“Too many syllables!!!” She had manically sobbed, and Dan Dude, a rather short real-estate salesman from the suburbs, taught to never press anyone too far, decided to leave the naming for after their son’s birth. Maybe it’d just come to them when the child arrived, he thought, not wanting to distress his pregnant wife. 

“How about Christopher?” the nurse had said. When recounting this story to Guy, his mother had mumbled out the suggested name in a drawn out split of three parts, afraid that if she uttered the whole word, it’d be too scary to bear, and she’d fall into another nervous fit similar to when the doctor had diagnosed her with osteoporosis. 

“It’s not so bad,” the doctor had said, “there are plenty of treatments for osteoporosis available nowadays.” But Mrs. Dude had already broken down into hard screams from the springing sounds of “treatments” and “available” and of course, the dreaded, longest word, “osteoporosis”. 

Guy’s mother had frozen in fear at the hospital, still clutching her unnamed newborn in her arms, and the nurse took her silence not as fear but as a moment of betweenity, and so, she suggested another name. 

“I have an uncle with a rather lovely name,” she said, and Mrs. Dude relaxed at the stream of short words. 

“Emmanuel.” the nurse put it out there. She was quite fond of her uncle, and what a nice thing it would be to tell him that someone had decided to name their baby after him! 

Mrs. Dude froze. Oh too long, oh much too long! her brain had screamed. 

The nurse, confused at her patient’s wide-eyed silence, simply raised an eyebrow and said “if it’s not to your taste—“ 

Mrs. Dude came out of her freeze at the return to one-syllable beauties and shook her head, looking down at the baby in her arms. At that moment, a doctor sprinted down the hallway after some runaway patient, and it was a moment of bliss and harmony (though she would’ve never referred to it as such a long word of course) for Mrs. Dude. 

“Stop that guy!” The doctor had yelled, and Mrs. Dude became entranced with the punchy, monosyllabic beat of his words. So short, so crisp.

“Guy… what a nice name that would be.” said Mrs. Dude. “Not a nickname in sight… just a guy.”

And here Guy was now, 27 years old, futzing around on the stage, unsure if he could even utter a peep, how scared he was at the word the judge had presented. That was how Guy had lost himself the competition and the $2,000 he needed to make rent this month. He didn’t make much money as a cook at Ann’s Food Shop, afraid to even apply for a job with too long of a title like a carpenter or a construction worker or a barista. He shuddered inwardly just thinking of having to announce his occupation to anyone. He had almost become a computer engineer, under the guise that it was called a “Tech Guy” and that he thought was funny. Guy the Tech Guy, so short and sweet and funny. But when he had received the application, it had listed the position as a computer engineer and the panic had set in. He had simply thrown the paper away. He didn’t even want to think about it. 

Now, Guy had landed himself at Bill’s Bar, much simpler than Eugene’s or Mr. Roberito’s, parked on a stool, three drinks down into the night. He was calling over the man behind the bar to grab himself a fourth, feeling his savings dropping into the black hole that was his wallet. He wasn’t making rent this month, he knew that. He’d get kicked out of his apartment—he shivered. His rooms, his rooms, he assured himself—he knew it. But tonight he was gonna drink his way down. He’d spend all his money. He’d end the night a nillionaire on the streets, and then, at least, he could beg like a proper urchin. God, he felt bad. Awful was too long a word, but the drink made him long for just a hit of self-destruction, and he tested it out on his tongue. Awful. Horrible. Deplorable. Oh God, those words felt bad. 

When I woke up this morning something felt dark and grim.  I live in a cabin near the woods in Maine, I like the wilderness and the calmness of my yard.  It provides me with a safe space for my thoughts.  Last night it was highly stormy though, and I had a feeling like something was wrong.  I tried to shake the feeling and go to bed but I knew someone was out there trying to get after me.  This morning I got up to make coffee and breakfast but that feeling was still there.  I got some things done around the house and once I was done I wanted to take the rest of my coffee outside on the porch with me.  As I reached down to the door handle a shiver got sent down my spine, and all the hairs on my neck shot straight up.  That should’ve been my warning, and I should’ve stayed inside but I continued.  Not knowing that was going to be the biggest mistake of my life.  As I slowly jiggled with the door handle my intuition told me to stop yet, I continued.  When I got outside everything seemed nice and calm until I looked down.  Big muddy footprints were leading from my pathway to the doorstep.  As soon as I saw them I ran back inside and locked all the windows and doors, and pulled the shades down.  My best option was to call my brother so that's what I did.
“Cooper you have to come over now”

“Come on Jess what is it this time?  You're not going to drag me all the way there for a loose screw again are you?”

“No it's serious this time, you gotta believe me”.

“Ok, what is it?”

“There are huge muddy footprints leading to my doorstep.  I don’t know what to do I’m scared I’ve had a bad feeling since last night”.

But behind the facade of constant mirth lay a different truth, one that only a select few were privy to. Charlie was plagued by a deep-seated insecurity that had taken root in their heart long ago. It was a darkness he could never quite escape, a heavy burden that he carried silently, hidden beneath layers of humor. 

Charlie's life had been a series of masks, each one more elaborate than the last. From a young age, he had discovered that  making people laugh was the surest way to gain acceptance and love. So, they became the class clown, the office jester, and the life of every party. He reveled in the attention and the laughter that surrounded him, but it was a double-edged sword.

As the years went by, Charlie found himself trapped in a cycle of seeking validation through laughter. He couldn’t bear the thought of being alone with his thoughts, of facing the gnawing emptiness that lingered just beneath the surface. So, he kept the jokes coming, the laughter flowing, and the smiles painted on.

But the more he made others laugh, the more his own tears remained unshed. The weight of his insecurities grew heavier with each passing day, like an anchor pulling him deeper into the sea of his own despair. He longed for someone to see through the facade, to reach out and offer a lifeline, but he was trapped by his own creation. 

One chilly evening, as the city lights twinkled in the distance, Charlie found himself alone in his dimly lit apartment. The laughter of the day had faded, replaced by the haunting silence of his own thoughts. The walls, once echoing with the merriment of others, now closed in around him.

Charlie sat in the stillness, tears finally streaming down his face. He realized that his constant quest to make others laugh had been a desperate attempt to fill the void within himself. He had hidden his true feelings for so long that he had almost forgotten who he was beneath the mask of humor. 

In that solitary moment, Charlie made a choice. He decided to seek help, to confront his insecurities, and to learn to find genuine happiness without relying on the laughter of others. It was a long and challenging journey, but he was determined to rediscover his true self and to heal the wounds that had been buried for so long.

As the days turned into weeks and then months, Charlie began to share his inner struggles with a therapist, slowly peeling away the layers of humor that concealed his pain. It was a difficult process, but with each step forward, he felt a little lighter, a little more free.

Over time, Charlie had learned that true happiness didn’t come from making others laugh but from accepting himself, flaws and all. He discovered that vulnerability was not a weakness but a strength, and that the genuine connections he formed when he allowed others to see his true self were far more precious than the shallow laughter of a thousand jokes.

And so, Charlie began to heal, one tear at a time, one moment of authenticity at a time. HE realized that he could still bring joy to others through his humor, but it was no longer a desperate need for validation; it was a gift freely given from a heart that had learned to love and accept itself. 

In the end, Charlie’s story was not just a sad one; it was a story of resilience and transformation,a testament to the power facing one’s insecurities and finding the strength to be authentically, beautifully, and unapologetically himself. 

“It’s cancer of the liver. Normally without treatment you would have six to eight months and by the look of the scans it looks like your life would be very ephemeral. You have about a month or two left Michael. Chemo may help but I want you to think first.” My eyes began to tear up. I’m gonna die. She gave more details and millions of papers to look at. “Thanks Doc, I’ll let you know what I’ll do.” I said, grabbing my coat and walking out. 

I didn’t want to tell my wife. I didn’t want to see her when I told her. I can’t imagine her reaction. And my kids, oh god my kids. They wouldn’t know what to think. It's such a conundrum. My family will be ruined. It wasn't fair if I didn't tell them though. 

I was sitting at the head of the table where I normally sit, soon to be empty. My kids weren't here. They had soccer. I scratched the fork through my potatoes like I was six again. “Honey what’s wrong?” My wife asked.  “Oh, nothing Clara.” I said shoving a scoop of potatoes in my mouth. They made me feel sick. I wasn’t hungry. “So I went to the doctors today about my back right,” she nodded. “Well they did some scans and my back is fine,” she smiled I cut her off before she could speak “but they found something else. Clara. I have cancer.” she turned pale. Almost as white as the plate infront of her. “What?” she said with her voice all trembly, she was starting to cry. She never cries. “Liver cancer, a month or two left.” I kept it short so I didn’t choke on the lump in the back of my throat. 

“I don’t know if I wanna do chemo. Won’t it make me feel like shit?” 

“Yeah but it can save your life.” 

“I know, but I don’t know.”

“You mean you don’t wanna save your own life?”

“No, it’s just I don’t know much about it. I should call the doctors for more details. I don’t wanna make this huge decision when I’m a ultracepdarian. I don’t even know what’s going on inside my body, the doctor said I've had it for months now.” 

The next day I called the doctor and she gave me all the details she could. I decided to do the surgery and start chemo after that. It was a long journey but I did it. I made it out on top. Now I’m cancer free. Here at this meeting with all of you, telling you, you can do it too. “Anybody else want to share?”’ I asked the people in my cancer support group. 

He records himself walking into Walmart, causing many people to look at him. He’s always loved attention but he knows they look for the wrong reasons. He pretends not to notice them and end’s the recording before a worker confronts him. “If I don't want to get caught, I’m going to have to find a really good hiding spot!” He walked down the paper towel/ toilet paper aisle and pointed the camera toward it. “I think this is the spot guys! I’m going to make a giant fort and sleep in it!” He then pointed the camera back at himself and shushed the device as if the children on the other end were there with him. Maybe he pretended there was someone there with him for the purpose of the video, or maybe he just wished there really was someone there. He moved the toilet paper aside and made it into an enclosed space he could fit in. “I made a bed, but it’s not time yet so I’m gonna go look around for things to help me survive the night!” He recorded himself walking around the store and grabbing things like candy and energy drinks. He paid for the junk food and returned to the fort. He changed the time on his phone to be later in the day and showed the camera, pretending it was night time. He made the fort as dark as possible and planned on editing the outside light peeking through the cracks. “Okay guys, as you can see it’s around nine P.M and the sun has already set. I’m going to talk a little quiet so they don’t find me.” He giggled, “so, I’ve been sitting here and I’m gonna be back when they’re about to close.” Once again he changed the time on his phone. This time, he opened the shot with a whisper, “It’s currently 10:57 pm and the Walmart is going to close in 3 minutes!” 

Morgz continued to record and pretended he was spending the night inside Walmart. Afterward, he emerged from the fort, alarming the woman shopping in that area, and left. He threw his camera into the seat and drove home in silence. He did not bother to put music on or to even roll down his window and listen to the sound of the wind. He got home and worried his content was going to fail. He worried his success was temporary and soon his videos would start dying and he will be forgotten. 

I walk in and the sea foam is up to my ankles. My friends and I used to joke that it was whale guts. It’s just some bacterias and salt. I feel the water at my fingertips. All of the memories I have from when I was practically growing up in these waters are all rushing in. I could cry about it, but why spend your last time in your happiest place sad when you can soak it all in. I dive in. I feel the water slipping through my hair and skin. My mom used to tell me if I got a cut, the ocean would heal it. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve had some more serious cuts and scars, but the ocean still seems to heal them.

In the a forest so deep, where shadows would dabble

Amidst the argle-bargle it was a ebullient night

Beneath the stars’ gentle light

But beware the lurking lycanthropy’s spell

When shadows grow long and the night starts to swell

From human to beast, or so they might think

In the depths of the night, where darkness links

I was hired to investigate a manifold of bizarre murders in the small town 10 miles of the border of Texas and Mexico… San Bueana. At first I was hesitant until the man, or woman, I wouldnt be able to say due to the hiree listed themselves as anonymous. Told me they would raise the pay of the investigation from $5,000 to $20,000. Looking back at it now I should have listened to my instincts that something wasnt quite right. 

As you could tell; I accepted the deal. John Doe told me that I would be paid afterwards, but I insisted that if I was going to travel from Baltimore to this San Bueana I might as well receive some of the check, right? I got cash instead which really grew my suspicion but I knew I could back out now, the town was calling for me, I was the one who had to save it.

4:53 am: The train station was still empty except for the buzzing of the T.V on the wall projecting CNN journalists discussing the defeat of Iraqi forces. My attentioned drifted between the interview of Jarheads and the Janitor unlocking the bathrooms. “Why is the train so goddamn late?'' I murmered to myself, just as the thought dissolved in my head I noticed in the corner of my eye a man on the other side of the track, who didnt look a day older than 20 standing in the dry winter morning with what looked like a beaten up flannel, staring at me through the tall windows of the train station. Just as I turned my head to get a better look; the red paint-job locomotive arrived.

10:21 am: The train was just as desolate as the station. Although I found peace with the emptiness, an almost relaxing escape from the horrors of west Baltimore. 

1:32 pm: The Appalachians, a place I used to travel to for the summer with my father for camping trips. If only I knew the horrors to come in the future of my life; back then, I was truly at peace…

“The Shaman has summonded you” says Athanu, I could only make up the Navajo’n face of the man in the sea of darkness, it seems I have lived my entire life with this man, we have conquered evil together; yet he is the one to summon me to the Shaman?

This meeting, I know it's important, but I dont feel ready for this duty. Nowhere near ready but I know I must.

A distant voice awakes me from the slumber. “Would you like anything to drink?” Says the snack attended, a young woman of polite manners and well blue dressed uniform, blonde hair that reaches for her elbows and a stout hat to finish the uniform. The woman could probably tell by the look on face because she asked if I would like any help. I insist that “everything is alright.” “I would kill for a coffee though, milk, no suger.” As she provides me the beverage and I pay her, the attendant moves to the next cart to serve the other people on the train, if anybody else is even on this train.

Orange hour: Atlanta. I get off the red train in the Amtrak Train Station; a step back in the hopeless reality of our world.