Vital signs: the beat of feet trudging rhythmically on.

We’re piled up in houses at the end of city blocks,

waiting to step through those big doors.

There’s the dull whine of public morale rising as time ticks down.

Air raid sirens wind up and glass automatic doors open hungrily.

It’s a fire sale! A downright incendiary sale!

In crowds we scream and gesticulate as the tide of people surge inward.

Bundled hands claw forward and booted feet march on -

“mere acts of terror and wanton destruction.”

We leave the aisles barren, the store uninhabitable.

The weak and feeble – charred corpses – trampled underfoot.

Happy Black Friday. For some, it’s more like Ash Wednesday.

Post Script: I really don’t like a few of the wordings, but hey, I made it in 20 minutes the night before the lesson. There’s a point where it’s good enough to get by. Happy Black Friday.

All you really need is a good backpack and a good, waterproof, jacket. I’m lucky enough to have these things and a car. A car takes you wherever you need to go – I do not mean this solely in terms of transportation. A car is your home and it’s everything to you. Without a car, your shoes are your home and it’s everything to you. If you’re serious about this, about exiling yourself, get a car; you can always find money and gas along the way. Very Thoreauian, very Walden.

I fell in love once. It was a very confusing time and a very confusing situation. She was returning from a business trip, as I was; we met on a red eye flight from Phoenix, AZ to Washington D.C. We were seated next to each other and conversed politely, waited patiently for drinks to be served so we could go to sleep. Drinks were served and we chatted a bit longer and complained about the stuffy airplane cabin and the weather in Arizona and how no one talks to strangers anymore. We drifted off to sleep; we’d wake up every now and again from a bit of turbulence and look at each other and smile – maybe a quiet chuckle here and there. Deep down I hoped her head would droop onto my shoulder with a thin smile on her face and one on mine – how long had I known this woman? She didn’t, of course, in fact she sat perfectly straight and slept like that, rigid and hands folded in her lap. Her name was Alyssa.

Arizona was a three hour layover and D.C. was my final destination – home. At the time I traveled a lot for work. I stayed in great hotels for free, had a stipend, and kept a lot of little bottles of shampoo, soap, mini-cereal boxes, chocolates, towels, bottled waters, cans of soda, bags of chips, and so on. Then I would stockpile it at home for whatever unforeseen apocalypse that was drawing near. I never was home much except to stockpile – it was more of a warehouse than a home. When the flight landed in D.C. at 6:26 AM, a half hour early from a tailwind, Alyssa and I waved goodbye, hugged, and walked down the concourse in the same direction. We paused, burst out laughing like age-old friends at an inside joke, and then casually strolled down the concourse on conveyor belts chatting away like nothing ever happened. We hailed taxis, exchanged some contact information, and parted ways.

We kept in touch and met up a few times for dinner, drinks, things like that. Then it was time to fly away – that’s the way things always work out. Months and years moved along and a lot happened; here are the bullets. I quit my job because I was tired of flying. I started working for myself and all I needed was my laptop. I stayed home for a few months and worked and I got antsy, I went to coffee houses and libraries and worked and I got antsy. I sold most of my stuff, took my SUV and loaded it with essentials, and just traveled and worked, staying in various cities and suburbs and whatnot for a few months at a time. Like I said before, I was lucky enough to have a car.

So here’s what happened next: Philadelphia, Hartford, New York City, Buffalo, Toronto, Cleveland, Champagne, Des Moines, Mitchell (home of the great Corn Palace), Ten Sleep, Spokane, Portland, Los Angeles, skipped over to Fort Worth, Baton Rouge, Atlanta. On the road, sometimes the road or the land itself smells funny. One entire town smelled like smoked hickory, a nice pleasant scent to drive through. Another highway just reeks of melting rubber for twenty miles. And then of course you get strips of road that smell like forests or trees or manure or the ocean. At some point, I headed back home. At some point you realize that those places you travel to aren’t as great as you imagined them; you just didn’t know what they were like until you got there. That in the end, what you were looking for was back at home with the years’ worth of amenities stored away in your closet.

Home, Washington D.C. and Northern Virginia, had its own distinctive scent. It’s something subtle and elusive underneath the smog and highways and random parks and malls. It’s a… it’s a kind of… No it’s just a distinct kind of smog I guess. But even that’s special in a way, right?

I’m not sure where Alyssa is now. We caught up over coffee whenever I was back home, but now that I’ve decided to stay here, I can’t find her – isn’t that always the way? I must be a day or a week or a month or a year late. Maybe I’ll run into her at the airport.

Post Script: As I was writing this… I thought it was super boring, but it was already written so… whatever. It’s probably cause I don’t know how to write anything romantic and there were no ancient lake monsters this time for me to play with (I forgot what it was called, but I think to date that was the only other romantic story I’ve ever written here). Man… such a boring story; half-way through I just stopped caring and wanted it to end. Oh well, jokes on you, reader!

Are you here to hear me

and nod your encouragements?

Or are you here to diagnose me

as I lie here on your divan,

prostrate and fetal before you.

Postscript: I have no idea what this was supposed to mean or why I wrote it. I just wanted to write it down before I cleared my whiteboard for another project.

include night;

while(darkness >= light){

print or make light;

echo some sound;

if(sound reverberates){

“listen close” – “close, listen”;

break;

}

make some light; print some light; end the night;

}

if (too bright){

for(i; gradually fade away; ++i){

Dim(lights);

- – Sun(decrement);

print horizon;

+ + Moon(increment);

}

echo “beautiful.purple.red.”sky fire”;

Set(Sun);

Raise(Moon);

Break.

Postscript: it’s about night turning to day and the sun setting and stuff. Very basic, just trying to get a feel for this new form that… I’ve never seen anyone else do. Maybe if it works better, it’d be pretty cool… I dunno.

up, overcome with melancholy as

if something interrupted some horrorscape of slumber.

Gasping, collapsing and suffocating the cold, humid

air. There is resistance to the labor of our breaths and

still there is dissonance in the tremors of my heart.

I’ll rub it off the page with nothing but

the oils of my fingertips – these fingertips – your fingertips? -

that I may smile and smile (villainously).

It’s an unforgivable sin that we tongueless mortals sing.

We? We sing? You do the singing, I shall sit here in silence.

- Yes… I wish I could sing too.

Instead I shall don the straitjacket – it’s chilly out, you know -

and I shall gag myself, armless as I am (the plan

is to grip the gag by the teeth; it’s grip or gripe out there).

The siren sings (that makes you one of them). So here’s the

question: did we tie me – jacket and all – strait to the mast?

Or did we forget?

Postscript: I’m so tired of this stupid semester.

I

Mr. Ford’s old wrinkled hands quivered whenever they rose from the paper. He used to use a typewriter, but ever since the shaking started and intended K’s became accidental I’s, he came to favor the old pen and paper. His cursive script kept his hand grounded on firm white paper. He had experimented with computers when they were becoming popular, but found that he never finished any writing with it – it was too easy to select everything and delete it all after rereading it with a disapproving gaze. Paper was not – is not – so fickle.

Mr. Ford was a great many things in his life before he retired to the mountains with his wife. Growing up in Ohio, he had been a paperboy and a grocer’s bag boy (when such things existed). He was a student for a time at the University of Mary Washington – he majored in English as many of his characters did. He paid for college waiting tables at a local restaurant. He dropped out in his junior year and worked as a cab driver in New York City, a truck driver, a school custodian, a dockhand, a shoe polisher, a bouncer, a tour guide, and a plumber. He returned to finish his degree two decades later.

His almost Alma Mater graciously accepted him back after some gentle coaxing. Mr. Ford then acquired a license to teach in the state of Virginia and taught English in a public high school, just as many of his characters did. His characters, however, were never fired for teaching “outrageous and gratuitous material” – he did not expect Salinger to incite such a mob.

He never smoked or drank, but his characters always had one or the other in hand. He said it “added something” to the character. His daughter and son read his more tame stories as soon as they could and were delighted to find anecdotes of themselves embedded in the text. His wife never saw herself in the stories and that is expressly the way she wanted it.

He and his wife never experienced the pain of miscarriage, but their daughter knew it four times more than any of his characters. His son was married at the ripe age of eighteen; Mr. Ford did not meet his daughter-in-law until four months after his grandson was born. At least his characters had the decency to inform him via telephone or a letter.

Mr. Ford retired in Colorado and set to work writing in earnest. He wrote short stories about Alzheimer’s disease and abortion and car crashes, but he did not really know what he was talking about. He wrote about them because they were very real and his characters knew them firsthand, thus he knew them.

As the natural light faded from the windows, Mr. Ford heard footsteps on the stairs. She was still beautiful to him, especially as the waning sun dimly illuminated her face. Turning on the kitchen lights she realized there was not nearly as much spaghetti sauce as she had anticipated. Mr. Ford offered to run to the store because “my hands refuse to write legibly anyway.”

In the wreckage, his hands continued to tremble until finally coming to rest on the torn leather wheel.

II

Ted sat behind the counter, entirely at peace. The little television beside him played a news segment on Alzheimer’s research; he wasn’t watching, but it was soothing to hear it drone on. The cash register was old fashioned and a little paper sign was taped to its front: “no credit cards less than $5.” There was no one inside except for a bald man staring at the drinks section. The man was wearing a plain white T-shirt and shorts and Ted wasn’t worried about any concealed weapons.

“Hey,” the bald man said to the counter. Ted glanced up from the case of beer in question and immediately looked back down and rang up the case.

“$8.63.”

The bald man silently pulled out his wallet and handed Ted a credit card and his driver’s license. Ted simply pointed at the card pad on the counter and didn’t bother to look at the license. At Ted’s age, he knew who was underage and who wasn’t – they all have the same tells. Fake ID’s came with eyes that begged for approval; real ID’s were condescending.

“Thanks, have a nice night,” said the bald man as he opened the door, not once turning back.

“Hey man, can I get a hot dog? Large one.” Ted had watched the three kids walk in – watched them as they scrutinized the slush machine flavors and sampled them all before filling their paper cups – watched them approach the counter jostling each other. Ted got up, grabbed the black plastic tongs, and gently placed the hot dog in its bun and handed it to the boy. The two girls followed suit warily, eyeing him the entire time. They reminded him of his own children.

In fifty-two years behind the counter, he had only been held at gunpoint three times and robbed four. Each time, Ted knew the kids carefully treading about the convenience store or the middle aged man who went straight to the counter or the man with hands deep down his pockets was going to hold him up before it happened. They all have the same tells. Each time, Ted wordlessly and gently handed over all the money in the cash register and sometimes the safe if the robber was feeling up to it that night.

The clock on the wall read 10:30. That was when the two boys walked in. They efficiently gathered some Zebra Cakes, Twinkies, and Gatorades.

“$9.84” was the only thing said aloud. One boy paid silently for both.

As they were walking out the door, one boy whispered to the other, “Wasn’t that your dad?”

III

Real men drink coffee black and that’s how I drink it – real men are rare nowadays. Coffee is meant to be drunk at room temperature – the temperature of your mouth. The hotter a coffee is, the harder it is to taste; that’s why cheap coffee is served piping hot – so you can’t taste how bad it is. The office has a coffee machine, but it’s not great. I don’t use it – I use a French press. A French press takes freshly ground beans – roughly ground, not finely ground like what you put in drip filters – and lets it steep with hot water. Four minutes. No more, no less. After four minutes you push down the little handle and the French press internal mesh pushes the beans to the bottom. Then pour, drink, enjoy. This allows the coffee to retain as much bean oil (a good thing) as possible – this is where flavor comes from.

I prepare the French press at 10:30 every morning, the most efficient time for a second cup of the day. I have office plants, but they’re more function than form. The “Money Plants” – epipremnun aureum – remove organic compounds in the ambient air. I have two monitors for four times the efficiency. Everything centers around efficiency. Everyone at the office is so productive.

Everyone except for Anne. Her cubicle lies across the four-foot wide hall from mine. When I turn sidelong I can always expect to see her sitting – but more like lounging – in her office chair. Her long legs wrapped in light grey stockings, emerging from a tight skirt, folded neatly upon each other, running smooth as silk down to her sharp, hard heels. Her skirt is neither long nor short, but simply right – a classy, businesslike correctness. Her blouse, however, is always buttoned perilously low, perjuriously low. Her light auburn hair falls just below her shoulders, curtaining the view of her chest lightly rising and falling with each breath. She has two monitors but only uses one at a time.

We’re good friends. She borrows my stapler and I make her coffee. We have drinks together with the rest of the tax department on Friday nights. She flirts with me the way I used to flirt with my wife. I’m sure I flirt with her the way her husband used to. She always drinks a dry martini – this is the kind of person she is. She is ¾ gin, ¼ dry vermouth, and an olive. She is especially the olive – after tonguing the pimento pepper out. I always drink scotch on the rocks or old fashioned. These are real men’s drinks – real men are rare nowadays. This is the kind of person I am: 2 oz. of whiskey, 2 dashes bitters, a sugar cube, a splash of soda, an orange slice, a lemon twist, and 2 cherries. You never forget the cherries – both of them.

Tonight she’s had a couple extra martinis. She keeps whispering in my ear and I always whisper back. She’s especially touchy: playfully slapping my arm, gently grabbing my wrist, breathing hot in my ear. I excuse myself to make a quick call to my wife and then we leave the bar, arm in arm. She leans heavily on me. The rest of the tax department left an hour ago.

I call a cab, gently tuck her in the back, hand the driver some money and an address. They gently leave the curb and I stand waiting for another cab. Real men don’t cheat on their wives.

Yeah, that’s what I should’ve done. Real men are rare nowadays.

IV

The bride and groom stood at the head of the church exchanging vows. No one could hear them because they didn’t have microphones, only the reverend had one clipped to his robe – who knows if they were actually repeating his words? David sat on the outermost edge of one of the pews on the bride’s side. He did not know the bride.

Margaret sat to David’s right, her purse sat between them and she watched with tears in her eyes. She didn’t cry because Margaret and the bride grew up with each other and were the closest of friends; she simply cried because that is what she does at weddings. Margaret didn’t really know the bride, they were simply in the same sorority– they never talked much then, but it was more than they do now. Margaret wrote plus one on her RSVP card because she didn’t want to arrive alone: this was David’s primary purpose on this day.

David sat obediently and watched and stood and shook hands when proper and prompted. Otherwise, David – a good boy – stayed quiet. He shook the hand of one of Margaret’s Kappa sister’s husband and said, “Nice to meet you.” His hand was crushed by a friendly stranger who claims to have introduced the bride and groom, but neither David nor Margaret can tell if this is true or if it’s a joke that the rest of the wedding is in on. Later he gave a toast and said the exact same things he said to David.

“Shouldn’t we say ‘hi’ to the new couple?” asked David.

“Eh, should we?”

“I don’t know, I’m just a plus one.”

“Fine. Where are they?”

The bride and Margaret hugged and said some nonsense of ‘I can’t believe you’re married!’ and ‘we must get together and catch up!’ David nodded and shook the hands of the bride then the groom when introduced. They didn’t have to make an excuse to walk away; other couples simply swooped in and took the bride and groom’s attention.

David was promised a nice dinner for behaving and sitting and shaking. The dinner never came, but there were wonderful appetizers flying about on saucers held by servers in black – David eyed these saucers and even wanted to chase and grab them by the teeth. The wet bar, however, was excellent; David carried a scotch on the rocks throughout the reception. Margaret was misinformed; she thought dinner would be served and everyone would be seated. Instead, after the appetizers, a small buffet-style make-your-own-pasta line was opened.

“Should we leave?” Margaret asked.

“I don’t know, I’m just a plus one.”

“Let’s leave.”

“Shouldn’t we say bye to the bride and groom?”

“… Nah, let’s just go.”

They hopped in the car and as Margaret was turning into the McDonalds, David’s face perked up – he almost barked with joy. They sat inside the McDonalds at 11 o’clock eating Quarter-Pounders in their dress clothes. She paid for David.

V

When I’m older, I will still have the strength and libido and speed of a panther. I will drink better beer, better kegs, and better body shots. I will have a sweet job but it will only be a predilection to harder partying. I won’t have kids because I am the future. This is what condoms are for – I’m not stupid. By then, I will have two degrees hanging huge on my ginormous office wall: a bachelor’s in English and a bachelor’s in economics. Maybe an MFA and an MBA cause why not?

The classes I take are boring as hell – easy as hell too. I worked my ass off to finish my harder classes during freshman year and my third semester. Now I’m coasting along on easy electives, chillin’ my way to the degree. C’s get degrees, you know. That’s why I love my English classes – it looks good on my resume and I can just BS my way through everything.

I’m sitting in an English class discussion right now. Everyone’s so timid; they don’t even know what to think of this Faulkner guy. Of course I’ll step in and wow the class with my glib. They won’t know what hit them. The professor nods and I know my spurious comment has revitalized the discussion – spurred it on – once again. Some days I just keep talking cause I know I’m on a roll. Some days I say one brilliant gem and count the minutes until discussion’s over.

Economics classes aren’t the same, but they’re just as easy if you know what you’re doing. Be querulous – always ask your questions – because TA’s are usually just grad students who hate teaching. This means that they will 8 times out of 10 simply tell you the answers to get you off their backs. Econ tests are all about memorizing practice questions. Professors usually use the same questions for both practice and real tests. Or they’ll just change a few letters and numbers around.

Some kid says something about Faulkner and the South and women and whatever. No one listens to him because he’s a chump and has never been laid. It is Thursday and Thursday is the new Friday. This is my last class of the week – I skip Friday classes because there’s no point in going to lecture with a hangover just to pass out in an uncomfortable desk seat. There’s a party tonight at the Kappa Alpha Psi house and the Alpha Tau Omega house. I’ll hit them both up.

The parties will be epic. Personally I’m in Phi Beta Sigma, but we’re all brothers here, right? That’s what fraternity means, you know. The sorority girls at Kappa Alpha Psi parties are usually hotter than at Alpha Tau Omega parties – no one knows why. Tonight, I’ll hit Kappa first and Alpha second. I’ll mingle and show off my mendacity at the party with hotter girls first and then make my way over to the Alpha party where Caitlin will be. Caitlin – by the time I get there – will be very drunk and very quiescent to my suggestions. There will be tequila body shots, laughter, and then our evanescence. Into an empty bedroom that is.

Caitlin has this annoying, halcyon tendency to cry after I do her. I’m the only one who knows this because she always blacks out and can’t remember a thing after, say, Jamie’s boob slip or Ted’s keg stand or Frank’s slip and slide in throw up. She always asks what happened the next day and everyone just laughs and laughs and laughs.

Last year, some girl got raped and the party broke up when the cops rolled in. Everyone ran, scattered like headless chickens. Some idiots ran into their cars and realized their keys were collected at the door a long time ago. I, however, ingenuously slipped into the neighbor’s backyard and slinked through a few lawns until I got to a street a block away. Everyone else was stumbling away on the sidewalks. Some got caught for questioning. I will never be trapped like those idiots. I will never get married to one girl. I will live for-fucking-ever.

VI

You will run.

When you run, you vomit fire straight into your lungs. When you run, cheap vodka burns through your legs and arms.

If you run here, everyone knows you’re either chasing someone or being chased. No one runs for exercise here. But this isn’t for something stupid like shoes or honor. It’s for some Campbell’s Soup and a leaky roof. You have people to look out for after all.

You know city’s poor and dangerous when you can read it in the rich, white college girls’ and boys’ doleful, pitying eyes. They come from all over to build houses and save you from yourself. They talk to you as if you’re a child; you wish you really were.

The man before you sits awkwardly behind the counter. He leans back slightly on the stool, but you can tell his whole body is tensed – a loaded spring. His right arm should be resting upon his knee but instead it’s floating awkwardly halfway up his leg. It reminds you of dad. You can hear yourself breathing. You breathe loudly. You sweat bullets. You stare a scared kind of glare. You wonder if you’re supposed to repeat yourself.

Two sweat-drenched moments pass before you whisper again, “Money in the bag now.” Are you supposed to say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’? The man simply stares back at you. Perhaps your gun is fake or has the safety on – he’s doing his best not to laugh. The pistol barrel peeks out curiously from your baggy hooded sweatshirt. The gun stands poised in your hand on the flat countertop. It stares at the man. You can feel your grip lubricate with sweat – well-oiled machine.

His arm jumps down and it’s only now that you realize what his arm was doing there halfway up his leg when it should have been resting on his knee – it’s hard to make sense of things when you’re sweat-drenched. As the second pistol crests the horizon of the counter you go deaf from the blast – they weren’t joking, it really is louder than anything you’ve ever heard. This is an accident, you promise, you swear. You didn’t want to shoot him. Just intimidate him – hand over the money and no one gets hurt. It was a reflex. Your finger moved on its own. You didn’t know what it was doing.

You stand there, struck stupidly silent. You shot him in the gut. You expect him to rise up and look at you dumbfounded – look at his own blood in disbelief. Instead he slumped down and simply stopped moving – how anticlimactic. The mess is contained, pouring down the legs of the bench instead of splattered everywhere. You slowly regain consciousness and run around the counter and slam open the cash register. You pocket the $43.87 and stumble away.

There is much less blood than you expected – it’s a work in progress. You manage to slip on the little pool of it anyway. Outside, shedding your calm, you start running. You look behind you and see a single, fading red footprint chasing after you in the flickering lights. You run harder – you want to outrun the red footprint chasing you. No one runs for sport here.

Adrenaline pounds in your ears as your feet pound on the cracked concrete. Out of nowhere you remember P.E. class two years ago – running on broken blacktop and avoiding as many cracks as you can – it was impossible.

What will they say? Why are you so out of breath? Who were you chasing – or were you being chased?

You will say, “This dinner cost a man his life. Bon appétit.”

VII

Most people remember their childhoods because it shaped us into who we are. But I don’t remember my childhood at all.

All I remember is that mom and dad divorced when I was seven. They lived ten minutes from each other. I lived at their houses every other week. Dad remarried. Mom had a lot of boyfriends. I went to public school. I didn’t bruise easily back then. My favorite toy was a beat-up stuffed giraffe. I called him Theodore. I hated gym class.

I don’t remember my childhood at all.

VIII

It is easy to confuse high-beam headlights for your life flashing before your eyes. But your life is not some cheap recording to be played when you’re exiting the building. They’re just headlights and Americans die to headlights every day.

I once stood in a park. I saw a poet writing in a small leather-bound journal.

“What are you writing?” I asked the poet.

He looked up at me with a loving glare and responded, “Why, I’m writing poetry of course.”

I crouched down beside him, puzzled. I saw his pages were blank and his pencil was unsharpened – brand new without a tip. I asked him why he wasn’t actually writing it down.

“Why, because I can’t let the world know what I’m feeling, of course. I would be immediately judged, ostracized, celebrated, and on and on. I simply can’t have that.” And what the poet said made ripples in the air – I felt them. The thought struck me blind and all I could feel were those ripples across my skin and through my bones and blood. He had a point, you know.

I wandered off from there. I dreamed of things no man should dream, yet we all do anyway, don’t we brothers? I saw in my dream a massive white cloud in the middle of a seamless blue sky. It shifted into all kinds of shapes as I watched it; life was accelerated and my dream was a stop-motion animation. The cloud took the form of a dog, then a sky scraper, then a battleship, then a woman, then a coat, then a tree, and finally a daydream. I peered into that daydream and saw myself lying at the foot of a tree with the poet by my side, scribbling away his invisible strophes and refrains.

I woke up at the foot of a tree with the poet sitting across from me, scribbling my likeness on his paper.

“How long was I out?”

“Decades, great long eons and eras.”

“A worthwhile nap then.” And after a long pause I asked, “Hey, friend, what do you think of God?”

At this the poet looked up with a patronizing look, as if I were an imbecile, “It is God who thinks us; our thoughts don’t change who he is.”

“Well yes, but… nevermind.” The poet went back to scribbling his lines of poetry. That is when the daydream cloud burst into a million beetles falling from the sky. The sun was blotted out as they began buzzing and flying about. I ran and ran and got nowhere, I stood exactly where I started and in my hands were sacks of teeth. Now this was the most bizarre bit and then I woke up.

I was in a hospital bed and there is a machine beeping away cheerfully to the tune of my heartbeat and blood pressure or something like that. I look around and I am surrounded by a curtain. I am dressed in a hospital gown and under that I am completely naked. I throw my legs over the side of the bed and a cascade of nausea sprinkles over me. I see my legs are in stockings; I heard they’re to avoid bedsores. My face is scraggly and rancid. I walk out of the curtain with my companion machine with me. There is a catheter at my feet and I pick it up – a bag full of  my own urine. Delightful. I bring him along too because I don’t know what to do with it. I walk into the hospital hallway and it is deserted. Lights are flickering and dying.

Down the hall at the elevator I stand, nearly comatose, sluggishly pushing the button to open. It finally opens and I find the poet, leaning against the wall of the elevator, scribbling away. Always scribbling away. And getting in the elevator I asked him, “Will you read me a few lines?”

The poet looked up, locked eyes with me, nodded affirmation and started.

The poet’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling,

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;

And, as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen

Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing

A local habitation and a name.

I stared at him and he looked anxiously at me. I said, “You’re a stupid plagiarist, you know that?”

Post Script: I am entirely convinced that had I not been saved when was, I would be a nihilist. I would believe that nothing has purpose, there is no life after death, there is no reason to live, and all existence is a meaningless and futile struggle; I would believe that. I would probably kill myself.

(I don’t mean to say I’m in any way suicidal, so don’t come up to me and start telling me life is worth living. I will roll my eyes and leave you.)

A dull violet afterglow floated on the horizon, as if held up by the snow-capped mountains chopping into the dark blue canvas behind it. Every blade of grass shimmered in the waning light as varied shades of green shivering in the fading wind. The birds were entirely silent, mere shadows brooding ominously in the sparse trees. There were no people to be seen, only the birds staring at you as you tried your best to enjoy the sunset. Or sunrise. Philip was unsure of which it was but at this point, it did not matter. His hand gently textured the bark of a tree, and then another, and you could hear the skritch scratch of the bristles upon the canvas. And Philip thought to himself, why am I painting this? just as he always thought to himself upon completing a work.

A woman groaned lazily from behind him on the mattress lying on the floor. The sun shone through the studio apartment’s massive windows – windows that had no blinds and could not be opened -and onto the mattress in the corner. Philip made no response, he simply stared at his canvas, searching for the one thing missing as if it were some game.

“Why’re you up so early…?” cried the woman from the mattress.

“You know it’s two in the afternoon, right?” replied Philip absently.

“Early enough.”

“Jill, you really ought to do something. Find a job. Or something. I don’t know. Do something.”

“Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my cereal” responded Jill, trudging barefoot to the kitchenette.

“You’re the one who spoke to me…” muttered Philip, glancing behind him at Jill. She leaned on the small counter of the kitchenette in a tight tank-top and long basketball shorts, perched over a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. She stared back vacantly.

“What’re you painting?”

Philip turned back to his canvas, replying, “I don’t really know. Some mountains and a sunset or sunrise. Something of that nature.”

After another eternity of staring, Philip turned away from the painting and walked up the stairs to the loft. There was a single window there that opened and overlooked the cluttered street below. In a corner of the loft his single-sized mattress lay and in the opposite corner sat a rifle. He looked out into the street and saw cars parked on their sides and on their hoods, strewn about on the street like a child’s play set. Light reverberations shook constantly from the center of the city in the distance. An occasional explosion would light up the dust haloing the horizon.

A knocking on the steel door alerted Philip to a presence below him on the street. He looked down and shouted, “Jill, open the door, it’s dad.”

He heard the steel frame creak open and heavy boot-laden footsteps. Coming down the stairs, Philip looked at his father. His grizzled beard was trimmed short and his jacket was a faded black – a blue bandanna was wrapped around his right arm. His right ear was missing. Philip silently greeted his father with a wave; he waved back.

“WHERE’S THAT PROPANE TANK WE FOUND YESTERDAY?” shouted Philip’s father. Wordlessly, Jill tapped her father on the shoulder from behind and pointed to the closet.

“I FOUND SOME WIRES AND A SWITCH. I THINK WE’RE GOOD TO GO!”

Philip and Jill both raised a thumbs-up to indicate understanding and approval. Their father picked up the propane tank and standing up, saw Philip’s painting.

“NICE PAINTING PHILIP. I ESPECIALLY LIKE THE SHADING. VERY OMINOUS!”

Philip responded worded thanks and gave another thumbs-up when suddenly a light on the kitchenette counter started flashing and beeping. Philip sprinted back up the stairs and grabbed the rifle, turning off the safety and turning on the laser-guide. He could hear his sister and father scrambling downstairs, grabbing their rifles and detonators. Whoever or whatever tripped the sensor down the street would be appearing at any moment and Philip rested the laser out of sight of the street, aimed at an adjacent building.

A pack of six lean dogs sprinted down the street, running around the abandoned cars as if it were some kind of obstacle course. Philip eased his finger off the trigger. The grenade came out of nowhere in through the open window and Philip knew he was dead. He saw it float midair at the apex of its arch fall with an anticlimactic thud on his old mattress. It was a rock and he just lost the game.

A knocking came to the door and Philip looked down; Nathan stood with his arms akimbo with Anne at his side. Then he looked up at Philip through the window and gave an impetuous and infuriating grin.

“Your home defenses still need some work, Phil.” said Nathan up to the window.

“Yeah, well your face still needs some work,” replied Philip. He turned and shouted downstairs, “Open the door, it’s just Nathan and Anne.”

They all greeted each other downstairs and Philip paid Nathan five batteries.

“I don’t know why you guys always play this stupid game. What if someone really gets hurt?” asked Anne.

“Oh don’t worry about it Anne, don’t be such a spoilsport! Really, if anything, it just makes our defenses stronger” replied Philip. Jill silently pulled Anne away, shaking her head, urging Anne to give up a futile endeavor.

“YOU KIDS COME OUT HERE! BRING THE BAG ON THE COUNTER WITH YOU!” Shouted Philip and Jill’s father from outside.

Philip, Jill, Nathan, and Anne came out with the plastic bag. In the street, between the steel door and a car hood with a cloth over it, stood Philip and Jill’s father with his hands stretched toward an old gas grill. The propane tank fed wires into the grill Philip’s father beckoned him to bring the bag of meats to him. They threw meat on the grill, turning it over when it was just right. Jill brought out bread and they made sandwiches. They talked of the old days before the war in between bites, sitting on the hood of a car, with rifles propped against the near wall. The sky quickly became a dull violet afterglow floating on the horizon.

Afterword: Most of all, I just wanted to mislead you, the reader, into assuming as many things as possible that weren’t true. I take some kind of sadistic pleasure in that. Anyway, I’ve been playing a lot of Half-Life 2 (and episode 1 and 2) and that’s pretty much where the dystopian, post-apocalyptic resistance feel comes from. Now I’m gonna go play some. Hope you enjoyed it.

Wyatt Taylor, lounging, is dying. He knows every strained breath is a gift to be cherished. But here in the hot Florida park, it’s hard to be grateful for a breath of blood. The coughing started months ago, blood stained his handkerchiefs, his cane was all the held him up, and shaking moved out from his chest to his whole body. Afraid to change position for fear of setting of a fit of coughing, Wyatt sits stone-still – corpse-like.

He slowly draws apart his eyelids as if he were first seeing the world. Slowly, ever so slowly, he brings his left wrist into view of his half-open eyes. It is quarter to four and his daughter would be expecting him soon. He draws himself up slowly, inching out of the bench and onto his cane. He walks away from the shade of the massive and ancient oak tree overhanging his bench, back to his equally ancient and faithful Pontiac. His car ambles out of the parking lot and into the Miami streets.

Carol had prepared the turkey the day before. The stuffing and green beans are her primary focus now. Tim and Ben can be heard outside, throwing balls, running in circles, eating dirt. They are five and seven, respectively, and they are allowed to act that way. Harry, however, is polishing his rifle in the den – not stirring the green beans. Her brother is off in the Amazon somewhere, photographing the rare whats-it-called or the sublime who-cares and her older sister always has Thanksgiving with her husband’s family. Harry’s sister, Helen, and her family will be coming at five. It is in the middle of this realization that Carol remembers to turn down the heat on the green beans. It is in the middle of this realization that her father knocks on the door.

“Door’s open!” Carol cries out. The door creeks open slowly and slams closed with a flimsy plastic clang.

“Hey darlin’,” says a deep, raspy voice.

“Hi dad,” Carol says, eyes fixed upon the celery she is chopping, “you can make yourself a drink and rest in the living room.”

“Well alright, hon.”So Wyatt takes a soda pop from the fridge and sits down. Happy to be sitting again.

Everyone in the family knows about his condition, but it remains taboo. One does not speak of the blood-coughing elephant in the room.Wyatt closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing.

“Hello Wyatt. How’re ya’ feelin’?”

“Survivin’ – how bout’ yo’self, Harry?”

“Doin’ alright, you know how it is.” And then the only audible sound is the slow, rasping inhale and exhale for a long, painful moment.

“Well I’m gon’ check on the kitchen. You make yourself comfortable, Wyatt.” Harry walks out briskly and everything fades away.

Wyatt is woken by a light tapping on his shoulder. He makes his way slowly to the dinner table on his cane. Someone says grace and the meal is perfect and unmemorable. Four kids jostle each other at a small separate table while five adults sit at the tall table doing their best to keep their talk small. And before Wyatt knew, everyone had gone and the kids are being put to bed. He wakes up by a fit of coughing, finding himself in the same over-stuffed chair he sat in earlier. He gets up to leave when he hears the sound of laughter and running. He slowly climbs the stairs, coughing lightly, and is almost floored by two boys running down the hall into their bedroom in near-ragged pajamas.

Carol shouts from down the hall, “You boys better be in bed when I get there, or else!”

The boys creep back to where Wyatt stood, mimicking their mother’s ultimatum to each other.

When they reach Wyatt, they whisper to him, “Are you going to stay here grandpa?”

“Yeah! Stay the night! We’ll play tomorrow!”

“Yeah we don’t got school tomorrow.”

“Yeah! No school tomorrow. Stay forever, grandpa!”

Wyatt looked down at his grandsons and a smile crept onto his face. He replied, “Sorry boys, I would love to, but I’ve got somewhere to be.”

Post Script: I started this over Thanksgiving break, got tired of writing, and never got around to it until now. I’m finishing it now because I can submit it as part of my final portfolio (for the class that it originated from). Honestly, not a big fan of this story, I just want it to be over. Hope you enjoyed though.

If I open my mouth, you know you won’t understand

And if I open my ears, you know I won’t either –

Sound doesn’t travel in waves for me.

I’ve got so much to say and so much to share:

I’ve seen this world around us,

But I can’t breathe in these murky deeps.

In this aquarium, flooded building with flag floating high,

My tongue is shackled to the ground –

An anchor weighing me down,

Drowning me now.

A school of fish runs laps around me

Laughing cackling conversing like it was no big thing.

Once I die today at 2 or 3 pm, floating limp in the current,

The shackles will fall off, my tongue will surface and I can take

A breath of fresh air.

I can hear my voice up there in the night sky upon the waves. That’s home.

Ah, lo siento, he olvidado*! I can’t write like this.

*  “lo siento, he olvidado” translates as “sorry, I forgot” in Spanish

Postscript: short and sweet and good to eat? I dunno. Back to work.