Some previously published stuff. This story (slightly edited) was published in Quantum Muse Zine.
Also this is probably formatted horribly, Myspace fucked my code without lube.
Warren Finds God




Safety, that was the word that floated through his slow mind that night. Ensconced in a haze of thick pungent smoke and laying next to another warm body he was safe. It was summer so the windows were open and the air warm. The room itself was dark save for a few candles here and there and the blue flicker of a TV on mute in the corner.

For awhile his thoughts wandered into dark places. The places where his fears lived and breathed. He remembered someone telling him once that most people had a secret fear. Not the kind that makes you jumpy in the dark or, scream in the movie theatre. But the kind that is so terrifying that you could never let it see the light of day. Couldn't even really admit it to yourself. He had agreed, he knew his fear. Knew it like the back of his hand.


He forced himself away from those thoughts. For now everything was ok. He had the two best people to get stoned with right there in his living room, good weed and good music. What more did he need really? Well maybe a couple of lines of coke later. A bath. Clean up the kitchen. He yawned and settled more comfortably on the floor his head lolling to lay on his buddies shoulder.


He didn't join the conversation, only silently and inwardly happily passed the joint back and forth. His friends were talking about some new song on the radio but he didn't care. Inane or not it was company. And company meant he wasn't dreaming. No nightmares of Her. No screaming, sweating or puking. That meant for the moment his life was good.

Tuning back into the conversation he snickered.


'Dude, she could kick your ass man.'


'And that kinky motherfucker would probably like it.'


The three boys cackled. Rolling around wrestling as young men are wont to do. For another few hours they smoked, talked and laughed together. A portrait of male camaraderie. As the hours waned however the host knew it was nearing that time. Time to sleep and then dream of Her.


When his friends left instead of heading to bed he did a small line of coke. Just enough to perk him up a bit after smoking so much weed. It worked and he puttered around his house. Picking up, putting away his skull bong and several others. Deciding that the next day he'd put the big one in the dish washer as it was starting to look and smell rather skanky. He'd always been a bit fastidious that way.



As he was scrubbing out the tub for a bath he smiled to himself. Remembering how his Mom had always teased him for being a 'baby fussbudget'. That'd always made him laugh. He could remember finally after she'd said it a million times asking her what a fussbudget was and if it was catching. That'd made her laugh. He'd loved his Mom's laugh. So wide and open. That had been what had made her beautiful in his eyes.


Settling into a tub full of steaming scented water. Another habit he'd inherited from his Mom, his baths were always scented. His friends had laughed but it was his thing and he let it slide. He let his coked up happy mind wander. Buzzing around plans, ideas, random thoughts. Half floating in the water he dreamed. Day dreams really. Plans to paint the front door bright red. Or maybe purple. He'd done so little coke it was wearing off too fast and he was getting sleepy. The marijuana winning out in his brain.


The realization that he had to sleep soon wore him down until he drug himself out of the tub and went to smoke one last cigarette before laying in bed. As he sat on the front porch in his robe and smoked the thought again occurred to him that maybe he should get therapy as his friend had suggested months ago. Maybe the dreams were just a manifestation of depression he didn't usually feel because of all the drugs.



Maybe he should. Go through rehab, get a psychiatrist. The whole God thing had to be delusions. Just had to be. He was crazy. God would not waste time with him. He wasn't Joan of Arc or something. God had better things to do than to fuck around with his brain. Didn't she?



After carefully stubbing out his smoke he went inside and started his nightly ritual. He opened the window a few inches, checked the door locks, chose a CD and fiddled with the volume until it was just above a murmur. That done he lit a stick of incense and laid down. For once rather peaceful, practicing lucid dreaming, having decided that tomorrow he'd commit himself to rehab. And then hopefully be medicated so he wouldn't have the dreams anymore.


The dream started as was typical of his dreams. He was standing in a field, looking up at a bright blue sky that hurt his eyes. The sun warm at his back and on it's way to setting. Though not quite dimmed by the hour. The air smelled nice. Like clean and a hint of pine beneath it. As if somewhere behind him there were a sun warmed forest.



He wasn't scared yet. But his palms itched and his eyes rolled in his skull. Searching for any sign of Her. Then he saw her. Walking towards him, that same small Mona Lisa like smile on her face.


'Hello again Warren. I've been waiting for you.'



His head started to shake in negation and he pointed at her.



'Look. I understand the game ok. You're just some subconscious depression type thing. I'm gonna get it fixed. Tomorrow I'm turning myself into rehab and then lots of therapy. I swear I'm not joking. I'll get fixed up and you're gonna have to go. So save the bullshit spiel about me being chosen. I'm not chosen. I'm just a fucked up kid.'


He crossed his arms and his chin jutted out like it had when he was a little kid. His lips set in a thin tight line



She just kept smiling. That same look. He'd only ever been able to think of the word serene when he saw her face. As if she had forever and didn't care what he said or did.

'Rehab and therapy is very ambitious Warren. I'm proud of you. Perhaps when the poisons are out of your system and you start dealing with your mother's death then we can move on as planned. I have great things planned for you Warren. You have much work to do and we are already behind schedule.'


His chin quivered and he clenched his fists to hide the shaking of his hands. Now he was scared. Somewhere deep inside he felt the truth of the matter in her words. He turned tail and ran.



As in most dreams he couldn't seem to run fast enough. His lungs burned and his sobs made him hiccup. Then he was screaming.



'You are not God! You are not God!'


He woke screaming. Gagging on words stuck in his throat. Stumbling into the bathroom he dry heaved a few times and curled up sweaty and shivering on the floor. Shit scared. Hyperventilating. Tomorrow he'd go for sure. Rehab, therapy. Mental hospital if need be. He felt crazy. And was tired of it.



It took everything he had to get into the cab that day. With his sad little backpack and instructions for a trusted non-using friend to come over and water his plants. But he went. Chewing his nails and smoking his brains out before he got there. He was so nervous. There'd been a constant stream of narcotics in his body since he had been sixteen and handed a joint at a party. Now what?



During his check into the rehab facility he consoled himself with the thought of the anti-anxiety and anti-depression drugs he'd likely be on. Those would help. They had to. Far as he could see they would be his only chance to be rid of the dreams and of Her.


He figured out that rehab was a bad idea when his counselor informed him (after a strip search and his book being confiscated) that in their facility there would be no drugs of any kind in his system. No Tylenol, no Paxil, no Prozac. Fuck him, no nothing. He started babbling to the burly man. The man just smiled and shook his head.



'Don't worry about it kid. You'll be fine. Why don't you just chill here for awhile then I'll come and get you for chow time.'


With that the man turned and stepped out of the little room. Warren sat on his hard narrow bed and rocked a little. His teeth chattering fingers clenching and unclenching rhythmically. In the time before dinner that he was left alone his brain and turned manic. Thoughts racing. Panic mode.



Dinner was terrible. His counselor prodding at him to find out what he'd taken. Endless questions. The fucked up part was that he hadn't taken anything. In fact when he'd woken up that morning he'd graciously given away his whole stash.


So what did he do about it? Did he let it out that he was afraid to go to sleep? Afraid God in all Her glory would come acalling again? Hell no. He lied. Told his counselor he'd popped some speed in pill form on the way over and it was just hitting him. His counselor congratulated him on telling the 'truth', and patting him on the back forced about a quart of water into his gullet and sent him off to bed to sweat it out.

And sweat he did. But not for the reasons they thought. No he wasn't a junkie. Unfortunately to his mind he'd been unable to get suffieciently hooked on anything. Not even heroin though he'd done it a number of times. He'd tried crack but all it'd really done was give him a splitting headache.

The first night there he sweated shook and cried like a junkie. Curled up in the fetal position in his bed. Watched over by his counselor. The mountain of a man gently rubbing his back or wiping his brow with a damp cloth. Every time he felt himself entering that rocky state of near sleep he'd jerk upright and yell. Anything to keep the sleep at bay.


Suffice it to say that the rest of his stay there was nearly as bad. Culminating in him after three days of forcing wakefulness on himself and passing out in group, he woke screaming. Tearing at his face with his short fingernails, anything to bring himself around and away from her.


Rehab did not last long.


After a short week he thanked the staff profusely and had gone home. Though first he'd made several stops along the way. A couple of dime bags of good coke, an ounce of weed, and then at the grocery store one bottle of good Merlot and a half rack of Corona. His cab driver chuckled and said something about the party and Warren just nodded.


When he got home he checked his plants, made some calls to tell the friends that needed to know that he was back and wasn't gonna be answering the phone for a couple of days. Then he turned off the ringer and put his pajamas on. For some reason something probably picked up from his father, relaxing never felt right unless he had his pajamas on.



He cut his coke on the coffee table and popped in a DVD, 'Bladerunner'. He loved that movie. And knew it'd keep his brain good and occupied. Coke snorted, he poured himself a glass of wine and settled in to watch the movie.



Hours passed. He did more coke. Finished off the wine. Rolled himself several tight little joints to stave the latent violence the coke woke in him. He felt ok for the most part. Getting up only to pee or change movies. The beers he drank warm. It was the beers that were his undoing.


Pleasantly drunk his mind sparking nicely from the coke he turned off the TV to read. He was well into Harry Potter when something caught in his peripheral vision.


He blinked and turned his head slowly. He knew that form. Knew it as if it were his own reflection. It was Her.


She nodded when he turned to face her and walked to the couch. Sat down, crossed her legs and helped herself to a warm beer.



'Your Father drank his beer warm as well. Such an odd habit.'


He stared. Was he asleep? Frantic he dug his nails into his palms, kicked the coffee table, yelped and shook his head. His voice quivery, little boy scared sounding.



'I-I'm asleep. Look whatever fucked up shit was cut into my coke I'm dreaming. I'm dreaming. It's a bad dream. You hear me bitch! A bad fucking dream.'

She just sipped her beer. Belched behind her hand and shook her head.


'I'm afraid not Warren. Look. I'm really getting tired of appearing in your dreams. It's just not working you know? So look we need to talk. It's about time you got started in your duties.'



All he could do was shake his head. His hands shook so bad he knocked over his beer. Feeling nothing but fear he stood and walked stiffly into the kitchen to get a dishrag. He came back and started wiping up the spill. Absently muttering,



'dreaming. I'm dreaming. Hallucinating. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.'


She sat through his muttering and watched when he just stood there, beer soaked rag in one hand, empty beer bottle in the other. His face waxy, eyes wide. Whatever buzz he'd had going was gone now.


Slowly she stood up and got in his face, whispering. That serene expression belying the venom of her words,



'listen you selfish little piece of shit. I'm getting tired of this got it. No more drugs. Stop ignoring me. Or I'm going to get pissed off and I don't think you want to see that do you. Warren.'



Something about the way she said his name made his blood freeze like ice in his veins and his balls try to crawl up into his abdomen. What could he do? He did what any real man would do and promptly fainted.



He woke with his head pounding with the smell of beer in his face. He sat up slowly. Shaking his head. Muttering.


'Fucking bad coke or something. Gonna kick that guys a-'



The words died in his throat when he looked on the table and saw it. A note. A note held to the table by an empty beer bottle with a swipe of pink lip gloss on the rim. Written in a flowing feminine hand.



'Warren, we have work to do. So get your shit together I'm coming for you in two days. G'


That was it. That was e-fucking-nough. He'd had it. He guessed it'd finally happened the way the D.A.R.E officers had always warned. He'd done so many drugs his brain was permanently scrambled. He'd lost it. He'd gotten so high he'd written himself the note. Yeah. That was the problem.


God was not a woman who said shit, drank beer or visited him in the middle of the fucking night. No way. No way no how. That was the last straw. Maybe the experience in rehab had finally made him snap. He didn't know and didn't care.

He was going to end it.


He showered and dressed hurriedly. Went out to just long enough to get what he needed. Fuck this he thought. Fuck this and it's mother. He did not need that shit. Dead was way better than crazy. Crazy people did things like murder innocent people, crazy people begged for money on the streets. Fuck that. He would not go out like that.


Instead he would decide. Yeah. He was in charge right? It was his life and if he wanted to end the shit he would end it.


He went to one of his suppliers and bought seven hundred dollars worth of various sedatives. Said he was going to go peddle them to college kids over the weekend. Then he went to a liquor store and bought a magnum of Cristal and one of Dom. If he was gonna go out he'd do it in style. He also bought a small bit of heroin. If he was going to OD he was going to make sure he did it right. Might as well give a nod to all the rock stars he'd idolized since childhood.


At home he cleaned up. After doing the last of his coke. He wrote a long detailed will, knowing it wouldn't be legal but he'd be dead and someone else would have to deal with it. All the money from the insurance from his parents death went to his favorite charity, his books to his friend Wizard, his bong collection to his two stoner friends, stereo and CD collection to his ex girlfriend.


He went over the list taking care to have not missed anything important. Then set about writing his suicide note. Explaining about the hallucinations and not wanting to spend life as just another babbling lunatic. All the while sipping from his prized bottle of twenty year old scotch. He wrote a separate letter to each of his close friends. And one to his lawyer. One to the man who'd been his guardian for a half a year after his parents had been killed. And one final one to the police which he put a stamp on and set by the front door, figuring when he was good and trashed he'd put it in the mailbox.


All that done, he felt prepared. Although somewhere in the back of his mind it felt fake. Unreal as if he knew it wasn't going to happen. He pushed it away and headed into the bathroom. Figuring that'd be easiest and he wouldn't make too much of a mess. He drew enough water to cover him to the belly button and popped the bottle of Cristal.


In all he probably swallowed fifty pills before he passed out. Drunk a bottle of scotch, half the Cristal and one joint. His lips turned blue, his body seized violently enough for his head to bang against the porcelain of the tub. Bloody spittle frothed from his mouth and his eyes rolled up into his head. His heart labored, lungs burned and he died.


At least he thought he died.


It was ugly. His head seeped blood into the cold bath water, his face was covered with spit and snot.



Then his dark world exploded. His stomach heaved in a Herculean attempt to rid itself of the poisons, his head snapped forward and he vomited violently into the tub between his legs. Choking on it and gasping. It was terrible. Like being born. The bright cheery light of the bathroom and breaking dawn burned his squinted eyes. His whole body felt tight as a bow string. His chest felt as if it were going to explode all over the walls.



Head spinning he got his eyes open enough to see the mess he'd made of himself and started vomiting again. When he was finished and dry heaving over the filthy water he crawled out of the tub. Stinking of shit and puke.


He curled up on the bathroom floor. Shivering realizing that he wasn't dead. Though by all rights he should have been. Unable to do anything else he started to cry.


Warren lay there crying like he had when he'd realized Mom and Dad were gone. Cried like the time he'd gotten hit in the balls with a carelessly thrown bat in little league, cried like when he was 5 and had to get stitches.


She watched as Warren cried. Then she did as was her nature to do. Cradled the mess of a manchild to her breast and soothed away his tears. Saying nothing. When he'd calmed she cleaned out the bathtub and bathed him. Love shining in her eyes, tears and sadness shining in his.



When he was clean and she'd given him a cigarette she lighted he looked up at her and whispered,



'When do I start?'