"Lost Soul" by Zach McAllister

 

Cover art designed by Zach McAllister

An older man with a weathered, bearded face, scars tracing his orbitals, slowly limps through a superstore parking lot. It is a hot, high-desert August day. He is tired, sweaty, and dirty. Focused on the doors, he hopes to slip inside unnoticed, just long enough to reach the bathroom. Enough time to wash up—even just a little. Just to feel human again. He moves into the store, offering a faint smile and a shake of his head as the greeter asks if he needs a shopping cart.

“Have a nice day,” the greeter recites.

The man keeps walking, past the eyeglass kiosk, the customer service desk, and into the bathroom.

“I made it,” he quietly sighs. “Now just need to be quick.”

He places his hand under the faucet, coaxing the water to flow. He spreads it across his face, feeling the deep wrinkles beneath his fingertips. Running water through his dried hair, he silently appreciates the few strands that have miraculously held on. Using his fingers and palms, he rubs the exhaustion from his eyes and smooths the water through his beard. As he looks up, his reflection stares back from the graffiti-scratched mirror—a sight heavy with sorrow.

I’m just a worn-out dog, wishing this journey would end soon, he muses. The weight of his thoughts drags against his already fragile body.

He straightens his dirty, stained clothes as best he can, staring into the mirror, searching for a trace of the man he once was. He remembers hope—the certainty of youth. They have time, all the time. He draws a deep breath, letting the past slip from his grip, pausing only briefly to brace himself for the cruel world waiting beyond the quiet bathroom.

Casually but swiftly, he exits the restroom and heads toward the same doors he entered through. As he passes the customer service area, his attention is drawn to the missing persons bulletin board. Moving closer, he scans the photos absentmindedly—as we all do—until one image unexpectedly holds him captive.

It’s not the photo that reaches out to him, but the name. The bold, silent print speaks volumes. A simple name, yet one that screams to his very soul. Jason P. Franklin. Yes, of course. That was his name when he was known. The photo looks different—familiar, yet forgotten.

He keeps reading all the way to the bottom:

MISSING

Jason P. Franklin

HT: 5’11”

WT: 215

DOB: 15-June-1980

Missing since 2018. Last seen in the Carson City, Nevada area. Wearing a black hoodie, tan slacks, and brown boots. Homeless and an addict when lost contact. If you know the whereabouts of this man, please call 1 888 GET-HELP.

Missing since 2018? Its 2028! My God, how in the hell has it been ten years?

He feels a shudder deep in his rooted core.

It had all blurred together—endless cycles of heat and cold, passing without meaning. He thinks to himself, the weight of time pressing heavy on his chest, I can't believe it's been this long. He had truly believed things would have changed by now—thought, hoped, convinced himself they would. But the years had only stretched on, indifferent to his quiet desperation.

Jason tears himself from the board, his vision blurring as the swelling tears fight for release. He can't decide which truth cut deeper—the ten years that had slipped away, or the excruciating reality that it had taken so long for anyone to notice he was gone. But a darker thought presses in, suffocating: Who has been looking for me?

Last he knew, his bridges were nothing but cinders, his name likely spoken only in past tense, if at all. He has no one.

Stepping back into the furnace-like parking lot, he quietly repeats the phone number from the poster, committing it to memory with a silent desperation. He can’t let it slip away.

Jason’s mind is racing in a thousand directions at once as he blankly lumbers down the street towards the bridge and river he calls home. It feels near impossible trying to even conceptualize a life before nothing but survival. Devastatingly heartbreaking to even visualize a life when he was an actual person. Jason begins to dig and try and remember what has changed. What has happened. What sent him into the abyss of depression and buried memories.

Jason moves through the city, the world around him fading into a blurred haze as he makes his way toward his hiding place beneath the bridge. Frustration boils beneath his skin, quickly twisting into anger.

Why the hell are they looking for me now? The thought burns through his mind, relentless. I’ve been here the whole damn time—right here in this same city!

His fury sharpens, turning bitter. Why do they NEED me? He spits the words internally. I have nothing. I’ve always had nothing.

Hatred, raw and consuming, swells in his chest—hatred for whoever thinks he is worth finding. And with that venomous rise, the memories come flooding in. A woman. Green eyes shimmering with tears. Fights, voices raised, words slicing deep. Screams cutting through the air.

Jason stops, breath caught in his throat.

"Oh, God." His voice barely more than a whisper.

I remember.

I remember her.

There was a time when he was happy. When things were as they should be. He had a home, a career ... a wife. Yes, I had a beautiful wife. Emerald eyes, red tinted brunette. Artistic woman, sweet. He slows his pace as he carefully maneuvers the landscape to his hidden sleep spot … where his tent and all he has awaits him.

Life is neither cruel nor kind. Life is just that: life. With everything good, there will always be bad. Jason begins to really navigate the memories from his past. With every positive revelation came the eventual downfall. Memories of happiness and love, but also abuse and drugs. Alcohol always leads to worse things and behaviors. He remembers all the warnings he was given. He chose his own destruction.

With all of that comes the depressing memory of the end. She slipped away quietly while he was at work being laid off, changing the locks as she left. He was such a monster that her silence was a kinder fate than any conversation.

Jason lays there all night, weeping. Not only with regret, but the fact that he was the creator of his own demise. Jason cries for days, until he just lies there, exhausted. It is in this state that a thought flashes in his head. Fast and very dim, like a weak beacon in a dark, vast ocean of hopelessness. As he struggles to focus on this thought, it begins to morph into words. As the words flash, they begin to take shape, becoming clearer.

1 888 GET-HELP

That’s right! Jason springs up with a new fire of hope inside. Someone is looking for me! Maybe, just maybe it’s her!

He slowly climbs out and makes his hike up to the road, then down the sidewalk. In spite of all the walking he has done, Jason cannot for the life of him remember where he has seen a payphone last.

As he walks, he passes a sign pointing towards the police station. He pauses and decides to think about the pros and cons of going there. After a few moments, Jason figures he would be fine since he has done nothing wrong. In the worst case, he will get a bed and a shower for a few days if he goes to jail. So, he makes his way to the police station.

After what feels like a brief walk, Jason arrives at the station, nerves and excitement swirling within. He pushes past the flutter in his stomach, forcing himself up the stairs. Stepping through the doors, he enters a small but well-kept lobby, where a young, professional-looking policewoman in uniform sat behind a large desk.

“Excuse me,” Jason says nervously. “I think I am on a missing person's poster? I think someone may be looking for me.”

“OK, do you have any identification?” she asks coldly

“No, ma’am.” Jason respectfully responded. “I am homeless and penniless. I just happened to notice my name on a poster at the superstore.”

The young woman seems to silently sigh. “OK, well, what is your name?” she asks, annoyed.

“Jason P. Franklin,” he replies.

She types the information into her computer. Moments stretch endlessly before a new screen finally appears. She says with shock, “Oh, wow! Alright! Yes, sir, it looks like you've been missing for quite some time. Hold on just a moment. There is a contact number we can try. I’ll dial it for you and get some forms for you to fill out.”

The young officer dials the phone and hands the receiver to Jason. He cannot believe this is happening. He is about to find out who it is. The phone answers with a female voice. He knows it is her immediately.

“Hello?” her voice says, hesitantly

“Hi,” he responds softly, “It's been a long time.”

“Who is this?”

“Jason. Remember, Jason?”

“Oh, my God. Jason?” She seems upset “Wow. I never expected to hear from you again. Ever.”

“Really? I'm sorry. I didn't know you were looking for me. I would have reached out sooner if I did, heh,” he says with a nervous chuckle. “I just happened to see the poster in the superstore.”

She pauses.

“Ooh, yeah. Sorry about that. Um, when we, you know, we split up, I didn't have any divorce papers or anything from you. Well, I met someone, and he asked me to marry him, and I needed to find you to finalize the papers.”

Jason pauses.

“I see.”

“I'm sorry, Jason, but no one could find you. Not like you have any friends anywhere. I had no clue where you were. I had to publish something public so I could be divorced. I'm sorry, I need to go. Take care.”

As soon as the dial tone hums in his ear, the final ember of his scorched soul flickers out. No one is looking for him. Not anymore. No one misses him. No friends. No family. Jason turns—his movements slow, weighted—and pushes himself through the police station doors. There is no need for paperwork when there is no one left to search for him.

The streets stretch endlessly before him, yet direction holds no meaning. He drifts through the city, his body moving as though carried by something separate from himself. Memories swell and crash like waves, pulling him under. His vacant stare fixed on nothing, lips murmuring thoughts that only the wind can hear. Madness is no concern—if he seems lost, broken, unraveling—it is only an outward reflection of the wreckage inside.

There is no need to question why no one has searched for him. The haunting flashes behind his eyes offer answers too painful to ignore.

Endless nights drowning in liquor. Days blurred by the haze of cocaine and amphetamine pills. The wreckage of what he has become. The memories surge—overwhelming, suffocating.

Jason has no idea where his feet have carried him. When he finally looks up, reality struggles to come into focus. The world around him has shifted—darkness stretching across the streets.

It was daytime when I started walking... wasn’t it?

Hours? Days? Time has lost all meaning.

Regaining his bearings, he realizes he has wandered to the farthest edge of town, miles from his refuge beneath the bridge. A weary sigh escapes him as he turns; the long journey back to his miserable sanctum awaits.

For the first time in ten years, the weight of his isolation presses down with undeniable force. There is no illusion left to cling to—no false hope, no distraction. Just the raw, unbearable truth.

He isn’t alive. Not really. Not even close.

Jason shuffles forward, head low, murmuring to himself between weary chuckles. His feet drag beneath him, weighted with the knowledge that his journey—this long, aimless wandering—is finally reaching its end. As he passes the police station, his gaze lingers, resentment flickering—but misplaced. The truth is undeniable. His life, his circumstances—every step that had led him here—has been his own doing. There is no one else to blame.

By the time he reaches his bridge, exhaustion settles deep in his bones. Relief washes over him, subtle but certain, like the closing of a chapter too agonizing to read any longer. A few stray tears slip free—not of sorrow, nor of joy—just release. He doesn’t try to define them.

He crawls into his quiet refuge, the hollow space where memories have long since replaced dreams. Here, in this place he has built for himself, he finally accepts the truth: his world has not abandoned him. It has simply become the sum of all the choices he has made.

Settling into his sleeping bag, he thinks back to the young man he had once been—filled with hope, certain of his place in the world. But time has burned away every piece of it, leaving nothing but fading embers in its wake. He isn’t tired in the way sleep can mend. It is something deeper, something final.

As his mind drifts beyond the reach of his weary body, he faintly recognizes how long it has been since he’s last eaten. He barely cares. A smile ghosts across his lips, a quiet laugh slipping through in the last breath of consciousness.

And finally—finally—he lets go.

A broken soul, weary and spent, dissolving into the vastness beyond.

* * *

Zachory "Mick" McAllister is a writer, electrical engineer, and U.S. Navy veteran, which means he knows his way around wires, waves, and the occasional existential crisis. Born in Reno, Nevada, he spent his formative years consuming DC Comics, Stephen King, and Orson Scott Card, unknowingly training for his future career in storytelling (and possibly surviving post-apocalyptic scenarios).

After navigating the high seas with the Navy, Mick transitioned into electrical engineering—because what better way to balance the chaos of creative writing than with the soothing logic of circuits? Though writing was an on-again, off-again endeavor, it always lingered in the background like an overenthusiastic sidekick waiting for its big moment. With "Lost Soul," his first publication, Mick dives into themes of isolation, resilience, and the quiet struggles that shape our space in the universe.