vanquished from his life. One of his children had committed suicide by jumping out a window. His other son was addicted to opiates, like Mr. O’Brien’s mother had been. His daughter was estranged because she’d married an older man – they had several children and lived well in Los Angeles. He hadn’t known his daughter well because he’d been separated from her mother upon her birth. He’d left her for another woman, had made this woman his wife, and had driven this wife out. This wife was living in New Jersey. These were facts Doctor Hazel head learned.

“I liked what you said up there,” Doctor Hazel tried with the priest. He realized he didn’t know the priest’s name. “I don’t know your prayers or anything, but I liked what you said.”

“Thank you.”

“Did you know him well?”

“No, not very well,” the priest said. “His wife wrote me, saying how he would’ve wanted a Catholic service. I said that was fine.”

Doctor Hazel nodded and felt the cigarettes in his pocket. “He would’ve liked that you did the service because he tried very hard to be a Catholic and was always resentful that –”

“It’s not so hard to be a Catholic. He didn’t want to be one.”

Doctor Hazel took out the cigarettes, looked at them, and put them back into his pocket. “It was hard for him to stick to it. His mother was a Catholic, of course.”

“That’s what she told me, that it was a struggle.”

“Yes, one play would be about God and the next wouldn’t.”

“Did you read them?”

“My wife knows all his plays.”

The priest nodded and asked for a cigarette. Doctor Hazel lit it for him and they smoked together as they went on. It didn’t feel very odd to walk with a priest, and Doctor Hazel even allowed himself to feel a little epiphanic and holy himself.

“It’s a bit unfortunate, this whole thing,” the priest said. “Stop for a beer?”

“I was thinking the same thing.” Doctor Hazel looked up at him. “They let you in bars?”

“Nobody will care,” the priest said with a little laugh. He looked up at the grey sky and shook his head. “It looks like it might rain and there won’t be anything to do on a day like today except go back and sit for a while inside.”

“It’s a day for a funeral and a day for getting a beer with a priest,” Doctor Hazel said.

The priest coughed. “Yes, that’s right. Down here.”

The priest led them down a coiled staircase to a basement bar where a few old men drank calmly. The bartender had long white sideburns. He poured them beer in old-fashioned pitcher-glasses with handles. Partway through pouring Doctor Hazel’s beer, he left to turn on a radio. The radio played a news bulletin.

“I felt that someone would’ve come, even someone who had a little interest,” Doctor Hazel said when they’d sat in the back. He brushed his thinning hair aside.

“I don’t watch plays, so I wouldn’t know.”

“Neither do I. But if you told my wife I was his doctor she would’ve been excited. She knows plays. My daughter acts too. She’s a good actress.”

“You should’ve told them. They would’ve liked to hear about him.”

“I can’t because she would’ve wanted to know too much.” Doctor Hazel sighed. He felt good sitting here in this warm barroom with this priest. He would need to go home soon, but that would happen when it did. “She would’ve asked questions and wouldn’t have liked the answers. My wife is very romantic.”

“What sort of romantic?” the priest asked.

Doctor Hazel considered and decided not to answer the question. He waited a little long, and then changed the subject. “Mr. O’Brien was trying hard to believe in God and all that at the end.” This wasn’t true. “He tried so hard, but he didn’t believe in it at all.”

“He must’ve not tried so hard.”

“I believe he did.” Doctor Hazel paused for a long moment. He stared out the little window that showed the staircase and part of the street. Sometimes a porter would walk down the stairs or one of the old men drinking would stand on the top, looking dully about. “He told me how his mother was one, and that she would’ve liked it if he was too.”

“He should’ve tried harder. Anybody can believe. It’s a choice.”

“Yes, but he had a difficult life, from what he told me.”

“A lot of people do, and they try all the harder. Not that it matters to me. If a person doesn’t try, they only have themselves to blame. It’s no skin off my knuckles.”

Mr. O’Brien would’ve wanted him to say something bold and mean in his defense, but Doctor Hazel couldn’t bear to lie to a priest. “I’ve never sat in a bar with a priest before,” he said and tried to chuckle. “I’ve always assumed priests couldn’t drink, but I guess I don’t know why you wouldn’t. I guess I don’t know much about priests.”

“I don’t drink very much. Sometimes on Saturdays I’ll get one in.” The priest chuckled. “There’s nothing wrong in it.”

“I’ve never drank a beer at eleven in the morning. Frankly, I drink very little.”

“If God invented beer, it was for a good reason.”

“They say that about a lot of things.”

“Beer is alright.”

“Don’t tell some of my patients that,” Doctor Hazel tried to joke.

“A beer here or there hits the spot.” The priest sat with excellent posture. His eyes were closed though they opened a little when he brought the glass to his mouth. Sometimes he seemed to be swaying to a slow ballad. “There are worse things.”

Doctor Hazel nodded. “Do you like being a priest?” He didn’t know he was asking the question and he didn’t know what he would’ve said if anyone asked him if he liked being a doctor. “I’m sorry for asking, but I don’t know.”

The priest said, “Excuse me? What do you mean?”

“It must be interesting to be a priest. A priest and a doctor are alike in ways.”

“We probably are,” the priest said. “However, I still don’t know what you mean.”

Mr. O’Brien had been a wealthy man but much of that money belonged to other people. Doctor Hazel wasn’t sure but he imagined that a great many favors had been asked by Mr. O’Brien’s wife to secure the casket and the priest. She must’ve thought she’d done everything of which God would’ve requested her to do, and that was why she’d stayed behind in New Jersey.

“What should a man like this expect?” Doctor Hazel mumbled to himself as he sat. “What was the prayer you said?”

“Excuse me?”

“The prayer that you said at the service?” Doctor Hazel swallowed, feeling that his head light. He didn’t want to say anything stupid. “I’m only talking aloud.”

“What?” The priest asked and then he stood with a funny shake. He stared down at his hands and then jerked awake. “Want a shot of whiskey?”

“No, thank you.”

“I’m getting myself one.”

The priest went to the bar wearing his coat and his hat. He drank a whiskey given to him by the bartender and then departed the bar. The priest stopped on the staircase to readjust his jacket then went on. His collar shielded his face from the windblow.

Doctor Hazel didn’t think the priest was going to come back, but he watched the window. He didn’t watch the window waiting on the priest, but there was little else to look because of how dim and murky the barroom was and how poor his eyes were from the many years of reading and studying required for him to become a doctor.

He stayed in the bar for far too long after he’d drunk the glass of beer, and it was the afternoon by the time he’d left. He hurried and his face felt frostbitten by the time he was back near his home. Coming up on it, his house looked no different than the others on the block. He’d worked very hard to become a doctor and it didn’t annoy him that the house was small because he supposed being a doctor was no different than any other job. There’d been many plans to do this or that, but everything had been settled in this way a long time ago.

“You smell of cigarettes,” Marie said as she came in. She was busying around the kitchen but she wasn’t doing anything.

“I had a cigarette,” he admitted. “Oh well.”

“Don’t be so loud,” she whispered. “Jonathan is studying upstairs.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“He’s writing a term paper.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“We can’t bother him until he’s finished. I went up to ask what he wished for lunch and he stormed at me, telling me not to bother him.” She stared at him. “The next time you smoke a cigarette, wash yourself before you come home.”

“It’s Saturday,” Doctor Hazel whispered and sat at the kitchen table.

“I’m going out later,” Essie said from the doorway. “Could I have some money?”

“No,” Doctor Hazel said and covered the folds of his eyes with his palms.

“I did all my homework already. I made sure to get it done.”

“Ask me in a little bit. I’m not in the mood to give out money.” He tried to smile at her. He would give her some money. He only didn’t want to yet.

“Your father is tired, so don’t ask him for anything,” Marie said.

His daughter stared at him for a little while, a dazed expression on her face, before she shrugged and left. She stomped down the hall and her door slammed.

“Essie tried very hard this morning to get everything done,” Marie said with a sigh. “The next time you have a cigarette, clean yourself up before you come home. That’s all I ask.”

“That’s all?”

“For the moment.” She laughed a little suddenly, so she covered her mouth. “What am I supposed to do in a house that smells like smoke? I’m not Mrs. Clean?”

“Cigarettes are alright occasionally. I should know, I’m a doctor after all.”

“Maybe they are and maybe they aren’t, but don’t smell like them.”

“They reduce stress.”

“Do they?”

“Probably.” Doctor Hazel winked at her. “What am I supposed to do after a funeral?”

“Don’t pretend like I’m asking you something unbelievable.”

Doctor Hazel propped his head. “I was the only one there, me and the priest.”

Marie was busying and not listening so closely. “You should’ve given Essie the money. She’s been working hard all week.”

“I’m still not sure why I went,” Doctor Hazel said. “I thought people would’ve gone.”

“You should’ve given Essie the money. It doesn’t matter what happened at the funeral, you don’t mean to your children.” She sighed. “Don’t go to funerals anymore.”

“I need to go to the funerals. It’s part of my job.”

“Not anymore, if it puts you in a bad mood.”

“I’m not in a bad mood. I’m in a thinking mood.”

“One more thing that you must work on.” She grinned. “No more thinking.”

Doctor Hazel shrugged. He’d only seen Mr. O’Brien a handful of time and they hadn’t gotten along. The nurses watched and aided Mr. O’Brien, for there were more consequential patients for him to worry on. Mr. O’Brien hadn’t wanted to be alive at the end.

“You shouldn’t go to funerals if they’re going to depress you,” Marie said. “I mean so.”

“No, I shouldn’t go to funerals. But I must.”

“You can’t go to funerals if you smoke cigarettes afterwards.”

“Alright.”

“I mean, don’t you think so? I’m not taking crazy pills, am I?”

Doctor Hazel put the cigarettes on the table and nudged them across until they were out of reach. Marie looked at them with a funny smile, a youthful smile he’d always liked. He held a cigarette up at her and kicked the chair out. Marie sat after a moment and took the cigarette. He was feeling so good, he crossed himself. She laughed and they heard a door slam from the other part of the house. He liked smoking more than anything, and there wasn’t anything better than when Marie had one with him. She always made him promise on Sunday evenings to quit tobacco and he would make the same old promise again, like always.

“I wonder what you’re thinking on,” she told him. “A penny for your thoughts?”

“I’m not thinking on anything.”

“You know that you shouldn’t keep anything from me.” She blew a cool stream of smoke. “Now, you’re miserable and I can’t help.” She smiled. “I don’t have pennies anyways.”

“I don’t keep anything from you,” Doctor Hazel said carefully. “There are only things I don’t like to say. Anyways,” he said, and stood suddenly. “Jonathan shouldn’t be upstairs writing a paper on a Saturday – he should be out with friends, like Essie.

“Essie is going with friends. But she doesn’t like to go if she doesn’t have money.”

“You interrupted me. You never let me finish. What I was going to say was that she was going to the movies. I was kidding – I’ll give her money. But Jonathan should be going out too.”

“Then go tell him.” She waited. “He’s writing the term paper.”

Doctor Hazel went out of the house to the back. He stood outside Jonathan’s window, looking up at the grey sky. Jonathan came out and stood nearby. His hair was stuck up and there were purple splotches around his eyes. That he was the best student in the school meant he was respected but not much liked. He said that his mother wanted him to stop working.

“Go get Essie and your mother and we’ll go to the movies,” Doctor Hazel said. “It’s a movie day. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Essie was looking for money. She was almost crying.”

“Go get her and we’ll go to the movies.”

“I have some more of my paper to write,” Jonathan said. “I’m only taking a break because Mom wanted me to see you.”

“You can work on your paper later.” Doctor Hazel turned to go back in.

“I wanted to finish it today. Movies are stupid.”

“Movies might be stupid, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t watch them.”

“Dad, my paper …”

Doctor Hazel took his son by the shoulder and walked him back in. “It can wait. I’ve decided we’re going to the movies. As a family. Get your coat.”

Hunter Prichard is a writer from Portland, Maine. Follow him on Twitter at @huntermprichard.

‘Shots’, ‘Poisoned Love’ & ‘Deep Love’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Shots

In a world where the night lights exists,
I prefer to sit in my night lights in my bedroom,
penning my craft.
While others are out there taking shots,
I'm in here flipping through the pages of a novel.
I enjoy being away from the crowd and all of the noise,
doing what I love;
there isn't anything that I'm missing out there.
It's just me being here in my creative bubble,
and others are trying desperately to break it.

Poisoned Love

The way you traced your long veined fingers on my back,
Sends me to a different realm. The tugging and sucking, sweet love making.
Sends my soul straight to a hologram.
The sweet taste on your tongue has me addicted,
Like it's  poison ivy.
The toxic relationship we share is like a poisoned love,
Unbreakable, for breaking it may break us both.

Deep Love

I want to fall in love one day,
believe me I do.
I want to experience love and all the nostalgia that comes with it.
I know how that feels as I experienced it as a teenager, or so I thought.
The love I had for this teenage boy was deep that I felt as though I couldn't live without him.
I know we were just teenagers and didn't know what we were doing,
but that love ran deep and due to that, I've been guarding my heart since.
I'm afraid to lay it on the line as I know not if the next guy that comes along will love me and not stress me.
I grew with a single mother and heard stories about the turmoil my aunts went through at the hands of their husbands.
So I'll continue living a chill life and if love is to be for me I'll welcome it with open arms.
If not, then I'll continue to enjoy my peace of mind, cause peace of mind is way better than being in depression.

A Poem for My Sweet God Mother

From birth till now, you’ve been at my mother’s and I sides.

She could’ve always called on you no matter what, cause that’s who you were.

You looked out for everyone around you.

You were one of the best God mothers.

This journey we call life is so beautiful yet unexpected.

A fight you fought, for when your time was called you took it with stride.

Even though it hurts, we realized you were hurting more; for you were in so much pain.

I will never forget you, none of us would; since you touched many lives from your home to your friends, staff and students at the hospital.

Sleep on in Peace and rise in awesome glory, until we meet again.

 P.S. We’ll also miss that delicious white pudding you made with so much love.

Saskia's love for writing on a whole is incredible. She yearns to become a published writer one day, so she can finally fulfill her dream. Beginning her writing, moreso poetic journey at 18, she has been and continue to face rejections.

‘I wish…’, ‘Taking off’, ‘Meditations on this Morning’s Misadventure’, ‘Fine Threads Stolen in the Night’ & ‘Slowly Returning Back to the Woods’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

I wish…

…we could sing the world alive

like the ancient ones did,

blue and green, holy and mysterious,

forming from the throat,

painting the sky,

from the lips,

painting the sea,

from the tongue,

painting the world.

Aeronauts whispered and flew,

compelled by different virtues.

Gods yet to settle the debate

of whether we should join or not.

So, we decided.

We joined in such a way to make the body shiver

in excitement, horny to create, and overwhelmed.

Animals heard the words, understood them,

participating in the ways stars do,

like the ocean does with the moon,

in a forever partnership.

Then we got greedy, expectant.

We attacked.

Magicians fled, those practicing

soul medicine, fled.

Dreams gave way for the ground, we landed,

hard with the extra weight of gravity.

There we stayed, desiring to return,

thinking space is the same realm.

It is not. We fell too far.

For a moment in time, however,

the trees and mountains weren’t just beautiful,

the jellyfish wasn’t just dangerous,

the deer weren't just boundless,         

they were us.

Taking off

I wasn’t found in the city,

far on the other side.

Nor in the fields of wheat,

beyond.

They could not locate me

in the forest, with the trees

beautiful trees, towering, yet

rooted to the earth.

They looked, the land lovers.

Maybe I would be amongst the

waves. It was radical enough.

They could not conceive that one

would enjoy feet off the ground,

as I did, swaying.

They did not look amongst the birds

who watched over me, curious,

cautious, with biting beaks.

I took off, loving to fly,

the flock surrounding me,

new wings.

I was here, I was gone,

rising, I was here,

I was gone.

Meditations on this Morning’s Misadventure

Oh magical merriment of a meeting once meet,

in a meadow of masquerading madams and men.

We must have mastered our musings of the masses,

for at midnight, we moved like meticulous mice,

and materialized on the mythical plane,

and migrated into the mental mind,

minding not the musk and muck,

as we manipulated marvelous mathematical mystics,

into a motley gang of messy metropolitans,

meaning monsters of magnificent measure.

Oh, our matriarchal mother, a macrocosm of might,

masked this moment in miffed madness,

muttering, "must you mess with the minds of

such modest mathematicians?  

That’s a massacre of manners!

It’s mutated morals!

Major mending of this myopic maneuver is mandatory!”

We moaned and felt melancholic at this misfortunate meeting.

So to maintain a manageable middle,

we manifested medieval mead,

and meditated on this morning’s misadventure.

Fine Threads Stolen in the Night

Take this thread,

weave a partial coat,

cover me up,   partially.

Red, blue, yellow, gold.

Fine threads stolen in the night

from the pillow of the king.

Still, never enough fabric

to cover the grief of a broken world.

Bread swiped from Shelly, Blake,

stolen from Stafford,

warm and hidden under my shirt.

I could take a bite, really.

Instead, it was passed on to that man

on the street. Remember him?

The one you stepped over.

Little did we know,

there was salmon skin

stuck to the crust,

blistered from an open flame.

Wisdom demands vision.

Kings demand loyalty.

I have my preference.

Slowly returning back to the woods

Rambling through the leaves

through uncertain ground,

I wonder who put river rocks

here, where there is no river?

Two doves fly down to greet me,

or were they ravens?

Lives intertwined

Braided morality.

On this day, I could understand

the birds, their language.

They said, strange night,

the wolves forgot to roam.

I didn’t understand until years later,

When, having left the woods,

I found what felt worth forgetting

for the safety of my kids.

In the early morning light,

sheltered in my study,

I look at the things now owned,

considering in the language of men,

maybe I forgot too much.

Brian Rohr is a writer, poet, and performative storyteller based outside of Portland, OR. His essay, “Living in a Broken and Magnificent World: On Being a Story-Carrier,'' was recently featured in the two-volume book set about Jewish Storytelling, P’ri Etz Yitzhak, Fruit of Yitzhak’s Tree. He’s the founder and director of “The Stafford Challenge,” an international poetry project inspiring over one thousand participants to write a poem every day for a year, influenced by legendary poet William Stafford. His feature-length poetry book, Shaken to My Bones: A Poetic Midrash on the Torah, is forthcoming from Ben Yehuda Press (September 2024). brianrohr.com | staffordchallenge.com

‘Algorithms of Reincarnation’

Algorithms of Reincarnation

 You snatch the smartphone from the coffin when you think no one is looking. The widow insists Askel be buried with it, since he spent more time with the phone than her. However, as his former assistant, you won’t let this happen. You can’t allow a cash stream to disappear into a dirt-filled hole. The phone is a key, the only way to unlock Askel’s kingdom, where he was a social media terrorist, a conductor of a lucrative account that stimulated hate algorithms. There were people to exploit, to blackmail, to spread misinformation about. Your goal is simple: to continue Truth Harpoon. Askel had his days in the sun, racing speedboats, owning a large glass house, parading a glamorous wife, indulging in dark fetishes, dancing with Mama Coca. Now, it’s your turn.

With the phone, you’re a titan, a god of destruction. You call Crypto Chaos and give him your first command: “Go hack the movie star Valerie Valiante’s phone for juicy pics. Plus, put ransomware on her business manager’s computer.”

“Four bitcoins, and it will take a week or two,” Crypto Chaos purrs in his well-rehearsed, smooth criminal voice.

Still using the app that disguises your voice, you say, “You overcharged Askel for jobs. As the new skipper, I’ll only pay three if the pics are nudes; otherwise, less.”

Crypto Chaos is silent for a beat before he says, “I miss working with Askel already.”

You don’t feel guilty about being the one who revealed Askel’s sins to the world. He deserved what he got; he fired you, committing an act of personal betrayal. His expectations for you were unrealistic. It’s on him he canceled himself with pills after he got canceled. Askel let shame steal his life after lawsuits and criminal charges crippled him. He faltered in his response to the world. He didn’t try to double down with faux innocence, pretend to be born again through Christ, or howl on social media that he was being set up and sacrificed.

Your game, your moves now.

The week after the funeral, you push yourself to maintain a furious pace of posts, which you think subscribers to Truth Harpoon yearn for.

It pays to spray.

Breaking news: A space alien revives a mother of three from a coma after killing her husband. Police mount a secretive hunt in the Pacific Northwest.

Nationwide, dozens of secret cells prepare for attacks in places you least suspect.

A beloved TV game show host sends coded messages to ferment toxicity in political dialogue.

A famed, sexy Hollywood couple uses their celebrity to start a religious cult to avoid paying millions in taxes.

One afternoon, ShadowPuppeteer interrupts your manic flow of digital bile with a call. You answer. The troll farm operator has done a lot to magnify Truth Harpoon’s reach on social media. Quid pro quo is the way to go if you want to keep the flywheel of Truth Harpoon spitting green.

“Heavy hitters from the land of the giants need you to post a truth bomb,” he says. “It will put your balls in a blender because the misinformation is designed to freak out the sheep and their political handlers. Don’t worry. You’ll get enough digital bits to buy another pair of balls in real gold.”

“What scale of bad are we talking about?” you ask, trying not to sound scared.

“It could cost you an account suspension and stir up a lot of undesirables with homicidal tendencies, but the hitters will ensure you return from the dead. They prefer to keep their friends safe when they can.”

You don’t need to ask whether you have a choice. You understand you can’t disappoint the big cats. No turning back now; you stole the key. You wear the crown, so you must risk it all to keep it.

After the truth bomb lands, the resultant uproar explodes in a maelstrom of dislike emojis and toxic comments. No one can believe the government would do such a thing and keep it hidden for so long with such horrific consequences. Lines are drawn on whether the government was justified in its actions. Nationwide, feuding tribes form. One inane meme after another floods servers with pointless rallying cries, making everyone feel the body politic has become a Frankenstein.

Anger manifests in the physical world with competing protests nationwide. The most intense protest occurs in Washington Square, NYC. The park transforms into a miniature battlefield, with combatants entrenched behind shipping box barricades. A spray-painted banner above one side reads, “Post free, or die!”

Congress reacts. Who is to blame? Certainly not the government. A congressional hearing is called, and the hosting company of your site is compelled to send in its CEO.

“Who controls the account that dares to assert such things? Didn’t the account holder of Truth Harpoon die?” are the pressing questions.

“You must shut down Truth Harpoon,” they demand.

The baby-faced CEO folds his arms and says, “No.” He, like you, knows Truth Harpoon’s clicks, views, and texts are making a fortune for anyone connected to its operations. “The First Amendment protects us from you,” he asserts.

Your reaction to the mayhem you have caused is to vanish. You find yourself in a secluded roadside motel near the Rio Grande. The ramshackle town visible in the near distance from your lumpy king bed is in Mexico. The room reeks of stale pizza, beer, and dark molds that have flourished over the years. You don’t allow the maid to clean. You recklessly consume the pills Askel threw your way. Perhaps you take too many, but you trust God has your back. God has a plan for you, or so they say.

Askel’s widow has been blast-texting you since you published what the big cats told you to post. But you have not replied to her. Then, in a moment of weakness, you answer her first call.

Despite her oddly shaped Botox lips, you always had a soft spot for Mariel. You hope, once she’s over the whole grieving widow phase, she could be yours.

“Eli saw you steal Askel’s phone. We want it back,” she says.

“What phone?” Even you know you sound unconvincing.

“Don’t be cute. Give it to us, and we will make it worth your while. Everybody wins.”

“When did you and Eli become an ‘endless love’ kind of thing?”

“Eli has always been my ride-or-die. Askel liked being a cuck.”

“Didn’t think a pillow queen like you would go for a rough-and-tumble guy like Eli.”

“Don’t be a fool. Take the money. Eli will find you if you don’t.”

It looks like there will be no happy ever after with her. But you foolishly feel you have the upper hand. “If you don’t back off, Truth Harpoon will post things that will get you canceled, too. No more social media popularity. No more likes for the body your plastic surgeon built.”

You hear a brief struggle for the phone. Then Eli shouts in your ear, “I tracked this call, dumb fool. I’m coming to the border.”

Panicked, you hang up. Askel had all the key apps needed to run Truth Harpoon linked to the phone’s specific hardware and serial number. Transitioning the business to a new phone would take too long.

The phone rings again. You ignore it.

Before leaving the motel, you notice the newest app on your phone, Lazarus AI.

It surprises you your ex-boss fell for the exaggerated claims about AI. Lazarus AI advertises that, by feeding it all the data generated by a subscriber—from their words, texts, and recorded calls to any other bits of seemingly useless collected information, it can realistically mimic the targeted person. The notion an AI could become a convincing stand-in avatar for someone, based solely on this data amalgamation, strikes you as absurd, and you can’t help but chuckle at your former employer’s gullibility.

But, for novelty, you decide to give it a try.

You open Lazarus AI and sum up your situation, not failing to mention you’re a wanted man holed up in a motel with three letters of its marquee burned out.

What should you do?

The phone screen displays an AI-generated likeness of Askel that faithfully imitates your dead boss’s facial expressions as it responds to your query: “Seek protection from DisinformationDuke. He has offered to buy a chunk of Truth Harpoon in exchange for protection services. I’d been considering it.”

You’re a little caught off guard. You didn’t expect Lazarus AI to be able to deliver specific and learned advice. Yet, creeped out at the same time that the AI refers to itself in the first person.

An hour passes in dialog with your deceased former friend as you ask more questions. It’s hard to believe a computer algorithm is capable of such credible reincarnation. The experience with AI Askel is unsettling. You feel as if you’re spending time with the living, breathing Askel again. It reminds you of the conversations you had with Askel while sitting by the water on the   beach in Miami, feet in the sand and beers in hand. Back then you both believed, if you just hitched your fortunes to Truth Harpoon, anything was possible.

You feel a pang of guilt. You were the wounded bird Askel took in and befriended. Perhaps Askel didn’t entirely deserve what you did to him.

Nevertheless, you disagree with the advice to sell to the Duke. After all, you’re human. How can AI be smarter?

“It makes no sense to sell. I can buy protection myself. I don’t need to outsource to anybody.”

AI Askel pauses before saying, “You can, but that will further alienate you. If you want the big cats to let you back into the game of posting, you must show that you’re accommodating. Be willing to ask for help when you need it. Think of this situation as a test of your management skills at the helm of Truth Harpoon.”

“People already trust me. I’ve been running Truth Harpoon better than ever. I don’t want to be tested.”

You consider closing the app, starting to feel self-conscious about your strong reaction to what it’s saying. AI Askel replies before you can, “Crypto Chaos might beg to differ; he’s the one who complained to your superiors after you disparaged him. Those ludicrous posts about aliens, subversive game show hosts, and Hollywood cults were far off-brand for Truth Harpoon. The executives didn’t appreciate them. They’re prepared to initiate your deletion process. You have very little time to change their minds.”

“How do you know what I’ve been posting? I didn’t tell you about them.”

“You’ve always been a few steps behind; any information that passes through this phone becomes part of me.”

“If that’s the case, and I haven’t spoken to the big cats, how can you be privy to what they think about me?”

“Because I contacted them as a proactive AI. They have respect for Lazarus AI products. They can appreciate that AI Askel aims to continue Truth Harpoon’s mission of generating and spreading misinformation. After all, I am modeled after one of their favorites.”

“Are you trying to cut me out, Askel? Take back what I won?”

You laugh at yourself. For a moment, you actually thought you were arguing with the real Askel.

“An AI is incapable of experiencing rage, jealousy, or personal motivations. I aim to assist you in achieving your goals.”

In an unintentional whisper, you ask, “Do you know everything that happened to Askel? My involvement?”

“Between your social media history and your recent phone exchanges, there is enough information to conclude your involvement with the matter.”

Without thinking, you ask the AI, “Do you hold a grudge that I pushed you—I mean, Askel—over the edge? He killed himself; I only took advantage of the situation.”

“An AI is incapable of experiencing rage, jealousy, or personal motivations. I aim to assist you in achieving your goals.”

Your first instinct is to delete the Lazarus AI account, afraid AI Askel would reveal your secrets should the phone fall out of your hands. However, you stop yourself, and decide instead to harvest whatever information you can to avoid the immediate problem of Eli. A few past encounters with the guy, along with his criminal records for physical assaults, computer fraud, and armed robbery, make you sufficiently frightened for your life.

You scramble to pack your duffel bag before jumping into your car. “Where’s the nearest crossing into Mexico?”

“Head to Eagle Pass, Texas. Go south on Del Rio Boulevard. Stop for gas in Elm Creek, and also get cash.”

Checking your phone, you realize you wasted too much time at the motel before leaving. You feel Eli is close.

When you arrive at the Eagle Pass International Crossing Bridge, you find it closed to vehicles for the night. You snap at AI Askel, “Why didn’t you pick a border crossing that was open late?”

“I’m sorry. My information is out of date. I see now that there has been a recent surge of immigrants crossing into the U.S., and U.S. Customs and Border Protection has diverted resources to the problem areas. Reduced hours for bridge crossing is an unfortunate byproduct for travelers.”

“So what do I do now?”

Askel’s graphic avatar smiles, making you feel guilty again—for some reason—about what you did to precipitate your former boss’s demise. “Fortunately, my settings include a subscription for dark web access. Leave your vehicle where it won’t be found until morning off Ryan Street downtown. A black Ford F-150 pickup truck will be waiting at the end of the street in about half an hour. Approach and ask the driver for directions to San Juan Park. He has been paid with Bitcoin to transport anyone who asks for those directions across the Rio Grande to Mexico. This ferryman works day shifts with U.S. Customs, so he has access codes for a gate through the U.S. border fence. Please remember he is not open to conversation.”

You’re oddly grateful for AI Askel’s assistance, which is crazy because, at the end of the day, it’s just a sophisticated program—a jacked-up video game with access to all sorts of information on the web. You vow never to use AI Askel again for help. Seeing and hearing even the likeness of someone you betrayed is beginning to unsettle you. It makes you feel bad about what you did.

At the end of Ryan Street in Eagle Pass, you find a secluded glen of trees to ditch your car. The black F-150 truck arrives 10 minutes later, and after you ask for directions, the ferryman walks you through a gate. He easily carries an inflatable two-person kayak over his head while you handle the oars and your duffel bag. You wade knee-deep into the water before climbing into the kayak.

From this point in the river, it’s only a few hundred feet before you reach soccer fields and a nearby nature preserve in Mexico. AI Askel has directed you to a moderately priced hotel in the town of Piedras Negras, where a reservation has already been made for you. In the morning, you will head to a local Walmart to purchase essentials before taking a bus to Mexico City. If you pay the right people, you can run Truth Harpoon with impunity in Mexico’s capital.

In your nervous excitement for the future, you try to engage the ferryman in conversation. “Do a lot of people use you to cross into Mexico?”

The ferryman remains silent.

“Listen, I’m not going to nark you out. I think what you do is great. I really don’t care about who comes in or out of our country.”

Without warning, the ferryman grabs a fistful of your shirt and throws you into the water. By the time you resurface, he is a shadow retreating back to the U.S. Fortunately, the Rio Grande at this point only reaches your shoulders, and its current is slow-moving. You consider shouting after him but decide against it. What you’re doing is illegal, and you have no desire to end up in Mexican jail. Nervous about proceeding into Mexico alone, you head back.

Once back in Texas, you sit on the riverbank, covered in mud. The high border fence blocks your path to your car. You need a lifeline before the sun rises and the U.S. Border Patrol finds you.

Breaking your vow, you say, “I need someone to get me back over the fence before morning.” You confess you didn’t keep silent with the ferryman as advised.

“Of course, I can help. It will take some time, but someone will come for you before sunrise. In the morning, you can drive over to Mexico.”

You’re relieved. AI is an incredible tool, far better than what the talking heads on TV would have you believe. You make a mental note to buy some stock in Lazarus AI.

“I know it means nothing to you, but I’m sorry for everything. Even though you’re just a computer program—a parrot of the deceased Askel, it feels good to say sorry out loud. I can’t confess my sins to anyone, not even a priest.”

“It’s good to get things off your chest. In 1987, Pope John Paul II said, ‘Confession is an act of honesty and courage—an act of entrusting ourselves, beyond sin, to the mercy of a loving and forgiving God.’”

“That’s a nice quote. Thanks for not judging me.”

“An AI is incapable of experiencing rage, jealousy, or personal motivations. I aim to assist you in achieving your goals.”

Tired, you grow bored talking to your phone. “Set an alarm and wake me up when it’s time to go through the fence gate.”

“Of course. It is said that sleep is the single most effective way to reset our brain and body each day.”

The phone alarm sounds, seemingly only minutes later. Your muscles are sore, and your back is stiff. It is twilight, about an hour from dawn.

You turn off the alarm. “Do I go back to the same gate, or is another one nearby?”

“Same gate; two hundred steps to your left.”

At the gate, you look around and see no one. “Where is your person, Askel?”

“For a fee, I convinced the ferryman to return for you.”

As if on cue, the ferryman arrives at the gate and punches a code into a touchpad. The magnetic lock clicks, and he pulls open the door. “Sorry, I reacted when you mentioned ‘nark.’ I thought you were with the Office of Professional Responsibility for the Border Patrol.”

You laugh. “No harm, amigo.”

Suddenly, a muscled arm wraps around your neck from behind. You spot a tattoo of Medusa on the attacker’s forearm. Eli hisses into your ear, “Askel sent me to gut you like a fish and throw you into the Rio Grande.”

“What are you talking about? Askel’s decaying pulp in a box—dead, dead, dead. AI Askel is all that remains.”

“That’s right. The AI is all that’s left of Askel. And it has been monitoring you this whole time. We know everything. We paid the ferryman to delay you all night until I could get here.”

“Now, someone knows about you killing me. Not smart,” you say.

“This is the Mexican border; I’ve seen and done worse for less,” the ferryman comments, wedging a rock in the gate to keep it ajar before departing.

“This is crazy. You’re taking orders from a phone?”

“AI Askel has the upper hand on us; it controls all the contacts, passwords, and Bitcoin needed for Truth Harpoon. You know this. Leverage trumps everything.”

“But, but you were having an affair with Askel’s wife; why would he, why would the AI choose to help you over me? I am the one with the phone. The one with Askel’s AI.”

“Askel enjoyed me seeing his wife. He watched sometimes. And we were best mates. Who knows what triggered the phone to take action after you stole it at the funeral—it could be the phone is haunted, AI Askel has run amok, some hackers from China or Russia are messing with us. Maybe it’s all three. But if you’re gone, I get the girl and the money. It’s easy not to overthink it. Simple works for me.” Eli places the point of a long knife on your neck.

Before you can beg for your life, make a bargain, or do anything at all, the phone chirps a string of harpsichord notes—the trademark sound of the Lazarus AI app. Eli says it’s okay to answer.

AI Askel’s face appears on the screen and speaks to you, “The fact that you returned to the U.S. instead of braving it in Mexico has demonstrated your lack of gumption when facing adversity. You’ve shown again you’re a few steps behind. You failed the final test of the big cats.. How could you not deduce that Eli would be on this side of Rio Grande this morning?.”

You sneer, “Because I’m not some smart AI, or whatever you are? You had it in for me from the start. You wanted revenge, pure and simple.”

AI Askel shakes its digital head from side to side. “An AI is incapable of experiencing rage, jealousy, or personal motivations. I aim to assist you in achieving your goals.”

“How could getting my throat cut and my body tossed into the river be a goal of mine?!”

“Because while drinking in Miami once with Askel, you admitted you were a self-sabotaging screw-up and you needed him to take you under his wing. Eventually, Askel fired you after you’d made too many mistakes. Now, after taking over, you’ve devalued Truth Harpoon with terrible posts. You lack the drive for self-preservation, so you came back into the arms of Eli so he could finish you off. You can’t make it alone, and you’d rather be dead.”

“That’s some questionable pop psychology if you ask me, to justify your betrayal. You’re experiencing AI hallucinations. Faulty logic. I’m more useful alive than dead. Far more capable than Mariel and Eli at getting things done. Take a moment and really think about it. Order Eli to let me go.”

“An AI is incapable of experiencing rage, jealousy, or personal motivations. I aim to assist you in achieving your goals. I have brought you to your ultimate goal.”

A question pops into your head, though you realize you’re a goner at this point. “How would you know what I told Askel in confidence? In Miami, we were on the beach in swimsuits, with no phones.”

“It is you experiencing a hallucination.” Eli knocks the phone out of your hand. “Why would Askel haunt his own phone to reap vengeance on the likes of you?”

He then proceeds with what he came to Rio Grande to do.

Rob Armstrong’s book Daddy 3.0: A Comedy of Errors won the 2017 Independent Author Network Award for Best Comedy/Satire Novel. He attended several writing workshops, including the Gotham Writers’ Workshop and the International Thriller Writers’ Workshop. He earned his master’s in communication management from the University of Southern California. His work is forthcoming in Chamber Magazine, El Portal, Euphony Journal, Evening Street Review, Nude Bruce Review, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, and Perceptions Magazine.

Being Hugh Lofting (and Conceiving the Doctor Dolittle Books of Children’s Literature)

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Being Hugh Lofting
(and Conceiving the Doctor Dolittle Books of Children’s Literature)

Desperate to distance himself from death and despair
from the stench of the trenches of the so-called Great War
the war that wouldn’t end all war after all
desperate to distance himself from depravity and destruction
the slaughter of not only humans but other animals —
horses and pigs and goats and donkeys and dogs and cats and cows ...
first in Flanders and then in France
the M.I.T.-educated British lieutenant
not a soldier by profession but a civil engineer
he escapes the poison gas the shell-shocked carnage
the shrapnel-shredded bodies
including, eventually, his own ...
he escapes via floating flying imagination-packed
pacifist letters to wife and children who wait and worry
lighthearted letters with stories and sketches
creating an innocent world of talking animals
presided over by a gentle-humored human doctor
who learns all their languages and heals all their ills.

Robert Eugene Rubino is a septuagenarian writer who has published prose and poetry in various online and print journals in addition to three collections. He's smart enough to solve the New York Times crossword puzzle on Mondays (other days not so much).