January Sketch

Cleaning Out the Human Tank

Let’s consider fish. If we want to clean their tanks or move them, we have to take out all their decorations first, then catch them and put them in a small separate tank, drain the water and do what needs to be done before they return to their home.

Let’s consider humans as fish. Let’s say you’re there reading this passage when you look up and through the doors and windows enormous hands were reaching in and pulling furniture out of the room. Assuming there are people around you, they would be running around, screaming, hiding, trying to fight back. You don’t know what these hands want, they’re frightening. Then maybe they pull the entire top of the building off revealing the ugly faces of a creature a thousand times bigger than you and that looks nothing like you. This creature reaches its enormous hands, that look nothing like your hands, inside the building and grabs you and your friends, neighbors, and people you don’t really know but happen to like their color choice in clothing. The monster pulls you up and out of the building, or through the windows or doors. Then the monster drops you into a tiny glass room, miles away. You’re trapped in this tiny room with at least a handful of scared, angry, and confused people. People are snapping at each other, chasing each other, yelling, and trying to hide in the empty corners. Everyone is miserable. And you feel like you’re stuck there for hours. Then, finally, the monster returns and drops you all back into the same room you were in before, the decorations – the desks, lamps, chairs, etc. are all in different places. The paint is a different color. You’re standing in the opposite corner of the room as you were originally; you’ve completely forgotten what you had been doing. And then you go about your daily life, still a bit startled until you decide the monster is gone and things are normal….until it happens again a week later.

The Little Dentist's Favorite Patient

Little Kimi Cho had always wanted to be a dentist. She knew it was strange, everyone around her wanted to be veterinarians, soccer players, astronauts, and firemen. Yet, she found teeth intriguing. She liked to study them, learn about them, and learn how to take care of them. She liked all teeth – incisors, molars, wisdoms. She dug around in her parent’s mouth whenever she could. She examined the teeth of her cat Ranna and her dog Benevere. She even fished around in her little brother’s mouth until he bit her. However, she didn’t ever expect to be cleaning a monster’s teeth. The monster’s name was Glugovich Ganterion and he had rather bad teeth. He came to Kimi Cho needing a dentist that was youthful and ready for challenges, but someone who wouldn’t judge him for being a monster or for having yellow fangs. She accepted. He was, after all, a perfect specimen to practice on. She had to build a levy system to reach his mouth. He would pull on the rope and her little bench, with a neat little attached table, would rise up to Glugovich Ganterion’s great face. She had to make extra large tools for him too – the brush head was as big as her own! She had to use a big broom for the brush, a javelin for the pick, and an old garden hose for the water. She ended up using a vacuum for the suction, but she still didn’t think it was big enough. Together little Kimi Cho and Glugovich Ganterion made their way closer to limited halitosis and shiny white teeth.

A Little Perfect in All This Imperfection

Tomorrow’s rendition of today’s Petri dish is an incredible chemical imbalance. Whether it’s because today we simply can’t do anything right and tomorrow will be better or because today we’re doing things much better than the people of yesterday. It could be that all of our tests are technically chemically imperfect as is. Or it could be that, as people, our thoughts, these thoughts, are actually the chemical imbalance taking place – today, tomorrow, and yesterday. It’s the fact that this thought is so widely renowned that makes the imperfect considerations a perfect example of us and our thoughts as a whole.

Poecilia reticulate Adventure

“There I was just minding my own business, swimming around with my parents, my aunts and uncles, my brothers, sisters, and cousins. We were a happy grouping, enjoying the day. The water was a little mucky, but definitely not enough to make us not want to swim in it. Something changed though, the world grew shadowed and what lighting we had shifted. The water level began to decrease, slowly the distance between surface and the sand below got closer. Everyone grew frantic! Then I could feel it. There was a huge current coming from somewhere, chasing us. There was a tube in the water! It was sucking up all the water! My parents and a few cousins and I, after being chased everywhere found a safe corner to hide in just behind this big green box. We thought we were safe there. But we weren’t, the big tube emerged from the murky depths straight toward us! We all scattered, but it was too late for me. I was too slow. There were too many others in my way. I couldn’t escape. And I was so young; I couldn’t swim hard enough to get out of the strong current. It sucked me right up,” he paused for dramatic effect.

“The trip was fast; my heart was going a mile a minute! I was sucked through the tube at top speed. I went up and out of the water and down, down, down a huge cliff then I swerved and looped around the ground and the bottom of the cliff. I barely had time to think when I was spat out the other end of the tube into another small, shallow body of water. It was perfectly clear. The sand was different though, darker and rockier with a lot of big leaves. Above me were theses enormous plants, trees I believe, where the leaves came from. And I could see sky! Yes, real sky! We’ve only ever heard about it. And the sun that you see here? It’s nothing compared to the real sun that’s so far away and looks so small but makes everything light and beautiful. I swam around in this outside world for a while, only a little scared that I was alone and didn’t know what had happened. After a little while the tube stopped spitting out water and everything was very calm and quiet. Suddenly this huge face appeared over me. And I was being scooped up, lying wet and naked on the leaves, I rose into the air. And moments later I was plopped back down inside my home with my family. It was an adventure I’ll never forget,” he finished.

Mars One, 2025 - Journal Entry

It’s been nearly two years since we landed. The engines gave out as we approached, but the pilot, David Carlyle, was able to even us out and come in fairly soft.

We had already spent the last ten years getting to know each other in close confinement. There were just four of us. David used to be a physician, Jennie who came from an Indian university after just graduating with a master in computer science, and Raphael who was an incredibly charming psychologist.

During the first year after the landing we set up camp, it took us forever. I can’t figure out why they didn’t send a construction worker up the first time. Since then we’ve been maintaining the space stay, and building some new hallways. I’ve started the garden in the kitchen with the help of Raphael; Jennie and David have started pumping for water in three spots a few miles in each direction while also collecting soil specimens and doing some shallow drilling for research.

After we arrived we played all kinds of Earth games out in the limited gravity, my favorite was when Jennie and I build a propellant and attached it to our brooms – Quidditch in Space! Sounds like a bad sci-fi spin off. Meanwhile, we’ve just been hanging out. We get to read, go on the internet (although every click takes nearly 45 minutes! You can’t be too quick with the fingers because the back button has become an enemy), and watch television (although we get everything three minutes later and have to request the shows we want to watch). My preference is just watching an old TV series from the first episode – no requesting needed. We have to update our journals and talk to people from Earth in these little cameras that are all over the house, which is bizarre and makes me feel like I’m always being watched – which I guess technically I am. A few months ago I requested some security camera footage from people on Earth – just in stores or parking lots – so that I can watch them back. I must say, between you and me, sometimes I am skeptical that I’m even here. What if this was just an elaborate prank for a reality show? But then I walk outside in my space suit, the air isn’t breathable and I can’t keep myself on the ground. How could they possibly establish something that momentous? This can’t be The Truman Show. Could it be Ender’s Game?

Either way, we’re expecting our first batch of new arrivals to our new city in a month. One of them used to do visual effects for movies and apparently James Cameron wants to send him a few shots here so he can say a part of his movie was created on Mars.

Long Lost Roommate

He had left four months ago, no calls, no texts, not even a letter. He’d left a half-eaten sandwich and still steaming cup of tea. His television was still lit, his clothes still in the washing machine, his phone still connected to a charger. Even his car was left behind, parked on the driveway, the hood cold to the touch. He was just gone. I thought I’d heard the back door close, but it could have been the wind. We boxed his belongings and re-rented his room, so certain that he would never come back. And yet there he was, traipsing back up the drive, a changed man. His eyes were vacant and wild. He was bearded and dirty. And yet, after numerous double-takes I was certain, that he was wearing a fine Armani suit. 

Numbers and Words

Math is easy to escape. If you hate math, then you simply don’t allow it into your life. You find a career that doesn’t involve much of it, take the bare necessity in college and high school, marry someone that knows how to calculate a restaurant tip and do taxes and bills. Refuse to do math. Refuse it and eventually it will refuse you too. You and math will go separate ways. It will find other people to solve for x. Math doesn’t need you. And hell, you don’t need it either. Screw math.

But words… words are impossible to escape. If you find yourself loathing words, you’re the one that’s screwed. You might spend high school and college writing essays, doing the three written questions on tests, writing speeches, stories, reports, and oratories. No matter your chosen profession, you’ll write. Even at art school, you’ll write. You have to write what your art is about. Scientist? You have to write titles for science projects. Accountant? Think you’ve escaped words and found comfort in your numbers? Nope, you still have to write your name down. No matter how hard you try, words are always there. You talk in words, you think in words. It doesn’t matter what language you speak, what dialect you use, or even if you hate words so much that you spell them all wrong and talk like Lil’ Wayne. They’re still words. And if you hate words and try to escape them, they will haunt you.

Come Out and Play

Friday and Saturday nights are always the craziest. You tell yourself you’re going to slow down, but you can’t. There’s a bittersweet victory to it. An apprehensive exaltation. Every night is crazy. Every night you’re on drugs and drinking cheap beer and cheap wine. Because, really, cheap wine is the best. Three bucks for a jug of Sutter Home? I’m in. But Friday and Saturday night can’t be beat. Those are the nights with shows and house parties. None of this “I’ll go hang out at my dealer’s house for a few hours and get stoned” shit. Friday and Saturday is when everyone comes out to play.

You’ve got a Lower Class Brats show to get to on Friday, they come on at 11. So you’re thinking what the hell do I do before that? So you meet up at the Rocket House and get your fix from Transit, the four foot bong, and watch your pal do a line before you head out to 7-11 for a case of Bud. Because Bud is cheap and there’s a lot of thirsty fucks in your group. Then maybe you can hit up your dealer’s pad anyway and see what he’s doing. Of course he’s in the back room fucking his girl but there are a grip of kids in the living room with a bag of shrooms. You figure why not? The show is crazy, tons of punk ass teenagers and old guys with Mohawks. You hang back a while but you can’t pass up a Circle Jerk. There’s a skinny little kid jerking in the middle who gets kicked in the face by a flying Doc Martin and hits down hard. But this eyeliner chick helps him up so it’s all good. Then the skinheads jump in and it’s time to jump out. You get some shwag and take a piss where you’re convinced there’s some guy giving himself an enema next door to get the coke out. After the show you hit up Denny’s for a Hammy sandwich then go rummaging through town late at night. People think you’re a fuckhead and probably wreaking havoc but really you’re just walking down the street laughing at the idiots who cross to the other side just to stay away from you, but you feel sort of bad about it too and you and your buds get in a deep philosophical conversation about societies view on culture and scare tactics. Then you’re all depressed so you shortcut through the park and smoke another fat one. Once you’re back to numb and passed the park you see this cop car coming straight for you lights blaring. You freak out, but try to look calm, you know it’s nothing. But everyone else freaks out anyway, especially little Nina, Jack’s girl ‘cause this is her first time out with your pack so everyone starts running. Now you’re suspicious, so you take the fuck off too and climb a tree, because really, why not? And the cop just goes by, probably didn’t even see you. Everyone gets back together laughing over it and calling the cop names. You lost Jack and Nina, but figure they’re pry in the alley making out by now and leave them. You figure most bars are closing now and hit up 7-11 again for more Bud, or maybe you’ll switch it up to Miller cause you’ve got an extra couple bucks in your pocket. Sammy gets some Jack too and you know he’ll share it. You guys all go back to the Rocket House for drinks and pot and maybe more lines before you all pass out.

And that’s just Friday night.

Appearances are Everything

“Hello Papa, you wanted to see me?”

           “Yes Butternut, sit down,” he beckoned to a white metal garden chair before setting his tea on the matching table and closing his book.

            She fluffed her dress and sat down.

            “Can you tell me what today is?” he inquired looking over his reading spectacles at her with bright blue eyes.

            She pondered a moment, “yes papa, it’s the twelfth of March in the year 1946.”

            He laughed heartily, his grey moustache bounced on his lip, “yes, darling, you speak the truth, but what is today?”

            “Sunday papa, we went to church this morning. Otherwise I would be at school of course!” she laughed gaily.

            He gave her a sideways look of pure amusement and love before looking out among the garden. The Lisianthus and Agapanthus were in full bloom; the hedges around them were bright green and neatly trimmed. There were small blue Diana Fritillaries dancing between petals.

            “Today is your mama’s birthday.”

            “Miss Carol’s birthday isn’t until August, papa, I know because we always visit right before school starts.”

            “Not Miss Carol, Nancy, your real mother,” he snapped, “It’s her birthday and I think we need to visit her.”

            “Oh Papa, please, I don’t - ”

            “Don’t you argue with me, go pick some of those damn flowers out there,” he said angrily, grabbed her arm and tossed her off the seat. He picked up a silver bell from the table and rang it hard.

            Nancy ran off, shaken, to pick the Narcissus.

            “Yes, Mister Williams,” said the black bearded man that had just entered through the white picket gate.

            “Thomas, bring the car around, the Bentley please,” he said restraining his anger, “I want to look damn good when we pull up to the Institution.”

Filler

What if someone remembered everything you didn’t and nothing more? Let’s say you’re walking down the street on your way to your car, parked not too far away. You’re leaving the store and heading home. Nothing important is really going on, nothing happened in the store and you’re thinking about what you want or need to do once you’re home. You see a couple kids playing with some toys while their mother stands aside talking on the phone. They’re cute kids. The moment is fleeting; it means nothing to you or your day and will provide nothing good or bad in your life. It’s filler. What if the filler, though, was the only part of your day you ever remembered? A week later you remember those kids, that little old man hobbling around, that woman carrying too many shopping bags, the guy yelling into the cell phone, the group of teenagers smoking outside the mall, the dogs sticking their heads out a car on the freeway, but nothing else. You don’t remember the important moments, holidays, weekends, movies with your significant other, dinner with your family, playing with your own animals. Your family might surround you and take care of you and you remember them vaguely, but that’s nothing compared that little boy’s cute pumpkin shirt you saw at the bookstore. That memory is crisp and clear and perfect.           

Average Joe

He was wearing a money suit – grey-black pants and a blood red shirt, both of which were stained with what looked like candle wax or hot glue. He was the person you’d imagine when reading about the classic business man. “Average Joe”. An exact replica. He had bloodshot eyes and gray stubble. A receding hairline followed his brown combed-over hair. He had a cell phone on his hip and no time to spare during checkout at the local drugstore. He would go home to a wife, kids, and a happy dog and continue his miserable life at dinner, in the shower, in bed, at work the next day…until his wife did the laundry and saw the stain on his pants. And “Average Joe” would end his miserable life and become another number in the obituary column. Co-workers would move up the ladder of success in bittersweet rivalry at their dead supervisor. And then life would move on. At the local drugstore the cashier would hear nothing of this reverie, the description of “Average Joe” just another ever-fading memory.

Escaping the Flames

She’d chosen to be in Photography in her junior year because she heard that fun things always happened in the dark room when the lights went out. The rumors were never wrong as long as she managed to sneak in her boyfriend. Otherwise she would be stuck in the darkroom trying to unwind the negatives while the other kids made out next to her. There was always a lot of bumping around and there was enough laughter to break through the darkness.

It was for one of her black and white assignments that she chose to capture the organic beauty she could find at a little place called Bates Nut Farm. It was up in the mountains, away from the rush of the city and suburbs. Her grandmother had always taken her there when she was little and she still loved to return. There was a large, gentle tree and an outcrop of boulders at the top of a hill that overlooked the pumpkin patch and Christmas tree acres. Far off you could see other farms and horses crazing. Once her grandmother took her to the fence and found a beige and white spotted horse that she nicknamed Pepper and fed apple and carrot pieces. The farm had a small gift store with toys, dolls, and books; a general store with big barrels of candy and nuts and delicious dates and honey for sale; a small boxy grill in between the stores for fresh made burgers with pastel picnic tables full of sticky crumbs that always attracted bees. There was an outdoor stage and a large grassy area slung with maple trees where gophers would bury around more picnic tables. And there was a large L-shaped set of chain link homes set up for geese, chicken, a pig, a couple emu, sheep, goats, and a miniature horse. On special holiday occasions, only a few times a year, the farm would bustle with tents and the mountain folk would come from the woodwork to sell their handmade dream catchers, puppets, pottery, and paintings. There was always a booth where children could paint little resin statues. And there was always food: cotton candy, kettle corn, corn dogs, shaved ice in flavors of lemons and cherries, hot dogs, beef jerky. Oh the smells that rose through the air! And teenagers could run free through the corn stalks while a tractor-pulled hay ride rumbled through the dirt paths.

It was one of her favorite places.

This time she came with her mother.

They had only just arrived. It was a Saturday, late morning. They had parked the SUV off in the dirt field with all the other trucks and cars. They had unanimously decided to walk around and enjoy the farm before she pulled out her camera. They always started with the duck and goose enclosure. It was the closest enclosure to the parking area. From the car they jaunted across the main dirt road and past a few tables and trash cans, which were already sticky, yet oddly, no bees were hovering. They watched the geese for a while, honking obnoxiously.

Once when she was little - the same height as the beady eyed goose – and had purchased a bag of corn to feed them, one of those same geese had snatched her finger instead. 

She moved on to the chickens, big heavy ones, ones with bright large feather crowns and anklets, and the rude little banti roosters all crowded around cluck-cluck-clucking for corn.

Next she looked for the pig that slept deep in his sty.

The emus were on the far side of the enclosure, only viewable after a long walk around.

The sheep were next. They were big, fluffy things with crazy eyes that would gobble up your corn feed leaving your hand sopping with spit.

The goats were always busy playing King of the Mountain on a pile of wood and boulders. The tiny horse would be next, but something felt strange. There was a lot more baying and bleating than usual. The skies were overcast, but in a grey uncomfortable way that didn’t seem to be cloud cover.

They looked up the small mountain just behind the general store and noticed that somewhere, in the slopes and crags, a great black smoke was billowing to the sky.

“There must be a fire up there somewhere.”

The cloud of ash was enormous. Workers and chefs stepped from their shifts to look up at the smoke just behind them. Then fast, so fast, the flames erupted over the side of the mountain. The fire raged over the peak and down the hill, a hundred feet high, eating every tree in its wake. It was coming straight for them.

She snapped a photo. One of only two she would take that day.

People in the stores rushed to get their keys. The lines to the propane grills were cut. Car doors slammed. Her mother asked one of the panicked workers about the animals. What could they do?

“They’ll be fine; they’re in the middle of a grass field with fresh living trees surrounding them. They’ll be fine,” the worker had yelled against the engines starting.

There was no true assuredness.

There was no more time to wait, though. The fire was ravaging the mountain, in minutes it would be upon them.

They jumped into the SUV and pulled out, their hearts high in their throats. Her mother quickly changed radio stations finding the news: widespread panic. The fire was all over the mountain: miles long. People had been evacuated.

They pulled onto the main road; the beautiful trees arcing over the road would soon all be up in smoke.

The fruit stands on the corners of the roads had been shut down. People were pulling out onto the road, suitcases strapped to their car roofs. Through the trees, panicked faces were rushing to get children into car seats, dogs and cats in carriers, fish into Ziploc bags. They all pulled onto the crowded road, not knowing if they would ever see their beautiful homes again.

Once out of the tree lined roads, the two lane passage that would take you off the mountain was completely backed up. Huddled against the barricade hundreds of ashen people and animals and caged birds sat on their suitcases, praying the fire wouldn't reach them. Their soot-covered pleading faces and hands held signs asking for water. Some were making a mecca down the small highway on foot; old, young, people without cars or people whose husbands or wives had the family car at work. The chosen horses were trotting down the road on leads. Hundreds of birds flitted across the streets, eggs left behind in nests that had already perished.

They made it to the bottom of the mountain. Another lane was added to the highway, but the cars pulled to a standstill. The freeway had been closed. There was a detour that led back into the mountains, but there was no way home.

They pulled off into a convenience store parking lot. Her mother asked the clerk for cigarettes and a clear passage home, avoiding the freeway. The clerk didn’t know of any other freeway.

There was a moment of panic.

A great, roaring fire, miles long up in the mountains, hundreds of houses were being destroyed, and they were in the middle, stuck.

A leather-clad, blonde beast of a woman got in line behind them, overhearing the predicament. Her rumbling bike sat outside adorned with leather tassels and silver studs next to about ten others.

“There’s a way out,” she growled with a serious but friendly smile, “take Bear Mountain Pass.”

She told them of two or three turns that would lead them down onto a different freeway.

“But you’ll have to be fast, they’re likely to close that down too. Good luck to yeh.”

They wished her good luck back. She was picking up water to take back to the abandoned people on the freeway.

Bear Mountain Pass did see them down to another freeway. The roads were dead. The freeway must have been closed somewhere behind them already. They took the chance and jumped on to the empty road. For the next few miles the lush mountain side on the right was a stark contrast to what was on the left. Fire sprang up, twenty feet tall at the edge of the asphalt, daring the cars to get closer. The flames looked as though they were plotting their route across the six lanes. The black, barren lands of dead trees and collapsed houses behind them.

The radio spat warnings at them, panic in the announcer’s voice, that the freeways had been closed. And if the fire could jump the highway, then the firefighters would have no chance at containment.

The girl looked off over the miles of fire. Their road home was open. They were one of the lucky ones. People would die today. Houses, animals, trees, and Bates Nut Farm would all fall.

But something caught her eye. She pulled out her camera.

There, above the fire, in the wind thick with ash, on a pole rising from the Earth, the American Flag stood tall.

And she knew then, between her concern and her hope, that the people would rebuild. 

A Note on the Weather II

Today, the snow is billowing wildly as if someone has shaken our snow globe of a world and is refusing to let it settle. The flurries are rushing about upward, downward, and in great horizontal gusts down the road. There’s panic amongst the snow, but it’s the type of illusory panic and excitement that one might find as an ancient wooden rollercoaster knocks your head about.

Mr. Flaggerbottom

Mr. Flaggerbottom was a fine cat, a fine cat indeed. He listened to classical and drank nothing but Mead. He wore a long tuxedo and a top hat so high and had a small golden monocle adorned on his eye. Mr. Flaggerbottom perched himself in an oak tree twelve feet toward the sky; he sat pleasantly waving at all the passerby. Never did Flaggerbottom ever think that before his climb he should, perhaps, check his sink. His sink was adorned with marble and gold, an odd sort of thing in a house so old. His house was in shambles falling apart at the seams; you see Mr. Flaggerbottom’s favorite place was his tree. His poor little wife died just last year of purple muck found in her ear. He cried very hard and then his life changed; this fine little man became a little deranged. He taped his ties to the radio and tied his socks to the car; he’d bathed all his plants in feathers and tar. He plunged the holes where the gophers dug and painted bleach spots on his Persian rug. One day at the market he bought a fine gallon of blue ink and funny little Flaggerbottom poured it all down the sink. He turned on the faucet before going to change, his tux, hat and monocle he’d vigilantly arrange. Then he’d climb high up in his oak and would wave merrily at all the neighborhood folk.

“Hello children! Hello woman! Hello yellow dog!

"Hello tiny sparrow sitting on my log!”

“Hello Mr. Flaggerbottom!” They all would reply, waving their hands happily to the man up so high.

Feeling whimsical as pretty Miss Muller passed, he kicked off his shoes incredibly fast.

“My dear Miss Muller, would you be so kind? As to relinquish my shoes, I’m in quite a bind. I’d like to jump down and kiss your knees, but my feet are as cold as strawberry cheese.”

“Mr. Flaggerbottom, hello,” she said as she picked up a shoe, “my, oh my! Mr. Flaggerbottom, your whole patio is blue!”

“Why that’s a simple explanation Miss Muller, I simply thought I’d try a new color.”

Rejection

A horse lies on its side. It is not dead and no one is beating it. It seems ill, somehow, but you can’t tell just what is wrong with it. Professionals are called in. They tell the horse that it has a hurt leg and they leave. The horse doesn’t know which leg is hurt or what it can do about it, if anything.

So it just keeps lying there.

Zero - Pt. 2

He was sitting in his Government class listening to the teacher drone on about the Judicial Branch as he drew out plans on his notebook for some considerable stock investments in a cell phone company when he saw a greasy little forehead and a botched haircut peek in through the window.

“Zero!” he yelled and jumped from his chair.

The class laughed, the teacher dully told him, “no, Vito, what’s wrong? Take your seat.”

Zero bolted.

Vito burst from the door into the quiet outdoor hallway, “Zero, wait!”

She wound her way around a fence and took off full speed across the baseball field.

Vito groaned, looked back only a moment, and then took off after her.

She scrambled up the fence, chancing a glance back and nearly falling over the other side in surprise.

“Zero! Wait, it’s me Vito!” He flew up the fence.

They ran five long blocks, away from the houses and shops and city. She took a shortcut through a thick copse of trees, the thick branches snapping under her bare feet. She loped up a long, steep hill to the lone house at the top. Vito was losing steam, he couldn’t keep up, but it didn’t matter. He knew the house at the top of this hill and there was nowhere else to go. It was called Hatchet Manor and was said to be haunted, although he didn’t believe it. A family lived there, the oldest son was in some private school, but the younger twins had gone to Vito’s elementary school for a year. They had fine clothes, but their mother dyed their blonde hair black which Vito never really understood. The Manor was nearly five stories tall with a bell tower and a yard full of dying trees, old statues and a family graveyard. He stopped about ten feet from the Iron Gate, unsure if Zero had gone inside or continued running.

He stood catching his breath, when he spotted the pale figure he had been chasing. She climbed over the eaves on the roof of the house. She glanced down at him then flew across the roof with sure footing as though she had done this a thousand times before. She crawled in through a small circular window on the highest level.

Determined, Vito walked around to the back of the house where he found her path: an obvious trail through the garden and clean, polished wood running up the house next to a series of poles next to the patios and balconies.

Vito took a deep breath and jumped the fence.

The windows were all curtained; it seemed like no one was home.

He pulled himself up the five levels, wishing he had spent more time on his physical education. Getting over the hurdle of the roof’s eave was the hardest part. There were no hand or footholds, and it was a very long drop.

He flopped over like a walrus, nothing like the experienced, graceful deer that was Zero.

Finally he pulled himself to the top of the roof. He could see the entire city, the elementary school, the high school, the shops and theaters and hospital and people. He could see the whole town moving and beating as one, and there he was seeing what Zero had seen for years, an outsider filled with wonder. He wondered why she wasn’t a part of it, why she was only able to observe. He slipped around on the slats on his way to the window.

He peeked in.

It was the attic; dusty, old, and covered in grimy, long-forgotten children’s toys, boxes, easels, mannequins, old bedding, deflated soccer balls, moth eaten bags, a bent bicycle with one wheel, a ratty couch missing a cushion, broken shelves, wood planks, metal bedframes, and one Zero.

 She was sitting in the middle of the floor, near a stairwell, picking at wounds and scabs on her bare feet. Vito pushed open the window just a crack, about to get her attention when she jumped up to her feet.

A momentary beam of warm light and a door slammed shut.

“What the hell is going on up here you wretched girl!? If you’ve been out on that roof again I swear I’ll chain you back in that closet!”

Zero backed away shaking her head violently.

A skinny, wretched, angry looking woman climbed into the room. She had dyed black hair, horn rimmed glasses, necklaces and bracelets dripping over her silk shirt and expensive trousers. She carried a long loaf of bread.

“I asked you a question you little bitch, what were you doing?” She raised the bread and thumped her on the head. 

Zero shook her head.

“Don’t you lie to me you useless piece of shit. You were on the roof again, I heard you,” she grabbed the front of Zero’s shirt, the stiches and ties ripped; it looked handmade from the same shirt material she wore when she was little.

“You’re lying to me you filthy disgusting thing,” she threw her to the ground and kicked her once.

“You’re a good for nothing little brat. You always have been. Now get in your bed.”

Zero clambered to her feet.

“I said get in your bed! Hurry up,” she kicked her again as Zero climbed over the rickety wood of a filthy baby crib and curled up inside.

“That’s right you little bitch,” the woman turned to walk back down the stairs.

Zero jumped to her knees and made a noise, “Muh.”

The woman stopped and sneered, “What did you say?”

“Mum…” Zero said holding a tentative hand out.

“I am not your Mother. I have no daughter,” she ripped a quarter of the bread loaf off and tossed it onto the dusty floor, “there’s your three days’ worth, eat well. You get less if I hear you on that roof again.”

Then: creaky footsteps, a hopeless beam of warm light, a door slammed, a lock clicked, and the woman was gone.

Zero jumped from the crib and scrambled to the bread, eating hungrily.

Vito pushed the window open all the way and climbed in, his heart pounded, fiery anger and tears burned behind his eyes.

“Zero.”

She jumped to her feet, tripped and fell backward, she grabbed onto a moldy teddy bear, but didn’t know what to do with it. She shook her head violently, jumped to the couch and fell over behind it.

Scared the woman, her mother, would return Vito held out his hands and whispered, “Zero, please be quiet, it’s me Vito, remember? Your friend. We played on the swings and ate together after school?”

Zero’s greasy hair peeked over the couch.

All that mattered was being friends.

“Zero, it’s time to leave.”

This time she stood and she didn’t run.

Zero - Pt. 1

The first time Vito saw her he was sitting in his elementary school conjugating Spanish verbs with his SAT class. A little forehead and messy blonde hair peeked in through the window. He didn’t think much about it. Once his after-school SAT class let out he wanted to hurry home to his piano instructor, but the fall wind bit angrily and he stopped to pull on his gloves and scarf. That’s when he saw her for a second time. Not far from him, attempting to hide behind a table was the thin, peaky looking girl. Her hair was greasy, and despite the weather she wore only a dirty tank top, soiled shorts and no shoes on her frozen feet. She stared wide-eyed. Vito turned to walk toward her and she bolted, stumbled slightly, and took off at a sprint across the grounds and into the distance.

A few days later, during an advanced quantum SAT class, that Vito was sure was being taught by an undergraduate, he saw her again. She peeked through the window at the board, at the teacher, at the students, and her eyes grew wide when she spotted Vito staring back at her. She ducked out of sight. After his class let out, he walked to the tables where he had last seen her, but she wasn’t there. He strolled to the end of the building and spotted her small bare feet behind a trash can. She saw him coming and jumped up to run again.

“Wait, wait,” he threw up his arms, tossed his bag to the side, “don’t run, it's okay.”

She backed away.

“Please, wait, my name’s Vito, what’s yours?”

She shook her head violently and averted her gaze.

“Please, stop, I just want to say hi...Here, take this,” he pulled off his scarf and held it out.

Her eyes widened as she shook her head again; she made a strange noise and took off at a run to the end of the grounds where she disappeared into the bushes.

It took Vito many tries. He saw her a couple times a week, sometimes during his after-school SAT classes, but also sometimes during school hours at the edge of the playground watching the children play. He always waited for her. He always tried to speak with her. Most times she ran away from him.

It wasn’t until one day in early spring when the clouds threatened rain as Vito sat down at a table with two juice boxes placed upon it that he coaxed her to him. She sat awkwardly at the table, like a deer sitting with a hunter. They drank idly together.

“What’s your name?”

She sipped on her straw.

He sipped on his.

“Zero,” her voice cracked.

“Hi Zero, I’d like to be your friend.”

She leapt from the table; he was certain she was going to run away again, but instead she ran to the swings on the playground and beckoned him.

It was something she saw friends do on the playground: swing. So they swung. Because all that mattered at that time was being friends.

They met after school every now and then. Vito always brought food that she never turned down. She didn’t talk much and Vito didn’t ask many questions, instead they just sat and ate and played.

One day they sat on a set of stairs, watching some doves pecking through the lawn when Vito took off his shoes.

“Here, take these.”

She shook her head, “Mom don’t like it when I come home with shoes.”

Vito slid his shoes back on his warm, clean feet.

She took the cookies he offered and left at a light jog into the bushes beyond.

Vito graduated elementary school and went to his middle school; he learned violin and French, won the district spelling contest, was awarded $500 for winning a state science fair, and, once he got to high school, joined all the Interbaccalaureate classes and three university courses. For a while he returned to the elementary school wondering if he would see Zero again, but soon his visits stopped. His life moved on, but he didn’t forget his friend…

Ransom

Damion McCourt,

I have your daughter.

Bring $1 Million to 5^th and Lane tonight.

Wait at the bus stop for a phone call.

No cops. No marked bills.

This was all fine. The problem was that I didn’t have a daughter.

                       

“Mr. McCourt, we understand the circumstances you’ve been placed in. We’re running missing persons now. Our question is whether or not you are going to be a willing participant for us,” said Agent Golding.

“I don’t think I can help you,” I responded. I had a big house, luxurious clothing, a maid and a butler on my service – the fact that I had money was obvious. I continued to roll the thought around in my mind. It had to be fairly obvious that I didn’t have a daughter, or any child for that matter.

“Mr. McCourt, please consider your action. This girl’s life may be in your hands,” Agent Golding persisted.

“He may not have even kidnapped anyone. He could just be trying to get my money for free. You realize it’s hard to ransom someone if they have nothing to lose, right?”

“Yes, I understand that, Mr. McCourt. We would like to know for sure as well. Your money will never leave your hands. We’ll be with you the entire time. Is your wife home?”

“No, just James. My wife passed away two years ago. Car accident.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. And who is James?”

“My butler.”

“And may we speak with James?”

I reached over and rang a silver bell on a side table.

The slightly stooped yet prideful look of James Beaugartner walked through the sitting room doors as if he had been waiting for the bell.

“James, I’m Detective Golding, will you go with my friend here, we have a few questions for you…yes him, thank you. Mr. McCourt who else is on your staff list?”

“Just Maggie, my maid. She’s off today, but her living quarters are in the back. I’ll take you.”

Maggie wasn’t home. That didn’t surprise me. If I only had one day off a week I doubt I would spend it cooped up in the hen house. I still had the other seven rooms furnished for more maids or butlers, but after Nancy died my thoughts of a large family jumped out the window as did my necessity for a whole cleaning crew. Maggie did just fine. A little dusting, garbage on Wednesdays, and a meal every night – but only because she worries about my cholesterol not because I tell her to cook. She says she likes it. Gives her a reason to cook for herself as well. Doesn’t bother me at all.

“James lives in these quarters?”

“No James lives on Mayberry, he says he prefers to keep business and home separate. All the same to me, really.”

“Mr. McCou - ”

“Stop persisting. I’ll do the damn drop. Let me go change into some evening wear and get the money together.”

They marked all of my bills. It took an hour. I thought it strange, considering they had said the money would never leave my hands.

That night I waited at the bus stop on 5^th and Lane. The bench looked sticky and trash from the can was overflowing onto it. I refused to sit. I could see the darkened cars watching me with baited breath on three different streets, all waiting for their chance. It was 8:03 when a Jack in the Box cup in the trash can began ringing.

“Hello,” I said, disgusted, when I picked the disposable phone up out of the cup.

“Leave the money under the bench and go.”

“Where’s my daughter?” I asked, perhaps too unconcernedly.

“I have her.”

“Good. You realize I don’t have a daughter right?” I sensed Agent Golding grinding his teeth at me.

“Of course you do,” the phone jostled a moment, then

“Daddy?”

“Hi sweetheart, it’s not your Daddy. My name is Damion McCourt and I’m going to help you get home.”

“Daddy! Help me!”

“I will, sweetie, I will, but I’m not your father.”

“Daddy,” she screamed, she sounded like she was only four, the phone jostled again.

“Now, leave the money and go.”

“Bring me the girl.”

“Leave the mon - ” somewhere behind the phone call, two gunshots rang out and the girl screamed. She didn’t stop screaming.

“Hello? What’s going on?”

“Check him! Get his gun!”

“It’s okay little one, we’re here now, we’re here, everything is okay.”

“Hello? Hello?”

The phone jostled again, “who is this?”

“I should ask you the same question,” surely Agent Golding’s teeth were being sawed off at my sarcasm by this point.

“Agent Dunnifer. What business do you have speaking with Jack Gruntle?”

“I got a ransom note from him saying he had my daughter. I’m at a drop right now. Do you have the girl?”

“Yes, is this Mr. Lundy?”

“No, Damion McCourt.”

“The girl I have is Hank Lundy’s daughter. We can search the premises for your daughter.”

“No, I don’t have a daughter.”

The line when quiet for a moment.

“Sir, if you don’t have a daughter…”

“The guy said he took my daughter, but I don’t have one. I was doing the drop to help whoever he did have.”

“I see. Where are you at?”

“Del Mar, California. You?”

“Riverside.”

“That’s a couple hours away. There’s no way that asshole was going to give me the girl or come get this money. What the hell is going on?”

Agent Golding stole the phone away from me. I hadn’t even heard him coming. They spoke for a while. I massaged my briefcase handle imagining a really lucky pickpocket.

“The girl they recovered is Hannah Lundy, she’s the only female on scene,” said Agent Golding, “she was a kidnapping case from two years ago. The girl is insisting that you are her father.”

“I’ll take a blood test. I’m nobody’s family, that’s for damn sure.”

“Alright guys, I have an idea here,” Agent Golding spoke into his walkie talkie, “we’re going to continue with this drop, hold position.”

“What? Why?” I said, following him to the car, my briefcase left naked and alone at the dirty bus stop.

“Jack most likely had a partner. Someone who would actually pick up your money. Let’s see if we can find out who that was.”

Three hours, two cups of coffee, and a full spinal cramp later a cloaked figure came around the corner and passed the bus stop so quickly I hadn’t even noticed my briefcase disappear. The cops were on the figure in moments. I ran out after them. They lifted the hood from the black hair. It was Maggie.

“What are you doing?”

“You asshole. You should have just given me the money when I asked you for it.”

“Maggie? Why? What money? What’s going on? Who is the girl? Who is Jack?”

“Later, McCourt, take her in guys.”

The next morning I went to the station to watch the questioning – a favor by Golding. The little girl was there.

“Daddy!” she wrapped her arms around me.

“Sweetie, I’m not your father.” The angry looking man behind her was presumably Hank Lundy, and the biologic father. “Daddy, why is Mommy in there?”

“What? You mean Maggie?”

She nodded.

“Maggie isn’t…”

“I’m your Mommy sweetie, me, remember?” a woman came over.

I went to listen to Maggie’s questioning.

“I’ve had little Lauren for the last two years. Jack dropped her off on my porch in the back, he said to take care of her. I told her I was her mother and Damion was her father, but he was much too busy to bother with silly girls. That asshole didn’t even notice I had a child. He’s so fucking self-absorbed in his money and misery. And no, Jack never came back. He called me a couple weeks ago and I drove Lauren up there to him, to her Uncle Jack. And we decided to get some money out of it.”

Her plan was incredibly flawed. I rolled my eyes. Money and misery. Better than raising a stolen kid and going to jail for being completely delusional. I shook my head. I’m going to have to find out what my butler has been up to. 

Something

Nothingness is spreading across my room in search of a place to hide, embarrassed at its nakedness. Nothingness regains its courage and begins its course; Nothingness outstretches its long folded arms once again and reaches out from nook to cranny. It seeps across walls leaving patched holes in its place. It crawls across desks and bookcases and mattresses. Nothingness withering away on windowsills. Nothingness escorting out somethingness. Nothingness slithering across the carpets and tiles, mirrors and staircases. Nothing is pushing out everything. Nothing is making way. Nothing is created. Nothing is there.

Nothing

I don’t really believe in the concept of nothing. There’s really no such thing as nothing. If you cleared off a table of the plates and flower pots leaving a clean wood surface and asked me, what now? Is there nothing on this table? I would have to reply that there is still dust and skin particles and molecules of moisture and air and germs upon the surface. What if a man walked into the room wearing nothing, what would I say then? He would still be wearing something – primarily a grin, I’m sure. If you ask me if nothing is there, isn’t it nothing? I would have to reply that by saying nothing is nothing then it has just become something. People say they have nothing, but simply aren’t counting their blessings and paying attention to what they do have. A paraplegic says he can do nothing with his arms and legs, but this too is false, he may not do a lot, but his arms and legs are still lying down or hanging or touching other things. You can’t poke a needle into a numb arm and say “I feel nothing” without being more specific, because you do feel things, just not in that particular spot. Not only is it perspective, but the adjectives used to describe this “nothing” come into play as well. If you are being prodded with said needle you can say “I feel nothing in that particular spot” however you could not say “there is nothing in that particular spot”. Upon saying “I feel nothing in that particular spot” you are using many words to describe the definition of numbness, which is something. If we were to use the example of “say nothing” you are in the act of being quiet and silent and therefore in the act of something. Perhaps nothing is equivalent to nonexistence and therefore dinosaurs and dodo birds are nonexistent. I agree that they are nonexistent as living creatures in today’s time; however they are not nothing because they used to be something. The death of a creature that has reverted to Mother Nature’s soil and been dug up has not left nothing in its hole, there are still something’s, just no trace of the original creature. And still the memory of the creature may exist or photos or illustrations and therefore the creature is something because it was something. I don’t doubt that there are still chemical reactions in the soil proving the existence of some deterioration as well.

The concept of nothing cannot exist, because there is always something to take its place.

A Note on the Weather

The mist fell in great horizontal gusts. The cars had turned into clouds: speeding recklessly, barreling over curbs and trees leaving behind scrap bits of moistness in their wake. They rushed to beat the heavy periods of eventual static and wet diamonds that would fall to the earth, guaranteeing the morphing of these misty cloud cars into asphalt puddles.

The North Pole Starbucks

When I found out they had opened a Starbucks at the North Pole, I absolutely had to go and see for myself. Surely, this would cause some bizarre mecca-like movement for every lover of weird places to visit. Once I finally arrived in the cold tundra I was pleased to see that Starbucks didn’t disappoint – they had made the very tiny, little building into a “snow-mobile drive thru” that looked exactly like a snowy, frosted gingerbread house - incredibly tactful for Santa Clause and the Elves that were surely in the nearby vicinity.

There was one man running the inside, as they didn’t get many customers (wonder why?). He told me they didn’t have anywhere near a normal selection, as shipments were so difficult to receive up there. He had regular coffee, mochas and caramels, one type of milk, and no whip cream or little sprinkled toppings. They were served in pewter jugs for hot or glass tumblers for cold, unless you were on the run (say, in a hurry to get to that next snow bank) then you could get a bio-degradable cup.

As we were talking about how he had no food items, he stopped mid-sentence and waved his arm off toward the distant glacial hills. A tall, shadowing figure loomed nearby. Startled for only a moment, I realized it was just an old dark tree limb, left from the construction of the building. But the worker's face had a touch of worry. He continued to gesture into the distance.

“There’s a nice tornado spout out there, do you see it?”

It was a thin spout that stretched from clouds to ground. I didn’t realize the North Pole got tornadoes, but I supposed the wind could whip things around anywhere. We continued talking, but the wind picked up. Very soon that tornado was close to us.

“May I come inside?” I asked the man, already stepping in and laughing lightly as if it was preposterous for him to reject me. The wind grew powerful and loud; it kicked around snow and debris. He stepped aside and closed the door after me. There was barely room for a third person, I couldn't imagine him working an 8-hour shift in there. Standing inside didn’t make a large difference, the wind roared at the walls and we couldn’t hear each other. Snow crept in to safety through cracks in the molding and windows. A truck catapulted through the air as the wind reached its climax and the world settled.

We closed up shop after that, the man decided to show me where he lived with the other employees in a small town they created.

Not far off was the truly amazing site: a bio-dome. We rode his snow mobile through a set of glass doors into a parking area and walked into a phenomenal world bathed in synthetic warmth and sunshine with a 24-hour sun cycle very unlike the arctic north; there were plants growing happily, dirt trails, small houses, a refreshing lake, people riding bicycles and golf-carts. He introduced me to a group of friends – laid-back, adventuresome, unmotivated types – who obviously enjoyed their paradise in the middle of nowhere with no real responsibilities except running the small stores and that Starbucks. To them, there were smarter people who dealt with the science behind the bio-dome and even the shipping of goods to their little stores. All they had to do was order goods and a month later it arrived. They showed me around their phenomenal town via a well-worn dirt road. Tire swings on trees and playgrounds were rampant, but children were not. Most of the people seemed to be young adults, but their town was growing as more people grew interested in the lifestyle. It was happy there.

They welcomed me openly and during a ceremony that night they dressed in silky blue robes and gemstones and walked me through a beautiful part of the city as we all sang made-up songs about living happily at the North Pole thanks to Starbucks.

One Minute in the Neighborhood

There are 17 houses on my cul-de-sac. It’s a Friday morning, which means it’s quiet. Most everyone is at work I’d imagine…


:59 (House 1) Mandy is late for work due to traffic on Main Street. She was half-listening to a news report about aerial biplane parades in Virginia while texting her co-worker about the traffic. She was planning on peeling out down the next road she found.

:53 (House 2) Brandon is at home working on his car while his four children are at the elementary school: two of them are doodling, one is talking during the PE lesson and his little girl is on the monkey-bars. His wife, Janice, is on the couch watching a Spanish soap opera.

:48 (House 3) Mikaela works at the golf course, but is busy chatting up the cute bartender at the moment. The bartender, Richard, whose shift was nearly over, was deciding whether he wanted to meet his pal Bedford at the mall to “study” for their college English exam or rail Mikaela in the parking lot.

:45 (House 4) Mrs. Hunt is out gardening, picking lemons and oranges from her trees while her son Bedford is going 114 down the Interstate racing a stranger in a Peppermill Company Car next to him while he was on his way to the mall to spend the money he never earned.

:41 (House 5) John is a deputy sheriff, but he has the day off and is out at breakfast with his daughter Trisha, while his wife Melinda is in the bathroom of a coffee shop going down on a man named August that she had been seeing for three months. She plans on running away with him if they’re still at it a month from now.

:37 (House 6) Tommy is up in a plane over the Potomac enjoying the scenery.

:33 (House 7) Nancy is out cleaning her stable while her husband is at work with his partner fixing the electrical wiring at a Party Store, he suspects the wires might be labeled wrong.

:30 (House 8) Maggie is at home wearing her slippers and robe drinking coffee planning out the fun day of wagon rides and sidewalk chalk that lay ahead of her with her two grandchildren.

:26 (House 9) Vasco is sitting in a tree outside the elementary school watching a familiar little girl on the monkey-bars.

:24 (House 10) Ricky is at the firehouse playing cards as a call was coming in about an electrocution at a Party Store, while his fiancé, Rachael, was driving an ambulance to a call 23 blocks away for a car crash on Main and G street. A girl texting and driving, it seemed.

:20 (House 11) Michael is at work at a drugstore, it’s a slow day, in the past hour he had only sold a pack of cigarettes and a pregnancy test to a young couple. His wife, Lucy, is getting a jelly doughnut stain out of her white business shirt before the 11:00 advertisement meeting with Peppermill that could change her life forever.

:16 (House 12) Wendy’s parents are both at counseling for three hours every Friday so she ditched class with her boyfriend, Soot. She was currently in the bathroom crying with pregnancy stick in hand. Soot was raiding a jewelry box he found. Wendy’s mother, Susan, was getting a coffee before the counseling session, wishing the woman in the bathroom wouldn’t take so long, while her father David was telling their psychiatrist that he would be seeing her tomorrow night during Susan’s Pilate class. He wouldn’t miss it for the world.

:14 (House 13) Damian is waiting for his brother to arrive so they could go on a blind double date together. His brother is in a coffee house bathroom with a woman whose name he forgets and that he thinks is a little too fat, but has been getting free head out of it for the last three months, so he doesn’t mind.

:12 (House 14) Hank is twenty feet under the city fixing some leaking pipes with his crew which was causing a huge backup of cars on Main Street. They were all singing The Scorpions “Rock You like a Hurricane” at the top of their lungs. Hank’s wife Mary Ann was at home scrapbooking a picture of Hank and her on their wedding day. Kyle was kicking at her insides, yearning for a tuna sandwich.

:08 (House 15) Rachael (the other Rachael on the street) was ‘Sweating to the 80’s’ in bright pink spandex as if she never got the memo it was a new decade. She was planning on going to Pilate’s with Susan the next night so they could fawn over the weightlifting men on the floor below. Rachael wanted to look her best if she was going to ask out the young man that sold the overpriced water bottles. Meanwhile, that same young man was picking out a tie for a blind lunch date he was about to go on with a man named August who was very busy in a coffeehouse bathroom.

:04 (House 16) Denise and her husband Greg were at the movies wearing 3D glasses, Denise was thinking about her 6:00 English exam and whether or not she should be studying. Greg was waiting for the 3D boobs that his friend told him about yesterday.

:02 (House 17) Well, I guess that’s me. My boyfriend’s at work slaving away creating a 3D movie (sans boobs), my two cats are asleep in their cat tree and my two dogs are barking incessantly at the neighbor picking lemons and oranges outside. Me? Well, I’m not doing much of anything.