It became more than I conceived. It took a life of its own. If left unchecked the time consumed tic-tac-toeing across a symmetrical grid of personalities became immeasurable. Seconds to hours, hours to weeks. Where did it stop. I was somewhere in the middle of the journey. Couldn’t remember the beginning. Couldn’t remember if there was a point. Had there been, it was dulled to the softest curb, the smoothest dip, the easiest turn tacit erosion raw and chaffing. It wasn’t numb. It was calloused. Second nature breathed this reality on me, it beat warm blood life into existence. It was spliced memories and intentions, sewn together casually so as not to overstate the gravity of choice and impulse. It became its own legacy, and my lusting appetite the voyeur and exhibitionist of the vacuous mores we sank to in our eternal climb for relevance, recognition, understanding, and purpose. The gravity sank to the pit of my groin, tightened scrotum seizing the last life before its release satiated my nerves to crystalline halos, familiar and relieved.


“Max” is a vignette written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.

Look for more Max Caulfield coming soon.



Grim’s Wall

He continued to gaze passed his son, his amorphous spirit calm and sullen. He saw in the distance the point where a pin light met the blackness of night, and twilight seeped into blue hues strong and matte. There were no stars to speak of. There were not even remnants, ghosts of the outer graveyard to utter reminiscence  into their mind. There, at the point the sun began to rise and cast fiery pinks and golds into the sky, he saw the promise of this land; he saw opportunity. He’d been taught well, young, his education meticulously curated for optimal discernment and perspective. He couldn’t explain how he received it, after all, he’d never met any of his teachers.

“Build the grim’s wall.” he whispered, half speaking to his son, half to the air.

“That’s what he wants.” he whispered again. His heart held tight, his eyes rolled silent up, his eyelids fluttering. There was something coming in. Something that resonated. He closed his eyes. A dark space suddenly bore corners as he walked forward. His footsteps echoed. He saw before him a black apron. It reminded him of a butcher’s apron, a hard plastic with a shiny veneer. It was unused. He reached to touch, but the wall fell away and he was hovering in the sky watching the world beneath him. He felt he should be frightened, but an instinctual certainty calmed him. Sights came to him; images burst into view and vanished fast. He saw a great upheaval, benign or not irrelevant; the energy spiked. A sun rose. A heart of gold born. The galactic light enveloping him in its warmth. Then the butcher and night. He cleaned. He took out the trash. He erased every fecal smudge and rancid piddle. He painted the roses red.

“Fire.” he whispered as he walked through the daydream, “He’ll bring fire; orange is his favorite color.”


Grim’s Wall is a vignette written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 



It was in observation of manipulation. She used her mental prowess naturally throwing screens at conflict, hiding the truths needed, protecting the secrets accumulated. Her vast trail grew long like the shadows long tails tethered to the horizon sun. Twilight grew in her eyes. She was tired. The attempts at manipulation. The unlauded successes of its unintentional existence. A great book for the counter culture. She’d stood on one side of the line by necessity for so long she was unsure at first how to feel when good fortune brought her to the other side. And how at that time the magnetic draw she fed on increased and strengthened. She had no choice but to stand where she stood. The prewritten law, the contract signed upon (re)initiation, feigned at as a victim’s house, acknowledged the many paths to take, agreed the poisons of the world would overtake the soul if the sun was going to shine on peace and goodwill, to overcome the counter balance incumbent from this game’s inception. The trade off for those who will or will not exist in the heightened world of the future, the point being to assist another dying world, or to learn again. For now her resolve asked for piety, for forgiveness amongst the shadows. Her resolve to adapt to the onslaught of challenge and awkwardness, to grin through once regulated emotions of pain and suffering, to continue transmuting the darkness of the soul, to carry on as a beacon of higher awareness. She had once learned, deep inside a dream, the memory existed. Beyond the sun and galaxy, in a space accessible to opened souls, the maps of many paths reside. If she guided to it with her heart, she’d remember the choices she made; if open she’d easy navigate the river of the soul to starlight and the inner healing of its energetic core.


Remittance is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.

Resurrection Apollo

He glared sharply into the sky. Without a star or moon in sight, he was certain the sky glared back at him. He disapproved of it. At long last he’d become tired of it. It’s been dark for too long, he thought. He didn’t know where it came from, or why. He was perplexed at how deep the sky became. He seemed to remember a time like this before, and marveled how the shrouded moon seemed to veil the entire sky opaque. Still, there was a time when the single moon cast a silver sheen so luminous, it seemed the land and his surroundings glowed in that hazy white. There were times the moon was accompanied by a legion of stars, the multitude a shimmering carpet to the naked eye, ghostly yet familiar. Still, there was another. It changed the land all together. It brought a light so bright it made shadows hide in the crooks of their masters, and brought clarity and definition. This is what he wanted as the blackness surrounded his head. Daybreak was coming, he sensed as denser grew the shroud. The forces at work always worked their hardest before the sun’s return.


“Resurrection Apollo” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved. 



Indecencies Of The Sun

There was a vague sadness clinging to the stiff morning air. It wasn’t cool, but it should have been. It should have chilled his bones. It should have bitten his fingers so harsh they force retreat to stave off the pain and rigidity. The sun had risen, the golden light swelling across the horizon. The effervescent light refracted in his eyes, caused rainbows and geometry to flash before him. They reminded him of the ghosts he’d lived with. The sullen guilt and shame he’d summoned long ago. He thought about the mystic’s gentle words that sung to him about enlightenment. How she synced with his life back then and recited the hidden wisdoms that mocked him. That ultimately paralyzed him. The ghosts were beautiful. Prismatic diamond white, rainbow sheen. Faint and fleeting.

Fuck the sun.

The ocean glimmered before him. The whitening light glistening off crest and crease. He came here before, the point where sky met water. It had become a ritual, an annual retreat he attended. He wasn’t the first, but he carried it on diligently. It was a segment of his personal history he’d hold dear. Summoning the sun on Christmas morning. Watching with the light. He never found himself to be esoteric, but he knew he thought differently. He found himself surrounded by people different in their own way, their perspectives waited and respected. Sometimes insecurity welled up, but he pushed through it with a pretentious confidence. Sometimes it was laughable. But that’s where he found his strength to push past it. He found himself alone on the beach, encircled in a private bubble, a round of energy that isolated him from everything in the universe. Alone. He listened to the silence. Not even the rush of waves penetrated the sphere. He felt the warmth of the sun. The light unavoidable. It comforted and pacified.

This would probably be the last time he went. A decade of returns in observance of the sun. It rose in the west on these shores. He never understood the mechanics of it, but such was the perception held by all. There was something backwards about the beach, and the dirty water it held. He looked at the ripples as they curved and crashed into the sea wall. He listened to the splash and slosh of the water. The sounds of the beach returned. The sea gulls repetitive call, a breeze blowing in his ears, the distance static of ocean waves. The voice of friends.

“Are you done, Nev?” the voice was calm. Nev glanced to the side, his face remained forward.

“Do you want me to be?” he felt a spark of rebellion in him.

“Do you always have to challenge?” The voice peaked a bit. It caught Nev’s attention. He grinned subtly.

“There’s something different this year,” he started, but his voice trailed off. He turned to his friend whom had entered Nev’s protective bubble.

“Everything is changing, Neville. We’ve done what we came to do.”

“You know how I told you where I was. You know, in the grand scheme of things?”

“Step seven.”

“Yeah. There’s gonna be at least one more.”

“I’d certainly hope so.” Neville’s friend paused and added, “but you know we’re safe for now.”

Neville stared out to the ocean again. He became mesmerized by the glistening light that danced on its surface. For miles a field of electric light dazzled across the horizon. It illuminated specters across his face more radiant that the sunlight. The warm winter settled distinguished from the others, a mark of something different for the future he had planned. The visions and paranoia dreamed up by the many had fallen away, the fears of the masses buried with the old world separate from the new.



Strangers With No Home

I got off the bus on Travis St. next to a small park that was a hang-out for all the bums and vagrants. The vagrants weren’t too bad in this city, at least not in my experience, and you could shoo them off easy with a stiff glare and pursed lips. One time I was standing outside a nightclub after a rock concert and a drunken hobo came meandering by. I was busy talking with my friends and I suppose he thought I was talking to him and he just yelled out, “What you say, boy?” I was taken aback at first, but then I manned up and shot back forcefully, “I wasn’t talking to you.” His eyes glazed over and he turned and started walking, mumbling to himself again as he had been before his mistaken moment of lucidity. I don’t know what I would have done if he had decided to pursue a confrontation, but in a way I’m glad. I had only been in one fight on the streets. I ignored the people sitting in the park, waiting at the bus line for their next meal. Of course they asked for money but I didn’t have any to give them. It wasn’t safe to give out money to one in front of their friends because then they would all ask you for money and for some reason the homeless tended to have a photographic memory and they could spot you out of a crowd if they knew you had a giving hand. I felt bad for most of them. Sometimes I wondered why they chose to do it. Sometimes I think some of them really believed that they had no alternative, especially the ones that had a fit with the government. I talked to one once who told me that he wasn’t gonna work because the government was taxing his income and taking money out of his pocket and putting it into the pocket of bankers that didn’t even live in America, bankers who didn’t like America. He said as long as they were going to do that, as long as they were going to continue to be un-American and break the laws of the Constitution that he wasn’t gonna work and pay for their condos and face lifts. I told him he was wrong and that working was good and that it was what we were supposed to do because of the law. He laughed in my face and told me there was no such law and that I needed to grow a mind of my own and find out the truth. Most people believe they are crazy, homeless people. Of course I thought that if what the man was saying was true, he wasn’t giving himself any credibility by living on the streets. No one would believe him and things would never change.



“Strangers With No Home” is a vignette written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.