This Young Man has a Gun in His Pocket

Standing at the front of the table, he addresses his colleagues on a new marketing strategy. This strategy, one he has slaved over for four weeks straight, ought to boost their profits by seven percent over the next two years. He explain his reasons in charts and graphs. His presentation skills are superb. His dress and appearance are impeccable. He projects an air of confidence and his smile never falters. He ends his presentation to a smattering of applause from the six other people in the room. The lights come on and the shades are opened, a gentle lull of traffic noise drifts up from the city streets below, a light snow falls on the window pane. He takes his seat and asks for questions.

His hands are pressed together in a triangle, his fingers touching the top of his lip. He carefully displays a facade of interest while they ask him stupid questions. He nods his head, giving them a gesture that says “Ah, I hadn’t considered that.” When really, he had considered that and he had just spent fifteen minutes telling them all about how he was going to get around it. He patiently explains himself again, his audience losing reasons to nix his ideas. His logic is sound. His desires are the best interest of the company.

At last they all agree, they will budget the appropriate money. They will implement his marketing plan. Profits will grow over the next two years. Everyone will be happy. They all shake hands and file out of the room one by one. He lingers behind to pack up his laptop and projector. When he is finished, he throws the satchel strap over his head and rests his right arm on top of the bulging bag. He gazes out of the large windows in the conference room, the sight of the busy city, the sounds of the busy people. He watches as little snowflakes land on all of them. Behind him, through the open door of the conference room, he hears the elevator ding. He looks and sees that it’s heading down. He hurries to catch it before it becomes too full. He has to make it home before six or his wife will worry.

He makes it just in time. He squeezes into the front, and he must smile and make polite laughs to the people he outran to get his spot in the elevator. He shrugs his shoulders at them, a gesture saying “Oh these crazy elevators! But what are ya gonna do? Eh?” They politely laugh in his face. The door closes and they all head down, with a few stops along the way, just so the door can open and everyone waiting to get on can be disappointed.

He does his best not to panic. It’s a long ride down from the high floor he was on. He could be stuck in the elevator for ten minutes depending on how many floors the full elevator has to hit before it reaches the ground floor. People cram him on all sides. One person in the back has to twist his shoulder into a corner in order to reach her hand up and scratch her nose. The young man does his best to endure the stifling heat and stale air.

He survives it as long as he can. The elevator only has three more floors to go, but he cannot stop his left hand from reaching towards the inside pocket of his coat. His hand twitches in, he can feel it.

Two floors to go.

The people in the back are preparing to get off. They move forward slightly. Just enough to push him against the door, locking his left arm in position.

One floor to go.

He flicks his fingertips forward and backward, trying to reach just a little further. His breathing has accelerated. He tries not to make grunting noises, but he is straining his muscles severely, trying to get his left hand a tenth of an inch further in his pocket. The people in the back make one small adjustment forward. He cannot reach any further in. He lets out a scream.

The elevator doors open and he is shoved forward. His coat swings open with all the force on his back and his left hand falls out of the pocket. The crowd moves across the marble floor of the lobby, their heels clicking, the echoes bouncing all around. He gains his composure and exits the building. He hails a taxi and heads home, his head leaning against the backseat window, watching the snowflakes assault the bright yellow body of the cab.

The Family Dinner Melts into Water

The Morbon family sat down for dinner at 8 o’clock in the evening. Father brought out the buckets of KFC. Plenty of original recipe for everyone, with a few pieces of extra crispy for Junior. He sat the bags down on the circular table in the kitchen, having to shove aside a pile of mail: bills, advertisements, and a jury summons for Mother. He moved aside the clutter and shoved the food into the middle.

Mother, Junior, and Sister took their seats. Father ran to the kitchen to get some paper plates and a couple six-packs of coke from the fridge. He handed these things to everyone, then fished out the plastic knives and sporks from the bags. The Family reached into the buckets, grabbing the greasy chicken, snatching the sides that they wanted. Mother took the coleslaw, Sister the mashed potatoes, Junior the macaroni and cheese, and Father was left with the fries. They spooned out their sides and ate their chicken. Father ate his meal while staring silently at the clock on the wall. Mother gazed at the pile of mail on the floor. Junior and sister looked at their food and only their food. No one talked. No one looked at anyone else. The only sounds in the room were chewing and swallowing.

In the next moment, The Morbon Family became completely still. Their jaws locked. Their skin began to droop and sag off of their bones. The hair on their heads and their bodies grew out and became rubbery, their tongues turned to mush, like cookies dunked in milk. Brown and green eyes became totally black. Lips turned a dark shade of blue and ears morphed into little watery bags of skin and cartilage.

Then, as the family was melting, their eyes popped from their sockets, the mouths unhinged, and torrents of water gushed from their eyes and mouths. Great rushing streams that hit the table and scattered food everywhere. They continued to pour out, until every bit of their bodies had changed to water. And then, all that was left of the Morbon family was a waterlogged carpet, right under the dining room table.

The family dinner explodes in fire.

The Grayson family sat down for dinner at six o’clock in the evening. Mom served the table: sliced turkey sandwiches, salad, mashed potatoes and iced tea. The walls of their dining room were an eggshell gray, very modern in its effect. The plates were an equally drab olive color and the silverware was completely sanded down, matted so as not to reflect any light. Mom sat the pile of sandwiches in the middle of the table, next to the bowls filled with salad and potatoes, between the pitcher of iced tea and extra napkins.

Junior reached up and grabbed two sandwiches, Sister took one, father grabbed two as well, and mother had three. Father looked at her bulging hips and died a little inside. Junior poured himself an already sweetened glass of tea and added three packets of sugar, stirring the drink and staring at the ice cubes, his legs twitching, his knees bumping the underside of the table. Sister’s plate shook and her mashed potatoes jiggled, falling over onto her sandwich. The food touching sent shivers of revulsion through her stomach, and she kicked her brother hard on the shin. Junior happily ignored the aggression and drank his tea in big gulps, smiling at his sister all the while. Sister looked over at father, imploring for intervention with her eyes. Father chewed his food and stared directly at his plate. Sister crossed her arms and dropped her fork on the ground. Junior continued to knock the table. Sister grabbed a salt shaker, twisted off the cap and dumped a large amount of salt in his drink. Mother saw this and threw her sandwich down on the table. This jiggled her arm fat, which father saw, and he crushed his sandwich in his right hand.

In the next moment, all four members of the Grayson family became very still. They all looked up and directly ahead, at exactly the same moment. Their jaws locked up. They could breathe but not speak. Their eye colors changed from blue and brown to red. Their hair stood up straight and their arms began to shake, smacking the table enough to cut their skin. And from those cuts, smoke came, little puffs from the small knicks and a large cloud from the bigger ones. Their stomachs expanded and their bodies ballooned outward, expanding to the point that their clothes ripped apart, their skin stretched and where it was stretched too tight, bright orange light shone out from beneath. When they had expanded to an extent that they were no longer recognizably human, their jaws unlocked and great jets of fire spewed from their mouths.

The horizontal fountains of flame evaporated the iced tea, singed the bread, wilted the salad and melted the mash potatoes. The Family then burst from inside, each member became a complete flame and burned for mere seconds until every part of them had converted to heat, their bodies reduced to balls of fire hovering over their chairs. The balls burned brighter and brighter, covering the dining room in blinding heat and light until, finally, all that was left were four piles of ash, seated around the table, up and down, left and right.

The Firefly Story

Little Alex Wakemon lived on a large hay farm in the country. For his fifth birthday, he was given a tractor of his own to ride in the fields. Not a real tractor with an engine, but a small three wheeled one which he could pedal. He loved to take long slow rides through the tall grass near dusk, just as the sun was falling behind the treetops of the forest that surrounded his family’s home. This time of the day enchanted young Alex. The bright yellow light of the summer sun was not yet gone, yet it was still there, fading into somber shades of purple and black. The world expanded in those brief half hours. As if the light that remained were freer, able to move between the blades of grass unhindered. His young brain could not put these things into words, yet he felt them in the pit of his heart. He loved his farm. He loved his tractor. He loved this time of day. He loved them all like he loved his mother and father.

The common way that Alex went, was to start at the barn closest to his house and work his way south, over a half mile of field, to the southern edge, where the tree line began and the shadowy forest bordered the grass. As twilight dimmed, and the stars came into the sky, Alex saw faint glowing balls of yellow light near the bottoms of the tree trunks. What these were exactly eluded him. But being an intelligent boy he reasoned it out as best he could. If the sun was going down, then the stars must come up, just as the sun came up out of the earth somewhere far away. This meant that the stars rose up to the night sky from the forest near his home.

When little Alex had figured out that the entire night sky was filled with stars that rose from his forest, he was naturally excited. He did not yet have a concept of how many people there were in the world, but he knew he was one of the luckiest.

——————-

Father Firefly flew around the moss covered trunk of an old oak tree. His wings fluttered quickly, his tail pulsing a bright green light. Below him, Mother Firefly gathered food and Baby Firefly tried to get his week-old wings to lift into the air. He had seen his mother and father do this before, and though he’d thought about it, and realized flight was a beautiful thing, his tiny insect brain was just now coming to the conclusion that he could be flying as well.

So he pulled all of the energy into his little body that he could muster and flapped his wings as fast as he could. Soon enough, his body lifted off of the ground and his tail was pulsing as bright as his father’s ever had.

——————-

When Alex left for his evening ride on this day, he brought with him an old mason jar. Alex had seen his mom making jams and preserves in these jars. He knew that they meant a lot to his mom, in the same way that his pedal tractor meant a lot to him. So he decided to thank his mom by capturing a star from the forest near the field.

——————

Father Firefly’s wings beat rapidly when he saw his son taking his first flight. He took off himself and flew close to his son, making sure that nothing bad happened to him along the way. They were now far away from their home in the tree, and out among the amber coloured grass. Already, Baby Firefly was being more adventurous and flying farther than his father ever had, and that distance made father firefly nervous. He worried that although his son could fly, he would not be able to react quickly, that any number of bad things could come for the young one and he would’nt see it in time. He worried that the world would put out his son’s light.

But Baby Firefly was not nervous at all, his wings bore him faster and farther away, his tail shone brightly. It was the brightest that Father Firefly could ever remember any firefly’s tail getting, and a great feeling of pride became mingled with his anxiousness.

———————-

Alex pedalled slowly, savouring the dying sunlight, looking for just the right star to take home to his mother. They fluoresced all around him, but he did not see one that he felt fitting of his mother’s love. So he continued on, looking for the brightest star he could find. Soon enough, he saw the brightest star in the entire field, floating upwards towards the sky, about to be out of reach and in the heavens. He pedalled over to it as quick as he could, his glass jar at the ready, prepared to capture the brightest star in the field and show his mother just how much he loved her.

———————–

Father Firefly paused and watched his son fly upwards instead of outwards. The nervousness was all gone from him now. He watched his son fly and knew that Baby Firefly would be OK. His flying was good enough that he would be able to avoid the predators of the sky. The worry disappeared. The pride in him grew. His wings beat fast as he watched his son float upward into the darkening sky.

——————–

Alex got off of his tractor a few yards away from the star he wanted. It was flying upwards slowly, but it had a good lead on him, and if he didn’t get it soon it would be out of his reach. Even if he jumped as high as he could, he wouldn’t be able to reach it. So he rushed towards it, his jar held over his head, ready to swing it downward, right over the top of the star.

He closed the distance quickly, and even though he had to stretch upwards, standing on his tip-toes, he managed to bring the jar down on his prize. He threw the lid on it and closed it tight, his heart beaming with accomplishment . In his head he imagined his mother grabbing him up and giving him a great big kiss on the cheek, thanking him for the beautiful star. He loved his mother very very much and especially loved it when she smiled at him. He knew this star would make her smile.

——————–

Father Firefly was panicked. His son had been flying overhead seconds before, when all of a sudden his tail light had been violently jerked down beneath the tops of the grass. He flew down and searched as fast as he could for any trace of his son, a brief flash of green light, the sound of young beating wings. But he saw nothing and heard nothing. He flew back up over the grass and scanned the horizon for any sign at all, but he found none. Baby Firefly was gone.

——————

Alex ran back to his tractor and pedalled home, clutching the jar in his armpit the whole time.

—————–

Father Firefly flew around for longer than he’d ever flown before, flying until exhaustion at last forced him to the ground. He rested his wings for as long was necessary, then flew as fast as he could back to Mother Firefly, where he rested at the trunk of the tree, without beating his wings at all.

Mother Firefly sensed that something was wrong. Her husband had not returned with her son. He was resting on the bottom of the trunk instead of flying around, and worse, his tail was completely dark. There was no light coming from her husband tonight, and this worried her. She flew down next to him and looked for any reaction, when she did not get one; she flew off into the field as fast as she could to search for her baby. And though she too looked for as long as her wings would hold her, she did not find Baby Firefly. She was forced by the limits of her own body to return home, where she sat next to her husband in the dark. Neither of them flapped their wings. Neither of them made any light.

——————–

Alex’s mom was standing on the back porch calling his name, the sun was now almost gone and the little light that remained of the day moved freer than ever. Alex pedalled through the grass as fast his little legs would push him, breaking through the last row of grass and into his backyard where his mother waited. His little body burst with energy at the sight of her and he jumped off of his tractor, tipping it over and tripping. He got up and ran towards her as fast as he could, holding the star in front of him with both hands, swinging it back and forth with joy.

He reached up and held the jar towards his mom.

“I brought you something mommy.”

“Oh? Did you catch mommy a firefly?”

“No, it’s a star. It’s the brightest star in our field and I caught it for you mommy.”

“Oh it’s a star is it? Well it’s beautiful and I love it.” She smiled as brightly as Alex hoped she would. He threw both of his arms around her legs and squeezed them tight, looking up at her with an enormous grin on his face. He was proud that he had made his mommy smile. She bent down and picked him up, leaning his head over her shoulder.

“What do you say we get you ready for bed? Huh? Sound good?”

Alex nodded his head in agreement. He was tired and ready for sleep, ready to get into his pyjamas and hear his father read him a bedtime story. They walked into the house through the screen door. His mother sat the jar on the kitchen table and carried him out of the room. Alex had one last look at the star, the prize he’d worked so hard to bring home to his mother. Already it seemed to not be shining as bright, dimming, gradually on the table.

“I love you mommy.”

“I love you too sweetie.”

—————–

Alex went to bed that night the happiest little boy in the whole world. In the morning, the star in the jar was no longer glowing at all.

 

 

 

 

A conversation with a random drunk at a bar.

“Have you ever been fucking a chick, or a dude for that matter, I don’t know which way you swing so we’ll throw dudes in for good measure…”

This small unassuming stranger drags deeply on his cigarette and signals the bartender for another gin and sprite before continuing.

“My name is Nixon, by the way, just call me Nick.” He reaches out his hand and shakes mine. “So like I was saying, If you’ve ever been fucking a chick or a dude, and they cough while you’re inside them, it feels amazing. The pussy squeezes down real tight and it feels fucking amazing. And if you’ve got your cock in just the right position, so that the pussy muscles really squeeze down on the head of your cock, oh man, it’s like fucking heaven. It’s like fucking the best idea you ever had. It’s like having sex with winning the lottery. I don’t mean having sex while winning the lottery, I mean if the event of winning the lottery had a physical body and you could fuck it, it would feel like that…”

Another deep drag off the cigarette, exhaled deeply with a few smoke rings for the hell of it.

“I would assume a guys ass does the same thing but I wouldn’t know. Don’t go there myself…”He raises a hand and quickly interjects, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind you, I’m just saying.”

“No, no. It’s okay. All’s fair when making assumptions, right? But I’m straight by the way. And no, I’ve never been having sex and my partner coughed while I was inside her,” I say.

“You really ought to try it my man. Fucking amazing,” He says that last part with great emphasis, just to make sure I understand what I’m missing out on. Thank you. Message received. Roger wilco over and out. I breathe in, preparing to ask him a question, he cuts me off before I get the chance.

“The first time I ever fucked a chick and she coughed it was purely by accident. The fucking that is, not the coughing.” He rolls the marlboro back and forth in his right hand fingertips while staring at it.

“I’ve been smoking these for a long while, but one time I decided I was gonna quit them right? So I bought all the gum and the patches and all that shit man. I bought it all and none of that shit worked. Not for me at least. But I really really wanted to quite you know? So I joined one of those smokers support groups. You know where you go around and introduce yourself and all that? Yeah. Well, I joined one of them.” he takes a swig of his gin and sprite.

“And when I go there for the first time there’s this chick there. Not the hottest piece of ass on the planet, but definitely bangable though. And she gets up and says her name is Anna. Now, This chick had been smoking for something like 15-20 years, two packs a day. And when she had been coming to the meetings for a long time, like for a year or more, she got diagnosed with chronic bronchitis. You know what that is man?” he asks me.

“Is it different than regular bronchitis, because I’ve had that a couple of times,” I say.

“Ok, well imagine regular bronchitis but it never goes away. That’s what she had. And so at this point she had decided she was just gonna keep smoking,”

“So why did she keep coming to meetings if she wasn’t going to quit?” I asked.

“She kept coming for two reasons. One: she wanted to serve as a warning to everyone what would happen if they didn’t quit. Two: god wanted me to meet her.Fate wanted me to meet this chick, I’m telling you man, fate.” Another swig of gin and sprite followed by a deep drag on his cigarette.

“But so anyway, after my first meeting there, where I introduced myself and whatnot, at that point, it had been like 6 months since I’d had sex with someone. I was just getting over a bad break up and I was going out of my mind with horniness. And so during that first break, I walked over to her at the little coffee and donuts table and introduced myself again, more formally you know? And we hit it off. She liked a lot of the same stuff I liked. Books, movies, music. She was a democrat. I’m a democrat. You know, we clicked. And during the course of our conversation I noticed that no one else really wanted anything to do with her, especially the other guys in the room. And then I realized what it was the first time she coughed.” Another swig and smoke exhalation.

“When she coughed, which was a lot mind you, because of the chronic bronchitis, she coughed very loudly and deeply, I mean her whole body clutched inwards and she coughed until she spit up this really gross phlegm into a handkerchief. When she did that the first time in front of me, she got this embarrassed look on her face, and apologized. Right then man? I almost, I mean I was this close,” He holds his thumb and index finger centimeters apart, ” from just finding a way to get out of there. But my dick talked me out of it. He was like, ‘Fuck that man. We need some pussy! This chick’s got like no self esteem and she’s not even ugly. Just go for it,’ you know?”

I have a feeling where this is going and I’m “this close from finding a way to get out of here.” What a pig. What a disgusting pig.

“So I get her back to her place and we fuck. And it’s just like I told you man. the most incredible experience I’ve ever had in my life. And she had a good time as well. She hadn’t had a man for at least as long as I’d been without a woman. Maybe longer. I don’t know. But the point I’m trying to make is that we really hit it off that night. Physically, emotionally, all of that man, all of it. We ended up dating for like a year and got married and everything man. It was the most amazing two years of my life, and I don’t regret a second of it…” He trails off. He swirls his glass around in his hand, the ice melting and diluting what’s left of his drink. His cigarette has burned down almost to the filter, he rubs it out in the ash tray. He stares into the rows of hard liquor behind the bar.
“She got diagnosed with lung cancer a year later and she died. She had already made up her mind to keep smoking, and I figured I would too. We both enjoyed it and it was what brought us together you know? So we just did it,” His gaze is still penetrating the bottles behind the bar. He snaps out of it, and shakes his head before looking at me again.

“Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that the greatest experiences I’ve had in my life were because of three things. There were because of smoking, coughing, and fucking. That’s it. That’s my point.”

I don’t really know what to say after hearing a story like that, so I don’t really say anything at all. I mean, I say something, I say, “So, where’s the bathroom?” and he points off behind me to the left, where a guy riding a bull is on the door, directly across from another door with a girl lassoing a horse.

“Thank you,” I say.

“No problem,” he says while lighting up another cigarette.

I slide of my barstool and go to take a piss. I finish and quietly exit the bar without drawing too much attention to myself, waiting on the curb for a few minutes while my buddies inside wonder where I went. Eventually one of them leans out the door and sees me.

“The fuck you doing out here man?”

“We gotta leave,” I say apologetically.

“Why?” he asks. I can’t see him rolling his eye but I just know he is.

“Fucking guy in there,” I say, hitching my thumb over my shoulder towards the bar, “Creeps me the fuck out.”

Thoughts on being thrown through a window.

You know, once someone’s head is about to go through a window, they get very introspective. They like to enjoy those last couple moments to think about how they ended up there, to see if they can figure out how they woke up like every other day, ate breakfast like every other morning,  got dressed and headed out of the house yet somehow ended up with two bodybuilders throwing them through a plate glass window.

If they don’t get their throat cut with a shard on the way through, they won’t be thinking at all. Their brain will go into full on flight mode (no fighting here) adrenaline will dump into their blood and their body will do it’s best to keep the pain to a minimum. If, after a few seconds, they have had time to figure out how they ended up on that floor, blood pouring from their forehead, shards of glass sticking from their eyelids and lips, they will offer me the money that is owed to me and we’ll have no more unpleasantness.

After someone has been thrown through a window by me and lived, they get a little more philosophical. I appreciate this aspect of the mind’s way of dealing with trauma. One person, after dealing with me and settling his debts, even took the time to write me a letter asking me how I can possibly find enough windows to throw people through. I replied to him, very cordially I might add, that I once had a window maker who owed me money and we worked out a deal. He pays me in fresh windows. It’s a strain on his finances but less of a strain on his face. I think he respects that and appreciates it.

People ask me, “Why do you do it man? Why? Why not just put a gun in their face, or kidnap their kids, or break their arms? Why go through the trouble?” I mean, come on. Guns? Kidnapping? Arm breaking? Boooooring. I’d like to think that there is room for innovation and creativity in any line of work, but especially in intimidation and  debt collection. And besides, just because they couldn’t pay their hospital bills, doesn’t mean they aren’t entitled to first class customer service on my end does it?

Does it?

The answer is no. No it does not.

The subject appears to be a 38 year old female.

“The date today is August 28th, 2007. The time is 9:35 p.m., Medical Examiner Johnson speaking. The subject appears to be a 38 year old female. Cause of death is believed to be a gunshot wound to the abdomen. Preliminary examination will focus on the abdominal area,” she takes a deep breath before continuing on, adjusting the overhead microphone so she doesn’t hit it when she leans in.

“There appears to be an entrance wound right below the victim’s right-hand side of the ribcage, a good deal of dried blood and charred flesh and powder surround the hole. I am now making a lateral incision an inch above the navel, in an attempt to find the bullet.”

This poor unassuming corpse surgeon cuts and digs, looking for a bullet that is not like other bullets she has pulled out of other, countless bodies. She moves the scalpel across the skin with grace, seperating the flesh into a small canyon, sticking her gloved hands into the muscle and fat, finally shoving a small pair of tweezers into the cavity when she feels the tiny hard lump that she thinks is lead.

“I have extracted the bullet, it is in a rather damaged condition, I, uh, cannot account for the amount of damage the bullet his sustained given that it did not exit the body. There were no bone shards to indicate that it came through the ribs or other areas. The bullet also does not appear to have any powder on it. It’s in a very polished and shiny condition.”

She looks at the bullet very closely, pondering what sort of material it could be made of. Come on honey, piece it together.

“It is my belief that this bullet is almost certainly not lead, it uh… well, it would appear to be some sort of precious metal. I don’t know whether to laugh or cringe if it is what I think it is.”

Don’t laugh, it’s not funny. It is what you think it is. Keep going, you’re almost there.

“I believe the bullet is silver.”

There you go. Now run.

“It’s uh” she let’s out a deep sigh, ” well…”

She reaches over and turns off the tape recorder, sighing heavily and wiping her forearm across her face, leaving a small streak of blood across her cheek. She’s being careless now. She can’t decide whether to laugh or cry. She’s seen a lot in her time, things far more gruesome than this. But it was always serious. Now someone is making a joke of it. She flicks the tape recorder back on.

“Sorry for that, continuing the examination…”

Please dear god, RUN! GO NOW!

“Looking for signs of struggle on the hands, The fingernails on the right hand are very cracked and the fingernail on the right middle finger in particular has been completely removed. There is blood and hair underneath the nails of the other fingers. There are also scratchmarks all along the forearms on both the left and right arms. A few of which have scabbed oohvAHHHH!”

Damnit. He’s here now. The door to the examination room has slammed open and a man is looming in the doorway. He holds a shotgun across his chest, bandoliers of shells draped over his shoulders. His sunken, sickly looking face burns with sweat, his eyes pierce through her.

“The blood on your cheek,” he says, “where did that come from?”

She quickly wipes the back of hand across her cheek, looking at the blood, then looking at the body on the table. The realization of what’s about to happen flashes into her brain. She raises her hand up. “No. No. No. Just put the gun down and let’s talk.” Too late. He raises the shotgun and points it even with her face. He pulls the trigger. Her head disintegrates, the wall behind her coated with bone fragments, blood, brain and teeth. Her headless body slumps down, knocking over the tray full of bloodied surgical tools. She almost made it. She should have listened to me, to her gut instincts.

The skinny man with the gun slumps down against the doorframe. He begs god for forgiveness for the people he killed to get here. He begs for forgiveness for the one life he has left to take. Tonight is a full moon and he doesn’t have it in him. He pulls out a thirty eight caliber handgun and points it at his heart, saying a small prayer before pulling the trigger. No one else will be forced to bear his curse anymore. He squeezes the trigger with his thumb. His torso jerks and smacks against the doorframe. His eyes roll back in his head and his breathing stops.

—————————————-

Outside in the cool autumn air, the cloudy sky dissipates and the bright full moonlight bathes the city. A woman walking home from work on 32nd street clutches her coat around her neck as a cool wind whips around her; orange, red, and yellow leaves swirling around feet. She stops in her tracks as a piercing howl screams out of the alleyway in front of her to the left. She steps backward as a figure stumbles around the corner, clutching his face and screaming in pain. Her initial panic turns to concern and she rushes forward to see what’s happened.

“Sir. Sir are you alright?” she says placing her hand on his back. He continues to writhe around on the ground, clutching his face and screaming. “Just, just hang on sir alright? I’m… I’m calling 911 right now okay? Just hang on we’re gonna get you some help.” She pulls out her cellphone and calls for help.

——————————————

“911, what’s your emergency?”

The 911 dispatcher has to quickly snatch her headset off, the long whining howl coming out of the headphones is almost loud enough to break her eardrums.

She lies in the bedroom, wishing for her husband.

She lies in the bedroom, wishing for her husband. Her husband sits idly on the couch, trying to force eloquent words. She feels cold under the blankets. He feels compelled to change the world. Their world, the world they share under a single roof, collapses. Slowly, ever so slowly. It crumbles like ancient monuments crumble, invisible to the naked eye, fading under centuries of rust and disrepair. She is the beautiful stone statue, standing patiently. He is the neglectful sculptor, content to let his creation rot on display, never tending to it, muddy rain turning to harsh green streaks on her pale white skin.

They do not understand each other, not anymore. They did once, before the day to day responsibilities of life overwhelmed them. They laughed at their differences, content with them. Comedy can arise from a pairing of opposites, from a chemist and an artist. But when both have failed at both, and only one refuses to give up hope, there is nothing funny about it anymore. They will have to reconcile this difference. They will have to find a way to be okay, to be okay with who they are.

For my own part, I have no advice to give them. My binoculars and their open curtains simply let history record this confrontation. I watch them every night, from two blocks away to the east. The cool breeze is always blowing in off the ocean, the foundation of their house shakes gently on its stilts. Every night, the bedroom light goes off at ten. The light above his writing desk goes off at three. Last nights word count? 87. This nights word count? Well it’s two thirty and he’s at 91. His grand total is 10,008.

She tries her best to wait for him. She really does love him. But she is not blameless for the temperature of the household. She has not said a kind word to him in weeks, too proud to swallow her anger and forgive. She has not been okay with simply letting him be for a long time. An odd compulsion to change him drives her. Sometimes they still share moments together, moments where they reach a comfortable ease. But always her disappointment hangs over him like an umbrella blocking the sun, it pulls down on him like heavy chains on his neck. He walks forward as best he can under that tremendous pull of gravity.

3:00 a.m. Final word count for the evening:  106. It was a productive two hours for him. He reaches up and pushes the off switch on his industrial desk lamp. Darkness floods the room, but the full moon shoves a little pale blue light in, giving him just enough light to find his way down the hall to the bedroom. He quietly slides beneath the comforter, trying not to wake her. He settles in and dozes off. They slumber together, dreaming different dreams, tossing and turning in the night. Tomorrow may be different. It may not. I will watch and let you know.

In my head I hear that Phil Collins song…

In my head I hear that Phil Collins song, the one where he talks about feeling it in the air. That’s exactly what it feels like. Alternating fits of nausea, crying, pure rage and murderous intents. And as I see the guy across the room, smiling, sipping his beer without a worry in the world, the flickering light from a budweiser sign turns his complexion a monsterous yellow, matching the monster he’s buried inside of himself.

I’m clutching the grip of my pistol so tight that I have to stop myself, my hand shaking the barrel, I could accidentally shoot myself – not tonight. Tonight I correct a mistake three decades long.

A flash: me as a kid, hiding behind a bush and a chain-link fence, having run away moments before. Him: with my best friend in a headlock. We’re on the edge of a culvert, swirling with a torrent of rain-water, a gift from god to drown by. He’s shoving, pushing, forcing my friend up to the edge.

The Bully: “Where’s your faggot little buddy now? Ran off and left you didn’t he?”

My Friend: “He’s here, somewhere, waiting for you to fuck up.”

Bully: “I doubt that. Most likely he’s trying to find another cocksucker to replace you.”

Friend: “Yeah. You, maybe. You’d like that wouldn’t you?”

He never knew when to stop, when to let a bad situation be. He couldn’t just let a bully be a bully, he always had to correct them. But this bully, he could not be corrected. My friend goes tumbling backward, a powerful shove to the chest. His head dissapears below the water where it does not re-emerge. The Bully stands at the edge for a few minutes before leaving. I stay until nightfall.

End Flash:

That song is booming in my head, the two and the four are pounding the inside of my skull, threatening to crack the bone and leak my thoughts out. In slow motion I get up from my table and make my way across the dance-floor. The DJ has a techno groove blaring from the house system. My teeth shake with every bass hit. People crowd me. I nudge them aside as I move in a straight line. No-one notices the Sig-Sauer dangling from my left hand. The rainbow of flashing lights obscures my face and my body. I am a walking shadow, stalking prey among a forest of oblivious trees.

I reach the bar and hide my right hand behind my back. An attractive young female is leaning over his shoulder, whispering in his ear. I walk up to his side, staring directly at him. My whole body is shaking, my stomach is trying to both jump out of my mouth and drop out of my ass, my heart is going to explode. He notices me and my less than casual glare.

Bully: “Can I help you?”

Me: “Are you Erich Doneman?”

Bully with an unbelieving look: “How do you that name?”

I don’t give myself time to think. I pull my right arm up level with his face, in less than a few thousandths of a second we’ve gone from conversation to murder. I close my eyes as I squeeze the trigger. Many screams are heard and there is the sound of glass shattering, of people stampeding to safety. An incredible force smashes my right side. A guard has tackled me and pinned me under the bar. All the senses are a blur: taste of blood and sweat, feel of heat and pain, smell of powder and booze, sight of red and black, sound of screams and music. I thrash and scream to get free.

The guard finally pulls his knee off my neck and I see. The Bully is in a daze a few feet away from me. A small lake of blood is pooled around his feet. The young lady that was on his shoulder is on the ground next to him. The left side of her face is completely blown out, her skull mushrooming outwards, brain and bone scattered about her. The bully speaks. I cannot hear him but I can read his lips.

“You.”

I kick out with all my force, trying to break free. The guards weight holds me down.

“I remember you.”

I scream from the stomach, gnashing my teeth.

“You ran.”

Don’t take it personally babe.

Don’t take it personally babe. I just want to feel alive. Sad isn’t it? Twenty-five years old and I’ve never really felt anything. Nothing other than a desire to be at rest and at peace. Oh, there’ve been glimpses for sure. Brief moments where some small amount of adrenaline dumped into my bloodstream, telling me that perhaps I wasn’t just put on this planet to make money and die. Pop out a few kids along the way so they can do the same thing. Just a big wheel of life without living, doing without leaving a mark, thinking without being and slowly shuffling towards a six-foot hole in the ground.

Most people get over that at some point. That point, for me, hasn’t come yet and likely never will. Some people were put on this planet to just enter and exit, to sit in the waiting room and twiddle their thumbs. I get restless and I want to walk out the door. You’re okay with sitting in the chair and staring at a magazine. This is, quite simply, who we are. I’m okay with that. I just hope you can be okay with me.

So if you’ll excuse me, the concert starts at nine and it’s almost seven. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us and they’re all waiting. Lock the door. Don’t wait up. I’ll be home late. I’m going to go and try to feel alive for a few hours. Don’t forget that I love you and that you love me.

Bye.