Toxic Positivity
by Joelle Killian
I dig ragged nails into my thighs, quietly hyperventilating as our Quest Guides circle around us. Neither their altar crowded with owls, nor the sunlight flooding into this geodesic dome does a thing to banish my darkness.
Pathetic, a voice inside me whispers. You seriously think these charlatans are going to fix you? Just give up. Crawl under your bed and die.
Some people have an Inner Critic. Mine, apparently, is an Inner Troll.
“With love and light,” Ronan chants, shaking a gourd rattle, “we seal this sacred container for our Wisdom Quest.”
Amantine glides behind him, fanning woodsy Palo Santo smoke onto us with ethically sourced feathers. Bare feet peek out from under her constellation-print dress like delicate white mice.
My friend Meredith has been obsessed with these neo-shamans since her Quest. Claims it helped her face the truth. Cleared her psoriasis overnight. Eliminated her cravings for Taco Bell and Tinder hookups. Now she’s manifesting her best life. Insisted on paying for this session. I gave in, mostly to shut her up.
Ronan’s blond handlebar mustache would match a ten gallon hat nicely. But instead of bellying up to a rustic saloon bar, he’s swooping around us in a white cloak.
“The Owl is an ancient symbol of wisdom.” He gestures at the altar, filled with wooden statues, kitschy ceramics, and miniature beaded figurines.
Amantine places both hands over her heart. “And our Wisdom Quest will connect you to your own divine inner guidance.” Her skin is pale and creamy, like it’s never been exposed to a toxin or microaggression, grown in a vat of nutrients and unconditional love.
I imagine a mirror shattering at the sight of my deformed face, the deep slashes of fatigue under my eyes. Ugly beast.
Yeah, I know. I could probably use some therapy. But guess who lost her benefits when she got fired from her garden center gig? This jerk. So I’m not exactly swimming in options. Besides, this woo-woo can’t possibly be worse than Meredith’s juice cleanses or positive thinking mantras.
Amantine fluffs her copper curls, settling onto an embroidered pillow in our floor circle. “Let us begin by sharing intentions for our Quest.”
Two interchangeable brunettes in harem pants are both seeking a higher purpose, likely to fend off any guilt over their tech jobs ruining the world. Their sculpted faces beam up at Amantine, who revels in their adulation. Anoints them with her good vibes in a three-way energetic love-fest. A few of the bros in our circle seem eager to anoint them, too.
Then a repeat customer monologues about the life-changing spiritual downloads he received during previous Quests. Quit his corporate gig, started yoga teacher training (and kept chugging the Kool-Aid, clearly.)
“Like ten years of psychotherapy in one afternoon!” Ronan waggles his bushy eyebrows at Kool-Aid Man, whose jitterbug shaking and sweating sets my teeth on edge.
Such magic in the world of these believers; their eyes literally gleam with it. What would it be like to have that kind of hope? I worm one thumb through a hole in my threadbare Bloodflowers T-shirt, trying my hardest to vanish.
Killing the vibe here, as usual. My Inner Edgelord is furiously shitposting at me. A misshapen lump amongst the transcendental clique. Disgusting garbage person.
I could still catch the next bus home. Curl up on my sagging couch and binge-watch reality TV, my favorite drag queens baking cakes shaped like wigs.
My turn. Everyone’s staring, waiting for me to speak. Amantine looks vaguely concerned, as if she’s finally noticed the weed invading her cultivated garden.
“Hey.” I glance quickly around the circle, then back down at the floor. “I’m Beth.” Saying my name out loud makes me itchy, reminding me of how it’s been rearranged and twisted.
“Blessings, Beth.” More hands over hearts and meaningful gazes. “What is your intention for this journey?”
Good question.
There’s a date circled in red ink on my calendar when my unemployment runs out. A hopelessly anemic resume. Crusty dishes in my sink. A deep rut in my couch.
But what if something magically lifted this weight from my chest? I could find a new job. Maybe get a life. Go on a date. New wardrobe, stylish haircut. A glossy magazine before-and-after, set to a glam rock soundtrack.
A door slams against the seductive montage. Don’t get your hopes up, dumbass.
I’d settle for shutting my Troll up.
Someone coughs. Everyone’s still looking at me.
My diaphragm tightens. Shit. What was Meredith always saying?
I blurt out, “I want to learn to love myself.”
Long hums and knowing nods, as if I’ve uttered something profound.
Time for our Flight Instructions. “Remember: trust the process.” Ronan fixes us with his hyper-lucid, unblinking gaze. “If you encounter something frightening, ask what it has to teach you. And–most importantly–if you find a door or window, summon the courage to pass through, so you may access your inner truth on the other side. ”
Courage? You? That’s hilarious.
We spread our mats out over the woven Moroccan rug and build nests beneath blankets. People crowd too close on either side of me, bundled up like preschoolers waiting to be tucked in.
Ronan chants, “Owl Spirit, guide us with your Wisdom.” Amantine closes her eyes and croons a wordless tune, her serpentine arms undulating. Is she…hooting? Meredith is so, so fired.
The harem pants duo sings along, besties holding hands on adjacent mats. Then Kool-Aid Man joins in, improvising some bird calls. How does everyone know this song?
I lie back on my mat, waiting for them to shut up. My chest aches.
Then Ronan hands out pairs of eyeshades. “Please bestow our sacrament, my magnificent Priestess.”
Amantine glides around the circle, holding a silver chalice. When she leans over my mat, I’m enveloped in her warm apricot scent and copper halo. Whispered blessings fall like pearls from her plump beige lips.
She extracts a miniature turquoise egg from the chalice and places it under my tongue. The egg leaves hints of almond behind as it dissolves, mingling with her tart essence.
I put my eyeshades on like I’m about to nap on an airplane. Cleared for takeoff. Waiting in the blackness. Bells chime. A hand drum thumps, a Tibetan singing bowl pulses. The drone of a didgeridoo confirms that I’ve hit a new low.
The others around me sigh and moan. Already taxiing down the runway and taking flight, leaving me behind on the tarmac. I feel nothing but a slight tingling under my shoulder blades. I’m trapped here, claustrophobic in my disappointing skin.
Told you. Hope is a dangerous thing.
Then the dimensions of the darkness shift.
Sideways.
My body boundaries expand, nervous system stretching across the entire dome.
Down.
Dissolving through the floor into the earth, intertwining with redwood roots. My atoms and molecules permeate the strata of shale and stone under the forest.
For a single moment, I’m totally disembodied; only the citrus-wood smell of Palo Santo remains in the void. An immense relief, after so many years of dragging this body around, a leaden suitcase full of worthless souvenirs. I’ll never go back. Go ahead and toss it into a ditch. Donate it to science.
Then I spin clockwise, sucked upwards through a gravity well.
Cool, clear air. Like biting into a crisp September apple. The peat of damp fallen leaves.
A full moon looms low over the horizon, the constellations of Amantine’s dress scattered across the inky night sky.
A grove of colossal Monterey cypress. When I was a kid, I swore those wide, flat canopies were fancy umbrellas for giants.
I spot the silhouettes of several owls, perched in a tree. A chorus of hoots and screeches as dozens more join the congress. Great Horned, Barn, Snowy. Two matching Pygmy owls.
Electric yellow eyes, all blazing at me through the darkness.
Maybe I’m their prey. A little mouse, snatched up by sharp talons, my bones and teeth coughed up in a pellet hours later.
But there’s a stretching, tearing tension under where my scapulae used to be. Wings unfold and extend out to each side.
We all flap noiselessly and take flight out of the trees, over the sleeping forest. The air feels silken, luxurious against my feathers. I’m lightweight, yet so very powerful. How incredible to see in the dark, to hear rodents scurrying miles away. To flex strong, sharp talons. Who knew that this is what having a body could be like?
Detouring sharply away from the congress, I swivel my head around and triangulate on one compelling sound: a faint grinding and clicking, out in the distance. Target acquired.
I follow the faraway scratching until I’m soaring over the garden center, my former sanctuary. Where I was finally safe. Where I practically buried myself under the cedar chips and pine bark mulch to avoid other humans. Customers, co-workers, whoever. Maybe myself.
Until they fired me. No warnings. My attitude, they claimed. But I know they were secretly horrified by me. I should sue them for discrimination against the hideous. Or for making me leave before the dahlias I planted blossomed.
But look—now they’re finally blooming. As I swoop closer to my lavender and burgundy honeycombs, a small black hole opens at the center of each flower. A mouth, filled with razor teeth. Their gnashing–the sound I’d been tracking–amplifies as I fly overhead.
A hot, dark, crawling sensation fills me, and I recoil. It’s too much. I bank upwards again, then head west, following another noise. A quieter one, like soft stabbing.
I fly over the bar patio, where Meredith and friends shriek with laughter over glasses of champagne. Their hair too lustrous, teeth too straight and too white. I spot my human incarnation sulking outside their Good Vibes Only circle, lost in my gloom. Jabbing a fork into my thigh under the table.
As usual, they’d offered me their mixed assortment of unsolicited advice. Cultivate a gratitude practice. Yoga? Keto! B12 injections. Float tanks. My cousin swears her light box totally cured her winter blues. Chocolate-covered platitudes, each with a poison center.
Only now do I understand: I was a project. I was supposed to try their remedies, then perform a total recovery. A good ol’ fashioned conversion in their wellness tent revival. But I hadn’t thrown aside my crutches and walked from their church, saved and reborn. I must not have really wanted to get better. So I was less than useless to them. The ultimate vibe-killer.
The thigh-stabbing intensifies. Is this the truth I’m supposed to face? Because I could’ve stayed home and doomscrolled if I wanted to dwell on my deficiencies and failures.
Time to escape this realm of human indignities. The stars above twinkle at me, beckoning as I aim my newly majestic form towards the sky.
One star gets closer. Closer. Until it’s a glowing orb, spanning my entire field of vision. Brightening from a dusky orange, to pale yellow, to pure white light.
I hover, gazing into the orb.
So this is the portal I’m supposed to pass through, access whatever wisdom is on the other side. Which sounds like a pretty terrible idea, honestly.
Yup, called it. Coward.
Ok, no. I have to see who the hell keeps trolling me. And also postpone plummeting down the gravity well, back to my body, that grotesque thing without feathers or talons.
Flapping my wide silent wings, I pass through the portal then glide over a vast plane. A parched desert, bleached rodent skulls scattered amidst the tumbleweeds. I land on a Joshua tree and watch pooling shadows gather over cracked sand.
Show your face, Edgelord.
He steps forward from the shadows. SWAT armor over full-body black leather, pants tucked into combat boots. His face has the familiar menace of a childhood terror.
That’s right, maggot. It’s me.
What were Ronan’s Flight Instructions? There must be clues hidden within all that spiritual gibberish.
I fluff my feathers up and ask: So what’s your deal, anyhow?
He folds his arms over his Kevlar vest. Just doing my job, maggot. Smug smirking.
And what’s that, exactly?
Keeping the peace.
You call this peace?
I do what it takes.
Wow, so I’ve internalized a fascist. Great. How the hell did that happen?
You really wanna know?
I pause. Do I?
Fine, I say, before he can call me a coward again. Show me.
Something rises from my gizzard, filling my throat. Can’t breathe. Gagging. Coughing, spasming. Horking up a soft mass. Whatever it is flies out of my beak and lands on the dusty ground.
The Troll squats down to pick it up, then holds out his hand so I can see the pellet cradled in the palm of his leather glove.
With surprising delicacy, he pulls it apart. Fur and feathers, claws and teeth. A miniature jaw bone. He brings the well-preserved skull closer, so I can peer into its eyes.
In the emptiness of the left socket is the border garden around my childhood home. And there’s Skip, my older brother, stomping the life out of my sunflower. I’d tucked the seed into a pot on my bedroom windowsill, then transplanted the seedling to the garden myself. Tracked its growth, its bud just about to open. But now his combat boots are crushing its leaves and stems into compost.
Then I look into the right socket. There I am, cowering down my high school hallway. Biology book clutched tight to my chest. Barely breathing. The wolf-pack of Skip’s douchebag friends oink and bark as I pass them. Their girlfriends stare at me with cornflower-blue doll eyes, wrinkling their button noses.
I sit outside everyone’s circles in the cafeteria, doodling carnivorous plants and strangling vines in my notebook.
Now the wolves are breaking into my locker. They glue mirror shards inside the door. Howl with laughter when I open it to discover my fractured reflection.
Anywhere my name was written—a blackboard, a lunch bag—they’d add and erase letters, transforming BETH into BEAST. Holler that word at me across the schoolyard or our kitchen, until it felt like they’d carved it into my forehead with their Leathermans.
Grow a thicker skin, kiddo, my parents said. Don’t give them the satisfaction, the teachers told me. Sure. Whatever. I bury all that in the garden, where the corpse of my stomped sunflower fertilizes the soil.
No escape. Skip and his friends were at my house every day, ditching community college. Playing Nintendo and sloshing Mountain Dew on our carpet, squealing at me whenever I dared leave my room. Till the day I left home, suitcase stuffed with fermented spite.
I picture the broken body I’ve left behind in the geodesic dome, that word psychically carved into her forehead. She’s still that misshapen lump tiptoeing down her hallway to the bathroom, praying for invisibility.
Oh Beth, laughs the Good Vibes Only crew, we all had awkward teenage phases. But that was so long ago! And we grew out of it just fine, didn’t we? Sure. Whatever.
I blink twice, transparent nictitating membranes sweeping across my corneas.
Here’s Edgelord again, his palm full of desiccated bones and claws, balls of matted fur.
A low growl echoes behind him. He jumps in alarm, pulling weapons from his tactical belt.
In the shadows, there’s something chained up in a cage. Something feral and horrid.
The Beast.
It’s like that teeth-filled hole in the center of each dahlia, except without the petals. A bottomless pit, hypnotizing me with its depths. A bitter almond taste coats the roof of my mouth.
Keeping this thing at bay is my ONE job, the Troll says, so you just HAD to fuck it up, didn’t you? He jabs the Beast through the bars of the cage with a fire poker, forcing it backwards.
Stupid, ugly, worthless. He berates it with each prod. Loser, failure, freak.
I wrench my gaze away from the chasm to yell at him: Do you really need to torture it like that?
This is for everyone’s safety, you moron. Are you that stupid?
I don’t need your protection, I tell him.
Do you seriously not get it yet? He waves the poker at me. It’s not YOUR safety I’m worried about.
Taking to the air, I hiss: I’m not kidding, asshole.
Louder growling behind him. Beads of panicked sweat drip from his brow as he turns to poke the Beast again. I hover over him, wrench the poker from his grip with my talons. He bellows, lunging for me.
The Beast snaps its chains with a single tug. Shatters the bars of its cage into dust.
Sharpened claws emerge from the blackness to seize the Troll. It devours him in three juicy, squishing bites. Sorry not sorry, jerk.
But now the Beast is unleashed. A flying batch of teeth, coming right at me. I cringe, folding my wings around me to await my demise. Maybe he was trying to protect me, after all.
Nothing happens.
I peek out from between two feathers. It’s just sitting there. Waiting.
Ronan’s voice echoes back: Trust the process.
I spread my wings in invitation.
We merge. I’m flooded with dark heat, like fire obsidian. Primal energy enervates my feathered being. I’m ancient. Powerful. Deadly.
My prehistoric wingspan extends across the cracked sand, dwarfing the Joshua tree, bearing me aloft, the air now icy cold against the heat emanating from my core. Billowing up from within, an immense, dusky red cloud seeping from my maw. Blacking out the sun. The desert goes as dark as the inside of an oven.
I cross back through the portal.
My thundering screech ricochets off the city sidewalks. Buildings burst into flames. Soot rains onto the sidewalks.
Back over the patio. Meredith with her sad-puppy eyes. Our friends tagging me in their inspirational memes, getting off on pity-porn. A plume of fire jettisons from my beak, incinerating the bar and all its patrons. Bad Vibes Only, bitches.
When the whole block is blackened and smoking, I turn eastward towards the garden center. One puff, and it’s sizzled to a crisp. My dahlias with their razor-filled mouths now safely within my being, guiding my path.
Plumes of floral-tinged smoke trail behind me as I soar over the forest. Swoop across the field, through the grove of cypress trees, the moon high overhead. The tiny blond and copper-haired mice flee in terror through the grass, seeking cover from my extended talons. From the creature about to devour them in a single gulp.
Counterclockwise down the gravity well, back to the geodesic dome. My nervous system reintegrates, boundaries solidify. The room feels hot and dark.
Here come the guides to tend to me, disturbed by the sounds I’m making, Ronan’s face like he’s about to get 86’d from the saloon. Amantine like someone has shattered her favorite crystal.
Wellness tent revival time. They want to help. Dispense some words of wisdom. Blast love and light out of their assholes till I perform my conversion, so they can siphon some secondhand good vibes. They lean over me, blond and copper halos back-lit by the skylight above.
Bitter almond floods my mouth as my screech billows up within, a fire obsidian cloud of the truth.
Joelle Killian is a queer Canadian living in San Francisco whose fiction has appeared in Fusion Fragment, Mythaxis, and Cosmic Horror Monthly. One of her doppelgängers is a psychologist writing about psychedelic therapy. Another was once in an undead dance troupe.
COLD SIGNAL 