Give Us Money

"Conflagration" by Caleb Zachary

2012-02-19T22:47:00.000-08:00

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday Grant had woken me up by kicking the door of my room in as he passed by in the hallway. Thursday he kicked it open and tossed a bag of CliffsNotes onto my bed, aiming as close to my head as he could without looking like he was trying. Friday Dad left early, so Grant celebrated his freedom to torture me by blasting Rebecca Black from the kitchen while he had his cereal.

Grant is my cousin, older than me by one grade, who moved in with my father and I for an indefinite period of time. He and Dad got along famously, trading witticisms and abstract trivia while also taking every opportunity to goad me, knowing I was born to be a comedy straight man.

While I've been going to a small private school since middle school, Grant enrolled at the local public school and he hates it with a passion. He had another week before his school got out, while I had started summer break two weeks before, thus his surplus resentment. I crawled out of bed and pulled on a shirt, bumping my way drearily into the kitchen to pull the plug on the "Friday"-blasting speaker. Grant didn't even look up, only pushed the cereal box toward me and mumbled a mouthful--something about clean spoons.

I wandered toward the wide window and yanked open the curtain, feeling a bit vengeful. I heard Grant groan as light flooded in onto the gleaming tile counters. I gazed out over the residential high-rises a few blocks away right above Grant's school, mirror images of the ones we lived in. (My father joked that if we lived in one of the other high-rises, Grant could rappel from our balcony onto the baseball field.) I left the curtain open, even though the brightness made me squint.

"What time do you get out of school today?" I asked.

"2:30," he said, "but I'll be staying a bit late to talk to Lena."

Lena was Grant's math teacher, who he had developed what I considered an unhealthy crush upon.

"If I'm not too busy partying it up, do you want me to meet you when you're done?" I asked.

"I'll be partying with Lena," Grant mumbled, knowing that I had absolutely no plans. "Meet me at Starbucks at three."

I grunted affirmation, trying to calculate just how late he'd be, and headed back to my room. While Grant might have to wake up at 7:15, I could sleep as late as I wanted.

* * *

I thought I was still dreaming when I rolled out of bed to the screeching, until the room shook and my eardrums popped, filling my ears with a dull whining sound. My head throbbed, and as I stood up the building shook again and glass broke somewhere in the apartment. My clock, jolted from its wall mounting to crack on the floor, was frozen at 11:28.

I stepped over the shards of plastic into the hallway, where paintings and pictures scattered the floor. The kitchen was where the destruction began. The window was shattered across the white tile, glittering in the sunlight that still streamed through the frame. Pots and pans littered the counter after falling from the hanging rack.

A cloud of smoke was rising to shroud my view from the window, but the remnants of the adjacent high rises were still barely visible, even as they crumbled to the ground across the school below.

Across the road, buried in the third floor of the closest high rise, hung a wrecked passenger airplane.

"An Unusual Lunch" by Estefania Zavala

2012-01-30T23:16:00.000-08:00

The screeches woke her up as they did every morning. They were screams of purest fear and abject terror. Her little brother, Henry, was having a tough time adjusting to kindergarten.

She scurried out of bed, hoping against hope that a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios swimming with orange juice (his favorite) would quiet him down. For once, the endeavor was successful and she helped her harried mother mangle him into a car seat.

She arrived at school early, tripping on the bike rack -- as she always did. The cut on her knee re-opened and she cursed/limped all the way to the office where she obtained a band-aid that was very grudgingly given.

She thought about the stinginess of the office aides and composed cutting speeches aimed at them for the rest of the morning.

For lunch, she chose the same kind of grilled cheese sandwich as always and thought the same kind of thoughts as always: she considered dyeing her hair; she dismissed the idea.

There was a silence within the cafeteria. The lull caused her to look up.

It was the most bizarre thing she had ever seen. It was some sort of a man, as near as she could tell. He was walking on his hind legs, at least. He appeared to have the head of a cat -- and the body of a bear. But he was a soft shade of purple. He had two giant black discs for eyes and no other facial features.

As extraordinary as this creature, however, was what he cradled in his giant lavender arms. Her little brother, Henry.

"Hello, Natalie," said her brother with imperial coolness not usually displayed by five-year-olds.

"Hello," she replied faintly.

"Please inform Mother that I won't be home for dinner tonight," he said. Natalie wondered where his lisp had gone. "I won't be home for quite some time, in fact. I enjoy your company and Honey Nut Cheerios but I have found the indignities of kindergarten too foul to suffer."

She nodded -- as though this was the sort of thing her brother said all the time. The monster's black discs glittered curiously.

"Well, I'm afraid Mr. Garrison and I must be leaving," Henry said. She realized "Mr. Garrison" was the monster clutching him. With a swift command from her brother, he began to lumber out of the cafeteria.

Her brother turned back to see all the panicking people and sent her a look of utmost pity. "I'll come back for you when I can," he said.

Ophelia by Sarah Barlow-Ochshorn

2011-12-08T08:46:00.000-08:00

The brisk wind didn’t breach Ophelia’s silver parka as she ambled along the beach with Richard at her side. He ran along, occasionally making a detour to investigate a far off sound, but loyally returned every time. Her grey hair whirled in the wind, as it was out of its usual bun. She let herself free on the beach.

“You know Richard,” Ophelia said, scratching the place behind his furry ears that she always scratched, “I think it’s time for me to talk to Joan. This fight has to end sometime.”

Richard barked his agreement, and then ran off to chase a seagull. Ophelia looked out at the Atlantic, admiring it’s rambling waves, breaking wildly at the shore. She turned to leave. “Richard,” she called out,
“It’s decided. Let’s go to Joan’s.” She started to walk back, Richard falling in line a minute later.

The path to Joan’s house was short, but Ophelia stopped to admire the statuesque oaks along the way. “Richard, when I first moved to Nantucket, the trees were smaller. Not much, but definitely smaller.”

They reached the tiny cottage and Ophelia opened the door. She knew it was always open for her, or at least it used to be. The living room was cozy, and smelled of cinnamon. “Hello dear!” she called out, causing Joan to poke her head out of the kitchen.

“Ophelia, why are you here?” She walked out, wiping her hands brusquely on her overalls, green eyes piercing Ophelia’s hopeful face.

“Darling, I wanted to talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Joan turned and walked to the back of the house.

“Come on Joan!” Ophelia followed her down the hall. “It’s been two weeks since we talked. I wish I could do something to make this right.”

“I’m afraid you can’t. You’ve kept this a secret from me for too long.” Joan shut her bedroom door in Ophelia’s face.

“I told you, I didn’t know he was married until I found the ring!”

She pushed open the door and found Joan sitting in an armchair, hunched over and old photo album, yellow pages stained with fresh tears. “How could he have done that, and never told me?” She wept.

Ophelia came and put her arm around Joan’s shoulder, glancing at pictures of Joan dancing in a wedding dress… with Harold.

"Wanted"

2011-08-21T18:03:00.000-07:00

by Molly Buffington

The town was just like every other in the West: tumbleweeds, a saloon with a couple drunks staggering around a barmaid, a poorly guarded bank, horses, a sheriff nailing "Wanted" signs to a board, women in bonnets buying groceries... the works. None of them saw what the man surveying the town did.

Women turned their heads and batted their eyelashes at him. He seemed to walk aimlessly, just a clean-cut cowhand, still retaining some youth, with swaying light red hair and icy blue eyes. The sheriff nodded his head to him.

"Howdy, stranger."

The man, a little surprised, tipped his stetson. "Howdy."

He tried to walk on but the sheriff, an older man with gristle-y, grey-tinged hair, grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"You new to the Lone Star State?"

"Yes sir," the man lied.

"I'm Lawrence, local law enforcement."

"Joseph Robertson, sir. Here on business with my family's farm. Be gone in a few days."

That seemed to satisfy the sheriff. "Enjoy your stay, son," he said, smacking Joseph a little too hard on the back as he walked on.

Joseph wiped his brow. There was no way this Lawrence could have seen through him. No, it just wasn't possible. He continued walking and reached the board with the "Wanted" signs.

"Fast Jack," a man in his mid-40s with jet black hair and a gold tooth. Wanted for battery and defying law enforcement, $50 reward.

"Quick-Draw Stevens," white-blond with a crooked nose, train robbery and horse thieving. $150 reward.

And how could he not notice? "Billy The Kid," a cocky choice for an alias, brown-haired, baby-faced, wanted from the Grand Canyon to the Mississippi for everything from cattle rustling to armed robbery to murder. $500 reward, dead or alive.

Joseph's eyes grew wide at the last charge. "I didn't commit murder," he mumbled.

The town looked like a good enough place to settle down. He had money, freedom, power. A great deal of power. He would always have that.

He looked behind his shoulder to see if anyone spotted him staring at the posters and then shook off the fear, swaggering over to the saloon. He subconsciously checked his gun: still there, still loaded. He pushed the door and glanced around. Friendly barmaid, a few poker games, several ladies dolled up for business. He nodded to himself. He liked it here.

He sat at the bar and stared at himself in the mirror. Over his ear, a tuft of his hair was brown instead of red. How had he missed that? He concentrated, digging deep into his guts and willing himself to change. Shifting was never easy, always painful. Anyone passing by would think he had terrible indigestion. It took a good 30 seconds of focusing and chanting under his breath. But when he looked up his hair was all red, his eyes were all blue, and he looked nothing like the man in the poster.

"The Dried Tomato"

2011-07-02T12:30:00.000-07:00

Vaqueros in Brooklyn, NY

by Angela Pailevanian

Six in the morning, Ruben woke up for his shift at The Dried Tomato, a sandwich shop in the Lower East Side. Ate breakfast, brushed his teeth, put on the weird-looking hat, and off he went to ride the subway to work.

"Ruben, you're late!" Alice said. She was like the veteran of the place. Eighty years old and still working. With at least 20 grandchildren.

Ruben apologized and ran into the back to get his apron. Conversation continued amongst the workers.

"Hey Riley! Have you caught the kid that threw a baseball through your window?"

"No! I can't even fix it, I'm two months behind on rent. I swear that kid's gonna get a beating when I find out who it is!"

It was noon. People were pouring in. The orders were accumultaing quickly.

"I want a turkey bacon sandwich, hold the mayo."

"I want a chicken sandwich on wheat bread, and fries on the side."

"I want a large coke, with a bacon sandwich, no tomatoes though."

Around 2pm, a boy walked in. He had on a Led Zeppelin shirt. Green eyes. Dark skin. Looked like he was ready to kill somebody.

"Welcome, what do you want to eat?" Ruben asked.

"You want to know what I want? I want to know why my father left. But you can't tell me that, can you? Nobody can. Not even my momma. Now she's three months behind rent, he aint paying a dime and we're gonna get evicted."

"Oh. Well I'm--"

"You have any idea what it's like to grow up without a dad? Watchin' my momma struggle every day, not comign home. She's got five kids. Six including me. I'm the youngest."

"How long has he been gone?" Ruben asked.

"Oh, he was gone before I was even born. Momma said she met him at a bar out in Buswick years ago."

"What's your momma's name, son?"

"Ayleen."

Could it be? The Ayleen he met in Vaqueros 15 years ago? The boy had Ruben's eyes, Ruben's nose, Ruben's slick straight hair. But she never told him anything, never called him. They broke up just as soon as they had gotten together.

Ruben stayed silent for a moment. Then he said: "Man, if I found my father now, he gon' wish he never left my momma."

Ruben shook his head and tried to stay focused on the food: "What do you want to eat, son?"

"Turkey and Me"

2011-06-21T23:52:00.000-07:00

by Sara Anis

I don't usually throw up. But the one time I did, wow that was crazy.

It was Thanksgiving night. I was seven. My mother and I were planning on taking a trip to Chandler, AZ right after dinner with the family.

Now, my family is from the Middle East, we aren't really know for cooking the best turkey in town. My seven-year-old stomach would agree on that one. That night, well... I don't know what it was. Probaby nasty for one. Anyways!

My mother and I get on the Greyhound planning to have a smooth ride to Chandler and then BOOM! -- the twists and turns start acting up. I really wanted it to be a good trip, I really did. Too bad the turkey had it in for me.

So there I am, about to throw up, when I notice everyone on the bus watching me. Now being the proper young lady I am, I turn around, gently snatch my mother's cashmere sweater, and let it out.

Gross... maybe. But I actually thought I was being pretty polite. That trip was a bummer, and I can honestly say that turkey and me have never been the best of friends since.

Sorry Mom.

'Ironman' by Lauren Garrett-Joly

2011-05-02T09:35:00.000-07:00

This month, the Park Slope B&N group did a character/conflict workshop.

One writer created this character:
Male, Age: N/A, Half Robot, likes to listen to metal.

Another devised this conflict:
His robot-half is sophisticated, so it looks like a human, and his girlfriend, who doesn’t know his secret, forces him to come to a pool party.

And Lauren Garrett-Joly wrote the following piece:

“432 please hurry up! We‘re going to be late!” my girlfriend of 1 month, 29 days, 18 hours, 65 minutes and approximately 8.769 seconds, whines.

My timer has been slightly incorrect these days. And it doesn’t even have the decency to display milliseconds. What have I become? Being half-man (I use the term ‘man‘ for all intensive purposes; only referring to gender, since my age is unknown), half-robot, I have always been addressed as 432.

432 is the number printed on the inner most corner of my eyeball, which I always (and slightly annoyingly) see when I use my advanced peripherals. Now the average teenager, like Marla for example, might find this name choice a peculiar one made by my “parents”, who she believes live in a cozy home in Canada and allowed me to move here to Upstate NY alone as both an experimental trip (which isn’t exactly incorrect), and a reward for good behavior. But the name 432, along with the lie about my so-called parents, has ironically instead upped my “cool status” among the human teenagers; because most of my peers apparently think my name is some new-age angst effort to be less of a conformist to modern society and its labels.

I personally see nothing wrong with names, in fact I sometimes rather long for one, but then I become confused by these human emotions and I block them out, literally.

“Marla, could you explain in detail how one could be late to his own party?”

“Ugh, don’t be sarcastic with me, okay? I’m just a little nervous. I mean this is like your coming out party!”

‘Coming out party’. This term does not compute with my system.

“Coming out from where?” I ask.

“Ha-ha. Just hurry up” And with that I hear her expensive Jimmy Choo heels click-clack-click-stomp-lift-swoosh-fly over and into sliding door pool entryway-stomp-click-clack-squish onto slightly wet patio, proceeding to a distance (presumably by the pool) where my highly-sensitive ears can no longer hear.

I take as deep a breath as possible for my body structure, because at this point I feel nervous, which is very new to me. The sensation of nervous feelings suddenly erupting in my brain and stomach (what are these called by humans? Butterflies?) most likely stems from my current predicament. I am completely unsure of how to reveal my true identity: namely my iron-metal hybrid somewhat bullet-proof torso, to all of my high school classmates.

Hmm. No matter. I realize that I will just have to somehow compute a plausible and simple solution in the; as-humans say “heat of the moment."

I put in my ipod device (one of my closest friends), pressing play on the Metal play list I’d created, which was literally recorded sounds of clanking metal and/or iron. As always, this seems to calm me down.

I enter the outside pool quadrant. A flock semi-pubescent teenagers are spread over the lofty terrace and in the pool, some of which turn to look at me. Many hold red plastic cups, most likely filled with variations of expensive vodkas mixed with sugary juice-drinks. I spot and approach Marla, who is standing near some chairs, scantily clad in a paisley string-bikini. Her pale skin glows in the now approaching moonlight. One of her obviously drunk female comrades giggles, burps, and then feels the need to inform me that her “spirit-animal is like totally like, a gay man."

Fascinating.

I am wearing an Ed-Hardy t-shirt. Marla, ignoring her babbling friend, smiles at me and says “Hey, 432, about time! I was just about to take a dip. How about you ditch the shirt and join me?” She squeezes my left buttocks, which is much more hard and firm than the average male‘s (of course, since it is a hybrid of iron and fake flesh), a quality she seems to like.

“I can not.“ I reply in a less firm tone of voice than usual.

“Um, why?” says Marla. She too now looks nervous, as well as confused, probably fearing embarrassment.

Oh. No. This is the moment I previously mentioned.

My mouth opens but no sound travels out. Everyone awkwardly blinks at me expectantly. So I abort to Bing mode. Similar to the entertaining commercials (that I actually kind of enjoy, because I can relate to some the fictional characters. You know, the ones who begin to randomly incessantly shout facts and terms?); my brain scans references to the words ‘robot’, ‘iron’, ‘metal’, ‘half man, half-Click. I blink. ‘Ironman; popular action-adventure film starring Robert Downey Jr, based on DC comics, also song by Ozzy Osborne’ reads against my eyelids. Perfect. Once again, in a matter of seconds, my highly skilled mind has solved the problem.

I straighten up, and declare loudly; “I am Ironman."

"Chick Chick"

2011-05-01T00:01:00.000-07:00

by Oscar Guerrero

I ate some questionable fried chicken from a questionable restaurant, in a questionable street in a questionable area east of LAX. My uncle is a steward at the airport, or something along those lines, so we picked him up from Terminal 20. He greeted us with a "Look how big you've gotten?" and a "Did you lose weight?" and the question we were all waiting for, "Are you hunrgy?"

He stuffed us in the car, took the wheel, and jammed his foot on the pedal until we were going 40 in a 15. "I know a place!"

Before we knew it, it was past nine and we had driven for two hours. "I think we missed it. It was supposed to me fifteen minutes from the airport." We gazed at him but bit our tongues, as we couldn't refuse his hospitality for offering to pay.

Then we spied a place: "Chicky Chicky," with bright flickering neon lights that, as Simon & Garfunkel put it, "split the night."

The menu varied from fried chicked to spicy fried chicken. Everyone ordered the spicy fried chicken but I, being the weakest of stomach of the family, couldn't help but be weak and submissive so as to stand out and get the chicken that was lacking in the spicy area.

So the cashier, this plump Hispanic woman with a Jennifer Aniston haircut and too many rings to count, followed our commands. In a matter of seconds, the food was ready. We had drinks, the chicken of spicy and non-spicy variety, and a little container overflowing with ranch sauce.

I ever-so-cautiously clenched my teeth on the ever-so-salty chicken. I chewed slowly. Save for a few bones it wasn't bad. The feast had officially begun, as everyone was grabbing for a leg, or a nugget, or a wing, and chewing, and savoring, and swallowing, and gulping, and of course digesting.

We finished the meal, payed a surprisingly large bill, and got in the car to say, "This wasn't so bad."

My dad drove tmie, going 25mph under the speed limit. But even at that speed, I felt a pressure in the center of my torso, building up, slowly, but surely.

Then there was rumbling, and sweating, and the next thing I knew, my mouth was erupting white chunks of legs, nuggets, wings and other body parts of the fowl type.

And it was everywhere.

My shoes, my jeans, my Revolver shirt (which I had so carefully and lovingly preserved), and even my mother's dress (which she had carefully and lovingly preserved)... Not to mention two car seats, a bit of the window, and even some of the steering wheel.

Everyone gave me the stare they had previously given my uncle, but they bit their tongues, and kept driving, and driving and driving, and just ignoring the smell.

"Chapter 1—I am Born"

2011-04-04T07:51:00.000-07:00

by Cassy Sarnell

Jennifer Louise Boyle was born on September 27, 1992. She had stunning blue eyes and little ringlet curls. Her mother, Karen Celia Boyle, had been at the hospital for 6 hours, counting the hour of doctors sticking needles in her to numb the pain. Her father, Matthew Louis Boyle, didn’t see either the mother or the child for exactly 24 hours after the baby’s birth, at which point he exclaimed, “Well thank god all the right parts are in all the right places,” which I resent.

It never occurred to a young Jennifer that there was anything wrong with her. She was not especially “girly,” but not especially “tomboyish,” a term I resent.

The first clue she had that she was less-than-perfect was while watching Motocrossed with her now-ex-best friend. She was sitting there, watching, when I spoke up for the first time.

“I want to marry her.”

Jennifer, not one to keep anything to herself, shared this with her now-ex-best friend: “I want to marry her.”

“Ew. Are you gay?”

Neither of us knew what the term meant, so Jennifer looked it up.

“I’m straight,” I told her.

“I know… Are you my imaginary friend?”

“No.”

“Are you… me?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“What?”

“Well, I thought I was Jennifer. But you’re me. So whatever your name is is also my name.”

I thought about it. “James. I’m James.”

I was born 8 years later, on June 15, 2008. James Louis Boyle. I had hair cut too short to form ringlets, and dreary blue eyes. My mother, Karen Celia Boyle, wouldn’t look at me. My father, Matthew Louis Boyle, wavered between joking that now he had the son he’d always wanted, and staring at me with a look that said, "How did this get so wrong? How did you get so wrong?”

"Thumbs Down, Bro"

2011-03-20T09:07:00.000-07:00

by Christina McCarthy

The line went on for hours. Hundreds of children lined up side by side as their skin boiled from the summer sun.

Anthony was getting anxious as they approached the top of the mount. Super Speed. The most outrageous water slide in the state of Arizona. It took you down faster than any loopy slide in the park, with the sharpest turns and steepest drops.

"Hey, Chubbs, relax," Greg said to Anthony.

"I can't help it; we've been waiting all week for this, and it's so hot I want to be in the pool already," Anthony said.

"I am actually a bit nervous about it."

"Why? You're retarded. It's going to be sick."

"Well, hate to be the one to share this with you, but I am quite a bit more aerodynamic than you," said Greg. Anthony rolled his eyes and moved ahead in line.

Greg continued, "Maybe I will just wait until you go and when you land in the water you can give me a thumbs up or down so I can decide if I want to go through with it."

"Yeah, okay, whatever you want."

Before long, Anthony was next up. Greg gave him a quick reminder to give him a signal before Anthony jumped into the tube slide head-first. Greg took a few moments to look around. He hadn't realized how high up he was. The view unnerved him.

"Holy shit!" he heard a girl scream from below. He leaned over the rail to see the pool filling with blood and he went into panic mode. He ran down the metal spiral staircase past the crowded line feeling nauseous from the speed and fear. His heart was beating in his throat and he thought he was going to puke. Ever since he was little he was known to be a nervous vomiter.

When he finally go to the pool, Anthony had been taken out but there was a crowd around him filled with panic. He must have hit his head on the bottom. The paramedics tended to him and Greg couldn't see his body. The entire water park seemed to freeze around the scene. Once you drowned out the shaky voices crying for help, the park was silent.

The seconds seemed like hours. A voice yelled out, "He's breathing!" Then there was a loud splash in the bloody pool. Greg looked over to see... Anthony, naked, bringing his head out from under the red pool water.

"What the fuck!" Anthony yelled. "First my trunks get stuck on base bolt in a turn, now the water is like toxic?"

Anthony climbed out of the pool, reaching for a towel, as Greg's stomach turned in shock at the red and relief at his friend. Anthony wrapped the towel around himself.

"Thumbs down bro, all the way."

"The Skirt Incident"

2010-10-22T23:00:00.000-07:00

by Alana Mohamed

It was morning-ish. I say morning-ish because the things you'd usually connect to morning -- sun, people, bumper-to-bumper traffic -- weren't present at 6am on the BQE. Dad had a meeting and was dropping me off to school a bit early. Three hours of wandering around Brooklyn wouldn't be that bad. The half-dead Toyota Camry warmth was all I could ask for this monring.

Then the car stopped.

It stopped nowhere near my school. We were at the corner of Dekalb Avenue and some street that definitely was not anywhere near my school. I looked at my father. He looked at me. He clicked the door unlocked.

"I'm late for work."

"Uh... okay."

"Just head to school yourself; I'll see you at home tonight."

And out the car I went in my skirt and boots and leather jacket. It was a cute outfit, but it wasn't hiking-through-Brooklyn approved. I had barely made it a block before fantasizing about the school's gym sweatpants. They were large, unflattering, unsightly, and very warm. By the seventh block I had been followed by a man in a van who insisted that the back of said van was the safest place in the world -- and another on foot who thought it was perfectly acceptable to stroke my leg.

Ten blocks later I decided I deserved breakfast. That part was okay. Rejuvenated, I strolled outside and took my time getting to school. I had all the time in the world.

I got to school and swiped in my ID card, but then --

"Young lady!"

The scratchy smoker's voice pierced the lazy quiet of the school lobby. I knew that "young lady." It's the "young lady" you get when a teacher decides she doens't like your attire for the day. Don't turn around just keep walking --

"Excuse me!"

I turned around. I smiled. My skirt fell just above my knees, perfectly acceptable. There's nothing she can do to me, I thought. Oh, how naive I was.

"You," the teacher spat. "Your ass is practically hanging out of that skirt. Dean's office now."

* * *

And so I found myself victim to another teacher's PMS, sitting in the dean's office, being told I'd need to trade in my brand new shiny iPhone for a pair of those aforementioned sweatpants. They no longer looked appealing though. They looked about 10 years old, smelled of mothballs, and probably had some elderly love juices sprayed on them.

I refused. They yelled; I yelled; they yelled some more. "Could I just pull the skirt down at little so it covers my knees?!" I'm not sure how sane I would seem if I had to explain to them my whole hike to Brooklyn Technical High School, how my father had abandoned me on the street. I pulled down my skirt to shor Mr. Dean and Ms. Teacher. More outrage. More yelling. What was said wasn't quite impertinent, because most of it was unintelligible. I'm not sure if they understood it. They were very excited and excitable.

Because of this "skirt incident" as it's come to be known among a close circle of friends and now you, I spent a good hour and forty-three minutes in the dean's office, waiting for my mother to pick me up from school.

I feel a bit wimpy that my first altercation with school officials was over a skirt -- and not something as ridiculously bad as, like, drugs or sex or injuring someone, But it's a start.

"The Pansies"

2010-09-16T18:18:00.000-07:00

by anonymous

It was a hot, sticky day. David and Montgomery lounged on the tan couch. Every three minutes, David shifted ."If I ever get out of here, I will never get a leather couch," David thought.

Montgomery looked more comfortable, presumably because he was thinking about his own couch, at home, which was not made from a cow and always covered by a clean cotton sheet.

Both boys felt suctioned into the cushions. They faced a choice: shift their weight and learn that they had cemented to the sofa, or remain where they were forever, never to know. Meanwhile, the contestants on TV sizzled, sliced and diced their way to personal salvation in “Kitchen Stadium”. There was a new mystery ingredient, one that had thrown the Japanese and Indian chef considerably: leeks. Too easy, thought Montgomery.

Ugh. "Iron Chef is not conducive to thought," thought David. Conducive? Conductive? Whatever. As the gracious host, David had allowed Monty to choose the program, something he was currently in deep regret about. After flipping at considerable length, Monty had settled on the food channel. So what if it was a Monday in august? There had to be something better on, like Nickelodeon. Or Wii. David stretched his hand towards the remote, customs be damned.

Down in the much cooler basement, David’s sister Rose was having a similar bout with temptation. The basement walls were stark navy, and there was a furry maroon carpet on the floor. Rose, a girl of unpleasant skinniness with short ink-black hair, was sitting watching Pretty in Pink.

There was a bare light on in the hall, where unfinished pine steps led up into the room of the leather couch. That was where David sat stiffly and Montgomery lounged sexily. Or so it seemed to Rose. She didn’t know what idiot inside her had prompted her to tie her hair back (it was really too short, half had come out, while the other half jutted out of her head like a blunt spike), or made her think seriously of shaving her legs for the second time that week. They were stubbly where her denim shorts ended. She looked at the sea glass vase on the low table. There was a rose in it. Surely one petal wouldn’t hurt. And it would taste so good. It was dislodged, chewed and swallowed, in rapid succession. Rose was on her third petal, chomping away, when she heard the doorknob.

“Hey,” said Monty. “Can we please go downstairs? it’s so hot.”

“Umm…” David had wanted to go down to the basement for a while, but back in Kitchen Stadium they were getting into judging (which was really more like tasting) and he just didn’t want Monty staring at Rose. Ick. David had his father’s golden wavy hair and his mother’s separated eyebrows, but no guy, much less Monty, ever looked at him. What a colossal joke.

The boys reached the basement and entered the room just in time to see the couple on screen kiss.

"Eww, it’s The Breakfast Club all over again," thought David.

"What makes her think she can be a ginger?" Montgomery asked. He mouthed the word ginger as he looked at the screen. Then he looked at David’s cute sister. And what makes her think she can have dark hair with those eyebrows?

In her mind, Rose was giggling cheekily. I think he’s into me! Her cognitive squeals and slight flush drew David’s attention to Montgomery, who was watching Roses ridiculous ponytail like he wanted to grab it.

"Here we go," he thought.

"The Great Four Guardians"

2010-08-31T11:18:00.000-07:00

by Christopher K.

[Circa 2009. End punctuation by Christopher K. -- ed. ]

Everyone thinks gods are a myth but...

They would be wrong.

When God created the World via the Big Bang Effect and the first Act of Evil took place, with Adam and Eve eating the Forbidden Fruit placed by a Fallen Angel named Lucifer who wanted all the power to himself: God created men known as Guardians.

Crafted to assist him in the defeat of Lucifer, they each carried one of the elements that made God who He was: Earth, Air, Fire, Water, Light, Darkness, Chaos, Twilight, Balance, Nature, Existence, Cosmos, and Ultima.

Each person had a mate to reproduce with so with every new child the element would pass to the kid as well. What was the point? To keep Lucifer and his minions in check and the world safe. Back to the main issue...

These four kids were children of Guardians and soon figured out they were needed to carry on their father's work: Zane Eison Hatake of Fire, Blaze Eison Hatake of Fire, Alister Rizon of Light, and Getsu Fuhuma of Existence.

These four would one day be known as The Great Four. In 1583 they discovered that they each had a symbolic relationship with one another. The great war in Japan in the early Edo period took place in the year 1611 and ended in 1614.

The Great Four fought in that war to prevent an evil Warlord named Kazwki Ino-moto and his 10,000 troops from taking over Kyoto. The Great Four only had 500 in total to help the cause. Even though outnumbered severely.... They still had their powers which they mastered but unfortunatly the Warlord also had a gift. Power of Darkness he had.

The result? Total destruction... of the Warlord's men!!! As for the Great Four against Kaz.. A dead draw.

But legend says Guardians permanently never die.. will they return? If so, is this still a myth?! or True? you choose! end?

[300 film is released in 2007; Last Airbender film is released in 2010. -- ed.]

"Graffiti BS"

2010-07-24T17:28:00.000-07:00

by Yossi Halpernin

The Smith-9th St. station is deserted at night the tracks clear of workers and the platform free of cops. This makes it a great place to go tagging. The trains come every twenty five minutes you time it right you got four minutes to find a spot twenty minutes to tag one to get away.

We are in the first four minutes looking for an empty space to tag. I don’t want to buff someone else’s tag so I find an empty space. I do an outline of my tag SCOPE and fill it in. I look at my friend David he’s almost done with his tag SPIKE.

“You're done Dom?”

“Almost Randy.”

“Hey.”

“Hey you.”

I turn around and a man who looks like he’s homeless approaches us he then pulls out a badge.

“What were you doing on the tracks?”

Before I can say a word or even think of what to say David opens his mouth.

“We weren’t doing graffiti.”

“How do you know I’m stopping you for graffiti?”

“Are you psychic?”

“That’s why you are stopping us.”

“Right.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I stopped you because you were on the tracks. Why were you on the tracks?”

We are both speechless. Time seems to slow down and drift away.

“So you were doing graffiti.”

“No” we say.

“So why were you on the tracks?”

“We were crossing to get to the Manhattan side.”

“This is the Brooklyn side.”

“I mean Brooklyn side.”

“Brooklyn or Manhattan side.”

“Brooklyn.”

“Ok.”

“If you were just crossing why were you walking on the tracks?”

“We needed to get to the front car.”

“Well this is actually the back.”

“Ow.”

“Well we thought it was the Manhattan side and that would have (would of) made it the front.”

“I thought you wanted the Brooklyn side.”

“Ya.”

“Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn.”

“Brooklyn Manhattan uptown downtown front back you're confusing me.”

“What’s confusing?”

“You should know were you are going.”

“Ya.”

“We needed to go further into Brooklyn and went to the Manhattan platform by mistake and we need to get the front car but accidentally went to the back car.”

“Ok. Just one thing. I saw you climb down onto the tracks and then twenty-four minutes later climb back out again before a train came. Are you telling me you weren’t doing graffiti?”

“We weren’t.”

“Then what were you doing?

“We were trying to get to the next station since we missed the train.”

“So why did you turn around and come back?”

“We realized that the station was too far and closed.”

“Closed or too far?”

“Which.”

“Too far.”

“Closed.”

“Which one?”

“Closed.”

“We reached the station and it was closed. So we turned around and came back.”

“Which station?”

“Not sure.”

“The one over there,” David says, pointing.

“Ok. I have news for you kids. Stations don’t close. They're open twenty-four seven.”

“Well it was empty so we assumed it was closed.”

“Actually we never made it to the station. Half way there we turned around and went back.”

“Because it was too far.”

“Too far? Or closed.”

“Too far.”

“Ya too far.”

“Ok let me see IDs.”

“For what officer?”

“We weren’t doing graffiti.”

“Sure you weren’t. Why were you on the tracks?”

“Because we didn’t want to break the law.”

“You didn’t want to break the law.”

“Ya.”

“We went on the tracks to smoke.”

“Smoke what.”

“Cigarettes.”

“Because it’s illegal to smoke on the platform.”

“What brand?”

“Marlboro.”

“Newport I mean Marlboro.”

“Marlboro or Newport.”

“Marlboro.”

“I was thinking Marlboro but I said Newport.”

“You sure? Or were you smoking Newport and he was smoking Marlboro?”

“Ya.”

“I had Newport he had Marlboro.”

“Ok. Let me get this straight. He was smoking Newport you were smoking Marlboro and when I asked you, you said Newport but meant Marlboro. And this whole time down there you were doing graffiti."

“Ya.”

“I mean no.”

“You're confusing me. Let me see the packs.”

We look at each other and pretend to look through our pockets.

“Where are the cigarettes?”

“Oh we must have (must of) left them on the train tracks.”

“Better go get them.”

“No, you're not going any where. No more games. IDs both of you.”

“But why?”

“We weren’t doing graffiti.”

“Sure you weren’t. IDs.”

We both reach into our pockets and find our IDs and are about to hand them to the officer.

“Why are your hands like that?”

“Huh?”

“Like what officer?”

I look at my hands then at Dom’s hands and realize that our hands are almost completely covered in paint. I guess we forgot to wipe the paint off.

“Show me your hands. What’s that on your hands?”

“Not sure.”

“Looks like paint.”

“How did it get there?”

“Huh.”

“Finger painting.”

“Finger painting. Aren’t you boys a bit old for finger painting?”

“The teacher made us do it at school.”

“School. It’s Sunday.”

“You have school on Sunday.”

“Ya.”

“Sunday school.”

“Really? So what did you paint?”

“Christmas trees.”

“It’s July.”

“So.”

“You're painting Christmas trees in July.”

“Ya.”

“And you.”

“Painting trees too.”

“No.”

“Santa.”

“So you were in Sunday school this morning painting black Christmas trees and blue Santas in the middle of July.”

“Can’t bullshit a bullshitter sir.”

“It’s from graffiti.”

“Ok.”

“It’s from graffiti.”

“But.”

“We were not doing graffiti.”

“Ya.”

“We went to go look at graffiti.”

“You went to look at graffiti? Then how did it get on your hands?”

“We accidentally touched it and it happened to be wet.”

“Ya we touched it to have a better connection with it.”

“You know how tactile contact can connect a person to an object?”

“Ok so let me get this straight. First you told me that you were crossing the tracks to get to the Manhattan side then you change it to the Brooklyn side. Then you tell me you needed the front car then the back car. Then you tell me you need to get to the other station but the station was closed and then it was too far. Then you went on the tracks to smoke a cigarette but neither of you know what brand. Now you're telling me you went to look at graffiti and accidentally touched it and also touched it to feel a tactile connection to it."

“I think it’s obvious that we were doing graffiti.”

“I think that’s obvious too.”

“How old are you two?”

“14.”

“16.”

“Do your parents know you're out this late?”

“Well sort of.”

“He’s sleeping at my house and I’m sleeping at his house.”

“Yes or No?”

“No.”

“No.”

“I'm taking you in and having a long talk with your parents about graffiti and sneaking out.”

Yossi Halpernin can be reached at Xskateboy12X [at] aol [dot] com.

"Dugie's Teeth"

2010-06-24T06:28:00.000-07:00

by Lucy Snyder

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and reached far -- for the snooze button. I touched down to lay flat on the bed and stretched every muscle. I opened up my eyes really wide, smiled big and moved my eyebrows up and down. Finally I had the energy to swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand up.

I walked to the bathroom, examined my tired face in the mirror, and filled the sink up with cold water. I opened the cabinet door, grabbed the face wash, and squeezed the soap-smelling solution into my hand. Then, as I was applying the stuff to my face, I remembered something. I remembered yesterday afternoon.

I was lying in that uncomfortable chain covered in uncomfortable plastic. The air conditioner was blasting in an uncomfortable way. The way they kept my mouth propped open with pieces of plastic was so uncomfortable. But it was all worth it because I was going to look so good.

It had been about 16 hours since they finished. I slowly washed the scrub off my face, keeping myself in suspense. It was a Friday morning and I hadn't checked the clock. I assume I was running late. I put the tube back into the cabinet and pulled out my same old Crest "Vivid White" toothpaste --

-- that toothpaste with false claims. I had been using that toothpaste ever since that day five years ago that I had realized that my brushing habits had left my teeth a great amazing yellow color under my braces. I would look in the mirror and smile every night before I stuck the toothbrush in my mouth and think horrible things. My yellow teeth were disgusting, unattractive, horrible, gross, unattractive and repulsive.

No one said one word to me about them but I knew what they thought in their heads. At every checkup, Dr. Moskowitz would say, "These teeth are beautiful! Beautiful, Dugie!" But they weren't. Five years of whitening toothpaste and nothing was different. Until today.

I looked at that clean face in the mirror and smiled at it. My lips were still touching and my heart was beating fast. I looked down into the sink. I smiled more, more, so that my teeth could meet the air. Breathing faster and faster and faster. I looked up and I was beautiful.

I had almost expected one of those trite moments from cartoons when a rock star smiles and the audience is blinded. But no, this was much different. I was no sleazy long-haired celebrity who only wanted fame and fortune. I had a pretty face and I was a nice girl. But now I was someone new. When I parted those lips, I didn't just have a new confidence, I had the confidence of someone else. I didn't look different. I looked amazing.

I wasn't going to eat breakfast so I put the toothbrush away. I put on one of my favorite outfits and complementary makeup. I could not wait to get to school. I hated school. My best friends weren't from school; they were from the neighborhood. I did have many acquaintances at school and these were the people I guess I wanted to see. I just wanted to see people. I just wanted people to see me. "The new me."

"Elevator"

2010-05-21T22:21:00.000-07:00

by Katie Waldron

The elevator doors opened.

"A little elaborate," Luke thought as they closed quickly behind him. Why couldn't the interview be in the lobby? Or on the tenth floor, even... It had to be on the goddamned 35th floor of the building.

He flew solo until the fifth floor. Then, a balding businessman entered the elevator, followed by three pencil-skirted women. One of the skirts glanced at the balding man and Luke's especially plump partner, the man who was accompanying him to his interview: Mike. The woman then glanced nervously at the "maximum capacity" sign.

By the 17th floor, an entire new cast of similar-looking characters had replaced the fifth-floor folk. Luke couldn't help but wonder if a couple of, ahem, robust people would meet the capacity of 700 lbs. They had to be at least 200 each.

Mike, the guy who had suggested him for the job, elbowed Luke in a "there's something witty coming" sort of way.

"You'd think they'd make the capacity bigger in the KFC headquarters, right?"

Luke forced a "ha" out. If he had to be subjected to Mike's humor for another two floors, he hoped that the elevator would drop.

It did. Pummeling fast to the ground, shaking violently with a faint burning smell in the back.

The passengers yelled various colorful unmentionables as the burning smell became more of a reek and Luke suggested everyone jump with the aid of the handrails. When he was 12 and he found out elevators weren't floating boxes, his grandmother told him, "If they drop, you can jump, that's what the bars are for."

As they careened toward the bottom, faster and faster and faster -- the screams got louder and louder and louder --

-- everyone began jumping.

His grandma lied.

Luke laid there on the bottom of the shaft, his skull reeking out of the top of his head. The elaborate doors fell and crushed the butchered remnants of the bodies. Some passerby lost his lunch when he peeked in past the "do not cross" yellow tape.

The nervous pencil-skirt walked back from a successful interview and looked down at her competition with a brief, grimy superiority. She thought: "Take the stairs if you want the job," like her grandma said.

Then she lost her lunch too.

"4:00pm Date"

2010-04-11T17:34:00.000-07:00

by Marilyn Carlin

I call her my 4:00pm date.

It's the perfect relationship -- I'm walking my dog, she's kicking up dust on her way home from school, all shiny black pigtails of irony and scuffed Docs.

Always pigtails. Always Docs. Always that Barney-purple backpack stamped with the initials "JMR." That was as much of her name as I knew.

At first, we would just walk past each other, heads turned, eyes down, protecting our egos. But we couldn't help noticing each other -- I coughed; she sidestepped. Acknowledgments of each other's presence. Teenager speak.

After a few weeks, she started asking to pet Beauregard. Her voice was rasped, lower than the voice you'd think she would have. It fit. We got to talking about school. I started calling her Punky Brewster, you know, because of the pigtails. I mean, also because she had these giant gazoombas, for her size at least -- a lot of people don't know this, but that chick who played Punky's were so big she had to get them removed partially.

My sister Amy really liked Punky -- the real one I'm talking about, not JMR who I started calling Punky. I didn't mind watching it when I was growing up because I wanted to hang out with her; that's how it is when you're younger. Meanwhile, Punky/JMR started calling me "Mike," even though my name's not Mike. She said I looked like a "Mike."

If she were a dude I would punch her for aligning me with the name of the kid who stole my markers and my lunch money every day in elementary school, but it was okay because she was a chick, plus with her the name had a different feel. It got to the point where I would wait by the front door, leash in hand, head turned, until I saw her coming up the grass-lined suburban beige cement path. I timed it perfectly so that I wouldn't miss her. Miss our date.

The other day I saw her talking with a friend, waiting for the bus. She saw me and smiled and waved and her friend tapped her shoulder (too hard!) and squawked something about me and called her Jen. Jen. Jennifer. I needed to know if it was her real name.

* * *

So now it's 4:00pm, Bo's scratching at the door and the leash is in my hand. I don't see her so I wait. Five minutes. Ten. Twenty. Now Bo is lying down, whining, and my homework is remaining undone and I'm about to leave anyway when I catch a glimpse of shining dark pigtails and a flash of purple. She's here and everything makes sense. I clip Bo's leash on and push out the door.

I would run, but I don't want to seem to eager. Nobody likes an eager beaver. I catch up to her two houses down.

She waves, smiles, and throws a dazzlingly mundane: "Hey Mike, what's kickin'?"

The atmosphere is charged with hormonal goop.

"Hey Jen," I smile as she bends down to pet Bo, who is already nuzzling his nose into the denim at her knee.

"Jen?"

"I thought we could try real names for once. Like, 'Hi, I'm Jake Harper, and you're Jen Something-or-Other--'"

"Jen isn't my name."

I stare down at the hand I've extended, in mock jest, ready to shake just like I'd been taught in the "Professionalism in the Workplace" seminar my mom had made me go to when I got my first job at Subway.

"But the initials on your backpack, you know, 'JMR?' It fits."

She stares at me, squinting at the sun. She suddenly looks very tiny, like she's going to break.

"JMR: 'Joseph Mitchell Ryan.'"

I mull it over -- I mean, I've heard of gender-androgyny but this is kind of ridiculous.

"Your name is Joseph?"

"He was my brother. He was killed. Car accident. It was three years ago. Some asshole driver plowed into the side of my mom's minivan going ninety-five in a thirty-five."

She stars crying. I don't know what to do. Punky Brewster never cried.

"We walked away with cuts and bruises. He died on impact."

She's inches away from me. I can smell her strawberry lip-gloss and shampoo and all I can think about is the awkwardness radiating off of me in big, Barney-colored waves. I put my hand on her shoulder.

We stand like that for a few seconds. I whisper an apology, knowing it changes nothing but hoping that it'll make everything better anyway. Like my "sorry," my words, will un-kill her brother and un-drunk the driver like a magic trick.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" I try.

She hedges: "Yeah, yeah, oh, definitely, yeah."

"Same time same place?"

She half-nods and walks away. My 4:00pm date, over.

"Hey, wait!" I call out. "If it's not Jen, what is your name?"

"Punky Brewster," she smirks, tossing a pigtail over her shoulder.

"Alright, Punky. Cool!" I yell, my attempt to save face failing.

Punky freaking Brewster. What have I gotten myself into?

"Ridiculous Hero Journeys"

2010-03-09T10:19:00.000-08:00

by Julia Rittenberg

Sam crinkled her nose as they walked.

"I still don't see why you like butterscotch."

"Come on, Sammie, I never say anything about that Zac Efron you love so much," chided Dave.

"Shut up! I dont even like his movies. Just him. I can just tell that he's a good person."

"Whatever you say, vanilla-eater."

"That's not even an insult."

"It could be."

They sat down at their curb. After a few minutes, an obnoxious SUV drove up. "Say hi to your boyfriend. I won't mind," assured Dave.

Sam hurried to her young love; Dave noticed a slight limp. He stored it for later.

When Sam returned, aglow with teenage hormones, he had decided on his opening question.

"So what is the redeeming qualify of the latest model?"

"He likes that I wear the same pants everyday. American Eagle is also his favorite store."

"What a winner."

"I will disregad the sarcasm and instead agree with you."

"Has he made you conservative, or something? Where the hell did you get that sweater?" Dave pulled at the neckline and saw a flash of discolored shoulder.

Sam pulled it up quickly, hoping to bypass the possible revelation. "I borrowed it from Mom. I didn't want to get cold."

"Why are you bruised?" The normal laughter in Dave's voice was replaced with concern. "Your skin is tougher than Mom's oatmeal cookies. What happened?"

"Nothing. Matthew's dog is a little too friendly sometimes. He jumped on me kind of violently."

"You're such a liar. There's no dog."

"Yes there is!"

"There might be, but it's not the dog."

"Yes it was."

He poked her shoulder. Sam winced. "Right. A dog did that. It was Matthew, wasn't it? Did that bastard rape you?"

Sam knew the look in her brother's eyes. If she didn't tell him the truth, Dave would concoct one of his ridiculous hero journeys.

"I'll tell you! Just don't interrupt. She braced herself. Why hadn't she called the police? Or told their parents?

"On our date last week, Matthew took me to the park where we first met to be romantic. It was really cute, don't you think?"

Dave looked furious.

"Moving on. Some guys came up and tried to mug us. When they found we had no money, they were all like, 'Oh, we'll just get our money's worth some other way,' looking me up and down all creepy-like. I guess instinct took over or something when they tried to grab me, because I totally freaked and beat the crap out of them. Obviously, one cannot leave battle without some scars, so I have a shoulder bruise and my foot hurts, so I'm limping."

They sat in silence.

"Are you mad?"

"I can't say I'm not a little incredulous, but awesome job! I'm really proud of you. Mom and Dad would be too."

"You don't think it was stupid?"

"Of course it was, but you held your own and came out great. This also makes me think better of Matthew. He's not intimidated by your bad-assery?"

"No. He said it was an excellent fight." She sighed. "I think I'll tell Mom and Dad tonight."

"Great. We'll put on some Sinatra to calm 'em down, and they'll be telling this at cocktail parties withing a month."

They got up from the curb and started walking.

Sam crinkled her nose. "I hate Sinatra."

"I love him. Tolerate it." He bumped her shoulder.

"Ouch!" she complained. "I may have skin as tough as bricks, but I am a dainty child."

"I said Mom's oatmeal cookies."

"Same thing, really."

"The Tool Shed"

2010-02-02T13:53:00.000-08:00

by Lauren Garrett-Joly

Dad creeps slowly down the steps into our basement workshop, one of his and my favorite places to spend our time. This is where we can fully embrace our "manly man-ness" together. To prove it, Dad is wearing overalls, Timberlands, and has quite a bit of overgrown stubble on his chin that he has purposely chosen to ignore this Saturday morning.

Dad is an obvious country man at heart, though he chose to stop speaking like one since he met my mother. Growing up in New Jersey, he always naturally kept up that tuff-gruff, I'm-a-man persona. The beard thing was a part of this, of course, but he told me he really kept it up to look like Bruce Springsteen.

"So Dad, what exactly are we building today?" I ask as he makes his way down our rickety basement stairs. He grunts, ignoring my question as he acknowledges our surroundings. Our basement, unlike most, is not caked in cobwebs, dust and soot, but instead is generally pretty clean. You can even see the burgundy color of the wooden steps, which until I attended my friend Jimmy's bar-mitzvah (yes--in his basement), I didn't realize was an enviable feat.

But Dad isn't grunting at the shine of the wood, he's grunting at the very unorganized set of tools we've been collecting down here (since I was 7, which then I could only look at, not touch). I had always figured Dad appreciated this, being that this was the only quadrant of the house that wasn't constantly kept tidy. (We do live with 4 females after all.) So I took pride in the disheveled look of our tools and I thought Dad did as well. Apparently not.

"Could we not actually build anything today dad, and maybe just break things apart?" I ask.

I laugh quietly to myself at how impulsively destructive that idea sounds-0but we're initiating our inner man here, so why not?

"I've been really frustrated recently, Dad; mainly since I'm pretty sure I bombed all my finals. So I figured that would be a fun way to let off some steam, you know?"

Silence from Dad. He just kinda sways from his right to left foot, blankly staring into space, and barely listening to anything I say. I sigh. This, for some non-apparent reason, does catch his attention.

"You know, sport, why don't we just skip woodworking today? I'm just pretty worn out from the week, alright?"

"Uh, yeah, no problem, Dad," I reply, with a purposefully good amount of disappointment in my voice. He doesn't seem to notice this either as he walks back up the stairs, leaving our fortress of manly bonding behind. He must have other things on his mind.

* * *

The next morning, our normal pancakes-for-Sunday-breakfast routine doesn't commence. Instead we (being my 3 sisters and I) are brought to the living room, with Mom and Dad sitting on the couch across from us.

Mom hesitates at first, but finally sighs and announces: "So, your father and I are getting a divorce."

I look over at my 3 younger sisters, hoping they don't burst into tears, because if they do, I definitely will. But they simply look confused, their blue eyes deep pools of unhappy surprise.

I stare angrily at Dad especially. I don't blame Mom for this; she's not the man of the family. But apparently neither is he.

"How, why, how could you do this? Why are you splitting our special little almost perfect family apart!?"

"Hey now, Michael, don't you dare go blaming this whole thing on me. This was all your mothers do-" Dad turns to my sisters, saying in a kinder tone of voice: "I mean, a decision made equally by both you mother and I."

"Oh now that's a load of bull!" I shout, angrily arising from the couch. "Last time I checked, divorce isn't the manly thing to do, Dad!"

"What is all this man talk about, son? What, are you trying to prove something to me? Look, if you're gay, you're gay. It doesn't make you any less of a man. I mean-"

Mom cuts in: "What? Michael, why didn't you tell me?"

"What, no, what are you talking about!? I'm not gay, alright? What are you, like trying to sway the accusations away from yourself now Dad?. 'Cause its not going to work. God."

I sit back down on the couch and let my hands sink into my waiting palms. I begin to feel the urge to grab a saw from the basement and carefully cut my heart out with it, but of course I don't because Dad would say: "Now son, thats no way to use a tool."

And I would reply "No Dad, your right. Instead you used it to slice apart your relationship with the mother of your children. Way to be a manly man."

"Untitled 2010"

2010-01-08T15:22:00.000-08:00

by Silvan Carson Goodman

Fire leaps from one chair to the next. Rapidly devouring the last memories of checkerboard upholstery. The flames hungrily lick at the ceiling, and I can't think about anything except what's down the hallway. I run, slamming through a door with my shoulder. I run down the hallways faster than when me and him were young, and I would let him win the races.

I kick his door open and I am blasted in the face with a billowing cloud of smoke. I can hear his wheezing, raspy breaths.

"Mike!" I shout. No response. I run to his bed; it's empty. He is on the ground; he was trying to crawl to his wheelchair.

I hoist him into my arms and lurch out of the room. Flashes of doors and fire and smoke go by my eyes. I don't register any of it until I am out on the lawn.

I can't hear or see the flashing chaos around me; I can only see his face. I place the soot-covered hunk of flesh gently in the grass.

He doesn't move. I touch his hair. He doesn't make a sound. I grab his shirt and I shake him. He doesn't breathe... or cough... or do anything. My tears fall on his damned useless legs that finally finished the job.

* * *

"John's Mustache"

2009-12-04T08:58:00.000-08:00

by Faye Honig

John Pierre, living in America with his wife Annmarie, has a mustache. It is a men's normal mustache, nothing special. He has had the mustache since he was 24, and he is now 42.

He has had a hard day at the office and is pacing in his bathroom. His wife is away for two days on a business trip. He turns his face and studies it in the mirror. He needs to change something. Grabbing his razor and shaving cream, he gets rid of his mustache.

He goes to sleep, feeling satisfied and calm.

* * *

When Annmarie returns from Boston, John calls out from the kitchen: "Honey, dinner's ready!" Annmarie walks in. She takes a deep breath. "Smells great, sweetie! Thanks!" She gives him a kiss.

"Notice anything different?"

"Umm... new shirt?"

"I shaved my mustache!"

"What?"

"It's gone! See?"

"You had a mustache?"

"Ha! I've had it for eighteen years... I just decided I needed a change."

"Sweetie... you've never had a mustache..."

"What? You mean you actually can't remember it?"

"No..."

"Look at all the pictures!"

John goes to their photo albums, shaking his head. He grabs one and flips to the first page. He looks at a few photos that he barely remembers, even though he took them.

"Where are all the pictures?"

"What? Those are the pictures."

"No. Where are the pictures with me in them?"

"Well, you've always insisted that you be the photographer... You've never been in any pictures, come to think of it..."

"That's not true! Wouldn't you think that was a bit strange?"

"Well, yes, I did at the time, but I never really questioned it."

"I can't believe this. I had a mustache the other day, I swear!"

"Fine, John. Look, it's getting late. Let's just eat dinner and go to bed. We both have work tomorrow."

* * *

The next morning, after Annmarie leaves for work, John goes looking for evidence of his mustache. He tries the bathroom sink, but he cleaned it out after shaving and there's no hair. He only ever used scissors to trim it, too, so there isn't any telltale grooming equipment.

He rips apart his whole house looking for a picture.

"My commencement picture!" He runs to his bedroom and grabs his folder of documents from Wesleyan. He frantically goes through papers, his eyes searching for himself. Nothing. He knows his picture with gap and gown (and mustache) is there, but he can't find it.

"Where did my life go?"

He has to go to work.

* * *

John drives as close to the speed limit as he can. When he arrives, he swipes his ID card through the scanner by the turnstile. It beeps. The guard calls him over.

"The system denied you."

"Oh. I... you just need to talk to my boss, Mister Ryan. My name is John Phillipe. I work here."

The guard presses a button on the phone on his desk. "Mister Ryan, a man named John Phillipe is here to see you."

"What?" a voice answers.

"John Phillipe."

"Huh? He was fired years ago."

"What?" yells John. He races out of the office and into his car. He can't take it anymore. He spends the next two nights in a motel.

* * *

The third morning John wakes up and finds himself in his own bed. He looks around, dazed. He jumps out of bed and runs to his folder of Wesleyan documents. His commencement picture is there. His mustache covers his wide, toothy grin.

He breaths a sigh of relief. He goes to the bathroom mirror. His mustache is gone.

"Oh no."

The lock clicks.

"John? I'm home from my business trip."

"Hi!"

Annmarie walks into the bathroom.

"Oh, you shaved your mustache?"

"You remembered I had one?"

"Of course... you've had it for eighteen years!"

[This story reminds me of Mulholland Drive (2001). Also Franz Kafka's The Trial (1925). Good job Faye! --Ned]

"Tech Support"

2009-11-08T17:43:00.000-08:00

by Grace Rittenberg

"...In the auditorium, Mr. Jobs stood onstage in that powerful stance of his..."

"Damn it."

I hit and cursed my work computer. Violence toward technology didn't help, of course, but it made me feel a lot better.

"What's wrong?" Nick asked.

"It's still not really working."

"Did you call the tech person?"

"Yeah, I don't know where he is." Secretly I believed that the tech person was late so he could pretend he was busy.

"Well," Nick said, "he is pretty busy."

***

Nick is one of those Steve-Jobs-worshipping Apple employees. I took this job because there wasn't anything else I could do -- and it pays well. You can make more money at Apple than anywhere else since Bill Gates died.

"You called?" said a male voice. Oh, great.

"Yeah, I'm having some problems with -- "

"Move!" he cut me off. The tech guy was thin and he instantly annoyed me. "Now, what are you having problems with?"

"Well, I don't know what printer to send this to, and I keep having to restart it because it freezes when I open Safari."

He let out an exasperated breath. "You're not supposed to use Safari."

"Then why is it there?"

"The printer on this floor is Z52720-Second-Floor. I don't know why your colleagues -- " he glared at Nick " -- didn't tell you. Please, only call me for important things."

This job has taught me one thing -- I hate tech people.

"Auditorium now, auditorium now," said a voice over the speaker system. "Director Jobs has an announcement. Auditorium now."

"If it's another new iPod, I'm going to be gutted, because I just got the new one," Nick said.

***
In the auditorium, Mr. Jobs stood onstage in that powerful stance of his.

When everybody sat down, he held something up and said, "This, everyone, is the first ever iPod!"

It was something we'd all seen before. It was pretty ancient -- only about 2 gigs, no touch screen, and it was huge.

"And these," he continued, "are all the iPods ever!"

He clicked his fingers and a curtain came down, uncovering a wall of iPods.

"I have called you all here today to tell you the news. Drum roll, please!"

He clicked his fingers again, and a drum roll started.

"Apple is the most powerful, influential, expensive and profitable company in the world!"

Everyone applauded. I joined in, because I'm pretty sure it was mandatory. But it made me wonder -- what would people ever do without technology? It could all crash in a second.

"And that is why!" Jobs said, "We are now entering... phase two."

The lights dimmed. A spotlight under his face turned on and lengthened his features. And then things started getting very evil...

"Give It A Chance"

2009-10-17T17:10:00.000-07:00

by Grace Rittenberg

Polly was obsessed with it. It was so easy. Eventually she would get kicked out of the stores, but she always had some time to do what she loved.

She walked down the familiar streets with a smile on her face. No one that she knew was around so it was safe. None of her friends knew about it. She told them that she had stuff to do on Fridays. It was a ritual, and she didn't want to break it.

She walked into the building and immediately went to the right section. There were a few other people around. Polly wondered if they hid from their friends also. It wasn't the most shameful thing in the world, but if your friends rag on something, you tend not to do it.

She had been at it for maybe an hour when she heard a voice say, "Polly?"

Polly looked up to see two very familiar faces. They were standing there with their mouths open.

"What are you doing?" one of them asked.

"Um... reading."

"In the manga section?"

Polly didn't say anything. She knew her friends would find out sooner or later, but she had hoped that it would be later. They were always talking about how dumb manga was, how people who read it are lame.

"I was waiting for my dad. And okay, look, there he is!" With that excuse, she ran out of the bookstore.

She knew it was stupid. She knew that her friends would like her whatever she did, but it was something that she wanted to do alone. She never bought the books; she just sat in the stores read them until clerks annoyed her about actually buying something.

Now she wouldn't be able to read these books in peace. Her friends would mention it whenever they got the chance. She would laugh it off, but it would still hurt a little, because manga was something she loved. Her friends just didn't give it a chance. That's all she asked for--a chance.

(prompt: write something about shame)

"Morning News"

2009-09-15T08:37:00.000-07:00

by Katie Waldron

Of course I had no idea. Plenty of people sit like that in this heat. Swinging your legs makes you slightly less hot, and any little bit is good… Her leg swinging did get faster and faster, but all I thought was: ‘Man, that girl has really fast legs.’"

I couldn’t see her whole face, but she was pretty--even from the side. I stared at her on the bench while everyone else stared at the empty train tracks.

A forced, comforting voice said, "The next--F--train has been delayed due to traffic ahead of us. Please be patient."

A voice in my head said, “Forget that message. You don't have much time. Talk to her."

After that, things got a little unruly and perverse in my brain and groin. I hate summer, but I like the look of it, and she wasn’t wearing much. I slid over to her so we could be on the same car at least.

Some suit looked at his watch. One would think the voice in my head telling me to talk would let me speak!

I plugged myself into some distracting music next to her and decided to look for the train, since I wouldn’t be able to hear it. It was the longest I’ve ever waited for a train.

When it finally came, she leaped up, rushed to the tracks, and jumped in front of it.

* * *

Later on, an MTA worker asked me, "Did you try to help?"

“No! I didn't even see her move! Then I looked, and…”

“Thank you for your assistance.”

I did have an instant with her, though. She did glance at me when I put my headphones in. And she was pretty. I wish I could say I saw the “light leave her eyes."

But she was alive, and then she wasn’t. She just became something else. They’d have to clean off the tracks.

Another woman, an old one who was trying to show that she was wise, said, “You’ll hear a follow up on the news.”

She was right. She was on the next morning.

It was the longest I’ve ever waited for the news.

"The Trees"

2009-08-06T08:23:00.000-07:00

by Epifania Rita Gallina

That morning I woke up after a terrible nightmare, probably the worst nightmare I had ever had in my life.

In the nightmare there were trees around me, but they weren't normal big and green trees, they were terrifying, horrible trees that looked like they wanted to kill me.

You might ask, "How can trees kill you? They don't move!" But these trees had come to life and were chasing after me, until I fell into a big hole and died.

The moment I woke up, I felt like everything I had experienced throughout the nightmare was actually going to happen to me.

I felt my blood pressure rise and my heart fill with anxiety as I looked at my mirror, placed next to my head, and noticed the oddly pale color of my face.

I surely did look like a dead person, but thankfully I was still there, in my small, unspecial room, surrounded my silly belongings.

After I dressed, I came downstairs to the kitchen and saw my parents, who were usually drinking their coffee at that time, waiting for me in the living room, on the couch.

I faked a smile as I walked over to them, trying hard not to think about the trees, and sat next to them.

My mom, who was always readiant and beautiful, looked worried and fragile, and my dad looked like someone had totally offended him. He sat there in a state of shock with his eyes wide open.

As I sat next to them, they took synchronized deep breaths.

Then I saw them again. The trees. I saw them in my head as my parents faced me and started their conversations.

First, they asked me how I had slept, and I lied about that, and then they seemed to gather some fake courage to tell me the worst thing they could.

"Your blood test came back yesterday," my mother said. "There's something wrong."

My dad started crying. "You have lukemia," he said.

My mom turned to him and burst into tears with him.

But no one could have felt like I did. My heart raced worse than it had in any dream. Faster than a train. My head began to pound and my insides fell in on themselves. I was really going to die.

"The Phlegm-Spitter"

2009-07-04T11:12:00.001-07:00

by Miranda von Salis

What is with this kid? I think. I stand, freezing my ass off, on the train platform. It's filling up with people watching for the train, but I'm transfixed by the boy to my left.

You get to know the people who catch the same train as you. I have a number of people to watch, so what is he doing disrupting my morning schedule? He leans over and -- PHOO -- spits down. I will name him "The Phlegm-Spitter."

*
I always like putting my feet up on the seat next to me even though every person who walks by shoots me a horrible look. It's kind of funny to see people's reactions.

I sit behind him instead of in my normal seat. I think I'll just ride until he gets off; I want to see where he's going. There isn't anything worth doing in history class anyway.

He has his iPod on way too loud and he's gonna go deaf. I want to tell him but I know I won't. I don't want to hear his voice and plus --

It ruins the fun of it if they know you're there.

*
I look out the window and see his reflection. He's staring at the trees rolling past. He looks kind of wistful and I have decided it is because his parents just told him that they are getting a divorce.

Maybe he's running away -- his backpack does look really full. Yes, he's running away because his parents fight all the time. Now I have to see where he's getting off.

He taps his leg to the music -- not well. So I know he's not a musician. He doesn't look like a musician; well, maybe a piano player, but everyone plays piano. My parents tried to make me play it but they got sick of paying the teacher when I didn't show up.

*
"NEXT STOP: TANTOWN"

Oh, wait, he's getting up. ("Tantown.") There is absolutely nothing in ("Tantown"). Where does he think he's going?

He is such a disappointment. I hope he knows it, too. Maybe he found something in Tantown. Maybe he's going to go and live in an abandoned warehouse and run a puppy mill.

"WATCH FOR THE CLOSING DOORS."

He's gone. I can see him walk past the windows. Where is he going?

In a second, I get up and the doors close behind me. I can see his head moving away. I shoulder my backpack. I wasn't going to learn anything at school anyway.

"Cake!"

2009-06-19T10:47:00.000-07:00

by Zackary Kruskal

If your friend's birthday sucks, there is always a backup plan, a reason to say until the end, a purpose as you swing randomly in the air hoping to bring an animal hung up from the rafters of the cold barn. A cake!

It always repairs any situation. Weddings, parties, or even a solitary night at home can be enjoyed with the presence of cake. You don't need a specific utensil (or any utensil at all) to breach the icing and indulge in the sugary goodness beneath the surface.

Of course not all cake is good. In fact, cake is a very hyped-up affair. Just saying "cake" sets the bar pretty high. When it fails to deliver, however well the party was going beforehand won't matter, because after the cake, there is talk, and if everyone has just had a piece of tough rubbery plastic instead of the lush red velvet they were promised, what are you going to talk about: the weather? Or how, out of politeness, you ladled piece after piece into your protesting mouth?

Bad cake is social depression and no one will want to come over to your house anymore.

However, a good cake might just fix that slow-moving bat mitzvah or remedy a bad relation with that aunt who makes the sweaters. Forget home-baked muffins; a cake is way beyond anyone's expectations and will break the ice no matter how thick it is.

"She is Such a..."

2009-05-07T11:12:00.000-07:00

by Fatima Said

I stood outside the front door, glaring at her. She stared right back at me. I intensified my gaze but it did no good. She refused to go away. I decided to ignore her, thinking that eventually she would get tired and leave me alone.

She didn't. I walked up the front steps, went into the house, and slammed the door. She stared at me through the window. After twenty minutes of trying to wish her away, I finally snapped.

I barged outside.

"You! Here you are, new in town, and you're already trying to get your paws all over David! You just can't resist trying to steal him, can you?! And now you get all stalkerish, standing outside of my house for hours!"

She sniffed at me.

"Oh-- Oh yeah?" I shouted. "Well you can't have him, you, you, you FEMALE DOG!"

I stomped back inside and slammed the door. I gave her another long glare from my window, and finally, the little wench of wenchiness turned and started back toward her house. She reached her door, turned, looked back at me, and wagged her tail.

Then she disappeared into the doggy door.

I turned to see David standing at the doorway, staring at me. I smiled at him.

"It's just me and you, hon."

We both walked into the living room and curled up on the couch in front of the TV.

I let out a sigh. It was just me and my dog again, alone at last. That's the way I had always thought it would be until she came along.

Betsy had moved in across the street with the new neighbors. She was a golden retriever, like David. On the second day, I found her in my back yard, cuddling up to David on the grass. I kicked her out, but almost every day after that, for two weeks, I found her somewhere on my property. She was either in my yard or she had somehow managed to end up INSIDE my house. After the two weeks I started to suspect she was trying to steal David. You want to know why?

BECAUSE I FOUND THEM IN MY BEDROOM!

That's right, my bedroom. This is apparently what female dogs do.

"Song"

2009-04-20T13:49:00.000-07:00

by Jessie Baum

The playground was covered in children, all cutesy clothes that would have been tacky on anyone else but were unbearably adorable on tiny people on monkey bars. To the mothers (and occasionally fathers) that lived near 9th Street, the playground was a place to let their children off of their little leashes and chat with friends. Only one man didn't know anyone else at the 9th Street Playground. The dirty man lying on the bench.

He was technically breaking rule #45-A of Parks Service Public Conduct (“only guardians and their children may enter”) but he didn't care and the police weren't about to bother him. They weren't eager to encounter him again.

The parents, for the most part, ignored him, though occasionally they'd snatch their children away from his radius. He was tired, and wanted to sleep, but as soon as he drifted off, a child's shriek would rouse him. He was about to slouch off when a little girl, thin with slip-on-shoes and droopy socks, danced up to him.

“Are you his daddy?” She pointed at a little boy trying to do the monkey rings.

“Go away, kid.”

“'Cause he says he don't got a daddy and I said everyone has one and that's when I saw you, and you look like him.”

He squinted at the boy. He did look like him.

“What's your name, kid?”

“Song.”

“Song, if that's your real name, I don't got a son, okay? So leave me alone.”

She cocked her head. She actually looked a bit like a bird, with bright dark eyes and dark hair. He closed his eyes and prayed Caroline wasn't the child's mother.

“Why?”

“Why what? Go.”

“Why should I go?”

“Cause I don't like kids.” He did his best fierce homeless-guy face.

“Why? You were a kid too, right? And why don't Oliver got a daddy?”

“I don't know. Someone's not a daddy unless they're in a family.”

So I can't be the kid's father, he added silently.

“Why is your voice so scratchy?”

“'Cause I used to smoke. Don't smoke.”

“My mommy smokes. But I love her. She showed me how to cartwheel. Look!”

Song stepped back and ran a little and gave a jump, but tripped and skinned her knee.

“Oh no! Hey! You okay kid?!”

“Yeah.” She smiled bravely.

He smiled.

“Song!” A woman called form across the playground.

“I gotta go.” She looked at him almost wistfully.

“I'm here all the time,” he called to her as she skipped away.

"Dark, Lugubrious..."

2009-03-01T05:10:00.000-08:00

by Silvan Carson-Goodman

"Embarrassment is a superfluous emotion. Given the choice, I would do without it. It's like fear in that respect, which is interesting considering that fear most often shows up when tied to embarrassment. Either through fear of shame or shame of fear."

The slightly round man sat down and after hearing his inspiring words I knew that I was in the right place.

I didn't want to be in the right place.

Being in the right place filled me with dark lugubrious shame. All these people looking at me, judging me with their distasteful eyes. Just by my being here they all knew what was wrong with me. Regardless of the fact that they were here for the same reason, deep down they knew that I was worse than them.

I am a lower being, something to be spit upon. Oh it all just made me feel so awful.

The slightly rounder man sitting next to the slightly round man looked at me and said:

"Harvey, would you like to share with the group?"

I reluctantly stood and said, "Hi, my name is Harvey and I'm a shameaholic."

"OMGs"

2009-02-01T00:01:00.000-08:00

by Linda-Carolyn Hansen

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Emily. She was always late.

One day she had to make it to an interview that was going to start at three in the afternoon. The interview was going to be in Manhattan. Since she lived in Staten Island, she had to leave at one-thirty, considering the train, bus and ferry. Well, that day, Emily overslept and didn't wake up until twelve-thirty.

As soon as she looked at her clock, she gasped. But that did not prevent her from going to her kitchen to get breakfast.

After having a Pop Tart, a glass of orange juice, and an apple, she decided it was time to hit the shower. As Emily was walking up the stairs, she heard her phone ring.

"Emily, my darling, it's me!"

"Lilian! Where have you been? I haven't seen you for months! It's as if you disappeared!"

Somehow, Emily melted into conversation. Hours and hours of "oh my gods" and "no ways" and "did you hears" followed. Little did Emily know how much time was passing.

When she finally reached upstairs, right before getting into the shower, Emily checked the time. FOUR-THIRTY!

Emily was furious!! Being the kind of person that would never take the blame for anything she did, she started to think of someone to yell at. It didn't take too long before "Lilian" popped in her head. She ran downstairs and grabbed her phone.

"Hello?" answered Lilian.

"Why do you always ruin everything?" asked Emily.

"Excuse me?"

"You know exactly what I mean!"

"What happened, are you okay?"

"Don't play the innocent card! If it wasn't for you I wouldn't have missed my interview!"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Your big mouth! That's what I'm talking about! You always call and talk so much! Gosh, Lil, do you ever shut up?"

"How dare you blame me for making you late? If you didn't get so carried away with talking then you wouldn't be late, Em!"

"Whatever! I'm so sick of you, Lilian," Emily said, and she clicked off the phone.

Furious, Emily started pacing back and forth. After making about ten circles around the kitchen, she became tired, dropped to the floor, and began to think her day through. It got her upset.

She decided she'd have lunch, since her breakfast was small. So she went to her fridge. But before reaching for an ice cream, she looked at her calendar.

Her cheeks turned red and she burst out laughing. She had her interview scheduled for tomorrow, not today!

She picked up the phone again.

"What?" Lilian asked.

"Oh, I'm so sorry..."

And for the rest of the night, she was on the phone with Lilian. Laughing. This time with more "omgs," "did you hears" and "no ways."

"Ultimus"

2009-01-01T00:01:00.000-08:00

by Jomo Farrier

A crimson pool of life. The first thing that comes to mind from the moment I wake, to the second I rest. It even haunts my dreams, turning them into nightmares that tease me with my desires and reward me with sorrow. I loved her, ya know. And now, anytime I think of her, those peaceful thoughts are tainted. Corrupted by that crimson pool of life, slowly leaking out of her chest.

We're supposed to be immortal. But if we really were, how did I watch the love of my life die?

All I could do was watch. Sacred chains restricted me to the body I possessed. And the mythical blade... the one that wasn't even supposed to exist... it proved it existed, and then some.

I knew three things:

The blade's name was Ultimus. The knight in shining armor yelled it as he impaled the one who I was destined to be with.
The hero's name? Pride. He shouted that too. Announced his arrival, as if he was important to anyone but himself.
I wanted revenge. And no force in heaven or hell could stop me.

*

I never liked heroes. I mean, neutral characters are ok. Indecisive, but ok. Heroes, though? The scum of the earth. They aren't comfrotable with living their own lives and dealing with their own problems. They always need more; they want to solve everyone else's problems. But how can people learn from the mistakes they make if another person fixes it?

Exactly. They don't.

*

Pride killed Destiny. He restrained me first, with those enchanted chains that made my body useless, and then he delivered one swift stab to the heart. But you see... Destiny had my heart. And when Pride stabbed hers, he killed all of my remorse.

All sympathy, all chance of forgiveness.

For I am Consequence. You can hold off Consequence, but you will never be able to stop it. Me.

Man, thinking like Pride has me speaking in 3rd person. Ugh. You have to think like your enemy to know his weaknesses, though. And so it begins.

*

John Taylor. The name of the man I possessed. A fair-skinned male, light blue eyes. Muscular. The rest is unimportant. Because he's dead now.

I stared in the mirror for hours after Destiny died, locked in the chains. I realize that I didn't describe these chains before. They aren't your normal linked pieces of scrap metal. They are more like bracelets, beguiling to the eyes. Covered with cryptic symbols. It's impossible to describe their feel, though. Because every time I touched the chains, I felt empty, alone. Those human emotions that don't usually cut as deep. Maybe the loss of Destiny made that happen. But...

Every time I tried to break out of John Taylor's body, the chains glowed crimson and made me stay. So, since the bracelets wouldn't come off, I had to take a leap of faith, from the 20th floor of my hotel room, and get out of the body permanently.

*

The one mistake that heroes always make is to not get both sides of the story.

They think everything is black and white. A damsel in distress--and a villain. A village of civilians--and a monster. What they fail to realize is that everyone makes decisions that put them in the predicaments they need to be saved from.

That damsel in distress probably did something to piss the villain off. That monster? Probably lived where those civilians built that village. If someone kicked you our of your home, wouldn't you be pissed?

*

Now I was free, drifting for a purpose. A body to possess, to reach Pride. But as I drifted, something stopped me. Another spirit. Her name was Knowledge.

So of course, she knew everything. She looked into my blank eyes and told me the rest of the story.

Love was Pride's wife. She died. Why? Because Destiny killed her. Love was the foolish little sister of Knowledge. So of course, she knew nothing. But anyway.

Love and Destiny, the two women, had come up with a plan. A test for Pride. First, Destiny killed Love with the blade: Ultimus. Pride walked in and Destiny fled, leaving the weapon in Love's chest. I wish Pride had made that mistake with me. But anyway. Pride took the blade, chased after Destiny, and caught and killed her in front of me.

And then Knowledge gave me the most crucial piece of knowledge: where Pride was. He was now possessing the President of the United States of America.

*

That coward! I knew what I had to do. I flew to the White House entrance and possessed one of the agents of the Secret Service: Nathan Whitaker. I went on break and walked into the Oval Office. There was the President, staring as if he was waiting for me.

He thrust his hands forward and force erupted out of his palms, attempting to lock me within that body. I was smart, though. I left the body at once. The force threw Nathan into a wall, cracking his neck with great momentum. That must've hurt. I dove for Pride as he got out of his chair, running. I reached him and breached his mind.

There I stood, in this white, blank room. Pride held Ultimus in his hands.

"Are you stupid?" he asked. "This blade is unstoppable."

"Don't you understand?" I asked. "They tricked us both. Your wife and Destiny just used you, to see if you would crack. And you did. Pride had to be a hero and kill Destiny. And now you're left with me: Consequence."

"Then I'll kill you."

"You can't," I said. "Pride only has the power to kill its own destiny. It doesn't have the power to do anything else."

I walked up to him and grabbed the blade of Ultimus. It melted in my hands as he watched in horror. The big bad wolf lost his balls.

Dead Point

2008-12-03T19:55:00.000-08:00

"Dead Point"
by Jessie Baum

The bell rings. Walking home from school, one hand on her backpack strap, one swinging. Ditch the bag. Pulse racing as she climbs the fire escape of a building not her own. Walk across the roof—sun directly overhead. Shield her eyes and clamber onto the wall on the edge of the roof.

Dead point. Exhilaration; flat somehow, feeling her heartbeat throughout her body, building to a strange high.

Panting slightly as she starts down fire escape on the other side. Stops in the middle of the fire escape. Cool shade, pressing her back against the damp cement. Crouch, then lie down on the crusty black bars. Looking up at the sky. Waiting. Sigh. Breathe even. Resting now. Maybe not. Not today…

No, they’re coming. She can hear their sneakers crunching the broken-up tar below.

She crouches up. They're rounding the corner. Getting into view.

Her breath comes faster. Heady feeling. Chest compressing.

They're joking and laughing too loud. There he is.

They walk into the alley, right under her. She can see their hair. Zoom in on him. He has terrible dandruff. Feel the perverse satisfaction. See, no one is perfect, least of all you. Watch again. Feeling the pain in her heart as he pulls that girl closer, hand staying on his waist as if glued there. They light up and the sweet smell drifts up. Resists coughing and/or holding breath. Told him to stop that stuff… he’s so stupid, then why do I want to be with him still? Still love—no. Impossible. Never. Love stopped the day I followed him here… Knew it was stupid, then why... Suspected the other girl, saw him here with her, this one’s a slut too—she doesn’t love him, better then, he doesn’t deserve you—maybe, maybe, he didn’t—no but then I loved him and made sacrafices but he—he wouldn’t give this up. He said he’d stopped, maybe he did and I saw him when he’d gone back—no. DON’T KID YOURSELF.

Rule #1—don’t lie to yourself. Why are you here?

The girl's shaggy hair moves closer to him. She whispers something.

Why do I want him? Why do we always want what’s worst for us? She presses her face to the iron.

He hit on me in class the other day. I was sure. He is so twisted. So sick. Stay away… The pain hits. His face, his gross scalp, lost forever.

Never. He could still come back… but he won’t.

Him and Slut make out. She has curly hair. Everyone else is reduced to slurring.

Her hatred churns ger stomach. He is not allowed to make her feel this way. Not allowed. The light floaty feeling that hit her even though she didn't want it is gone. She is grounded. She gets up. No one hears. She turns and takes one last look before climbing. Dead Point.

My God It's Gregory Shaw

2008-11-28T10:25:00.000-08:00

"My God It's Gregory Shaw"
by Alana Mohamed

Bellsville. Erase from your head any thoughts of nicely trimmed lawns and white picket fences. Think of withered apartments full of junkies, would-be musicians and high school drop-outs. Picture a place where you held a minimum wage job by day and partied all night long, dancing and drinking with the local bands that didn’t care (or just weren’t good enough).

You’re at a show with Bill, a janitor at the local supermarket where you man the cashier register. You and Bill spot a quirky-looking kid with dirty hair and a long trench coat. He lugs a guitar around and is never without his meek shadow of a friend who could only be distinguished by his half-mohawk, half-mullet hair style. They’re pretty well-known around town, but you don’t know why.

You snicker with Bill as you watch the kid trip over wires and struggle to plug into his amp. He doesn’t look like he eats much.

“Does he eat at all?” you muse to Bill.

Bill shakes his head and says, “I heard he lives off his girlfriend and he’s a junkie. He’ll probably be dead in two months, or whenever she decides to leave him for a real man.” Bill flexes, showing just how muscular he is.

All of a sudden feedback attacks your ears. he kid is on stage with his guitar and his quiet friend clutching a bass. They are joined by their gigantic drummer. You laugh at the sight and leave after ten minutes. The music was horrible; the singing was horrible; the whole set was horrible. You and Bill get drunk and the rest of your night consists mostly of making fun of that shitty band.

Five years later you’re still in your supermarket. The kid passes you by and you stare flabbergasted, knowing his autograph could make you millions. You aren’t alone. A crowd of people gather behind him.

“Gregory Shaw, my God it’s Gregory Shaw!” They scream, while you ring up a box of maxi pads for $7.99.

The Mask

2008-10-10T04:48:00.000-07:00

"The Mask"
by Delia Taylor

“I'm tired of this crap... You said you would stop. I don't think I can do this anymore!” she exclaimed.

“But it's for our own daughter, Jullian! Why can't you understand that? She needs this, we need this! Don't you want to keep our baby girl alive?”

Jullian sat in her chair and stared at Paul as if she'd never met him before.

“I think you're addicted to it, Paul. What about last week, huh? When you drew all that damn attention and almost got your face on NY 12?”

Jullian stood up and walked away from the table with Katherine in her arms. Paul grabbed her. This was how things had gotten. Ever since Katherine developed her disease, their lives had turned into endless bickering, constant cursing, and the ever-frequent “Why don't you act like the man in the family?”

“Maybe someday I will,” Paul would always answer. Jullian never expected him to make good on his word the way he did.

*

Two months after receiving Katherine's diagnosis, Paul woke up, took a long look at his slowly fading baby girl, and knew that he'd chosen the right path. He put on a black mask and got his gun out of his sock drawer.

He reminded himself of how it would go. First, he'd tell his wife, “I just need to clear my head.” Then he'd drive off to the nearest Commerce Bank. And it wouldn't be for the free pens or the red lollipops.

*

Jullian stood in the door frame crying off her makeup.

“You can't do this, Paul!” she cried. Paul was used to this. He was done yelling, done fighting a battle he couldn't win. “But don't you see how much better Katherine's gotten lately? She's smiling again, Jullian. I haven't seen her smile in so long. I'd forgotten what it looked like...”

“But that doesn't give you the right to keep breaking the law!”

Paul wrapped his arms around her waist, like he did when they were in high school. “To me it does,” he said.

He kissed her on her cheek once like he used to. He patted Katherine's head. He looked in his wallet, which had grown in size since he'd... switched professions.

He grabbed his keys and took the black mask—it was his shelter, the assurance that he'd have enough to pay for his daughter's medicine. It was the thing that filled him with adrenaline and kept his heart beating at an unnatural pace, in unnatural places, late at night.

He put the mask on and suddenly had a very clear conscience.

What Comes of Cameras

2008-09-29T17:08:00.000-07:00

"What Comes of Cameras"
by Chelsea Kronick

Aiden was scared. His hands were shaking, his breath was coming in short gasps and his t-shirt was sticking to his underarms, bunching up. He tugged at his shirt and kept walking, ignoring the giant claw marks in the soil and avoiding the huge trees torn up from their roots, despite the jelly-like quality his knees had taken on.

Fifty feet away and it was a straight shot. The camera lay near the mouth of the cave; sunlight glared off the cracked lens and the broken flash bulb glittered—crushed powder scattered around.

Forty more feet and Aiden was hyperventilating. He saw nothing but the camera as he broke into a run. He slipped and scrambled up the hill; shale tumbled down behind him, making enough noise to wake the beast sleeping inside the cave.

Fifteen feet and Aiden stopped. Paralyzed. The amber eyes of the creature watched him patiently from the semi-darkness. He switched to a slow approach, eyes jumping back and forth from the giant black head to his broken camera.

Ten more feet and the beast still hadn’t moved; it watched him with a critical eye.

Aiden stopped five feet from the camera. The animal began to move forward, stalking him like prey, and he couldn’t move. The smell of his sweat and fear drifted towards the creature on a breeze that chilled him to the bone.

The creature moved forward. In the dim light, Aiden saw only the amber eyes and grinning teeth of a giant dog, one that approached with tantalizing slowness.

The tears started to run down his face as the animal circled him, sniffing closer and closer. His knees finally gave out and he collapsed to the ground. Instinct took over and he brought his hands up over his head, protecting his neck.

For eons he stayed like that, his fear too great to allow him to raise his head or open his eyes. Pain shot through his knees, his back, his elbows and his neck. But he still couldn’t move.

And then he felt cool moisture. Something was licking his ankle, his shoulder, his hand. The beast was eating him!

And then he was up. And before he could look, the puppies were tumbling over each other in their hurry, and the black she wolf was laughing, tongue lolling, one lip raised in a snarl as if to reprimand him for scaring her pups. And Aiden was running, sliding down the hill, camera forgotten and it was only when he got home that he stopped to wonder.

Intentionally Bad Writing

2008-08-23T11:26:00.000-07:00

On 8/21/08, inspired by the work of Amanda McKittrick Ros, we in the Workshop intentionally wrote the worst scenes and stories we could.

Here they go:

Miranda von Salis "A BAD STORY"

Sherri woke up and the smell of Sharpies hitting her nose like a spike. Not one of those tent spikes but the kind from the medieval days that has the barbs on them and the knights or whatever would stab each other with them. And, if you can imagine one of those spikes being stabbed up your nose, or just anywhere really but especially on your face, then you know how Sherri felt. Now add to that the painfully, excruciating pain that is the strong and unforgiving stench of a recently unopened Sharpie opened for the first time then you know exactly how Sherri felt. Exactly. Sherri stood up and felt the warm mush of cold cheese and sauce between her toes. Looking down, she noticed the extra large sausage pizza from the night before. The pizza that she did not remember buying but that she assumed was from yesterday because it wasn’t there when she woke up yesterday at 9:04 (she slept in). And apparently she bought a pizza yesterday too.

Disengaging he toes from the mysteriously placed pizza she began her morning ritual of her ritual preparations for the day. Today was like every other day, other than the pizza, so she got ready in the same way. Because she was getting ready in the same way she did the same things as she did yesterday, minus the pizza. When she was as ready as she was on every other morning that she could remember except for perhaps a few mornings on which she stayed in bed, she left the house. As she stepped in to the hall she had a flashback from her past.

She was little, maybe 5 or 6 but she could have been 7, and she was in charge of watching her baby brother Lucas while their mom went out to the library or something. Lucas was fussing and Sherri calmed him down. This memory did not pertain to her current life or situation in anyway but she remembered it. While she was deep in thought about this memory she was not paying attention to what she was doing. She was so deep in thought about her baby brother Lucas, who hadn’t called her in a while anyway, she began to cross the street without looking both ways(which in general is a bad idea unless you are really, really busy and have somewhere very important to go at a very specific time or if you see a friend on the opposite sidewalk and want to go say hello and catch up). Because of this lack of judgment, Sherri did not see the truck coming. So, for Sherri, today was not like every other day because she died and you only do that once if you are lucky.

Alana Mohamed "A Bad Day"

The day before yesterday after last month’s block party before this month was a bad day. Ellie was with her mom and her dad and her little brother and her aunt, who was a really annoying person, and her boyfriend, who was like God, only not. Her aunt was a really annoying person, so she didn’t have children or a husband, she just had herself. Actually, she had a house and a car, but it was a small house and a bad car, so that proved she was a really annoying person.

Anyways, it was a bad day because she, meaning Ellie and not her aunt, or her mom, or even her little bother, who was sometimes mistaken for a girl because he had not yet reached puberty, but her as in Ellie had acquired a mondoginormous, scarlet period-like mark, only bigger than a normal period, on the tip of her nose so she looked like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer AND it was the block party and block parties are always bad because one of Ellie’s friend or neighbors always received some sort of violent action, like a shanking or a shooting. But mainly it was because of her red dot. Oh, and that and that and her annoying aunt.

Her annoying aunt exclaimed boomingly when she saw it, about how unfortunate-looking she happened to be that day and how it was no different than any other day. Ellie would have liked to shead many a tear because of this distressing, wounding, painful, injurious, malicious, spiteful, vindictive, barbed statement, but her boyfriend was with her, only he was nodding his head in agreement, so she did and then her little brother let out a stentorian laugh and then everyone joined in to create a collective stentorian cackling. Ellie was terribly discomfited.

Katie Waldron

"May we gracefully trot through the endless seas?" I questioned my bosom buddy as she gazed into the unmistakenably sky-seemingly spray painted by a graffiti artist with a pearly puffs of cumulus clouds.

"Yes! That is a magnificent plan. Afterwards, shall we linger upon the vast sands of the beach cleverly named Coney Island?"

I briefly pondered her previous statement. What an interesting formation of words. I once again admired the sky. It was beginning to darken like there was a prevailing storm in the midst of our exceedingly perfect day.

"Our day has been foiled!" the babbling broad stated.

"Yes, I do believe our day will be dampened, both literally and figuratively, by incoming precipitation."

So, we laid lazily upon the couch in a daze much like the many warriors lost in the Battle of Gettysburg.

Kylah Shenkin

Mitchell sat on the steps of the sanctuary waiting for Anthony's arrival as a cadaverous geriatric waits for their impending passing. He knew there was no stopping it, but he still wanted to flee and hide out from doom. As Mitchell contemplated actually attempting to go on the lam, Anthony made his dreaded appearance. Mitchell and Anthony's gazes met, and between them passed a mutual blend of detest and loathing.

Maureen Tant "A."

The brown creamy color of his eyes, like an amber-brown crayon from the number 64 box, hit me as would a train collision, with one heading due East at 80 mph, and the other westbound at 60 knots.

I walked, and it stunned me.

"Do you see the road?" I soundlessly uttered, "It is the unending labyrinth of my dapple-hued soul in the spider-webbing aura of their id."

"Who?" he verbalized intensely.

"The ones who walk down upon it," I replied, thesaurusly, indicating the rare and genuine decisiveness of our epoch, the smoothened pebble of a Jones Beach penguin who diets on cabbage and frail mustard plant.

They doth not take to strangers, and are seldom seen--they take up wing and invert themselves, adopting the subtle visage of a delicate gull--those gulls of the sea. In face of homosapien influence they strap themselves into that full-bodied mask, as so many do.

But it was presently departing time, and the alluring knave thought not of sunset, so he took a wing of his own, just as the penguins of that proverbial Jones Beach in my mind.

Bar Fight

2008-07-11T12:28:00.000-07:00

"Bar Fight"
by Silvan Carson-Goodman

Guy: I think that he was in love with her.

Guy2: Why would you think that? It looked like just another bar fight to me.

Guy: Maybe, but didn’t you see the look in his eyes? They were so full of pleading. He was there for more than just flirting, if you ask me.

Guy2: So they had some sort of history, is what you’re saying?

Guy: Possibly, but maybe it was love at first sight. Isn’t it more interesting if he saw her from across the room early in the night and their eyes met? Then the fire in his heart grew every time he saw the twinkle of her smile or the subtle way her wrist flicked when she grabbed her beer. Until he just couldn’t stand it anymore and he had to talk to her, not knowing that her two-hundred-pound weightlifter boyfriend was waiting in the wings.

Guy2: He was probably just her ex or something.

Guy: Yeah, probably.

***

Girl: Guys.

Girl2: They are ridiculous! Getting into fights over nothing!

Girl: I know! She clearly wanted nothing to do with that guy. It all would’ve ended peacefully but her boyfriend had to step in and start a brawl over nothing.

Girl2: Well, over her.

Girl: Over nothing! I mean, what makes her so special?

Girl2: Is this about Fred?

Girl: Well he never stands up for me! The other day some guy on the subway knocked me down and Fred didn’t do a damned thing.

Girl2: Maybe he’s just not that kind of guy.

Girl: Oh every guy is that kind of guy! Is it me, am I just not worth fighting for?

Girl2: No, you’re a real catch.

Girl: Well Fred doesn’t seem to think so… you know what? I’m breaking up with him. Screw Fred!

***

Bartender: Every night, every goddamned night with this shit. And they always break something. Either a stool, or glasses, or something that leaves little pieces scattered all around that I have to clean up!

Patron: (Chuckles)

Bartender: What are you laughing at?

Patron: You’re complaining to me.

Bartender: So?

Patron: Well it usually goes the other way now doesn’t it?

Bartender: All right, you have some complaining to do, Miss?

Patron: Well, I thought I did, but after what I just saw the world seems too funny to have any problems.

Bartender: Something funny about violence to you?

Patron: Oh no. It’s just that… well, that was my ex! He was too wasted to realize that the girl he was talking to wasn’t me! (Busts out laughing)

Bartender: Every goddamned night.

Living Things

2008-06-27T18:46:00.000-07:00

"Living Things"
by Miranda von Salis

It was the last straw, when the plants moved into the den. When the brand new flowerpot, still clinging to its price sticker, appeared on the coffee table in Russell’s den, he knew she had to be stopped. He turned around and went right back out the door. He shouted out the kitchen window to the garden:

“Amy! Get in here!”

“One minute,” she shouted back, but Russell wasn’t waiting. He had waited through thirty years of marriage and he wasn’t waiting one minute more to reclaim his den. He walked back, grabbed the pot that held one very pink and very unhappy looking blossom and tromped back to the back door. He couldn’t see her when he first stepped outside, but knew she was there. He shouted: “They are taking over, you crazy woman. What were you thinking? Where am I supposed to put my coffee?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said as her head popped out from behind a large hibiscus in the corner of the yard. “It’s only one pot, and look at it, it will be so pretty when it gets over the re-potting.”

“I don’t care. I don’t care! That wasn’t the agreement!” He dropped the pot onto the patio, not even looking down when he heard it crack. “You said you’d leave me the den. I put up with this absurd hobby because you said you’d leave me my… Oof!” Russell tripped over a pot of rosemary. That only worsened his mood. Amy just stared at him.

“You knew this is what I did when you married me,” she pointed out.

“That’s why I bought the house with the yard!” he said, furious as he picked himself up and started walking towards her again. Amy backed up and drifted behind the hibiscus again as if he would forget she were there.

“You are getting rid of those plants today!” Russell shouted, “or moving them all out here! I really don’t care what you do as long as I get my damn house back!” He rounded the corner to face Amy.

“Get rid of them? You don’t just get rid of a living thing, Russell, and I won’t do it.”

“Like hell you won’t,” Russell said, reaching for the hibiscus, “I’ll teach you and your awful plants a lesson.” His face was red from shouting. But Amy looked up, rage boiling in her eyes.

“Awful! They’re not awful! They bring beauty and joy to the world! Unlike you! What’s wrong with them? That they take up space? You take up space too, and you don’t see them complaining about you!”

She was alive and screaming and Russell was scared. “Amy never gets mad,” he thought, terrified. “That’s why we are such a great team. I do what I do and she forgives me.” He was beginning to wish he had never bothered about the coffee table. “It was only one plant,” he tried to reason with himself, but then he remembered that the living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathrooms and even the hallways had started with just one pot. “Once they move in…” he thought, enraged.

“They don’t complain about me because they can’t talk!” he yelled, so loud he was sure that the whole neighborhood had heard him. He moved towards her and for an instant he thought he saw her eyes show fear but a second later, they were filled with hatred. She stepped to the side nimbly as he kept coming at her.

A minute later, the only thing he could feel was the moist soil and the pounding on the back of his head. He rolled over onto his back and thought, “She hit me on the head, hard.” He was astonished. He vaguely remembered her going to yoga classes a few years ago but that didn’t help explain his current situation. He tried to look around but everything was out of focus. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the fuzzy outline of his wife, a few feet away, watching him. He watched her shape straighten and move towards him while shifting dizzyingly in and out of focus.

“You can’t try to make me get rid of who I am,” she said quietly.

“Just… just get rid of the ones in the house.” Russell tried to persuade her, but his mouth was too dry. His tongue felt like it had doubled in size. He figured he must have bitten it on his fall because it was also throbbing painfully.

“If that’s what you want,” she responded so quietly that he could barely hear her. “I think we should live our lives separate from each other.”

Russell couldn’t believe it. She wanted to divorce him over some lousy plants? What was her problem?

“I won’t allow it,” he managed to say through his damaged mouth.

“I didn’t think you would,” she said. “You’re too old fashioned for a thing like divorce. Luckily that wasn’t what I was talking about.” Russell was confused but his head hurt too much for him to think too hard. He had no idea what she was talking about, and by the time he saw the blade it was too late.

“I’m going to free myself anyways,” she said as she plunged the metal trowel into his neck.

*
Careful not to track blood on her freshly mopped kitchen floor, she made her way through the kitchen to wash her hands before she sat down to write a quick note to Russell.

–Please water the hibiscus. A-
After leaving it on the table she headed upstairs to change and pack a bag. “I think I should go on a vacation. I feel as if I am outgrowing this tiny house,” she said to the Thanksgiving cactus on her bedroom windowsill.

“When I come back, I’ll call the police.” And she grabbed her passport and headed out the door. Amy was going to India.

Ninety-Seven

2008-05-16T22:31:00.000-07:00

"Ninety-Seven"
by Katie Waldron

I’ve outlived my parents, wife, siblings and friends. My once tender skin has turned to leather; my teeth have been replaced by dentures, my raven-black hair with a cigarette-yellow tinged gray. I’m trapped in this wrinkled prison of an old man.

Two weeks ago, I was given a death sentence; last night was supposed to be my last dream; these may be my last words. (I mean those words, “last words,” literally.) At the end of my sentence, I won't be given a final meal as prisoners are. My last supper'll be a Meals-on-Wheels.

Ten years ago, I might have been bitter. Not because I was in my prime—not nearly. But I had something to live for: a wife who I was sharing my “golden years” with. About that term—I suggest all the AARP commercials stop using it. I demand they explain what exactly is golden about not being able to sleep for eight hours and needing to pee every three.

I was going to be a war hero. When the war came, I dropped the hero part—it was hard—and started relying on charm. That got me halfway through my 20s. Then that petered out; I needed to be something; I settled on journalism. I was never very good. At forty, other then having my wife, I had... well...

The only one of life’s questions I have really answered is that there are no answers. Ah, the irony—one for God, none for humans.

Consider this a legacy on the nightstand, not a suicide note’s goodbye.

Everyone Faces Beasts

2008-04-11T07:27:00.000-07:00

"Everyone Faces Beasts"
by Miranda von Salis

Kay breathed in the moist earth as he lay spread out on the forest floor. He rolled over and squinted at the dim sunlight fighting to get through the trees. A twig snapped somewhere and Kay’s ears perked up. As he pulled his exhausted body up into a sitting position he noticed that his heart was drumming into his ribs and he twisted around. Whatever it was that made the sound, he hoped it was something friendly because he wasn’t ready for another fight quite yet. He had never thought living on his own would be easy. Not seriously. He had always had dreams of being eaten by wolves and not having any food. It was true that he did a lot of running away from things but it was better than actually getting caught. No one just sits there and lets an animal eat them.

It had been two years since he’d wandered out here. He spent a lot of time in the beginning avoiding being found. The search parties were sweeping the area for weeks until he worked his way deeper into the woods and they gave up on him.

He was thinking about all this so deeply he barely even noticed the squirrel jumping out of the bushes to the left of him and scampering through the clearing. He body relaxed when he saw he was in no danger and he lay back into his previous position. As he watched the green glow shift and change above him he began to think about the last time he had wished there were other people. This also happened to be the last time he had been eaten by wolves, not exactly EATEN by WOLVES but nibbled at by a bear. It was almost the same thing. Kay’s shoulder stung and he touched it lightly as if to make sure it was still there. Reassured that he was still in one piece he settled back down and soon he had dozed off happily.

His dreams raced; the squirrel turned into the bear. It then lumbered over to his body still sleeping stupidly in the middle of the clearing. He silently cursed his lack of common sense as he made desperate attempts to wake his body up. The bear however wasn’t worried about his body but on the “him” that was wide awake and aware of the fate he faced. He jumped up and the bear rushed at him growling and snapping. He tried to dodge the huge jaws but just as before the bear latched on to his shoulder. Kay felt a surge of pain and looked up terrified as the bear melted into the image of his mother. It was only then he shouted in fear and agony.

She shook him and he felt his bones rattle.

“How’d you find me!” he shouted at her. His voice not as cracked by disuse as he had found it when he had tried to talk a few weeks ago. Kay tried in vain to push her away but the icy grip of her hand on his shoulder clenched harder. Her sharp, bony fingers dug in to his flesh like the teeth of the bear she had come from. The bear she was supposed to be to make this dream normal, tolerable.

“What did I do honey? I thought we could be a family. Why won’t you just let me be happy?” said the haunting, slender figure in front of him.

“I came here to escape you!” Kay shrieked, his voice climbing. His mom’s face contorted into the angry grimace from so many of his childhood memories. The roar of a bear tore out of his mother’s petite body.

Kay awoke with a start and looked around. He was in the same clearing as before but now it was dark. Above, the moon was shining in the dark, its outline fuzzy behind the clouds. “She wasn’t here,” thought Kay, relived. Then he said aloud in his broken voice, “She was never here,” and almost began to chuckle.

The bear in the corner looked surprised and confused but then it made up its mind and just looked angry. “Holy crap!” thought Kay, scrambling to get up and run to a tree. He could wait it out as long as he wasn’t on the ground. He was a second late because the bear charged just as he started to move. He cried out as the bear grabbed his ankle and dragged him to the ground. With a thunk he hit the forest floor and rolled over. Trying to kick the bear with his free foot he started to cry. The face of death looked hungry. Why’d he have to be so stupid and sleep in the middle of the clearing? Why didn’t he look around when he first woke up? Had he really learned nothing since he had made his home here? Was this the way he was going to die? The bear put both its paws on Kay’s shoulders and Kay thought, “Damn, he’s heavy,” before giving in.

His mom never found out what happened to her oldest son or why he decided to get himself lost in the woods. At least for her there were some days when she didn’t think of Kay, but if she had known she would have cried. Lucky for him, Kay didn’t know this.

Adventure!

2008-03-14T21:14:00.000-07:00

"Adventure!"
by Silvan

“The bubbles fizz up, reaching for the freedom above them that they will never attain. Because they disperse into the air as soon as they escape their liquid prison. Plip... Plip.”

“Are you going to drink your soda or not?”

“Oh, I’m going to drink it. It will be digested before it even knows what hit it.”

“Could you not....” I don’t think James heard me as, true to his word, he had already chugged the whole soda and was licking any remaining drops from the inside of the bottle. It was his usual routine to dedicate himself so much to this activity that he completely forgot about the surrounding world, sometimes ending up lying on the ground, squirming, in his endless battle with the glass. I had tried to say something to James in the past. In a school where you are already the most ostracized weirdo, it doesn’t help to be seen at the lunch table with the kid who's so weird he doesn't count, who flails around sucking on a soda bottles.

James is my best friend, but he’s a weird kid.

“So what are you doing today?” James asked. He had given up on the bottle and was sitting up as if nothing happened. “Cause if you don’t have any plans I have something I really want to show you.”

“Sure. Can I stop at my house first though? I wanna get some stuff if we are going to be roaming across the city.”

“How did you know we were roaming across the city?” he asked.

“James, whenever you want to show me something it's never close by.”

“Well, now that the secret is out, meet me at three-thirty at the F train. Think you can manage that?” When James proposes these excursions it always feels like he’s daring me, but he should know by now that my life is very, very dull. I welcome the sense of flair that he brings.

*
The door is propped open. Classroom doors are always propped open before a class. Now that I think about it, I can’t remember if I have ever seen someone close the door. But the doors are always closed when the classes are in session. So who is doing all this closing? I wonder if there is some goulish imp who wanders the halls making sure that all the doors are shut when we are learning. Maybe that’s why we aren’t allowed to wander the halls...

There are people sitting around me. They don’t pay attention to me but they are definitely there. I can hear the rabble around the guy behind me. It seems that he has farted. I can smell the tuna fish that the guy next to me was eating. Apparently they didn’t have time to wash his hands before coming to class. I can see Sophia’s hair in the seat in front of me. It’s very pretty....

The teacher starts talking and my gaze shoots to the window on my left. Maybe the two things are connected in some way. It’s a beautiful day. There are birds flying across the pure blue sky. They look like seagulls; they’re not pigeons. Those are the options in New York. It’s a bird watcher’s nightmare. It must be nice to be a bird, flying up in the clouds, wind whipping at your face. I’d like to be a bird, maybe something fierce like a hawk. That is an extremely unoriginal thought. Hell, that kid two rows in front of me is probably thinking the exact same thing right this second.

“So does anyone have any idea what Marx was saying in that last passage?”

“Wow, that is the most cliche teacherism I have heard in a while. I didn’t know teachers still said stuff like that.”

Every head turned to me as I realized that I had just said that out loud.

“Well, I’m sorry my teaching methods are boring you, Doug.”

“No, it’s... I’m sorry.” I’m sorry for what? I’m sorry that my brain let that one past the filter.

In the end no one cares about the one time the quiet kid smart-mouthed the teacher. I get let off with a warning and by the end of the day all the other kids have forgotten about me again. I walk out of the school through all the people and they don’t look at me. I knock into them by accident and they don’t notice. I mean, I get it, no one cares about me. But this is just cold. Before I know it I am out in the light of the sun. It feels really good. I take a left. I usually take a left. Because my house is to the left and I usually am going to my house. There are times when I take a right, like when I am going to James’ house (James’ house is to the right).

The door opens when I push it as it is known to do; I run up into my room and throw my bag down.

“Mom! I’m going to go hang out with James!” I yell from the top of the stairs.

“Ok honey, be back for dinner!”

I run back out the door. I can’t step on the cracks. If I step on the cracks then something very bad will happen. Everytime I put my right foot down, the angle at the front of my shoe must point at the top left corner of the sidewalk tile. I used to only be allowed to step on the white parts of crosswalks, but that was too easy. So now I can only step on every other white bar.

Slightly down the block stands James, with two guys I recognize from school. They look like they might possibly be angry with James, and they look like they are quite definitely larger then him.

The guy on the right asks, “So how are you James?”

The guy on the left ascribes to the more silent school of menacing.

“Oh you know, can’t complain,” James says.

“We’re here about the money you owe us.”

“Seriously? You followed me all the way from school just for extortion? How very mundane and thuggish of you. Though to be honest, I’m touched. It’s sweet that you guys would want to be close to me…”

“Shut it! If you don’t cut out that wise-ass shit then this situation is going to have to get violent.” Shit!

“Oh, I don’t think you big guys want to push little ol’ me around. I have a friend who would not be happy about that. You definitely don’t want to involve him.” Double shit! Does James know I’m here? Did he see me?

Pleasedonotpointmeout pleasedonotpointmeout pleasedonotpointmeout plea… “You see, my uncle is in the mafia and if he hears that two punks are pushing around his dear nephew, then…” A punch came out faster than Sonic the Hedgehog on speed and landed square in James’ gut.

“Do you ever stop talking?” Another fist struck across his face and sent him to the ground. He was beat before it even started. James threw out some bills. The guys took the money and left.

“Shit! God damn.” I ran to him while he picked himself up. “Shit, shit. Shit! James, are you ok?”

The tears streaming down his face mixed with the blood from his nose and split lip.

“Oh, hey Doug. Didn’t see you there. Yeah, you know me, cool as a cucumber. Just hanging. Low and lazy and all that jazz.” The blood dripped into his mouth. He spat onto the sidewalk and shot me the biggest grin I’d ever seen.

*
The train tilts to one side, then the other. Me and James are sitting across from each other in silence. His face is puffy but clean. The blood has washed away and the bruise on his cheek is covered by the ear flap on his hat.

“So why didn’t you ever tell me that you were having trouble with stuff like this?” I ask.

He avoids my gaze, instead looking out the window at the industrial buildings passing by. The scenery changes to residential and back again.

“How’s that girl you like? What’s her name again?” he asks. He snaps his fingers in that way that people do when they are trying to remember something, three times. “Oh right, Sophia. Really gorgeous blonde hair right?”

Auburn, actually. But that’s not important right now.

“Can we just talk about you for just one second? I want to help you.”

He turns to me and is serious all of a sudden.

“You can’t help me. That’s not what you made me for.”

“What?”

“I’m not real, James. You still don’t get it? I’m your imaginary friend. When did you meet me?”

“What?! Two thousand and three!”

“Exactly. Right after you first saw Fight Club. And you thought to yourself, ‘I want that.’” This is really confusing. “And that’s what I am. The one person you can talk to. The one person who doesn’t step all over you. The extroverted yang to your introverted yin. You feel so bad for me getting beat up but you don’t even realize that it was you under the fist and not me.” James has started to raise his voice and raise himself out of his seat. “See, this won’t even hurt me!” He rears back, slams his head into a subway pole and falls to the floor whimpering in pain, tears streaming down his face. I reach down and help him into the seat next to me.

“You’re real.”

“Yeah… hey, we’re at our stop.” His tears dry up and he leaps out the doors.

He runs down street after street. I can barely keep up.

“James! Where the hell are we going?”

“Don’t worry. We’re almost there, it’s awesome!” He turns a corner and stops short. Right there in front of his glowing face, nestled in between a run down hovel and an abandoned warehouse is… nothing.

“James, it’s an empty lot.”

“I know. Isn’t it great?”

Jordan

2008-02-01T13:41:00.000-08:00

"Jordan"
by Alana Mohamed

Eyes closed and fists tight, Jordan breathed heavily. Her body was curled in a ball. From afar she looked like a shuddering mass of flea-market clothes. Her floor was littered with the self-made confetti of her most recent exams and term papers. To anyone else the papers would be meaningless. To her they meant the difference between passing and failing life. And she had failed…four times over. Each shred of paper was worth twenty of her tears. How could she be failing so badly at…everything?

Her bed, which took up most of the space in her room, was unmade and full of used breakfast plates and cups half full of orange juice and coffee. She hadn’t slept on it in weeks. Usually her bed was her floor, her pillow was whatever text book she was studying from, and her dreams were equations her mind struggled to retain during the night.

The air around her was freezing cold. She was wearing all the clothes she owned plus her winter jacket and gloves. Usually she wasn’t this cold. Her apartment was bad, but not so horribly frigid that her bones had to knock against themselves for warmth. Her heat had been turned off for the first time in her life. Her parents usually paid for all her apartment’s expenses, but after last Sunday, it appeared they had decided their money would be better spent elsewhere. Perhaps on a new house or boat?

“A mistake,” Jordan banged her head against the wall, “it was just a mistake.” A mistake that had cost her dearly. All she had was in her pocket, a twenty dollar bill and a few loose bills. Pay as a waitress may seem fine when you’re living with your parents, but here, it didn’t fly. With what she made, she’d only do well with a cardboard box or a garbage bin.

Jordan buried deeper into herself, descending into dark thoughts her mind seemed to be shooting at her. The feeling of being overwhelmed was the only thing that kept her on the ground and not tumbling into complete hysteria. Her lights were off in an effort to save money and only a ray of light graced her one-room apartment. With her eyes closed all she saw was never-ending black. It consumed and confused her until she couldn’t tell which way was up. She kept herself there, locked in eternity. She could feel her world crumble and she could see all the events that had led up to this moment. Disconnected pictures flashed through the emptiness, like a film gone awry.

Scene one was the nice man from the restaurant waving a wad of bills at her. Jordan could see her eyes light up in greed. It had seemed like a good idea at a time, but what was it? She still couldn’t remember.

Scene two was her boyfriend with his brows furrowed and his mouth contorted in fury as his large hand held her dainty one in front of her face. His promise ring was missing, gone with the oath, “Forever, be mine.”

Scene three was one she dreaded the most because it was the one she saw the most. Jordan Taylor, with drunken hands outstretched towards her loving family, looking every bit the mess she was after she realized what the loss of the promise ring had meant. She saw her mother’s eyes well with tears, while her father’s filled with rage. Her little sister’s eyes, however, held the most rattled, scared expression.

Shame filled Jordan’s personal hell. She allowed herself to sink into the feeling, like an old coat. She’d have to get used to it. She felt so hopeless in her dark womb of guilt, anger, fear, and pressure. When had everything become so hard? She started to sway back and forth, forcing herself against her wall. She wanted to fall, really fall. Not just fall into the back of her head. Her head was too unpleasant a place. Could she fall through brick? She felt as though she could. The pressures of the world could close in around her and pound into nothingness.

A dull ache had formed at the back of her head and she started to throw herself back into the wall with vigor. She could fall, she knew she could fall. “I can do anything I set my mind to,”’ Jordan laughed bitterly. It was the first joke the room heard in a long time. She stopped, suddenly aware of how pathetic she was. She used have friends and family to laugh with. She used to have a boyfriend to keep her warm and safe. Now she was cold, alone, friendless, and laughing maniacally to herself. She stared at the retreating ray of light and knew that all she had was gone.

A knock at the door made Jordan’s twitchy figure jump. She smoothed out her clothes with her hands and tried to regain some morsel of dignity. Whoever was at that door was the last person she had left. Whether it was her landlord, a new neighbor, or just her imagination, she was determined to make a good impression. Still slightly shaky, she managed to maneuver her way around text books and pens to open the door. She held her breath and wondered if whoever had knocked was still there. She heard a hesitant, half-hearted tap and instantly the door swung open. The filtered light from the hall was bright in her eyes and it took her a moment to realize who was there.

Standing tall, with a shy smile on his thin lips, was the person she least expected to see.

“Jace!” she screamed, delighted and overwhelmed. She flung herself into his outstretched arms. She smiled into the warm cotton-covered crook of his neck. “What are you doing here?”

“I missed you. I was worried. And I know I shouldn’t have left you at such a bad time. I was just upset that you lost the ring and wouldn’t tell me what happened. But I know that’s not important. You’re important. Forgive me?” His muffled words filled her with a warm light feeling. Suddenly she felt that it wasn’t over. She could make peace with her family. She could talk to her professors. She could fly tonight and not fall. In Jace’s arms, Jordan was dizzy with euphoria. She felt like she could do anything. But could she only do anything with him?

Jordan looked up into Jace’s eyes. She shook her head no and watched his smile slip into uncertainty. “I need a friend, but that’s it.” The strength in her voice surprised even her.

“Oh, well. If you need anything, you know where to find me.” Jace braved through a
smile and gave a supportive pat on the back.

“Actually, I could use a phone.” Jordan felt embarrassed to be asking for favors so soon, but this needed to be done. She waited patiently as Jace worked his way down into the depths of his pockets and emerged with a small flip phone. She dialed the number she had dialed so many times before with a feeling of apprehension.

“Hello? Mom, we need to talk.”

She could make things right.

Everything Is Blah

2008-01-30T15:28:00.000-08:00

"Everything Is Blah"
by Kylah Shenkin

The Tuesday third-period P.E. class gathered at the track outside of their high school. Avery was stretching. Spencer walked up.

“Hey Ave,” Spencer said. Avery looked up.

“Hey Spencer,” Avery replied.

“Are you gonna go to track today?” Spencer asked.

Avery sighed, “Yeah, it’s what I always do.”

The P.E. teacher Coach Millman walked up to the group.

“Alright kids!” Coach Millman yelled. “We’re gonna start today by running! Let’s go!”
Most of the kids groaned. The class started to run. Avery sprinted in front of the group.

One Mississippi… Two Mississippi… Three Mississippi… Four, Avery thought. She focused and tried to get herself to run faster.

“Avery,” Spencer called from the crowd. “Ave! Wait up!” Avery slowed and turned to look behind her.

“Sorry, I was kind of focused,” Avery said when Spencer got up to her.

“What’s wrong? You’ve been acting kind of weird lately, and you only get focused like that when something’s wrong.”

“Spence, how long have we been friends?” Avery said.

“Since sixth grade, so like five years,” Spencer said.

“Right, so if something was wrong I’d just tell you. Can we get back to running?”

“Fine,” Spencer said. He started to run faster. Avery picked up her pace too.
Avery wasn’t lying when she said nothing was wrong. Technically, nothing was wrong, but nothing was right either. The only way Avery could think of to put it is that everything was blah, but no one seemed to understand what blah meant. It means that Mondays I have soccer practice, Avery thought, Tuesdays are track, Wednesdays are also soccer practice, Thursdays are track again, Fridays I hang out with my friends, nothing varies, maybe every once in a while we hang out in a different place but that’s it, and then it seems like I don’t have time for any of the other stuff I like to do. I really like to play guitar, and I used to play a lot, but I can’t remember the last time I actually played.

When high school started, without realizing, Avery made a lot of decisions. In middle school she had done a lot of extra things: she ran track, played soccer, played guitar, and she was a part of her middle school’s student government. When high school began, though, she started on the soccer team, and when Coach Millman found out that she was good, she didn’t have time to play guitar anymore, and she didn’t get a chance to join student government. She couldn’t stop thinking about how she had given up things she loved. She wanted to do other things, but she didn’t know how to make the change.

Avery started to run faster. She kept pushing herself. She wasn’t paying attention to what was going on around her. Again.

“Ave! Ave!” Spencer called, but Avery couldn’t hear him. She was rounding the track with Spencer doing his best to keep up with her. Avery started to feel something in her ankle but ignored it and weaved through her classmates. She didn’t really care about whatever was going on with her ankle; she just wanted to run and not think. Spencer slowed down; he was panting.

Pop! Avery screamed and fell to the floor. The second Spencer saw her fall he sped ahead of the rest of the class.

“What is it?” he asked.

“My ankle,” Avery answered with pain in her voice, her eyes starting to tear from the pain, as the rest of her classmates arrived and circled around her.

“Well, let’s get you over to the bleachers,” Spencer said. Spencer helped Avery up and when she put weight on her ankle she yelped in pain. Spencer and another guy from the class carried Avery over to the bleachers and set her down.

Through the pain, wheels began to turn in Avery’s head. This might make things a little less blah, she thought.

Avery was back in school the next day. She was struggling to juggle her crutches and her books when Spencer walked over to her.

“Hey,” He said.

“Hey,” she said as she turned to face him.

“How are you?”

“Not so bad. I’ll be on crutches for a few weeks.”

“Good thing it’s not worse.”

“Yeah,” Avery shrugged. “Could you help me get my books into my bag though? It’s hard with the crutches.”

“Sure, what books do you need?” Spencer started to look through Avery’s locker.

“Bio, Global, and English. You know it’s weird: like ten people I’ve never even spoken to today have come up to me to make sure I was okay.”

“Yeah,” Spencer said as he put the books in Avery’s bag. “A friend of a friend told me that you broke your leg in two places.”

Avery laughed and picked up her bag. Spencer and Avery started to walk. Spence sighed, “So are you ever going back to track?”

“My mom doesn’t want me to. I’m not sure about it yet. I definitely want to join some clubs since I’ll have some extra time. Music and probably something else, but I haven’t decided what yet.”

Spencer smiled, “Cool Ave. You’re really good at guitar.”

“Thanks. This is my stop,” Avery said in front of a classroom. She groaned, “Bio. But, yeah I think the change will be nice.” Avery started to walk into the classroom.
“Maybe I’ll take up drums,” Spencer said.

It Was All Downhill from the Doritos

2007-12-23T14:00:00.000-08:00

"It Was All Down Hill From The Doritos"
by Miranda von Salis

“Crunch, Crunch, Crunch.”

The sound of poor innocent tortilla chips being smashed was the only thing to break the silence. Max turned towards Greg and wished that he would put down the half-empty bag of Doritos and pay attention to his surroundings for once in his life. Greg refused. In all his fake-cheesy glory, he sat and munched his chips.

Max was glad that in the dark of the room he couldn’t see the bright orange powder that must have been covering everything. He hated chips, Doritos most of all. The sound they made rustling in the bag and being eaten, the color and shape that people so eagerly crammed into their mouths. The smell alone was almost enough to make him sick.

“Shhh…,” Max warned, exasperated. “They’ll hear you and we’ll get sent back to assembly.”

Greg continued to roll the mass of half chewed food around although, by now, it was too soggy to make more then the occasional squelch. His reasoning was, “How could a few chips ruin our plan for ditching?” The plan was already brilliantly concocted: hiding in a dark empty classroom for the last period of the day. Greg himself had created it and he was in no way worried about being found out. “Plus, it isn’t as if being busted for stuff isn’t already my main hobby.” He thought smiling.

“Hey, I didn’t need to let you in on my master plan," he told Max. "Your talkin’ is what’s going to get us caught anyway.”

Time continued to pass in silence. Eventually Greg ran out of chips and fell asleep; soon Max followed suit. A couple hours later Greg gave Max a quick punch to the ribs.

“Hey slacker, get up! What time is it? You were sleeping on your goddamn watch.” Max rolled over and groggily found the buttons that lit up the face of his watch.

“What’s wrong with you? It’s still like 11:30.” He rolled over to settle back into sleep. Greg sat there for a moment and Max thought that he might finally be quiet, but no, Greg was thinking.

“Hey Max,” he said at last, “before you fall back into happy-dream-land, it was after lunch when we came in here right?” Max rolled back around and in the dark they both looked at each other. Then, at the same time, they both bounded for the door. Through the little window they could see that the halls were empty. Max unlocked the door from the inside thanking God for two-sided locks. They stepped out into the hall.

“How are we going to get out?” asked Greg, panicking. “They don’t have normal locks on the front doors and there is that pull-down gate thingy!”

“Calm down.” said Max. “You always get us into problems and I always get us out. We’ll call home from the phone in the office and my parents will get the guy with the keys to come and get us. See? What would you do without me, huh?”

“Fine, jeez, you don’t have to sound so happy about it though. I mean, we’re trapped in school on a Friday night, literally. This is like the nightmare of my life. Can we grab some food too? I’m starving.”

Max rolled his eyes.

“You eat like two tons of food a day. Go grab some from the cafeteria vending machines. You got money?”

Greg nodded.

“OK then, go get food for both of us, please not Doritos, and meet me in the office. I know you know where both those places are. They’re like your whole day.” Greg made a face at the last comment but hurried off.

“Happy hunting!” called Max after him. Now alone in the hall, Max looked around and started walking through the building toward the office.

It was dark. The only light was glowing creepily from the "EXIT" signs. The halls echoed with each of Max's fast-paced steps. He emerged into the central lobby and surveyed the scene. If lobbies were like the Wild West tumbleweeds would have been rolling all around. Max hated being alone like this. Part of him wanted to run upstairs to the cafeteria and find Greg but he knew it would give Greg reason to make fun of him for the rest of his life, no matter how long it ended up being.

“I’ll just call home and tell them to come and get me.” he said out loud, his voice bouncing off the walls and floor, ringing in his head. He made a beeline to the office door. Just as he was about to grab the knob of the big ancient door that was unique to the school office, he...

Whipped around and saw to his amazement an army of miniature robots!

I use the term army lightly because not only were they not particularly scary looking but they did not seem very organized either. Still, it was quite a shock for Max who had just convinced himself that all his anxiety was in his head. When he saw them he grabbed the knob and flew into the room, slamming the door behind him. He stood there shaking for a moment before deciding that now was the perfect time for him to get out of this nuthouse. He began searching for the phone that he knew had to be somewhere. Soon he found it hidden stealthily on the secretary’s desk and dialed his number. After two rings the line went dead. “Now what do I do?!” thought Max, beginning to panic.

He turned to go find Greg when he noticed a swarm of little metallic arms reaching toward him from the thin crack under the door. There was a loud CRACK as a small chunk of the door was broken into the room. “Holy shit!” thought Max, “They’re trying to get in!” Part of his mind had been hoping that they would be nice robots but now all his hopes shattered. He grabbed the first thing he could find from the desk behind him.

Brandishing his three hole punch he strode over to the door. In one movement he opened it and plunged into the mass of little bodies. As he made a break for the stairs he was sweeping his weapon of choice in front of him, clearing a path. As he mounted the stairs, taking them two at a time, he briefly thought, “I hope Greg is dealing with these things better than I am. Better yet, I hope they haven’t found him at all.” When he got to the second floor cafeteria, he found that was not the case. Greg was sprawled across one table and two chairs and was not moving. Max rushed over to him.

“Greg? Greg!” he shouted, shaking him. “OhmyGod!” he thought, “he’s dead!!! Things couldn’t get any worse. Damn him always being hungry!”

Max didn’t know if he was more sad or angry at Greg for leaving him alone in this situation. He saw, sprinkled around the table, lots of little metal chunks that looked as if they were once a functioning robot platoon. Next to Greg lay a battered plastic tray from the food line. He looked back to his former best friend and said to him, “This is crazy! I'm sorry, but I need to get out of here!”

With that he jogged over to the stairs and witnessed the complex procedure of a hundred or so eight-inch robots getting up a flight of stairs. “Ok,” he thought, frenzied, “not that way.”

He turned and went back over to the table containing Greg. His eyes searched the room for possible forms of exit. They fell upon a window way in the back of the room. Max went over to it and peered out. He noticed, as he never had before, that all the windows in the back row were practically on street level. A doable jump although there was a line of trash bags along the wall.

“Thank God for them building this school on a steep hill.” Max thought as he made up his mind. Quickly, he opened the window and turned around. Walking back to Greg he thought how impractical his plan was. Just then he saw the robots emerging from the stairwell and the race began. They ran towards him and he ran towards Greg. He won. Scooping up Greg he silently wished that Greg had liked eating just a little less. He rearranged him over his shoulders and began to sprint to the open window, the robots in hot pursuit. After about three strides he realized that he could not outrun them. At least, not with the extra weight. In a split-second decision he dropped Greg and kept going at almost twice the speed. Max climbed to the windowsill and looked back only once. Only some of the robots had gotten distracted and were now dragging Greg back towards the stairs.

“I hope he isn’t mad at me,” whispered Max as he jumped out the window. He landed on the piles of trash and slid into a puddle. He didn’t miss a beat and started running at top speed though the empty late-night streets. He was relieved to escape the torture of that building but the thought was bittersweet because deep down he knew that he would have to be back at eight am on Monday.

The Monster

2007-10-28T11:50:00.000-07:00

"The Monster"
by Yossi Halperin

I was awoken by the front door being slammed open downstairs.

The footsteps made chariot sounds as they marched up the stairs. Told me what fate lay ahead.

I quickly threw the covers over my head, hoping to shield myself from the unwanted intruder about to enter my room.

I lay down and pretended to be asleep so that the intruder might pass over my bedside.

I knew deep inside that like countless times before no bed sheet no shield not even a peaceful sleep would protect me from what was about to happen, what’s gotta happen what will happen and has happened every Saturday at 8:00 for as long as I can remember.

The chariots stop at the entrance to my door and my door swings open.

“Max!!!”
“Max!!!”
“Get the fuck up”
“Get the fuck outta bed”

I lie perfectly still maybe he’ll go away. Maybe I’ll fall asleep. Maybe he’ll fall asleep. But I know that, that’s wishful thinking and this situation has only one outcome.

The chariots approach my bedside and a bear-like claw reaches down, grasping my shield, my protector, and I come face to face with a six-foot-two hideous monster, a daemon. A giant a monster.

The monster stares me down. His eyes pierce my body and my soul.

He’s a giant, a giant without a shirt, old pants and a long beard. In one hand he holds a Budweiser and in the other he holds a Marlboro.

“Max!!!”
“Max!!!”

Smoke blows out of his mouth like a dragon as he talks and he finishes the cigarette and lights another from the embers of the last.
“Stop staring and answer me”
“What, you want one”

He takes a new Marlboro out of the bright red package and lights it. Then he hands it to me.

“Take it”
“Smoke it”

I just stare. I don’t want to smoke. I don’t want to be like him. But I don’t want to upset him either. I don’t know what to do. I just stare.

“Take it”
“I don’t want it”

“You don’t want it?”
“Yes you do”
“Yes you do”
“Yes you do”
“You want to smoke”
“All good little boys smoke”
“All good pre-teen boys smoke”
“Open up for the choo choo”
He laughs as he brings the Marlboro to my mouth.

I push his hand away and the Marlboro falls to the floor.

“No good”
“No good”
“Bad boy gets treated as bad boy” he chuckles as he chews on his Marlboro.

He picks the Marlboro up and grabs me by my neck and holds me up. He then pushes the Marlboro towards my mouth. I try to resist I try to keep my mouth closed but can’t. My mouth opens and the Marlboro enters. He forces it between my teeth and smoke fills my mouth and my body and I find my self coughing and wheezing and I find him laughing. I manage to push him away and he burns himself with the Marlboro.

“Look what you did”
“You little shit”

He throws the virtually extinguished cigarette butt at me and it forms embers as it collides with my covers

I want to scream.
I want to cry.
I want to run.
I want to hide.

But all I can do is stare and that’s what I do I stare and stare and stare. I don’t know why but I do.

“Stop staring you little fuck”
“Answer me”
“What you want one?”
“Why didn’t you answer the phone?”
“I needed a ride from the bar I called you for a ride but you didn’t answer the phone.”
“Why not”
“Why, you little shit”
“Why answer me”

I’m used to this; it’s sort of the norm for me. Normal Saturday morning routine and I know that if I ignore him he’ll hit me and if I answer he’ll hit me. So I answer him.

“I was sleeping plus I’m twelve and I don’t know how to drive.”
“No, no, no good”
“Little fuck!!!” he screams.

He takes a slug of his beer and lights another cigarette and takes a long hard pull and exhales letting smoke and the smell of beer fill the room.

“You’re just a lazy fuck. Too lazy to pick and old man up. Too lazy to get out of bed,” he chuckles.

He then finishes his beer and releases a large belch and throws the can at me.
“Aw that’s better”
“Wise guy”
“You think you’re a wise guy”

He removes his belt from his pants and whips it against his hand that holds the Marlboro causing it to fall to the floor. He looks at the cigarette and looks at me.

“Look what you done now”
“You little shit”
He picks up the Marlboro which is still lit and takes and puts it to his face taking a final drag. Then he looks at me and smirks. He takes the Marlboro and presses it against my chest.

The Marlboro flames burn as they get extinguished by my body. The butt drops to the bed and eventually rolls of to the floor.

He looks at me and laughs.

“You little shit”
“Be a man”
“Be a man”

I stare at him and then start crying. I don’t know why I but I do. I know what gonna happen but can’t help myself I burst out in tears.

“I said be a man”
“Be a man”

He swings the belt around. He swings the belt at me hitting me in the face.
“You lazy fuck”

He screams as the belt collides with my back/

“Lazy”
“Lazy”
“Lazy”
“Fuck”

His shouts are followed by another belt whip. I scream out in pain and he bursts out in laughter.

I hold my tears in when it comes to being beaten. I’m no amateur at this I’m a professional. I know how to play the game so I can get the least hurt. After all we have been competing for many years.

“All lazy fucks”
“All boys are lazy fucks”

He hits me in the face.

I don’t try to crawl away. I try to stop screaming but I can’t. I know how to play the game but can’t. I cry hard and scream louder and try to get away.

He grabs me picking me up in the air and hits me over and over again. Blood trickles down my face and onto my chest. I cry harder and louder and louder and I beg and I plead and I try to stop crying but I can’t.

I jump onto him. I don’t know if I’m trying to tackle him or hug or hurt him or what. He throws me over his shoulder and onto the floor. I stare up at him and he stares back down at me.

“I’m sorry daddy”
“I’m sorry for being a lazy boy”
“I’m sorry for not answering the phone”
“I’m sorry for not picking you up at the bar”
“I will next time, I promise”
“I’ll pick you up even if I have to find a car”
“I love you daddy”
“You bet you will, boy.”

He screams picking me up even further in the air. He then throws me on the floor and sit there In very wet boxer shorts shivering on the floor in a small pool of blood. Looking at the man, looking at the monster, looking at my dad.

Flying

2007-09-24T17:08:00.000-07:00

"Flying"
by Miranda von Salis

I was flying. Soaring above the streets of New York. I felt the wind in my hair and the sun on my face. My eyes roamed, taking in everything, the colors were so much brighter. This was my world. Then, with a sudden blow it faded. My skin felts like red hot coals and I knew it was about to end.

I woke with a start, gasping as I tried to sit up. My body wasn’t responding. My head throbbed as I lay there on my messed up bed in my dark room. The only light came from my lava lamp, silently moving as before. I wondered why I do this to myself and slowly rolled over and tried to remember flying, a sea of city life below me. ‘Never again’, I promised myself time after time, but I was never able to keep that promise. Slowly I felt myself falling away then I drifted out of consciousness in the soft glow of the lamp. That night I dreamt of flying but it wasn’t the same. I spent the weekend hidden in my room.

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. The sound pierced my skull like a drill. BEEEEEEEEP! ‘Oh god, it sounds angry now’. I rolled over groggily and banged the top of my alarm clock. Another bright cheerful week of school had come upon us. I slid out of bed and fumbled around in the pile of clothes on the floor. When I emerged from my room I was dressed in what I hoped were clean clothes.
Thundering down the stairs I wished I could be quiet enough to escape the house without notice.

Unfortunately, I can’t do anything quietly.

"Honey, is that you?" came an anxious voice from the next room. I winced.

"I’m not dad don’t worry." I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, giving my mom time to see Marcus Goldman out if the kitchen door. I’m not supposed to know about Marcus, mom’s new cradle robbing adventure, but she can’t keep a six foot four man a secret for long. It’s not like I’m going to tell Dad or anything because if I had a nickel for every time mom didn’t tell Dad on me, I wouldn’t have to leech off my friends.

"Are you hungry, dear?" asked my mom as I came in to the kitchen. I shook my head no.

"I think I’m just going to go to school." I grabbed my bag and my chewed up skateboard rushing out the door.

The air is cool and it’s kind of drizzling but I don’t mind. It’s nice change from the claustrophobia of inside the house. I got to school five minutes early but I know that in the ally behind the gym building all my friends hang out until it is time to make an "appropriately late entrance". I went around back were all the skaters jump off the dumpsters and rails.

"Hey dude! What’s up?" shouted Markey as he landed from jumping over Joe and Fred who were lying on their backs.

"Just chillin’" I replied, speeding over and dodging some freshmen.

"What’s Marcus up to?" he asked slyly.

"Same shit as ever." As I said my mom can’t keep anything a secret. Marcus was of particular interest to Markey because technically they shared a name.

"Your life is so fucked up, dude." he said in response. We were interrupted by the faint sound of the first bell ringing inside and the loud sound of some kid crashing into a stack of garbage cans.

We all scattered in a thousand directions.

Running in to first period English, I switched myself to school mode, completely disconnected from the world, and the rest of the time spent in those identical buildings is a haze. An English essay, Math test, and then lunch. Latin, by definition, the most boring class ever, and so on. The last bell of the day is a joyful sound as I rode out in a wave of relief.

"Hey dude! You wanna come to my house? I got a new stash and it’s going to be fucking awesome!" Markey whispered as he slid up next to me. "Joe and Fred are coming. What do you say?" I knew my parents would flip if I wasn’t home soon, but I couldn’t help but remember what it was like to fly. All thoughts of my promise to myself and the pain I knew would come after flew from my mind. I allowed him to lead me back to the parking lot where we met up with Joe and Fred.

"Hey you got him to come! Great, let’s go!" yelled Fred when we rounded the corner. I grinned,

"Yeah, you can’t get rid of me." This was so much better than going home. Soon we were on our way to Markey’s house.

"…and it gets even better because my parents are at my brothers soccer game so they won’t even know, dude." Markey said happily. When we got there, we tramped right up to his room. The procedure was simple, something done many times before. Soon I was flying. I flew all the way home, through my happy colorful world. When I woke I was on my messy bed bathed in the light of my lava lamp hating myself for going back on my promise, knowing that I will do it again. As I wallowed in self-pity my mother knocked on the door.

"Babe? Are you home?" she asked opening the door just enough for the bright hallway light to flood in to a sliver on the floor.

"Hey mom. Yeah, I’m in here." I replied slowly. At this response she opened the door the rest of the way and flopped on to my bed. It’s at times like these that my mother acts just like she is a girl gossiping with her friends.

"So what were you guys up to?" she asked bouncing just a little. "You look worn out." She watched me silently for a moment and although my mom isn’t the most observant parent I knew she could tell that something was off.

"Honey, what’s wrong? You look kind of sick. Do you feel alright?" she leaned over and put her hand on my head. Acting the role of a human thermometer is one of my mom’s favorite things.

"Mom, stop it I’m fine." I replied trying unsuccessfully to avoid her.

"You’re burning up? Are any of the other guys sick like this?" I smirked.

"I can safely say that they are all sick like this." I answered. She looked at me worriedly.

"What do you mean? What were you doing?" The questions started again and then it dawned on her. What was I doing? What terrifies the normal parent? That’s what I was doing. She became very serious.

"Just tell me Hon, are you ‘sick’ like this often?"

"How often is often?" I asked warily.

"Use your best judgment."

"Yes," I said blankly, "often."

"Alright." She nodded. "Explain it to me, o.k.?"

"Fine, but mom, can you close the door?"

The R Train

2007-08-03T15:09:00.000-07:00

"The R Train"
by David Benger

Home was dark, cold, and damp. Hershel tried to remember the blazing heat of his mother’s backyard, but all he felt was the unforgiving frigid concrete he was leaning on. He stepped down from the cinder block.

Plonk!

His foot was soaked instantly. He didn’t even bother to move it. The muddy solution flowing his worn through sneakers was soothing. He continued to look around. Huge white letters marked his living room: “Fag.” His back parlor was decorated with the word, “Hole.” Graffiti artists just couldn’t keep their spray cans off his hideout. He heard the mechanical rumbling before the blinding light turned the corner. He clambered back on to the cinder block and off the tracks just as the rhythmic, unsettling ga-chunk of the subway train powered by.

It was the R train. Hershel loved the R train. People had a tendency to sleep on the R train and they rarely noticed him or his humble attempt at domesticity. Nobody ever really did notice, but R train passengers even less so. As soon as it passed, he hopped back down onto the tracks and jogged to the Dekalb Avenue stop. It was a quick two minute run and way before rush hour so he was in no danger of facing another train. He climbed up onto the platform deftly. Nobody noticed him. He stood and waited for the train just like all the other passengers. He stood and waited just like all of the ignorant passengers who knew nothing about the public transportation system they were using; nothing about the way the trains work or their history. He was standing next to people who were totally ignorant and it angered him beyond reason. His father’s store was in the Fulton Street Mall so it was for only two subway stops that he needed to share the sanctuary of the subway car with hopeless idiots.

The sign on his father’s store was flamboyant in its brilliancy and sheer aesthetic repulsiveness. “Weinberger Jewelry,” it flashed. He stepped in. He inspected the jewelry while he waited. Most likely it was fake. Hershel couldn’t imagine his father owning anything of true value. The customer ordered a custom plated belt buckle for fifty dollars. To a self respecting jeweler, a fifty dollar sale meant nothing, but for Sam, it brought a gaiety to his entire aura! Hershel was staring at a flashing car necklace with disgust when his father finally tapped his shoulder.

“So, Hershey… Where do you want to go for dinner?”

“Applebee’s.” Applebee’s was the only place Hershel ever went to dinner with his father. His father didn’t cook… ever. He had tried once and ended up almost burning down the house.

The traffic was stop and go. They were lucky enough to have a red light at every intersection and Hershel felt it was nothing like the predictable reliability of the subway routes.

“Hey, Hershey, today’s Tuesday. Weren’t you supposed to get your report card today?”

“Yea,” he hated to be called Hershey. It was a mean nickname that was given to him in middle school back when he was very fat. His dad heard a classmate of his call him that once and he misunderstood it to mean something friendly. His dad had been calling him Hershey ever since. Hershel flinched every time he heard that name, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell Sam.

“Well, let’s hear it.” His father was always very attentive when it came to Hershel’s education. He only wished his dad would be as involved when it came to his other interests.

“I did fine, Dad. I’ve got an IQ of 172, remember. Mom won’t stop talking about it.”

“I haven’t spoken to your mother in nearly a year. How the hell should I know what she won’t stop talking about? Did you get straight A’s?” “Not exactly. I got a C in Chemistry.” “What?!” Sam turned backwards to look at Hershel. “Dad, watch the road!” He turned back just in time to avoid a double parked car directly in front of him. “Damn it, dad! Watch the freaking road!” “Don’t you worry about me, Hershel. Where the hell did that C come from?” “I…” Hershel was beginning to choke up. His dad rarely yelled at him and whenever he did, it was always about academics. His dad never cared about anything else. “I wasn’t doing as well at chemistry as I had wanted…” he started sobbing,

“Go on, Hershel,” his father pressed. “I had an opportunity to…” Hershel couldn’t speak, he was sobbing so hard. “To what? Spit it out!” He had never seen his dad so angry. He always remembered his dad being irritatingly nonchalant about everything. “I had an opportunity to get a copy of the chemistry test before she gave it to us.” “You cheated?” his father turned to look at him again, his eyes on fire with rage. “Dad, watch the road,” Sam turned back just in time to swerve again. “You cheated. My son cheated. When have I ever showed you an example of dishonesty?” His father’s anger was turning into sorrow.

“Dad, it’s not your fault.” Hershel was now crying hysterically. “To hell, it’s not. It was your mother having a different man in her house every god damn day.” “No, dad. I just put a lot of pressure on myself to succeed. I want to succeed. It’s nobody’s fault.” “Your god damn mother having some other man in her house every day. A new man every day.” “Dad, please stop.” “Yea,” he growled. He continued to mumble to himself until they pulled into the Applebee’s parking lot. Hershel wiped away his final tears as his father pulled the keys out of the starter. They exited the car and walked into the restaurant in silence.

“Two,” his father said curtly and they followed the waitress to the table. She seemed intimidated by the stagnant tension between Hershel and Sam. They sat in silence and pursued the menus. The waitress came shortly after. They ordered quickly and the waitress left hurriedly, not wanting anything to do with their argument.

“I’m gonna go wash my hands,” Hershel mumbled. “Yea,” his father returned. Hershel pushed his chair back and stood up. He took a look at his father and his father avoided his eyes. He walked past the bar where he bumped into a particularly tough looking Hispanic man wearing a blazer, dirty jeans, and work boots. He grabbed at something bulky in his jacket pocket before shooting Hershel a dirty look. Hershel didn’t pay him any mind. His focus was on something else. He pushed the door of the bathroom with a subdued force and entered. The toilet was flushing very loudly like a psychotic demon. He couldn’t even hear himself think, which was refreshing because thinking was the last thing he wanted to do.

Hershel quickly rinsed his hands with soap and turned on the automatic hand dryer that added to the mass volume of sound permeating through the room. As he finished drying his hands, he made up his mind. He was going to apologize to his father for what he did and promise to fix it. His father always appreciated sincere apologies. He pulled open the door and almost tripped as he stepped out of the bathroom.

He looked down and saw someone lying down. There was a pool of blood on the floor. Hershel looked around wildly. People were running in all directions. He saw the man he had bumped into earlier running out the front door. Tables were on the floor and people were climbing over each other to get to the side exits. Hershel didn’t see his father anywhere. He made for the table that they had been sitting at. His father was still sitting there. His upper body was spread out across the table. There was a hole in the side of his head and a long streak of blood spilling out of it onto the floor. Hershel couldn’t understand why he didn’t hear the gunshot. The shooter must have used a silencer.

“Dad!” Hershel yelled. “Dad!” He shook his father sideways and his head turned against the table. His eyes rolled back and just stared up. Hershel squatted to look directly into his father’s eyes. “Dad, listen to me,” He put his hands around his father’s face. “Dad, please listen to me,” tears were streaming down his eyes. “Dad, I’m sorry for everything I ever did. I want you to know that. Dad, listen to me. I’m so sorry. Please, dad. I love you. I love you so much.” Hershel sat down on the floor and cried until he passed out.

* * * * * *

He woke up in his bed at his mother’s house. He thought he remembered an ambulance and a hospital bed, but he couldn’t be sure. He got out of bed and rubbed his head. He felt like it should have hurt, but it didn’t for some reason. When his feet hit the wooden floor of his room, a numbing cold shiver shot up his body. The events of the previous night suddenly replayed in his head. He lay back down quickly, grabbing his head harder.

“Mom,” he whispered embarrassed. “Mom,” he said with more confidence. “Mom!” he bellowed. “What? What?” his mother rushed into his room. “Mom,” Hershel sat up, “What happened last night? Did dad really…” he couldn’t finish his question. His mother sat down at the foot of his bed. She nodded her head slowly and blinked. She looked like she was about to say something, but sighed instead.

“Well, I have to get ready to go to school,” he stated. “Hershel, you don’t have to go to school today if you don’t want to. I can stay home from work today and just talk to you.”

“No, mom. I do not want to talk to you. I want to go to school and I want to fix this for good.” Hershel got dressed quickly, slung the backpack around his back and rushed to the subway stop. It felt good to be back on the subway. He thought of his dad who had taken him on his first subway ride. His eyes began to overflow, but he tilted his head back and held the tears in. Chemistry was his first class that day and that’s what he had to think about. He burst into the classroom without apology fifteen minutes late. Nobody knew about what had happened to him the previous night so he ignored Ms. Velouse’s question about his tardiness.

He was eyeing the serpentine cord with lust. It was rooted in the electric socket as it had been since the school purchased the damned fan half a century ago. It twisted and continued all the way into the pygmy fan that stood perched on the polished black table. He stared at the cord intently all throughout Ms. Velouse’s lecture on Lewis Dot diagrams. He found science boring as a matter of principle and couldn’t stand Ms. Velouse on a personal level. He made a point of not listening to her lectures normally, but this was different. Today, he wasn’t listening to her not because her lecture bored him, but because he found the cord far more interesting. He noticed the ravine dividing the cord into two halves and he followed it all the way down into the socket with his eyes.

“It depends on the electro negativity,” she said, answering someone’s question. Hershel stood up slowly and deliberately and stepped one foot in front of the other towards the fan. The fan was less than five feet away from Ms. Velouse in that cramped classroom. He took another step. She turned to look at him. “Is anything the matter?” she asked genially curious. He took one more step forward. “Hershel!” she added more worried. Suddenly, Hershel saw the scene flash before his very eyes as if it were happening again:

“Hershel!!!” his mother screamed. “God damn you! You four eyed fat assed creep! I could have been happy if your kike of a father hadn’t knocked me up!” He lunged at the fan and tore the chord out of the wall. He brought the chord around Ms. Velouse’s throat like a noose and held it with his right hand. Her knees gave out from fear, but he brought his knee up into the back of her thigh to bring her back up. He held the chord tight around her throat.

“I didn’t cheat, damn it!” He tightened the chord and she let out a nauseating sound as she began to choke on her own saliva. The corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. “God damn you! I didn’t cheat!” The entire class had scuttled to the back of the room and he eyed them all suspiciously. Each one of them could potentially spoil his plan. Ms. Velouse brought her hands up to her throat. She tried to pull the chord away, but Hershel noticed her intentions and pulled against her even harder.

He thought he heard her try to say “Hershel” or maybe that’s just the sound one makes when air and saliva gets caught in one’s throat simultaneously.

“You killed my father. You did this! Do you understand me? If it weren’t for chemistry, there would be no guns! He would have still been alive! You did this! This was your fault!” Hershel screamed. “Do you like this? Are you enjoying this?” he hissed into her ear. Her eyes were beginning to tear from fear and lack of oxygen. “Do you enjoy feeling powerless!” he shouted, her ear lobe now between his teeth. “Speak!” he roared, and she jumped reflexively only to feel the chord tighten around her throat. He felt her giving up and he saw her eyes close. He tightened the chord around her neck. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Wake up!” He pressed his finger against her throat and he felt her pulse slowing down. He let go of the chord and pushed her hard in the back of the neck. Her unconscious from collapsed onto the floor. All of the students were frozen with horror at the back of the room.

“What’d you do?” someone sobbed. “Who said that?” Hershel whispered. “I did,” said Speave Benson, the kid who had picked on Hershel since fourth grade. “What did you say, Speave?” Hershel was beginning to inch towards the crowd of students now huddled at the back of the classroom.

“I said…” Speave stood up. “I said…” Speave tried again. Hershel continued to step towards Speave. Speave charged Hershel, knocking him towards the ground. He was now sitting on top of him and he brought a heavy fist down into Hershel’s face narrowly avoiding his noise and hitting his cheek hard. Hershel brought his hands up into Speave’s chest, pushing him off. Hershel tumbled over into a position on top of Speave and landed his own punch. Speave’s nose cracked under Hershel’s knuckle and blood started sprouting from it. Hershel jumped up and backed away from Speave. He had always been squeamish and this quickly forming pool of blood was something he had caused. He back pedaled into a table full of lab equipment. Speave’s eyes were tearing from pain, but he held his mouth closed tight, holding back screams of anguish that were clear in his eyes. He took another staggering step towards Hershel. Hershel felt around on the table behind him. He grasped a large beaker behind him. Speave took another step towards him, teeth clenched. Hershel clenched his own teeth and his eyes spilled at what he was about to do. He hit the beaker hard against the table. The bottom shattered, leaving a long blade of broken glass in Hershel’s hand. Speave lunged at Hershel. Without thinking, Hershel brought the broken beaker up into Speave’s throat. It cut through a vein and blood shot out of it all over Hershel’s sweatshirt. Speave collapsed onto the floor, twitching.

“God damn it!” he screamed as he dashed towards the sink. Numbing ice cold water began to replace the quickly drying blood on his hands. Not bothering to reach for the paper towels, he dashed out of the room, tap water shooting off his hands like stray shards of debris. He almost trampled Mr. Williams, the short, pathetic, permutation of a math teacher who had stepped out of his own classroom to inspect the noise.

He sprinted down the steps of the school and straight out the door before the security guard could stop him. He ran flat out for almost half an hour until he finally slowed down. He realized how manipulative the freezing cold was as it numbed his limbs. He couldn’t control the speed of his legs anymore and they carried him at an agonizingly slow but steady pace. The wind was blowing at him from all sides but he felt at peace. He had accomplished a task he had never dreamed of being able to accomplish.

His parents had taught him morals; what was right and wrong. He remembered them in the inner recesses of his mind and he was proud to have overcome them. He finally understood that playing by the rules of a world that wasn’t conducive to those rules was stupid. He continued to walk at the same rhythmic pace until he reached the subway station. The subway ride was quick, but still too long. He had already made up his mind. Even as he sat on the unnaturally heated plastic seats, he could hear his mother. “He must be with his no good father again, that Sam, the kike,” she would explain to another boyfriend. Neither of them actually knew or cared where he went.

He disembarked at DeKalb, where he jumped off the platform and onto the tracks. He jogged along the tracks until he reached the familiar spot that he had called his second home for the last several months. He had no possessions or furniture except “Hole” and “Fag.” He stepped onto the cinder block that had served as the threshold to his humble abode for close to six months now. He looked around the damp concrete where he had sat and pondered his life for hours at a time. He stepped off the cinder block and onto the tracks. He made sure that he had one foot on each track and he stared back at the subway stop he had jogged from. He heard the mechanical rumbling even before the blinding light turned the corner. Hershel loved the R train. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, sucking the air in through his nose as the train sped towards him.

I Always Get Lost When I Leave The Village

2007-07-14T00:06:00.000-07:00

"I Always Get Lost When I Leave The Village"
by Andrew Sarrion

First and foremost vomit is disgusting. It's a combination of the smell of it, and the contents of it. It’s all of the corn and the other not so exotic foods that everyone seems to eat right before they vomit. On a lucky day a nice breeze can blow the smell away but you still will know it's there, and no matter what it will get inside your skin. This night didn't have any nice wind to blow the vomit away. Which I believe is a perfect explanation of my luck. This night had torrential rain, and no wind, plus vomit.

Waiting in line is the worst possible experience in these conditions. The only thing that can be considered "good" is what you're waiting for and that's only if you're waiting for something you actually care about. My philosophy on it is if you don't care, then why are you even there? I hate those people who wait in line and ask "Why are we here?” These usually turn out to be the people in front of me. They ramble on about how they don't want to be there. They should be thrown into the vomit. They reminded me of reviewers. About reviewers: I know it’s a job but must they seem like they hate everything? It sickens me just imagining them in their trendy Ben Sherman sweater vests and unwashed hair as they write their snooty little articles about that new it band they saw at that trendy little dive bar in the lower east side that they always seem to have known about first. It turned out that the whiny people in front of me are in fact reviewers. I guess the joke's on me. I heard them saying "Look at this place, it’s filthy! What kind of band plays at a club with vomit all over the curb and stray dogs running around everywhere?" I didn't notice the dog standing in the alleyway. It had matted grey and white fur almost as if birds had used it as a personal toilet. The dog had the look of a sailor to it; especially since it was missing a leg. It looked as if it had seen harsher times than any of these whiny reviewers. It was almost laughing at them as it wagged its tail, telling them to shut up and learn how to appreciate things for a change. I would've taken it home if I wasn't allergic to animal dander. It crawled under a box to escape the rain. I wish I could've done the same. I felt hypothermia kicking in as the rain beat down on my slightly hooded head. It was nearing eight and the club doors finally opened. Everyone on the line piled in. Some people running the risk of being trampled when they slipped on ankle deep puddles because they happened to be careless and push the people in front of them. It was complete madness. It was an excess of bodies to get in this one little door, all to see one little band.

The conditions inside were just as bad as the one's outside. Well at least from what I saw at the door. The scene in the club was a perfect recreation of the scene outside. The walls had cheap plaster covering the holes in the wall which were probably the result of many bar fights, and there was a disheveled piano in the back with some of its keys missing so that there were empty spaces were C and G should've been. The strings on this piano were visible, and they looked loose and worn as if some drunk mistook them for guitar strings. It's a bit of a waste that we have to go through horrible conditions outside to get in. Only to face the same conditions when we are inside. On top of that we have to adhere to certain conditions to have fun. Which are:

1) Don't get so belligerent that you start to pick fights with men twice your size.
2) Make sure you blend in with the older crowd.
3) Try not to look too underage.

That last one never happens. You're always looking over your shoulder expecting a bouncer to be there, and kick you out. Then the night would be considered a waste, and as you walk home you'd be calling yourself an idiot for ever entertaining the thought of having a good time. It's quite a zero sum game. You get inside, and then you're worried.
Well I got in. The conversation that I had with the bouncer was so caveman-esque it was comical.

"I.D?"

"Here" It was fake of course.

"This you?"

"Yeah"

"You sure?"

"I think I know who I am"

"Huh...whatever go in"

I just left him there sniffing up vomit.
Right after "crossing the threshold" I went straight for the bar. The bartender was this beautiful Filipino woman whose unappreciative smile and lack of confidence showed that she had just recently gotten her job. You could see her work getting to her as she mixed five dollar drinks at the drooling barflies who only bought drinks so they can have an excuse to stare at her breasts. I could already see the stress lines furrowing her brow. I would've felt sorry for her if I wasn't doing the same thing. She really was something. I think she saw me noticing because she threw this look at me that resembled something a prosecutor would throw. I looked away. She scared the hell out of me.

I took a seat by the edge of the bar so I could "scope the place". I asked the woman for a scotch and soda. To think she had the nerve to ask me.

"How old are you kid?"

"Old enough to get inside," I replied.

"That's not exactly old enough to get you a drink," she said.

I hated her for that. I was a little turned on, as well, but hell if I'd let her know that. I just shut up since I didn't look a day over fifteen. I didn't dare ask her again for a drink. I wasn't very thirsty to begin with. I just wanted to dull the noise of the surroundings with liquor. I looked around hoping to feel better. Didn't work. The club was filled with the scratches, and curses that always accompany a sound check. There were bunches of people by the stage, trying to get a glimpse of the band. I already had my glimpse of them. My friend's,cousin's, girlfriend's, boss, walked the drummer's mom's dog once. No joke. They were cool, but not my type of people.

I started pacing around. Mostly so I wouldn't feel so strange. Wasn't I waiting for this for months? I must have paced the place for an hour. The band started playing a half hour into it, but I still felt like pacing. The minute I would stop the person next to me would make snide comments about my hair, or clothes. It was a sad thing to see. They were all just standing there looking indifferent. They all had the look of reviewers on their faces. Their eyes scrunched up in scrutiny, and their noses wrinkled as if the smell of the vomit outside was coming in.

I left right after the show. No way were they going to ruin a good band for me. The rain had subsided enough for me to not worry about hypothermia. I noticed the vomit being pawed at by the stray dog with the missing leg. At least someone had found a use for it. I left pretending to myself that I had a good time. I decided to bring a friend next time. That was about the same time I decided to make friends.

Three Days

2007-06-14T21:03:00.000-07:00

"Three Days"
by Annie Highley-Smith

It’s not as easy to get around anymore; not with all the garbage bags piled up to the sky and the newspapers strewn all over the ground; no one bothers to pick them up anymore. Newspapers fly about my feet, carried by frequent gusts of wind, and in silent hope that the headlines might have changed I bend down and pick one of them up. The headline read: “How long can you live without water?” I threw the paper into an overflowing garbage can and kept walking. I was tired of hearing about how there was no fresh water left on Earth. How the stupid scientists made a filtration system that ended up using all the salt water as well. It was all getting to be so repetitive and overwhelming. I may have failed to mention that yesterday, the government declared a state of emergency because they seemed to have used up the United States’ Strategic Water Reserves.

“Damn rich people and their bathing habits,” I muttered to myself.

It was 95 degrees out. I was walking what felt like an exceedingly long walk to the bodega, just hoping for something to quench my thirst. I knew it was futile but I came to the conclusion that without hope, I had nothing. When I got there, every beverage was sold out; probably bought by some millionaire striving to survive a few more days. Licking my dry lips, I realized that it really wasn’t the brightest of ideas to walk around in 95 degree weather. “I’ll probably die of heat stroke before I die of thirst if I keep this up,” I thought dryly. No sooner had a thought about going over to Steven’s house crossed my mind when I hear: “Yo Sergio! Wait up man!” I turn around and it’s Andrew yelling from all the way down the street. Oh man, not him. Not today. Maybe if I thought hard enough I could transmit my strong desire for him to leave into his brain. But seeing as he was suddenly standing right in front me, I doubted it would happen. “Whaddup Serg?” he asked. I replied in the usual way most teenage boys reply; I grunted. He asked me if I wanted to go to Steven’s house and when I told him that’s where I was headed he suggested we walk together. “That was smart,” I thought to myself.

When we got to Steven’s house, an overwhelming smell engulfed us at the door. Taking a moment to collect myself after being winded by the draft of stale air, I thought about the combination--teenage boy and grandmother-- hoping that neither of them could see the look of disgust on my face. Not many people know the actual reason Steven doesn’t live with his parents. Usually he tells people that God ate them, just as a joke, and typically everyone drops the subject, but Steven’s mom and dad were both killed about 4 years ago in a horrible smelting incident and the police had to ask Steven to identify his parent’s bodies. After seeing the pictures, Steven wouldn’t speak for almost a year, and it took months of therapy for him to even be able to look anyone in the face. Slowly, progress was made, but he still hates to be reminded of any sort of metal at all.

The time it took for us to get situated in Steven’s couch was less than a matter of seconds; for Andrew and I this was routine. With my fingers, I combed my messy light brown hair to the side in attempt to get it out of my eyes, but no matter how much I tried, I knew five minutes later I’d have to repeat the process. It seemed no matter how I cut it, it always got in my face, though you’d think five years with the same hair cut I would be used to it by now. “Hey Steven, what up man?” one of us said. He walked across the room, his back to us, and replied in the same “teenage boy” response: a grunt. He obviously didn’t care which one of us had asked the question, otherwise he would have turned around. Steven was like that: very inquisitive, but also straight-out lazy.

“C’mon man, let’s go do something! I’m so bored!” Andrew said. Steven and I ignored him, knowing that he would ask again in another few minutes anyway. Andrew, not realizing how well we knew him, asked again, and again, and again for what seemed like an hour. After about the 5th repetition, I was on the verge of telling him to shut up when Steven interrupted me by yelling at him saying: “Look man, do you even know how long people live without water? Three days, Andrew! Do you know what day we are on? We are on day two! So don’t tell me you’re bored on the last day of your life.” Andrew looked like he had just been slapped in the face but he neither yelled back nor punched Steven. He walked over to Steven’s XBOX 360—which is what he had been playing when we walked in—picked it up, and threw it against the wall as hard as he could. Andrew simply replied with “Well I guess you won’t need that, seeing as today is the last day of your life.” And turned around and walked out the door. After recovering from the initial shock of the explosion of sparks from the XBOX 360, I turned to look at Steven. His face which was usually stark white was turning a sickly shade of purple. It was then I decided it was my turn to leave as well.

As I left Steven’s apartment building I too had come to the realization that I only had one more day to live. I sat down on the street corner and started thinking about my 16 years of life and whether they were well spent or not. The more I got into the mundane details of my life, the more I wanted to stop thinking about it. “My life is meaningless. I haven’t ever accomplished anything, so why am I still alive? Why am I still struggling, when I don’t even have a purpose?” After coming to that realization I found I just wanted to give up; to end my life all together. I walked to the nearest bridge and stood on the edge looking down at the great emptiness that used to be the Hudson River. Not wanting to see the end before it came, I turned back to walk off the bridge. Then I slipped.

The fall ended strangely soft. I opened my eyes found myself back in my room, in my own bed. I threw off my blankets and turned over to check the date on my phone. Tuesday, March 20th 2007. I reached for the glass of water perched on my bedside table. I downed the glass in seconds.

Before Freshman Math

2007-05-01T08:47:00.000-07:00

"Before Freshman Math"
by Yossi Halpernin

Mandy opens my door and walks in she comes over to me and wraps her self around me (and) we start to kiss. She removes my shirt and then my pants. She starts to remove her shirt. Then

“Jeremy up”
“Jeremy get up”

My eye opens and peeks through my covers to see my mom peering through the door.

“Up mom”
“Ok”

She shuts the door.

I lie back and realize it’s wet and sticky between my legs. I smile because I know it’s because of Mandy.

The door opens my eyes peer out from the covers once more.

“Up now Jeremy”
“You have school”
“I’m not saying it again”

“I’m up mom”

She closes the door.

I lie back try to sleep try to dream try to think of Mandy.

I cup my fingers around my boxers. I relax and let a little piss out. It’s warm and makes me warm.

The door opens and my mom comes running in.

“Jeremy up and dressed”
“You have school”

She comes over and grabs the covers and begins to pull them off me. I grab the covers, drop to the floor, and wrap them around me.

“I’m up mom”
“Get out”

“Get dressed in 5 minutes”
“Or I’m dressing you”

I remain there on the floor wrapped in blankets.

It’s 7:00 now. It will be 2:00 until I see her. That’s 7 hours. Can I manage I can manage I can live.

I jump up and throw the covers back on my bed. The door opens and I quickly turn around and pull up my boxers.

“I’m up mom”
“I’m getting dressed”
“Get out”

“Turn around Jeremy”

I take a step back and grab a pair of pants from the floor and step into them.

“Turn around”

I begin to turn around as I pull my pants up. She looks at me stares at me.

“Don’t be rude to me young man”
“Let’s try that again”

“Mom can you please leave”
“So I can have some privacy as I get dressed”
“Thank you”

My mom leaves. I sit on my bed and look at the different shirts that litter my floor. I grab the nearest one and put it on.

Mandy walks in. She slowly removes her clothes.

Something bangs on the door it opens and a head sticks in.

“good your dressed now get to school”

I fix my pants and get my bookbag out. I throw my notebook in find my homework and throw that in along with some random papers. I then look under my bed and grab the spray paint. I walk into the bathroom and finish pissing and leave the house.

I jump on my board crank up the music skate off to school. I enter my school find my homeroom and fall asleep.

Risk

2007-04-29T20:04:00.000-07:00

"Risk"
by Silvan Carlson-Goodman

“I call red.”

“Blue.”

“Green.”

“And gray is mine.”

“Hey, you guys are playing again? I’m in, what colors are left?”

“Yellow.”

“Awww, I always get stuck with yellow.”

The box was opened and the board laid out. The five tacticians grabbed for their color of choice and clicked open the plastic cases. The tiny plastic battle-ready men were scattered onto the table and quickly sorted into groups. Territories were rapidly claimed as people’s accents adapted to fit the countries they had chosen. Outbursts of crikey could be heard from down under as requests for tea and crumpets came from across the pond. All the fun came to a screeching halt, however, when the Argentinean ruler broke out in a rousing rendition of “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina.”

At this point people were generally weirded out, so they decided to actually start the game.

The dice said that yellow would start, it was on. The voices of the generals boomed over the battlefield like cannons.

“What? No, you can’t move those there! You can only move to adjacent spaces!”

“Says you, I can move these wherever I want.”

“Hey, as long as you are up could you grab me a soda?”

“Get your own soda, this blast of cool refreshing flavor is mine.”

“Hey, I’ll trade you Egypt for Ukraine.”

“Why?”

“Because Ukraine is Ukrazy.”

“I don’t know if I should laugh or punch you for that.”

“I’m not really sure either.”

“Uh, why are you putting all your units right next to my territories?”

“Just as a precaution. Why are you putting all your units next to my territories?”

“Oh just a precaution... your turn.”
Random chat wasn’t the only thing flying around. The trash talk was quite intense.

“So, thought you could defend Siam eh? Well guess again, it’s mine!”

“Yeah? Well you’re a poopy pants.”

Tiny monochromatic blood was spilled everywhere as confrontation consumed the earth. Green attacked Red, Red attacked Gray, Gray attacked Blue, and everyone attacked Yellow. The other boys had surrounded Yellows lone base of operations in Russia and were quick to discipline him anytime he tried to fight back. Of course, I don’t need to tell you that Yellow was screwed. In fact, he knew this too, and his frustration was clearly demonstrated in how angrily he sent the board flying across the room. Yellow stormed off, leaving the other four players stunned.

“Soooooo, new game?”

“I call red.”

“Blue.”

“Green.”

“And gray is mine.”

“Hey, you guys are playing again? I’m in, what colors are left?”

“Yellow.”

* * * * *

And that’s how it went. The five boys played their games all day, and the day before that and the day before that. They had been playing their games for as long as they could remember.

“I brought the chips.” They took turns bringing the snacks, but, since their tastes differed so much, most of the meal was eaten by the same person that brought it.

“Put them on the table, we’re going to get started as soon as everyone gets here. Oh there’s the door, that’s probably them.” Green walked in to the room he knew so well. He sat down next to Blue who was rubbing his hands together maniacally while he stared at the box.

“I wonder who will win this time? Oh wait, I already know who, Me!”

Green just rolled his eyes as Yellow walked in looking exasperated.

“Let’s just play this time, ok? Cut down on the trash talk.”

Gray stepped back into the room and started munching on the sour cream and onion potato chips.

“Eyuch, can’t you just get something normal for once?” He didn’t actually care for an answer and kept eating the chips.

“Have you guys heard what’s going on with Joe and Ashley?” Some mild chuckling started, everyone was in on the joke.
“Hey Yellow, didn’t you used to have a thing for Ashley?” They stared intently at Yellow awaiting a response with big grins plastered on their faces. Yellow averted his attention and started setting up the board: “Are we going to play or what?”
All the other guys snickered knowingly at each other until Gray got up the courage to antagonize the beast further.

“You know, I may be wrong but I seem to remember a secret stash of poetry from a certain someone to a certain someone named Ashley.”

If you had a device for measuring objects colliding with wind generating electronics then you would know that this was the exact moment when the shit hit the fan. You could practically feel the rage emanating from Yellow’s body as he leapt across the table grabbing Gray by the neck and shouting into his face.

“Shut up! Shut up! You are never to mention that bitches name again, you hear me? That goes for all of you....” Silence. “You hear me!?” The boys quickly responded with sheepish agreements.

“Sure.”

“You bet.”

“Oh yeah!”

Yellow slid back across the table and into his seat; he picked the board and pieces off the floor where he had just knocked them and returned to setting the game up. While the other guys tried, unsuccessfully, to keep from laughing.

“So when is red showing up? It isn’t like him to be late.”

“Oh, he’s probably just too scared to show up cause he knows who’s going to win.”

“Oh will you drop it already?” The phone rang “Oh that’s probably him now” Gray jumped up and bounded out of the room doing the classic “the phone is ringing and it is just far enough away to warrant jogging” walk. A minute later Gray walked back into the room looking dumbstruck and half sat, half collapsed into the nearest chair. All the heads in the room turned to him.

“And? When is he coming?”

“He’s... he’s not...” How was Gray supposed to tell them that Red wasn’t coming, ever again. Red had had a meeting, and when a body meets a solid metal body coming through the crosswalk it rarely ends well for the body in question. “...that’s what happened.” Denial set in.

“He’ll be ok though right?” No one needed to say anything; silence was the only answer required to explain the severity of the situation. The lack of noise didn’t go away; they sat, stewing in the quiet as they all mulled it over in their heads. Slowly turning from anger to sadness to shock and back to anger, none of them knew how to feel. Every now and then someone would try and speak, getting out a--

“How...”

--Or a--

“He...”

--before trailing back off into silence. Green stood up, slowly picked up his bag, and walked out the door. Minutes later he was followed by Blue and then Yellow, leaving Gray alone in his house. Gray still sat there, taking a break to make himself a sandwich, greet his parents, and then go to sleep early. In the following days the silence slowly broke. A greeting here and a “are you going to eat that” there turned back into their usual joking and raucous behavior. And they still got together every day to play; their ritual didn’t really change except for the red pieces set up next to an empty chair.

"www.blogspot.com"

2007-03-01T21:16:00.000-08:00

by Janis Out

7:22am
I can't believe I started one of these. God, my mother had one of these. But I feel like I need some new way to vent. EVERYONE has dire on uCap. And uCaps are so expensive, and my parents say they can't afford one. That bugs me. They only cost, what, $6999.99/month. But anyway. I'm sort of okay with this. It's retro.

Speaking of retro, tomorrow marks the 20th anniversary of 21st Century Breakdown and there's this HUGE thing streaming online and Dad said I HAD to watch. He actually found a CD player in the attic and has been playing his old CDs of... whatever that band is called. He's... like... obsessed.

TO be honest, though, I'm actually excited. I've never been logged into a StreamConcert before. Most of them only screen through uCap, and, again...

God, how did people live like this? The typing is KILLING my hand, and I actually make SPELLING MISTAKES, which I then have to DELETE. How tragic.

Maybe I should ask Sev for typing lessons. He's my best friend and vintage is really his thing. He has this thing called a cassette player and it's from... like... before our parents were born.

Speaking of Sev, yesterday, we were out on our run, and he turned to me and asked, "Janis, what do you think would happen if I cut off the power to our complex?" I looked at him like he was crazy!

"Nobody'd even flinch," I snapped. "Until the laptop batteries ran out."

So he said, "Well, what about... like... people who get locked outside their condos? No power, no door-opening."

So I puffed my cheeks at him and ran off. He HATES when I do that. He says if I were in his family, they'd uninstall my net. God, torture!

Anyway, in my History of Film class, we watched this thing called Star Wars and I'm going to get it for Sev. It might be older than my Gran, but the FX are amazing.

Have to go. Mandatory morning hour-run in a few minutes!

Janis Out

Mitsy

2007-02-15T13:32:00.000-08:00

"Mitsy"
by Gabrielle Noel

Before he even stepped into the quiet apartment, Jonathan could hear her. The living room was still as he entered, but not far off were the scratching, thumping, panting—the sounds of something trying to escape. He removed his sneakers and frowned, knowing that Mitsy was getting restless in her captivity.

Mitsy belonged to Sally-Anne Reynolds, his father's new wife. It had been just a month since the wedding, and all the changes were wearing on him. In addition to Mitsy, there was a fish tank in the living room with a filter that buzzed so loud, he couldn’t sleep. There was the “art” that now graced the walls—paintings of boats or seascapes or whatever other random thing someone had thought worthy of putting on paper. Jonathan missed the way the walls had once been bare except for an enormous clock that had been forced into storage.

Still, these additions were nothing compared to Mitsy. She was a loud, seemingly carnivorous Irish terrier, full of energy. It was as if someone had mixed Red Bull with her Purina. She could never sit still and her favorite greeting involved massive amounts of doggie spit. Jonathan hated her and felt nothing but resentment as she tried to claw her way into the living room.

When he came home, it was easy to ignore the buzzing fish tank, the so-called art on the walls. It was easy to pretend his father had taken a liking to fish and paintings. But the dog was hard to imagine away. His father had always hated dogs; it was impossible to pretend he'd changed his mind. As long as Mitsy, loud and irritating, lived in the apartment, Jonathan would always be reminded that things were no longer simple.

Once upon a time, his father would come home alone, pizza box in hand. Now he arrived with his new wife in tow, a woman who always insisted on cooking elaborate meals that took hours to prepare. Jonathan missed eating on the couch and flipping to ESPN to enjoy a football game with his dad. He missed using paper plates.

Now, the three of them would sit at the kitchen table, eating dishes Jonathan could barely pronounce—Bruschetta, Braciole, Garganelli—and eating off the plates Jonathan had once considered “fine china.” Now, the television had to be off, so they could “fully enjoy each other's company.” Now, Jonathan was miserable.

He took his time walking in the direction of his father's room, where Mitsy was being held prisoner. He knew that the second he let her out, she would bounce around, panting and looking like she'd just won the puppy lottery. She was always so happy to see him, and she'd only known him for a month. He massaged his temples, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

Within seconds, she was on him. Her paws were on his stomach, pushing him back as her tongue hung from her mouth. Her tail wagged excitedly. She was so happy to see him.

"God, Mitsy, down," he said. "Down!" He swatted her away and she eventually settled for circling him, tail still swishing. She barked happily and licked his toes. Jonathan wished he could've left her to rot in his father's room, but Sally-Anne had specifically told him to let her run around once he was home, to baby-sit her, to make sure she didn't chew on the couch. He knew his father would be unhappy if he ignored Sally-Anne's request. It was like she'd become his mom in only a month.

Jonathan's mother had died three years before, and she needed no replacement. Her presence could still be felt all over the apartment. Often times, Jonathan swore he heard her faint snores as he tried to fall asleep, the same ones he used to complain about. As far as he was concerned, she wasn't really gone.

Who was Sally-Anne to complicate his existence? Jonathan's mother had let him watch ESPN during dinner. She'd been perfectly fine with pizza seven nights a week. She'd been perfectly happy rooting for the Giants with him. Who was Sally-Anne to turn up her nose at football? Who was Sally-Anne to decide that the way things had always been was no longer right?

Mitsy rubbed her nose against the side of Jonathan's leg, begging for food. Sally-Anne had asked him to put out dog food for her as well. He approached the kitchen. The cabinet that had once held all their plates was now filled with puppy chow, puppy treats, puppy everything. The plates had a new place—the dish drainer, since they were finally being put to use—and so the cabinet had become Mitsy's. Jonathan pulled down some Purina Puppy Chow, poured it into Mitsy's bowl, and watched her happily lap it up.

He'd spent the majority of the last month moping around, so it was strange to be around someone as incurably peppy as Mitsy. Jonathan wondered what would happen if he made an attempt at liking her. He'd heard the buzz about dogs being “man's best friend,” and he'd wanted to know if it were true. Now, he had a dog, but he'd treated her like the plague since day one. He reached down as she took her last bite and pet her head. She wagged her tail, all the more excited, and he smiled, even though he didn't particularly want to, even though it felt like losing.

He took her bowl to the sink and started to wash it. His mother had often whistled as she washed the dishes, he recalled, not that there had been many dishes to wash. He closed his eyes, remembering the way she'd tapped her feet to her own song. If he thought hard enough, it almost became real. If he whistled, maybe it would be like she was whistling with him.

He wondered what his mother would've thought of Mitsy. She'd never wanted to take care of dogs, but she'd always loved them. He remembered how great she’d been, on the rare occasion she'd been able to play with one. She would have liked Mitsy, he decided. Mitsy was just the kind of dog to make her laugh.