On alcohol and not knowing how to drink it properly.

So basically I’m not partying for a good 28 days.

It’s one of those things with a degree of leniency - I mean, sure, maybe I’ll go out for a drink or two with a friend one week. Maybe once a week. Maybe a beer to go with dinner after work. But at the end of the day, it’s not about the alcohol.

It’s about getting wasted. I’ve never known how to drink any other way.

Like my old creative writing tutor wrote in his piece, uncomfortably about his struggles with alcoholism; “One sniff of the barmaid’s apron, and I need to drink myself into a stupor”.

When I was a teenager, we all drank to get drunk. We hadn’t developed the taste for liquors and cocktail niceties - it was cask wine out of the silver bag for us. Because we didn’t care - we wanted the feeling, and we were just that uncomfortable shade of pubescent rebellious. Or maybe you were a preppy little twat sipping cruisers like children for the colour it put in your mouth, or maybe you were some rocker with jack and coke. We were the kind of kids who would take off down to the park in the middle of the day with the goon sack we got some bogan to buy for us. We were the runts hiding fucked under fringes at Flinders Street Station. 

Either way, it was never about the social lubrication. It was about drinking to get fucking drunk.

Fast forward to my adult years, and I spent time working in nightclubs drinking vodka lemonades off of hastily-thrown-together drink cards to try and quell the nervousness that came from having to take photos of other drunk people that night. Because I was new and excited by the prospect of being a nightclub photographer, but also way too anxious a person in a variety of social situations to fathom doing it off anything less than three or four standard drinks. So I'd get a little bit drunk - all head spinning and brimming with confidence - until approaching people for a snap became nothing short of a sinch. This would eventually continue, for years and years and years, until the only way I knew how to take party photos was to succumb to party girl status myself.

No-one taught me how to drink alcohol. No-one taught me how to drink in moderation. The only time anyone ever taught me how to look after myself, was at a friends sixteenth birthday, when mother insisted on confiscating two of my four Smirnoff Double Blacks, because she didn’t want me overdoing it. That was my lesson - deprivation over education. It didn’t stop me from drinking everyone else’s booze, though. No, at some point, some kid pulled out an entire bottle of Ouzo from underneath a bed, and we shotted that shit like it was anything less than liquid death down our throats. Until we were screaming into digital cameras, drunkenly snapping out selfies as though we were the coolest kids on the block.

Not because we had any idea what we were doing. But because we just wanted to get drunk. You didn't drink in moderation, because that didn't make you cool. That wasn't 'fun'. We were dumb kids, and that was just the way we did it. Braincells be damned. 

Flash forward to me at twenty-two years of age, drinking in moderation seems to come with its own sense of personal accomplishment. Like the fact that you didn’t manage to write yourself off on a Thursday night is somehow worthy of its own reward, kiss-the-mirror type shit. If I go home tipsy, and not staggering down the street, it’s like I don’t know who I am anymore. And I’m laughing, and I'm reflecting on how bullshit that sounds - but realistically speaking, it is, and it shouldn’t be the case. We should all be well-accustomed to two or three beers over the ‘Just another glass, just another bottle— and fucking whoops, there it is’. Cue the stagger and the groaning whisper of another future hangover.

If I can go out for a couple of cheeky wines after work, and make it out of there without so much more than a skip in my step, that’s a magical experience. That’s, like, adulthood. Or so it feels.

But really, getting wasted, and not knowing how to drink any other way, is only half of the problem. It’s the shit you do when you’re wasted that makes all of the melodrama.

I shouldn’t have to explain it, because we all know what it looks like. When you’re wasted, that dude you’ve been drunk-dating with the potato-head and no personality suddenly looks like a gem - he might even look interesting - leading to a slew of hungover confusions and regrets. You don't even really know that person, but you know how much wine you had to drink that night, and boy, it sure stopped you from running screaming into the street over his boring bullshit. When you’re wasted, you can fall out of control in three seconds, and getting between two brawling dudes in a bar seems like a real bright idea, because Drunk You can definitely diffuse the situation. When you're obliterated in the city on a Sunday morning, that proposition for a one-night-stand with a dude (or two, or three) seems like a fucking great idea, and you're all about the sensual frisson, the decadent escape into a strangers' bedroom in the middle of the night.

Until you wake up, no clue where you are, head pounding, eyes bloodied and red, retrieving your far-flung underwear and sneaking out the door, while the bridge troll you accosted lies sleeping in his bed.

"In moderation", they say. "Drinking in moderation". Like anyone has any clue what on earth that means.

When I’m wasted, I do dumb shit. If I’m not fucking with my own head, I’m fucking with my own body. So I’m putting a stop to it for a while. I'm giving moderation a try. Or maybe I’ll go for coffee instead.

Coffee is love. Coffee is life.

End diatribe.

Need, by Brandon James Cook.

This piece is called Need. It was submitted as my final project for Creative Nonfiction class in my third year at University.

This piece was very much inspired by Baker's 'City Lights'. It's about what it means to need. About being needed. About needing others. About how, in a city of millions, we cling to one another in intimate ways that we oftentimes cannot properly fathom.

I'm excited to present this. I hope you like it.

***

A kiss. Their lips lock together. Warm and tender. She pulls them apart, feels stuck lip tug, and it falls away.

“So that’s the kicker.”

He raises a brow, and catches himself as he pulls away from her, his brown coat contrasted against the blue of her jacket. He stands aside her, and cannot for the life of him remember when she became so beautiful. “Huh?” - His arms around her waist. He squeezes.

“The kiss. That’s how we pull each other in.”

“What do you mean?”

“People wait for the kiss at the end of a date. They absolutely wait for it.”

A chuckle. He rubs her back with his sleeved arms – a caress. “You’re weird, Leah.”

Leah smiles. “But they do.” She wipes water from her forehead with her free arm – the other is down in his coat pocket, keeping warm. “It’s our way of saying, ‘You did good’.”

They part for a moment, connected by her hand in his pocket, and look out from under their gazebo. The city lights sparkle all around from beyond the boundaries of the park. Besieged by water in an electric mist. Somewhere nearby, a train clatters along.

He turns to her, and half-grins a crease into his cheek. He cannot fathom her, but he does not care to in the first place. He does not wish to understand her, because she fascinates. And that, for Bryan, is enough. So long as she is there.

“You did good, kid.”

Leah closes her eyes, exhales misty breath. She does not look at him after he has spoken, but steps forward into the rain.

“You want a lift?”

A beat, then she replies.

“No thanks. I’ll take the train. See you next time.”

She starts to walk away. Stops. A slight turn.

“And Bryan?”

“Yeah?”

Not a smile with her lips, but her eyes. “You did pretty good yourself.”

Under his tree, the rain does not concern Billy, nor is he bothered by Leah’s presence, inadvertently walking right by his bushy homestead. A wall of gentle spittle falls against him, and all he can do is fiddle with the laces on his shoes. Were they not frazzled and askew, he may have had an easier time with them. Alas, aside the frays and holes in his shoes, he is a soggy mess.

            Billy is only halfway homeless. At least, that is what he considers himself. He does not see himself as a bum, but a drifter. And so he drifts. From house to house, couch to couch, friend to welcoming friend. But occasionally, said friends grow tired of his constant presence at their doorsteps. They grow weary of his neediness, his hair dreaded not by hand, but by filth, and the dirt he tracks through their homes. So they abandon him. At least, that is how they make him feel.

            Alas, there he finds himself, biding time beneath the planted trees and the shrubberies, in the park at the centre of the city. In the rain.

            Billy gets up from the ground, brushes the dirt from his pants, giving up on his laces, and sets off into the night. The soil squelches beneath his shoes – shoes that have seen so many wet eves in the city – and when he reaches the street, he makes an effort to scrape them clean on the concrete.

            Hungry. He is hungry. The city lights awaken his senses. He pulls his wallet out of his pocket, one of the only things he has yet to lose, and rifles through. Nothing. Not a cent.

            He sighs. Pulls the hat from his head. Raises nose to the sky, and laps at the drizzle as it falls onto his face.

            Near to him, crowds of children wander past, giggling and squabbling amongst themselves, as their elders gather them up in a formation, beckoning them here and there along the sidewalk. He glances down at one of them as they pass him by. The child looks up at him, and stops. He is all freckled nose and wide brown eyes, the look on his face one of innocent concern.

            “Are you having a shower?” The boy asks.

            Billy tilts his head to look at the child. He thinks about saying something scary – something cruel. But before he can utter a word, an adult sweeps in to pull the child away, putting him back into formation. Billy waves goodbye. The boy waves back as he is rustled away, then disappears down the sidewalk.

            Billy is alone again.

            It is a bad night.

“What did I tell you about talking to strangers, Damien? What did I tell you?”

            The plump woman points her finger at Damien’s face, in that way that adults often do. Tsk tsk, the finger scolds. Do better!

            Damien looks up at his mother. The expression on her face reads concern, frustration. And she is not coming down to his level. She is supposed to come down to his level.

            “He was very dirty, that one,” Damien replies, “Is he going to be okay?”

            His mother sighs. She grabs his hand, and squeezes tight as they walk together, filed behind the other children. “He’ll be fine, Damien.”

            In front, the children have stopped. They are standing at a crossing. Another woman calls back.

            “Marissa!” She beckons. Marissa pipes up, releases Damien’s hand and moves forward in front of the crowd of youths.

            “Alright, kids! We’re going to cross the street. Now, I want you to hold each other’s hands.”

            “Her hand is all wet!” One of the kids cries out. Yuck! They feign disgust.

            Each of the children link arms, all the way down the line. Two by two, they link. The other adults – two more, and Marissa – link hands too, to show them how it is done. It is cold, so some of the kids put their arms around each other.

            Damien watches the other kids link hands and arms, sees their fingers and limbs intertwine in a coupling. He turns to his left, and reaches out his hand to grasp another’s.

But there is nobody there.

His face drops. He hears their giggling.

Marissa looks over the children, two by two as they walk past her, across the street. Then she sees him – Damien, alone, standing at the start of the crossing. The others have already marched forward. She rushes back to him, and seizes his hand in hers.

Damien’s eyes flicker up to hers. His eyes are sad and confused.

“I didn’t have anyone.”

“You have me.” Marissa smiles, and when she smiles the warmth of her body courses through her, into his. She squeezes his tiny hand tight. “You have me.”

They walk forward across the street.

Yammering in her ears. The sound of a pompous fool gibbering on and on.

            “But you know, she’s not a biological woman. What the hell was he supposed to say!? Oh, don’t worry, sir, I’m not freaked out. Now go ahead and stick me!”

            What a fucking joke. Leah wonders how she can listen to this shit all day. There’s nothing worse, she decides. Nothing worse than having to review a talkback radio podcast.

            That was her job. To review. She was a journalist of all kinds. Wrote about plays, she covered films, she reviewed albums – and sometimes, although very rarely, she would be asked to listen to some shitty half-an-hour segment of a transphobic moron trying to be funny on the radio. She couldn’t believe people aired that crap – or that some considered it comedy.

            Leah hears a sound in the background – a chime. The train approaches.

            “Dickhead.” Leah pulls the headphones out of her ears. She decides then and there that she would destroy this asshole. That was one good thing about her job – it was sometimes satisfying. As soon as she got home, she would brand him a transphobic asshat with no clue, who should stick to doing blow at clubs over nighttime broadcasts. He wouldn’t be sucking half as hard up his nose as he does in his shows.

            That was good, her internal monologue went off. You should write that down.

            Before she had the chance to pull out her notepad, she was surprised, as down from the undercover platform came a stream of youths. They bustle past her in two lines, all holding hands and clamoring amongst themselves, inadvertently surrounding Leah, accompanied by frazzled adults – possibly parents, definitely guardians. Leah fears that if she moves, she might accidentally squash one of them.

            “Kids, kids, calm down!” One of their adults cries out. The woman is met with a heckling. Kids of that age – five, six, seven, eight – cannot be controlled. Leah chuckles to herself.

            The train pulls into the platform with a screech. Doors fly open. The children all rush onto the awaiting carriage, running for the four-seaters, fighting each other for the window seats. Leah moves onto the train and sits down in a solo two-seat by the window, a comfortable distance away from the gaggle of youths.

            She sighs. It seems to be a night of those.

            Pulling out her notepad, she sets to work writing down all of the quips and one-liners she had come up with during her excruciating listen to the podcast on her music player. The words don’t roll off her tongue quite as well later as they do in the moment, but that’s okay. She can play with her words. Make something happen.

            Playing with her words seemed to be something she did a lot. You did pretty good yourself. God, she cringes and it blazes across her face. What a half-hearted cliché.

            Was it half-hearted? She could not decide. Date three, and he was looking a little tired. Still cute, yes, but all of his jokes had lost their novelty. That’s what he had brought to the table – wit and banter. And sex appeal, but Leah knew better than to go on three dates based on pure aesthetics. That’s the kicker. Looks or charm?

            But more importantly – can he deal with her?

            Leah is so lost in her own head that she doesn’t realize she is being spoken to. She tilts her head up in a mild fright – but it is one of the adults, herding the kids.

            “Hi, I’m sorry, but,” She stammers slightly, “You’re Leah Gemini, right? From The Platform?” A smile on her face like if her husband bought her diamonds.

            Leah smiles. Fright falters to calm. “Yeah, that’s me.”

            The woman perks up. “Oh! I’m such a huge fan. You’re hilarious, you really are. Do you, umm…” She turns and beckons the other adults over – who were half-controlling the kids, half-staring at Leah with that same shy awe. “Do you mind if we get a photo?”

            “Sure.”

            Leah stands up, and all of the women bustle over. They gather around her. One doesn’t quite make it in time for the row of middle-aged ladies, and is made to take the photo. A semi-sad expression, she clicks. A flash goes off in their faces.

            “Do you want one too?” Leah asks the woman – who smiles.

            “Oh, I’m fine.” She replies, “You’re wonderful, though.”

            Leah returns her smile. “Thank you.”

            She turns back around to resume her seat – and is surprised to see a small boy perched there instead. The boy looks up, mimicking Leah’s confused expression.

            He twitches his nose. “You’re the lady from the TV.”

            All brown eyes and freckles. Leah was just the same.

            “I am,” She replies.

            “Damien…” The woman from earlier – the one who didn’t get a photo – murmurs to him. A forceful gal, by the looks of her, but on her best behavior with Leah Gemini around.

            As Leah responds, she sees the doors open from beside them. The smell hit first, then the rest shoulders through the open door. The man had a bag over his shoulder, and judging from his clothes, nowhere to put it. He slumps himself quietly into a nearby chair. Leah becomes wary. Is this going to be one of those nights?

            “It’s okay,” Leah looks over at the woman. Their eyes meet, and there is a mutual understanding. A discomfort. “He can sit with me.” She joins Damien in the two-seater.

            Some of the children in their four-seaters had been giggling in Leah’s general direction. They point and whisper.

            “They don’t like me very much,” Damien whispers to Leah. “They think I’m weird.”

            “Is that so?” Leah replies. Rain falls against the glass of the train door as it shuts, sending a slight chill in their direction with the movement. She leans down to him, huddling closer. “Do you want to know a secret?”

            “Yes?” Damien’s eyes grow wider then. Pools of burnt sienna.

            “The best people usually are.”

            The train leaves the station.

“… And there was a dinosaur, up on two feet! I thought they only walked on four, but maybe that’s only puppies.”

            “Lots of animals walk on two feet. Some of them can even hop.”

            “Really?”

            “Oh yes! I’m sure of it.”

            Billy overhears the conversation. He is exhausted.

            The boy had been to an exhibition in the city. There were dinosaurs and other animals, too. Maybe the Museum, but Billy couldn’t tell. Billy remembers the Museum as being a fantasyland of history and living art. Of things he had never seen, but were right in front of his eyes, ready to implant into his imagination, and take his mind for a journey. Back in an easier time of simpler things, when Billy did not need the wash of rainfall to cleanse his skin. For he had had a mother do it for him.

            The train pulls to a halt in the station on the city loop. The woman in the seat near him, talking to the child, gets up with a start. She waves goodbye to the post-Museum boy, and takes off out the open train door. The childs’ mother – judging from the way she shot up with a start to reclaim her youth – ushers the child away into the four-seater she shared with her fellow adults. All the while staring Billy down. A fierce lioness protecting her cub.

            Protecting her cub from what? Did Billy look like a homeless person? Well, she was a little clueless, then, wasn’t she? Billy wasn’t homeless. Billy was halfway homeless. A nomad. A drifter. Won’t people just get it right?

            Real homeless people are the angry ones you see on the street. The kind without hopes – not necessarily without jobs, as Billy knew far too many people without jobs who still had homes – and the kind with serious issues. The kind who shout things at strangers in the street. Those are the real homeless. Billy was just doing Billy – caught in the middle between one place and another. Living la vida loca. Like the song.

            He decides that the next stop is his. Gets up, collects his things. Throws the bag that he carries over his shoulder. He sees that the woman is still watching him out of the corner of his eye, ever monitoring despite the raucous clamor of her nearby friends and their accompanying children. He wonders if he could make her squeal for a moment - really shit on this woman’s night, the one trying to make him feel worse than he already does. He is interrupted, as he feels a tap on his back.

Billy flips around – and sees the same child from earlier. The one from the two-seater, and the one from the street – Are you having a shower?

            “It’s you.” The boy says. “You okay?”

            Billy looks down at the kid. He doesn’t quite know what to say in reply. But he looks up at the woman once more. Is that his… mother? He thinks. Ah, I get it. She’s looking out for her kids. I’m that guy. I see how it is.

            “I’m fine,” Billy replies. “Did you have a nice day at the Museum?”

            “Yes,” The boy answers excitedly, “There were dinosaurs and lions and cave men!”

            “Really? Did your friends like it too?” Billy gestures towards the other children in their seats, chattering away excitedly.”

            The boy turns, and then glances back. His expression fades to grey.

            “They’re not my friends. We just go out together.”

            “Why not?”

            “I’m weird.”

            Damien raises his hand – and points a finger at his head. Weird.

Billy makes a noise. More of a chuckle than a grunt. He raises his own hand – and points at his own head, too. “So am I.”

            “Really?” The boys’ eyes light up for a split second, as though Billy were one of the cave men.

            “Sure. Weird as they come.”

            Suddenly, the mother appears and claims her child.

            “Sorry about that!” She laughs, before pulling her child away – though her cold, calculating face expressed a sincere lack of amusement.

            “Bye.” The boy says, being pulled back to his seat.

            “Bye-bye.” Billy replies, waving gently with his gloved hand.

            “I’m Damien.” The boy murmurs, making sure that Billy can read his lips.

            Billy returns the exaggerated whispering mouth-movements.

            “Billy.”

            Damien smiles, and is put in his seat. He doesn’t remove his gaze from Billy. Not even when Billy is pushing open the door of the train as it reaches his destination. Not even when Billy takes off into the night.

“Was he good?”

“Yes, he was perfect.”

Leah traverses up the stairs. An elderly woman trails behind her.

“Margaret, if it’s ever a problem, you know… you just say the word.”

“It’s no problem at all, Miss Gemini. He’s a blessing, he truly is.”

The hallway is dark, but a faint glow stems from a door ajar slightly up ahead. Leah wanders over to it, and pulls the door slightly open.

Inside, illuminated by the faint glow of a night-light, one shaped like the jutting pyres of a bustling city, lays a young boy. Brown head of hair, freckled face. Snoring contentedly. Asleep. His nose twitches slightly. Leah smiles.

“Ryan is very lucky,” Margaret whispers from behind Leah, “He’s got a wonderful mother.”

Leah is silent. The loving expression on her face seems to falter.

“Yes, well, I wish I was around more.”

Margaret sighs; rubs Leah’s arm affectionately. “I’m sure he understands.”

There is a brief pause. Leah looks once more into Ryan’s bedroom – at her boy, sleeping contentedly, his face lit by the gentle glow of the cityscape nightlight. Then closes the door slowly, until it clicks shut in front of her.

There is a silence. A nearby clock ticks away. Tick tock, into oblivion.

“I’m just wondering, Margaret…” Leah starts, “… How long can I keep this up for?”

A hand falls to rest upon her shoulder. Leah turns to face her.

“That’s the kicker, isn’t it?” Margaret says. Her old eyes gaze lovingly into Leah’s. Her aged cheeks dimple and lines crease as her face contorts into a smile. “He needs you.”

You are needed.

Trudging along, the man comes to a stop. His shoes are covered in dirt from the ground he trod upon. The city bustle has dulled ever so slightly. Billy can hear the sounds of cars passing. Sees lights in the distance. But he focuses his eyes to what is in front of him. Blocks out the city sounds.

            “Well…” Billy whispers. “I’m here.”

            There’s a faint murmur on the wind – trees planted years ago as they bristle together, creating a chorus of noise, like a waterfall crashing into the flow of a river. The sigh of a breeze blows through Billy’s hair.

            “Did you miss me?”

            Billy stands before a patch of soil. He throws down his rucksack onto the ground. Rips it open. The faint glow of nearby buildings helps illuminate its contents. He pulls something out – a wreath of flowers, battered from his days’ toils. He holds them in his hand, waits a moment – and then throws them forward. They land in a ring upon the patch.

            In front of the plot of soil, is a stone. A stone with engravings. A name. A date of birth.

            A date of death.

            “I miss you, Mama.” Billy whispers once more. “I don’t know where you are, but…”

            The kicked up wind comes to a slow halt. His voice starts to break as he whispers to the quiet. The air is still. Silence.

            “I think I need you real bad right now.”

            I need you.

            Their train rustles along.

            It slowly grinds to a halt, into the station. Six or seven bodies get up, and make their way to the door. The cityscape glitters in the vastness out the train windows, nestled bright against the blackness of the night.

            “Alright, everyone. Say bye to Marissa and Damien,” One of the women instructs her children.

            A boy grunts. “Do I have to?”

            Snappy and sharp. “Yes, you do. Go on, then.”

            The child from earlier twists his face into a scowl, but as he turns to face Damien, still sitting in his seat, the scowl becomes a smile.

            “Bye-bye, Damien,” The boy waves his gloved hands. The other children follow suit, one by one, bidding Damien a softened adieu.

            “Bye, everyone,” Marissa replies gently, waving her hand – and Damien’s too - and the group pull open the doors and depart off onto the platform, in their little formation, away into the night.           

            The train lets off a whirr, a clanging and ratchet of sound, and proceeds back on its rickety journey. The landscape outside of the window gradually begins to change, from an urbane jungle to suburban Sahara. Damien and Marissa are alone, then.

            “I like the city a lot.” Damien says suddenly.

            “What do you like about it?”

            “The people everywhere. Lots of different and interesting people.”

            “Oh, really? Me too.”

            A silence passes between them, punctuated only by the clanging and banging of the train against the tracks. The air is damp with the residue of a day and night of rainfall, of bodies in and out from the mist to the carriage. Ever fading away, the city stands still in the distance.

            “Mum…” Damien whispers, so quietly it was almost inaudible. He peers off out the window in his little window seat, watching raindrops fall against the glass.

            Marissa looks down at him, seated by his side. “What is it, Damien?”

            “They don’t like me very much, do they?”

            Marissa is momentarily shocked. “What makes you say that, Damien?”

            Damien sighs. “They aren’t very nice to me. They think I’m weird.”

            “Oh.”

            Marissa begins to panic. This is not a conversation she appreciated. It is something difficult for her to face – her child. Reality. The black void where she kept her fear.

            “I’m sure that’s not the case…”

            “No. It is. I know that it is.”

            Marissa sighs. A loud, hearty sigh. As though she were trying to filter the panic she felt from her heart to her lungs, and then out into the world. As though if she breathed hard enough, she could cleanse her soul.

            “I’m sorry, Mum. I know I’m a lot to take care of.”

            It was a bullet to the windscreen of her entire existence. Yet, strangely, she could do nothing but look down at him. And she saw, too, that he had turned away from the glass window, with its fascinating raindrops cascading down it, and was looking up at her. She smiles.

            “You’re just fine, Damien.”

            In the sterile cold of the rickety train, and the droplets leaving marks on the windows, they share a moment. Warmth and a special tenderness. A mother looks down at her son, and holds him closer, as he turns back his head to gaze longingly into the night.

            “I know that I need you a lot…”

            “I need you quite a lot, too.”

            The train carries on. The city lights the way back.

            He needs you.

           

           

           

           

'Two Recently-Resurrected French Authors Walk Into A Bar...' - by Brandon James Cook.

When Roland first rose from the dank depths of his grave, he did not do so with a flurry or a great burst forth from the Stygian abyss, but with a gentle flourish as though he were falling upwards into the skies above, parting the dirt like fingertips trailed through sand on a beach, coming to a gentle rest aside his tombstone.

            Michel, on the other hand, could have awoken all the dead in his vicinity, if it weren’t for his choking back dirt and turf drowning out agonised screams of wide-eyed terror, as he rustled and fought his way to the surface.

            The two found themselves in the darkness of a night that eluded them; no memory of how they came to be or who they truly were. Rain fell down hard upon their heads, and they felt the grime and muck of their cemetery slumber fall away from their skin – skin so firm and youthful it was as though they were new men. Brushing off the dirt and strange bile from their suits until they were relatively clean, they wandered the graveyard aisles in a dazed confusion, bleary-eyed and as dead to the world as their forever-ceased heartbeats.

Not once did Roland or Michel encounter one another in their ailed wanderings, and soon they found themselves out of the yard and winding down the streets of a strange city, one that seemed faintly familiar in the haze but far too bright for their tired eyes, as they squinted to dodge moving forms, lugging their weakened muscles that crumpled beneath their clothes with every bump from what they had to guess with great uncertainty were passing strangers.

            Roland eventually came upon what looked to be a dim-lit building on a street corner. He came to a stand at the door to the place, and was met by a beefy man guarding the way.

            “Big night, buddy? It’s almost morning. You coming in?” The man asked. His voice had a soft but discernible lilt.

            Try as he might, Roland could not will words to leave his lips.

            The man chuckled. “I’ll bet. Just go in.”

            He was promptly ushered into the strange building.

            Inside, the place was dark enough for his newly risen eyes to make out. Music played from large speakers on the walls, and people wandered about, in and out through an induced smoke haze.

            Roland physically shook the dust off the crevasses in his head and it kindled his mind like burning wood. He started to realise where he was, as though he were coming out of a drunken haze. The first thing he saw when his mind awoke was the sight of a man, naked but for a jockstrap, grinding upon another man in the corner.

            Staggering through the crowds, he followed the smell of fresh air – seemingly laced with a more noxious fume, but cool air nonetheless. He came upon a large courtyard area, with sheltering from the rain, full of people smoking cigarettes.

            His eyes came to rest upon a familiar face, belonging to a man leaning against a wall - and that’s when the cogs of his long-dead brain truly began to turn.

            “Roland Barthes”, the strangers’ voice croaked.

            Roland Barthes stepped into the courtyard, eyes narrowed and locked to the figure before him.

            “Michel Foucault”, Roland replied, and dust churned from his mouth as he spoke.

            Michel stepped forward away from the wall. “So this is an interesting turn of events.” He said, far too casually given the circumstances.

            “You’re one to talk.”

            “What do you—“

            “The way you grilled me in your piece. Despicable, really.”

            Michel laughed, partially from bewilderment, but mainly as the neurons in his brain had begun reanimating further, causing him to experience a range of erratic emotions. “What do you mean?”

            “’What is an author?’ – Truly, a remarkable work from one such as yourself. If you think I did not note that your words were so firmly directed at my own work, you must think me a fool.”

            “Ooh, girl is throwing some shade!” – Came a voice from an effeminate man nearby. Roland was shouting now, and they had gathered a crowd. The man stepped forward. “Honey, tell him how it is. Tell him how he hurt you.”

            “Barthes… but you should know… it wasn’t my intention to question your name. My words are separate from my name. The author was not always so firmly attached to his work.”

            “Spare me your drivel on author-function. The fact you could not let my words speak for themselves, and let others read into them what they would, is proof enough of your hypersensitive arrogance.”

            “My arrogance?”

            “Your arrogance. You simply could not go on without reading me and denouncing me, over and over again.”

            “-Shade!” – This time the effeminate man snapped his fingers with delight.

            Barthes coughed once more, and a clump of dirt fell from his mouth into his hand, an event no one witnessed.

            The effeminate man stepped towards Michel, twirling a cigarette between his thin fingers.

            “Look, babe. It’s pretty clear you’ve hurt him, and I think this guy raises a good point. Why you gotta read? We’re all ladies here. Just tell him how you feel.”

Michel looked upon the man with confusion.

“I’m just saying. My boy and I - we talk about it. So talk. Fix your problems. Then go home and fuck.”

            Barthes and Foucault looked upon the gay man with confusion. The man’s expression went from kindly to a look of embarrassment.

            “I’ll leave you to it.” – And he stepped back to his place on the sidelines.

            Barthes and Foucault stood staring at one another, seemingly lost for words. Barthes felt an itch in his leg. He reached down to scratch it – and the entire appendage fell off, to a mere stub, the bone and flesh concealed by scraps of fabric, his black pants that had partially fallen off with it. His leg rolled along the floor until Michel stopped it with his foot.

            The two of them looked around in horror, awaiting the inevitable furore and clamour that would arise when the crowd realised that they were in the presence of two walking corpses.

            The gay man piped up once more with a squeal, and waved his arms at Michel.

            “He’s a war veteran, too! You’re seriously going to treat him this way? Disgusting! Sort out your problems.”

            Roland and Michel looked at one another. Michel bent over to pick up the severed leg, and Roland was the first to speak.

            “I’m ready to go back into the ground.”

'Five', by Brandon James Cook.

Five, by Brandon James Cook.

The woods were dark and lonely, woefully sparse of all wildlife one would typically presume would swarm its depths in a frenzied scurry. Davis had known the journey would be long, but he hadn’t the slightest clue prior that he would be travelling so far from home. All that he knew was that he trusted the man in front of him, whom led him through the brush and scrub, a guiding light as the night began to mask their surroundings in a haze, a distinct jingling in his pockets as the front man carried on, echoing into the night.

            Davis watched as the man in front of him – Billy – trekked on through the thick woodland, carrying on his shoulders two rifles. Remington 220 Swifts – his guns, his hunting grounds, with bullets made to kill a fox clean and without a fuss, or whatever your game was. Billy told Davis that hunting helped ease his nerves, but Davis hadn’t the heart to tell him that the notion scared him a little bit. Two men out there in the thick brush with guns - what if they lost their cool? They were not the types of men you would want sweated out and nervous. This was a day of firsts for Davis, and despite his concerns, he was not about to turn around and reject Billy’s offer of a hunt, his extended hand of friendship.

            Billy was, in Davis’ eyes, a particularly special person – the kind of man who he might never have thought would wind up meeting Davis under such tedious and tragic circumstances. In fact, Davis thought, Billy seemed like the kind of man who had it all figured out. He was definitely not the sort of person Davis would think might end up attending an addicts anonymous meeting – definitely not the type to suffer fools, let alone a crippling addiction so painfully known to the ladies and gentleman of the gathering they so often shared. The gathering known as The Promise Group.

            When Davis had finally entered the building where the tormented souls wracked with foul habits congregated, he originally thought Billy was the head of the group, the lead organizer. He thought that this man, with his old eyes and warm smile, could not possibly have a tragic tale to tell. It seemed a scorn against all the good in the world that this kindhearted gentleman could suffer a heroin addiction – one so great he lost his family to it. One so great his wife fell to the floor in a fatal overdose, after being tugged along on Billy’s rickety ferry down the river Styx. It seemed true to Davis then more than ever, that even the gentlest of those in all of our stead can hide the most unbearable of secrets, as if there’s one thing that Davis knew, it was that addiction took no prisoners, and gave no thought nor care to the kind of man or woman you were.

            No, Billy was definitely among the worst tainted, as Davis soon found out. At his best, Billy could be sure to provide a warm word, a loving embrace, to whoever entered the circle of ailed kinship. They would sit in a ring, a circle of addicts, and share their stories dealing with their dependency issues - and Billy could always be trusted to congratulate each and every one of them on their openness – sometimes even more so than the actual organizer of the group, the trained drug and alcohol counselor. At his worst, however, Billy was a shivering wreck, his once-old eyes wide open in juvenile fear and frustration, his claws digging deep into his arms as he tried to rend imaginary insects from his bones, and sores from his flesh. He would scream, cry, and scratch until he bled. There was no love to be seen in that man when he reached his worst.

            But Billy would always find his way back, however. The monsters would silence, and they would always find him back in the circle a week later, devoid of any twitches or manic gaze, his affectionate smile resumed. He carried with him a bag full of thick and old coins, coins encased in a bag made of mesh, like the kind young children bought from the milk bar, the ones which peeled back their covers to reveal a chocolate treat. And like those delicious snacks wild young children ate, he said they made him feel better. He said they were his good luck charms, and Davis hadn’t the slightest intention of questioning what got Billy through his day.

            A while into the darkening wood, Davis stopped the pair.

            “Billy, I’m worried. Do you really think we should be doing this?”

            Billy turned around confused. “What do you mean, Davis?”

            “We’re just going a little far out, is all… and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried.”

            Billy smiled, and gave a little laugh. “You have to trust me, Davis. I know it seems like we’re going quite a way – but I’m following a trail.”

            “A trail?” Davis asked inquisitively.

            “Some animals have recently come through here. They’re our game. We’re following them.”

            Davis’ eyes widened. “Really? I had no idea.”

            “Yes,” Billy grinned, a wide, toothy grin. “And once we catch up to them, we’ll back them into a corner. They’ll have nowhere to go from there. So trust me, Davis. Everything is just fine.

            The pair carried on, Billy’s coins jangling in his pockets, as they marched through the thickening scrub.

            There were many poor souls present at the weekly meetings; some whose stories would make yours feel like a blissful cakewalk. There was Bertha, the mother, whose coke addiction would make it plausible for her to get up in the morning – to care for her kids, no less. For some, she said, coffee simply does not suffice, and once you’ve taken that hit of energy straight up your nose, there can be no alternative for a morning pick-me-up. When her nasal lining fell apart, however, and she was forced to pursue surgery, she found she could not bring herself to part from her powdered lover. Thus, The Promise Group.

            There was the young schoolgirl, Alyssa, no older than seventeen, who came to handle an addiction to meth, one that saw her through her final years of high school. It started as a party, and eventually progressed as a way to lose weight. Then, she did it every other day – until after a while she could not manage a day without the drug. She abused the fortunes her wealthy parents blessed her with, until she suffered a near-fatal heart attack. A day after her recovery, she picked up the pipe once more, hospital wristband still strapped around her wrist. Her time with The Promise Group was court-ordered.

There were more – Kieran, the nightclub owner, with an addiction to ketamine. Jerome, the speed freak festival lover – but none quite so tender and loving as Billy, the hapless older gentleman, who quashed his inner turmoil by smoking heroin.

            At the sixth session of the groups’ weekly meetings, the session focused on Davis, for the very first time. Davis had insisted with the group that he remain a mere listener until he felt comfortable enough to broach the subject of his hardship. So on that day he told his story, and began a path of recovery that soothed his ailed soul.

            Davis was, like Alyssa the schoolgirl, addicted to meth. He could not recall for the life of him how a once simple trial through a friend turned into week after week of struggle, but before he knew it the substance had a hold over him, a substance so potent and addictive that he found it hard to go a mere day without it. Days without sleep gave way to rest in excess, until he lost his job, and his family, and his life, and his friends. ‘Til there he was – in the circle at The Promise Group.

            A circle that throughout the weeks had steadily begun to shrink. The members had slowly begun to drop off. Davis’ illusion was shattered. This sudden emptiness in the room suggested the worst – the rest of the group had gone back to drugs. All that was left were Billy, the group organizer, and Davis himself. Three in a crowd that used to be so much more plentiful. The contrast was shocking.

            One day, Billy took it upon himself to accost Davis after the session had ended – water cooler chatter, as it were. He asked Davis if he’d ever gone hunting, asked if he might want to go for a trek with him sometime. Hunting was Billy’s favorite pastime, as he’d said before. It helped him fight off his inner demons.

            And so they found themselves, wandering through the forest, Davis wrought with exhaustion and confusion.

            “We’re almost there!” – An unnamed location, no doubt, as Billy had repeatedly professed throughout the journey that they would soon find some form of solace.

            “Almost where, Billy? And it’s getting quite a bit darker than I’d like…” David replied.

            Billy turned around and gave Davis a thumbs up, the jingling in his pockets growing louder with the movement.

            That’s when Davis saw it – the twitch in Billy’s eye. The glassy film over each round surface. The familiar pangs of chemical dread.

            “Billy, are… are you okay?” Davis asked the question with sensitivity. He did not want to tread too heavily in Billy’s tender moment.

            “I’m fine, Davis,” Billy responded in a murmur, his usually affectionate and warm tone a thing of the past.

            The pair continued to trek through the woods; up and up steady ascents, through trees and thick scrub, each footstep punctuated by the distinct jangling from the pouch in Billy’s pocket; his collection of ‘lucky charms’, the tokens he so often carried.

            Finally, the pair reached a clearing.

            “That’s weird,” Davis said. “The trail ends here.”

            Davis looked around. Tall, grim-looking trees seemed to stretch outwards, once flourishing branches now sparse and deadened. He looked forward – and saw a strange formation. A rock formation, a wall, that the trees seemed to rush away from, and in the centre was a great divide, large enough to fit a person, but covered from top to bottom in branches and vines, cascading up and around it in a frenzied mess. The divide was dark and ominous. Davis heard a wind seem to whisper through it, soft and tender, almost beckoning him within its walls.

            “Do you think the animals went through there?” Davis asked, pointing towards the scrub-covered divide.

            “They may have. We might need to follow them.” Billy responded, and began to set down his possessions, including the two Remington rifles.

            Davis stepped forward, and neared the divide on the edge of the clearing, standing almost directly in front of it. The emptiness of the rocky divide, the grey and lifeless trees rustling all around him. The blackness of the divide seemed to call to him, tempting him within… the whistling wind gently whispering...

            Suddenly, Davis caught himself staring, and the lull vanished. “I don’t know if I want to go in there, Billy.”

            He heard the sound before he knew what was going on. The click of the safety on a rifle - turned off.

            “But you have to, Billy.”

            Davis slowly began to turn around – and saw that which he feared. Billy standing there, eyes wide with panic and madness, pointing the Remington rifle square at Davis’ face. The good Billy was no more, replaced with a madman.

            “Billy, what are you doing?” Davis whispered. Sweat fell from his brow. He took a step backwards, unsure of Billy’s state.

            Billy made a noise – something like a giggle, but far more ominous. “It’s important, Davis. You’ve gotta do it. C’mon, Davis. Do it for me. Do it for your friend.”

            My friend? Davis thought.

            “Billy, put the gun down.” Davis murmured sternly, . “C’mon, let’s go hunt them together.”

            “No, no, Davis.” Billy whispered, and Davis’ eyes lit up. “Only you must go through it.”

            Davis looked down away from Billy’s eyes, at the Remington pointed towards him.

            “Billy, I…” He whispered, “I don’t understand what you’re doing.”

            “You don’t need to understand. You just need…” Billy’s voice cracked. “You need to go through the gap in the wall, Davis. You have to do it. Do it for your friend. Just like the rest of them.”

            Billy shook his gun at Davis, causing Davis to jump back with a fright. His eyes widened. The tall and dead trees seemed to leer forward, observing the scene. Not only the gun being pointed at him disturbed Davis, but so too did the clearing. Dead and grey – like a cemetery.

            In Davis’ mind, the cogs began to turn.

            “Billy…” He murmured, “There was never a trail, was there?”

            His words were met with low giggling.

            “How many people have you brought here?” Davis asked.

            Billy’s giggling grew louder and louder, until he stopped, staring Davis straight in the face.

            “Four.”

            The word felt like pinpricks against Davis’ skin, climbing up his back, along his spine and into the base of his skull. His throat became blocked, and he could not utter another word. He stepped back once more, staring at Billy with wide, horrified eyes.

            Four.

“I need them, Davis. You can never understand the need.”

            Davis suddenly felt something on either side of him. He realized that he had neared the very edge of the rocky divide. He stood directly in front of it – and in that moment, he felt a strange entity all around him, like a translucent fog. He slowly turned around – and saw that he was standing in the centre of the opening to the mysterious divide.

            The pinpricks on his skin stung him fiercely then, when he realized just how empty the passage was. Black and impenetrable. An endless mist of darkness.

            Then, he felt a strange wind blow through the trees all around them. He heard the corpses of the trees rustle, and an almost inaudible gale picked up, blowing deep into the passage. Davis felt a light thrust upon his chest – and then a violent shove, as he was pushed inches further into the crevasse. Davis turned around slightly, expecting the worst – and saw that Billy had dropped his weapon to the floor. There had been no gunshot.

His heart seemed to stop when he heard it - a voice murmuring somewhere near to him, in words cold and unknown. His eyes grew wide with fear as he whipped back around to face the dark passage. He ceased to breathe. Sweat fell from his brow. He felt the strange voice whisper in his ear as he gazed into the boundless inky corridor. A strange and unseen force lurched forward from the perpetual blackness.

Five.

He was suddenly pushed back.

Davis disappeared within the passage, falling into the eerie crevasse like a pebble into water. The desolate trees all around gave a gentle rustle.

            Moments passed. Billy stood, his gun on the floor, eyes wide, face sweaty, mouth panting and frothed.           

            Then, as though coughed from the mouth of a dark demon, a small object rolled forth from within the divide. It rolled along the ground from the centre of it, out from the dark abyss, and came to a stop meters in front of Billy, at the centre of the clearing.

            Billy rushed forward, lunging and clawing at the mysterious object. He got up, and held it in his hand, looking down upon it with eyes wide and manic.

            A broad and ancient-looking coin.

            Billy reached into his pocket, suddenly calm as a midnight pond, and pulled out his mesh bag filled with his special coins - of which there were four. He pulled the bag apart – and dropping his newfound coin in with the others, they made five.

            “My good luck charms.” He whispered.

A room full of people sat in a circle, in a room somewhere far away. Each person seemed frail, all of different ages, yet they all shared the same kind of woeful ailment.

            “Alright, everyone. We’ve got a new member who will be joining our weekly meetings – someone who really needs our support. Billy, would you care to introduce yourself?”

            A man in one of the chairs stood up.

As he did, there was the sound of jingling.

Something in his pocket…