Magnetic Flight [concept]

Things had gone from bad to worse. Lester took the last of our coils then bolted. The work flow bucked, and every worker leveled questioning eyes at me, their leader. What should I have said? I don’t know where things are headed, and Maybe Lester was right to leave when he did. But the respect he stole from me in that moment wasn’t something I could get back in the foreseeable future.

A call was made, and some spares were shifted back in for us. A good majority of the team had nothing to do, so I found it hard to insist that they stay for the remainder of their shift. We made quick work of the last few in the line with very little trouble, but the air had stalled already, and no one knew what else to feel.

The next morning, I headed into the factory by myself just before sunset, talking in the place when it was vacant. I’d pace down the aisles and knock on the tin machine until it stared to sound a little like a song I knew.  But each time I came to the center of the building, I’d pause, feeling for the person I knew wouldn’t be there. I must have been there a while. I could feel the warmth of the sun spilling through the windows onto the factory floor. In a few minutes the earl morning crew would be pouring in, once they see the doors open. I needed to get myself together and face them all head on about the situation, otherwise I’d lose control of the situation. I knew what I had to do but couldn’t pull my legs from their spot.

The week continued like this. Mew saying nothing, and the crew growing conspiratory.  Lester wasn’t the type to stand for the sort of thing. He’d have, in the first hint of uprising, dug a finger in the strongest willed of the workers and demanded that they speak their grievances. If they failed to comply he would claim that whatever it was held more weight in though than in practice. I’d have admired him for that and swore that had it occurred to me I’d have done the same. Only now in seeing my failure to catch his dissent in time that I see how little stomach I had for confrontation. I wasn’t Lester. There was no way I could square my shoulders at an opinion they had every right to share. I couldn’t demand loyalty when I myself doubt my leadership. Maybe that’s why Lester left. He could spot the train wreck a mile away and wanted to be as far away as possible when the collision finally hit.

 

—-

 

I remember the morning before we found Morgan’s body. I was trying my hand and fly fishing, while Lester manned the paddle. I always thought the art looked majestic and he believed I looked like an ass hat. He said I looked like a child playing at fishing with a stick and some string. Not that I could argue with him, without catching one, was beginning to think fly fishing was a sort of urban legend people passed around to make a character or ancestor seem more impressive than they really were. Like Odysseus and his impossible bow string. I’m sure any wood would have cracked under that pressure.  After about a minute or two of dicking around I finally caught a small fish whose name I didn’t know. Lester spouted about water currents and native swimmers like he had been fishing all his life, and not at all like he looked it up on his phone while he waited for me.

Out of the blue, our little boat, buckled and swerved over something big. I nearly hurled my fishing rod over the edge.  We were righted in a second thanks to Lester’s help, and we checked to see what the heel we just hit. Lester joked about keeping the head if it was a deer, and something about fishing being far more interesting than he remembered it. But then the body pushed to the water’s surface, revealing a shirt and a bloated tight skinned body. The veins were blue and thin and everywhere. His hair was all clumped and messy. If the coroner hadn’t cleaned him up, Lest and I never would have believed it was Morgan. Not with how he looked in that river bank.

My stomach flipped and sank all at once while Lester confirmed it was a person. I just could wrap my head around seeing a dead body like that. Or the smell. Lest made a face and lead me out away from the river before dialing the police. They were there in a matter of minutes, taping off the area and asking us how we were and what we saw.

I always thought Lester took it better than I did. He handled it with such mild temper that I almost forgot he and Morgan shared a room Sophomore year. He was close to him in a way couldn’t ever have been, and yet I acted like it was some blight on my life. Lester probably hated me for that.

Morgan’s sister Italia and I only met because of his funeral. I mean, I had seen her when she identified the body, but we hadn’t spoken in the precinct. The air was too thick with mourning and disbelief. She found me later and asked if I was the one that arranged the flowers for the procession. I had, but only because it was the one piece of personal information I knew about Morgan, aside from his sister being his only family. I felt that it was the least I could do. We walked for a minute, her waiting for a ride, and me waiting on Lester to take us home. Suggested that she head back with us, but she insisted she didn’t want things to be weird. I assumed it was because she was still mourning her only family left, but when Lester arrive I realized it was something deeper. I was sure they had history, but no one ever confirmed. I asked Lester, but he insisted it was nothing. Regardless, he offered to take her home.

She lived only a block away from me, so we attended the same gym. After a while I got used to spotting her in the reflection of a reflection. Sometimes I would ask her over if I knew Lester wouldn’t be there. Sometimes she’d show me how to make the mud colored shakes she boasted were healthier than anything she found in my pantry. She seemed to be handling the loss well, but every so often I’d catch a glimpse of her on the treadmill and she looked so miserable. I knew that she was trying not to focus on it with company.

Eventually she stopped warning me before she came over, instead I’d just find her at the doorway, holding a basket of grass and seeds and explaining the supposed health benefits before she even checked that I opened the door. For the most part they were welcome surprises, until she came over while Lester was hogging my PlayStation on the couch.

I opened the door and she rattled of the health benefits and how the smell had nothing to do with the flavor, while letting herself into my kitchen. The voice alert Lest and the two caught eyes over my kitchen counter. I could barely get a word out before Lest gave me a look, not yet accusatory but so honestly caught off guard that my stomach dug a pit beneath itself. Italia tried to be cordial and greeted him immediately, but Lester’s mind was so out of place that he didn’t even reply before asking me about her. I told her we attended the same gym and that she lived nearby, but Lester was already setting up his things to leave.

I don’t think he was trying to make a scene, but it didn’t sit well with Italia when he did. She asked if he couldn’t even be in the same room as her now. He just shook and head and waved his hand a bit, still slinging his pack over his shoulder and grabbing for his hat. Italia huffed and took off before even he could. I couldn’t follow what happened, but I think I hurt Lester for the second time since his college roommate died.

 

The whole event left me for want of want of company over the next few days. That I

until I found Italia outside of my door, holding a crumpled card and rubbing furiously at her nose. He eyes were slightly swollen, and he face was burning red. I t was like she had been crying all day. But the knit in her brow made it clear she was more than just sad, she was livid.

Apparently, some night after the event with Lester, the detectives on Morgan’s case found something. It seemed that they had rules Moran’s case out as a suicide far too quickly. They asked if they could dig up the body but not before hinting at the idea that Italia might have been the killer. This peeved her so much that she had to speak to somebody about it. Since her brother’s death had alienated her from her friends over the last week or so, I was the only one she could turn to. I swelled the urge to ask shy she didn’t talk to Lest about it, but I think she could read it on my face none the less.

” Lest and I” she started then stopped immediately. ” We were together for a while. But since my brother and him were so close, he decided it would be too weird. I mean. He picked my brother over me”

 

She laughed it off, but I could tell it still bothered her. Lester wasn’t the type to think anyone thought about him seriously. HE always talked about romance like it was made up to make people feel better, like the adult equivalent of the Easter bunny. It wasn’t the sort of thing he expected for himself, or anyone he was with. Italia just ended up getting the boot of that. She pinched her arms still wrapped tightly around herself and sniffed.

I wasn’t sure what to tell her. Lester had been my closest friend since high school and I couldn’t put myself at ease at the sake of his reputation. So, I merely nodded, kneading my hands into my thigh.

“I… I should have- I don’t know what I came here. I’m sorry. you don’t have to-”

“No, no it’s….” It didn’t really want to say fine. It certainly wasn’t but “you can keep going if you want. I mean, or you could up. Do you want to talk about the case?”

she paused for a moment, not really following what I meant, before creasing her brows again.

“Those assholes think I had something to do with my brother-with him”

Her expression didn’t change but he voices cracked[sole] taking on the responsibility of expressing her feelings. I figured out what she meant. From what the police had told her, she was the only person her brother had been in contact with over that last month, and it was a squabble about their inheritance.

Italia just didn’t want Morgan wasting it on a mother career that wasn’t helping him do anything with his life. She thought that if her parents had been alive they’d have never wanted him to be an engineer, he didn’t have the mentality for it.  According to Italia every engineering job he had gotten he had been fired for ignore his assignments in favor of pet projects. Something about self-suspension and coil magnetism.

“Morrie should have been a scientist of a physician of a fucking teach or whatever else! Anything but a bucking civil engineer! I just…. he was trying to go to school for Entrepreneuring. Like. What the fuck. Can you imagine Morgan trying to sell fucking stocks or a gladdened vacuum or something?”

She ran a hand through her hair, the topic wearing her out faster than a 10-mile run.

” I mean, that was my major” she looked up at me as I spoke ” that and business management. And I… I never sold a fucking vacuum”

I meant it as a joke. But Italia just stared at me a minute. A whole 60 seconds before she faced the ground, hair obscuring her face.

“Your so damn weird, David” I could hear her smiling before she looked at me. That was better. I think.

Knights and MAERS: prologue

Prologue

–

Shrubs.

Shrubs were difficult to keep from peeking out the Northern most walls’ cracks. Poisons of all types seemed feeble against these persistent coiling weeds, stretching and feeling their way through the king’s stone. Though Youth often found mindless joy in tracing out pictures in the cracks, sliding pudged fingers down and around in polygonal swirls, one such child would find a feathered fissure spreading from where his favorite knight was constellated. This gap, carved by the vines of the Youlteer forest, would be large subject of debate amongst the soldiers who guarded the Northern wall, as well as the hand maidens of the Bricketten Fort less than a day away. Had The Great T’Om’A known his impermeable wall would be crumbled by vines and twigs, he’d have scorched the woods outside it, centuries ago.  That, perhaps, would have spared his kingdom the fate to befall it in the next winter; The collapse of the Sandre Towers.

 

The Dolcer, owners of the Bricketten Fort, were a house most notable for being the founders of the Pathol Herb. Once made to remedy the aches of loss and soothe the pains of heartbreak, many now saw Pathol as a drug stolen from the Youlteer Maers, the mystic demons of the Forrest. This did little to sway the reach of the family’s power. They still built along the entire north of Sandre, hanging banners on all their men could settle and Bricketten fort still sat on a high hill overseeing the wall and town square. Winds and rains attacked the cobble stone and as they did very little to chip at its wall’s face, neither could any man ever hope to tear it down. Vines, however, vines crawled and slithered along its edge, wrapping long fingers round the fixture as if nature had its grip on all man’s creations, big or small. The Green and white form was what stood as the pillar, most eyes slid to the moment they entered Bricketten. Not so much the flag that hung along it.

Logan, draped in black and cerulean attire, adjusted his sleeves and when he caught sight of the structure, grimaced deeply. The so called Happy Valley, reeked of the town’s highest commodity, Pathol. It ruminated like perfume through every pathway, and every alley. His face scrunched paling his nose and stretching his features. A rare expression here it seemed, because every person in the near vicinity seemed to give him tense looks. He was obviously, and outsider. A robust man spotted his unease and tentatively ambled his direction. Logan noted his suppressed smile, ruddy cheeks, and the way his brows seemed to leap comically from his eyes every time he caught Logan’s. He must have been a well-known man, with how every third person seemed to greet him on his way over. Of course in a place like this, Logan thought, It might just be the custom for all people. This made him snort at the moment the man reached him, who in tern dusted his fingers off on his clothes.

“Pardon my appearance, Sir. Logan. We weren’t entirely sure when you’d be making it. People often tend to make a left at Pyre Creek, but here we are at the right. Haha” The man laughed, thoughtlessly stroking the short beard he wore. How strange, Logan thought, to plan for the failing of others rather than the success, so ineffective.

“But, to be fair, I’d probably not look every different myself” He shifted where he faced and gestured that Logan follow, peering expectantly over his shoulder in wait. Logan looked the man over quickly, at his pale cream trousers, and pale blue cloak, and nodded before stepping to his side. He fanned ahead of himself, suggesting the man lead the way.

They walked in what Logan would have preferred to be silence, but was instead an exchange of questions and single word answers. The man named himself to be Ken of the house Guinne. Logan stilled for a moment, House Guinne held a substantial fortune and owned Castle KaJa off the Southern Bay. Few but the Lords handpicked by King Sandre could afford even lodging in the Maypel Sea. To have a castle there, Logan boggled. He picked up his step quickly enough to avoid the potential concern this Ken was sure to exude. Yet, now he felt as though he had little to no bearing on the mentality of those who chose to reside here. For the first time he was at a loss.

“ No need to feel nervous, Sir Logan. Our provincial Lord Patton is a kindly man. He would take no qualms with you, Regardless of your sour expression.” Guinne assured, seemingly feeling Logan’s apprehension.

It dawned on Logan that he hadn’t stopped scrunching his face against the town’s sweet odor. He relaxed his features as best he could, hoping it was passable. Couldn’t let his own partialities ruin this meeting on behalf of the prince, now could he. Such a display is against the image of the Logos region. His sleeves were adjusted again, and Logan spared Guinne a parting look as they neared House Dolcer’s North Manor. They both nodded and parted ways, Guinne offering a Mirthful laugh, and waving his way back to the Town center. Logan, however, paled at the etched stone mural on the manor’s gate, it was painted on with vibrant colors by what seems to be the town’s children.  So taken aback by the sight, he nearly reached out to feel it it were real. With his nails barely reaching the paint’s edge, he heard a loud clank.

The defaced gate opened slowly, and thirty paces off, Logan could see the bronze haired lord being chased by a horde of children, yelping happily as he dodged their attempts at him.

“What have I agreed to?” Logan contemplated, incensed.

Cover Letter?

To   ,

I am often at a loss thinking what one should put in the Cover letter of an Unemployed Citizen Below drinking age. The letter of an American who has only qualified to vote once in her life, couldn’t have much in it to parallel that of a Worker whose firm defended Bill Clinton in the late 90s. My experiences are diverse, yet small in scope. Immense distinctions to the country I hope to contribute to -via the work force, took place before I could attend any form of schooling. These are misgivings, I am aware, that could cost me a chance to even be considered for any occupation. So, now that these issues have been addressed to the best of my ability in this introductory paragraph, I could only hope what I have left of this letter could persuade those reading this, to look beyond them.

In all my career choices, I seek something to ease the pressures of payments, solitude, or a lack of purpose. To ignore these calls would prompt me for failure, the kind that yields no chance for recovery. Life, even for someone so young, can press in any direction it chooses; past childhood dreams, past yearlong aspirations, and past the point of no return. These pressures are the reason I seek employment. I can survive on little to nothing, however, I wouldn’t be living. The will to live, truly live- in that way someone so young can still use to define her future, is what urges me to this job opportunity, to this career path. As much as I want comfort, I want success. I want what those of my era fight for: the freedom from boredom. I can’t find it in a device that breaks from falling the distance it’s expected to be held, nor in Films that make me want life to glow and be polished. I find it in work and achievements, in goals and milestones, in the pride I have in what I create. It is how I chose what to do with my time.

While volunteering for the several Conventions under Florida SuperCon, I was given opportunities I yearned for: to lead, support, and take orders. We stood guard of people whom we admired and did so silently, regardless of the opportunity to ask questions, or share stories. We guided those waiting in the Miami sun, into the areas of shade or at least cooler air. We managed crowds of people angry, scared, anxious, and hyper alike. We took breaks when necessary, but they were few and far between, because if we were needed, we were there. Our discipline would cost only our Supervisors’ respect, but for us, that mattered more. The pressure of my work, should it prove to be mentally rewarding, is enough to relieve the stresses outside of it. I wouldn’t mind 19 hours a day, the hours I held at FSC for free, so long as I am working for a company I believe in.

My hope is that my presence in your company, is one of drive and purpose. I believe that my presence would be helpful, and necessary. I wish to further the goals set by your people and their outlook for the future, yet,  can only guarantee my time, effort, and my best.

I am aware this is a childish cover letter, but it is the closest definition of the person submitting this resume- attempting to be hired by those reading this, I can offer. I was told that this is the point of a cover letter, and I hope it was worth the read.

Thank you for your time,
C***** H****

 

 

Thomas Ch.2

When first Peter and Thomas met, it was at a get-together between all of Mary’s closest friends. Of those people Peter had been Mary’s friend the longest; all through elementary, middle, and the first two years of high school. After sophomore year she moved to attend Villeford Academy for the Gifted in Michigan then a yet-to-be-mentioned college. This get together was the first time Peter had seen her in over 5 years, and she still maintained the position as the love of his life. Although, along with childhood friends like Peter , Mary also invited some from Villeford and her oh-so-illusive college. With that crowd came Thomas, a lithe well-toned, 22 year old man with tattoo sleeves and piercings on both his left brow and lower lip. Though shaved bald, Thomas had platinum blond lashes and vicious blue eyes. This man, introduced as “Tommy” Mary’s Ex from college, apparently was “sweet once you get to know him” and had a smile that could “light the whole city”, or something along those lines. All Peter knew was that he looked like a psycho, and he hated that guy.

“I hate that guy” Peter informed Mary on their walk, strategically far enough so Thomas wouldn’t hear him.  She threw him a look, the kind that was both disappointed and judgmental. He hardly knew the guy, Peter was aware, but Mary still felt the need to tell him aloud. He wanted so badly to say he knows, and that she was right, but something about that guy wouldn’t sit well with him. There was something so carnal about the way he looked at people, and looked at Peter in particular. It was as if ending Peter’s life wouldn’t make it the list of important things he’d do in a day. It made Peter shudder, even hours later when he was alone with the girl of his dreams, and Thomas’ cold eyes were nowhere in sight.

“I think you’re just intimidated. My roommate was, too when he met him” She added. Male roommate? Great, another thing for Peter to panic over. “And Matthew is taller than him”

Taller than 6’3, Peter thought, who was this guy? Mary continued her story unaware, waving her hands from side to side as she set the scene of the two men meeting. Her right hand waved cowardly seeming to avoid her left. Peter’s eyes narrowed at the left hand, imagining how she would have displayed him and Thomas meeting. Mary’s eyes traced his.

“What, it’s not like he was cheating on his boyfriend! He’s just cute.” She quipped. So Thomas was gay? Then that look was-Was he checking him out? He was sure he wasn’t Thomas’ type. Then again Thomas didn’t look like he had a type.

“He’s gay?” he asked before his mind could keep up. No wonder she was defensive about him, calling him Tommy and what-not. She must be used to people being weird about-

“Yeah you think I’d room with a straight guy? As if!” she chuckled.

Peter was confused again. So, she was rooming with Thomas. His eyes shifted to the right hand. But then her roommate met Thomas…? He looked to the left hand again. Thomas met himself? This was all getting far too philosophical for Peter’s taste. Who was Matthew again? Then a voice in the back of his mind rolled its eyes at him. ‘Her roommate is gay, not Thomas’ it said. Oh. It was the only way everything she said would make sense, but for some reason that made Peter feel stranger than before. Probably because that meant that 1) Thomas was still a predatory creep, 2) he use to actually date Mary and 3) He’s a straight predatory creep that use to date Mary. Suddenly the world was flat again, and Peter couldn’t make sense of anything.

“So, no need to be jealous.” She winked. Usually Mary’s false flirting made Peter happy. Knowing that her 6’4 and above roommate was into other men really should have evened him out too. But instead it rolled right off. Its place taken by the looming fear of something that had long passed.

“Oh…right.” he shook himself to his senses. There’s nothing to worry about anymore, right? He smiled down at her warmly as they continued their conversation. This was the first occasion when Peter realized he would rather be hit by a car than have to deal with Thomas ever again. The second, was a half hour later when Thomas decided to bite Peter on the ear and try to stab his hand with a Meat skewer. That all was handled well on Thomas’ part, Peter thought, considering all he did was ask him for the garlic dip.

If he was lucky, he’d never cross paths with him again.

Then one month later, Thomas showed up at Peter’s work, dislocated his shoulder, and slapped an address to the back of his neck.

When he got there he was confused, really confused. The address didn’t have any names it was just numbers and a zip code. He had tried to put the whole thing into a GPS and all it did was guide him to the middle of nowhere. His finger dug at his scalp, stinging more and more. He probably picked a scab by mistake. This all was a huge mistake. ” Florida Man Takes Directions of Psycho into the middle of God knows where and Expects not to get Axe Murdered”, what a fucking joke. He crumpled the receipt in his fist, still shaking. Peter really wanted to blame his rattling on the cold weather, but he know full well what caused it, who caused it. He knew why he was here too, in the middle of nowhere after sun set. Thomas’ display at Malboroux made Peter very aware of how little Thomas worried about an audience. He wouldn’t lead Peter away just to kill him, he’d do that just fine in a crowded market. Which is what Peter feared would happen if he ignored Thomas’ request.

Heart be still, he pleaded, but the pulsing thrashed harder against his neck, ears, and hands. He felt like he was swallowing his own stomach every time he took a breath. Jumping at the cracking of a pen under his own feet, Peter paused. He could rationalize it all he’d like, but he was still very much afraid. Deciding to hold his breath, he stepped cautiously down the long abandoned road. All the old buildings to his sides were boarded up and closed. Did places like this really exist? An old missing child flyer rolled against the ground. The blood in Peter’s veins ran cold. It was a boy by the name of Thomas with platinum blond hair and ice Blue eyes.

“Threw that in because I figured it’d screw with you.” A bitter voice spoke from behind him. Peter hated the way Thomas’ voice made him feel like nails raked the inside of his lungs. This all was an intimidation tactic? Peter’s eyes flitted around the area. It all seems real enough.

“Where’d you find this place?”

“I live here.” The answer was immediate but his voice sounded different, even a little surprised. Peter turned to face him, burying his nails into his palms. He looked different too, like he wouldn’t punch him in the face just for breathing. Oh, his mouth was open. Most times Peter was too fixed on Thomas’ eyes when he spoke. Now they were … Normal, an aqua blue color. Slowly it all shifted back, Thomas’ mouth closed and his eyes shot back up in intensity, Ice blue again. “What?”

Peter was staring wasn’t he? He wanted to slap himself in the face. He already felt the pricks along his eyes, like he wanted to cry. No, he was going to demand to know why he was brought here. He had to act tough. It was the only thing stopping him form breaking. Damn, the intimidation tactic worked way too well. He gathered his sarcasm from his ankles and hiked them back in place. Change the topic back to why he was here…right?

“So, you went through all that effort for-” his body swayed against the bitter temperature outside,” Little old me?” He hoped meekly that the sarcasm would excuse his need to look away. Thomas smiled again, a bright dazzling grin. His eyes made their way back to the soft aqua, dilated, and open.

“Oh, you noticed?” His voice was smiling. Peter’s eyes flicked up cautiously. What. He was going along with it all? Peter’s eyes tracked down to his shirt. Lack of a shirt. Dude seriously, he wanted to say.

“This” Thomas swiped the flyer off the ground” Was fake. This” His hands waved lazily at the barren surroundings “This has been like that since I moved here.” He flung the paper at Peter’s direction.

Once the false flyer was wrangled from Peter’s face, he opted to look in Thomas’s general direction. However, by then he was already gone, the shape of his back retreating into some odd direction down the road. Peter whipped silent by the crisp of the wind, tuck-tailed and followed Thomas’s figure. There stood a law firm building made to look like the white house, pillars and everything, only smaller. The foreclosed sign had long peeled off and was now tucked somewhere behind the gap of the parking lot concrete and the median grass. Peter paused at the door frame, chipped and peeled along the sides, curling the paint chips beneath his fingernails. The atmosphere of his visit had changed so drastically and he really needed a breath. What did he do? What had he done right? Passed the door threshold the lights were a warm yellow and reds radiated off of couches onto the walls. They were all arranged to face a certain direction to a corner. It had a white shadow outline like something was resting against it and had more recently been moved. To the right, there was the open door with Thomas standing, holding the thing open for him.

Peter stepped in quickly. Just as Thomas’ back was turned to lock and chain the door, Peter swallowed as much of his scenery as possible, as quickly as possible. Where Thomas was standing before, led to a corridor with multiple parallel rooms. He assumed they must have been offices originally. To the left there was another one exactly matching in everything other that the restroom signs and the water fountain. Ahead was what Peter guessed must have been the lobby. The blank space between all the couches would’ve been the area for the coffee table.

“So you’re probably wondering why I gathered you all here.” Thomas said into Peter’s ear, hands firm on his shoulders. Peter in response shivered and shrieked, pulling away to face him.

‘You all’ he recalled. Frantically he spun around searching the corners of the room for something or someone he had missed. Thomas’ amused cackling rang against all the hollow walls and cornered Peter’s head. All he could think about were those recently escaped prisoners he heard about on the radio while driving there.

“Who else is-“Peter stopped. Asshole, he thought.

“I’m sorry” Thomas breathed clutching his stomach and knees interchangeably. “ Oh man…No I’m really not” He huffed a laugh hoping he could stop himself. He couldn’t. He barked out another louder and harder than the last one. “What…dude are you afraid of just people? Regular old Joe’s crossing the street. Ahh No!” managed through the pants and hoots. “ I haven’t even said anything yet”

“You didn’t tell me anyone else was coming.” He combatted.

“I didn’t know you had a trigger warning against PEOPLE!” Thomas was laughing so hard now. Not even cynically, but genuinely. His eyes shone like the surface of Caribbean beaches, vivid beautiful Blues.

“I don’t.” Peter smiled himself at the sight. Thomas had a great smile and a rich laugh. It was this moment, though crude, that he was glad he came even if only for a joke.

Yeahs, Rights, and misconceptions were exchanged. Thomas held his smile to the end of their conversation. One that mentioned that the ‘you all’ was just a reference to a movie he had watched earlier, and no one else was there. One that somehow lasted a half hour before actually moving on to why Peter was there in the first place. One that made Peter understand why Mary described him the way she did. Then Thomas lost his face. His eyes were lidded, and his smile gone.  The weather outside finally seemed to hit within the walls. It was freezing.  Despite the couch’s warm fabric.

“Mary” Thomas stated as though it clarified everything.

“What? What about-“

Thomas was less than a breath away in an instant. The look in his eyes were vicious and unrelenting, his pupils pin holes. From ice to Fire, Peter felt he was suffocating in Thomas’ presence. The couch yielded to the pressure of Tom’s fist beside Peter’s head.

“I know how you feel about her,” he looked down the length of Peter’s face, “How she feels about you”

Peter’s heart thudded in his chest, loud and pounding heavy at its cage. The sweat dried against his skin and he felt if asked to do anything, he would concede, Just for the answer. The question barely left his lips as Thomas said what he knew to be true.

“You aren’t her type.”

Outside the window, in the desolate strip before this white House shaped office Space, Papers wisped and fluttered onto the ground. The pages, torn and folded. The buildings quiet yet swelling. The sun had long since set, letting the swift and heartless cold winds dance and carry on. It beat at windows and slammed against doors when rowdy enough a crowd. They were starting their festivities before Peter even came in, yet as Thomas mouthed the words of rejection, they paused to watch the spectacle. Poor boy, he could almost hear them say.

When Thomas’ fingers slid down the side of his face, Peter’s thoughts stuttered. They paused at his jaw, thumbing the shaved hair bristles. They were warm, his fingers. They were both rough and smooth, harsh and calm. They hushed him into silence, then forced themselves, biting into his skin. No blood came.

“She asked me to apologize to you for being so forceful. Do you believe that? Apologize to you for what?” He eyed Peter’s lips again. He saw the teeth piercing them. “Because you’re weak and desperate or someone who doesn’t want you? No. I refuse.”

“Then what is all of this?” he asked mindful of the small specs of blood coming off his teeth, but nothing else. Thomas shifted from leaning down next to him, to kneeling into his thighs on top of him. His hands crushing Peter’s jaw.

“I’m going to help you. Honestly, I hate the way she dangles you around because he doesn’t have the heart to break you down. If you do me a favor” It was said against his ear. “I’ll try to fix it.”

Then he dug his teeth into Peter’s shoulder.

Thomas was an artist. He painted people places and things with part of the items that made them. He wanted to portray a weak and pitiful man, cowering from life in his comfort. For that he’d need Peter, the coward.

Thomas Ch.1

The vacuum filling the center of Thomas’ eyes, could strangle the subject of his sight in miles of black and blue space. They were accusing, merciless, and bitter holes, Rounded by electric and all seeing Cyan coils, tuning and constantly resetting in hues. When locked with a man’s unsuspecting stare, they’d trap him, clutching around his neck and squeezing so tight he could hardly breathe.

Monday June 15th, those feeling were obvious in Peter’s eyes: Confused, scared, surprised, and choked. Thomas’s look dulled, and slid down to the Cashier table. His conveyor belt would slap its uneven hinges against itself every 12 seconds or so. Peter had the belt off and his hand back at his sides, without a single breath. The Entrance bell chimed, signaling another customer pacing through for crap products. He exhaled then. Thomas took a step back, now no longer within the guy’s breathing space, and almost out of arms reach. Stray thoughts in Peter’s mind seemed to calculate how tall Thomas would have to be to step back so far with so little distance between his knees. He stared at his knees for a long moment, brows curling more and more.

Hadn’t Peter and he met before? Maybe he never had time to notice the height difference. Whatever it was, made Peter seem like more of a cowering child, and less like a man every second.

Chasing after his fleeting masculinity, Peter squared his shoulders, kind of, and steadied his eyes. But with the way he eyed the floor, anyone could tell he had a thing for linoleum tiles. The clacking of shoes and bickering of parent and child hummed and dotted through the Supercenter. Thomas’ bare forearms wrapped around each other. He was losing patience. Peter stammered through the Store’s greeting ‘G-Good morning and welcome to’ swallow ‘to Malboroux Super Cent- ’. It was all real cute. Before he could properly register the motion, Thomas was fisting his vest, and pulling him half over the counter, smashing the boy’s shoulder against the cash register. The store became very quiet.

Finally.

Thomas scarcely narrowed his gaze before the vest yielded to his grip and tore down the middle. Malboroux, cheap products and Cheap fucking Uniforms.

Tossing Peter back over the table he held fast to the vest collar. Retrieving a small receipt with an address scrawled on the back, he slapped it onto the back of Peter’s bared neck. Then sauntered off, out the door. He needed a cigarette, only peeking his head back in after two puffs.

“Eight O’Clock” and he was out the door again.

Through the store’s window between the ‘Item of the day’ and “50% off” signs he could see Peter shuffling to get himself back together. Two middle aged women and their more excited than concerned children, questioned him at the table. Their words were worried and frightened. Peter gestured like he was explaining that he and Thomas had only just met, and that this had never happened before. They nodded in understanding, and the child who spotted him through the glass pointed and pulled at their parent’s arm, ignored. Thomas pivoted to look behind him, ‘who me?” he mouthed, smiling. Somewhere along the way he noticed that behind him was a clear “No Smoking” Sign.

‘Well shit’ was muttered, and his cigarette was tossed to the floor and stamped. By then Peter had spotted him and stared, his eyes filled with fear and anger. From his spot at the counter, Peter couldn’t really see Thomas cross the street, but he seemed at ease feeling he was out of sight. The boy’s hands were still shaking when his top heavy boss closed in on him.

He waited half an hour then Thomas left the store’s parking lot, hiking down his sleeves again.

It was fucking cold outside.

Oak Street is said to have four light poles in the town square that have never

Oak Chapter 1

Oak Street is said to have four light poles in the town square that have never –since their initial setting in 1878, turned on. They hadn’t flickered, nor glowed, nor made any vague humming or popping noises to indicate they malfunctioned. There was no sign of their ever turning on or even being broken, until June 15^th 1993 at around 4 p.m. (eastern Pacific Time). At first no one took notice. This could have been because of a variety of reasons: The weekly riots going on by the Swistle Opera house around the same time that day (Tuesdays were always riot day); Or another reason could have been how seldom people of Oak Street went to the town square. Since the town just a skip over– Palinchrome, had recent trouble with sewage, and plumbing in general, it was often left barren and so was the Square.

Either way, the subtle glow of these aged lights went unnoticed by the town. And as the days retired and the years took over, the four poles all arranged in their perfect envelope, shone brighter and brighter. 17 years later again by June 15^th, all four had blown–along with the entire electric system of the town.

Some miles off, on Sycamore lane, third house down—the one with the ratty lawn, Emily Gil was blowing out stumpy birthday candles. The boy across from her had droopy half-lidded eyes, and Emily was furious. Most times the lids over her eyes crushed and curled into themselves and her small hands balled into taught fists. The weight of the world pounded their way into the gaunt hunched shoulders she hated. Emmanuel, the girl’s brother stared vacantly at her fuming face and tensed only the slightest. Most days he’d call to her, ask for her to calm herself. Today, their shared birth date, was the epitome of Emily’s hate for the world, for God, for everything. “Why pretend” she’d say sometimes, “Why pretend I matter!” then She’d look to the droopy eyed boy and curse him too. It wasn’t for his existence that she cursed him, it was for his silence. Instead of a reply, he’d think how young she looked when she was angry, how childish.

“When I leave” she started “I’m taking you with me.”

He nodded blankly at the frosted dessert, ignoring her statement. He never got a cake; he was allergic to flour.

“Did you make a wish…?” words he meant to say strongly but watched fall into an almost silence. Emily glared at him. She wasn’t mad at him, not him. The situation was what bothered her, the nonsense. There, in their dark loft of a room, in the dirt caked wood panels, they spoke their thoughts aloud because their parents’ opinions were worthless and always had been. They’d prefer not to let them hear anything.

From behind the paper the realtor deemed worthy of the title ‘walls’, Rebecca stood from her chair. The slam carried throughout the building.  Both children shot heads towards the wall.

“Patrick.”

The woman, thirty-eight years old, with the mind of a child and verbal adequacy of a toddler, hadn’t spoken a single coherent sentence since her traumatic birth of the twins Emily and Emmanuel. Yet, That day, June 15^th 2010, she called for her husband eager to tell him

“The lights went out.”

The teens crept out of their room, stepped slowly down the stairs, held their breath. They knew what Lucid Rebecca meant; flashes of blood, picking out glass shards, trimming unleveled hair to match where the locks had been torn.  Lucid meant hide. The woman called for Patrick again and yanked her room door faster than the younger two anticipated. They froze. In her long nightgown, with her frayed hair, she looked at the wall ahead then at the staircase.  Eyes never really looked as glassy in person as they did in comics or cartoons, at least not to Emmanuel. Then again, he hardly got to see his mother in person. The pupils in those absent eyes constricted small as a pinhole and roared to life, blackening a whole three shades, and gaping.

“Mom….?” Emmanuel let out like an idiot.  He knew in an instant that Emily was staring at him, felt the holes burning his temples.

Anticlimactically Rebecca took a step back and stayed leaning on her heel for a long moment. Perhaps, they thought, perhaps she wasn’t adjusted to the light. This was of course wrong. Rebecca had a tall window by her chair that let in more light than the rest of the house. Light wouldn’t have fazed her in the slightest. Instead, she simply remembered something important: on Wednesday she had to check the lottery numbers. She had a dream about it. Then as quickly as they shriveled, her pupils swelled seemingly passed the confines of her iris. They were black then. Soon, without a word, she padded into her room and sat back in her chair, facing the window.

Though Emily had continued down the steps, Emmanuel watched the unoccupied space his mother was just in. It was at times like these that he reminded himself of her and her pitiful life. It was times like these when he realized that death was a gift and always had been. It was the escape from life that lacked the shame of murder and weakness of suicide. Times like these ruined the fine thread that held his life together, and also in some way kept him alive. After a couple of moments, Emmanuel would leave and his mother would forget having ever seen his face. Then some day off, perhaps three or four Emmanuel would lodge a knife through the pulse of his wrists and out the other end. This isn’t important just yet. But what matters is that it happened and for good reason.

On the ground floor, Emily shushed the boy before he uttered a word– before he had taken the last flight. She was calling their father, Patrick.  When the recorded message stated that ‘unfortunately the person she was trying to reach was not available’, Emily sighed slamming the phone crookedly onto the receiver and ignoring the dial-tone.

“He’s probably drunk somewhere…” she muttered. He often was, drunk that is. To him Alcohol solved all the problems welfare and Medicaid couldn’t. It was a therapist of some sort, one whom he had daily appointments with at 4 p.m. making it completely viable for the daughter of such a man to assume he had gone “on a bender”. But instead, Patrick was dead behind the cobble walls of the historic Oak memorial.  Neither child would find out the cause of his death nor would his body be found until several days past.  When discovered, there would be no shoes on its feet, and no shirt on its back, only a small singed symbol gone unnoticed behind his ears.

I Hate seeing You like this

Currently I’m sitting outside the door. I can hear his heart monitor going still. Since I’ve gotten here its beeped a total of 35 times. I don’t know why I’m here, I just finished work. I haven’t eaten since lunch and the Chinese food is still leaving track marks along my stomach. Thinking back on myself I think this was a horrid idea. If I’m being honest I don’t even know the man’s name. Even as I tell you this I have no idea how hes doing or if he wants me here. Still… I sit on hardened hospital chairs, smelling the anxiety of the last people to sit here, and wait. Waiting hasn’t ever been my strong suit. I have patience for things I know the outcome for. This is…My watch reads 7: 34 p.m. and glaring.  I have work tomorrow and the hospital is still half an hour from my house.

I’ve been here about 33-32 minutes and not a single thing seems to have changed. At a time like this I’m  ashamed of my mind for not remembering how long his surgery was said to take. For not remembering his name.

The Broom closet, room 631b, never closes, seems to always have someone coming in and out. I’m staring at it still. trying to ignore the long beep humming from the room in front of me. I tried to count down. Thirty…..twenty nine…twenty eight…Tweny seven….all the way down to Ten…Nine….Eight

“We’re losing him” a man inside shouts.

Seven.

“Clear”

Six.

“Nothing”

Five.

“Clear”

Four.

“…”

Three.

“Come on”

Two.

The Universe has a funny way of doing things. I opened my phone to turn off an Alarm signalling 8 O’clock, and realized That I got a message last night a few minutes after I got home. It read

“Goodnight Acer. Hope the Chinese doesn’t still bother you in the morning. 🙂 -Steve H.”

I Hate You….

The meal didn’t settle with me long. It churned, wriggled and writhed, and pressed it self against my naval. Steve didn’t notice, luckily. He seems to be the kind of guy not to let the trouble of it off his shoulders until hes assured of safety. Instead, I bared with it even while we left, while we exchanged numbers, while I got home. While clutching my soon to be sore stomach, I stared into the blank whiteness of my “new message”. I had his number and still not his name. I turned the screen off swiftly and attempted to lie on my back. The next day I came to work sore as expected and not particularly in the chatting mood. So I kept a keen eye out for the chatty new “friend” of mine. When thirty minutes passed and I hadn’t seen him come in, it erked me since I had been giving much attention to avoiding him, but he still hadn’t shown and still I remained conscious. He was very quiet, so I assumed I had missed him.

From my memories of the back of his head these passed few months, he hadn’t ever really missed work. He may have been late from time to time, or at least I could assume, not really knowing him all that well I didn’t have a note of his entering and leaving the building. So I let my guard down, it still itching to return to my side, afraid of another sudden scare. Yet, hours passed unnoticed due to my rather involved line of work, and no Freckles. No Steve. My minute alarm sounded for lunch.

When I took my seat across from the coffee pot, I found Cynthia staring blackly at me, her “Slug Day” lagging the blinking of her left eye, hand stuffed stably under her cheek. Her sigh, however, was out of sheer sadness. Millie joined the silence to pour hot water onto her tea bag. From here I could smell the Chamomile. Not sure why she would have that type of tea as any stimulant when in my experience all it ever did was put me to sleep. My brows shrugged while my shoulders felt too bothered to.

On a similar note to my internal musings, Mill asked what the matter was. In return Cynthia mentioned that her friend was in the infirmary, He had gotten into an accident walking home from a friends house. I sat up abruptly. He couldn’t have. Though it was an entirely plausible scenario, my mind couldn’t wrap itself around the idea.

“Not the mousy one with the freckles?” Mill denied. Cynthia only nodded and resettled herself onto her palm stating he always got himself into accidents like this. Recalling an anecdote I keenly identified, she stated how her friend, whomever he was, had broken the same arm five times now and The ‘poor thing’ could never keep it fixed. He was apparently damaged pretty bad and going into surgery the next afternoon. Somewhere along their conversation I heard Cynthia state that if she -Millie, wanted to visit, he “was staying in room 636 on the ————Hospital’s west wing.”

“I hope he’s alright” I added unheard, standing with my mug and leaving to return to work.

I Hate you?

I’m not sure what exact words I gave him to calm himself from his up and coming disappointment with himself, but what ever it was seemed to have worked flawlessly. I used ‘seemed’ because it had seemed to have worked flawlessly. That is, until he invited me to eat with him. My eyes lazily trailed to my raising wrist. ‘6: 38’ it read. Without much else to be occupied with on this particular day, I accepted. It was then, at that mint smelling Chinese place, in those old wooden chairs, staring at the abstract and absently attractive painting, that I found out how I knew him. We had met once, but it being his first day at the job and my being the kindest person to him there at the start of it all, he recalled my name so as to be a later conversant. Due to Paul- our floor leader- and his recent divorce to Muriel -his high school sweetheart- I was the most impressionable.

So It was my Month Coordinated Post-it note coloring, that gave him that awful idea to have a mountain of 37th edition Navy Blue ones on his desk. I cursed myself inwardly, but was still pleased with my effect on another. Perhaps if the world were filled with more people inspired by me, I’d have  quieter work-area. I am making reference to Kyle, only person in my row to listen to heavy metal and indigestible synth and technological themed music so loud it could be heard -from his headphones mind you- by the water fountain on the opposite side of the office. Yes, he sits directly to my left. Yes, he is a horrible pain. Yes, I digress.

Similarly my mind wandered while I heard this boy talk about himself, too occupied otherwise to record anything other than those truly interesting bits he’d add. In all this I had yet to hear his name, and If I did, I hadn’t remembered it long enough to tell it to you now. The ear catching bit he added, in case you wondered, was that he had broken the same arm four times. I was sure that after two they would have taken further precautions to avoid it happening again. I relayed this opinion to him and he too shared the ideal.

” I wasn’t exactly the most careful either” he added giving enough proof of this accusation to leave his doctors acquitted.

I laughed at that, shortly, quickly, I hadn’t even minded it myself. However, Steve found it the new topic of interest and gave a laugh of his own in turn. His laugh matched his face. His laugh was very him. I very much remember his face.