To The Plath Then (a Collection Of Creative Works)

To The Plath Then (A Collection of Creative Works) AN HONORS THESIS College of St. Benedict/St. John's University In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for Distinction in the Department of English by Casey Peterson April, 2005

Writing: It’s About Time… (An Introduction)

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Do a thesis of creative works, I thought. It will be easy, I like to write and it doesn’t really feel like work. How wrong I was. There were moments during the writing of this thesis when I could do nothing. On some level, a creative thesis is more difficult to produce than a research thesis. With the research thesis comes facts and figures, there is a base to jump off of. With a creative thesis, however, I had nothing but my mind and me. Contrary to popular belief, the mind is not always a friend. There were times when it refused to work, when it looked at something I spent a lot of time on and called it crap. It would feign amnesia. I learned the hard way that taking a break from writing is a bad idea. I won’t waste your time with a description of the writer’s block. I’m sure we’ve all been there. Instead, I want to talk about how I worked against it. In his “Advice to a Young Writer,” William Faulkner instructs: “Don’t be ‘a writer’ but instead be writing. Being ‘a writer’ means being stagnant. The act of writing shows movement, activity, life. When you stop moving, you’re dead”(Faulkner 2). This “death” is exactly what happened to me. I told myself, You’re a writer, it’ll be no sweat to crank out a couple of stories and shine ‘em up. Once again, I was wrong. Over the summer, I wrote several stories in my free time. After writing these stories I was mighty satisfied with myself. I thought

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it would be no problem to take a break from writing, and that I could pick it up again when I felt like it. I couldn’t. There were no ideas ripe for the picking, no muse ready with inspiration. In his book On Writing, Stephen King discusses the idea of muses. He says that “There is a muse, but he’s not going to come fluttering into your writing room and scatter creative fairy-dust all over your typewriter or computer station… You have to do all the grunt labor, in other words, while the muse sits and smokes cigars and admires his bowling trophies and pretends to ignore you”(King 144). And King’s right. That muse just sat there, stinking like smoke, and mocked my inability to write. I wanted to kick the shit out of him, but it’s not like it would have done any good. I’d still be unable to write anything worthwhile and he’d be even less likely to help my cause. Not writing is like putting your creativity into the freezer. Sure, it’s preserved and isn’t going to go bad any time soon, but if you want to use it again, you have to take it out and thaw it. It’s all about warming it up, flexing it out, and cutting through the freezer burn. I tried to write everyday, but everything that I wrote, I hated. Story after story, idea after idea died on me. Everything was dull; it felt like the same old story. The dialogue had no pop, the characters felt like words on the page and not like real people. This is imaginative atrophy. When a limb goes into a cast, the muscle shrinks from lack of use. The same goes for the imagination: not writing makes it go away.

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When you start writing again, you create the sort of crap I mentioned. And with drivel like that, I wasn’t someone who wrote, I wasn’t even a writer. I was just a wannabe. Writing is one of the most frustrating things that I do. I pour myself into words and then hate what I’ve written. This aversion to my own work doesn’t help the writer’s block any. It’s easy to get discouraged when it feels like everything I’m doing is just a waste of time. King relates to this with, “Sometimes you have to go on when you don’t feel like it, and sometimes you’re doing good work when it feels like you’re only managing to shovel shit from a sitting position.”(King, 78) Even when a good sentence would appear, and they did appear, but not very often, the good sentence would get so mixed in with the worthless sentences that I couldn’t tell one from the other. When this happened, I gave up on the whole story. There’s a whole folder of unfinished stories on my computer. Some of the stories are a few pages long and others didn’t make it past the first several lines. Writing, even if the story isn’t emotional, is a cathartic experience. I lose myself into the stories that I write. This makes it extremely hard to write when I think that everything I’m doing is a waste of time. Writing, when I’m truly in the zone, becomes less putting words on a page and more letting the story escape my head. It’s this train of thought that leads me to believe writing is a form of exhibitionism. And if that’s the case, then you, the reader, must be the

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voyeur. You’re watching me perform. It’s not always graceful, but it’s a glimpse at some deeper part of me. Around late September, in an attempt to end to my writer’s block, I pulled out some of my older stories. They reminded me that I could write. Some of those stories appear in this thesis. Sure, “Click” is, at times, immature, but I like the way that it drags the reader down the drain with the narrator. “Avatar” is rough, but it was my big attempt to squish theology and science fiction together to create a different world. After rereading those stories, I was inspired. I took the pace from “Click” and the sci-fi element from “Avatar” and I got “Time Flies”. I didn’t really know it when I wrote it, but Jack, from “Faces,” interacts with the protagonist of “Click”. While it’s not always good to fall back on past accomplishments, those older stories helped me to overcome my block and create several new and worthwhile pieces. They were the confidence boost I needed; they helped me distinguish between the good writing and the shit I thought I had been shoveling. They were what I needed to convince the muse, with his halfmasticated cigar, that I was worth his time. “Faces” was written in reaction to my life. I’m not Jack, but I do feel like him sometimes. He’s going somewhere, but he doesn’t know where. He’s really just along for the ride, but is anxious about his decisions. In this story, I focused on repetition and characters. I think that the character I develop nearly as much as Jack is the bus itself. I

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don’t think this story ends on a sad note, but it might not end happily either. Jack never gets a response… “Click,” as I stated earlier, is an older story of mine. I wanted the pacing to be fast, and the stream of consciousness to be erratic. I see the main character as a scared kid who goes through the stages of acceptance. They’re not in the correct order, but I think the narrator experiences anger, denial, guilt, anxiety, and depression. And perhaps that final “click” is his acceptance. It was an early attempt to get inside of a mind that is different from my own. “Hide the Madness” was written as the final project for my Great Books class. I think that this is the most literary (whatever that means) of all the stories. I dealt with what it means to be a writer, at least to me. This main character, more than any of the others, is me. In fact, Ernest Pescoya is an anagram of Casey Peterson. The Magus by John Fowles was an inspiration for this story. I touched on “Time Flies” already. I wanted to write a time travel story, but I didn’t want to get caught up in the explanations. Because of this, I limited myself to five pages. This story, I think, is the most successful as a short story. I got to the point and moved it along. The parallel between the mosquito and the time assassin didn’t actually appear to me until after I wrote it. The mosquito was originally just there for something to draw his mind to the present. The name of his project was an acronym too, but when I saw the association, I made

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the changes. I think they worked. I wrote “Another Canto” to avoid doing a research paper for a course on Dante. I wrote it because I was curious about what Dante’s life might have been like after his vision. It would have to be almost impossible to see and nearly touch God just to have it torn away. It seems to me that life is going to be more than lackluster for Dante and I tried to show it through this story. The T.S. Eliot thrown in was just my way of pandering to the professor… which I suppose places me in the 8th circle. Someone tell Geryon, I’ll need a ride. “Palindrome” is a “what if?” story. It was an idea (I can’t claim the expansion and contraction as my own) that came to me while I was at work. I wondered if things really start to contract, will everything go backwards?. When I have that sort of question, there’s really only one way to find out: write it. It was meant to be funny and I think it works. “An Avatar,” is the longest story of the collection. As I wrote earlier, this story was a fusion of my theological ponderings and my science fiction enthusiasm. I think the combination is only natural. This story has plagued me since I wrote it. I’ve written several different endings, I’ve changed the premise, and I’m even contemplating scrapping what I have and starting over in an entirely different direction. What you read here is the version of the story that I am currently most satisfied with. King, as well as several others, claims that the key to writing well

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is to read and write a lot. I learned the hard way what happens when you stop writing a lot, but I read all of the time. On Writing mentions mimicking writing styles from books being read: “You may find yourself adopting a style you find particularly exciting, and there’s nothing wrong with that. When I read Ray Bradbury as a kid, I wrote like Ray Bradbury… This sort of stylistic blending is a necessary part of developing one’s own style, but it doesn’t occur in a vacuum. You have to read widely, constantly refining (and redefining) your own work as you do so” (King, 147). I too try to emulate the writers I like, and I get discouraged when my writing doesn’t work the way theirs does. But I’m not those writers, nor should I hope to be. So what if my first attempt at a spy story didn’t read like LeCarré? Who cares if I can’t capture the essence of satire like Vonnegut can? I’m not any of my favorite authors; I’m Casey Peterson (trendy pseudonym forthcoming). There are things that I do well: I like my dialogue, I like the way that I sometimes get into the minds of my characters without even realizing it, and I like the way most of my stories go nowhere at all. But I know I’m not done yet. I’ve still got a lot more writing and reading to do before I have established my style. This thesis taught me two big things. First: a college student has to be just that: a college student. And a college student, by my definition, is an amalgam of things, one of which is a writer, but a college student is also a friend, an athlete, an employee, and a

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student. There is an inherent competition for time in a college student’s life, but not so much so that anything has to be left out. Writer’s block aside, it’s hard to write because it’s hard to find time to write. King says that he writes 3000 words a day and doesn’t stop until he accomplishes that. I don’t really have time to commit myself to writing 3000 words a day. There are some days when just writing 500 words is a stretch. It’s all about time management. Second: I learned that not every story I write is the best thing I’ve ever done, and that being the case, it’s imperative not to give up. I know I’ll get writer’s block again. It comes and goes, and probably never leaves. But I also know I’ll overcome it. And keep writing.

Faulkner, William. “Advice to a Young Writer.” The Daily Princetonian. March 19, 1958. King, Stephen. On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. Simon & Schuster: New York, 2000.

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Faces

The hollow hum from the tires woke him with a start. The bus had changed roads and now appeared to be on a well-maintained highway, lit only by the lamp of a setting harvest moon. The pale glow from the

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running lights in the aisle did not sting his eyes as he groggily tried to shake the sleep from his body. As he turned his head to look at the passenger next to him, a sharp pain coursed through his side and back, obviously from sleeping in the uncomfortable bus seat. Grimacing, he shifted his body to observe his seatmate. The passenger next to him was an obese man, whose hair seemed to be kept shorn, not out of style, but necessity: the man was sweating profusely. Damp rings grew from under his heavy arms. His collar threatened to float away from the sweat that poured down his head and neck. Occasionally, the obese man would bring a white kerchief to his face, blotting with sunken knuckles and chubby fingers. Growing tired of staring at his large, makeshift companion, he turned and peered out of the window. The scenery moved past quickly, but he was able to catch glimpses of sleeping farmhouses, commercial buildings and private homes. Seeing the homes, an ache grew in the pit of his stomach, waves of nausea sweeping over him, causing him to rise from his seat and stumble to the back of the bus. The bathroom was unoccupied and he rushed inside, flipped the latch, and peeled open the window. He knelt over the toilet, its blue water sloshed in the basin below. He dry heaved, spit, dry heaved, and spit once more. There would be no vomit, he realized, for there had not been food or drink for over 24 hours. He stood over the sink and opened the tap, letting the meager stream of water reach its coldest

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temperature. He stuck his head under the faucet, suckling like a newborn at the cold liquid. Splashing some water on his face, he glanced into the mirror and was almost shocked by what looked back at him. It was a gaunt face, the young skin pulled tightly to the high cheekbones. Under the green eyes were dark circles that betrayed his poor sleep. His sandy blond hair was thick and matted. He pulled a blue, cotton watch cap from a pocket of his canvas jacket. Pulling the cap down on his brow, he looked back at his reflection and smiled. His dry lips pulled back to reveal straight teeth. If he could clean himself up, he thought, he would put forth a handsome image. His tan jacket contrasted sharply with the red of his thin sweater. His wrinkled blue jeans were a size too big and stayed on his narrow hips only because of the belt that was tightened to its max. The young man in the mirror wiped drops of water from a stubbled chin, convinced that he was ready to go back to the window and his fat traveling partner. He did not actually know the fat man; it had just been his misfortune for the large man to sit with him. As tranquil as he was, the man had an odor that assailed the nostrils. The young man reached his seat and squeezed past the rotund belly. Sitting back down he dug his hand into his pocket and grasped his ticket stub for the bus trip. He pulled it forth and inspected it. He peered at it as though he could look through it. It was a one-way ticket, but it had no specific destination

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and if the holder had any say, there would be no destination. The young man grew restless in his seat, both from his inability to sleep and from the foul air that poured off of the one next to him. In the distance he could see the monoliths of a larger city. He estimated another half an hour before they reached the towering buildings and the bus stopped to let its passengers off. There would be a brief period where the passengers who would return to the bus would be allowed to get out, stretch and find something to eat. Content with the stop in his near future, the boy rested his head on the cool glass of the window and closed his eyes. ***************** The hiss of the air brakes woke him from his sleep. The bus jerked to a stop, pulling up to a curb near a parking ramp and a plaza that had several kiosks selling food, newspapers, and beverages. The young man waited for his portly partner to rise and waddle from the bus. The large man waited for his bags from under the bus, this was his stop. The young man followed suit and stumbled out of the bus. The heavier air of the city caused him to cough and the bright sun made him rub his eyes coarsely. The air was colder outdoors than in the bus and he pulled his jacket close to him, wrapping one arm under the other and rubbed his sides briskly. He ordered a hot dog and a soda from a kiosk, and paid the swarthy man behind the booth. He gazed up and drew in air as he looked at the height of the buildings,

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imagining the people on every floor, each with their own task, yet working toward the same final destination. The driver hit the horn of the bus and the young man finished his food and thanked the vendor as he returned to the vessel. He returned to his seat, and wondered if he would have a new companion at his seat, or if he would sit alone. He once again took the window seat, returning his gaze to the busy hum of the city. His new seatmate sat down next to him and he was most unlike the previous travel partner. He was thin, almost frail and his disheveled black hair fell down his face and ears, covering the eyes. He had on threadbare jeans and his white undershirt had a sweat stain at the collar and had curious dark stains splattered across the front. The splatters continued onto his threadbare denim jacket. He now turned to the new passenger and stuck out his hand. “I’m Jack. How’re you doing?” he posed. The passenger let a bit of a smile, revealing tar-stained teeth that had not seen a dentist in years. “Yeah, I’m fine. We gonna get goin, or what?” he muttered. His hands, Jack noticed, were rubbing back and forth on his thighs, as though he were trying to get something off of them. “Say, ya got any shit to eat?” Jack shook his head. “Nothing? Ah fuck man, I’m starvin and I sit next to the one guy on the bus who gots nothin to eat. Fuck.” “Sorry man, I wish I had something to offer you. I just finished a hot dog, but that’s all I got. Want me to see if anybody else has

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anything?” “Nah, don’t matter much anyways. When are we takin off? Hey! Let’s get this show on the road, huh? ” “Ah, c’mon, cut him some slack,” Jack stammered. The driver turned around and glared at the shaggy youth, “shut up and keep it that way. This ride can go real smooth or real rough. How you want it?” He said it with almost no emotion and that was enough to make Jack’s blood freeze, but it seemed to have no effect on its target. The driver turned the engine over and pulled the bus away from the curb. He shook his head in disgust at the shaggy youth and then refocused on the road. Jack continued to try to initiate a conversation, but it was extremely one-sided. “So, you live here in the city?” he asked “Yup” “Well, where are you going?” “Wherever the hell this bus drops me off.” “Yeah me too. There’s just something about riding the bus that gets me, I mean, I’m alone and have no idea of where I’m going, but at the same time, I’m surrounded by people and I know I’ll end up somewhere eventually, most likely where I was supposed to be all along. You know?” “Huh.... nope.” “What do you mean nope?”

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“Man, I don’t know. I’m hungry and I really regret sittin next to you.” “Right,” said Jack sullenly, and he sunk into his seat and watched the city pass them by. His scruffy companion kept giving furtive glances towards the back of the bus, as though there were someone behind them. His hands continued to rub at his pant legs; occasionally he would stop and look at them. The hands were a pulsing red, so raw that they appeared about to bleed. He then went back to rubbing them. Jack would gaze at him from time to time, perplexed by this wiry, dark boy who appeared to be about his age. The city began to thin out until it eventually shifted into the seedy underbelly. There were cabarets boasting their live girls, liquor stores, pay-by-the-hour hotels, and shops that appeared to sell all sorts of illicit items. The bus slowed and stopped in front of the cabaret, the neon sign blaring right into the bus window. “This is my stop,” said the youth. He looked into Jack’s eyes and Jack could sense a strong fear. “Good luck.” “Right.” he stood up and buttoned the denim jacket. He walked down the aisle and stepped off of the bus, gazing through the windows at Jack as the vehicle pulled away. His face was trembling and he turned solemnly and walked towards the hotel. Jack rubbed his tired face, pulled his watch cap off and ran his hand through his oily hair. Wiping the film on his jacket, he let out a sigh, feeling suddenly

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troubled about the boy with no name. “Good luck.” he uttered. ***************** He woke with a start as the bus horn blared. The unsettling amalgam of pitch made him shudder. How long had he been asleep? Where were they now? He got up, stretched his back and legs, and once again found his way into the bathroom. The window was still open from his last visit, but the air was rank. Jack retched and closed the toilet lid. He looked into the mirror, but was not shocked by what he saw. It was the same gaunt face with the darkened eyes, but it looked great in comparison to his disheveled seatmate. He turned on the water and splashed his face. He took his finger and rubbed it across his teeth, trying to clean them. He thought of a warm bed and a hot shower, followed by a plate of warm, homemade food. The thought dropped him into a state of depression. He had left home, had run away, had wanted to see the world. He left in such a hurry that he grabbed no extra clothes. The money in his pocket and the clothes on his back were all that accompanied him. His body filled with regret. He knew how easy it would be to go home, how easy it would be to call home and to say, “Mom, I’ve made a mistake. Come get me?” He wanted to, but could not. It was not the resolution. So, brokenhearted and lonely, he returned to his seat. He looked at the sparsely filled bus. He wanted to approach anyone on the bus, to talk to them, to

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take their hand and have them listen to his plight. That was not an option either. The young man slumped back into the rough, upholstered, upright seat. His eyes welled up; he wanted nothing more than to fall into the arms of his family and bawl. He put his watch cap on once more and pulled it as low as he could. A tear rolled down his cheek, but he looked out the smoky glass window at the fluid landscape and concealed his torment. ***************** A heavy hand slapped him on the leg, waking him from his light sleep. “How ya doing chief?” exclaimed a larger man with a broad mustache. The brandy on his breath was very evident to Jack, so much so that he almost caught a buzz. “Why’re ya sleeping? There’s talking to be had!” Jack pressed the man, “who are you? What do you want to talk about?” “Shoot, I’m Rick. I figured on us shooting the shit until I get off the bus at the next stop. I was sitting behind ya and noticed that ya seemed kinda lonesome. I figured that I’d give ya a bit of company.” “Thanks a lot, but I kind of just want to sleep.” “Nonsense, ya look like a guy who has stories to tell. Spill kid, spill.” “Sorry Rick, but I’ve got no story. I’m just a kid on a bus riding until I find something I like.”

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“Nobody with ya? Just you and you alone, huh?” “That’s right. I didn’t figure that many people would want to get on a bus with no destination. So I ride alone, but if you think about it, I’m not alone. Not with all of the other passengers here.” “Makes sense, but I don’t think that it’s too wise to ride a bus alone. Ya know? There’s bound to be plenty of folk who would want to swindle ya or something.” “I guess, but I’m willing to take that chance. After all, it’s part of the experience.” “Huh.” Rick stared blankly at the young man. He pulled on his mustache, as though he were taken aback by the boldness of the youth. “Ya got guts kid. That’s all I got to say. Best of luck to ya. This here’s my stop.” He rose and sauntered to the front of the bus to wait for the stop. He leaned on the rail, his legs bowed and his back sagged a bit. His leather jacket was a size too short and it rode high on his back. His tight pants hugged his legs and stopped just above his worn steel-toed boots. He tugged at his mustache and made small talk with the driver until the doors opened and he stepped off. A bit disturbed, Jack rubbed his nose and stretched out onto the seat next to him in order to avoid another rude awakening. His eyelids drooped and he curled his knees to his chin, seeking a comfort that he could not provide. Soon he was lost in a melancholy sleep. *****************

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The scream of police sirens jarred him from a dream. In the dream he was running on a sidewalk, in the middle of a city. The road stretched out as far as he could see ahead of him, but behind him it was crumbling so fast that his heels sometimes had nothing below them. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he glanced out of the windows. A string of police cars were headed in the opposite direction, toward the city. Toward the dark-haired young man with no name and blood on his jacket. “Blood. It was blood,” he realized as he watched the squad cars flash by in a river of black and white. He felt horrible and wanted to rush to the bathroom. Instead, he hung his head and prayed for his part-time companion. There was only one other passenger on the bus. She was an old woman. Her blue-tinted hair was pulled up under a scarf and her slightly rouged cheeks contrasted with her snowy-complexioned skin. She was shorter than the seat back and her feet did not reach the ground. Her eyes gazed onto the pages of a paperback novel. Occasionally, she looked out the window, but then turned back to the book. “I’m almost alone. I am alone, but at least she is here. When she leaves I will have no one,” thought Jack. He said nothing to her, but his eyes pleaded with her to stay. If she would only remain on the bus with him, at least until another passenger was picked up. The night had fallen since he had last been awake and the harvest moon

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was not as full. The young man looked ahead, seeing that the bus was nearing a smaller town. He looked out the window and happened to notice a sign that read “Atkinson 20 miles”. Helpless, he dropped his head and found himself back on the eroding sidewalk. ***************** The hiss of the brakes and the jerk of the vessel coming to a halt rescued him from his endless sidewalk. He glanced around the bus. There was no one else on the bus except for the driver and the bus was not moving. It was parked in a poorly lighted steel building. Looking out the window, the youth saw an army of other buses, each sleeping in its respective spot. The asphalt floor was gritty and had dark oil patches. On the wall next to the bus was a calendar from an auto parts dealer. Its unchanging picture showcased several topless, leggy blondes washing a school bus on a sunny beach. A laughable fantasy, but he was sure that the bus drivers did not care about the scenario. “End of the line kid. Gotta go. My wife’s got meat loaf waiting,” the driver said with a smile. Jack sat up in his seat, stood, stretched and shuffled off of the bus. “Thanks man. Thanks.” “Take care of yourself pal.” “Uh-huh,” he said mindlessly as he descended the steps and exited the bus. He walked from the bus garage; his head hung low with his chin on his chest. His feet dragged on the ground, kicking at

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rocks or whatever else. The air was cold, such a cold that his jacket offered no protection. The moon lit his path. He was alone once more. He looked up and his gaze led him to a lit booth one hundred yards from him. He did not speed up his pace, simply moved with a purpose, picking up his shoulders and raising his head. He pulled the thin cotton cap over his ears, jammed his hands into his pockets, and proceeded forward. He reached the booth, lifted the receiver, put in the adequate amount of change, and dialed. A silence. “Hello?” “Mom, I’ve made a mistake. Come get me?”

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I’m scared. Really scared. I’ve killed a man and now, if I get caught, I’m going to jail. It’s not like I had any other option, though: It was either him or me. I decided that it was going to be him and click. The gun had become a part of my body. The trigger had pulled so effortlessly and the muzzle flash from the barrel was so bright. I’m sure that it was loud, but all I could hear was the click of the hammer. In the second after the click, his body crumpled to the ground. Startled, I dropped the gun. Without a second glance, I fled the house and the town. I boosted a car and

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drove into the heart of the city. After dumping the car in a parking ramp, I hopped a bus to the outskirts of town. I didn’t know what I was going to do once I got there, but I knew I needed a place to hide. The bus dropped me off in a run-down district, definitely the slums. There were strip clubs, a pay-by-the-hour hotel, and a liquor store. There were a few other shops, but they did not advertise their wares. I entered the hotel, hoping that there was a room available. The receptionist allowed me to rent a room by the night, since I had not planned on staying for less than one hour. I checked in and fell asleep as soon as I entered the room. ***************** That was three days ago. With the money spent on the hotel room, I have nothing left in my wallet. I won’t even be able to stay here another night. I have no idea if the police are on my trail or not. I don’t really want to wait and find out, but I’m not about to leave this sanctuary that I’ve found. Actually, it’s not a sanctuary; it’s a horrible place to stay. The walls are crumbling and are slick with mold. The linoleum floor is cracked and peeled away. Only one window, looking directly at a strip joint and its sign that reads “Live Girls” in flashing neon lights. The room is bare, except for a stained bed without springs and a sink in the corner. Sleeping’s hard. I’m scraping by on three hours of sleep and I’m beginning to hallucinate. Everything feels groggy and I’m having

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trouble focusing on the situation at hand. My body is withdrawing from lack of drugs. I walk to the sink and look at my face in the mirror. There’s no color. My skin is a pale gray and there is a thick layer of stubble on my cheeks and chin. The lack of food has hollowed out my cheeks, pulling the skin tight across my cheekbones. My eyes are blank. I look more like a skeleton than a person. Click. I’m no longer alive; I’m only a walking corpse without a purpose. Perhaps it was really me who died in that gunfight. It’s cold and I’m hungry. This hotel sucks. What can I say in my defense? So what if he fired first? Regardless, I killed him. Live Girls. I can’t sleep, because every time I close my eyes, click. It’s like a CD on repeat and no one can change the song. Click. What pain he must have felt as the bullets tore through him. His face is there, but I can’t define features. His voice ever-present in my ears. What have I done? My life was not great, but now it is horrible. How can I live in fear for the rest of my life? Eventually it will catch up with me and then I’ll go down. Screw it. I’m going out. I lock the door, not that there is anything to steal, but just to have something to control. I can decide whether someone enters my room or not. When I walk out of the hotel and onto the street the cold wind sweeps over the pavement and whips at my face. Damn, it’s freezing. I would kill for something to eat. Or at least something for my fix. Listen, I’m saying I would kill for

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food, and ironically it was killing that caused my lack of food. The slums are dead. No one is on the street. Live Girls. God, it looks like it could rain. What will happen when the police find me? I know damn well what will happen when they find me: Click. Maybe I should go to a show. I need some food. Or some crack. Why’d I drop my gun at that house? It’s sure to have prints on it, plus it might have come in handy in the future. It’s so cold outside. I’m going back in. As I walk through the door, the woman at the desk is on the phone. When she sees me, she says a word and then hangs up. The TV is playing in the lobby and the news is displaying a familiar picture. It is a composite sketch of me. Shit. This lady just called the cops. I’m screwed. I could really use something to eat. Or some blow. Or a strong drink. A drink would be nice. Live Girls. I wonder if they serve alcohol at the strip club. I’m only nineteen, but in my condition they may let me pass for twenty-one. Would the strippers have any drugs? Oh man, I gotta get back to my room. I can at least try and barricade myself in. Make them come and get me. Click. This is the beginning of the end. I run up to my room. I push the mattress and the metal frame up to the door and turn the dead bolt. It should hold for a little bit. I have no gun. Damn it! I should have kept my piece. What a fine gun: cold steel, a flat gray, light, balanced in my hand. I could hold my own for a time with that gun. I’m finished. At nineteen, I’m already on the way

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out. Click. Game over. What a waste. What a waste. What did I accomplish? Nothing. I was a thief, a pretty good thief, but only a thief. I stole to keep my blow habit satisfied. I’ve never been a good person. I never helped out when I could. I didn’t care about anything except me. Click. I’m only nineteen and I’m sitting here in this hotel room, starving to death. I can’t focus because my body’s shaking. I need something to tide me over. What the hell is that? Sirens! It’s only a matter of time. C’mon, there has to be something that I’ve done that makes my life worthwhile. Live Girls. Even they are making a difference. Oh sure, they strip for cash, but at least they’re helping somebody burn off some steam. All I did was cause trouble. My room is flooded with flashing reds and blues from the street below. Oh God, I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to go to jail. I’m not ready to live behind bars. I’m so hungry. Would they give me something to eat if I turned myself in? No, no, no. I bet there are people milling around outside. I’m sure that the girls and the patrons of the club have come out to watch this spectacle. Maybe that’s my purpose. Maybe I’ll provide some entertainment. Maybe I’ll be an example for kids to walk the straight and narrow. That’s it! I’ll be an anti-role model. Who am I fooling? That’s a joke. I’m a murdering cokehead. I’ll be forgotten as soon as they throw me into the squad car. So damn hungry. They’re coming up the stairs. This is it. The door is locked, but they should have no trouble breaking through.

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“Open the door!” Bang! Bang! They are attacking the door with something. The dead bolt is holding on, but for how long? Live Girls. I wonder if the crowd is still outside. I’m so hungry and withdrawn that I’m about to pass out. Crack! The door splintered. Oh no, it’s almost over. My life was so insignificant. Why did God waste this on me? I pissed it away. My head drops between my knees and I puke onto the floor. Not much to it, mainly yellow bile. Crack! The door is going to give any second and here I am with nothing but a pool of vomit. There’s one chance. I may be able to escape. Chances are that there are only two or three men outside the door. Maybe only one will have his gun drawn. If I can take him down and take his gun, I can get out! Crash! The door falls to the ground and I lunge at the first man through the door. I was right: he has his gun drawn. I smash him to the floor and force the gun from his hand. Rolling away, I fire into the other two officers in the doorway. Click. Click. Oh, the gun feels good. Strong, powerful, right. This is my purpose: To evade the police and continue life elsewhere. I’ve got another chance! God has made a concession for me to have a second chance. All three are down. Might not be dead, but out of my way. Live Girls. So long hotel room. I won’t miss you. I run down the stairs. It’s hard to run straight. I need something to eat. My legs are weak, but I’ll make it out of here. Which door to take? They probably have all of them covered. I’m gonna make it out of----Click.

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Hide The Madness

"Writers would clearly be madmen if they weren't so psychologically complicated ('too complex,' a famous psychiatrist once wrote, 'to settle on any given madness')--and some go mad anyway." ~John Gardner "…I don't believe writers can be made, either by circumstances or by self-will…” ~Stephen King

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I needed help. I had been stuck in a rut for weeks, unable to write, unable to think. My day involved a designated writing time, but that was spent staring at the blank computer screen, or at the wall. I was helpless. I copied other works, hoping to kick-start my own thoughts, but to no avail. Desperation was taking over, my dreams of becoming the next great American writer were fading fast. Then I heard about the Plath Institute For Burgeoning Artists. The Plath was a large building. Seven floors. Large, picture windows wrapped around the first floor, but on the higher levels, only small porthole-like windows let in the outside world. The rustic, brick building loomed over the driveway from atop a tor. Shrubbery lined the drive, creating a tunnel like feeling as one approached in a car. They required no reservations, walk-in appointments were just fine. This is how I was introduced to the Plath. The radio declared: “Writers’ block got you down? Feel like pummeling that lump of clay before you? Canvas refusing to show you what to paint? Instrument not sounding right? Perhaps what you need is the Plath Institute For Burgeoning Artists. We’ll give you a screening and suggest the proper treatment for that traffic jam of the brain. No reservations necessary, simply walk in for an appointment. We look forward to seeing you soon! Find us at ------” Hearing this, I had no choice but to turn the car around and make my way to the Plath. They greeted me with a smile. The receptionist, a young man,

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with curly, dark hair, welcomed me and asked me to fill out several forms. Offering information about my personal life, my history, and my life aspirations, I quickly completed the forms. After a brief wait in the lobby, I was ushered in to meet with one of the specialists. Professor Carter Anthil led me into his office. It was a bleak room, with poor lighting and nothing more than a desk, a bookshelf and two chairs. Professor Anthil himself was an older man. He made no attempt to hide his balding hair and his polo shirt clung a little too tightly to his paunch. He motioned for me to sit in one of the chairs. As I sat, he circled his desk and sat down behind it. He laid a pad of paper on the desk and pulled a mechanical pencil from his pocket. My eyes wandered the room, wondering why there was no sense of personality, no creative individuality that lent Anthil’s character to the room. I figured that it was most likely a shared facility, used for all incoming interviews. A strange ethnic music pulsed in the background. I could not place the ethnicity, only certain that there were fast beats followed by wailing in a foreign language. The single fluorescent light buzzed and flickered, placing a sickly pallor over the room. Professor Anthil scribbled on the sheet of paper as I continued to browse the room. My eyes drifted over the books on the bookshelf. Most were canonical literature, with an assortment of music theory and artistic study books. I coughed awkwardly, hoping to begin the preliminary session. I coughed again, soliciting no response from

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Anthil. I began to tap my fingers on the chair, not quite impatiently, rather trying to find the beat of a song that I had heard on the radio that morning. “So, Mr. Pescoya, you’re having trouble finding your muse?” His voice was a hollow, nasally sound. “Excuse me? My muse?” He caught me off guard; I was expecting something more formal. “Yes, your muse. One of the legendary Greek women of inspiration. That is why you’re here, correct? You’re having trouble with creation. What is it that you create? Words? Music? Art?” “Oh, my muse. I guess that you could say that I’m trying to find my muse, sure. I’d fancy myself a writer, except I haven’t been able to write a lick in over a year. I think that I’ve lost any ability to create ideas. No originality.” “Well, I believe you’ve come to the right place. Shall we begin the assessment?” I noticed that Anthil had not made eye contact with me since he shook my hand in the lobby. He just continued to write on the pad with an occasional nod of his head and a twist of his wrist. “Actually, Professor Anthil, I was wondering if, before we begin the assessment, you wouldn’t mind explaining to me just what, exactly, does the Plath do?” “We assess what is preventing the creation. What kind of blockage exists, what kind of hurdles need to be overcome. Once we

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have identified those, we then set at breaking them down. Our goal is to reveal the muse. We wish to inspire and manifest the creation that lies latent in so many. Consider us the greatest adversary of stagnation, the arch-nemesis of the white.” Write, twist, write, write. I scooted forward in my chair, trying to make sudden movements that would merit his looking up and acknowledging my presence in the room. “The white?” “The white, it’s a term that we at the Plath like to use. The white stands for nothing, lack of creation. The blank paper or canvas, the white word processor screens. The only way to incite creation is to overcome the white. What we do at the Plath is assist the creators in finding the inspiration. We give the ammunition necessary to defeat the white. We incite such a riot in their mind, that they have no other outlet but to create.” Write, twist, cough. I waved my hands. “I understand. And this assessment will show you the best way to do that?” The music seemed to be getting louder. He stopped moving the pencil across the paper. “Yes, this assessment will show us what is needed in order to incite the aforementioned riot in your mind. Let’s begin.” He looked up, but not at me. His head returned to the desk. He pulled a slip of yellow carbon paper from the desk and handed it to me. He paused, glanced at the paper, nodded and continued to reach across the desk towards

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me. “This is the assessment for writers. Please be as exact and succinct as you can be. The more elaborate you are, the easier it will be for us to define your barriers. So, as precise as you can get it.” He stood up from the desk, placed the pad of paper back in a drawer, hung the pencil back in his shirt pocket and walked to the door. “When you’ve completed, simply set the paper on the desk and show yourself out. Thank you Mr. Pescoya.” With that, Professor Anthil left the room. The music was certainly louder now, the tempo seemed to have picked up considerably. My mind was very confused by the contradicting directions that I had been given. I looked at the carbon paper in my hand. There were three questions on it. 1.) What motivates you to write? 2.) What are your biggest shortcomings, what prevents you from success, who are you? 3.) Why are you a writer? I stared at the questions. I was unsure how I could go about answering them, being both as succinct and elaborate as I could. I answered them to the best of my ability, which took nearly an hour. During this time, the music grew louder, then softer, then louder again. I set the carbon paper on the desk and began to leave the room. I stopped, curiosity getting the best of me, and returned to the desk. I opened the top drawer, but it was empty. The second drawer contained the source of the music in the room. I turned it off. The bottom drawer refused to open. I pulled hard, but it would not budge. It was locked.

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This was obviously where Anthil had placed his notes, but there was no way for me to obtain them. The hallway was dark. An exit sign glowed red at one end of the hall, but at the other, a ceiling light stuttered on and off. I decided to go towards the stuttering light before making my exit. The hallway ended in a t-intersection. The light flashed above me, bathing the intersection in light, and then plunging it into darkness. To the right, the hallway was just as dark as where I stood, but to the left, a light shone from a room at the end of the corridor. I chose the left. The door was locked, but through the window I could see a woman seated in a chair. Her back was to me. She sat facing a screen, and to her left was an easel. Images flashed on the screen. It appeared to be some sort of old movie. Images of romantic couples, flowers, nature, children, and then a glimpse of something irregular: a corpse, dogs fighting, rockets exploding. Debussy’s “Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun” seeped very softly from under the door, but I was sure that the music was much louder in the room. I knocked on the door, but the woman did not indicate that she could hear me. The music from under the door grew louder and the images on the screen moved at a faster pace. The screen went black. I rapped the window, trying to gain her attention. She rose from the chair. “Mr. Pescoya, we try to discourage our patients from wandering the halls alone.” I spun as a hand touched my elbow. It was the curly

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haired man from the reception. He tugged softly on my arm, attempting to move me from the window. “What’s going on in there?” I followed slowly behind him, not wishing to cause a conflict. “It’s one of our therapies. We’re bombarding that woman with imagery, in hopes that at least one of those images will then transport itself from the screen onto her canvas.” We reached the intersection and turned back toward the reception desk. The hallway was now fully illuminated. “Well, does it work? Has that treatment produced any real artwork? Do you have results?” “Yes, it works quite well. Depending on if you choose to schedule a second appointment, you will be allowed to see some of the products that our *ahem* method has helped to produce.” “Wait, if I choose to schedule? Have I already been accepted? What were those three questions for? And Professor Anthil?” We were back in the lobby and I stopped walking entirely. “I’m not sure I know what three questions you’re talking about. Everyone that applies at the Plath is accepted. Your meeting with Professor Anthil was merely a means of determining your problems. Feel free to call to set up an actual session. Now, please drive safely.” He smiled curtly and turned away from me. I was speechless, but I remained quiet as I left the building.

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The drive back to the Plath instilled a sense of cold anxiety in me. I did not know what to expect, nor was I even sure why I was returning. I was nervous, uncertain of what would occur at the second session. I remembered the woman and Debussy. Something deep in the pit of me was beginning to stir, a feeling of powerlessness, that soon I would lose all control. I arrived once again at the building on the tor. The Plath was upon me. He sat me before a typewriter, handed me a sheet of paper, and instructed me to write. Not to think, but to simply place the words onto the paper as they streamed through my head. He stood behind me, grunting occasionally and breathing heavily. The yellow legal pad was in one hand and I could hear the scrawl of mechanical pencil. Again, I was in a room with Professor Anthil. Anthil apparently was my assigned doctor. His cardigan sweater refused to button over the entire paunch. We were in a different room. This one offered both a computer and a typewriter. The fluorescent lights had been replaced by several floor lamps, casting a soft yellow light onto the room. There was no ethnic music this time, in fact there was no music at all, just the hum of the computer monitor and the clicking of the typewriter keys. So I wrote. It was not good writing, but it was words on a page. My mind wandered from changing oil in my car to a book I had finished

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reading. I then began to write about Anthil. I placed him in a situation with no means of escape, somewhat like “The Pit and the Pendulum”; I knew that there would be no escaping from the fate I had sealed for Anthil, yet I wanted to see how he would react. Not only he, the Anthil behind me, but he, the Anthil on the page. “You’re getting it, you’re beginning to realize why writers write.” His voice shook me from my trance; the silence of the room was broken. “And why is that?” “Well, look at it this way: Writers…we’ll limit ourselves to the realm of fiction for the sake of time. Fiction writers write mostly about things that never happened. They write mostly about characters that do not really exist. Yet there is such a force behind their writing that the characters and events are made real. Why go to such pains to make this force? Because they, the writers, must know. They create situations. They place characters where they otherwise wouldn't go. "The act of writing, for writers, is a window unto the world. It is their means of digesting what is happening in their lives. For example, you placed me in an inescapable place, but why? I think it is because you are trying to figure me out, you are trying to understand your current situation by placing me in similar uncertainty." I stopped typing, “You’re saying that what I have been writing about you is actually me writing about myself? That I simply put your

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name on the character to be removed from myself?” “Perhaps, Mr. Pescoya, what I am saying is that you find yourself in an inescapable position… let’s say your inability to write, so you put me there, to see how I would deal with your inability to write.” “I disagree. I put you in there because I wanted to see your reaction, to see if you were actually reading what I was typing.” His hands were on my shoulders. I did not know how to react. “Ernest, may I call you Ernest? Reaction is the heart of what we are getting at. Art cannot exist without reaction. Dialogue, good dialogue, exists only through action and reaction. You cannot create a work of art or a piece of literature without reaction. There must exist a catalyst that spurs you on, that causes you to give birth. Reaction, Ernest, is what we are attempting to draw from you. Can I make you a cup of tea? I feel that the words flow much smoother when I have a mug of P.G. Tips in me.” Anthil’s hand rattled the saucer and cup as he put them down. A small tin of milk and a bowl of sugar were placed next to the cup and saucer. “So many people claim that to drink tea with milk and sugar is akin to not drinking tea. I refute this, arguing that tea without milk and sugar is like a rainy day with no raindrops. They go hand in hand, in fact one almost expects them to be together.” I offered him a smile at this comment, placing a scoop of sugar and a splash of milk into my tea, if only for appeasement.

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The clicks of the typewriter echoed in my head, my fingers bounced slowly from key to key. The words danced lucidly down the page. In my head, the ideas stumbled, slipped out in the wrong order, causing a mess of letters on the paper. The lights went dim, then out. I woke in a small cell. I hesitate to call it a cell, because there were no bars, but it was certainly less than a room. My cell contained a desk with a computer, a hardwood chair, and a faucet with no sink on the wall. There was a large speaker mounted on the ceiling above me, actually surrounding the light that was mounted in the center of the room. There was a window in the door, but as it was one way, all I could see was my reflection. That was why the Debussy woman could not see me. I sat down at the desk, my hands idling on the keyboard. What is going on? I thought, Did I miss something? Did I sign some sort of form? I’ve obviously been drugged and am now imprisoned in this cell, but why? I knew that it would be futile to bang on the door, or even yell. So, I did the only thing that I could think of: I began to write. The lights went out a while after I began to type, but the glow from the monitor was ambient enough to provide light for typing. Then the strobe light began. The ceiling light came back on, but it pulsed and flashed at changing rates. I stared at the computer, focusing out the flashing lights, but the monitor began to flash as well. The ceiling light and the monitor were not in synch and the dizzying

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effect that followed caused me to put my head down on the desk and close my eyes. I must have fallen asleep because when I came to, the room was completely dark. The indicator light in the corner of the monitor flashed on and off, but that was the only source of radiance in the room. Then the music began. I had heard it before, but not at the Plath. A polyphony of sounds assailed my ears. The music seemed to pride itself on discord. The music grew louder, much like it had in Anthil’s office. Where was Anthil? Was this his recommendation? What is going on? The strobe started again, following the tempo of the music at first, but then carrying off on a rhythm of its own. The music lifted to a frenzied pitch: a single horn belted out the same note in rapid succession. I dropped my head and vomited below the desk. I awoke to the music and the strobe. I did not know how much time had passed. The acrid taste of stomach fluid lingered in my mouth. In the blinding flashes of light, I stumbled to the faucet on the wall. The music seemed to fall on deaf ears, I could not determine whether the volume was low or if my ears were losing their acuteness. The crank on the faucet turned. It turned and turned. There was no water. I spit on the floor and kicked at the faucet. The monitor flashed on and began to blink. I pulled the plug from the wall and the screen went black. The music had only grown softer, for it now

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reached new levels of volume. I wanted to bash my head against the door until I passed out. My eyes opened, the room was calm. I was lying on my back near the door. My head pounded and ached. My right hand moved slowly to my forehead but refused to touch the large egg that had swollen above my left eyebrow. Did I just want to hit my head against the door? Or did I actually hit my head until I passed out? The computer was back on, the cord once again plugged into the wall. They’ve been in the room. Did they knock me out? Who are “they”? Anthil? With the brief bit of rest that the silence and constant light allowed me, I sat up slowly and slid over to the faucet. The brass fixture was bolted to the wall, but as I looked from above, I could see that no pipes ran into the spigot itself. The faucet was fake, but the dryness in my mouth was not. I coughed dryly, causing my head to explode behind my eyes. What did I do to my head? The music started again. This time, a single piano played a very slow, dirge-like tune. The lights did not flicker. The monitor on the desk looked down and mocked me. It knew what was going on, but it refused to offer any insight into the situation. The piano was joined by an electric guitar, the two instruments argued with each other. Behind the piano and the guitar came the sound of a teakettle screaming its protest at the inattentive chef. Then the lights started to flash again.

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I lay back on the floor, staring at the strobe light, wondering what I signed up for. I do not know how long I was in that room. I do not know how many times I passed out and came to. I do not know what was going through my head. I do know that I eventually came to a realization. Anthil had claimed that art was a reaction and it required an action to react to. The Plath was giving me an action. This sensory attack, this bombardment, this was my muse. I had never experienced something so bizarre in all of my life. At this moment, I stood up, ready to react. Unfortunately, at this moment I was under the desk and as my head connected with the oak, I fell back into a stupor. Upon waking, I pulled myself to the middle of the room. The polyphonic music had returned, so had the strobe light. I stood up with my eyes closed and shouted: “I get it! I am ready to react! I can break the roadblock!” The music did not stop, the light did not go out. No one was listening. I stood at the desk, as my chair was no longer in the room, and typed furiously on the keyboard. The story that had been unleashed was unlike any I had written before. The Plath had given me my muse, but they had refused to let her go. The noise continued and the lights remained pulsing, yet at that moment, nothing else mattered. I had long ago torn my clothes off. But, as before, this was secondary to the words that were assailing the computer screen.

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It may have been days, perhaps weeks, later, when the door opened. I was curled in the corner, my eyes, bloodshot and strained from the strobe light, darted furtively around the room. My lips were dry and cracked. My tongue was furry. My brain pulsed as though it were part of the strobe light. The music was in my ears, but it had long ago ceased to come from the speakers. Professor Anthil stood in the doorway. As he approached me, I pulled myself tighter into a ball. “Ernest. You’ve done it! You’ve managed to write a work that no one else has produced. We’ve already sent your story out to several major publishers, all of which are very interested in making a large commitment to you. Right now, however, I think that we should get you something to eat and drink. You must be hungry after being in this room for a whole day and a half. You refused to eat or drink anything. You could not even be troubled for something as little as allowing us to come in and change the light bulb. Ernest? Are you ok? Come now, let’s get you cleaned up and into some fresh clothes.” Anthil took my hand. His meaty paw dwarfed and nearly crushed my puny, punished hand. I barely had the strength to stand up off of the floor. He walked me out of my cell, moving slowly to compensate for my weakened legs. I was led to a shower and given a fresh outfit. Once showered, I was moved to a dining hall where I was fed and given drink. Sitting at the table across from me was a familiar face. It was the Debussy woman. She looked at me with hollow eyes.

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“You… I saw you. How is your painting coming along?” I urged her, finding myself startled by the sound of my own voice. “It is done. The best work that I have ever done. Even better than my last painting. Tomorrow, I begin another.” She looked at me only briefly before returning to the food on her plate. “Tomorrow? And you’ll be going home now?” “Home? Silly. This is home. When you’re checked in at the Plath, you don’t get to leave until Professor Anthil says it’s ok. It wouldn’t be safe for us to be out there roaming the world.” “What do you mean, wouldn’t be safe?” “Why, you know… we’re artists. We’re mad. We’re not fit to be out there, in the real world, interacting with everyday life. We’re better off in here, where we have an outlet for our art and we are free from worry.” “Mad? What are you talking about?” I looked around then, for the first time, at the rest of the diners in the room. Everyone had the same hollow-eyed look as the Debussy woman had. “Mad… mad? No, it can’t be” I muttered to myself. “Relax, eat your dinner. You’ll begin a new story tomorrow.” The Debussy woman smiled to herself as she pushed a mouthful of green beans into her mouth. I placed my head on the table and sighed. “Tomorrow…”

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Time Flies

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It has been a year and one week since my last job. I’m going back one year and six days. Now I’m in this dank attic, or something like that. I’m sitting by a window that overlooks this rink-a-dink Mom-And-Pop across the street. There’s dust everywhere, smells like mothballs and maybe a dead rat or something over in that corner. There are cobwebs all over, but they can’t quite seem to catch the mosquitoes that are thick in the air. Mosquito. That was the name of the project, Project Mosquito. Mosquito isn’t an acronym or anything; it’s just the best description of what the Program was. I was like a mosquito, not genetically, but rather in my purpose. A mosquito lands, her proboscis stabs through the layers of skin and strikes red gold: blood. It doesn’t matter whether or not you swat the mosquito, once she’s drawn your blood there’s no getting it back. Kill the mosquito or don’t kill the mosquito, the damage is already done. Mosquitoes are expendable, so am I. My gun assembles quickly; I’ve done this so many times that I might as well be doing it in my sleep. Quick turns of the wrist, flicks of the thumb and forefinger, a twist here and there, a tweak. It’s a

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gorgeous specimen, my gun. High caliber holds twenty rounds, completely automatic although I’ve never fired twice at any job. The scope is so precise that I could pick a stray dust mite off of the transparent wing of a fly. Time assassin. I’m the best there ever was, literally. Probably because I’ve killed off the competition as well as every single target I’ve ever been assigned. They send me into the future, never the past, to take care of potentially explosive figureheads. I say explosive in the sense that they might compromise the ultimate mission of my employers, the Assembly. The Assembly is a mixture of independent business people, political figures, and big business representatives. Time assassination is a victimless crime, at least in the sense that I’m never made a victim. I’m always back to the present by the time the corpse hits the ground. No sign of my target. He’s supposed to be picking up the newspaper from the Mom-And-Pop in a few minutes. It’s hot up here. I’d wipe the sweat from my brow if I didn’t have to keep my eye to this scope. That mosquito on my temple is going to stick me, too. She’s sensing the best spot to strike gold, finding the rich pulse. It’s a waiting game, but my finger couldn’t be more relaxed. No sir, after three years of this time jumping, there is not a speck of itch in that trigger finger. The way it was explained to me by some stuffy Assembly

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member is this: the past is set, but the future is unwritten. Events must occur in the past so that events in the present will occur. The past is off limits because of the effects the death could have on the future. It’s confusing and I don’t even pretend to understand it myself. Simply put, or at least how I understand it, a murder in the future is just a single murder, but a murder in the past can be multiple murders. Still no sign of my target. I’d love a cigarette; it’d really help settle my nerves, but the doctors say that continuing to smoke will end my life. Funny. Something as simple as cigarettes could be the death of me. This mosquito is sucking me dry, but my hands are already committed elsewhere. I’m not a murderer. I murder people, yes, but not of my own volition. I didn’t volunteer to be the Assembly’s mosquito. I was a drone in their vast network of shady dealings. A mere delivery boy, but then they got their hands on me. Nothing too original, just mind control, a dose of hypnosis, some heavy-handed suggestion. I get a phone call that triggers the mind control, and then I’m time traveling, assassinating and back in my own living room within a matter of minutes. I’m aware of the mind control, sure, but there’s not a thing I can do about it. Even though I think about it, I could never just travel back in time and kill my employers. They’ve put a block on my ability to act against any higher members of the Assembly. A nice safeguard.

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Time is funny. Before my adventures in time traveling began, I assumed that there was only the present. Well, and obviously the future too, but I thought that it would be impossible to travel to the past, because it had already happened and was gone. I thought that time travel was a permanent move forward, and once I was in the future, there would be no way to go back to my present. Now I know that time is a large plane, or so it’s been explained to me. If one has the right equipment, one can move forward and backward along this plane with ease. One has to be careful, as I mentioned earlier, about how one deals with the past. All of this dust is making my eyes itch. And I’ve got to sneeze. According to my watch, the target should be here any minute now. The waiting game draws to a close. Now I’m out. Or so I thought. This is the first job that I’ve done in over a year. After this, I’m out for good. The most living I’ve done has been in this past year. Before that, I would get only a day or two between jobs. The constant time traveling is hard on the mind, so though I’ve only been in the time assassin job for a little over three years, I feel like I’ve been doing it for a lifetime. The Assembly signed me up for four years and counting the year that I’ve spent idle, I’ve done my time. After this job, no more time assassinating. My watch alarm is buzzing on the inside of my wrist, which means the target is going to be here immediately. That mosquito has

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pulled out, obviously satiated with the gallon of blood she withdrew. My temple throbs a bit, there’s going to be one hell of a welt there tomorrow. Funny, I think I’ve bought a newspaper from that store before. Hey, time to go… there I am.

Another Canto

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I am no prophet – and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid. T.S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” “Dante!” When the voice woke him, he was supine on the floor of a narrow canoe, adrift in the Arno. His mind reeled, having just been torn from the most wonderful vision: He had seen the ending; he had seen God in full splendor, had reveled at the Trinity and the Celestial Rose! Virgil! The famed poet of antiquity had guided him through the fires of hell and the trials of purgatory and he had returned, unscathed. And Beatrice! She was there; he had gazed upon her divine beauty and had let her take him through the spheres of heaven. “Dante!” The voice came again from above. Dante lifted himself into a sitting position and tried to find the voice that was calling him. The once vivid colors of his beloved Fiorenze were now startlingly dull. The river Arno, once full of babbling song, no longer held her tune, fading in and out upon Dante’s ears.

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There, the person calling him, on the Ponte Vecchio. Dante strained his eyes in the seemingly dim light, although it was shortly after midday, to identify the caller. It was Gemma. Simple Gemma, he thought, how could things be the same between her and me now that I know that Beatrice is out there, waiting for me, loving me as much as always? Dante steered his craft to the side of the river and made his way to the Oltrarno to meet his wife. He gave her a mild embrace and a pat on the shoulder. “Dante, how long have you been in that canoe? You’ve caught sunburn. Where have you been, I’ve not seen you for the entire day.” Her voice was tepid. She turned her back to him and walked away, assuming that he would follow. “Gemma, I am come from the dead! Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all!” “Come from the dead? I highly doubt that, you look alive enough to me. I suppose you will tell me all, but at the moment, there would appear to be more pressing matters at hand.” She did not look back. Dante adjusted his robes and cap and hurried along behind her. “What sort of matters?” She does not respect me, he thought, there is no love here, not like Beatrice. “An envoy appeared at our door earlier today. He wished to speak to you. When I informed him of your absence, I was given this to tell you: You have been chosen to be one of Fiorenze’s seven Priors.

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You will begin to serve in June. So it begins, Dante. So begins your political career. Be careful, husband, I have seen the politics of Fiorenza through the Donatis and they can be cruel.” Dante’s mind flashed to Farinata. In perfect detail, Dante recalled how he had been warned of political turmoil, of an inability to return to the way things were. “I will take the position of Prior, Gemma. And I will heed your warnings and take care to mind the cruel politics of our fair city.” They returned home. Dante drew himself a glass of wine and sat down at their table. Gemma sat across from him. She traced with her finger on the table and stared silently at her husband. Dante looked up at his wife and raised an eyebrow questioningly. She stares right through me, she is mad about my election to Prior, oh Beatrice, why could I not have had you? “Tell me all then, Dante. You told me you would tell me all. I await patiently, tell me how you came from the dead,” she commanded flatly. Her eyes did not break from his. “I found myself in a dark wood and was harassed by several fierce beasts. But before me appeared Virgil! He rescued me from harm and—” “Virgil? The great poet Virgil?” “The very same. He told me that he was sent to lead me through Inferno and Purgatorio. Once we had passed through

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Purgatorio, I would meet with her who would take me to the King of Time. We moved through the fires that burn and the smoke that chokes. I saw horrors untold, punishments deservéd and punishments severe. Oh, my wife, that is a place you never want to find yourself.” “You, Dante Alighieri, went through hell? And with Virgil the poet? And who is She who you were to meet?” “Yes, Virgil led me through the Inferno. She is none other than Beatrice…” Dante’s voice was hesitant; he knew that this name was sure to cause strife. Gemma’s eyes narrowed. “Beatrice? She is dead. I thought that with her death you would forget her. Yet, you claim she awaits you in heaven, to be your herald to God?” “I was given you to marry so that I would no longer pine for Beatrice, but that did not stop my love for her. Virgil led me through Purgatorio and I was reunited with Beatrice in the Earthly Paradise. From there, Beatrice led me through Paradiso until I was given a vision of God and the blessed Trinity. Gemma, life is dull, it holds no luster now that I have seen the ultimate paradise.” Dante pushed the wine away from him, untouched. “You are still hung up on Beatrice. This was all an idle fantasy, you were allowed to meet Virgil and Beatrice and God. If you are not faithful in your mind, how can I trust your fidelity in the body?” “Why do you ask, Gemma? We are lovers only by title. The

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children you bear mere functions of being wed to someone. I know that you do not love me. What does it matter if I bear true love for Beatrice?” “It matters not to me, Dante. But in public appearances, for you to be in love with a dead woman who was never your wife does not bode well for our relationship, or for your political career. If you cannot get her out of your mind, why not write another poem? Whatever you do, I would recommend that you bury those emotions and forget about your silly daydream before you tell someone and they take you for a lunatic. You are not a prophet.” “No, I am not a prophet. This does not mean that what I saw in my vision is silly. There were prophecies uttered, omens both dark and light. Neither may I ignore. I was warned by the damned, warned of events to come. Boniface, he will be my downfall… this I was told by my ancestor, Cacciaguida. Gemma, believe what you may, but I have been given a glimpse of my undoing and I will not ignore it.” Dante’s voice was raised and he glared at his wife. “Pope Boniface? Will your position of Prior put you into jeopardy? Perhaps you shouldn’t take it.” “No, I will take the Prior position and attempt to better my beloved Fiorenza. It might place me in jeopardy, which is what the prophecies foretold, but I do not think that there is another route. Besides, the Guelfs have chosen me. I would shame us to turn it

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down.” “Mind your pride, Dante. It, along with Boniface, could be your undoing.” Dante nodded, I cleansed myself of my pride, and yet here it lingers. Perhaps atonement of sins requires more than a simple climb of a hill, “You’re right, Gemma. I will shed the pride and take the position with humility. ‘Tis the only way.” Gemma reached across the table and grabbed her husband’s hand. She squeezed hard and nodded. “There may not be true love between you and me, but I will respect and stand with you.”

Time passed, and Dante’s vision began to fade. He still thought about it, but not everyday as he had before. It was foggy and he questioned some of the events. In fact, he could not be sure that the entire vision did happen. As his time to serve as Prior drew near, he reflected upon the prophecies that had been given to him throughout his pilgrimage. He tossed and turned in his bed, sleeplessly worrying about what Boniface would do to his party. He tried desperately to have another vision, to find Virgil or Beatrice, anyone who could elaborate upon what was going to happen to him when he encountered Boniface. But the visions never came, and he was alone. Meanwhile, Florence was at unrest. The division between the

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White Guelfs and the Black Guelfs placed the city in an all out feud. This turbulence in the political realm added another aspect to Dante’s apprehension of becoming a Prior. Under the haze of a summer day, a crowd flowed over Ponte Vecchio, so many people shouting angrily, back and forth. Then he was in office. Dante was a Prior and had the ability to affect change upon Florence. “Gentlemen,” he addressed his fellow priors. “There must be something that can be done to pacify the violence within our beloved Fiorenze.” “I agree. The division between the Guelfs has torn our city asunder for too long. But what can we do to extinguish the political fires that rage?” another Prior spoke. “Perhaps the solution lies with the Guelfs themselves?” asked another. “No, the Guelfs are too stubborn to make the change,” said Dante. His mind raced trying to recall if this had been part of a prophecy of the damned. The visions were fading. He could no longer see the face of Virgil or his beloved Beatrice. He did not know if the Guelfs were to be exiled or if he had been warned against it. He hung his head worriedly. If only I could tell them of my visions, weakening though they are. It would paint me a lunatic, but surely that is better than feigning ignorance while my beloved city destroys itself. “Then exile them,” suggested a third Prior.

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“Exile who? The White or the Black?” “Both. Exile the leaders of both. That will send a message to both parties that the violence is unacceptable and must stop.” It came to pass that the leaders of the White Guelfs and the Black Guelfs were exiled from Florence. Among them was Dante’s friend, the son of Cavalcanti dei Cavalcanti, Guido Cavalcanti. This action spiked a memory of Dante’s vision, something that he had not thought of for some time. Dante was worried. Is this how Boniface and I will come to cross paths? Because of something that I was not responsible for? He knows that I was previously a Prior. Our actions will be confused with the current delegates. I wanted peace for Fiorenza, but this is not what I meant at all. This is not it, at all. A silly daydream indeed.

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Palindrome

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I’m awake now, but was I asleep on the eve of the world’s demise? …Wha? What time is it? Shit! I overslept again! This alarm clock hasn’t worked for me since I bought it… How was it that I managed to miss what was probably the most important event ever? Now, with everything about to be no longer as it once was, I’ll have to adapt and change my life in a permanent sense. Because, although the world is on it’s way out, I’ve still got to live the rest of my increasingly shortened life. True, time will go just as slowly backwards as it went forwards, but every passing minute is one minute in the wrong direction for me. No, the world isn’t over. At least not yet. If it were over, I wouldn’t be writing and you wouldn’t be reading. By demise, I mean the beginning of the end. As a roller coaster is nearly over by the time it reaches the top of its first hill… I thought that this was supposed to be a scary roller coaster, but all we’ve done is go uphill- wait a minute, here we go—quick, make a face at the camera… so too is the world’s time limited. I say the world, as if it were only happening just to us, as though the Earth were an anomaly. Truth is, however, that it is occurring everywhere. The entire everything is feeling the effects. There was a time when the Big Bang Theory was just a theory. An interesting idea to the mass populace, to be idly cast around in dayto-day conversation… “’Tommy, have you cleaned your room yet?’

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‘Nope, can’t Mom.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘ The Big Bang.’” “’Wait a minute; you bought how many pairs of shoes at that sale at Macy’s? Thirteen? My God Sally! What will you tell Jim?’ ‘Well, I’ll tell him that I felt like expanding, much like the Big Bang’”… but it was a manifest destiny of sorts to the scientific community. As it turns out they were more right than they knew. A quick lesson in the Big Bang Theory: A long time ago… It happened in this galaxy, not far away. But by long time, we’re talking about billions of years… an explosion occurred that sent the embryonic universe outward. Before that, the entire universe was contained in a single point of incredibly dense matter and energy. The embryonic universe expanded outwards, maturing and growing, stretching and expanding until it reached the universe as we know it now. Now, it’s not in my best interests to ponder over where that bit of dense matter came from, that’s a theology lesson best left for another day. Besides, it doesn’t seem too pertinent in light of the direction of things. What exactly is the direction of things? Consider it this way: The matter started out as a discarded pair of elastic-waist pants, a slim waist, mind you… God’s on a strict fitness regime… Dad, you want to go and play some catch or something? Not right now, JC, I’ve got to finish my Pilates and then I’m going to do a bit of Jazzercise… That’s beside the point. God in God’s perpetual Godness stepped into these

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pants, which obviously represents the catalyst of the entire Big Bang. As the pants were pulled up, the universe, as represented by the waistband, expanded. The pants climbed higher and the waistband expanded. As it neared God’s waist, sitting fashionably low on the hips, the waistband hit its limit. Now, let’s say that God wore these universal pants for one day. This day, however, is God’s day, and not ours. And God’s day lasts millennia. But last night, our night, God’s day was over and the pants came off. Here’s where we come in. Those pants that have clothed a deity’s legs… Well, that means that we have to assume that God has legs, and if that’s the case, does God spend the majority of the time standing up or sitting down? Does God walk or run? Hairy legs?... those pants that clothed a deity’s legs for eons are now creeping towards mid-thigh. So, as the pants go down, the elastic retracts, trying to return to its original shape. The entire universe... stop thinking about pants for a second… the entire universe is constricting, shrinking. In shrinking, everything is going backwards, returning to that single point. Some might call it universal atrophy, an eventual breakdown of everything we know. But I just call it bad luck. I mean, it’s over; everything ceases to be new from here on out. To answer the song line “Is that all there is?” Yep, this is it. Scratch that, this isn’t it,

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because this already happened. That is it. Confused? Join the club. This is how I find it best explained: on a smaller scale, take a rubber band. Stretch it out and then let it go. It will snap back to its original shape. That’s what’s happening to the universe. The bang reached the end of its stretch and now it’s snapping back. Slowly but surely, it’s snapping back. So, the world is on its way out. As I said before, we aren’t going to die immediately. I’d prefer it that way, but there’s something even worse in store: It will be like we are hitting rewind on the VCR of life. As the universe retracts back upon itself, everything will be reversed. Time is a law only as long as the universe is expanding, as long as the universe is progressing forward. Time and the universe go hand in hand, since there was no time before the bang. So when the universe goes backwards, time is reversed. Everything we’ve ever done, everything in history will be done again. Only this time, we’re beginning with the ending. It’s an odd concept. Every standard that we as humanity accept will be turned on end. The earth, the very graves in the graveyards will become wombs. Our planet will truly become Mother Earth as bodies pour forth from the ground and resume their lives. Women become the eternal graves as babies are stuffed back into the birth canal, to degenerate and be permanently robbed of life through reverse ejaculation.

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Sex itself no longer is an act of life, but rather death. War is a life-saving act, with guns becoming retrieval devices for bullets lodged in vital organs. Bombs will rebuild cities, writers will unwrite books. The retraction, as I am prone to call it, becomes the greatest gift to Earth. Land is returned to its rightful stewards, enemies become friends once more, and we will undo all of the polluting and destroying that we have done to our planet. For humans, however, it’s not such a gift. We are forced to unlearn everything. We will never accomplish the uncompleted tasks, but simply retreat from them forever. Weep not, it’s inevitable. There is no way to prevent it. I’m sure that as soon as time really starts to rewind, we won’t even complain. Not that we’d know, since the way it was is in the past, or the future, which is now the past. A question arises now and I’ll try to get it down before things start to fade out. Has this happened before? And if so, how many times? I mean, this bang occurred because of a huge build up of kinetic energy. Like the kind of energy that would be created by stuffing, oh I don’t know, an entire universe into one condensed lump of matter? So what if we toss out the rubber band, and put in an accordion… And the coach is approaching the mound; it looks like they’re going to take out old rag-arm Rubber Band. He threw one hell of a game. And they’ll be bringing in, the Squeezebox: Mr. Accordion!... And you know

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that God can play the accordion. Serenading all creation with an ethereal polka. So the universe is accordioning in and out, over and over again. Where does that leave us? Those who believe in previous lives are just picking up on the echoes of our former in-out. I wonder, does God dance as that accordion plays? Or does God weep, playing a sad song on that celestial instrument? It’s a scary thought that we might suffer this slow reverse demise just because God likes to play the accordion. Like Fortuna with her endlessly spinning wheel, does God continue to play the accordion? Well kids, like it or not, we’re all about to take the greatest road trip of all. Hold on tight, here we go again. I’m awake now, but…

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An Avatar 69

On The Council and The Perfection Experiment In the beginning, it wasn’t really so dark. The Council of Eight always existed. They debated and deliberated. Their purpose was an experiment to create perfection: the perfect planet with the perfect people with perfect lives. Led by The Grand Puppeteer, they sat in their chamber and presided over time itself. The other seven deities were known as Tscfr, The Great I, God, Brand, Mandru, Erauve, and Fuego. In order to understand The Council of Eight, the reader must accept the fact that they are beyond comprehension. Picture a large room filled with ambient light. Now, in this room, put a long table. Around this table put eight chairs, seven on the sides

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and one at the head. On this table, place a scale model of the universe, only it really is the universe. Existence, as Earth knows it, is simply a small orb on a table in a large room. The Council, in its pursuit of perfection, creates planets by the thousands. Most do not get past the stage of fiery gas, but the ones that do become part of the experiment. The life that is placed on that blossoming planet is documented and watched over. Each planet in the experiment is assigned a member of The Council as a caretaker. The caretaker’s primary objective is to observe and record data. On Religion Earth’s caretaker, as one may have guessed, is God. The reader may be confused at this point about the presence of God and the God’s role in multiple religions. The deity that all Earthly religions refer to is in fact God, only each is a different version and perception of God. The truth of the matter, however, is that The Council is not concerned with religion. Prayer falls upon deaf ears. The only thing that the caretakers want is that people treat people well. The only stipulation for getting into heaven is the golden rule, “Do unto others as you would do have others do unto you”. If a person fails to meet this standard by the time he dies, he does not go to Hell (which is not a place at all) but rather is not allowed to continue in the experiment and ceases to exist. On Continuation Heaven, to be exact, simply means that a person is used again in the later attempts at the experiment. The person’s life-force goes into stasis and waits for what The Council calls Continuation to occur.

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Heaven is not a glorious place where everyone is happy. It is empty and the life-forces are unaware of their stasis. Most people, however, are uncomfortable accepting this fact. Because of this need for a better place, The Council does nothing to discourage the idea that Heaven is a wonderful place. Upon Continuation, the life-forces are wiped clean and begin afresh. On Avatars and Location Each member of The Council has custody of many planets and many species of beings. They watch over them much like a child might watch over an ant farm or a tank of sea monkeys. The Council, before beginning the perfection experiment, all signed contracts of noninterference. This statement, in its simplest terms, says “Look, but don’t touch”. There is, however, an escape clause on the contracts. The cause allows each member of The Council an Avatar. An Avatar can assume the form of the species on any planet. Through the Avatar, The Council members are able to influence the people of the planets. When not being used, the Avatars are in stasis with the other life-forces waiting for Continuation. If a member of The Council wishes to have a hand in events, the Avatar is called forth and located on a planet. Location consists of creating a body to house the Avatar. Often the Avatar is located as a full grown being, but in rare cases the Avatar is located in a womb and must grow as any other lifeform on the planet. On Current Events in The Experiment The Council’s experiment is now in its third round. The Council waits until all planets in a round have extinguished themselves before

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starting over. In this third round, all of the other planets have failed except for Earth, which is under God’s supervision. It is clear to The Council that Earth is not the perfect planet, but due to its contract of noninterference, The Council members cannot terminate the planet and begin the fourth round of the experiment. Several members of The Council have Located their Avatars on Earth in an attempt to finish off the planet. All is not well amongst The Council of Eight...

And suddenly he was. His eyes opened and took in the bright world around him. Ears took in loud noises. His nose pulled the smells to his mind. A city. There were people everywhere. They talked, shouted, and whistled in a blur of noise. Buildings towered over the teeming sidewalks. Cars rushed by, tires squealed, brakes hissed. The smell of exhaust mingled with hot dogs and gyros. All of these sensations were new to his body, but not to his mind. Vague memories flickered in his head, trying to surface through a fog of grogginess. He looked down at his hands, making tight fists and then letting them go limp. They were young hands, most likely in their thirties. How long have I been in stasis? And why did I get located? The voices around him separated and instead of a blurry sound, his ears discerned individual words: “The nerve of some people.” ‘Who does he think he is?” “So then we started talking and... Whoa, that guy is naked!” Past his hands, he saw he was indeed naked. He forgot that

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location did not involve clothes. His face grew hot. Reaching down to cover himself, he ran through the crowd and ducked into an alleyway. He crouched behind a dumpster and collected his thoughts. He had been located, which meant that he had a purpose. God would contact him to bring him up to speed. He was an Avatar and soon the power of the Council would course through him. Until then, he was a naked man with no identity. He would need clothes. He was tired, even though he’d been conscious for less than half an hour. Sitting down on a slab of cardboard, he pulled his knees into his chest and rested his head on the dumpster. It was not comfortable, nor was the smell radiating from the dumpster pleasant, but when his eyes closed he was fast asleep. His mind swirled. No dreams came to him, he swam in a black mist that surrounded him. “Hey. Hey buddy. You can’t sleep here.” A voice cut through the mist. His eyes opened. Standing over him was a teenage boy. A grease-stained apron covered his jeans and white t-shirt. One hand held a garbage can, the other hung at the teen’s side. The Avatar scrambled to his feet, causing the teen to take a step back in hesitation. “Jesus! What happened Mister? Where’re your clothes?” The teenager asked. He thought quickly, trying to find an excuse. Tell him you were mugged. “Mugged. Uh, I was mugged. The mugger took my money and knocked me out back here. He must have taken my clothes too. Do you have anything I could wear?” The young man stared at The Avatar for a minute, there was a

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sense of recognition. “Here, take this apron. It’s the best I can do for you. But you gotta get out of here.” The Avatar tied the apron around his waist. He nodded in thanks and proceeded out of the alley. He surveyed the storefronts. There was a laundromat at the corner of the block. He headed there. He entered the laundromat and found himself alone. The air smelled of detergent and bleach. He walked to the bank of rumbling dryers and opened one. Dry air warmed his face as he dug through the clothes. He fished out a pair of jeans and a shirt. As he was buttoning the shirt, a man came out of the bathroom in back. “Hey, what are you doing with my clothes?” “Shh, these are my clothes.” He wagged a finger at the man, feeling a spark of The Council’s power inside of him. “But... But...” “Thank you,” he said. He finished buttoning and left. Still barefoot, but no longer standing out, he looked for his means of talking to God. ********** “But you cannot destroy the planet. They have a right to exist,” God said. “They are imperfect. They only waste our time,” said Mandru. “We should not have allowed them to get past the year 33. God, they killed your Avatar. They were not perfect then, they are not perfect now,” said Brand. “My Avatar allowed himself to be killed, it was to set an example. Besides, we are not allowed to get involved. You all know this,” God

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stated. “They are holding the experiment up. No other planet has lasted this long,” said Tscfr. “That is because you had your Avatars destroy the planets at the first sign of imperfection. You did not give the planet a chance to right itself. When something is not to your liking, you just send in your Avatars and get rid of it. I will not have your Avatars destroying this planet!” said God. Members of The Council glanced nervously around the table. God saw their eyes and slammed a fist into the table. “Treachery! You’ve planned the same fate for my planet!” The Grand Puppeteer rose from the table: “Now, now. Why continue a planet’s life if it has already failed? The existence we seek does not become perfect. It is always perfect. The experiment can either move on, or it can stagnate and rot on Earth.” “Even you, the supposed voice of reason, wish to destroy Earth. Well, I too have placed my Avatar on the planet in hopes of defending their lives. We shall see what happens.” said God. ********** “Another scotch on the rocks,” he waved two fingers in the air. “Right. In a minute,” the bartender replied. A moment later a glass of liquor was placed before him. He downed the scotch. He tapped an ice cube into his mouth and rolled it with his tongue. “God man. That’s like your fifth. Tell you what, get another round and I’ll pay for it,” a younger man said, scooting his stool closer. He held a bottle of beer in one hand and a slowly burning cigarette in the other.

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“Sure thing. I won’t turn down a free drink.” He waved his fingers in the air again. “Two this time, please.” “The name’s Mack. You from around here? I don’t think I’ve seen you in the bar before, but you look really familiar.” Mack put down the beer and offered his hand. The Avatar shook the hand firmly. He smiled, “No, I’ve never been here before. I’m from out of town.” Their drinks came and Mack picked up his glass. The Avatar did the same. “Cheers, eh? Say, what’s your name?” Mack asked. “Oh, I’m...” His eyes scanned the bar, they landed on Mack’s bottle of beer. “The name’s Sam.” “Well Sam, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Mack drank his beer and grinned. “HEAR ME NOW, AVATAR,” a deep voice poured from Mack’s mouth. Sam wiped his eyes to cut the alcoholic haze. “AVATAR! IT IS GOD. HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN THIS VOICE ALREADY?” “No, sorry God. I was just startled to hear your voice come from this kid. I thought it might be the liquor.” “YOU ARE ALWAYS INEBRIATED WHEN WE SPEAK. I QUESTION YOUR WORTH SOMETIMES. AVATAR, I LOCATED YOU BECAUSE THE COUNCIL IS GOING TO DESTROY EARTH. THERE IS ANOTHER AVATAR ON EARTH AS WELL. YOU RADIATE TO ONE ANOTHER, SO IF YOU STAY WHERE YOU ARE, THE AVATAR WILL COME TO YOU. IN FACT, I SENSE THAT THE AVATAR IS ALREADY WITH YOU.” “Shit... I have to deal with one of them?” He looked around the bar. In the poor light it was difficult to make out faces. There was a

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couple laughing in a booth and besides him and Mack, there was only a businesswoman at the bar. Which one is the Avatar? he thought. “So, what would you have me do, God?” “THE OTHER AVATAR IS DOING WHAT IT CAN TO DESTROY EARTH. YOU MUST PERSUADE THE AVATAR NOT TO DO SO. I WILL DO WHAT I CAN WITH THE COUNCIL. WE MAY BE ABLE TO SAVE EARTH.” “I’ll do what I can,” Sam said. “What will you do?” asked Mack, scratching the back of his head as though he had just woke up from a nap. “Oh, I was answering a question the bartender just asked me,” Sam replied. He wanted to change the subject as fast as he could. In a drunken state, things might be said that were not so easily explained. “Um, excuse me, maybe you could give the two of us some privacy?” came a voice behind Sam. He turned in his stool. The businesswoman was now in the stool next to him. There was a look of vague recognition between him and the woman, and an ominous feeling filled the air. She’s an Avatar too, Sam thought. “So, pal, maybe you could move along?” she hissed at Mack. “We have very important things to discuss that I’m sure your mind could not comprehend.” “Are you kidding me, lady? Why do I gotta leave the bar? Plenty of booths out there if you want privacy. Besides, isn’t it a little early to be turning tricks?” Mack stood up and put his chest forward. Sam sat between the two, his head turning from one to the other. “Scram.” Her voice had deepened to a growl. She pointed a

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finger at the door. “Now.” “Christ! I don’t want any kind of trouble lady. Good luck with this, Sam.” Mack bounced off of his stool. He moved quickly to the door, glancing back once at Sam and the woman, then he was gone. Sam looked back at the woman before him. He had to wait a moment while his vision focused. Her lips were glossy and her nails, which she strummed on the bar, were colored red. She was gorgeous, but this did not surprise Sam. All of the Avatars were sublimely beautiful. “C’mon Sam. You know that we have to meet. Now that we’re alone, let’s get down to business. I’m Ava of Brand. When I felt your location today, I came here and waited. Your alcohol problem is no big secret.” “Ava? Come on. Couldn’t you have chosen a more subtle name?” “Just because an Avatar is powerful does not mean that she has to be creative. Besides, naming yourself after a beer is not much better.” “Fair enough. So is it just us? Only Brand and God have sent their Avatars?” “Thus far, yes. Erauve, Mandru, and Tscfr are ready to send their Avatars, should I encounter any large problems. Fuego and The Great I are spineless and will not make a decision against The Grand Puppeteer. The Grand Puppeteer, as you know, does not send an Avatar unless there is a dire purpose. And I don’t think the circumstances have ever been that dire.”

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Ava leaned forward, “Now listen Sam. I know that you’re only doing what you’re told. I don’t hold any of this against you. It’s not as though I can go against my orders either. The thing is, however, I’ve already put it into motion. The world is doomed. Even with the power of The Council behind you, you cannot undo what I have done. Don’t forget Sam, I all have the power behind me too.” Her voice resonated, and a chorus of bells seemed to fill the air. “Stupid!” Sam shouted, “How could you destroy this planet? The Council hasn’t decided upon destruction yet! You are committing treason!” “No, Sam. Treason requires free will. God is the only one who is opposed to destruction for the sake of the experiment, God is the only one guilty of treason.” Ava said. ********** The room of The Council of Eight was filled with loud voices. Some members of The Council had left their seats and were pacing the floor. On the large table, the universe was gone. In its place was a large blue and green orb. It was the planet whose existence was in jeopardy: Earth. “Destroy it. The damn thing is a nuisance. Erauve had several planets that were much closer to perfection than Earth, but when they went sour, we sent in the Avatars and ended everything. Now God, you tell me why your little planet Earth is so special,” Tscfr said, putting both hands palms out, as if expecting an offering. “Erauve wished to have those planets destroyed. Some of you seem to have forgotten the purpose of this experiment. It was not to

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take charge. It was not to play chess with an entire planet. The people on Earth, they have lives. They have families. Sure, there are wars. Yes they kill one another. There are starving people, but can we simply overlook the fact that they have prospered as a planet?” God asked. “Prospered? That planet is divided between the haves and the have-nots. The haves have everything and they won’t share. How can that right itself?” Brand said. “Brand, everything will reach an equilibrium. That’s the way that this universe we’ve created works,” said The Great I. “Oh, come now. Did you make sure that there would be an equilibrium? That everything would right itself? Because I know that I didn’t. Anyone? Did anyone make it so that every planet would eventually right itself? No? I didn’t think so. Don’t be an optimistic fool, I,” Mandru butted in. “Regardless of that, Mandru, the truth is that we’ve never actually given a planet a chance to end on its own. We have no idea what might happen. All I am asking is that we allow Earth to end on its own terms. What is time to us anyway? We have always been and always will be. Why are we fighting over a planet that is still an infant?” God said. “It is not an issue of time. The sooner we can create the perfect existence, the sooner we can create one thousand perfect existences. One million perfect existences!” exclaimed Brand. “But when we have found the perfect existence, what then? That has always been our purpose. What happens when we have fulfilled that? What will our existence mean then?” Fuego asked.

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“I suppose that we will have to find another purpose... what that will be, I’m not exactly sure. We will have to decide that when the time comes,” The Grand Puppeteer said at last. “Even more reason to allow Earth to exist! Why hurry putting our own existence into question?” God asked. “You are a fool. It is over for Earth. My Avatar shall see to that,” replied Mandru. ********** “Why do Mandru, Brand, Erauve, and Tscfr want Earth destroyed so badly?” Sam asked. “Earth is slowing down the experiment. If The Council is ever going to find the perfect existence, then Earth must end. If it will not end on its own, then we must end it. And Sam, to be honest, I think that we have to end the planet,” Ava said. “Have to? You said the destruction of the planet had already begun. You said that your plans were already put into action.” Sam slammed the bar. The effects of the scotch lingered, and the noise from his hand on the bar echoed in his ears. He would need his head together if he was to persuade Ava to spare Earth. But how can I get her to do opposite of her orders? It is not her decision. Changing her mind will be like getting a camel through the eye of a needle, Sam thought. “Sam, my commands are to destroy Earth. The best way for that to happen is complete dehydration of the planet. It will make the entire planet uninhabitable and possibly destroy it. I cannot start the dehydration until The Council tells me that I can. They have not

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decided on Earth yet. But make no mistake, I have already acquired and stockpiled vast stores of silica gel all over the world. I simply have to project and those stores will be dumped into every major body of water on the planet, drying it out entirely.” “Project?” Sam asked. “You’ve been out of the game for too long. God grew soft. Have you forgotten the uses of the Council’s Power? Projection is when we put a message into the minds of many. From right here, I could give the entire city an urge to get a drink at this very bar. It’s just like bidding on a larger scale. Bidding, in case you’ve forgotten that too, is our ability to tell someone what to do. Of course it doesn’t work on other Avatars, but it’s awfully useful. There are others, such as resurrection and the transformation of objects, but those aren’t as spectacular as they used to be. Modern medicine and all.” “I remember now. So, why don’t I just project a message to hold the stores of silica?” proposed Sam. “Because I would hear it. And then I would set my second plan into action, which is a much more volatile plan than the first, but I won’t reveal it so that you might block it. Face it Sam, you can’t win. It’s hopeless for you. The Council is going to agree on the destruction of Earth and then God will command you to help in the destruction. You might as well just work with me from the beginning.” She draped her arm around Sam’s shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie. Sam shrugged her off and pushed off his stool. “Sam, why do you want to save this planet? Remember how they accepted your help last time? You suffered. They crucified you,

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Sam. They killed you, they shunned you. Each time you are here, you die.” “But when they crucified me, I became the inspiration for millions of people. They treat each other well. They are candidates for continuation!” “Sam, so many of those people who are now subscribers to the example that you left behind are hypocrites. They are judgmental. They despise those unlike themselves. They do not treat their brothers and sisters with compassion. They incite wars. They even have divisions between themselves. Don’t you see it? This planet is doomed. Even something that you did out of sheer good has turned out poorly.” Sam’s heart sunk. He was getting nowhere and Ava was overwhelming him. Tears welled in his eyes. He gritted his teeth. “But they aren’t all like that! Some of them are good people. They love and care for everyone. They have no one below them, everyone is above them. They’re not all like that...” Sam’s voice drifted off and his eyes fell to the floor. ********** “Earth has existed for so long, they must be doing something right! Remember that planet of Fuego’s that lasted only two months? Earth is doing well. I do not delude myself by believing that it will exist forever, but I do think that it has a lot of life left in it. How can we, as uninvolved caretakers, allow a planet that is in the prime of its youth to be destroyed by our own hands?” God asked. “God, every planet is given a fair chance. Earth was given a

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chance. We waited through wars. We even let Earth exist after one man initiated the murder of millions of people. We have seen countries invade one another and slaughter those who were different. We, the entire Council, have let Earth exist because you have defended it. There are those of us now who wish that we had not waited this long. The planet is not going to get any better. They have survived this long by sheer luck. They were a failed experiment and letting them exist does nothing more than wave the failure in our faces,” said Mandru. “But, as God said, can we, the caretakers, destroy the planet?” asked Fuego. “We have done it before,” stated Brand. “To your own planets! This is my planet! I was assigned to watch over it! I will not let you destroy it. I cannot turn my back as easily as some of you are able to. You can call off your hitman Avatar, there will be no destruction today,” said God. “You can do nothing to stop us. By a simple majority, we decide to end Earth’s existence. I have already sent my Avatar. Mandru, Erauve and Tscfr are ready with theirs. That’s four. Can you muster the votes to preserve Earth?” Brand challenged. “Mandru, don’t be ignorant. With eight members, four is not a majority. You need five. And the only way you would get five is if someone changes sides. And that is what I am doing. We have been wasting our time with Earth for the past thousand years. I say end it now and let us move onto the fourth round of the experiment,” said The Great I. Brand grinned smugly and said, “Five. Maybe more depending

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on what The Grand Puppeteer and Fuego decide. You lose God. Accept the fact that--” “Enough!” said The Grand Puppeteer, “I have made my decision. This decision overrides all of you, because I am in charge of this Council. I have listened to you quarrel and I have deliberated. Most of you have made valid points. It is true that the existence of Earth slows down our experiment. While it is here, we cannot carry on. God speaks true, however, that we cannot destroy his planet without his permission. Earth is still very much alive. The people there have every right to exist. Many of them are very worthy of continuation. I would like to see how many more are to come that could be continued. Here is my crossroads: Destroying the planet now would allow us to carry on with the experiment, but we would lose many lives capable of continuation. “You may now be asking where I stand. I have decided that Earth will be removed from the experiment. They are not a perfect planet, and never will be. We have learned things from their planet, as we have from everywhere else, but they are not perfect. Earth will be allowed to exist, but it will no longer have a caretaker. Furthermore, I believe that you have all abused the power of Avatars. From this moment on, all communication with them is through. Those on Earth will be left there, to their own devices, until they die. The others, in stasis, will be allowed to continue, but as ordinary lifeforms. There will be no more interference with the experiment by The Council. Planets will play themselves out, because as God said, time is nothing to us. We will wait for Perfection to happen, we cannot force it.”

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“Thank you. They will be allowed to live. That is what I ultimately wanted. Thank you,” said God. “Then the fourth round of our perfection experiment will begin.” ********** “Accept what must happen to Earth. It’s really for the best. And who knows, maybe God’s planet will be the perfect one next time,” Ava smiled at Sam. “But it can’t ever be perfect if we keep screwing it up. We’re the cook’s dirty fingers that are continuously tainting the dough. It’s us, Ava. We’re the problem!” ‘What are you talking about Sam? There’s no problem with us. We’re perfect just like the Council.” “If the Council is perfect, then why can’t they manage to create the perfect planet? God is flawed. Brand is flawed. The whole Council is imperfect. And because we’re with the Council, we too are imperfect. And it’s our imperfection that is destroying every world we touch.” “No. You’re wrong. We’re perfect. Look at us. I’m ending it!” Ava raised her hands above her head and closed her eyes. She began to hum. Sam grabbed Mack’s empty beer bottle off of the bar and smashed it into her head. The glass exploded and she fell to the floor. Her head oozed blood from the left temple. Her forehead bristled with shards of embedded glass. “You lost. Brand lost. The council will make the right decision and you won’t destroy this planet!” Sam slumped to his knees over the fallen body. He put his hands on Ava’s chest. “It’s done. It’s done. Right God? God?” 87

Sam looked up at the ceiling and was alone.

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