/lit/ writers issue 016

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The following junk has been posted on /lit/ March 13, 2013.



A young, fresh and cherry STEM student walks into the halls of a sterile English department with his head held high. Stern and with a proud heave, he bellows through the cavern at the beanie-sporters scattered through the hall:

" WHAT WOULD YOU RATHER STUDY, HEATHENS? "

Seven fragrant dreadlocked beards spew coffee from their continental gullets. Free-range hens shuffle out a window somewhere.

" WORDS ON A PAGE OR THE FUCKING COSMOS? "

An emergency evacuation is called. Afghan clogs stuff the exit. Native tears are shed. A triad of cauldrons full to brim with boiling kamquat loose their bellies with a fever on the frantic patrons all around. The shelves are raided. Looters stuffing oriental knapsacks leave no kitsch untouched.

From the roaring depths of chaos in the halls, through sheets of stirring fire: calm and rigid comes up looming in the haze a stoic English professor, tailored suit to keen perfection, forty thousand pages full of Marx and further reading in an unstained palm.

Expressionless, with firm phenomenologic hold on mind and body, he whispers to the STEM student, currently engaged in evil laughter:

" What would you rather study, child? "

The student is hushed. Voiceless. The man has snared his subjectivity entirely.

" Nature - or the nature of nature? "

Of an instant all the place is silent. In the corner, captive underneath the groins of several existential theists, one brave soul begins to clap. Soon the place is flooded with cheer.

The next day, all sciences were cancelled nationwide. The shells of disenfranchised rockets sheltered lonely bohemians everywhere. All was well.

********************************************************************

The light is blinding. It had blown up from a pinpoint, then slowly wrapped around me. Over dilated, it had filled the iris to its brink, and then kept going. Embracing me, subsuming me; hell, like a port-strung strobe’s light gleaming over the glasses of a drowning man its glow became me. And I, not being the same me anymore, feel nothing now, nothing at all.
The slow sawing of my breath, the soft static din in my ears; the quiet thumps of my frail body against the insides of my hollow suit, have all faded away. There is nothing left now, not to hear, not to feel; not to think. I’ve been overcome; beaten in a benumbed struggle; then left, disabled and unable to grab hold of any of the fleeting, or fend off even one of the strange new seething senses that scuttle through me like steel debris through a sinking ship. And so I stretch and I wriggle and I shake, like some sort of primordial worm, with its mutated, translucent skin, manically attempting to distinguish any of the alien senses that slowly envelop and ingress it. But there are too many. And this is all too much. And I know it. I know that I am lost; I know that I will not be found, and I know that there is nothing I can do about it anymore. I know it. I know…. I know.
And so, blind and defeated, I allow myself to fall into its fits of numb spasms and undersea-like gyrations, just as well indifferent to any and all of the personal ramifications possibly lurking just behind the haze of my current stupor.
But then, suddenly, in a falling rush, I feel -- for this one fraction of a second -- a familiar feeling, one of recognition and acceptance, unbeknownst to this unperceived vacuum, but of which immediately washes in wave after wave of indecipherable, guaranteed to soon be incomprehensible, images, sounds and emotions.
In that fraction of a second the light had ceased and all had gone dark.
But, as a feeling of weightlessness takes me over, so too does an Omni like perception of my surroundings, and I feel like some sort of floating glass orb, able to see all that reflects off my surface: The purple, yellow and white stars, each popping in and out of sight like flashes from a billion different disposable cameras; the viridian colored water, marked with eddies whose centers funnel down into an endless nothingness; the giant jagged monoliths attached to one another by twisted branches of stone that seem as vast and infinite as hovering worm holes; all swirl around me, existing all in one endless stroke, like the supernova colored explosions that dance behind shut eyelids; like oil spilled in water; like a dirt road hubcaps reflections; like the sky in The Starry Night; like nothing I have ever seen.
Peace and horror, with nothing in-between.
Back home it would have been like leaning on the lightening rod of some high-rise skyscraper downtown, the city sprawled out beneath you, a breathtaking 360-type view, laying still as you combed your eyes over it in an uneasy awe, shivers crawling up your spine every time a gust of wind hit your face; a weightless pause every time you shuffled for another inch, toes flexing over concrete edges, feet jostling its own prints in the gravel, vying for more space, for just enough room to comfortably take it all in.
And part of its beauty was the lack of serenity you felt, you would never become completely comfortable, you were too high for that, one false step and you’d join what you marveled at, quite the poetic end for the crawling scop, but not exactly the most pleasant or endearing of propositions to the one on top of the world.
And that’s where you were, but that’s not where I am.
I have too much room; too much space. It’s impossible; it’s enervating; it’s too much to imagine. I’d flap my arms, kick my legs, make a grasp for the white bungee chord reeling me back into my cage, but it’s no use now, and the bars of my cage only exist in the same empty vacuum I would if it didn’t. And so, I lie as still as the man against the lightening rod, not because I have to, no, but because the only relief isn’t out there -- drifting aimlessly in time – no, no, it’s in here; watching, too afraid to move; too small to exist.

* * *

And I feel myself coming down on the other side of the vacuum, dipped into the eerie red glow of my container; eased into the familiarity of something; released from the infinite tides of everything -- (bleep) -- I hear my sirens.
(Bleep)
I’m closed off,
(Bleep)
Half conscious
(Bleep)
I open my eyes
(Bleep)
A sealed out shut in.
(Bleep)
(Bleep)
Bleep.
And I already need another hit.

* * *


The fevers had started long before lift off. I can’t remember the first one, but I do remember how much worse they got once I broke orbit. What had amounted to cold sweats and restless nights back home slowly progressed into near paralyzing migraines and long bouts of insomnia in deep space. Once simple tasks became arduous expeditions, leaving me both physically and mentally drained. And the previously clear atavistic-like anxieties natural to a man pushed into unfamiliar territory became snarling quagmires of deeply rooted fears and tarrying insecurities. It was not, however, out of fear -- that I’d be called soft or weak-minded – or even the inevitable venomous feelings of regret that I’d surely harbor until my death for missing out on such a rare opportunity, that I withheld this personal information until it was too late. No. It was, rather, the simple banality of my initial symptoms that kept them hidden from anyone of importance. A common cold, I thought, and nothing more.

* * *

I first passed out on day three of the expedition. I had been so completely and constantly absorbed with all the necessary tasks that had to be habitually performed in order to keep the ship on course, and me alive, that I hadn’t had the chance to sit down to a full meal. The ship contained a countless supply of vitamin pills and liquid meals but, up to then, I had only had the time and the stomach for the pills. And so, I found myself suddenly struck with hunger pains in my first moments at ease (water, luckily, was vented through the air and straight into my body – a luxury I learned to appreciate greatly as my work became more and more consuming). The rumblings of my neglected stomach, however, along with the drain of a 72-hour workday and sudden, but minor, onslaughts of the fever, had me in a fragile and unpleasant state. Regardless, the food originally went down well, and I began to feel better -- even comfortably dosing off in a sort of temperate bliss I’d forgotten existed. From there my memories become blurry and fragmented. I remember having very strange dreams, though I cannot recall their content. I also hazily remember seeing the occasional neon red bleep of my communication system, signaling the arrival of a new message, but never being exactly conscious enough to do anything about it. The remaining moments were spent either in confused reverie or, what I can only assume to have been, complete unconsciousness, because, when I finally awoke I was confronted with a silent scene of accumulated chaos. Untended to bolts and tiles floated softly past my head, exposed wires glistened with spasmodic currents, and soundless emergency lights flashed separate of each other, rhythmically bathing the entire room in an eerie dark red glow.
I would soon discover I had been out cold for seventeen straight days.
I can still remember the way the panic slowly crept over me as I hesitatingly evaluated my situation -- tightening around my mind with every sobering revelation, it grew, until I was nearly suffocated by it.
I had been wedged in the upper corner of the room, just opposite of the ships dashboard. Slowly I forced my way over to it. The communications screen showed hundreds of unopened messages. I listened to them each, one by one. They started as concerned pleas, to “please answer back”, quickly escalated into frustrated orders, sunk back down into desperate rationalizations, then begging hysteria, and, finally, silence, punctured only by a distant, gravely voice offering his condolences, barely audible over the screeching background static. “Sorry”. Then complete silence.

Through trial and error I eventually discovered that it was the food pills that made me, not only, pass out, but hallucinate as well. The dreams I vaguely remembered turned out to have been tiredly recollected mirages brought on by the pills when mixed with my fevered body. And, as it had gotten progressively worse as time wore on, I began to be presented with less of an option as to whether to refuse their necessary nutrients, and starve in angst and pain, or eat them and trip, and feel whatever the high brought about. Either way, I knew I was stuck; drifting, aimlessly through space and ever deeper into the unknown.
I’ve since decided to go out on a high.
And so, I spend my time in a suspended stupor, only momentarily aware of my hopeless situation, at least until I erase it all from memory with a handful of pills. I often dress in suit, swallow a few capsules and cast myself off, away from the ship and into the arms of my captor. I find myself here now, floating in the infinite tides of everything; slowly fading away. I begin to see the light, a pinpoint of hope, flickering off in the distance. And, as I reach for it, with weak and shaking hands, it explodes, and buries me in beautiful apathy, and the sweet sound of death.

********************************************************************

	Alfred Conway was the quiet kid in school. He was the guy that everyone knew, but nobody talked to. It wasn’t that he had nothing to say, rather he just preferred to keep to himself and to his work. He gave without being asked and cared not when he received nothing in return. He wished everyone well on their birthdays, even when everyone forgot his.
	Conway was always very active in the community and gave all the time and what little money he had to help. In school, he drifted from place to place and always seemed to be in the background. He blended in, despite his deeply contrasting personality. When he disappeared in a flash, nobody paid too much mind to it. He was off serving his own purpose.
	Conway was an odd kid. A kind, quiet odd kid.
	Although Conway was generally well-liked by his fellow classmates, he spoke with only a few every day. He made a sharp distinction between a friend and a good friend.
	Alfred Conway only had a few good friends.
	The road to becoming a good friend of Alfred Conway was long and mysterious. There was no set process. There was just that one day where he’d walk up to you and strike up conversation, thinking nothing else of it. No awkward silence, no expressionless stares, no uncomfortable tension.
Many had strove to become good friends with Alfred Conway, but one in particular had the most interesting story, and the most memorable outcome. Her name was Leila Moltwood.
	Leila and Conway had an AP English class together junior year of high school. It was only a few weeks before Leila began taking interest in Conway. It didn’t take long for friends of both to start connecting pieces together within the class. Both were at the top of the class and both had some similar interests, be it writing, or reading, or politics. However, Conway didn’t like things pushed on him too fast. He replied to her questions only with head nods and silence.
	However, Conway was always a chivalrous man. A white knight if you will. Whenever his friends teased Leila, he was quick to step in and stop it. She continuously thanked him and he responded with silence.
	That was the first semester.
						***
	By second semester, things had changed. Conway finally felt Leila was someone to trust. One day, he spoke to her and she looked on in awe. She celebrated, jubilant at the prospect that Alfred Conway had spoken to her. She told all his friends and they too were perplexed. Conway simply continued on with his life. Nothing, it seemed, would ever change his nature at heart.
	Nothing it seemed, until after the school prom. Conway did not attend. He saw no reason, as a junior, to worry himself with a school prom. It was just pomp and exaggeration.
	That was until one day, a mere week after the prom, that things really changed. Conway and friends, including Leila, were taking on the stairs about usual school topics of conversation. One thing led to another and someone brought up the prom, as it would be their turn the next year. Without skipping a beat, Leila turned to Conway, took him by the hand and gleefully shouted.
	“I’m taking Conway!”
	Conway, though caught off guard, responded as soon as he collected his thoughts.
	“Alright then. It seems Leila and I are going to prom.”
	Though surprised by the suddenness, everyone was happy and celebrated briefly. Conway was happy too.
	As the school year came to a close, nothing notable happened. The conversation had moved on, yet Conway never forgot that Leila had asked him to prom. He knew he had to prepare himself. He knew that he wanted to be the one to ask her in his own way, when the prom was nearer. He knew there were plans to be made. This would be the moment to turn his life around.
						***
	Senior year. Conway wasn’t worried about anything. His classes were relatively lax, his college plans were set, and, of course, any worries about prom were already taken care of.
	His birthday in October passed and again most forgot, including Leila; however she was quick and sincere to make up soon after, reminding him that they were still going to prom with each other.
	November and December too passed quickly and Leila and Conway didn’t speak much. Both were busy working with the school and the community and preparing for their futures after graduation. However, they were sure to exchange senior portrait wallets; she wrote a message on the back reminding Conway of her deep respect for him and again reminding him that they were going to the prom. The first semester ended without much fuss.
	Unbeknownst to anyone, Conway was still planning. Almost a year after Leila had asked him to prom, he was ready to do his part and make the most of it. With a plush from her favorite cartoon show, an autographed playbill from her favorite Broadway musical, and a heart-felt letter to tied it all together, Conway felt that all was prepared. He picked the second-most perfect date he could think of, as she had been elsewhere on her birthday in December. February 19, the day after President’s Day.
	All was set as he put everything in position, including his back-up plans just in case anything went astray. As lunch arrived, Conway followed Leila down the hall from their 4th period classroom. They spoke of current events in the world, the economy, and scholarship offers from the school’s career department. They walked outside and Conway removed the letter from his pocket. Before he could reaffirm their prom offer, Leila apologized and said that she had to tutor a freshman during lunch.
	“No worries,” Conway said, slipping the letter back into his pocket. It would have to wait until after school he assumed.
	As the final bell rang, Conway bolted to Leila’s locker and casually waited within view of the locker. As she approached it, he moved in. Leila was delighted to see Conway and the two embraced.
	“I’m going to need to talk with you for a little bit,” Conway said.
	“Oh, I need to get to swimming practice, how long will it take?” Leila replied.
	“Not more than five minutes,” Conway assured her.
	“Well, okay. Let’s talk on the way to the gym,” Leila said.
	The two walked up the stairs to the gym and enjoyed a normal conversation about the stresses of second semester. Conway saw the opening and took it to make sure that she remembered their prom deal.
	“...yeah, especially with this prom stuff coming up. I swear that the guys are going to put names in a hat and find me someone to go with like that!” Conway said.
	“I know what you mean. My date wants to pay for the whole thing himself.” Leila replied.
	Conway stopped walking and froze on a dime. He was stunned. The colour drained from his face and despair overtook his mood.
	“Oh. I-I see,” Conway stuttered, “Never mind then.”
	Conway turned and began walking away. Leila was surprised, a confused expression on her face.
	“Oh. Okay,” she said, unaware of what had just occurred.
	However, Conway was not done. He quickly unzipped his backpack and removed the plush, as well as the letter from his pocket. He bolted back to the gym, with the plush behind his back, and called her name.
	“Leila!”
	Leila turned around, still confused and approached him.
	“Look, I’m sorry. You can have it anyway. I don’t want it,” he said, handing the plush and the letter to her.
	“Aww,” she uttered sadly, realizing what his intentions were, “Conwa-,” she began before looking up, realizing that he had stormed off again. She didn’t run after him. She let him go.
	The rest of the day passed and Conway was soon over it. He came to terms that he had just wasted the last year, focusing his prom on a girl that he respected and whose company he enjoyed, yet had shown her lack of commitment.
						***
	The next day, the news had quietly gotten around. Leila was now known as the girl who rejected Conway, a title that wasn’t positive in the least. When Conway was asked about the incident, he merely brushed it off. When asked if he was going to prom, he usually replied in the negative.
	Come lunch, Leila found Conway and asked if she could talk with him. Without a hint of malice or anger in his body, he agreed.
	“Look, I’m really sorry what happened yesterday,” Leila began.
	“No, I’m sorry for wasting your time. I just thought when you asked me to prom and I said ‘yes’ last year, that meant we were going to the prom,” Conway explained.
	Leila recoiled as she remembered the event.
	“Oh. Oh, I’m really sorry Conway,” Leila stressed, great guilt overcoming her, “You know how I tend to just say things suddenly, without really thinking. I’m really sorry that I put you through this. I just forgot. I would’ve gone out with you if you asked!”
	“But that’s just it. You asked me to the prom and I agreed,” Conway asserted. “Heck, you reminded me twice that we were going, even putting it on the back of the wallet-size you gave me!”
	“I guess I was being a bit hyperbolic,” Leila replied, saddened.
	“It wasn’t even the original day I was going to ask you. That was going to be on December 2nd,” Conway said.
	“My birthday?” Leila replied, moved.
	“Of course,” said Conway, with a softer, more caring tone.
	“Aww, Conway I’m really sorry,” Leila said, partially dejected.
	“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Conway started, “It’s too late now. We cannot focus too much on the past. While the past can still hurt, we have to look ahead. I put the prom money back in my bank account yesterday. It doesn’t matter anymore,” said Conway.
	“Oh- okay,” said Leila, after a brief pause.
	“Don’t worry, I don’t hate you. We’ll clean this whole mess up later. Just enjoy your prom, for the both of us,” finished Conway.
	Conway extended his arms and the two embraced.
						***
	Prom came and went and, as Conway had expected, his friends arranged a mutual friend who hadn’t a date to go with him. The night was enjoyable, but Conway seemed a bit down.
	Conway and Leila slowly rebuilt decent terms with each other over the following weeks, but Conway was never one to forget what became known between them as “the prom incident.” Conway, however, was never one to give up. To every Plan A there had to be a Plan B, and his Plan B was completely set in place.
	At the end of the year, the school held the annual “Last Dance,” as a send off to the senior class and to the school year. Leading up to it, Conway had begun having chats with Leila during lunch again. Their peers were surprised how quickly the two rebounded from February.
	A regular Friday school day ended and most of the students had filed out. Conway and Leila were walking together, again discussing the semester.
	“...I told you you should’ve entered the contest. Mark and I were the only ones there,” Conway said.
	“I know; I really wanted to. I had my points down, but swimming got in the way. Either way, I wouldn’t have beaten your speech,” Leila replied.
	“Well, I guess we’ll never know,” Conway said with a smile.
	There was a brief pause before Conway reached into his pocket.
	“Oh, before I forget. I need to give you this,” Conway said, handing the paper to Leila.
	“What’s this?” Leila said, taking the paper in hand.
	She opened the paper and a smile blossomed across her face.
	SO HOW ABOUT WE TRY AGAIN WITH THE LAST DANCE, LEILA?
	She looked to Conway who revealed to her his autographed playbill. She was stunned. After what she had done to him, he still cared about her. Cared about her enough to ask her to a dance, again.
	“Oh my God,” Leila began, “I don’t know what to say.”
	“Well, ‘yes’ would be a good place to start,” Conway said, with a smile and a chuckle.
	“You better believe it!” Leila replied.
	The two warmly embraced.
	“I’m really sorry for everything Conway,” Leila began.
	“No need. Though I’ll never let you forget that you rejected me,” Conway chuckled, “I would never hold it against you to such an extent that we’d lose our friendship.”
	“Thank you Alfred, you’re a really nice person. I cannot stress that enough,” Leila said.
	“No worries. It was just a prom. After graduation, we can sort everything out. Let’s just not worry about these petty issues when we should be enjoying our last weeks of high school!” Conway said.
	“Agreed,” Leila said.
	“So- you doing anything during the summer?” Conway began.
	Leila looked at him with a smile, “I am now.”
	The two took each other by the hands and walked up the school stairs, the sun beginning to fall as the afternoon sky glistened with an orange glow.

********************************************************************

Sunday

I decided to do some walking around today. This is the third week I’ve been stuck in my office. There have been riots outside, I’ve heard them; but they only lasted about 2 weeks, I hear only the occasional scream now. I’ve survived solely on potato chips and water. I seem to have lost the equivalent of a 2 month old in that time.

I decided to walk out of project Rebirth, or what was left of it. Everyone left in quite the hurry.I went into the floor’s common area. overturned couches and broken coffee pots lay about. Even the fridge was missing, location unknown.

That’s when I heard the footsteps.They were running, to or what from I’ve no clue, but they were in the building.

Tytan Labs was a secured building, you couldn’t get in without an eye scan and finger print. The thought sent shivers down my spine.

I began to sweat; I heard a door slam, on this floor.

More footsteps.

Another door.

I hid behind one of the suede loveseats that was closest to the wall. I heard it inch towards me. A metallic object, scraping against the tile, presumably a weapon. It whistled, like a call. He or she was beckoning me, it wanted to kill.

It finally came into view. He was a tall, lanky man. He looked as if he was once a miner, or another profession requiring large upper body strength, but that was long ago. He was carrying a metal pole. Dragging it, giving the occasional bounce against the uneven floor.

Worst of all, he was pale, with the same eyes the rats had.

I was poised in a crouching position, hands shaking and dizzy. I could hardly stay still my heart was beating so fast.

As far as I could tell he was unaware of me. I took this opportunity to strike. I took what could have been my last breath and I ran full blast at him, knocking him into a wall. He dropped his pole and struck me in the side of the face with his fist.

I fell and he mounted me, posing for another bone shattering blow.

I panicked. My one arm and two legs were useless. I knew that I surely would die if I did not act.

So I acted.

As a child.

I grabbed his free arm, pulled it towards my face and bit as hard as I could into the flesh of my assailant. He shouted in pain, as one should when one suspects the Ulna to be broken. But this was different.

It was as if i had burned this man alive. He was screaming, in agony. He was saying something, a word. I couldn’t make it out, partly because the blood hadn’t flown away from my head. He screamed until he had gotten to the elevator, then passed out.

At this point I had three options. Chop this thing’s head off or tie him up for further study. And then the third option. I hadn’t eaten for days. I was starving. But that too, I knew wasn’t an option. Death was better than whatever that Infection did to you.

Wednesday


I decided to keep him. He’s been my source of entertainment for the last couple days. I always bring the fire axe with me when I go into his room now.

Over time I’ve noticed his pigment changing. looking fuller. I’m too scared to check his eyes for fear of him waking up (if he’s not already dead) and finishing me off. My face hasn’t healed by the looks of it either.

I’ve sat in this room for hours, trying to see the change I believe is happening. I’m starting to believe he isn’t actually infected.

I’m considering going and killing him.

He woke up today. Full pigmentation, breathing normally and his eyes, pure green.

“H-hello ?”

“Mm. . What? What do you want from me.” He spat out.

“What are you doing in this building?” I tried as assertively as I could.

“Look fucker, I walked in here looking for food. same as the rest of t-” He chortled a confused and painful moan and looked at me.

“What the fuck did you do to me you bastard!”

“I’ve no clue what you’re implying. That I drugged you? No.”

“So . . what? You jump me, knock me out and tie me up? Is this a joke?”

“Well, not exactly. There was a scuffle and I. .. seem to have bitten you a bit.”

He looked down at his arm and there was my full imprint, about a 1/4 inch deep.

“You. . You bit me? What the fuck man? So why am I tied up?”

“Ah yes, you were infected with an altered gene, Strain-9  I think it’s called.”

“Strain-7 you mean.” He cut in.

“No, Strain-9, it started here, so I would know.” I retorted quite triumphantly. “It causes the recipient mass hysteria, hallucinations and the craving for flesh.”

“Flesh? Like , other people flesh, like your flesh?”

“That was my thought.” I cleared my throat “I had another thought as well. What if, now don’t go saying it’s not because it might be. What if, I am the cure?”

“To the . . Infection? You think, whatever has the city like this, that you can fix it? How? With what?”

“Well, I bit you earlier right?”

“Yes, thank you, asshole.”

“And you were infected. But now you’re not”

“So you’re saying that you have the “cure” or whatever?”

“Well, not exactly, but I cured you.”

“Wait a minute, if you do have it that means you can give it to other people.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Why not. You have something that could save people.”

“I don’t really care much for people.” I tried to say as sympathetically as possible.

“We could cure a whole village, and rebuild, you know?”

“I don’t know”

“So you just want to live in this wasteland? Rotting away?”

“No, I mean eventually I thought of trying to find survivors and maybe. . But now?”

“If not now, when? Man up, untie me and lets get to saving the world!”

“It’s not that simple, I can’t just go around biting everyone. We don’t even know how I can administer it.”

“Look, Ill stay and help you, mostly ‘cause this shit is crazy, and I also want to help my family. But first thing is first. We need to find food.”

“We have to go outside.” I whispered.

“We have to go outside.” He said.

********************************************************************

    It's night time with a full moon
    You're in bed
    Suddenly the window opens and the curtains flap gently
    David Foster Wallace flutters down through the moonlight into your room and rests at the foot of your bed
    You blush and look away
    David sighs and says "Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it."
    He creeps closer and your lips are about to touch..
    And then you wake up in a pool of sweat

********************************************************************

The shoes turned me around. I headed in the opposite direction, the orange sneakers taking me deeper into the woods.

The ground felt more compact beneath my feet. The rocks and dirt were on top of something and I realized it was pavement. I continued on, and the dirt and plants lessened and more of the pavement was revealed. I walked along the black top road until I finally came upon a house.

It was a large plantation-style home, hidden so deeply in the woods I didn’t know how anyone got to it. It was beautiful, untouched by the waking war. It was as white as if it were painted yesterday and the entire structure was laced with ivy.

The sneakers took me confidently to the front door. As I knocked, the shoes crumbled beneath my feet. I looked at them in surprise. They were nothing but dust. The door popped open, and I was vaguely reminded of a dozen cliché movies, where the door cracks open on its own, tempting the character inside. But I had come this far, and I wasn’t about to turn back because I was afraid. I pushed the door open.

I had trouble believing my eyes when I went inside. The room was far too big than the outside of the house would have logically allowed. Along the front edge of this massive room was a walkway with a railing. Inside the railing was a small pond, in the center of which was a tiny island growing trees and bushes. Tropical birds sang loudly and butterflies floated through the air. There was a small, wooden pergola at the center of the island with a table and chairs beneath it.

I moved along the edge of the walkway, stopping in a spot where the railing ended. The lily pads in the water were clustered in a trail. They led from where I stood to the island. Hesitantly I put my bare foot on the first lily pad cluster. I put a little weight on it, still gripping the railing at my sides. But the lily pads held my weight. Hesitantly I let go of the railing and began to walk across the lily pad trail, over the pond water.

The water rippled in the distance and I paused. Soon there was a school of koi swimming toward me. Initially they were lethargic, drifting slowly, some going off track, turning away and then joining their school again. Then they became interested in me, swimming in circles around the lily pads on which I stood. I crouched down, dipping my fingers into the water. They swam closer, their slick scales brushing under my fingertips.

I stood quickly as something deep in the water caught my eye. Cautiously I watched it slide along, rising until it’s orange color emerged from the shadow. My breath caught in my throat as its fin broke the surface a few feet away. Its tail sent the water into a swirl behind it as it sunk into the deep again. The koi had to be the size of a great white shark. It was mostly orange, patched with black, white and red. Cautiously I moved across the lily pads and reached the island, stepping into the long grass and watching the giant koi swim by. It tilted on its side so its giant eye could look me over as it passed. It disappeared into the pond and I turned my attention to the island.

********************************************************************

“The way I see it the world is split into winners and losers"-- Breezy pointed at some kid dressed in a wrinkled white t shirt that sat just under his belly button; on his head there was a dirty red trucker cap with star wars patches on the bill-- "He’s wearing a fuckin’ star wars cap," Breezy said, "Do you think he’s getting laid tonight?”
We were 14, so it was unlikely any of us would be 'getting laid' tonight. But the gust of Breezy's philosophy whirled me to answer, and to agree—“Prolly not," I said.
Breezy breathed in, and looked at the boy with an intensity which looked past the boy and the world behind him, “Fucking exactly—" he continued "he’s a goddamn loser and no woman or man or institution is gonna have him except a fuckin star wars club. Even if he gets good grades, he looks mediocre, so he IS mediocre. He can write all the screenplays and cartoons he wants, and he can raise his brow at the popular kids like they aren't going anywhere because they don't like "schoolwork" or they aren't as "creative," but that's because his eyes are made of the same mediocrity his clothes are, and the only world he can see is mediocrity--” Breezy paused a bit to tug on the bottom of his button up, blue and crisp and much like the rest of the new wardrdrobe he'd adapted since entering high school. He used to wear black tshirts and jeans, covered with the brands of classic rock bands. He used to tug on those, too
 but the momentum he had built in the cadence of his speech halted with with this pause-- something in his eyes had dropped as well, as if beyond the boy and the world he'd found a reality which winded and disappointed him, like a child  first finding that the world disagreed with him, and settling into the lingering discomfort of maturity. RIIIIIIIING RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING He breathed in and looked out at the new influx of students beckoned by the alarm which ended the 4th hour lunch period and turned it into 5th hour lunch period; his eyes perused the crowd, as if looking for a better reality in the analysis of a more beautiful subject, one which would justify his philosophy.
Suddenly he perked up. He smiled, and he pointed at a tall student. He was wearing a crisp blue shirt. His hair was a wavy blonde mane which delicately covered his perfect face. His shoulders were broad, his chest was wide and chiseled.
______________________________________________________________________
(his body quelled with the need to undress the woman on the couch next to his-- like a lion eyeing the gazelle with voracious intent, his whole body trembling with the instinct to devour her. But next to him was his girlfriend, sitting and smiling at the television screen, enamored by the apparent placidity of the moment; because of his girlfriend, he could not undress or devour the woman on the next couch-- the lions limbs were restricted by invisible chains, his roar silenced by an invisible muzzle, and all he could do was stare at the gazelle, and let his stomach wallow in the incendiary hunger which began to consume itself in acid. This was monogamy, he thought. Soon enough the television program ended, and the woman left [him trembling and his loins burning]; his girlfriend got up, and smiled, and said "I have to go print out some papers for tomorrow morning. I'll see you later tonight, 'kay?"
She kissed him on the cheek-- "Love you."
--"I love you, too."
And this was not a lie: he had loved her before. And he would love her again. But for now his body was possessed with a more fundamental instinct than love. ) <this obviously doesn't belong, I just needed to write it down so someone would know how I felt about the girl on the couch next to me and my girlfriend while we were watching the oscars
Breezy had regained his fervor, looking at the beautiful student as if there nothing beyond him--
“Austyn Maximus,” he breathed, “that’s a winner.” He pulled on the back of his shirt again. His eyes remained on Austyn, and when Austyn had walked past seeing, he looked at the space in which Austyn had walked.
--“That’s a winner, Joe.”
He sighed once more before walking off
-- “I’ll see you after school.”
(a theme in this: all adolescents are boys, even if they’re girls)
Pt. 2 Titled: THE METRANON There were 500 kids in our 8th grade graduation, and all of them looked the same; imagine a kid in a graphic tshirt and blue jeans, and a cheeky smile which—-literally-- shined with the excitement he felt to enter high school. Imagine 500 of this kid in a dim auditorium, sitting in innumerable rows in front of a small center stage, stretching out into the darkness in the back of the room. In the penultimate row, right in the center, imagine a kid dressed in all black; his breathing is sporadic in pace, like a telegram; his elbow rests on his knee; his forehead is in his palm, and he pushes his hair back over and over and over; his eyes scan the floor with an intensity which seeks to see through it.
I’m next to this boy. I am watching him. His restlessness captivates me because it is different from the other children, who shift routinely in their seats; his incessancy is different from the principle’s stutter; different from the glow of their cheeky smiles-- ttheir idiosyncrasies came from each other, from within their collectiveness. His came from elsewhere in the world, and he did not enjoy them like they did; every twitch was an attempt to placate whatever propulsion threatened to drive him out of his seat; as if there was a race and his body was running at a million miles per hour while his will lied miles behind, its claws digging into the asphalt, refusing to be pulled into the typhoon of his own speed.
--Suddenly the principal’s tone brightened.
-- “…and I’d like to have our valedictorian up here so we can all congratulate him. Everyone welcome him to the stage-- Breezy, come on up!!!”
 (I think the narrator may be gay—but, then, homoeroticism is a part of being a disgusting, confused adolescent, so he might just be a teenager. Will decide later if this contributes to the theme/storyline.)
The boy in black gets up and starts wiping at his nose, his legs trembling as he traversed the row of infinite cheeky kids.
“Excuse me, scusexcuse me sorry sor-excuse me sorry, excuse me…”
As he makes this journey, every cheeky smile fixated on the boy in black stumbling through the row; their gaze turns the room into a vaccum, where time stands still and there is no sound but the boy’s stumbling--
“Excus-scuse me, sorry escuse.. sorry, escuse me excuse me ex excuse me, sorry sorry…Excus-scuse me, sorry, escuse.. sorry, escuse me excuse me ex excuse me sorry sorrExcus-scuse me, sorry, escuse.. sorry, escuse me excuse me ex excuse me, sorrysorryExcus-scuse me, sorry, escuse.. sorryescuse me excuse me ex excuse me, sorry sorry…”
--he reaches the end of the aisle, and he begins walking towards the auditorium; the cheeky kids’ gaze follows him. His steps grew more uncertain as the their gaze became more focused on him, and the air around him seems to disappear, and his throat begins to tighten--
--he gets to the stage and coughs.
--The principal goes on, “Breezy here is one of our most talented students. He’s scored perfectly on every test, on every assignment, on… well-- everything! I’d like us all to take this young man as an example of what it means to be a winner! To emulate his commitment to excellence………….”
The children frowned at the principal. And then they frowned at the boy in black. The boy they saw in front of them was not in blue jeans or in a graphic t-shirt—he wasn’t groomed enough, and his face didn’t have a cheeky smile. He could not be a winner, he could not be an example, his existence rattles the harmony of our similarity.
The silence got quieter; the vacuum got tighter; I could see the boy in black’s head hang lower as the weight of their expressions became unbearable. In this silence, the kids debated the boy in black’s validity as a winner, then as a person, and finally as a thing. And without a word they’d agreed he was an absurdity detached from the realness of their unity. And without speaking they had sentenced him to death—without speaking he had agreed to it.
He had found in their gaze the necessary weight to hold his body in place with his will; from this newfound obsolescence grew a dense vapor, which expanded, and wrapped around him until he and his restlessness were completely enveloped. The potential which had haunted him until now was lost somewhere beyond the cloud, beyond their gaze—somewhere deep within his consciousness. Though I could not see the cloud itself, I could see his breathing begin to steady; his hands no longer pushed through his hair; his incessancy had faded with the vapor.
But he still pulled at his shirt.

********************************************************************

GOD HAND

‘The truth of the world is obscured, but a virtual reality is an obscurity; just an arabesque ornament on its own,’ he thought. The simulated environment was operated with an absolute confidence, but operated with absolute banality, in accordance with its absolute illusion.

This particular banality, being a type of realization: it was a form of utopia, a perfect society . . . all of this according to Mr. Thomas Gallo, anyways. Hardly anybody liked Tom.

‘The utopian metropolis must've been a vacant one,’ thought Mr. Gallo, and in fact he was spectating at one empty plaza from afar. For sure, non-people, non-reliant on broken systems, left an absolute non-accordance. Further, the only sensible city might really have been one additionally turned on its head, for a city turning itself upside-down was the final laugh in response to its own internal non-cacophony.

‘And the only true humor one could find in such an exercise in perfectionism like this,’ he mused, searching above at the mass, ‘would be the reality of its uselessness.’ There was no irony like an ideal instantly made artifact through the flawlessness of its own construction. It was only a proxy, then. One could even say a forgery. And so, in this mere model of its own standard, the miserable nobodies caught stray at times would be the true final laugh of an ideal collapsed upon the idea of itself; the paradoxical collateral accompanying a paradoxical solution.

They hadn’t reached perfection yet, anyways. Perfection had no room for anyone not a nobody. But Mr. Thomas Gallo thought he had found a ‘somebody’–just then. Complications arise from that.

********************************************************************

Commentary bouncing around
varied sources sounds wary
of those waves missing channels,
“you know, direction.”

Uno, direct on?
I’m I-ntolerant –
or am I, in toll, errant?
We don’t break change this
way, can’t signal progress

without asphalt lanes,
as faults lain, of course,
off-coursed, coursing lights
flicking after right sound

reason reaches. But black-topped
remote guidance and surf-boarded
TVs won’t recede white shored lines
urging currents, boring beyond
wind-shield, filing cycled churns

received - we to
wee to whee, processed
sea, channel-fitting paved-meant annals,
what it took to be

“you know, direct-ed”.

********************************************************************

For quite a few years I've had a sci-fi universe in my mind, rich with a backstory, several alien races, planets, factions and a few characters.

I've been wanting to write a book for it for quite a while, but recently I've got the idea of first writing a ''Bible'' book: an encyclopedia (which would be presented as an in-universe document) of various concept, technologies, places, factions, cultures, races, etc... and a timeline (covering a whole millenia), along with several side stories set in the 'verse to flesh out the setting.

Think a mix of the Codex from Mass Effect and World War Z for the stories.

I think this is a good beginning, because I intend this universe to be quite ''fan-fic friendly'', meaning it would be a collection of smaller settings that could be used to form different stories united by their same concepts and elements.

I'm curious if this has been done before, and if this is a good way to start a franchise. I would eventually end up publishing real stories set in it.

I'd also like to work for a video game company and use this universe to create video games, because my verse is heavily influenced by video games, it seems natural that it would fit well for that medium.

P.S I'm afraid I can't share any details on the universe, because I don't want someone to steal it.

********************************************************************

Baal
a ghoul
holds an awl
and outside
the owls
hoot away

the awl's pressure
in wood rests
firm and all's well
that ends oil
in the bottom of the well

sawdust churns onto the floor
an unexpected verb
some rust, a savage sharpening
of stakes
taken to
you
know
who

crickets chirp
outside a rickety
chair, rocking,
blown by the wind

taken too far
cradle endlessly shaken
in a room overlooking
a lawn

a glass of water waits

and before the awns
are withdrawn on mainstreet
ripples slightly undu
late to the party

hold on
to your pants
kids.

we're going
to have
a crucifiction.

********************************************************************

Who notices what tangents
gently tan their road, raw

cement hiding icy note, stripping
off its varnished varmint coat? Fur

cool’s side, mink-mint varied, tints ahead
way, see-meant center rode
flipped, entrapped, departed in

dependency: the pen, dense,
seen parted by the tendency

to tend-den, maintaining
packed chill mainly tainting

cull-de-sacked (tend-onwards
another scalp faced,
frozen claims, lines
torn inside, snotty red past cons-trained)


********************************************************************

bitch
bite this cock
chomp, the canines go
tender, passionfilled, consciously
the fusion of pain and pleasure
reward and combat
bite on this dick

bitch
what happened
where did we go wrong
your bitchitude was no match for my preventative bitch measures
it seems this impasse
is beyond the likes of me
so its probably your fault

********************************************************************

i ate two sausage biscuits this morning
one of them was chicken
so delicious, scrumptious in fact
buttery and biologically congruent
meat, lots of proteins and carbs
coulda hit the gym, too full and satisfied tho
!halt!
the falsity is now clear
tis only a fading mirage
that chicken was not forever
nor was your fullness
but im still full and its been hours
when can i eat
when can i eat substance

********************************************************************

Life is a cosmic waiting game
the object of the game
To give life meaning

Religion is a staring contest
With yourself, in a mirror
Who will blink first?

More of an open thought than a poem though
I write these things on the back of receipts from work, I'm a casher in a grocery store in norway.

********************************************************************

A mouse, an owl, an oak, a thistle
Amongst the tangles the wildlife bristle

Above the treetops a view serene
the midnight air cold fresh and clean

Silence, two wings, swoop and beak
a rodent snatched off its scampering feet

For the fledgeling owls things arent nearly so bitter
snuggled in their nest, fresh mouse for supper

********************************************************************

The normal intellect, that it, the intellect of the average human, thinks almost exclusively in-terms of utility: his intellect is near completely constrained to the continuation of his existence. The furthest an intellect of this type stretches is to adequately learn whatever trade it needs to practice; it does not exceed, like a relatively intelligent animal, its basic needs; its and its offspring’s survival. This is why the average man is astonishingly inept at any attempt for objective conversation. Not only does he see no point in it, as it doesn’t directly affect his utility, but any attempt to engage with him in this kind of conversation is, oddly, received with suspicion and contempt.
The genius, by contrast, gravitates towards objectivity. He sees things in their entirety, and regards the pursuits as undertaken by the lower intellect as trivial. Survival to him is a mere chore; not the object of existence as it is for most men. Eating, sleeping, and earning a living are only a means to an end; that end being higher intellectual pursuits, which may be that of science, philosophy or art, broadly speaking. A better definition of these ‘higher pursuits’, which reside in the realm of objectivity would be: anything that may be appreciated as a thing in itself; a thing unbound to survival or the sensual pleasure of the individual.
The gap between an intelligent animal’s intellect, such as that of a dog or a dolphin, and the average man, is slighter than commonly supposed. Both have enough intellectual power to become bored and to require play, which is a mark of an intelligent being (at least, relative to the vast number of animals who do not seem to experience boredom). Both are clever enough to retain information and to quickly adapt to ensure survival. And both seem, conversely, to lack any conception as to the notion of objectivity.

There is however, one faculty in which all humans seem capable of accessing, and one that is unique to them - and that is aesthetic values. Think of a time in your life where something beautiful has stilled your mind; quelled a train of thought and left you with the impression that ‘that is beautiful’. This stimulus may be a sunrise, or a distant mountain. It may be a piece of music or a human being. An instance of aestheticism can be appreciated by the vast majority of human beings. It would be odd, for example, to meet an individual who claims that a pencil is more beautiful than looking out to sea on a fine day, or even a dead tree as compared to a tree in full blossom. When one has an experience that could be described as beautiful, one’s subjective impulsions quietly die and one enters the realm of objectivity, which is unrestrained and free; a complete juxtaposition to the monotony and suffering of the subjective, egotistical experience that defines the average man’s life.
Aesthetic experiences come in two kinds. One is the aforementioned instantiation of beauty which is powerful and rare, such as a particular sunrise or the time you spent looking out over the peak of Mount Everest after reaching the top. Another is the more arbitrary type which persists and is less remarkable. This may be simply nicer surroundings, which are not remarkable enough to possess the instantiation ascription, e.g. living in rural as opposed to urban surroundings or living in an old, detached house as opposed to living in a cheap flat. This ‘passive aestheticism’ may induce one into a state closer to that of objectivity, and thus to weaken the ego and improve the mood.

It may be argued now that objective experiences should be sought after, for not only are they the mark of the higher intellect, but they seem to make us more human, in that they constitute the bridge between an animal’s intellect and a humans potential one. Peculiarly, aesthetic experiences, and therefore objectivity, seem to be accessible to all forms of humans. So the question is: how do we create beauty, either instantaneous or passive?
It need not be argued that it would be best for beauty to be omnipresent while providing strong and weak (instantiations and passivity) experiences of aestheticism in humans. We do not want to alienate any group of people, so exclusive houses of beauty such as art galleries seem misconceived; we could instead take these works out and put them on display for all to see, with a strict guard team. But what about those who live in less populated surroundings? It seems wise to put these pieces of arts in built up areas, such as cities, where they would be seen by many. To those who don’t live in cities, however, this represents an error akin to that of hoarding beauty in art galleries.

No, what we truly need are beautiful people. This is a problem seeing as beauty largely a factor of genetics. We must, if we are to improve the human races’ intellect and prevent future suffering, adopt a radical position. We must impress upon people to try to be as beautiful as possible. We must throw out two false common claims: that vanity is immoral and that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

********************************************************************

We met outside the Pinkberry. She was rich, dark, and mysterious. As I stared at her from across the room, my lips moistened in anticipation. I knew I had to have her. Her name was Hazelnut Chocolate.

We hit it off pretty quick, and soon enough we decided to elope at the cash register after I paid $6.37. Toppings cost extra. I remember how she looked that day. She was dressed beautifully in a gown of strawberries and Nutella. Biting into her was pure ecstasy as she melted in my mouth. She was decadent, fresh, sweet, and everything I could ask for. The receipt doubled as our marriage certificate. Our vows to love each other till death do us part written on it. Every day, I came back to the Pinkberry just so I could be with her.

Soon enough, the honeymoon phase went away. As her decadence became more and more dull, I realized that she was locked in a loveless marriage between me and my tastebuds. She stopped asking me how my day was. The “I love you’s” soon felt meaningless. We gave each other the cold shoulder. Should we go get marriage counseling? No, I was sure that our love was dead. I thought about putting her away for good. “Make it look like an accident.”, I thought to myself. I’d make a path of rose petals leading to the bathtub, then throw in a plugged in hair dryer.

One day, she caught me being unfaithful. She caught me with a girl named pomegranate. I bit into the Forbidden Fruit and didn’t feel bad at all. It was refreshing compared to her. I told Hazelnut that I never loved her. She was just a fling. She went on a rant about how she was always there for me. I rolled my eyes. We continued to argue. Strangers glared at me for yelling at a bowl of frozen yogurt. When the argument got too heated, I lost it, and hit Hazelnut with my backhand, leaving her bruised. I apologized. I held her and told her “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”, over and over. I told her I needed to cool off so I took a walk. When I came back, I saw Pomegranate stabbed, bleeding from her cardboard side, and sitting in a pool of her own blood. The murder weapon, an absurdly sharp plastic knife, was held in the grip of an angry Hazelnut.

********************************************************************

The rain began to fall again. As drops rolled down his face, he looked up. The sky was clear.
How does it rain when there are no clouds? he asked.
I dont know. he heard her say.
He looked at her. She stood perfectly as always. Always immune to the weather. She didnt look back at
him.
What are you looking at? There's nothing but flowers here.
I dont know. he heard her say.
The flowers seemed to sway with invisible wind. White lillies were all they were. Nothing was worth
staring at, and he wondered why she would gaze at them for so long, it didnt make sense. He tilted his
head down to study his hands. The raindrops fell from his cheek and into his palms and dissipated. He
almost wanted to catch them.
I drove again today. Just down to the highway. I didnt go onto it.
You didnt crash. he heard her say.
No, and I felt safe. The windows were rolled down and I felt like riding a hurricane I had complete
control over. Its powerful.
Its dangerous. But you know thats the only way you can see me. he heard her say.
The trees were empty. He wondered where the birds were. The silence was encapsulating. His own little
world was open to him. Flowers had no presence. Wind had no gust. Birds had no song. It was simply him
and the rain.
He looked up again and more rain touched his cheek. He could barely feel it.
Dont say that. I remember when I could see you without driving. You lived so close.
And now Im closer.
Dont fucking say that.
He thought of his friends. They were still at his apartment, waiting. He wondered if they would be
gone when he returned. He never asked them to come with him. They never asked to come with him. It was
habitual. Like smoking.
He looked back at her. She was staring at the lillies ocillating. There was a repetition in their
pattern. He became frustrated.
Stop staring at them. Theres nothing there to stare at. Stop it.
I dont know. he heard her say.
What is there to stare at? Why dont you look at me?
She turned slowly toward him. When her eyes met his, he blinked. She stared through him.
Drizzle.
I dont see any clouds. he heard her say.
I dont see any reason.
Maybe you should drive again. he heard her say. Ill come with you.
He walked towards his car and opened the door and looked back for her. She was staring at the lillies.
The windshield was dry.
With closed eyes, he started the engine.

********************************************************************

Jerry knew the amphetamines were kicking in once he felt the slow, tingling crawl begin to work it's way like shifting electric spider's legs into his scalp.
“What time is it, Sandy?” he asked. The car had no radio so she had to check her phone.
“4:16. Where is he?” she said after fumbling the cheap plastic flip phone from her purse.
“He's always late. Prick'll be late to his own goddamn funeral, I swear to Christ,” Jerry said. He began to sweat. It had become stiflingly hot. He mopped his forehead with the back of his hand. The sun was going down now and it was shining directly into the car. There was no air conditioner either. Jerry flipped down his sun-visor and glanced over to see that Sandy had already done the same. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and looked out over the city. Sheriff Matthews always wanted to meet up here, at The Crosses, overlooking Elizabethton. It was nice in the afternoon. The whole town was cast in shades of orange and red by the dying sun. Jerry's eyes flicked from one landmark to another: The Covered Bridge, the Bonnie-Kate Cafe, and the jail – the largest building in the entire city besides the Wal-Mart – rising up like a great beige eyesore next to the park. It dwarfed it's still-active predecessor, a two-story brick square, which itself possessed a courtyard filled with low, rectangular tin-sided pods that also housed prisoners. The new jail was a sprawling four-story, twenty-six million dollar facility. There were enough prisoners so that it would have been over-capacity even if it were completely opened. As of now, only half of it was in operation due to a number of architectural mistakes still in need of expensive repairs. Prisoners often didn't have beds and slept on mats on the floor. The pods were much worse. They were breeding grounds for diseases, particularly scabies that was nearly constant.
He thought the whole thing was a perfect metaphor for Carter County.
“Time is it?” he asked again, unsure how long he'd been in reverie.
“4:18,” Sandy said. She glanced at him. She scowled. Jerry felt a flash of annoyance and had to restrain himself from slapping her. He turned around to face his sleeping son, strapped into a car-seat in the back. He didn't understand how anyone could sleep through this heat. He dug about the back floorboard for a minute, fishing for his notebook and then a pen before turning back around. He chewed absently at his bottom lip and began to sketch his name in the notebook, already over half-filled with such stylized renditions. Sandy clucked her disapproval.
“I hate it when you do that shit,” she said. Jerry didn't respond, just continued to draw his name. He was gnawing furiously at his lip now and he began to rapidly shift the notebook around at all sorts of different angles in order to quickly sketch his name in some new way. He filled up pages rapidly. The shuffling of the turning pages and the scratching of his pen were the only sounds in the car for a while. Sandy reached into her purse and pulled out a crumpled pack of Tahoes, offering it first to Jerry. He reached over and pulled out a cigarette with his left hand so he didn't have to stop drawing. He popped it into his lips and waited while Sandy lit hers and then held the flame over to him. He puffed on it a few times and then leaned away.
“Roll your window down. Jake don't need to breath that,” she said after exhaling a huge cloud of smoke. Jerry gripped his pen tighter and didn't acknowledge her. “Such an asshole,” she said, looking away. Jerry was briefly furious and didn't think he'd be able to stop himself from hitting her but he was so focused on shading the letters of his name that he find the time to interrupt it. His lip was hurting now that he wasn't chewing on it. Sandy continued to intermittently snort her displeasure and mutter too low for Jerry to hear. He smoked furiously at his cigarette, balancing a long delicate ash-trail to avoid having to pause in his drawing. In his periphery, he could see Sandy glowering at the growing ash. Jerry knew that was one of the many things she hated about him. One corner of his mouth quirked up in a slight smile at the thought of her ineffectual bitching. He took one last long drag on the cigarette, now nearly three quarters ash, before cracking his window so he could flick the ashes on the ground outside.
“Time is it?” he said.
“Like 4:25, Jerry, Stop asking,” she said without checking her phone. Before he consciously registered the action, he'd already slapped her and went back to drawing.
“What time is it?” he asked again.
“4:24,” she said. Jerry smiled and flicked the smoldering butt of his cigarette out the window, before rolling it up. Sandy wasn't even half finished with hers.
“Roll up your window. I don't want gnats in the car,” he said. The sound his scribbling filled the car.
“Jerry, please, Jake don't need to breathe it,” she said.
“Then throw out the cigarette,” he said without looking up from his notebook. She did. She rolled up the window. Jerry's eyes flashed around the car. The upholstery was beginning to sag from the roof. That made him furious. He mopped away the sweat from his face again. He should have made Sandy grab a drink when they got gas. It was fucking hot. He briefly thought about leaving long enough to drive back down to a convenience store to get a beer or a soda, but almost instantly decided against it. It'd be better just to wait on the Sheriff. The last thing he needed was for Matthews to think he was ditching out. His mouth tightened into a hard line at the thought.
Finally, Jerry couldn't take the heat anymore. He threw open the door and swung his legs around so that he was situated facing out with his notebook in his lap so that he could continue to draw. He heard Sandy speak, but couldn't be sure what she'd said. He snapped his head around and fixed her with a glare. She recoiled slightly.
“Time is it?” he asked. He could see the tension leave her body as she reached down to check her phone.
“4:37,” she said. He grinned widely at her. She looked confused. He turned back around. He felt so much better. He wasn't much cooler than he had been before, but there was the whisper of a breeze tickling him lightly with cool air. The amphetamine noise in his body was ramping up. He was gnawing at his lip again. It felt like there were a thousand electric pleasure needles lancing his scalp and rotating slowly, fading into and out of one another as they connected. Every nerve in his body and every synapse in his brain was sparking up and firing off connections. The surface of his body felt wired with electric current. He was still scribbling his name with exact abandon.
He heard gravel crunching down behind the car on the path leading up to the circular ledge and his head shot up. Dust rose up first and then the sheriff's car formed out of it.

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doust thou hear thee kaylee
canst you please take me
to a place of desire
to ur empire

kaylee allen
oh, precious allen
i love you truly
i love you souly

can we be together
like 2 pieces of a puzzle
and perfectly we will fit
oh so perfectly

the best we are
the best we will be
forever in my heart
forever and ever

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