Funereal Plots

Horror Cinema reviews

Matthew M. Bartlett

Bring Her Back

Writer/Director: Danny and Michael Philippou

I saw on social media a horror writer complaining about a theme they felt was overused in the genre: trying to resurrect a loved one who has died. Good luck getting rid of that one. It’s as intrinsic to the genre as the werewolf and the vampire. As long as death exists—and it shows no signs of going away, no matter the advances in medicine—we will explore the ways people will try to reverse it, and consider what will go terribly wrong when they make the attempt.

17-year-old Andy (Billy Barratt) and his half-blind sister Piper (Sora Wong) lose their father and are forced to cohabitate with a step-parent. Andy could become Piper’s legal guardian when he turns 18 in three months, but a trouble past puts that strongly desired arrangement at risk. Laura (Sally Hawkins, brilliant in a difficult role), said guardian, is a former counselor who’s fostering another child—a mute boy named Oli, who is somehow frail and menacing at the same time. Laura had a daughter who died by drowning. She immediately works to try to sabotage Andy.

The movie starts off boldly, showing a videotaped occult ritual that is squalid and violent. How that tape connects to the events of the movie unfolds darkly and with wince-worthy scenes that make the viewer turn away from the screen. We see more of the ritual we witnessed at the start of the movie. When Oli’s true identity is revealed, the situation deteriorates.

Bring Her Back is, as they say, not for the faint of heart. There’s regurgitation, self-mutilation, the consumption of corpses, and a . I tend to look unfavorably upon movies where the horror is a metaphor for grief. This isn’t quite that—grief is the engine, but the horrors are stark and unyielding, effectively offset by some moments of humor, though less so than the other excellent horror feature of 2025, Zach Creggers’ A+ movie Weapons. Bring Her Back is a few steps up from the pair’s previous feature Talk to Me. It’s one of the best horror movies in recent times, managing to be intelligent, emotionally intelligent, and balls-out bonkers violent. I look forward to the Phillippous’ next (three-word-title?) outing. If their trajectory is like that of Creggers, they are moviemakers to watch (from between your fingers).

 

"Gaze into the Abyss: The Poetry of Jim Morrison" by William Cook

Reviewed by Anthony Servante

To appreciate “Gaze into the Abyss: The Poetry of Jim Morrison” by William Cook, the reader need not be a fan or detractor of The Doors’ singer/lyricist Jim Morrison. One merely need to appreciate good poetry. But that is the question: What is “good poetry”? For an answer, we look to the poetry itself. William Cook addresses this concern immediately by revealing to us his intentions: “In order to validate my claim that [Morrison] is a significant poet worthy of canonical consideration, the focus of this critique will be on Morrison’s own words and poetry.” This is important for the readers to know up front so that we do not confuse Cook’s emotional connections to the music of The Doors or to the turbulent history of the poet himself. The work will speak for itself, and it is the job of the critic to teach us to listen to the voice of the poetry by eliminating all manner of white noise that surrounds the work, be it the poet’s controversial life or the turbulent times the poetry was written in.

The general rule in literary criticism is to critique the work, not the person, place, or time, for criticism is cold analysis, not praise or rebuke. It deconstructs the work and finds strengths and weaknesses. What makes the literature work on its own terms? William Cook is to be commended for applying this rule to his critique of the work of The Doors singer/lyricist Jim Morrison in “Gaze into the Abyss: The Poetry of Jim Morrison. In an age where creative work from books to movies is attacked or worshiped by writers who confuse admiration and disapproval for critical analysis, it is good to see that William Cook elevates the traditional role of critic up alongside those of artist and author.

Whether Cook is writing about serial killers, the literature of horror, or the poetry of a generation, we can always trust him to clear away the clutter of emotional bias and offer us a lucid analysis that gives the reader a better understanding of the subject matter. Well done, William. Gaze into the Abyss: The Poetry of Jim Morrison is another worthy example of your critical skills.

 

Hunting Time

by

Anthony Servante

It was hunting time. Harper Knutssen opened the door and felt the cold blast of air chill his face. He’d have to down a bear not only for food but for the pelt, so he could make himself a coat with a hood to cover his face. The winter came upon him suddenly this year, and the cabin needed to be reworked to keep the heat in. He stepped into the snow, and his feet steeped into the 8 inches of powdery ice.

In the distance, just before the forest became thickened and dark, there ran a single deer, alone, lost, trying to find its bearings. I stalked it as the beast dumb with cold changed directions several times, entering the forest, exiting, stopping and turning its head as it realized I was upon it. My knife entered the warmth of its flesh. It fell instantly, but it wasn’t a clean kill. Its heart yet beat. I plunged the weapon into the pumping organ to put the animal out of its misery. Its doe eyes glazed as they watched me with morbid curiosity.

In the cabin, I skinned the deer and butchered it into sections for cooking. I’d eat later. What was important now was the pelt to cover my face from the freezing wind. There were white bears about. With the proper attire for hunting, I would down the big beast and make a blanket.

What a life I had chosen for myself all those years ago. The marriage didn’t work. She was an evil woman, an unfaithful creature. It was good to be away from the civilized animals, those unpredictable beasts. Alone I was safe. My heart untroubled. But it was my first winter here, and I was unprepared. Luckily the frozen door was ajar that morning. I would have to be quick to ready myself to survive the long months ahead. The deer meat would last perhaps a month. I still needed more meat. Bear meat. The white beasts would be looking for caves to hibernate. They were vulnerable then. I wiped my blade clean and resumed the hunt.

Another hunter eyed the blood from the deer I killed. What was he doing on my land? I sneaked up on him and slit his throat and dragged his body into the forest. Let the animals feast on him. It was the law of the uncivilized here. He should have known that. You don’t hunt the prey of another hunter. It’s the code of the animals.

Then I saw the bear in the distance, about a hundred yards as the crow flies. It was a big one. It seemed to be looking for something, perhaps a last meal before hibernation. It didn’t matter. I leaped upon his furry back and stabbed the knife into its neck. Blood sprayed every where. I was lucky to have severed an artery. I dropped to the ground and stepped back as the beast fell to four paws, then tipped over. I could not carry such a heavy animal to the cabin, so I first skinned it and cut it into several portions. It took half a dozen trips to and from the cabin to finally bring the entire bear home.

I felt safe now. But suddenly another hunter broke through the door and fired his weapon at me. My arm caught on fire. I threw the knife at him. It stuck in his eye. He dropped to his knees and fell on his face, pushing the knife deeper into his brain. As I got to my feet, a third hunter fired his weapon. The searing pain landed in my belly. I rushed the fiend and choke him. Again the gun explodes, but the bullet strikes the ground. I bit his throat and hear the larynx pop. He gasped for air for a few minutes. I watched him die in the doorway. I wanted to close the door but I was too weak. I sat. The freezing winter entered the cabin. There was nothing I could do now to prevent it. I surrendered to the sleep as I leaned against the carcass of the bear.

The County law authorities arrived the next morning when the morning shift nurses found the three dead male nurses. One had his throat torn out by what looked like human teeth marks. The second had his adam’s apple shoved into his esophagus. The third knocked unconscious, tied and skinned alive. When the muscular male nurse entered his hospital cell, he found the door was unlocked, forced open somehow. It would take animal strength to do that. And the horror awaited him. The doctor on duty as well as a female nurse and the receptionist were butchered and hanging in the patient’s room. A bed sheet was bundled in the corner and used for a fire. The doctor’s lighter lay by the blackened blanket. He backed out of the room quickly and notified the police. Why did he do it? They asked. The nurse said he was harmless and loved to stare at the calendar picture on the wall depicting a cabin in the snow. One thing though. Yesterday he kept complaining that it was too cold. I asked the doctor to reduce the air conditioning a bit, but he said that it would do the patient good. Well, said the detective, that explains the human skin suit he was wearing. Man loses his wife in a hunting accident and then this. You head doctors probably could explain this one better than a homicide detective.

His dead eyes never left the calendar. He didn’t notice the other hunters in his cabin and no longer cared.

 

Funereal Plots

Horror Cinema Reviews

Matthew M. Bartlett

Weapons

Writer/Director: Zach Creggers

Don’t read this review. Seriously. Stop here. Save it if you must, until after you see the movie. Yes, this is one of those “try to avoid all information before seeing it” kind of movie, and not because there’s some terrible twist—instead, because the way it reveals its story is captivating and intricate.

Seventeen children disappear overnight, seen on Ring cameras moving swiftly and strangely into the night, arms extended. They all left their homes at 2:17 am. They were all from the same class. Only one student didn’t disappear. Justine Gandy (Julia Garner, allowed here to let her let loose her considerable acting chops), the class’s teacher, falls under the town’s angry suspicion. This is the deceptively simple setup for Weapons. I thought I’d cottoned to its secret early on, when in a dream a massive, spaceship-like assault rifle looms eerily over a house. But I was wrong.

Justine is placed on leave. She starts drinking, carrying on with a local cop. Intensely curious and empathetic, hurt by the negative attention, she begins, despite her principal’s wishes, following the young boy who didn’t disappear. The windows of his house are covered in newspaper. It appears that his parents are inside, silent and still. Justine is joined in her unofficial investigation by one of the fathers (Josh Brolin). The cop with whom she’s carrying on complicates matters, as does interference from a local miscreant and, separately, from the school principal.

The movie jumps back in the narrative several times, showing us the occurrences from different points of view. We meet the remaining student’s aunt, a garishly clad and made-up enigma, who uses strange witchcraft on the boy’s parents—and who may be the key to the entire mystery. The movie’s explosive, startling ending also manages to be hilarious without compromising the horrors.

Weapons is everything a horror movie should be. Mysterious. Startling. Eerie. Inventive. Violent. Sad. Hysterically funny. It isn’t the same old horror concept rehashed. The director’s previous feature, Barbarian, was similarly inventive, if different in tone and execution. I’m excited to see what Cregger has in store next.

 

1942 (2012)
Directed by Feng Xiaogang

Reviewed by Anthony Servante

I saw the horror movie sequel to The Collector, called The Collection, both of which I enjoyed. As I left the theater, I saw a long line of well-dressed Chinese cordoned by black velvet separators used at movie premieres. So, I went for it. I got in line, wearing a black hoodie. There were security and uniformed ushers, all Chinese. As more patrons lined up behind me, one of the ushers counted people in the line and then instructed the last fifty or so people in line to follow him. I understood his body language enough that I didn't need to understand his Mandarin. We were escorted to the theater showing Red Dawn. Cool. I haven't seen that yet. Then the usher left and returned with two more ushers and hundreds more patrons who immediately filled the cinema to capacity. We were told by the escort usher that they have found a copy of the movie at a sister theater nearby and that it is being readied for showing in about 15 minutes. He apologized that the other theater was oversold, but while we are waiting for the movie to start, he and the other ushers would hand out free movie passes for a complimentary visit to attend a different film. When the usher reached me, I told her that my partner was in the restroom. She handed me an extra ticket.  Xie xie, I said. As I listened afterward, I found that most of the audience had a friend or family member in the restroom as well. The ushers smiled and bowed a lot. They didn't care. The tickets were an apology. That is all that mattered. Minutes or so after the freebies, the movie started straight away. No turn-off your cell phones. No refreshments in the lobby. No don't talk during the movie. No trailers. The movie started, the lights went down. I heard the crowd gasp. I sensed something about the movie was going to be good.

It was not Red Dawn. It was a Chinese film called 1942. That's what the four Chinese characters read. A one, a nine, a four and a two. Yet the English subtitle read: Back to 1942. (Later I found it's based on the book Remembering 1942, because as the author Liu Zhenyun points out: Americans remember [bad times in history]; the Chinese forget). The cast titles were Chinese except for Tim Robbins and Adrien Brody (other Brody movies, The Thin Red Line & The Pianist, and now this movie all take place in 1942, as Zhenyun also points out). The movie begins with a confrontation between peasants carrying torches at night and the landlord and his hired help carrying rifles. It seems the starving "bandits" as the rich owner refers to them are starving to death and they intend to share in the plentiful food behind the wall the armed men are defending. A messenger sent to summon police returns with the news that the Japanese have invaded China. The peasants and the riflemen begin killing each other for whatever food they can carry. The next morning there is an exodus of ten million people from the Henen Province who will go west in search of food. Why west? It is a traditionally lucky path to take in dire times. Only on this trek over three million of them will die: from starvation, strafing and bombing from Japanese planes, murder, and cannibalism.

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The horror the movie captured all too well, but this pic is real 1942

The refugees were starving. A pet cat that would not be left behind becomes food, and even the young girl whom the father tries to console needlessly declares, "I'm going to eat it too." Two thieves lose the mule they stole and one of the thieves tries to find the beast in the pitch black of a Henen night; he heads to a camp fire in the distance where Chinese soldiers are bayoneting the mule into size-able chunks for the huge pot of boiling water. He demands a piece of the animal only to fall into the boiling pot head-first, which instantly kills him. From days to months these people without food find themselves doing what no civilized person would do to survive. It is more humane to strangle a new-born baby girl than to watch it die of starvation.

Meanwhile, the Japanese planes just won't go away. In movie time the attacks span about fifteen to twenty minutes apart. The mass of refugees have nowhere to run or hide. They are ripped apart by high-powered bullet-fire. A tottler crying for her mother is blown in two by a nearby bomb. The visceral assault is non-stop. Your emotions are not spared. And we're not one third through the movie yet. There is much more suffering to come. But the reasons must be explored by the film-maker.

The blame is placed by the camera on the corrupt Chinese government. And the honest politicians are impotent to help. The Japanese on the ground get about fifteen minutes of blame toward the end when the Chinese pass their Henen refugee problem to their military enemy. The reporter played by Adrien Brody has been taking pictures of atrocities on the road from Hennen and has reported his findings to the highest Chinese official, who upon learning of the cannibalism, and seeing pictures of dogs eating human carcasses, worries more about how China will appear in the Time magazine article than about addressing the problems with the Hennen refugees. When 100 million tons of grain arrive, it dwindles as local government officials skim so much that nothing reaches the refugees. From horror to the horrible and back and forth the audience sways emotionally.

I was grateful that I fell into this movie. It was a great lesson in history, and after having just posted my article on History and Horror in fiction, it was quite the coincidence to follow the same subject in nonfiction. I was the first to stand and applaud the movie as the final credits began to roll. The crowd joined me with whistles and shouts of the director's name. I think I walked into an event of some magnitude. It was not a perfect movie. It was a perfect experience. Nothing like real horror to remind one what fictional horror emulates, and nothing like a good book or film to kindle that memory. It made The Collection look like a G-rated film.

Go see 1942. Let's show the Chinese how to remember. They already know how to forget.

PAST PERFECT

The ice cream cone flew from Young Anthony’s small hand when the truck hit the car head on, killing his mother and father. No farewells. No goodbye speeches. Six year old Anthony only knew that his ice cream cone was gone. Only later when he was in the hospital and his aunt and uncle yelled at him and blamed him for killing his parents did he realize his mom and dad were dead. His stay in the hospital stretched over a week. An extra day was added when no one came to pick him up. That's when the young boy realized he wasn't wanted.

Anthony sat with the social worker outside the courtroom. Time seemed to stand still as his aunt and uncle walked away with his younger and older brother. The social worker explained to Anthony that they would find a good home for him. He wanted to ask why he couldn’t go with his aunt, but he knew the answer. He was to blame for killing her sister, his mom. He was a witch. What kind of home would take in a brujo? he wondered.

Old Man Anthony answered the knock at the door to his small house alone on the hillside of the San Gabriel Mountains. Not quite the hermit, not quite the social butterfly. He dreaded knocks at the door. Jehovah’s Witnesses? Lutherans? Wireless services? Sometimes he simply didn’t answer, but not today. He opened the door, ready for an argument.

A military man in front, behind him the Ex, her two grown up daughters, a woman he didn’t recognize, and two little girls in their Sunday dresses. This family looked out of place for this forlorn neighborhood of retirees and loners. Yes? asked Anthony, wondering who would speak first, his son, the marine, or his Ex, who avoided his eyes.

“I am Michael Rios. This is my wife, Martha, my older sisters, Karla and Perla, you know my mom, Juana, and these two little ones are Reina and Princessa, your granddaughters.”

And there it was, out in the open. My Ex, my son, his family and his sisters. He had to be around thirty-five-ish. Kids about five-ish. He must have married late twenties. That made me seventyish. What a feverish reminder of my mortality. Weren’t kids supposed to be our immortality? It turns out family is clicking clock that rubs out any semblance of time. What a strange thought. Better write it down. Maybe it'll turn into something later when I'm at the computer. Or in a dream.

“May we come in?” Michael asked. The question was polite but assertive. He wasn’t taking no for an answer. So like his mom.

I sat them on the sofa, after pushing off all of my paperback horror novels and anthologies. I didn’t turn off my laptop. I wanted them to know that I was getting back to work as soon as they were gone. My Ex glared at the open laptop as if to incinerate it with her eyes.

“Excuse me, sir, but you haven’t introduced yourself.” A command more than a suggestion.

“How did you find me?” I wanted to know.

Reina and Princessa fidgeted at my question. The older Reina whispered to her sister in tongue clucks and lip smacks, followed by a repetition of assorted syllables laced together like sentences. For they were sentences. To them. And to me. I recognized the nonlinear language. Child-speak. All kids do it. Talk so no one understands but them. “Ta-ta-ta” said one to the other. The other answered with a cluck and a shrug of her tiny shoulders.

“I’m your grandpa.”

They looked at each other and clucked in unison. “Ta-ta-ta,” I told them.

Their mother, Martha, spoke up. “They’re autistic. I’m a Pediatrician, specializing in the disorder.”

“They’re just kids being kids.” I looked at the two girls and jabbered away in the language they thought only they could speak. At first they were hesitant, a trap, perhaps, but the older Reina responded with some off-beat clicks and oohs and aahs. Nothing new. I told them in nonlinear speak that they weren’t the only ones who could speak the Clicky Language. Then I scolded them for allowing their mother to believe they were autistic. In clicks and clucks, I communicated to them, Apologize to their parents in English now or leave my house. No grandpa for you.

Without hesitation they complied. “Mom, we’re sorry. We’ll speak English with you from now on and Spanish to Grandma. Can we sit with Grandpa?”

“I didn’t say you could sit with me.”

“We apologized. You have to,” said Reina.

“You promised,” added Princessa.

“Only for a minute. Then you have to go.”

Martha had tears in her eyes. Michael wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders. The Ex smiled triumphantly.

“Now introduce yourselves proper,” I asked. “Martha’s a kid doctor. Got it. Who’s next? I'll go last.”

The Zimmerman family came to the State Social Home several months after my being placed there, after the promise to place me in a family turned into a lie. I was shuffled around from social worker to social worker, each one promising homes and big back yards and good schools. None of that came. It took a week of learning to fight off the bullies at the orphanage. Another week to take over the library, where I made up for the poor education the state provided by reading everything I could get my hands on. The librarian took a shine to me. She guided my education, provided me with the proper books, and gave me quizzes to ensure I was understanding the materials. When I showed progress, she found the right books to level me up. She often said that I was high school level now. By the time I was adopted, I'd be college level. I always thought she was exaggerating my progress as incentive. But when I heard her talking to the Zimmermans, I believed she was telling the truth.

The Zimmermans lived in Malibu, by the beach. Mr. Zimmerman was a judge, Mrs. Zimmerman a doctor, a hospital administrator, their two daughters, ten year old Sandra and twelve year old Kendra, were students. The family showed me around the house, the back-yard, which was basically the Pacific Ocean, and lastly, my room, which overlooked the setting sun. For dinner the dining table was laid out with tacos from some fast food joint. I refused to eat. They asked if I were hungry. I asked for permission to make myself a sandwich or a bowl of soup. The judge said. Of course. As I made my sandwich, I heard the girls tossing the tacos in the trash. Their parents seemed to be whispering about the mistake they made.

Now I'd met them. My son, Michael, the 20 year Marine, his wife, Martha, the Pediatrician who specialized in autism who couldn't distinguish nonlinear language from autism, my Ex, the real estate mogul, as I sarcastically referred to her, her eldest, Karla, FBI bureau chief in charge of psychological profiling (whatever that meant), and Perla, the younger daughter, neurosurgeon. And my two granddaughters. It was Karla who figured out where I lived. Naturally, with those FBI resources. But it was Perla who recognized my work as a writer. "You're Anthony Zee, the author of The Neurology of Irony, aren't you?" I didn't answer. "I read all your books. So has Karla. That's why she's a psychiatrist and I'm a doctor. Because of you." I didn't know how to respond. I always avoided these sort of situations with my readers. I didn't give autographs, though honestly, I've never been asked for one. 

"I have a question for you all," I said. "Why now?"

No one answered. Until Michael said, "Isn't it enough that we're here?"

This time I didn't answer. Was I in some soap opera? Was this real? If I didn't answer the door, would I be in this predicament? About this time, the anxiety attack happened. Perla gave me a Xanax that she had in her purse and told everyone that it's best if they left, that I was overwhelmed. I don't remember who said it, the Ex or the Marine, I don't remember if it was in English or Spanish or Clicky Language. But someone said, "We'll be back when you feel better." 

I woke up. The awful taste of Xanax on my dry tongue. I opened the curtains and stared at the ocean. Sandra called me down for breakfast. Kendra told me that we were having pancakes. "Did you sleep well, Grandpa?" Was that the Clicky Language? Why did the house have two floors? My granddaughters walked me down to breakfast. The pancakes were piled four high on my plate. Sorry bout the tacos, the doctor said. Next to my plate was my laptop, still open to the last document I was working on. Before I melted butter and poured syrup over my pancakes, I typed the title that just came to me: Past Perfect. 

The End. 

 

Views from a Troubled Mind

Waking from a dream within a dream...

Scene #11


Dream Loops & Fever Sleep


Eternal Dream Loop/Inhale


I hit the Trifecta of illness: The Flu, Food Poisoning, and Vertigo.


Late in the afternoon, I went in for my annual bloodwork, a basic line, tossing the hook into the pond to see if the doctor could catch something swimming in the red stream. I told the doctor that I was coming down with the flu and should I return for my bloodwork. He said, No. It's just a basic line. Catch and release, as they say in medical school.


He wrapped a rubber hose around my upper arm after I had rested my forearm on the mat with the elbow bent, so he could easily find a vein. He told me to make a fist. I did. He patted my arm till he found a plump stream to dive into. He told me to take a deep breath. Before I did, I asked him to tell me when he would insert the needle. He agreed. I took a deep breath, and he poke the hypo into my vein. Dammit. My breath locked between in and out. I tensed. The injection hurt like hell. I told the doctor that I needed to catch my breath and relax. He said, Loosen your fist. The blood didn't flow.


So he wiggled the needle to increase the flow of blood. An electric shock shot up my arm from the site of the injection to my shoulder. I need to relax, I told him. He wiggled the needle again. Pure agony, and all my nerves were in on it. I forced myself to relax, to make the blood flow. He filled one vial, and inserted the next. It's slow, he said.


I knew it as soon as he said it. He wiggled the needle again. I groaned, about to push him away and pull out the needle, but it was over. A ball of cotton on the bloody site and a big band-aid.


I knew that I should have postponed the bloodwork till after I had gotten over my flu. This was a first--that wiggling of the needle to speed things along. He thought he was doing me a favor, speeding things up.


And that's how the day started.


The evening was even worse.


I ate the bad mushrooms at 9 p.m. I went to bed about 2 a.m.


When I closed my eyes, I was driving. I wasn't asleep, but everything seemed normal. Then I opened my eyes and I was in bed. I assumed I was dreaming. I closed my eyes and I was back in the car driving. I decided to go to the beach. It was hot in the car. The heater was broken. The windows wouldn't roll down. I began to sweat profusely from head to toe. I opened my eyes. I checked the time. It was 3 a.m. I was still in the car. I was still in bed. I checked the cell phone clock. It was 3 a.m, same as the car clock. This was not the flu. It was the mushrooms. They were bad.


I was in a fever dream loop.


Dream loops and fever sleep combined. Otherwise known as Nightmare Eternity or Voodoo Slumber. Basically, a fever causes hallucinations while you're awake in bed. Add to that REM dream when you fall asleep. You have normal nightmares and waking hallucinations happening simultaneously. You are awake while you dream and asleep while you hallucinate. You're in a bubble of a new reality, with swatches of your five senses picking up your environment while your dreams try to work around these illusions.

If I wanted to break the loop, I needed to throw up the bad food.


I stood up awkwardly; it triggered the vertigo. The room spun. The real room. My bedroom. The car was gone. I rushed to the toilet. My body wanted the bad food out.


I stepped wrong and my back went out. Throwing up was more important than dealing with the agony in my lower back. Spinning room and painful back, I dragged myself to the toilet.


The vomit confirmed I was poisoned by the bad mushrooms. I expelled every bit of the badness. I cleaned up and returned to bed.


I rested on my right side, and the room spun out of control. I turned on my left side. The spinning stopped. The sweating was gone. The queasiness under control. I closed my eyes without anxiety.


I was back in the car. I was at the beach. It was very chilly. It was a starless night. There was a snack shack by the lifeguard station. It was covered with owls. No. Seagulls, I reasoned. Owls don't squawk. Wait. Seagulls caw. I should go home. It is cold. I am in bed. I grab the extra blanket from the foot of the bed and toss it over myself. I open my eyes. I am at the beach. But the sounds of parrots squawking filter into my dream from outside my bedroom window. I close my eyes and gauge where I am. I'm in bed. Two blankets now. I open my eyes. I am in the car. No. I close my eyes. It goes like this all night till noon when I wake up for real.


I was caught in a fever dream loop, half hallucination, half dream.

Sadly, I get up and grab a cup of coffee. I should sleep, but sleep now scares me. I should hydrate, I say to myself over and over with each cup of coffee.


The day passes slowly. I am sleepy and wired with caffeine. I dread the coming night, so early it comes in October. The feral parrots are squawking in the back yard again. Tonight, they'll be seagulls and owls again.


I pour another cup of coffee.