The Very Hungry Butterfly Only Has Two Weeks Left

The Very Hungry Butterfly Only Has Two Weeks Left

One morning, the very contented butterfly who was once a very hungry caterpillar became aware of his own mortality rate.

Numbers flashed in his head and he understood how the moon and sun’s rotation around the earth counted as a “day” and how “days” became “weeks.” The very aware butterfly realized he only had two weeks left on this world.

This depressed the very miserable butterfly, and he spent a large amount of time on his lonesome, not that he knew any other butterflies.

On Sunday, he spent one hour moping. But he was still depressed.

On Monday, he spent two hours crying. But he was still depressed.

On Tuesday, he spent three hours in the fetal position. But he was still depressed.

On Wednesday, he spent four hours trying to eat. But he was still depressed.

On Thursday, he spent five hours empty and hollow. But he was still depressed.

On Friday, he spent six hours thinking. But he was still depressed.

On Saturday, he realized the last week of his life should be meaningful and decided to find a field of flowers to pass away in. He felt much better.

Now the butterfly wasn’t a big and healthy butterfly anymore. He was small and shriveled.

Still, the very sickly butterfly fluttered for six days to find a field of flowers.

On the seventh day, the butterfly found a luscious field filled to the brim with many flowers to peacefully spend his last moments in.

Another butterfly emerged from a cocoon at that moment.

The very tired butterfly asked the young butterfly why he looked so happy.

“Because,” the young butterfly said, “I can go where I want and do whatever I want! Being a caterpillar held me back, but no more!”

The old butterfly asked what if he knew he only had two weeks to live.

“Then I would live it up, of course! Assuming I was healthy enough to, that is.”

The young butterfly flitted away onto his own destiny.

The very quiet butterfly understood what the young one meant. It may have been a late lesson to learn, but it was a good one.

Then the butterfly passed on, contented once more.

In his next life, the butterfly was born as a writer for children’s books.




She had lost the ability to see, or even visualize the color blue.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true– Eloise still could see and visualize greens and purples, but not blue.

That hadn’t been the truth either. For whatever reason, she could only visualize a blue giraffe. A specific blue giraffe in a picture book she read as a child. What had happened?

Eloise sighed as she tried to apply the color blue to a high-heeled shoe. Her mind couldn’t grasp it; the shoe came out gray. She looked towards the sky and wished to tell if it was a rainy day or not. If the sun hadn’t been there, she couldn’t tell.

She never told a soul about her condition. After all of those commercials about premature babies, beaten dogs and children starving in Africa, not being able to see blue felt kind of… dumb, if she was being honest. There were more important things. Love. Friends. Her gray toenail polish.

Eloise stared at her toes. She really missed the color blue. It wasn’t even her favorite color; that title belonged to orange, blue’s foe. She slipped on orange and black socks to cover up her gray toes.

She thought of the giraffe again. She hated it, but it had become necessary to maintain sanity. Blue giraffe… Eloise considered listening to Eiffel 65’s “Blue,” but her depression talked her out of it. Would she ever see blue again? Da ba dee da ba da? The song stuck in her head like a fever dream.

Laughing at her misery, Eloise rolled over on the couch. She’d try to forget the giraffe, but it danced around in her thoughts. Nothing seemed to please her anymore. Her son drew a cat with a blue crayon and she cried into it. Her husband wondered why they didn’t sleep together anymore, and then told her he had “blue balls.” She just lied back and told him to go for it. Sensing something was wrong, he went to sleep instead.

She dreamed of greens and reds and yellows, but no blue. Then the damn blue giraffe showed up and began to sing.

“Hello, hello, hello me dearie! I’m here to show ye– okay, that’s enough. I’m here to open your subconscious.”

Eloise frowned. “No thanks. If I can’t remember when I lost my ability to see blue, I don’t think–”

The giraffe put a hoof up to Eloise’s lips. “Non, non, child. I’m not going to do that. I’m going to show you why you stuck me in your brain.”

The world swirled around them in shades of peach and vermilion and pewter, but no blue. Then she saw herself as a child.

Young Eloise was holding a gray crayon… no, the label read “Berry Blue.” She was coloring a book of zoo animals. She could tell that this is where the giraffe came from. On the money, she spotted a page with a giraffe, colored entirely blue.

Her uncle stormed in, drunk as ever. “I bought you that coloring book and those crayons, and you only use blue, blue, BLUE! Little brat!” At that, he stomped on all of the blue crayons. With tears in her eyes, Young Eloise vowed not to let her guardian control her color choices.

“And that is why you still visualize my blue skin. Your defiance stuck.” The giraffe sounded proud of his colorist.

“But tell me, please, why can’t I see blue anymore? I must have lost the ability six months or so ago, not as a child!”

“What else happened six or seven months ago?”

“Well… the company had the merger… I bought that blue toenail polish, and it looks gray now… my uncle died… My uncle?”

“Nail equals hit on head! He was controlling of your choices as a child, and when he died, you didn’t have to hold onto color defiance any longer! All your life, you’ve controlled your own color choices. He died and your need to control color spontaneously vanished!”

Eloise mulled this over in her mind. “That’s dumb and so are you. My uncle’s death was no great loss to me and I hated him. Why would that make me forget how blue looks?”

The giraffe turned dark. “Okay, level time. It had nothing to do with color control. You’re nothing more than a filthy murderer. He was going to leave everything in his will to the dog, so you killed him. Eloise, the murderer, blocked out blue in shock. Maybe it had to do with that crayon-stomping incident, maybe not. But you should turn yourself in or die of guilt.”

Eloise popped up awake. She looked at the sky. Black. She slept through the day.

Eloise walked into her son’s bedroom and kissed him on the forehead, careful not to wake him up.

She went into her husband’s study and began to kiss him passionately, as if she’d never see him again. The two spent the night entangled.

The next day, Eloise turned herself in. However, after a few hours behind bars, she was let go.

“But I killed my uncle! I could kill again!”

The sergeant sighed. “If you do, please turn yourself in. The doctor who did your uncle’s autopsy was questioned about Mr. Pietro’s passing, and she said it was clearly caused by lung cancer. Why did you think you killed him?”

“B-but… the blue giraffe in my dream said…”

“If we listened to our dreams, I’d be a ballet dancer by now. Go home, Mrs. Mulberry.”

Pleased that she wasn’t a murderer and that she could get the giraffe out of her mind, Eloise looked upward. Still gray, but it appeared a little bluer than usual. And who needed blue when she had plenty of other colors to admire, to utilize, to wear? She went to the drug store and picked up a bottle of orange nail polish.

Nineteen months later, the color blue came back, but in her eyes, beige faded. She decided it was “no great loss.”

Sad King of Leaves

Sad King of Leaves

Found amidst a field of leaves by a lonely entanglement, the beginning of the Sad King of Leaves’ life runs the course of a standard hero. Raised by a non-genetic guardian, only to end up saving and leading his people. Yet the Sad King of Leaves was anything but standard, and was nothing to call heroic. The entanglement raised him until its untimely death, on the King’s 12th birthday, rather on the anniversary when found.

Some might say that he had been quite heroic surviving. The Sad King of Leaves suffered from suicidal thoughts and would frequently escape his sadness by digging an exit through his arm. For the latter fact, few viewed him as heroic, while the few that did were named Mirzha and wore turtlenecks that didn’t properly cover their wrinkly green necks, for everyone in the Sad King of Leaves’ domain was a leaf. A small bit of information that largely attributed to his sadness; with his strawberry-squash hair with a fine texture of hay, saggy lifeless eyes with no discernible color left, and the inability to produce carbon dioxide, the King knew he was different. He was human. And he was alone.

The leaves, being kindly beings at heart, gathered together to find the proper treatment for their king of great lamentation. Noticing constant fluids leaking from their ruler’s eyes, Bondy suggested watering him more. The rest of the leaves made the notion unanimous: The Sad King of Leaves must be properly watered with water suited for a king. This notion, however, was only passed when the other leaves finished yelling at Bondy for being a dumb idiot who doesn’t even know how humans are supposed to work and that the fluid the king leaked were tears.

So the matter had then been disposed. The only proper water for their king was straight from the Proprietor of Precipitation, who lived on the West Leftside Faded Hills, through a series of intricate obstacles including a tunnel made of the pain in your heart (you, the specific reader), a 20-foot snake made up of small mongooses, and the thing that sadly was, which gave the Faded Hills its name. The Proprietor of Precipitation opted to take her Storm-Surfing Pachyderm, Gussman, rather than die. She would also take around three to six frogs with her, but that was unintentional. Frogs, regardless of color, evolutionary divide, convenience of travel size, breath, or poison content loved her. Toads wished she would just drop dead. In response, the young miss Proprietor stuck out her tongue and went on her way.

The old miss Proprietor had left this world entrusted to the child, or had let her believe she had been vanquished. Occasionally, the Proprietor of Precipitation had wondered what “Hold my place, child,” her mentor’s final message of poignancy, had meant. But now was not the right time to ponder. She climbed Gussman’s legs onto his back and tugged his ears. As they flew off, no nobler than their cause, she held her umbrella aloft and let the waters overtake her. Folding the umbrella inside out, the rains neatly gathered for her cause, to replenish the Sad King of Leaves.

She hadn’t seen the king in the longest. Was the entanglement still as kind as ever? Why did they now refer to it as the “sad” king? News of a child reached her last year. Was it the new king? The frogs chirped and croaked as they flew, minding the environmental outbursts of thunder and hail. The Proprietor tipped her umbrella toward a jar, filling it to the roughest brim.

After an hour below the clouds, Gussman decided above the clouds was the insurance he needed to survive. This proved fruitless when after two minutes, the Proprietor realized they had made it. Waving her hands above the jar, she mumbled something with great clarity in mind. The water sparkled brightly, annoyed at its change in properties.

Storms of leaves blasted the Proprietor in powerful elation. She had not been back since she was -20 years old, a negative age she wished not to disclose to the unknown masses. “Please show me to the king,” she asked, yet it was more of a ruthless demand. The leaves, had they had eyes, looked upon one another with great sadness. “He refuses to see any visitors, ma’am.”

She glowered. “Oh. He’ll see me.” She shoved aside the leaves and kicked in the door with her rain boots. “Your highness, I have the water you requested.” A timid and lost voice scratched out, “Just leave it by the door.” She noticed the king was a person, not the entanglement she expected. Feeling that pointing it out would push him over the edge, she questioned his depression.

“I don’t belong here,” he wheezed. “I’m not a leaf. I’m barely even human,” and saying this, he revealed his scratched-out arm. “The subjects are just being polite to me. I know they wish I were dead.” He buried his face into his hands. “Mmmfffmmmuh Fffufiimmm.” “What?” “I wish everyone else were dead,” he said barely more clearly. “Then I would know I have no place to fit in.”

The Proprietor of Precipitation stuck a funnel in the Sad King of Leaves’ mouth and laughed like the young girl she was. She lifted the jar and poured the rainwater into his mouth, still cackling like a small maniac all the while. “I don’t care about your problems. I had a job to do and I did it. You have a job too, and you have no skill at it. Goodbye.” She paused. “Where is your father’s grave so I can visit?” The Sad King of Leaves pointed out the window. “Thanks,” she muttered ungratefully.

His arm froze in place for ten minutes. As he stared at the mutilation, he wondered if, as king, he had to take that rude response from her. He thought about many mistakes in his life, about his father, about his people, about himself. He decided to make up for it. No more crying on the floor. He was going to cry on his throne, like a TRUE king! No more cutting his flesh. Time to cut the flesh of those who were rude to him, like that Proprietor! He gathered the leaves with the royal rake. Time to start a war, he thought. Maybe on the Fifth Soil Kingdom.

“Why do you always treat those depressed royals so shabbily?” asked Gussman. “They’re depressed and really need kindness.” “Ah, not so, my friend. Royals tend to get angrier than most people. I’m trading sad for mad, which is not too bad.” “Okay, so what if the royals go mad with power?” “What?” asked the Proprietor. “Like they’d ever go from that depressed to that upbeat? I’d eat my umbrella if that ever happened.”

Although the water sparkled with magic, there was no true power to alter one’s mood. The jar, however, was laced with anger-inducing honey, so it’s not as though she pulled a fast one on the royals. Speaking of, the Sad King of Leaves conquered many kingdoms and became one of the most cruel, vicious and sad dictators of all time. The Proprietor of Precipitation ate umbrella pie two weeks after their meeting.

I’ve Got a Latte on the Mind


8:35. Olivia’s father dropped her off at the bus stop at a decent time. Olivia felt “decent” meant about now since she wanted to be late. The last of the absolute rush-hour buses had left as they pulled over to the curb. Mr. Gammon profusely apologized to his daughter (step, a fact he hadn’t mentioned to her). She just smiled (he easily recognized it as gratitude) and paced her footing on the soaked sidewalk.

8:36. After he drove off, Olivia put on her headphones (earbuds frightened her), pulled up a sock, and hoped someone would walk by. Nothing. The next bus would not come for at least a half-hour. She pulled down the other sock.

8:37. She checked her phone. Nothing interesting happened to Steve Buscemi since she woke up. Click. The rest of the internet wasn’t worth looking at.

8:38. Tammy Liu drove up in her Chevy. “Olivia! Do you want a ride? I’m not going to work today, but I am passing your work!” Olivia declined, using her usual lie that she was meeting someone. She did not interact with friends on a regular basis.

8:39. Maybe I could have taken her up on that ride. But then, I’d have to talk to her instead of thinking. Couldn’t I have thought a few blocks away from work? Shucks, Ollie. Then your boss or coworkers would have seen you or something. That would wreck your whole day. Really? My whole day? Yes, your whole day. That sounds overly superstitious, but either way, I don’t want to talk with anyone but me.

8:40. Hey, there’s no one around. I could let one rip and no one would know. But wait, what if the man of my dreams walks by at that exact moment only to be disgusted by my fart? Psht. The man of my dreams would be turned on by it. She held it in anyway.

8:41. She winced at the sight of birds flying at face-level. Why am I so scared at the thought of being hit in the head by birds? Did I get hit in the head by a bird as a baby?  Maybe they remind me of arrows in a past life. Did I get hit in the face by an arrow? Did I die then get reborn as this? I like the idea of a past life, but not th

8:42. e prospect that I would have to live future ones. Might be reborn as a dude named John. What kind of sick parent named their kid something as generic as John? Even worse, tools who name their kids, like, John, but already have the generic last name to boot. John Smith. Joe Johnson. Ingrid… Ingrid Paulette Freely. Naw, I doubt many Freelys would name their kids that. I could name a kid Jack. Jack Gammon. Wait, they wouldn’t get

8:43. my last name. Not exclusively at any rate. Unless I impregnate myself. Ha ha. Why am I thinking about this? I don’t know, Olivia Denise Gammon, it’s your sub-CON-scio-US. Because I’m a donked-up individual? That’s why I’m standing here instead of getting into a car to go to work. No, the real reason is because I’m afraid if I’ll drive, I’ll be too spacey and kill people.

8:44. A man with orange lenses in his shades walked past her. Olivia tried acting like a human, but went too far and stood perfectly still. He asked her to move. She fell over and crushed her bag of raisins.

8:45. He thinks I’m an idiot! Don’t worry, he probably doesn’t care. And you’ll likely never see him again. But that doesn’t help me feel better, even if I know it’s the rational truth. Even if I said it out loud! She said it out loud. The man, now on another block, turned to her and laughed. She bit her thumb.

8:46. Why is it no one else is ever here at this time? This is the only bus to the shopping district. We need a trolley. WE NEED TWO TROLLEYS! I mean, if one ever breaks. And a third for practical vagabonds like me. Though if I were practical, I’d have money. But gosh, how about this rain? Maybe I should have enough sense She began to walk into the bus stop’s seating with a roof. for general day-to-day health precautions. She paused.

8:47. In the center seat (or what could be classified as a seat, given the bench had two metal dividers), a lone coffee cup waited for the bus. Olivia knew for certain that it had not been there when she arrived. She stared at it blankly.

8:48. Olivia stared blankly at the coffee. She scratched her dark-cyan briefcase.

8:49. Olivia stared blankly at the coffee for twenty seconds more. Where did that coffee cup manifest from? That guy couldn’t have left it. He was carrying two glass bottles of milk. Why buy glass bottles over plastic? And why are the bus benches always metal or wood? The metal gets cold in the winter and the wood gets splintery. Better than being glass, yeah.

8:50. Maybe the wind blew it there. Standing perfectly still. She picked it up. She examined the box checked off “Latte.” Still full of coffee. Standing perfectly still full of coffee. Okay, so it’s not the guy, and it’s not the wind either. Maybe I was drinking and absentmindedly put it down? That must be. I am the fool.

8:51. Seriously, where is that bus? And the passengers? Though who can say who is a passenger until they board the bus? I think potential passenger counts as passenger. Hey, am I still 25? No, I turned 26 last year. When did I get this bag? I had it at my 25th party. So… when I was 23, since I stared at it sadly when I was 24.

8:52. WAIT, I DON’T DRINK COFFEES. Since I don’t want to get addicted to it. Like, I see people groggy and all, “Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee.” I want to see the world naturally, with a ton of prescribed pills in my bloodstream. Joking aside, I should talk to someone about upping my dose. Maybe a doctor. Definitely a doctor. My mind is a little more sluggish than usual.

8:53. I lost the flow! If I think on it, I can figure out why that latte is sitting there. It feels half-em… fu… It feels like there’s half inside. When the birds flew by, maybe one dropped their cuppa joe. Yep, that’s it. I’m satisfied and can drop this.

8:54. NOPE, THAT’S TOO STUPID. It’s as dumb as the way they made this roof. Slits and slats? I’m getting all wet in… AH! YES, WAIT, YES! The wind BLEW the empty cup. It landed on the bench, got filled with the dirty rainwater, and that’s the news, son. Waste a good mind-think, Olivia.

8:55. A woman with two children yelled at Olivia for carelessly leaving the latte on the bench. Grumpily, Olivia threw the latte in the trash and dried her hands on her denim skirt.

8:56. Olivia squinted at something orange. Only a fish truck.

8:57. Behind the fish truck was the bus, which pulled up to a block away from the bus stop and flashed its blinkers. Olivia knew the driver would take as much time as possible to relax behind his next shift. Two metal-heads stood behind her.

8:58. Olivia stomped on a piece of cardboard that tried to fly past her. She treated it miserably before letting it go.

8:59. A Steve Buscemi alert popped up. A movie deal she knew about. She shook her tousled hair and splashed a once-dry dog.

9:00. I mean, I have a dog, but I’m scared of other people’s dogs. I love huskies, but only if they’re far, far away from me. Kind of like my friends. And people in general. Maybe I should talk to someone about this. Like my step-dad. Does he know I know he’s not my dad? I’ll keep quiet until the next time I’m angry at him.

9:01. I hope no one tries talking to me today. Within moments, a guy in a green raincoat tried hitting on her. Olivia farted and he moved to the back of the line. He lost his chance.

9:02. The bus began to pull up. Olivia tried acting casual in front of the passengers by twisting her neck hither and yonder. The metal-heads slinked away to stand behind the guy in the green raincoat.

9:03. The bus got stuck behind a traffic light truck. Olivia stayed focused to formulate a plan where she should sit. She knew she’d get the seat before the rear exit since no one ever takes the door that receives the most rain. Olivia was the only one who seems to enjoy it.

9:04. The bus pulled up in front of Olivia. She put her card in the machine, thanked the driver who replied, “alright,” and sat down on a wet seat.

9:05. The bus drove off, taking Olivia to her place of work where she would spend the next nine hours in a factory manufacturing condoms.

Red Flagman’s Rally (CREEPYPASTA!!! [not really])


I heard this story from a friend of a friend of a friend, who was the first friend mentioned in this sequence. That’s how you know it’s true!!

A gamer by the name of MRgaming1019 wanted to play a new kind of game, but everyone was already playing the games he wanted to review for his reviewer man show, The Steven Dackowski Plays Games Show, even though I said his name was MRgaming1019 and not Steven Dackowski.

So he went to a very bad part of town to find a mysterious video game to play for his show. But the only games they had were Undertale for the Nintendo 64 and an old PC game called “Red Flagman’s Rally.” Since MRgaming1019 didn’t own a console, he bought the second thing.

It was 14.95, plus TAX!

The box had an image of a bleeding green flag, and also it was smiling. Whaaaat? That was my reaction, since this was from the 1990’s days.

The flag was being held by a man in sad gray clothing. Overalls made of denim or something drab, right? His face was made of teeth.

“This looks like a normal game, yes?” He put in the game.

Before it closed all the way, it got stuck. He couldn’t play the game if the CD got stuck in the computer! How would he face the day, knowing this haunted game clogged up the disc tray? His two fans would be so disappointed!

But it wasn’t a disc. It was a piece of toast?

He found a crusty yellow note in the game box. It read:

“-It’s been 25 years. Nora’s not waking up.

-Dammit, she’s our daughter! I’d pay 25 more years of hospital bills if it meant seeing her awake!

-I’m pulling the plug.

-NO! So help me God, I’ll divorce you if you kill her!”

Right. He wasn’t a 37-year old man from Virginia. He was a 37-year old woman in a coma for 25 years from Virginia.

Damn. Better wake up.

“How do you feel, Nora?”

Nora’s voice was hoarse, her words turning crustier with each syllable.

“I don’t know if I can feel. I lost 25 years of my life thinking I was a terrible video game reviewer.”

It must be some loopiness from being out for so long, thought her mother.

“All I remember was failing to do a sweet back-flip on my skateboard… There was a guy trying to stop me… he was holding something and waved it at me…”

“Try to rest, dear.” Although her mother worried that she’d slip back into sleep, it had been a long afternoon of doctors, relatives, friends, offspring of pets, and a childhood pal who had visited Nora everyday, often mentioning how “beautiful in lifeless tranquility” Nora had appeared to her.

Nora tried to sleep, but the tears made it hard. Could she ever be normal? She lost so much of her life because of one dumb mistake. Her hands bothered her to look at. They weren’t her hands. Nothing was hers. She didn’t want any of it.

From the view out her window, Nora appreciated the sad fog climbing across the hills. Far beyond the outskirts of the concrete wilderness, Nora spotted a flagman with a green flag, rapidly waving off some kids playing with fireworks.

“Damn,” Nora muttered. “My two fans are going to be so disappointed.”

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, snap! Isn’t it weird how our fantasy universes can occasionally overpower our realities and we lose sight of real life? I mean, Ka-POW!

Anyway, like, comment, and subscribe for more things! PUH-EECE!


Laundry Room Key of Sadness (P4)


“We’re nearly done, Eric. What does this inkblot remind you of?”

Eric gave the doctor one of his trademark false smiles. It was shy and weak, but it always filled the analyst with relief.

“All I can see is mud.”

The analyst frowned. “Mud? Eric, the point is to get a deeper into your psyche. You can’t tell me the next one is mud.”

The doctor was a hack. Her coworkers knew it, most of her patients knew it. Eric felt like he was being punished for losing his mother. But his determination paid off. He knew she wasn’t supposed to tell him that. No psychoanalyst worth her salt would. He would finish the test and innocently have her fired.

“Now how about this one?”

It looks like someone failed art school.

“Like my mother crying from the window for help, flames burning behind her. I cry every night over it.” Eric examined his burnt hand for the sake of drama.

“I see! Yes, yes!” The doctor wrote everything down as though she had come across anything new. In fact, she was writing down the same misinformation as everyone else. As a mental security measure, he let the doctors believe his mother died in the fire. She died some time before when the firemen trampled her. If the doctor had any real skill, she might have had picked up that the first thing he said was the root of the issue.

He hated mud. Those careless firemen barged in with muddy boots. This whole town lacked professionalism, and with his mother gone, he had no reason to stay. His mind was set: he would leave the trauma ward and find real help. Not in this town.

Crossing her legs, the doctor put one boot on the table. She cared more for having her patients like her than helping them learn to like themselves. “It seems that you’re suffering from the loss of your mother, but you’ve come to grips with her passing.”

Eric was flabbergasted being in the presence of the worst analyst in the worst town. The first half of her statement was astoundingly weak. That was the reason his uncle had him checked in. The second half was not only untrue, but he had said nothing to lead her on.

“That makes a lot of sense.” Idiot.

“Anyway, you’ve made enough progress that we’re letting you go today.” She said this while inspecting her sleeve buttons. “Your father is coming in today to get you. We need to discuss further hospital care with you two. We have group therapy–”


The doctor was so alarmed by his tone that she made eye contact with him for the first time. She saw Eric’s eyes, bloodshot and buried under eyebrows of impatience. The doctor fell over and crushed her decorative eye frames.

Eric knew enough about group therapy. Maybe others would benefit from it, but with something as vague as the trauma ward, it would be impossible to relate to anyone else’s problems. He didn’t want to discuss his own problems, far less that of strangers.

The doctor sat on the floor, humiliated. Before heading to the front exit, Eric stopped off at the head doctor’s office and informed him of the doctor’s incompetence in the most innocent manner he could muster.

She was let go moments thereafter. Her fiance’s parents forced their son to break off the engagement. The only good fortune for her was purchasing a lovely trench coat for nearly half the initial price.

The ex-doctor became obsessed with easing her anger. Finally, she decided to get twisted vengeance through blowing up a french fry restaurant in another town. Fortunately, she was as terrible with bombs as people.

Eric found Derrick waiting for him against the door. “How are you feeling, Eric?” He looked worse than Eric. Everything about him was too long, exclusion belonging to the tormented bent spine.


“Well, I’ve set up my new place. Been there three weeks, I think. We’ll live miserably. No one tells us to ‘cheer up’ or ‘smile.’ Are you in?”

Eric couldn’t smile. “Okay, Dad.”

“Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” Derrick clasped his ears with intensity more suited to an employee trying to leave work early. “From now on, I will not be called ‘Dad.’ I just feel like a failure as a husband and father, okay? Call me ‘Derrick.'”

“Okay, Daaaaaarrick.” Eric winced.


“Everyone remember the plan?”

“Yes!” Sandra found herself happy to retain information involving Eric. She was disappointed that the same was true for Harold.

“You mean your plan to save your father from his own depressed hubris by preventing him from creating a horrific mud duplicate using my ancient tribe’s spell that brought its own demise? No, remind me.”

On the final vowel, Sandra twisted his nose. “Why are you so jaded, Harold? What’s your sad backstory that you became… this?”

Harold sighed. “You have no idea how tough it was growing up gay…”

Eric tilted his head. Did they have to do this now?

“I just… just…” Harold wiped some tears in the direction of a translucent light. “Absolutely loved it!”

Sandra gaped. “Whaaaaa?”

“I have no idea how tough it was for others growing up liking boys. Me, fantastic. The girls liked me a lot. They asked me for all kinds of advice. Fashion, guys, occult for the goth girls. And the boys, well. They were envious. They stuck to me like glue, hoping to get some tips from me.” Harold snickered at his own memories. “I managed to turn three or six of them too!” Laughter and an unsettling light fled to the clouds.

Sandra bawled up her fists and swung them at her sides. “I hate you I hate you I hate you!”

Harold choked on a chuckle. “That’s a lot of hate for such a young baby.” He dialed it back. “Look, why do you want me to be sad? Are you two-faced? Do you want my misery over joy?”

“N-no. You just act like Mr. Perfect all the time.”

“Moi, perfect? Eric, better hold this one down or she’ll jump my bones!” He failed to notice Eric standing in front of the basement window.

“Shut up! I would do no such thing! I only have eyes for Eric!”

“Technically, your eyes were made for Derrick, not Eric. Babies usually latch onto things they see.”

“Fine! Fine, okay? I’ve only been alive for a month! Wee-hee! But I’m more human than you could ever be!”

“Okay. I’m sorry that I hurt your feelings. I never spoke to one of you long enough to know you possessed any.”

A bird chirped at a raccoon with a dirty rag. A plane with only five passengers flew overhead. Eric banged on the basement window. Sandra stood dumbly.

“I’m sorry too. I know you just want to help.” Eric was pulled further into the laundry room. “Maybe we can hang out or something after this.” She smiled, feeling ashamed.

Harold smiled, filled with self-worth. “Only if Eric comes.”


The two biggest fools on the block turned to the basement window. Eric had been scrawny enough to pull in without requiring a key.

“If you two petulant brats have talked things out in Lala Land, feel free to come in through the front of the house. I’ll let you in here.” Derrick eyed the pair. “You’ve not ruined my plan yet.”


Sandra shuffled softly, recalling that she was compelled to stand at the door of the laundry room right after her birth. When the door opened a month ago, Derrick had been smiling, only to fly into madness that she was a fraction of his wife. Only her inner traits remained, and only half of those resembled her.

She met Harold that day, who ignored her the entire time. Harold spoke to the man he believed to be her father. He explained in the stone room the secrets of his lineage, that a full duplication of being would be impossible as it had been for the Master of Masters.

Derrick knocked over some erotica and stormed off. He refused to permit Sandra’s entrance. She went to the house next door. The first few days she spent her time lying in her living room, the mud pit she had been born from doubling as her grave.

Her semi-essence of the woman she was based on forced her to live a life. She ate french fries. She read at the library. She accidentally walked in during Harold’s shift a time or two.

One day, she saw a glum young man walking around the stone house. She felt drawn to him, as though they were connected. The memory of Derrick rest in her subconscious, so for seven days, she waited to find him alone.


“But I’m not done reminiscing!”



The normal appearance of the laundry room was gone. The washing machine was ajar, mud dripping on the door. The dryer was filled with brown, murky gunk. Everyone recognized it as mud. Eric laid on the stone floor, without a gag yet remained silent.

“I know what was missing, librarian.”

Harold stood away. He sensed that Derrick was mostly out and something worse was in.

“The Master of Masters tried spawning life with mud. Wet mud.” Derrick’s glasses were on the ground, shattered. “But that was a mistake. The mud was not an element on its own.”

Harold put a finger to his chin. “Oh! I’ve heard that the four elements were required to create life. But distilled. That’s how Sandra’s magic worked.”

“Correct. Sandra is composed of water and earth, while air and sunlight reached her enough to create a tepid life form.”

“Hey guys, I’m more than the sum of my parts!” Only Eric laughed. That was more than enough for her.

“To create a true life form on the level of God’s ability, to rewrite death, more is required. More powerful than what is given to any fool after a rainy day.”

Harold stood his ground. “Exactly what is ‘more?’ You can’t exactly bring in a tornado, a flood, a drought, or an earthquake.”

Derrick’s body patted the machines. “This is enough.”

Sandra gasped. “That’s brilliant!” She turned to Harold. Confused look. She set her loving gaze on Eric. Confused look, too. “He’s using the washer and dryer in place of the elements! The washer give him water, the dryer gives him fire and air! They both have metal insides!”

Harold was about to praise her until she finished her thought. “Metal is not stone.”

“It’s mineral, though.”

“Sandra, you’re brilliant!”

“I am brilliant,” Derrick’s voice growled. “She is nothing more than a pale excuse for my lost love.” He checked the load. “Two minutes left. Should I have put in some bleach?”

“No!” Eric managed to stand without the use of his arms to lift him. “I miss Mom too, okay? But she’s dead! Maybe we we should move on and not buy creepy magical depression houses from an online auction!” He slouched back down.

“Enough of your prattle, boy.”

Sandra turned to Harold. “Hey, could I save everyone with the free wish the room gives people?”

Harold found tact in his veins. He lost courage and needed a distraction. “I don’t know if… your kind could take advantage of it. You’re still a partial creature.” He put a hand over his chest. “Anyway, Derrick’s too powerful. His sadness overshadows that of anyone else. He must have been like the Master of Masters and trained such depression for a month.”

“Maybe he can make a perfect duplicate of his wife after all?”

Harold burst open a scornful laugh. “The Master of Masters was the most powerful wizard in the world. He couldn’t master it. There’s no way that a mortal using stolen magic of wiser ones could succeed where they had failed.”

Harold rubbed his eyes, wishing he hadn’t been so cruel to his sons and husband.

“Let’s face it. We’ve lost this one. We’re going to die at the hands of Eric’s father.”

A rumble approached him. “WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?”

Harold collapsed and hurt his back. “N-n-n-n-oth-th-th…”

Eric stood up, slipped out of his binds, walked over to the remains of Derrick, and said,

“He said you’re my father, Dad. And Dad, you are my Dad. Because by being my mother’s mate, you, my Daddy Dad Dad, are forever my Dad. DAD DAD DADDY DAD DOO DAA DEE DUU DII DYY DBB DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD!”

Sandra concealed laughter. Harold concealed tears. Derrick failed to conceal his gyrating body refuse a translucent light. Eric’s dad collapsed.

“…I never wanted to hurt you… I needed to get everything happy in my life out, and the only thing left was that you…” Eric’s dad choked on tears. “Eric, my son… was still alive and okay.” His nose grew moist. “I forgot that you were the reason I was doing all this. And I just, I just blocked you from my heart… I denied you were my family for mud! Mud!”

Sandra gave him a green tissue. Grass stains. “And Sandra! I’ve been abominable to you too! You, you were what Eric needed, not a clone of a dream!”

Sandra ran her hand across his head. She took off her jacket and covered Derrick in it.

Eric and Harold gave a glance to the dryer.




The dryer burst open. Out of the dryer and onto the stone floor emerged a petite woman with black hair and hazel eyes. She gestured towards Eric’s father with open arms.

“Derrick,” she cooed. “Derrick, my love. What has happened to you? Come, let me shave you.”

Derrick’s vision flooded. She was there, he saw her! But he created her! She wasn’t real. Was anything real? Could he have her?

Derrick closed his fingers around Eric’s own. He closed his fingers on the other hand around Sandra’s. Harold stood in front of the trio.

“I can shield you. I may have nothing to live for.”

The thing flashed her red eyes at them, teeth far too large for the mouth bared in amazing malice. She stood, head down. When her head lifted, she looked completely different.

“You did good, Eric. You peeled your dad’s banana back and exposed his merits.”

Eric couldn’t shut his eyes. Could she…?

“I’m just messing with you, boy. I can read minds. I ain’t your mom.” She laughed, whereupon all laughed, mostly out of fear, partially to be polite. “I’m outta here. I’m off to Congress.”

She stomped out of the laundry room, breaking the door in the process.

The magic, both of the key and the power to grant deep desires, went to their masters’ resting place.


The stars looked nicer to any of them than they had in a long time. The quartet sat in front of the basement window.

An uncomfortable silence left them alone. They needed a distraction and they needed it constantly.

Sandra: “If the room made the deepest desires true, could it make you a king or rich?”

Derrick: “It was mostly limited to manifesting things. You could be a king, but only temporarily. Sometimes, I think.”

Harold: “Right. One story tells of a patient who replaces a king. It turns out better for the both of them. Most of them have Deus Ex Machina, but that one stuck.”

Eric: “Mine was to feel alive again. Sandra was a huge factor in that coming true.”

Sandra: “Eric! Aw, aw! Eric!”

Harold: “That reminds me. I need to make a phone call.”

Derrick: “I’d like to vomit. Hey, son. Maybe we could fix this place up.”

Eric: “Why?”

Derrick: “With the magic gone, me as a licensed therapist, and you following in my footsteps back in med school, we could make this a proper clinic for sad people. Focus on patients one on one. Really focus.”

Eric: “It’ll take a while to get off the ground.”

Derrick: “Most great things do. I was once on the runway for ten hours. Pleasant flight, but I wasn’t even travelling out of the country.”

Sandra: “That sounds nice. The clinic, not the runway. Wish I could help out.”

Eric: “…Sandra, did you check out your mud carpet yet?”

Derrick: “You don’t ask a girl that question, boy.”

Sandra: “It’s stable now. There’s still a lot of mud, probably for years. I guess there won’t be any new mud people coming from there anymore.”

Derrick: “Are you suggesting…”

Eric: “Mud bath! Soothe them on the inside! Then go next door and soothe them on the outside!”

Sandra: “Would people really want to bathe in mud?”

Eric: “Sure! Don’t you know that when you’re in mud it feels good and don’t want to leave?”

Derrick: “Speak for yourself. I need a bubble bath.”

Harold: “Guys, I’m heading off. I’m getting another chance from my hubby.”

Sandra: “Ah! So you did have a sad backstory!”

Harold: “I broke up with him just the– I mean, yeah, I guess I did. Thanks, Sandra.”

Eric: “Hey Harold, we’re starting a–“

Harold: “Nope, nope. Sounds like a job offer. I am strictly a librarian and family man now. Shove off, secret society! But feel free to check me out at the library any time.”

Sandra: “I’d rather check out a book!”

Harold: “…Don’t make me regret befriending you.”

Eric: “Okay. I have a HUGE, STINKING BAG OF POT. I need to calm down.”

Sandra: “Oh, yeah man. I’ll take some.”

Derrick: “As your father and the one most tormented by these events, I deserve half.”

Harold: “Gimme some, I need an apology gift for my man.”



“Thank you, hope you won’t need to come back!”

Eric loved saying that. He knew some patients would be offended, so he offered it based on the client. The laundry room had been renovated into six rooms for therapists hand-picked by Derrick. Maybe desires weren’t being granted, but hearts were being eased properly. Putting carpet over the stone floor helped.

The government caught wind of the small business and helped move it along, on the condition that they would take the occasional felon as a patient.

“Who’s next? Doctor Stoley? Is that you?”

“Ex-doctor. They took away my medical license. Trying to bomb the french fry joint got me put in the j–joint. May I?” She gestured towards candy dish. He handed her one. She already seems better than in the hospital.

Back then, she had every follicle in place, twelve different scents on her body, stiff nails. Now she had clumps of hair escaping, one scent (not appealing), and choppy nails. Her knuckles read “damn it”.

She was in his shoes now. He had a bad habit of taking them off as he sat down. “Sorry, it’s been a long time since I’ve worn comfy shoes. Wow, you have weirdly small feet.”

“I suppose I do, perhaps.” Or maybe you have weirdly big feet, Eric mused.

He cleared his head. She’s not the doctor anymore. She needs you.

“You say you haven’t worn comfy shoes in prison. Has that been bothering you more than anything else?”

Stoley was taken aback. “Yeah! No! What are you asking for?”

Eric breathed calmly. “I remember in the hospital. You always wore fancy shoes. Were those comfortable to wear?”

She smirked. “You kidding me? Torture devices! But when I lost my job and my guy, I didn’t bother dressing up for anyone.” She paused for oxygen. “I know I wasn’t in my right mind, but after that, even when I planned my revenge… I wasn’t scared of waking up anymore.”

Eric’s heart bled with remorse.

After the session, Eric decided to come clean.

“Look, I’m… I’m real sorry you got fired. You were a goo–you were a doctor.”

Stoley rubbed her forehead. “Look, Eric. I enjoyed the chatter, but let’s cut the chitter. You got me fired. The head doc told me. He’s not great at doctor-patient confederacy. I suck as a doctor, and I know it.”

Eric jumped. “If you knew I told him, why did you try to blow up Down-Fryzing instead?”

“Please, I saw you in there with some chubby chick. Nice choice, by the way.” Eric didn’t respond to that out of professionalism. “I went to pee in the bushes, but I guess you left. I wasn’t even mad at you at that point, but… I wanted to finish something I started for a change.”

Eric’s red hand twitched. He breathed in. Harold lent him a good book on meditation. “It’s okay.” It wasn’t. “We’ll talk about it next session.” She needed help. He could do this. Suddenly, he reached in his pocket.

“This is…?” There was a number on the card.

“Go next door, wait to be called. Sandra will lead you to our massage section of the business.” Heal inside and out. The government gave them the necessary permits. The new Congresswoman seemed eager to assist them.


“My girlfriend.” He might help Stoley, but he’d never like her.

“She’s the girl from the fry place, yeah? She’s cute.” At least she said it more politely this time. “Hey, this building is kind of weird. What kind of place is this anyway?

Eric smiled. Since meeting Sandra, he had smiled hundreds of times, but none were the same. This was a knowing smile, a smile kept among four people.

“Would you believe a laundry room?”


Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Laundry Room Key of Sadness (P3)


“Here’s what I know about depression, Eric.” Even before she lived as a memory, Eric found it hard to envision his mother knowing anything from depression. “The deeper you are in it, the more comfortable you become wallowing. It’s messy, it looks bad to others, but you feel just fine. You have to get up from depression.”

He knew it was a dream, but he ignored the sudden manifestations of reality. Sandra’s hands on his shoulders. “I’m getting out of it, but Dad’s acting like he’s one with sadness. Can you help him?”

“Wake up, Eric!” He loved Sandra’s warmer presence, but he wished she’d be less eager to start the day. He could hear her pacing every which way from midnight on in the guest room she had set up. In a way he felt he needed to bury, Eric was flattered she fussed over him.

“I have a banana,” said his mother. Right, it’s still my own dream, disappointed his mother didn’t make a special visit to his dreams. “Delicious. Full of vitamins. Nutrients. Potential naughty jokes.” Definitely my dream.

“Thing is, to get any of that, you need to pull…” She failed to pull the peel. “…the peel. See, it’s not easy. The easiest way would be to pull the top, but that brown chunky part hurts my hands. Sometimes I pull too hard and it rips off. But if you don’t hurt yourself or the banana…”

She continued to fail peeling. “You reveal the merits within, right?” Eric helped her, as Sandra ran down to the kitchen to deliver a rude awakening.

“Right, Eric! You need to peel your dad’s skin. Maybe literally. But,” she paused for an air of drama that was not his mother’s brand, “maybe figuratively.”

Pots and pans clanged, as his dream returned to the subconscious.

“That reminds me! The first metaphor I had! Depression is a lot like mud!”

“Did you say m–”

“ERIC! Thank goodness you’re up!” Sandra was in a green apron, though he realized that was thanks to grass stains.

“Sandra, not to seem ungrateful,” though he definitely was, between the disgusting mud resting all over the house and Sandra, her need to be up all night distracting him, not to mention even if it wasn’t her intentional fault, Derrick threw Eric out because Sandra made him happy.

She made him happy. He told his pent-up grievances to take a break. The grievances went to the bathroom and smoked.

“I’m grateful to you for putting me up, but why are you waking me up as early as…” The clock read 15 o’clock. He had to do math.

“It’s three,” she said in a hurried tone. “Sorry, I don’t know what your sleep schedule is.” She looked over her shoulder towards the window. “We have a few hours left to spend at the library.”

Three o’clock? Eric’s sleep cycle frightened him. He realized this had in fact been his normal hour to begin the day, and that he passed out usually at midnight.

“I’m sorry for jumping on you like that. Let’s go to the library.”

“Yes! And it’s okay. I kind of like it when people jump on me.”

He wanted to follow that up with anything at all, but one look at Sandra’s face informed him that she was teasing him.

Eric didn’t mind the mud anymore.


It was a warm library; happy families and studious cheerleaders packed the rooms tightly enough that one could walk on them as any floor. There was a sign by the front desk advising against that.

At the desk stood a clean-cut man, about early-thirties. His hair, greasy and black, occasionally complimented his clothing, bow tie and rolled-up sleeves notwithstanding. His eyes, rarely open, resembled a satisfied napping cat. His demeanor could also be said to seem cat-like.

“Welcome to our library, sir. My, that is one jacked-up looking hand. All red and stringy. Tsk, tsk, tsk. Guess you should feel lucky your face doesn’t look like that, right?”

Sandra leaned over Eric’s shoulder. “This is Harold Neamus. He’s the last shift during the day. He’s like this with everyone.” Eric became more determined to amend his sleep cycle.

“Oh!” Harold’s face became squishy with a nirvana of cruelty. “It’s the giant baby! Is she yours, sir? She’s come here before without a guardian, and I tried turning her away.” Eric felt weird, as though this dialogue was too specific to annoy him.

Harold tickled Sandra on the chin, leading both her and Eric to crush his hand. Their hands were locked, crunching a wincing librarian’s fingers in the process. They blushed the moment their eyes locked.

“Sir, I will not have… YOUR KIND in here. This library is a safe haven for happiness, and that means no baby-kissers.” Harold looked up at the giant baby. “Would oo wike a wowwy, baby?”

Sandra’s nostrils flared, relieving Eric that no mud came out of them. “I would NOT spike my mommy–er, MOTHER, and I’m not a baby!”

“You are! You are a giant baby, a one-month baby, yet you can walk and talk!” He examined the mud on her sneakers. “Still pretty messy, though. Look, trust me that you guys shouldn’t be like this, okay?”

Eric noted a hurt tone hidden in Harold’s voice. Harold suddenly turned to him.

“Look, a month ago, her father brought her here. Please return her to his arms, if she can be carried.”


Eric balled up a fist. He wouldn’t need it now. Harold’s face softened.

“Oh, oh, oh my, my, my. You really don’t know. Oh, poor sweet baby mud girl.” Harold put up a sign to the front of the desk. “Come with me.”


The dank, stone room was behind a bookshelf in the erotic section. “We have a very old erotic section. No one goes here. This place must be guarded.”

Eric carelessly flipped through a magazine and stopped at a page with a buxom lady now older than his grandmother. “What, the erotica needs to be guarded?” Sandra swiped the magazine and leafed through its pages.

“What? No, this room! I come from a tribe of ancient therapeutic wizards. Does that sound stupid?”

Eric was growing reckless in comfort towards Harold, but risking nothing gets one nowhere. “No more stupid than my laundry room.”

Harold nearly dropped the book he was examining.

“What’s so stupid about it?

“It… you need to be sad to open it. My dad locked himself in there.”

Harold laughed in relief, although it sounded more like he cackled in pride. “So it is you.”

Sandra found an article that made her turn red. She stored the tips in her mind for use on Eric.

“Sit. I have much to teach you, uggo hand.” Harold flipped to the center of the first half of the book.

“May 1, 1590 A.D.
I am matthew. my  masters, powerfilled men with the goal of easing the hearts of men. have constructed a plan to make a home to tame sadness. my masters and i will live in the quarters and the sad souls in the basement. further plans are unclear to me.”

Harold flipped further.

“June 3, 1590 A.D.
My masters have completed the home. they are now enchanting the basement. i am not allowed around yet. i examine the quarters for my masters and i. with the money poured into it, i expected more. floors creak, stairs croak. it is colder than the rain. the beds scorn my skin. i found a rash after sleeping on one. it is a home made for sadness.”

Sandra flipped to an ad that gave her a marvelous notion for her mud. She would ask Eric what he thought.

“February 24, 1591 A.D.
The home is near perfect, bar one flaw. the home itself is healing sad hearts of some men. the home is thus: my masters created a spell on the basement entrance. only those with heavy hearts may enter or leave. a dark key is made when closing the saddened man hand, to which he opens the healing room.

“Healing room…” Eric became immersed in the text.

“A shame,” Harold bitterly shook his head. “You use it for laundry.”

“Keep reading this gook, okay?”

“the room will grant the deepest desire for the sad men. my masters show wisdom. they cannot use sadness for evil. the sad men cannot manifest the death of any other man. the problem is that neither can they manifest life. many men are saddened by lost loves and few are being helped in the way of intention.

Eric gulped on nothing.

“my masters have a plan. they have acquired the deed for the land next door. it is a mud pit bought for near nothing. they plan on using the powers of God Himself. they will be Adam creatures, born from the desires of the sad to find their loves. my masters are wonder in human clothes.”

Eric’s whole being had a panic attack.

Harold snapped in front of Eric’s face. “By the by, Matthew never writes it down, but the masters made themselves miserable upstairs in order to get constant access to the basement. Since happy men couldn’t open it, the masters needed to remain sad to let the happy patients out.”

Eric jittered. “Really? How interesting.”

“Right? They couldn’t cast the enchantment to pick more than one emotion. And the masters, so kind, so understanding, wouldn’t allow the patients to feel trapped in sadness and reality. So unlike the happy men, they could leave freely.”

“Yeah, I figured that out! I got locked in after meeting Sandra!” She wasn’t listening. “You’re at the climax, right? You’re doing this to taunt me.”

“Heavens, no! Why, are you eager to read about Matthew’s skin growth documentation? He had many blisters, bruises, moles and rashes.”

Eric cupped his hair in his palms. “That’s all on the house?”

“Certainly. Oh, except for the mud house next door.”

“READ IT READ IT READ IT!” Life was happy to flow threw Eric again.

“Rude, rude, rude.”

“May 18, 1593 A.D.
This shall be my final entry. it is all over. my master of masters finally succeeded in casting the spell of life. before, we could only create half a life. half a being in the sad men’s hearts. most were satisfied, but not my master of masters. his spell needed perfection.

the magic had been simple. Adam creatures born from mud, but that meant they had an essence of mud. they were always dirty, dirtiest on the feet and less mud as it built up. the men were comfortable with the mud men and women. i fear them. i see no wives or sons. my eyes may be wrong, as master of master said, but i saw them as old as they were born, not their own age.”

Harold tapped his eyes. Eric whimpered.

“giant mud babies, walking around with men of false contentment. they lie to themselves. make up new stories about why are there. i did note they gradually get true memories, much like a baby will. my master of masters said i had wrong eyes. but he was disgusted whenever he saw a woman with a mud husband, a father with a mud son. my master of masters knew.”

Sandra took off a sneaker and measured her foot with her thumb.

“he vanished for a month into his quarters. there was constant sorrow heard from his room. when my master of masters emerged today, he reached a level of sadness unseen to any of us, a level that existed in his other emotions, he threw out the patients and locked us out with overwhelming sorrow.”

Sandra measured her armpit with her toe.

“i am the only one to recount the event, my masters all died. my master emerged with a mud man, his late brother. it was a mud man, my master of masters said, that had all the memories and qualities of the lost. i could not see a mud baby. the magic worked. but the mud  man shook tremendously and forced his way into the jaws of my lost master of masters.

not to pause at this but i found a new mole. it is green and thick. i shall compose a book around it.”

Forlorn, Harold stood up. “It goes on that way. Now you know why you shouldn’t date a mud baby.”

Sandra turned to the table. “What are we talking about?”

“I mean it. She’s nothing more than a large baby. In twenty years, she can be legal. Find your respite elsewhere.” Harold pat Eric’s back. Eric did not pull away.

“Not this again. Why do you keep calling me a baby?”

A minute danced around the room with silence playing a deafening guitar solo.

Eric turned to Harold.

“She wasn’t listening?”

Eric contorted himself to face Sandra.


Sandra rubbed a cheek. “There’s a book I wanted to check out. Although,” she lifted the magazine, “I wondered if you’d let me buy this.”

Harold took the magazine from her. “It’s no use. A month back, an older gentleman came in here with her, asking me about your basement. Even then, she ignored me.”

Eric froze, an internal fire balancing him out. “Did he have a crusty beard, hair to his neck, thin metal glasses…”

Harold finished for him. “Yes, and he wore all black. He wanted a book on fixing a mud creature. Her.”

Sandra screamed at the door. Harold rolled up the magazine and plugged it in her mouth.

It all made sense, as much as any of it could have in the realm of emotional instability. Sandra was warm, like his mother. She liked blue nail polish, french fries, and his mother exchanged puns with him all the time. But she didn’t look like his mother, black hair and hazel eyes.

They didn’t look a thing alike. His mother had been small, frail and feisty, while Sandra was tall, bulky and awkward. Maybe…

“Half,” Harold hissed. “Half of the lost one’s traits. Sometimes internal, sometimes external, but not both.” Sandra and Eric gave him a worried look.

“You think this is my first mud being? Come over to my place some time and I’ll show you my album of all the mud politicians and mud entertainers I’ve met. Way bigger babies than you, kiddo.”

Sandra collapsed onto a chair.

“My life is over…” She wiped away some tears, first from Eric’s face, then from her own.

“Oh, forget it,” Eric wheezed. “Look Sandra, why go nuts worrying about it? So Harold calls you a baby. And yes, maybe you are only a month old. And considering my dad made you to be his wife, that means I’m dating my mother and my sister.”

Harold smirked unkindly. “Are you strawberry jelly? Because you’re on a roll!”

Eric clutched the librarian of menace’s labels. “Damn it, I’m TRYING to calm down the girl I love!”

Even silence sat this one out.

“Eric… do you mean that?”


“I love you too, Eric.”

Eric leapt into her arms. Her lips were soft, but dry. He loved her earthy smell caressing him.

Harold stamped his foot in a bratty rage. “You can’t be serious!” He sputtered. “How long do you know her, a day?” He pieced the facts together and calmed down. “Come to think of it, if you’re depressed and she’s a giant mud baby in love with you, I guess there’s no better pairing either of you could have.”

He was tired.

“More importantly, your father was furious that he couldn’t figure out what went wrong with the Master of Master’s spell. Where did you say he is now?”

Eric and Sandra kissed some more.

“Because he may not live if his spell fails.”

More kissing.

“Everyone may die, including Sandra.”

The kissing went to smoke in the parking lot.

“Harold,” Eric smiled in a way Harold hated: Genuinely. “We need your help. He holed himself up in the laundry room last night.”

“Good Sammy Ray! Why are we still here? Let’s save your dingbat of a daddy!”

On the way out, Harold ignored the line of literary fanatics waiting for him to return. The cheerleaders all made it into business universities.


Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Laundry Room Key of Sadness (P2)


Pale red draped Eric’s scrawny frame. In the center rested a faded pink design, something not unlike a fish skeleton. Examining it, he realized it was the least ugly shirt he owned. Sandra would simply have to look at his eyes instead.

Eric blushed, remembering his shirtless discussion with her.

Peeking his head into Derrick’s room, he found a large lump on the ground. After inspecting it from afar for a while, he realized it was Derrick.

Unsure of whether or not he was sleeping, concerned that telling his father that he was going out to be social would serve as a sharp blow to Derrick’s plan to live their lives broken men, Eric abstained from leaving him a note.

He clomped softly past the room, quietly unlocked the eight cacophonous locks to the front door, and was immediately smothered in nauseatingly fresh air.

It was cold, but this coldness was a separate entity from the one his house swam in. This damp outside air felt good on his hand. He forgot what rain felt like. At this, Eric realized that it had only been a week since they had moved in.

If I’ve forgotten sensations like this in only seven days… Eric waited a moment to process the thoughts racing above his clarity. Dad got here before me, 24 days ago. That’s… a month he’s lived here.

How long do I have to wallow in there before I’m as gone as him?

He didn’t want to think about it; he didn’t want to be even mopier when he was with Sandra, so he told himself not to dwell on it at the moment.

Inspecting the neighboring homes, Eric furrowed his eyebrows. Dull, tepid paint jobs lined up to stare at the stone structure. He wondered if their house ever wanted to hide from its neighbors too. Should he make a house for the house?

Eric turned on the hose and sprayed himself, hoping he would be less loopy for his date.

His face was dripping with water outside of his body, a realization which he had tried to ignore. Wiping his face with the crook of his elbow, Eric remembered how wet with mud Sandra’s feet had been. He turned to her yard. Neatly trimmed. Not a speck of dirt called to grab his attention. So why was she so dirty earlier?

The realization arrived that he could stall no further was delivered to him with the town library’s hourly bell. Six. Bravery dragged the fearful young man to Sandra’s house, knocked on her door bell and pinned Eric to the ground.

“Eric! Let me help you up!” Her plump arms picked him up with ease. “Make yourself comfortable. Mind the carpet.”

With that last one, Eric noted that her feet were still muddy. He finally saw why: Her carpet was a sea of mud. Her shoes were lined up on a small white table by the door. At that moment, he needed to gag.

Sandra sent him an embarrassed look. With complete cognizance, Sandra ask him with what the matter was.

Her gall surprised Eric. “Don’t you know your carpet is mud?” He choked on every syllable.

Sandra shook her hair with a sweep of her hand. Thick clumps of dry shampoo fell out of her sandy-brown hair. “Yeah… I mean, I’d be stupid not to notice, right? It’s part of the foundation of the house. I can’t afford a guy to clean it out or cover it up. Plus, it makes my skin silky.”

Eric had to agree on that last point.

She grabbed a filthy hand towel, wiped her legs, feet and hands, then, realizing just how filthy the rag was, threw it outside for a curious raccoon to play with. She dried her hands on the wall.

“How do you feel about french fries?”


She had popped into a pair of long leather boots, concealing her legs where necessary, much to Eric’s relief.

“This place only serves french fries as main dishes,” Sandra explained in unison with the spirit of Futility. “Big ol’ french fries the size of the side you order.” Blank and tired was the face of Eric. “Like, if you order a steak…”

“They’ll give me a big french-fry the size of a steak and small pieces of steak, right? Hope they’re at least fry-cut steaks.”

Nine people were in Down-Fryzing at that moment. One waitress working off loans for med school, a cook trying to mentally compose a novel, a government agent pretending to be a dishwasher, a man trying to break up with his husband and leave his two sons, Eric, and Sandra.

Of these nine people, only Sandra Robbie was laughing. Moments shortly after, two were laughing, when Eric Filles laughed for the first time in… he only had memory to suggest that he had once laughed.

Three people of out nine were laughing when the cook thought of a good joke for her novel, followed by a fourth who realized how much money he could get from child support.

“Sorry, I don’t hear jokes often. I like puns. I’m low-class.”

Eric liked to have considered himself funny. He used to feel light in his chest. He wanted to explain how puns easily break tension, not unlike at this moment, but no, he needed to charm his date.

Before the abyss of pain, his father used to give him dating advice.

“Talk about her more than yourself.” Smart advice, Dad.

“Eye-contact is important. Don’t stare at her boobies all the time.” I’ll need to mentally amend the way he phrased that one in the future.

“Romance, romance, romance. I charmed your mother using candlelight on our first date. And again with a fireplace during our honeymoon. Come to think of it, I lit incense when we conceived you. Heh, I guess there’s nothing your mother likes more than a red-hot raging fire. She just wants to burn, burn, burn!”

When the world reappeared again, Sandra had at some point wrapped herself around him. He felt cold again.

“ERIC! You doing right?” Sandra was too relieved to notice her semi-coherent statement. “You started shivering and then you passed out.”

He wanted to crawl into a hole, roll into a ball, and hibernate. He messed it up.

“I just need to sleep it off. I’m sorry.” The fingers on his red hand had distorted into a position that resembled the limbs of a tree. It was twitching.

Sandra lifted him into her arms. “I hope this doesn’t embarrass you.” She felt embarrassed.

“A little, but I’ll be fine, thank you.” He didn’t feel slightly embarrassed. He found himself happy to be lifted. She gave him something he hadn’t known he lacked.

“Tell me about your past, Sandra.” He was going to continue the date as it was ending, damn the awkward commotion.

“Oh. Well, like I said, my folks are long gone.”

“How?” He knew that was the wrong thing to say.

“I don’t remember. I was pretty little.”

“Uh-huh. So… who raised you?”

“I think I’ve been living in that house my whole life.” She didn’t want to discuss this, but she didn’t talk herself through why that should be.

“By yourself? How could you survive?”

“Oh, look! The town library!” Eric and Sandra stopped for a moment. “This library has a book all about the history of the town. I should take you here tomorrow.”

Eric shot Sandra a look, and, as she had been carrying him, Sandra had to confess.

“The trauma of my parent’s deaths gave me memory problems. I only remember about a month at a time. Please, I don’t want to discuss it.”

There was a sentence that loved to shield Eric after his mother’s passing. Nothing bothered him quite like nosy relatives trying to pity him. Sandra understood Eric more than his own father could. He swallowed bravery.

“I don’t know if it’s too soon, but… can I kiss you?”


The government agent walked a woman in a trench coat into a van disguised as a watch kiosk.



Dad? Angry? Maybe he’s brightening up again. In the fists of his heart, Eric knew it couldn’t be.

“Derrick, what–“


Eric was afraid he accidentally bleached one of his father’s shirts.

“What is this about, Derrick?”

“I was looking through my laundry bag in the basement. Why did one of my shirts go from black to gray-black?”

Relief filled Eric for some reason. “I’m so sorry, Derrick. I’ll be cautious in the future.”

“Fine. Just open the laundry room and get my bag of clothes, please.”



Eric’s red hand finally loosened its crazed position. Clench… clench… he prayed for a key to manifest.

“There’s no key in your palm. Eric, why is there no key in your palm? Are you happy or something?”



His father scared him, but not as much as his father seemed to be called by a patriarchal title.

“All, ALL I needed was you to be sad enough, just in case I get locked in. But you go gallivanting about with that hippie chick, and now you’re too happy to be of any use!” Derrick clenched his fist, his nails digging into his flesh.

“Da– DERRICK! Your hand!”

Derrick smiled, and even with his constant dour pan, it looked worse than a frown. It made Eric cry to look at.

“It makes no difference. I feel no pain, Eric. It took me a month in this hell house to get it right, but I can have any emotion, joy, misery, lust, anger, envy. I’m always sad, Eric,  even when I’m not. And I don’t need anyone to let me out of the laundry room. So I don’t need you.”

Derrick turned a key.

“What do you mean, Derrick? I know the laundry room key trick is neat, but that’s no excuse to drive yourself crazy!”

Derrick shrank into the darkness of the room.

“That dirty barefoot girl, Sandra… I met her on my first day. She might be right for you. Just live with her from now on.”

With that, Derrick lived behind the door.

Eric screamed for Derrick. Pounding his fists on the door did nothing. What happened to his father? Why didn’t the sadness Eric felt at this moment let him manifest a key?

The only thing he could now was leave.


He explained everything to Sandra. She tried not to look so happy to have someone move in, but Eric caught it.

“Stay as long as you want. Though please wipe your shoes before coming in. Once you get grass in the mud, you can’t get it out.”


Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Laundry Room Key of Sadness (P1)


It was a fine house; houses he had known for the bulk of his life were too familiar, too welcoming for people. People needed to leave suddenly before they could take a step on the tattered carpet with muddied shoes, eager to mark territory. No one wanted the house.

The house was older than any living being, species of turtles included. The brickwork, if one could call it that, consisted of gray stones. Smooth, but their coldness matched the temperature of the young man’s heart, which was never properly fixed, much like the house.

The stairs croaked when looked at. Frogs did not live in this part of the country, nor would amphibians willingly stay here.

The young man and his father were pleased with their choice. Sadness came from within, and could feed properly without. After the loss of the matriarch, father and son could no longer stay in the bright lights of California. Coldness, sadness, stones felt right.

The kitchen was functional, but the refrigerator lacked an ice machine. A definite step down from their old one.

Only three rooms could handle electricity at one time. Misery. They loved it.

They imported cozy stuffing for the mattresses. Sadness may have had domain, but no reason to throw out your back. The rooms were horrifically flammable. The guest room burnt down when a previous tenant brought in a space heater. The rooms needed to remain below 46 degrees Fahrenheit. They were planning to be depressed forever.

The bathroom was an outhouse.

Examining his reddened palm, Eric walked along the sadder parts of the house. He caught a glimpse of his father, crying over a singed photo frame again. Her photos were all but lost, remaining on the internet as a shrine to her memory. They dared not find photos of her online, unless they wanted to retreat to the darkness of their minds.

Eric noted the state of his attire.

“Derrick, uh… I need to do a load.”

For the first time in four hours, Derrick looked away from the frame.

“You know where the outhouse is.”

Eric groaned internally. “I mean a load of laundry. But I need a key to get in. And there’s none around.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s the best part of the house.”

It seemed impossible, but Derrick had taken on an emotion almost outside of depression.

“The laundry room will only open if you’re wallowing in sadness. Make a fist, and the key will appear in your hand. Seems to be some strange magic from long ago. Whoda thunk it?” At this, Derrick scratched his crusty beard and left.

Dubious but too broken up and rancid to care, Eric stood before the laundry room. His scarred fist hurt when clenched, but he preferred it to nothing. But the nothing came back when he opened his hand, a smoky grayish-brown key having suddenly manifested. It frightened him; the fire still fresh in his mind.

After turning the key, it spread around Eric’s body and dissipated like vapor. He still didn’t like this as much as his father did.

As odd as the magic had been, the laundry room seemed mundane. It reeked of vinegar, likely the old basement had been a wine cellar once. The laundry machines were state of the art, fantastically. Eric threw the shirt he was wearing into the wash.

Looking around a bit more, Eric discovered a window, muddy grass, and two bare feet with dark blue nail polish. The two largest toes of the right foot tapped on the window.

Muddy feet, lamented Eric. Damn it.

Finding a step stool, Eric opened the window for the feet. A young woman about two years older than he crouched down to see him.

“Hey, uh…” She was awkward; a bit plain but Eric was in no mood for hysterics. Or women. “I’m your neighbor, that one there. Sandra. Robbie! Sandra Robbie! Sorry, I’m no good with this. You are?”

“Leaving.” Eric wished he hadn’t said that. Even so, he started for the window latch.

In a panic, Sandra stomped on Eric’s red hand, her foot wet with clods of dirt.

“Oh God! I’m so sorry! Pl-please don’t go!”

Eric’s eyes met hers, then the grotesque layers of mud on her legs, then his hand. He twitched in a state of patience.

“Never step on me again with muddy feet, okay?” He thought to potentially rectify that statement, but she beat him to the punch.

With a grin more appropriate for a certain cat, Sandra asked, “So would you be okay if I stepped on you with clean feet?”

Eric was not laughing. Eric was not angry. Eric was, although not completely closed off from his emotions, surprised to find himself telling her his story.

“Last year, my folks and I were having a little family time. Thing is, we got a little too light-headed. Careless. A match falls, our wooden home goes up in smoke.”

Sandra winced. For the 921st time, she felt like a dunce.

“My mother didn’t make it. My father insists I call him by his name now. Wants no responsibility as a family man. I accommodate. Me, I tried opening the door, but my hand got burned. The house’s clamminess calms down the pain.”

“Hey, I know this house.” Squinting harder than she needed to, Sandra inspected the stone exterior. “Didn’t a room get burned here? Why get a super flammable bedroom?”

“Oh.” Eric tried to phrase it normally. “My dad thinks if we live in flammable rooms, we’ll be more cautious. Again, I accommodate.”

Sandra thought it was phrased normally.

“Getting back, my mother was passed out on the carpet. We saw her, but three firefighters come stomping in our crumbling house. Stomping over my mother. Too much smoke to see, maybe. They crushed her with their muddy boots. She would have been…”

Humiliation embodied Sandra, who placed one foot atop another.

“I… I can’t…” She muttered something lost to ears. “Look, if it’s any consolation, my parents died when I was young. I can empathize. I feel cold and I prefer crying sometimes. And I never really got over their deaths.” Sandra scratched her freckles. “No, why would you feel better with my pain? I’ll go now.”


“No, my name’s Sandra.”

“My name. Sandra, you described a lot of what I’m going through.” He played with an empty bottle of vinegar he found. “I managed to escape therapy because I can fake positivity, so I sort of regret not talking to someone about this.”

Sandra spat up a less stupid grin.

Eric, feeling friskier than he could remember, went for boldness.

“Hey… do you want to show me around this town? Maybe get some food?”

A laugh on par with a symphony rang in Eric’s ears. “Sure… but with a shirt on, I hope!”

Eric glanced down with the speed of pain. His face matched his hand.

“Ha ha! Look, I like what I see! I’ll meet you in front of my house at 6, okay?” Sandra gave a calm smile. “Thank you, Eric.”

The feet went.

With the load complete and Eric reconsidering being sad forever, he strutted to the door. He balled up his hand… Release! No key.

Right. The key manifests from sadness.

“Derrick? Derrick! I’m locked in!”

The door swung open at an inhuman velocity.

“Eric? Didn’t you make a fist?” Derrick’s eyes were nearly blood red.

“Guess… I forgot.” Derrick had gone mad, and discovering his son wasn’t almost as sad as he would destroy him. Better to lie, Eric supposed.

“Well, remember next time, okay?” With that, Derrick disappeared for the day.

Optimism wasn’t Eric’s best friend, but the laundry room brought him the first good thing since the incident. Eric needed a nicer shirt.


Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four