S C R E A M

This is a short story based on some truth and some bullsh*t. I'll let you guess which is which. There is no reason for this story; there is no plot. There is just *this*. Enjoy babes. 

So there I am, kombucha in hand, "Thriller" blasting loudly behind me, in a stare-off with a 12 year old ( actual age is unknown, I'm guesstimating here). His little hand was clutching a handful of candy, his eyes peering deeply into mine. His mouth is stained different colors, no doubt from jolly ranchers and airheads. He is not in costume. 

The kids behind him reach their little arms around to grab a piece of candy; parents yell, "Did you say thank you?" from the sidewalk to their tiny, stumbling toddlers, all dressed as some sort of princess or ninja. The kids all mumble ' thank you ' as they try to walk a straight line back to their group. The layers of turtlenecks, costumes, and jackets impair that ability a little. They stagger about like drunks. Their plastic jack-o-lantern baskets thump against their bodies as they waddle. It is beyond me how they don't all end up on the ground.

I'm 99% sure their parents are drinking. Is that what parents on Halloween do while trick or treating? Someone, please advise.

The garage door light flickers on and off with the movement of the children, the cold bites through my jacket and sweater-  and I cannot believe the audacity of this kid. 

He had cut through our little line, again; let me reiterate that he is not in costume- I swear he might have elbowed the mermaid that had been second to the front—her purple wig hanging sideways off her head, a dull candy high look in her eyes. Red lipstick smeared all over her face—poor girl.

He didn't say "Trick-or-treat," just shoved his hand into the bowl and grabbed the biggest handful he could. 

"Hold your horses." I tell him, "We have that whole one-piece rule going on here tonight," He doesn't respond. Standing still, he looks up at me, and now here we are - staring at one another. He doesn't move, and neither do I. My cousin (11 years old, the coolest kid I've ever known, keeps his hair long and shaggy) dressed as Scream, stands motionless beside me - a plastic butcher knife stuffed in his candy basket. He looks intimidating in the long black robe and white mask, someone you wouldn't want to run into down the sidewalk by the playground. This lunatic child in front of us doesn't seem to mind - he must be immune to terror. 

I'm not sure how long the staring goes on for, long enough for me to start to hate this kid. He finally drops his handful of candy on the ground, sticking his multicolored tongue out at me- his brother grabs his arm and pulls him along with him. The two kids disappear into the night - going God knows where. Well, not really - they turned around and started down the walking path, but saying 'they turned and strolled through Apple Valley's well lit walking paths' doesn't sound as Spooktacular. So into the dark and mystery they go. 

My cousin, Scream mask still on face, whispers, 'we should have kicked his ass.' 

The children still in-line bend down and take the spilled candy, parents still talking and walking around on the road and sidewalk  (probably also drinking, although that hasn't been confirmed)- there are no rules on Halloween... people are all over. 

'I think we should have too,' I whisper back. 

The night ended up being un-eventful after that. I think about all the other houses that kid hit up - how many handfuls of candy he got away with. All we got for the rest of the night were princesses that looked like they'd been through something and, for some reason, a very put together looking cowboy who had a British accent. 

For ending, if you know that costume-less kid tell him to watch his back. 

As a side note, those of you who know me know that Halloween is an extremely magical time for me- I love all things October and horror. So imagine the sheer panic that ran through my veins when I couldn't find my cat ears, and my favorite pants that are set aside specifically for Halloween didn't fit anymore. I may or may not have cried. 

My cousin (the same one who iconically dressed up as Scream) said, while we were standing in Half Price Books, "Weren't you going to be a cat today," 

"Yes, but I couldn't find my ears, and my pants didn't fit," 

"Oh, so you came as a homeless person,"

It’s important to note here that I didn't come as a homeless person... I just wore my regular clothes. 

Safe Sailing,

A.ray

Thrift Store Quotes & Books W/bent pages

Original Publication Date June 1, 2020

I want to cover two essential subjects here today: 

Missing persons and used books. 

We will start with used books- 

I like getting used books – the first reason being that they are usually much much cheaper than the brand new ones and, most importantly, there’s always the possibility that someone had written notes in the pages or highlighted or left a plane ticket or photograph tucked in it. I order books off of thrift books, and they give you the option to pick the quality of the book you’re getting. ‘New’ and ‘Like new’ allllllll the way to ‘acceptable.’

I 10/10 will pick the acceptable ones. They have character, bent pages, usually lots of notes and thoughts written down in them, and they almost always smell like cigarette smoke. Coffee rings on the cover—what a win.

There is also the issue of Mass Media Paperback books, which Isaiah [middle name redacted for legal reasons] Crossman, Carey, Confusion? (Didn’t quite catch the last name) voiced his opinion last weekend as being something he “Didn’t like” (Not a direct quote). And I have to agree. I don’t like the little, boxy, easy to break books that are sold at a much lower price, however, I purchase them anyway (since they’re so inexpensive) so I can get even more books. I fuel the fire I hate—a vicious cycle.

It’s a sour deal, purchasing books – so many stupid options (like hardcover) who the HeLL wants a hardcover book? Just give me a regular-sized paperback with a few years of wear and tear on her, and I’ll be set.

What I love the absolute most of all – like I love this more than a bowl of blueberries and heavy whipping cream with a dash of stevia on top… is finding old classics with notes in them that are obviously from some English class. HecK YeS, my guys. Not only am I reading classic stories, BUT I am getting a taste for whatever miserable soul ended up in some English Lit. classroom.

I thrive off of it. Sometimes you can even tell if they liked the class or not – they’ll either have some excellent notes and in which I’ll imagine some nice gal with lots of cardigans and coffee punch cards reading it. Or it will have sparse notes and messy highlighting, and in that case, I imagine some boy who is only taking the class to have the minimum credits needed to play on the football team. He probably only wears sweatpants and smells like cheap hair gel.

Okay, okay, enough about used books and all that jazz. 

Let us move on to missing persons—specifically me. Theoretically speaking. Obviously.

I got this quote through a friend, Isaiah [redacted] Crossman (the last name confirmed) and it goes as follows:

“Some days all I want to be is a missing person.”

To which his wife, Jordyn Grace (last name undecided) said, “Ava, that’s you” (Also not a direct quote, it was either that or “That’s an Ava Quote,” and I can’t remember which so I’m just going to go with ????)

Anyway, I do relate to that a lot – which is an odd thing to relate to. I want to make it clear that I don’t want to be a missing person because I was kidnapped. After all, ew, that’s horrible, no thanks. But would I want to be a missing person because I took off with Peach and Winn in the night to go live in the woods and drink black tea and write horror novels and grow a veggie garden?????? Yes. Yes, I would.

(I would also like chickens for the aesthetic and eggs, but I am terrified of chickens, so if someone wanted to go missing with me???? To feed chickens, I wouldn’t be upset!!!!! Send me an email if you are someone who likes chickens and doesn’t mind being a missing person) 

So, overall, if I do go missing and you cant find me someplace in my dad’s hunting land attempting to be a wild woodland woman, please send out a search party because I have for sure been taken. I repeat, if I were to run away in the night, it would only be to Crosby, on my dad’s hunting land, and if I am not somewhere on that 105 acres, well, then we have a real problem.

I also found a quote or little paragraph thing about going missing someplace lovely and I will include it below:

Nice sounding, isn’t it? 

Who knows. 

Concluding thoughts- Thrifted books: good. Going missing: good, but only if by choice.

Safe sailing. 

-A.Ray

Planning the senior management meetings for the year and summoning demons.

If you give me enough time I will, without a doubt, invent something strange out of nothing. Sometimes it’s harmless and I just giggle in my mind, but other times my mind won't quit working on it and soon I’ve birthed this whole mess of an idea. 

Here is one of those times. 

I did this a few months ago- sometime in February. Probably on a Monday- seems like a Monday type of idea for me. But I was in the car with my dad heading to the office and I was trying to keep up the conversation and ask him about his day and he ended up telling me that he would be consulting with others for planning out all the Senior Management Meetings for the year... and other misc. things that didn’t pique my interest.

Now here are two things to know, before we get much deeper into this story.

1, I am convinced that there is a demon living in the little closet where the pop is kept in his office.

And 2, my brain is on imagination overload 24/7. It literally will. Not. Stop.

(bonus fact) 3, the pop closet is very small and no normal-sized person could easily be in there.

So naturally, I reply to the information he’s just given me with, “Oh consulting? Who are you consulting for the meetings,”

He gave me a few very reasonable names. Everything seeming normal and logical.

So I say, “Them and the pop closet demon?” Because that’s just how the conversation seemed to flow.

I can't tell you what his entire face looked like because I was sitting in the back seat, but I could see his eyes in the rearview mirror and I don’t have a name for the look he had in them, but I can say with 100% certainty that it wasn’t something good. A bewildered look. Regret, maybe? A dull, glazed over, tired sort of thing existed in them.

In true John fashion, he didn’t respond to this. So, I just kept it rolling. Why stop there?

“Do you have to schedule a time to do this - To meet with the pop closet demon? What does that look like on your calendar? What do you name that? Or do you just knock on the door up there and climb into the closet when you want to meet? Does he bill you for his time? Do you bring with an Ouija board? How about a magic 8 ball? Do you bring a flashlight? It's dark in there. Does anyone else know that you meet with a demon to plan out the board meetings? Are you nervous when you do this? What other things do you summon demons for? Does this take place during business hours or during the night?”

It just wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t talk fast enough. I was laughing like a crazy person through the entire thing.

It just grew and grew and it’s a long drive to the office – around 45 minutes- so I had time to really marinate this idea in my brain.

All I could imagine was my dad, in his nice suit walking quickly through the lobby with his usual portfolio underarm, but also with an Ouija board and magic 8 ball in the other. I could imagine him stopping in the break room to grab something to drink (literally everyone does this before a meeting and idk maybe summoning the pop closet demon is strenuous), then climbing into the closet which is super tiny and mini-sized. I imagine him sitting crisscross apple sauce. I could see him turn on a flashlight and set it upright so he could see his notes that he keeps on a billion of those yellow legal pads. Before starting the meeting, I can see him take off his glasses and rub the bridge of his nose (I dare anyone who has been in meetings with this man to disagree with that description) and then sigh heavily and summon the demon to discuss the optimal times to have meetings for the year.

He wasn’t as amused as I was by all of this. I thought it was brilliant. I still do. I still think about it a lot and laugh about it often.

I even wrote out a whole short story on this fiasco – and now I’m writing about it here.

Wouldn’t that be absolutely brilliant in real life? What if it was common practice in the workplace to consult with spooky spirits and all that jazz when planning things. Would summoning days be set aside out of the workweek? Would there be a dress code? What would that even look like? How did the pop closet demon even get into the pop closet? I have so many questions for my own made-up scenario. 

There’s really no point to this story – my only two takeaways are that I don’t blame my dad for being stressed out when I take over every conversation we have with bs like I pulled in the story above and two- as I am writing this I am realizing why I don’t have a boyfriend. I’m hecking crazy. Yall sometimes I really can produce some bazaar, quality content.

Safe sailing and demon summoning.

A.ray

(original publication date March 18th 2020)

Physically present, but mentally a lizard in the desert.

Whenever I feel a way that I don’t know how to explain I try to tie the feeling to artwork or a movie or a song. Anything that can help me to understand it.

For about a month last summer I felt like the first couple of moments of the song One Head Light from the Wallflowers- not the whole song- just a few seconds of it.

For a good chunk of time, I felt like this painting of a girl laying on a green couch by Ramon Casas. For the longest time, I felt like this small snippet from the movie Call Me By Your Name.

Sometimes I’ll see something or hear something and everything in me wants my existence to feel like the essence of whatever that thing is. The song “Milk” – always makes me feel the best sort of melancholy. The movie “Someplace In Time”, the painting “Sweet Dreams” Giclee. It's like someone pulled out a whole other existence within those things and I’m desperately chasing it. I want to exist within the feeling it gives me.

There was one day a few years ago I was driving to class and the windows were open in my VW and I was listening to some really good opera. It was warm and super early in the morning and the sun was just starting to show up. I was drinking a coke and had a pack of Fruity Mentos and it ended up being a really lovely day. For some reason my mind has tied the really good day to the coke and Mentos – so if you see me lugging those two things around its because I’m trying to re-create a very specific moment or feeling or essence or whatever you want to call it. 

When Faye and I were in Duluth there was a moment when we were driving – nothing really special about it. We weren’t talking, just listening to music – but everything was so seamless. The roads were all curved and winding and the air was messy with fall leaves and it had just rained and the earth smelled good and I could have carried that one moment of feelings washing over me for forever.

Or when I was leaving the movie theater this one time. I was the only one that had been in the theater – the hallways were dark when I was walking out, I could hear someone vacuuming and the parking lot was empty and it was so still and silent and like I wasn’t even really in the real world. It was strange and calm and so invigorating.

I wish I could bottle it up. Wear a particular feeling like I do perfume.

Have you ever seen the movie Rango? The cute little lizard guy gets lost out in the desert and he ends up just wandering and searching for water? He has this beady, bewildered look throughout most of the film – the whole movie just has this odd, adventure feeling about it. It teeters on the edge of the bazaar. It’s weird.

That’s how I feel right now.

There’s always a moment of relief when I can tie what I'm feeling to some art or moment or whatever- like ‘oh – there's no way you can possibly be alone in this feeling, look, this person also had this feeling and turned it into this (insert music or movie or painting or book or saying)'.

It makes me feel normal? Or justified or understood?

Do I sound like I’m crazy? I’m crazy. It’s fine. 

If you see me this week and I have that bewildered, wide-eyed look going on about me just know that physically I am here, on earth doing normal person everyday things. But mentally I’m a lizard in the desert wearing a button-up Hawaiian shirt with no pants on, trying to find water.

That's all I have for the void right now.

Safe sailing.

- A.ray

(Original publication date March 9th 2020)