Midnight Medicine Harold Fogbank hadn’t slept in seven years. Each night when closing his eyes, shadows skittered behind his eyes; different than the usual nightshades. Not warm darkness, not forgetful peace. Harold pretended to sleep with pills. Pills to simulate dreaming. Many and varied—tablets, capsules, sapphire, emerald, tiger-eyed, bee-striped. His friend Jules pushed a pill into his hand one day in a response to Harold’s oft-repeated, “You know I haven’t slept well lately.” Jules glanced back, frowning. “Perhaps the current dose is inadequate.” Harold had never paid too much attention to his friend’s face. In the dirty light, his spectacles protruded like lens caps. When removed, his eyes disappeared entirely. Only the glint of a distant bulb in Harold’s glass of scotch could be seen. “It’s not the dose,” Harold answered. “Maybe I should enroll in a sleep study.” “Sleep studies are passe. Maybe it’s time you tried astral injection. Your case might interest my academic friends; maybe get paid.” Harold was not amused. “You haven’t been listening, Jules.” Harold suspected he was dying, given his sudden diminishment. He tipped his glass and grimaced. He did not drink scotch for pleasure. “There’s a worm in my stomach.” He announced. Jules neither opened his mouth, nor drew a breath. Immediately, he said, “You know that happens when you stop taking the ruby!” A train passed, shaking the flat so violently, Jules was forced to breathe. He put his goggles back on and peered at his friend. A friend would have been worried, but Harold knew Jules had other concerns. Harold left the room to puke. Jules made a phone call. While he listened to his messages, he made predictions. Things would get worse. Harold returned, looking worse. “No luck,” he said, indicating that the worm had stayed put. “I’m sure you could have predicted that.” He looked over at his friend, who had put the phone down near the lamp. Jules smiled for the first time. After dabbing his face with a towel, Harold eased back into his chair and poured another drink. “So, what’s the procedure?”

@Jf Alcala Thanks Jf! Normally I write poetry. But occasionally I’ll get a weird story idea that makes me write it…a bit like an infected hair follicle.