The Great Dopamine Exchange

I’m going to call myself back now. It’s not pathetic that several of my previous blog posts are about me trying to convince myself to write more often. I’m out of excuses. If anything COVID should have been a catalyst to launch me back into the habit. And there it is. Writing, just like any habit, is a muscle to be flexed often or it will atrophy. No, social media posts don’t count. Sometimes they feel like little bits of writing, and maybe they are. Maybe it’s all that’s kept my writing muscle from drying up and falling off the bone.

Here’s the thing: Social media posts are like little requests for dopamine. When I see my usage report I always make excuses for myself. I run a small business as an artist, and a great percentage of my time is spent looking for ways to connect to new customers. That means sticking with Twitter even when it feels like an endless cavern of narcissists yelling at their own echos. That means “studying” viral TikTok videos to see if I can replicate the viral part. That means creating reels in Instagram, and responding to messages. Oh, the messages.

I spend hours every day responding to messages—messages on social media, messages in email, messages that come in through my multiple selling platforms. It’s nuts! I often think I need an assistant to navigate that part of my life so that I can spend more time being creative. The problem is I actually enjoy it. Just the same way I get a hit of dopamine from a response on a personal Facebook post I get a hit of dopamine from being able to connect one on one with customers—even if the reason for the contact is a headache. I’ll often come out on the other side with a little more wisdom. I recognize that before it happens, so the problematic messages can also smack my veins with a dopamine fix.

What I need to do is make a transfer. If writing more is the objective I need to make writing a thing that shoots me full of that delicious dope. Typically writing will do that, but it’s not necessarily instantaneous. It’s more like an intravenous drip. We’ve become so used to the big hits with social media that the drips don’t seem as appealing. I recently heard of Dopamine Fasting, but that sounds like something I might try taking a deep dive into later. For now I need to detox slowly with some proverbial methadone. That means finding a replacement for my regular drug dealer, Social Media.

The above four paragraphs aren’t too bad, and I dropped them in under fifteen minutes. I can feel the drip as I type. My reward doesn’t have to be in response to this post. I doubt more than a single human aside from myself will ever even read this. If you do, leave a reply so I can pass out in whatever ally I’m in when I get the notification.

There’s a satisfaction that comes from the writing itself. Responses are just bonuses. I’m already high now. I flexed the muscle, and it feels oh so good. I’m sure I’ll be tempted to go for the fast fix on bad days. Heck, I’ll probably make excuses on good days. But habits are formed with effort. I’ll still get my social media highs, but I can’t allow myself to rely on them. As someone who loves to write I need to take some pain to get some gain. I’ll relapse, but I can’t allow myself to use that as an excuse to call it a failure. To win the fight you have to train every day. When you miss a day you can’t just say, “Well, I’m out of shape. I’ll have to wait for the opportune time to get back into shape.” You just get right back in and perpetuate the god habits. I’ll have those cheat days, and I’ll wonder why I wanted to exchange my source of dopamine at all. In my moments of clarity I have to remind myself: If I want to be high all the time I’m going to have to settle for the drip.

Can I be more of a failure as a writer?

If I’m lucky enough to have even one reader of this blog left I’ve finally found a way back in. All it took was a new laptop that somehow locked me out of a different WordPress login that I use for Horror Geek Life. I’m laughing at myself that my last post was titled, “No More Excuses.” My writing habits can be likened to the undead. I’m back from the grave, bony fingers sticking up through the muck and mud, stylus in hand. End scene.

Opens on a new post filled with promise and sunshine. A zombie crawls into view, and a new era begins…

No more excuses

I learned something today. Hopefully we all learn at least something everyday. We want to become better than the person we were yesterday, right? That may be almost universally agreed upon, but we tend to sabotage ourselves. We tend to believe we are already living our best life despite our shortcomings because we don’t recognize them. Sometimes we are aware of them, but we call them characteristics, and we make excuses for ourselves to continue certain behaviors because “that’s just part of my personality. Deal with it.” We can be better than that. No more excuses.

Just about four weeks ago I made the change; not the one I’m going to talk about, but the one that needs to be set up to explain how changing ourselves works. Around that time I’d been eating better for a few weeks. I’d given myself a directive: Eat better for a few weeks, then get back into something physical. You need fitness in your life if you want to have an ability to focus. Fitness is almost always physical, but it’s also mental. Meditate. That can arguably be called fitness. You’re taking your mind and body to a new place, some place that allows you to alter the chemical flow that dictates how you go through your day; how you react to stimuli. If you’ve been through the ebbs and flows of getting into and out of good fitness habits you know change breeds change. That goes for body and mind. I made the choice. I started running again.

I’ve run sporadically over the years; made it a habit, run the NYC Marathon and a few handfuls of half marathons, countless 5ks and charity runs. I’ve always described running the same way some people describe writing: Something I hate doing, but I love having done. Endorphins are addictive, and I want that fix. It’s an easy addiction to drop, however, so you need to be mindful of when you’ve traded your addiction for another one. Change breeds change. I made plenty of excuses, especially with the Covid pandemic. “Just eat what you want,” I told myself. When my irritability began to catch up to my weight I had to do something because irritability is damned habitual and probably addictive in itself. I made it easy on myself. The goal was to run a mile a day until I was comfortable enough to add some distance.

Any runner will tell you the first mile is the hardest. It’s a mental hurdle. It’s a place where you’re searching for the zone. You have to regulate your breathing. You have to remind yourself that the initial pounding will become a rhythm. In the first mile you have to trick yourself into enjoying what you’re doing. You have to meditate in a way. Running is naturally something you do in flight mode, so your body wants to put you into survival which can feel extremely stressful. That’s what you take advantage of. You streamline your thoughts, and let your body do its thing. Eventually your mind can wander while your body functions on its own. You don’t have to think about the steps unless you’re about to drop six inches off a curb to cross the street, and there isn’t the wheelchair access ramp at the edge that allows you to stay in your mind instead of on the street. You’re aware of your surroundings; but you can let the endorphins that seem to take forever to arrive, do their thing.

Then there’s that idiot who drives straight through the crosswalk, past the stop sign, and right into your path. The whole time they’re looking in the opposite direction toward oncoming traffic because they want to roll through. No thought of pedestrians. Typical jerks. And you know how it goes. Timing is off, so now every intersection has one of these jerks. It’s like when you’re driving, and you catch a red light. Because of that one you’re going to catch them all. And so it seems every car is an idiot. They’re not even people anymore. That car is a jackass!

“Once I welcomed the anger it fed on my adrenalin, and only made things worse.”

Still in my first mile I’m still conscious of my steps, conscious of my breathing, finding the beat, allowing the rhythm to happen; and bzzt! You’re out. You have to adjust for this idiot car that would have run you over if you were three steps ahead. Old me would have pounded on the hood of the car, cursing them as I recapture my pace. At the least I would yell a curse on their family and flip them off as I tried to regain my composure. That doesn’t work. Change breeds change. Once I welcomed the anger it fed on my adrenalin, and only made things worse. Thankfully, after years of doing this while living in Brooklyn, NY nothing ever came of it, but I could have gotten myself hurt or hurt someone else. I’d yell. They’d yell. I’d posture. They’d posture. One of us would back down. It felt righteous when they backed down, but it was, for some reason, satisfying to continue on my run. I could back down by flipping them off for having screwed up my calming pace while trying the get back to it. I didn’t care how mad they got. I was mad. They almost ran me over. Sometimes it happened multiple times on a single run.

Years later, after moving to a few different cities I find myself in Inglewood, California. It’s a neighborhood in greater Los Angeles. The slower pace of Minneapolis (and Minnesota Nice) taught me a little more patience. Plus, I’m in a new place, and when you’ve relocated it’s a great time to add a few changes to yourself. The bigger change can solidify the smaller changes, and you can be better.

I really wanted to pop that hood with the edge of my fist. Then it happened again. Like the red light thing. It was getting irritating, and I wanted to let out the steam. Instead, all three times I chopped my steps, sidestepped behind the cars, and continued on my way. I realized after the first one that halfway through the first block after the incident (or non-incident) that I was no longer irritated. It didn’t turn to anger. I was back in my pace, and my mojo wasn’t ruffled. The second time it wasn’t any easier to turn the other cheek, but the irritation was even more short-lived. By the time a third car had driven straight though the crosswalk without stopping I should have been at my wits end. I should have let the straw break the camel’s back. I should have given that jerk a what for, and I could have had the satisfaction of expressing my anger. Instead I darted behind, and kept moving.

The need for me to express that anger was so internal that letting it go instead of letting it all go showed me that the frustration from the interruption was fleeting. If I’d gotten angry it may have ruined my run. It may have given me the excuse to stop because “today it’s just not happening.” Back in Brooklyn I told myself that the anger gave me adrenalin to continue on. That may have been true, but adrenalin isn’t endorphins.

I learned that if I don’t harp on the thing the thing really isn’t a thing. Acting out of anger wouldn’t stop that driver from continuing their habit of driving though the crosswalk. If I want to control my world I can only do it from within. I have to adapt for the jerks who drive through the crosswalk because reacting to them only encourages a side of me that’s not productive. My anger could have lasted for hours, even a lifetime. Instead it was gone before I reached the next intersection. Lucky for the next jerk.

Absent

Here! That’s what I’d say at roll call when the teacher calls my name. I’ve been absent for so long it became habit. It’s unfortunate since I’ve had all the feelings and anxiety, especially with the pandemic, that I should have been expressing it all along. So, here I am, opening this channel again. Wait for it… Here it comes… the And is as near as ever.

When Dog Poop on the Sidewalk Saved Me

My ears are still ringing. I was invited to see Starcrawler at The Fonda Theater last night. I don’t think I’ve heard a band play so loud since Mötley Crüe. But that’s not what this story is about. And I am definitely not associating Starcrawler with shit because they rocked. They are already enjoying some success; but they are poised to explode, perhaps reluctantly. Not that guitarist though. He’s going to embrace the fame barreling down on him. Yes, they were good, but that’s not what this post is about. It’s about a smear of shit on the sidewalk. That’s the main character in this story. A smear of shit was my hero last night.

I only recently moved to Los Angeles, so, naturally you find some local stuff to do to get a taste of what your new city offers. I’ve found myself describing L.A. to people as “if you took New York (City) and slapped it against the ground. Everything spreads out. The art, the culture, the restaurants, the entertainment, the variety of people, the traffic, the litter, the gum on the sidewalk, the smell of urine; it’s all there. Especially the dog shit. I normally complain that not enough people clean up after their dog. I feel actual pain if I take my dogs for a walk and forget bags. But what I lay before you may actually come off as an argument for not cleaning up after your dog.

Apparently I’m a sidewalk watcher. I thought that I was the kind of person who looks at his surroundings, and takes it all in. But what I realized last night is I will recognize a crack in the sidewalk, a pattern of blackened and dry chewing gum a million times trampled, or a smear of dog dropping sooner than I’ll recognize a particular restaurant entryway or a packed parking lot next to a car dealership.

We had dinner at a place called Palms Thai on Hollywood Boulevard, which promised an Elvis impersonator. The food was good, but they didn’t deliver on the entertainment. That’s okay, we were heading to see this hot new band called Starcrawler anyway (I keep wanting to say Sand Crawler). Palms Thai has valet parking and they close the garage at midnight, so we figured we were safe heading to a show where the doors open at 8:00pm and leaving the car at the restaurant. We’d walk to the theater. So, that’s what we did. We walked to the theater. Aside from The Museum of Death I barely took note of a landmark. I was counting on the mutual bearings of my wife and friends and enjoying the moment. We walked and joked. We mused on the mundane decisions of how we dress. We discussed the scooter rental habits of the locals. Jeff and I acknowledged when Elaine turned in front of us to warn us of the poop in our path. Pay attention to that detail. It’s important to the story. A good director never adds a detail that isn’t either there for character development or a plot device. This poop smear was both.

I remember getting lost in pondering how one dog poop could have been smeared in three directions spreading over two to three feet of sidewalk real estate. I can’t help but wonder about the three chumps who stepped in it. Were they doing the Moonwalk? I imagine the first person probably smeared a bit on their shoe and kicked when they realized what was happening. Two boulders of smelly doo-doo rolled ahead to better their chances of survival. The next two people didn’t notice the eight inch smear, or perhaps were avoiding it only to be ambushed by the guerrilla bombs in the periphery. It’s a virtual minefield on city sidewalks, kids. Keep your heads down.

We successfully navigated the fecal war zone and needless to say, found our way to the theater with the one event of avoiding some poop on the ground as an all but forgotten anecdote. As we waited for Elaine to get the tickets at will call Jeff, Elizabeth, and I chatted about the event posters on the wall. Elaine dropped a fact on me like a bucket of bricks. The band wasn’t going on until just before 11:00pm so it was likely they wouldn’t finish before the parking garage closed. I had to go back out there into the wilderness of a new city and walk the few short blocks so that I could move the car to a different lot. Easy enough. “I’ll be right back,” I said. Yeah, right. Good one, Kurt.

After getting permission from the security guard standing next to the sign that said “No Re-Entry” I turned right out of the theater heading into the abyss of the unknown. We turned left into the theater. That much I knew. It wasn’t long before I started to feel like a five year old who just spent two minutes standing inside a circular clothing rack. Where’d mommy go? I don’t know where I am. Can someone help me? Then I started to cry.

Okay, I recognize that scooter. Wait, no. It was lying down facing traffic. This was a different scooter. Don’t use vehicles as landmarks. That’s an invitation to a prank by the universe. Dark parking lot behind iron fence. Yes, I remember that. It’s kind of nondescript though. Am I sure that was the same lot we passed before? Walk another block to be sure. That’s the only way to be certain. Hmm, I don’t remember walking past a car dealership. Turn around. Go back the way you came and try the other direction. Pay attention to this moment, dear readers. Take note that car dealerships are typically well lit. They will cast a spotlight on dog poop if it’s on the sidewalk. The problem was that I noticed the poop earlier, not the car dealership. The red herring of a landmark fooled me into thinking I’d gone in the wrong direction. Note to self: The absence of details in a memory and perception does not signify the absence of the same details in reality.

I walked past the theater again, this time in the opposite direction. I never bothered to look across the street as I passed the Museum of Death. That would have saved me. I would have realized I was on the right path initially. Instead I panicked and basically got lost on a street having not made a single turn yet. So what did I do? I turned. That’s what the GPS said to do. I was smart enough to look for the location of the restaurant. I chose the “walk” to destination button over the “drive” button, but for some reason my app wanted me to make a u-turn. Who makes u-turns while walking? Should I walk around the block instead of just turning around? I bowed before my new overlord, technology, and made the turn down that block. Short cut, I thought. Before long the distinct smell of urine soaked cement wafted past me as I began to see tents pitched among piles of garbage and blankets. I think I made a wrong turn into the men’s room. Sir, that’s not a urinal.

Before long the distinct smell of urine soaked cement wafted past me as I began to see tents pitched among piles of garbage and blankets. I think I made a wrong turn into the men’s room. Sir, that’s not a urinal.

There was an instant when I almost walked on confidently, but I snapped out of that stubborn notion and turned back. Maybe the other way, perpendicular to the turn I’d made. Where is the Scarecrow when you need him? No one on the street could help me. They’re all tourists or surprisingly rude Los Angeleños. New York has an unfair reputation for people who won’t help you, but I found out last night the capitol of pedestrian assholery is actually Los Angeles. A few jerks actually mumbled inaudibly intentionally. I felt like an unwanted intruder. It’s cool. I’ll figure it out myself. I fake smiled for no one’s benefit but my own and continued my meandering trek to oblivion.

It’s an adventure, I thought. Instead of being inside a noisy club waiting for a loud as fuck band to come on, and pretending I can understand the conversation I was out in the wild experiencing Hollywood Boulevard as if it was a safari. I spoke to Elaine on the phone and she told me I had been heading in the right direction the first time. Confirmed. I’m back on track. To assure myself I found a security guard waiting to cross the street. He was wearing a Fonda Security shirt. I can trust him. That fucker sent me back the wrong way. Very funny, dude. If you’re reading this I hope you were one of the schmucks who got dog shit on his crappy DSW shoes.

This misadventure went on far too long. I had picked up my pace a while ago, and my smart watch kept prompting me. “Do you want to record this outdoor walk?” Apparently my pulse had picked up enough to fool the watch into thinking I was exercising. It was a power walk.

I eventually got directions from a bartender. I’d finally gone inside a bar to ask someone who was bound to help me. I could trust him, right? The way I trusted the security guard. I was wary, so I walked on the opposite side of the street. Suddenly I saw the red neon lights of the Museum of Death. “Death Comes to Everyone” it said ominously. I took it to heart and crossed the street again, carefully watching for runaway busses. I headed straight for the car dealership I’d dismissed earlier. Okay, I thought. Apparently I had indeed passed that car dealership.

I got my bearings at the corner. Yes, the Museum of Death was where it belonged now. I turned up the sidewalk and began looking for more landmarks, and there it was like Orion’s Belt to a navigator. The three stars of dog smear were like an arrow pointing me in the right direction. This is how dogs do it. They piss along the way wherever they walk so they can smell the popcorn trail they left for themselves. And since we evolved these canine companions with us for so long they’ve learned to communicate with us. No tax dollars spent, they put up they most effective street sign possible. They probably developed the conformational shit arrow a thousand years ago on the cobblestone streets of Rome, and I’m just discovering it.

A minute later I found the restaurant and then the parking garage. I tipped the valet who got my car, and threw in an extra buck because I felt accomplished and happy in that moment. Despair had run off like a squirrel, skittering and chittering up a tree. “Hey, hey, I’m still here. I ran, but I’m not running!” Fuck off, despair. I have pride now. I’ve made the discovery of the millennium. Sidewalk dog shit has meaning.

The Sins of Running Out of Candy on Halloween

Story by Kurt Marquart. Photo by Elaine de la Mata

How do I even start? Elaine and I made some kid cry. This is where proper grammar comes in handy because my wife is named first in this deposition. I’m going to throw her under the bus and say I’m guilty by association. I didn’t buy the candy this year. Maybe that was my crime. I usually buy the candy. I let an inexperienced driver take the wheel. She didn’t buy enough, and I failed to tell her. I neglected to rectify the situation by simply getting some more. But she took the initiative. Buying more would be undermining her judgement. Now that I’ve thrown my wife under the bus I’m going to flag down that driver. Stop the bus! Stop the bus! I need to get to the supermarket for more Halloween candy!

Of the deadly sins I’m guilty of most of them. Maybe all.

Lust:
I really don’t mind sexy Halloween costumes the way some people seem to mind them. Of course not. I’m a heterosexual guy. Though, I think sexy Mister Rogers is pushing the envelope right off the table and into the trash. Thankfully, I won’t go further with this sin of mine because this one doesn’t apply to the story.

Gluttony:
Here we are. I found it. Gluttony is the root to all my problems. This is where it all started. There came a time in my adult life where Halloween night became about being home for trick or treaters. We’ll get to why in Sloth*. Nonetheless I’ve made a point of buying a ton of candy… for the kids. Yeah, for the kids. I never wanted to be embarrassed by running out of candy. I never wanted to be the house that doesn’t give candy. Hmm. We’re getting into Pride here. Put a pin in that.

If I’m honest with myself I buy lots of candy because I don’t want to run out; but I don’t want to run out because I want lots left for myself. For my wife too. She can have some too. She can have the York Peppermint Patties. She can have the Smarties. All that peanut butter, nougat, caramel, crunchy, gooey, coconut, and almond stuff is mine. Mine! Sorry, got into Greed there for a second. Let’s just say I have come to terms with why I usually buy the candy. It’s because I want some, and partaking in a few pieces on the stoop while we’re giving it away isn’t enough. I want to hoard it away. I want to find candy I forgot I hid from myself, and I want to find candy I pretended to hide from myself. I’m a glutton. But this is where gluttony comes in handy. If you buy too much you’ll never run out of candy on Halloween, and you’ll never make the kids cry. You’ll never be an embarrassment in the neighborhood.

Greed:
So let’s get into that Greed thing for a second. Greed can kill you. But sometimes Greed can be the preliminary work you need to do to become a temporary hero! There we were, sitting on the porch, waiting for the occasional trick or treater to walk past. There were only a few early on, so we encouraged these kids to take more. Take two! You can fit more in your bag! It’s the opposite of greed because Pride was playing a stronger role. My wife and I had agreed that she would bring the leftover candy to work because we didn’t want to binge and get fat. Ha! Sure, make your coworkers fat! Normal people don’t care about this stuff. We’re just whackos who can’t control our urge for chocolate. I think my wife has better control. Until I had the opportunity to play hero with my secret stash she didn’t know I had planned to have my own personal binge session that she wasn’t invited to!

When we realized we were running short on candy we slowed down. One per kid. Oh, but check out this adorable little girl dressed as a vampire. She’s like three years old. She’s not going to make it more than a block or two before she gets fussy and tired. Let’s give her a Hulk-sized handful so she can feel like she was productive on her quest. We did that a lot. Well-deserving costumes are rewarded with arms for the Cavity Creeps. There were probably ten or twelve pieces left in the bowl when it suddenly occurred to me that we were going to run out of candy, but that I might be able to replenish the bowl somewhat.

Picture me earlier in the day. It was around 6:30PM and a total of four kids had come by, the first being just after five o’clock. Greed. I thought, well, this neighborhood is dead. We just moved here a few weeks ago, so we had no clue. I better get a Tupperware and keep a few on the side for my personal stash. I don’t want Elaine’s coworkers getting fat. A handful became a project to figure out how best to situate the candies for optimal Tupperware fulfillment. It was a game of Tetris, but I was proud of myself and disgusted with myself at once. As fortune would have it, when the moment of truth presented itself I stood, and told my wife we had more! It was a confession, but I spun it as a solution.

“The faces quickly ranged from pity to anger to repugnance. You could see it through their masks! Parents shook their heads and corralled their kids to move on, but more came. They came and turned away as my wife yawped apologetically that we’d run out of candy.”

Sloth:
My biggest sin here is that I knew we needed more candy. We had three bags. Three bags is never enough. I know four is the minimum, and that means you need five. And that’s in a lesser populated suburb. I now know that next year we’ll need at least seventeen bags of candy to be sure. So that means we need twenty-one and a quarter bags. Trust me, I did the math. We’ll round up to twenty-five. I won’t be so lazy and cheap next year.

*In regard to my reference above about being home on Halloween being for trick or treaters, it’s a way for me to control my social anxiety. Maybe it’s an excuse to be lazy, but Halloween parties make me too self-conscious. I love to dress up and talk about how clever your costume is, but I prefer the solitude of being home. Kids don’t talk about their costumes like they’ve been thinking about it since June. They don’t care about puns and politics, and how your costume is going to end up on some blog. Is that Spider-Man from the animated movie? Yes. Cool, here’s a KitKat. Smooth transaction. Maybe it’s lazy, but I like it.

Wrath:
Trick or treat. No treat? Trick it is then. That’s how it’s supposed to go. When we did run out of candy my wife admitted she was afraid our house would get egged. So this one is more about fear of wrath. I chuckled and told her the notion was silly. Deep down I worried she was right, but she needed me to be a rock. We didn’t even have any of those either. If Charlie Brown came by we wouldn’t even have anything for him!

Envy:
Here’s where I know that feeling bad about running out of candy is genuine. I felt bad for those kids, but I envied the houses that had come prepared. A group of four had just come by, and they quietly received their gifts, turning to shuffle-jog to the next house. When they left there were only seven pieces left. The bowl looked pathetic. This is when two groups of about thirty kids each converged on the house from both directions. It was like a panic scene in a Seth Rogan comedy. The first seven to the steps got their meager offering, and then it was disappointment for miles! Some kids turned matter of factly. It’s happened before. They’ve seen it. No biggie. Be calm. Move on. This exact reaction is what caused the crowd of kids to continue their respective treks up the walkway. The faces quickly ranged from pity to anger to repugnance. You could see it through their masks! Parents shook their heads and corralled their kids to move on, but more came. They came and turned away as my wife yawped apologetically that we’d run out of candy. Some didn’t believe it. They came to see the empty bowl. We must have been lying. It’s not true! How could the new people in the neighborhood be so cruel? When one kid confirmed the bowl was indeed as empty as the promise we made to ourselves to be the best house on the block at Halloween he looked us up and down as if to measure us for egg coverage. It’s not worth it, kid. I’m like six dozen eggs tall. When we went inside and turned off the porch light Elaine told me a kid was crying. I hadn’t noticed. I was too busy hiding my face in shame. I was ashamed because I was laughing. I felt bad for the kids too, but this was the funniest way to be embarrassed I’d felt in a long time. I felt alive. I was sorry we’d run out of candy more because we would have to play hard next year to build our best house in the neighborhood reputation. I envied the veterans who had the experience. Next year will be different. Wait, that’s going into Pride now.

Pride:
Next year I will have my revenge!

Might as Well Eat the Goat

“Charcoal the Goat” Photo by Louis Arvid Marquart

I’ve decided to publish a few of my previous stories. It makes sense that I should get critique from someone other than close friends. This was originally published as my 2014 Halloween story. It’s vile and clunky. The idea came when someone said the title as a phrase in an unrelated conversation. The sentence made me laugh, but for whatever reason I turned it into a horror story. Maybe to be ironic? I’m not sure.

From my original post to a Facebook note: “This is probably the creepiest, most evil story I’ve ever written. It’s not for those who can’t enjoy horror. It’s not one of my sweet love themed ghost stories, so stay away if you are easily offended.

Might As Well Eat The Goat
by Kurt Louis Marquart

Cal rested his hand on his belly, and closed his eyes as he sat back in the sand. This would be the last of the meat unless he could find a way off the island. That was unlikely. He had to face the reality that the painful starvation he’d successfully eluded for months was now cornering him.

He shook the Bic again before trying to light it one last time. Sparks. It was a reminder that he had cooked his last meal. He’d made sure when he planned the trip that he would have several ways to make fire in his new island home. There would always be the possibility that he could lose electric for long periods. He wasn’t prepared for the unlikely event that he’d lose electric and have no communication with the outside world for more than a year.

He thought about what his wife was doing right now. Probably filing for her estranged husband’s death certificate. Cal was incommunicado, and would have been “missing” for well over a year now. He wondered how long one would have to be missing before their spouse could officially declare them deceased. He would have Googled for an answer; but the backup generator was dry. Its two thousand gallon tank had been syphoned, and the dozen or so fifty gallon emergency drums were gone. He never expected pirates.

Life on the lam was proving to be disastrous for Cal, so, perhaps it was best his wife never came along. Dr. Calvin Tupper left the comfort of his multi-million dollar Hudson Valley castle to hide from the United States government in the island home he purchased under an alias a decade prior to being arrested for tax evasion. 

Dr. Tupper was no small time offender. He owed the IRS somewhere in the neighborhood of sixteen million dollars. A talented surgeon with multiple patents for his groundbreaking research on cell regeneration, Cal was foolish in his fiscal life. He allowed run of his finances to shady accountants who promised to save him millions on his tax returns. Calvin Tupper was a rock star in the medical field before his fortieth birthday, and he intended to live the part.

Now he was very likely finished consuming the last meal he’d ever eat. Goat head soup probably wouldn’t have been on the menu in prison. Maybe tomorrow the skull would be cool enough to crack open for the gray matter pudding inside. Last meal indeed. Cal was a survivor.

Thankfully, for Cal’s sake, the goat was a survivor too. There was plenty of ivy on the island to sustain the goat for the months he removed its edible parts. He was conservative at first. Grilled goat ankle proved to be unsatisfying the first time, and by the fourth time he was still not capable of enjoying it. At least now it couldn’t run away.

When the pirates first appeared he was able to hide the goat. They didn’t take much, but they may as well have killed him. Cutting his electric line, sinking his sailboat, stealing his cellphone, and smashing his two-way radio essentially left him helpless. The crops he had planted would allow him to head off his destiny. The limited store of canned rations would provide sustenance temporarily. The intermittent plumbing would give him fresh water when it cooperated. His inherent ability to improvise would keep him alive as long as these pillagers would allow it. But they would return often with no predictable pattern to take more of his food, furniture, and survival gear. He was left with his goat, his Bowie knife and a Bic lighter. It was no accident. These items were purposely dropped in front of Cal’s bloody face as he lay in the threshold of his dwelling the last time he entertained the marauders months ago.

Captain Adiel told Cal he wasn’t a bad man. He was merely collecting property tax for himself and his crew. They owned these waters, all the islands in them, all the people on the islands, and all the provisions and livestock. They allowed Cal to stay here, and when they promised his debt had been fulfilled they left him with his goat, his knife, and a lighter. “Think of this as a riddle for solving,” Adiel told him as he dropped Cal’s final worldly possessions in front of him. Gesturing to the shambles around them he said through a gold-toothed grin, “Maybe you can find a pot to shit in and to cook in. You can fish, and survive with these gifts I leave for you—to live long enough to pay me if I should ever return. Or you and your goat can burn this hole down with yourselves inside to make room for new citizens with more homage to pay me. With the knife? You can make it go quicker then.”

With new terror in his eyes, Cal looked up at Captain Adiel, “Please…”

Adiel chortled lazily as if delivering dialogue from a script that bored him. “Yes, we know about your goat.” He lifted Cal’s chin with the point of his boot. “My crew don’t want your meat. Not for long anyway,” he winked. “Maybe you get lucky, and in a few months you have some milk to drink. My men are animals.”

Cal swallowed some words that would have been just as bitter falling off his tongue. He only stared at the captain bewildered and shocked. Adiel drew the boot from under Cal’s chin and swiftly returned it to his temple. After the blackness was gone so was the captain and his ship.

Cal’s lawyer turned to stare into the open blinds at the window, and exhaled. “Mr. Tupper, I’m sorry, but my hands are tied. There’s no way around this sentencing. This isn’t some run-of-the-mill tax evasion case. You’re in serious trouble here.”

Cal looked up at the ceiling when his lawyer’s gaze turned back to him, “God, this is just crazy.”


Night had fallen on the island when he finally lifted himself from the floor. He could hear the goat bleating through the warm, quiet ocean breeze. He hobbled through the doorway and down the steps. There she was, tied to a tree. The pain in his head was excruciating, but he managed to say through gritted teeth, “We’re safe now, girl.” The goat stared through him, not understanding a word.

Cal’s wife turned to stare into the closed blinds at the window, and exhaled. “I’m not doing this,” she said.

Cal turned to her, “I don’t know if you understand the kind of trouble I’m in here, Aja. I’m not going to prison. I can’t survive there. They’ll eat me alive. I need you with me on this. I need you with me, period.”

“I’m not going to prison!” She snapped. “You want to jump bail, and go live in hiding for the rest of your life? Fine. They’re not taking me away, and neither are you!”

“Honey, we can’t pay the back taxes. We don’t have it. We’re not liquid, and I’m not about to give up what we have hidden. They’ll come after you when I’m found guilty.”

A week with no food, and Cal was already losing his temper. It wasn’t as hard for the goat. She could browse the growth on the island, and would nibble leaves and grass. He wondered if the goat would eat fish, and wasted several hours one day catching one. The finicky nannie smelled the raw fish, and turned away without a nibble. Cal couldn’t eat it. In his shortsightedness he’d bought an island, and planned to live there indefinitely despite being allergic to the one free, sustainable food source available. He couldn’t even clean the fish for the goat. He’d offered it to her whole, hoping to feed it to her. When she refused it he threw it at her.


“Mr. Tupper, I want to prepare you for what’s going to happen tomorrow,” the lawyer told him. “They’re going to find you guilty. You need to know there’s no way around that.”

“I’m not interested in that,” he said. “I need to talk to my wife.”

“She’s not here, Mr. Tupper. Let’s go over the script for tomorrow.”

“She needs to know what I’m doing. I’m not doing this. I’m not going to prison.”

The sun peeked over the horizon filling the broken window in the cabin with pink light that spilled on the floor. The afterbirth took on the color of hope and new life. The sky was getting brighter, promising peace and fresh beginnings.

The body of the stillborn goat lay between Cal and the mother. Cal, on his knees, reached to pick it up. The mother goat sprang to her feet, and boxed at him with her hooves. She bleated at him, and circled the lifeless kid, defending it from Cal.

His stomach growled. He’d had nothing but collected rainwater for almost three weeks. For months he’d been eating the same the greens the goat was eating, but it would no longer stay down. He was a healthy 185 lbs when he last saw Captain Adiel. Now he was only slightly heavier than the goat. The goat. She could be milked now. That’s why she was here. Her udders were full, and her kid didn’t survive.

“Aja, I need you to want this. I can’t do this myself. We do this together. Until death do us part, and all that. We’ll live out our lives on the beach. It’ll be paradise,” Cal pleaded.

“I’m not running away from a problem you created for us so I can spend the rest of my life getting sunburned and drinking coconut milk.”

Cal gritted his teeth, and leaned in close to her, “You’re my wife. You’re coming with me.” He considered a threat, but his tone and posture was enough, he thought. He touched the tips of his fingers to her throat. “I need you with me,” he said through a desperate smile as he pulled his hand away. “I’ll rub sunscreen on your back, and you can mix the piña coladas. C’mon, honey. Our plane is waiting.”

She closed her eyes, and tilted her head back. A tear rolled down the side of her nose. It dropped to her lip, and the weight of it all forced her mouth open. She sniffed to keep the words from escaping, but he needed to hear. “You’re doing this alone, Cal. You don’t have my consent, and I’m not going with you.”

“You’re delusional, Mr. Tupper, if you think you’ll be acquitted tomorrow,” his lawyer said to him.

“I’m not going to be here to be acquitted,” he said.

He’d wasted an opportunity to have sustenance when the goat gave birth. He was weak from hunger, but not driven insane by it. Not yet. He allowed the mother goat to protect the dead kid until even the goat gave up on it. The rotten smell drove her away. He could have eaten it. What harm would there have been? The fates had put him in this predicament, but they weren’t without mercy. They offered him meat, and he failed to accept the gift. He buried it behind the cabin as the goat watched.

Digging the grave by hand was grueling, but he had new strength. With necessity comes motivation. At first the goat protested. He would have the milk. He needed it to survive. The goat kicked and nagged, but he was still strong enough to use his body to hold it down as he nursed. She bleated in despair. Then as the pressure was relieved she quieted. Small sounds escaped her mouth as she worked her jaw, champing at nothing.

He relaxed his grip, and a hoof struck his neck. The goat rose to its feet, and whinnied like a horse. Cal rolled to one side, choking. Furious, he kicked the goat. And it scampered away. The milk was his. “She can’t go far,” he thought.

“You’re delusional, Cal, if you think you’ll be cleared tomorrow.”

“I’m not going to be here to be cleared tomorrow, Gregg,” he told his lawyer.

“You can’t tell me that! I don’t hear that! I’ve been your lawyer for how many years now? I’ve been your friend longer. So as your friend, I’m telling you to shut up. I don’t know what you have planned. I don’t want to know. As your lawyer, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ve got an island, Gregg.”

 “Damn it, Cal! Shut up!” The lawyer paused, “Shit, what about Aja?”

Cal considered for a moment. “She’s refusing to leave with me.”

The goat gave less milk each day. She didn’t resist anymore, but her udders were going dry. He knew his newfound resource would be depleted, and he’d need a new plan. Captain Adiel could return any time, and this time Cal would be ready.

The goat backed away as he approached it with the rope he’d made from two of his shirts. No more grazing in the ivy. It was time to tie it up.


“Cal, I’m sorry. I can’t go living in some foreign country on a private island for the rest of my life.”

Cal swallowed the rest of his drink, and turned to the front door. He opened it, and there stood two large men.

Confused, Aja asked, “What the hell is going on, Cal?”

“You can’t tell me that, Mr. Tupper. I’m your lawyer, but I still have to obey the law. I’m going to recommend they put you on suicide watch.”

“Suicide watch? What are you talking about?” Cal argued. “I’ve got an island. I’m going home. My wife is there with our bags. I have a plane waiting. You hear me? I have an island.”


The goat got weaker as Cal fed it less and less. Maybe that’s why the milk was drying up. This wasn’t going to happen. If…no, when Adiel returned he wasn’t going to be the victim this time. That bastard pirate would probably expect to find Cal’s body, but that wasn’t Cal’s plan. He’d be ready. He’d be strong. He wasn’t going to be weak. He wasn’t going to be hungry. Captain Adiel would eventually be back, and Cal was going to be ready. If she wasn’t producing milk anymore he might as well eat the goat.

The men stepped inside, and Aja looked between them, and back at Cal. “What the hell, Cal? Who are these men?”

“Mr. Big, and Mr. Strong are being well paid. I’ve hired a plane. Since you’re refusing to leave with me, I had to hire a man with a van too. Two men with a van. I’ll go pack your bag.”

“I’ll convince her, Gregg. She’ll come with me.”

Cal’s lawyer sat silent for a moment. “You’re not telling me this. I don’t hear this.”
He got up from his chair, and walked around his desk. “If you get caught jumping bail you’ll be facing more charges. A tougher sentence.”

Cal stood up. They embraced. Gregg slapped him on the back. “See you tomorrow, brother.”

Cal had just finished burying the last of the bones when he noticed his visitors. Captain Adiel hadn’t returned. There were several boats and a helicopter. Mr. Tupper calmly walked behind the cabin, and stabbed the ground with his Bowie knife. He sat next to the mound just a few feet from the other unmarked grave.

His lawyer got up from her chair, and walked around the table. Cal leaned back as far as the cuffs and shackles would allow. She stood behind him and said, “You understand what you’re being tried for, Mr. Tupper? I can’t help you.” She leaned in and spoke quietly into his ear. “I’ve been assigned to you, Mr. Tupper. I don’t even want to help you. What you’ve done is heinous and indefensible. There isn’t a person on this planet who isn’t disgusted by you. I can’t wait to lose this case tomorrow.”

And Then She Was Dead

I wrote this story for Halloween 2015. Back then I was posting my stories to Facebook Notes and sharing with friends. Today I’m letting this one out to see the world. This one may have a few elements you might find distasteful. You’ve been warned.

“I hope I don’t seem too nervous. It seems like a hundred years since I’ve been on a date,” she told him as he reached to pick up the fork she had dropped. Before he could pick it up himself a new fork had appeared next to Alda’s plate, and the waiter disappeared just as quickly with the one that had touched the floor. Alda Wachs coyly smiled at Armin Maris, and Armin was slightly uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to fancy restaurants like this. Sometimes he’d find himself in a diner with a lonely woman. More often he’d just spend a few dollars on coffee. This woman was different though. He thought it was possible she could be someone he’d like to be with for more than a few months. She was very attractive, but so was he. He was caught off guard since she was the one to approach him first. Since he was already involved with another woman he would have to make some adjustments. He could let the chase go on longer than usual, and devour her later.

“I don’t like to be forward, and I don’t usually ask strange gentlemen out to dinner,” she said.

“That’s okay. I don’t usually get asked out by pretty ladies such as yourself,” he responded. “This is a little more fancy than I’m used to though.”

They sat in silence for an uncomfortable moment, each catching the other looking away before their eyes accidentally met. At once they picked up their forks to take another bite from their appetizers, and it made her giggle. He smiled as he chewed his cabbage. Before swallowing he had to ask, “What’s so funny?” He cupped and wiped his chin, wondering if he’d spilled something there.

She waved it away, shaking her head, “No, there’s nothing there. Just…the forks…”

He continued chewing, then took another forkful before realizing what she meant. It helped when she mimicked the same movement again. “Oh, I get it,” he said, chewing, “Same time, heh.”

Alda felt embarrassed, and put a bite of the beef stuffed grape leaves in her mouth. She looked away, half smiling, certain he wasn’t feeling as giddy as she seemed to feel. “I’ve never eaten Vietnamese before. I think the spices are making me blush.”

“There’s a lot more Asian around here than most people expect. They think they come to the Midwest, and it’s nothing but truck-stop burgers and freedom fries. There’s a Thai place about ten minutes from here that’ll knock your socks off,” he told her. “We can go there some time if you want,” he said.

“Why, Mr. Maris, are you already asking me on another date?” Alda asked tucking her pinky into the corner of her lip.

Armin wasn’t sure himself. He never had anyone act so blatantly smitten over him. He was never married, and any play he had with women was based in emotional manipulation. Despite having successfully lured, killed, and consumed multiple women over the course of the last twenty-four years he never felt comfortable in extended periods of conversation. Maybe now he’d found someone who could help him learn to be “normal.”

“Maybe I am,” he said.

Earlier she’d told him she was new to Minnesota. Moving from New Orleans, she wasn’t sure what to expect. She felt it was important to be as open as possible if she hoped to make any new friends. When they bumped into each other in her hotel parking lot he apologized, and kept walking; but there was something about him that caught her attention. She forgot to ask what he was doing there. He seemed to be in an awful hurry, but she took a chance. She hoped to capture him with some enchanting dialogue. After a minute or so it was clear he was attracted to her, but he didn’t try any pick up lines. She knew she’d have to take the wheel, so she asked if he’d have a drink at the bar with her. When he was finally clued in to her advances he agreed. Their exchange was mostly superficial, and she could see he was a serial novice in the art of conversation. Before he had a chance to decline she had asked him if she could offer him a meal.

“Well, now, good sir. I do believe you’re the one who’s making me blush. How can a single woman be certain you’re a man of good intentions,” she played with him. “I’m new in town, unfamiliar with my surroundings, and at the mercy of your charm and wit. If I should decline your offer of hospitality how would I be certain you would accept my rebuttal gracefully?”

Armin winced, a little slow to understand her humor. She was definitely a different breed. He thought they shared some interests. The signs were there. She acted as if she was the one who was asking, and when the cards were on the table he thought she might be uncomfortable with him. He was used to lonelier woman with less confidence. Getting a drink in them sometimes helped his operation. Finding them with drinks already in them was more commonly what made him comfortable. He was a handsome man, and found that women would talk to him. He was just never very good at talking back.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“Silly,” she cracked, “I’m totally into Thai. I’m just toying with you,” she said playfully poking at the beef on her plate.

He smiled again, half realizing that he meant it. She actually made him smile. He had interest in her beyond his regular appetite. Interacting with her was beginning to feel uncomfortably normal. He had never relied on actual flirting, and barely knew how to do it. But she was making it easy for him. The other women made it easy for him too, but she was different. He wasn’t sure how, but he wondered if this meant he was changing or if he would only end up savoring her more than anyone else.

“What about tomorrow night?” he asked.

“Armin, am I crazy? I don’t know a thing about you except that you are a single, mild-mannered, middle-aged white male who lives in the suburbs of the Mid-West.” She leaned in for effect “For all I know you’re some kind of serial killer.”

Armin flinched, “What?” came from his mouth involuntarily.

“Relax,” She put her hand on his. “I’m only kidding. I asked you first, remember?”

He shook it off, and grinned again. He thought of how easy it seemed. Maybe he was just getting better. Maybe he had been honing his talent for luring women so long that he could do it unconsciously now. No. He was attracted to her in a different way. They continued their discussion over spicy beef noodle soup. Armin only ate the noodles. The broth was fine, but the meat was too tough for him.

The restaurant shared a parking lot with her hotel, so when they finished their meal Alda had insisted on covering the check. Then she’d asked that he escort her to her room. She turned to him, and hovered into the partially opened door. He stood, half expecting, and half unsure. His weight shifted back and forth. He wondered if he was supposed to kiss her. She touched her finger to his lower lip, and withdrew it, touching it to her own lips. “I had a nice time, Armin. Will you call me tomorrow?” She asked.

“Of course!” he said. “Thai food. We can meet there, or I can pick you up, or…”

“Call me, Armin,” she smiled, and disappeared into her room. The door shut, and he heard her lock the bolt.

Armin turned, and reached into his pocket for a keycard. He walked down the hall, bypassing the exit, and turned left. He stopped at the door on the end of the hall. Sliding his card into the lock the indicator light turned green, and he stepped into the tiny hotel room. He didn’t turn the light on until he was inside and the door was secured. “You have a busy night ahead,” he said to his own reflection as he began to strip his clothes off.

“Sorry, miss. I had a detour on the way back.” He eyed the deep red water in the tub, and reached his hand in to pull the plug. As the water drained he grabbed the two large plastic lined duffle bags he’d left on the bed. He then unsheathed a chef knife. “Let’s get you home,” he said to the corpse who was sharing the room with him.

The following evening Armin paid the check with cash as Alda took a last spoonful of her fried banana and coconut cream. “Nothing like a little sweet to cool off the spices. You were right. This place is amazing. I’ll have to put it on my list of places to come back to,” she said.

They’d spent over two hours eating Pad Thai and spicy chicken. Eating off each other’s plates, they laughed, and talked about childhood, school, and all the latest celebrity gossip. They agreed reality television had gotten out of control, and they both enjoyed the new trend in bringing horror to weekly serials. They agreed music had become an industry with no soul, and that the couple seated in the corner were both married, but not to each other. The waitress wasn’t Asian, and they wondered if it was racist to wonder why she worked in a Thai restaurant. Through all their playful banter neither mentioned work. It had become a perfectly stress-free dinner conversation.

Armin opened himself and spoke more freely. Alda hoped she wouldn’t appear too glutenous as she nibbled from her plate while listening to his stories. One was about the nosey old lady next door. Another was about his mother. She was long gone, but he seemed to remember her fondly. She was pleased to see progress in making him more comfortable. Her desire for him began to intensify.

It was only a day after they’d met, and Armin found himself on a second date with a woman who was potentially going to be a feeding him through most of the winter. He’d already done his hunting, and brought home his prey for the next few months. Maybe this winter he would splurge, and enjoy healthier portions. No. Alda was different. He enjoyed her company. He wondered if he should share his hobby with her. Not all at once, of course. He could treat her to a taste of his cooking, and gage her interest. “That’s crazy,” he thought to himself. “What am I thinking?”

They found themselves in the parking lot behind the restaurant. “What now?” she asked.

Once again, floundering in awkwardness, Armin put his hands in his pockets, and shrugged. Alda slid her hand inside his elbow, and squeezed his lean, muscular arms. “Walk me to your car,” she instructed as she let him lead her.

When he pulled the keys from his jacket pocket she playfully snatched them away, and unlocked the car herself. Standing close to him she tilted her head back so that her breath would tickle his neck. Her bobbed blond hair whiffled across his lips as she turned to get into the driver’s seat. He inhaled her scent, and his ears began to feel warm. She smiled before closing the door. He smiled back, and wondered, “What now?”

The window lowered about halfway, and they gazed at each other, both expecting the other to say something.

Alda leaned toward the opening, and looked into the sky. There were no stars, and the air felt damp. “Looks like rain,” she said.

“Can I get you a drink?” he offered.“I thought you’d never ask,” she said.

“There’s a place just over…” he was interrupted.

“Let’s got to your place,” she said.

Armin was taken aback. She was more forward than any woman he’d ever met. Alda definitely looked younger than he did. It must be a generational thing. She never mentioned her age. He assumed she was about a decade younger. At least she looked that way. Armin was 44 years old. He guessed Alda would have to be in her early thirties at the most.

She flirtatiously dipped her chin, and raised her eyebrows. Tilting her head away slightly, she asked, “Should I follow you or are you getting in?”

He mentally toured his house to determine if it was presentable. Were there clean sheets on the bed? Was he being presumptuous by trying to remember? He felt a tingle in his groin that panicked him. There’s no way he could go through with this. She obviously wasn’t looking for a one-night-stand. They’d been on two dates—sort of. It was apparent that she liked him, and he was certain he liked her too.

He shuffled his feet, and curled his toes inside his shoes. His discomfort was plainly obvious to Alda, and she thought it was adorable. She let him squirm a bit more before starting the car. She turned to him again, confident he’d invite her back to his home. She reached a hand out, and pressed a button on a different key fob. The brake lights on a car a few spaces away lit up. The interior light illuminated blue behind its tinted windows. She dangled the oversized keyring, and said, “I want to drive your car. You can drive mine.” She winked, and dropped the keyring into his hand.

Armin knew that this was a deciding moment. There were three options here. He was going to lose his virginity tonight, which was out of the question. The pressure was too much. This left only two other options. He would decline, and meet her again for another date on a different night. Eventually, though, she would circle around to the same uncomfortable proposition. This left only one option. He rationalized that he was deluded in thinking Alda was different. Of course he couldn’t have sex with her. What next? They are boyfriend and girlfriend? That sounded so immature. They marry? He couldn’t have a wife. He liked things the way they were. He took care of his mother’s house, and no woman would ever come along to complicate his life. She was still young enough to have kids. She’d want to have kids—probably several. There would be diapers, and laundry, and shopping lists. He’d be buying all the wrong food. His towels would be too rough. She’d want to change the curtains, and cancel Cinemax from the cable subscription. She’d insist he doesn’t eat cereal in his underwear while watching sports. She probably would insist they go on regular dates to keep their marriage exciting while the kids drive him crazy with the things they want. Baby sitters. More uncomfortable dates. Nightmares. Bloody noses. Parks. Picnics. Expensive vacations they can’t afford. Polo shirts and golf shorts. Cheap beer, and pizza night. His imagination spun faster than he could keep up, and it was making him dizzy. He was going to have to kill her.

“Follow me,” he said as he turned to walk to her car.

Alda wasn’t impressed with the house when she drove up behind Armin’s car. It didn’t really concern her. She was prepared the minute she turned into the neighborhood. There were rows of vinyl-sided and brick-faced houses, all with lazily manicured lawns and bicycles left in driveways. The occasional home was decorated with autumn-themed wreaths and super-market stenciled jack-o-lanterns. It occurred to her that there were no cars on the street. It probably meant she was supposed to park in the driveway. She followed her car as he turned in, but he stopped at the end.

A light rain had begun to come down during the short ride to Armin’s home. Alda turned off the windshield wipers when she stopped, and she watched the beads form across the glass. She could see the garage door lifting, and they both waited. Once the door was completely open Armin pulled quickly in to the middle of the garage, and at once the door began to lower. “Okay…” she wondered out loud.

She watched her car disappear inside the garage. The brake lights illuminated the rain on the windshield making it resemble drops and trickles of blood. She was momentarily distracted when she noticed something else that was peculiar. Along the back wall were three oblong white metal boxes. Freezers? He never mentioned it, but she was certain he was a hunter.

She turned off the ignition, and a moment later he came dashing out the front door with an umbrella.

“I thought you were leaving me out here to fend for myself,” she told him.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to bring your car inside,” he made a gesture pointing out the rain.

“It’s a rental. I wouldn’t have minded coming in through the garage.”

“No,” he said, “It’s a mess in there.”

He escorted her across the walk, and he held the front door, “How about that drink now? Won’t you come inside?”

She smiled and walked in ahead of him, “That sound’s lovely. I’m very thirsty.”

The sun was bright the next day. The final warm breeze of the season brushed through the green and red maple leaves in the tree on Armin’s front lawn. The door opened, and heavy shoes stepped out tentatively. He reached up to prop the storm door open, and then waved to the man standing outside the van parked at the curb, “It’s all yours,” he said, “Let’s go.”

He stepped aside as another man with a camera around his neck tiptoed sideways around him, “Lindsay has his work cut out for him today.”

“You’re not kidding, huh?” The man at the door said.

The photographer squatted to sit on the step, and removed the paper booties that covered his shoes. A young man holding a camera bag and tripod was rolling up a tape measure. He fumbled with a pile of index cards as he held out a plastic bag for the photographer who dropped his booties in the bag while turning back to the man at the door, “I’ve seen a lot worse. Never seen something this weird.”

His assistant looked in the bag at the white booties, puzzled.

“K-9s are in the back. Looks like there may be more.”

Two men walked past them with a stretcher, not saying a word. Ducking under yellow tape, they disappeared inside.

“More than the garage and basement?”

The man at the door looked around at the dozen or so neighbors standing across the street. A man in sweatpants, a t-shirt, and unlaced snow boots stood with two young boys. He sipped coffee, and mumbled confused words to another man wearing a tie. A small dog dragging a leash behind it, but no owner, sniffed in a figure eight on the edge of the property. A woman dressed in a blue jump suit with an embroidered name tag craned her neck to see over the fence into Armin’s yard. Another woman in a designer suit held her finger in one ear, and pressed a cellphone into the other. A school bus opened its doors, and three young teenagers got on. The bus backed up, having to find a new route to the next stop. Several police cars blocked the street, lights flashing.

He lowered his voice, “No count yet. Coroner’s sending in three more vehicles.”

“I’ve got shots of the two bodies in the hall. Undisturbed, but disturbing freezer contents. Three full-size in the garage, two minis in the basement. Two dehydrators, two refrigerators, and the basement bathroom. This guy had to be a nutcase,” the photographer said.

Just then another man stepped out through the front door shaking his head.

“Lindsay,” the other spoke.

“Carpenter’s got an ID on the male. He’s the owner of the house. Still no word on the woman. Weird as shit. I don’t even know why I’m here. There’s no blood on the walls,” He leaned closer to the man at the door, “The guy’s bone dry. A God damned prune.” He shook his head again, and gestured to the photographer, “You head around back and wait for the techs.”

A woman stepped outside, and the two men still there turned to her.

“One Armin Maris,” she said. “Blunt force trauma to the skull, and puncture wounds on his chest, arms, and neck. The woman had her neck broken.” Captain Carpenter had never seen anything like this, and it showed. She was completely oblivious to the eavesdropping neighbors. “We’re fairly certain he’s responsible for the rest of the bodies. This doesn’t make sense though.”

Before sunrise that morning a woman walking her dog had found Armin. Ordinarily it wasn’t unusual for people in the area to leave their garage door open, but her dog was acting strange. She knew the man’s car, but not his name. It was half on the lawn, parked on an odd angle as if it had been pulled off to the side in a hurry. It was obvious the garage door was open all night because there were puddles of rain inside. She let her dog lead her to the door inside the garage, which was left open too.

“Hello?” She knocked on the inside of the door in the garage that lead to the kitchen. “Hello? I’m sorry to intrude. Is anyone here?” She asked. The dog bolted inside, and the leash slipped off her wrist, “Sophie! You come back here!” The woman skulked inside, leaning one way, then the other, looking for her dog. Around the first turn she found her sniffing around Mr. Maris’ body. She gasped, and put her hand to her mouth, “Oh, my…”

Coming in through the garage, Alda eyed the newcomer, then the bag she’d left on the kitchen counter. Alda closed the kitchen door behind her, and the woman turned in muted surprise. Alda calmly removed her sunglasses, and strode to the woman who was standing over Armin’s body. She reached out to her, and twisted her head with a jerk. Her neck was instantly broken, and her body crumbled to the floor. The dog barked, but didn’t dare advance or attack.

Alda instinctively stared at the woman’s exposed neck. Half-tempted to bite it she rolled her eye’s in frustration. “What a waste,“ she said as she licked her lips, “Sorry, lady. I forgot my bag. Why would you come into someone’s house uninvited, anyway? Where are your manners?”

Before hurrying away she reached past the dead woman, and put her thumb into the wound on Armin’s neck. She put the blood-smeared thumb into her mouth, and pulled it out clean with a popping sound. “This guy is dangerous.”

Evermore Prologue

You are invited into a glimpse of a world I’ve been creating for years. I’ve threatened in the past that I’ve been writing a book, but the editing process has slowed me so often I’ve felt as though I might never actually finish it. The story is there. At this point it’s only a matter of juggling a few words and removing redundancies. There might be a scene or two missing that will help explain the unravelling mysteries of this fantasy world, but I’m finally ready to share the prologue.

I’ve been intimidated by the idea that The Edge of Evermore is only a part of a much bigger story that happens over the course of thousands of years. It’s a distant, post-Singularity future. Humankind had integrated its biology with its own technology and evacuated a doomed planet for the promise of the stars. Thousands of years passed, and those who were left behind had long since forgotten what came before. The following is my prologue to From the Weeds Eden: The Edge of Evermore. ©2019 Kurt Marquart.

Evermore Prologue:

“The time is here, Matria” Noni said. “You have to push.” Matria’s grimace was hardly noticeable, and she made no sound. She was alone with her trusted Soldotisas. The room was dark and quiet but for her own short breaths and the echoes of shuffling feet in the hallway. Perspiration streamed past her temples and into her eyes disguising her tears. The physiological response to her pain wasn’t foreign to her anymore. She rejoiced, awkwardly smiling as she looked into Soldotisa Noni’s eyes. She peeled a mass of wet hair from her cheek and laughed. The other Soldotisas looked at one another, unable to hide their astonishment. Matria thought their expressions betrayed admiration for her fortitude, and she may have been right. When Matria finally grunted they almost looked relieved to see she could feel pain. Matria had been unable to bear children for over two thousand years. Something had changed. No one had dared question the miracle, least of all, Matria.

When the boy made his entrance into the world Matria immediately ordered Noni to send for Vogel. When he arrived the Soldotisas swiftly withdrew to give them privacy, but more importantly to spread the news.


“You did this,” she accused. “How can I love this thing knowing what he is?”

Vogel’s smile endured. “Your Soldotisas don’t know what they’re doing. Feel your connection to him. Just breath. Love will follow.”

“I should have known you were one of the monsters,” she spat.

“Who I am makes no difference now. All that matters is that we have this boy, and that we protect him,” he said.

Matria felt alone. Not just alone in the room, but alone in the world. She’d allowed the miracle of carrying Vogel’s child to pollute her judgment. The product of lust she held in her arms suddenly did not feel like a part of her. For the first time since she’d known him she felt as if Vogel had power over her. She didn’t like the feeling, and it was clear in her voice. “We?”

“The child will rule it all some day, my Matria,” Vogel promised her, not missing her implication. He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself as he pleaded.

“My Matria? Yours? I’ve only held you for my pleasure. You are my property,” she told him. She was rapidly recovering. With the infant now outside her body she felt more complete, as if she’d been obstructed before. She hadn’t realized how gradually the boy had dominated her from the inside. The boy was Vogel, and she was beginning to feel repulsed by both of them. She looked down at the newborn and felt nauseous. “This thing…”

Vogel acted quickly to protect the child. He leaned in with a warm expression. Matria became dizzy, and lost consciousness for a mere moment as he passed his hand over her.

She shook herself. Matria was about to continue when she noticed the child was now in Vogel’s arms. He held him openly for her to see.

She reached out to him. “Give him back,” she ordered, unsure of why she needed him so desperately.

“He came to me willingly. The Teratoqa will be his,” Vogel promised her.

“Men have no power here. He can never be king,” she said.

“He’ll be more than a king,” he said as he stepped toward Matria again.

“My little prince,” she cooed as Vogel handed the the child back to her.

“If he is to be accepted by your people, you must call him your Auqui,” Vogel warned before completely letting go. “They will worship him if you honor their history. Give them their Auqui and they will protect him as their own.”

“They will,” she admitted. “And the Teratoqa will rightfully be his,” she paused, feeling her own cognizance return. “His. Not yours. Not your father’s.”

Vogel stepped back in surprise.

“Yes, I know. Did you think Gryphus could send a weapon to Sottera without my knowing? I’ve been in his head. I know how his mind works.”

“My Matria, it’s true I was sent here from Nordamaegon. Not for this. His Augmentals are lost to him. We both know that. I fell in love with you. You know this. We’ve been through this,” he pleaded.

“Gryphus will never know of our child. Not until it’s too late for him. The Auqui of Evermore will unite Sottera while the monsters of Nordamaegon destroy each other.” She sat up and cradled her newborn protectively for the first time. “He won’t be one of your monsters!”

Soldotisa Noni opened the door, “Matria?” She asked.

“Indomi!” Matria called past the grey haired woman. A tall, dark-haired woman appeared, and stepped past the Soldotisa. Her hands were bare, but she held them like hammers. “Take him away. Return him to Vivisuba and lock him up with the other jogos. He can rot there.”

When the room was quiet Noni smiled at the new mother. “Your child is a true Auqui. May I take him to the nursery to bath him? You need your rest.” She reached for the child without waiting for an answer. Noni wrapped him in a small fur blanket, and turned, stopping halfway to the door. She looked to Matria for the answer to the question she needn’t have asked.

Matria smiled. “His name is to be Pahuavia.”

Noni beamed. “It’s a perfect name, Matria. He will herald a great peace for all of the Teratoqa,” she said as she left the room.

Matria felt the anxiety of separation immediately. Her mind raced. She was filled with worry. She sensed her child was in danger. And then from the hall she heard Soldotisa Noni scream. The air in the room tickled Matria’s skin and Pahuavia was in her arms again, cooing with large brown eyes staring into hers.



I am the Dogfather

Here I was, about to start writing this piece about my dogs having been in a recent scrap with each other when I heard one bark outside. That was Kara’s bark. The bark was a play invitation. She was asking George to play with her. I know the sound. But I didn’t trust it. I had to call them inside where I can keep a closer ear on them.

These two dogs are rescues. My adopted kids in a way. Just last week I was trying to explain the concept to a friend whom has actual human kids and also dogs. The dynamic there is different. That’s not to diminish your particular relationship with your dogs if you also have kids. Typically though, the idea of doggie parents makes people cringe or giggle. That’s okay. It’s an emotional surrogate thing. I admit I used to make fun of it myself. But now I am a doggie daddy. I am the Dogfather.

Kara (left) and George (right) are very good at waiting for the okay before eating.

A few days ago I’d left the room after feeding the dogs. They are very good at waiting for me to say, “Okay,” before they begin their twice daily meal. I can thank my wife for that training. Perhaps I’d begun to take for granted that they get along so well. They’ve never before had food aggression. When they get treats they sit side by side and wait their turn. That’s not entirely true. If George misses his toss (He’s gotten much better since we first got him. A tossed treat used to bounce off his snout every time), Kara will often take advantage and take what he couldn’t catch. She has seniority in the house as the older dog who’s been with us longer, but that doesn’t mean she gets more food. She learns the lesson of food fairness on a regular basis. It always evens out. She does eat slower though, and that’s where the problem started.

It should be noted, big sister Kara and little brother George got into a quick scrap that lead to no injuries when we first adopted George a few years ago. They had been playing so well together in his first few days together, so I decided to introduce the ball back into the equation. Kara loves chasing the ball, and she’s always been quick as a whip; but she’s never had competition. When George took a head start, anticipating my throw, he made it to the ball first. Kara was having none of that, and she let him know with a spoiled snap at his face. He was defensive immediately, snapping back, and crying out, “Hey! No fair!” in his best impression of a dog who’s trying to find his place in the new hierarchy. We were his new family. George wasn’t the new dog. We all had to adapt, but the stressful part was on Georgie. They got over it, and George determined that he will only chase a ball if Kara is off chasing her own ball first. His smile is gigantic when he has his own ball, and he will usually just nuzzle his prize after the first catch. He’s easily contented, and he’s always appreciative.

We don’t know much of George’s history except that he has a lot of scars around his neck and face. They are mostly hidden by his fur now since he’s much healthier than when we first brought him home. We often wonder what he’s been through. Who did this to him? Was he mentally scarred too? Was he abused? Did he have to fight to survive in a world of other strays? Whatever the case is he loves his family. We are his pack, and he wears a proud expression with regal posture every time we walk together. He always comes over to say, “Thank you for the meal,” after he’s eaten.

Lately, Kara has slowed down a little. She’s still very much a puppy with her energy, and people are always surprised to know she’s twelve years old. She eats a bit slower than she used to. George will sometimes watch her eat when he’s finished, probably wondering if she’ll leave anything behind. I should have done more than just notice this. I should have realized this situation requires supervision.

Something I’ve done recently is take for granted that they get along so well. I’ve consciously put their food bowls closer together when I feed them. It wasn’t meant as a test. It was more out of convenience. I only had to bend down once, and isn’t that what being a human adult is? A contest to bend down less often? He who bends down the least wins. I had unwittingly contributed to a perfect storm.

I can only presume what actually happened to make them start fighting based on what I know about them because I was one room away when it started. I heard the sounds of collars jingling as they munched away at breakfast. The jingling quieted, and there was only one collar tapping against the metal bowl. I heard a yap, then another yap. Both sounded defensive to me, so I ignored it. They’s said their piece and got past it. That’s when I heard growling, thumping, and snapping. It was all very quick. George probably got too close to Kara as she was finishing. She didn’t like it. She said, “Get away! I’m still eating!” George said, “Sorry! You’re just eating so slow! I thought I would help you finish.” Then Kara said, “Don’t you take that tone with me, mister!” and it became a fight.

“George said, ‘Sorry! You’re just eating so slow! I thought I would help you finish.’ Then Kara said, ‘Don’t you take that tone with me, mister!’ and it became a fight.”

My barks started before I was out of my chair, and by the time I got to them it had only been a few seconds. They didn’t want to be fighting. I know because when they heard me yelling, “Hey! Hey! Hey!” they both got to Sphinx position as I entered the kitchen. Then Kara got up as if nothing had happened, and went back to her bowl. That’s when I noticed the blood on the floor.

Georgie rolled over for inspection, but I didn’t see any wounds. He was fine. I was shocked because Kara is the reactive one. She’s the one who’s taken aggressive positions in the past. It was Kara who was bleeding. I found blood coming out of her nostril. She was licking it too fast for me to see a source, so I assumed George’s tooth caught her in the nose and scraped or punctured her nostril. She sneezed a few times and the kitchen became a murder scene. I quickly got a blanket and a wet towel and called her to the bedroom. I covered the bed with the blanket, and called her up. She was shaken, but happy for the attention. From her perspective, I imagined she thought I was taking her side and comforting her. George followed us around saying, “But she started it!” with his eyes and tail.

Kara had a tooth mark on her snout. The skin and fur was peeled back, and the wound was deep. Her bloody nose wasn’t from a wayward tooth in the gnashing of faces. She was bleeding from her nose because of the pressure from the bite! “George! You bit her face! There’s no fighting in this house!” I said to George. Kara’s expression said, “Yeah, it was his fault.” George’s expression said, again, “But she started it!”

“That doesn’t matter,” I said. “We don’t fight over food and we don’t bite each others faces!” I actually said that. I felt like we had a language-barrier-free conversation about it. I was being a dad though I’ve never been a father. I was wiping blood off my little girl’s nose after she got into a scuffle at the breakfast table with her little brother. It was a Leggo my Eggo situation.

George is a good boy. He tests his place sometimes. He’ll jump on the bed without permission, and we occasionally have to remind him to wait for an invite. He learns quickly, and one of his main concerns is being obedient. He wants to be a good dog. I only worry slightly that he could feel now that he’s “beaten” Kara in a contest, and he’s risen in the ranks. If anything he saw how concerned I was with her swollen snout. I was reassuring her. He looked like he felt like an outsider for a few moments. That’s when I hugged him. “Sorry, Dad.” he said with his nuzzle. I am the Dogfather.