New for Haunted Passages: Four Microfictions by Salvatore Difalco

Let’s get this party started, Jack. Got no time to Mickey Mouse around the house tonight. Pirates and pickpockets are on their way. A fun bunch, as you’ll see. Try my special punch, I made it from an ancient Sumerian recipe, it’ll crack your teeth and give you wheels. Meantime I’ll spin some funky tunes and dig on your dance moves. And don’t pig out on the Vienna wieners or pigs-in-a-blanket. I cannot qualify their provenance. But parties bloom when enough booze has been guzzled and folks are free to splutter and slur as it comes. Never forget that we humans are apes, not so far removed from chimps. Let me say this, my friend, there isn’t a chimp in the world who can groove like you when the beats syncopate with your inner human rhythm. I compliment you up and down, not to steal you away from the party and violate our understanding of what is actually going on here. What am I trying to express? Isn’t it obvious? It isn’t obvious to me. Sometimes I feel like I should have been a dentist. Not everyone would love me, but I’d help people smile without shame.

I suspect the man lacked an inner monologue. When I spoke to him he listened and responded normally. I could not question this aspect of him. But during pauses in our colloquy, his face—his unblinking eyes—betrayed no indication that he was actively thinking of something. He almost seemed to turn himself off when not engaged. Not that he slumped over or closed his eyes. He just stood there, still as a statue but for his rising and falling chest, evidencing the efficacy of his unconscious processes. As for an inner monologue, I thought it best to ask him directly if he experienced such a thing. According to the latest studies—albeit drawing from a small sample—up to a third of human beings experience no inner monologue. Was this good or bad? I lived a life mired with a clanging and at times crippling self-consciousness. I couldn’t shut it off. My inner monologue never shuts the fuck up. And while I could not imagine a life without that inner babble accompanying my every action, what would it be like not to have it? “It’s like being in a cornfield,” the man said, staring nowhere and offering zero elaboration.

They complained about the cottage being cold at night. The owner advised they keep the fireplace going and they’d be okay. But that meant someone getting up through the night to add wood to the fire. Since the place lacked electricity, portable heaters weren’t possible. “Guess we’ll have to make do,” said one of the erstwhile cottagers, boasting a dense cable-knit sweater that would’ve bested Arctic climes. “Whose brilliancy was it to go rustic?” asked another cottager, the handsome one who’d made it his mission to bitch. “We all agreed,” said the trip organizer, “we wanted something old school.” The handsome guy showed his bright teeth. “Old school’s one thing,” he said, “but primitivism is for losers.” The others grumbled, but on which side they stood was unclear. Perhaps they were divided. Anyway, over the next three days, the ice in their Coleman melted and all the meat and cheese and milk went bad. Two of the cottagers developed head colds during the second night, despite a bosk of logs being burned on the fireplace. And on the third night they built a big bonfire in the moonlight and ritually killed the handsome guy who would not stop bitching.

Previously on our program, we lost the thread early on and concluded with points better suited for a tourist pamphlet. Upper management extends its extreme apologies. The perpetrators have all been issued strongly worded rebukes and suspended without pay for a week. Further offenses will result in immediate dismissal. Anyone aggrieved enough to believe they are owed compensation for their discomfort and or confusion should state their complaint in writing and submit it to the next available union steward who will forward it to upper management as per company regulations. It happens, people. Things go wrong even when the original effort aimed to make things right. We can argue about specifics until the cows come home, but using folksy language fails to hide the true tenor of the message. If I paint your barn for you gratis, will you expect a request down the road for an impossible favor or something criminal, perhaps obscene? The best thing you can do for your current headache is open the freezer and remove that icepack. Lie down on the sofa and place the icepack on your forehead. Make sure you lay a cloth across your forehead to avoid frostbite. Otherwise, as you were.