New York 1919

Pending.

Because Of A Broken Highball Glass

She, with dirty blonde hair, painted a bloody swath across all of the Kingdom of Spain; a trail of broken hearts from Barcelona to Madrid into the Portuguese Republic and back. Bands of American girls with long, tight, shirts for dresses and striped leggings come through and dance and drink every year, but she was different. She was the kind of girl about whom people say, 'she's the kind of girl who knows exactly what she wants' and gets it. That kind of girl. The kind of girl people love and hate that they love her. Even the people who say aloud they hate her, they love her, she's that kind of girl. And this particular girl was named, Elle Finney. And, of course, she was hated, and thus loved. Spain hadn't been rocked like this since Republicanos and Nacionales spilled each other's blood. 
Elle Finney was around 5'6" with a medium frame, voluptuous to a point, endowed but not overdone. Her hair was long and straight, usually parted on one side, that hair pulled across her brow.The green eyes of a doe outlined in black. A straight, just so slightly upturned, nose gave off approachability and royal elegance. She had one tooth that was just the tiniest bit crooked proving that she was perfect. If any human was to be human and still be perfect, one of their teeth would have to be just the tiniest bit crooked.
Elle's family had found it’s way into money only a few years earlier; her parents decided, that with a fair portion of their new wealth, they would educate and culture their daughter. They had each grown up wealthy and had both rejected their families after similar education and culturing, they decided for their daughter to do the same. 
So she was here now, dancing with Spaniards, had been for almost six months. Her time was running out. She had certainly made her mark, but was getting frantic in the final hours. Before Spain she'd gone to school on the West coast for a year, then back to the East coast for a semester and now here. As for after this, she didn't know.
Her time being short, she did what any decent American girl would do in a foreign country: She snorted a lot more blow. She went down on a boy or two or three in nightclub bathrooms. She had a few girls down on her in her room, her host family steps away. She started fights with the rich Franco-Fascist bitches at her school, and, lastly, fell in love. That love lasted her final month in Spain. It tempered her, calmed her. This is not a love story though. She went back to the states. She never talked to her Spanish lover again.


The boy she'd been somewhat seeing at Northeastern, before she went abroad, sent her a message the day after she got back. He was tall and classically handsome, he studied music and was always interesting; she had been head over heels for him, she cried for three days straight when the Kingdom of Spain first welcomed her. Elle told herself she'd call him when her jet lag was a little better. But this is not a love story. Elle never got around to calling.
Still, Elle would probably marry a musician with thick glasses one day, the hip and dorky kind, not the other kind of musician with the other kind of glasses. She was the kind that wore big headphones and sometimes wondered if she was trying too hard to look too cool, then she’d look in the mirror and realize: too cool is only just cool enough. Maybe that's why she'd marry a musician, if she really loved him, to listen to his music in big headphones. Elle Finney in a white dress, waiting to kiss at the altar. Elle Finney enraptured. Wait. This is not a love story though, that must be repeated; in fact, this is actually a story about rape and poison. It's a murder mystery. Something like that. Elle has nothing to do with this story. It probably goes something like:


Someone was walking, maybe down an empty street or through a forest at dusk, and she heard something behind her so she tried to turn around, but it was (of course) too late, and she was repeatedly penetrated, then stabbed; long story short: I did it. All because of a broken highball glass. How's that for irony?

roads

Kyle ashed his cigarette out the crack in the window and brought it back to his lips, but the wind had put it out. He slid it out the crack, disappointed.
"Pass me that when you're done," he said. Mark sniffed hard and passed the bag to him. He put his knee against the wheel and keeping an eye on the road used the corner of a Eugene Public Library card to scoop some up, he brought it to his nose, putting the other hand back on the wheel, looking out at the road now. He inhaled steadily. His nose felt like it was clogged, he could taste it a little in the back of his throat. He put the card back in and brought it to his other nostril, inhaling. It was good. He replaced the card and handed the bag back. He tried to clear his throat but knew there was nothing to clear. He fished in the dash pocket under the CD player for the bottle, and finding it, unscrewed and sipped from it. The taste was exceptionally bitter, it was hard to swallow with his throat numbed.
"Root beer," he choked out. Mark handed him the root beer with a little laugh. And took the small bottle from him and sipped it as well, then reached down and took the fifth of Jack Daniels from the floor, sipping that, grimacing. Kyle looked over at him and smiled, laughing a little, feeling charged. Mark handed back the morphine bottle. Kyle continued holding it out and said,
"To us and this, and fuck those bitches." Mark held up the Jack and clinked it against the smaller glass bottle. They both sipped, Kyle immediately going back to the root beer. Mark began again with the bag.
"So, we take this road for something like 5 more miles, that takes us to the 5 or the 99. The 99 takes us right into Creswell and Cottage Grove, if you want to eat something."
"Nah, I don't want to fuck this up," leaning his head back a little he yelled out, "Jay. Hey, Jay. Wake up for a second." Nothing. "Shake him, will you?" Mark leaned back pushing the map down next to the seat and tightening his grip on the bag. He pushed against Jay's torso.
"What, what?" He said, sleepily, turning to look at Mark.
"Do you want to eat something soon?"
"I want fucking...Burger King. I want Burger King." He rolled back over. Mark and Kyle laughed a little and Kyle took the bag back from Mark.
"Let's stop for a second, this fucking sucks."
They sat and made lines by putting the side of the card in, and inhaling off that. They passed it back and forth seamlessly. Kyle went to drink from the bottle and got only a few drops,
"Oh, shit...it's empty."
"That was a lot of morphine." Mark laughed and did another line. Kyle took the bag and did one more.
"Well, let's get this show on the road, feeling pretty fucking good."
"Yea, yea." Mark laughed. They both laughed their excited cocaine laugh. Mark passed Kyle the Jack, he took a small swig and handed it back. Looking for the root beer, only to find it empty too. He started driving again.
"Hey, put in Imagine, I really want to listen to that album." Mark looked through a small booklet of CD's, trying to find it.
"Fuck yes, that's what I want to hear, fuck yes."
"That's the song. The song you know?" From the back Jay spoke up,
"Fuck yes, I love that song." Mark and Kyle laughed. Mark put in the CD, the opening bars began, and they all quieted down. Jay sitting up in back to listen better, leaning forward into the front. As John Lennon's voice began, they all started to sing along.


II

"Come on, we've got to fucking go. Now," shouted Jay pulling a few things from the car.
"No, I'm not leaving him, he needs a fucking doctor, he's bleeding and shit."
"Fuck, I'm getting out of here."
"OK, OK, take this," Kyle shouted, handing him the bag of coke and the jack bottle, from the front seat. Jay grabbed them and his jacket and started running into the forest. Kyle stepped out, with the empty morphine bottle and threw it into the woods after Jay. A car's headlights brightened the scene. He stood in the road a little and waved his arms. The car slowed, it's window rolling down.
"Hey, call 911, we need an ambulance, my friend is hurt," he said frantically. The man in the car, pulled forward and parked. The front of Kyle's car was buried in the rear end of a large older truck. Mark, was unconscious against the dash. The man from the car came around the truck,
"Is it just the two of you?" Kyle sat against the rear door of the car, on the ground and nodded. The man spoke into the phone, Kyle couldn't really hear him, his ears were still ringing.
"Are you hurt?" He shook his head, tears forming in his eyes. The man spoke into the phone again and began talking to him, even putting his hand on his shoulder. He didn't respond. tears silently rolled down his cheeks. He stared at the ground between his legs, and felt a wave pull him under to some place else. Over the man's voice he heard a siren growing louder. He became suddenly afraid that the rest of his existence would be this, the growing sound of a siren and him staring at the ground. He became terrified. He felt he couldn't move, that he was trapped there in that instant forever. But then the lights hit him and he looked toward them squinting. And in that instant the former instant was gone, and now he became afraid, as the ambulance stopped in front of him, another ambulance and a cop car were coming down the road now too. Sirens growing louder.
He sat on the bench seat in the ambulance, a paramedic helping him hold gauss to his nose which he now realized was bleeding. He couldn't feel it really. He could see blood on his arms, little bits and sparkles there too, paint and glass in him, it looked beautiful. The paramedic told him to lay down, but he wouldn't, he wanted to sit. They closed the door and began moving. Forgetting that he wanted to sit, he lay down on the bench. Black washed over him.


III

He woke up in pain. Pressures at different places all over his body. He was in a bed. The lights were low. He opened his eyes and looked around groggily. It was a hospital room. He looked down to see the IV in his arm. He felt something wrong with his penis and tossed off the blanket frantically, then raising the gown slowly he saw a tube going into it. He pulled it out slowly. Stopping often from pain and more from fear of pain. When he got it out he saw his hand was shaking. Next he pulled the IV out of his arm slowly, a little blood came out. He slid his legs over the side of the bed and put his bare feet on the cold floor. His clothes were on a chair across the room. He sat in it and began to dress, coming slowly to his senses. He knew he had to get out of there. His next thought was where Mark was. He stood and walked to the door, looking out the small window. The hallway was empty. It felt late. He opened the door quietly and began looking for Mark's room. He finally found it. He looked in the window and saw him swollen and bandaged, IV and an oxygen mask. He opened the door and entered. He walked over to the bed, and shook him gently by the arm. After a moment, Mark opened his eyes and looked over at him.
"What?"
"Hey man, we've got to get out of here. We need to go, right now." Mark looked away from him, his eyes a little glossy.
"I can't go with you, I'm sorry."
"No, no, I'm sorry."
"Don't worry, just go. I'll catch up with you sometime." Kyle squeezed his hand, then got up and left the room.

IV

They both settled in a little more for the long drive ahead. Kyle sat back and looked through the grating towards the road ahead. Marshal Deanes slouched a little lower in the driver's seat.
"So, why would you want to do that to yourself, kid?" Kyle paused and thought for a second.
"Honestly, there's nothing here for me. This world is fucked up."
"I'll give you the last part, I see a lot of bad shit. But there's better ways to go about living than just trying to die. You can't just give up."
"What else could I do? I'm not trying to die, I just want something to make it better, the drugs do that."
"But they don't really make anything better. I was like you, not quite so much, but close. It's just too dangerous."
"I don't want to be dangerous, I just want to be happy."
"Everyone does, you're a good kid, I can see that. Life deals out it's cards and some hands are winners and some are losers, but you get to pick the cards you trade in, and I think pretty much everyone gets at least one ace. Don't try so hard to be happy, just try to be content." Kyle thought Marshal Deanes was a pretty nice guy, but laying it on a little thick, but maybe he was laying it on too thick as well.
"But there's always something better. I always want that next best thing."
"Doesn't mean you'll get it."
"But why not try?"
"Try, sure. Just don't mess up a good thing to get there, because you might not get it in the end."
"I guess so. I think it's the journey that is most of the point."
"So then it doesn't matter what you try for really, might as well try for something good for more people than just you."
"Yea, I guess so."
There was a minute or two of silence, too little time for it to become uncomfortable, and just long enough to give an air of peace. He spoke slowly through the little grate, staring down between his legs,
"The doctor told me that we had taken lethal doses of speed and morphine. Our hearts should have burst from the speed in the coke, and they should have stopped from all that morphine; but they canceled eachother out basically, funny how things work like that sometimes." He could see his hand was shaking.

True Rats

Those Rats

He probably ate someone's thrown out roach or maybe flakes from an empty bag of bloomers or something like that. I watched him for a few minutes from the stoop while smoking a cigarette. I knew he was on something. He was dragging his belly around slowly and shaking his head from side to side in a small circle on the ground. A few girls started coming down the block, I pointed at him. They expressed surprise then disgust as they saw what I was pointing at, all except one on her cell phone, wrapped up in all that. The toe of her shiny black pump sliding under his fat belly, scooping him up with the motion of her walk, and dropping him a few inches from where he'd been. He didn't really seem to mind. She screamed and almost dropped her phone, shaking her hands wildly. She seemed to be trying to keep both feet off the ground, dancing, as it was in the wild West. The girls jogged a little bit down the sidewalk. He kind of walked in a half-circle for a moment, then turned towards their direction. He began following then. I watched him slowly chase them for as long as they remained in sight. He was closing in ever so slowly, but I don't think he wanted to catch them.

Our Rats

"So, he walked up to us and I knew we were butched, so I just gave the stuff back when he asked for it. But Amanda, that girl is crazy, she hit him in the face and just started sprinting."
"She hit a cop?"
"Yea, she's crazy, right?
"Crazy, yea, definitely. She's gonna have all kinds of legal shit now."
"I know, right?"
"What were you guys stealing anyway?"
"You're not going to believe me."
"Why, what was it?"
"We were stealing makeup and..."
"And what?"
"Pregnancy tests."
"Oh, my god, that's too funny."
"I know, right?"
"Are either of you pregnant?"
"I don't know, we had to give the tests back."

No Rats

He'd put his gloves on, grab their corpses by the tails, drop them in the bag, twist it, clamp it, and throw it in the trash.
"They serve no good purpose," he'd told himself that many times. But what good purpose do humans serve? Now he wondered if someone were going to do this same thing to him, except not by the tail, humans don't have tails, but the legs, probably by the legs and drop them into bags and throw them in the trash. At least he didn't mind the rats so much anymore.

Deserted

He looked inside his arm, it was dark red, almost purple at the bottom and higher, a layer of yellowish bubbly fat, and the skin above that, split, spread. It was like there was tension there to start with and he released it, put a run in a stocking. He got up and walked to the sink. He sighed and turned on the water. His arm began to bleed. The stitch was a running stitch, meaning it was completely under the skin except at the points of entry and exit at the far ends of the cut. The skin looked grey when it was being stitched, or at least he thought. It had all puffed up, not swollen, but seemed to push out. It reminded him of disgusting pornstar vagina, he had to look away.

It hadn't hurt at all. All he felt was a cool breath. It was amazing, like he opened a window in a moving car, a window in his flesh. It didn't hit the bone, not even the muscle, but he could see it, through a layer that covers the muscle. All the power of his body came from something he could now see, he imagined seeing his heart, and thought it would probably look much messier. Not as beautiful. But this isn't really about the muscle, or the arm.

He cut himself with a sword, to draw blood, to baptize it in a way. And he thought that would sound so stupid, so nerdy, all that...but once you see inside your body you realize there is so much to it. And even though the sword wasn't baptized in blood, not a drop had touched it; it was pulled through flesh. Baptism enough. But this isn't about the baptism or the sword.

It was one of his best friend's and his girlfriend's birthday. He had set down the sword and said,
"I just cut my arm so bad." Someone replied,
"It's not even bleeding."
"I know..." He'd gotten help from his friend. They bandaged it with gauze and tape. He came home the next morning and told his parents and called his girlfriend and she came up in her pajamas because it was still early. Her worry was apparent. He took the bandage off, his mom thought she was going to faint. It had already reached the grey color by then. His girlfriend called her mom, a nurse, and she came up to his house. She called him an idiot and told him to get stitches immediately.

He was in the shower, attempting to wash his wound without soap and without direct water. He couldn't put it under the water, he felt dull pains in it under the streams. He marveled at it, he imagined the scar. How large the scar would be if only he could keep it. Now he had a small scar, the width of the metal band on the wheel of a cigarette lighter. But this isn't about the scar.

She was short with light blonde hair. She danced ballet. He loved her very much. She loved him very much. He'd cheated on her a week before with a woman, not a girl, a woman seven years older than him. She was short and with dirty blonde hair. She had a degree in fine art. He was still in high school. His girlfriend didn't know this. He wasn't going to tell her. She kissed him before he left to some kind of outpatient clinic for stitches. He lay on the table as the stitches went in, his mom next to him, still ready to pass out. He watched his arm be stitched until of course, that image. But this isn't about the girlfriend, or the other woman, or the stitches or the pornstar vagina.

This is about how the girlfriend left him for her stepbrother and lived in a shitty town in the desert and was happier with the stepbrother than with him.

The Hype and The Life

That day is one I haven't been able to and don't want to forget, the kind of day that begins as normal as any other, but ends up affecting, maybe changing your life; they're not usually the kind of days you can predict or expect, this one took me entirely by surprise. I sat uncomfortably on a bench formed of metal strips that flowed down vertically, curling inward on the back and bottom, a thin, square armrest providing me little or no comfort at all. It was raining, not as hard as it had earlier, but still what I would call a downpour, I however, was dry, smoking a cigarette on that bench with a book, held awkwardly open, in my hand. A bottle of wine stuck out of the folds of my large and mostly empty backpack, I held the bottle against me with the pit of my elbow, occasionally uncorking and drinking from it. I could feel my lips and teeth reddening as they always do when drinking red wine, and also waited patiently for someone to begin to hassle me about the bottle. No one ever did, perhaps, because a greasy haired man-boy, sitting on a bench, chain smoking and reading, is one of the few people allowed to drink wine, in public, in America and only be hassled by police, who were probably wanting to stay dry and warm in their cars anyway. I was running out of wine while debating with myself between paragraphs on pages, whether or not I should go inside and get another bottle, when I felt the weight of a presence close to me. I waited for some older woman to begin chewing me out for my drinking in public, or some old homeless type to ask me for some, but when I looked up, I was completely unprepared for what stood before me.
By her face alone I would have thought she was ten years old, but her height and demeanor told me she was more of an adult; I assumed her actual age was somewhere in between. She wore a long, offwhite, tiered skirt with a black shirt covered by a deep red, cordouroy, blazer-like jacket, she stood with one foot tapping the cement behind her, a pad of yellow paper in her arms. Her hair was so blonde it was nearly white, it fell to her neck, but not quite onto her shoulders. Straight and full, it was nearly iridescant in the dark, overcast world she lived in; her hair and her piercing Hazel eyes stole my attention and would not let go. I'd never seen hair like this, my own seemed like a curse compared to the beauty of that blonde-white sight. It was not overly thick nor thin, she was clearly not even approaching albinoism, which I have seen before and it does not produce these results; but her hair was without doubt sub or super human in nature, the product of some mixture of gold-spun spidersilk and moonbeams, or something equally as impossible.
A sort ex-girlfriend drove me there, from my house where I'd spent time trying to kiss her and had, little kisses of friends who used to be together, though she was dating someone seven years older than her. And when she left, she dropped me off and I was in the rain and wanted to call her when she got home and tell her I wanted her to come get me again and that I wanted to keep kissing her, and it was odd...because she would have, but I didn't call. I sat and read and drank, and now this; and I consider this one of the more odd things to have happened to me, because it takes a lot of courage or excentricity to just approach someone like she did. It's something I rarely do, and only when looking for one or two things. She looked at me, and I at her, it seemed like forever, and just as I felt tension like she was going to run down the walkway and out into the rain and across this city, she spoke.
"Excuse me, are you busy?" She asked with little apprehension. Her voice was young and girlish, but her tone was formal and adult.
"I'm not, what is it?" I replied, closing my book, finger sitting in the fold.
"Well, and I never do this, but my siblings and I are taking a trip to San Diego, to visit my older brother, and you look around his age, and I wanted to ask someone his age who had been there, what I should expect."
"You're in luck, I have been there. Just recently actually."
"Great, may I ask you about it?"
"Sure, go ahead."
"Well, I'd like for my brothers to hear, would you mind sitting inside with us? Our mother is shopping."
"That sounds fine," I replied, taking note of the page I was on and standing slowly. I pushed the bottle into the backpack, noticing her notice it, I smiled and hoisted the bag onto my shoulder. I took a final drag of the cigarette and dropped it, stamping it out with my toe. I motioned for her to lead the way and followed close behind her. She stopped suddenly,
"How rude of me, I'm Laine. And you?" I told her my name and she nodded politely, turning back and leading me inside.
"How many siblings do you have?" I asked, trying to make small talk.
"Four, three brothers and a sister."
"Wow, quite a family, and do you live with your parents?"
"With my mother, my father died six years ago."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"It's no trouble of yours." We turned towards the left after entering the store, and while thinking of what her siblings would look like, I was forcefully shoved into a fantasy of the fourth reich. At a table sat two boys, one with hair even whiter than Laine's, another with somewhat darker, yellow hued hair, with his nose in a book, the other wearing large silver and black headphones. As we approached there was no acknowledgment that we approached.. They sat at a round picnic table made of steel and glass, in patio chairs of the same type. Laine sat down next to the boy reading the book and I sat between her and the headphone wearing one.
"This is my twin brother Ky and my younger brother Tobin." The brothers were nearly the same height, much shorter than Laine, the whiter haired one had a young full face, the darker haired one (which is probably erroneous to call him), had a thinner face, his face looked the oldest of them all. They both looked very different from Laine, even aside from the height, but all retained some quality, even besides the hair, which made them seem like siblings.
"I'm sorry, which is which?" They both paid no attention to us, headphones, drumming against the table lightly with his forefingers and bookworm following the lines with his.
"Don't apologize, you could probably never guess which is actually my twin." She tapped the table and headphones looked up.
"Ky, introduce yourself." He smiled and slid his headphones down onto his neck,
"I was waiting for him to make a move."
"Not very nice of you, you know."
"Don't say that," he looked to me, "Yo, I'm Ky." I was thoroughly surprised and now incredibly interested in this family, he continued to smile as I introduced myself. Staring with his very dark bluish eyes. Asking me afterwards,
"Have you been to San Diego? My brother works for Sony there, he tests video games; he sends me all the ones he likes."
"Very cool," I replied, "sounds like a good setup."
"Yes...cool." He spoke slowly with the faintest hint of sarcasm, almost indetectable. I nearly entered shock, asking myself, who are these kids? Where did they come from?
Laine looked to me,
"You'll have to excuse his behavior, he's very precocious and also a pretensious cynic. And I'm sorry that you'll not get an introduction from this one." Ky laughed throwing his head back as she pointed at Tobin,
"There's not a way, I know, to get him out of something he's reading."
"How old is he?"
"He'll be seven next month. Ky and I also start high school next month, did you like high school very much?"
"I suppose I did, I had a lot of fun."
"That sounds nice, we've never been to a public school. Do you attend the university?"
"I do, last semester closed my third year."
"Do you know professor (I've chosen to omit last names, and you've probably noticed, even my own first name, to protect this family and mine, though I doubt anyone of us need it.)? Have you had any classes with him?"
"I haven't, but I know of him. I hear he's very demanding."
"He is, that is true."
"You know him?"
"Yes, he's tutored our whole family, even my oldest brother since he was Tobin's age." I'm fairly sure, at that point, that my mouth dropped open. This was surely the most amazing thing I'd ever heard outside the realm of fantasy. Before I could begin to ask anything more about the arrangement involving small children and the, apparently, biggest hardass on campus, Laine spoke up again.
"Oh, yes, we're here to ask you about San Diego. My brother lives in Mission Beach, have you been there?" Recovering slowly, I replied that I had, and had liked it very much. I told them about the layout, the twins looked at eachother smiling, excited.
"That sounds wonderful, my brother lives there with our nephew and his girlfriend. I can't wait to be there, they tell us how happy they are whenever they call." I imagined what this older brother was like, undoubtedly a tall blonde, and working as a video game tester...probably thin with a slightly outdated haircut; but undoubtedly a genius as well, as these children seemed to be.
"How old is your brother?" I asked.
"He's twenty-four, he moved to San Diego only a few months ago, but we miss him very much already," she replied.
"Why did he move there?"
"To work for Sony," she replied, and suddenly Ky broke in from across the table, speaking to her more than to me it seemed,
"To be closer to his son actually," turning to me, "his ex-girlfriend moved there without him."
"There is that, too," she said, frowning at her brother.
"I see, does he have that same amazing hair you all have?"
"He did, but at age sixteen it began turning black and curling up. It's more like my mothers now, this hair we have came from my father." She replied, playing a little bit with the ends of her hair. Ky looked directly at me, staring, I thought I could feel the hairs on my neck standing up, it was like static between us, and he spoke,
"I don't want my hair to change."
"Why do you think his did?"
"I think it changed because he lost his way, a lot of people seem to lose their way around that age."
"That's true, I did."
"Really? How?" he asked, showing all the impetuousness of youth. I laughed aloud at this, and thought of the two mornings I always think of when I recall youth. A June morning when I was hardly a teenager and awoke sometime near ten A.M., and played loudly a song that deserved to be played loudly. And as I lay in bed and sang I thought what a great time it was to be alive and how I wanted this feeling of appreciation for the present to last forever, though it passed before I could even realize it. And the second morning, I awoke, it was nearly the same situation, but a friend was sitting in the chair in my room, looking over at me. I knew how close we were, because it was not odd that this person was randomly in my room as I awoke, looking at me, and it needed no explaining, the only thing needed was an idea for what to do with that day, and essentially that life...and I always wonder, if I still live that life.
"What can I say, really, I became wrapped up in some things I shouldn't have."
"Drugs?"
"Not really, but I don't know if I should discuss this with you."
"Don't treat me like a child, I'll make you look bad." He pulled the headphones back onto his ears and broke his gaze with me. I looked to Laine with a slight smile and questioning eyes, "you'll have to forgive my brother...again. He can't be tamed. But would you tell me, how exactly, you lost your way?"
"Eh, I don't know if I should do this."
"You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to."
"I really shouldn't." She then turned away, ever so slightly, almost unnoticably. I could feel, though, her sudden likeness with her brother.
"I wonder where my mother is, we've been waiting for quite a while," she spoke with complete uninterest, though she hid it well, I could tell. It pained me to have treated her that way, it pains me still, but at least I tried to make up for it.
"Well, I became involved with a girl. I became involved in something bigger than myself, bigger than both of us. Bigger than anything I'd been involved with, to this day...it ended up going nowhere, or worse than nowhere. The problem though, was with her. Love, or the illusion of it can make you do crazy things.
"I see, I've never had a romantic relationship but I understand the concept of doing bad things for the person you love."
"It's not that I did bad things, it's...well, high school is a prime time for that kind of behavior. So watch yourself, don't get involved with the wrong people, I guess that's my advice."
"Thankyou, I don't think I need to fear that, I have never known a boy to be attracted to me."
"What? Really? That's surprising." She blushed slightly here, and I realized that something had happened and I was standing on a kind of threshold, I realized, I thought she was very beautiful and attractive. I became somewhat frightened, hoping that some secret desire for a girl of this age was not making it's way through me. I realize now, but did not then, that she was very beautiful and attractive always, and it grew with age.
"Why, thank you." Fully blushing after the reply. I immediately tried to change the subject, but took it only so far.
"Anyway, love is dangerous sometimes. I think I've stopped that though," I laughed a little laugh, a sad laugh actually...Because I hadn't really experienced love in a long time, and it was good and bad, but I was still a little lonely. Why else would I sit on a bench just out of the rain, reading and drinking.
"Have you?" And here, I feel I reacted far too strongly, defensively really, at what I believe was a joke, and regret it even still. Too used to answering this question in such a way, to friends, parents, doctors, all those people, I spoke,
"Yes, I have." And though the words seem simple and harmless, I allowed too much emotion to escape and it was clear, and I feel I made an error. The look on her face was that of one who had just taken a blow, I answered her simple question with nearly a snarl. This time instead of her almost unnoticable turn, she instead continued to stare, as her brother had. And of course, and I attributed it to their twin telepathy, Ky spoke up, headphones still on, looking at me,
"Harsh, she only asked a simple question." I looked over to him, and feeling defeated, back to her.
"I'm sorry," I nearly whispered, crushed under the weight of their intimidating presences. Ky's white locks falling in an arc to his eyes, curling above his ears towards his temples and also under them, wrapping him up in so many curling waves, appearing as seamfoam on the break. Laine's sun-bleached gold falling elegantly, the tips of her ears jutting out from the sides, seemingly showing her youth, and accenting her beauty with elfish features. And the incessant turning of pages from the dirty blonde web of long tangles falling down towards the book Tobin continued to run his finger across.

So wrapped in my shame, my strangely admitted weakness, I didn't notice until she turned, that a hand had come to rest on her arm. When she turned, I did as well, another blonde head of hair, this time tied in pigtails, stood at the height of her elbow. The most yellow of all, canary yellow, whatever that means, and all I can use to describe it, with a cherubs face attached to it, bandaids crossed over the bridge of her nose, peeked from behind her arm.
"Hello, darling, come say hi," she spoke to the child, bringing her into view,
"This is Clarion, my younger sister, youngest of us all. Our golden child."
"Hello, little one, how are you?" And turning to Laine, "does she speak?"
"Never in public, but you can't shut her up at home," Ky spoke, looking at me, then turning his face down to her,
"runt, come give me a hug." She ran around the table to him with a smile from ear to ear, and hugged him tightly. He lifted her up and sat her on his lap. She wore that kind of dress that can make a grown woman seem childish with lace lined socks and shining cherry-red shoes, her hair in short pigtails, as darling as any child I'd ever seen. And had she not been sitting in her brothers lap, the bandaids on her nose would have forced me to believe she was an orphan. My eyes went back to Tobin, still deep in that book.
"What book is your brother reading?"
"Oh, it's one Ky and I gave him," she told me the name, and it hit me like a train, I almost went spinning, tossing my book, backpack flying off my shoulder, bottle of wine falling and breaking as I landed on the floor.
"Why that book?"
"It seems to us like a biography of our family, in some respects."
"I suppose it does."
"Have you read it?" We sat momentarily in silence as I watched him read, my eyes following his fingers, and I dazed off, thinking about this situation, my mouth half open about to respond.
Laine spoke, a greeting, and I looked over, another hand resting on her shoulder; my mind followed my eyes upward, to eyes of a shallow blue and sheets of black hair cascading over shoulders. I knew immediately, through the disparate looks, I knew: This was their mother. She couldn't have been older than 30, but I knew she must have been. She looked at me, with a somewhat questioning look, I could see the gears of protection of her children turning in her mind.
"Hi," I spoke up, smiling wide, attempting to be as non-threatening as possible. Laine shook her head as if waking,
"Oh, mom, this is our new friend. He was just telling us about San Diego?" She smiled back at me,
"Oh, do you know my son, Vaughn?"
"I'm afraid I don't but I was in San Diego last month."
"Very nice, I'm Rhys." I introduced myself and stood to shake her hand as she came around Laine's chair slightly. Her eyes, never seeming to leave mine, though I glanced away several times out of nervousness. Finally, she did break them off, to look at her children.
"Well, everyone, I'm through shopping are you ready to go?" The children stood, Ky sliding Clarion to the floor, and even Tobin, still reading the book, stood.
"It was very nice to meet all of you, I hope we can again in the future," I spoke somewhat awkwardly.
"It was nice to meet you as well, thankyou for all the information, and I too hope we can meet again in the future," Laine spoke shaking my hand, "farewell." I watched them exit, Ky hand in hand with Clarion turned and wave, and then stopped and help her wave too. She giggled and tried to run, pulling weakly though with all her might at Ky's arm. Rhys walked out slowly, herding Tobin, her hand on his head, steering him away from objects,
"Goodbye, it was nice to meet you," she spoke.
"You too, bye." I said, watching them all dissapearing out the sliding doors, Laine last, behind her mother, her eyes against mine, smiling until she crossed the threshold and dissapeard from sight. I stood for a moment, in shock. It felt, to me, like a powerful and unknown force, something spooky almost, resided there; but it was also that kind of realization, feeling a presence watching you or bearing down on you, at first it scares you, puts that nervous fear that can only come from the unknown into you, but you then realize it's only God and suddenly it's so comforting. I broke free and ran to the door,
"Laine!" I called, and she turned, tapping her mother on the shoulder and recieving a nod. She came to me with a small jog.
"Yes?" She said, standing in front of me. I hesitated, completely unable to remember what I wanted to ask her,
"I just suddenly forgot."I lied.
"Oh, alright, can you think of it?"
"No, I'm drawing a blank," we stood looking awkwardly for a moment and I spoke again, "Well, thanks anyways. Goodbye."
"Yes, take care," she said turning and beginning to jog back to her family.
"Wait!" I said, abruptly, she turned yet again and this time stood at distance.
"Can I see you again? All of you, I mean."
"I don't see why not," she wrote her phone number on a sheet of paper from her notebook, and handed it to me.
"We have dinner on Thursday nights with the Professor, it would be nice if you could come, I'm sure my mother wouldn't mind."
"Thank you, thank you very much." She jogged off again and waved as she did.
I went back inside and sat at the chairs, in profound confusion, wondering about this family, wondering mostly about Laine and what had made me want to see a young girl like her again, being unable to. Knowing only I didn't want to let her go, but had to, I'd seen families like that before. The kind so close that to try to squeeze into them is not only in bad taste, but futile as well. I decided to get that bottle of wine.

I left, walking downhill towards downtown and towards the library where I sat in the grassy park in front of it, pulled out my book and wine, and finished them. The same book Tobin had.

This is not good...it's true though...

The one that came inside had a narrow, thin face like a rat's, and a head of dreads that combined to make him think he looked like Zach De La Rocha. He seemed stupid. He'd clearly been wandering, a great distance most likely. He looked haggard. His voice was that kind of worn out high pitch, where it sounds a little strained at all times. He begged. He offered him fish, but he wouldn't take it. But came back a little later and took it for another. These were the two dogs that came that night and were astounding to him.
"I'm like, hopping trains and just got in town. I'm like, so starving, bro. You got any food maybe you could give me, you know?" He said moving his arms, seeming a little manic.
"Right here," he said handing him the fish burrito he'd accidentally made, "you like fish?"
"Ah, bro, damn...I know beggars can't be choosers, but I don't dig seafood really."
"Well, come back later around nine and I'll make you up something with the food we throw away." He said distractedly as he noticed that the erotically chubby girl who he'd served a minute before was sitting with her legs apart and exposing her underwear in his general direction.
"Oh, what time is it now?"
"8:15."
"Ah, damn, well, shit bro. Ok, I'll come back then."
"Alright, later."
The kid extended his dirty hand and he slapped it lightly and then they put their fists together; he walked out the door, one hand pulling up his baggy torn pants. His eyes went back to the dress with the open legs. The door opened and the kid came back in.
"Hey, so my brodog will eat that." This was when he first realized it. This kid was a dog. He watched him beg, he saw the dog. This dirty, stupid kid who rides on freight trains across this country was in reality a dog, and so he took pity on him as he would a dog. He handed him the burrito again, "you think I could like get some chips and hot salsa or something, I gotta watch my bro eat and shit, I'm like starving." He put some chips in a bag and filled a small cup with salsa, handing it to him, not saying a word.
"Yo, thanks so much man. Shit, thanks." He said, again extending his hand, "you're fucking cool man, I'll come back at nine, I know you'll hook it up so fat."
He was closing up, sweeping the floor about to mop it, when his coworker began talking to someone at the door. He figured it was the dog, it was about nine. He walked to the open back door of the kitchen, they were two at the door, smiling with stupid excited grins. They stood just as dogs, making the smiling dog faces, tongues out, tails wagging. He was astounded. These men were dogs...Dogs. He made them a lot of food and took it out the back, he saw their packs on the ground and saw them begging at a nearby table of another restaraunt. He left the food there with their packs and he saw the rat dog one coming back in. He walked to the counter and waited for him.
"Yo, man."
"Hey, I left the food with your packs." The other dog who was an ugly blonde shorthair with piercings in his face and a leather jacket came in behind the rat dog.
"Oh, badass man, you think, I could like get some chips. You'll like throw them out anyway."
"No, we keep the chips...but you can have some."
"And salsa, man? I love salsa, I'm so big on salsa."
"Yea, salsa, sure."
"And like maybe some lemonade and water, you know, like a big cup?"
"Yea, go ahead."
"Oh, shit thanks man." He was simply amazed at what this man, these men were, these men were the dogs. From appearance to action, these men were dogs.

For Alex

This slick young queer, this beautiful boy...
I give this picture to you, a picture i'm sure you've seen. Because he stopped writing before 21. You are 21 and just starting. I ashed in my beer a minute ago, and just had to swish it around and keep going. Sometimes you must swallow the ash, it's clean at least.

I want to ask you for something, and it's a big request, it's something intense and serious...it might even be impossible. But I will ask, you can give any answer, I will accept whatever it may be. Continue diligently, keep going even when you feel empty, continue to write.


A boy came into a room where he found something very surprising. In the center of the room on it's familiar circle rug, he saw a small grey pouch. He approached it slowly, not knowing how it got there. He looked up at the clouded covering over the bulb and knew it hadn't fallen. He wondered if his father had put it there, but was confused at why his father would leave it on the rug and not on the bedside table. He approached it. He lowered onto the balls of his feet, then onto his knees, and put his hands on them. He felt a sense of anxiety, though he knew not the words to describe it. Was this a test? Was someone watching him? He decided with tense muscles to pick up the pouch. It was soft to the touch, a drawstring pulled tight at it's mouth. He lifted it, it wasn't heavy, but felt valuable, it's contents clicking as he lifted it. He opened it slowly with two fingers inside it's mouth. He put one hand on it's back end and gently poured the contents onto the rug. From it fell the most beautiful glass balls. His eyes grew wide as he looked at their myriad colors, how they shone in the light. Eight small and one large ball. He wanted to shout with joy, but could only smile. For his birthday he had recieved those coveted things, his father's marbles.

A Work in Retrogress

He stumbled across an instant, while hiding behind a dumpster with the smell of hot trash engulfing him, where he wondered if Bone were presently running with AK-47s. He stood up keeping his head out of sight, below the brick wall surrounding the dumpster. He lifted his backpack onto his shoulder, crept to the edge of the wall and scanned the parking lot: pretty quiet. He sprinted from his hiding place across the parking lot towards a closed Starbucks. He picked up a river-rock sitting in a planter and threw it through the window. He knocked out a few standing pieces of glass from the huge window and stepped inside. An Alarm buzzed at him. He walked over to a small open-faced cooler and started grabbing muffins and water bottles. He took a bag from near the register and filled it. He removed the packaging from a poppy seed muffin and began eating it, relaxing in a small, thickly padded armchair. His legs and arms were sore and getting weak, he needed this food. The muffin was delicious, the water cool in his body, he sat in the chair his head leaning back eating and drinking, his eyes closed.
A vibration in his pocket, pulled him from the rest, he answered it.
"Yea?"
"Where are you?"
"In a starbucks in Glendale, you?"
"Beverly Hills."
"Hey, Alex?
"Yea?"
"I shot a guy."
"Who?"
"Some thug, he pulled his piece on me, what could I do? Self-defense right?"
"Yea, self-defense, don't worry. Do you need to get picked up?"
"Yea, what's downtown like?"
"Crazy apparently, should we go?"
"Definitely."
"I'll call you when I get to Glendale."
"Roger." He hung up and replaced the phone in his pocket. He pulled the bandana off his head and wiped his damp hairline with his forearm. He felt exhausted, but he wanted to shout with excitement. He stood up and put the bandana back on his head, he paced around for a second and then stepped back out through the broken window. It was warm that night, he had sweat and begun to dry and begun to sweat again, he couldn't find the right temperature. He looked out and saw the hills and watched the light from them flicker and move, it was beautiful. He sighed and smiled. He began walking towards the dumpster again, to wait in the peace of the shadows at night.

He crouched down and lit a cigarette. He heard the sound of an engine, and saw lights passing against the walls and windows of the shopping center.

---------------------------

"It's not that I'm depressed, that's really not it. I'm upset. I'm more than upset, I'm furious...What is left to believe in? There's no God. Man is the devil. I want to do good, but they leave evil as my, our, only option."
"There's more to it than that. It's more complicated, more simple than that. Everyone gave it all away without knowing what it meant. A 14 year old giving her virginity to some aloof 18 year old. Like that. Now we're crazy, you and I and everyone...all insane. I want to fight, my father wants me to teach, I want to fight..."
"The sign of a young man."
"While he bears the sign of the old...seems to me that it's better to explode than to fizzle out."
"I'd agree. I want to explode, it's simple, the brave do not fear the grave."
"They don't seek it either."

The Tokyo moon is out of reach. Equality is out of reach. Exploitation, what a word, so overused, so underappreciated. What is your slave wage buying you? What would anything else be? It's not about the money, it's about sending a message. You still can't say she won't start up a fight. Without the fight we are part of it all...without it, there is no fight. There is nowhere to go, no place to be, where we are not just what we are now. What do you believe in? It's already been taken from you. What do you own? Nothing. Where is your family? Destroyed.

We have nothing left and refuse to believe it's something to fight and die for. The brave do not fear the grave. They do not seek it either. But we all find ourselves there anyway. And it's the best we can do.

In My Dream

I inquired of a young lady with long black hair as to the state of Dostoevsky, she replied he was not doing well. He holed himself up in a cabin with a message for the people:

Go now to Tolstoy.

The Rock

At the Hogan there is a rock, spherical, looks almost like it was chiseled then sanded and polished. It's probably around 5 pounds, the size of a grapefruit and it is a light cream color. It's thought it could be a dragon egg, a dragon ball, an alien something, could be something some bored concrete workers fired out of a cannon or possibly...the stone that killed Goliath.

Why did Goliath, champion, giant, soldier decide to fight against a young boy? Because David was very good at provoking people with 'yo mama' jokes.

Yo mama is so fat she gave birth to your giant ass.

There it all is.


But we still don't know what the rock is. All I know is it comforts and scares me simultaneously, it is perplexing.

Blind

I thought I saw you, it was that point during the day when it's just getting dark and everything looks so clear, that's when I thought I saw you. I thought maybe it was a trainwreck, because I heard the whistle blow then. And the first thing I thought of, was when something like this happened. And I saw someone, who wasn't you, standing in an aisle. And I stopped and stared, and tried to see her face, and was almost crying, I could feel the tears in my eyes, I could feel my throat so tensed up. And it wasn't, so I stood somewhere somewhat isolated, and talked myself out of crying. That's what I thought of first, when I saw you or I saw a girl at least, she had that haircut, like you did, back then, at least I think. I remember, I think, your hair back then, when I liked it the most.

You were with someone, walking down the sidewalk across the street from me, and I looked over, and I stopped, and I watched. I think he said your name, you looked over at him and your fingers interlaced, and she looked like you, more than just the hair, your faces were similar, your smiles were similar. No, not even a similar smile, it was the same smile, I know it. I can remember it, but it's still been a long time, it feels like it's been a long time, longer than it's really been. I could see it though, see you there. Your walks are the same, and she talked like you from what I could tell. That wasn't all of it though, there was more than the look. She had that light in her like I always said you did, even to you. Light that shines through, but it was always trapped, it always trapped me, trapped by a light that is trapped. Like snowblindness, it's just too bright, and everywhere, and blinds you, and then you're trapped in the dark. At least, she seemed that way, like you, seemed like the memories of you. In a dress that shimmers or a dress that's soft, or in your jeans, and you shine out, out of your skin, I think, through the clothes. And I saw her with a guy, and I remember only you, and it seemed like right then, for that moment, I couldn't even remember myself. And since then even, past that moment, I still can't, can't remember me, only you.

It's been a long time, so long, it feels like another life, someone else's life, maybe. Only six months, right? Six months isn't so long, so why does it feel like so long, maybe like it never happened. I know it did though, I know it happened. And now it feels like I'm there again, that's why I've forgotten who I am, I think. I think I am whoever that was again, someone who I am no longer. That's why it's like this, because some hearts are true and some of those hearts are two hearts. I wish someone would give me a ladder, down here, at the bottom. Where I am two people, and I'd put it up against the edge and climb up, to the stairs, and up the stairs to your door. I guess that's where this takes me, your door, our door; the door we've both walked out of for the last time now, that perfect door. And I'm not there, I call out all day and night, everywhere I go, looking for something.

I am again, the same, small, really small, again or maybe, always have been. I'm hoping again, or still, that you'd be what I always wanted you to be. What I thought you were then, before and after, a gift from Heaven, I guess...I guess that's what I thought you were, hoped you were. And I'd take it now, in any form, in any way. I want that back, the way I was, like the snowblindness, from that light in you. Because, I don't know now, it feels like I'm looking for something, or trying to fill a void, and I keep going everywhere and trying to meet everyone, and it doesn't work. I don't think this void can be filled, it's too deep, or too wide, or the shape is just wrong, and nothing fits. I'm looking for that perfect thing, the perfect girl. I call out to her, always, and all I can do is dangle the noose over this void, because you, or the perfect girl for me, doesn't fit. But the rope it fits, it fits just right...that's all I am seeing, because I'm blind. I don't know, that feels like too much.

Maybe I'm just looking for some kind of pain, to fill the place where I was, looking for the pain like the pain I felt, with you. The pain you gave. Maybe I'm just looking for more hands, more fists, to strike down on me, to bruise my face. I could have treated you better, you were so beautiful, I can't forget your tears. I can't forget mine either. What's the difference? Do you know? Do I know? No, I don't think I know. I know what you're like though...I tried so hard, to save you. I really did, over and over, and it didn't matter. I guess if you save yourself, though, like sometimes you want to, but never do, but want to. I can save you then, whenever you need it. I wish it could be like that.

Someone's there, maybe a king with his queen, on their thrones, watching all this and we wanted their protection from it, but they just smiled. Maybe it's everyone else, because we publicized all this so much. I hope we were entertaining at least, not tiresome. I guess we were, they just stood and watched; their cruel gazes coming down on us so visibly, like we sent them to eachother from start to finish, our leers. We're the same as them, and they as us. I wish they could have seen, I would tell them to look, if I could go back. When we were there in the woods, at the cabin, and it was just you and I in the field, no trees in it. No trees they would have been hiding in. And the moon was bright on us, and no one could see us then, we were the only ones who could see. And that's what I wanted everyone to see then, not what we chose to show them. Some hearts are true, I wanted them to know...I wanted you to know.

I guess, when I became the same again, I thought again, felt again, all the things. And there's this torment, this uneasiness, and it's love, I think...I think it's my love. This love is and was, always the same, like buying a lottery ticket with my heart. I put the bloody thing on the counter and they gave me the ticket, and I went home, and I was stupid, not inexperienced, I know how this all works. I've seen it, lived it before, so many times. I was just stupid, passionately stupid. Am stupid, and looking again for the gallows, the knuckles. Your knuckles, your coarse and scratchy rope drawn to the throat...and you, probably look for the same. Maybe whoever that was, you were with, maybe he has hard knuckles and a length of rope for you. Maybe you have it for him.

What's the problem? Do you know? Do I know? Yes, I know. I know exactly what it is, it fills me up. It drives me insane. Why, why, why why why, just fucking why? Why can't you just fucking save yourself? I'll be there to catch you, if you just catch yourself. If you can catch yourself, I will do it always. This is where I put the blame, right there. Right there. Maybe it's unfair, I don't know...I don't care if it's unfair. Save yourself, please, save yourself. That is what there is to blame...you won't do it, you won't save yourself. You want to be saved, I know you do, and you won't let me, even though you want me to. Some hearts are true, I promise you. I know you don't believe me, that you never have and might never believe it, but some hearts are true. So, save yourself, so I can save you. So I can save everyone, and myself, and yourself, from you.

It just didn't ever happen

Jordan Stijl had been living there for three months and as of yet had still not met anyone, made any friends, even at work. He washed dishes in a little Vietnamese restaurant, and hated it, just hated being dirty and wet all day; his hands were falling apart. He walked home every day and sat around losing his mind, reading book after book, or he'd walk around the neighborhood and never meet anyone, because there was no one to meet. Being isolated in a big city is worse than living in a small city, here, there was no one and no one cared who he was or what he did. He was anonymous, just a spectre haunting the streets, haunting the high ceilings of his converted warehouse apartment. He watched nothing.

Jordan sometimes wondered why he'd ever left home, left his people, and sometimes knew that a man has to make his own way, or a boyish man has to make his own way, or a boy has to make his own way...any way, he still had to make it himself. The night of his 21st birthday he went in to a little liquor store by the restaurant and bought a beer. Jordan walked home reading the label of the expensive beer, and drank it sitting at his desk and Jordan thought it was pretty good. Now he drank vodka on his morning walks to work.

He had elaborate fantasies in his head before he moved. He thought of all the people he'd meet, the parties he'd go to. Parties where he'd drink expensive 25 year old scotch and smoke cigars, or parties where he'd drink good beer from kegs and smoke cigarettes on large patios with pretty girls and gay guys.

He fantasized about walking down the street, someone coming up and saying,
"I need you in my film." And he'd be a famous actor, almost overnight, and have money and travel around, go to even fancier parties with more expensive liquor and prettier girls and gayer gay giuys.

He'd fantasized about meeting a girl, with dark hair who wore stripes. She was artistic and clever, and liked a lot of the same music he did. She said intelligent things and was witty, they met somewhere like a coffee shop, but not for drinking coffee which neither of them did, but to see some little acoustic performance of someone who probably would never be famous, and they'd talked and walked around the neighborhood, and made it to his nice apartment, and then he walked her back to her car and she drove home. She called him the next day and drove over to hang out with him. Things started slow, they dated casually for a few weeks, she introduced him to her friends, who liked him, and one of them had a crush on him or he on her, but he liked the first girl most. So he didn't do anything with her friend, and they had their first kiss under a streetlight in front of his apartment, and then she'd come in and they drank a little and kissed a little. They would go to the little indie shows and drive around in her nice car. And she'd pay for things and like doing it, it was her dad's money anyway. He'd always be grateful and say he'd have more money soon, and would take her out to dinner sometimes on his dime, and she'd love it, because she knew he was broke. And they would take little weekend trips around the state and see beautiful things and have a lot of fun. It's that easy to fall in love, she would say it to him first and he'd realize that he loved her too.

Or maybe she was a blonde, an actress probably, not famous, of course. They'd meet at a little party somewhere near downtown and it would be brief and as she was leaving he'd chase her and from a balconey ask her for her phone number and she'd give it to him. He'd call her the next weekend and she would say she was hoping he would. They would meet up at a party and sit talking together and drinking slowly, because they wanted to remember everything the other said, and her friends were leaving and she was going with them. But she would stay behind a moment to say goodbye, but ask him if he could drive her later. He'd say yes and go to the bathroom and splash his face with water and stand, beaming, in front of the mirror. They would sit together watching bad films and good films and laugh, and kiss, and she'd hold his hand and he'd wish her luck when she went to her audition the next day. She would come home radiant if she thought she did well, and forlorn if she didn't perform her best. And this would become a kind of routine once she got kicked out of her apartment and came to live with him. He was always proud of her, she was so gorgeous and had talent and was out there doing it, really going for her dream. He respected that. He would love her and she would love him.

Jordan Stijl had been living there for three months, and drank vodka on the way to work every morning, and just walked around sometimes to try and meet someone, but never saw anyone to meet. He was just a spectre on the streets, haunting the city, he just watched, watched nothing. He didn't go to fancy parties, he still held on to some of his fantasies. But he never met her.

Flight

"I'm cursed, I'm not joking. I got cursed by some kind of gypsy woman, her name is Grendel. She follows me around wherever I go, whatever I do. Especially with you, I know that sounds weird. Sorry...but especially with you." He stopped to inhale, "She said I'd never escape it, she never wanted me to escape her, she said." He exhaled.

"That's the thing, I guess, the curse is probably nothing to her now, not even a memory, but she still put it on me. I tried to curse her back, but I think it didn't take. She probably doesn't remember that now either."

"I don't know what you mean by all that," she said quietly, "it scares me though. You still scare me, I guess."

"That's not what I'm trying to do, I mean, I don't want to scare you. Maybe it's just a scary thing, maybe it's stupid to tell you things like this." He inhaled again, letting it float out of his mouth. She watched it trace his profile and float upward. These moods scared her, made her feel uneasy, when he started talking like this. Cryptically, and like he wasn't even talking to her, like he was talking to the air around them. The smoking scared her a little too, she didn't understand it. Yes, the excuse of it looking cool was half-joking, and it did look cool, but it was still frightening because the only other reason was addiction. She felt like she was watching him die.

"You should really quit smoking, you said you would, remember?" He inhaled again and put the cigarette out, next to him, on the side of the step. He held the smoke in,

"I know, I'm sorry I haven't, it's hard. I want to quit for you, I don't want to quit for how much I enjoy it." He exhaled,

"You're more important though, but be patient with me."

"I will, of course." She put her hand on his, and looking down at it, saw his fingers not slender nor thick, long nor short, coming out from under her hand. She squeezed his hand, the concrete scraping lightly the backs of her fingers. He squeezed in kind and she breathed a small sigh. He brought his face toward her, his other hand moving to her leg. He nuzzled under her hair and she turned her face up and away from his, he kissed below her ear, against her jaw. She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, putting her other hand against the nape of his neck, tickled by the soft hair falling onto her fingers. He pulled himself back and she brought her lips to his, the softness of them disturbed by a little stubble on his chin and lip. He put his hands on either side of her face, his forefingers under her earlobes, his thumbs against her cheekbones as they kissed.

"You taste like cigarettes," she said pulling back a little.

"I'm sorry," he reached back and grabbed his bottle, taking a drink and swishing it in his mouth.

"Beer isn't much better, drink a little of this." He swallowed and replacing his bottle took the glass she offered him.

"And gin and tonic is better?"

"Better than beer." She kissed him, feeling her lips against his large ones, the taste of beer and smoke and gin on his tongue that peeked into her mouth against hers softly.


He had his arm under her neck, her head resting on it and his shoulder, his other hand was on her cheek. She was pushing her lips against his over and over, unable to stop the procession of small kisses. She opened her eyes a little and through bright hair that reflected the little light in the room, she saw a smile in his closed eyes, and grabbed against his ribs with her hands, one from under, the other from above. He was thin, she thought he probably only weighed a few pounds more than her. He had his leg between hers and could feel his tight jeans against the inside of her bare thighs, they were soft against eachother she thought. The skin of his chest was as soft as anything she'd ever felt, not like silk or velvet, softer, smoother. She felt like they fit, like this was the most comfortable she'd ever felt, even though it probably wasn't. They were like puzzle pieces. He pulled her closer to him by the small of her back, she felt his hand on her skin there and shivered a little, not from cold, but from excitement. He kissed her deep now, their tongues pressing together softly and slowly.

He pulled away from her. She opened her eyes to find his already looking in to hers.

"This is where I want to be, this is the place I've always been trying to find," he said in a whisper.

"Then let's make every second count," she whispered back. She felt guilt overwhelming her. She thought her heart was already broken, and knew his was too. Knew it was cruel to go, to both of them.

"I wish things were different."

"So do I, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry."

"But I am."

"I appreciate it, but it doesn't help anything, so don't be sorry.

"But, I could stay, I can act wherever I am." She watched him think in silence, his eyes shut now, and then opening,

"No, you need to go." Every day, she doubted more and more her decision, made months ago before they met. She
had even begun to regret it. It filled her with sadness.

"This month has been perfect though."

"You know it hasn't been perfect, it's been messy and painful for both of us."

"That's what makes it so much more perfect," she said, "I know it hasn't been perfect and still I've loved every second,
enjoyed every feeling, this whole time."

"I guess that's as close to perfect as possible for humans. We really can only hope to enjoy every feeling even when
it's a bad one." Hopelessness permeated the guilt, the heartbreak; she felt her eyes beginning to water, she closed them. Her body gave an involuntary convulsion, the body's stifled cry she couldn't have controlled. She felt his hand at her eye, a finger pulling a tear away.

"Don't cry, save your tears for the day when our pain is far behind," he said slowly, "we need to be strong right now."

She felt another tear escape her eye and again he wiped it away. Those words rolled in her head.

"I don't want to be strong," she sobbed, "I'm not strong." But his words kept echoing. She could not ignore them, knew they were right. Strength was what she needed and she felt a resoluteness, a little excitement and nervousness and fear.

"I'm not going," she stammered, and then breathed deep and exhaled and smiled, and looked at him, he too was smiling, bright and big. His cute smile with strong straight teeth, and she grabbed tight to him and began laughing.

"I'm staying, I'm not going, I don't even care. I don't even want to go."


He woke up and looked over at her sleeping still, a little drop of spit at the side of her barely open mouth. He kissed her forehead. He got up and dressed, brushed his teeth in the bathroom, looking into his eyes in the mirror. Maybe I'm was trying to see what is going on inside from the outside, he thought. Maybe I could make the right decisions and do the right things if I could see it objectively. I'm no Tzadik, I could do whatever I want here, maybe it would still be good. It couldn't really be that bad. In living I will inevitably do bad things and good things, so when I have the choice what should I pick, since I can't know whether it was good or bad until later anyway. These eyes offer no help. He rinsed the brush and carried it into her room. He leaned over her, kissed her cheek and she stirred. She put her arms around him,
"Are you leaving?"

"Yea, work, I'm almost late already."

"Ok, I love you, have fun," she spoke sleepily.

"I love you too." He looked down and saw her eyes had half opened, he kissed the lids of each one and stood up.

"Goodbye, my love," he spoke and exited the room.


She sat tapping her foot against her chair, butterflys shot around, banging wings together inside her belly. Where the fuck is he? Is he just playing a game? What does it mean, he's never missed a day. Always something, a sentence, a word even. But for two days, nothing. Tomorrow, is the day she's supposed to fly. She had unpacked a few things yesterday, but today she didn't unpack anything; She was too afraid, she was terrified. She tried his phone again, but it wasn't working, hadn't been yesterday either, maybe he turned it off to avoid her calls. She sent him another message online, but he hadn't logged in in a few days. She watched herself pulling her hair out in frustration. She sat tapping her foot against her chair.

She thought suddenly of what he'd said about the gypsy. Grendel. He was probably with her, that ex of his. That's probably where he was, with her, fucking her right now. She watched herself screaming and scratching at her face.

She sat tapping her foot against her chair.

She felt tears welling in her eyes and closed them tight and breathed slowly trying to stifle it. She was afraid she was going crazy. It was so quiet in this room, no music, no sounds, just ringing. The deafening ring of silence resonated through her ears.

A shaking startled her, a vibration on her desk. She opened her eyes and blinked to try and focus, blink the water away. A call. From an unknown number.

She spoke shakily.

"Hello?"

-Hi.

"Where did you go?"

-I'm sorry, I had to do this.

"Do what, what did you do?"

-I'm not in LA anymore.

"What?" She broke down into sobs.

-I'm sorry, but I'm not going to let you stay here for me. I'll be here when you get back. You need to go do this, this is
what's going to be best for you.

She cried into the phone, tears falling into her lap.

"You just left? Where are you?"

-San Clemente.

"Why are you back there?"

-I'm going to get a ride back to Arizona from here.

"You're just going to leave me here," she wailed.

-You're going to London. Remember?

"I want to stay with you."

-I can't let you do that.

"It's my life, I can do what I want."

-I know...just like I can. Even if you stay in LA, I won't come back.

"You asshole, I thought you loved me." Her tears had stopped.

-I do, I really really do. I love you so much, I want you so bad. But, you can't have anything unless you let go of it.

"You're letting me go?"

-I am, in hopes that you never regret not going to London. In hopes that you'll come back to me when you come back
to LA.

"I love you."

-As I you.

He hung up.

She set the phone down on the counter and began crying again.
She got on the plane the next day.
She spent six months in London.

She was walking on a cold day, there was a little snow falling and she was bundled up with scarves and a hat. She saw him walk by in the opposite direction, there were a lot of people on the street that day, it was close to Christmas and people all had their red bags with gifts inside. He was wearing a wool looking coat, like an old Soviet soldier or something. He was blowing into his uncovered hands, in between two fingers there was a lit cigarette. She couldn't tell whether it was his breath or smoke that came out. She followed him with her eyes for a while, and turned into a small cafe. She went to the bathroom and locked the door. She looked at herself through the scarves, the hat, the layers and suppressed her tears. She breathed deep and slowly, trying not to cry. She looked into her own eyes, looking for an answer held within them. She breathed deep and slow. There was nothing in those eyes to tell her anything. These were the same blank eyes as always. Her eyes had never given her any answers, still she looked into them. The soul holds no answers, the soul might even be the problem, the question, the core of every question; It can't help anything, she thought.

She left the cafe and just kept walking.

In a Bar in Vienna After Defeat

They sat together in the dim light of the back room, at the table behind Andrei sat a a couple figures playing akis at the table. An empty Saperavi bottle fell to the concrete floor with a sharp, hollow clink and rolled, no one picked it up. Roman watched them call for another bottle and when it was brought signalled the barman over to him and asked for two more glasses of vodka, one with ice, one without. Andrei looked up to him bleary eyed,

"What now? We sit here in this shithole, just waiting, we wait to go home. Saint Petersburg was still cold when I left, Marinochka tells me now it's warm and the flowers are blooming. I want to go back there and remember and forget everything here." He spoke slowly and deliberately with what seemed something kin to anger to Roman.

"Life goes on, it goes straight on like a rod, and we walk it like a tightrope. Before I came to Moscow, I was in hell, there were no summers it seemed, the sky was always dark. It was not the sky though, it was me. It was sunny and warm and the grass was growing all over. I stood at the banks of the Volga and shouted. Now you see me smile out there, all the time."

"We're not in Moscow or Volgograd or Saint Petersburg, Roman, we're in Vienna...I hate Vienna, I will always hate Vienna."

"There's no point. Go home to Mari and enjoy the flowers in Saint Petersburg. I will go back to Moscow and be with my daughter, my wife, we will not forget this, but we don't have to be here."

"I'd rather leave my corpse to stink here, so that they'd have to smell it when they walked down the streets."

"Why here? Why not Barcelona?"

"Fuck Barcelona."

"Sure." The glasses came and Andrei took his sloppily from the barman's hand, spilling a little as he brought it to his lips. Roman, gave a look of reassurance to the barman and tipped him a few extra euros. He looked back past Andrei as he sipped the vodka at the game. Yuri seemed to be winning, and he thought that was good, he'd been drinking his money away since they left Russia, the nerves he thought, and he worried for him. He smiled though, to see him in as good of spirits as could be felt right now.

"What are you smiling at, huh?" Said Andrei in almost a growl.

"Why shouldn't I be? We have done well, better than anyone even expected. Is that not something to be happy and proud of?"

"Fuck that, it's over now...we're finished. We may as well kill ourselves." And as Roman heard those words, he felt rage.

"Barman," he shouted, staring towards the bar in back, angrily. The barman came up and he whispered into his ear.

"No, no, sir...I can't do that. I can't do that."

"Do this now," he said staring at Andrei and handing the barman a hundred euro note. The barman took it reluctantly and walked back to the bar, he brought back two more glasses, both without ice this time, and an old pistol. He set down the glasses, and put the pistol on the table in between them, then left to the bar. Roman finished his first drink, and then the new one, never taking his eyes of Andrei. The barman returned and set a bullet on the table.

"Put it in," Roman said, leaning forward, his arms on the table on either side of the pistol. The barman picked up the gun and began inserting the bullet.

"Let's do it then, let's kill ourselves right now."

"What the fuck, Roman, have you lost it?"

"You wanted to kill yourself, you wanted us to kill ourselves, here it is." The akis game had stopped, everyone in the back room was looking over at them. Sergei came up to them as the pistol was being placed between them,

"This is crazy, Roman, what are you doing?"

"Stay out of this, Sergei, this is between us."

"You're not acting like yourself, my boy, don't do this."

"You may be our captain out there, but here we are our own...and we must do what we must, right, Andrei?" Andrei picked up his drink and rolled his eyes, begining to stand. Roman grabbed him by his wrist and yanked him back down to the table.

"Finish your drink." It was silent in the bar, there was elecricity and fear flowing through it. It was almost all their own in there. A light murmur could be heard from the street, cheers and songs. Andrei lifted the glass to his mouth with anger in his eyes. Staring straight at Roman, he finished the vodka and set down the glass. He pushed it off the table, it shattered on the floor. They both sat back, the barman holding up the gun, spinning the barrel and setting it on the table, asked if they were ready. They replied yes, staring into eachother.
He spun the gun.
It rotated quickly, rocking a little, then slowing, it's deadly end passed each man again and again. It slowed and settled, the barrel pointing firmly at Andrei. He glanced down at it, while Roman's eyes never moved. He looked back up, and Roman could see the fear in them. They sat in silence, staring again at eachother. The gun between them, as hot as a fire. Andrei was sweating.

"I won't do it."
Roman picked up the gun and held it to his own head.
He pulled the trigger, it's click resonating in the silence.
He pointed it at Andrei, pulling the trigger, it's click hidden under the gasps and shouts of the room.
He pointed it back to his head and pulled the trigger.
The room came alive, all the silence was gone, it was roaring inside, as the gun was grabbed from Roman's limp hand resting on the table now. Sergei held the gun in his hands awkwardly. People were shouting in many languages. The barkeep stood still and set a bullet on the table, taking the gun from Sergei and walking back to the bar, shaking his head.
Roman sat in his chair laughing.
Andrei sat in his chair motionless, seemingly paralyzed. Roman smiling at him while he laughed. He composed himself some, picking up the bullet, holding it up with his thumb and forefinger.

"Now, Andrei...now all of us, can we celebrate our successes, not our failures. We have far outdone expectation. Tonight is a night to celebrate!" he shouted.
A brief silence followed, then was interrupted by music from behind the bar. The bar erupted in shouts again, except for Andrei and Roman. Roman stood and walked to Andrei, taking him in his arms.

"I'm sorry, my friend, you were talking crazy. Go call Marinochka, we will walk the streets when you get back. We will be praised and heckled and love it all. Tell her you love her and will see her soon. She'll tell you she's proud of you." Roman put the bullet into Andrei's hand and closed it around it. Andrei got up shakily and went to the phone where Marinochka told him what Roman had said she would.

Lost Boys

When they come into town, you lock the door. Everyone closes the shutters and hides away, all the young ones want to go out. But we don't want our children stolen...they steal them. They're the pied piper, it's happened, they never come back. They get sick, the children, then get led off by these boys. They hide them away or kill them, probably, or worse...make them like them. Can't let them have them, we love them best, why would they leave the ones who love them? We love them, we do, we really do; we have to lock them up, keep them blindfolded, it's for their own good. We don't want the Lost Boys to get them, do God knows what to them, it's too horrible to think of.
We've seen a lot like these, a lot come and go...but they always came to be like us, be like our children. These ones, the real ones, those lost children from afar, came here to make us like them. They're viral. Old Bill saw them coming, he couldn't move, like a skinwalker scream, the light like the blue eyes in the night, they shine out...freeze you, blue, freeze you blue. Old Bill just had to watch them come and couldn't tell us until the morning. And this will be different, we aren't afraid now, we'll get them...we'll get them back for the ones they stole.
The wagon mesmerizes all who hear the sound, see the light. It drags their eyes along behind it, they stand and watch it pass. They feel the vibrations in the ground.and can't move and we can't move as it comes into town, even our eyes, though we strain and try so hard to look for our doors, to put blood above the frame, to save them. We can't, until it stops, and they get out, and everyone who heard it, saw it, goes. Like the click of a gun all the locks latch shut, and we sit against the doors and listen to them talk.
The blonde one came before and took this house, he lived with the gold-bricker, one of ours, and then took him out. The blonde one, Goodhouse is his name, stole the Spanish Rose first. And he was always talking with the sage up the road, and we drove by and saw them and the screen quit working then and we can't fix it, the dealership's too far away.
And before the rest came he got the boy, they call him Lightning, like the stallion, for his hind legged run, and the little girl, they call her Duckling; and they called the rose, Thistle. They give eachother names, names like that, like Duckling. We don't know what they do, how they trick
everyone, but it's sinister, it's an infection. Took a local boy then, and his name sounds like the waves, like the sea on the shore. They came in slow it seems, after the air cooled a little, the little one came, he leaves the cigarette butts on the pavement and says he wants to be a dead cat, and I see there's so much wrong with him. Then the girl, the one who was with them, Roozel, and she laughs into the night and talks loud and we can't sleep. She's the siren that draws us from bed to watch from our windows...which we shouldn't do. And the girl who looks like a boy came next, and it was a chorus all night. The siren's song with harmony. And the big one, Von, the warped sounds come out from the garage and we can't sleep again, and he talks with Goodhouse and the little one about things that spin our heads, even spin the heads of the other lost ones.
I know their names because I listen all the time and can't stand it, and can't stand it, they talk and talk and talk about everything, and nothing at all. They scream and the beating of the drum drives me to war and I call the blues and it doesn't matter. Everywhere they go in town, the blues follow, they just breed havoc and trouble, in thought and action. But we'll get them this time, this time they're ours, in the early hours, we'll get them. They bring in so many all the time, their co-conspirators, and threaten us loudly in the sun and drop bottles in our yards. And I see them dance through the windows. We watch them watching us watching them dance, and yell at them and they don't listen...it just keeps going. We don't know where they came from, but they won't leave us alone, there's not a moments peace. Theirs is not a moment of peace, it's all war like the drums that bang all night, but we'll get them. They've got us no more. They wander around the city in the rain, I've seen them, and they get tired when it's wet, but never get cold, but it's ok...we stay warm inside while they walk by and sing and shout, it doesn't matter...I know them now.

I hear them say they're in love, all of them, with eachother. I can't think of what they do in there, what they'll do with all of us. All of our children, they're not safe anymore, they're not safe now. I turn on the screen to drown it out but it doesn't help, it's there in my head, gnawing like a rat at the cables and I turn it off and take a pill and lay in bed, but I hear them still. But it's the children, it's our little babies, the ones like us I worry about, I don't want them to go and dissapear. I don't want them to get sick and run off...with them.

So I called everyone and they felt the same, and they were dancing in their frenzy again with rags on their heads and speaking in tongues, and I felt that it was the time, while they weren't looking. But it was too soon, everyone was too scared, so we all hid, one and all, we're the same. We just waited again. And as I peeked out of the window they had swords and were talking about war over a board, and I knew they were coming for me, for us. But I could do nothing, it's what it must be already, and they're ruining it. I did nothing, I couldn't do anything at all.
But I was lying, I did something...I have commited all their faces to memory, and I drew them for you to see, to avoid them forever. They wear rags and stripes and are foreign, they're not like me, but want what's mine and want to ruin it. So I learned their hearts through their mouths and eyes, their faces. I drew their faces on the wall, the worst ones, the bad seeds that ruin our crops. I drew them so you know...so you know what to do when they come around. To lock up your children when you see their grins, when you see their eyes. Keep the door locked, keep the shades drawn, keep the screen on, and you'll be fine. They can't get you in here. Nothing can get you in here...but I still hear them, every night. If I get turned to one of them, keep this and use it to get them...get them. They aren't natural. They need to be stopped. If we don't stop them, they'll ruin all we worked so hard to build. Everything will collapse.