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14 of 52

Shelter From the Rain

Let me preface this story. I wrote the original version of this story in 1995. It was one of the first pieces I wrote—not the first, but one of them. In 2021, I reread this story and thought it could use a massive facelift, something that could make the story have a more satisfying feel to it. It only took me a couple of hours to rewrite it and I’m happy with the way it turned out. 

The original title was also called Shelter in the Rain, but really Shelter From the Rain makes more sense.

I hope you enjoy.

A.J.

***

Rain falls hard on the world. Lightning streaks across the sky. Thunder rumbles, loud and angry. Wind whips through trees, snapping branches, pulling leaves free. The moon hides behind storm clouds, content to sleep the night away. Trees line both sides of the road and sway side to side 

She walks slowly, her head down, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of a coat pulled tight around her. Her umbrella is somewhere behind her, torn from her hands by a strong gust of wind. Her pants cling to her legs. Her shoes squish and squeak with each step she takes. At first she tried to avoid the puddles along the side of the road, but now … now it doesn’t matter and she no longer cares about getting wet; she’s drenched from head to toe.

Damn car, she thinks. Good time to let me down.

She tried her cell phone, but out here, in the middle of Heaven knows where, but she doesn’t, there is no cell reception. She doesn’t think the overhead clouds and nasty weather help matters. 

It doesn’t matter, she thinks. It’s not like I have anyone to call. 

Tears tug at the corners of her eyes. No one to call became a thing earlier that night when she and her longtime boyfriend parted ways, not because she wanted to but because a man with a mistress is not something she wants to be a part of. Especially when she found out she was the mistress. 

How did I not know? It’s a question she has asked herself over and over since leaving him just hours earlier. She pulls her arms in closer to her body, shivers from the chill of the cold rain and walks on.

***

He sits. 

Watches. 

Perched on a tall oak’s highest limb, he follows her. Eyes like small green peas against a backdrop of darkness. He takes in her every move, from the time she pulled onto the shoulder of the two-lane road a mile or so back to her kicking a tire out of frustration, to her walking, first with an umbrella, then with her head down, hands in her coat pockets. 

Misery loves company.

He steps off the branch, unfolds his arms and swoops down toward the ground. Then he rises toward the sky. Leathery wings carry him through the night air, rain and northern winds. He flies ahead of her, searching, searching … until …

There!

Off to the side of the road stands an old wooden shack, desolate and empty. Its windows are missing, its door lays on the warped flooring of what used to be its front porch. One of the wooden planks that make up the five steps to the porch is missing. A tin roof covers it and there is a steady chorus of pings as thousands, if not millions, of raindrops strike it.

He smiles. It’s what she needs, what she is looking for. A shelter from the rain.

It will do.

***

She almost misses it. Her head is still down and her jaw trembles as goosebumps swim across her skin. She stops. 

What was that? her mind asks.

Just the wind, she responds.

But is it? 

Of course, it is.

It sounded like …

Just your mind playing tricks on you.

Maybe.

She doesn’t go far before she stops again. A break in the trees to her right reveals a dilapidated house, its windows missing, the door laying on the porch. A steady drumroll of raindrops beats down on the roof. The darkness oozing from it doesn’t feel inviting. She shivers, maybe from being cold, but more likely from the oppressive presence coming from the house. 

I wonder if someone’s home.

She shakes her head at the thought. No one is home. No one has probably lived there for many years. 

She looks at the sky. Rain pelts her face. The sound, she hears it again. 

Wings, she thinks.

Your imagination, her mind counters.

Her chest tightens. The night couldn’t get much worse. Breaking up with her boyfriend was bad, the car breaking down in the middle of nowhere in a storm was bad. Hating herself for not realizing her relationship had been built on lies was far worse than her walking in a downpour. But maybe being afraid of noises is not such a bad thing. Maybe it’s a better feeling than the one she has been dealing with. 

She looks back at the house. 

At least you could get some shelter from the rain, she thinks.

***

He watches her from the depths of darkness inside the house. He doesn’t have to play this game, but there is something about willing victims he prefers over those who are not so willing. He licks his lips and steps into the doorway, giving her a glimpse at nothing more than a shadow—one that shouldn’t be there given the circumstances.

When she sees him, he whispers. Come to me. 

***

She sees the shadow appear in the door. A frown forms on her lips and in her eyes. The grip on her chest increases and her breath catches for a moment before releasing.

Come to me.

She cocks her head slightly to the side. Her eyes narrow. The shadow in the doorway motions to her, a simple come here gesture. She shakes her head.

No, she thinks.

The voice comes again. Come to me.

She takes a step back. The rain and the wind are nonexistent, the water sloshing over her shoes seems to disappear. 

It’s all in your head, she thinks. 

Come to me.

There’s nothing there.

Then why am I so scared?

Because you’re alone. Out here. In a storm.

As if on cue, lightning flashes across the sky. The loudest thunder she’s ever heard follows, shaking the ground. The rain becomes heavier, not quite obscuring the house and the figure in the doorway but making it difficult to see much else. Her wet hair whips around her face. The wind pushes her sideways a few steps. 

Come to me.

***

He’s not going to lose her. He knows this. He also knows she might not come willingly. 

Come to me.

No.

Come to me.

She backs away. 

No, he thinks. You’re not getting away that easily.

He turns his eyes to the sky. Lightning streaks from black clouds. Thunderclaps, shake the world with its rumble. The rain picks up, as does the wind.

She staggers sideways.

Come to me.

***

Her first steps are tentative, like an unsure baby. The wind and rain batter her, knocking her off balance. She catches herself before she can fall and slowly trudges toward the house.

Let me be your shelter from the rain.

Shelter? she thinks. That’s really all she wants right now. A place out of the wind and rain that can protect her until the storm breaks and daylight comes. 

When she reaches the steps to the house, she looks up. There is no shadow in the doorway, no voice beckoning her to him.

Just your imagination, her brain reminds her.

I guess so.

She doesn’t realize she is going up the spongy steps or walking across the porch. She eases around the fallen door and stands in the entrance. 

And he is there, his eyes like bright green lights, his lips inviting, the rest of him … nonexistent. 

He extends a hand that wasn’t there seconds before. Come, let me be your shelter.

She takes the hand, willingly. It is cold. The fingers are long and thin. He pulls her to him and embraces her in a hug like none she has ever felt. It’s comforting. She melts into him. For the first time since early that evening, she doesn’t feel alone or scared and nothing else matters except for that embrace. 

***

She is warm. He feels her heat radiating off her as he holds her close to him. He turns his head, lowers it to her neck and kisses gently. He breathes in the sweetness of the blood pumping just below the skin. His mouth opens and the tips of his fangs brush against her neck. He bites. 

A rush of blood fills his mouth.

***

She feels his lips on her skin but doesn’t pull away. She knows something is wrong—has to be—but she also knows she is not scared and there is comfort in that moment. There is a prick of pain in her neck, then it is gone, much like her loneliness and fear. She becomes lightheaded and tired. She wants to stay there in his arms and rest, maybe even sleep against his chest. Is that too much to ask after the day she had?

She sighs, a sound of complete contentment, then closes her eyes. Her world fades and she feels like she could sleep forever. He pulls her closer to him and her legs weaken. Her arms slide from around him, going limp as all of her energy drains from her. 

***

He drinks of her blood, of her very life until her body sags in his arms. Then he drinks a little more. He wants to take the essence of her, take all of her, but stops before he can. Instead, he lowers her to the dusty floor, among the broken glass of the windows and leaves that blew in over time. He doesn’t look back as he steps through the door and into the dying storm. 

Goodbye, he whispers and disappears into the night on leathery wings.

***

And she lays there, her heart barely beating, her breaths shallow and too far apart. As the storm ebbs outside, so too, does her life. Then, there is nothing.

Posted on by ajbrown

One Step Forward …

Good morning, y’all.

On my Patreon page, One Step Forward, three new posts are up: Part 7 of One Step Forward. Part 7 of the serialized novel, Unbroken Crayons, and Part 1 of a new short story. If you’re a Patreon member, head over, check them out. If you are not a Patreon member, head over, check out the page–there are some posts that are available to nonmembers–and maybe consider joining.

https://www.patreon.com/onestepforward

Until we meet again, my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J.

Posted on by ajbrown · 2 Comments

Hi

Hi.

It’s me, A.J. Brown.

I just wanted to pop on here and say hello and give a, hopefully, quick update on things. This shouldn’t take too long.

Type AJ Negative is in it’s tenth year, which absolutely blows my mind. I started this blog/website in June of 2012 as a way to promote my work, get my name out there and connect with readers. There have been times where I have kept the site updated regularly and times where I didn’t. So is the ebb and flow of life and writing. 

I took a six or so month break last year to reevaluate more than just writing, but life in and of itself. Around that time, I really looked at me, at my head space, at what I wanted in life. You could say I was going through a midlife crisis if you want, but I think it was more of learning how to prioritize, well, me. I started a workout program and dropped thirty pounds of fat and found a confidence in myself that had been sorely lacking for years. I felt better and I was able to run again for the first time in twenty years. That was monumental for me.

I got rid of Twitter, which I found to be the most toxic form of social media. I also culled my friend’s list on Facebook from nearly 3800 to about 700 people. Suddenly, a lot of toxicity was gone from my feeds. I removed in person people from my life and had long conversations with other people I did not want to remove. 

And I wrote, but differently than before. I wrote for me, for my enjoyment, without the pressure of needing to get my work published. I wrote some of the best stories in years. I wrote a course on story telling (so if you know someone who might want to learn hot to tell a story … ). Then, after I reached a place where I was happier, I set out into the publishing world again. I put out Five Deaths in September of last year, then GRIM in February of this year. I’ve written an amazing love story and have three books that are interconnected around the theme of love. Talk about stepping outside of your comfort zone.

One thing I had to look at was holding myself accountable. The biggest of those is not making excuses for not doing things, or why I can’t do things. I think most people are in the habit of making excuses. I had to cut that out. I’m still working on it, but for the most part, it’s a habit I have broken.

I also had to look at RIGHT NOW. There is no tomorrow. It is always today because once you reach tomorrow, well, it’s still today. I know, confusing, but the point is don’t put off until tomorrow because tomorrow never arrives and you only have so much time in this world. Do what you want to do in life RIGHT NOW. 

Before I go, I want to talk about Type AJ Negative. I am currently revamping the site. Please, check out the menus and the links, check out the book pages. I’m adding purchase buttons to each book page, so if you’re interested, check back soon and you should be able to purchase directly from my site. If you’ve read my work, comment on those pages, please. I will be adding my social media links, probably in a menu tab as well as a sidebar menu. I’ll also add my Patreon page on here, which I hope you will give it a visit, and maybe subscribe to it. More on that at a later date. 

I am going back to promoting my books and stories and maybe some other writers as well. I’ve been thinking about a WHO AM I kind of thing where I invite other authors on here to talk about themselves and their works. I know some fabulous people in this business. I will still post stories from time to time, but maybe not as much as before. I hope to post more inspirational things as well. 

I hope, even more than all of that, you will stick around for this. 

I have 370 followers. To each one of you, I want to say Thank you. I know, in reality, it’s probably more like thirty people who follow this site regularly. To each of you, a big thank you. If I’m able to bring one person some entertainment and joy into their life with this site, then I’ve done what I set out to do. 

Okay, so this is important. If you follow this site, if you have read this post, can you do me a favor? Yes, please like the post, but more than that, can you leave a comment? Let me know who you are or say hi. If you’ve read my work, tell me about it, tell me if you liked it, hated it, used it to balance a table. 

I’m done for now. I have a lot of work to do, but it is work I am happy to do. I look forward to hearing from you and thank you for reading. Until we meet again, my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J. 

Posted on by ajbrown

Prioritize Yourself

I’m 51—a number I can’t even begin to fathom—and for the first time in my life, I honestly like who I am and where I am and the possibilities for the future. I’ve always had a sort of quiet self-loathing so few people ever see. I’ve always said something like, “Nobody loves Jeff Brown the way Jeff Brown loves Jeff Brown.” It’s a true statement, but maybe not in the way I present it. I do love me, but I’m not really sure I ever liked me. It’s like being my own relative. You can’t choose your relatives and you can’t choose the person you’re born as. You love your relatives, you just may not like them very much. That’s where I’ve spent most of my life, loving me, but not liking me. 

Until this year, I never really tried to work on me. I never really tried to make myself a priority. There were other things far more important than my own well-being. I worked hard at everything because I hated the idea of failing—not necessarily actually failing, but the very idea of it. I hated it so much that I failed a LOT. So, I worked harder and I failed more spectacularly. I pushed myself to the point of physically hurting myself, then refusing to let me body heal, claiming, “I’m a man, I got this.” Okay, that’s a bullshit mindset. I don’t care if you’re a man. You still have to allow your body to heal or you will deal with it much later in life when your body is breaking down due to your bullshit mindset. 

I dealt with physical pain on an everyday basis because of injuries I didn’t allow to heal properly. Broken bone in my foot? No problem. I’ll walk it off. Blown out knee? I got this. I’ll just limp for the rest of my life because, I don’t know, I’m a damn man. Torn up shoulder? It’s okay. Just a little pain. Yup. I’m a man for sure—a dumb one. 

Back to my point: until this year I didn’t really work on me, mentally, physically or emotionally. And I never really liked myself, partially because, well, I’m a man and expressing you have limitations or flaws just isn’t allowed. Hold on, I need to sneeze. Ahh … ahhh … ahhhbullshitchoo.

Excuse me. Sorry. That one was building up for a while. 

Back in February I left publishing for what I thought would be for good but came back with a different mindset a few months later. I took all the pressure off that I had put on me. No one else put this pressure on me. I did it to myself. And when I left, I felt like I had spent nearly 30 years on something I failed at. 

I did a few things during that break that I should have done and kept doing for all these years: I focused on me. I put myself first for a change. I started looking at who I was and all the things I didn’t like about the person I was, who I claimed to love so much. I began working out, eating less junk food, writing for me and no one else. I got rid of several social media accounts and the ones I kept, I culled the friends’ lists and follows’ lists. I got rid of Twitter all together. On Facebook (my primary social media presence) I cut my friends’ list from around 2800 to just over 600. I slowly began removing people from my life who were a negative influence. I got rid of a lot of toxic people (and yes, some of those people had a positive mindset I found to be toxic).

One of the biggest things I did, outside of the ones mentioned above, is I stopped making excuses. You know what I’m talking about. You probably do it, too. I said things like, ‘If this would have happened …’ or ‘If I would have done this, then my life would be different,’ or ‘If I had a better job …’ or ‘If people would buy my books …’ or ‘I don’t have time to do this,’ (Ooooo, that one got a few of you, didn’t it?) or ‘I don’t know how’ (Ouch … got a few more of you, didn’t I?).

When I stopped making excuses, I started seeing a change in my attitude, my mindset, my physical well-being. When I stopped making excuses, I attacked my workouts with everything I had, even on days I didn’t want to. I changed how I viewed writing and publishing. I started smiling more. 

I never look in mirrors except to comb my hair. I’m not a bad looking dude, but I’ve never liked what I saw in the mirror. I walked by a mirror in Target last night, glanced at it, took a couple of steps, then stopped. I took those couple of steps back to the mirror and looked again. I only looked at myself for maybe five seconds. I smiled and thought, ‘Damn, that’s me,’ then, ‘Damn, I look good.’ I walked away, a smile on my face, my head held a little higher.

Physically, I’m in the best shape I’ve been in in over 20 years. Mentally, I’m in the best place I think I’ve ever been. Emotionally, I’m also in the best place I’ve ever been. By prioritizing myself for the first time in my life, I’ve found a balance that works for me, that has helped me get to a place of actually liking myself, of liking who I am and where I am in life. 

By prioritizing yourself, you’re not being selfish. You’re not saying that nothing else matters in your life. You’re saying, ‘I matter,’ and when you start believing you matter, you change. You don’t become selfish. You don’t become arrogant. You become a better person, because the more you change for the better, the more you benefit. Those around you will notice, and if they try to drag you down or talk shit about what you’re doing, you know who to remove from your life. You begin to surround yourself with people who will lift you up, not tear you down. Why? Because you matter to yourself, and at the end of the day, you go to bed with yourself and you have to like who you are in order to truly experience this beautiful thing we call life.  

So, hear I am, deeper than ever, maybe even truly happy with who I am for the first time in my life. So, I say this to you: prioritize yourself. It may be the missing link between who you are and who you wish to be.

Much love to you all and be kind to one another.

A.J.

Posted on by ajbrown · 3 Comments

ImPossible

My wife, Cate, joined a fitness group. They support each other with words of encouragement, congratulations on achieving goals, and friendship on their quests to become healthier. I’ve watched my wife take on this fitness routine with a fierce determination that makes me proud of her. They also do check-ins through the Marco Polo video app. Cate listens to them throughout the day, whether it is while she is driving or eating or just sitting on the couch resting after a long day. Seeing how I’ve been in the vicinity of my wife on a few occasions when she listened or watched these videos, I have heard a few of them. These women seem to genuinely care about each other, which is something we don’t see a lot of these days.

On the first Saturday in April, Cate and I took a day trip to several state parks here in South Carolina. Before we visited any of the parks, we popped into an RC car shop in Monroe, North Carolina, then went and had what amounted to brunch at this little diner called The Village Grill. As we sat and ate (me eating a sausage, egg and cheese sandwich and she eating a salad), she mentioned one of the videos she recently watched. The woman’s name is Marcia and her check-in was kind of typical check-in fair, but the main part of it was about one word: Impossible.

Before I continue with my story, let me state that after Cate told me about it, I asked if I could listen to it. A couple days later, as we sat at the kitchen table (me working on the RC car I bought the Saturday before, and she watching Marco Polo videos), she asked if I wanted to see the one by Marcia, the one about the word Impossible.

“Of course,” I said.

She tapped the screen of her phone a couple of times, then turned it around for me to see. Though, I didn’t look at the video, I stopped what I was doing and listened. 

Marcia mentioned how, at the beginning of the year, they were challenged with coming up with a word … a word for the year. It sounded like this word could be the one that defines their year. Or, maybe, it was a word of encouragement or something to strive for. Marcia liked the words some of the others came up with, but none of them was her word. None of them spoke to her. 

Then, in one of her workout programs, the instructor mentioned the word Impossible. It clicked with her. It resonated with her, and I think it might resonate with you—it did with me.

Stick with me. This next bit is important. 

Marcia mentioned how she is older (no, I’m not mentioning her age), and how she might have a little more weight on her bones than she thinks she should be carrying, and how she has bad knees. They were all things she could use to say she couldn’t do something, or maybe, something was Impossible for her to accomplish. It may not be exactly the same, but we all have things that we make excuses for why won’t try to do something. I don’t want to say it was an excuse for her, but I believe she alluded to it. 

Ahh, but then the instructor said that word. Impossible. It hit her. The word Impossible is made up of two words: I’m Possible. By seeing it as I’m Possible, the concept of Impossible changed for her. 

I’m Possible. Do you get that? Read it again:

Impossible … I’m Possible. 

Marcia goes on to state, in a somewhat excited tone, that “I’m possible to be the wife I need to be to my husband, the mother I need to be to my children …” But the realization doesn’t end there. She can be so much more—the possibilities are limitless. This was a huge realization for her.

There is more to Impossible and I’m Possible than just breaking the word into two and putting an apostrophe in there. It’s a mindset. It’s about believing in yourself, in your abilities, in your determination. It’s not making excuses.  

It’s about Can and Can’t. Possible and Impossible. 

If you go into something with the word Can’t (or Impossible) on your lips or in your heart, then you’ve sabotaged yourself. You’ve already given up, but you don’t realize it, yet. Mentally, you’ve checked out and you might think you are putting a lot of effort into something, but you aren’t—at least not the effort you could put forth if you went in with the mindset of I Can. Can’t or Impossible truly limits you in what you will do.

When I was younger, I played a lot of sports. I was good, especially at basketball. Every time I stepped onto the court I felt like I was the best player out there. It didn’t matter if I was or wasn’t because, mentally, I believed I was. Believing in yourself is more than half the battle. I sized up my opponent before the game started, and in my head and in my heart, I always believed, “I’m going to own you.” I never went into a game thinking my opponent could beat me, that he was better than me. 

It was a mindset. Just like Impossible and I’m Possible is a mindset. If you think it’s Impossible, it will be. If you think I’m Possible, YOU will be.

What Marcia did was look at things with new eyes. Instead of things being Impossible for her because she was a little older, maybe a little overweight, and had bad knees, she began seeing all things are possible if you believe. 

I’m Possible is also about ownership. Ownership of who you are, what you do, and how you view life. It’s making no excuses. There are no I Can’ts with I’m Possible. 

With that in mind, be possible. Not just possible, but be possible without limits. Believe in the term I’m Possible. Believe that you have the ability to do anything you want, and not just be who you are, but be who you want to be. Don’t say I can’t. Don’t give yourself a reason to not be possible. Be like Marcia. 

Until we meet again, my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J.

Posted on by ajbrown · 5 Comments

They Seemed Okay

In April of 2018, I was sitting at a table on Main Street here in Columbia. I was eating a meal with my wife and listening to our favorite local band. The text tone on my phone went off. I didn’t check it. I have this pet peeve where I hate having dinner with someone and that person is constantly answering their texts or phone calls. So, the phone sat on the table, face down at I ate and Prettier Than Matt performed.

The text ring chimed again. And again. And again.

Finally, Cate said to me, “You might want to check that. It could be important.”

I flipped the phone over, typed in my password and checked the text. Cate had been right. It was important. 

I sat staring at my phone and shaking my head. I think I put one hand to my forehead and rubbed. 

“Everything okay?” Cate asked.

I shook my head. “No. (Name that shall not be mentioned) committed suicide last night.”

I wiped my mouth and responded to the multiple texts that I had received about the death of a friend. Just the night before I had talked to him—less than 24 hours earlier and he ‘seemed okay.’ 

Fast forward almost a year later. It’s now April 1st, 2019. I’m scrolling through my Facebook feed when I see an announcement that stopped my scrolling. A friend of mine’s son had posted on his mother’s page that she had died in her sleep. I thought it was a bad April Fool’s Day joke and I sent my friend a PM. 

It wasn’t a joke. She didn’t respond and by the time her mom responded a month later, her death had been confirmed by multiple people. It had been speculated she didn’t just go to sleep and not wake up. 

My friend had depression issues. She and I had talked about it on more than a handful of occasions. A few days before we had talked. Plans were being made for projects we were working on, for things she wanted to work on. She ‘seemed okay.’

In the last couple of years, four of my friends committed suicide. 

I’m going to pause here and let that sink in.

…

…

…

Fast forward to just a few days before Christmas of one of the toughest years ever, 2020. A friend of mine posted about his daughter’s sudden passing. I saw it, but said nothing right away. I thought my friend from my teen years probably needed his space, needed to grieve. 

The Monday after Christmas, I sent him a message. I’m going to be honest here: I was worried about him and I didn’t expect him to answer so quickly. Within two minutes, he responded and it shocked me to the point of nausea and speechlessness. His sweet, teenaged daughter had committed suicide. 

It brought tears to my eyes. His daughter was the same age as my son. My stomach knotted and I could only shake my head in shock and disbelief.

I’m still shocked.

I don’t know the situation behind my friend’s daughter’s suicide, but the two people I mentioned and the two I did not all had depression and anxiety issues. One of them suffered from PTSD and injuries he received while serving in the military overseas. My four friends all dealt with some form of mental illness, whether it was depression, anxiety or PTSD. Two of them didn’t think they measured up to the world’s standards. One of them was lonely and raising kids by herself. Her depression was debilitating, as was my military friend’s.

Listen to me for a moment. All of you who read this, all of you who follow this page, please listen to me. Mental illness is no joke. Depression is no joke. Anxiety is no joke. It’s as serious as Cancer and heart disease and any other sickness that can be deadly. 

Sadly, there is a stigma surrounding these things. You hear things like, that person is just seeking attention, or it’s not that bad, just a little sadness, or it’s all in their head, or, worse still, it’s just an excuse for whatever that person doesn’t want to do or deal with.

So often people who suffer from any form of mental or emotional illness are told to get over it, to rub some dirt on it, or any other way of saying this is a nonissue and they’re making more out of it than it is. I don’t cuss much on my website, but I’m just going to say this: that’s bullshit. People who deal with these issues can’t just get over it, can’t just move on or rub some dirt on it or man up. It’s a big issue for them. Sometimes it’s so difficult they can’t bring themselves to get out of bed or to go out around people. Sometimes the cloud of gray they are surrounded in is so thick and all encompassing that they see only one way out. They don’t see any sunshine on the other side of those clouds. For some—for many—there is only damp, cold and rainy days.

I’m not going to sit here and say I understand suicide. I don’t. I’ve never gotten why people choose to end their lives instead of seeking help. [[Let me clarify one thing before I continue: I think I do understand when someone is suffering from a terminal illness or who is losing their mental facilities thanks to illnesses like Dementia and Alzheimer’s.]] Here’s the thing: where are you going to get help from these days? It’s such a stigma that talking about it to others sometimes makes things worse in the fact that those people sometimes look at you differently once you air your depression or anxieties out. Sometimes reaching out can make things worse if you reach out to the wrong person. How wrong is that?

“They have issues.”

Don’t we all? Don’t we all have something that touches us in a way that hurts us on a whole different level? Don’t we all have our own demons we have to deal with? Just because someone can get over something doesn’t mean the next person can. Each person is different. 

We can medicate, but that’s not treating the issue, it’s treating the symptom. If you want to get to the cure or even to the ability to maintain this, you have to treat the root. You can snip the leaves all you want, but until the root is treated, the plant will keep growing. That’s not to say some people don’t need medication—they most certainly do, but that’s not always the cure. 

We can seek counsel from a therapist. That’s a start. Even that isn’t always going to help. 

What I think—and please understand these are my thoughts and how I feel about this and nothing more—is until we start taking the different forms of mental illness serious, it’s going to get worse. Until we start educating ourselves, our children and our leaders, about mental illnesses, it’s going to continue to get worse. We need to look at mental illnesses, not as a stigma or as something to be ashamed of, but as something that can be talked about, that can be openly discussed without being ridiculed or treated differently. Until we accept that many people can’t just ‘deal with things’ we’re never going to get hold of this.

And, again, listen. This is important. I mentioned ‘get over it’ earlier. Don’t say that. Ever. Just don’t do it.

She’s probably going to kill me for this, but my daughter has anxiety problems. Every feeling she has is amplified. She feels things on a much deeper level than I do. When she has a panic attack it’s a big deal. For the longest time, I didn’t understand it. I didn’t understand she couldn’t control them or when they happened or how long they lasted. For me it was as simple as ‘you need to learn how to deal with this.’ Essentially, that is just a lousy way to say an even lousier ‘get over it.’

I want to say this and I want to be clear about this: I. Was. Wrong. It should have never been ‘you need to learn how to deal with this.’ It should have been, ‘talk to me, tell me what’s going on, help me understand so I can help you.’ Don’t get me wrong, my default setting wasn’t get over it. It was to try and help, but when I couldn’t help, get over it became that default setting. That was shitty of me. I hate that I couldn’t help, but I hate even more my eventual reaction. It was wrong and it could have led to far worse things. I know this now and I’m thankful my daughter has learned the warning signs for when a panic attack is coming and that she can put herself in a place, mentally, to handle it—not to deal with it, but handle it. 

A panic attack can be as debilitating as any longterm pain. It’s a heightened form of anxiety that grabs hold of you like an angry dog to a bone, and it doesn’t let go so easily. Depression is the same way.

I wasn’t raised to understand depression, anxiety, panic attacks or any other form of mental illness. If I was sad then that’s all it was. If I feared something, then it was me being irrational. If I was unhappy, I had to ‘get over it.’ It took me a long time to understand that this is something that can crush a person and lead them to make decisions that I still don’t understand. 

Life is precious and the minutes are so few. I always thought from the time you take your first breath you begin dying, so why speed the process up? I don’t understand suicide. I don’t understand the mindset you have to be in to make that decisions. I’ve written about suicide in some of my fiction and I’ve tried to understand the pain and sadness of someone on the verge of ending his or her life. It’s a dark space to go as a writer. I imagine it is so much darker as someone struggling with depression and any other mental illness.

So, where does all this rambling leave us? It leaves us with me saying—no, begging—please, world, stop frowning on those who struggle with the various forms of depression and mental illnesses. Please, take their hand and help them. Please, don’t just listen to them talk, but actually hear them. You don’t always have to have the solution, but have the empathy to be a friend, and for Heaven’s sake, love them. Love them in a way that leaves them feeling loved, in a way they believe they are loved. Don’t be critical and rude and don’t tell them to ‘get over it.’ 

We all need to know someone cares—All. Of. Us.—so be that person who cares. Reach out, even if your friend or family member ‘seems okay.’ My two friends at the beginning of this ‘seemed okay’ when I talked to them last. They weren’t.

Until we meet again my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J.

Posted on by ajbrown · 3 Comments

Space Available

I live in South Carolina. I have worked in downtown Columbia since May of 1990. It’s nuts to see that thirty years have passed since May 29th of that year. A lot has changed. I’ve gotten older, gotten married, raised two kids, released fourteen books and had over 200 stories published in various online and print publications. I’ve blown out my knee, had pneumonia, had a heart scare and a few other things that could be considered life altering events. I’ve lost many friends and some relatives to the eternal sleep. I’ve had some good times and I’ve had some bad times. That is the way of life.

On that Tuesday in 1990, my boss at the time, a young woman named Sheri who was not much older than my twenty years, told me, and I quote: “Go across the street and tell them you want a short, sweet blonde.”

I smiled because, in truth, I really did want a short, sweet blonde. Or, really, any blonde. But that is besides the point.

I left the office, went across the street and stepped into the little mom and pop cafe known as The Lunch Box (established in 1980). When I walked in, I saw two small tables with two chairs each, one directly to the left of the door and one directly in front of me along the wall. A glass refrigerator stood behind the table in front of me. Inside were various salads, banana pudding, and boiled eggs. To the left of the refrigerator was the entrance to the cooking area. That opening wasn’t but maybe thirty inches wide. A counter spanned from there and formed an L that ran the entire left side of the area just beyond the table directly to my left. 

Behind the counter was a short, round woman. Her name was Vickie. She was pleasant and funny, but also a no-nonsense woman. Making sandwiches was another woman, Eleanor. It turned out, they were sisters and they were the owners of The Lunch Box. Next to her was a young man named, Todd. 

I walked up to the counter. There was a young woman in front of me who had just ordered her food. Two people walked in after me and stood in line behind me. 

“Can I help you?” Vicki asked.

“I hope so,” I said. “I need a short, sweet blonde.”

The girl who ordered before me smiled, almost embarrassingly, for me. Vickie also smiled in amusement. I probably should have phrased my request differently. 

“A small coffee, with cream and sugar,” Vickie said and rung up my order. She gave me the coffee shortly after, and she was still smiling when she did so.

That was the first time I had stepped foot in The Lunch Box. Over the next twenty-nine years of my life, I would go there quite often for my breakfasts and lunches. I loved their chili cheeseburgers before switching to their hotdogs with chili and cheese and mustard, no onions, please. 

I got to know Eleanor and one of her sons. I became friends with Vickie and was even treated to her one of a kind creation, The Vickie Special. 

For almost forty years, The Lunch Box had been a mainstay on Lady Street in downtown Columbia. During that time period, Vickie passed away from cancer but Eleanor remained, running the place with a welcoming smile and a conversation. 

In early April of this year, as places all across the world were closing their doors temporarily due to the coronavirus, The Lunch Box did the same. I must admit, I was concerned that the doors would remained closed. 

Today, I walked to the post office on Marion Street. On the way back, I walked down Lady Street and went right by The Lunch Box. The front door had been busted out during the race riots in May. There was a piece of board where the glass had been. On the window to the left was a sign that simply said, Space Available.

I stood there for about thirty seconds looking at the sign. I shook my head, saddened by the absolute realization that The Lunch Box would not be coming back. I last ate a couple of hotdogs from there about a week before they closed the doors. This was a sad moment for me, and I’m sure many people in the area will be as saddened.

I think back to Vickie’s amused smile when I told her I was looking for a short, sweet blonde and I can’t help but feel a piece of my life—one thirty years in size—is now gone forever. I think about Eleanor and her asking how I was doing, then how my marriage was going, then how my kids were doing, then how my writing is going. I’m going to miss that place, it’s friendly atmosphere and people.

To Eleanor, to Vickie, to Todd, to all of those who have worked there and brought us good food that wasn’t expensive, as well as smiles and real conversations, thank you for all the great years you gave us. God bless you all. I’m sure I can speak for all of downtown Columbia, you will be missed greatly.

Until we meet again my friends, be kind to one another.

A.J. 

Posted on by ajbrown

Halloween, O Halloween

Good morning Type AJ Negativites. Negativites? Really? That’s the best you can do, Mr. Writer Dude? Yeah, it’s lame. 

This is going to be a short post. 

There are two things on the agenda today: Five Deaths and a poll.

First, after months of pushing back the release of my latest novel, Five Deaths, we are going to go forward with the release on January 12th, 2021. More to come in the near future. Stay tuned.

Second, we all know why y’all come here. For the free beer. What? We don’t serve beer here? Really? Hmmm … that might be why attendance is down. How about for the stories? Y’all come here for stories, right? With it being October, I wanted to do a little poll. Who wants a Halloween story this year on Type AJ Negative? Click a response on the poll below. I will leave it up until October 20th. 

That’s all I have for today. See, I told you it would be short. Seriously. That’s it. Stop scrolling. The post is done. Go vote. Seriously.

Until we meet again, be kind to one another.

A.J. 

Stop scrolling … vote on the poll. Seriously, this is the end of the post.

Posted on by ajbrown · 3 Comments

19

Mike sits in the dark. He always does on this day. It doesn’t matter hlong its been or how long it will continue to be. It doesn’t matter how many years have passed—19 as of today—the pain is still there, like a fresh wound, always open and no amount of bandages or medication can help it heal. He knows. He’s tried several remedies since that Tuesday morning 19 years ago. Alcohol didn’t work. Neither did cocaine. All those did was cause him to lose his job for a brief period of time, at least until he got out of rehab clean and sober.

On the television a plane crashes into the South Tower in lower Manhattan. He’s seen this image a thousand—no, a million—times. It’s 9:02 by his watch. He pauses the video, wipes his nose with the back of one hand. In his lap is an old cell phone, one he can’t bare to let go of. 

Mike closes his eyes to the still image of glass shattering and a fireball erupting in that once tall building. He takes several deep breaths as he stares into the darkness behind his eyelids. 

So often people say, I remember where I was when the towers were struck by planes, or I remember where I was when the towers collapsed. Like everyone else, he remembers in clear detail where he was, but not when the towers collapsed. He knew exactly where he was when he received the voicemail on his phone, though he didn’t have his phone on him. It was sitting in his car, accidentally left behind on the passenger’s seat. He, however, was underneath a car in the shop he worked at, having just got off vacation the day before. 

He slid out from under an old Buick with a leaky transmission and looked around. The garage, though full of cars that needed work done, was empty of mechanics. Earlier, the place was full of men chattering about the game the previous night. He even hard Hal McDaniels mention to Jim Brookings that one of “those Broncos receivers broke his leg.”

Where’s everyone? he wondered as he grabbed a rag from his shop rack and wiped his hands of transmission fluid. He had found the problem and the owner wasn’t going to be too thrilled. He was certain of this. He reached into his back pocket for his cell phone and frowned. It wasn’t there. Mike looked around his bay and on the floor and didn’t find it. 

“I must have left it in the car.”

Mike headed for the office, a little unnerved by the silence of the usually busy, loud shop. He rounded the corner and left the garage. It was 9:49 when he entered the shop’s office. Where’s everyone turned out to be in the office around a flat screen television mounted on the wall. 

The room was a silence so loud it was deafening.

“What’s going on?” he asked Jim.

“A couple planes crashed.”

“What?”

“Yup.”

“Shhh …” Brock Charmine gave the universal get quiet gesture of his finger to his lips. 

“I’m going to get my cell phone out of my car, okay?”

Jim nodded but didn’t look back. It was 9:51.

From the office to his car and back took him seven minutes. Seven ho hum minutes that he—and no one—would ever get back. He didn’t know why the phone was off when he plucked it from the seat. He pressed the button on the side and walked back to the office as the phone booted up. 

He clicked on the voice message icon and pressed play. As Kimberly’s voice came through the phone, he looked at the television. 

“Is that the World Trade Towers?” he asked aloud, not meaning to.

“Yeah,” Jim said without turning around. 

Over the phone, the message played Kimberly’s calm voice.

Mike, listen to me. Mike, I don’t know if this is the last time I will ever speak to you, but please just listen. I’m stuck on my floor. The building’s on fire and … and I can’t get to the stairwell from here. Just know I love you. I will always love you and for the brief time I’ve been married to you, I’ve been the happiest woman on the planet. I love you, Mike. I love you. I love you. I love you.

By the end of the call she was crying and the South Tower collapsed on the television screen. 

“No,” he whispers. “No.” Tears form in his eyes. He swallows a lump in his throat and stares at the television. Other mechanics speak or cry out in horror and sadness, but he doesn’t see them or hear them or feel anything in the world but the certainty his wife just died and he wasn’t there for her. He wasn’t even there when she called him and … and she died alone without him with her or without hearing his voice. 

Mike Johnson sits in the dark. From the bedroom comes the sound of his alarm clock. It is 9:58. He picks up the old cell phone and clicks the voicemail icon. He puts the phone to his ear and listens to his wife of nine days, the woman he had just come home from a honeymoon with, the woman he kissed goodbye that morning and whispered I love you in her ear before heading in. 

“Mike, listen to me. Mike, I don’t know if this is the last time I will ever speak to you, but please just listen. I’m stuck on my floor. The building’s on fire and … and I can’t get to the stairwell from here. Just know I love you. I will always love you and for the brief time I’ve been married to you, I’ve been the happiest woman on the planet. I love you, Mike. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

On the television is the still image of the South Tower right after the plane struck it. 

Mike feels his heart break all over again. In the dark, he weeps. 

AJB

9/11/2020