Microstory 2245: Complaint to You

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I had lunch with my old friends today. It was my former assistant, who replaced me at the jail, and my former parole officer. At first, I thought that Leonard was being respectful by ordering a vegetarian meal, but as it turns out, I inspired him to become a vegetarian. I’m really happy about that, and I hope the trend continues, if only due to the fear of a prion disease. They ran a full investigation of the restaurant where I allegedly (I legally have to say it like that) ate contaminated meat, and they were unable to find evidence of further contamination. So you should be able to eat there again if you want, in case you were waiting for an answer regarding that problem. I guess I should have said something earlier. Anyway, the meal we had today was great, and I enjoyed the company. It was nice to be out in public again, even though men in suits were standing at the ready. I always wanted to be famous, but important—like a politician would be—is a different concept. Someone like that is a target. I did not want it to be like this. I knew there was a chance that I may end up with a stalker or two, but not that everyone I saw was a potential threat. People were staring, not only because it was me, but because I was clearly under protection. Fortunately, it didn’t get any worse than that. I’m not one to advertise my location, so it didn’t draw a big crowd, or anything, but I fear that this might start happening if the media begins to track my movements. Maybe I should just stay home all the time, and never show my face. That may sound like a complaint to you, but it doesn’t sound like one to me. There are worse ways to live, believe you me. Speaking of which, we still haven’t gotten word on whether my offer on the house has been approved. Even if it is, it will still take some time to complete all the paperwork, and whathaveyou. Until next week, goodbye.

Microstory 2240: Filth

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Not much has changed yet. Yes, the dude who wants my bone marrow and index and I had a discussion, and we came to an initial agreement. We’ve not signed any papers, but as a sign of good faith, he gave me a down payment, which I will be using to hire a personal security detail for myself, and my two friends. Kelly and Dutch had the option to leave me behind, and enter a form of witness protection. They could have blended in well enough wherever they were sent, but they chose to stick by me, so I have to do right by them. I won’t tell you how much money I have at the moment, but it’s enough to afford security for the three of us for at least a few weeks after the FBI lets us go. So when I said that not much has changed, that wasn’t totally honest. The government isn’t entirely keen on letting me donate samples of my body to science. I don’t know if they think that they should have it for themselves, or what. Who knows what’s going on in their bureaucratic heads when it comes to me? I don’t mean to sound mean, or to be overly critical of them. They’ve helped me immensely multiple times when I really needed it. But it may be time for our relationship to end. I need to reassert my independence, and I assume that they would benefit from diverting resources to other things. Of course, none of this should be a thing that I’m worried about. I wouldn’t need any of it if the world were safer. The violent, disturbing, and stalkery messages haven’t stopped coming. I hired a publicist, who has taken over the responsibility of sorting though the filth. They’ll handle getting the word out on that. Apparently, they have a database of dangerous individuals, so if you chose to write something to me, just know that you may end up on a list. If I understand their reach, it could affect your credit score. Just be nice, safe, and happy, okay? We’ve been over this. I am not your monkey.

Microstory 2148: Wokest of Folk

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I agreed to have dinner with my neighbor yesterday evening. She framed the invitation as a friendly stranger passing by me in the hallway, but she knew who I was, and has read some of my blog. She’s not a crazy stalker, though, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve just been pretty good at marketing my site in the local area. There’s a bulletin board in the lobby of our apartment complex, for instance, where people can post lost animal flyers, or musical instrument lessons. I printed out a slip of paper that just gives my address, and tacked it up there. It doesn’t even say what the site is, so people have to try it to see. There aren’t enough people living here to make much of a dent in my readership—especially not these days—but marketing is all about cost versus return, and it cost me almost nothing. Anyway, the dinner went well, she was very nice, and a really good cook. She’s a vegetarian too, so I didn’t have to worry about making her feel bad about making something special on my account. She prepared us sweet potato and black bean enchiladas with avocado crema. Sweet potatoes are one of those foods that I had to grow to like later in life, and I’m glad I did for this situation. I’m sure you’re all wondering if sparks were flying, but please don’t. Where I’m from, it’s annoyingly taboo for a man and a woman to be friends. Even the wokest of folk think that it doesn’t work, but as an omnisexual, I say, what even is a man, and what is a woman? Your “theory” may stop making sense when you answer that. There’s nothing romantic going on between us, and there wouldn’t be even if I weren’t loyal to Cricket.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 29, 2398

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Yesterday, Holger forced all the staff into the interstellar spaceship that was under construction, and locked them in there so he and Leona could be alone. He placed the entire facility on lock down, which even prevented the guard topside from getting down. He surely would have noticed that something was wrong fairly quickly. Even if he never needed to reach out to someone in the hangar, he would have wondered why no one was leaving for lunch, and if not then, why did no one go home at the end of the day? Leona didn’t know what was happening up there either, though. Holger cut off all information, and spent the rest of the day trying to get Leona to prove that she too had a teleportation watch like his. When she tried to claim that she didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, he grew frustrated. But he didn’t want to ruin their special day, so he takes his time setting up a candlelit midnight dinner for the two of them, and that’s when he explains what he’s been up to recently.

Holger was unsurprisingly upset about being fired from the lab. Day by day, his anger ballooned, until he couldn’t take it anymore. He didn’t want to grow up and look for a new job. He wanted back in, and he wanted an apology. One might think that he would have gotten over Leona in that time, since she was the reason for his dismissal, but his fixation on her only increased. He wanted her more than ever, and he became convinced that he was entitled to her devotion. This was a game, and she was winning, but all he needed to do was gain an advantage. And the first step in this new mission was to stalk her. He found out where she lived, who she was living with, where she liked to go for breakfast, and everything else about her. He watched her, he watched her husband, and he watched their friends. He had trouble understanding the group dynamic, so he started branching out, and investigating the others in greater depth.

Fortunately, the forger’s forgeries were airtight, so he never discovered that all of their identities were fake, but he did know about Angela. Sure, he wasn’t aware that they were intending to use her to replace Marie as a backup twin, but it was still something they didn’t want out there in the world. He was probably the worst person to know so much information about them. And he wasn’t going to stop here. He kept watching them, eventually following them all the way out to a little town in the middle of Kansas called Lebanon. Here was where things got real interesting.

He watched from a distance as the six of them literally disappeared by the side of the road. Confused but excited, he snuck over to get a better look. No smoke, no mirrors, no hidden passageways. All he found was dirt, grass, and other plants. He situated himself in a foxhole, and kept watching the area, eventually witnessing the group reappear and disappear at will. He didn’t know where they were going, or how they were doing it. It was a puzzle, and Holger Bandoni loves puzzles. He continued to watch them as most of the group left, including Leona. He didn’t stay attached to her, though. He had to remain near the site, because unlocking its secrets was more important at this point.

Mateo and Heath blew a hole in the ground. The former fell in, and the latter fell back. While he was unconscious, Holger ignored him, and made his way down the hole using the emergency ladder. He was shocked by how deep it was, and exhausted by the time he reached the bottom, but it was so worth it. An expanse of living spaces and advanced technology. He had to learn more. While he was alone, he managed to search pretty much every room, ultimately making his way to what he thought might have been a hot tub. It was a beautiful room with blue mosaic tiles, and shimmering light, but the water was cool, and it wasn’t big enough for swimming. But there was something black on the bottom. He dove in and retrieved a box, inside of which was the teleporter watch.

As he was fiddling with it, he suddenly found himself in a different room. He pushed the button again, which transported him to a third room. He kept working with it, learning how to navigate, instead of relying on a random destination. Once he was satisfied with his self-training, he made his way back to the main room, and stood by the debris in the elevator shaft. He pushed the button again, and attempted to jump all the way back to the surface, but could not make it all the way up. As he was falling towards his death, he desperately pressed the button once more, and returned to the floor, but apparently, this form of teleportation preserves momentum, so he still landed hard, breaking his arm in the process. While he still lay there, Heath was making his way down, so Holger crawled into what he believed to be a closet, but was actually a second elevator. He used this to travel back up to the top, ultimately having to use his one good arm to punch through the wall of soil in his way. This finally explains how the McIvers were able to see the alternative means of transport that Heath did not.

Now free, Holger made his way to the nearest hospital, and while he was undergoing treatment, he began to make more plans. He had to wait until Leona returned from her vacation, “and that brings us to today.” He smiles, proud of himself for surviving the harrowing adventure, and pleased to now fully understand who Leona is. “We’re in the same boat now. I have a watch, you have a watch. We can be together.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Uhh, no,” he maintains. “See?” He jumps to the other side of the breakroom.

“No, I mean, you’re delusional about us. “Just because you randomly found a flicker watch, doesn’t mean we’re in love now.”

“Is that what this is called?” He admires the thing.

No, but whatever, haha. She sighs. “What about this are you not getting? I don’t like you. I don’t just not like you in that way. I hate you. I don’t want to ever see you again, or have anything to do with you.”

Holger pouts and mumbles. “Ugh. Harumph. Gaaaah! You obviously wanna stay here with me! You haven’t tried to escape!”

“You locked the exit!” she argues. “I can’t get out!”

“Why don’t you just flicker out! How do you think I got in!”

“I can’t!” Leona pulls down her sleeves, and rolls up her pant legs just for good measure. “They run out of juice!” she lies, sort of. They will eventually run out of power, but they likely last a good few years. “When it’s out, it’s out, and you throw it away.”

“Oh.” He seems to be believing her. “Well, how long do I have?”

“How many times have you used it?” she asks.

“I dunno, maybe a hundred? I hate walking all the way over to my bathroom.”

“Ooo,” she begins. “In this short of time?” She decides to repeat a lie Mateo once told someone. “You’re severely overtaxing it. That thing’s about to blow your wrist off.”

He desperately removes it, drops it on the floor, and hops away with a yelp, so that’s when Leona punches him in the neck.

Microstory 1881: Eyes Out on Stalks

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Before all this social media, if you wanted to get to know a celebrity, your only hope was to catch them in an interview on TV, or maybe see them at an awards show. You could read an interview, yes, or some other kind of article, but they always put their best foot forward, so unless it was a takedown piece, the writer would show them in the best light. That was okay, in general, but it did once place me in danger. When I had a crush on a particular leading man from decades long past—and I certainly wasn’t the only one—it was based on very little information. He was so great in his movies. He didn’t appear in many projects, mind you; he was a choosy talent, but they were all amazing, and he was amazing in all of them. I was young and naive, and I thought I was in love. Of course, I never thought I would get the opportunity to meet the man, and looking back, if only one minor thing had changed about that fateful day, I never would have. I can’t even say his name, it hurts so much to think back on it. I guess you could call it my unfinished business, even though there is nothing I can do about it now, so here it is. My local radio station was offering a promotion. Be caller number 96, and win a date with the hunk himself. They couldn’t call it a date on the official rules as it suggested some sort of romantic slant, but the crude radio personalities sure had their fun with their guesses as to what would go down. I called in, and actually won, and I was so incredibly excited. This was it, I was finally going to meet the man of my dreams. Now, don’t get me wrong, I was under no illusions about the upcoming night. I did not think he would fall in love with me, and ask me to marry him right then and there. But I didn’t care, because I felt honored enough just to be in his presence. I was so wrong.

He didn’t get down on one knee and propose to me on the night of, but he did seem to like me a lot. My mother warned me that he would probably expect sex. That was all right, I was ready, so I sat through the talk so she could make sure I understood that I could always change my mind. I did change my mind and it wasn’t really due to anything specific about him. He had a bit of a weird smell that I imagine he would call his musk, but I could have looked past that. It was just that we didn’t have any chemistry, and I guess he always wore makeup on screen, so I wasn’t all that attracted to him, so after the meet and greet, I just wanted to leave. It was a nice time, and I don’t think I would have regretted it if it had all ended, but he was not interested in ending things. He appeared totally fine that I wasn’t into have sex, but it was all an act. He was determined to get me in bed, whether I wanted it or not. He didn’t just break into my house, and attack me, though. No, that would have been too obvious. It would have been scary too, but at least I could have called the authorities if he had done that. Instead, he was what everyone around me thought was oh so romantic. They never let me call it what it was, which was stalking. He would send me flowers, and show up at my work. I found him in my kitchen once, waiting for my mother to make him some breakfast, like he was her son-in-law. It was so creepy, and I kept having to reject his advances, but he wouldn’t have it. I think he only stopped coming by because he found some new girl to fixate on. I never summed any of this up before, because as bad as it was, his actions were not reportable. I just wish people had listened to me back then, because a couple of years ago, we learned that some other girls ended up being not so lucky.

Microstory 1756: Bee of Paradise

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I’ve moved past the most traumatic experience of my life, and I’ve been able to reach some semblance of normalcy. I can’t say that it no longer affects me, but it at least no longer consumes me. I have prosthetic feet now, and while I can’t feel sensations down there anymore, I can walk just fine. I don’t even tell people my situation anymore, because it’s not relevant, and they can’t tell. I’m happy now. I have a better job than before, with better benefits. My boss calls me her busy bee, so she forced me to take a vacation, which is why I’ve agreed to this island getaway. I still find it rather difficult to trust others, which is one reason I’ve come alone, but I decided that I’m okay with that. This is about recharging my batteries, and remembering what I want out of life. It goes well at first, but then I start to get a bad feeling as I’m walking around the resort, and my excursions. I can’t point to an actual reason for my spidey senses sounding sirens, but I don’t think I’m imagining it. There is an evolutionary advantage to detecting the presence of a potential threat even when you can’t pin it down. Something or someone is out there who doesn’t want to be seen.  They’re watching me, and making me nervous. I keep telling myself that I might just be paranoid, but the sirens don’t go away. I really don’t think I’m making this up. I can’t ask for help, of course, because what is who going to do? The staff isn’t qualified to suss out a hypothetical stalker, and the police never help. I have no proof, just my instincts. I try to shrug it off, but the feeling grows worse, and I catch a glimpse of a shadow every once in a while. Finally, I cancel all of the activities I had planned for one day, and lock myself in the room. It’s not enough.

Presumably having decided he’s ready to show himself, my stalker breaks down the door, and enters my room. I didn’t come with pepper spray, or anything, so I’m helpless to fight him off. I head for the balcony, but I’m on the eleventh floor, so I don’t know where I thought I was going with that. It’s him. It’s the one who abducted me from my own home, and burned my feet so badly that they had to amputate both of them. They said they caught him, and he committed suicide by cop. How could they have been so wrong? Did they not look for evidence after the incident? Did they just assume they shot the right guy, and let it go? Who did they actually shoot? Obviously I shouldn’t be worrying about any of this right now; I just need to get away from him. I don’t know how he found me. I don’t even know what he wants with me, or how he knows me. But I know it’s the same man, and I know I can’t just run away. I won’t let him hurt me again, though. I’m going to fight back. I’m going to fight back hard. Not doing that before has been my greatest regret, and while I can’t go back in time and change it, I can do better this time. First, I scream. No one comes running before he manages to cover my mouth with his gloved hand, but that doesn’t mean they never will. It’s the off-season, but there are plenty of other guests here, and hopefully they’re not all at the bonfire. My attacker is stronger, so it’s not hard for him to overpower me, gag me, and start dragging me down the emergency stairs. My right foot gets caught on the edge of a step, and falls off, which gives me an idea. When we’re on a landing, I swing my left leg up, and take hold of my remaining foot. Hitting him once in the face is enough to get him to let go. Then I start bashing him over and over again until he stops moving. Only then does someone come to my rescue, but it’s too late. This time, I’m here to make sure he’s dead.

Microstory 749: Puppy Foot

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When Almevary Balik was but a few months old, as her parents claim it, her first words were puppy foot. As impressive as it was that she spoke at such a young age, and that the utterance was composed of two words, it was even more impressive when considering how unlikely it is she even once heard the pair combined. Puppies have paws, rather than feet, and her family was made up of strictly cat people. She had essentially come up with a term on her own, which is something adults do every day, but infants, not so much. The phrase stuck with her, as family members would brag to anyone within earshot how intelligent and precocious Alma was. She herself couldn’t hear the end of it either, and when her rock band was trying to decide on a name of themselves, it was the obvious choice. Alma was the band’s frontwoman, and business leader. There were many small venues available to perform in, but she knew which ones to accept, and which to turn down. She did her homework, researching bigger and bigger names that were at all involved in the music industry, tracking their movement. Basically, she was looking for them to be discovered without it being obvious. Though the gigs they chose did not necessarily pay well up front, knowing who was in the audience paid off later. In months, they were skyrocketing to stardom, first by being an opening act for Peter Fireblood, and then being invited to tour with You’re Bad Grammar. Puppy Foot was soon a global phenomenon, but good things are never meant to last. Alma started receiving uncomfortable messages from one of her fans. In once sentence, he would speak of their destiny together, then her brutal death in the next. She contacted the authorities, but they were unable to do anything about it without a name. Over time, her stalker grew bolder, showing up as a shadow behind her on the street, and then sneaking into her trailer to move objects around. Still, the police could not catch him, because he did not so much as show his face to her once. Theoretically because this distant gaslighting was becoming too impersonal, one night, he decided to take things to the next level, and confront her directly. She was alone in her apartment when a werewolf burst through her window, and started growling at her. She tried to reason with him, but he refused to back down. We may never know exactly what the stalker werewolf intended to do, for as he stood up and prepared to attack, Almevary Balik grabbed the nearest object; an elvish star flute. She swung it towards him, and sliced off his whole front paw. This distracted the stalker long enough for her to get away, and find help. He bled out in her livingroom before he could be arrested.

Microstory 295: Perspective Seventy

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Perspective Sixty-Nine

Oh yeah, I’ve definitely been stalking someone. But you know what the say; you only fight fire with fire. I guess you don’t, because you would then just end up with more fire, but you know what I mean. My girlfriend is being stalked by this guy from college she never actually ever met. He just saw her one day and became delusional about the nature of their relationship. That is to say, he thinks there to be a relationship, when really my girlfriend was just being polite by accepting his friend request online. I guess I shouldn’t say that she’s my girlfriend, because that makes me sound like I’m stalking her. We’re not together anymore, and I legitimately don’t think it’ll happen again, but it might. I’m only stalking him to protect her because we’re still friends, and I would still do anything for her. She’s tried to go to the cops, but proving a stalker is next to impossible, as most people know. Technically, he hasn’t broken any laws, so I’ve had to take things into my own hands. I’ve studied and memorized his schedule, so I know when he’s going to be alone. He spends a lot of time like that, so getting to him should be pretty easy. Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill him. We’re not there yet, but he does need to know who he’s messing with when he tries pushing himself onto an innocent young woman. So I’m going to scare him. And yeah, probably beat him a little bit. People like that don’t learn if you just use a stern tone or write a strongly-worded letter. In order for the lesson to sink into his already-damaged mind, it’s gotta be engraved on a wooden bat. Or maybe a tire iron. I can’t be sure which one will be less likely to lead to his accidental death. I can’t look up online which one I should pick, because then there’s a paper trail that leads right to me. It would like that guy who left his kid in the car to die, claiming that he just forgot the baby was in there. Then they went through his browser history and discovered that he, and I think his wife, had been planning the whole thing for a while. What an idiot. I can’t be that stupid. No one can know what I’m doing, which is why I haven’t so much as told the father of my ex-girlfriend's baby. I probably could; I think he would understand, but I have to maintain plausible deniability for them. If I go down, then I have to go down alone. Can anyone tell me how to knock someone unconscious with a blunt object without them suffering from permanent brain damage? Regular people do it on TV all the time, but it’s never explained how they know how much force to put behind the blow. I’m just gonna wing it.

Perspective Seventy

Microstory 294: Perspective Sixty-Nine

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Perspective Sixty-Eight

Okay, first of all, I don’t call it stalking. I’m passionate. When I first saw this girl, it’s not like I immediately fell in love and knew she was “the one”. I was just sitting in the dorm cafeteria one night, eating my dinner alone, like I do. I had no ill intentions, I assure you, but she caught my eye, and she was just absolutely stunning. She stood out from the crowd, and I couldn’t understand why other people weren’t staring at her. She was only in my field of vision for a few seconds before disappearing around the corner, but that was all the information I needed. I noticed that she was walking right behind someone I recognized from one of the school libraries. I didn’t even know if they were friends, or just happened to be walking in the same direction, but I still had my starting point. I didn’t know her friend’s name, but I knew she worked with another girl from one of my classes. I didn’t know her name either, but I could find out from the list of my classmates through the school web portal. It took me a while to hunt down the right person, but I found her. Then I cross-referenced her social media friend list by using the library as work parameters, and found the possible friend of my target. Then I browsed through her friend list to find the girl I was looking for. She was even more beautiful now that I could stop and look at static pictures. I had a pretty extensive debate in my own head about what I should do next. I didn’t actually think I would find her, but I did, so I could either leave it alone or do something about it. But I had to do something. It was a sign. Somebody upstairs wanted us to be together, otherwise my search would have hit a brick wall, right? I friended her, and she asked me why, so I told her...part of the truth, at least. She let me stay connected with her, but never talked to me, so I knew she was just feeling me out to see if it was real. And it’s real. I’ve been working the problem since we graduated, and I grow closer and closer to a date every day. Now she’s claiming I’m stalking her, which is ridiculous. It’s not like I’m secretly watching her behind the bushes. I know she’s not in love with me, I’m not crazy. I also know she could be, if she just gave me a chance. That’s all I need; one chance. I’m actually a good person. At the very least, I’m better than the guy she keeps breaking up with. I can’t be a stalker anyway, because I’m being stalked.

Perspective Seventy

Microstory 293: Perspective Sixty-Eight

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Perspective Sixty-Seven

Baby daddy. That’s not really what I call him, but that’s almost the best way to describe our relationship. But we’re not together and we never were, so I agree that it’s complicated and awkward. We’re pretty good friends, though, so that helps. We met each other by a nightclub and went back to his place for a one night stand. When I say it was by a nightclub, that’s exactly what I mean. Neither of us belongs to the club scene. My car broke down and I was lost, and he just happened to be there, having just dropped someone off who had used his ridesourcing service. We used protection, but something must have gone wrong, because I found out I was pregnant a few weeks later. We never exchanged contact information, but I did catch his first name, which is rare enough to pinpoint him online. He was ready and willing to help me through everything, so that was a nice change from the horror scenarios I had been running through my head upon first learning of my situation. We didn’t have to go through the courts. He moved back to the area to continue his postgraduate education closeby, which he said he could do pretty much anywhere. The guy is obsessed with education, or rather he’s obsessed with not having to worry about making decisions. No one told him how self-driven PhD programs were, I guess. Oops, slipped my mind. Anyway, things are pretty great. We share our calendars online, and always know where the other one is, and one of us is almost always available to take care of the runt. And when we’re not, my on-again off-again boyfriend can usually step in. Wow, I suppose I never realized how lucky I am to have two upstanding men in my life to help me out. Most of my friends can’t even find one, and I’m technically just as single as they are. I don’t want to push back women’s progress by suggesting I need these men, but I can’t help that they’re around. The thing is that they’re feminists too, so that’s just another way I’m lucky. If I didn’t have such a great group of friends, I would have had to move back in with my parents clear on the wrong side of the tracks on the other side of the country. I wasn’t really interested in that; I’m pretty happy in the South Atlantic. Good job, perfect family, and everything I ever wanted and more. Now if I could just figure out what to do about my stalker.

Perspective Sixty-Nine

Microstory 268: Perspective Forty-Three

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Perspective Forty-Two

I’m not a gorram stalker. There is this thing called frequency illusion. Basically, once you first encounter something (or someone) notable, you suddenly start seeing it everywhere. It’s important to recognize that the only reason this is happening is because this person or thing had not yet made an impact on your memory. So of course you didn’t notice it before. That’s the point. There is also this psychological phenomenon that’s commonly referred to as paranoia. I assure you that this is what’s happening here. I moved to town a few months back. I’ve been doing yoga pretty much my whole life, and needed to find a new place. I tried a class with this one guy who shouldn’t be allowed to call himself a yogi. He’s obviously there for the women. I can see the way he looks at his students and smiles without showing any teeth. It’s creepy and disturbing how he “assists” the ladies with their poses. I know that instructors are supposed to do that, to some degree, but I noticed he never once helped the men. And there were some guys there who were obviously new to the practice and could have used some help. So I stopped taking classes from him, and didn’t give it much thought. But I did end up meeting a nice old lady there who happened to live in one of the apartments above the studio. I go over there on the regular to help her with her bills and other errands. I don’t get anything out of this relationship, but I don’t have much family, and I guess I’m hoping someone randomly shows up to do that for me when I’m that old. But that yoga instructor lives up there too, and he seems to think that I’m following him. I tried to explain what’s really happening, but he is convinced of his own irresistibility. There is nothing less attractive than a man who think girls around him can barely hold in their lust. He’s not ugly, but he’s not that great. And besides, I know how hot I am. If I wanted a guy, I could probably get him. I would never feel the need to stalk him. Dude needs a reality check. And I need to get to a meeting.

Perspective Forty-Four

Microstory 267: Perspective Forty-Two

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Perspective Forty-One

As long as this is a safe space, I’ll be honest. I got into yoga in order to “meet chicks”. Whenever it was portrayed in movies, the characters were played by pretty people in tight clothing, obviously suggesting that yoga “works”. But man oh man, I just love it. The first day was tough. Looking back, I shouldn’t have gone with hot yoga for my first day, like an idiot. But once I got into things and found my groove, it was like I had truly found my home. Sure, I did meet a few women here and there, and I didn’t exactly kick them out of bed. But on the whole, I was there to learn, and learn I did. Once I felt enlightened, I found work at the rec center as an instructor. After a few years of being a yogi, I was able save enough money to open up my own studio. It’s nice to have a place on the physical plane of existence to call my own. Here’s my problem. There’s this girl from one of my classes that has been stalking me, and she knows where I live because my apartment is right above the studio. You would think that she would attend as many classes of mine as she could handle, but she doesn’t. She seems to think that I won’t notice her harassment if I can’t actually see her all that often, or that she won’t get in trouble for it. I’m not sure if she attended the one class and fell in love right away, or if she knows me by some other means and the class was just to get close to me. It’s really weird, but because of how much distance she gives me, the authorities can do nothing about it. Stalking isn’t legal, per se, but it’s also incredibly hard to prove. And law enforcement is much better equipped to investigate and punish crimes that have already happened. Stopping a threat before it’s acted upon is kind of a gray area when it comes to the constitution. It’s like that one movie about people who can see future murders. I’m getting off on a tangent. My stalker. I confronted her about it a few weeks ago, but she completely denies it. I guess all those emails, gifts, and times when I feel like I’m being followed are just a coincidence, huh? She’s such a liar. Ya know what, that’s what I hate the most—okay, it’s all right. Find your bliss. Breathe. There is nothing in this world , or the next, that I can’t survive. That goes for you too. Namaste.

Perspective Forty-Three

Short Story: Hydrosis

Ainsley Rigby lifts her leg to the bench to finish tying her shoe, drips of partly chlorinated water fall from her hair. She hardly had enough time to shower, much less dry it out completely. She has just stepped out of the locker room when she realizes that water was beginning to soak her white tee-shirt. She reaches into her gym bag and covers herself up with a green zipper jacket.

Once outside, she realizes that she needed the jacket anyway. It has gotten much cooler in the evening hours. A strong breeze overcomes her so she rings out her hair in a desperate attempt to stay warm. It doesn’t work. It seems as if it’s getting darker by the second as she tries her best to jog across the parking lot. Strain from the two mile swim is taking hold of her body. She shakes and stops under a streetlight to find a candy bar to quell her diabetic issues. But no candy is found and it reminds her that she gave it to a young boy in the park earlier that day. In retrospect, she probably shouldn’t have done that. Hopefully his mother taught him better after that.

Giving up and hoping to reach her house in a timely manner, Ainsley steps onto the grass. It must have rained during her workout. More water, still settling on the surface of the ground seeps into her shoes. The combination of the cold and weight makes it feel like icebergs attached to her feet. Another strong breeze comes from the side and a rolled up sock falls out of the tear in her bag. Plans for fixing it have been on the agenda for only a few weeks. She’ll surely get to it tomorrow afternoon. Tonight, however, she needed to get home. An important job interview awaits her in the morning and sleep is a necessity.

Reaching down to pick up the now muddy sock, something catches her eye. It’s an indiscernible figure, coming toward her, still in the parking lot. The darkness prevents her from being able to see detail but judging from the build and the way the figure is waving its arms at her, it is most certainly a man. She’s not sure if she knows the man but since he isn’t trying to call out to her, she assumes he is crazy.

Ainsley stuffs the sock back into the bag and turns to run up the hill. The wind grows stronger and tries to keep her from moving but she is determined. Whoever this man is, he doesn’t look friendly. She rotates her head back every once in a while and sees every time that he is just as determined. Frustratingly, the grass becomes more water-soaked. She slips on blades of grass, rocks, and mud. It’s a struggle just to keep her footing and finally she falls to her face. Because of the incline, it isn’t that far of a fall and doesn’t hurt that much but it causes her to slide down a little and slows her escape.

The man is still chasing her. She stands up and continues, the low blood-sugar worsens. Upon reaching the top of the hill she is able to move faster. She uses this opportunity to search for her cell phone. Her hand scrambles within the bag, always grasping something else; a comb, a washcloth, and something she doesn’t quite recognize by touch. Her goggles slip through the tear but she doesn’t take the time to retrieve it. Any swim gear who falls behind is left behind. She pulls her hand out, thinking she’s found it but it’s just her deodorant.

The waning moon that was giving her partial visibility fades away as clouds move in front. The crack of thunder shocks her. Where was the lightning? Still moving as fast as possible, she comes to a grouping of trees and ducks behind one, hoping that her pursuer didn’t notice. With her back pressed tight up against the bark, Ainsley breathes deep through her nose to calm down. But panic returns as she thinks she hears the pursuer coming up on her. The thumps of her heart fill her ears like drums, causing more panic. All she can do is blend in as best she can and hope her heartbeat doesn’t give her away. Beads of water trickle from her forehead and into her eyes. It stings. Somehow, even with the pool, shower, rain, and cold she’s perspiring.

A few seconds later, the pursuer appears several meters away, scanning the area for her, thoughts of violent rape no doubt fluttering around his brain. A drop of rain lands on her overexposed neck. A split-second of fear leads her to believe that she’s been shot or bitten and she screams, “ouch!” She covers her mouth, disgusted with herself for being so careless. A miracle, the man has not heard. He doesn’t even react. She gives credit to luck, assuming there was another strike of thunder that she either didn’t hear or quickly forgot.