"An Unusual Lunch" by Estefania Zavala

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.

"The Dried Tomato"

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?"

"The Great Four Guardians"

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"

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.

"4:00pm Date"

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?

"Song"

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.

Dead Point

"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.