By Ryan Rahman

I hardly ever visit Starbucks, even the ones nearby.

They’re not bad. I guess I never saw what the hype was all about. But when my friend asked me to meet up at one, I felt compelled. I told myself it wouldn’t hurt to leave my apartment—the beige walls had been criticizing me for my lack of creative output as of late. I figured people-watching might give me some much-needed inspiration for the story I’ve been meaning to write.

The one that’ll propel me to stardom.

I hadn’t seen him in a while. He’s been busy with backyard renovations. Didn’t tell me much about it, though. He’s also got a nightly ritual: smoke a little weed, sit out on the patio, and disconnect from everything.

When I meet up with him that morning, he’s a jittery mess. His bloodshot eyes make me wonder if he got any sleep the night before. Before I can ask what any of this is about, he looks around the place. There’s only a handful of people here.

He leans forward and whispers.

“I saw something in my backyard last night.”

That’s all he tells me. No additional context.

He stares at his Venti Chocolate Cream Cold Brew. I’d already downed a shot of Espresso Con Panna. Something tells me to pull out my notepad.

Just in case.

At first, I tell myself it had to be an animal. I mean, what else could it be? Take your pick: possum, armadillo, raccoon, bear, gator. He was probably high as a kite last night and accidentally scared himself silly.

It happens.

But he looks way too out of it to be spooked by one of those.

His hands are clasped like he’s trying to keep it together.

He didn’t need coffee.

He needed a priest.

My imagination then did what it does best: went off the deep end.

What if he saw a ghost?

The ghost of a neighbor.

Maybe they decided to check in.

After all, my friend just moved into the neighborhood.

Maybe the ghost was making sure he wasn’t violating any HOA rules.

Still, even a ghost sighting wouldn’t have frightened him like this. No way.

I know what happened.

He stirred an ancient evil, condemned to the depths of limestone. A shadowy and monstrous entity buried in a tomb beneath a bed of bromeliads, far beyond the sprinkler system.

I scribble notes as quickly as I can. He’s clearly traumatized, but I can’t let this newfound inspiration go to waste. Besides, if the world ends tomorrow, I’ll know who to thank for bringing about its ruin. Did we not learn what happens when one delves too greedily and too deeply?

Tolkien did warn us.

Finally, he speaks up.

“Maybe it was a stray cat. I offered one a bowl of water the other day. It didn’t drink from it.”

I nod sympathetically.

“Yeah, maybe it was. They’re out there.”

I’m already outlining the plot in my head. I quickly realize it doesn’t make sense for a demon to be buried deep in Orlando.

I’ll have to spin it somehow.

Maybe I can use magic to explain it away. Yes. Magic always works. When in doubt, just use magic.

It’ll be a hard sell, but I’ll fuss over the details later. Feeling inspired, I order a Trenta Salted Caramel Cream Cold Brew. I’m glad I brought my laptop with me. I open it and start typing away.

My friend, still in distress, finally takes a sip of his coffee.

Meanwhile, I can hardly contain my excitement. I have to suppress the urge to cackle like a mad genius.

It’s all coming together in my mind.

My genius has returned.

Soon, I’ll be a household name.

By Katherine Liljestrand

I stare into the void and it stares back. The gaping hole in my ceiling couldn’t have been endless; after all, there was a roof somewhere beyond its edges. But it certainly feels that way.

You can see the support beams criss-crossing the space under which a ceiling had existed not two hours ago. Loose bits of debris and pieces of insulation fluff hang dangling, caught on some nails that still remain. The rest of the ceiling – whatever strange mix of drywall, plaster, particle board, who knows what – covers the stairs in sizes ranging from chunks as long and wide as my arm to particulate matter as small as moondust.

Thank the gods no one is hurt. Those bigger slabs of ceiling easily could have taken out my dog. Indeed, my first thought upon making it through my front door was wondering whether my dog was stuck under the giant piece of ceiling-turned-floor that had almost jammed the front door shut from the inside.

I continue gazing up. The hole almost makes a perfect rectangle; about five feet wide and three feet long, I estimate. Cracks spiderweb out in crazy zig-zagged symmetry towards the closest wall. It looks like it is only a matter of time before the rest of the ceiling will cave in. But time doesn’t have much meaning anymore, does it?

#

It’s a week later. I stand on the sidewalk of Royal Street, down in the French Quarter. The crowds all around me cheer and the festive mood permeates throughout the whole street. We are fully in the depths of Mardi Gras season now, even if this is only one of the smaller parades in the weeks leading up to the spectacle of Fat Tuesday itself. After all, laissez les bons temps rouler. Let the good times role.

There’s something surreal about Mardi Gras. The colors – so vivid at the daytime parades – all permeate into a lasting shadowness during the evening parades. You think the colors of your costume you wear as an onlooker will be incredible, divine… until you’re there on the street and you’re no more or less spectacular than anyone else. You truly have to be wearing something on another level to stand out.

That brings me to my wedding dress. My Mardi Gras dress, as I have now dubbed it. Funny things, divorces. You gain all the freedom in the world, freedom you didn’t realize you missed in that failing marriage until you were able to experience it again.

You know what I did on the third anniversary of my marriage, nine months after we had separated? I pulled out that grey gown, sparkly as anything I’ve willingly chosen to wear, from my closet and donned it for my first Mardi Gras parade with friends. Guess what parade that was? Krewe du Veux. Of course I had to choose a satire parade full of sex and adult humor for the first time I wore my old wedding dress out in public. After all, I’ve been a married woman, haven’t I been? I know all about sex and it’s no longer scandalous for me to know so, simply because I have, in actuality, been married.

Fast forward a year. I’m happy, I’m content, and I’ve had more sex with more people than I care to think about at this point. (Don’t worry, it’s still less than ten people total.) I can’t help but think about that as we stand here on the sidelines of the parade. I’m looking around at the people around me and can genuinely tell you that I am not attracted to a single person here other than my partner.

What a wonder he is. But I won’t go into that. It’s too personal, too sweet, too delicate for a story such as this.

The faces all start blending together as the parade rolls onward. Even the illuminating colors and boldness of the costumes of each krewe going by begin to feed right into one another. I get a throw in the form of an erotic poem from one krewe. Oh, how I love this parade. If you could sum me up in a single parade, it’s Krewe Boheme. It’s artistic, it focuses on the artists in the parade as opposed to catering to the whims of the masses, and it’s led by none other than the “green fairy” of absinthe. How could I not love it?

For these brief, glittering moments, being in this crowd and surrounded by life, beauty, love, ideals, dreams, and wonder is all enough. For these brief moments, we are enough.

#

Upon our return home, the door still creaks, the pup still barks, and the void above our heads calls as we ascend up the single flight of stairs to our comforting nest. It hasn’t been so comforting over the last week. With the cold snap, temperatures outside have dropped to almost freezing nearly every night and we no longer have any insulation in part of our ceiling. The only thing separating us from that outside freezing air is the paneling of shingles up on the roof.

We pile on extra blankets as we curl up in bed together. After a few minutes, I get up and close the bedroom door. I’d never slept with it closed before, but that gaping cavern in the ceiling calls to me in a disturbing way. I’d rather shut off any flow of energy between us and that darkness that I can.

Strange nightmares follow us through the void of sleep. We both wake up multiple times throughout the night. Luckily, waking up means waking up next to one another. There is such warm comfort in that togetherness. I had never found the likes of it before. We are there for each other throughout the night, the darkness, and the call of the void, and we face it and get through it together.

#

The larger parades start up a week after Krewe Boheme. It’s still another week before “Deep Gras,” as the folks call it, but even so, the Mardi Gras spirit is in full swing. I’ve got my routine figured out for all the parades that roll down Saint Charles. I drive to my workplace – which has a thank-the-gods private parking lot – park my car, and then walk the ten-minute walk down to the parade route. I usually meander until I find a spot I like, but always on the sidewalk side.

I reserve neutral ground side visits specifically for visiting one group of friends I somehow managed to befriend last year through a situationship I was in at the time. But that’s how Mardi Gras works. Mardi Gras friends are as abundant as throws. You stand in one spot for any significant length of time and you’re bound to strike up a conversation with the people next to you. Every now and then, you’ll be surrounded by a group of jerks or inconsiderate bastards, but luckily that doesn’t happen as often as you would think. Instead, groups of friends band together and – if you’re part of that tent-set neutral ground crowd – stake out your growing claims of land together for years to come.

While many parade-goers prefer going in their groups, I tend to be a loner. It’s easier to slip in and out of the crowds that way, especially for the mid-sized parades. For Mardi Gras day parades, Zulu and Rex, it’s definitely better to have your own little crowd to guard against the onslaught. But my little loner self far prefers the anonymity of being no one while also being part of something so much larger than any one of us.

That excitement that palpitates the air leading up to and during a parade is like nothing else. No other sensation or life experience can prepare you for it.

#

The same way nothing can prepare you for your ceiling caving in and there being a gaping hole for weeks on end. It’s been two and a half weeks. A contractor only now shows up to fix the ceiling. The roofers fixing the outside – and the damn squirrel holes that allowed the ceiling to collapse in the first place – already finished up their contractual details last week. It’s been a touch warmer since then, and thank the gods the weather’s been warming up too.

We’re kicked out for the day, since he can’t have us running in and out through the scaffolding; there’s enough scaffolding set up to satisfy a king. With hardly any money and nowhere to go, we decide to have a picnic. A quick stop at the grocery store finds us with a bag of little loaves of bread, some spreadable cheese, and a small bottle of prosecco.

We start walking down the Greenway under the overcast sky, only to discover a perfect picnic place. There’s a little wooden stage set up under what I presume is an oak tree. We set up there. It’s perfect. The perfect little day off from the current stress of our lives. And, fittingly, right as we get the cheese out and start spreading it on our little bread loaves, the sky opens up and it begins to sprinkle large drops all around us. The bread is damp, the cheese is cold, the prosecco is not cold enough, and it’s a perfect little afternoon. Maybe the cavern in our ceiling will be fixed by the time we get home.

For once I don’t feel the void calling.

#

Now, watching a parade is one thing. Walking in a parade is another altogether. Tonight is the Krewe of Orpheus parade and it’s officially Lundi Gras, the Monday night before Mardi Gras Day.

I’ve never walked in a parade before, so this is a new experience. I’m wearing all black and getting ready to don the most absurd-looking collection of wires imaginable. A few of my friends and I are volunteering to help represent a theatre company. Their shows are intricate light-woven spectacles where the puppetry is all revealed in the dark when those same wires are turned on. I’m about to turn into a long-necked bird. I suppose I’ve always related to flamingo-like creatures.

The crowds are enormous. I don’t get tired of their exclamations and shouts of joy as we round every new bend. It’s a seven-mile parade, so there are countless new bends. I look over at my friend Kloey and she is living her best life. High as a kite, knowing her, and having so much fun flying an albatross puppet, lit up in pink, high above everyone’s heads.

This. This is joy. This is living. Nothing else exists in this moment of the spirit of Mardi Gras. The communal joy of the entire community is infectious. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know a single other soul at this parade; we are all one right here and right now. We are all one. And maybe that’s enough to ward off the darkness for one more night.

#

I get home at what feels to be the crack of dawn, but is closer to the winter darkness of 4am. The Orpheus Ball, which takes place immediately after the Orpheus parade and at the very end of the parade route, went into the morning hours. Kloey and I soaked up every minute in our stowed-away ballgowns and with fake white roses in our hair.

But I am thankful to be home. Thanks to the warming weather and the fixed ceiling, I open the door to warmth that combats the chilly pre-dawn air. My partner is fast asleep, curled up on his side under our blankets. My dog, for once, doesn’t bark when I get home. She must finally be getting the message.

I strip off my ballgown and, for a second, regret losing the black and white stripes. The moral ambiguity of this dress strikes me as poetic. Something about a mix of good versus evil and the moral possibilities therein has always appealed to me. But then again, maybe I’m just exhausted. After all, my leg is killing me from walking those seven miles in heavy puppetry gear today.

I barely get through brushing my teeth. For once in my fully adult life, I consider skipping flossing my teeth. I’m about to fall over at the sink from exhaustion as is. Maybe for once, this lack of tooth care is acceptable, even if such a decision would cause extreme anguish from my mother. Oh, what love makes us do.

After I throw the used floss in the bathroom trash can, I head back through the hallway towards our bedroom. I simply cannot wait to curl up in bed next to him. There could not be a more glorious feeling on this planet. Something in me tells me I won’t be making it to the Mardi Gras parades that start in five hours.

Just before I cross the threshold of our room, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I feel watched.

Odd. It’s the middle of the night. Nothing should be stirring.

Slowly, I turn around. I see nothing in the hallway. I retrace a few steps, looking around in the dark and listening for any unfamiliar noises or sounds. Nothing. Not even the sound of the heater humming away or the quiet wind through the trees outside. It’s almost as if there’s a sudden vacuum of sound. My ears strain against the quiet of the night.

The gaze is still there, prickling my skin with unease. I’m stopped in my steps, uncertain if I can move. With a sinking stomach, I slowly raise my chin to look above my head at the ceiling above the stairs.

The void is back and it’s calling to me.