Youth

The street where Jake lived was a cul-de-sac. A quiet place, purposely far enough outside the city so that it would be safer. The lawns there were always green, at least in the spring and summer. There were so many trees! In October, leaves of every color would cover the ground in piles. The neighbors used rakes and leaf blowers to pile them up, and fill black plastic bags with them. Some leaves that stuck around long enough would get to stay all winter, covered in snow. Every morning there was enough snow that Dad would need to get out the snow blower and clear the driveway before leaving for work. The snow banks on the side of the driveway made for great caves and snow forts. The house, with its purple-red brick walls, rose behind the snow forts like a castle. Its windows were always lit up, and during the holidays, there was always something in each window: a candle, a wreath, a bow. Spring came slowly with rain. The family would stay inside and watch TV in sweaters. The sun room was always comfortable in March and April showers. The windows were all around, from floor to ceiling, and you could see the rain streaking down the window pains in the dim, cloudy April light.

One April morning, the sun was out so Jake decided to go out in the yard to play. He took out his set of Jarts, and his nurf guns, and his croquet set. The grass in the front yard was still sopping wet and spongy. Jake set up the Jarts target first, then he carefully counted out 10 paces to mark off the line to throw from. The grass was tall, and his shoes and the bottoms of the pant legs of his jeans were getting wet. Jake was 5 years old and an only child, but he always found ways to enjoy a Thursday morning, or a Sunday afternoon. The first round of Jarts was not good; all his throws were substantially too long, and some of them were rolling down into the neighbor’s yard. Jake collected the Jarts and walked back up to his throwing line. “Maybe if I throw them higher in the air”? Jake gripped a jart by the tail and swung it around and around in a windmill motion. With a yell, he released the jart at the apex of its swing. How high it flew! The jart whistled, like a firework, sailing across the blue sky. Blowing with the wind, the jart soared past the yard and past the sidewalk, landing in the street. As the jart rolled down the street and towards the sewer opening, Jake stood and stared for a second, then he took off running into the street after the jart. It rolled all the way to the opening of the sewer with Jake a few steps behind. Suddenly a pair of shoes jumped in front of the sewer, and a pair of hands scooped up the jart. “Is this yours?” She was wearing a jean skirt and a purple t-shirt with pink bows on it. Her hair was tied loosely in two pigtails. “Yes, it’s mine. Do you live here?” Jake was feeling shy. Ashlyn was smiling just a little “I just moved in to that house across the street” “What’s your name” “My name is Ashlyn , but my friends call me Ash” “Do your parents let you play outside a lot?” “I go out when I want to, as long as I’m home for dinner at 6:00” “Well nice to meet you Ashlyn , I’m going to finish my Jarts game now” Jake turned and started walking back towards his own yard. Ashlyn watched after him. Jake stopped, feeling a bit like he was being watched, he turned back to Ashlyn and said “Do you want to come play Jarts with me Ashlyn ?” Ashlyn stood there stretching her arms downward, holding her left wrist with her right hand. “Ummm... I don’t know how to play jarts” “It’s easy, I can show you how, come on, my yard is right there, and you said you can play outside as much as you want.” “OK I guess I will come; I’ll watch you play” Ashlyn followed Jake to his yard and she watched him play Jarts and Nurf guns and croquet until it was time to go home.

***

The kitchen table was cluttered with flowers. Jars of stuff. Toaster. Butter dish. Outside, a red hummingbird feeder was weighed down by the perch of several finches and the occasional opportunistic squirrel. Ashlyn and her mom sat on the couch, finishing the last few pages of one of her favorite stories. “And Streganona ate all the Spagetti in town... The end”. Ashlyn bounced off her mother’s lap and walked to the table, climbing on top of a chair, she reached for a slice of bagel sitting on a plate. As she delicately buttered the bagel, Ashlyn asked “Mom, did you know there is a boy my age who lives across the street?” “No, I didn’t know that. Which house does he live in” “He lives in the purple brick house with the big yard. His name is Jake. Today I met him on the sidewalk, and he let me watch him play with his toys.” “And did you get to play too?” “I could have. Jake asked me to. But I was scared.” Ashlyn’s mom picked her up and sat her down on her lap. “Mom, would you brush my hair?” She took a small purple brush from the coffee table next to the tv remotes and started gently brushing Ashlyn’s thin hair. “Ashie, I signed you up for swimming lessons. Your brother is quite the fish in the pool. We’re going to go up to Bemidgi next month for his swim meet. Maybe you and your sister can tag along.” “I don’t want to take swim lessons” “It will be good for you Ash. You can meet some kids your same age so you have more people to play with in this new neighborhood” “But I already have a friend” “Who is your friend?” “Jake.” “But you only just met him, there’s lots of other kids out there who you can have fun playing with.” Ashlyn twisted in her mom’s lap so that she was laying on her back, looking up at her mom. Ashlyn’s hair, straight, smooth and thin, cascaded gently around the couch. “Mom I like Jake, and he is my friend.”

***

Penis

Mikhail opened the door and looked out into the hall. The only light emanated from a single bulb, suspended from the hall ceiling by a chain. There was silence. The sound of a TV, fuzzy. The sound of a rat inside the wall. The air was cold, and the fur jacket he wore was beaded with specs of ice. Mikhail’s breath shone in the air, and fell to the ground, dissipating. Turning back to the room, he faced Vlade and Schovik who were still seated at the table. Spread between them on the table was 1 billion Rubles, 2 revolvers, a document and a pen. Mikhail stood in the doorway, afraid, and also confident. He had been in this situation before. Mikhail was 23 years old as of last week. He had a scruffy black beard (if you could call it a beard). His nose was always running. The thing he was most proud of was his smile. Perfect, white teeth, each one aligned exactly as it should be. He was also proud of the custom built AK47 which rested under his arm, and the tailored body armor he wore under his jacket. There was no heat in the room, or anywhere in the building. The last of the heating oil had been used 2 years ago.
Mikhail walked up to Vlade and extended his hand. Vlade looked up at him, expressionless. Mikhail waited there his hand feeling heavy, yet holding it there, confident. Vlade was motionless. There was the sound of a slight dripping from a faucet somewhere to Mikhail’s left. Schovik looked on, twisting his ring around his finger. Heavy snow was falling outside the room’s small window.
Vlade stood up and grasped Mikhail’s hand. “Consider it done” A thin smile appeared, showing Mikhail’s white, perfect teeth. “A deal that will make you rich, my friend”. Schovik took the document and signed it, emphatic. Vlade swept the heap of money into a canvas bag under the table. Folding the document into his jacket pocket, Mikhail pivoted and walked towards the door, and out into the snow.

***

Travis was 19. One year after graduating from North High School in Hilliard, Ohio, Travis was completely broke. Ohio State had refused his application for admission, and the Panera Bread store where he’d been working was being closed for the winter due to inadequate heating oil. A lot of businesses were struggling, but Panera had been reliable, at least for a year. Everyone wanted to go to college. The public colleges had a special arrangement with the government where they were given permission to create heat using plutonium fission. But Ohio State was only taking on 50 new students per quarter, and Travis was up against 595,000 other applicants.
Travis laid on the cot in his tent, shivering. There was a group of people outside huddling together for warmth. Travis was alone, thinking. “Where are my parents”? Travis’ parents had walked west looking for wood 6 months ago. That was the last time he had seen them. “I can’t stay here like this... The rent is due tomorrow.... I have no money...” Unwelcome. That’s how Travis felt. As though he were completely disconnected from whatever story the world happened to be telling. An extinct creature, waiting for mortality or chance to extinguish his very cold and quite inadequate flame. Soldiering on through hunger and cold....
An idea! There was one organization, besides Ohio State, that had permission to generate heat. One that was still accepting all applicants. Travis tightened his jacket, hoisted his pack, and walked out of the tent, into the wind. He left one flap of the 1st level tent door open, a gesture used to indicate the tent was available to the next interested resident.
The recruiting office was dimly lit, but very warm. Shuffling through the entryway, then the anti chamber, and then the lobby, Travis shed his jacket, hat and gloves, and left his pack in an open locker. The lobby of the recruiting office was lined with metal desks, each occupied by a petite girl in tight shorts and a thin green tank top. Lines of men waited at each desk. There were probably about 50 people in the room. 5 girls and 45 men waiting in line. Travis noticed signs above the desks indicating the lines were organized by age. He got into the line for 18-22.
“Why are you here, Travis?” The girl at the desk was probably 40 but her body looked 25. Her blond hair was tied in a loose ponytail. “I’m here because I want to join The Organization” “And Why do you want to join?” Travis hesitated “I want to fight the Parchynists” “I don’t believe you, tell me the real reason” “I want to serve my Community” “You’re lying again! Don’t you know we can measure the truth of your statements? Every time you speak I’m looking at a percentage probability that you believe what you’re saying is true. Don’t waste my time. If you’re going to lie to me, get out of this line and go back out to the old” “OK! I am losing hope out there in the tent field! I just want in; I’ll say anything you want me to say, just don’t send me back out there to shrivel up and die. My parents haven’t been seen in 6 months. I have nothing. My job disappeared. I have no siblings, no relatives, and no one even knows I left my tent. All my friends went to Ohio State and they’re not allowed to leave the secure perimeter. The Organization is my last chance”
The girl looked at Travis for about 30 seconds, then she touched her ear, listened for a moment, and addressed Travis in a softer tone.”Your pack and your cold gear are on a plane to Tennessee. A sanitized corpse was placed in your tent, and your tent in the tent field has been shredded. The Panera location where you worked has been ‘looted’ and all remaining evidence of your existence has been destroyed. Walk through the door to my left and you will receive your instructions”

***

Mikhail’s Embraer XIV jet lifted off silently from the snow covered plain. The dim lights of St Petersburg were visible from the window, thought there was heavy fog generated by the temperature difference between the jet and the outside air. He pulled the contract from his jacket pocket. Schovik’s signature was the last step in his bid to gain control of Russia’s most powerful resource. Wood. On the planet, there were a total of 300 acres of forest left. With the contribution of Schovik’s family holdings, Mikhail was in control of 200 of the 300 existing acres. This all came at a staggering cost. One billion Rubles, a 15% stake in the company, and guaranteed immunity for Schovik, Vlade, and their 62 living descendants. The death, by freezing, murder, or starvation of any of these 62 would void the agreement and forfeit 500 million of the billion Rubles.
It was getting hot in the jet cabin. Such a pleasurable feeling. Mikhail took off his coat and handed it to one of the attendants. “Janice, would you pour me a Vodka c’ Apple. I love the way you make it” Janice was one of 23 women on the flight. Mikhail traveled with an entourage of all women. The pilot was female, his driver was female, and all his inner circle of advisers were female. Janice was a master of sever ancient and modern forms of martial arts, but she was not with Mikhail as a bodyguard. By his own preference Mikhail always conducted business negotiations alone, and without backup or protection. He liked the thrill of sensing danger, and the challenge of being the only one responsible for his own security. He preferred to out smart rather than out gun. Janice arrived with the Vodka c’ Apple. An expensive and rare drink reserved only for the privileged few. Vodka was abundant and cheap (potatoes grew easily in the cold), but the apples were precious and rare. 1 of Mikhael’s 200 acres was an apple orchard. The bottom edge of Janice’s blue skirt brushed against Mikhail’s shoulder as she delivered the drink. “Is there anything else I can get for you Mickey” “No, thank you. This Vodka c’ Apple is excellent. You are such a talented mixologist! Katya, would you put on a record? Let’s enjoy this flight. If you girls start dancing, I’ll join you in a moment. Lacey, turn up the heat in the cabin a bit. I want to sweat!”

***

Travis was jolted awake by an electric current pulsing into his metal bunk-bed. A silent alarm, it felt like a pulse directly flicking on a switch in his brain. Travis jumped into action, somersaulting off the bunk, hitting the concrete running, swiftly down the hallway and out onto the airstrip in the middle of the base. The air was warmer in Afghanistan than it was in Hilliard, but still too cold to survive without proper clothing. 6 other young men fell into place in line next to him, fully clothed and both physically and mentally ready to act. The Organization mandated that all employees be fully clothed and wearing shoes at all times, even while sleeping. The helicopter became visible on the airstrip as the active camo was lifted. Travis and his men ran up the loading ramp and into the helicopter, and they lifted off quickly, the thin blades beating at 7,000 RPM, but making no perceptible sound. They flew low over the mountains, invisible and inaudible. After a 5 minute flight, the target appeared in front of them: an indistinguishable bump in the desert landscape, circled by green light in their internal visual display. Travis jumped out of the helicopter, feet first, and landed on the mound with a small thud (the aircraft was flying about 5 feet above ground). The ground looked like sand, but it felt like concrete. Travis eased forward, taking small steps, his hands held in front of him. His visual display was indicating that they were perhaps 10 meters or less away from the target. Suddenly his hand felt cold steel, though all he could see was air and sand, Travis knew this was the target, Priority VI. A pulse from his electric rifle quickly disabled the door, and a well placed kick revealed the way into the lair, and 30 bandits clothed in black, and a swarm of bullets headed his way...

***

Mikhail walked into the meeting, knowing this would be his finest hour. He was wearing a grey suit coat, leather gloves, and leather shoes. His custom AK47 hung loosely around his shoulder. “Dimitri! It’s been too long” “Mikhail, how are you friend? To what do I owe the pleasure of hosting you at this very early hour?” “Friend, I’m here for one reason only, and that is to relieve you of your command of this country” “You’re joking, again, always trying to keep me on my toes” “I am not joking, Dimitri. Your service as Premier has ended” “Nonsense!” “I have signed Affadavits from all the major stakeholders in this country appointing me as supreme leader, and I now own 51% of the land in Russia, 75% of the natural resources, and 95% of the uranium, plutonium, petroleum, and 100% of the Forrest.” Dimitri looked like someone had punched him in the stomach. “Dimitri, you can either step aside nicely, or I can make this hard on you. I have already anticipated every possible response you might have to our confrontation. Your immediate security personnel have no ammunition in their weapons. The peripheral security personnel have all been hired by me as of yesterday. The fuel has been siphoned from your car, your plane and your helicopter, all the phone lines to this building have been cut, and there is a plane hovering overhead disrupting all wireless communications and transmissions. Additionally, there is an explosive device in your jacket which will explode if I touch my right thumb to my right forefinger.” “I trusted you! Mikhail, how could you betray me?” “Dimitri, I will let you live as long as you agree to leave Russia immediately”...
The conversation was interrupted by an explosion. A grenade detonated steps away from where Mikhail and Dimitri were standing. Travis emerged from the smoke firing his electric rifle, pointed at Dimitri’s face. Lunging for cover, Dimitri’s jacket hit by the electric rifle, triggering the implanted explosive device and killing him instantly. Mikhail rolled to the side, making an evasive maneuver, spraying bullets from his AK47 in the direction of this mystery intruder. Travis was hit in the left eye, and twice in his left cheek, as he fell to the floor, he pulled the pin of a grenade. Mikhail, suddenly, realized this was something he had not planned for. The grenade detonated, obliterating Mikhail, Travis, and what was left of Dimitri.

Perspective

I am the whole world; within me dwells the lesser:
He who seeks but does not find,
He who questions and receives no answers,
He who attempts to change but cannot,
He who is futile in his solidarity,
He who is equally futile in community,
He who rages at the wrong,
He who preaches of the right,
He who pities himself,
Who pities others,
Who defines,
Who ceases to define,
Who mocks,
Who trembles,
Who falls,
Rises
Talks
Silences
Achieves meaning
Only to admit vanity
I the lesser dwell
As do others and no differently.

But

I am the whole world
From within, there I look out, upon myself,
I encompass, I transcend, I expand beyond infinity,
God could not contain me, the lives of billions
Could not surpass me, time could not define me,
Causality itself could not dictate me.

I flow asynchronously,
I wax indefinitely,
I grow unconditionally,
I play as a child

Im not writing this for facebook

I have an idea

It involves my ego and the opinions of others

I hate other people because they don't see things the way I do

But I am stuck conforming to the broken minds of other people

My idea is that I become selfish like everyone else

That way I can dive head first into this backwards society

Why the sudden change of heart?

I suppose it has all finally clicked and now I can see the light.

I can see now why politics is a career

I can see why actors are our most celebrated individuals

I can finally see why people are idiots:

It is because they try so desperately to protect their fragile egoes

by judging others and misjudging themselves

If there is one true skill that we all possess, it is our ability to distract ourselves from the inadequacies of our lives. Our ability to have conversations that always flow perpendicular to what is really important. Our ability to think we are great at something that we probably suck balls at.

Life is not easy, nor do I think it should be. But all the compliments, the fluffy pillows, and the feel good movies have done nothing to improve the quality of MY life.

What is lacking in my life?

Hard work. Deep, honest relationships. And sound self-confidence.

The ego is everything. Everyday I straighten up my shrine. I burn a candle and place chocolates to placate the ego gods.

Yet everything that I will pursue in my life has been done already. I am just another cluster of carbon with unoriginal, selfish desires.

And as I write this and confront the meaningless of my pursuits.... I am forced to probe my ego to discover what makes me better than 7 billion people.

nothing makes me better.

But nothing makes them better either.

Fat

I see a lot of fat people. I have put on a few pounds myself.

Maybe these people should get more exercise. I know they hate it. I know they see exercise as a pain not worth suffering.

But they need to set their eyes on the prize. The prize is health. The prize is self-esteem.

The prize is NOT fleeting satisfaction from food. It's just food and we act like it is a source of true happiness. Even the skinny people go on and on about the delicious foods they've discovered.

The skinny people know deep down that food doesn't equate to happiness. The fat people are wrong to believe this.

The average folks like myself pretend like food isn't that important, even though we see how enticing it is.

The solution is a determination to not let food control one's life. And that starts with a diet.

NaNoWriMo Freewrite Practice #4 – Atomic Tom

            He was conceived on the shaft of an atomic bomb plummeting toward utopia with a singular intention: death. In the age of missiles, paradise on earth was but a dream, one that lasted in principle only as long as agreement was maintained between the people. Certainly therefore it was questionable that utopia actually ever existed. The distant outcrop of humans, remotely quarantined from the rest of the despicable race, comprised mankind’s great hope. It was the blood diamond of millennia of rivalry, enmity, backstabbing, betrayal, and death. And for a moment, it lingered, as the hopes and dreams of a thousand nations manifested on a solitary island absconded by the ocean, embracing it and protecting it like a crown jewel. Unreachable, the refugees had thought. Undetectable. Unconscionable. But as the atomic bomb fell through the bluest sky, the two hellbent, quixotic dreamers hanging on knew that they would lay waste to humanity’s greatest moment. And so they bore a child: Tom. Tom was the bomb. Both the medium and the message, form and function, the spawn of the end-times.

The people targeted below looked up at the screaming coming across the sky, the foregone conclusion that they had wished away unto denial. For a moment they believed they had reached the apex of human interrelational and societal achievement. And in that final moment of solace, when the cycles of life would turn back toward death and it was revealed to all that humanity truly had nothing worth hoping for, they saw the animals riding the nuclear missile, copulating, ecstatic. This ultimate image was seared into their retinas as they withered under the combustion of the mushroom cloud, and the people were all gone. A stroke of ejaculation timed to the masterstroke of misanthropy. Obliterated, they did not weep. And Tom, his wild conceivers a disseminated tuft of charred dust strewn upon the land, rose up from the ashes. In their death, he was life.

Tom knew none of the rituals of his precedent humans, nor even what other humans were, or what he was. He was effectively a cultural blank slate, biologically wired with proclivities he would require ages to comprehend now that science had been erased, entirely without historical knowledge or any understanding whatsoever except his own present experience and observations. But, though he did not know it, in spite of so many years of discovery, education, advancement, mastery, and control, as the humans populated and depopulated the planet, none of it mattered because in this moment it was all wiped out, in this moment of his birth. He knew nothing of the other humans across the oceanic expanse who had sent his mother’s maiden missile arcing down upon utopia and endowing him with the chance of life.

Sprung up within radiation, he became fully formed the moment the bomb struck, and his first memory was the great enveloping of the past that stretched out and coated the sky, eclipsing the sunlight as it grew so terrible and mysterious and beautiful. Tom’s first breath was of this ominous dust, and it filled him with a sadness that he did not understand as he absorbed and oxidized his ancestors and their dreams. He swallowed their happiness and smiles with his first gulp, his mouth chock-full of their stories. He drank their wonder, and he excreted their misery.

In this squalor he made his first choice, which would come to define his existence in this strange land: he stepped forward. He felt what he did not know to be particles of bones sift and crunch under his heavy feet. He was naked, and the humans that once existed cut him as he walked, reminding him of something he never knew. It was a brave step because the atomic cloud had completely overtaken the sun, and it was pitch black. He did not have faith, just naiveté. Or maybe just nothing. He was not inhibited or ashamed or embarrassed or afraid. He just was, emboldened by the hopes of the dead that he inhaled, inspiration at its purest.

Tom did not know what to make of what he perceived around himself. He had no language and no basis for discerning what he saw, heard, tasted. But he was conscious. He had a sense of self. He was aware of stimuli. The world spread out before him as a laboratory to discover. He had no sense of purpose necessarily, nor did he lack one. He simply was. He knew fire and ash and darkness and his nameless body, and from these reference points he moved forward as he made his decision and took his first step.

In a single step he traveled through the nostalgic grief of a first day of school, the dust of a mother’s smile as she and her wife send off their intersexual child from the door to an orange school bus at the curb. The women, arms interlocked, hands clasped, treasure the baby steps of their child as he skips toward the shuttle. A new beginning, hope, and anxiety all wrapped into a memory of possibility. The success of a people, distilled into this first grader’s gait. A post-sexual, post-gender, post-stigma, post-discrimination society: the quintessential state of sociocultural liberalism. He steps onto the bus, greeted by a firm but kind driver with a symbolic destination: the sustained education of utopia’s first native generation. Precious cargo in an orange vessel, ripe to be picked and squeezed, the bitter juice sweet. The salvation of centuries of hatred. The women watch as he is carried away toward school, but first to pick up other dreams along the road. The women kiss. Their ash scrambled further under Tom’s foot, he would never know their triumph.

Tom inhaled a lonely widow. She sits on the edge of her bed, still. Childless and bereft, she looks past the floor into the land’s bowels, unrooted, unanchored, drifting. Her thoughts ebb and flow in the port of experience, buoyed by the rush in and bobbing with the undercurrent. She remembers a distant planet where love danced. Freedom. She swirled on the floor with her infinite husband. A grin, etching across her mind’s eye, shuttered. The exposure is too great to bear, and she rests, exhausted from the vision going back. She places her hand on his chest, tremulous as he dips her down, his hand supporting her under the nape, as in a heartbeat she descends to mere inches below the floor, her blood electric and her eyes thunder. She gazes up in her memory, his eyes uncolored and black and deep and endless. The dream washes over her, and in that moment she is paralyzed on the bed, stricken. Tom breathed her in and her bristling feeling permeated his veins as she was transported into his bloodstream with her love run afoul. Tom exhaled, never wiser, love lilting, extinguished. The gravity of her vitality dissipated toward the expansive atomic cloud, the end of hope.

Tom inherited a legacy of crises forced from their many moments through the annals of human history. All for naught. At once that he senselessly proliferated the waste laid to the emotion that seemed so meaningful, he denied its validity. It never existed, and it never mattered. His unconscious muse, he carried forward unwitting, insensitive to the pains taken by those who came before, the unconscious culmination of trying so hard but never succeeding to signify. He was the death knell of hope, further propelling life and all its turmoil apart, cutting its very particles with the gnashing of his teeth, separating its molecules with his breath, smashing it with his step, decimating it with his conception. Atomic Tom moved forward, the progeny of animals fucking purposelessly on a convoy of destruction, rendering meaninglessness even moreso. He was the blind putting forth to the fire, life from death, meaningless, searching, aspiring upon inspiration. The simultaneous end and beginning of nothing and hope.