I jus’ saw my wife sanitizing the hand-sanitizer.

Inspired by Guy de Maupassant’s “Was it a Dream?”

Tired of the face mask, talk of plague, social distancing and the other various ways to avoid one’s neighbor, I drove to Virginia City with three one-fifth bottles of rot-gut, for I wished to become drunk and falling down. My destination being where all eventually fall, the cemetery at the end of town, before it reaches the city’s limits as coming from Reno.

It did not take long to park my vehicle, walk beyond the wooden sidewalks, past the sheriff’s station and fire department and up the slight rise leading to the resting place of those who’ve lived, worked and died in the historic town. And once there, I entered the gates of Silver Terrace.

Inside, I cracked the first bottle and sit on the ground near the 1886 grave of a baby marked three days old. By the time I’d finished, I was well on my way to blinding intoxication.

With the second of my fifths soon laid to waste, I was no longer able to safely walk, so I contented myself to sit on the hill and look into the darkness of Six-Mile Canyon and at the few lights showing life still clung to the ancient mining town. Finished with the third bottle, I passed out.

There I slept till three, when I became aware of movement. I opened my eyes and watched as several figures moved towards the entrance.

“Zombie apocalypses,” I though, still drunk.

I watched, listened and soon heard screams of terror, the crunch of loose gravel, a revving vehicle engine and the sound of it as it raced away.

The cemetery fell quite again, save for the dragging, and sliding of old creaking bones.  Fearful, I closed my eyes, then faded to sleep, only to wake from a solid thump to the bottom of my left boot.

“Were you here when the taggers struck?” asked the caretaker.

“Yes,” I answered.

“You must’ve frightened them away before they could do more damage.”

I said nothing, for aside from the vandals, only the bodies beneath know the truth.

This day’s been face masks, wildfire smoke, boredom and isolation. Night time is arrived and a certain loneliness encases me beneath the covers.

My wife’s already sleeping. I cannot.

Quietly, gently, I climb from bed, dress, slip out the door, into my truck, pulling from our drive. To the Truckee River I head, to a place known to be very ancient.

A place I visit often, especially when seeking refuge from my mind. The Court of Antiquity.

East on Interstate 80, beyond Sparks, beyond city lights, hidden in plain sight of the freeway. I slow to the road side, back into the ramp, now gated, barring vehicles.

Around the gate, down the ramp, I walk. But I am halted in my steps as a shrill scream pierces my soul.

My blood runs cold, body grows chilled, sweat breaks over my skin. I watch into the darkness, right hand palming the butt of my pistol.

My legs refuse to move, feet struck to the ground. Only my right arm moves, guiding that hand to the pocket of my jeans, for truck keys.

Nothing more’s heard other than cars, trucks, and 18- wheeler after 18-wheeler speeding 15-feet above and to the right. Not one occupant knows the primal drama  playing out below.

“A cougar, perhaps a panther.”

My courage rebuilds and I begin forward, that scream echoes again. The moon suddenly breaks through it’s smoky portière.

A wisp of white, moving, floating, that I catch sight of. A translucent body.

Fear becomes blind panic. I run back to my truck.

I’ve forgotten the gate, hit it with such force that I flip head first over, landing on my left shoulder, banging my head on the metal bottom.

No time for pain, I scramble to my feet, open my truck’s door, get in and lock it, fumble with the ignition, and drive away. That scream, that ghostly figure will haunt my dreams if I’m able to sleep.

It’s a simple throw rug purchased on line. The thing that makes it so special is that it creates an optical illusion so strong, not even my dogs will go near it.

The illusion is that of a black hole with a series of white and black squares around the entrance. It has brought many laughs over the past few days as I’ve move it around and watched the dogs refuse to step on it.

Once, I placed it in front of the dog door from the front room to our garage and the younger of out two dogs jumped over it rather than risk walking on it. When I placed it in front of the hallway entrance our older dog jus’ stood there, whining, unable to bypass it.

Harmless fun for these times of pandemic lock down. But that was until yesterday, when a former neighbor paid a visit.

He saw the rug and without a seconds hesitation, jumped onto the center of the black hole. Perhaps, this should read ‘jumped into the center of the black hole,’ because with a terrified scream of shock, he disappeared through the carpet.

I shouted for him, yelling his name until I was practically hoarse.

This morning at 5:30, my cellphone rang. It was my friend calling from a police station in Toledo, Ohio, where he came out into the living room of an elderly woman, with the same rug, and who called the cops, having him arrested.

Essence of literary burn out
Seems to be mine, not yours
As I etch into computer code
Many words few wish to read.
Does my pain beget pleasure?

Deborah was a beautiful redhead and I wanted to sleep with her in the worst way, and I did. Later, I had to kill her to protect myself. Let me explain:

It began a week ago, jus’ before the full moon. I met her at a family gathering, she was the date of one of my cousin’s and she and I hit it off nearly right away.

Her perfume was enough to drive any man wild and I couldn’t get enough of it. There was also that something else, a scent not identified that I also felt animalistic over.

Two days later, I ran into her at the local grocery store. We ended up going to a nearby coffee shop for what became a long afternoon of conversation.

During our conversation she explained that she had a long scar that ran from the base of her skull, clear to her tail bone. She said she’d gotten it after a car accident as a child.

“I’d love to see it one day,” I said flirting with her, immediately wishing I hadn’t the second it passed my lips.

Debbie, as she liked to be called, smiled and winked, “How about now.”

My heart leaped for exited joy. I followed her in my truck to her apartment, where we spent the entire night lustfully engaged.

The next morning I was scheduled to go into the high-desert for a geological survey. This is where things took a turn for the worst.

Being by myself, in the company of only a full moon and the stars is nothing to me. I’ve been camping and hiking and working in the wilderness by myself since I was a teenager.

This night though, there were none of the customary sounds one might expect in the desert. And the lack of noise set my nerves on end.

Then came a terrifying and terrific howl from somewhere nearby my camp site. It was a cry that I had never heard before and not being as brave as I’d like to think of myself, I decided to beat feet the high ground of Egg Rock.

This rock is as exactly as its name purports it to be, a nearly perfect shape of an egg, smooth and oval. It is also considered to be one of the more difficult boulder climbs within the rock-climbing community.

Frightened by nothing more than my gut instinct, I raced for the rock. Once there I found only a small divot in the boulder’s face.

Frantically, I searched for a second one, wasting several minutes. Meanwhile, the howling had ceased and turned into a low menacing growl.

Whatever it was, it was tracking me and I was certain I would die unless I made it to the top of the Egg. Finally, I found a second hold, then a third and fourth and then I was on top of the stone, able to look down at my surroundings.

With only the full moon to see by, I watched. Suddenly and without much sound, came looming out of the nighttime, a large wolf-like animal. It’s yellow-eyes remained fixed on me as it circled and circled, seeking a way up the natural edifice.

This continued throughout the remainder of the night and the early morning hours. I watched as the beast made pass after pass, stood on it’s hind legs, leaning against the rock as if beckoning me to come down, only to return to the circular pacing.

As the night grayed and dawn showed, I noted three things about this creature: its reddish fur, a massive scar from its nap to where the tail should be. I say should be, because this thing lacked the tail of a canine.

I finally climbed down after it raced away, fully convinced that it was not a canine, but something else entirely.

Abandoning all my gear and the job at hand, I raced to my truck and sped home. Two nights later, I was standing at my bedroom window when I saw Debbie, as she came up the sidewalk to my front door.

She knocked and I opened.

“I was hoping I had the right place,” she smiled as she entered.

“How did you find me?” I blurted out, not thinking.

Her smile changed into a slight grin as she answered, “I was afraid you might wonder about that.”

Not waiting, I drew the hunting knife tucked in my waist band and jammed it into her. By then her transformation had already begun and I had to resort to removing her head.

While Debbie’s death was neither quick nor a clean, I’m now free to shape-shift, creating that unholy chaos I know that my traditional being is meant to cause. But for right now, I need to clean up this mess.

Bought a chicken to make sandwiches. It doesn’t. It shits on the floor.

As I walked by Mister Nate’s home, he called me up onto his porch. I could tell the nonagenarian had something on his mind.

I took the cushioned rocking chair next to his.

“Son,” he started, “I jus’ got back from visiting my kids in California.”

He paused. I didn’t interrupt.

“They’ve gotten stupid,” he started, “Not only my grown children, but everyone. Wanna know why?”

I nodded yes.

“I grew up in Tennessee, during Jim Crow,” he said, “Can recall being called ‘nigger,’ the back door to diners, separate toilets and fountains.”

His wife brought out some unsweetened sun tea.

“Never tried sitting at a segregated lunch counter,” he continued, “Instead, I joined the Navy in ’44, served 20-years.”

He paused as if thinking.

“Know why I’m telling you this?” he asked.

“No,” I answered.

“Folks no longer going to the backdoor or the front door of restaurants. Instead they’re eating outside in the parking lot like hobos, bums and beggars. And they don’t even realize they’re willingly segregating themselves and not even putting up a fuss over it. Understand what I’m saying, son.”

“Yes, Master Chief,” I answered.

“I knew you would,” he said.

Since March 20, 2020, I’ve been unemployed, because of the state shutting down for a two-week  period to ‘flatten the curve’ on COVID-19. That is 150 days ago.

During this time, the company I worked for permanently closed its facility, and I’ve been unable to collect any unemployment benefits because I can’t get through either the online system or by phone.  I’ve even emailed Senator’s Catherine Cortez Masto and Jacky Rosen, as well Congressman Mark Amodei’s offices for help with this, but they can’t be bothered to respond.

On August 6, I wrote a letter to the Department of Training, Education and Rehabilitation (DETR) and as of yet, have received no response. Then yesterday morning, it was announced that Nevada’s Department of Motor Vehicle’s is increasing their hours of operation Monday through Friday’s.

Here’s the final rub: when called, DETR’s automated telephone recording states that they can only help callers with claims on “Monday’s and Wednesday’s.” Furthermore, they state that the remaining workdays are dedicated to “providing ‘information.”

Day 150 of a two-week period that is promised to flatten the curve…