Good evening! The gummies turned out rather well, if I may say so myself.

Homemade strawberry heart- and lip-shaped gummy candy

I wrote a story. I have a lot of reservations about posting it on the Internet, but I'm trying to conquer my fears. The original concept for the story was not mine, but I was given permission to run with it.

Here we go.

It’s a Terrible Life

Chad is an asshole. He will argue otherwise. He will spend hours collating data to prove that you are wrong. He has the time for it. He works 20 hours a week for a nonprofit, so the majority of his days are spent sleeping and arguing with nameless, faceless enemies on the Internet. Everything that Chad reads that he disagrees with enrages him. He will walk up to random tables at restaurants and explain why other patrons should be eating vegan. Very few people like Chad, including his own friends and family.

Chad goes to the Women’s March to prove what a woke social justice warrior he is. He makes signs that say #METOO and TIME’S UP. Chad is so busy following the picket line around the Capitol that he doesn’t notice himself veering into traffic. The last thing he sees as he looks up from his off-brand Android is the front of a bus six inches from his face.

The next thing Chad knows, he is standing in front of a gate of fire. It’s pretty fucking hardcore. He used to be into that kind of thing, but not anymore. His bachelor’s degree in sociology with an emphasis in women’s studies has made him aware of how derogatory this toxic masculinity is to women.

Chad hears someone clear his throat next to him. He turns. Shit. It’s a giant three-headed dog. Cerberus, if he remembers correctly from his wannabe rockstar adolescent days. Is Cerberus the gatekeeper to the underworld? He can’t remember.

One of the dog’s mouths opens and a booming voice emerges. “Chad Sanborn, do you know why you are here?”

Chad’s voice sounds squeakier than he would have liked. “Well, where is here? That’s actually a complicated question if you think about it in a metaphysical sense. For instance--”

The dog-thing cuts him off. “Oh, shut the fuck up, Chad. You are always so goddamn insufferable. That’s why you’re here. At the gates of Hell.”

Chad’s eyes open so wide that his entire irises show. “That’s impossible. Heaven and Hell are constructs of religion to brainwash the sheeple--”

Cerberus cuts him off again. “Chad, what kind of effect do you feel that you have had on the world? Have your good deeds outweighed the bad? Do you feel like your existence is justified?”

Chad sputters indignantly. “Well, of course my effect on the world has been positive. I voted for Bernie Sanders. I’ve marched in every protest in my city for the past two years. I work for a nonprofit!”

The dog laughs. Not just a little. It laughs hysterically. He laughs hysterically? Chad is unsure of the creature’s sexual orientation and gender identity. He wants to ask it to clarify, but senses that this is the wrong time.

“Chad, you are a one in a million. Don’t get cocky about that. You’re not fucking special, and you don’t get a participation trophy. What I mean by that is that you have had absolutely no effect on the world around you. Zero. I could go through the It’s a Wonderful Life bullshit and take you on a tour of what things would look like if you had never been born, but it would be exactly the same.”

Chad is dumbfounded. “I...that can’t be possible. What about the time when I was twelve that I told my brother I wished he were dead? That has to be a mark towards the negative column, right? I mean, I can see the universe being better off without me, but...to have absolutely no effect on the world? What is...was...the point of my existence, then?”

Cerberus smiles faintly at Chad. Well, he thinks it’s a smile. Only the head that talks is smiling. The other two heads are still glaring at him.

“Chad, when was the last time you did something good for another human being on a one-on-one basis? Have you ever helped an old woman cross the street, or given food to a homeless person?”

“I believe that they prefer to be called--”

“OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE CHAD!!!” The dog thing takes a minute to compose itself. “Chad, what would you do differently if you could go back?”

Chad looks dumbfounded again. “Well, I guess...I always thought about joining the Peace Corps, but they send you so far away, and it’s such a huge time commitment…” He trails off.

Cerberus, for the first time, talks to Chad softly. “And do you feel satisfied with your life the way it is right now?”

Chad bursts into tears. “No. I hate my job. I know that I should love it, but...I’m so bored. And I’m so angry all the time. That’s why I argue with everyone. My friends. My family. Random people I disagree with on the Internet. I don’t feel like my life is going anywhere, you know?”

The dog-creature cocks its heads at Chad. “If I gave you a second chance, would you go back and change things, or continue with your meaningless existence?”

Chad perks up. “You mean...like now?”

“No, Chad, in five fucking years. This is your last chance. If you would like to stay in the first circle of Hell for all eternity, you can also do that. It’s Limbo, so that’s not much better than the trite life you had going on before, but what the hell do I know.”

Chad takes a deep breath. “Yes. I’ll go back and make my life mean something. I choose to have a purpose.”

Then he blacks out.

Chad wakes up on the ground in front of the bus. The driver is babbling semi-incoherently about stopping just in time as he helps Chad up. Chad examines his body for signs of injury, but there appear to be none. Not even a bruise or a scratch. None of the other protesters, many of whom he considers friends, have come to his aid.

Chad walks across the street before he can change his mind. He keeps walking. He walks three miles to his apartment, and immediately logs into his computer to apply for the Peace Corps. He hears back in only a few weeks, and is given an assignment to help teach people how to purify drinking water in Haiti. He is scared. He is happy. He feels something other than anger for the first time in years.

On the day he leaves for Haiti, Chad packs only the essentials. He sees a man sitting on the sidewalk with a cardboard sign asking for money. Chad brings him a hamburger from the fast food chain next door. The man tells Chad to go fuck himself. Chad laughs.

As he is loading his suitcase into the Uber to go to the airport, he looks over his shoulder one last time and sees a black dog staring at him. It looks like the dog is smiling. Chad smiles back, and shuts the trunk.

The driver mentions that he’s looking for a part-time job. Something he can work around 20 hours a week. Chad gives him the contact information for his old manager at the nonprofit once they reach the airport. The driver is appreciative.

All in all, not a bad day, Chad thinks as he wheels his bag to the gate.

Good night. See you all in the morning.

Good evening! Tonight's post is a story written by Erin Mincks. I met Erin at karaoke probably close to 10 years ago, and she is completely awesome. We share a love of disturbing fiction and memes. She sent me this story earlier today, and I am super excited to post it.

Backstory: Jessica bought me a book of writing prompts where the first few lines are written for you, and you complete the story. I told Erin about it, and she was excited to join in. This is one of those stories. (Erin also bought me a different book of writing prompts that I am shamefully behind on. I apologize. I suck.)

Clinking Glasses

by Erin Mincks

I closed my eyes. The sound of people clinking glasses was beautiful, almost like wind chimes. Why, then, did I feel so unbearably sad? When I opened my eyes and looked around the table, I saw looks of pity. Looks of embarrassment. Looks directed at me. It wasn’t until then that I realized that I had tears running down my cheeks. Hot tears stemming from a rising anger that would soon stifle and overtake the sadness. Not wanting to attract more, unwanted attention, I quietly downed the remaining champagne in my glass and excused myself from the table to get some fresh air. Nearly outside of the reception hall, almost to the temporary comfort of the patio, I found myself face to face with none other than Ana and Ella, my newly-acquired sisters, who were obviously treasuring this fine occasion. Not only was their mother the new wife of a wealthy and admired attorney, they remained oblivious to the fact that I was absolutely miserable and tortured by the entire thing. They were quickly making themselves at home with complete disregard for the fact that my mother’s poor body wasn’t even cold yet.

“Whatcha doin’?” they yelped in almost comical unison.

“Oh, you know. Same as you… celebrating the wonderful bond of marriage connecting our families following the untimely death of my mother, under suspicious circumstances, might I add, while trying to convince my loved ones that I am in fact mentally stable and handling everything with the grace and maturity one would expect from a single 31-year old woman with no dreams or aspirations other than the current unmistakable desire for whiskey and a cigar. Did I miss anything?”

They stood there with their vacant eyes and plastic smiles plastered across their faces for what seemed like forever, before Ella responded, “Are you going to try the cake? I made it myself!”

While I should have been taken aback by this unrelated and absent-minted question, I wasn’t. After muttering something about not being able to conceal that gluten-free bullshit under frosting, I brushed by them and headed to the bar, leaving them with their thoughts. Gus, a close friend and resident bartender for the evening, must have overheard the conversation, because he had a nice glass of Irish single malt waiting for me. Tossing myself onto the stool and releasing a momentary sigh of relief, I grabbed for the bowl of pretzels, hoping for a taste of anything that wasn’t gluten-, yeast-, or sulfite-free, but of course I found the pretzels to be just that and they immediately disintegrated into dust. Conceding to defeat, I settled in with my glass and surveyed the room.

“How you holding up, Cyn?” Gus questioned, with the same pity in his voice as in the others’ eyes. He had been there through everything and I was lucky to have him in my corner.

“Fine, I suppose, considering the circumstances. My dad has no idea that he just married a blonde, gold digging version of Lucifer who may or may not be a murderer. And on top of that, her spawn are the absolute worst. Harmless, but still. Did you know Ana is a Yankees fan? I mean you live in Dorchester, for God’s sake. Have some dignity! And Ella?! This bitch thinks that Snow White is a lipstick color and that Papa Roach is the spokesperson for Raid. I mean, come on.”

“I once asked her if she’d seen Scarface and she said no, but that she should watch more documentaries about burn victims.”

“She likes the Chainsmokers.”

He cringed. “Oh, shit.”

“Yeah. Can’t make this stuff up. Nothing I can do now. I tried, but now it’s too late.” I said with a grumble and sipped the last of the whiskey.

“MOM! Mom, what’s wrong!?” I glanced over to where the cake cutting situation was going down to see Ana on her knees beside her mother, who was turning a variety of shades of blue while pointing to her throat, a gesture straight from the Help Me, I’m Choking to Death Handbook. Having not read this particular literature, Ana blinked and looked around for assistance. Eventually, amongst the concerned gasps and bellows for someone to call 911, one of the guests caught on and came to her aid. Shortly after, the sound of Barry White and murmurs from the crowd were drowned out by the sirens.

I asked Gus for another drink, neat this time.

********

After the cops were done interviewing witnesses and the body was shipped off to the morgue, there was a mixed shroud of sadness and confusion enveloping the remaining folks. I wandered over to comfort my father, who sat on the dance floor, staring off in disbelief. One minute he’d been carefully stuffing cake into his new bride’s mouth, and the next he was watching the life slip away from her eyes. As much as I despised the woman, I felt bad for the man. Glancing around, I noticed Ella consoling a sobbing Ana. She was lovingly, and oh so tactfully, telling her that it wasn’t her fault that their mom had choked to death. Surprisingly, this seemed to make the poor girl feel better. As I shook my head, taking in everything that had occurred over the last hour, I noticed the paramedic making his way through the crowd over to us, presumably to inform my father that his wife had suffocated on their wedding cake in an unfortunate accident and that he was sorry for our loss. However, he stated that she had in fact died after going into anaphylactic shock, due to a food allergy, and that if she had ingested any nuts during the evening. My dad slowly shook his head and told the paramedic that his wife was very particular about what she ate and that nuts were one food she avoided, in case of allergy, since she wasn’t actually positive (apparently the gluten allergy took precedence here). The EMT shrugged and walked off.

After the hall was cleared out and cleaned up, and I was able to talk my father into getting some rest, I found Gus still in the bar, wiping down the counters and counting his tips.

“So,” I said, with lack of a better phrase for the occasion.

“Yeah. So. Everyone alright?”

“I guess so… Dad’s still in a little bit of shock. Not sure about Barbie and Skipper.”

“They actually stopped by not too long ago. They were trying to figure out what happened… getting input from the cooks and staff.”

“And?”

“And they weren’t making any progress… ‘No gluten, yeast, or sulfites’ in anything,” he replied, pointing to the little reminder card the staff were all required to carry around. “The cooks all claim that they followed the guidelines to a T… not a rogue grain anywhere. The only thing they weren’t positive about was the cake.”

“Oh, the light green, lop-sided mess Ella made?” I laughed.

“Yeah. I believe she referred to it as pistachio.”

I looked up, ”What?”

“The color of the cake. She said earlier that it was a white sponge cake with a pistachio cream cheese frosting. Said that shade of green was her mom’s favorite. Whatever. Sounds gross, if you ask me.”

I agreed and popped a cardboard pretzel into my mouth.

WOW. There are so many things that I love about the story. The prose is amazing. The ending literally took my breath away. Thank you, Erin. I hope that you'll let me post more of your writing soon.

If anyone else is interested in having something posted on this site, e-mail me at nicole@thebeentheredonethatproject.com.

One more day of work, and then I'm off to Portland. I'm gonna get some sleep. See you guys in the morning.