With a flick of my wrist, I flipped the cigarette up and caught it in my mouth. It was a cheap trick that I had learned as a kid from watching Robert Mitchum or James Dean or one of those pseudo-badasses from film noir who always seemed to have a […]
Across the street, there is a petite little blue house. White trim, picket fence. It’s the cliché fairy tale home you read in the storybooks. I can see it through the bars of my window. The little old lady who lives there likes to sit in an old rocking chair
Said to be christened Apa Moarta, or ‘Dead Water’, by a passing Romanian caravan in their native tongue, and tucked away in a far-flung, scarcely populated, staunchly isolationist region of untouched Russian countryside…beyond the grotesque, fantastical stories shared by the more ignorant and morbid of the younger generations, there’s not
I never remember feeling sick. Just a sudden headache, and my dog barking as I collapsed to the ground. The world had vanished beneath my feet, and my consciousness was trapped in darkness, disconnected from my body. For what felt like an eternity, I floated through the emptiness of the
This week, I was supposed to digitize all of Dr. Marnen’s patient files. I was feeling good about my progress when I saw it. A second filing cabinet, hiding behind the shelves, that I’d never noticed before. Sighing with fatigue, I yanked open the first drawer. I plucked out a
Part 1 This is your captain speaking. I’ve just turned on the seat belt sign. We’re expecting a fair amount of turbulence coming up, so we ask that you please remain seated until the sign is turned off. We’re on pace to land at Newark International Airport at 3:30 a.m.,
A couple of months ago, I found a diary written by a young girl, Florence Blackwell, who was a patient at the Kings Park Psychiatric Hospital on Long Island. Without telling the entirety of the story over again, there was one person who was instrumental in Florence’s survival of inhumane treatment at the hospital; a nurse named Mary.
I grew up on Long Island, right outside of the Kings Park Psychiatric Center, home of the legend of Cropsey. I was always a good kid, never broke any rules, never really pushed the limits of what was and wasn’t “allowed”. But recently, I moved home after graduating from college,
The new epidemic is already beyond its patient zero. Whether or not I am infected, I am confident that Mr. Bridestar will soon have me murdered. He will do this in order to keep the disease’s name unknown. I won’t let him win, though. At least not completely. Although this
Katy took a long hit on the pipe. Her eyes rolled up and back into her head. She choked on the smoke that invaded her lungs, and an attempt at a giggle was unsuccessful. Her blue eyes watered and her almost-laugh was strangled by another coughing fit. “I’m gonna die!”
Craig Brockwell was found by his wife, dead on their living room floor, a plastic garbage bag tied off around his neck, and an empty bottle of Xanax on the kitchen counter, next to a suicide note. My initial external examination of the body revealed no indications of a physical
Roger glanced around the desert once more. Nothing but the cloudless sky and the sand scattering in the wind, with a few cacti dotted around the landscape. With nothing else to do, he checked his magazine, already knowing how many bullets he had. Full. Adjusting his helmet, Roger sighed and
I don’t know about everyone else, but I have always had terrible vision. Generally, it gets worse from year to year, but there are some years I’m able to skip the decay. I wear contact lenses because I’ve tried to avoid the nerd stigma my whole life, I’m not entirely
Tinnitus: a nightmare of a disease affecting millions of people, myself included. How could I best describe this condition? An incessant, nail on a chalkboard screeching that goes on for every minute of every day. Just imagine never experiencing the true bliss of utter silence. Maybe it’s not too uncommon
Scratching an itch on my back, I found a hollow the size of a tack head. At my bathroom mirror I rolled my shoulder forward. Next to my shoulder blade, on my upper middle back, was a tiny hole. No plug, like a normal blackhead, but a deep hole. I watched my finger in the mirror, prodding it.
I have always wondered what it would be like to stare evil eye to eye as equals. To sit across a table from and break bread with it. This lifelong desire was satisfied some days ago, and the whole experience has left me rather shaken. In an attempt to impose