What Can I Do For You “What is this?” “What does it look like?” It looks like a note, because, it is a note, written on what looks to be the back of an advertisement proclaiming the double decker to be the juiciest burger ever, “Subliminal.” I look from the paper into his steely black eyes, bulbous face, and habitually worn stocking cap, adorned with the remnants of dead leaves.

I am not a believer in fate, destiny, or really any insinuation that infers a Deja vu fog covers any situation in life, but I was considering changing my mind. The third time in a month, and Jamal is standing before me, trembling, his left eye tic gymnastic, pretending the cameras can’t see him, and Jerry our security guard, couldn’t pick him out of a lineup of one.

I’ve known Jamal for, well since he was a baby. His mother Anita was my neighbor, our neighbor. I lived with my adoptive mother Liz, at the time. She has since moved on. Not die, she hooked up with this guy from Detroit who claimed to be trumpet player in some obscure band. She was a push over for musician types. But then as we get older our chances at happiness diminish, and I think there comes a time when we realize we have to take what’s there, as what we was hopin for was commin; might just not come. Jamal spent a lot of time with Liz, as she was incapable of keeping a job. She had an affinity to directions, especially when give by a man. I didn’t know Alvin, her, I don’t know what he was, but he somehow soured her on all things like him. I kind of think that’s why Jamal turned out the way he is. Jamal was a good kid, but temperamental as I remember. He used to make up excuses to be sad. When Anita would tickle him to get him to listen to her, he wouldn’t laugh, he’d cry. If she told him, they was going uptown he’d stomp his feet and proclaim that he was only allowed to go downtown. And his responses were to a woman. God only knows what would have transpired had it been, say an Alvin type. When I asked once about why only downtown, he said it had to do with a song he’d heard on the radio. Made no sense to me, but then I don’t listen to the radio. I been a teller at this bank, Bank of the U.S. for fifteen years. Imagine that, fifteen years checking out how others abuse their money. It kind of wares on you after a while. When Anita left, and Liz decided life wasn’t going to last forever and went looking for greener pastures, I was left with Jamal. Liz said I was sixteen and that was plenty old enough.  For what I never got the chance to ask. I realized that I wasn’t fit to be a parent, but then he wasn’t fit to be a child, so we kind of come to a truce. I let him stay with me, he let himself stay with me, but only because I’d said it was OK, and he agreed. I know it sounds like we don’t care much about one another, but that maybe, because we don’t. We tolerate one another however, which is better than a lot of folks do. I don’t tell him how to run his life and he don’t stop telling me how to run mine, perfect! Lately he’s been coming up with these ways we can rob the bank. He says cause I’m working there so it would be an inside job, and from most of the movies he’s watched, it is the best way to do it. He says no one ever expects it as employees have a, “Built in trust from the establishment.” He believes it’s like I work in a convent, and God is my boss. So he’s standing there, looking at the paper like its going to turn into loaves and fishes. Havin been through this before, I pretend I’m putting money in a bag. Actually it’s just some dirty laundry I’ve learned to keep under the counter in a bag, for just such an occasion. The first time I had to improvise, and it caused quite a stir. Apparently, Mr. Hanes our president, keeps a close eye on toilet paper use… of all things! The four rolls I stuffed into a bag set off some kind of book keeping alert that resulted in a memo, “To whom it may concern,” so, the laundry. Jamal had said to me one time that he thought money, unlike the way they talk about it in the movies, “Smells like old socks.” So, I give Jamal the bag, put the note in my pocket, and say louder than normal, I do that when I get nervous, get loud, “Next.” Jerry the guard looks up from his doing nothing, I smile, life goes on like it was a normal day. I know Jamal will be waiting outside as he needs a ride home. He takes the bus down to the bank, but for some reason refuses to take it back. He walked home last time I refused; it took him two days.  He claims he got distracted watchin some old guys playin a game like checkers, but with animal heads and funny buildings. I’ve explained to him that the bus, mingling with all the people is a good way to disappear. He tells me that is the first place they look. Haven’t I watched the movie Speed? I hadn’t, so I had to take his word for it. Anyway, I know he’s out there. I tell Margie, the one next to me on the line, that I’m going to lunch. It’s only ten thirty, but that doesn’t seem to bother anyone, ever, so I go. I smile at Jerry. He pretends he’s too busy checking for possible deviant robbers to see me. I’m used to it. No one seems to notice me, ever, except Jamal occasionally, but that’s only when he needs something. I go outside and Jamal says first thing, “What’s this?” He’s holding up a pair of my favorite underwear, the baby blue ones with the little rose on the... I of course grab them, no need for every passerby to see, and stuff them in my pocket. Jamal standing there looking his usual puppied self, asks what I was up to. If I'd wanted him to do laundry, why drag him all the way downtown.  “There’s a laundromat just on the corner a block over by where that guy is always trying to sell me, a bag.” I’ve found from experience that answering Jamal’s questions only confuse me, so I suggest we go to lunch, “My treat.” He loves to eat, so it is an easy distraction. I take us over to the Donut Hop across the street, and we have donuts and coffee. He likes donuts but only orders coffee to have something to dunk the donuts in. I’ve always been amazed at how donuts seem to change him into someone else. We have a quiet couple of donuts, talk about the weather, whether the Dodgers have a shot at beating those nasty Yankees, and then I offer to drive him home. He’s a Cub’s fan, by the way. He always pretends that he wasn’t expecting me to offer, so he puts on this big show about me bein too nice to him, he doesn’t deserve it, and all the usual things about how he is grateful I’m me, and he’s him. At times it makes me want to cry, but then I’ve seen what that does to him. We find the car and he climbs in with his usual agility, hitting his head on the roof, punching it, which of course causes more pain and punching. We finally leave the bank lot and head for the freeway. He’s kept his eyes closed since we'd left. I have my own spot being I’ve been there so long. No name, but #7 is mine. Jamal usually spends about fifteen minutes standing there lookin at the white stenciled number and mumbling something about how someday he’s going to get him a number like that. He usually only does that when he’s about to say something he considers prophetic, like, “Don’t you think the sun is bigger than it used to be.” I always agree, it’s so much easier. He pushes the button on the door and watches the glass disappear. He pushes the button again, and the window glass, mysteriously appears. He repeats the process several times and then hangs his head out the window and begins to shout obscenities at the cars going in the opposite direction on the freeway.

He then asks, “Is it legal for them to do that,” while he points at the one-way sign. I can only laugh, and shake my head, knowing tomorrow could be like today, or possibly, even better.


If you're not from California, it may come as a surprise to you that the state is not all pristine beaches, towering redwoods, or even grimy urban hellscapes. Dividing the north of the state from the south is the Central Valley, a 450 mile stretch of farmland, desert, and not much else. City boy and chauvinist that I am, I always saw it as a passing through place. There are a few towns scattered along the highway that cuts across it, but most consist of a motel, a gas station, and a couple fast food joints. Even with the windows rolled up, the air there is fetid with the stench of cowpies. Still, there is a kind of beauty to the place. On either side of the highway are arrayed row upon row of almond trees which stretch to the horizon like vast armies, and at night, one can see the lights of lone homesteads shining in the distance like ships at sea. I live in Orange County, but my business takes me back and forth across the state, and I always opted to drive rather than fly because I found a strange romance to the Valley. Until a couple years ago, that is. It was fall when it happened, and the valley was shrouded in a thick blanket of fog. It was almost midnight, I was bone-tired, and by the light of my low-beams, I could make out only a few feet in front of me. I was driving along a two-lane highway, my only protection from oncoming traffic the two painted lines on the tarmac. Fighting to ward off sleep, I guzzled cheap, bitter gas station coffee and blasted the AC on the coldest setting. On the few radio channels that I managed to pick up, I found old country songs, fire and brimstone sermons from evangelical preachers, and solemn testimonials of UFO encounters. I would never have driven in such conditions normally, but my business in San Francisco had kept me longer than I anticipated, and I had to be back in OC that next morning. The rest stops along the way called my name, but I stubbornly soldiered on. It took until about the third time I fell asleep at the wheel, nearly swerving into the path of a tanker truck headed the other direction, for me to admit that it wasn't going to happen tonight. I pulled in at the next likely place I came across, a three-building affair consisting of a dingy Shell gas station, a sleazy dive bar, and a rather squalid motel bearing the name of the Thunderbird Motel and Inn. In the whole center, I saw only one other vehicle, a truck parked on the ramp beside the station. As I pulled in, I noted with amusement that the big neon "S" had sputtered out, so that the sign simply read "HELL". A chill desert wind buffeted me as I walked to the door. Pasted to the glass was a poster of a smiling teenage girl. MISSING: ALLISON MURPHY, SIXTEEN YEARS OLD. It wasn’t the first I’d seen on the long drive through the valley. Inside was a crappy little kmart. The shelves were half-empty and one of the manically glaring lights was strobing continuously. There were two men in there: a trucker in overalls and a baseball cap eyeing the beers, and an older man with a haggard face and sallow skin who sat behind the counter. The trucker nodded at me as I entered, but the cashier stood staring blankly into empty space. He took no notice of me as I approached the counter “Hello,” I said, clearing my throat. The old man snapped out of his reverie to look at me. “Right, twenty-five dollars on pump three, please.” “Burning the midnight oil, huh?” He said as he took my card. His voice was dry and raspy, like a thing gone rusty with disuse. “Yeah.” He nodded at this and said nothing further, his conversational abilities apparently exhausted. “Those posters-I’ve seen them everywhere. What’s the story there? What do they think happened to her?” His eyes seemed to light up for the first time. “Oh, that? No one really knows, but everyone thinks they do. We had helicopters and patrol cars up and down the county all lost summer and not one found a single trace.” “What do people say?” “Some say the desert got her. Nights here it gets cold-cold enough to stop your heart in a matter of minutes. Theory goes she just froze like a popsicle and the coyotes gnawed her bones.” He laughed, as if it was actually funny. “You know what I think though?” I was beginning to regret asking him. “What’s that?” “I think she got taken. Pretty thing like that? Though she probably wasn’t very pretty when he was through with her.” He smiled at me then, a smile with all the warmth and friendliness of a chimpanzee baring his teeth. “Right, well, goodnight.” I hastened out as quickly as I could. The incident unnerved me, and I briefly considered moving on to the next rest stop before dismissing it. The fog had grown even denser, and there was no way of knowing when the next stop would be. Resigned, I filled up my car and drove over to the Thunderbird Motel. The glaring neon sign at the front of the building depicted a huge eagle, talons shining and wings outstretched. I walked past it and entered the main office. The air was drafty and musty in there, the lighting dim. The décor looked as if it hadn’t been updated since the seventies. On one side of the door stood a statue of a cowboy brandishing two pistols, and on the other side stood a racist caricature of an Indian, complete with peace pipe and headdress. Mounted all along the walls were the heads of dozens of animals-cattle, bears, deer, rabbits, wolves-all gazing out with expressions of mute terror. A rusted wolf trap hung in a far corner of the room. Sitting at the front desk was a young woman with red hair and a pretty face. She seemed entirely out of a place in a shithole like this. When she saw me, she shifted in her seat and shot me a knowing smile. “Just passing through?” She asked as she rang me up. “Yes ma’am.” “I figured. Most people are. The only attractions around here are the date farm and the creationist museum.” Her laughter was bright and winning. “It must get pretty boring around here, I guess.” “Oh, I make my own fun.” “I bet you do.” “Customers keep things interesting. All sorts of strangers pass through here. Some are even handsome.” I had no response to this. My mouth was suddenly dry. “You traveling alone?” I managed to nod my head. “What a shame,” she said. “You need some company?” With an enormous exertion of willpower, I raised my finger to show her my ring. “Tempting, but I’m spoken for.” "Oh well.” She shrugged. “Here’s your key. Sleep tight.” This last remark was punctuated with a wink. I was grinning like a fool all the way to my room. My lodgings were about as comfortable as could be expected-dead roach in the bathroom, walls yellow with decades of cigarette smoke-but I was past caring. As soon as I sat on the bed, I was overcome with drowsiness. When I fell asleep, I dreamt of her. I was back in the lobby, but all the lights were out. The door was open, and the night winds were sweeping the fog in. She stood by the door, a hungry look in her eyes and a wicked smile at her lips. She beckoned me to her with a crooked finger and then stepped out the door and into the mist. I made to follow her, but something gave me pause. I looked around at the animal heads on the walls. Only they weren’t animal heads anymore. They were human. Men, women, children. Mouths agape as if frozen mid-scream, tongues lolling, eyes pleading. Then I saw her. Mounted above the main desk was the head of the missing girl, Allison Murphy. Her lips were moving but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. I moved closer and put my ear right up to her lips. “This is a bad place,” She whispered, her voice so soft. “You must go. This is a bad place. You must go. This is a bad place. You must go.” Then her voice was drowned out by a piercing scream sounding through the night. I jolted awake, sitting bolt upright in my bed, all my hairs on end. I looked to the door-closed and locked against the night. The clock on the nightstand read three am. I listened for a moment. Silence. I was about to lie back down when I heard it again: a high, shrill scream of a woman in pain. I jumped from the bed and went to the window to lift the curtain. The motel was an island in a sea of mist, the gleaming neon sign a lone light in a pall of enveloping darkness. I could make out little beyond the vacant parking lot, but no one seemed to be out there. Then I heard it again, louder and closer now. I imagined her out there in the fog, bleeding, weeping, scared. Running from someone or something. My hand was halfway to the doorknob when I froze. This is a bad place. I pulled my hand away. The scream sounded again. What are you doing? I thought to myself. Someone needs help. Go. But I stayed where I was and watched out the window. Suddenly, across the parking lot, a door burst open, spilling a little square of light into the mist. Out of the door stumbled a fat man in a t-shirt and underwear. It was the trucker from the gas station. He visibly shivered against the cold. “Hello? Who’s out there? Are you okay?” He called into the night. Bleary-eyed, blinking back sleep, he looked around the lot, but he didn’t see me at my window. The scream sounded again. It was coming from somewhere in the darkness at the edge of the lot. He looked off in that direction and made a few tentative steps forward. “Hello? Ma’am? Are you hurt?” He called again. Another scream, this one ending in a choked sob. He walked to the edge of the lot, mist curling and wreathing around him. “Hello? Walk towards the sound of my voice!” That was when I saw them. Two forms sidling and slinking out of the fog. They were hairy and hunched over, and they creeped forward in an awkward, erratic gait. I could barely make them out in the mist, and at first, I didn’t believe what I saw, but when I blinked and rubbed my eyes, they didn’t go away. When they got closer, I saw what they were. Coyotes. But wrong somehow. They were standing on their hind legs, and they were bigger and longer than coyotes had any right to be. More emerged from the mist. Four, five, six. They were padding into the parking lot from both sides of the building. The trucker was still looking off into the night, oblivious. I opened my mouth to shout out a warning, but it caught in my throat. Soon they were all gathered behind him, close enough that I could see the light of the motel sign glinting in their eyes. Their bodies were tensed, their hot breath steaming in the chill air. They seemed to take no notice of me. The screams had stopped. The trucker scanned around one last time, and then he turned and saw them. “What the-”he started, and then they fell on him. I dropped the curtain, sank to my knees against the wall, put my fingers in my ears. But it was no use. I heard it all. His screams and cries. Their triumphant yips and howls. Growls and the ripping of flesh and bone. “It’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not real,” I muttered over and over again, rocking back and forth. I had been doing this for I don’t know how long when I realized it was over. I took my fingers out of my ears. Silence. I sat there with my back to the wall for what felt like an eternity, listening for the faintest sound, but I heard nothing. Trembling, I got to my feet, went to the window, and pulled up the curtain. They were all gathered there, their faces pressed up against my window, their breath fogging the glass. They grinned at me then, their eyes all too human. One of them reached up a clawed paw and scratched down the length of the window. Then it opened its mouth as if to howl but the sound that came out was no howl but the scream of a human woman in terrible agony. That was when I fainted. I awoke the next morning facedown on the dirty carpet. It smelled like old beer. Groaning, I pushed myself up and sat against the wall. Sunlight was filtering in through the curtains. All at once the events of last night hit me, and I began hyperventilating. Standing on wobbly legs, struggling to get my breathing under control, once more I went to the window and grabbed the curtain. Opening the curtain then may have been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I took one more deep breath and let the sunlight in. There was nothing out there but empty parking lot. No mangled corpse, no gnawed bones, no bloodstain on the pavement. Just old, cracked stone. The window bore no traces of any scratches. It was just a nightmare then, a crazy fever dream induced by sleep deprivation and shitty road food. I tried to feel relieved, but I did not. I had pissed myself the night before, my underwear still damp with urine, but I didn’t take a shower. I was not going to stay at the Thunderbird Motel a moment longer than I needed to. I dressed into fresh clothes, packed up my stuff, and left the room. As I walked over to the main office to return the key, I looked across the center at the Shell station. The trucker’s tanker was gone. The same woman was seated at the desk when I entered. “Well, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said. I ignored this. “Listen, that trucker-the only other guy here-did he check out last night?” She frowned. “Yeah, he did. About an hour after you checked in. Said he got an emergency call. Why?” “Forget it. Here’s the key.” Her hand gripped mine a little too long as I passed her the key. “You didn’t sleep very well, did you?” she said, and then she smiled. “Up late with thoughts of me?” I ran out of there then, past the cowboy and the Indian and the watchful eyes of the mounted heads. I jumped into my car, screeched out onto the highway, and didn’t fall under eighty miles per hour for the next two hundred miles. Something about her smile was all too familiar.


It was my first year dressing up as a ghost. I was so excited. I've been wanting to dress up as one for years. Now I finally get to. I've noticed something strange lurking in my neighborhood though. It's the same thing every year. I just don't know what. I finally get to go trick or treating and my first Halloween party. Since my party runs late and starts at night fall, I'm going trick or treating early this year. After I started trick or treating, something happened that will change my life forever. After my first few houses, a car had slammed right into me. I kept trying to tell everyone I was fine, but no one would listen to me. It almost seemed like they were used to that happening. Then I saw it. My body was covered in blood and it was all disformed. Was this actually happening? Am I actually dead?

I decided to find out for myself if I was truly dead. I tried knocking on people’s doors, but my hand kept going right through them. I really am dead. That means I get to be a ghost forever. I think I am one of the only people to actually be happy to be dead. Yeah I’ll miss my family and friends, but I get to be a ghost forever.

Since I’m dead, no one can tell when I do something. I can take all the candy I want. And I can do whatever I want. This is amazing. Maybe I can find other ghosts like me. Or maybe I can spook my friends. I can have so much fun. My first task as a ghost: find my parents. I need to let my family know I’m ok. How do I do that? I know. I write it on their mirror.

I decided to write: “Mom. Dad. I’m fine. Please don’t worry about me. I’ll be home tonight.” But it came out like: “Mom. Dad. I’m coming for you.” That must be a curse of the dead. Oh well. Just means I can have some fun. I decided to go to my best friend’s house and do what ghosts do best, scare. I went to his bathroom and wrote: “Hello. I’ll be over in 10.” But instead it looked like I wrote: “Hello. I’ll be over in 10, say your goodbyes.” I’ve never heard him scream that loud, but it was so worth it. I think he was actually saying goodbye to his family and friends. Now I’m heading over to my girlfriend’s house to say bye to her. I walked straight through her door. Before I walked into her bedroom, I made sure she was out of there. I kinda figured she would be since we were heading over to the party together after I was finished being a child. I was trying to write: “I love you. Never forget me. I will always be around to protect you.” But as I’ve found out, I can’t write what I mean. I always seem to write a murder note to them. So it turned out: “I never loved you. You won’t have to try to remember me. I won’t be the only one around you. Mwahaha.” Why is this happening? I just want to say one nice thing to my girlfriend before she goes on to date someone else. She came in to get ready for the party, and saw the note. She actually didn’t run. She knew what I was trying to say because I always say it to her. I think she actually tried to kiss me. Just seeing her, made me realize how much I’m going to miss being alive. At least she knows if there’s some creepy note on her mirrors, it’s me.

Now off to the party with my girlfriend to have a little fun with the poplars. I went into the bathroom to write a little note. I wrote just to have a little fun: “Be warned. Tonight is the final night of your life. You have only a couple hours remaining. Say your goodbyes.” Finally what I wanted to write. Within moments I heard about 6 different screams coming from the bathroom. Probably just some stupid girls doing the buddy system going to the bathroom.

After I had a little bit of fun, my girlfriend had told me to leave and go home. So I did, I just took a little detour. I decided to go through my best friends house, again. This time I really wanted to scare the living out of him. So instead of trying to be nice, I actually wrote him a death note. I wrote all over his bathroom mirror: “Your time is up. Get ready to have your life ended. Not by just any ghost, but your best friend. And I’m accompanied by your worst nightmare, Barney the dinosaur.” Finally get his real scream and might actually kill him from fright.

Now I just have to answer my first question. Are there other ghosts like me? I decided to walk through the cemetery, cause why not. Everyone there is like me. That’s when I saw them. Every person who has died on Halloween night, as a ghost. Maybe that’s why my parents never wanted me to be a ghost. I always knew there was a secret roaming around my neighborhood, I just never knew what it was. Now I think I know. Everyone who wears a ghost costume, dies the night they wear it.

Maybe we could go around scaring everyone who tortured us, instead of just sitting here doing nothing. Or maybe we could go steal all of the ghost costumes to protect others from suffering the same fate we faced. Or maybe we just let it be the way it always has been. I will never know. One thing I do know though, what I’m going to do tonight before Halloween is up. I’m going to scare the living to death.


When 6:00pm rolls around, my maggots all go home to their little maggot wives and their even smaller maggot children. They swarm to me because I provide the manure that they live off of, and swarm away once they have been given just enough to fund their little maggoty lives. They watch television shows that instill morals and values in their head that are required for them to continue ignoring their maggotry, read books on the virtues of a hard-day’s-work, and go to bed with dreams in their head of living a life that is anything but their own. It is these dreams that are dangerous. It is popular to believe that if maggots didn’t dream, there would be no need for the escapism that is the hours between 6pm and 10pm. Television, radio, novels, stories, plays, movies, theatre; all of it useless if maggots had no aspirations, no morals or ethics or values. Of course, then they wouldn’t be maggots. This is where I come in. I am personally of the opinion that maggots need dreams. These dreams are the only thing standing between the maggots and the rest of us. I say ‘us’ because I am hoping, perhaps to strongly, that I have found a like-minded person in you, dear reader. We are the great ones. I am the king of my castle, though admittedly my castle is filled with maggots. I would have it no other way; maggots are simple to control. What is ‘popular’ is what is expected of them, and creatures with no backbone always do exactly what is expected of them. I am not swayed in the least by what is popular. I do not care what is popular. I have never bowed to the whims of popularity. I have my coffee exactly as I like it, my cigarettes exactly how I like them. I dress how I like to, I watch whatever tickles my fancy, be it plays or television programs or movies. I make up my own mind, just as I am sure you are doing. We do not dream. We plan. But dreaming has its purposes. I have said that I like that maggots dream, that my ‘contemporaries’ dream. To dream is to aspire to something; to dream is to wish for something; to dream is to indulge in a fantasy. We do not live in a fantasy; we live in reality. Maggots dream. They dream stylish dreams, cool dreams, fashionable dreams. Dreams that I use to my own advantage. You see, most people dream to be like us, dear reader. Most maggots want to be exactly like you and me. Unique, ambitious, and driven. But most maggots believe that we got where we are based upon some notion of ‘working within the system’. We both know that is not true; that this is yet another contemporary maggot fantasy. But we can use it to our advantage. Just look at me. I have 492 maggots under me. Every day, for the 15 minutes between 6:45am and 7:00am, I step on every one of them. Every day, all of my popular maggots propel me to the top floor, to the 42nd to do it themselves. Maggots make maggot decisions, popular people make popular decisions; but the great people make the great decisions. Maggots can no more be great than they can stop eating manure. But we let them dream, dear reader. We let them dream that they, too can be great, but we let them dream this in a controlled way. floor. Every day, I make decisions for these maggots as they cannot be trusted Television, radio, books, ethics, morals, virtues; all of it is bullshit. All of it is spoon fed to them and they accept it without question. It all either comes from maggots writing for maggots, or from great people for maggots. Maggots must be told what to dream, just as they must be told what to eat. Maggots must dream of achieving greatness, while being told that the method of achieving this greatness is simply through more manure. Maggots must be told that maggots are great, simply for being the maggots that they are. Maggots can be nothing other than maggots, so why tell them that they are wrong for being such? Tell them that they are right, tell them that they are great now, regardless of their maggotry, because of their maggotry, and that they can be even greater if they just continue being the same maggots they already are. Do you see what I am saying, reader? You may not have been consciously aware of this before reading it in print, but I am sure you knew it all along. It is quite simple. I keep the maggots alive, keep the maggots working, make sure they are working efficiently, and make sure they never get so comfortable that they stop working. The maggots are told that it is through this work that they will eventually be able to stop. This is a blatant lie. It is, however, a very popular lie. So at 6:00pm, the maggots go home. I and those maggots who consider themselves my ‘equals’ stay until 7:00pm, since it is popular for maggots to seem like they are working late, and it is my job to seem as maggoty as possible. Every effort to maintain the illusion of the ‘dream’ must be maintained. But after 7:00, I go home. It takes another 15 minutes to walk down the 492 stairs, and yet another 45 minutes to get home after that. I eat dinner, consisting of a steak, a glass of wine, mashed potatoes, and green beans. This has been the popular choice for men of my stature for decades. It is not popular to eat anything different. Then I repeat. I go through the same motions, every single day. It is no longer popular to skip work on Sunday, though I predict it may become popular again soon. It is contemporary for what is popular to become unpopular. I am Fenris. I am chained. This silk ribbon that binds me should be as obvious as day to you now, dear reader. As in the ancient Norse myth, the great wolf Fenris was bound by a measly and insignificant ribbon, though as opposed to Fenris, I am bound not by any mystical or magical means, I am bound by what is popular. I must continue acting like I am a maggot. Imagine ages past! Imagine the mighty Thor acting as if he had no power! Zeus acting as if he were merely mortal, Caesar acting as if he were plebian, Xerxes as if he were anything but a God. Imagine Napoleon claiming that he was not destined to rule the world, Hitler acting as if he could, possibly, be wrong about the Jews! These great men did not pretend, they did not bow, and they did not need to cater to the whims of such an insignificant and petty thing as coolness. But, dear reader, we must. Or at least I must. I write this in the hope that you will find a way for us to stop acting as if we were maggots, to stop acting like we are cool or contemporary, I hope you will find a way for great men to be great, truly great, unashamedly and unwaveringly great! I hope you will find a way for those of us who are great to cease pandering to the fancies of the weak, to cease bowing to the whims of the maggots. I am Fenris, and I fear. I fear that all of the great men and women of our time and times to come will continue to view themselves as Fenris. I fear a time when what we do today, when the stairs that we currently climb, when the maggots that we rightfully and righteously manipulate, will cease to be worth manipulating. I mean, look at all we have gained! Look at the power of Germany! Twice was Germany led by great men, and twice the Germans stood against the world, in defiance of norms and values and ‘virtues’. Twice the Germans stood up and fought for what they believed in, and twice it took the rest of the world to bring the Germans, just the Germans, back down. It was through the power of great men that the mighty Roman Empire spanned the Mediterranean, a feat that has not been accomplished, by any power, since. It was great men that brought the Roman Empire to its knees, and great men who kept the idea of Rome alive. It was Great men, leaders of maggots, that built all that we have! Imagine if it all were for naught! Imagine if what I do everyday were no longer worthwhile. Imagine if the company that I built, the people that I hired, the maggots that I control and manipulate and direct; just imagine if all of that were for some simplistic purpose! Great men never fought for such things as justice or freedom unless it were for some other purpose. It is my belief that you, dear reader, must find this purpose. I have searched all my life, and I can do so no longer. I have continued in the tradition of the likes of Napoleon, Xerxes, Caesar, and yet I am no closer to finding their motivations, their raison d’être, than ever before. IT MUST BE THERE! I am great. You are great, I am sure of it. Throughout history there have been great men! They were great because, as Freud said, their attributes were completely foreign to those of the multitude! I AM NOT THE MULTITUDE! I am great. I should not be feeling as though their attributes were foreign. They must have had a purpose, a drive, that was higher than anything I can comprehend. But comprehend it we must, for the good of humanity! I apologize. I let myself get carried away. It is not acceptable to let ones emotion get the best of oneself. I am Fenris. I am caged. But I must be just as caged as those maggots under me, right? I must be less so, in fact. I, at least, am aware of my own cage; that in itself must afford me some kind of freedom. I will go to work again tomorrow. I will climb the 492 stairs, naming each one of my 492 employees, and I will stop at the 42nd I will act popular. I will act stylish. I will act cool. But I will do it safe in the knowledge that I am great. Because I am. I am great.


CONTENT WARNING: murder, language, and sex parts. The wind was blowing and I was drifting in a river full of dead fish. I heard my girlfriend yelling my name. "AMY!...AMY!...AMY WAKE UP!!" but I couldn't wake up. It was a bright Saturday morning and I was laying in bed cuddling my girlfriend who just woke up. She sat up and gave me my morning kiss. "Are you hungry?" She had asked me as she got up to go make something to eat. "Ya but, I'll make breakfast you go take your shower." I was walking to the kitchen behind her saying that. She turned and looked at me and then smiled, "ok whatever you say." She giggled a bit and then walked to the bathroom. I headed to the kitchen to make some breakfast for Emily. I heard the water in the bathroom running. I started making eggs and then 15 minutes pasted and I heard the water turn off. I had breakfast ready for Emily. I heard the bathroom door open then I turned around from the sink to ask her a question but I was stopped. Emily was standing at the end of the hall, no towel, and no clothes. I could see the heat radiating off her body she started walking to me and she came around the counter. I pulled her close to me and I could feel the heat from her body through my clothes and then I kiss her gently sliding my hands down to her bare flesh. She started making small noises and kissing me. I picked her up and took her back to the bedroom and I laid her on the bed going down kissing every inch of her body I could. But all seemed to end when there was a knock at the front door. I rolled my eyes and told Emily to stay put. I went to the front door and opened it. "Hel-" I was stopped when I saw Emily's mom standing there with a slap across her face and bruises all on her body. I opened the door more so she could come in then Emily came out with her clothes on and saw her mom then ran to her and helped her to the couch. "Mom what happened?!?!" I went to get her a glass of ice cold water and I came back and gave it to her. "Your father came home... From the bar." She took a drink then looked at me. I had rage in my eyes and her mother could see that. I stood up and grabbed my keys "WHERE THE HELL IS HE?!?!" rage was all in my voice and it scared Emily. I looked at her mom and she told me where to find him. I ran out the door and showed up to Emily's parents house. I busted the door in and went right to where Emily's dad was. "YOU PIECE OF SH-" I was stopped when I saw he was dead. I looked around and then I heard someone behind me. I pulled my knife and turned around and to my surprise Emily's older brother was standing there with a gun in his hands. "Mike?" I asked questioned. "Amy?" He looked at me then I looked at him. Emily showed up with her mom and they both saw what was going on. Emily raced over to me and grabbed the knife from my hand then she put it in her pocket. She hugged me tight and then looked at Mike. "Hey brother" she said scared to death, "please put the gun down. Mom is ok and you saved her. Now please put the gun down." Mike dropped the gun down and it went off and shot my leg. I dropped the the floor and held my leg. "PUT THE SAFETY ON BEFORE YOU DO THAT DUMBASS!" I held my leg and then Emily went over and grabbed the gun then came back to me and helped me to the couch then grabbed a pair of tweezers and gave me a belt to bite down on. "This is gonna hurt." She warned me before going in with the tweezers and pulling the bullet out and I screamed. It hurt so bad I bit through to belt and left marks in it. She finally got it cleaned up and wrapped it. I sat her next to me then I started to hold her and love on her. Everyone got to talking but I stayed quiet and fell asleep. I woke up in the car and we were driving back to my house. Emily's mom was at her own house getting help by Emily's brother. I placed my hand on Emily's thigh and she smiled. "Good morning sleepy head." She gave a slight giggle and set her hand on my hand. I smiled and winced at the pain that was still going through my leg. "How's your mom doing?" I asked, "she's doing better then before." Emily replied. I nodded then we pulled up to my house and I opened my door and got out limping to the door and getting my keys to unlock my door. I walked in Emily behind me helping me. I pulled her infront of me and I kissed her with my hands on her hips. I slid one of my hands down her leg and up her skirt. "So where were we?" She took me to the bed room and then I laid her on the bed and I took her clothes off while taking my clothes off. She bit her lip and I went down. I heard her moaning and telling me not to stop. ** I laid next to her breathing hard and she was to. I cuddled up to her and pulled her close to me, I looked at the time and it was almost dinner time. "What do u want for dinner?" Emily looked at me and replied with "can you make us sushi?" I nodded my head then got up and put my shirt and pants back on and then walked to the kitchen. Then it went black. * The wind was blowing and I was drifting in a river full of dead fish. I heard my girlfriend yelling my name. "AMY!...AMY!...AMY WAKE UP!!" but I couldn't wake up. I didn't know what was going on. I woke up in the hospital and next to me was Emily and my parents. "Where am I?" I sat up and Emily hugged me tight. She answered all my questions and told me what had happened. I was hit upside the head by my step father and dragged to an old boat that was being pulled by a river. I held Emily in my arms then looked at my mom and my dad and step mom. They all smiled. My parents were christians but seeing how happy I am with Emily they approved of my sexuality and all my choices. * Three years passed and me and Emily were out eating dinner at a fancy restaurant and I dropped my fork on purpose and I looked at Emily then pulled a diamond ring out. "Emily Oak, will you marry me?" Emily tucked her blonde hair behind her ear and nodded her head and started crying tears of joy. I put the ring on her finger and hugged her while kissing her. Everyone in the restaurant was clapping for us.


It’s the same thing every day. I find myself in this same line waiting for the same boring lunch with the same boring friend while we chat about the same boring things. All of the sameness could really make a person go insane. That’s why I have to get out of here. I still have approximately 1,095 days left before I’m free to live my own life on my terms. Everything that I do within these next 1,000 or so days will make or break whether I truly make it out for good. Maybe I can figure out a way to graduate early and I can cut a few hundred days out of the way. By the way, that reminds me that I need to visit the counselor to discuss- “June? Hello, are you even listening to me?” “What? Yeah, I’m listening. You obviously just need to drop your Honors Spanish course if it conflicts with Algebra I.” “Are you kidding me? How will I ever get into AP Spanish in two years if I don’t take Honors Spanish right now?” I sigh. I really can’t deal with my own existential issues while also helping Meg work through her scheduling issues. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out somehow. Now, listen, do you want to sign up for that volunteer roadside trash pickup day this weekend? I’m trying to pad my resume.” “Ah, this weekend? No, sorry, I have a PSAT practice run.” Not surprising. It’s not that Meg and I were real friends that hung out with each other every weekend. Maybe we were actually frenemies? Or it could possibly be that we’re only friends out of pure scarcity. No one can match my overachieving intensity quite like Meg.

“I took my PSAT practice run last month. It really wasn’t that bad...” I miserably attempt to encourage her. “Oh sure, coming from someone that aces every test effortlessly. You know I have test anxiety...which reminds me I need to put bananas on my list of things to bring with me.” We arrive at the end of the line and I pack a sandwich into my bag. I quickly grab two bananas and hand them to Meg.

“Here you go - get a headstart on all that banana-induced focus now.” Meg grabs the bananas. “Haha, very funny.” she says dryly. We find ourselves perched below a shady tree overlooking the student courtyard. It’s the best vantage spot to observe the animal kingdom that is high school. There are obviously jocks, cheerleaders and nerds in their respective places. But most noticeably, there’s Bailey fluttering around the courtyard in such a way that is both effortless and calculated. She’s always paired with at least two other people, but never the same people. She speaks with her hands and never leaves a conversation without the other person giggling at her. I never know what she's saying, but it has to be hilarious every single time. I notice her throat muscles contract when she throws her head back in laughter. I sometimes imagine how I would laugh if she ever cracked a joke with me. Would it be a loud animated laugh or would I go with a demure subtle chuckle? Bailey never does make her way to our perch by the shady trees. It’s not like she’s avoiding us or anything. I think she just doesn’t see us. We must be sitting too far away. “Alright, please stop ogling her again.” “What? I’m not ogling.” “Yes, you’re ogling. And honestly? It’s getting pathetic. We have sat here all year long and you have not once mustered up the courage to talk to her. She’s practically a stranger.” Meg sighs. “I mean, we do have US Government class together.”

“June, that makes it even worse that you literally share a class and you still have never talked to her.” “Look, I don’t even want to know her. I don’t understand why we keep having this conversation.”

I physically turn my body towards Meg to disconnect my brain from observing the kingdom. I just want to know how anyone is enjoying being here. I feel like I’m being tortured everyday and my thoughts are constantly infiltrated with different strategies about how to get out of here and never come back. I watch Bailey leave the courtyard over Meg’s shoulder. She leaves in the same fashion as she arrived, full of light and floating effortlessly through the crowds like she fits perfectly. My personal favorite part of the day is that time period about 15 minutes after the final bell rings. At first, there’s a giant influx of students and all of their excited energy spews into the halls and out of the doors. The excitement roils through the air as some students drive off in their cars and others pile onto the school buses. And then things just get quiet all of a sudden. Any leftover energy vibrates against the walls. But not a soul is in sight. The day is over and everyone has somewhere to be, whether that’s sports or a job or a home. On Fridays, it’s the pick-up circle for me. My dad never picks me up on time so I’ve become accustomed to waiting at the pick-up circle for one hour, maybe two hours, until he can pick me up. Something about needing to help a special client at only this special time and how important it is that he meets with them weekly. It’s a great time for me to research scholarship requirements that I can start working towards now.

I have a bench and it’s become known as my bench at this point. Because I’m literally the only one that sits there. Except for today. Today, a practical stranger is sitting there instead. “Did I steal your bench or something?” My mouth opens and my brain says the first thing that comes to mind. “Are you in the process of stealing it? Because it looks like you’re just sitting on it.” Bailey raises her eyebrows. “Touche.” A beat. “Would you like to sit here? I’m just waiting on my Mom to come pick me up.” I hesitate. She scoots over and laughs. My hands find each other in my lap and I notice that her laugh gives me a metallic taste in my mouth. Like there’s a little bit of gold in her laugh or something. “So, are you also waiting on someone to pick you up?” She asks. “Yep, I’m waiting on my Dad. I have to wait a little longer on Fridays because he has work.” “You can’t take the bus?” “I live too far.” “Is there someone you could carpool with?” “Nope.” “Where do you live?” “Just outside of city limits. Far from here, like I said.” Bailey forms an ‘o’ with her mouth and closes it with a snap. She nods her head like she’s uncomfortable and I feel like maybe I said something wrong. I keep my eyes fixed on the road in front of us because maybe my Dad will be here a little early today. He was later than usual last week, so I’m sure he’ll want to make up for that this week. “I’m Bailey, by the way. I mean, I’m sure you know that since we have 5th period together. But I don’t think I’ve ever formally introduced myself.” I nod my head. “And you’re June,” she continues. I glance over at her and find that her brown hair speckles under the sun overhead.

“Yep, I’m June. Sorry, I’m really bad at this whole thing.” “Bad at what whole thing?” “You know, like...talking? To people I don’t know?” I struggle to find words. “Oh!” Bailey laughs and that metallic taste comes back. I decided that I like it. “I mean, we don’t not know each other.”

I shoot her a look. I don’t see how we are anything but complete strangers seeing as this is the first conversation I’ve had with Bailey. “We’re all going through the same thing -- high school, I mean -- so it’s not like we don’t know each other, even if you don’t talk to everyone. We’re all learning the same things and hearing the same things and saying the same things. We’re like a monolith. No one here is a stranger if you think about it that way.” She’s looking at me like she’s stumped me and I can’t help the little chuckle that rises from my throat. “Wow, I was not expecting that from you. It’s also false because how can you say that everyone is the same when your experience is completely different from mine?” I tell her honestly. “How so? If we’re strangers, how do you even know what to expect from me and what I’m experiencing?” A car pulls up and it must be her mom because she’s up and walking away from me before I can even register what’s happening. “Bye June! See you tomorrow,” she yells from the passenger side window. She rolls away and I’m left with my chuckle and the metallic taste in my mouth. It’s a new week and Meg and I sit under the same shady tree while I watch Bailey flutter around the courtyard. Except this time her eyes find me under the tree and she waves. “...did you see that? Is she waving at us?” Meg slaps my knee and my turkey sandwich almost falls out of my lap. “Uh, yeah,” my arm limply waves back at Bailey across the courtyard, “We finally talked yesterday.” “Get out! In 5th period?” “No, actually after school at the pick-up circle. She was waiting for her mom to pick her up.” Meg’s eyes are saucers and I can’t tell if I’m more disturbed by her reaction or my outward nonchalance. Inside, I’m screaming that she waved at me and maybe I have a new friend on the horizon. “What did you talk about,” Meg hustles me for information. “Tell me everything and leave out nothing.” “It was pretty short,” I dust off the sandwich bits from my pants and we head to the library. “Nothing to write home about.” And let’s just leave it at that. It’s now 5th period with Bailey and so naturally, my thoughts carry me back to all kinds of places that I’d rather not go. I thought all weekend about what Bailey said to me - about us all being a monolith. If that’s the case, why do we all feel the need to break off into groups that define us? Are we actually the ones defining ourselves and creating boundaries? Or is it being done for us? Is it just my fate that I am an overachieving maniac because I have an absentee father and an overall shitty home experience? Do I really have much choice in the matter? I’m pondering this as I feel a tap on my shoulder. A note lands on my desk. Hey! I’m just writing this to say hi...since we’re no longer strangers ;) -Bailey I have never received a note like this. I glance behind me and Bailey gives me a small, excited wave. I wave back and pull out a piece of paper. Hi there - I guess we’re not strangers anymore, huh? That’s pretty cool. Thanks for your note. -June Is that lame? How do I know if that’s lame if Meg isn’t here to proofread it? Maybe I should change it and add more substance. There isn’t really anything here to respond to- “June, who has the power to nominate Supreme Court justices to the bench?” My teacher’s voice snaps me back to reality. I try to hide the note on my desk as she approaches with her stuffy blouse and her glasses sitting precariously on her nose.

“And what is this? A note?” She pries the paper from my hands. “Ah. I see. Looks like you and Miss Bailey can continue this conversation in detention.” Bailey speaks up abruptly. “I don’t think detention is necessary, do you? If anything, it was my note so you should just give me detention. June is an innocent party here.” Even her outburst gets a few laughs from the class. It’s so easy for Bailey. “My decision is final. 2:45pm today in the cafeteria.” My face turns red. Great. My first detention. See, this is why I don’t make friends. They throw you off the path to success. Detention is supposed to be this sad hellscape. You go to the cafeteria and you have to sit at the tables and watch the custodians mop and it smells like leftover cafeteria food. The whole experience is supposed to be awful. And it was. Except that the detention supervisor is just some coach that isn’t sports-ing around outside and doesn’t care what we do in detention. So that’s how I found myself sitting across from Bailey. I’ve never sat directly in front of Bailey, but I notice all of sorts of things about her now. She has freckles on her nose and her smile is actually kind of crooked. But I’m still mad that I’m here and missing out on the highly-coveted SAT Math practice class. “I’m so sorry again for getting you a detention,” says Bailey. “I really didn’t think we’d get caught.” “I mean, passing notes in class? Pretty amateur way to get a detention,” I fail miserably to hide my annoyance. “Are you really upset? I got in the way of a hot date, didn’t I?” Bailey asks and my face feels hot. “Actually, I was going to that SAT math prep class. I had to get up at 5am on a Saturday morning to reserve my spot. So yeah, I was busy.” “I did you a favor then! I hate it when my mom forces me to go to those things.” “No one is forcing me. I wanted to go. That’s the problem.” There’s an awkward silence and I know I should probably just ease up. “I applaud your dedication to your studies,” Bailey doesn’t sound convincing. “But don’t you think it’s worth seeking out other experiences that don’t have to do with equations and essays too?” “I just know that I need to get out of here. And the only way to do that is make sure I get into college and then get a great job so I don’t ever have to come back here.” I brace myself for what’s to come. People around here don’t like it when you talk about how crappy it is to live here. Everyone has some sort of halo around this town and I think it’s because it’s all they know and it’s all their parents know. I’m sure Bailey is planning on staying here and getting a job in physical therapy or something. She’ll probably hang out with the same people for the rest of her life. “I get that. But I don’t think you should just assume that you’re the only one that wants to get out of here.” I laugh but she doesn’t seem amused. “What, you want to leave this place too? But you’re, like, perfect here.” She shakes her head. “See, that’s exactly what I said before. You just assume my experience - you assume just about everyone’s experience here. No one really gets a say in who they are.” At this point, I’m watching redness peek its way over Bailey’s cheeks and I can’t believe I just got a rise out of her. “I mean, look at you,” she goes on, “Everyone sees you as a stuck-up overachiever that thinks she’s better than everyone. And you’re probably not even like that - it’s just how people define you and so you lean into it. We all do it. We don’t have a say. And that’s how we’re all really the same. We’re all doing the same thing, having the same experience as we define all of the people around us.” I let that sink in for a minute. And then I say, “So where would you go if you didn’t live here?” She shrugs and I guess that’s the end of that conversation. “Now, should we discuss how to discreetly write notes in class?” asks Bailey, “Because as much fun as detention is with you, I think I’d much rather hang out with you outside of this building.” She laughs and that metallic taste is back in my mouth which causes my tongue to get caught up. As I go to open my mouth again, detention ends and just like that our time together is over.

Bailey is different than I thought she would be, which is not a bad thing. I think when you watch someone from afar for so long, you do build up ideas about them that can be unravelled after a few real conversations with them. And isn’t that what we do with any stranger? We can have an idea of who someone is or isn’t, but maybe it’s really just a projection of ourselves - who we want to be or who we’re afraid we already are. I see Bailey in the courtyard the next day and this time she actually walks over to me and Meg. “Hello ladies! Would there possibly be room for one more sandwich here?” she asks while pulling her lunch out of her bag. I scoot over so she can situate herself next to me. And that’s when I decide that maybe it’s time to re-evaluate my own definition. Maybe I can have friends, study hard and leave this town all at the same time. And maybe Bailey can too because we’re all just going through the same thing at the same time trying to get to the same place at the end of the day.


\*\*\*A work in progress that I created and wanted to push out.  Jack is dying. The sun burns a hole through our invisible, velvet sheath- creeping so hauntingly from a million miles away. Our eyes pierce the fog that shrouds our claims of forever. We were happy once, sitting beneath the trees, the faint touch of autumn leaves dancing upon our skin. Jack is dying. Autumn leaves, in all their beauty, now turn black and just like these heart-shaped glasses, begin to dissolve and wither between the image of what is real and what is a mere memory. Green to yellow, yellow to red. The shifting colors of every sensible traffic light. We race toward the shifting colors- Jack raises his voice and looks away from the illuminating spots upon the encroaching horizon. He explains his desires and the meaning of music to his tear-stained wife. She cries louder now, screaming at Jack as he races through the night and into the clutches of the reaper's intersection that blindly approached them. She says something about leaving as headlights scream through her window. *When the rain came our heartless barricades were not enough to stop the deluge. If we can talk about those times, maybe we both can live in a happily ever after. I just wanted to dance with you, beneath the autumn leaves, because Jack needed a breath- I needed a spark.* A sandy blonde-haired man stood in the middle of the wreckage, shards of glass burying into the soles of his naked feet. It had begun to rain as Jack's eyes peeled open. An unfamiliar dampness scratched at his eyes. The images were blurry, but the blonde-haired man stood silhouetted in the street- flashing lights dancing behind and all around- Jack could make out the movements of the man's lips, but his words could not breach the rain. Noises, so loud- so distracting like a siren in the distance- it all came screaming through and he tried to move, but his body was too heavy. He remembered arguing, then the sound of screeching brakes and now the man- so familiar yet still so blurry. His face still hidden in the blackness of the night. Jack tried reaching out into the night toward the man and then he saw it- bloody hands covered in glass. Sickness came to him and his panic, he saw the sandy blonde-haired man disappear into the raid and Jack's eyes closed, escaping, for a brief moment- the fate that would cripple his life and destroy him. *Majestically fucked up. Music could bring us back home. I thought I had it figured out, but I was young and dumb. The parallel lines of our life and what we imagine ran endlessly into that unknown place. I thought it was simple. We could look at the other line, but we could never know it- I wish we figured it out sooner.* An empty room, save one soul and a half dozen chairs. The taste of tobacco lingers still, flaunting sway over his deserted body. He had grown accustomed to the task; to the longing. He felt cold and barren within the confines of the room, walls that smothered and pressured. Most rooms felt the same since the accident. Probably why he was here, waiting for some fucked up doctor and his pseudo-science. A screeching monotone pierces the small bedroom. The phone's voice scratches at the ears of the couple laying a few feet away. From beneath the warmth and comfort of a quilt, a man's arm raises up, searching the darkness for the source of such distraction. He pulls himself up and out of his dream, pushing a button and forcing the phone beside his ear. "' ‘ello?", Groggy and still half asleep he answers, already sure of who it is at such a late hour. The day's date made this phone call inevitable- it was just a matter of when. "It's me…", his voice trailed on and stuttered, his breathing slightly elevated and his words coated a hint of sadness. "Jack…" , a tired, female voice broke the momentary silence from beneath the covers. She rustled the quilt from her face and peered up, sleepy-eyed and half asleep, to her husband, Jack Monroe. Jack takes a moment to sift his fingers through her hair before answering. Her eyes, the darkest auburn, barely visible with the weight of exhaustion. "It's Marcus, Anna- I'll come back to sleep soon, try to rest" He takes his gaze off Anna and returns to his phone conversation. " Hey man, you doing all right?", worrying wasn't his nature but Marcus sounded more drunk than usual. Even after a year, Sara's death wouldn't be just a memory for him. Each moment seemed to poison him, even more than the liquor. "Yeah, you know…trying. I just wanted to hear your voice- see how you were doing." The sadness was still there behind his tone, but the slurring seemed to stop when he focused on talking. He continues to speak in a sort-of rambling way," I just wanted to tell you that I love you and Anna both. I'm sorry I could not be stronger." He trailed off murmuring to himself incoherently. There was something different, Jack thought, in Marcus's tone and in the words he spoke. Never did he seem so serious and sad at the same time. Maybe Marcus was off his medication- if so he probably isn't thinking clearly. "We love you too, man. You know that. You sure everything is okay? I can com-" Marcus knew where this was going and interrupted him, steady but starting to slur his words. "No, no. Everything is as it is supposed to be. I'm going to sleep, I'll see you tomorrow." Just as abruptly as the phone call itself, the other line disconnected, and left Jack puzzled and unsettled. "That was a little different", he speaks to himself and tries to dismiss the ominous cloud. He places the phone back in its cradle and wrestles with the quilt, trying to get comfortable. Anna shuffles back awake and inches closer to Jack, reaching her small arm across his chest. She's more awake now but still very out of it. She had overheard portions of the conversation and asked Jack about it. "Is he all right?" "For the most part, yeah, I think. Sara just won't let him go." " I don't blame him, at least tomorrow we'll see him and cheer him up." Her head tilts on his chest and kisses his right breast. It was always so comfortable for her to lay on him- she loved him and couldn't imagine a world that was without him. He nods silently at her comment and brings her closer, hugging her tightly- thankful to the gods that she exists and exists with him. He begins searching the darkness of the room, waiting and thinking. After the phone call, visions of where he was started filtering through and now he had the chance to focus. "Oh yeah, I had the strangest dream right before he called" She peers up, catching his gaze, "Oh yeah?"- It wasn't odd for Jack to dream- some of them even end up being in his novels. "That's good, right?" She asks, already knowing the answer but curious all the same. "Everything was just so different. And it seems odd now, but everything seemed in place and right. But, I have a new novel- an idea that may bring Marcus back to us." Jack smiles and leans back, drifting off back into the world that seemed so perfect. Annabel rests peacefully, already wisped away by some warm, salty breeze that pursued her from a distant ocean in her dreams. I remember screaming out your name. A tight fitting ball of rage seething in the bowels behind my eyes. In a dream I stood on a cliff, a vexing deluge pouring around my tears- a torment of dismay violently crashing against rock and bone. I cannot be this lonely- this angry- this hopeless without you. It would never be just you and me- a movie of our lives plays across the angry sky- the ocean horizon begging at our feet. I have grown old now with a numbing secret- you do not exist- you never have. All your voices can never let me go and this hate for you swells and grows harder as time passes- you laugh in my visions and hand me another glass- a pill soaking at the bottom. As you scream into these filthy ears of mine, I will not cry for you and tears will not fall at the thought of you. Maybe if I was blind I could see you, if I had no fingers maybe I could feel you and if I had no tongue, I could say all the pretty words you need to hear.


The sun was up, but Ming Li could barely feel it on his skin. The shadow of the tall buildings casted a shade he wished it didn’t have. Ming cursed silently under his breath. Aside from having unwanted shade on days he wished he could feel the sun kissing his skin, there were a lot of things he didn’t like about being in Kowloon City. Maybe if he was younger and without a care in the world, he would have remained silent, but now he was grown, grown enough to know that living in what is essentially *filth*. It didn’t matter what anyone had to say – what his father had to say – leaving was the only option he had. A bike zoomed by him splashing water over him, causing Ming to step aside quickly from the gravel road. He would have cursed again, but he squeezed his fist instead and bit down on his tongue to stop himself. Ming Li knew the mess on his clothes would get dry before he arrived home, and better still, only a few people will notice the stain, much less get bothered about it. If anyone however noticed, Ming had a ready-made answer for them. Yeah, it would be a lie, but it wouldn’t be far away from the truth. He would tell them that he got the cloth dirty at one of the many construction site. He had been there all day, trying to get the boss to give him a job, but that has been to no avail. There were too many people struggling for the limited posts and he didn’t have the connections. *Anything but killing oneself with steam at the shop.* He moved on, navigating through the tiny alley that barely accommodated two person side by side. His eyes roamed through the length and breadth of the one road that led in and out of the city, the haphazardly cramped shops, the unlicensed clinics, the brothels and all these haphazardly built housing, and tears threatened to push through the boundaries of his eyes. Every thing about Kowloon irritated him. If not for anything, Ming was yet to forgive the city for its shabbiness, its disorderliness, and worse still, its lack of basic amenities. The poor condition of the road network was the least of the city’s problem. Kowloon lacked everything. There was no police station within the boundary, the clinics were almost all unlicensed and ran by quacks who specialized in illegal selling of organs and questionable medicine, and they could hardly treat any sick person properly. According to his father, his mother died when he was three, due to the mistake of one of the quacks. Ming didn’t have much memory of her, and he blamed the city for robbing him of the pleasure of having his mother around. *She would have been here by now, if only there were any type of social service.* Ming blinked back the tears, as he pushed the thoughts away from his head. There was no point wishing for something that would never come. Over the past ten years, all he had done was wish, and pray that God would send someone to the city to help. Years later, here he was, and Kowloon was still as bad as ever – if not worse. For a “city” of fifty thousand people crammed in less than 6 acre of lands, Ming thought that God was selfish in a way. *What else did he want?* Yes, a lot of bad things happened within the walls of the city, but that wasn’t entirely the fault of the people. He knew a lot of kind people within the walls of Kowloon who prayed daily to God. His father, Chung Li, was one of them. As long as he could remember, his father would always go to church and pray to God, and even at home, he’ll make several prayers, asking for success. However, he had nothing to show for it. It wasn’t just him, no one in Kowloon could claim they had a thing to show for all the prayers they offered. Ironically, the sound of voices singing *pass me not oh Gentle Savior* travelled to Ming’s ear from salvation army – one of the only two churches in Kowloon. Ming swore under his breath, for all he cared, God passed a long time ago, and he didn’t bother to take another look at Kowloon. Prostitution was rampant in the city and the shame of the profession was almost disappearing. The number of drug dealers within the walls had tripled, and worse still, number of kids leaving school was increasing daily. There was no more controversy, Kowloon was officially the most dangerous area in the whole of Hong Kong. It had gotten so bad that the government no longer gave a damn, and leave it to anarchy. *Damn it, its 1960 for God’s sake.* Someone called his name and he turned in the voice’s direction to wave. Alas, the person was calling someone else. Regardless, Ming waved his hand and slipped from the road, making a left turn into the famous narrow alley that led to his house. The first drop of water landed on his head as he moved as fast as he could. There was no point trying to dodge the droplets, everyone in Kowloon who passed through them either carried an umbrella or just allowed their clothes to get drenched. It was like an artificial rain fall. Ming hissed as his stained clothes began to stick to his body due to the new wetness. He couldn’t remember the last time the alley was dry. People living in the topmost floor of the buildings disposed their used water as they deemed fit – the result was a constantly drizzling shower that forced people walking through the alleys to carry an umbrella. With no real job, stained from a splash, and now covered in water filled with only God knows what, Ming Li headed for his house with his head down, but his mind as determined as ever. No matter what his father thought or said, and no matter the circumstances that would come his way, he would find a way to leave the Kowloon. *To hell with the wall city.* \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Chung Li, better known as Uncle Chung didn’t like Kowloon anymore than his son Ming. Contrary to what his son thought, his reason for asking him to stay wasn’t because there was anything special about the walled city, but rather because he wanted Ming to have a plan before leaving. At sixty-five, there was nothing else to live for than him. Uncle Chung still missed his wife and wished she hadn’t die seventeen years ago due to tuberculosis, but now, he’d learned to keep his mind at rest and breath whenever the frustration of all he had lost came knocking. All he had left was his steamed buns shop and Ming, both of which he had no plan to lose. That Sunday afternoon, Uncle Chung was mixing the flour meant to prepare the bun for delivery the following morning when the rowdiness at his door caught his attention. He quickly rinsed his hand in a bowl of water and wiped it with the apron around his waist. He could hear Fung and Ling voice, and a couple more voices he couldn’t make out. Rushing out of his make shift kitchen, the person standing inside his shop sent chills down his spin. “Uncle Chung, you need to caution your workers. If not for the respect I have for you, I would have taken a finger each from both of them for trying to stop me at the door.” Nam said as he paced the floor of the main shop, with an arrogant smirk on his face. Uncle Chung raced halfway across the room to help his staffs – brother and sister, Fung and Ling up. “I’m sorry Nam, pardon them. They won’t make that mistake again. Fung and Ling scoffed, but the hands of Uncle Chung was on their shoulder, restraining them from doing anything that could lead to more scuffle in the shop premises. Uncle Chung asked both of them to leave for the kitchen, he gave instructions on how they were to treat the mixed batter. Fung knew what that meant. They didn’t touch the batter unless they were making the buns for themselves. Uncle Chung mixed the batter and made all the buns. His job and Ling’s were more like a sales person’s job. They stayed in shop and attended to local customers while uncle Chung went to deliver the bulk of the buns outside the city wall daily. Uncle Chung asking them to go mix batter was just a way of asking them to give him and big brother Nam some privacy. Fung nodded and scooped his sister’s hand, pulling her along as he headed for the kitchen. Uncle Chung turned and faced Nam. If he lived outside the city, he would have called the police the moment Nam showed up, but Kowloon wasn’t a place to call the police for help. People like Nam ran the city, and at such, everyone was forced to respect them and grant them audience. Nam or Big Brother Nam like his followers called him started out as a low life thug who worked for the one of the biggest drug dealers in Kowloon. When the local kingpin found out that Nam’s boss was ripping them off, they beheaded him in broad day light and declared Nam the new leader. Ever since then, Nam’s arrogance knew no bound. He took any girl he wanted – raped some of them who objected – and rumor had it that he was the one behind a couple of murders within Kowloon. What a man like Nam wanted with him, U ncle Chung didn’t know, but whatever it was, he knew it couldn’t be good. “What brings you here.” Uncle Chung asked, his eyes roaming around the four other men that came with Nam. Nam chuckled, revealing a gold tooth he used to replace one that fell during one of his numerous fist fights. “Where are your other staffs aside from those two rats. You had a couple of them last I checked.” “Today is Sunday, my other two staffs get the day off. Fung and Ling come every day, they are more like my children than staffs.” “I have a proposition for you.” Nam began smiling. “It will change your life a great deal. You’ll be able to afford better than this shanty, and move into something better. Maybe even get yourself a nice flat outside of the city” Uncle Chung grimaced. There was nothing he wanted to do with Nam, but he didn’t want to rebuff him immediately, that could lead to more noise within the shop, and he didn’t want that. “What could you possibly want from me. You have everything, I am just an old man who makes buns all day.” “You have more than that.” Nam chuckled suspiciously. “You have a network, a transport route, and that’s all I want from you.” He closed the distance between the two of them and led Uncle Chung to one of the wooden benches in the small room. “For a while now, the police have been watching my business with an eagle eye. I don’t know who is informing them about the business, but as soon as my men leave these cities wall they are searched” Nam smiled at Uncle Chung, trying to sound as desperate and needing as possible. Uncle Chung sat silently, not uttering a word. Whatever Nam was about to say, he knew he wasn’t going to like a word of it. “You on the other hand leaves Kowloon everyday with your cart of buns, and the police never searches you because you.” Nam said. Uncle Chung whispered as quietly and respectful as he could. “I don’t understand what you are asking of me.” “I think you do uncle Chung, and you are just pretending. However, I’ll say it in plainer words if you want me to.” He glared, his anger beginning to show on his face. “I have some shipment I need to deliver outside the city, but the police are making it difficult. They have started searching most of my men whenever they try getting out of the city’s gate. However, for some obvious reasons, the police don’t bother you. All I need from you is to help me with some of my consignment. Keep it under your buns, and some of my men outside the city will be there to collect it from you at a safe location.” Nam said. “No offense Nam, but are you asking that I smuggle drugs with my cart?” uncle Chung asked politely. Nam smiled reassuringly. “You make it sound like they are bad things. They are medication that people need, and yes, that what I am asking of you.” “I am sorry, but I won’t be able to do that.” “This will be paid for. In fact, I am willing to pay you $1000.00, per successful delivery. That like what? A month sale from your buns? You’ll make that much every two days. That’s how frequent this will be.” Uncle Chung rose to his feet suddenly. “I’m sorry, but like I said earlier, I wouldn’t be a party to that. You’ll have to find someone else to offer that money.” He said, avoiding Nam’s face. Nam was tired of persuading the old man. He wasn’t here to bargain. This was his territory, and no one had the right to challenge his instructions as far as he was concerned. His initial approach was out of respect for uncle Chung’s age, now he wasn’t going to be so lenient anymore. “You are going to deliver those products for me uncle Chung.” Nam snapped. “I won’t, it’s against everything I –” “I wasn’t asking ‘uncle’.” Nam interjected before the elderly man could finish his sentence. “You can’t force me to do something I don’t want to do.” Uncle Chung managed to reply before the first slap landed on his face. Big brother Nam and his entourage descended on Uncle Chung before anyone could say anything. Slaps and kicks landed from different angles, and soon enough, droplets of blood were trickling on the ground. Someone threw the rolling pin, and a glass shattered. Fung held his sister, Ling, down in the kitchen where they were crouched close to the door eavesdropping. They watched and listened in fear as six men descended on their boss. Fung’s curled his fist so tight, his finger almost cut into his flesh. He wished there was something he could do to help, but he knew he would be powerless against the men. He held Ling closer and covered her mouth with his hand before she made another sound. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Ming kicked an empty can as he made the turn leading to the adjoining alley leading to building where he and his father lived. The sight of big brother Nam and his goons walking triumphantly away caused him to tremble. He quickly scurried away, dodging behind a parked bus to prevent coming in contact with them. Ming wasn’t a stranger to Big Brother Nam and his antics. On more than one occasion, Nam’s men had tried recruiting him to join their gang. They’d offered him money just for him to help in transporting some of their products – mainly heroine, and opium – from Kowloon to outside of the city. On every of such occasions, Ming had turned down the offer. Yes, he wanted a better life and all the good life of people outside of the city, but he didn’t plan to embarrass his father by running drugs. He watched them pass while they mouthed several curse words and threats. Ming didn’t hear a lot of what they said, but he was certain that he heard his father’s name. Half running and half jugging, Ming raced home, not stopping until he crossed the door line. His eyes scanned the room that doubled as the shop and the living room, Ming’s legs trembled as he beheld the destruction that had befell the room. Pieces of broken ceramics and chinaware’s littered the floor of the room. Chairs and tables were toppled over, and flour and other ingredients was all over the floor. His eyes settled on his father and the two skinny bodies around him, tending to his wound. The view wasn’t pretty. Uncle Chung’s left cheek was doubled in size, he had a black eye, and blood was running down his nose. Fung was applying a cold-press on the eye, and Ling was rubbing a balm into the wound. “Why did he do this?” Ming asked, addressing his father specifically. There was no question as to the who, he knew this was all big brother Nam. Uncle Chung stood from between the three and headed for his small room, not answering the question at all. Ming followed his father in tow, asking the same question over and over. After Uncle Chung insisted that he forget about it, and also requested that he excused him as he wanted to take a short nap, Ming left the room, banging the door behind him. “Take it easy Ming.” Fung said. “I saw big brother Nam and his goons on my way home. There is no point asking who did all this,” Ming replied, referring to the mess. “I know he did, but I’ll like to know why. What did he want with father?” he continued. Ling started first, explaining how big brother Nam had forced his way into the shop, and all that transpired between him and Uncle Chung. Fung continued, trying to explain Big Brother Nam’s threat, and how he promised to be back. Ming had heard enough. He rose up suddenly and stormed towards the door. “Where are you off to Ming?” Fung asked, shouting on top of his voice as Ming strode out of the room. “To the police!” \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ The silence in the kitchen was deafening. Ming glanced at the cheap watch on his wrist, the time was barely 3 p.m., on a regular day even if the workers were still out, trying to make last minute delivery for the weekend, his father was always in the shop, preparing batter for emergency deliveries, also cleaning up after the weeks job. If he hadn’t gone out to check if he could get a job at the construction site one last time, Ming himself would have been the one cleaning up – that was the only job he did in the shop. Making buns didn’t interest him because of the meagre profit, and mixing batter was worse than manual labor as far as he was concerned. The week had been tough. Ever since big brother Nam’s first visit to the shop on Sunday, business had gone down dramatically. On more than one occasion, Nam’s men attacked their delivery carts while staff went about their daily delivery. Twice, the men had attacked the shop, and almost the entire staff had quitted except for Ling and Fung. Things were getting out of hand pretty fast. Ming had tried reporting to the police, but the stories were the same; The City of Kowloon is outside of the Royal Hong Kong Police’s jurisdiction. Ming had a feeling that the shop’s silence had something to do with another one of Big Brother Nam’s visit. He flattened himself against the wall, and tried peeking through the door crack to see inside. The sight that greeted him had him bursting in through the door. There was his father in his khaki shorts and white T-shirt, hanging from the ceiling fan, a tight noose around his neck. Covering the short distance between the door and dangling body felt like a long-distance race. His hands were shaky has he tried holding the body up. Perhaps, he was just in time and Uncle Chung was still alive. Still holding the body up, Ming managed to pull a stool with his foot, and balanced the body on it before he ran to get a knife and a taller stool to cut the rope around his father’s neck. He felt for a pulse, but there was none. He licked his left index finger to make it wet, and held it to uncle Chung’s nostril, but there was no breath. *No!!!* He tried to think, but he came up blank. A million and one questions ran through his mind within that time frame. There was no doubt, this had Big Brother Nam written all over it. *The hospital!* It was like a light bulb moment for him. If he got his father to the hospital, maybe they’ll be able to save him. *And the money to pay for the bill?* He didn’t consider the question for more than a second. He’ll get to the hospital with his father first, and worry about paying later. Ming lifted the body on his shoulder in a fireman position. The weight slowed him down, but he moved as fast as he could for the door. It was locked. *Didn’t I leave it open just now?* He approached the door regardless. At that moment, he perceived it for the first time. *Did father put something to cook on the stove?* Then, he saw it. The smoke came from everywhere, and then the fire. He was at a fix, Ming didn’t know if he should drop his father and try putting out the fire first, or just head for the hospital and deal with the fire later. Deciding on the latter, he closed the gap between him and the door, and pulled at the knob with his strength. It was locked from outside. *But I left this door opened.* The smoke filled everywhere, and the room got hotter by the second. Oxygen depleted fast as Ming continued attempting to break down the door. The smoke filled his nostrils and he began to choke. His legs began to fail him, and soon, he was down, beside the still body of his father. Ming coughed and sneezed a couple of time. *Help!* He thought he called out as loud as he could, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. His eyes began to fail too. Ming tried staying awake as hard as he could, but his strength was reducing, and oxygen was depleting too. He saw his father in that moment, smiling at him and waving too. *How is this possible?* Ming held to that thought before everything went blank. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ “What do we do now?” Ling asked, her voice traveling to Ming’s ear like whispers. Fung palm covered his face. “There is nothing to do. We went to the police together, didn’t we?” it wasn’t a question to which he wanted an answer. “You heard what they said. Neither God, the Queen, or the police has any authority here. And as for the few who would have dared to try, Big Brother Nam made sure he paid them off. No one is coming to help us. We are on our own.” Ling sobbed softly, and Fung tried to console her. Ming opened his eyes but made no sound. The image of what happened replayed before him like a horror movie. *Dad!* He remembered clearly now, the noose, and the fire. He turned his head and looked around the room as silently as he could. He remembered this place very well, it was the small room Ling and Fung stayed together ever since their parents died three years earlier. He had visited them on several occasions afterwards, and even convinced his father to employ them that same year. He tried sitting up, but his hand hurt like hell. Fung noticed him awake first, and then Ling followed after, both of them running towards him like they weren’t in pain themselves. “You are awake.” Ling said, cuddling his hand, and stroking his fingers passionately. Ming defiled the pain and sat regardless. “Where is dad?” Fung dropped his head down and Ling began to cry. Ming didn’t require an answer beyond that. He knew the answer to the question before he asked. He was just holding on to faith, but now that he knew the he was dead, he knew what he had to do. Ming waited for Ling and Fung to sleep while he pretended to sleep too. They had cried together, and Fung had explained how no one outside of the city were willing to come and help. The police refused to investigate, and the firefighter didn’t even bother showing up. It took the efforts of the neighbors, fearing that the fire will spread to their own property, to put out the inferno. Fung also explained that the workshop had burned down entirely, and Uncle Chung was partly burnt too before they could get to him. He and his sister had come just in time from their delivery to see the building burning, and they could only get Ming out before the fire really escalated. Ming was the first to say he needed sleep, but he didn’t doze a bit. He laid there and waited until the brother and sisters were asleep before he slipped out of the room. Grabbing a kitchen knife with his heart set on revenge and murder, Ming went looking for big brother Nam. His whereabout on Saturdays wasn’t a secret, he drank in the biggest pub in Kowloon. Ming stood in the shadows and waited. Soon, the chubby frame of Nam and two of his men approached, staggering down the road, drunk to their fill. The element of surprise was all he had. With the image of his father hanging from the fan on his mind, Ming took aim and lunched from the dark, aiming for Nam’s chest. He was too slow. Nam saw him coming, and stepped aside just in time for the knife to only cause flesh wounds. The knife fell from his hand as he fell to the ground, and before he could recover it, the two goons pounced on him, blows and punches landing from different angles. “Who sent you rat.” Nam asked, standing over Ming’s body after his men had given him the beating of his life. Though in pain, Ming was determined as ever. “You killed my father you fool, and I’ll kill you too.” “Its Uncle Chung’s Kid, Ming.” One of the goons said, belching disgustingly. A smirk spread on Nam’s face. “That old fool paid the price for defiling me.” Nam reached for the knife, and was about to strike Ming when a brick came flying from an angle, aimed at Nam’s head. It missed by a mile, but it gained Nam’s attention and that of his men. They turned in the direction, and so did Ming. It was Fung and Ling. “Seize them.” Nam screamed. The two goons leaped for the siblings, pinning them down easily before the could flee. Ling tried to scream, but the goon with her covered her mouth with his large hand. Nam looked at Ling and a evil grin came across his face. “Little Missy, don’t be afraid, I will be very gentle” he said as he start to approach her, ignoring her muffled cries. Nam and his men were distracted, leaving Ming unattended to. He reached for the large brick and before Nam could turn in his direction, he struck with all the strength he had, aiming for the head. Nam fell down in a loud thud, dead before his body even hit the floor. Blood flowed from his head, gushing like a water from a broke faucet. The two goons holding the siblings shrieked in fear of what just happen, and before they could move, Ming lunched for the one holding Ling while Fung fought against the one holding him captive. A couple of punches, kicks and screams, and the two goons were out cold. “We noticed you left the room and we followed you.” Fung said, helping his scared sister up. Ming grabbed Fung hand. “We don’t have time, Nam’s men will soon hear about what happened here, and they’ll be coming after us. We need to leave the city now.” “How will we survive.” Ling whispered. “I don’t know too, but if we don’t leave, we will die here for sure.” Ming said. Fung nodded reassuringly at his sister. The walked as fast as they could, heading for the city’s gate, not saying a word until they were outside its premises, and never looking back.