Joe awoke in a dream, though he didn’t know it yet. He was in his room accompanied only by the distinct sensation that something just wasn’t right.

His stomach was bloated, dipping over the taut yarn of his pajamas. When he breathed the thick air of decrepit pizza wafted into his nostrils. Boxes of delivery food littered every inch of his room, especially near the computer, where there was also a mound of old tissues wadded together through undesirable means. And his armpits stank, too. They reeked just like everything else within arm’s reach. When was the last time I cleaned this place? he wondered.

The door creaked open as a figure stepped through. At first it was a large shadow. Then as he came nearer, tripping over the clothes and garbage littering the floor, the figure thinned. Joe realized it was himself. Only this Joe was sculpted, fit, had the clean aura of success. His very expression beamed happiness. Joe even saw something he hadn’t done in years: he wore a big grin.

In Copy Joe’s hand was a pistol. ”Hello Joe,” he greeted.

“Hello,” responded Joe timidly. Inside him, fear rose steadily, but not because of the pistol. He was facing a better reality than his own, and he didn’t like the truth of it.

“This is your solution.” Copy Joe extended his hand holding the firearm.

“What?” Joe looked into the reflection of himself; his eyes were optimistic, and happy. He trusted them.

“You’re going to need this,” was all he said.

Joe took the pistol, and Copy Joe turned for the door. The room swirled into darkness and was replaced by a new dreamscape.

Joe stood awestruck in a massive forest. Surrounding him were lifeless, withering plants. Everything was dead. Even the bark on the trees was chipping off like old paint and covered by grey pollen.

Before Joe could guess what he was to do with the pistol, large figures limped through the fog towards him. They came from every possible angle forming a wide circle. It was only until the fog dissipated did he realize they were more copies of himself. Only these copies were genuine. They were obese, unshaven, drooling and walking like zombies with slack jaws. They even raised their arms and moaned comically.

“Not today,” groaned one.

“Maybe tomorrow,” added another.

“I’m too tired,” grunted one with a belch between breaths.

Joe despised these copies. He despised how they mimicked his mannerisms so perfectly. Joe hated himself.

“I don’t want to get up. I’m still hungry. I could never do that, it’s too much work. Is it noon already?” The excuses echoed while the copies approached, their mouths gaping with the intention of devouring him. One copy from behind clawed at his back. Fear instantly transmuted to rage.

Joe turned and saw his reflection. Without hesitation he pressed the muzzle of the gun against its head and fired. There was a small flash and the body toppled to the floor, finally reducing to a puddle of green bile. Before he could control himself, Joe was turning from each reflection, pulling the trigger frantically. Still the copies kept repeating those phrases, the mantras of the lazy. They reverberated in his head.

The gun never ran out of bullets, but Joe wished more copies would come so he could continue to riddle his own foul form.

Not every shot was precise. Some of them whizzed passed the targets. But when Joe gave it a second or third try, his aim wouldn’t disappoint him. With every executed copy he felt his body becoming lighter, his spirit more confident. This continued until Joe’s arms were molded to perfection, the ridges around his muscles dipped and rose beautifully. They would take any woman’s breath away, hell, they took his own breath away! Several dozen shots later and the forest floor was soaked with the gooey remnants of his past self.

Joe dropped the pistol. Smoke rose from the hot barrel. Examining his body and flexing his arms, he chuckled happily at the results. After detaching his eyes from the shape of his new features, he gazed around the forest. Suddenly it was beautiful. Flowers blossomed vibrant colors and released intoxicating fragrances. The trees shed their dead bark and rose into the clouds. Everywhere there was an overgrowth of life and flourishing strength that budded from a fierce courage to survive. It reflected everything inside Joe in that moment. Precise and detailed like a mirror.

Instinctively, he sprang into a sprint and ran through the forest. Utter bliss.



Joe came back to reality. His room still reeked of rotted food. The crusty tissues still littered his desk. Chinese take-out boxes were next to his pillow. This time he didn’t groan or stay in bed for another hour. Instead he emerged from the sweaty sheets with the residual effects of passion and anger still pumping through his veins, as sluggish as they may be.

His hands grasped an unfamiliar object through folds of clothes in his closet: old running shoes. Only they weren’t old in the sense that they were used, in fact, they were in perfect condition. Joe had had the unused pair for years. Sneakers in hand, he retrieved a shirt stained with soy sauce and basketball shorts that stretched to their full potential to wrap around his waist.

Joe had become an insect solidified in his own amber of laziness. But now something was melting the outer surface and his legs were beginning to twitch with movement. He killed the bad habits once already. He could do it again.

Outside the apartment, panting heavily, he awkwardly jogged through the blooming forest.