Here at the End of the World Parts 1 & 2


One of the most precious gifts belonging to mankind also happens to be the most unnoticed. We do it every day, with the exception of team insomnia, (can you hear me in the back?) and yet so few people really appreciate the miraculous happening of awaking from sleep. For the most part it is an act completely discarded in a sequence of a day we either drudge, fight through, or simply zone out of in a long line of days in like manner. Get up, go to work. Chat it up with the other rats running the cubicle maze or busting bricks at the bottom of a pyramid scheme. Have a nice, light salad for lunch, punch some more hours for the paycheck, head to the house and prepare for the evening routine. It may be a little different for each and every one of us, but we all have cycles that we have constructed around us to contain that which we do not truly want to face or harness; and that is life itself. We perhaps watch a movie or check social media while eating our dinners and unwinding, only to eventually get back to sleep so the cycle can begin again. As Radiohead said so wisely; a pig, in a cage, on antibiotics.


While we rest our bodies, the mind escapes the madness of it all and creates something much, much more akin to its particular palette. The world of dreams. Even those who can’t quite remember theirs when they wake up do it along with those of us who have a firm grasp on exactly what the world of dreams really is and what it’s bigger purpose is in the great gig up in the sky. Our minds and spirits travel from our bodies and swim in illusions that for some reason or another make more emotional sense than what we call reality. Why we dream, where we go when we dream, these are still questions that elude us regardless of how smart our phones have so suddenly become. Perhaps dreams are the only real magic left in the Universe- where one can suspend the restrictions of pre- packaged “reality” and just let go. In your humble author’s opinion which you are free to adopt if you wish as well as discard if ya don’t; when one dreams they are actually having a little death. It’s the same as death, only more like a hiccup rather than …well…death. I believe the person that you are at the moment you fall asleep and have been since the beginning of time up until this point of countless sleep filled nights – dies.


Sleep being death would indicate that rising from sleep to be a resurrection but without stones rolling away, disappearing/reappearing/shapeshifting bodies and the promise of a really fucked up sequel. Let’s be honest, no one has figured dreams out fully and they probably never will. That being said, my theory is just as good as anybody else’s so I am gonna run with it.


Now if when we awake we are technically a completely different person than we were, why is it that we choose to day by day behave in the manner of the former occupant of these things we call bodies? What I mean to say is; why do we seem to automatically choose to continue living the same way life after countless life? This notion is perhaps a scaled down view of how reincarnation probably works which explains a lot, but let us just put that on the back burner for the moment. Why do we maintain the same personality while always longing to be “like” someone else? Why do we continue to have the same fears, the same offences, the same obsessions and dogmatic relationships over and over and over again? Why repeat these patterns day in and day out…especially when we have a choice not to? I mean, it is completely understandable to do so if your life is comfortable and you are content with its going ons; however there are a great many people out there whose life simply isn’t comfortable nor to be content with. So in those cases why doesn’t a person ill content with their life just decide to wake up a different person one day and completely change their life in the fluttering of their waking eye?


Craig...Daniel Craig
Craig…Daniel Craig

Say for example someone was living the life of say a thirty something year old that perhaps went to college, perhaps didn’t, puddled around with a few jobs looking for this mystical thing called a “career”, settled in and hoped for the federal government to sort out the rest for them; woke up and decided they were not just another cog in the machine of the mundane. Let’s say they decided when they woke up that they were actually an undercover spy like James Bond or Ethan Hunt and their hum drum life was actually a cover. What if, like a child would do, they imagined for one day that this was actually the case and went about their day in that manner? Carrying themselves like a suave spy, speaking and responding to others in witty come backs and innuendos of death and sex and more death. What if they used their imagination for one day to pretend to be the hero of a particular spy book or movie having the confidence inside in knowing that they were the good guy and good guys always come out on top in any good story? How would doing so affect the outcome of an otherwise “normal” day? What new course could doing such a foolish thing for one day be charted for who that person was, is and has the capacity to be? What if doing it completely changed their entire outlook on life, and therefore quality of life? What if playing a part for a single day opened doors and opportunities that before, with the old self, could never have been possible? What if it felt good and the person continued to do it for a good long while, the experience being so pleasant and all? What possibilities are available to a person when they do as the good book says and behave as a little child? Reality is perception or so they say, and I would add that perception is extremely malleable. It doesn’t take a very firm grip, just a conscious grip. Now let us hypothetically shift the perspective of the narrative and say that the subject thus far waking and playing different parts day in and day out is myself, that should make the rest of this narrative a little easier to sink into; like slipping into a warm bath.



Hypothetically (but not if this makes sense to you) I woke up one day and realized the answers to all the burning questions I have had all my life. Everything from birth up until that moment made sense to me then, from the smallest detail to the biggest conclusions. I woke up and realized that the reason I have always sort of felt alien to this place, like a square peg living in a round hole, is because I had actually survived the apocalypse (which is not all it cracks up to be, let me tell you). Just about every avenue of life has a doomsday cull du sac in one way or another; religion, politics, video games. There is always supposed to be some asteroid coming to destroy the earth or a pissed off messiah cutting off everyone’s head for their interpretation of something written by someone other than the messiah because for whatever reason messiahs get a real big kick out of not writing anything themselves in order to ensure there are no doubts on what the hell they actually said. Thanks messiahs! Bang up job right there! If not that then it’s supposed to be a pole shift, alien invasion or a recreation of 1984 meets Hunger Games and enslaved humanity to some mysterious force be it material or metaphysical. Take your pick on how it all goes poof I suppose but I will say that for me it was actually rather funny.


You see right before my own personal apocalypse experience I could sense in the air that something was going on in a big way. Keep in mind this was circa 2012 which should make a great many of you go ah. Hypothetically I was contacted by a race of more interdimensional than extraterrestrial beings far, far more advanced than what human beings are. They thought it would be pretty hip to create holographic bodies that when perceived appeared to be old people in golfer pants or pushing a support stroller whilst talking to themselves. Interdimensional beings have such a funny sense of humor like that. True, there are instances when they prefer strutting around cities as homeless schizophrenics so the unworthy simply avoid them, but for the most part interdimensional beings invading earth are quite fond of doing it well into the social security years of a human being. They think it’s clever because no one ever listens to them when they start talking so while the hearer tunes out and thinks of something else they actually reveal they are interdimensional beings coming to bring about a sort of end of the world type thing and the person never realizes it. You see, that’s why the Bible says to listen to old people.


“…we don’t serve food here. Get it? It’s a ham sandwich ordering a beer. It’s funny.”
“…we don’t serve food here. Get it? It’s a ham sandwich ordering a beer. It’s funny.”

Anyway, these guys started giving me little hints day by day that something global was up and maybe all that Mayan prophecy stuff was actually worth taking a look at. So it only took me one glance at the Mayan calendar stone to figure out that all these end of the world scenarios were wrong. There wasn’t going to be hail and brimstone coming from the sky. There wasn’t going to be a global nuclear war. There wasn’t going to be a fire, or flood or rivers of blood. No, the man in the center of the Mayan calendar is clearly sticking his tongue out through laughter to indicate that the world will come to an end as we know it through a practical joke. As it is written, men’s hearts will fail them. When I realized this it reminded me of that old Bat-man comic “The killing Joke” or the Monty Python sketch “The Killer Joke” where this guy writes a joke so funny it kills anyone who reads it with laughter and then the military wants to use it as a WMD on the battlefield.


The interdimensional beings thought that we, as a species have pretty much been douche bags for the past few centuries with wars and bombs and all, but not big enough douche bags that we deserved some horrible transition from life into complete annihilation like the valley of Megiddo and what not. They actually have a scale when determining when a species needs to be rebooted and how they ought to go about such a thing you know. And in humanity’s case a practical joke would do and thus I was ultimately let in on the punchline ahead of time in that the point of the joke was to suddenly throw a mirror up in the face of humanity to show them their true nature. In so doing the worthy would survive the end of all things as we know it and the unworthy would simply be so shocked that they simply blinked out of existence, their bodies left open for the next occupant looking for lease space on the Ferris wheel of reincarnation.


They chose 2012 because of our evolution in social media. We had reached a point where we were so globally connected that one single nudge in the consciousness on earth would trigger a domino effect so powerful that no government’s military could ever stop. Everyone within certain age ranges and social classes were being pulled into things like Facebook for different reasons, different interests but once drawn in they were in. And once in, they were forced to see the snap shots of others who were in. Little by little, and day by day mankind was acclimating itself to sneak a peek at the world through the eyes of others in timelines and posts. Tags and special occasions in one’s life ultimately turn life on earth inside out by inversion. Over time we stopped posting what we lived, but living what we posted. Our realities were being integrated with a new reality beyond the wildest dreams of Ray Kurzweil and for the most part, mankind didn’t even notice it happening. Our waking world and dream world ultimately come from within, as does our physical world and digital world. This fact has countless positive applications grant you that but there are no denying the implications could indeed be very negative. The interdimensional old people thought that the best place to pull their little practical world ending joke would be through Facebook this cycle (yes they do it quite a bit to keep the Universe nice and neat and all) and wasted no time setting up the joke.

“You know you want us baby! Resistance is like…futile.”
“You know you want us baby! Resistance is like…futile.”


First they all created profiles that were very appealing to the mind of onlookers and pleasant on the eye when it came to images. For example they used photos of handsome young men around 18 years old or striking 20 year old blondes in their best summer skirt as profile pics; not current pics of their sagging, holographic old people skin. They made sure that they built their friends list so that it not only connected all of them, but also incorporated the rule of six degrees of separation. Through systematic friend requests they tied all of social consciousness up into an inter-connected psychological web wet with the dew of the morning. As the web expanded they posted cute memes or songs you used to love as a teenager in love. Those posts, those songs, those videos all began to trigger memories in all who saw them hence stimulating the desire for teenage freedom, spontaneity and careless love. This created a near universal longing for greener pastures especially for those still stuck in the proverbial matrix and in relationships they have failed to cultivate. Married men began to seek old girlfriends long since gone, married women began seeking that James Dean type from high school they never had the guts to ask out. They told themselves at first it was just out of curiosity; to maybe experience a “what if” for a moment or two but eventually the longing would grow stronger. The high school sweetheart who had only known one partner began sniffing for one night flings telling themselves “I’m just playing around, it doesn’t really mean anything” to the manipulative tree branch monkeys that were fine where they were for the moment but still wanted several branches to choose from in the instance they had to swing; almost everyone somehow integrated themselves in one way or another in the web of the interdimensional old Facebook people.


That’s right, while you were private messaging that hot architect you found through a friend of a friend on social media behind your husbands back, or sending pics of your naughty bits to that 22 year old yoga instructor in Toledo without your wife knowing; your demise as a species on planet Earth was going all according to plan. Most of you fell into the fantasies perpetuated through channels of private messages and insta-whateva and the once innocent curiosity you were so eager to appease pulled you into a reality where real life decisions were being made based of off basically virtual interactions. Didn’t take long for the interdimensional old people to weave a great majority of the human species into a point where they were willing to leave their significant other, go rob a bank or bury that body all because some letters came across a screen and the picture associated with the words was oh so dreamy. Of course like any trap; it’s so appealing to the eye but the reality is the cold snap of death right behind your neck.


When the time was right, after the interdimensional old people had concluded enough of the human consciousness was tied into their web to have an effective mass culling so to speak, and that those connected had put themselves in very precarious situations (free will not violated once) the interdimensional old people decided to pull the trigger on the whole apocalypse thing. All at the same time these beings changed their profile pic from the appealing and young image to their current holographic old body, revealing to the person that had just asked his wife for a divorce for them, sent their entire savings account to the guy who kind of resembles Brad Pitt for them, or just made some other massive life decision for them that those decisions had actually been made because of a misinterpretation and misrepresentation of outer projected images. All across the globe third eyes could be heard popping as the hearts in most of those looking for greener pastures on the sly, gasped at the sudden realization that they had totally fucked up their life… for a fantasy.

“OMG! I called off the wedding for a poor Victor Newman!” #Branch-Monkey-Bitch
“OMG! I called off the wedding for a poor Victor Newman!” #Branch-Monkey-Bitch


I remember sitting in front of my computer that hypothetical night staring at my screen as half the profile pics switched to Grandma Jane or Grandpa Joe and the other half of the profile pics were deleted because they were super-duper-cheat on my spouse-shadow accounts. Pop, pop, pop was all that could be heard through the glass of the window to my right booming from homes all around the suburb I was comfortably observing from. After about fifteen minutes or so I walked outside in my socks, with cup of coffee in the dominant hand. There was a long silence save the sound of the breeze through the cutting of tree leaves. “So there we have it.” I thought to myself “The end of the friggin’ world. That wasn’t exactly how I expected it to go down but… alright.” I walked down the street in the silence of the city, noticing that most houses had several lights on but nothing but crickets could be heard from homes. The whole stroll had this whole Vanilla Sky feeling to it, you remember, when Tom Cruise wakes up and it slowly dawns on him that he is the only person on the planet. Yeah, it was like that.


On occasion a single gunshot could be heard from either a house on the left of me or on the right of me. As I walked the lines in the middle of the street I watched as sporadic and random muzzle flashes briefly lit up a window, realizing these were the stragglers who had still tried to hang on after the revealing of the Killing Joke. These were the ones who thought through all the ways they had utterly and desperately destroyed their lives and most of the lives connected to them because they just couldn’t help taking a big juicy bite out of that forbidden fruit. It’ll taste good, they said. What’s the worst that could happen, they said. Now that the reality around them had completely changed in the twinkling of an eye it finally occurred to them that maybe the grass is greener on the other side of the fence because there is a heap of bullshit spread out in just the right proportions. But in the end the slow thinkers clocked themselves out one by one. My last, late night walk on planet Earth took me to the Waffle House down the street where the only moving bodies could be seen through fog polluted windows, and yes they were all using their senior citizen discounts.



Part Two:


“Eggs up!” came the quick chirp from the elderly cook behind the bar followed by a clink from the spatula to the spindles. I didn’t realize how soppy my socks were from the dew of the walk until they sloshed onto the tile as I moved into the Waffle House. This caused me pause long enough for the healthy gathering of interdimensional old people to lower their collective chatter and turn their heads or walkers in my general direction. The first thing I noticed in this walking Viagra commercial was that everyone in attendance, save myself, had a “Hi, My name is:” sticker on their breast. Some on the bill of their ball cap. As I panned around the restaurant (if Waffle House can be defined as such) I seemed for the most part to be the center of attention; the only exception being a rather dingy looking black man in the corner booth talking it up with a waitress.


...entertain angels unaware
…entertain angels unaware


“…and then I said ‘Oh baby, together we can be unstoppable’ and that was all she wrote!” He exclaimed with an air fist.

“Seriously, Paulo? You got her to walk away from all that with a ham fisted line like that? My stars.” The waitress exhaled.

The dingy Paulo chocked on silent laughter as he fiddled around with one of the two hundred and thirty six keys hanging from an old shoelace around his neck. As he patted his thigh, a cloud of dust came up in a poof from his knee length trench coat and filled the air with the aroma of garbage dump goo. I could feel something nasty happening in the back of my throat. Thankfully a sip of coffee from my cup would be a quick fix to the problem. I happen to like my coffee cup. It’s black with gold images of the Olympians from one side of the handle to the other and drinking from it always gives me that little boost of self-esteem I need, right when I need it.

“Heck, it wasn’t like she wasn’t given fair warning. Wadn’t eight months ago I paid her and her husband a visit in Atlanta and she watched just as plain as day me give him a key in exchange for an Irish blessing. So don’t bust these old bones when I damn near broke protocol showing the gal as much as I did. Broken neck’s not so bad anyway. Quick. Painless. Shit, that gal was runnin’ so fast across that bridge she never knew it happened anyhow.” Paulo said as he justified himself to the waitress.


She topped him off on his in house cup and shook her head as she shuffled back to the kitchen. Once gone my view was clear to see an empty chair across from Paulo, the interdimensional key traveler, as I have come to know him. Older black fella, big thick coat as well as hands. His bottom lip always stays somewhat open and he never, ever smells pleasant. He typically carries a crime novel in his hand, hardback with a public library sticker on the spine but of course the most notable feature is his affinity for keys. Everyone dismisses him as a mentally deficient, derelict that has to scrounge up pennies to have coffee in a place like this all night. I am told he is the oldest and wisest among the interdimensional old people invaders.


“Well come on. Warm that chair right there so we can cut the crud and get straight down to business old boy.” Paulo politely ordered me.

I sloshed over and sat, beside me was Franko. Franko was a small wrinkled white man with hair that reminds you of Malcom Mcdowell. He never wears shoes, always has a splint on his left pinky and typically he has recently been bashed in the face with what I believe are repitious strikes from differing ladies handbags. He too is mistaken for a homeless person but I have actually had many an intriguing conversation with him regarding his multi-billion dollar franchise spread out all over the U.S. with new ones soon to boot in France. Great guy, Franko is. Across from him is Merv who just so happened to be flipping through one of those classic jukeboxes. Merv doesn’t talk too much.


“So” I say “ Billions of people across planet Earth just checked out because they were stepping out on somebody through Facebook? Just like that? A small percentage of users reveal they are actually crusty, stinky, old people screwin’ around and that is enough to set off a chain reaction for the species to come to an end?”

Paulo jerked into laughter and tried to catch it with his forearm. “Yeah. Funny, huh?”

“I mean…it is certainly a way to end the world.” I responded.

Paulo snaps from his hunch of glee into a more upright and stern position as a plate of sunny side ups come across his nose and onto the table. He readies his condiments before his silverware then returns to the conversation.




“Look, all the other ways have been done before and to tell you the truth a lot of the flashier apocolypses are really exhausting. Takes centuries just to work the kinks out after a cycle ender like that. We all wanted to take it easy this time around and let everyone tie their own noose. They say if you live by the sword you die by the sword and all.” Paulo explained.

“Yeah but this was social media, not swords.”

“Wrong. It wasn’t social media that wiped out the artists formerly known as people. It was vanity.” Paulo accented with a nod from his jelly slathered butter knife.

That was worthy of a silent head tilt in consideration, I have to admit. Death by selfie on a mass scale as if on a small scale wasn’t stupid enough.

“And you and I both know it wasn’t all of them. Some of them lived, thank God we played the warning for all of the nit wits beforehand.” Paulo sighed.

“Played the warning? What warning?” I asked.

“Oh, you remember all those YouTube videos going around with the ‘strange horns heard around the world’ and what not?”

“I remember. There were a lot of crazy theories about them. The trumps of the archangels, the engines of motherships from Sirius, the sound of pole shift. I never figured them out myself.” I said.

“Crsby, Shtills, mm, Mash.” Paulo said with a mouthful of toast.

“Beg that pardon?”

“I said…Crosby, Stills and Nash.” Paulo swallowed.

“…Uh, yeah…that too huh?”

“No man, lookit; the strange horns and all coming from the skies. It was Crosby, Stills and Nash but the track was all split apart. If you played those YouTube videos overlapped the warning message was clear. Love the one you’re with.” Paulo said, then paused, then smiled.

“No shit?!” I asked.

“No shit!” Paulo said followed by a signal to Merv to hit the classic jukebox. As the sounds of the great Crosby, Stills and Nash thumped those foggy Waffle House windows I shared in a seated dance with the interdimensional old people invaders. It’s a great song, how could you not?



After our happy go lucky dance at the end of the world, Franko placed a brown paper bag in the space between us and began to empty its contents on the table. He retrieved a pair of broken in combat boots, wool skull cap, black trench coat and a couple of rings before laying them out on the table.

“You’ll be needing those. Can’t have you going out on stage without wearing a costume now can we?” Paulo asked.

“I spose not. Now refresh me on this again, make sure I got this right. When I walk out of this Waffle House and back out there everything should boot up like normal, right?” I asked.

“For the most part. You step out there and cars will be whizzing down the street, people will be buried in their smart phones, fast food joints will be serving up cardboard fries, just like nothing ever happened.”

“Except, three years later?” I inquired.

“Right. You walk out that door and it’s three years later with billions of people going about their lives oblivious to everything that happened.”

“…but theyre all dead?”

“Yeah, but they don’t know theyre dead and lets not dilly dally around with terminology here; all of them are clones with preprogrammed memories of dead people from three years ago.”

“With three extra years of memories that really didn’t happen though, or am I wrong on that?” I asked.

“Look man. Cloning and quantum physics are not this friggin’ complicated. You step out those doors and skip three years ahead. The Earth, which is not really the Earth but kind of an interdimensional carbon copy of the other Earth we just threw deuces on, will be fully populated with clones of the people so vain they thought that armegeddon was about them. Those clones will have access to the memories of dead people plus the three years they have actually been alive in your Waffle House absence.”

“You mean your spaceship?” I asked.

“Spaceship’s are for hillbillies guy. Waffle House is an interdimensional vortex. It’s much more sophisticated…and much classier.”


What has three teeth and five breasts?
What has three teeth and five breasts?


“And I am supposed to do what? Just observe? See if they can correct the mistakes their dead surrogates made when you guys pulled the plug on planet Earth?”

“Can’t correct the mistakes of the dead. What’s done is done, so no, what you are here to observe is if they can create for themselves an identity which is indeed the embodiment of that thing called Freedom your kind so passionately scrambles around for. You are here to see if they can evolve into people free from the bondage of bendable memories of vain mistakes and misdeeds held over their heads by the highest authority in the Universe; themselves.” Paulo instructed.

“Wow. That was pretty deep black, homeless, stink jacket man.”

“That’s what ya ma-in-law sai…”

“Please don’t.”


I winced as all this surreal instruction started causing a little disorientation. Within a blink or two, Franko and Merv were supporting my neck and back keeping me from fainting. Paulo snapped his fingers a few times in front of my eyes.

“Don’t worry, it’ll wear off in a minute. It’s the memories kicking in.”

“Memories? What Memories?” I murmered.

“Where you are from and where you are going aren’t all that backwards compatible kiddo. We had to slip you into one of them.” Franko muttered.

“What? Like a clone? You put me in the cloned body of a dead guy?”

“That’s protocol sport. So put your new duds on your new duds. The swooning was the memories of the clone kicking in. Soon they’ll integrate with yours and it’ll take a while before you can discern which one’s are yours versus his. Should be fun, people are gonna call you all kinds of crazy.” Paulo quipped.

“Don’t let em’ razz ya ole boy. Out there it won’t take you long to realize you aint just another clone out there like them. That’s what’s gonna help you find the others.” Franko whispered.

“The others? What others?” I asked.

“A handful of others were slapping the Sistine chapel roof of waking up before we pulled the plug but came just a little too shy. So in the reboot they are a little more …let’s say aware, than most. You’ll know em’ when you meet em’. They’ll dress funny, have weird dreams, believe in fairies and unicorns and mermaids and stuff.” Paulo said.

“So…other crazy people?”

“And some dogs.”

“Right. And some dogs.” I repeated.


The Waffle House story again?
The Waffle House story again?


Once I was confident getting into my new boots, skull cap and coat wouldn’t push me to the point of further dizziness the deed was done. Paulo slapped a blank “Hello. My name is:” sticker on my chest and placed a necklace around my neck from which dangled a single key.

“Remember, you can nudge them, you can guide them but you cannot break their free will. It’s kinda the rules. We’ll be keeping an eye on your work and when the need arises for the dissemination of down loaded content we expect you to get it out to those who have the ears to hear.”

“How do I do that?” I asked.

Franko thumped my chest, er, the chest of the clone of a dead guy and said, “This one was a writer. We used to get folks like you to do it on scrolls but then some asshole thought it’d be great to start a religion around them and that became trendy and all.”

“So what do you want me to do then? Blog about it?” I asked with a playful yet fantastical grin. My grin was met by the straightest of old people faces.

“Wait just a damn minute here! You expect to relay mind blowing concepts about life, the universe and everything (thank you Douglas Adams) into my head; and then have me write about it in a blog?! Who in their right mind is going to believe that anything I could possibly write about on the internet from interdimensional old people is remotely true?” I asked in a stupid panic.

“We kept Facebook the same.”

“Oh…well when you put it like that, no biggie.”


Paulo escorted me out of the fog polluted diner and out onto the parking lot. Sure enough, the strip was buzzing with cars and SUV’s. A young couple skirted past, not holding hands but I-thingies instead. Across the street GMO goodness was being tossed out of drive thrus like pez. It was the same, but it wasn’t the same. I wasn’t the same. I looked down at my name sticker and couldn’t place the name I was supposed to use here-in this place. Paulo smiled, “It’ll come to you. The kid was always fuzzy about his too.”

“Why me? Why did you guys pick me to do all this?” I asked as I sensed Paulo was about to send me on my way.

“You, like him” he said as he tapped the person suit I was wearing “were held in the balance and not found wanting…and, we happen to think youre a funny guy. Takes a funny guy to understand that the Universe itself is just a giant punchline. Now get to it tiger, write some truly bizarre shit.” Paulo encouraged.


A sudden rush of Holy Ghost came upon me as I breathed in the air of a completely foreign planet masquerading as what I once called home. My whole life before stepping out of that Waffle House was no more and here I was with my coffee cup and new coat; born again. I started back down the street but only got a few steps before something dawned on me and I had to turn back to Paulo one more time.

“Hey,…just out of curiousity, what did he die of? I mean, if he wasn’t found wanting but he died anyway; what did he die of?” I asked.

Paulo stood there in the night with his keys and his jacket and his dangling bottom lip. He came the distance to me and slid a folded piece of paper into my pocket.

“The same all of your kind die of ole boy. Now don’t read that until you try out a fresh keyboard.” He said then vanished back into the Waffle House with a wave.


It has always been my belief that the most honest of hymns is “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily life is but a dream” and do not see how that is going to change anytime in the near future. Some dreams you cannot remember, some you cannot forget. There are dreams you would do anything to escape, and some you would escape everything to stay wrapped up in. Dreams are more than just things to pass our time at night while the body snoozes. They are a part of the inner us, the truth of us. They take us where we came from and show us where to go. They try to get our attention to let us know when we are at important apexes of our life and will always guide us if we breed them into fruition. An idle dreamer is the dreadest of dullards only to be surpassed by those who dismiss them altogether. For fate and circumstance don’t always bring us to teacups shattering, rather more often than not they bring us to mirrors once shattered by our own reflection. May we all wake up in a dream where the reflection will not shatter.


Before buying any new computer or laptop I always type the same thing. I don’t know why but I have done it since I could type. I usually leave it sitting on screens in stores if the keyboard did not suffice and in bold book antiqua it read “Here at the End of the World”…but not today. No, when floating my finger over chicklet keys I felt new words flutter out and they were “Here at the Beginning of the World.” I smiled at the blinking cursor for a moment then my attention was brought to my pocket. With my right hand equipped with pinkie ring I withdrew the paper Paulo had hidden away. I carefully brought it chest height and flicked it open with my thumb.

“A Broken Heart, Ole Boy.”




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About D.L. Crumpton 59 Articles
Daniel Louis Crumpton, author of the groundbreaking novel Then Came the Flood (Westbow Press), has written extensively since his debut in 2012 in the areas of philosophy, spirituality, alternative history and politics with a complete lack of reverence or dogmatism that those areas often demand. His writing has been featured on ZENINTHECAR.COM, OCHELLI.COM, THE LIBERTYBEACON.COM, DOWNLOADEDCONTENT.COM amongst many others. His views, ideas, insights and humorous perspectives on current social and political issues have been heard on internationally and nationally syndicated radio broadcasts such as Ground Zero with Clyde Lewis, Lighting the Void with Joe Rupe, The Ochelli Effect with Chuck Ochelli, The Vinny Eastwood Show and soon Coast to Coast with George Noory. Daniel Louis Crumpton’s ongoing experimental, introspective and conscious streamed writings, podcasts, videos and interviews can be found collected at DOWNLOADEDCONTENT.COM.

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