She gravitated to all that was spicy–except for her lovers, who were always named Frank.
Frank’s brother experienced life’s created mundanes through the eyes of a warrior. Every decision presented an epic landscape riddled with yeses, nos, and the occasional maybe.
The maybes were the mightiest of opponents, their strength hammered to life in the fires of melancholy mediocrity moving neither forward nor back.
He didn’t care for this at all. These maybes stole the end or beginning from any moment, keeping it embalmed and uncomfortably on display in peripheral vision. He called the historic victims of the maybes “neither here nor theres,” which he announced in spaces ripe for echoes so as not to feel so alone in his beliefs.
The maybes, as he surmised, sustained themselves on unlived possibilities, due to the addictive nature of the substance which he named Y based on its inability to state yes or no. Y consisted of a wide range of natural antitoxins, colorful sex dreams, and potent self-awares.
Self-awares exist in the bloodstream of any potential victim. They are atomic in structure and give off a strong scent to tickle the mind with ideas of future possibility.
When digested by the maybes, the self-awares not only give deep core pleasure but also create an anesthetic for injecting through mouth hooks to numb the flesh of the victim they feed upon.