small monuments

The coach

2011-11-30T19:13:00.001-06:00

It started like this—no one gave a shit about the wrestling team. They were the outcasts of the school’s sport-industrial complex, looked down upon by the baseball players, ignored by the basketball team, even made fun of by football players—until Damon. He was a freshman trying out for the junior varsity team, when he wrestled the coach—an immense man, over 250 pounds, broad shouldered with an immense stomach, a grey goatee, and a tattoo of a flaming rose on his bicep, himself a former football player who had never gotten over the fact that his life had peaked at 19 and had been downhill ever since; rumors spoke of a car accident, an injury, physical therapy, walking with a cane before his 20s were over, a marriage to a pill-popping bride, the drowning of his first born in a pool, a nasty divorce, Alcoholics Anonymous, a string of increasingly less dignified coaching jobs, a growing waistline, a second-born who hadn’t spoken to him in a decade.

This was a man who consistently pretended that, despite being in his 50s and despite having a shattered kneecap that had sidelined his college football career and forced him to use that cane, pretended that the best was right around the corner, that the future would be bright because a call from the Dallas Cowboys was coming any day now, any second, a call that would finally draft him into the NFL where he would have a last late flash of glory in the sunset of his life.

This coach liked to ‘test’ the incoming freshmen when they tried out for his wrestling team by shaming each of them in front of their peers, casually tossing around the word ‘faggot’ as he used his immense bulk to pin them to the ground and leave them there until they began to gasp for breath. Damon wrestled this man to the ground in 15 seconds. It was so fast that the coach was in a neckbrace for a month and ultimately forced to retire.

2011-06-07T16:12:00.001-05:00

"t-shirts of the rich and famous"

Another Kind of Paradise, 1

2011-04-20T20:34:00.001-05:00

Eugene Green:
The alligator’s name was Molly. That was what we called her. It all used to be Everglades land, back a long time ago they, the engineers, drained the swamp and dug the canals to channel all the water so that you could build houses on habitable land. From the air the maze of canals cutting through the Florida suburbs like a glistening string of wet pearls. But up close, the canal water has a murky burnt brown color, like tea left steeping for days. And the smell—the water table was so high you could dig a hole in your backyard and within four or five feet it would start filling with water—you’d smell it every everyday when the sprinklers went off because it was the same water as the canal, like if you cracked an egg and smoke poured out of it.

When we were kids, the neighborhood was still being built, it was mostly sandy lots, a couple of box frames going up, and a few finished houses where the early residents lived. It was common for animals—fish, frogs, skinks and snakes, herons, alligators, someone even said they saw a shark once—to travel the waterways from the glades and find themselves lost in suburban backyards. Nobody worried too much about Molly. In fact, whenever there was a gator sighting, everybody would gather along the canal shore with binoculars and sandwiches, toasting frosted cans of cola in the thick, humid air—my sister not yet born, old Phil Carver with enough hair to still try the comb-over.

Damon tried to throw Molly a hot dog one time. It landed with a wet little plop that was hardly noticeable but still loud enough to halt all conversation on the shore. The neighbors froze, the kids sat up in attention, the parents looked around worried, all eyes finally settling on Damon. People started packing up their picnics, rolling up the towels and tablecloths they were sitting on. Damon’s dad looked at him in disbelief before he rushed down to the shore and used his t-shirt to try to fish the hot dog out of the canal before the alligator noticed meat in the water. Damon was maybe eight, watching his dad hustle out of the water shirtless and dripping, panting for breath. His old man threw the wet hot dog, reeking that canal smell, right at Damon. “Eat it,” he said and stormed off.

Damon was crying as my mom tried to explain to him that the alligators didn’t care about us, probably didn’t even realize we were gathered there to watch it or that we even existed at all—but you should never, ever feed one. Because once you fed an alligator, it was aware of your existence, it knew you were watching it, and it knew you had food. It would keep coming back for more. It would expect you to feed it. It would come to humans any time it was hungry. She started telling this story I’d never heard before, about these boys.

Joan Grossman-Green:
These boys—I think they were the Douglas twins, Jimmy and Bobby, but I’ll have to ask Susan about it, her boy was a friend with them. Anyways, over in Coral Acre,s the Douglas boys found a baby alligator in their canal. They brought it into their home to raise as a pet. As first it was all cute and playful, like a little scaly cat. But it gets bigger and they’re feeding it chicken nuggets and then hamburgers, keeping it in the backyard, in that nice hot tub they had by the swing set.

When it outgrew that, they tried to put it back in the canal. Tried to put it back in the Everglades, but it kept coming to their house, laying on their stoop in front of their door, waiting for food, for pork chops and steak. And so one day, Susan tells me that Mrs. Douglas, their mom, told Jimmy and Bobby that they had to stop feeding the gator because the family grocery bill was ballooning up to hundreds of dollars each week. And this animal is literally sleeping on their doorstep. The poor family had to sneak out through the back door or a side window. Until they stopped leaving the house at all. Susan said she was so worried, she was calling their house. Her son stopped seeing Jimmy and Bobby in class.

When the police arrived they found an alligator large as a pony in the house. It was in the boys’ bedroom, lying on the bunk bed wrapped in their Star Wars sheets, chewing their dismembered bodies. Skin made of steel, mouth full of razors, belly filled with flames. Don’t you ever, never feed one, Damon. Do you hear me? Molly is a cat that—when she comes looking for another snack and you disappoint—will tear you apart and eat you instead.

Remember, Damon—and Eugene, you listen to this too, you hear? You boys remember that the alligator didn’t just wander into our backyard. We’re strangers in her neighborhood.

Damon’s dad came back dressed in dry clothes, camo shorts and a t-shirt that said ‘I’d rather be a smart ass than a dumb shit,’ and stood there angrily. He sat down next to Damon, wiped the kid’s tears away, told him it would be all-right.

He handed Damon the stinking wet hot dog again, closing the boy’s fingers around it for him. Damon looked at the old man for a minute before he lowered his eyes and took a soggy bite.

Rejection letters, 2

2011-03-16T20:10:00.003-05:00

Ryan,

Thank you for sending us “Limits of Oceans and Seas”, which was shortlisted for publication. Unfortunately our editors could not come to consensus and, upon careful consideration, decided the work wasn't a good fit for our next issue.

I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding a home for this piece and we certainly would be pleased to hear from you in the future.

Thanks again. Best of luck.

Dear Ryan Boyle,

Thank you for sending your manuscript to us at ––––– via the online submission manager.

After careful consideration, we regret that this submission does not meet the editorial needs of the journal at this time. We do hope you will send to us again in the future as we could not publish ––––– without the many quality submissions we receive.

Although we would like to send an individual response to everyone, the number of manuscripts we receive makes it difficult for editors to respond personally to each submission. Please know that we are devoted to giving each submission to ––––– at least three reads and an editor personally reads each submission. We do appreciate your interest in –––––, and the opportunity to consider your work.

Thank your for supporting our journal with your writing, reading, and subscribing.

Sincerely,

——————————————

Dear Ryan,

Thanks for giving us the chance to read your work; unfortunately, it doesn't meet our needs at this time. However, we promise that if you keep writing, we'll keep reading.

All the best,

The Editors

–––––––––––

We regret that we are unable to use the enclosed material. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to consider it.

Sincerely,

The Editors

Dear Ryan Boyle:

Thank you for sending us "Common Features of Mammals in Captivity."

Unfortunately this particular work was not a right fit for
––––––––––––––, but we were very impressed by your writing. We hope that you'll consider sending more work to us soon.

We look forward to reading more.

Best regards,

–––––––––––––
Assistant Editor
––––––––––––––

Dear Ryan Boyle,

Thank you for sending your manuscript "Common Features of Mammals in Captivity," number 26652, to us here at –––––––––– via the online submission manager.

We are sorry this particular manuscript was not selected for publication in ––––––––––. We hope you will send us another soon, though. We could not publish –––––––––– without the fine writing submitted to us. While we regret that the large number of submissions we receive makes it difficult for the editors to respond personally, we want to emphasize that an editor personally read your manuscript. Devoted reading is part of the –––––––––– editorial mission; it is also our own personal one.

If this manuscript was a prize entry: we are sorry this prize entry was not selected for the –––––––––– fiction or poetry prize or for publication in ––––––––––. We receive many fine prize entries, so it was a difficult decision to make. Thank you for sending us your manuscript to read, and thank you for supporting the nonprofit –––––––––– with your entry's subscription. By the end of May we will announce the prize winners and finalists on the –––––––––– website, by e-mail list, and by SASE if you included one with your entry.

Thank you for supporting the journal with your reading, writing, and subscribing,
The Editors

Hi Ryan,

Thank you for your interest in –––––––––. We are going to pass on your
submission, but we hope that you will consider us again in the future.

Best,

–––––

Sasha Hathaway, 2

2011-01-18T20:15:00.002-06:00

I didn’t expect to hear from Sasha ever again in my entire life. But she showed up knocking at my door the very next night. My mom answered the door and called me down and there was Sasha, her cheeks pale and her eyes outlined in red.

“My Dad is missing,” she said. Her father had looked worse and worse as the days passed and the tests mounted—rings growing dark around his eyes, mouth sagging into a worried frown. Since being laid-off, he mostly sat around the house in plaid shirts and read conspiracy theories on the Internet—so his being gone from the house for hours was strange.

“The phone rang,” Sasha said. “He looked like he was about to crumple into a ball. Then he hung up and left and he hasn’t been back since.” I looked across the street. The car was missing from the driveway. “He ran away. Just like mom.”

I told my mom we were going out for a bit. The streetlights were just coming on as we grabbed our bikes and set off. I tried to question Sasha about the phone call but she knew nothing. We stopped at all his favorite hangouts: the coffehouses and parks of our neighborhood, the pool halls, arcades, and bars around the docks. The sky grew darker with each stop, the air grew colder. No one had seen him.

We walked our bikes along the docks, our breath steaming into the air, the city lights pooling together on the surface of the bay.

“I give up,” she said. “I’ll live as an orphan.”

“You can live with us,” I said. “In the basement.”

“The basement? Yuck.”

“Ok, you can stay in my room.”

“Where will you stay, Andy?”

“The basement.”

“Yuck! No, we can share your room.”

I smiled. We were walking by the place where her dad used to work in better times, when he still managed the stevedores and smoked cigars as he watched the ships come in from far-off foreign ports—riding low in the water because of the weight of exotic goods—and watched them leave again for those same ports almost empty. Back when he came home every night to a wife and a healthy baby girl.

“Is that our car?” said Sasha, pointing into the gloom of an open warehouse. Sticking out of the shadows was the beige nose of the car I’d seen parked in Sasha’s driveway day after day. The engine was running. We checked the car and the dark warehouse and found that they were both empty. We heard a noise coming from the outside. The city lights reflected off the water like spirits, and we could see a man outlined in that dazzling light. He was sitting at the end of the pier, hunched over with his head in his hands.

We crept closer, careful not to let the boards of the pier creak. When we got close enough, we could see it was Mr. Hathaway.

“Sasha,” I whispered, pulling her sleeve. “Let’s go.”

She moved closer, looked she like she was about to speak to him but stopped. The noise we’d heard was clearer now, but still distant. It was sobbing. He wiped his eyes on the back of his hands, looked up at the moon, and told it he was sorry.

Rejection letters

2010-12-28T20:02:00.003-06:00

from Diane Smith
to ryan
date Tue, Dec 28, 2010 at 2:27 PM
subject Re: Grey Sparrow submissions

Dear Ryan,

Loved your writing--not a good fit for Grey Sparrow and please think of us again.

Best,
Diane Smith

from upstreet
to exadore@gmail.com
date Wed, Dec 22, 2010 at 10:00 PM
subject Your submission to upstreet

Dear Ryan Boyle:

We’re sorry we can’t use "Limits of Oceans and Seas," which you submitted to upstreet number seven. We have received a great deal of work by writers who will not be included in the final selection, but certainly deserve to have their voices heard in other publications.

We wish you all the best with your writing; thank you for giving us the opportunity to read it.

The Editors

from Hayden's Ferry Review
to exadore@gmail.com
date Fri, Dec 17, 2010 at 7:56 PM
subject Your submission to Hayden's Ferry Review

Dear Ryan Boyle:

We appreciate the opportunity to read your work, but we will not be publishing your submission, "The Oral History of Impractical Devices." We wish you luck placing your work elsewhere.

Thanks very much for your interest in HFR!

Sincerely,
The Editors

from editor@barrierislandsreview.com
to exadore@gmail.com
date Wed, Dec 15, 2010 at 9:46 AM
subject Your submission to Barrier Islands Review

Dear Ryan,

Thank you for sending us "Limits of Oceans and Seas". We are honored that you considered our publication worthy to receive your writing. We thank you for the opportunity to read your work, but we regret that we must pass on it at this time. After receiving so many equally wonderful submissions, it becomes impossible to print them all. Thus, we must make the painful choice between them.

However, due to the caliber of your submission, we invite you to submit new work next month. We wish you the best of luck in your authorial endeavors, and we hope to hear from you again soon.

Sincerely,
Rebecca Anne Renner
Barrier Islands Review

from awesome@pankmagazine.com
to exadore@gmail.com
date Sat, Dec 11, 2010 at 11:44 PM
subject Your submission to PANK

Dear Ryan Boyle,

Thank you for sending us "Common Feature of Mammals in Captivity".

Unfortunately, while we very much enjoyed your writing, we didn't feel it was quite right for PANK. While we respectfully ask that you wait at least one month before submitting more work for our consideration, we do encourage you to keep us in mind for future submissions.

Sincerely,
Roxane

2010-12-22T17:38:00.002-06:00

"He had discovered that the earth itself was breathing."

Definitely a human being

2010-12-12T23:53:00.004-06:00

Kyle Tiller found the bloody remains in a field across the road from his house. Tiller, who was 16, called us breathless on the phone saying he'd heard a loud crash and we should get there immediately because we wouldn't believe what he'd discovered. "I think it's a person," he said.

Isaac Phillips and I rushed over on his moped. Isaac was only 15 but he was already nearly six feet tall and couldn't have weighed more than 130 pounds, his limbs stretched and spindly like mosquito legs. His head was topped with curly red hair and round glasses. His clothes never seemed to fit, pant cuffs always ending before socks began, jean jackets not quite making it to his waist. The moped was no different, and seeing him ride it around town reminded one of an adult on a child's tricycle, all elbows and knees projecting at odd angles.

When we got to Tiller's, we found the body was terribly mutilated, like a piece of fruit someone had given up trying to peel—bruised flesh coming off in sheets, jagged shards of broken bone piercing through uneven holes that slowly leaked their reward. Spreading around the body was a red halo that was melting the light frosting of snow on the ground and staining the soil beneath.

"Well, that's definitely a human being," I said as the three of us looked down at it.

"No shit," said Tiller. "It's wearing a shoe." We could also make out what appeared to be a belt and a pair of pants scattered through the mess. As far as we could tell, the rest of the body was unclothed.

Isaac, standing between us, pulled a small red camera from his pocket. "I've never seen a dead person before," he said. The flash reflected off the white snow around us, painting the body in lurid tones. "Looks like it was beaten by a team of baseball bats."

"Looks like Guernica." I said.

We speculated about what could have happened to him: piranha attack, hit and hit and hit and run, swallowed a cherry bomb, stood under a landing UFO, hit by a bulldozer ... or a steamroller, spontaneous combustion, pop rocks and soda. Tiller, his arms folded across his chest, pronounced with some confidence that it was a drug deal gone wrong, that they met in the woods around here all the time, this guy had probably cut the drugs with rat poison and they had taken their revenge by crushing him under a pile of cinderblocks and dumping the body here.

We heard something crunch in the snow behind us and my heart leapt. I immediately thought about the drug dealers, their teeth gleaming, eyes shadowed, returning to the scene of the crime to dispose of evidence, to dispose of witnesses. We turned to find a cop car pulling up—almost as bad—lights turning but siren silent.

"Aw shit!" said Tiller, waving at Isaac. "Put the fucking camera away. We're caught at the scene of a drug murder."

The cop said the same thing—"Aw shit"—as he got out of his car and caught sight of a smashed ribcage splayed out like broken keys on a piano. "What the hell happened?"

I watched the planes fly overhead and wished one of them would take me to California.

2010-12-05T21:40:00.000-06:00

"A young man dancing, swiveling his hips. He has dark hair, short and slicked up a bit. He wears an unbuttoned band-collared jacket over a shirt with bold black-and-white horizontal stripes. Behind him, on either side, are a pair of barred frames, like prison doors."

Sasha Hathaway, 1

2010-11-13T20:28:00.006-06:00

On the morning of September 10, Sasha Hathaway woke up with blood in her mouth.

She was thirteen years and three months old and, even though she lived across the street from me, there was a lot I didn’t know about her. I did not know what she wanted to be when she grew up. I did not know which boy had kissed her at the last church youth party. I did not know what she thought of me or why I couldn’t keep my eyes off her or why she smelled like a vanilla cake all day—even after gym class. Her powers were immense.

Here is what I did know: The boy she kissed was not Billy Costers—who she had a crush on. Her favorite game was Uno and her favorite night was taco night. Her mother had left six months ago, without a goodbye. She said 'my life is over' all the time, whenever something went wrong, whenever she got a C. And I know for certain that when she woke up that morning with her mouth full of blood she didn't realize her life really might be over soon.

"I tasted something funny," she said, wrinkling her nose that morning on the way to school. "Kinda bitter. I thought I was still dreaming. But then I sat up. It spilled out of my mouth all over my pajamas and my sheets."

I wasn’t paying that much attention, I was thinking about her lips, how they seemed like they were made out of cotton and down, the stuff of bonnets and blankets, how they seemed like the softest, most delicate things imaginable, how if I could just find the nerve, just reach out and…

She spit on the sidewalk and wiped her chin with the back of hand.

I’d never seen her do anything so rude and it surprised me. "Totally gross," she said and I nodded at her. "No," she said, seeing my shocked face. She pointed at a wet red stain on the pavement. "Andy, it's still happening."

I spent the day at my desk, staring at her back—thinking about her hair, pulled back behind a headband, still the longest, prettiest hair of anyone in school, like a waterfall of ink spilling from her scalp—while she stared at Billy Costers. She seemed uncomfortable in class all day, holding a napkin to her mouth and taking frequent trips to the bathroom, but she didn’t mention the blood again.

We walked home silently after school. Her dad was waiting for her at the front door when we got home, holding the bloody pajamas in his hand. He had a worried look on his face, under the scruffy beard he started growing after Sasha’s mom left but before he was laid-off from the factory. He mostly sat around the house in plaid shirts and read conspiracy theories on the internet.

“Go home, Andy,” he said to me. He turned to Sasha, clutching the blood-stained cloth in his fist. “Is it woman problems?”

“Oh god,” said Sasha, turning bright red. “My life is over.”

“You can tell me if it is. Maybe it’s time we talking about … you know, birds. Things adults do. We can go to the lady doctor.”

“Andy,” said Sasha, without turning to me. “Go home.”

2010-10-26T17:02:00.002-05:00

This would make great flap copy for a novel that has not yet been written: "Little fish spread their wings, pets on hormones, and the modern art detectives."

2010-10-22T16:35:00.002-05:00

write a story about failed attempts at utopia. maybe seperate them by age, but link them by theme: the shakers, the 1960s, today.

2010-09-23T18:13:00.003-05:00

"we're like those uncharted continents in the sky, clouds passing before the sun. we are vast and unknowable, billowing in many directions at once, capable of either drifting peacefully or exploding into great fits of grey violence. but in the end we are only mist, molecules of water that happen briefly and coincidentally to exist in the same place at the same time—but not forever. we are only mist, capable of being pulled apart, capable of disappearing completely in the face of the wrong gust of wind or the slightest change in pressure. and yes, sometimes we do get to bathe in that bright warm sun but other times, we cover it up completely."

2010-09-23T15:08:00.000-05:00

wandering through the night while bodies disintegrate.

2010-09-07T12:02:00.001-05:00

"The Great American Memory Hole"

2010-08-13T23:01:00.001-05:00

"We all went to bed that night in the same world in which we had woken up."

The Zookeeper's Daughter, 2

2010-08-07T22:37:00.003-05:00

June 14, evening.
Edie was knocking on my door. She was dressed in jean shorts and a tight blue shirt that was unbuttoned a little too low. The skin of her chest was empty and soft like the underside of her arms. There was a hint of blush on her, a dash of red blood swirling behind her little cheeks. Eyeliner was driven in a perfect line across her lids but her lipstick was smudged.

“I need meat,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“Can I borrow some money?”

"Didn't your parents leave you any?"

"They're not dead yet."

"No, I meant while they're away."

"Yeah but I'm almost out and I need food. A lot of food. I'm really hungry. You wouldn't believe how hungry I am. I could eat a horse, or elk. I could eat an ostrich. I am so hungry right now."

"I can make you something if you want. Sandwich? Linguini?"

"That's really nice but a $50 bill would be nicer.”

“And what do I get in return?”

She smiled, leaning on the doorframe. “Anything you want,” she said.

“Your lipstick is smudged,” I said.

“Shit. Where’s the bathroom?” She pushed past me into the house and disappeared around a corner. When she came back out, she lifted her glasses to the crown of her head and batted her eyelashes up at me. Her lipstick was perfect, her shirt was unbuttoned even lower.

“So what do I have to do to get some money?” she said.

“Did you just unbutton the top of your shirt?” I asked.

“No.” She took a step towards me. “I really need that meat,” she said.

“But its unbuttoned,” I said. I took a step back. “I can see your sternum.” She giggled a little in a way that seemed like it was supposed to come off sexy and innocent at the same time, but was just fake instead.

“Are you hitting on me?” she said, taking another slow step.

“Are you not wearing a bra?”

“Of course not.” She touched my arm.

“This is getting weird,” I said.

“You’re telling me.”

I handed her a $50 bill.

June 16, sometime before dawn.
There was a scream in the night, a roar that shook the windows like the breath of some dread monster shuddering down the darkened streets. I looked out the window—trying to catch sight of anything that could have made that paralyzing sound—but the street was blank and empty.

A light blinked on in the Owens house across the street, then turned off just as quickly, leaving the neighborhood suddenly bathed in the wet light from the river of stars above, tributaries twisting through the dark.

I left the house, went out to the street. I wondered if I had heard anything at all, if it had been imagined, a figment fluttering across a dream but I could still remember what it sounded like: low, dense and rising, ringed with fangs and sorrow.

I strained my ears hoping to hear anything, to catch some last echo springing back off the houses. Instead I heard movement in the Owens house. The light blinked on again, casting a soft yellow rectangle across the lawn. I ducked close to the garage. A girl’s shadow passed through the rectangle. I could smell something, something thick and wild, bloody almost. It was coming from the garage.

I checked the side door. It was unlocked. The smell inside the garage was rich and dirty. Dark shapes seemed to swing in the gloom. There was a clatter of chains twisting. I blindly searched for the switch. The light turned on to reveal stacks of meat on a tarp, animal carcasses swinging from hooks over pools of blood, waiting to be butchered. Sides of beef, legs of lamb and of pork, streaked with rich veins of fat. What could have been maybe ostrich, maybe elk. What might have been horse. Waiting to be eaten. A large freezer hummed in the corner.

I left the garage and realized that for the first time I could remember the house was silent. Edie’s laugh spilled softly out of the illuminated window, as if to underline the silence.

Looking for God in the Particles

2010-08-04T12:52:00.000-05:00

A thousand physicists working together at the National Accelerator Laboratory, draped in lab coats and standing in a dignified line, reported in Paris on Monday that they had not found the "God particle"—yet. But they are beginning to figure out where It is not.

One by one, the physicists in the line offered places where It is not found: in the dripping rocks of caverns underground, said one; in the visible breath emitting from a warm mouth on a sunless winter day, said another; and It most certainly could not be found on a beach at night watching the reflection of the moon play across on the tips of the waves. The scientists as a group, all 1,000 of them nodding their heads in unison, can confirm that the God particle was completely undetectable from a sidewalk on a hill watching the sun rise.

They can say with 95% certainty that Its mass—in the units preferred by physicists—is not in the range between 158 billion and 175 billion electron volts. They can confirm that the Grand Canyon was untouched by the God particle, the Amazon rainforest barren. And even though it is theorized that the particle created the mass for all these things to exist, It was found in none of them.

Over the last decade physicists working on two separate experiments have combed the debris from a thousand trillion collisions of protons and anti-protons looking for signs of this God particle, the Higgs boson, which is said to be responsible for imbuing other elementary particles with mass. In 1964, Peter Higgs, a shy scientist in Edinburgh, explained how two classes of particles which now appear to be different—energy and mass—were once one and the same. His theory proposed the existence of a single particle responsible for imparting mass to all things—a speck so important and precious It has come to be known as the "God particle," the particle that set the universe in motion. This imbuing of mass happened in the moments after the Big Bang, as the universe expanded and cooled, and thus eventually led us to the Big Bands of the 1930s. Yet so far no one has been able to find the Higgs boson in the stream of debris emitted when two particles are smashed together at high speeds, or at the top of a mountain above the clouds on a crisp windless day.

Rumors abounded in recent months that God could be found in the fossil record, in shapes left in ancient rock by trilobites and jellyfish, crocodiles and ferns. That It could be found somewhere deep in the human brain, buried under mountains of grey folds and pulsing with electricity. That It could be found in math or language, in music or in dance. And yet the scientists on this small stage in Paris debunked them all.

The new results, combining the data from two separate experiments, narrow the range in which the Higgs, if It exists, must be hiding. Physicists had previously concluded that It must lie somewhere 115 billion and 200 billion electron volts. By comparison, a proton, the anchor of ordinary matter, weighs in at about a billion electron volts. Other previous predications by physicists included that It might lie somewhere between the scales of a fish, or in the air beneath the wings of a falcon, that God could perhaps be found in the darkest, deepest, densest part of the bottom of the bottom of the sea, in a hole somewhere miles below civilization, hidden from the light.

Theories do exist that do not anticipate the God particle at all, described elsewhere as the Higgsless model. Scientists who supposed the Higgsless model explained that perhaps we are free to our own fate, to make our own decisions. Perhaps we are free to indulge our whims and find the embodiment of God, Its very idea, to exist only in ourselves and our desires, to exist in the ecstasy we can generate in our own lives.

But the scientists on the stage in Paris that night refused to believe this existential notion, that we could possibly be alone in this world, unwatched by the Higgs boson or anyone else, unobserved by the heavens. One of them—in the back near the end of the line, outside the illumination of the stage spotlights—chimed up to posit the possible existence of whole families of Higgs bosons, as opposed to a single Higgs particle of the Standard Model—whole families of gods existing together, flocks of angels and cherubs, swarms of demons and imps swimming together in the cosmos, breathing mass into benighted particles. Another scientist mentioned that perhaps there is some kind of Higgs trinity, that perhaps Higgs boson has a son.

Proof of the Higgs boson would provide us with some hope and solace that beauty and unity really do exist—however rare they may seem in our world—at the very foundation of the universe, at the very center and source of all has existed and all that ever will. And so, said the lead scientist downcast, his lab coat drooping nearly to the floor of the stage, the most intensive particle hunt in the history of physics must go on.

2010-07-23T17:04:00.000-05:00

She don’t know if she’s got the radio on
Or if those are voices singing in her head
There’s not an object she didn’t try to pawn
Leave the money on the dresser, she said

2010-07-20T13:11:00.001-05:00

"Former Libraries"

The Zookeeper's Daughter, 1

2010-06-19T11:33:00.005-05:00

Nothing seemed wrong that night. There were snoring lions, tired monkeys, alligators dreaming of being wrestled, even a dozing kangaroo. The tiger enclosure was the same, grasses swaying and trees creaking in the breeze, water still separating the habitat from its high, protective wall, faux-Indian ruins still ready to wow tourists — but the tigers were missing. No one noticed till the morning, when the keepers came for a feeding and found nothing to feed. There were no paw prints or scraps of food, no droppings or tufts of fur. It was as if no tiger had seen the inside of the enclosure, as if no animal had ever been held there at all.

I reported for work that day in my uniform, I had been working the box office for about four months, and the place was in a frenzy before dawn was painted from the sky. People sprinted from one side of the zoo to the other, checking on other animals. They were sweating and breathing heavily but speaking in clipped whispers and curt sentences while the monkeys shrieked from the trees. A search of the zoo turned up nothing, again no tracks, no evidence of tigers existing, let alone escaping. But we were sure the tigers had existed, absolutely sure, we asked every employee and everyone, especially their keepers, remembered tigers. We found stuffed tigers in the giftshop, a clear sign. So we were sure they had existed and we were sure they had been in the zoo yesterday at closing time, and we were sure they were gone.

I was on my way to the box office after checking out the scene when the zoo manager caught me, his face bright red, like a child’s balloon or a ripe cherry tomato. He was holding a rifle under his armpit.

“We need to take care of this fast,” he said.

“I work in the box office.”

“You don’t think I know that? I hired you. I know that.”

“Well, I don’t really have experience,” I looked at the rifle, “you know, hunting tigers. Or even dealing with the animals at all.”

“It’s fine. We need everyone we have on this. We’re organizing a search through the neighborhood. You’re on the second team, heading out from the south entrance.” He shoved the rifle into my hands.

I shook my head. “I can’t shoot animals, I don’t even know how to use a gun,” I said, holding it awkwardly.

“They’re tranquilizer darts. You’ll be fine.”

“What if I get mauled or … eaten?”

His mouth narrowed into a thin line. “Then I’ll just have to hire another ticket taker. We need to take care of this before the reporters show up.”

There’s a certain amount of anxiety that people experience when there’s a zoo in their neighborhood, in their town. There’s a constant worry that something is going to get loose, that an alligator will break out and eat their dog, that a jackal will get loose and eat their baby. Any mention of problems at the zoo winds up in the local papers very quickly.

“We don’t want this to turn into another cougar episode,” he said and grimaced.

I’d heard stories about the cougar almost every day since I was hired. It had escaped last summer and wondered through the town causing a panic, its progress tracked on both the nightly news and a special internet site, cougarwatch.com, set up especially for it but now defunct. It found its way into the mall at one point, sparking an immediately evacuation and causing the news anchors that night to joke about cougars shopping for Prada bags and cruising the food court for young studs. It never attacked anyone, caused no harm except the awful jokes and town-wide anxiety, but they finally shot it from a helicopter in someone’s backyard a full week after it escaped.

“Tigers — plural — tigers are a lot worse than a cougar,” he said. I nodded.

The team I was with combed through the neighborhood on foot, carrying our rifles past driveways and down cul-de-sacs and past strip malls, searching for any sign of tiger tracks. People just waking up to their eggs and OJ weren’t pleased to see us tromping through their backyards, past their in-ground pools, rifles in the air. People rubbed their eyes, did double takes. To those without coffee, we must have looked like dreams that had decided to tag along and follow them into the waking world of flesh, private hallucinations trespassing on their private property. One of them took our pictures with his phone and made a blog post about it which was read by his friends who forward it to their friends, one of whom sent it to somebody at the paper, which was how the story broke and the reporters showed up at the zoo less than an hour after the keepers discovered the animals missing.

Oyster

2010-05-22T17:15:00.002-05:00

"That's when I reach for my revolver!" There's a voice screaming in the living room. We look at each other, eyes darting furtively around the room, making sure this is real, each of us is not just hearing voices out of the ether.

"That's when I reach for my revolver! That's when I reach for my revolver!" Its getting louder now. No one moves. I look at the clock. It is 1 in the morning.

"Oyster," Georgie says. "Oyster, I think a homeless man might have just wandered into your house."

"No," I said. "No, I think that's--"

"That's when I reach for my revolver!"

"That's my dad," I say.

"Does he have a gun?" Georgie asks.

I walk into the living room and there he is, sitting on the couch looking like a stranger. My entire life he has worn a beard, big, thick and black, like primeval forests, like some kind of wizard, and now here he is sitting clean-shaven in the living room, his cheeks flushed and dark red like a tomato that's begun to shrivel, wearing headphones and screaming this phrase over and over again. "That's when I reach for my revolver!" His eyes are hazy as he takes the headphones off.

"Sorry, I'm just listening to music. On my iPod." He shouts this still, even without the headphones. He takes off his coat.

"Is that for me?"

"My iPod. Mine. That I bought with my money." He points at me, his finger quivering a little at the end. He pulls it out of his pocket and points to it and then throws it on the ground. "I love music."

I walk back into the kitchen. "He's just my dad. Not a bum. It's my dad."

"Hey everybody," he says, walking in. He doesn't look at us or anything, his eyes wandering over our heads to the window behind us, an open bottle of Jim Beam in his hand. "Did everyone have a happy birthday?" He points at Georgie, hoisting the bottle over his head. "Did you have a happy birthday?"

Georgie looks at me, opening his mouth, not sure what to say.

"What about you?" He points at one of the twins. "I don't even fucking know you, kid." He swings the bottle, spilling a line of whiskey on the floor.

"There's some food, Dad. If you want it." I point to the cupcakes and macaroons on the table.

"No," he said, touching the wall. "I'm just thirsty, just really." He opens the cabinets, starts throwing tubberware on the floor, plastic cups bouncing on the counter. He pulls out the tiniest cup he can find, a teacup barely more than an inch wide. He could hold it in the palm of his hand but he doesn't. He grips the fragile handle between his big index finger and thumb, almost daintily. He tries to pour the Jim Beam into this tiny cup but both hands are shaking and moving in different directions, like two fish in an aquarium swimming circles around each other. Some whiskey dripped in the cup but more splashes into the sink. With his back to us, he holds the cup aloft and pauses for a moment, his shoulders shaking slightly. I can see something, brown liquid, dripping from his elbow, drops dribbling onto the floor and scattering on the countertop as he begins to laugh.

"Dad," I say. "Your elbow is dripping."

His shoulders shake as he keeps laughing, whiskey scattering from his elbow. He drops the tiny teacup into the sink with a clatter but it does not break. "Oh fuck," he says, gasping for breath between laughs. "You wanted an iPod for your birthday. Happy birthday. Everyone has a happy birthday." He grabbed the bottle and stumbled back into the living room. We could hear him in there, examining the furniture and the woodwork of the house, commenting on the craftsmanship and sturdiness of the wood and beams.

"Well, uh," Georgie says. The twins pull out a phone and begin to call their mom. "I should probably get going," he says.

I walk them all to the front door. There are a row of trinkets and baubles on the bookshelves that mom had left behind. She had a love of owls, but I was never sure why, and the top of the shelf is covered in them in all different sizes and colors and materials, ceramic, wicker, plastic, blown glass, all standing like a little army, a crowd of immobile owls with a silver crucifix standing behind them all. Dad, now shirtless, grabs one from the shelf and looks it over for a second. The twins stop and watch.

"Did you have a happy birthday?" he asks the owl. He cradles it in his hand as he picks up another. "What about you? Did you have a happy birthday?" He does this with each one, picking them up, looking them over and asking them, a small collection forming in his arms. He turns around to us. "Everyone had a great birthday." He smiles. He picks each owl out again from where it lay cradled in his arms and throws them against the walls, into the bookshelf, onto the couch. "Everybody had a really great birthday. Everybody!" Some shatter, the ceramic pieces scattering over the floor. Others land with a dull sound. "Everybody," he says. When his arms are empty again, he grabs the bottle and turns back to the bookshelf. "This is a good solid bookshelf," he says and starts to climb it. The top of it wobbles dangerously, we can see the sides of it bend and sway, his feet kicking books to the floor, his hands pulling his body weight upwards. The crucifix at the top falls over.

"Dad! Dad you need to come down."

He pulled himself on top and sat there, the shelf moving with his weight.

"Mr. Oster," Georgie said. "I don't think that bookshelf can support you."

"Who built this shelf?" he yelled. "Who built this fucking bookshelf? I did. There's no stronger shelf in the whole world. Its strong. These are my books." He kicked them out of their holes onto the floor, the pages fluttering. "I've read every one of these books." He lays down on top of the shelf.

"Dad, you're going to roll off that. You're going to hurt yourself."

"Why do you think they make it like this? They make so you can lay down, so you can sleep. Why do you think I built this shelf? So I had somewhere I could rest." He grabs the silver crucifix next to him, holds it over his face as though he were examining it intently, thinking it over. He lets it drop to the floor. "Strongest bookshelf in the world," he says, taking a swig from the bottle.

"Come on," I say, grabbing Georgie and the twins and pulling them towards the front door.

"Are you going to be ok?" asks Georgie.

"Probably not," I say. The twins look at me but don't say anything. Georgie opens the door and they step outside.

"Now I know why she left," I say, holding the door open, the cold air drifts into the house behind me.

Georgie claps me on the shoulder. "Happy birthday, Oyster." I close the door behind them and watch from the window as they walk away, their breath turning to silver smog in the air. At my feet is a headless ceramic owl. I turn out the lights, go to my room, and lock the door.

2010-05-15T19:03:00.001-05:00

"The Shooting of Songbirds"

2010-05-04T17:07:00.009-05:00

“I used to help Borges cross the street when he was blind.” The old man leaned in close to me before I noticed him standing there. His glasses framed his one good guy, the other milky and blank. “Jorge Luis Borges,” his Spanish pronunciation thick with a British accent.

“The writer?”

“Yes. I helped him cross the street.” He sounded like an English colonial in WWI, dignified in the face of death and decay. “Wonderful man, really. Spoke beautifully. I never cared much for his writing though. Myself, I didn’t get it.” He frowned.

“In Argentina?” I said, looking around, trying to see if there was anyone else at this wine and cheese event that wanted to talk to me, anyone that could help me escape the clattering dentures of this English colonial. Who was this guy?

“Yes, I lived there for quite a number of years, lovely country, before I emigrated to the U.S.” He leaned in even closer. “It was for a woman,” he whispered. “You know how it is with Latin women, you simply follow the passion.” He chuckled and leaned back, repeating the phrase ‘Latin women’ to himself.

“Not really. I don’t really know how it is,” I said, shaking my head.

“Well,” he said after an awkward moment of silence. “That’s how it is, my boy. Borges, anyway, he was the head of the Biblioteca Nacional in Buenos Aires, beautiful, lovely building, down the street from my flat. Every day he would try to cross this incredibly busy street, half-blind but still so proud, cars zipping by, to get to the Biblioteca. I would see him from the front windows and the dodger nearly got himself killed. So I started helping him. This, of course, was before he got his secretary who would help him, and before Perón fired him from the Biblioteca Nacional.”

“Evita?” I smiled weakly.

“Oh she was a spicy trollop,” he chuckled and nudge me with his elbow. “Her husband, of course, Juan Perón. He became president in, I believe it was 1946, yes, that seems about right. Borges's offense against Peron was little more than adding his signature to a pro-democracy petition. The poor fool. Peron dismissed Borges from the Biblioteca Nacional and ‘promoted’ him to the position of Buenos Aires poultry inspector.”

“A blind poultry inspector.” No one else was looking in my direction. I was stuck.

“Quite. Borges resigned of course. After the Revolución Libertadora, the military government overthrew Peron and reinstated Borges as head of the Biblioteca Nacional. Borges loved them, sang their praises for anyone to hear in that lovely speaking voice. He actually went so far as to call the generals ‘gentlemen.’”

The old man scoffed, his dead eye peering at the carpet.

“’Gentlemen’, as if he had never of the desaparecidos, as if he had no idea what was happening in the country, as if those motherfuckers weren’t kidnapping thousands of people in the night and kicking them out of bloody airplanes into the ocean, never to be seen or heard from again. It was a terrifying time. ‘Gentlemen’. Disgusting.”

The old man ate a cheese cracker. He continued with his mouth full, dentures seeming to move independently of his jaw.

“By this time the poor bastard was completely blind, could not see a single thing. Politically as well, so I suppose. So he hired that secretary to shepherd him around like some dog, some seeing eye dog. I saw them from my front window for years. Later, at the age of 86, as he was dying, Borges married that poor girl.”

My friend Mindy, who had invited me to the event in the first place, was looking in my direction. I made a motion to her and turned to the old man, “It was nice meeting you, I should probably—”

“He was a lovely speaker though,” he continued, completely ignoring me, tongue scouring his mouth for any remaining cracker crumbs. “Just extraordinary. You could almost forgive him his politics when you felt his words raise the goosepimples down your arms.”

“This has been nice,” I said and started to inch away, slowly.

“Of course he lectured in Spanish but personally he spoke English, whenever I would help him cross the street, he knew I was English so he spoke it to me, and he always spoke with an Irish accent.”

I was still only a few inches away, I tried to wave Mindy over. Maybe she could save me.

“An Argentine with an Irish accent, just beautiful. But his writing? I never much cared for it myself. Didn’t get it.”

2010-05-04T13:04:00.000-05:00

the problem is that humans are not machines, emotions are not abstractions.

The Oral History of Impractical Devices, 2

2010-04-23T12:21:00.007-05:00

Read part 1

Walter Andrews

The boy was weird, that's all there was to it. Don't get me wrong, you know, I had a fondness for him, we were flesh and blood and all that. But there was something always off about him. Didn't seem to like his brothers much.

Q. And you didn’t attend the science fair during his fifth grade. Is that correct?

No, I didn't go to the science fair that time — wish I had now. I heard it was quite the spectacle, been telling people the story ever since. We had to live by candle for days afterwards. He was pretty upset, I guess, but I would have gone no questions asked if it was a soccer or baseball game, anything like his brothers. But he never played sports or games with the rest of ‘em.

Q. What did he spend most of his time on?

Once he could read he mostly did that. I don't know where he got all the books from. Either his mother was buying them for him secretly or he was stealing ‘em from the library. Even before that, the kid was a destructive force in my house, you know?

Maybe ‘destructive’ is wrong. I’m trying to be even-handed here, don’t want to come off like some bitter old man in your interview. But he would take things apart — the phone, our old hi-fi, one time the whole goddamn TV. Soon as we turned our backs, something that used to work was suddenly in pieces across the living room. And no, he could never put ‘em back together again. Not the way they had been. After he'd finally rebuilt the TV, the colors were all psychedelic and blurred, the thing only picked up stations from Mexico. His mother was worried. Thought he would electrocute himself one day. Meanwhile, I come home from work and can’t watch anything on the tube except telenovellas. He'd use the parts on something else sometimes. Robots.

Q. What do you mean when you say robots?

Not real robots, they never worked — this was still before the kid could even read. He'd take apart his brother's Gameboy. A few days later we’d see pieces of it taped to a cardboard box filled with circuit boards and wires glued to everything, with a — what do you call, a Lite-Brite? — one of those on top as the head, bulbs all arranged to look like a face. He got savvier. Started putting tape-recorders inside, so it would seem like the thing was talking. But they never did anything and there'd be the missing belt from my old turntable, strapped right to the front.

No wonder he didn't have a lot to do with other kids.

2010-04-13T21:26:00.004-05:00

Sometimes it seems like such a strange, hard road. Figuring yourself out, figuring the world out, how you fit into it all, where you come from and where you’re going. Learning who your parents are as real people, who they were before they knew you, deciding if they’re good or bad, if you’re going to be good or bad, and how much you want to be like them. Forming your opinions about things and trying to connect with other human beings, to form and maintain friendships against the alienation and loneliness hiding in every corner, behind every door, under every bed, to find lovers whose bodies feel like the barest breath against your startled cheek. Everything so uncertain, every step so halting. It seems like such a long journey, pushing your way up in the dark through soil to the surface to gasp for air, and then you realize there are hundreds, thousands, billions of others walking that same road at the same time, discovering the same things, making the same decisions or even different better ones, and the road was flattened by millions of feet before yours and will be trod upon by trillions following in your wake, discovering life along the paths you have made and your eyes flutter and you suddenly realize: You were never alone at all and you never will be again.

2010-04-08T19:21:00.000-05:00

"the directory of future saints"

2010-04-06T11:33:00.000-05:00

you were leaning on a fence post
i wish you'd look that way forever
further from the moon
distant stars like telescopes
waiting for the sun to rise

2010-03-19T16:21:00.002-05:00

"At Midnight, All the Doctors Scream"

"The Dreaming Machine"

The Oral History of Impractical Devices, 1

2010-03-04T20:44:00.006-06:00

Read part 2

Samantha Waters

The machine took up half the room, and seemed to throb with energy—a whirl of motion and sound held together by wires, gears, shivering tubes, and pistons. The sound of it was unreal, like an automobile factory inside a submarine, but still I could just barely hear its creator shouting over the din: “This machine will end world suffering.” He was 10 years old.

It was the fifth grade science fair where I first met Percy Andrews. The auditorium was just stuffed full of this machine, I wasn’t even sure how they got it in the door, there was hardly any room for the rest of the presentations. It just sat there, hulking, and seemed to shiver with rage that anything else was even included.

Q. And what exactly was it? What did it do?

It was a, uh, perpetual energy machine if I remember right. The idea—well, Percy’s idea—was that this machine would generate more energy than it would consume, that the results would increase exponentially. A little bit of electricity was needed to get the thing moving but after that, it fed, or was supposed to, off the power it generated itself, forever.

It wound up blowing a hole in the power grid instead. The whole town was blacked out for nearly two days while they tried to fix the damage. One of the gears blew off and almost decapitated a teacher. You should have seen her face; she wasn’t even mad or scared, just kind of confused and awestruck.

Q. So who wound up winning that science fair, in the end?

Oh, I won. My hydroponic tomatoes won the science fair. My mom was quite pleased but Percy had already left, his parents weren’t even there I guess, and he just fled the embarrassment of failing. There was a canal behind the school with a small bridge over it, behind the transformers and past the hedges and the fence, entirely hidden but only a few feet from the school grounds—it was a place where kids used to fight or kiss after class without worrying about getting in trouble. I found Percy sitting there in the darkness of the blackout, his body small and trembling like some kind of baby animal. His legs hung over the railing of the bridge. I couldn’t tell if he was weeping or not, it was too dark—but I still remember watching him and thinking about his tears, how they might be falling into the canal and mixing with the water. How I could grow tomatoes from them, he was so beautiful.

It was the last thing he ever built. Until recently.

2010-02-25T16:22:00.002-06:00

constantly sitting at the edge of prophecy.

2010-02-16T16:34:00.001-06:00

no one is home in the cities of the future.

2010-02-13T17:20:00.001-06:00

"It’s as if you and your mate began coitus as yourselves and finished as identical twins."

2010-01-31T18:46:00.001-06:00

... infinitely various, seeming to obey no law save that of beauty, was used sometimes for small monuments and temples, such as the Tower of the Winds, ...

2010-01-29T11:40:00.000-06:00

thousands of people work millions of hours producing nothing.

Suburban Minotaur, 2

2010-01-28T12:30:00.004-06:00

See part 1

“You’re not the only one who’s seen the minotaur now,” he whispered.

I glanced at Patti from the corner of my eye as Todd leaned in closer. She inched back slightly.

“I’ve seen him too,” he said even lower, the sweat trickling down his temple.

“Me three!” said Carol, walking up behind him. “He works with us.”

“He works with you? How is that possible?” I said.

“Remember your kid talking saying he had a horn reduction for the office? It’s true,” he said.

“It’s true,” Carol nodded.

I cleared my throat. “So I take it you two—?”

“Are having an affair,” said Carol.

“—work together?”

“Not so fucking loud, Carol! Jesus, my wife is right over there,” Todd hissed, grabbing her arm.

“Oh yeah, that too. We work together too. We do,” she said, pulling her arm free. "At Intertrend, a marketing company in the city. With the minotaur. I’m a copywriter and Todd here is an accountant.”

“And we’re fucking,” Todd leaned in and whispered, nodding. Patti forced a smile.

2010-01-28T12:28:00.001-06:00

and your bones feel like mallets
pounding out a rhythm on your skin
stretched tight over the head of a drum
and you press your hand to the glass
and the blood fills your lungs
and your heart pumps the light
that spills out through your eyes
and you see the buildings swing by in sync
blurred on the edges, swaying, dancing in time
to the rhythm of your life

2010-01-26T10:00:00.001-06:00

populism is popular with the ruling class.

2010-01-25T16:59:00.000-06:00

there is fire at the bottom of the ocean.

2010-01-21T15:40:00.000-06:00

who gets rich when nothing changes?

2010-01-16T21:27:00.001-06:00

write a story in which no one speaks because no one can: a decade of silence.

2010-01-13T14:37:00.001-06:00

there are more slaves today than at any point in human history.

2010-01-11T12:08:00.004-06:00

write a short series of minor stories that directly interogate the reader about their own meaning and/or interpretation. kind of a 'choose your own adventure' of literary subjectivity, but the story does not continue on the page after the direction question to the reader, but rather continues in the mind of the reader based on the individual assumptions/ideas/interpretations provoked by those questions.

2010-01-11T10:55:00.001-06:00

how then should we live?

2010-01-07T12:04:00.001-06:00

i've seen it wrong so many times, i don't know which way is right.

2010-01-05T15:05:00.002-06:00

i wonder if the moon realizes its effect on the sea.

2009-12-25T16:50:00.001-06:00

we are not billboards, we are secrets and codes.

2009-12-23T14:43:00.001-06:00

reality is a hard place to get to from here.

2009-12-08T13:01:00.000-06:00

what dances on the sea floor: living organisms or mechanical animals?

2009-11-17T15:32:00.002-06:00

There are many small monuments in the premises of Humayun's tomb. Of these, a square tomb with a double-dome called Nai Ka Gumbad or the Barber's tomb, built for emperor's favorite barber is an outstanding structure.

In many small Canadian towns and cities, there are small monuments, often near churches or legions, honouring the sacrifice of community members.

The walkway proposal would be patterned after the Sagan Planet Walk, which begins on the Commons and ends at the Sciencenter and is guided by small monuments and plaques describing the sun and planets in the solar system.

2009-11-12T17:16:00.002-06:00

You wake up gasping, shivering, overarched, like a fish caught in a riptide. Sweat on your brow, moisture in the sheets, water spilling out of pipes, tumbling through the ceiling, dripping down the slick, shivering walls of white plaster.

You know that somewhere at sometime there was a rippling current of silver and moss that was tossed in the tides of an depthless, endless ocean that hugged the belly of the world and which today, right now, lies hanging above you, suspending in the dark.

2009-10-23T20:51:00.001-05:00

"Can you put like a fuckton of mustard on there?"

"Excuse me?"

"Mustard. I want mustard."

I squeezed a bright strip of yellow across the edge of the sandwich.

"More than that."

I laid out another.

"More mustard."

I hefted the bottle and sprayed it across the bread several times.

"Keep going. Do I look like a woman? I said I want mustard."

The sandwich was almost entirely yellow now, the bread beginning to soak a little.

"That's good."

He lifted it up, a big glob spilling out the back as the bread felt the pressure of his fat fingers. He lifted it to his lips and took a bite, his teeth covered in yellow, a trail of slime streaked from his bottom lip to his chin.

I motioned to my own chin, trying to catch his eye. "You've got a little—"

"I don't clean the mustard till I'm done," he said. "I like to let it soak in." He grabbed the bottle from the counter and spread a little more on the edge of the sandwich he was about to eat.

I picked up a napkin and started to hand it to him. "But you should really—"

"Shut the fuck up," he said, taking another bite and then another, letting it drip off his chin onto the floor. "I fucking love me some mustard."

I looked down at it for a second, seeing the glob glistening there on the linoleum tile. "How is it?" I asked.

"It could use some ketchup."

Suburban Minotaur

2009-10-11T18:26:00.000-05:00

Everything was fine on Rosemont Avenue until the Minotaur moved in.

Elms shadowed the block, big cars gleamed in the driveways, and traffic was leisurely and relaxed. Every backyard had a child, every living room a television, every mother made every sandwich without a crust. These were just a few of the reasons that made us decide it was a good place to raise our daughters.

But the Minotaur didn’t pick the neighborhood for any of these reasons. He liked it because it had long and winding streets, inexplicable dead ends and cul-de-sacs that seemed like they might somehow lead somewhere, anywhere, but just circled back around. Some people might call this poor neighborhood planning, suburban sprawl, but the Minotaur said it felt natural, said it felt right. He picked out the perfect cul-de-sac and hired a contractor by the name of Stephen Daedalus to build him a place in our gated community on Rosemont. It was a place he thought would make him happy, surrounded by a dizzying web of streets and signs in a tangled subdivision on the west side of town.

We had arrived less than a month before the Minotaur. A few of our immediate neighbors had come by to introduce themselves, but so far most of the block was unexplored territory, a blank map known only by the shapes of rooftops and the shades of cars in the driveway. The kids hadn't made any friends and we were afraid it would be wasted summer of videogames and boredom for them. The community pool at the end of the block, we hoped, would be a wonderful place to mingle and meet, but it was almost always empty. The girls would come into the house dripping and giggling, saying they hadn't seen another human being in hours, just empty streets left to bake in the sun. It left us puzzled as the month got hotter and a faint tinge of sweat seemed to hang and thicken in the low, heavy air. Turns out most of the neighbors had their own pools in their own backyards and had no need of the community space.

But once the Minotaur arrived, people in the neighborhood started talking. Neighbors we had never met started waving to us and whispering in conspiratorial tones, trading rumors, trading complaints: he was too hairy, too strange, he would drive down the property values. Soon, the neighbors we did know were introducing us to others, introducing us as a good, solid family. We started receiving fliers in our mailbox for meetings of the homeowners association, the neighborhood watch, and, even though school hadn't started, the PTA. What really bothered everyone was the sound he brought with him—distant pounding and digging that went rattling through the neighborhood early in the morning, every morning, and this made people angry. It seemed to start at the Minotaur’s place but as the days passed it moved further away, the banging now emanating from under different neighbors’ houses—pulling them awake at 5:30, dragging them from their beds and rudely throwing them into the waking world without remorse or apology. Mornings were ruined and people blamed the Minotaur even though the banging was now coming from below their own basements. Some nights there were other worse sounds—strange bellows and groans that echoed through the neighborhood, across locked doorways and darkened front windows.

All this and almost no one had seen him yet. Rumors circulated: that he was seven feet tall, that smoke poured from his noise, that his horns scraped the ceiling and dripped blood, that he walked around completely nude, his genitals covered only by a thick mat of dripping animal fur. We worried, the wife and I, about living so close to him nearly directly across the street and worried about the effect it would have on the girls, if maybe we had picked the wrong street, the wrong neighborhood, the wrong city. We worried he would lure them into his labyrinth. We worried he would eat them alive.

On a Sunday morning, I caught my first sight of the suburban Minotaur. He stepped outside, pulled his robe closed, and squinted in the morning sun. I called my wife over quickly and we watched together through parted blinds of the living room window. He waved at the old man across the street, who did not wave back, and went to pick up the morning paper, stomping around his front yard leaving hoof prints deep in the dirt, a stampede of little steps traced through the grass. He was very hairy but he didn't look like anyone expected.

"How come you ain't got no nose ring, mister?"

The Minotaur looked up from the paper in his hand. A little 7-year-old girl, the color of a sunrise, stood at the edge of his lawn watching him. We both gasped. It was Christine, our youngest daughter.

2009-10-08T18:10:00.001-05:00

"Brenner also plans to recognize that the site was part of the Underground Railroad by erecting some small monuments."

2009-10-06T20:03:00.001-05:00

"An extortion scheme, normally trapping a married man in a compromising position then blackmailing him."

2009-10-06T18:09:00.000-05:00

"The Girl with the Temporary Hair"

2009-09-22T16:46:00.002-05:00

a very real desire to go in opposite directions at the same time.

2009-09-14T17:20:00.001-05:00

she replaced her eyes with mirrored glass
and asks you not to look away.

2009-09-10T20:01:00.003-05:00

it was a luxurious disease
that kept creeping through her breast
her teeth stained with good wine
she told herself she was blessed

2009-08-31T18:31:00.000-05:00

write a concept album of songs inspired by disgraced governors. "rod's [expletive deleted] theme", "hiking the appalachian trail", "emperors club VIP"

2009-08-24T18:06:00.003-05:00

producing a nation of employees

2009-08-24T18:06:00.001-05:00

"The Self-Thinking Thought"

Limits of Oceans and Seas

2009-08-20T22:44:00.000-05:00

The man standing on the edge of the beach said he was there to change the sea. He was standing and staring into the distance when he said it—alone, watching the sunrise, dressed in overalls and a hard hat. The thin and foamy edge of the ocean lapped at the tips of his black sneakers.

“Sure,” we said. “You’re here to change the sea.” We laughed and shook our heads, walking further up the beach. It was empty this early, the sand stretching out, deserted in all directions, curving and arching and hugging the water like a child. The sky seemed sprinkled with blush and powder with wispy clouds strung out like crepe paper. You said it was your favorite time to be at the beach, before the crowds. We spread out our towel, put up our umbrella, and got to work on having fun.

As the day got hotter, the crowds caught up to us—children clutching inner tubes and laughing and crying, parents spreading sun-tan lotion, teenagers with kites and volleyballs, all staking their claim on a tiny piece of beachfront property that used to be ours. I cut up strawberries and skinned kiwis that you had packed for our lunch, and we read and laughed and splashed and tanned.

I packed up our stuff a few hours later while the beach was emptying out. I was watching the ground, trying to avoid stepping on any of the soda cans and cigarette butts that lay scattered, half-buried in the sand. You nudged me and pointed. He was still standing there, the man who came to change the sea, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses that reflected the sun reflecting off the waves.

We stopped for a second, you looking at me, me looking at him, him watching the horizon. He noticed us, turned and waved.

“That’s creepy,” you said. “I hope he’s not here again tomorrow.”

He was there again the next day waving to us, only now he had 14 friends standing in a line, all dressed in overalls, hardhats and sunglasses. They all waved. Some of them had on clipboards, one used a theodolite on a tripod. They turned back to look out at the horizon. The beach was empty for miles in either direction—except for them and us.

“If any of them comes near us, use the knife,” you whispered as we walked up the beach. There was a slight chill in the air.

“You brought a knife?” I said.

“The one we brought for the fruit. To skin the kiwis.” You dug in the basket and held it up.

“You mean the table knife?” I said. Its dull edge and round tip gleamed in the sun.

“If it can skin a kiwi, it can skin a man,” you said and waved it at me menacingly.

2009-08-18T19:32:00.000-05:00

“It’s like a Polaroid picture,” Mr. Lindsey said of his rough, spontaneous process. “I’m just trying to get the idea out before the inspiration is gone. Everything I do is motivated by the fear of running out of time.”

2009-08-18T00:56:00.002-05:00

desperate and yearning to be anyone who has done anything, and to do everything that has been done.

2009-08-12T23:34:00.001-05:00

climb into a forest canopy
build a ladder for the fire

2009-08-09T20:57:00.000-05:00

You can’t hear it, but the Earth is constantly humming. And some parts of the world sing louder than others.

2009-08-02T22:18:00.002-05:00

-Hello?

-Quick, tell me what to do with my life.

-Join the circus.

-Hate elephants. Hate them. Wanna punch clowns in the face.

-Ok, get married, have some kids, work a job you hate for 20 years to put them through school and hope one them eventually says ‘I love you.’

-Those kids will wind up drug addicts dying together in a ditch filled with dog shit. Next option.

-You sound like you’re freaking out.

-That’s because I’m freaking out, sweetie.

-I’m not your sweetie. We broke up, remember?

-I’m freaking out, stranger. I’m about to start throwing punches at work.

-Don’t do that. It’s a bad idea. What happened?

-Bad day. Filled with idiots. The usual, you know.

-Find a new job?

-Ok, there’s option #1. Already trying. Option #1 is to just keeping working here, going slowly insane while I apply for newer and better editorial jobs preferably at a university press, reading something interesting. I have been pursuing Option #1 for several months. From the moment I started. Ok, so that’s Option #1. Option #2 is sell all my possessions and move to India.

-Don’t go to India. The Ganges is filled with AIDS.

-Ok, so sell all my possessions and move to Prague. Maybe teach English.

-But then what do you do when you come back? Won’t you just be in the same position?

-Yes. That is the flaw in Option #2. I have a wonderful, life-affirming adventure but if and when I come back I need to figure this all out again.

-Can you do that? Teach English? You have no teaching experience.

-Don’t need any. There are companies that train you. I’ve got a cousin that did it in Thailand for two years. All need is a BA and American citizenship. Honey, I got both.

-Don’t call me honey.

-Option #3, honey. I go back to school for an MFA in creative writing.

-Why wouldn’t you go for a PhD in something? Seems like more of a career path.

-Which is Option #4. You’re jumping ahead now. The problem with Option #3 is that I am already 30 grand in the hole for loans for a master’s degree I don’t use and which I can not afford to pay back. The pros: I like to write. I want to write. I want to publish.

-You can do that on your own.

-Can I? I haven’t published anything yet, have I?

-I think you should get a PhD.

-And the problems with Option #4 are: what if I don’t get in anywhere; what if I only get in to bumfuck Nebraska University; what if there is no funding for what I want to study; what if I can’t find a job in my field afterwards, its very competitive you know, what if I can only find a job at bumfuck Nebraska University? I lived in a sleepy college town already. I did that already. For six years. That is over for me. I am on to other things. And if I really want to write shouldn’t I devote myself to that? To make a go of it while I still have the time and desire and talent and very little bitterness?

-You can take writing classes while you take PhD classes. I vote Option #4.

-Option #5 is I become a hobo.

-I vote Option #5.

-Are you fucking anyone?

-Ugh! Goodbye.

-I love you.

click

-Tell me what to do with all this life.

2009-07-24T20:26:00.001-05:00

"Aspirin in the Afterlife"

2009-07-20T19:10:00.000-05:00

"Perhaps the ancients had other skills, metaphysical ones, which allowed them to see the unseeable and base a pictographic language on it."

A Hunger for Sons & Daughters

2009-07-14T17:31:00.002-05:00

They liked to strike in the early evenings—when children were still playing outside in the last fading light of the day, when parents were still cooking dinner, still closing up shop, still exhausted from their commute, from their boss, from their finances. They liked to strike in the early evening, their long black Cadillacs sliding like snakes down the open road, their swollen white vans crawling like lice down the soft suburban streets of America.

While no one yet knows who they are, Peter Garofalo, 41, knows their methods. Mr. Garofalo, the owner of a tropical fish and aquarium supply store in Arlington Heights, IL, is a large but short man with glasses and a robust mustache that is tinged with flecks of gray. As he was helping his last customers of the day, a man grabbed his six-year-old son from the crowded courtyard of this suburban strip mall. “He was tired of sitting in the shop all day,” Mr. Garofalo said of his son. “I let him outside for a minute, just right out front. Told him to stay where I could see him while I rang out the last customer. I only turned away for a minute. When I called out for him he was gone.” There were throngs of people outside Mr. Garofalo’s shop, enjoying coffee from a neighboring storefront on a cool spring evening. No one said a thing as the van pulled silently away.

Meanwhile, Melissa Green’s nine-month-old brother was snatched right from her arms. Melissa, 12, was standing on the curb in front of her Memphis home watching neighborhood kids play baseball. The game halted as a black Cadillac came sliding down the road. A pair of arms reached out of the rear passenger window and grabbed the boy. The car did not even stop.

Susan Hempsted, 32, a resident of Levittown, Long Island, lost her four-year-old daughter in a King Kullen grocery store. “I let go of her hand while I asked a clerk where the steak sauce was. She was standing right next to me—until she wasn’t.” Ms. Hempsted ran through the store—her long brown hair swirling in a cloud behind her, her hazel eyes wild like an animal's as she screamed her daughter’s name down the aisles—until an employee made an announcement over the loudspeaker. Security cameras revealed that the girl was lured from Ms. Hempsted’s side by a man with a bag of gummy worms and a unicorn figurine.

“I put up flyers immediately that same night,” Ms. Hempsted said. “But the only people who contacted me were other parents who lost their kids. That was when I learned how many children were missing.”

These and thousands of other children have never been returned to their parents. They are victims of a new wave of human trafficking sweeping the country. Some of the children are thought to be sold to far-off buyers in Canada, Mexico, or even Jamaica. However, parents of abducted children who have investigated the matter say that most are purchased domestically by rural families in other parts of the country, places like Iowa, Idaho, and Appalachia. With the country in the grips of a harsh recession, the sale of stolen children is becoming a thriving business, they say.

“Yeah, I know a guy can get you a kid for maybe five, six thou,” said Jackson Nash, 42, a carpenter from Wisconsin. “Friend of a friend. Hear about it all the time. Dunno what they use the kids for, could be anything. Heard a lot of different rumors. Some say they’re using the kids to work the meth labs out here. Others say it’s cheaper and safer to buy some kids to be the farmhands than to hire them illegal alien workers. Get to work ‘em for years, ain’t even got to pay ‘em so long as everybody thinks they’re your kid. I also heard about this group over in the Dakotas buying up these kids to turn ‘em into a militia, take back the country. You know, heard a lot of things. Can’t say I really know for sure why or what’s going on.”

Even the extent of the problem is debated. According to law enforcement authorities, the children are simply runaways. All of them. The White House insists there are fewer than 1,000 cases of human trafficking per year—a figure which they say includes not just children but also pregnant women, old men, and people in wheelchairs. Advocates for abducted children, however, say there may be hundreds of thousands across the nation, perhaps even millions.

Samuel Montgomery, 29, whose son disappeared in 2007, has collected a list of nearly 2,000 children in and around Cleveland that have disappeared in the last two years alone. None of the children in his database have been recovered. “It’s like angling for a goldfish in the Marianas Trench,” he said as he pasted up posters. Mr. Montgomery is a tall man, just slightly overweight, his face long and his hands large. A young parent and a former advertising copywriter, he dressed in a combination of casual and business wear, an oxford button-down with a tie over baggy stained jeans and canvas sneakers. His backpack bulged with carefully-rolled posters, brushes, and jars of homemade wheatpaste. His hands caressed a newly hung poster that featured the word MISSING in capital letters above crudely-photocopied pictures of his son’s face. “It’s like hunting for an Indian Head penny in a pile of coins the size of the Earth.”

According to rumors, the older children, less in demand on the market, can end up as prostitutes or indentured servants. Some of the children begging or busking in major U.S. cities are believed to be in the employ of the very criminal gangs that abducted them. Rumors also persist of a new blood sport gaining popularity in rural clubs, a variation on dogfighting that does not involve dogs. “I don’t even want to think about what happens to those kids,” Mr. Montgomery said , tearing up. “I like to think my son’s been bought by a lonely rich couple looking for a kid to take care of them in their old age.”

Mr. Montgomery, tired of waiting for the police to take some action on his case, has started a support group for parents of stolen children, as well as a website, KidsComeHome.com. “We get almost no help from the police,” he said, shaking his head. “Usually they insist we wait 48 hours before we can even file a missing persons report. Then they say it’s been too long, the trail is cold, and they can’t mount an effective investigation.”

Ms. Hempsted, armed with the supermarket’s surveillance video of her daughter’s abduction, met only official indifference. “They told me the video wasn’t enough, a face isn’t enough, that they needed a name too,” she said, pulling her large sunglasses off the bridge of her nose and snapping them closed. “If I had a name, I could find the bastard myself.”

Mr. Montgomery, whose son disappeared from their backyard just outside Cleveland, said he called the police immediately. “They said they’d come right over so I went outside to wait. They never came.” Mr. Montgomery quit his job as a copywriter to continue the search for his son—his stubble is now a few days thick, his hair just past unruly and, as he says, his appearance is “probably inappropriate for the office, even in advertising.” When he is not postering, fliering, or otherwise searching the streets and the Internet for his son, Mr. Montgomery and his girlfriend, Wendy James, petition the local police station. “We cry and beg them to help,” he says, “and every time they say, ‘We don’t have the time to look into every runaway case.’ They say, ‘Just get on with your lives. He’ll come home someday.’ They say, ‘Why are you so hung up on this?’” Mr. Montgomery shook his head and looked at his feet. “I hate myself for losing my child, for letting someone just walk up and take him, but I hate the police more.”

The reluctance of the police to investigate these cases is a topic of much speculation among Mr. Montgomery’s online support group. In most cases, he said, the police prefer not to open a missing person inquiry because unsolved cases can threaten their annual bonuses and the political clout of local commissioners.

“That’s ridiculous,” said Richard Strob, director of the Office of Human Trafficking, a six-month-old government agency based in Washington. Mr. Strob, 38, wore a pinstriped coal suit, his hair prematurely gray but carefully manicured, frosted in place. He was not quite tall enough for his large oak desk and constantly adjusts his chair. “This problem of the stolen children is vastly exaggerated. These parents and all the news reports want you to believe this situation is out of control, that it’s some kind of epidemic. But the number of cases is actually on the decline.” When pressed for evidence of a decline, Mr. Strob, whose office is still mostly in boxes, offered the following: “Let’s just say its dropping by like ... fifteen percent a year,” he said. When asked if he was quoting official government statistics, he said, “Yeah. Sure.”

“Strob is full of it,” said Zaxby Thomas, a legislator in Washington state. “You go walk around my district for a day, you won’t even see any kids. Half of them have disappeared or been kidnapped; the rest aren’t allowed outside anymore. You can see them peeking out of barred windows, straining for some daylight. There are black Cadillacs on every corner. It’s just shameful.”

Mr. Thomas, 52, says he has been trying with little success to get the federal government’s attention. Last June, after he sent a report to the Office of Human Trafficking and received no response, Mr. Thomas started sending copies to the FBI, the Department of the Interior, the Department of Health and Human Services—any department he could contact, without results. “I just can’t understand why no one is paying any attention to this problem,” he said. “We need someone in the federal government who will fight for the rights of the people, someone who has a conscience. Someone like me. That’s why I’m making a run for the Senate next year. Vote for me if you value your children. Vote for me if you love your children. Vote for me if you want lower taxes!”

For the parents of missing children, the heartbreak and the frustration have turned into anger. Last March, about 65 families traveled to Washington to draw attention to the problem of kidnapped children. They staged a brief protest in front of the White House but dozens of police officers arrived within minutes to arrest them.

“It was unsightly,” said Mr. Strob, waving his hand as he walked down the halls of his office. “First the White House, then they were planning to sit outside my office next. My office! As if I had stolen their kids. We can’t have that kind of rabble out here. We’re trying to run a country, not a damn NASCAR exhibition; not one of those blood sport baby-fighting games they’re holding out in the backwoods these days.”

Mr. Strob ran the fingers of both hands from his temples to the back of his head several times and sighed. “You know what rankles me most? None of the little placards or chants at their ‘protest’, not one of them, even mentioned the decline I was telling you about. What’d I say, twenty percent a year? You didn’t hear any of them talking about that.” He passed by an open door and stopped. The room was long, bathed in fluorescent light and filled with rows of new steel filing cabinets. Mr. Strob quickly closed the door but those tending the files looked naturally thin-limbed and unlined, short and shaggy like 12-year-old boys, six-year-old girls, and ages in-between. Mr. Strob smiled. “Those are our pages.” He chuckled awkwardly as he leaned on the closed door. He started walking quickly again. “Summer internship program.”

In some cases, local officials have even been reported as encouraging people to buy children. Michael and Betty Nguyen of Lincoln, Nebraska, said that after their three-month-old daughter was abducted, a local sheriff conducting the investigation came to their home. Mrs. Nguyen, who underwent a tubal ligation after the birth of her daughter, Linda, recalled the officer’s visit. “He said, ‘Don’t cry, stop crying, you can always buy another one.’ Then he slipped me a card with a phone number written on it.”

Rumors of larger government involvement circulate among parents who are growing ever more desperate—whispers of government experiments, of an army desperate for child soldiers to police Afghanistan. “Oh I heard all that stuff, but none of it’s true,” says Graham McNeill, an unemployed chef in Buffalo, NY. Although not missing any children of his own, Mr. McNeill, 39, regularly follows news of the situation and keeps in touch with Mr. Montgomery through KidsComeHome.com. “I’ve even heard about the anti-government militias people think the kids are being trained for in the Dakotas. No no, it’s the government alright, but not what you think.” He leans in close and whispers, “What they’re really doing, what they’re using these kids for, is a program to repopulate New Orleans. Start the whole city over again with a brand new government-approved generation of residents.”

It was on hearing such rumors that Ms. Hempsted traveled to New Orleans seeking her daughter. “I stood outside every kindergarten I could find, every preschool, every park, just calling her name as school let out. But it’s not true.” Ms. Hempsted wiped her eyes, drew a deep breath and continued. “I never found her. They’ve got kids turning up missing down there too.”

Other rumors find their way to official channels. “I heard a lot of these kids aren’t even abducted,” said Mr. Strob, hanging a dartboard in his office, across from his large desk. “What I’m hearing from a lot of these local sheriffs, and this is from the street, is that the kids are just runaways. Does this look good here? Anyways, they say it’s a conspiracy. A conspiracy of runaways. All these kids are organizing and running away from their parents together. What we got is a case of bad parenting, no white vans involved. So much for the abduction theory, am I right?”

Mr. Montgomery has heard the rumor as well. “I heard the ‘Children’s Crusade’ rumor, yeah. Several different versions of it showed up on the KidsComeHome.com message board. I heard they were congregating in Detroit, taking over vacant buildings and old factories in abandoned parts of town. Living in communes, trying to establish a new society, Lord of the Flies-style, in the ruins of the old.” Sweeps by Detroit police have uncovered no evidence of a new society.

KidsComeHome.com continues to attract new parents with new tales of woe—Mr. Garofalo just discovered it—but so far it has turned up no children. Parents of the missing are not about to give up. Like Mr. Montgomery, they post fliers in places where children congregate or are thought to be sold; like Ms. Hempsted they travel the country to investigate every rumor with even the slightest plausibility. A few who run shops—like Mr. Garofalo’s aquarium supply store—have turned their storefronts into missing person displays. “We spend our life savings, we borrow money, we will do anything to find our children,” said Mr. Garofalo, touching his graying mustache.

For his part, Mr. Garofalo continues to hold desperately to a thin edge of hope. His windows are plastered with posters decrying his plight. Photos of his child adorn different fish tanks in his shop: goldfish have his son laughing, tetras have the boy hugging a puppy, guppies feature him laying in a pile of stuffed animals. But one tank has a picture of Mr. Garofalo himself—clean-shaven, young, and much skinnier, but still wearing the khakis and striped sweater for which he is known. He tends the fish inside meticulously. "These are the zebrafish,” he says. “A zebrafish can regrow its own heart.” He smiles as he watches the fish kiss the skin of the water, their stripes shining like shadows dancing on the surface of rippling coins, like streams of gold buried under the silt and sediment of a river of ink.

He replaces the top of the aquarium and rips his picture from the glass.

2009-07-06T17:55:00.001-05:00

the wind is dressing in your clothes

2009-07-02T11:41:00.002-05:00

on the lookout for predators and enemies
we see faces in clouds, not clouds in faces

they don't sing in captivity

2009-06-17T20:42:00.012-05:00

It was a winter of disconnection, loaded and heavy, and we were finally coming out of it, heads held like something had changed, hands held like something was different. It was a winter where people realized their prosperity was a joke, their ideology a lie, their work meaningless, their children ugly, their country broken, and their fears wasted on petty things—balloon animals, termites, cannibals, the flu. There were prophets and presidents and pariahs all shouting their prescriptions from pillars they personally placed on every street corner but no one was there to listen.

And then there was Rose, standing on my corner. She was a girl who lived down the street from me, only I didn't know it. If you went to the end of the block and made a left, her house was right there. We spent some time analyzing our similarities, half-joking and half-astonished. We were both relatively new to the city, both had spent unproductive, demoralizing seasons of unemployment before landing our current jobs, both of which were in publishing. We were the same age, both had bright yellow bikes and lived with roommates who had cats. We liked similar music, the same books. I asked her if I should be scared, if she was about to pull a "Single White Female" and try to become me and take over my life.

"I think you'll be disappointed with it," I said. Because I was.

"I'll wait to decide," she said, smiling over bright red glasses. "You’re a single white male though.”

“Am I?”

“I think so. I’ve never seen that movie.”

“Neither have I.”

But when we found out we lived in the same neighborhood, on the same block, I did get a little scared. We were either characters in a romantic comedy, marionettes on cosmic strings, or else she was a goddamn spy.

We started to see each other every day and I learned things about her, over tea or Thai food, things that scared me more. I learned she played guitar. I learned she tried to decipher her favorite songs, singing along in a soft, uncertain voice over shaky chords that were never quite right—female singer-songwriters, '90s rock bands, girl punk bands, and '50s rockabilly. I learned she tried to write short stories but left them largely unfinished or unstarted. In her career she wanted to work with fiction, with long novels, important epics of surrealism and absurdity that made statements about contemporary society. Mostly she worked with pet guides and novelty titles.

She was short, well-proportioned, her light brown hair chopped and sprawled in an adorable way, bangs uneven, but perfectly so. She had slender hips and copper-colored lips. She was small but small in a cute way, like something out of woodland folklore—a mischievous elf or a sprite, the kind that would lure unsuspecting medieval children into the woods, never to be seen again—or something more perverse. She wore bright colors, mostly: turquoise coats, red glasses, aqua t-shirts, pink leggings, gold scarves, orange knee socks. The colors she chose should clash but they all seemed to go together, all the same shade of different primary colors, and they made her glow and glitter, visible in a crowd, sun-drenched in grey winter.

Stuffed on tea and Thai, she walked me home from her house. We turned the corner and went the 115 feet down the block to my house, staring at the tops of the houses, at the roofs of our neighbors, comparing the peaks in silence. We walked through the gate. She pushed it closed, letting it click behind us. She stood about shoulder-height with me, neck craned up, watching me, perfectly motionless—legs, fingers, eyes, all painted in stillness—only a thin stream of steam escaped from her lips, drifting up and untangling slowly.

"Well," I said. Fumbling for my keys.

"Well," she said smiling.

The downstairs neighbor turned on a lamp inside, casting a bright rectangle around us. The light played across her neck, sliding down her temple, her chin, her throat, touching her soft skin.

"So, I—" I said and coughed.

Her eyes, framed by those big red glasses, were locked on mine.

"Uh huh," she said, waiting. One hand was squeezing the other. She bit her lip.

My palms felt hot. Her skin looked like it was carved of white wax or soap. I leaned in a little. She closed her eyes but didn't move. I stopped, uncertain. She opened her eyes, saw me paused, suspended, right in front of her. I didn't realize I moved but there it was, a warm rush as our lips touched. Her eyes were still open. So were mine. Her lips felt soft and humid, like bathwater down the spine, like clouds of tea suspending in glass—soothing, scalding, delirious, and caffeinated but solid too. Her eyes closed and I put my hand on her hips, felt the glide, the bend, the ache of them pressing gently, pulling closer, her body against mine. Her mouth gained confidence and power and she seemed certain, more certain of the kiss, more certain of her chest pressing against me. She bit my lower lip, soft but insistent, pulling me closer. I felt her leg rubbing softly on mine as she grabbed my coat, pulling me down and into her mouth. My heart felt hard and huge, like it was eating my chest.

I opened my eyes and took a deep breath. Sensation rushed back in, sharpening and flooding, lucid but bent and warped. The light in the house was off now but a man with a dog walked by and he turned his head and stared directly at us as he passed without breaking his stride. Rose noticed him out of the corner of her eye.

I was confused watching the dog walker, watching the little dog sniff at the edge of the concrete, confused because it was almost midnight and really, who walks a dog at midnight. I turned back to her. "So do you—"

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to come in?"

Her eyes flicked to the ground and then back at me. "Maybe. Maybe just for a bit."

I smiled. "Ok," I said, head spinning, heart pumping hard.

"Ok," she said.

We walked up the stairs and into the dull house, down the dark hall to my room, plastered with old posters and maps of places I'd never been, scattered with scratched records and books I hadn't read yet. Our coats came off as the door closed, her shirt came off as the lights went off. Glasses on the floor, her tongue in my mouth, hand under my shirt, heavy breath in my mouth. My hand was down her pants feeling rough and soft skin, feeling elastic and cotton and stubble. She pulled back and looked me right in the eyes, took a deep breath and said, "I can't. I just. This is, this is too much." She touched her face.

Her skin looked soft in the dark, like there were feathers hidden underneath; her breasts young and uncertain. They looked like they needed hands on them, around them. My fingers were still in her underwear, her pelvis in my palm. She closed her eyes, pushing her hair off her forehead. I tried to catch my breath as she got up to leave—picking up her glasses from the floor, untangling her bra strap from my shoulder, finding her coat and her shirt and reaching for the door.

"I'll walk you home," I said, grabbing my shirt and feeling like something was missing.

"But its so far," she said. I smiled, not sure if she could see in the dark.

We walked the 115 feet down the block and turned the corner to her house, staring at the fences of the houses, at the gates of our neighbors, comparing the hedges in silence. We stopped in front of her door.

"Well," she said. Fumbling for her keys.

"Well," I said and smiled. We kissed again, our breath mingling and rising up. Her nose felt cold on my cheek. It was difficult to stop, hands groping, tongues touching, blood pushing.

"I'll call you," she said, pushing away. "Ok?"

"Ok." I could feel saliva streaked across my cheek.

"Just to warn you, I tend to like guys that ignore me," she said. "You should wait till you hear from me." The door closed behind her with a slap.

She called the next day.

2009-06-16T14:20:00.001-05:00

Vladimir Nabokov once said that the purpose of writing and of storytelling is “to portray ordinary objects as they will be reflected in the kindly mirrors of future times; to find in the objects around us the fragrant tenderness that only posterity will discern and appreciate in far-off times when every trifle of our plain everyday life will become exquisite and festive in its own right: the times when a man who might put on the most ordinary jacket of today will be dressed up for an elegant masquerade.”

2009-06-08T17:39:00.001-05:00

the key to survival--in a factory, in an office, in a boardroom or a classroom or the bedroom--is to dream.

2009-06-01T17:07:00.001-05:00

all of a sudden and for the first time, I felt my body moving from inside.

2009-05-29T16:33:00.005-05:00

"Plans for Impossible Cities"

"Stewart Stevens and His Fabulous Bird Whistles"

"Vessels for Baal"

2009-05-06T22:54:00.002-05:00

She touches the bruised spots
and wasn't it fun?
curiosity undiminished
she resets the horizon

2009-05-05T13:05:00.000-05:00

He writes of avoiding his desk when inventing, avoiding the connotations of serious endeavor, of earning a living. “I wish instead,” he writes, “to be irresponsible, rash, associative, dreamy, impish, brainy, intuitive, and stupid.”

-Steven M. Johnson, inventor/author/cartoonist/former urban planner.

A Proposal on Taking Your Newsmagazine to the Next Level, 2

2009-04-27T23:10:00.003-05:00

I spend my days at work staring at computer monitors and shuffling papers, trying to pretend like there's some desperate, important reason that these papers need to be reordered, very loudly, right now. They've been on the desk for over a month; I no longer know what they are.

I spend my days at work staring at my coworkers wondering about their lives, wondering what sequence of events could have possibly led them to Talking Drum, wondering why they would need to slum it so low and filthy. Imagining their secret lives, their private follies and vices, wondering what kind of people they were when Mr. Charles's back was turned, when his eyes were away, when they breathed free air and lived on their own time. I see Fate prowling libraries and comic stores, bike shops and online dating sites. I see Jerome drunk and stumbling, puking in an alley, holding a stereo over his head outside some girl's window in the 1980s. I see Kittie Lee draped in leather, flat on her back singing murder ballads to a mirror hung on a stone ceiling.

I spend my days at work composing tiny stories, stories that fit neatly onto single sheets of paper. Stories about roses growing from the top of a mother's head; about fish pouring from a priest's mouth; about young boys living in subway tunnels, living off dog meat and day-old doughnuts, tattooing each others with images of crows circling five-spointed stars; about the hilarious fate of the Collosus of Rhodes; about urban trolls selling hot dogs and prophecy; about a man whose social life is impeded by his enormous beard which is perpetually and permanently on fire; about a company marketing taco-flavored pizza and, six months later, pizza-flavored tacos; about psychic hospitals and seahorses; about postmodern novels sitting on the burning shelves of the ancient Library of Alexandria; about men with holes in their chests filled with nothing but tiny moving creatures and spreading black ink.

I take these single-sheet stories and distribute them one by one, leaving them in people's deskdrawers, in the bathroom, in the mailslots of other businesses in the building, taped up in the elevator, folded under the wipers of random cars in the parking lot, in Sammy’s Super Sandwiches, in the Subway or the Chik Fil-A, at Father and Son, at Algino's, maybe at Baja Grill or the Kitchy Kitchen. Anywhere, really. I take a stack of every story I've written, the complete works of me, I take them up on the roof and let them blow away in the wind, to the four corners of the city, to the bottom of the lake, to burn up in the center of the sun.

Then I go back to my desk, back to work, back to staring at computer monitors and shuffling papers.

Maybe you can read them some day, when we're together again.

* * *

"What the fuck?" says Jerome.

"What?" Kittie replies.

"Someone left something in my desk again. Something about seahorses having sex in living seas of tea. This shit doesn't make any sense," he says, shoving the paper at her. "The last one was about a kid with no eyes being abandoned by his mother behind a Dairy Queen shaped like a Disney castle."

"Hey, I got one of these too," she says. She looks over the sheet. "Where do you think they're coming from? The janitor?"

"What janitor?"

"Wait. We don't have a janitor?" She pushes her glasses up on her ridgeless nose.

"You think this building would have a janitor?" says Jerome. "Does anything in here ever look like its been cleaned? Do you think Mr. Charles would ever spring for cleaning service?"

"Who then?" says Kittie, kicking at a dust bunny.

"My guess is the white guy, " he says.

I look up from my desk and swallow. They're on to me.

"The old man that's always in here to tutor Mr. Charles' daughter. Guy creeps me out. He's always asking me about the mall and web design and cartoons. And he's always got a stack of papers with him. All hunched over carrying that briefcase. I bet he's the one leaving his perverted weird stories everywhere. I bet he forces them on Alise."

"Oh come on," says Kittie. "I wonder where they're coming from." She took the story and pinned it to the wall, under a framed cover of Talking Drum with a picture of the president of Ghana on it.

"Who knows, but I'm gonna beat the crap out of them when I find them," Jerome says, turning back to his computer. "What was yours about? The story you found."

"A perverted old man who gives weird stories to a little black girl."

"Whoa. Seriously?" Jerome looks up and looks worried. He touches the back of his head.

"No, it was about a day in the life of a lynching tree in the deep south. When the tree rustles its leaves, it's trying to scream the word 'no.'"

2009-04-27T23:05:00.001-05:00

people prize what they don't understand almost as much as what they do.

2009-04-23T17:11:00.000-05:00

there is a sea within the sea that holds perfectly still

2009-04-10T23:57:00.001-05:00

an astronomy class was the closest I ever got to believing in God.

2009-04-08T12:00:00.001-05:00

write a story where sleep is a real substance (possibly produced in a factory) and the supply is running out.

2009-04-06T15:38:00.000-05:00

write a novel that functions as an enormous palindrome.

The Office of Human Trafficking, 1

2009-04-05T18:19:00.005-05:00

From a short story I am working on that was inspired by a NY Times article about a wave of child abductions occurring in China. I thought it would be interesting to transpose the whole thing to America and play with the absurdity and tragedy of it:

Some of the children are thought to be sold to buyers in Canada, Mexico, or even Jamaica. However, parents of abducted children who have investigated the matter say that most are purchased domestically by rural families in other parts of the country--places like Iowa, Idaho, and Appalachia. With the country in the grips of a harsh recession, the sale of stolen children is becoming a thriving business, they say.

"Yeah, I know a guy who can get you a kid for maybe five, six thou," said Jackson Nash, 52, a carpenter from Wisconsin. "Friend of a friend. I hear about it all the time. Dunno what they use the kids for, could be anything. Heard a lot of different rumors. Some say they're using the kids to work in the meth labs out here. Others say its cheaper and safer to buy some kids to be the farm-hands than to hire them immigrant workers. Get to work em for years, ain't even got to pay em so long as everybody thinks they're you're kid. Also heard about this group over in the Dakotas that're buying up these kids to turn em into a militia, take back the country from the liberals and United Nations. You know, heard a lot of things. Can't say I really know for sure why or what's going on."

Even the extent of the problem is debated. According to law enforcement authorities, the children are simply runaways. All of them. The White House insists there are fewer than 1,000 cases of human trafficking per year--a figure which they say includes not just children but pregnant women, old men, and people in wheelchairs. But advocates for abducted children say there may be hundreds of thousands across the nation, perhaps even millions.

Samuel Montgomery, 29, whose son disappeared in 2007, has collected a list of nearly 2,000 children in and around Cleveland who have disappeared in the last two years alone. None of the children in his database had been recovered. "It's like looking for a gold fish in the Marianas Trench," he said as he pasted up posters. “It’s like digging for a single needle in a haystack the size of the planet Earth." The posters featured the word missing in all caps above crudely-photocopied pictures of his son's face.

According to rumors, the older children, less in demand on the market, can end up as prostitutes or virtual slaves. Some of the children begging or busking in major US cities are believed to be in the employ of the very criminal gangs that abducted them. Rumors also persist of a new blood sport gaining popularity in underground rural clubs, a form of dog fighting that does not involve dogs. “I don't want to even think about what happens to those kids,” Mr. Garofalo said, tearing up. "I like to think my son's been bought by a lonely rich couple looking for a kid to take care of them in their old age."

2009-04-03T12:46:00.002-05:00

A zebrafish, for instance, can regenerate large regions of its own heart.

2009-04-02T16:07:00.003-05:00

there are two kinds of prisons.

you are under surveillance.

2009-03-29T22:47:00.001-05:00

"What they [are] really doing here is telling the creation myth backwards as the symmetrical conclusion to the history of the world. Escaping exile in an alien dystopia, human beings storm paradise and, upon reentering, tear off their clothes without shame. God's judgment is overturned, nonsense is unlearned, a woman presents an apple to a snake, symbolizing the release of nature from the yoke of human will. Genders cease to be rigidly defined, each person becoming a complete unity of masculine and feminine characteristics. Finally, in only seven days time, the entirety of the old world is unmade, and on the last evening the lights of all cities, no longer powered by vast unsustainable infrastructures, blink out one by one."

-Greil Marcus, reviewing Expect Resistance.

2009-03-29T18:02:00.004-05:00

bury your weapons in the cemetery. say a prayer for ignorance, for arrogance, say a prayer for opulence—for all that's softly passed.

2009-03-29T17:53:00.001-05:00

notes are a form of literature.

2009-03-29T17:36:00.004-05:00

write a story where the setting changes from winter to spring in a single day. the morning starts cold and dark, snow drifting down from above, the trees outlined like chalk bodies. as the day progresses, it gets warmer. slush puddles form in crevices and on street corners, large chunks of snow start melting and falling from the high places, raining down from the trees, dropping like bombs. by the afternoon, water is dripping everywhere from all surfaces, seeping through roofs and spilling down gutters, dripping from eaves and running down the streets. chunks of snow bursting off the tree limbs and dancing in the sunlight. little piles of snow still left in corners and shadows. By the time of the late sunset that evening its all gone, and people take off their coats, the air no longer coloring their breath. have this follow the emotional outline of the characters (obviously).

listen to Astral Weeks, especially "Sweet Thing," while writing.

2009-03-29T17:35:00.000-05:00

the end of the world as you know it is not the end of the world.

2009-03-24T13:43:00.000-05:00

there's more to life than you ever thought—it can be lived more deeply, more gently, with a greater sense of fear and horror and desire than you ever imagined possible.

2009-03-13T19:51:00.003-05:00

She listed her lovers on a yellow legal pad in pencil. The wild ones and the fearful, those she had to teach and those that taught her. Those who clung and the ones who kept a frightening distance. She drew a star next to those that stayed. The ones who left--gathering her sheets around themselves like burqas, like cloaks, only to drifting down through the floor and out through the door, leaving a painted trail through her home--those names she slowly crossed off.

“There’s no such thing as remorse,” she said and hands you the note.

2009-03-13T17:51:00.001-05:00

perfection is a bad habit.

Wind Fish

2009-03-08T13:45:00.005-05:00

So I kind of forgot about this. It's a post I made on a friend's blog called "Things You See While Eating," which is exactly what the blog's about--kind of a sociological people-watching experiment. Here's my contribution, semi-based on reality, semi-based on improv class (so its a bit silly), and semi-based on Link's Awakening.

http://thingsyouseewhileeating.wordpress.com/

Chicago, IL

It was the kind of place that was painted bright pastels, the kind of place where the staff was enjoyable rude, the kind of place owned by oily curmudgeons and wide-eyed cranks and reformed dreamers, the kind of place that made a mean turkey sandwich. I went through them pretty quickly, cycling through every sandwich shop in the neighborhood a week at a time. But this place, this was my new favorite because I could get both potato chips and potato salad—because potatoes are too delicious for just one kind.

With snow on my shoes, I trudged down the steps to the current week’s favorite basement sandwich shop. I sat down with my order and I dipped the potato chips in the potato salad and wondered at the true goodness of potato magic. The sandwich was too salty, the pastel rainbow on the wall looked more faded than usual, and I wondered if it was time to move on and start dining at the place across the street, Farakan’s Deli Dog.

I pulled out my current book, something about the Spanish Civil War, and tried to disappear. I try to evaporate right there, to slip back to 1938, to feel the sand and the sun and the oil of the rifle sliding between my fingers, to hear the sound of military chants floating on the air of Andalusia, to try to forget that I work beneath florescent lights.

“Yo, I ever tell you bout Johan?”

The voice was not Castilian.

“No, man. You never told me about no Johan.”

I looked up. It was these two guys, a big one and a little one, sitting at a table across from me eating pastrami sandwiches and talking loud enough to fill up the basement room, their vowels hanging from the ceiling, their saliva dripping from the walls, their laughter tunneling through my ears. Didn’t they know the Anarcho-Syndicalists were about to be routed by the Fascists? Can’t they shut up for one minute while the war reaches its inevitable and bloody turning point?

“Let’s go, bro. Who’s Johan? Lay it on me,” the little one said waving his hand.

These two guys. The little one looked like he wanted to be the big one. They were wearing overalls and workman’s boots, both with paint and plaster stains all over their clothes, heavy coats hanging next to them.

“Johan was this one, this guy, that Mindy used to know in college,” the big one says, biting into a potato chip. He’s bald with a beard.

“Oh man, how is Mindy? You really lucked out with her man. She’s really got the uh—” The little one made a squeezing motion to his chest. “You know?” He’s clean-shaven and wears a beanie cap with a hardhat sitting on the table next to him. His overalls fit better and look newer than the bigger guy’s looser, more frayed clothes.

“Hey man, lay off. That’s my live-in girlfriend you’re talking about there.”

“Yeah, well don’t think I ain’t takin’ a turn at her when you’re done.”

“Ay! What’d I just say?” The big guy pounds the table making the hardhat jump.

“I dunno, you were saying something about some dude named Jamal or something.”

“Johan,” the big guy says and glowers at him. “So Mindy used to know this guy. Said he was studying to be a marine biologist.”

“Mindy went to college? Man, brains and beauty, bro.” The little one motions to his head and his chest.

“She was there for like a semester before she dropped out. Then I think she used to just hang out wit her college friends for a year even though she wasn’t in school no more.” The big dude took a sip of his drink. “So anyway, this Johan. The dude liked whales and the college had a whale tank. It was a weird place she went, there was like a whole freakin’ zoo and a seaworld in there. Guy got in the habit of whale watching. He’d roll out of the dorm, ride his bike down to the tanks and just sit there watching them for like hours at a time.”

I was listening now. I was still holding my page open, still staring at the words like I was reading but my eyes were silent and listening.

“He didn’t have many friends or nothing. He was friendly with some people in his classes and some of his teachers or whatever, but you know, what she was saying, he didn’t hang out with anybody. Didn’t go to the bar after class or nothing.”

“Maybe that’s why he was staying in school and Mindy had to dropped out,” said the little guy.

“Yeah probably. No friends to drink with, I’d do homework and watch whales too.”

“Or at least watch some Van Damme movies or Skinamax or something.”

“Yeah, really. So eventually this Johan guy started getting in the tank with them,” the big guy took a bite of sandwich and continued with his mouth open. “With the whales. Even though only the caretakers and like the professors were supposed to be in there. This guy would climb into the tank every morning when no one was looking and swim with the whales.”

“Nobody kicked him out?”

“Not at first. Guess they didn’t have the heart. She said this guy was like a dolphin. He looked like he was traveling through the water without moving his hands or feet, he’d just kind of glide. He’d do rings around the whales and only come up for breath as often as they did. Like some kind of merman.”

“Or a mermaid.” The little guy held up his arm and let the wrist go limp. They both laughed.

“Good one,” the big guy shook his head, put a chip in his mouth. “Every day this guy was swimming with these freakin’ whales. She said crowds started forming not to watch the whales but to watch him slide through the water, grab onto their fins and pet them and everything. She said it went on like that for months until one day he refused to get out of the water when the caretakers came for feeding time. They called in campus security and everything. It was a big deal. The crowd started chanting ‘Attica’ and shit. And the next day, the crowd showed up but he didn’t. He just stopped coming. Dropped out of the marine biology program. Straight up switched his major to genetics.”

They sat there eating for a while. “Was he tryin’ to genetically engineering himself into a whale or something?” said the little guy.

“Actually, and don’t tell Mindy I told you this, cause she said it was all just a rumor, but it’s the opposite.”

“What?” the little guy said around a mouth full of pastrami.

“He decided the whales were too much like human to be animals. He was trying to free them from their bodies, from their whale-shaped prisons.”

“Oh, gimme a break.”

“I swear this is what she said. She was still hanging around the campus now and she said everyone was talking about it, everyone was saying ‘whale-shaped prisons’ and talking about weird genetic manwhales walking around pretending to be college kids. Any time they didn’t like somebody, or wanted to stop hanging out with a kid, they decided it was cause the person actually was a secret manwhale freed from his ‘whale-shaped prison.’”

The little guy rolled his eyes. “This guy turned the whales into people?”

“Said they were better than most of the regular people he met,” the big guy looked at his watch.

“Well you can’t argue that. Look at all these assholes,” the little guy waved his arms around the deli. “I wouldn’t mind having some whales in here if this is the best we got.” He looked over at me and I quickly averted my eyes back down to my book.

“You keep it up you’ll have as few friends as the merman. So,” the big guy took a sip of his soda. “Nobody had even seen this kid in a couple months when she says people heard these weird sounds at night, and shadows moving across the moon. The next day there were a bunch of smashed cars and some broken pavement out in the parking lot of the aquarium. Looked like a hurricane had torn through or whatever. And inside, the whales were gone. Poof, just gone.”

“And where was the merman? That Johan?”

“When they finally found him he was naked, wet and shivering, and standing at the top of the campus radio tower staring at the sky.”

I closed my book and went to throw away my garbage.

“What?” the little guy said, eating the last of his chips.

“Said he’d succeeded. Johan said he’d set them free.”

“You telling me those whales flew out of there?”

“I’m only telling you what Mindy told me.”

“So what happened?” the little guy said.

“I dunno. That was around when she stopped even going to the campus. I was thinking about it though. About how nice it sounds.” The big guy touched his beard and looked at the hardhat. “Just watching whales swim around, no home but the water, no worries but when you’re gonna breath next, all the fish you can eat. That’s gotta be good.”

They got up to leave, not bothering to pick up the trash on the table. “Yo, you think Mindy slept with that Johan guy?” the little guy said.

“I dunno. But if she did I’ll fucking kill her,” the big guy said with his hand on the door.

“Then I’ll have the corpse to myself. Lookout world!” said the little guy as the door closed behind him.

I picked up my coat, felt the hole in it and put it on. After wrapping the scarf around my neck, I stepped outside. At the bottom of the stairs leading back up to street level was a puddle of black silted snow that had melted and pooled. The air was cold and blank like a razor blade. I started walking up the steps and thought through the windows in my life: the bedroom that looked out on a brick wall, the lunches that were underground, the office that looked into another identical high-rise.

My breath was a fog that uncurled itself away from my face and hung suspended for the second before it disappeared. The air was mirrored and glacial, a shade that sparkled clear and ancient like blue Antarctic ice. And I stood there shivering and I lingered, staring at the sky, waiting for whales.

2009-02-16T20:53:00.001-06:00

Susan liked to think of herself as a pair of gossamer wings startled by their own impermanence.

She lived on the fourth floor of a walkup apartment on the bad side of town. She kept the fridge stocked with apples, lemon juice and cartons of lo mein. The water was a force, a breathing, aching force in her life. When it rained, the walls would sweat and the corners would leak into the buckets she never moved unless she was emptying the water into a kettle to make tea. The toilet pipes groaned and bent. The tub dripped at all hours, its large claw fingers clutching the damp ground. The air was a feeling that touched her skin, chilled and moist as it crept backward into her skinny bones.

She held her dreams in a mattress on the floor of the living room. The windows of the bedroom were covered over with cardboard, cloth, and plastic sheeting; memories hanging from strings under burning red lights.

Most nights she felt alone, as though the solitude were a blanket she could wrap around herself. Most nights she felt like her lungs were made wax paper tied up with silk thread; if she breathed too quickly or too deeply she might punch a hole right through them. Each breath was a gift, like the heart of a newborn bird beating too fast, like cracked pearls choking a painter's brush, like seaweed, like arson, like anger, like dreams of desire and the old reassuring way the hands of someone else used to fit perfectly and comfortably around her neck.

Susan liked to think of herself as a pair of gossamer wings, waiting for the wind.