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.

Calling Card

Keichu, the great Zen teacher of the Meiji era, was the head of Tofuku, a cathedral in Kyoto. One day the governor of Kyoto called upon him for the first time.
His attendant presented the card of the governor, which read: Kitagaki, Governor of Kyoto.
"I have no business with such a fellow," said Keichu to his attendant. "Tell him to get out of here."
The attendant carried the card back with apologies. "That was my error," said the governor, and with a pencil he scratched out the words Governor of Kyoto. "Ask your teacher again."
"Oh, is that Kitagaki?" exclaimed the teacher when he saw the card. "I want to see that fellow."



- Zen Koan

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