by Garret Ford
“You won't learn if you play on easy mode.” He said.
He takes the controller from me and changes it back to hard.
“It sucks at first but eventually when you learn the patterns. Then when you get to the hard parts it isn't as challenging because you played through the difficulty curve.” He said.
“Why play the game if it isn't fun?” I said.
“The game is the purpose in itself, experiencing the story, the world, and simply playing. If you watch someone else play you might be able to enjoy the story, but you won't feel the swells of pride when you finally win.” He said, navigating the level easily.
I am in my living room of my childhood home. The rain is pouring down outside. Occasional crashes of thunder dim the lights. My brother and I have gotten to the last world. The final castle. The dragon was at the end with the princess, we had to rescue her.
Dodge, jump, shoot. I take another wrong door and am warped back to the beginning again. My brother keeps reminding me to go slow; I shush him. We only have one life left. The clock is always ticking though. Fire balls, balloon traps, skeletons everywhere, spike pits. If you take time you avoid them, but the clock is always ticking down. Time is the real enemy. With infinite time the game would be too easy. You could out-wait each enemy, explore heedlessly making the notion of challenge irrelevant. I am in the final hallway. My hands are sweaty. Tightrope, ledge of a building, butterflies inside, fear. My feet tingle from sitting too long. The old tube television flickers briefly as we enter the final chamber.
The boss is simple. Getting there was the problem. Dodge, jump, shoot. We slay the dragon and go through the final door.
“We won! We saved the princess!” I cheered.
The princess makes a joke, says good bye, the game shows us all the different places we went.
“That was all?” I drop the controller.
“No epilogue, no denouement- just the end?” He said.
“Why did everything awful happen to Lord Hiro?” I asked.
“Fate, I suppose. Characters have to suffer their fates- the same as us.” He said. “We had fun getting there didn't we?”
“I thought there would be more to it.” I scratch my head and stare at the scrolling list of Japanese names that I couldn't pronounce.
“Maybe, but you should be able to figure out why everything happens on the way to the end. The best books and games leave gaps for the audience to fill in. It's called being ambiguous.” My brother laughs at me.
“I’m not a frog.” I said, confused.
I sit trying to understand what he is talking about. University makes people less fun than they used to be. They use words that others don’t understand, they ruin everything fun with morbid details- Christmas was a pagan holiday; Thanksgiving celebrates genocide; this character in this book is “problematic” and needs to be censored; everything is awful and you should feel bad for liking it. I feel like I’m living in a world run by nuns, I can’t wait to be an adult when I can say anything I want, stay up as late as I want, and do whatever I want.
“Well, then why did the bad guy kidnap the princess?” I look over at him incredulously.
“Because the villain was not the real bad guy, the villain was merely an extension of the universe- an opposite reaction to the hero. The villain might have done something bad but in the end he is no worse than a door is bad for being closed. The villain is no less wicked than the hero for merely existing. You just went on a killing spree and eradicated the villain’s entire family. Why?” He asked me.
“Because it was the only way to progress. Besides, they were all dragons and Lord Hiro and the princess are people, who cares how dragons feel.” I nod, self-assuredly.
“Being violent to someone who is different is wrong.” He said.
“Yeah, but the dragons were being violent, if they weren’t being violent then I wouldn’t have had to kill them.” I said.
“Peace and non-violence can solve any problem.” He said.
“The dragons burned down Lord Hiro’s village.” I said, annoyed.
The game has reset back to the title screen.
“Can we play something happy now?” I asked; I hit the power button, and choose Bozo’s Adventure.
“Remember, you choose what you want to play. Even a scary game like Bozo the Clown.” He said.
“Bozo the Clown isn't scary.” I said as I switched the game cartridges from the dusty console on top of our old wooden television. I pull out the next game cartridge, I blow inside the cartridge before I insert it to make sure it is clean.
“Why does Bozo bop rabbits with a giant hammer?” He said.
“Because Bozo does it in the cartoon too.” I said.
“See, Bozo is violent too, just like the Lord Hiro.” He said.
“No, Bozo is a clown, he only knocks them out.” I said.
“Blunt force trauma breaks bones and kills.” He said, shaking his head judgmentally.
“Games, books, and movies are fake. I could write a story with a million dead rabbits and it is not the same as killing a million rabbits in real life.” I said. “I thought you were supposed to get smarter in university.”
My brother sat in silence for a moment.
“Quite the Catch-22.” My brother said, whistling appreciatively.
“Catch-22?” I asked.
“I will explain you when you are older.” He lied.
“You always use that excuse.” I said.
“So, is Bozo a boy or a girl?” He asked, with a baited smile, wanting to argue more.
“It doesn't matter- Bozo is a clown.” I said.
“Then we are all god’s clowns.” He quoted philosophically.
“Honk-honk.” I tweaked my brother’s nose twice.
He turned a shade of red and I laughed.
Chapter 7.
“bupdnq, is the same forwards, backwards, and upside down, but it is gibberish as well.”
- Lilia S. Delphia
My therapist’s office smells good; my uncle’s rumpus room. Lined with books, and souvenirs from the Far East. Almost comforting, comfortable therapy is not true therapy. True therapy is agony; the identity is sundered and the great phoenix rises from the ashes.
We sit down and she gets me a glass of water. She is good, not nice. Nice would be telling me that I’m doing great. Nice would be laughing and not challenging me. She is good, people who are good are not always nice. Good people make the right choice, even if it is hard.
I am barely able to cover the bills. Another failure. Depression, the bloody gut shot. I feel worthless all the time. I struggle to rise from bed, but staying in bed means sleeping- sleeping means nightmares. The waking world was preferable- though filled with rumination and flashbacks. No matter how much I drink. There will never be enough brandy to keep my wounds forever frozen. They will thaw. That was the handle that got me here. It is almost the day. I hate February. Everything bad happens in February; abandoned in February, broken hearted in February, death in February.
“The month is not inherently bad. Bad things happen all year, but so do good things.” She said with a look of caring concern.
“Five days.” I said.
My mind drifts across to a distant shore. The past self who I was before the bad things happened, didn’t mind February as much. This self, does not care as much for February. I fucking hate February. The fallen do not mind February as much; the luxury of being a corpse is not caring.
I found out at work and went home as soon as I did. A deranged man sat behind me drooling and gibbering to himself on the bus. Madness and death. The inevitable twins of life. You either live long enough to go crazy before you die, or you die first. I wanted to hide when I got home; I curled up under a blanket and I watched some detective show. I felt like it would be a good way to escape.
She died on the same day the TV girl was murdered; I shut it off after they mentioned that detail. I buckle and weep. I couldn't escape, I had to face her death and the
pain of living on. Life sucks, kill yourself! Everyone has shit happen to them, you don't give up though. Life’s lemons can save you from scurvy.
I think about her father at the funeral. Holding him as he cried into my shoulder. The deep heaving crying that only a parent who has lost a child can make. I've never heard someone cry like that before. I hope I never hear it again.
“There is nothing that could be done; nothing I could do; nothing you could do, there is nobody to blame. She made this choice.” I said as I held her father, half to comfort him, half to convince myself.
Life mirrors art.
Art mirrors life.
The next few months become a blur from the mix of tranquilizers, brandy, and misery. Dream and waking splice together interwoven at such a pace that distinguishing between reality and illusion becomes impossible.
I am sitting in the grocery parking lot drinking milk from the carton. My buddy from work stops me. I barely recognize him. Tanned, must have gone somewhere nice.
“What happened, you need a ride?” He asked, I nodded.
“You’re quiet what are you thinking?” He asked.
“Wondering why my friend committed suicide.” I said.
The rest of the ride is silent.
I wonder when I had eaten last. I look in the mirror. My hair is greasy and I have bags under my eyes. I am the walking dead.
Nineteen Eighty-four. We are the Dead.
I had seen her at the end of January, she had come over for coffee and cigarettes. I quit smoking, so I just watched her. We talked about everything, except the things that mattered.
Why didn’t I just ask her about how she was doing- why?
It was cold and gray out, we sat and talk on my step. I shiver in the winter chill as she smokes. She is wearing her same old hoodie, which she always wore. Her wonderful little smile- I miss her. She bummed a few cigarettes off me because as usual. Morley. I quit, but I kept them in the house for when she came over.
What else are friends for?
“Why do you keep cigarettes in the house if you quit?” She asked motioning to the cigarettes.
Who was I? A friend?
The inconsolable pain that tears a mind and heart in two.
My grief, a piteous pantomime-
What torment her family was in.
What exquisite misery.
To raise, love, and grow a child-
Too bury it in the cold earth.
Surreal. Life a blur.
I show up. I go home.
I sleep. I weep.
Video out.Audio out.
Mute.No signal
The TV is receiving no signal and will shut off in….-
Trash bomb--Dumpster fire..
A mockery funeral-.
They tell the story of another girl.
This is not my friend’s funeral. They didn't know her.
A story they can handle. Lost her way.
Fuck them. We are all lost.
They play a love song about spurned lovers,
I hate that fucking song.
The slide show begins.
They depict a doppelganger, sans swearing and tattoos.
She is playing her guitar. She is singing church hymns.
This is someone else’s funeral.
This is isn't the girl I knew.
She isn't the girl I knew. This isn’t her funeral.
I have to leave before it is over. I can't take it.
It is all bullshit. This isn't her funeral.
I don't want this to be real.
“How do you know you have quit unless you have it at your fingertips every day?” I said.
“Makes sense.” She said.
“These are way better than the type you smoke.” I said.
“Caribou Brand is Canadian and way better!” She laughed.
“Morley cigarettes are world famous.” I said.
“Fame and infamy are different.” She said.
“You are the one smoking them.” I said.
“I missed living with you, let’s do this again soon.” She said.
“I’m busy with the university, but we will make time.” I said.
“Okay, pinky swear?” She said, and we did.
“Take a fag for the road.” I said handing her a Morley.
“You needed a ride?” She asked, I laughed and hugged her.
“Take care.” I said, as she walked away towards her car.
“Good-bye.” She waved, but I didn’t realize- she was drowning.
“If I knew then that was the last time I would see her, I wouldn't have let her go.” I explained to the therapist.
“Do you think about killing yourself?” She said.
“Doesn't everyone.” I reply.
“Do you have a plan?” She asked.
“I would screw it up again if I tried.” I said.
“Again?” She said in a puzzled voice.
We are burying our sweet, caring, brilliant, friend. If having all the advantages doesn't stop people from killing themselves, then what else is there? We stood in our black clothes, ill fitting, too big. Children pretending to be adults; masks of grief- hiding confusion and shattered hearts. Teenagers shouldn’t bury other teenagers. Silence, deafening silence spoke louder than words that day.
We are burying our old theatre buddy. Angry again. I listen to the people speaking. He was loud and funny, boisterous, red hair, and matching bravado. He went onto become an actor after I gave up. When we did hang out, I was usually busy getting stoned. The best of our memories lost in those puffs of smoke cannabis smoke. The cruelest attrition in addiction is the loss of memory.
Safe place. Container. Astral project myself out of this body. Single frames of a horror film spliced into my waking vision. Shit, blood, and tears. Oubliette.
“Focus on the light.” She said, my vision becoming shaky.
The room melts. My body fades. Agreeable feeling. There are tunnels in the mind. The memories are linked. One awful memory to the other. The mind remains safe, detached. A tour bus of the damned.
The sunshine feels good, hot summer day in the park with my sister. We are making japes and gambols, laughing, and throwing a stick for her Corgi. The dog barks and bounds happily after the stick and brings it back to me. I throw the stick and the dog runs after it.
“Everything will be alright.” My sister said.
“How much longer will things be bad?” I asked.
“Who knows, mom and dad will sort it out.” She shrugs.
“So you say, what if we go separate ways?” I asked.
“We won’t, I’ll go where you go.” She said.
“Thanks.” I give her a hug.
The dog returns with the stick, I bend down and throw the stick for the dog again.
“I wonder why throwing away my judgments of life isn't as easy.” I said.
“Something keeps bringing them back.” She said.
“Unfinished business.” I said.
“Atonement?” She said.
Silence, the dog returned with the stick. I faked throwing it, the dog ran off, I put the stick down in some bushes.
“All it takes is a strong arm and a clear field.” She said.
“A place to throw it all away?” I asked.
“Try an oubliette.” She said.
“I don’t like eggs.” I said.
Chapter 8.
“If at first you don’t succeed, eat shit and live in the walls; 99 Billion Roaches can’t be wrong.”
Tobias H. Charles
“I grew up with fifteen good years devoid of terror; friends, games, Third Eye Blind, Bill Clinton playing saxophone- the biggest concern I had was whether the DJ would talk when I was taping songs off the radio. Y2K loomed, but I didn't care. Nothing would happen. We had Jeff Goldblum to save us at the last moment- and Robin Williams to say something funny afterward. The world is optimistic, the cold war was over. Democracy won.” This was a lie I told myself.
I am playing video ga
mes in the living room. My fluffy white dog is curled up on my leg sleeping. We reached the underworld. My brother is watching a space show. The robot was trying to be human again and the captain was having none of it. We are frozen here still. This was it, that last moment of peace. In the moments prior to this one, my brother and I were sheep in the sun.
Suddenly screaming and yelling is echoing through the house. Moments ago, our life was quiet and blissful. I looked over at my brother. He stared back at me. We both sat frozen. My dog growls.
“Shush.” I silence my dog, out of terror, but I keep pressing the buttons to maintain, pretend nothing is happening, stay alive.
I die and my character reappears on the map screen. The screaming continues, I keep pressing the buttons, I pretend I don’t hear the chaos erupting from the kitchen. I renter the level, the clock is ticking. Perhaps if I didn't react, it wouldn't be real. I pause the game. My dog stands at attention; the giants are battling in the kitchen. I remember my brother's advice. Breathe and time your jumps. Don't rush. Keep calm and carry on. They fight all the time, but not like this. Never like this.
Adultery, Liar, Cheater, Homewrecker. Divorce, is not a Television special word anymore. Breaking noises. I awoke from dreamland. Moments ago, we had a family.
Spoiler warning; if you run out of lives, game over, a robot can never become human, Jeff Goldblum becomes the fly, Robin Williams kills himself. Everyone either dies before you or leaves you, so consider buying a plant- bonsai is popular for a reason.
A bland office, I sit in a faux leather chair. The psychiatrist across from me is cool as ice. The psychiatrist is a gaunt, gray hair with a widow peak, missing his right ear, glass right eye, perpetual scowl; or maybe he had eaten a sour candy. The old scarred mess where his ear was once is facing me; I wonder how long he has been missing it.
“Do you see many kids?” I asked.
He didn’t respond. Instead he just scribbled down something on his checklist and flipped through the file some more.