The Dim

By Jem Morgenstern

I was lost in the Desert of Midden Men. The Dust Raiders had chased the rest of my troupe away and I had been left behind. The sun was setting and the other sun was rising, putting an end to the day and bringing to me yet another dim. I still don’t understand how The Architects made the mistake of building a second sun instead of a new moon. The news of the moon’s dissipation was etched into every news rock and was scrawled onto every single one of the few paper news prints around and I’m sure the commissioners were very clear with their instructions to The Architects. Still, there was confusion somewhere in the process and now we’ve got a dimly glowing artificial sun instead of a fresh moon and a day and a dim instead of a day and a night. After finding myself alone in the dim, I was very grateful for their mistake. I’ve imagined how terrifying it would have been to find myself wandering that desert under a dark night sky with the nocturnal creatures roaming the sands, taking peeks at my flesh and licking their cushy lips (none of those animals exist anymore, obviously, since there’s no night for them to exist in). I knew that I needed to head West, but I wasn’t sure which direction West was, so I chose a direction and stuck with it. After a week of walking in that direction, I found that I had been walking Northward and not Westward, as I had hoped. Instead of walking directly Southward back to where I had started, I cleverly figured that walking Southwestward would save me a lot of time, so that’s what I did. About two days into walking Southwestward, I noticed that I was being followed. At first, I was worried that it might be a Dust Raider, but I was able to put myself at ease after realizing that the character wasn’t dressed in Dust Raider rags and was clearly not as tanned and musculicious as a Dust Raider would be. Inspecting the figure further, staring harder, squinting with unmatched intensity, I was finally able to identify him as a Klein. Their bromidic drab and unnoteworthy disposition makes it difficult to distinguish them from the nameless bodies in the backgrounds of memories. The only Klein anybody would be able to recognize is Hungry, who writes a monthly column of The Northern Rockface News Rock and isn’t actually a Klein. Knowing my follower was only a Klein and couldn’t possibly do me any harm, I wasn’t worried. He stuck around for a couple days and then strayed from my path, finding his own way to his own destination. With his departure, there was an odd sensation of abandonment, despite not having cared for him in the slightest and not having any interaction with him at all. That Klein was my stalker and I lost him. I lost something that was mine. Then a few hours passed and I got over it. Out of habit, I tried to evoke the emotion back from its pits because I do enjoy pitying myself, but I wasn’t able to fish even one sliver of it out of my emotional intestines. I had already shat it out of my system. Eventually, I was able to catch up with my troupe, just as they were leaving Los Angeles. Just in time to join them for the trip back home.

Ten Reasons Why I Love My Dog More Than Most Humans

By Leiani Brown

Number one: my dog's name is Gooby.
Do you know any humans named Gooby? I rest my case.
Number two: he doesn't talk and I don't have to.
The majority of human interaction centers around conversation. When a human meets another human, there is either a) a mutual understanding that talking will commence or b) one human expects talking to commence, either by their own uncomfortableness with silence or their counterpart's. Thus, either talking or awkward silence with the desperation for talking is inevitable. Frequent topics include, but are not limited to: the weather, sports, food, local news, music, social media, anything worthy of complaint, and so forth. Why humans are so insistent upon saying anything for the sake of saying something at the fear of saying nothing—even to the point of speaking in utter trivialities all of their lives—is beyond me. Gooby has never once spoken a word to me, neither of unimportant matters nor profound subjects, and yet, we get along just fine.
Number three: he doesn't abide by rules.
If Gooby wants to pee on my carpet, he pees on my carpet. Regardless of how badly it will stink, or how angry my mother will get if she finds out. If he wants to lick that person's foot even when it's old and somewhat yellow and smelly and definitely dirty, he'll lick that person's foot. And enjoy it too. Too many of the humans I have come to dislike—including parts of myself—are too afraid of angry mothers or smelly carpets that they don't relieve themselves when they honestly probably should. Those humans have come to look at the world as ruled by other humans. Those humans have seen that other humans walk in a certain way, say certain things in certain ways at certain times, act a certain way even if said certain way contradicts natural instinct, and have decided that such certainty is the only certain way to exist. But clearly, one can exist—and be happy—with a peeing-on-the-carpet mentality. Gooby is one of the happiest things in existence; he shakes his tail to show his excitement, and because his frail frame is far thinner than is probably healthy, his whole body shakes too. Not many humans can do that. (Granted, not many humans have tails).
Number four: he doesn't cling to stupid mistakes.
I confess, one time I accidentally hit him with my tennis racket. I was in the backyard practicing my serve because I was bored and angry and needed somewhere to channel my useless energy. It all happened so quickly. He had been watching me, but apparently I hadn't been watching him because as I swung down, the racket landed right on his head. I still can't forgive myself for doing such a horrible thing, and yet Gooby loves me still.
Number five: he doesn't wear his "heart on his sleeve."
I had heard this term a lot, but never understood it until high school. My father and I have a good relationship, or so I like to think. Most of it is composed of me chattering about all my qualms regarding society and the people around me, while he patiently listens, occasionally interjecting. I was describing to him (in long, parenthetical detail) that my friend told me everything she went through all the time. She told me every detail of her relationship with her parents, her boyfriend, the status of her grades and homework and how everything was always crashing and falling apart at the seams. All this she told with such intensity and loudness as to evoke a sense of pity and empathy from me or whichever fortunate soul happened to be nearby, giving the listener no time to question the minority and minuteness of the problems themselves.
"She wears her heart on her sleeve," my dad said simply.
Some humans carry their pain like a badge of honor stitched into their smile. Like war stories they must tell to top those of their peers. Some humans want every other human to know what every human already knows: life is an ugly, sucky mess. It hurts, it sucks, it's unfair. I get it.
Gooby isn't constantly telling me how much it sucks to be him, although I'm sure at times it does—especially with me as his "owner" (I hate the word owner; I don't own him, but I suppose I do own his collar... I hate that). It probably sucks that people are always saying he's ugly, that my roommate's boyfriend mistook him for a raccoon—something I'm still bitter about—it probably sucks that he can't go wherever he wants whenever he wants to, but he doesn't broadcast the suckiness.
Number six: he doesn't expect much from me.
That other human is alive. I hate that. That other human has wants, wishes, goals, hopes, needs. I hate that. I hate that I might interfere with them or otherwise that I might not understand them or that I might not even care. That other human has thoughts, and I hate that I might be in them. I hate that I might not. That other human expects me to talk, expects me to be something, expects me to somehow understand everything about them—where they're coming from and why they breathe in the specific pattern that they do—all in a matter of minutes. I hate that they expect that and hate even more that I can't satisfy their expectations. Gooby expects some food, an occasional treat, frequent walks, and a spot next to me. Admittedly, there's no way of knowing if he expects anything more, and rarely ever can I even fulfill those expectations, but the difference is I don't feel the pressure to do anything momentous. I don't feel the pressure to be or do or say anything or anyone but a hand to run through his coarse fur or dump food into his metallic bowl or grip tightly a leash that links the two of us together.
Number seven: he doesn't separate the people around him into various categories and treat them as such.
As a child, my Samoan mother tells me, I would frequently tell her to take a shower, that she was dirty, that somehow her brown skin equated to filth. Other humans have posited the same, on a much more globalized scale, allowing these convenient perspectives to align with their agendas and influence their actions, attitudes, and treatment of fellow humans.
I used to think words like "Austin" and "awesome" were spelled with an "o." I used to (and still) spell out words in my mind to understand their meaning. So when I first heard the word "autism" I thought it began with "o" in the same way that "odd" spelled out my cousin. He is a year younger than I, and more ambitious and hopeful and loving than I could ever hope to pretend to be. But then one human coined the term "autistic," setting him into a whole new category of existence. I didn't know the hatred of a child until I saw the way girls spat at him, and the way boys laughed at him, often times incited by his older brother, placing him on the pedestal of "freak" and "weirdo" because it was funny and he didn't understand that even if he was laughing too, they were still laughing at him and not with him. I didn't know the hatred of a child until I saw it in myself—watching him being alienated, snickered at, ridiculed—wanting to punch my tiny fists into their useless skulls.
Humans have a way of categorizing their hate, making it cut and dry and neat, giving it names or acronyms or pictures. Humans have a way of identifying what tiny inconsequential thing is not like the others, and reiterating, emphasizing, and highlighting that tiny inconsequential thing until it is all any human sees when they see that other human.
Number eight: he doesn't force his body onto others to satisfy his own sexual hunger, and then shift the blame because surely they were asking for it.
I remember the first time I learned the word “rape.” It was grade school, and I knew very little of the outside world. The class clown was a boy with long blonde hair, a vulgar mouth, and no respect for authority; everything I learned, I learned from him. We were partnered up for some grammar exercise because despite being a complete slacker, he was the only student in the class who shared my natural knack for spelling and grammar. It was simple: we were given a list of words missing key letters, which we then had to identify. As we approached what was supposed to be “grape,” my partner, whose eyes and ears had been exposed to the world far more than my sheltered existence, whispered to me in shocked, hushed tones, “I can’t believe they would put that word in here.” Confusion struck as I looked down at a word one consonant away from being my favorite purple fruit. “That’s not even a word,” I argued stubbornly. He wouldn’t explain what it meant to me, but his tone said enough.

I didn’t know for a while what it meant. Didn’t know that a human could and had before physically robbed another human of their innocence, forced their existence into that other human's body, and seen nothing amiss with that practice. That a human could and had done it on the basis of religion, to the same human, on multiple occasions in one day, declaring their actions commanded and therefore condoned, even pleasing, to God or deity or whatever maker, creator, or higher power they believe in. That some humans are not only physically forced, but psychologically and emotionally, into silence.

Number nine: he doesn't bring death to masses of people, innocent and not, young and old.
Humans have cited a plethora of reasons for killing other humans: for sport, for political reasons, for justice, for order, for victory. I remember the first time I saw a dead body not sitting in a casket. Someone had shot a guy in the head, then left him in a parked car on a street in my neighborhood. Our neighbor found the body the next Sunday while walking his little girls to church. I sat in the back seat of our car staring at the body in the car next to us, listening to our neighbor tell my dad that the man in the car had a bullet hole in his head. All humans are born sure of really only one thing: every second from then on is a second nearer to their death. Sometimes I like to think I've come to terms with and accepted that fact, but finding out that said death could come at the hand of another human, possibly one they loved at one point and time, for reasons that really don't make sense, is no comforting realization.
Number ten: I can't think of a tenth reason.
Well, I probably could. Like the way some humans have exploited other humans' homelands to gain a monetary profit for themselves then told them they need to participate in the greed or they'll be crushed, but before the money, those humans would have had no say. Like the way some humans whip out their phones to take a picture they'll probably never look at again of some breathtaking view they could otherwise experience with their eyes, a brilliant human technology that doesn't usually cost as much money, but is quickly losing popularity. Like the way some humans declare their existence of car exhaust and plastic so loud that it squeezes the life out of everything around them. I could go on.
But I don't want you to think of this as me just railing on human existence, so much as it's just me really loving my dog. My dog who, yeah, looks a bit like an old man mixed with a piranha mixed with a rat—not a raccoon!—but whose existence has always brought me joy. From the time I first returned from camping and found out my sibling had somehow got hold of a creature (yet another) and brought him home to our already cat-filled house, to the time my friends were so in love with him that they spent the whole visit petting and loving him but completely ignoring me. My dog who has his own Twitter account. My dog whose upper lip sometimes curls to reveal his overbite in the most adorable way. My dog who can't be described in any other way than "such a Goob."

I often tell people that my dog is the most adorably ugly creature you'll ever meet. I say it confidently as if his ugliness is part of the reason to love him. I suppose in this way I'm a hypocrite: I could never love the ugly in human the way I love the ugly in Gooby. But two people just passed by me, who left me smiling. There goes a third. And every time I think of Gooby, it is accompanied with a memory of who he made smile. My mother, with her wide glimmering row of perfectly straight teeth. My brother with his goofy dimples. That short, Edna-from-The-Incredibles look-alike who called him "Mr. Happy-Happy," and couldn't keep herself from beaming. So really it's not that I think so lowly of the human race, or even that I think so highly of my four-legged friend. More so it is that I love it when people smile—why can't we do that more?

Suitable

By Late Night Writings

Letter One: Looks
I never liked you for your mind, your personality, or talents, but you're pretty hot, so I figured "hey, I may as well settle for this." I do like you, don't worry about that. I just like you for reasons that I don't particularly care about. Your looks aren't all that you have, either. You're so tolerable and I don't mind spending time with you. I could see myself not minding spending the rest of my life with you. Your flaws are very easy to look away from and you are really hot. Besides, I couldn't get Jude Law no matter what I tried, but at least you have similar cheekbones.

Letter Two: Personality
You have a wonderful personality and I can't find a reason to like you beyond that. You are such a nice person and I love that about you. You're not the cutest or the smartest, but you are genuinely the most kind of all my suitors. Why shouldn't I choose to be with someone like you? You would never hurt me or lie to me. It's just a flat roller coaster with a nice scenery. Although the scenery is a bit lacking here and there. The point is that you won't complicate things and that's worth having.

Letter Three: Smarts
At times, I can't even believe how smart you are. I've never found anyone else who I can go on and on with about the most profound topics. I deeply enjoy the conversations we share. I'm impressed - very impressed - so please stop trying to impress me. You've already got me hooked! You are so smart, yes, I know. You must know something about dating, beyond theories and trivia. You must have some actual how-to after reading so much Jane Austen. It's time to tie me down! Get to it!

Courier Troupe Ten

By Jem Morgenstern

There I was, riding my buffalo into the ocean with my companions close behind me on their varied steeds. My favorite - apart from my own - was Theodore’s; a giant pitbull imported from China. When my buffalo’s first hoof hit the water, I could sense his worry. His teeth were chattering, hairs sprung up, pace slowed to a cautious slink. I did my best to reassure him, but he would stay that way for about the whole way through the Pacific. He was far from being the only of our animals to be so worried. That pitbull stubbornly sat at the shoreline for a good two minutes before she would be coaxed into diving down. The birds were especially put-off, for reasons that you can certainly imagine. Although its surreal nature was so intimidating, walking under the ocean was likely the easiest part of our journey. Under there, the Dust Raiders were nowhere to be seen, the Gullmen never dove deeper than six feet into the water, and the Horrible Centipedes had lost our scent miles before. The one thing we had to worry about were the regular creatures you would find in that part of the ocean, which are mostly non-intelligent and harmless. We did have an interesting encounter with an octopus hybrid about halfway to our destination, which is just about the only noteworthy thing to have happened during our ocean travels. I’ve described the details of that encounter to a dozen people before, but I’ve gauged from their reactions to the tale that most people are clearly not interested in hearing it. A few miles away from there, we did catch a glimpse of some sort of shark, which was mildly exciting, considering they’re so rare these days. We hadn’t accounted for the fact that trudging through water would so noticeably slow us down, so we were a little short on supplies near the end of our journey, but we made do with what we had. In about two weeks, we finally arrived at our intended destination, Los Angeles. We were able to finish our business ahead of schedule and the rest of our week there was spent relaxing, as if we were on vacation. Then, we stocked up on supplies and another journey began. Six more months of walking, but we would know what to expect and we would be prepared.

Brandon, OR/ID: Part IV

Liquid Evergreen
By Jem Morgenstern

The desk is littered with ink bottles, neatly organized by color and by shade. The drawers are filled with pens and pencils, meticulously arranged to look beautifully cluttered. A small silk blanket is draped over wooden chair that sits next to the window. The feining sunrays highlight the dust in the air and land on a large chest across the room, which is filled with spare blankets of various materials, weights, and sizes. One of the more regularly used spare blankets sits neatly folded on top of the chest. Another lays sprawled at the foot of the bed with a corner draping over the edge, nearly touching the floor. A small pillow rests next to that blanket, for the dog that sometimes wanders in for a change of scenery after a long day of lounging on the armchair in the next room over.  In that room, along with the armchair, there are three identical bookshelves that are all mostly filled with books (not all of which have been read), two small tables (one holds a lamp and the other holds a vase of dried eucalyptus and miniature roses), another armchair, and an intricate rug that is vacuumed every Tuesday and Thursday. The rest of the house doesn’t follow the same studious theme. There are three rooms besides those two: the kitchen, living room, and bathroom. The kitchen is large enough to fit everything a cooking hobbyist would need and enough storage space for a casual wine enthusiast to keep a fair supply. The fridge is currently stocked only with the basics, besides the small plate of pulled pork that will be fed to the dog in two nights. The living room has a small couch, a glass coffee table, and a television with a thin silver frame. The bathroom has a classic blue color scheme and is well-stocked with any toiletries a person may need. Daniel (the third most popular name in this city - behind John and Jon) is sitting on the small couch in the living room, sipping from a glass of a disappointing-but-not-bad glass of madeira, and watching a show that only interests him a little, but he enjoys watching it anyway because he forces himself to. His dog lays next to him.

Back in the bedroom, two tickets have been casually set next to the ink bottles. Rather than being two tickets for two to attend the same event, they are two tickets for a singular person to attend two events. Daniel doesn’t know anybody else who would share an interest in attending either of these events, so he has no choice but to go alone. This is despite how peculiarly common these interests are in this city. One, in fact, has inspired a dedicated structure that wouldn’t be found in any other city. Of course, it is used for many other things besides the purpose it is named and built for, and hosts a variety of events that are similar to or not similar at all to the personal interest from which it is named. Daniel is primarily going to the event for what is implied and all else the event entails, but the other aspect of the event (which for most others would be the primary reason for attendance) also intrigues him. While he only considers himself to be a casual why-not sort in regards to that specific interest, others may consider any interest in it at all to be extreme and many do consider his interest in it to be extreme (because he does have more than a casual interest in it, no matter how he tries to deny it). The other event he plans to attend is more widely accepted and the venue in which it will be hosted is no less common in cities outside of this one, however, the design of it is much less practical than most you would find elsewhere. Although an interest in events such as this one are common in most places, it is slightly more common in this city. In Daniel’s small pool of friends and acquaintances, there is not one who shares this incredibly common interest; a nearly supernatural oddity, considering 99.5% of the established social circles within the city’s boundaries contain at least three people who share this interest and 80% of the remaining .5% contain at least two people who share this interest.

Since Daniel had been sitting on the small couch in his living room, five hours have passed. He was very pleased by the first event of the night and he plans to attend more events hosted in that rare venue of entertainment in the future. He is now sitting comfortably at the second event. It has been one hour since it began: the person sitting to his right has his legs crossed and is shaking his foot, the person sitting on his left has her knees pressed against each other and is clutching her thighs in mild discomfort. He recognizes several audience members from earlier that night. Three more hours pass and it is now time for the audience to leave. Seeing that the crowd seemed so rushed and knowing that he had no reason to hurry, Daniel kindly let the others leave before him. He was the last to turn his back to the stage.

One hour later, Daniel found himself on an impromptu date with a man he met outside of the building of the second event. It’s uncommon for Daniel to speak to strangers, especially to this extent, but here he is - answering the typical questions to be asked, asking those same questions, and listening to the answers:

“If you have one, what’s your favorite color?”

I don’t really know. I kind of like most of them. All but orange, maybe. What about you?

“Same here, but with yellows in addition to oranges.”

Yeah, I’m picky about my yellows. Sometimes I like yellow, but not usually.

“What do you like to do?”

Oh, I don’t know. I like to do a lot of things. What about you?

“There has to be something you like to do. What do you do with your free time?”

Not a lot, honestly. I like music, art, movies.

“What kind of music do you like?”

A pretty big variety. It depends on my mood. You?

“I have terrible taste.”

That last answer evoked Daniel’s lips to curve slightly upwards into a mellow smile. He was thoroughly enjoying his time with his new acquaintance. Already, he excitedly looked forward to spending more time with him. He was also very pleased with the food they were eating and he was excited to have a new place to suggest to his friends and brag about having been. Their conversation continued. Although it never grew from its mundanity, it was intensely pleasant. More time passed, Daniel’s smile became a prominent feature on his face, and the stranger’s warm personality began filling the cracks and crevices in Daniel’s skin and bones. They left the restaurant, continuing their conversation until it was time for them to part ways with each other’s names and numbers in hand.

Forty minutes later, Daniel found himself back on the couch in his living room. The uninteresting show was playing again on the screen and Daniel was paying less attention to it than he ever had before, with all his thoughts on Scott (the fourth most popular name in this city - behind John, Jon, and Daniel). The last thing on his mind that night would be Scott, and the first thought in his mind the following morning would be the same. That day, everything had gone as well as it possibly could have. He was in love with that day more than any he could remember and he was in no hurry to let it end, pushing him to stay awake hours later than he usually would, basking in that temporary, precious, and wonderful feeling. The mediocre madeira was down the sink and a new bottle was opened, a polished lambrusco with complex floral notes. The dog trudged through a tired slog into the bedroom, lept onto the bed, pawed at the sheets until they were maladjusted to her content, and curled into sleeping position: tail tucked away, jowls hanging limply, eyelids gradually closing. In two more hours, Daniel would fall asleep on the couch, despite how strongly he dislikes sleeping there. The bright television screen will continue to illuminate his face throughout the night and the sounds will seep into his subconscious, provoking unusual dreams.

Seven hours later, Daniel is awake. He feels rested and is looking forward to his day, although he has no plans to look forward to.