Daniel Cetina

When The Moon Meets The Earth -- Chapter 2: Sitting Comfortably

iheartsquirtle — Mon, 13 Aug 2012 14:50:53 -0700

The second chapter of the novel I began writing for my advanced fiction class during the Spring 2012 quarter.

Though Terra Vieja wasn’t as renowned as other large cities for high crime rates or gang violence, it had gotten worse than most people ever thought it would. Now that all the police officers and fire squads were discharged, the city was no longer under control. Going down the main streets, you’d be at risk of coming across the ruthless thieves and muggers who had taken over storefronts and sidewalk shops. They were known to move along quickly in their plundering, so I’ve never had to deal with them. Besides, I’d made it a habit to avoid any major roads, and I traversed the city using residential side streets and the occasional alleyways.

Jackson Park was an easy five-minute walk from my house and I already knew the fastest way there. Long before everything went to hell, I’d learned the quickest route to the park from my previous meet-ups with Nate. I left my house and crossed the narrow road to get to the first alley, but not before stopping to take in the depressing view of the neighborhood: empty sedans and open SUVs littered the streets, making driving anywhere impossible; garbage cans and recycling bins lay knocked down with their contents spilled out, as fat black flies loudly swarmed around whatever rotten scraps of food happened to be visible; it was an absolute mess. Several houses still had their lights on and I could see people moving around inside them, but some were completely abandoned. I knew from the smashed windows and broken doors that burglars had already visited a few of these homes. Hopefully there weren’t people inside when the looters came through. Almost instinctively, I silently motioned the Sign of the Cross, and ended it with a kiss to my thumb. I took one last look at the ruined place, and stepped into the alley towards my destination.

Jackson Park was completely deserted save for the few homeless people who seemed to have taken residence there. Long gone were the hoards of children and park-goers that would normally be heard running around the playground, playing ball, or walking their dogs. The lack of people wasn’t a bad thing though; it left the usually occupied main gazebo vacant for Nate and me to claim.

So c’mon, Dante, be honest: does the church really hold mass confessions now? Nate was lying down on the single bench with his arms folded behind his head as he waited for me to respond. All six feet of him was too much for the small wooden seat, and he fidgeted to find a comfortable reclining position before sitting up again.

Yeah, they do, I said. I don’t get why you think it’s so weird. I was leaning over the weathered railing, watching a pair of ducks swim around the murky recycled water of the nearby fountain. It was nice to see there was still some wildlife in the park.

It just sounds crazy to me, he smirked. I mean does telling a priest all the bad shit you’ve done and then saying ten Hail Marys really fix anything? It’s stupid.

Even though I was nowhere near as dedicated as my parents, I felt the sting of his words. It’s not stupid, Nate, I said, turning around to look at him. Thousands of people really believe in it; millions even. And if the end really is near, what do you expect them to do?

I don’t expect them to do anything, he shrugged. Know why?

Why?

‘Cause it’s not going to happen, he said, casually rubbing his eye. With all the hysteria surrounding the asteroid, Nate remained adamant about not letting it get to his head like all those god-fearing idiots of the planet as he called them. You’d think for a freelance muralist with a degree in art history, he’d have a more open mind.

Nate was 21 when I found him online almost a year ago, about the time the asteroid was first discovered. After realizing that I preferred the company of men to women, and seeing as there was no one I felt comfortable enough to talk about it with, I went to the Internet to find a confidant. Nate was the first person to catch my eye while browsing through profiles on a dating website: standing proudly with his arms crossed by a painting of the Santa Monica Pier, his lips were curled into a pearly white smile that almost outshined the luster of his green eyes. Approaching a cute albeit arrogant-looking guy on the web wasn’t something I’d done before, so I was hesitant to even try at first. When I garnered enough courage to talk to the handsome painter, I did what any other teenage boy would do: I sent him a shameless let’s hook up message to which he very quickly replied, only to find that I was a completely naive 17-year-old kid.

Our relationship began with frequent messaging, and eventually moved on to actually meeting in person. The first get-together was nothing too serious, and while I was excited to see Nate, I couldn’t stop myself from wondering why a 21-year-old would give so much time and attention to someone who was only 17. I want to help, I remember him telling me that day at Mogan’s Café, I know what it’s like to be in your situation, Dante. When I was your age, I sure as hell would’ve loved having someone to talk to and be open with. I know it can be difficult dealing with it alone. Over time I dropped my concern, and after a couple months we officially started dating. The only person I ever came close to telling about Nate was my grandmother, but she passed away before I could find the courage to share my news with her.

The ducks I was idly watching swam off, so I straightened up, and stretched my arms behind my back until I felt the satisfying pop pop pop of my spine cracking. A small hill of thick, unmaintained grass lay next to the fountain, and the setting sun had left just a patch of yellow light upon it. It looked more appealing than the cramped bench where Nate sat, so I walked down the steps of the gazebo and plopped myself onto the slowly fading warmth. The little sunlight pouring down on me was satisfyingly toasty against the cool prickles of grass against my back as I spread out my arms and legs. The winter days in Terra Vieja weren’t as cold as they used to be, but it was still nice to enjoy whatever amount of sun was shining on the town, especially when I realized we’d never have another summer.

Loud quacks broke the quiet calm of the park, and I sat up to see the two ducks peck at each other before the smaller one flew away. Directly above its flight path, I saw the cause of all the world’s panic. Unlike the smaller, pebble-like meteors that burned away in the atmosphere as they showered down from the sky, the celestial mass from which they came was a daunting presence. I wondered if the duck had finally noticed the giant asteroid heading our way, and decided to leave before it was too late.

Nate, come look at the asteroid with me, I called out towards the gazebo.

I’ve seen it once, I’ve seen it a million times already, he yelled back. It’s kind of hard to miss a giant boulder floating in the sky, you know.

C’mon, sit here with me. Please? I beckoned him over, my bottom lip jutting out in a sad puppy-dog fashion. He probably couldn’t see it from the bench.

Nate let out a loud exaggerated groan and hopped down the steps of the gazebo. I watched as he trudged over to my now sunless spot and smiled as he threw himself on the grass next to me.

It’s more comfortable than that bench, huh?

Definitely, he yawned as he stretched out on the lawn. A bit chilly though.

Yeah it is. I can’t stay for long anyway. We’re doing night prayers again.

Though the sun was almost fully set, the sky still held a bluish-pink hue that lit up the clouds. The only thing distracting from the beautiful sight was the dark mass ominously suspended in the center of the blending colors. The asteroid always seemed to be in sight no matter where you were. I remember when it was first discovered it looked like nothing more than just another star among the millions already sparkling in space. But as time went on, it started appearing bigger and bigger, and now it was only days from impact.

Nate rolled his eyes when he saw me staring into the sky again and saddled up to my side. He brought his arm around my shoulder and held me close as he joined my observation. A short breeze moved the longer blades of grass around us, followed by the loud swaying of the surrounding trees. We sat there silent for some time as we gazed upon our slowly nearing demise, when I felt Nate’s muscles tense. Looking up at him, I saw his green eyes staring towards the distant treetops, not focusing on the asteroid. He seemed to be avoiding it.

Hey Nate, I said softly, what do you think’s going to happen?

He continued to stare before realizing I had asked him a question. Hmm? he responded, distractedly. What was he so focused on?

When it hits, I mean. What do you think will happen to us after we die?

Don’t say that, Dante.

What?

You know what. Nothing’s going to happen because it’s not going to hit us. Nate looked down at me sharply.

I turned my face back towards the asteroid, ignoring his glare. You sure about that?

He pulled his arm down from my shoulder, and I felt a discomforting chill where its warmth had been. It’s not, he said. Nate spoke with an edge that I long ago learned to recognize as the sign of an approaching argument.

Nate and I had been having more problems than usual, and only once did an altercation escalate into an actual fight. It happened a few months ago, at a midnight beach bonfire where Nate had brought some beers. He had finished a couple bottles, but I only had one; the taste of beer wasn’t my favorite. I remember we were laughing about something, and somehow we got on the subject of the asteroid. He started arguing that all the NASA reports and scientific theories of its impact were bullshit, and that I was a gullible idiot for believing them. The beer had left me tipsy, so instead of ignoring Nate I called him an asshole, which only further angered him. It got pretty heated, and he even shoved me a couple times. At one point he threw his bottle in the fire as he yelled at me, so I left before he became more violent.

I didn’t talk to Nate for a couple weeks after that, but since then, he became noticeably less aggressive and learned to control his moods. For a while things went fine, but the closer that asteroid loomed towards our planet, the shorter his fuse became, especially when I talked about what it meant for us. If Nate didn’t lash out at me whenever I tried to find out what was troubling him, he would tell me that I worried too much. Even though he’d flash that cute-but-arrogant smile and assure me that he was okay, I could see in his eyes that he wasn’t. He was afraid.

The sun had fully set now, and the park lights burst to life, illuminating the dark fountain area. Feeling that I had been a bit insensitive, I reached down and felt Nate’s hand flinch away before letting me take hold of it. It was the first time in a while that we just held hands and sat together, not saying anything. The strong, protective grip of his palm and fingers was normally a comfort to my worries, but aside from my apprehension of coming out to my parents, I didn’t have any concerning the pending apocalypse.

I looked back up and stared at the extraterrestrial mass. During the daytime, the asteroid appeared veiled by a hazy blue hue that rendered its incandescent glow invisible, but at night it shone like a second moon. I guess I never really took my time noticing it, because the emanating light had completely mesmerized me as I sat on that grassy hill. Without thinking, I began humming the lullaby my grandmother used to sing to me when I was a kid. It was a short melody that fluctuated between low and high pitches that I used to know the words to, but couldn’t remember. Suddenly, a memory that I had long forgotten flooded back into my mind, and two small words dripped out my mouth.

La luna…

Hmm? Nate turned to face me, furrowing his brow. We’d been seeing each other for eleventh months, but I don’t think there was a single time he’d ever heard me speak Spanish. He asked if I said something.

Oh… sorry, I mumbled, sounding just as confused as he did. I-It’s nothing. I just… remembered something… Nate shrugged and went back to watching the swaying trees while I contemplated what I had just said. I shut my eyes and thought back to that night; the last night I ever spoke to my grandmother, when she told me something that I was surprised I forgot. It was something that I didn’t understand at the time, but in light of recent events it now seemed to make sense. Or at least it kind of did…

When The Moon Meets The Earth -- Chapter 1: Hello World

iheartsquirtle — Thu, 02 Aug 2012 12:39:11 -0700

The first chapter of the novel I began writing for my advanced fiction class during the Spring 2012 quarter.

—People flocking to designated safe zones around the world in fear that the estimated three days—

—NASA researchers say the chances of it passing are still—

—Combined military force’s final attempt at diverting the asteroid’s path have proved unsuccessful—

Every station I flipped through that day repeated the same message just as loudly and alarmingly as all those before it. Special reports that once brought news of which major cities were being evacuated to government-regulated bunkers now informed ill-fated viewers of their full capacities. Civilians fortunate enough to get in could rest knowing they had a chance to survive the approaching disaster, but unless you were among those who made the cut-off, there was no hope for entry. Any of the thousands rejected who tried to fight their way into the shelters were met with bullets; I heard that in a fit of desperation, a horde of unlucky Los Angeles residents attempted to mob their way into the city’s bunker, but were shot down by armed guards. Their deaths were nothing compared to the countless others happening around the globe: random killings by looters and thugs occurred almost daily in larger cities; reports of mass suicides from all ends of Europe could be read in the papers; even stories of sacrificial cult gatherings at Mayan temples in Mexico flooded the airwaves. But after weeks of surfing through channels only to find each one holding an emergency broadcast rambling on about the same thing, I stopped paying much attention.

As I sat there on the ratty old couch in my living room, my view alternated from the TV screen to the time on my phone. Watching news of the chaos happening all over the world wasn’t the most productive activity, but it helped pass the time we had left—not that I was rushing to end my life or anything. I figured if we were all going to die, then it would have been easier to just have it happen already to get it over with so everyone could stop worrying. Still, the news I did hear made me wonder about the people trying to find sanctuary from the asteroid. Like many, my family didn’t get into the bunkers, but not because we arrived too late. According to Mom and Dad, as well as the rest of St. Mazenod’s Church of Terra Vieja, California, we stayed in our house because here we were safe in the hands of our Divine Protector.

Despite the cries of Armageddon that blared through the newspapers, TV stations, and radio airwaves, I found myself rather indifferent to the panic. I still wasn’t sure if telling my family that I was gay during our final days would spare me the possibility of their faith-fueled hate and abandonment. Perhaps a little too optimistically, I hoped it would maybe force them to instead continue to see me as their perfect son before we all perished. Unfortunately, the inevitable outcomes to these things can never really be predicted, and much like the asteroid that was on course to collide with our planet, they can’t be avoided. But the way I saw it, if my world came crumbling down from the confession of my biggest secret, why should the end of the real, physical world even matter? An instant death sure as hell didn’t sound worse than living the rest of my life as an outcast to the people I loved most.

Luckily, I had a boyfriend with whom I could find some comfort during this time of global panic. My parents had actually met him almost a year ago when they walked in on us hanging out in my room. A calculus book was open on my desk, so I came up with a quick cover and introduced him under the guise of Mr. Gibson, a tutor provided by my school’s math department. His real name was Nate O’Malley, and aside from their occasional questioning if my grades were improving, Mom and Dad never really asked about him. But since that first unexpected meeting, we decided to hold all future tutoring sessions outside the house to be safe.

Nate and I had been seeing each other more often now that the earth was on schedule to be obliterated, and I was supposed to meet him at the local park that afternoon. My phone alarm sprang to life with the time of 5:00 pm blinking brightly on its screen, so I turned off the TV and jumped off the couch. I was just about to head out the door when my mother’s voice stopped me.

Dante, where are you headed to in such a rush? She quietly walked down the staircase and approached me with a searching look. Mom moved about like a ghost—her steps were always perfectly silent, so much that I often couldn’t hear her coming or going. Beneath her folded arms, I saw her pale beige hand clutching a small Bible, and the other held a string of red crystal beads. It’s almost time for us to pray the Rosary.

Mom was one of the surprisingly many firm believers that the asteroid was a blessing sent by God to save the souls of the faithful and cleanse the world of all the evils that had taken over. All these evils, as one particularly nasty religious official put it, are those vile rapists and murderers; those liberal sinners who support their barbaric ways; and worst of all: those abominable, filthy, perverted homosexuals. Even though she was steadfast in her faith, Mom wasn’t as cruel or condemning as that old pastor. She always spoke with a genuine sweetness and never argued with those who opposed her views. Only when the subjects of homosexuality and abortion came about did she ever feel the need to politely recite those damn Bible quotes.

Mom, I rolled my eyes, I told you already, I have plans right now with Laurel. We’re gonna see if they’re still holding those group confessions at St. Mazenod’s. She um… she says she has a lot to get off her chest before… you know.

Ay sí, before the Lord’s Final Salvation! Bless that sweet girl’s heart for wanting to confess her sins before it happens, she smiled. Mom had never actually met Laurel, so she was still unaware that my troubled friend was a completely fabricated person I often used as an excuse to get out of family prayer sessions. In her mind, I was the good son that helped Laurel, the lost sheep, find her way back to God’s righteous flock.

Yeah… I said as I inched my way towards the door. But don’t worry, Mom. I promise I’ll make it back before the night prayers.

Okay mijo, she said, stroking my face. You know I just want us to spend as much time together as a family before it happens. Pero está bien. Say hi to Laurel for me. She leaned over to give me a kiss on the cheek.

I smiled back saying, Thanks, Mom. I will, and quickly ran out the door.

Weaving Widow

iheartsquirtle — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 13:52:00 -0700

An adaptation of Ovid’s story of Arachne and Minerva written in the style of Nalo Hopkinson for a final project.

Written 3/12/2012.

“Nena, are you ready? It’s time now, mijita.”

“Yes, Mami. I’ll be out in a second,” I called to my grandmother. Creeping out from underneath a nest of leaves, I stood at the edge of my alcove and prepared for my fall as practiced. I let out my silk and began my descent. Stretching each arm as I basked in the soft moonlight and cool breeze was an indulgence far more delicious than any fresh caught meal. The taste was even sweeter knowing that on this particular night, I was to finally learn the family art of weaving.

Mami smiled as I landed on her lower branch, and she swept me into her embrace. “Okay Nena, I know you’re excited for what I have to teach you tonight, but you must pay close attention. You’re growing up now, so you must learn to weave for yourself so that you can survive in this world.”

“Sí, Mami,” I sighed, “I know this is important. You said the same thing to all my sisters when it was their time to learn. I’m ready for this.”

“Muy bien, Nena. Let’s begin.” We walked to the higher end of the branch, and Mami pointed to a nearby batch of dried leaves— the endpoint of our silken tapestry. “Now watch carefully,” she said. I gasped as she leapt over the chasm before me, her lifeline threading behind her like the tail of a shooting star, and landed silently on the biggest leaf. My grandmother was a fearless warrior in my eyes; no matter her age, she could still catch flies and dance around her tapestries with as much grace and focus as any other creature. The creation of her masterpieces was something I’ve always admired; the orb designs were always perfectly symmetrical, and her silk glimmered radiantly against the darkness of night like stars.

“Don’t be afraid, Nena,” she called, “as long as your silk is with you, you’ll be fine!”

I crawled to the tip of my branch and looked down into the abyss. It was a long jump across, and an even longer fall down. The humid night air calmed me as I took a deep breath, crouched down to set my silk, and jumped.

Landing wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, and I managed to perch myself right next to my grandmother. My thread lay directly over her own, which she said would make for a stronger reinforcement of the structure. “Now Nena, I’m going to lay the outer lines of the tapestry, and after that, you can see how to cross weave and begin connecting threads,” she said, laying down the first silk line. With this new point stuck, Mami jumped across the chasm as effortlessly as before to make a new parallel thread. She climbed to the center of the new string and released a shorter line that stuck to either side of her, creating a hanging loop, which she then attached to our first thread. This process only took Mami a few seconds, and with the foundation now set, she returned to my side. I sat dazzled at her precision and agility.

“Mami, how did you learn to weave so wonderfully?” I asked.

“Well, Nena, I learned from my abuelita the same way I’m teaching you now. And she learned from her abuelita too, and so on.”

“But who was the first one to ever learn?”

“Ay mijita, es tan curiosa! You really want to know the whole story?”

“Of course, Mami! I want to know where our family learned to create such beautiful tapestries.”

“Well Nena, many generations ago, back when our two-stepped ancestors’ earthly lives intertwined with those of the heavens, there lived an old great weaver named Araña…”

***

“Ay que bonita,” whispered Araña as she finished weaving the last blood red petal on her newest huipil. The stark shades of the floral hem and collar contrasted against the white fabric that made up the majority of the traditional dress. “Thees ees my best one yet,” she breathed again, careful not to lose any focus on her meticulous work. She clipped the red thread from her loom’s stringing shuttle and gazed upon the finished dress. The various shades of red and pink flowers surrounded by luscious leafy green vines shown brilliant in the Yucatán sun.

Araña lived alone in a cottage near the Mayan city of Chichen Itza. After Canul passed away many years ago, she decided to isolate herself from the people, and would seldom venture back only to barter her handmade dresses for food and supplies. Many citizens often traveled to Araña’s cottage to observe her weave her renowned huipiles. They would gather around her open porch, and marvel at the speed her shuttle moved between the threads, and how her frail yet nimble fingers would flick through all the reds, yellows, greens, and blues of her elaborate designs.

A crowd of men and women from the city all gazed in awe as Araña removed the new dress from her backstrap loom, and set it on a nearby table. A little girl with braided hair walked up to the busy seamstress who was scanning the gown for any loose strings.

“Señora Araña! This huipil is so pretty!” she exclaimed. “It’s my favorite one that you’ve made yet!”

“Gracias, chiquita,” Araña replied. “Ees very sweet of chu.”

“Where did you learn to make these dresses Señora?”

“Well mija, after mi esposo Canul died, I hat to learn to manage alone. So I tot myself to make thees huipiles that I trade for food y otras cosas.”

“Perdóname Señora,” apologized the girl. “La diosa Ix Chel must have truly blessed you then, so that after your husband passed away you could make such beautiful dresses.”

Araña halted her hands from picking at the fabric. She looked up to the sky and pondered at the girl’s words. “Pienso que no, mija,” she said. “I hat to learn thees craft without the help of anyone, especially the gods. After los pinches dioses took Canul from me, I never prayed to them again.”

The girl stepped back, her brown eyes wide and looking around as if to make sure no one heard the widow. “Por favor Señora Araña, you should never disrespect los dioses. You wouldn’t want them to hear you insult them; who knows if they might be watching…”

***

“So then what happened?” I asked. Mami had just finished laying out intersecting threads throughout the base of our tapestry. She halted her story of Araña as she laid the last silk line through the center.

“Un momento, Nena. Come here first so I can explain what to do next,” she beckoned.

“Sí, Mami,” I called back. I crossed over the soft tethers she had weaved and joined her at our original spot. I knew the next part of our construction was connecting the threads with one continuous spiral of silk. Meticulously watching my grandmother perform this all-encompassing weave in the past allowed me to study her movements and technique. The excitement to begin the process ached through my arms.

“Bueno. So what you must do now is lay your silk at this first line, and slowly go around and around as you connect each thread you pass, all the way until you reach the center. Es muy simple.” She motioned for me to step forward onto the perimeter of the structure. I took my silk into my hand, and pressed it tight against my grandmother’s line.

“Like this Mami?”

“Sí, mijita. Pero despacio, slowly now. Take your time, there’s no rush. As you weave more and more, you’ll learn to spin your tapestries faster than anyone else.”

“Just like you!”

“That’s right, Nena.” She watched as I carefully inched my way around the first quarter segment of the web. My lining was crooked in comparison to the exact patterns of my grandmother’s past works, but she continued to watch with a proud gaze. I figured completing my first tapestry would take much longer than I anticipated, so I asked Mami to continue her story while I worked.

“Well after the child’s warning to Araña, things took a turn for the worse. Little did she know, la diosa Ix Chel was indeed watching from her throne amongst the stars…”

***

Ix Chel pet the serpent braided into her black hair as she contemplated the widow’s words. The sound of the viper’s hiss near her ear felt like a tempting call to take action against Araña. She pulled out her weaving shuttle, and examined the smooth tip. Disrespecting the divine was punishable in the Red Goddess’ eyes, and she devised a plan to convince the seamstress to apologize for her insult.

Later that night, after Araña had safely packed away her latest huipil, the goddess came down to the earth in a shower of moonlight wearing the disguise of a young girl in white. In place of her green snake, white plumeria blossoms adorned her head. The girl approached Araña’s cottage and found her cooking fresh tortillas over an open fire. She watched as Araña’s wrinkled hands picked up a mound of corn-flour masa, and span it against her palm to flatten into a perfect circle. Within minutes the widow had doled out tens of them. Ix Chel imagined the wonders those hands could produce when working at the loom.

Sensing an unknown presence, Araña stopped and looked up to find the child staring at her from beyond the trees of her porch.

“Buenas tardes chiquita. Are chu lost?”

The child crept out from the darkness and into the light of the fire. From this distance she could make out the many wrinkles on the widow’s face— telltale signs of a hard-earned life. “No Señora Araña, I’ve traveled here to see your famous huipiles. The people say your blessed hands have mastered the loom, and they create the most intricate designs. Surely you must be very loyal to la diosa de la luna, Ix Chel.”

Araña set down her bowl of masa and turned to the girl. “Niña chu are the second person to mention that tonta diosa’s name to me today,” she snapped. “Ebbryone says I owe my talents to her, but I say no! My hands create sush beauty because I taught them to, not because of her.”

“Señora, you should be careful of what you say about la diosa,” the girl glared. “You might regret those words.” The pale flowers braided in the girl’s jet-black hair instantly folded shut and uncoiled into a writhing green viper, and as she doubled in height her white dress flooded with a rainbow of colors. Ix Chel had revealed her glowing true form.

Araña dropped her bowl of dough and stepped back towards the cottage door. Her initial shock at seeing a divine being up close quickly subsided, and she regained her place by the fire. Araña did her best to look unfazed.

“Stupid woman! You have insulted me one too many times, and while I should make you beg for mercy, I have decided a challenge would be best to show you I am not someone to be toyed with. Let us take to the loom, and see who can weave the best huipil. To make this competition all the more interesting, there is a twist: each of us must weave a dress with a beauty we see fit for one another. When you lose this challenge, I expect a swift display of humility from you, Araña.”

The widow stepped up to face the beautiful goddess. Araña wasn’t about to let her win. “Ix Chel, for years now I haff been told I owe my life to chu, but I will nefer agree. Eef you think eentrooding on my property and challenging me to a contest weel make me sobmit to your power, then chu are een for a sorprise. I accept your challenge.”

“Let us begin then…”

***

“—Wait Nena, go over that last thread once more. It’s not tight enough, and I can see it rustling in the wind.” I was nearing the center of my tapestry, and had done fairly well so far with only a few mistakes. I cut the silk line I was about to lay, and crawled to the loose thread Mami pointed to. With a quick bite, the silk was off and flew away with the breeze. “How about you take a break and we have some dinner, sí?”

“Yes I think that sounds good,” I yawned. If I had known weaving was so much work I probably would have eaten before starting, but sharing a meal with my grandmother would be a good excuse for her to finish the story. We climbed back up the branches into our nesting web, and Mami brought out two flies she had captured earlier. She handed me the smaller of the two, and we commenced the meal.

“So Mami,” I said, wiping the juice from my mouth, “what happened after Araña agreed to the goddess’ contest?”

“Well Nena, word of the challenge spread throughout the city, and a crowd of people gathered to watch the two face each other. The goddess and Araña agreed to have the people act as judges, and whichever tapestry they liked the best would be declared the winner.”

“So who ended up winning, Mami?”

“I’ll get to that part in a bit, Nena, but first, let me tell you what happened during the challenge…”

***

As the competition began, each challenger weaved like never before. The crowd watched in complete silence as fingers flicked and strung through brilliant colors, and shuttles flew in and out in intersecting motions between threads. The many gaping faces of the onlookers didn’t know which huipil to focus on more: both the goddess and the widow worked with such amazing speed and accuracy, it was difficult to tell who would reign as the winner.

Both challengers finished their dresses at the exact same time, just as the sun began to set. The spectators cheered at the unmatched talents and quieted as Ix Chel spoke.

“Thank you all for acting as judges to our competition of the threading arts. Allow me to present my finished huipil to my senile challenger.” The goddess removed her completed dress from her backstrap loom and displayed it to the crowd. Along the bottom hem, the most magnificent flowers reflected in the fading light: golden plumerias intertwined with purple orchids in brilliant nests of green vines and thick leaves; a bright blue border flowed along the floral design symbolizing Ix Chel’s associated gift of the waters of life; orange rays beamed around the neck line providing a stitched sunlight for the vibrant red roses nestled among equally bright green leaves. The goddess’ artwork was greeted with a massive cheer from the crowd of excited citizens. Their roar quickly hushed in patient silence as Araña stood up to present her huipil.

“Before I refeal what I haff weafed, I would like to say someteeng to you all. For many years, los dioses were said to haff blessed me weeth such talent, and while I am proud of my work, I refuse to give thanks to una diosa who only weeshes to steal my glory. Therefore I preesent her with this huipil that I haff weafed to show what I theenk ees her true beauty!” With a fierce look upon her face, Araña lay out her gown: where she would normally have weaved vines and flowers crawled long black centipedes, their thousand legs clawing at whatever they could feel; amongst them a sea of round brown cockroaches flooded the space between writhing pink worms that sprawled throughout the hem. Bees and wasps danced around the neckline, their stingers all pointed toward the wearer’s throat in a show of malevolence. The crowd gasped at the horror produced by Araña, who had never before created such a repulsive dress.

No cheers rang about the people, and the only sound heard was the angry snarl of the goddess. Ix Chel stomped over to Araña and ripped the dress from her aged hands, and furiously tore it to pieces. “Stupid woman! How dare you show me such audacity and total disrespect! I warned you before that you would be begging for mercy, but now you will suffer a fate worse than any humiliation you’ve ever faced!” Ix Chel grabbed her weaving shuttle and plunged it deep into Araña’s stomach. A dark crimson seeped through Araña’s white dress, and she screeched in pain as she fell to her knees. Where the blood touched her fingers turned jet-black and spread down to her palms and covered her arms.

“What deed chu do to me?” cried Araña as she tried to clean the black off her shaking hands. It was to no avail, and her thumbs suddenly fell off and disintegrated into dust as her remaining fingers elongated like branches of a tree. She felt her legs give way and break off with an audible crunch, causing her to let out one final scream. Sharp fangs jutted forth from her mouth, and her entire body began to shrink. Soon there was no sign of the old woman left.

Ix Chel kneeled down before the pile of Araña’s clothes, and carefully dug around the bloodstain. She pulled out her hand, and opened her palm to reveal a small black spider with a red hourglass on its underbelly. The goddess brought the spider to her face and spoke. “Arrogant widow. For your insolence to a goddess of the heavens, you are doomed to weave for the remainder of your life without rest. People will no longer flock to you for your talent, but greet you with hostility and violence for the insect you truly are. Your descendants shall suffer the same fate until the end of time, and you will all be marked with the Red Goddess’ symbol of permanence. Know that you have brought this punishment upon yourself.” With her last words left echoing amongst the terrified crowd, Ix Chel set the spider down by Araña’s fallen backstrap loom, and vanished.

***

“So what happened to Araña after, Mami?” I asked, sitting in the center of my first completed tapestry.

“Exactly what la diosa said, Nena. Araña continued to weave, and she eventually taught her children her ways, which were then passed down throughout the history of our familia, and eventually to us. This is why weaving is such an important craft you and your sisters had to be taught when you came of age. By creating our silken tapestries, we keep the story of Araña alive and give reason to our work. You also learn the meaning of our family mark; the red hourglass that symbolizes Ix Chel’s cruel punishment.”

“That was a good story, Mami,” I yawned. “Thank you for telling it to me, and for helping me with my first tapestry.”

“De nada, mija,” she said as I hugged her. “I think it’s time you get to sleep now, though. We can always practice more weaving tomorrow.”

“Okay, sounds like a plan,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Buenas noches, Mami.”

She bent over and gave me a cool goodnight kiss on the head. “Buenas noches, Nena.”

The Elephant in the Kitchen

iheartsquirtle — Wed, 14 Mar 2012 22:43:29 -0700

A story for a couple.

Written 2/25/2012.

The usual group of friends was over at Tom’s gallant house for a relaxed summer evening of pizza, drinks, and a refreshing night swim in the absent neighbor’s pool. The temperate July night was spent catching up on the many lazy days they had gone without seeing one another, and each shared their stories of shenanigans resulting from summer boredom. The hour neared midnight, and everyone soon lay sprawled out on the soft green couches in the living room after a wild game of drunken chicken. The faint smell of chlorine lingered in the air, and a small breeze billowed in through the open glass sliding doors. A philosophical conversation about love had just begun amongst the friends, when Sarah noticed the only one missing was the party’s amicable host. She quietly excused herself to venture into the kitchen and found Tom leaning cross-legged against the sink. Beyond his shoulder, a small grey elephant caught her attention, but she ignored its stare from the windowsill and stood against the doorframe.

“What are you doing here all by yourself?” she asked.

“Oh you know. Just chilling; thinking I guess,” he said.

“Why don’t you come join us? It feels like you’re missing out on your own party.”

“I was gonna be out in a minute. I just wanted some more of this damn good pizza.” His hand plucked the smaller of two left over slices.

“Oh yeah, it’s delicious,” she said, coming close behind him and pulling the last piece. Her arm grazed his side, and she felt him tense up. “Sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay,” he replied. Slowly rocking against the counter, he looked down at his feet, and raised his free hand to scratch his neck. “So you’re really going to leave us, huh?”

Her gaze fixed upon his brown eyes for a moment as she nibbled at her slice. “Yeah, I am. Everything’s all set for me to go next week.”

“Are you excited?” he asked with a mouthful of pizza crust.

“Oh yes, very. I can’t wait until I get there and see all the people and be surrounded by their culture. It’s going to be such an experience.” She took another bite.

“I bet teaching those kids will be great too.”

“Absolutely! That’s what I’m looking forward to the most.”

Finishing his slice of pizza, he grabbed two red cups, filled them with water, and handed one to her. Her pink lips blossomed into a smile as she thanked him, and he watched her take a long drink. She was more beautiful than any other girl he’d ever met; her lustrous green eyes that sometimes shifted into an aquatic blue, and the way her wavy golden hair draped gently across her shoulders would remain forever ingrained in his mind.

The two remained in the kitchen, silently taking sips every now and then while they half-listened to the commotion in the other room. He continued to lean back against the sink counter as she sat at the dining table.

“It’s going to be really different when you’re gone, you know,” he said.

“It’s going to even more different not seeing you guys everyday. I’ll only be gone until December, though.”

“’Only?’ Five months is a really long time. It’s gonna be tough without you.”

“Oh really? And why’s that?”

“I’m just gonna miss seeing you all the time, I guess.”

“We can always video chat over the internet.”

“True, but it won’t be the same.”

“Most likely. We’ll be lucky if I can even get on the Internet over there. I read from some testimonials that it can be pretty slow at times.”

“I’ll write you a letter then.”

“Okay. Sounds good,” she smiled. Emptying his cup of the last drops of water, he returned the gesture and joined her at the table. He set his red cup down near hers, and interlocked his fingers as he folded his hands. A brief silence flooded the room, and they would toss each other swift glances before staring off in opposite direction. The scratching of the cup against the table’s wooden surface resonated through the painful stillness of the room as he began sliding it back and forth between his hands. What broke his concentration on its movement was the sound of her stifled laugh.

“Is that you?” she asked pointing behind him to a small photo magnet on the refrigerator. It was a picture of him as a toddler being bathed in the kitchen sink. His bright red hair had long since darkened into a coppery brown. Her eyes squinted at the photo, and she noticed a grey rubber elephant clutched tightly in his hand. “Hey! Is that the same elephant that’s above the sink?”

“Yup. He used to be my favorite when I was a kid. It’s funny how everyone who visits always notices the elephant in the picture, but never in the kitchen.”

“Well, its hard not to. He’s cute.”

“He’s not the only one-“ he heard himself say, and immediately shut his mouth. Holding her cup loosely in one hand, she brushed her hair behind her ear with the other. She saw his eyes flash towards her own then shoot down to his fidgeting hands. A pink glow overcame his face as he blushed in embarrassment at being caught. While she wanted to tell him it was okay, she didn’t.

They sat at the table for what felt like hours of continued silence with neither daring to look at the other. She heard him take a deep breath and slowly let it out his nose, almost as if he didn’t want her to hear. His foot began rapidly shaking under the table, its motion producing a muted rattle. Her own foot shook as well, and provided the offbeat to his.

“You look like you have something you want to say,” she finally said. He swallowed, and stumbled over the words he couldn’t bring himself to admit.

“…I…umm… I—”

“Well don’t—” she interrupted. His face looked up at her with wide eyes gleaming in the kitchen light. They appeared worried, as if he had said the wrong thing. “—Don’t worry, it’s okay. When the time is right the words will come to you, and you’ll know what to say.” She gave him one last, knowing smile, and got up from her seat. She was nearing the doorway into the living room when he called out to her.

“Sarah, wait.”

“Yeah, Tom?”

He looked into her eyes once more, and saw they had taken on a sparkling jade hue. No matter what color they were, they might as well be diamonds, he thought.

“Just promise me when you’re out there that you won’t fall in love and marry some guy and never come back to us, okay?”

She let out a small laugh, and looked into her red cup, grinning. The small water beads inside pooled together as she turned and twisted it. “I’ll be sure to send you an invite to the wedding if I do. Now c’mon. Everyone’s probably wondering what we’ve been up to. Let’s not give them any ideas, or they’ll never shut up about it.”

“You go on ahead, I’ll be out in a sec. I’m just gonna have some more water real quick.”

As she left the kitchen, he approached the sink and stood before the small elephant. Setting down his red cup, he picked up the smooth rubber animal. For the longest time it had been with him, and none but Sarah ever acknowledged its presence. Tom grinned one last time at the elephant, and walked to her bag slumped over on one of the dining chairs. Quietly unzipping the front pocket, he slipped it inside, and walked out of the kitchen with a gentle smile still drawn across his face.

Kane and Abel

iheartsquirtle — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 18:09:00 -0800

A character perspective experiment.

Written 2/16/2012.

Today during recess I woke up standing over Billy the bully with my hand sticking out like I punched him. The other kids were laughing ‘cause Billy was crying like a girl, and they were saying somebody named Kane did it. My fist was hurting a lot, so I ignored them and brought it to my chest to look closer. My knuckles were red and smeared with blood, but it wasn’t mine. I never hit anybody before, so seeing Billy’s blood on my hand scared me; it’s not something I was used to. It didn’t look like my hand anymore with that red stain, sure didn’t feel like it either. If I was the one that hit Billy, why couldn’t I remember doing it? And why were the other kids calling me Kane when they know my name’s Abel?

Later Sister Carroll called Momma and told her what happened. She left work early to come get me and had a meeting with Principal Fitzgerald. I sat outside his office crying while they talked because I knew what happened wasn’t my fault. Through the closed door Momma mumbled something about how I, “pretend to be Kane” when I’m in trouble, or when I get scared, but I didn’t know what she was talking about. On the drive home she looked worried. “You need to stop with all this ‘Kane’ nonsense,” she said. “You’re too old to have imaginary friends, and shame on you for hitting that poor Billy.”

“But Momma,” I said, “I didn’t do it! And I don’t know who Kane is or why everyone was calling me that. I swear I don’t know what happened. ” She said that Dad wasn’t gonna be happy to hear about the fight. I could see in her eyes that she was even more worried about what he would do. Whenever Dad got really angry, which was a lot of the time, he’d use the belt on me, and it hurt. My skin always turned purple where it struck.

When I got home Dad was waiting on the couch. Empty beer cans were scattered around his feet, and he popped open a fresh one as he stared me down. I never looked him in the eyes, so I glanced down to the worn leather belt folded over his lap. The faded brown material gave off a dull yellow shine from the nearby lamp. “School called,” he said. “Left a message saying you beat up a kid.” I tried to tell him that it wasn’t me, but he only screamed “Shut up!” and said that I was gonna regret it. He yelled at Momma to get out of the room and threw his can after her, but it crashed against the wall. I started crying again and tried to run to my room, but Dad grabbed me by the arm and swung the first of many blows. I only felt the first couple stings of the buckle before my eyes rolled back into my head and I stopped thinking.

***

I twiddled my thumbs together as I waited in the unfamiliar musty room, and fought to keep my knees from shaking. A scratched oak desk separated my lumpy seat from the empty but intimidating leather chair facing me, and the air carried a chill that echoed an absence of life, almost as if the room had never been used. It felt eerily similar to the one where my social worker used to ask me questions about my home life. Sitting in offices had long since made me nervous. Sitting in a new psychiatrist’s made me even more so.

“Good morning Abel,” greeted a rotund, graying man as he walked into the room. He had a jolly air about him that seemed to lighten up the otherwise depressing mood. “I’m Dr. Morgan Keyes. I’ll be helping you with the, um… issue troubling you. It’s nice to meet you,” he said, extending a chubby palm forward.

“Uh… hi,” I replied, staring into the wrinkles of his knuckles. I didn’t want to touch it.

Dr. Keyes quickly raised and lowered his brow at me before pulling back his hand. He rummaged through a filing cabinet, pulled out a thick folder held together by numerous rubber bands, and took his seat. “Quite a hefty lot here,” he chuckled, removing the bands and opening the folder. “Hmm… your file says I’m not the first psychiatrist you’ve come to for help, and –oh? What’s this note here?” Dr. Keyes briskly read the message left by Dr. David Wilmore, my last shrink who couldn’t handle my “special” case. “Abel, it says your previous doctor refused to continue his sessions with you because you chose to stop taking your medication. Is this true?”

My eyes darted aside to the drab wall where a lonely painting of a creek hung. The blue shade of the water matched that of the doctor’s eyes that I strained to avoid. “Yes, it’s true,” I said now glancing towards my shoes. “Dr. Keyes, I hate taking those meds. That trail mix of antidepressants only leaves me a drooling vegetable that sits in the corner and does nothing. I’m in high school and that’s not the way for a guy like me to live, you know? I want to go out with my friends, and not have to stay cooped up with my mom all day and night. So what if Kane does take over every once in a while? It can’t be worse for me than the drugs, right?”

“Abel,” he said, taking off his glasses, “As you already know, Kane is the manifestation of all the anger and resentment you harbor towards your father.” I flinched at the word. Any mention of Dad, whose current whereabouts remained unknown, instantly brought back memories of his violent behavior. “Because Kane was created as a way for you to deal with your abusive childhood, the only way to fully integrate your mind and be rid of Kane is to get past the years of trauma. Dissociative Identity Disorder is not something that can simply be cured with a positive attitude. It will take much time, and unfortunately, a daily medication regimen.”

My jaw clenched, and I scratched my knuckles as I thought about what to say. I knew mentioning my recent black outs from transitioning wouldn’t help sway Dr. Keyes’ opinion, so I continued to sit quietly.

Dr. Keyes let out a short sigh, folded his hands, and said, “I’m going to tell it to you straight, Abel. You can try all you want to live a normal life without your medication or therapy, but in the end it will do you no good. You cannot control when Kane takes over your mind, and judging by that black eye, you know the consequences of his recklessness fall upon you in the end. Without psychological or medical help, your health and wellbeing are at his mercy, not yours.”

I lifted my gaze, and for the first time peered directly into the doctor’s eyes. Cold and blue, just like Dad’s, I thought. My eyes skimmed the edge of Dr. Keyes’ desk, and went up past his balding head towards the cobwebbed ceiling panels. I was looking for something to say; something to convince him I could handle Kane on my own and be okay. All I saw was dust slowly drifting down. “So how many pills will I have to start taking again?” I asked.

***

I woke up this morning with a pounding migraine and my head against a steering wheel. A burnt, cherry taste lingered in the sticky dryness of my mouth that I figured was either from a combination of candy and weed, or some type of cheap alcohol. The sunlight pouring in from the shattered windshield brought a wave of pain to my skull that overpowered those of the many scrapes and bruises I could feel on my face, and arms and legs. Small shards of broken glass glimmered on my bloodied knuckles, and the pain radiated through my fingers as I released the wheel. All this damage could only have been Kane’s fault.

Two weeks ago I got off my meds for the first time since I was in my teens, but this time I’d done so with Dr. Keyes’ reluctant blessing. Through the years I’ve been under his care, my transitions into Kane have become less frequent than ever before. Yet despite his warning that it wouldn’t do me any good, and that it could possibly hinder the progress I’d made, he said I could try it for a few weeks to test for any further improvements. Since then I’ve found myself in strip clubs, alleys behind local bars, and even in random dumpsters without any recollection of how I got there. I never told Dr. Keyes.

Normally I don’t venture near such places, but Kane on the other hand can’t seem to stay away. He indulges in every temptation without remorse, be it alcohol, drugs, or picking fights with random people. Kane’s no stranger to taking what he wants either, and he’s especially fond of stealing bikes and even cars. Hell, the last time I found myself in an unfamiliar vehicle, Kane had driven it into a forest ravine, leaving me to alone to deal with the charges. He was never one to return stolen items in usable condition.

Upon lifting my throbbing head and seeing the outside world, I realized I was on campus at my university. A crowd of faculty and students encircled the scene, staring with wide eyes and gaping mouths. I couldn’t tell if they were more frightened at the sight of the totaled pick up truck, or that I was still alive despite not having worn a seat belt. Looking around, I recognized the building that Kane crashed into was the financial aid department; the last place I remember being before I transitioned. My advisor rudely told me they lost my aid application, and that there was nothing he could do to help me. Guess I know why Kane chose this building as his target.

I did my best to keep a straight face and look as if nothing was wrong, like it was all an accident. I called and motioned to the crowd that I was fine, but it did little to help the situation. A grisly security guard clicked on his walkie-talkie for assistance, while a professor and some students called for an ambulance. Suddenly the car door opened, and standing there was Adam, my boyfriend; his bright blue eyes worried, yet shining in the sun like two cool, peaceful lakes. The security guard yelled at him to stay away, but was ignored. As the guard approached, Adam said he knew what happened and that everything was under control. I could tell by his stern tone and distraught face that he knew it wasn’t.

“Abel, are you okay? Babe, what happened?” he asked, kneeling closer. Adam slung my arm over his shoulder in an attempt to help me out of the truck, but I continued to sit there hopeless, defeated.

“The doctors were right,” I said, trying to hold back the tears and maintain what little composure and dignity Kane hadn’t already taken from me. I probably could have avoided this mess if only I had told Dr. Keyes what had been happening instead of running from the truth. I realized things weren’t going to get better soon –or ever. Small drops trickled down my face, and left grey specs amidst the red stains sporadically covering my shirt. “Nothing’s ever gonna change, Adam. I’m crazy. I’m fucking crazy.”

***

Abel Hawkins’ name was finally called out from those of other distressed students waiting in his university’s financial aid office. Like many of them that day, Abel arrived to inquire with an adviser about a phone call he received claiming the absence of his financial aid packet, something very necessary for him to continue pursuing his bachelor’s degree in modern literature.

“…So what you’re saying is, because you lost my application, I won’t be able to get money for next year? But I’m supposed to graduate then! I don’t even have a job to support myself now, how do you expect me to find one and still manage to do well in my classes?” Abel’s leg shook faster as his concern grew, and his eyes nervously scanned the walls of the musty office. From time to time, they would skim across the colorful bowl of candy sitting on the desk.

“I’m sorry Abel,” replied Mr. Thomas Barlow, Abel’s portly adviser, “But there is nothing I can do to help you at this time. Like I said, there are other students who have applications that need reviewing, and they are the top priority.”

“You can’t be serious –what am I supposed to do?” asked Abel, his eyes widening with worry. Losing control of his breath, Abel began to hyperventilate as an anxiety attack overcame him. Suddenly his reddened face faded to a pale complexion, and Mr. Barlow watched in silence as Abel’s eyes rolled back, making him look like a victim of demonic possession. Abel’s head lulled forward as if his neck had lost its strength, and he sat there frozen with his face aimed to the ground for a few seconds before coming up again. A darker, angrier glint shined in his eyes.

Mr. Barlow stared, frightened. “Are… are you alright Abel?” He softened his tone and said, “Now I know this is an unfortunate situation, but there are ways to help. Maybe look into third party scholarships or grants-”

“Oh shut the hell up you stupid dick,” said Abel, leaning back into his chair with a new cockiness. He ran his fingers through his brown hair, and glared at Mr. Barlow with a look of contempt.

“Excuse me?” asked Mr. Barlow, astonished at Abel’s sudden audacity. “Now Abel, there is no need for that language!”

“Abel? You’ve got it wrong pudgy,” he smirked, “the name’s Kane. Abel couldn’t handle the shit pile you just dropped on his sad little head, so he had to run off. He sends his love though.”

“What are you talking about? Mr. Hawkins, I don’t have time to deal with any foolishness so either cut it out or leave.”

“Does it look like I’m playing with you lard ass?” Kane stood up and brought his face forward only centimeters from Mr. Barlow’s nose. The advisor slowly leaned back in his chair, intimidated by the gesture. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” said Kane, staring directly into Mr. Barlow’s pupils, “It’s been fun, but I have better shit to waste my time with.” Kane swiped a shining red lollipop from the bowl before knocking Abel’s file and other papers off the desk. Mr. Barlow threatened to call security as he bent over to clean up the mess, when Kane noticed the glimmer of car keys in an open drawer. He quickly pocketed them and walked out of the room with a satisfied grin. Sticking the candy into his mouth, he yelled back, “Oops!”

Outside the building, Kane stomped past a guitar-slinging student puffing on what smelled like a marijuana cigarette, and shouldered him hard. “Watch where you’re going asshole,” mumbled the smoker. Kane stopped in his tracks and slowly turned around to face him.

“Oh sorry, bro,” said Kane, feigning a lazy stoner accent. “Bad day, yuh know? But hey, bro, mind if I bum a hit?” Without waiting for a reply Kane snatched the joint from his lips and ruthlessly decked the guy in the face. The punch sent him toppling to the ground, and the sharp snap of wood rang louder than the sound of his body hitting the concrete. “Fucking hippie,” spat Kane as he tossed his lollipop and replaced it with the joint. He took a long drag before returning to his path. A light jingle chimed as Kane pulled out Mr. Barlow’s car keys, and a devilish smile cut across his face as he walked towards the lone truck waiting in the employee parking lot.

The Fungus Among Us

iheartsquirtle — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 18:03:00 -0800

A story for a favorite book of mine.

Written 2/2/2012.

Cy slowly opened up his palms, his grin gleaming sharper than a vorpal blade. “One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow smaller,” he said.

Ezra made his choice, and down the rabbit hole he went.

***

Slowly walking into the kitchen of his ramshackle house made Ezra chuckle with intoxicated delight. The intricate mosaic patterns covering the linoleum floor blended and swirled as the colors shifted into a kaleidoscope of psychedelic designs. He could feel the cold traversing from the floor through his socks and into his toes, the chill so sharp it felt like needles pricking into his skin. The heightened sensation provided an intense yet soothing comfort to the burn of Ezra’s chronic athlete’s foot; a fungal manifestation of the stress-induced perspiration of being an over worked and underpaid high school English teacher. Ezra discovered the only way to escape the anxiety of frequent visits from angry parents and lousy performance reviews was through the use of narcotics. On this particular night, the shrooms Ezra had opted for instead of the regular molly tabs were doing their job, and they were doing it very well.

“Whoa man,” laughed Ezra, “I can definitely feel it now.”

“Ha ha, well you should if that’s what you paid for right? Except you didn’t really…” grumbled Cy.

“What was that?” asked Ezra, dropping himself onto one of the wooden dining table’s matching chairs. He leaned over and placed his face against its scratched aging surface. Slowly Ezra inhaled through his nose, and smiled as he released his breath– the scent of Lemon Pledge made his mouth water.

During the few weeks the two had conducted business together, Ezra quickly began growing a sizeable debt to the dealer. The combination of his low income, and an increasing taste for stimulants and hallucinogens often left Ezra unable able to immediately pay Cy. In place of cash, he ponied up promises of swift repayment that had yet to be fulfilled.

“Hey man, I got somethin’ to make you trip even harder,” said Cy, “Check it out.” He joined Ezra at the table and brought up his backpack. Gingerly, he pulled out a small glimmering red vase, a metal contraption with a dish that appeared to fit onto the glass container, and a black hose crowned with a wooden mouthpiece; it was a hookah.

“Woooooah,” said Ezra, his eyes sparkling at the sight of the pipe. “Cy, this thing looks crazy awesome! It’s so… unreal.” He gently grazed his finger against the smooth glass, tracing the darker red streaks that blended into softer tones. The colors ebbed and entwined as he touched them.

“Just wait ‘til you taste the smoke,” said Cy, “I brought us a special blend of herbs.”

“Oh really?” smiled Ezra. “What kind of ‘herbs’ are we talking about?”

“It’s mostly spearmint shisha with a little somthin’ extra I thought could help you really wake up and see the night sky.” Cy filled the vase with some water from a bottle he pulled out of his bag, fit the pieces together, and was about to open the tobacco box when he looked at Ezra. “Hey man, you mind pourin’ us a couple waters?”

Ezra nodded and stumbled over to the sink. Long before his dabbling into the world of drugs, he found solace in cleaning his house, particularly his kitchen; it was the only place he felt in control of his life. After being introduced to Cy and his wares, the once spotless metal sink was now coated in a thin layer of white mold. Ezra rinsed out the two cups he found inside, and felt Cy carefully watch him before focusing back to the tobacco. He filled them to the brim with cold tap, and returned to Cy who had just topped the apparatus with a glowing coal.

“Alright, the pipe’s ready to go. Wanna do the honors?” asked Cy, handing the hose to his debtor. Ezra wasn’t one to pass up the generosity of his favorite dealer, so he gladly took hold of the mouthpiece. “Have as many hits as you like, man.”

“Thanks,” said Ezra. “Oh and dude, I promise I’ll pay you back for the shrooms and the smoke as soon as I get the cash. Maybe by the end of the week? I’m gettin’ my paycheck soon.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Cy, staring directly at Ezra. He was unsure if the darkness he saw in Cy’s eyes was a side effect of the shrooms, or something else. “I know you will.”

The smoke flowed into Ezra’s lungs like a firestorm. The dry taste of tobacco mixed with the sweetness of the mint was overpowered by an unusual burnt tang. He wondered at the oddity of the flavor, but quickly disposed of the thought and took several more hits. A few minutes into the session, Ezra felt his stomach twist. He clutched his side and laid his head down on the sturdy table. “Ugh, Cy, I don’t think the shrooms and smoke are getting along with me. I gotta take a break.” Leaning into his chair, he tipped his head back to focus on the plain ceiling. The grey water stains span into amorphous shapes and undulated in waves that didn’t help Ezra’s nausea. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to himself, “one, two, three… four…”

“Ezra, would you please get a hold of yourself and stop acting like a teething child? It’s rude to ignore your guests,” spoke an unfamiliar voice. Its gravely timbre didn’t belong to Cy.

Ezra straightened up with a jolt and saw that where the dealer had previously sat, a giant caterpillar now waited with its long body neatly coiled into a pile. Its emerald skin emanated a soft glow in the otherwise dark kitchen, providing an otherworldly ambience. Ezra’s stomach continued to ache.
“Caterpillar?” he asked, slightly intimidated by the insect’s giant black eyes and monstrous size. He watched the bug’s several pairs of hands tightly grip the water pipe’s hose.

“Child, what on earth are you getting yourself into these days? ‘Fungi from friends leads to dead ends’ as I always say,” said the Caterpillar, taking the mouthpiece between his mandibles. He drew upon it for a minute that felt to Ezra like an eternity. “What is this filth anyhow? It’s nothing like my usual Skorpium,” he said as he puffed out small clouds. They sprouted wings and fluttered around Ezra like monarchs.

“What are you talking about Caterpillar?” asked Ezra as he swatted away the smoke butterflies. “What’s all this about ‘dead ends’ and ‘Skorpium’?”

“My boy, you ask far too many questions. But if you must know, Skorpium is a substance harvested from the venom pouches of Tulgey Skorpions found in the darkest depths of Tulgey Wood. When desiccated and smoked, it is a perfectly harmless but rather slow acting chemical compound. You see, Tulgey Skorpions use their venom in quite an ingenious manner; instead of immediately devouring their prey upon capture, the predators inject them with venom and stalk them back to their habitats. There the infected prey eventually collapses and is unable to defend itself or its young from a painful death. Morbid, I know, but truly they are quite brilliant hunters.”

The pain in Ezra’s stomach was far from subsiding, and the Caterpillar’s explanation only made him feel sicker. Beads of sweat formed across his forehead, and his vision began to spin once more. “Caterpillar, what are you telling me all this for? What do you want? Where’s Cy?” he asked. A sudden intense throb in his belly caused Ezra to give a sharp cry and double over. He felt like something was about to come tearing out of his stomach.

“Tsk tsk tsk. Be careful how high you soar, Ezra,” said the Caterpillar. “You might not like the circumstances of where you eventually land.” At his last words, the Caterpillar expelled a jet of thick black smoke that enveloped Ezra. He hacked and coughed as his eyes welled from the burning smog, and felt himself slowly drift away from the chaos.

Ezra awoke with a jump. Still sprawled out on his chair with his head tilted back, he realized he passed out from the trip. Squinting at the radiant sunlight pouring in from the windows, Ezra slowly got up and composed himself. He noticed the water pipe was gone from the table, and Cy was nowhere to be seen. He wondered where the dealer had left to when he suddenly remembered the Caterpillar’s words. Ezra frantically searched his pockets to find his wallet, mp3 player, and car keys missing.

Cy had stolen everything.

Thirteen TwentyOne

iheartsquirtle — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 18:01:00 -0800

A story for my younger, more anxious self.

Written 1/24/2012.

Revised 3/22/2012.

The linoleum kitchen floor was cold, and walking in barefoot from the living room left my toes aching for the warmth of the carpet. I carefully tiptoed along the lines cutting through and across its mosaic design, and paced around the four center squares four times. This process was the first of many routinely conducted to appease my superstitions of the number four. A year ago, on April 4^th, in religion class we learned how some cultures consider it an omen of loss or death. Later that same day, I found out we were being evicted from our home. Since then, I began performing several daily rituals to appease whatever unseen force doled out the number’s misfortune. But instead of avoiding it, I learned that doing specific things four times every day helped me avoid the anxiety attacks that often came with my bleak thoughts of the future. They worked most of the time.

I tight rope walked the few feet from the door to the coffee counter, my toes feeling all the scuffs of steel-toed work boots, rushed sneakers, and gardening sandals the entire way. Dad left the coffee machine on, so I poured some of the usual Maxwell House Original Blend into a cup, and followed it with a 4-second-pour of milk, and four teaspoons of sugar. A paper bag of sugary pan dulce from the local panaderia was always kept next to the coffee maker; its contents were normally the center of early breakfast and post-dinner conversations, but not today. Mom and Dad were at work, Phil had summer school, and Mami, my grandmother, was in Mexico until August. I unfolded the bag and my mouth watered at the sight of sugary conchas, small bread rolls with a sweet crumbly topping. I grabbed the biggest one and moved to the round wooden table at the other side of the kitchen, leaving a small trail of scattered sugar crystals behind me. There I found Mom’s cell phone resting by the salt and peppershakers.

I sat and stared at the silver flip phone for a good five minutes. This wasn’t the first time Mom left her phone by accident; it usually meant that she was running late because Phil wouldn’t wake up for class on time, and they’d have to rush out of the house. Dad couldn’t take him to school because he worked too far for it to be convenient, so Mom had to do it. I never understood why Phil couldn’t be more responsible and get his act together, especially when he knew Mom’s job was unstable since her layoff last year. Didn’t he ever think about what might happen? What if Mom was fired again, or what if we ended up losing our home like last time? What would we do if we lost everything again?

Suddenly a loud jingle rang out from the phone, piercing the emptiness of the kitchen. The sharp pitch startled me, and caused my head to start pounding. My face grew hot, and I began uncontrollably heaving in small puffs—I was having a panic attack. Shutting my eyes like Dr. Mala said to do, I kept them closed with the palms of my hands and tried to slow my breathing. I took small breaths in through my nose and slowly released them out my mouth. I tried to focus on the coolness of my hands against my eyelids, and began whispering my go-to chant of ‘Everything will be okay.’ Repeating the phrase sixteen times usually did the trick, but for some reason I couldn’t save my mind from the deluge of wonders and what-if’s that were flooding my thoughts.

“Everything will be okay, everything will be okay,” I breathed between gritted teeth. “Everything will be okay, everything will be okay… everything… everything… will…”

“-Everything will be okay,” interrupted an unknown, strangely familiar voice. My body froze and I slowly brought my gaze up to a pair of all-too-familiar brown eyes. It was him again, someone I hadn’t seen in years since my last major anxiety attack. “Well well, Thirteen. It’s been a long time hasn’t it?”

Last time he called me Ten, which could only mean he didn’t go by the same name either. “TwentyOne,” I said, “What are you doing here?” No longer slouched and wearing baggy clothes, TwentyOne looked less like a couch potato and more like a pseudo-sophisticated young adult. His red high tops contrasted his torn dark jeans and black jacket, and that plaid shirt almost made him look like a college hipster. And were those new earrings?

“Oh come on, Thirteen,” he said as he approached the coffee machine. “Is that any way to greet a guy who knows you better than you know yourself?” He grabbed Dad’s beige coffee mug off the dish rack and filled it to the brim. The steam rose and dissipated as TwentyOne took a sip. He eyed the bag of pan dulce and looked back to me. “I see he still insists on getting one of these every week, huh?”

“You know how Dad is. He doesn’t change much.” Ripping off a quarter piece of my bread, I dipped it into the milky coffee and popped it into my mouth. I took my time tasting the bitterness of the blend melding with the sweetness of the crumb topping. TwentyOne carefully drank from his mug as I rubbed the excess sugar off my fingers, the soft but distinct sound of microscopic granules hitting the tabletop. I cracked the knuckles of my fingers, and TwentyOne looked over to me to crack his thumbs in response. I wondered if he still did it when he was nervous or thinking too much. He did seem less tense than the last time I saw him.

“Too bad I can’t say the same about you,” he grinned.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked. “Last time you were here, you said everything would be the same, and that nothing ever changed. Why didn’t you tell me that we’d be losing our home? And why do you look and act so different than before?”

TwentyOne gazed out the window above the sink. His chest puffed out as he inhaled deeply and let it out in a slow long sigh. Often during the summer the smell of oranges from our neighbor’s tree wafted into the kitchen, filling it with a delicious citrus scent. His lips curved into a pensive smile as he remembered. “Man, I miss the smell of those oranges.”

“Can you just answer my questions please?” I asked.
TwentyOne threw me a peeved stare and folded his arms. “I didn’t tell you about the house because there are certain things I can’t mention, Thirteen. Besides, it’s not like it would have helped prevent it from happening if I did. As it turns out, a lot changes as you get older. You can’t avoid it. People change, too. We all go through tough shit, but we learn to grow up from it at some point.”

“Did you?”

He laughed as he closed the curtains and joined me at the round table. From this close, TwentyOne definitely looked a lot older. A small nest of black hairs stuck out from his chin, and a few strays peeked around his jaw line. The bags under those same brown eyes that I recognized as my own made TwentyOne look tired, like he didn’t get much sleep lately. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he said, and took another drink.

I grabbed a second piece of concha, but set it back down on the plate. I brought my thumb and finger up to my eye to see the sugar crystals that stuck. Each small spec glimmered in the kitchen light as I rubbed my fingers together with four grainy strokes, and watched them fall like snow. I could see TwentyOne’s eyes focused on me through the sparkling particles. “So why are you here?” I asked, sitting up.

“I’m here to help you, kiddo. I know sometime ago you started obsessively doing those rituals to stop anything bad from happening. It’s all about the number four if I remember correctly?” TwentyOne folded his hands as if he was about to interview me, but it felt more like I was sitting in Dr. Mala’s office, waiting to be evaluated.

“Yeah,” I admitted, twiddling my thumbs. “It started last year when Mom lost her job, then we lost our house, and that day I learned about the number four in class, and… I don’t know. I just felt like I had to start doing something to help, you know?”

TwentyOne took one last long drink of coffee, and loudly set the mug down on the table. “You know what your problem is, Thirteen? You worry too much.”

“That’s what everyone says.”

“Because it’s true,” he replied, somewhat loud. TwentyOne stared me straight in the eyes as he grasped his empty mug and drummed his fingers against the handle. “Listen, Thirteen. I know things are kind of shitty right now with all the therapy, and how it seems like no one listens to you, but believe me. They won’t always be that way.”

“How would you know?” I scowled. My breathing had gone back to normal, but my fingers wouldn’t stop shaking.

“You serious? Would I be sitting here drinking coffee with you if I weren’t sure? Trust me, things will get better; take Phil, for instance. His annoying ass habits that seem like they’re never gonna change eventually will. He’ll become less of a slob and pick up the pace with his chores and school. So try not to be too hard on him, okay? Just because he’s not a responsive guy doesn’t mean there isn’t anything going on inside his head. Besides he’s your—our—older brother. You have to respect him.”

“Yeah, okay,” I sighed. TwentyOne’s words sounded more like a lecture on manners than sage advice, but I accepted them nonetheless. I wondered what happened to make him change so much since his last visit. Last time he seemed more furious at Phil than I do now; he was definitely more upfront about his anger. Maybe TwentyOne just got better at hiding it?

“Now there’s gonna be some shit in high school,” he started again, “but just wait until college. You’ll have more than your share of troubles there, but the friends you’re with will make it all worth it. Just watch out for all the sketchy people. And the hippies.”

“Hippies?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” he said. “Just be careful around them alright?”

I doubted he would explain. TwentyOne’s advice was always vague, so I knew better than to question him. Still, I wanted to know more. I was about to badger him further about college life when I heard a car honking outside, prompting my head to start ringing again. Phil must have gotten out of class early.

“Looks like I gotta go, kiddo,” he said, standing up from his seat. He grabbed his empty mug and put it by the metal sink that never housed more than a single dirty dish. I remained seated at the table, my headache throbbing as I held my palms against my eyes once more. “Oh but before I head out Thirteen, can you do me a favor?”

I noticed TwentyOne’s tone had softened, and he sounded almost somber. “Yeah, sure,” I said, clenching my teeth at the throbbing that grew more intense. “What is it?”

There was an obvious hesitation in his voice that seemed to stumble over itself as he began his goodbye. “…Be sure to give Grandpa a hug for me alright? It’s been a long time since I last saw him, and I really miss him.”

TwentyOne had never been so specific, and he sure as hell never mentioned Grandpa before. I felt my stomach turn at those last words. He couldn’t have been serious. “What are you talking about?” I asked, throwing down my hands.

When I looked up TwentyOne was gone, and Dad’s mug was back on the dish rack as if it had never been touched.

The Slugified

iheartsquirtle — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 17:56:00 -0800

A story for my school.

Written 1/17/2012.

All was well in Santa Cruz until the slugs decided to revolt. It was a Thursday morning just like any other; my classes didn’t start until noon, so I treated myself to a bit of sleeping in. I clambered out of bed at 11:26am, sluggishly meandered over to the bathroom to relinquish myself of slumber-induced urine, and got dressed for my afternoon class. With my red converse laced tight, I was ready to start my day; only I was still exhausted and slightly hung over with a headache from the previous night’s festivities.I slowly trudged out of my room and into the kitchen to search for a quick hangover cure.

Above the refrigerator I scoped out my cereal box, grabbed a cracked blue bowl from the cupboard, and found the one perfectly-sized-for-cereal spoon. I moved my breakfast components to the dining table and began “cooking” the remedy to my ailment. I poured in the milk and followed it with a generous helping of Peanut Butter Panda Puffs, when I felt something shift and fall out of the box. My mind was reeling that morning, so I didn’t think much about it. Probably just some cereal pieces stuck together I figured, and began my consumption of peanuty panda goodness.

As I drove that perfect spoon into the depths of the milk, I felt it hit something squishy. “That’s not right,” I muttered, and quickly spooned out the unknown substance. Upon lifting my spoon and seeing its newfound contents, I realized my Thursday morning was not going to be as easy on my head as I had hoped. Nestled there on my utensil was a small, squirming, yellow banana slug. Its glossy sheen that I’d learned to recognize had been replaced by the wet murkiness of the milk, thus giving it a duller, (and in my case) more nauseating hue. It took me a good three seconds of staring into its wriggling antennae to fully process the creature that had just been soaking in my breakfast. Repulsed, I threw the cereal-swimming slug and spoon against the wall, and struck my housemate’s juvenile “100 Buck Nasty Sex Positions” poster. Feeling even sicker, I quickly inspected the cereal box and found a small hole had been chewed through the bottom corner. “What was it doing in my cereal,” I wondered, “and how did it get inside the house?”

I wasn’t sure my stomach could handle anymore gooey surprises, so I decided it was probably best to refrain from eating before class. I dumped the rest of my cereal into the trash and was about to grab some water when I heard someone knocking at the front door. I crept up to the peephole and saw it was David, my best friend and former roommate.

“Hey David,” I said as I opened the door.

“Ollie you’re okay!” he exclaimed as he grabbed my shoulders. David looked tired as if he’d been running all day.

“Easy on the shaking man! Of course I’m okay. Just slightly hung over, but otherwise I’m fine. Why?”

“We need to go inside before they see us,” he said as he pushed past me and shut the door. “It’s not safe here.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Why isn’t it safe?”

“There’s no time to explain!” said David. He was starting to freak me out. “You need to grab your bag and pack some clothes and food and we gotta run.”

I grew frustrated at his lack of explanation and told him to calm down. We moved to the kitchen and I tried once more to make David tell me what was troubling him.

“It’s the banana slugs. There’s something wrong with them,” he said as he began to hastily fill his backpack with cans of my food. “I was heading to class when I saw a bunch of students running away from something. I hid behind a tree and watched as a mob of people came rushing by, but they didn’t look normal. They all had yellow blobs on their heads and crazed looks in their eyes. Shit was freaky.”

“Are you serious?” I asked, leering with skepticism. “You mean to tell me that banana slugs are controlling those people? Like they’re being zombified by them?”

“I like to say they’ve been ‘slugified,’ but yes, somehow they’re controlling everyone. Now can you please help me pack more supplies? It’s only a matter of time before they find us in here-”

David immediately fell silent, as his eyes widened at an unknown presence behind me. I slowly turned around and saw it was my housemate Kelsey standing in front of the living room door, impeding our only escape. Her eyes burned with a furious intensity, as something small and mustard colored draped across her head writhed like a living crown. She must have decided to skip class that day.

“Oh shit,” whispered David, right before Kelsey sprang towards us. I managed to dodge her lunge, but David was unprepared. In an instant he was pinned on his back and trying to fight Kelsey off. I heard the sound of her teeth biting as she snapped towards his jugular. “Ollie help!” he cried, and I quickly ran behind her to strike. I wrapped my arms around Kelsey’s torso and threw her onto the dining table, causing it to collapse under the force of her land.

“Kelsey what the hell!” I yelled. She responded with a gurgled cry, and came at us once more. Unsure of what else to do, I began throwing anything I could grab at her: cans of food, dishes, and seasonings from a spice rack. That’s when I saw the shaker of Morton Salt sitting on the counter closest to David. Salting slugs and watching them melt was a former childhood pastime of mine, and I figured it was worth a shot. “David! Use that salt!”

David immediately understood and snatched the container as Kelsey pounced once more. He flipped open the spout, and threw a handful of glittery white crystals at the menacing slug atop her head. The salt sizzled as it struck the yellow lilliputian, and Kelsey unleashed one last warbled screech before collapsing to the floor.

We cautiously approached our fallen friend, and watched as the slug released its grasp then melted into a small viscous puddle of sludge. Kelsey groaned as her eyes flitted open and she regained consciousness.

“Ugh, what happened? Ollie, David?” she asked.

“Kelsey! You’re okay!” I said as I helped her to her feet. I embraced Kelsey and was thankful I didn’t end up inadvertently killing her along with the banana slug. “Listen, I know this is going to sound very very weird and stupid, but you were under the control of a banana slug. The shit has apparently hit the fan, and the slugs are going crazy and zombifying everybody. David says we need to get out of here ‘cause we’re not safe while those things are out there, and they could find us here at any moment-”

I stopped talking when I heard a rush of footsteps approach the building outside, followed by screeches similar to those Kelsey had made earlier. Our loud scuffle had alerted the slugified of our location, cutting our escape preparation short. “We have to move,” said David as he grabbed his backpack. “Now!” We hurriedly grabbed a few more items and headed for the front door. I made sure to take my bottle of Advil because I was certain I’d need it. The intensity of that morning’s events didn’t help my pounding headache, and I knew it was going to be a long day.

Herb-Roasted Turkey With a Side of Teen Pregnancy

iheartsquirtle — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 17:52:00 -0800

A story for my family.

Written 12/1/2011.

Pass the potatoes please!

Gimme some o’ that stuffing.

Sorry let me just reach over here and grab some bread-

Here you go, more wine!

Hey from this angle the turkey kind of looks like a va-

My family had never sat down together for Thanksgiving dinner; we typically ate within our own subgroups of men, women, and children for these kinds of gatherings. This year was different though. My parents, along with my Aunt Gladys and Uncle Mike, decided to have a traditional ‘sit-down-with-all-the-family’ Thanksgiving dinner. The new set up was rather awkward at first, and it felt cramped with all the hands reaching for everything laid out on the table. I adjusted pretty quickly though, and for once it felt like we were one of those families you see eating dinner together on TV. It was a nice change from the normal segregated feasts I had grown so accustomed to.

Still, it wouldn’t be a real Cetina-Cornell Family Holiday if there weren’t some type of argument happening. That’s why it didn’t feel quite right until my 18 year-old cousin, Angelo, presented us with a different kind of main dish that was far from traditional.

So… Hailey’s pregnant.

His words seemed to echo as the festive symphony of clanking dishes, forks and knives scraping plates, and drinks being poured instantly died.

What… Gladys was absolutely speechless, save for that one word. I could feel the rage building behind it.

Er… yeah… Okay, listen everybody. Everyone, I’m really sorry for doing it this way, but I thought it’d be best to say it once we were all together. I just couldn’t hide it anymore so… Angelo glanced down at his plate piled with traditional fixings. He hadn’t touched any of it: pale hunks of white turkey meat, two small mounds of stuffing, a mountain of mashed potatoes with gravy flowing down its peak; everything was neatly compacted into its own segment on his plate except for the green peas. They were all over the place.

Anymore? How long has she been knocked u- I immediately shut my trap when everyone at the table turned to look at me. Judging by my mom’s furled brow, I probably should have chosen my words more carefully.

We found out she was pregnant about three weeks ago. I would have told you sooner mom and dad but I didn’t know how. And I knew everyone in the family would eventually know what’s up so I just thought I’d-

-What the fuck is wrong with you?! screamed Gladys. Oh shit. She was about to lose it. Over the years, I had grown to expect (and I must ruefully admit, enjoy) these predicaments between by juvenile cousin and his short-fused mother, but I knew this would be one for the record books. You’re having sex with her?! Isn’t’ she a Mormon?!

Not a practicing one!

But she’s seventeen, Angelo! Gladys yelled, slamming her fists down on the table.

She’ll be eighteen next month!

I don’t fucking care! She’s still not old enough to have a baby goddamn it! That’s a crime, Angelo! Do you know what that means?!

-Rrrrrrrrrrape, said Tony, as he popped open a can of Pepsi. Leave it to my dear older brother to lighten the mood with his witty sarcasm delivered with his apathetic monotone voice.

Shut the hell up Tony! glared Angelo. I gave my brother a swift kick to the shin underneath the table. Yeah Tony, I said. Unfazed, Tony blankly stared me down as he shoved a piece of ham into his mouth and blatantly chewed it at me the way a two year-old does.

Ignoring my brother’s wordless insult, I turned my attention back to the show. Gladys’ hand shot out to the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon at the center of the table. She ripped out the cork with a force unmatched by any man in the family, and filled her glass to the brim. I could see the veins in her forehead becoming engorged with rage. Now this is what the holidays are normally like in my family.

I’m gonna need a lot more wine for this shit, said Gladys. My god I can’t believe this. Ay, porque yo Dios??

Mom, I’m really, really sorry. I swear, I am, said Angelo. Dad-

I realized then that Mike had been silent throughout my cousin’s confession. Everyone turned to him and watched as he stared listlessly into his Brussels sprouts. He seemed to be taking the news fairly well. It was either that, or he knew after Gladys was done with Angelo, there’d be no trace of him left to scold. After pushing around a couple sprouts, Mike finally spoke.

Angelo, I don’t know what to say to you, he said looking up from his plate. You’ve really done it this time… He started tapping his fork against the table. Maybe he wasn’t taking it so well.

Sitting next to my disappointed uncle was his other child, Amanda. At only thirteen years old, I was certain my youngest cousin still knew what was going on. Her gaping mouth tinged with a smirk of satisfaction belied her initial shock and inner gratification. After this mess, Amanda knew she’d forever reign as the golden child of the Cornell family.

Oh. My. God, she said. This is cra-

-Shut up Amanda, said Tony. His interruption caused me to chuckle despite the ever-increasing tension in the room.

So are you going to keep it, cielo? asked my mom. Unlike her sister, Mom was able to maintain a calm composure even in the face of life changing news. That, and she had the patience of an angel.

Yeah, sighed Angelo. Hailey wants to keep it, and I do too I guess.

‘Da hell do you mean ‘I guess’? Gladys was already half way finished with her first glass of wine. You got her pregnant so now you’re gonna have to deal with it!

In Mexican culture, family is seen as the most important aspect of a person’s life. Therefore, abortion is considered a sign that pretty much says you don’t care about family (or people). That’s why in a Mexican family (and a Catholic one in this instance) abortion is never an option for pregnancy, no matter what. The thing is, in Mexican families, you don’t just get pregnant; the whole family does.

I know, I know Mom, said Angelo.

As Mike left the room, Gladys went into the kitchen for another bottle of wine, and Mom followed to console her. I began to think that Thanksgiving dinner had pretty much been ruined. The room remained silent until my dad finally spoke.

Papucho, you’re in deep chet. You’re fucked, he said.

I know Felipe, Angelo replied as he dropped his head onto the table. You don’t have to keep fucking telling me. I know. I’d never seen him so sullen.

But, interrupted Dad. That doesn’t mean it’s not going to be alright. Your mom and dad are pissed off now, but they’ll be okay later. This is just like what happened with cousin Liliana remember? Just be glad they didn’t hit you like Juan did to her.

Now Dad’s not a mean guy, but he normally instigated arguments with Angelo, and liked to piss him off. That’s why I was so surprised by his comforting words to him. I watched Angelo as he lifted his head up, and I noticed his eyes were red and watery.

Yeah Angelo, said Tony. It’s gonna be fine.

Yeah Ange-

-Shut up Amanda, interrupted Tony, causing everyone at the table to laugh.

As the night went on, the five of us sat at the table talked and joked about potential baby names. I thought about what dad had said to Angelo, and I agreed. Everything would be fine after Gladys and Mike had calmed down. Nothing would be the same again; that was certain, but it didn’t mean everything would go straight to hell. The night had taken quite a turn, but in the end, I learned that the people in my family really do care about each other. Suddenly, a thought popped into my head.

Wait, you guys, I just realized something, I said.

What? asked Angelo.

How are we gonna tell Grandma the big news?

Franklin

iheartsquirtle — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 17:49:00 -0800

A story for my brother.

Written 11/20/2011.

I quietly trudged up to the classroom door, each step feeling as heavy as if I had just crawled out of a pool of thick mud. Mom said I would be fine and make new friends, but I didn’t really believe her. It used to be easy for me to make new friends, but after moving to new cities and transferring schools three times in the past two years, I’m not sure I remember how to.

I pushed open the door marked “003” and came into what looked like a jungle. The green carpet was littered with toys and coloring utensils. Kids were swarming around a bin full of markers and colored pencils like an army of ants devouring the carrion of a peacock, while another group chased after one boy in a frenzied game of cat and mouse. I looked around and saw a group of boys playing leapfrog in one corner, and some girls playing hair salon with Barbie dolls. I ignored the other children and dragged on to find a desk somewhere in the back of the classroom. I walked so slowly mostly because of my lack of enthusiasm, but partially because of my backpack. It was so full of books, folders, and paper that it felt like I was carrying a house. It didn’t help that I stuffed my lunchbox in there too. For a second, I pondered crawling around on all fours to make my excursion into the depths of the Congo classroom easier, but I didn’t want the other kids to look at me like a freak. Despite the huge burden it was on my feeble spine, my backpack provided some comfort; its monstrous size somehow made me feel safe in this new world.

When I sat down at my chair with my oversized book bag, my chest was pushed up against the desktop. I felt too big to be sitting in such a manner, but I tried my best not to worry about it. I wondered where the teacher was and began twiddling my thumbs to pass the time. I was about to pull out my juice box when I looked over next to me and saw the class pet sitting in a tank.

I climbed out of my chair and walked over to the glass case marked “Franklin.” He was a small green turtle, about the size of a burger, with bright green skin and a darker colored shell. It was outlined with a bright yellow strip, and was sprinkled with brown and grey spots. Franklin was standing next to his food dish munching on a lettuce leaf when I came up to him. I think I scared him because he quickly receded into the safety of his shell.

“Don’t worry little guy,” I softly said to him through the glass. “I’m your friend. My name’s Tony.”

Franklin didn’t budge. I could see him shift a bit, but he didn’t come out. I guess Franklin was afraid of people, or he was just really shy like me.

All of a sudden, I had a great idea to help him see how much I wanted to be his friend. I took off my tank of a backpack and pulled out my crayon box and a sheet of paper. I quickly drew a green dome, added four little stumps for arms and legs, and a small circle for a head. I finished my illustration with a smile and black dots for a face, and I topped the page with the words “Tony the Turtle.” I excitedly ran up to the glass once more and pressed up my picture against it. I gently tapped the glass to get Franklin to wake up, but he remained indifferent to my attempt at gaining his attention. Disappointed, I slumped down onto my backpack. I was about to put my stuff away when I felt someone’s finger tap my shoulder.

Whoever it was startled me, and I sprang up from the ground the way a cat does when taken by surprise. I turned around to see it was a girl with bright green eyes and wavy red hair. She was really, really pretty.

“Are you trying to make Franklin come out?” she asked, bobbing her head to the side like an owl.

“Um…” I couldn’t look at her. I was embarrassed for being startled so easily.

“You have to pet his shell if you want to do that,” she smiled. “Teacher doesn’t let us open up Franklin’s case, but the poor thing needs love and attention so I always play with him before class. I think it’s sad how he’s always alone in there.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. The girl smiled at me once more and I felt my cheeks grow hot. Still humiliated and now more nervous, I felt like taking all my stuff out of my backpack and crawling inside for safety. I disregarded the notion, and watched as the girl opened the hatch atop the case and stuck her small white hand inside. Her delicate finger unfurled from her palm as she began softly tracing patterns on Franklin’s shell. She tenderly caressed each small plate before tracing a line to connect them all.

“Come on, Franklin. Say hi,” she whispered to the glass.

Sure enough, Franklin’s head gently popped out his shell. He looked up towards the red haired girl before letting his legs and tail out. I think the turtle recognized her. My face beamed with delight from seeing Franklin come out of his shell so much that it somehow sparked me to come out of mine as well.

“…He really likes you, huh?” I mumbled.

“Franklin likes everyone,” she said, now petting the turtle’s head. “You just need to warm up to him before he starts to remember you.”

“Th-thanks for helping me see Franklin,” I stuttered. I’ve never done that before. “My name’s Tony.”

“I’m Misty,” she charmingly responded as she pulled her hand out of the turtle’s tank and set it before me. “Nice to meet you.”

I slowly took her hand in mine and we shook. While just moments ago I was unable to maintain eye contact with this girl, I found myself staring into those lustrous green eyes with a smile across my face. She noticed too, and she bashfully looked away as her cheeks glowed a soft pink. My own face retained its former warmth, but I didn’t care. She was beautiful to look at.

Misty and I stood by Franklin’s glass tank and continued petting him until the school bell rang. The teacher walked in as we took our seats next to each other at the back of the classroom. I smiled at Misty once more, and instantly knew this school would be different from all the rest.

Kissed The Spirits

iheartsquirtle — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 17:46:00 -0800

A sex scene experiment.

Written 10/30/2011.

It is when you’ve kissed the spirits too much that the gloves and other vestments come off…

He eyed me as he put his bottle down. Those hands of his, the knuckles firm and fingers curled until one soft finger slowly limps in my direction. Beckoning, beckoning, commanding, demanding, “come here” those distilled whiskey lips mouth to me. I slowly set my flute upon a nearby table and meander left and right in my seductive serpentine until that flaccid finger is now hard against my chest. The heat emanating from the nail bed to the tip flows through my cottons, through my fleeces, and sinks deep into my skin. His palms begin to pry as his eyes and mouth begin to search for my secrets kept within. He’s picked up on my scent, his nose juts closer to the nape of my neck as his eyes close to visualize all the wonders and woes of his newfound prey. His digging digit drags down a treasure trail then slowly ascends to where he smelled my scent. A tender hand takes my cheek as his accusing lips soaked in spirit graze my nervous quivering peak. From his depths I feel his breath soon followed by a loud and stinging slap, to which I thrust the uppercut and strike where my trail ends and his begins. Those fingers which I’ve kept in mind now ball into a fist as he goes for my sweet cheek, but swings to miss and we’re locked arm in arm, leg in leg, kiss in kiss. Those gentle hands eagerly sweep my sides as they find his hairy trail and reach the z that marks the spot, the key, the holy grail from which I long to drink. The battle’s on his mind and he knows that what his bare fists cannot attain can be taken with his sword. I ready mine as we commence the fight of steel on steel, skin on skin, limb on limb. His tongue darts with skill as well, and mine cannot sustain his blows and flails, his parries and jabs. His poisonous lips utter a question to which I find myself unable to resist. Now our shields and armor at our feet, the battle’s taken on a raw new pace. He throws me down and climbs up over me. His sword held steady, he arouses my teasing parry and takes the first stab, and stabs, and stabs in a motion that our hips move to in rapturous rhythm. All the while his tainted breath leaves clouds and notes of lust, anger, and passion. Before long the fight is done, the war is won. I lay beside my comrade as the subdued partner, energy and all strength spent with no words left to mutter. No bloodstains are drawn upon the flannel sheets, but the blanket battlefield is marked with inks of a different shade. Before those brown eyes flicker with tired ease, his gentle hand caresses my cheek as the fires die down giving way to recovering sleep.

Diablo

iheartsquirtle — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 17:42:00 -0800

A story for my father.

Written 10/10/2011.

The blistering sun rose above the Mexican town of Soltuta, its luminous rays signaling the start of a new day. Despite the early hour, the temperature was well into the high 80’s, with the humidity ranging at an equally great percentage. A slight breeze greeted the masses of coconut trees who in turn said their rustling good mornings to the busy townspeople, doing little to relieve them from the scorching tropical weather. At the town center an eager flock of emerald parrots fluttered by the church and sang their hellos (or in this case goodnights) to the slumbering fruit bats hanging inside the ancient bell towers. Down below their resting perch, energetic school children were playing on the next-door junior high school lawn. Under the shade of thankfully provided plastic awnings, loquacious girls sat cross-legged in circles gabbing about which boys they would pick as husbands if given the opportunity. Ignorant of the girls’ fantasies, the seventh grade boys passed the morning time by kicking around a beat up soccer ball. Thirteen year-old Little Peche would normally be found running around striking goals with his classmates, but on this sunny day he was standing in front of the aged wooden doors of El Colegio Mexicano. A warm wind billowed against his back and swayed his jet-black hair, as if it were coaxing him to enter the prison-like fortress. Unblinking, Little Peche’s stark brown eyes remained locked on the grand double doors, while his mind’s eye focused on the face of an unseen target waiting inside. Fists clenched and shoulders back, he had a score to settle with the infamous school bully, Carlos Santiago, who was better known as “El Gigante.”

The sun continued to beam down on the schoolyard; it’s temperature increased by the minute while the scattered shrubbery screamed with thirst at every parching gust. Soltuta was in the middle of its annual drought, which would soon be quenched by the coming tropical rains. Little Peche raised his forearm to wipe away the beads of sweat crowning his forehead. He licked his chapped lips, took a deep breath, and started for the door when he heard someone call to him.

“Wait!”

Little Peche turned around to see twelve-year-old Marti Rosario hurriedly running towards him.

“What’s wrong?” he inquired.

She came to a halt and tried to catch her breath. Marti came from a family of seamstresses, and could always be found wearing simple white dresses embroidered with the most intricate floral patterns. Little Peche noticed the roses sewn into the hem of her skirt were sprinkled with dirt. She was probably playing with bugs or picking flowers earlier.

“Everyone’s saying you’re going to do it! They say you’re going to fight El Gigante,” she said, panting. “You can’t! He’ll kill you!”

“He tried to beat me up last week and I didn’t even do anything to him! He tackled me during a soccer match and made me look like an idiot in front of all my friends!” said Little Peche. “Marti, you know he’s always mean to everyone, but everyone’s too scared to do something about it! So now it’s up to me to kick his ass and teach him a lesson!” Little Peche’s chest puffed out in a display of his pugnacious bravado.

“Why don’t you try at least talking to him? I’m sure he didn’t mean to knock you down. What if it was just an accident?” Marti was known for being the mediator in the children’s schoolyard scuffles, so Little Peche figured she would naturally be trying to plead him with nonviolent methods.

“You weren’t there Marti,” he explained. “My friends said he was laughing as he smashed me into the ground. There’s no way you can laugh while attacking someone and call it an accident. He’s going down. Right now.”

Marti was about to say something, but Little Peche would hear no more. His mind had been made, and there was no way he was about to be swayed. He pushed open the wooden doors and marched inside. Marti remained standing alone at the entrance, her small tan hands fiddling together in worry. She pensively bit her lip, and wondered what would be the outcome of Little Peche’s reprisal.

“… Please don’t let anything happen to him.”

***

The main hallway was noticeably cooler than the sandy exterior yard. Plain light bulbs reflected in the freshly washed tile floor. Yet each brown square was covered in permanent scuffs and scratches; mementos of the hurried scuffling of school children running to and from their classes.

Little Peche’s eyes scanned the doors lining the long hallway. Homeroom was now in room six, only three doors down from the Principal Arania’s office. With his target’s location in sight, Little Peche began his silent walk towards fate. He couldn’t help but ponder the events about to unfurl. What if he got hurt again? What would he tell his mother this time? If he succeeded, he wondered, would people forever remember this day? Would all the oppressed flock to him as their newfound savior? What if the infamy of defeating a tyrant made him a monster in return? The students were already afraid of El Gigante. How would they feel about the kid who took him down?

The questions evaporated as soon as Little Peche stopped in front of room six. The door was like all the rest of the school; worn down and etched with Spanish profanities and shameless stick figures. Little Peche laid his hand on the door and felt its rough, uneven surface. Its sandy texture implanted him with a small splinter just below his index finger. Was this a foreshadowing of the pain to come? Whatever it meant, Little Peche didn’t care. Now was the time to forget about the world and focus on the task at hand. Little Peche quickly glanced around the deserted hallway to make sure no one was coming and seeing the coast was clear, he kicked open the door to finally face his brutish adversary.

El Gigante’s epithet was not one of exaggeration. The boy’s hulkish frame seemed to fill up his chair and leave little room for breathing. His massive arms protruded out of his broad shoulders, almost like a gorilla. El Gigante was the only one inside the classroom.

Save for the bully, the small classroom was populated with tired wooden desks and a run-down chalkboard. Above them, a ceiling fan rapidly span away, doing little to reduce the ever-present heat. Being a reform school, little attention was given to room decorations one might find in a regular classroom. The sound of intense scribbling and scratching resonated against the barren walls. El Gigante was so focused on scratching something into his desk that he didn’t even notice Little Peche enter.

Without dropping his eyes from the bully, Little Peche slowly approached him and sat at the desk adjacent to El Gigante. He pulled his books out from his bag and slammed them down on his desk to catch his attention. El Gigante’s pen ceased all movement as he gazed over to Little Peche. It worked. The apelike ruffian’s burning eyes held a glare that brought wrinkles to his brow. His full lips pursed into an annoyed pout. It was obvious the bully was attempting to intimidate him, but Little Peche remained unfazed. El Gigante had never faced opposition, and he grew frustrated when he was met with an equally formidable death stare. Angered, he grabbed Little Peche’s stack of books and threw them up into the ceiling fan. Each book was sent flying into the faceless walls. The pages creased and crinkled upon impact and landed with a fluttering crash, like paper birds soaring into unseen windows.

“What the hell did you do that for?” demanded Little Peche. He was careful to keep his voice steady.

“Because I can, you little shit. No one ever has the balls to stop me, so I do whatever I want.” El Gigante did his best to outstare Little Peche, but was once again unsuccessful.

“Well maybe that’s how things went before, but not today. A week ago you tackled me for no reason and humiliated me. You may have gotten away with it then, but I assure you it won’t be so easy this time.”

“Oh. Is that so?” El Gigante slowly rose up from his seat. Little Peche could sense his heavyset body tense up in preparation for a fight. The sweat droplets forming at the roots of his scraggly black hair were resulting from either the sweltering climate, or worry.

Little Peche’s glare intensified. “You and I have unfinished business.”

Instantly, El Gigante’s thick arm came at Little Peche so fast he barely managed to dodge it and fell out of his seat. Just as the bully’s foot was about to land a hit, the fallen challenger jumped back onto a nearby desk. His eyes darted to its matching chair as the towering foe came after him. In a flash of sheer strength, Little Peche lifted the chair by its backrest and swung it forward with all his might. He could feel the vibration of his strike travel through the splitting wood and shake through to his arms. A loud snap and crash rang out as the chair broke to pieces. Little Peche threw the splintered shrapnel to the side and felt small barbs burning in his hands. He ignored the pain and jumped onto the downed El Gigante and attacked with a flurry of swift punches thrown with great agility. The disoriented beast found himself unable to comprehend what was currently happening. He suddenly felt a cold trickle dripping down his face.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” cried El Gigante.

Little Peche halted his blows, but kept his guard up. Glittering specks of blood were sprinkled on his knuckles. He wasn’t sure if El Gigante’s pleading was a ruse meant to distract him, or if he was serious. Little Peche kept his arms up to guard his face and held a counter attack ready.

“My nose!” screamed the crying bully. “You broke my nose!” Tears streamed down his cheeks and mingled with the blood coursing on his upper lip. Little Peche’s eyes widened as he stared with disbelief. No one had ever witnessed the feared El Gigante cry in pain, let alone shed a single tear. Little Peche had won the battle.

“Oh shut up you pussy,” he teased. Little Peche was about to slug El Gigante one last time when the door swung open.

“What is going on in here!?” It was Principal Arania. Behind him a group of students were shoving at each other to get a better view of the aftermath of fight. Little Peche saw Marti staring with her mouth gaping. She quickly hid her awe with her little hands. “Peche I want you in my office NOW! Your mother is going to hear about this and you are going to get it!”

Little Peche foresaw the potential consequences of enacting his revenge, so he quietly jumped off the bleeding bully and followed the principal without a word. Suddenly, the children erupted into a joyous cheer. All the boys and girls (including Marti) were clapping their hands and shouting Little Peche’s name. Amidst the commotion, he could hear them singing his praises:

“His fists went so fast he burned El Gigante!”

“He fought like a diablo!”

“Little Peche’s gonna be famous!”

“No not Little Peche anymore! The kid who beat up El Gigante is Diablo!”

“Yay Diablo!”

“You’re our hero Diablo!”

As he followed Principal Arania to his office, Little Peche’s lips curved into a smirk of accomplishment. His worry of being regarded as the next big bully was eradicated by the words of his schoolmates. El Gigante wouldn’t bother anyone again, and if he did, Little Peche would be there to put him in his place.

Before heading into the principal’s office, Little Peche turned around to have one last look at the crowd. He pondered the name the students praised him with.

“Diablo” had a nice ring to it.

The Stale Arousal of Bread

iheartsquirtle — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 17:36:00 -0800

A story for my relationships.

Written 12/12/2011.

Today is May 26^th. My and Rigby’s four month anniversary. We’re sitting on the floor in his dorm room with his ruby hookah going. While the celebratory chocolate-mint shisha normally brings forth conversation, we haven’t said much (I’ve been tediously staring at his walls for the past twenty minutes). Were it not for the water pipe bubbling on the floor, or the condoms stashed into a Pokémon game box under the bed; you’d think we were in a kid’s room: radiant posters of the X-Men, Spiderman, Batman, and other heroes cover almost every inch of off-white wall space. Where there are no posters, shelves crowded with action figures and Legos seem to further enclose the already tight room.

As I stare into the eyes of the Hulk on his Marvel Heroes calendar, my vision starts to spin. Normally when I’m smoking I blow all my stress away in the shape of little rings, but this time I feel nauseous. I tell Rigby I need to lie down so I get up and wobble over to his bed. I stretch out across his Superman sheets (he’s such a dork) and clutch a small pillow like it’s a life ring. I feel the weight of the bed sink as Rigby climbs on next to me. One arm reaches over to cradle my head and the other embraces me from the side. I don’t feel like being held at the moment, especially when he’s clinging to me so tight. Rigby’s lips gently sweep across my neck before he starts trying to tickle me with his scruff.

“Um, Rigby…” I quietly groan.

“You okay?” he asks.

Before I can say anything, Rigby plants one on the back of my head then reaches over to his nightstand and pulls out an opened box of Jolly Ranchers. I sit up as he hands it to me and says, “Happy Anniversary.” I open it up to find a plastic Green Lantern ring nestled amongst the red and blue candy gems. He would do something cute and corny like this. I kinda feel bad for not getting him anything though.

Grandma Delphi once told me a story about Grandpa Mac. She said he used to love feeding the ducks at Jackson Park when he was still around. Every Thursday, he would bring an entire loaf of Wonder Bread, unopened and fresh from the market, to feed those mallards. Every week he had gone the ducks would go ape shit for it, but one day they stopped eating. Grandma Delphi said she had no idea why the ducks lost interest, but that Grandpa Mac even threw whole bread slices to no avail. Those ducks wouldn’t even so much as glance over at him. Grandpa Mac said maybe they were getting sick of the same ol’ white bread man giving them the same ol’ white bread pieces. Maybe someone else across the pond was feeding them. Who knew ducks could be so fickle?

“That’s not all I have for you,” Rigby whispers as his lips graze my ear, startling me. I stare into the box not saying anything until I slowly bring my gaze up to meet his. I force a smile that I hope looks bigger than it feels, and watch as his brown eyes look into my own before they move down to my lips. Rigby’s hand starts to wander south and I suddenly find my mouth interlocked with his. He raises himself over me and I can feel the tingles of arousal eagerly growing within him. I open my eyes as he kisses me to see his shut tight in a flurry of passion. I can’t help but feel like we’ve done this before; I know this isn’t the first time I’ve opened my eyes while kissing him. My glance skews aside and I notice the smoke still hanging in the air along with a flash of yellow. Rising languidly it dissipates, abandoning all evidence it was ever there. Rigby’s hand grips at my hair and breaks me from my trance. He wants me to reciprocate his fervent fire. I don’t know why, but my hands still don’t reach for him.

Whenever I’m nervous or just sitting around waiting to be called into my academic advisor’s office, I play piano scales on my leg. It’s become a bit of a habit now, and I sometimes notice people staring. I don’t really care though. It calms me, helps me forget about all my deadlines and assignments, my family and friends, work and school…

Finally the receptionist tells me I can go in. I sit down at Rita’s desk and she asks how things are.

“Not so great,” I tell her. “I’m thinking of changing my major again.”

“Fourth time you’ve done this,” Rita says.

She tiredly asks why the sudden change of mind this time? I notice deep worry lines etched across Rita’s forehead as she gives me that all too familiar condescending gaze; one line for every degree I’ve dropped. She acts like I’m the only one who’s ever come to her with this problem. If she hates talking to me so much then why the hell is she an advisor?

“I’m sick of all the integrals and graphs,” I tell her.

Rita massages her wrinkled forehead. “That’s the same thing you said about balancing chemical equations, learning parts of the brain, and drawing bowls of fruit.”

“Well… they’re all boring,” I shrug.

“Listen,” Rita says as she folds her hands and lays them down with a loud THUD. “You’re going to have to decide on something soon. Graduation is in two years, and you don’t even have half the prerequisite classes for any of those majors completed. Honestly kid, you have to stop complaining about everything and flying about. What do you think this is? Some kind of game?”

“I’m trying my best here okay? Jesus! I don’t get how you people expect us to figure out what we want to do for the rest of our lives in such a short time!” I look down and realize I’m out of my chair. Rita looks surprised too. I feel my face grow warmer as I unball my fists and take my seat once more.

She continues her patronizing spiel and it’s obvious her tone’s aggravated now. I resist the urge to play descending notes on the armrests. I know Rita’s tired of hearing me complain, but I can’t help it. I’m sick of the ongoing repetition of problems and constant calculations. I’ve done ‘em fifty times already, why do I have to do them five hundred times more? Unlike Rigby, I don’t wanna do that shit for the next forty years. I wish I didn’t let him convince me to “come on and give it a shot.” I’ve already wasted another semester on classes that probably aren’t going to be of any use to me, and now I only have two years to decide my future. This is such a load of bullshit.

Later that night, I’m stretched out on a loveseat in Rigby’s living room. The weekend’s here, and Sarah and Kelso are sitting on the sofa across from me. It feels good knowing that I can relax with good friends and hopefully a good movie, and that I don’t have to freak out about an essay or calculus homework due tomorrow. Rigby’s by the T.V. sorting through his precious blu-ray collection. Man, does he love his tech. Let’s see: Kill Bill vol. 1, Napoleon Dynamite, Spirited Away… Ah. There it is. Iron Man. Again. Rigby’s made his choice for the night and it’s Robert Douchebag Jr. once more. That movie was good the first time we saw it (we made out through a lot of it if I remember correctly) but after watching it three times in the past two weeks, don’t think I could handle another viewing. I slide off the loveseat and crawl over to Rigby. Huddling up next to him, I gently rest my head on his shoulder. I watch as his finger slides across the words on the back of the blu-ray case. He reads it so attentively as if he’s never seen the movie before. Without thinking, I feel my hand hit a C minor chord.

“You sure you don’t wanna try something else?” I ask.

“But we gotta watch it again,” he says. “The sequel’s coming out soon and we have to be ready for it!”

“But Sarah and Kelso have seen it already,” I mumble as I look over to them.

“Yeah Rigby, we’ve already watched it once and we don’t really want to see it again,” reaffirms Kelso. Even though we’re inside, he’s still wearing his green Oakland A’s cap. His arm is draped over Sarah who is busily texting on her phone. She’s probably doing so to distract herself from what sounds like the beginning of an argument.

“Oh come on you guys-”

Probably a lot harsher than I mean to, I snatch the box from his fingers and Rigby notices my hands. He asks me where the ring he gave me is.

Even after all these years since they got divorced, I never ask Grandma Delphi why she still wears her wedding band. I can still remember the day we found out about their pending separation. No one in the family saw it coming. I used to think when you get married and have kids, that’s it; you’re stuck together like glue. When Grandpa Mac and Grandma Delphi came over to explain to my parents, I was told to go to my room. I could hear mom crying and yelling at Grandpa Mac, demanding to know why all of a sudden they were deciding to split. After calming her down, he was able to get a word in. Grandpa Mac explained that he felt there was still a lot he wanted to do in life, and that he and Grandma Delphi just weren’t in love like they used to be. Things were starting to feel “tired” he said, but I had no idea what he meant until just recently. I guess indecisiveness runs in the family.

When I wake up Rigby’s mouth is gnawing at the side of my neck. His biting would be hot if it didn’t feel like a zombie trying to rip out my jugular. The pinch of his teeth brings me out of my daze, and I finally find the will power to make my hands take hold of Rigby’s back. As I lay underneath him, I realize that we always go through the same motions when we make out. He leads with the first play, then I submit to him; his tongue darts down my esophagus, and I tickle his sensitive spots. Then we either continue further exploring each other’s anatomies, or we settle down and find something else to do.

This time I open my eyes and study his face, wondering what he’s feeling. Rigby’s mouth leaves my neck and his eyes slowly open to meet mine. Before he can say anything my face quickly darts to the side, like I’m trying to hide something I don’t want him to see.

“What is it?” he whispers. We’re face-to-face now, but my eyes are still astray.

“Nothing,” I mumble. “It’s nothing.”

I think I’m starting to forget why I ever thought this was fun. Don’t get me wrong, making out can be great, but the formulaic process sometimes makes it feel like homework.

Yesterday I went to Jackson Park to pay the pond-dwelling ducks a visit. I didn’t tell Rigby about it though. I wanted to be alone without him so I could think. Before going there, I stopped by a mini mart and bought a loaf of Wonder Bread just like Grandpa Mac used to. At first I didn’t see any ducks swimming in the central pond, so I ventured around the waterside flipping lily pads over with a stick I found. After a couple minutes of waiting I started splashing up water and calling out “quack!” in hopes that some lonesome fowl would hear me. To my surprise a small brown duck with an emerald feathered head swam forth from behind a shrub of pond grass. My idiotic cry for attention had worked.

“Hey little guy,” I said to the duck as I bent down. “You all alone?”

The duck looked at me with innocent beady black eyes that mirrored the slowly setting sun. As I looked deeper into those small dark voids, I saw myself also reflected.

“Yeah, me too.”

I opened up my bag of bread and tossed him a piece of crust. The duck hesitantly approached my offering and pecked at it cautiously before swallowing it whole. I could tell he liked it, so I tore up more pieces and threw them into the pond. I heard a rustle from behind the taller pond grass as another duck clambered out. He was noticeably larger than the one I was feeding, and definitely more aggressive. The big duck hungrily devoured the bread pieces I had thrown and even fought with the smaller duck. Loud quacks, rapid pecks and jabs ensued over the food, causing a chaotic scene in the otherwise serene pond. I was about to leave when the smaller duck gave a sharp quack and swam away, leaving the bigger duck alone with his greed. He made it look so easy to simply face your problem and leave it behind. No matter how fickle they might have been with Grandpa Mac, that small duck clearly knew what he wanted. He was fine until the other guy showed up and ruined his mood, so he up and left without even thinking about it. I think it’s time I do the same.

When I shed all the fluff and feathers from this relationship, I find nothing’s like it used to be. There’s stuff Rigby doesn’t even notice, like when I do or don’t want to hook up, or if I’m happy on certain days, or too stressed out from school. Even when I’m clearly not in the mood, he’s the one who makes all the first moves; I entertain his passes because it’s preferable than getting into an argument with him about it. And although he’ll probably never realize it, I’m getting sick of all his stupid action figures and comics and kiddy shit. Why can’t he just grow up a little? Take that Green Lantern ring he gave me for our anniversary: It was a sweet gesture I know, but… it was a little juvenile if not totally predictable (it’s not the first superhero-themed present he’s given me). That’s probably my fault since I told him I was a bigger comic fanatic than him when we started dating, but I only said that because I was flirting. Still, doesn’t he see that I’ve changed? With all the stress and frustration I’ve been going through, I need something unexpected, grown up – a watch, or a CD, or anything else really. I don’t even know where I put our anniversary ring. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I ever even took it out of that candy box.

“Come on,” Rigby says. I can feel my hands clumsily limping around Rigby’s back like broken wings. I moan ever so slightly, but it’s half because I know it makes him feel in control. I’ve gotten so used to being the one that follows whatever Rigby says without ever asking myself what I want. He’s always been the captain of this relationship, charting the same course on each and every voyage. But not anymore. I stop my breaths and moans, and the feeling rushes back into my palms and fingers. Instead of the curve of his back, I feel them pushing against his chest. A knot twists in my stomach as I make my decision (this must be what that “point of no return” thing feels like). Rigby’s teeth finally release my raw skin, and he asks me what’s the matter. I turn my head and notice amidst his decorative comic book kitsch; the yellow blur from before has sprouted wings and a bill. From his computer desk, a wide-eyed rubber duck sits intently watching us. I wonder what it’d say if it could talk. Would it feel awkward for being our neglected third wheel? Would it want to join our carnal adventures? What would that rubber duck think when it saw Rigby brimming with passion, and me feigning pleasure?

I timidly return my gaze to the captain’s eyes.

“Rigby,” I tell him. “I think we need to talk.”

Death Eddie

iheartsquirtle — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 17:29:00 -0800

A story for myself.

Written 10/7/2011.

The crisp browning leaves of the myriad oak trees were beginning to fall, and each graceful hand of wind carried them down like shooting stars to their pavement graves. The tender moon and her clouds shed tears for the leaves as they hit the ground. She knows her grief will soon pass though, for from the branches where each leaf had fallen, a new life would one day spring forth.

Up and down the roads, jack-o-lanterns with eclectic expressions hold candlelight vigils for the descending flora. It’s Halloween time in the city of Torrents, and the enthusiastic medley of the night ranges from trick-or-treaters’ chanting to drunken teenagers’ cheering in their festive shenanigans. Halloween night is a holiday that is greatly anticipated by the residents of Torrents. The children go off in groups and beg for candy, while the adults partake in lavish parties and try to out shine each others’ costumes. The high schoolers and college kids, on the other hand, use the holiday as an excuse to get wasted and look either stupid or slutty while doing so. Tonight, a particular group of college kids attending UC Torrents would be throwing what their bookface invites refer to as a “frivolous frolic of alcohol-induced fun.” Promises of spiked candy apples, pink panty droppers, and other recreational delicacies were sure to entice all those lucky enough to have been invited.

Hundreds of students were indeed summoned to the extravaganza, and no doubt all would attend as slutty witches, slutty animals, slutty anything. All would go except for one Eddie Santos, bike messenger extraordinaire (as he so liked to refer to himself). On this night of All Hallows’ Eve, Eddie would not be taking part in the numerous games of King’s cup or beer pong. Tonight he was on the job, biking down the hills and up the trails delivering packages to no doubt boozed-up recipients.

Eddie was supposed to have the night off, but due to his status as a new employee at the QuickCarry Courier Express, he had no other choice. Douglas Mcalister, the QuickCarry’s pseudo-intellectual hipster manager thought it was only fair to give Eddie the route on Halloween night, while he and his equally hipster coworkers went to a predictably hipster “Anti-Halloween” party. Although annoyed at having to do his boss’s bitch work, Eddie was determined to finish his route early and make it to the frivolous frolic.

By 11:30pm, Eddie had already delivered twelve of his thirteen assigned parcels. While half the recipients were smashed beyond comprehension, the other half consisted of parents awaiting candy beggars. Mistaking Eddie as an adolescent who refused to let his inner child die, they generously showered him with cheap candies until realizing he was a delivery boy. Their ninety-nine cent treats would then be replaced with equally tasteless thank-yous. Eddie didn’t understand why the parents thought he was a child, but after remembering his face paint all was clarified. The rebellious teen figured if he couldn’t party on Halloween night, he would at least share in the spirit. Before work Eddie adorned himself with a Dia-de-los-Muertos mask of ghostly paint. He wore his black hood over his head to complete the costume. Tonight, Eddie was not just a regular bike messenger extraordinaire, but a bike messenger of death (extraordinaire)!

The last house on Eddie’s list was on a road he’d never before traversed. Located in the neighboring city of Piedras Rojas, Taiwanese Bend was a long coastal road overlooking the Pacific Ocean. In the daytime the road had a picturesque view of the ocean scenery, but at night it took on a daunting form. Scarce streetlamps providing ample illumination appeared less as beacons of sanctuary, and more like eerie décor. Surrounding the bend were fields of what appeared to be either masses of wheat or draining weeds, regardless transforming into a sea of black when cloaked in the night.

Eddie was speeding down the road, his mind cluttered with excited thoughts of the inebriated teenage fun that was sure to be had after this delivery. The rain from earlier gave the roads a reflective slick skin, and all the fallen oak leaves had congregated into crunchy juicy piles. One of Eddie’s favorite pastimes while on the job was to rapidly cycle through street rubbish and watch it explode from the rush of air. He found it provided him with the similar type of joy a child gets from splashing in puddles. Piles of trash were worth ten points, leaves twenty points, and dried road kill thirty points. Throughout the day Eddie would amass points and attempt to surpass his personal best of three hundred. His favorite targets were batches of dry leaves because of the satisfying CRUNCH they released when hit. Eddie had to learn the hard way that such activity is only suitable for dry heaps though, and that moist piles are best avoided due to their slippery risk. The three-inch scar on his left forearm was a constant reminder to steer clear of them.

As he cycled near the end of Taiwanese Bend, a large building came into view. The Rubius Manor was a grandiose mansion with heavy iron gates separating it from the outside world. Eddie stopped in front of the rusted fence to take in the scene. The home appeared to not have been maintained in ages: several windows were smashed in, and ivy plants had seized every inch of the front walls, retaining new homes for future generations of vines. Eddie approached the main gates and noticed they were unlocked. He hesitated before giving them a slight push. Images of chainsaw wielding madmen, zombies sprawling from their graves, and other horrifying images flooded his mind. Okay, Eddie. C’mon now. It’s just an old house. Don’t be a pussy. The gates screeched open with a deafening cry that made Eddie jump. He slowly entered the decrepit domain.

The massive front lawn of the manor was evidence enough that it hadn’t been tended to in a very long time. All over, surrounding barriers of brown weeds isolated patches of dull grass. Statues that were once radiant with brilliance were now crumbling to dust. The collection was of no particular genre, just a hodgepodge of cement figures. Gargoyles were standing wide-eyed with a family of deer, while an armless Mercury de Milo stared down at a humanoid frog sitting on a stone bench. Out of all the somber sculptures, the childish toad caught Eddie’s eye. It’s amphibian innocence against the despairing background made him shudder. Eddie felt his heart being to race. Instinctively, he took out his signing pen, clicked it, held it against his palm so the pointed faced up, and began pricking his finger against the cold tip. By no means was Eddie a nervous wreck, but there were times when anxiety would clamber over him and sink it’s draining fangs into his nerves. When the nervousness or anxiety became too much, Eddie often grew breathless and would begin to lose feeling in his body. The sensation of the pen prick against his thumb somehow brought him back to reality.

After what felt like a millennia of trudging through the statue cemetery, Eddie finally made it to the front door of the Rubius mansion. For a house that was in such a ramshackle condition, the door was surprisingly ornate. The solid wooden door was etched with intricate patterns that resembled flowers. Each petal embellished in gold leaf sprouted from small jewels in groups of five. A small window of thin, scratched glass was the only eye sore on the otherwise beautiful entryway. Behind the transparent sheet dull red wine curtains attempted to censor the infinite darkness contained inside. Seeing as there was no mailbox to deposit his correspondence, Eddie timidly knocked. He waited for about a minute in silence before tapping again. It was to no avail, so he went for the crystal doorknob. At the slightest turn, it clicked and opened. Hmm. Douglas once said something about not letting myself into people’s homes. Maybe I should just leave it out here. Eddie gently placed the box at the foot of the elaborate door and headed towards the iron gates. He walked a few steps before picking up into a brisk pace, then finally a full-blown sprint. When he reached the exit, Eddie turned around to give the Rubius Manor what would hopefully be one last look. The package he had dropped off just moments ago was nowhere to be seen. Fuck this place I need to get drunk.

The hour was approaching midnight, and the night air had brought a deeper chill upon the land. The dry vegetation along the coast rustled in harmony with the crashing waves of the sea, creating a somber tune as Eddie made his way out of Taiwanese Bend and onto the road back to Torrents. He was pedaling faster than he probably should have, but after the haunting aura of the Rubius Manor, Eddie was ready to knock back a few. His final destination for the night was the party, which was about a twenty-minute bike ride from Piedras Rojas. The winding road was crowded with lumbering oaks and littered with sharp turns. There were scant streetlights, but Eddie’s bike lamp provided just enough light to clear his path. Maybe I shouldn’t have worn my black hoodie…

To make the trip to civilization go by faster, Eddie decided to listen to his iPodge. Normally, couriers on the job are discouraged from wearing headphones because it can be dangerous in high traffic zones, but Eddie figured no one would be making their way up the desolate road anytime soon. In only a few minutes he would be dancing on tables and slamming back shots of Admiral Martin at the Halloween romp. Eddie supposed he might as well get into the celebratory mood now with a Halloween playlist.

Eddie biked for what felt longer than fifteen minutes when he began to worry. 1021 Breckridge Avenue. He knew the streets pretty well for a new messenger, and he was certain it shouldn’t have been taking this long to get there. He took out his earbuds and was about to pull over to call his roommate Nate Dawg (real name Nathaniel Daugmeier) for directions when he heard music. It sounded like one of the many overplayed Lady Cha Cha remixes and it was getting louder. Suddenly, bright lights appeared behind Eddie and they were speeding towards him at a blatantly illegal speed. Eddie could only pedal about two feet ahead before the car sent him flying. The last thing he heard before making contact with the ground was the screaming of brakes and someone yelling “OH SHIT!”

Oh shit-

***

Eddie awoke facedown in a puddle of brown water. He slowly lifted his head, and surprisingly couldn’t feel any pain. Huh. Guess I got lucky. Raising himself up, Eddie felt as if he was climbing out of a pool. An inexplicable force clung to him the way chlorine rich water clings to swimming trunks, almost like it’s trying to pull you back. The magnetic bond snapped away as he got to his feet. Eddie disregarded the odd feeling as he took in his surroundings. A thick wall of fog had taken over the area, and Eddie could barely see even twenty feet in front of him. He was still on the road back to Torrents, but he couldn’t find the moon or the distant glow of streetlights. There was no sign of the car that hit him, or at least not any that was visible in the mist. He looked around and saw his bike totaled into a coat hanger. The back wheel had broken off and lay crumpled by the handlebars. Well there goes my source of income.

Eddie thought about his options for a moment before deciding to call a cab. He patted around his jacket and pants to find his cell, but couldn’t feel its shape in any pocket. He guessed it must have fallen out as he flew into the ground, then he noticed his red messenger bag was gone too. He surveyed the empty road to try and spot his belongings when his gaze scanned down at his feet. Eddie froze up and felt his breathing cease. His jaw dropped and his entire body began trembling. He had found his missing bag not even an inch away from him. Splashed with mud, it was still strapped to his lifeless body sprawled out on the ground.

Short breaths began to puff out of Eddie’s gaping mouth. His hands frantically searched for his pen but returned unsuccessful. It was probably still on his body along with his cell phone. The small exhalations finally culminated into a raspy scream.

“Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck!” cried Eddie. His hands found their way to his hair and began pulling hard in an attempt to awake him from the surreal dream. He collapsed to his knees and tried to get a hold of his corpse, but his hands passed through it like a hologram. Desperate to rejoin with his body, Eddie laid himself upon it in hopes that a fusion of spirit and flesh would occur. Nothing. Eddie was about to unleash another howl when he sensed a cold presence behind him.

“You’ve met with a terrible fate, haven’t you?”

The hairs on Eddie’s neck erected into needles as an intense fear overcame him. A cold chill enveloped his body as he turned around to face the owner of the husky voice. It was… an old guy? Standing down the road behind him was a man who looked to be in his early forties. He was wearing an all black suit and leather dress shoes that gleamed as if they had been freshly polished. A small metal skull adorned his onyx lapel, it’s shine matched only by that of his silver eyes. A light beard of black outlined his pale face and joined with his slicked back hair. Eddie thought he looked like a funeral director, or perhaps a priest. Complimentary to his mourning friendly attire, the man’s eyes were the first to catch Eddie’s attention. They seemed to glow with an ominous light. Who was he?

“ What… what did you say?” asked Eddie, his voice quivering.

“I said, you’ve met with a terrible fate, haven’t you child?” grinned the strange man.

“Who are you? What’s going on?” Eddie demanded.

“Do not be alarmed, young one. I’m not going to harm you. I’d say it appears you’ve been damaged enough as it is.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re dead, Eduardo.”

Eddie felt as if a knife had been plunged into his stomach. Dead!? How could I be dead!? I’m too young to be feeding the worms already! And who the hell is this creep and how does he know my name!?

“How do you know my name? Who are you? Tell me!”

“Let’s see…” the strange man ignored Eddie’s questions. His grin dropped into a more stern countenance. “Eduardo Lorenzo Santos. Age nineteen. Philosophy student at the University of California Torrents. Cause of death: hit and run. Tsk tsk tsk. Pity it’s always the younger ones who die so unjustly.”

The entire time the strange man spoke, his silver gaze never broke from Eddie’s. Those ghostly orbs locked onto the courier and wouldn’t let go.

Eddie had had enough. “Who the fuck are you!? And what the bloody hell do you mean ‘dead’? I’m just a kid! And how do you know all this about me? Are you some kind of bookface stalking freak? Tell me who you are now!”

“Fine,” replied the strange man as he reached his right hand behind him. “Perhaps this will make everything clear.” Out of nowhere the strange man slowly pulled out a black staff crowned with a half-crescent blade. Suddenly, all the pieces fit together. The black suit, the skull pin, the silver eyes, the scythe. They could only mean one thing.

“The Grim Reaper…” whispered Eddie. Dumbstruck, he found himself unable to say more.

“Precisely child,” said the blade-wielding specter as he approached Eddie. “I figured you’d be quick to recognize me seeing as how you’re parading around in my image.”

He suddenly remembered his skeletal face paint. “…But… but you’re a human… Not a skeleton with a hood like in all the stories…”

The Reaper propped his scythe up with one hand while casually scratching at his beard with the other. “Do you believe everything you hear in fairytales? That skull and hood guise was my original form, but over the centuries I grew tired of it. This is a new day and age, so I decided to modernize my appearance. Although, I can always revert back to my boney old self if you prefer.”

“No don’t!” interjected Eddie. The guy was creepy enough already, and he didn’t need to see a talking skeleton with a giant sickle to know he was the real deal. The strange man really was the Grim Reaper.

Eddie took a few moments to process everything he had just seen and heard. He was finally able to break the hold of the Reaper’s icy stare and scanned the floor for an anything to say. The black pavement was still soaked with the night’s precipitation, and piles of leaves were twinkling with raindrops. He looked up towards the moon, but remembered the dense fog obstructed it from view. Would he never see it’s gentle glow again?

“Mr. Reaper… sir?”

“Please. Call me Grim.”

“Okay… Grim? I-I can’t be dead. I haven’t even fully lived my life yet. I can’t even legally drink for another two years. Is there nothing I can do to stop this? How am I ever gonna see my family again? How can I at least tell them I love them? Don’t I even get to say goodbye?” Eddie could feel his face grow warmer.

“Unfortunately child, you are indeed dead; therefore you can no longer communicate with the living. You cannot see your family, and there is no way for you to reach them now. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but that’s the way things are. My job is to find souls, and send them to the Other Side. I’m afraid I must get you out of this Purgatory and be on my way. I’ve dawdled long enough as it is.” Grim took his scythe into his hands and readied himself. He raised it over his head and was about to swing it down when Eddie interrupted him.

“Wait!” screamed Eddie, arms up in defense.

“What is it child? I really must be on my way. Is it more pleas for your life? Out with it!”

“Please. There must be something I can do for my life back. Please…” The feeling of imminent doom had finally sunk into Eddie. All emotions of despair and fear of the unknown were betrayed by the glimmering beads welling in his eyes. Gone was the excitement of dancing the night away and celebrating with friends. Instead the faces of his parents, relatives, best friends, and even people he wasn’t particularly fond of crowded his mind. He wasn’t ready to leave them all, not yet. The waterworks began as Eddie fell to his knees.

“Child, I know this isn’t easy, but I can’t let you live,” Grim said as he lowered his scythe. “You’ve died, and now you must move on. That’s how it’s been for all eternity, and it’s not going to change now.”

After thousands of years of dealing with the departed, Grim’s ability to sympathize had long since left him. He studied the crying adolescent, watching as the tears streamed down his face. The boy was incredibly young. His eyes still retained an almost childish doe-eyed innocence, and not a single sign of aging was present on his face save for a few stray patches of facial hair. Those brown irises surrounded by the stress of blood from unleashed tears struck something in the Reaper. If he ignored the smudging face paint, Grim could have sworn the boy looked like a young version of him from long ago. His own eyes were that very same shade of brown once. How long had it been since he was faced with death and made the commitment that forever changed his life? For the first time in a long time, Grim felt pity for a soul. He couldn’t believe what he was about to do next.

“Stop your crying,” he sighed. Eddie looked up at the Reaper. Fear glittered in his eyes even more. “Alright. I accept your offer. I’ll make you a deal.”

“Wha… what?” replied Eddie. The tears stopped flowing.

“Yes,” said Grim, dryly. “As I’m sure you’re aware of, the death rate of today’s world is unforgivingly high, far more than ever before. It has become incredibly tiring to keep up with the daily quota of souls. Therefore I will make a rare exception to your plea.”

“Really!?” Eddie jumped to his feet. A new light of hope fixed his face, and enthusiasm rang in his voice. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I can’t believe it!”

“However,” interrupted Grim. “I’m not letting you off without getting something in return. In exchange for you life back, you will pay me with your services. You will become my apprentice and work for me. You will share in my task of collecting souls in this area and neighboring lands. It is a miniscule job compared to what I must do, but it will be of help nonetheless.”

Eddie stopped his cheering. He scratched the back of his head in thought, then recomposed himself. “Can I work part time? I have school too, you know.”

“Of course,” said Grim. “You will be able to live your life as you did before. This is merely a job. It shouldn’t be too difficult for you to handle.” Grim smiled a toothy grin and held out his right hand. “So do we have a deal?”

Eddie looked into Grim’s unblinking eyes. He wasn’t sure if the Grim Reaper was someone who could be trusted, but what choice did he have? It was either this, or face the uncertainty of the Other Side without having first experienced the many wonders of a full life. What’s the worst that could happen? Eddie met Grim’s hand with his own and held it tight. “Deal.”

The two locked eyes as they shook hands. Eddie noticed a bright flash steak across Grim’s lustrous eyes and his grip grew alarmingly firm. Immediately, Grim’s left arm reached behind his back and pulled out the scythe once more.

“Wait what are you doing?” asked Eddie, his voice cracking in fright.

Grim slid the scythe down so that his hand took hold of the blade and he pressed the tip against the top of Eddie’s wrist.

“No! Stop!” screamed Eddie. He could feel cold metal splitting skin as Grim quickly carved something into his flesh. The sharp pain was followed by an intense burning, then a sizzling tingle. Eddie looked down at his wrist, still in the Reaper’s grasp, and saw what looked like an eye-shaped scar. “What the fuck did you just do to me!?”

“This is a Watching Eye,” said Grim. His hand maintained it’s sturdy grip. “This will allow me to know your current location at all times, should I ever sense you require my help.”

“Did you have to leave the scar though? You could have at least given me a warning!” Eddie ripped his hand away from Grim. There was no blood, only a scar. It still burned like hell.

“The Watching Eye also serves another purpose,” said Grim. He grew a devilish smile more sinister than before. “It’s an insignia that means you now belong to me.”

Before Eddie could say anything Grim exploded into a thick cloud of black smoke. Instead of evaporating into the fog, it doubled at an immense rate and enveloped Eddie. His vision faded into black as he felt his knees give.

***

Eddie awoke facedown in a pile of mushy brown leaves. He was gasping for breath as gathered the strength to push himself onto his back. He felt the hug of his messenger bag against his spine, and found his cell phone and pen safely tucked into his pockets. A wave of relief came over Eddie as he realized he was okay. He felt his forehead bleeding, and inspected it to find a small gash. Considering he was biking without a helmet, he could have been worse. He slowly propped himself up and felt like a three-hundred-pound lineman had just tackled him. Eddie was thankfully able to walk, and he saw his bike lying next to a tree. Aside from the broken side mirror, it looked perfectly fine.

Eddie slowly went to salvage his bicycle and checked to make sure it was still rideable. Everything looked okay, so he took his seat once more. I am gonna kill that damn driver if I ever find out who he was. Eddie gazed up at the moon and remembered the dream he had while unconscious. He pondered what could have made him dream of the Grim Reaper, but blamed it on hitting his head too hard. He laughed it off and looked at the stars burning in the night sky. An oak tree completely naked except for one small green leaf caught his eye. Despite the shade of nightfall he could tell it was of a healthy green. But, it’s the middle of Fall. Shouldn’t it be dry by now? Eddie realized he must have been disoriented still and figured he was just hallucinating. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder why that lone leaf still held to its branch. It almost looked like it had just sprouted moments ago. He shrugged the notion away and readied himself on his bike. I should probably get my head checked out, but whatever. If I can ride back to Torrents without a problem, I’m sure I can make it to the party just fine. Besides, after getting hit by that car, I could really use a drink.

With one last look at his surroundings, Eddie continued down the murky path towards the city of Torrents. He ignored the pain emanating from his right wrist as he pedaled away into the night.