All I Want for Christmas

It was snowing in Manhattan, and Jonathan brushed off his corduroy trench coat as the door swung shut behind him. A janitor was mopping the marble.

Jonathan carefully stepped around the water and strode across the lobby to the concierge. "Charles," he said, "is there any mail for me?"

"Welcome home, sir." The concierge turned and pulled a short stack of letters from the row of mail-slots behind him. "Here you are, sir. Happy holidays."

Jonathan shuffled through the letters and found a handwritten envelope nestled between two catalogs. He paused. There was no return address, but the smudged postmark seemed to read Nashville. Jonathan shrugged. Maybe it was from one of his former coworkers. With the catalogs tucked under one arm, he extended a finger under the flap and sliced the envelope open as he walked across the lobby to the elevator.

The bronze elevator doors opened, and Jonathan stepped in as he removed the letter from the envelope. A soft jazz rendition of I'll be Home for Christmas whispered from the speakers, and Jonathan pushed the button for the 42nd floor as the doors slowly shut.

The letter was handwritten on lined paper.

Merry Christmas Johnny. It snowed in Nashville last night, but most everything has melted and the snow that stayed behind is grey.

Johnny, I left. I have a job now, a real job. Down at a restaurant by the interstate, I'm a waitress. They serve flapjacks down there, and sometimes eggs, Johnny, even at night. You would like the flapjacks, Johnny. They make them real fluffy, and I would cover it with maple syrup, just the way you like it.

I still wear the red shoes you bought me, Johnny, even though the heels are starting to go. And I'm engaged now, and I think I love him. He draws all these beautiful pictures of meadows and farms and the country, Johnny, and I think he loves me too.

I had a son and I named him Benjamin, just like in that story you told me about the man who dived into the Cumberland River trying to save the woman's life. He's not yours, Johnny, but I just wanted you to know.

I still think about you, Johnny, whenever I see the Cumberland River.

One day, I'm going to buy a boat and sail down the Cumberland to Mexico. I'll get myself a house on the water and paint it red and eat flapjacks everyday. I think I'll be happy, Johnny. I do.

Because hell, Johnny, I don't sell my body no more, though I still have that scar on my back from where you cut me with the bottle. And I know you're sorry, Johnny, that you didn't mean to hurt me. I know you were never like my other clients, Johnny, I downed two fifths of bourbon when you left Nashville for good.

And hey Johnny, truth is, Benjamin never had a chance. I had to abort him three months into the pregnancy, when his father was taken away and I damn near went mad. His father is up for parole next Christmas, Johnny, and we're still engaged. I would visit him everyday if I could, but see, Johnny, the only time I can visit the pen is when I serve breakfast down there. They said I was sick, real sick, and they got me in this room in the psych ward, and I'm wearing the red shoes with my uniform, and the only thing, Johnny, the only thing I can see through the bars in my window, the only thing, is the Cumberland River.

Good bye, Johnny.

A bell dinged as the elevators door opened to the 42nd floor. Jonathan turned the page over, as if he expected something to be written on the back. It was blank.

The elevator doors began closing, and Jonathan reached out an arm to stop it. Stuffing the letter back into the envelope, he folded it in half and slid it into his trousers pocket before emerging from the elevator.

As he opened the apartment door, the sound of a TV show stole into the hallway, followed closely by the faint smell of roast chicken.

"Hey dad." His son was splayed out on the couch, attention fixed on the television.

"Hey, where's your mother?" Jonathan asked as he hung his coat on the rack by the door.

"She's unpacking a chicken we just picked up from Zabar's."

"Okay, tell her I'm going to take a quick shower."

Jonathan walked over to the bedroom and closed the door behind him. It was still snowing, but he walked over to the balcony anyways and, sliding the door open, stepped outside. His fingers reached for a cigarette, and, as a frosty North wind canvassed Manhattan, he lit up. Against the glittering backdrop of billboards and streetlamps, Jonathan removed the letter from his pocket and tore it into a thousand tiny pieces. Then, just to make sure, he lit each piece with his cigarette before releasing it into the falling snow.

As Jonathan extinguished his cigarette and stepped back into his apartment, a gust of wind blew past, propelling the string of burning letter pieces Southward like little red Christmas lights to Mexico.

Finer Things

He sat alone in the darkened living room, the glow from his computer screen vying with the dim light of the kitchen for the pleasure of illuminating the pale buds of his bare skin. A frenzied John Coltrane piece swept through the room's shadowed corners, and, between wincing at sips of a $7 sauvignon blanc from a plastic cup, he tried desperately, in his stupor, to make sense of - to love - the sophisticated musical mess.

Bloody hell.

He turned off the music, flicked on the living room light, picked up the worn copy of The New Yorker sitting by his feet (his family doctor's address neatly scissored from the bottom right corner), and tossed it in the recycling bin. Then, before stepping into the shower, he scrolled to Katy Perry in his music collection and began playing Teenage Dream, making sure to turn the volume up all the way.

Underground

The subway lurches forward into the night, its quiet rumbling underscoring the speed with which the city is passing us by.

Nearly all the seats are empty, except for an old woman, clutching her groceries between her knees at the end of the row of hard steel seats across from us. A group of tired business types, surprisingly silent and still bound by their collars, are scattered further down the car. A teenage boy in skinny jeans and oversized headphones saunters over to the door as the train slows towards its next station.

Next station: Prince Edward. Doors will open on the right.

She nestles closer to me as the doors slide open and the people come, go, stay, leave. As a stooped-over man shuffles onboard, the old woman begins muttering to herself. In our little nest across the aisle, we share a stifled laugh.

Please stand back from the doors. Beep-beep-beep-beep.

The doors shut and the train lurches forward once again. She leans her head against my shoulder, a lovely weight against my chest, and closes her eyes. Her bangs drift to the side, and I reach up to fix them as a faint hint of spring wafts from her and spins a cocoon around us.

I can feel the weight of her breathing, her ebb and flow. My own breath begins to fall into rhythm with hers, but I'm afraid to move.

The train rushes into the night; stations open, close. The old woman disappears with her groceries. More stations open, close.

Next station: Diamond Hill. Doors will open on the left.

I feel myself inhaling, and I gently nudge her awake.

"Hey. This is you."

Her eyes barely open, she smiles, blinking, and sits upright. My shoulder falls a little without her. The train slows.

She stands up and beams down at me. The train screeches to a stop, and the doors slide open.

"See you around," she whispers, and, turning, leaves.

I glance over to her seat to see if she has forgotten anything - if she has left anything behind - but the seat is empty, its steel surface reflecting the dull, fluorescent lighting. I stand up anyways and find myself moving towards the doors. Somehow, she must have forgotten something.

At the doors, I hesitate.

Please stand back from the doors. Beep-beep...

On the Last Day of Christmas

The angel stood faintly in the glow that filtered in from the streetlight. He turned the statue just a little, so its glory could be better illuminated in the store window. It was almost closing time, and this would be their first Christmas Eve without a sale. Well, his first Christmas Eve without a sale. The pottery store was his alone now.

Outside it was drizzling lightly. He glanced up at the clock and noted the time, 7:22. It wasn't likely that a customer would walk in demanding clay figurines during the next thirty-eight minutes, and besides, it was already dark out. Tucking his scarf under his arm, he struggled into his suit jacket and switched the lights off. They went off, one section at a time; click, click, click. He felt the cold the instant he stepped outside, and knotted his scarf before locking the front door.

Beneath the streetlight, he tucked his hands in his pockets and squinted down the street while wetting his chapped bottom lip. He couldn't see much in the dark, rainy vastness. Maybe it would be better to find shelter first. Buttoning his jacket, he turned in the opposite direction and headed for the park.

He flicked his cigarette and a few ashes flittered like snowflakes to the wet sidewalk. Hunched over on a park bench, he studied his sleek dress shoes, their delicate laces and the beads of water that slid slowly down the sides. The branches of a willow tree swayed gently overhead, drooping down to create a dry sanctuary, but every so often, a heavy drop would slither through the branches and onto his suit, weaving wet impressions of the city among the blue pinstripes.

He glanced up, wrinkling his forehead, and took a drag. All around the tree, the rain kept falling.

The oak trees in the park were decorated with strings of lights, he noted. Stamping out his cigarette, he stood up and walked over to the nearest lighted tree. Up close, the bulbs seemed less festive, their filaments struggling to inject life into the falling night. Then he noticed a lone, darkened bulb that had resigned, descended into eremitism. "Come on, it's Christmas," he whispered as he flicked the bulb. It wouldn't quite be Christmas without this little bulb, he thought. With a sputter, the bulb flickered and shone once more.

He stepped back, looked down at the row of trees, all lighted in their holiday glory, and smiled. Then, tossing his head back, he laughed as the drizzle continued. "Come on! It's Christmas!!" he shouted, raising his hands to the sky. Turning to face the direction from whence he had came, he gave a light shrug and ran down the street, out of the park, past his pottery store, and into the dark, rainy vastness. As he ran, the streetlights came into view to illuminate his path, and it didn't seem quite so vast anymore.

He ran until he reached a white door, with the sounds of laughter and singing seeping through its cracks. There was a wreath hanging on the door, and, in the middle, a clay angel. His clay angel. Their clay angel.

Taking a deep breath, he undid his scarf and knocked. The carols continued uninterrupted and he stood there, dripping, shivering, ecstatic, crazy. He couldn't wait any longer and reached for the door, only to find it unlocked. As it slowly swung open, crowds of people, dressed in their holiday sweaters and gulping eggnog and mulled wine from frosted glasses, came into view - but he didn't notice any of them.

She wasn't standing under any mistletoe, but he didn't need any excuses. It was Christmas.

The Great Wall

Note: 100% fiction, even though a few random details may seem to be very in sync with my life.

I was born in Chinatown until I met her.

It was in a small apartment two dirt-stained flights of stairs above a store that sold barbequed meat. My father was a graduate student at the time, and was attending class the very moment I decided I was afraid of the dark. The womb was very dark. Our eighty-two year old neighbor, who had shaking hands but was once - thank whoever the incense is for - a nurse, delivered me. And that is how I came about, in the ointment-lathered hands of an octogenarian above a shop that made money by burning animals.

Every evening around five, old ladies with heavy sweaters and white hair would come to see the store's dead parade, burnt to a delicious golden brown. There were ducks hanging by their necks in the window, their small, beady eyes now represented by a crisp, mysterious hole. Usually there were hunks of barbequed pork, too, sauce dripping from the winking, penetrating hooks. $6.50 a pound, a handwritten piece of cardboard proclaimed beneath. On the weekends, a gleaming behemoth would resume its rightful throne behind the right half of the window, and continue the succulent dynasty of roasted suckling pigs.

I visited the store often with my mother. I mean, we lived right above it. Usually my mother would order a hunk of barbequed pork from the butcher with the grease-stained apron. By which I mean, both of them had grease-stained aprons, and the aprons were always greasy. At three years old, I had developed a jaundiced suspicion that they never washed their aprons. I also didn't trust the neon-orange cuttlefish swimming in their ocean of oily sauce. To this day, I still can't eat squid, or octopus, or anything rubbery. My friends used to ask me why I wouldn't try just one piece of fried calamari. I argued back with baseless but impassioned rhetoric. They haven't tried living in Chinatown.

When it rained, the floors of the barbequed meat store, as well as the stairs leading up to our apartment, would be painted with a mosaic of shoeprints, the grey, watery mementos seeping their way into the blue and white tiles that were designed for a public bathroom. I wasn't allowed to go out when it rained unless my mother said it was ok, not even to the playground in the park. Especially not to playground in the park. The plastic slide and rubber swings were dirty, and strangers wanted to kidnap me. I would also get sick if I didn't wear my jacket with a winking green frog on it. In retrospect, that winking green frog was probably creepier than any of the hobos in the park that asked my parents for spare change.

So, anyhow, I survived. Between getting horrible acne from all the grease that floated up from the meat shop straight onto my face and getting $2 in a red packet from an uncle for my birthday (he tried redeeming himself by saying it was lucky), I managed to eke out a childhood and somehow found my way to college. That's where I met her.

She was the most beautiful thing I had seen since a dancing lion was lit on fire during a Chinese New Year festival accident. I didn't have half the nerves needed to even go near her, what with her sleek, indigo dress and duchess-like poise. Also, it was a formal, yes, a dance, and yes, I had gone stag. For all I knew, some guy was poised in the shadows to leap out, grab a candle from the centerpiece, and beat the first thing that dared approach her. But my uncle's $2 must have been acting up that night, because the only open seat was at her table. Beside her. I almost died - from fright, not excitement.

To my right was some Korean guy with large, trendy glasses that didn't want anything to do with me. Oh, did I mention it was a Korean students club formal? Anyways, as it turned out, she did have a guy waiting in the shadows. And not just any guy, either - he was the president of the club, and had to go make a speech. Everyone listened. I fiddled with my salad fork, too scared to look left or right. When his speech was over, he stayed onstage while some Korean girl recited some poem I couldn't understand half of. The Korean half. It was a very long poem, and having nowhere to look but straight ahead, I began studying my menu. Grilled chicken salad, seared cuttlefish cutlet, or eggplant for the vegetarians. It didn't say how the eggplant was cooked, just eggplant in wide, bold letters.

"I'm getting the cuttlefish. What are you having?"

I turned my head slightly to the left. "Uhh..." I stammered, "anything but the cuttlefish?"

She let a chuckle escape. "Why? I love cuttlefish!"

"I just, I..." This time, I actually turned to face her. Her hair cascaded elegantly instead of drooping wearily, her skin was delicate and smooth, not oily, and she smelled faintly of jasmine flowers, not barbequed meat shops. "I'm allergic."

The poem ended and the president returned. We didn't say much to each other after that, just small talk that I'd bet neither of us remembered a half hour later. In fact, I didn't see her again for almost three weeks, which is a pretty long time for our decently small campus.

I was down seven drinks the night I bumped into her on my way to the bathroom. "Heyyyyy!!" I exclaimed, "it's octopus girl!"

She remembered me. "Cuttlefish," she corrected, smiling, although obviously nowhere near seven. "Are you allergic to octopus too?"

"Allergic? What?"

"You know, you don't eat cuttlefish..."

"Of course not. It's disgusting. Grosssssss. If you saw how they made them back in Chinato..." I almost bit off half my tongue. She just stood there, silently. I couldn't tell if she was confused or had it all figured out. I put my drink down on the table. "Look." I rubbed my forehead and sighed. "I'm not allergic. When I was young, I watched them dangle from these hooks dripping something that was an evil shade of neon orange, and I just never tried them. I had to look at them everyday going home, because I lived two floors above the barbeque store in Chinatown. I couldn't tell you because..."

"Where?"

I stared at her. I could feel the blood lightly pounding in my head. "Where what?"

"Chinatown in which city?"

"Vancouver..."

"No way! I grew up in San Francisco's Chinatown!"

This Fishbowl Life

I was driving along the beach boardwalk just as the sun was peeking out from across the ocean, misting puffs of red and orange into the great, dark blue sky. She was clutching a fishbowl in the passenger seat, and our single goldfish floated around in dull circles. The radio was humming some quiet pop song, and I rolled the windows down to catch the salty morning air.

We pulled up at a red light. It was much too early for anyone to be driving along the shoreline, but I stopped anyways. There were no pedestrians, either, except for a hobo shuffling along the sidewalk a couple of blocks ahead, carrying a sign. I pressed the car forward as the light shifted, and glanced over at his sign as we passed. It read, "Need money for peace."

The storefronts gently bounced the sunlight back and forth as I pulled into an empty parking lot marked by a few rows of logs. I turned off the engine and we silently filed out of the car. She was still clutching the fishbowl; the goldfish was motionless, its wide, giant eyes staring forever into something I didn't understand.

We took off our shoes and left them on the hood of the car. A light wind swept the ocean's secrets inland as we walked towards the water, the sand weaving between our toes. When we reached the ocean, she crouched down among the soft, lapping waves, and I rolled up my jeans so I could crouch down in the water with her. Together, we looked into the glass bowl, at the dead goldfish, floating in circles once again. She had discovered it dead this morning.

She slowly lowered the fishbowl and the water in the bowl faded into the ocean. Then the goldfish went, drifting, floating, into the world.

We stood up. Her white dress and my jeans were dripping, but I don't think we noticed. She reached for my hand, and I took it as the goldfish floated further and further out to sea.

The sun was breaking through the waves by now, its golden embrace reaching deeper into the city behind us, but we stood there, hand in hand, until the boardwalk called forth the joggers, the strollers, the tourists, the swimmers, the cyclists, the tanners, and the city was awake. Then we turned and headed back to the car, our shoes still resting on the hood.

As we put our shoes back on, she finally broke the silence. "Maybe we should have freed him earlier." She smiled feebly.

I rolled down my dried jeans and stood up to look at her. "I would have missed his big, stupid eyes too much." She bit her lower lip and chuckled. "Well, hey," I smiled, "at least he finally found his way. Most of us don't even get that."

Then we jumped into the car, drove away from the ocean and back to our homes, our jobs, our families, our friends, our supermarkets, our gyms, our theaters, and, of course, the endless, endless, swimming.

Something Novel

There are wise men and there are dead men, and of these, he is neither.

His head swims with wine and the room sways to the heavy swings of the music, and oh! how the women do dance! The gaiety rings in chortling echoes, making light promises of how the night shall never end, like a page of history being written with a shriveling pen. But it does not concern him - tonight, as most nights, he is a star for the books, of the books - the novel of the century! newspapers proclaim, and such a phenomenal success! The top of charts, lists, guest lists, minds, everywhere and anywhere - they swear it: he lives, and how!

And now another lady adores him, embraces him, her slender arms arching ever so delicately around his neck; whiskey pours in to bring forth coquettish whispers; all around the room, they are whispering. "Oh, how mysterious..." "Such a charming man, and that wit of his!..." Charming, they decide, in an ineffable manner - much like how aeroplane bears an indescribable charisma while airplane does not. Charming, indeed, so that he soon finds her lips to be gentle and smooth, like a faint spring wind that hints of fragrant blooms. So very sweet, as she leads him up the stairs, even with a feverish shiver hiding under her polished legs, up into the bedroom as the door slowly clicks shut.

"I'll just be a minute, darling." Her smile is ever so sultry as she slides into the bathroom.

He seats himself on the bed and glances around the room. The walls are a weary pale yellow, as if jaded of its former glory, and are obviously painted over wallpaper that is beginning to peel - and just then, through the wine that swims so wildly in his head, he remembers, how once, he knew such a room, how he ate and slept alone in his fading apartment of mismatched furniture, how the refrigerator stank of mildew, and how the wallpaper had peeled and peeled. How he had been like a mannequin suspended in the emptiness that filled the void between the ocean and sky - neither swimming nor flying but ever so quiet, an unchanging speck that spun with the world around the sun.

And now, it seemed as if the world had stopped for him.

He stands up and walks over to the mirror that hangs crooked on the wall. Fifty-five, more dead than alive, and he sees the cold feet he once knew turn to crow's feet, hears the war stories he heard as a child turn to sensationalist stories of war he belches as a grown man. Fifty-five, and he is none the wiser, and all the closer to death. And for what?

He turns to leave, but just then, she slides the bathroom door open. He opens his mouth to speak, and hesitates. Gosh, she is sexy. Not beautiful, but still.

"What's wrong, honey? Don't you like it?"

"Oh no, it's beautiful," he lies, "just, um, just, why don't you turn off the lights and c'mere?" He puts on a devilish grin, a façade of seduction as medication for the tense disillusionment.

"Turn off the lights?" her face twists in disbelief, "turn off the lights? You don't like this." The last sentence hangs in the air, dripping of accusation.

He sits down on the bed. "No, it's not that." His voice drops an octave. He looks up at her, no longer smiling. "I just can't stand the color of this room."

She laughs and saunters over to the light switch. "Oh, honey, you're so funny." Flipping off the light switch, she slides into bed and the lovers become ever so quiet, another unchanging speck that spins with the world around the sun.

The Silent Conspiracy

"Subterfuge is afoot, my friends, and there is no one to stop it," he hissed, scanning his audience from the eyeholes of his mask. "No, my friends, you are..." His voice peaked at a high whisper and he drew his hands together. "...alone."

"Except..." He raised a single finger and rotated for all to observe, "except, you see, for meeeee."

The congregation stood in awe before him, silent, obedient. It was dark, night had fallen, and a wind stole in to swing wildly the dim chandeliers overhead. He spread his arms and turned to face the ceiling. He was wearing a cape, and it flapped and roared like the sail of an ancient pirate ship. "I...am...here."

"No!" he screamed, turning back to face the faithful, "no longer shall the people bequeath jurisdiction to the empire, no longer shall the people tolerate the rotting fruits of this injustice, no longer..."

A priest, dressed in a white robe, entered the hall. "...the king! Glory hallelujah, you are saved!"

"No! We are not saved!" He charged forward and seized the priest by the collar. "The revolution has begun, and in riots we shall take the streets! We shall overcome, we shall rise, even if damned we shall be!"

A shout suddenly arose nearby, and a stampede of footsteps echoed in the great hall. "There!" Still clutching the priest's collar, he turned to face the direction from which the noise came. "The army marches near! They have found us! It...is time." He flung the priest to the pews and turned to face the door. "The hour is at hand, my brothers. Rise! Rise!!"

The doors of the cathedral flung open and through the mist, a legion of soldiers charged forth. "The revolution is now!" he screamed, "the people shall overcome, the people shall rise!"

"There you are, wearing that mask again," the nurse scolded, catching him by the arm and removing his cardboard mask, "dammit, why you always gotta run away, huh? Coming to all these heaven-knows-where places in the middle of the night and making us all come look for you? Do you see what you've done? Look at how many nurses I had to bring with me. Look."

The homeless drug addicts of the alleyway gazed at the revolutionary through heavy, lifeless eyes. It was beginning to rain and the wind was picking up. A few blocks over, a police siren blared and was gone. A missionary was leaning against the dumpster, stunned.

"Come on now, let's go home," a male nurse sighed, taking the revolutionary by the other arm, "give you a nice bath, huh? You dirtied your nice pajamas, dancing around in this back alley."

He lowered his head in silence. Then, a slight grin crept across his face. The soldiers were going to bring him before the king, and there, there he would strike at the heart of the empire.

Dialogue with a Dancer

The room was dimly lit, and he soon saw that it was but a play of mirrors and the flicker of a single candle sitting on the floor. She stood in the center of the room, perfectly erect and still.

He quietly lifted his hat off and hesitated a moment before he emerged from the safety of the shadows.

"Hello." She was as beautiful as he remembered, the soft lips, the brown eyes that never stopped smiling, and now, now she was a ballerina.

"Hi." He rotated his hat in his hands and made a motion to slink back into the shadows, but stopped himself.

"I was just starting my routine." Her voice came out flat and even, but something shone behind it, like peonies, or rushing rivers.

"Well, um, don't let me stop you." He freed a little breath that he had been holding, like a sparrow he had been trying to cup in the palm of his hand. "I'll just, uh, stand here and watch." The edges of his mouth gently curled into a small, hopeful smile.

She reached down and graced her toes with the tips of her fingers, each twist of her muscles deliberately slow and measured so that it showed - he noticed, and a shiver raced up his back. Then holding serenity between her arms, she blossomed, her legs crossing, her arms arcing high, higher, slowly, slowly...a soft glow of sunlight seemed to escape the hold of her arms; there was a faint wind, something whispering, whispering voices that grew louder, passersby perhaps, he saw the outline of a horse-drawn carriage trotting past, and then the light adjusted and all at once he saw himself, a tender heart of seventeen, sauntering idly down the street, and she, too, was young again, her smile radiating against her dark hair, and they held hands. Upon the cobblestone bridge did they embrace, and he leaned forward to whisper in her ear a promise of forever.

Her arms gracefully parted the arc and floated down, and he blinked. It was such a long time ago; how strange that these forgotten memories came swimming back to him now. He silently resolved to watch her routine attentively and stop straying into the past. She turned, her left leg stretching back, her right leg bending, until she faced him, and her arm drifted, drifted down until it led from her face to his and he saw, in that instant, a blinding light, the light of a train cutting through the overcast, the train, as it thundered towards the station. Her arms continued to fall and he saw the waving arms, heard the hurried voices, the train was approaching! She suddenly lifted a foot and - sprang! Flying suitcases, loose papers raining from the heavens; the train had barely reached the station when the crowd flooded forth, swallowing everything into a mass of coats and hats determined to board the train, the last train; it was chaos, it was riot. The dust only settled as she landed her leap, and he saw himself, nineteen now, clamoring upon the railings of the caboose as the train began desperately chugging off, leaving in its wake a trail of chasing, crying people. He was going to be saved, but he was going, going...he looked back at the platform and saw her running, running after the train, as fast as her skinny legs would take her, but it wasn't fast enough, and she was growing smaller, smaller, further and further from his outstretched arm. He felt his eyes sting with loss, his mouth screaming something, nothings, into the dark, but she could not hear him.

She was facing him still, and he felt his knees trembling. With silent poise, she arched her neck to the side and drew her arms back together at the center of her chest. Then she swiveled her neck back to face him. He looked into her eyes and saw that they were ablaze, a furious, scorching intensity that crackled and singed. The fire was spreading, it was engulfing everything, the dull grey concrete buildings, the abandoned cars, the piles of scrap wood. He stumbled backwards and watched her limbs extend, the people running in terror, the hopelessness of it all. Her right foot spun on the floor and he heard the screams of the wounded, crying for their families, their friends, their lovers. Faster, faster, she spun, and he heard the women wailing, their eyes flooded with worry and despair, oh! the sadness, for their families, as they prayed by the flooded river of something dark, something putrid; the carcass of a dog, its white fur wet and sullied, drifting past, and then an infant, stark naked and limp, face down in the black river, and how the women cried! Faster, now, faster! she spun, and he could hear the wails of all the children, begging, pleading, the quiet sniffling of the boy waving his blood-soaked blanket in the alleyway hoping it might dry, that his lifeless mother might rise from the crimson asphalt and embrace him, the loud cries of the two little girls on the street corner, terrified and holding hands, tears streaming down their dirt-stained faces, one vomiting yellow all over her soiled pink dress and a soldier came up behind her with his revolver angled at the back of her little head and - bang!

His knees gave and he collapsed to the floor. Her pirouettes slowed and came to a halt. Then, with a smile, she reached down and extended her hand. With unsteady breaths, he reached up with a shaking hand, grasped her small, fragile fingers, and saw, once more, those brown eyes that never stopped smiling. He saw, now, her eyes, how they had been smiling that sunny day upon the bridge, how they smiled of love. How they had been smiling even as he left her at the train station, wide and filled with her faith in him. How they even managed to smile with hope in a war he had ran from, a war he left her in, a war he never knew.

And now, at twenty-eight, he looked into their hazel depths and saw that, after all these years, they smiled of forgiveness. Trembling, he rose to his feet, embraced her, and together they danced in silence as the candle flickered on.

The Shine of Rust

What a bizarre game - to throw friends off of moving platforms to the cushioned void below! Each movement of the platform smelled of the end, but he hung on, he endured - not that it mattered, for it was an amusement park, and they were all quite amused; jolly, he ventured, but the British were not to be stolen from that day. Two platforms over was a friend who could be knocked off, and he wasted no time, running, wrestling, it was too easy; his friend lifted up from the moving platform and plopped to the foam pads below. He glanced around for his next victim, his triumph, his pièce de résistance - what was this, cooking? And then he saw her. He leapt up the platforms like they were bleachers at a high school football game and with a rush, tackled her off the edge. His face inches from hers, she still smelled of lilacs in June and her eyes shone when she smiled like she did now. She leaned up and kissed him, just to the left of his mouth, and gently caressed, with gentle fingers and sparkling eyes, the lipstick print she left.

He ran off to another ride, and saw his best friend strapped tightly into a seat. Whatever it was, it hinted of excitement and he leapt into the empty seat beside his friend. Two seats over, they were gossiping, and he leaned forward to gossip as well, to feed off the feverish insanity that was the present. Then suddenly, the amusement park ride stopped jingling and he woke with a start, the visions of flashing lights and blaring sounds evaporating to the still morning light that stole in through his half-open curtains.

No, no, it was too early! There was more to be had! He rolled over and shut his eyes, trying, if only maybe, he could return to the amusement park.

Alas, the lawnmower was buzzing from the neighbor's side right through his window, and he grudgingly flung off the covers and stumbled over to cast the curtains aside. As he approached the bathroom, he thought he smelt lilacs and a smile ran across his face. Maybe...he ran into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. There was no lipstick. He reached up and gently felt the place where it was supposed to be, left of his mouth. He could almost feel the touch of her lips. Only two lights of the six above the mirror still shone, and cast light, they did, upon how he had aged.

He picked up his diary of dreams that he used to record every night's fantasy, but he didn't want to write about amusement parks, or rides, or platforms, or friends. He wanted to capture her fragrance, her sparkle..

With shaking fingers he uncapped the pen and wrote:

Oh, where are you now?

Sinking deeper into that loveless void that is beyond the end,

to borrow upon the faith of promises that have faded and yellowed, my darling?

Outside, the lawnmower continued humming under the morning sun, but inside, another light fizzled and burnt, leaving the last light alone to keep his darkness at bay.

Shangri-La is where the Soul is

The soaring arches and elegant bridges of Melbourne, I think it was, dissolved into reality and suddenly someone was pounding feverishly on my door.

"Wake up, dude! Let's go already!"

I glanced over at the silver retro wind-up clock on my nightstand. I love that clock. It was 6:40. In the morning. "Are you serious!?" I was going to choke someone.

"Yeah, dude, let's go, let's go, let's go!" The pounding continued while downstairs, someone else began banging things around - packing or something, who knows. I flung off the sheets and stumbled to the door.

"Alright, I'm up," I murmured as I unlocked the door. I have to keep it locked, or I would wake up to mountains of stolen roof tiles or a seagull flapping its wings frantically against the windows, crapping all over my stuff. Both have happened before, believe me. I hate my housemates.

I cracked the door open and a neon green towel flew in my face. "Woohoo! He's awake! Let's go!" He charged down the stairs and I stood there in my boxers, dumbfounded and holding the blinding towel, feeling my hate slowly subsiding. I remembered a Calvin and Hobbes strip where Calvin realized, "It's hard to be mad at someone who misses you while you're asleep," and I closed the door to change.

There was no breakfast downstairs, just a couple of dirty dishes. I was rummaging in the pantry when they began screaming and honking outside. I could hear every word through the paper-thin walls. "Dude! Come on!"

"Is he still asleep?"

"Time's a-wastin', man, let's go!"

I grabbed a few slices of sourdough and stumbled out our of cozy yellow beach house, trying to button my shirt with one hand. There were seven of us, and four of them had already piled into the bright blue pickup. "Where's my board?"

"Finally!" The pickup rumbled off.

"What?" someone screamed above the noise of the engine.

"Where's my board?" I asked again, a little louder.

"It's in her truck," she yelled back, smiling, "they're stealing it."

"Oh no they're not." I ran into the passenger seat of our bright purple SUV, its roof decorated with one white and one yellow surf board. She slid into the driver's seat and we backed out from our driveway.

"Wait, where's..."

"Oh, he's asleep in the backseat."

I looked over my shoulder, and sure enough, six feet of half-naked flesh was sprawled across the black leather. "Aw man, the leather's gonna be all sweaty..."

"Don't tell me that." She made a face and we rocketed forth into the morning. I rummaged through the CDs and finally decided on Fountains of Wayne.

Plane crash, crashin' on my TV,

but it could've been you, it could've been me.

We'll never live forever, but baby, things could be worse...

'Cause when we get together we are one with the uni-verse

The morning surf was amazing - no, perfect - as we rolled off the highway to our favorite surf spot. The other guys were already there, paddling their way out to paradise. My surfboard sat alone in the back of the pickup, its orange surface basking in the morning light. I turned around. "Get up, man."

"Wha..?"

"We're here!" I jumped out of the SUV and ran to my board. The sun was just beginning its daily rounds and there was just a faint hint of a wind. There were no buildings, no traffic, just sand and water as far as the eye could see, and a few scattered palm trees. I was starting to feel thankful that I was forced awake at such an unnatural hour - or maybe it was too natural of an hour. But it was a Saturday, too.

The blissful surf crashed forth in waves of rapid succession, like the creations of an assembly line man could never fathom, let alone replicate. I'd even venture to say that being spit out of the salty mist was the greatest honor I'd received in my post-college years.

A few hours later, cars began passing by on the highway above, and I decided to retreat to the beach so I could ransack the coolers. I was living off a few slices of sourdough, after all. The sand was empty, save a few towels my friends had strewn in their ever-reckless or carefree, whatever you want to call it, manner. Usually there would be other surfers, but today was an exception. They didn't know what they were missing.

I grabbed a bottle of water and an apple from the cooler and sat myself in the sand. I could see the six bobbing specks scattered out at sea. One of them was slowly heading back to shore. Just then, I heard a car pull into the gravel lot behind me, and I turned around just in time to see a girl leap out of the car and sprint towards the water, fully-clothed in jeans and a yellow t-shirt. She came to an abrupt stop at the waterline, her arms raised as if to embrace the wide, wide world. Nothing happened. Her arms fell to her sides.

I rose from the sand and walked over. "Hey."

She turned to look at me. Her face was plain, and she wore a tired look, as if she had been driving all night. Still, there was something...sparkling about her. "Isn't this supposed to be, you know, amazing? Finding the ocean? I mean, aren't I supposed to find myself here, or nirvana, or something?"

I froze. "Umm...well..." I ran over her barrage of questions in my mind. "Isn't it?" I finally decided, "it's pretty nirvana to me."

Her eyes summed me up quickly, and I could feel the judgement hanging overhead, like one of those giant thought bubbles. Cocky, lazy surfer...dude. "Never mind," she sighed, and turned back up the beach. For a second, I felt ridiculous with my brown stone necklace and bright hibiscus-plastered surf trunks.

"Hey now," I said, chasing after her, "wait a second." She stopped and turned to face me. "You know," I started. I wanted to tell her about the awesome surf, or the mind-blowing fish taco stand down the road that couldn't possibly disappoint anybody, or how my friends had once captured a seagull and released it in my room so everything was covered in bird crap and feathers, but I stopped. If she didn't like the ocean, then seagulls and fish tacos would probably just disappoint her more. I had happened to plant my surfboard near where I stood, and I leaned against it for support. "You know," I tried again, "not everybody can subscribe to this Pacific Ocean brand of nirvana." Wow! I thought. That was the smartest thing I've said all week!

She mustered a small smile. "I know," she whispered, "I just heard, you know, I thought..." Her voice trailed off and she reached out to touch my surfboard. "I've been driving all over the country," she started again, "I thought if I ever managed to find the ocean, I'd find myself."

"I mean, the ocean's awesome, but I don't know about performing miracles."

Her fingers slowly scanned the board, over the quotes and quips and inside jokes my housemates had written all over with permanent marker. Then suddenly, she stopped and looked up at me. "Which way to paradise?"

I was dumbfounded, for the second time that morning, and began lifting a finger to point at the ocean.

"No, Wisconsin, I mean Wisconsin." She laughed.

Wisconsin!? What was this girl thinking? I felt my eyebrows raising and I slowly pointed towards the freeway. "Take this road down a few miles and you'll find a way onto the interstate that goes East. You're going to have to ask someone else after that, though..."

She sprinted off to her car and I walked up to the edge of the parking lot to watch this crazy girl go. As she turned in the direction I had pointed, she rolled down the window. "Thank you!" She yelled. Then, as her car merged back onto the road, I noticed her license plate. Wisconsin. I chuckled.

When I turned back to the beach, there were only five specks out at sea. My friend that had driven me that morning was propping her surfboard up beside mine. "Who was that?" she asked.

"Some crazy girl looking for paradise."

"Did she find it?" She squinted in the bright sunlight.

"Apparently, it's in Wisconsin."

She laughed. "Really?"

I nodded. "Mmhmm. And you helped her find it too." I led her to my surfboard and pointed to where the crazy girl's fingers had stopped tracing. "Didn't you write that?"

She crouched down to touch the pink heart, surrounded by the words home is where the heart is. "Yeah, huh, I did." She looked up at me, her eyes full of realization and wonderment.

"I have a question," I said, suddenly realizing something, "when you say home is where the heart is, are you talking about where the home is, or where the heart is?"

She stood up and smiled. "It doesn't matter. They're the same thing."

Then she led me back down to the beach and we sat side by side, at home in paradise.

A Trail of Crumbs

She woke up and discovered, to her dismay, that she had finally developed feelings for him. Gently reaching across the sheets, she brushed her fingers through his dark hair and chuckled at the meaningful predicament that had arisen from all the meaningless nights.

He shifted and opened his eyes halfway.

"Hi," she whispered, propping herself up, "did I wake you?"

"No," he murmured, "I was just thinking about something."

"Oooh...what's that?" She flopped down on the pillow and faced him.

"When I was a kid, my mom would always put this beautiful, porcelain cookie jar full of chocolate-chip cookies high up on a ledge where I couldn't get it." He waved his right hand at an invisible jar on the ceiling. "Then there would be this other equally beautiful porcelain jar on the counter, within my reach - only there were oatmeal cookies inside." He turned to face her. "I could always get the jar of oatmeal cookies, but that wasn't what I truly wanted." A small breath of disappointment escaped from his nostrils. In a small voice, he added, "I wanted the jar of chocolate chip."

She looked him in the eyes, only to discover he was looking past her. Although she felt a slight pang in the back of her throat, she mustered a smile. "Baby," she cooed, thinking about her predicament, "am I your cookie jar?"

His eyes returned to meet hers. Something ran across their dark brown pupils, but he smiled. "You're a beautiful cookie jar." Without another word, he tossed the sheets aside and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Her arm reached down and slowly pulled the covers over her naked shoulders. She had thought about having oatmeal for breakfast, but she didn't feel very hungry anymore.

The Last Note

It was twenty-one in the night when the lights came out to murder the stars.

The windows had frosted over from the contrast of the world outside radiating its warm wishes and the cold muscles inside running slow veins, and the soundboard had been tuned to amplify the constant beeping against the ambient backdrop that was, otherwise, life.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Rain charmed the jaded taxi and elevated the desperate embrace. Quiet avenues hushed the rustling of the branches lest the secrets were blown to the wind.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Jasmine wafted over hills that sprung to battle the railroad.

Beep. Beep.

But always - always there was swing! Oh it tore a fierce hole in the wall and the floorboards were alive! The walls trembled, the windows shook, the piano, the piano! How it roared and cried its winking song beneath the shrilling bottles! Hats had flown, dear mercy, hats had flown! Where should ever -

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep

In the darkness of the great hall, the last burning bulb on the swinging chandelier fizzled and, with little fanfare, popped and shattered, its shards forming the clement drizzle into forever.

Dearest,

Remember when we were young? When blue fireworks blossomed on pink skies that smelled of orchids and teas from farthest India? Remember when purple handprints dotted the sidewalk of swirling cotton candy that crunched and sploofed beneath our bare feet? Remember when the elephants of Jupiter paraded through the orange tunnel we made in the jungle?

You don't; you're hundreds of miles away. You take a photo album off the shelf, blow the dust off, and don't notice how the specks float like the seeds of a dandelion. You flip open the cover and see smiling mouths, green grass, blue skies, a yellow kite floating above it all.

Somewhere, between flying off the swings into the clouds and staying in the office all night to finish the Milan project, the elephants of Jupiter lost their way.

But I'm still here, and I will wait for you until you come home.

Secrets of the Wind

The beach was silent as the little boy slowly created a trail of footprints towards the ship.

It was a large ship, wrecked upon the rocks but valiantly pointing northward nonetheless. The masts stood tall, pointing towards the sun and billowing even where there were no sails.

The little boy scampered upon a large, barnacle-covered rock and reached out to touch the salt-beaten wood. It was cool, soothing, and whispered of adventures and delights untold.

Jumping from splintered plank to plank, the little boy eventually made his way on deck, whereupon he proceeded to take his post at the bow. There, he pointed a finger out forth towards the ocean.

The wind blew, and somewhere a harmonica began its soothing song. He closed his eyes and listened with all his might, and almost thought he heard a mermaid sing of hidden treasures.

Outside the Ring

Whap!

Left hook, upper cut, whap! Whap! Whap, whap! The red punching bag swayed wildly as he delivered blow after blow. Sweat stung his eyes and its repulsive taste seeped into his mouth, but that was nothing new.

"Alright, that's enough, you've been going at it for two hours now. Gotta rest up!"

He lowered his arms and absent-mindedly pushed away the punching bag as it came swinging back towards him. Grabbing the water bottle, he silently reminded himself: two days until fight night.

The music thundered and the lights swung as he walked into the stadium. The walls were shaking, the crowd was on their feet, they were chanting, chanting, but he had to tune it all out, concentrate, focus, concentrate...

He stood up from his corner and cracked his neck. His opponent was a beast of a man, an archetypical monster. But he wasn't afraid; he had studied his opponent for hours, days, weeks; he had jabbed and cut his way through months, seasons, years; he was a monster himself. Sneering, he clapped his gloves together and strode towards the center.

Third round, and he felt the nerves in his arms vibrating gently. Tired? Never. From beneath a dripping brow he eyed his opponent, readying a punch, looking out for an attack, stepping...and then it came. He saw the left glove coming down from the top, and he lifted his right arm to stop it. He blinked away the sweat and suddenly, a red train came barreling right at his eyes and - ! It was over. He hardly felt anything as his legs slowly gave way, his head fell backwards, his arms came down...

He lay, gasping, on the floor. The paparazzi flashes did the blinking for him, and he felt something stinging his eyes. Must be sweat. Something repulsive seeped past his mouthguard. Must be sweat. He licked his mouthguard. No. It was blood, it was blood and his eyes stung with tears, it was blood and tears, and he was seven.

"Henry! Stop hitting him! Please! Honey, Henry, please! He's your son!" His mother's shrill voice rang in the background like that of an announcer shouting numbers. His father towered over him, belt in hand.

No, father. It was not over. No more, no longer. This was what he had been fighting for twenty-some years. He bit down on his mouthguard, slowly steadied himself, and stood up straight to face his opponent.

Background Noise

All the lights were off in his studio apartment, and his face was pressed to the TV. The picture flickered and distorted the colors as he paused the VCR and began rewinding. 

The colors danced schizophrenically in his face, lips moved at speeds beyond comprehension, until, finally, he lifted his finger.

"...and little brother has lost his first tooth! Look!" His mother, bouncing his little brother on her knee, held up the lost tooth to the camera. Behind her stood his father, a wide grin stretched across his face.

Little brother yawned and his parents laughed. "So tired, huh?" His mother beamed.

With wide eyes, his father leaned towards the camera. "We are going to see the dragon boat race tomorrow. Little brother will be so excited! And then..."

He stood up from his hard, wooden chair and let the tape play on. With slow, small steps, he made his way to his bed, where he lay down and pulled the cold, cotton blanket over his shoulders. "Are you eating well? Mommy worries you don't eat enough."

His back to the TV, he looked out his window at the buildings, the homes, the lives beneath the dazzling skyline - and he felt something sink. Then it was gone, and he closed his eyes as the tape flickered and the familiar voices talked on into the night.

The Ethereal Suspension Between Past and Present

He sits on the edge of his stool, leans against the greasy counter, and munches on a fat, cold, soggy french fry. Needs more salt. Reaching his right arm across the counter, he captures the shaker and proceeds to douse his fries in a generous drizzle. It is a little past two in the morning and the diner is deserted except for a tired-looking waitress and, huddling in a corner booth, some guy that looks like a bum.

He knows that outside the diner is a phone booth, and that he should be in it. But it smells of rain in the cold world, and, out of dread, he convinces himself that he prefers the stench of cooking oil and hopelessness.

The plate is empty. He removes a few bills from his wallet and leaves them lying on the counter. It is time.

He pushes the door open and all at once it sinks into him, the smell of the rain and the sad wailing of the brick tenements. The phone booth is across the street, its lights buzzing inconsistently in the dark isolation. With a foot in the gutter, he glances down the street and crosses.

It smells of sweat in the phone booth, and he swings the glass door shut behind him. With shaking fingers, he lifts the phone and he hears the dial tone. But, but, there is something. Somewhere in the silent distance, he hears violins singing softly, and, as he reaches out to press the metal numbers, the warm bark of a tree greets him. He looks upward and finds the light flickering, no, filtering in through the treetops. The leaves rustle beneath his feet as he peeks out from behind the trunk of the giant tree.

She is standing in a pool of sunlight, her white dress glowing like a candle in the snow, and the violins soar. She giggles and runs, and he finds himself laughing and gives chase through the maze of weather-beaten trunks and leaves. Faster and faster now, she looks back and laughs as he reaches out to scoop her into his arms...

"Hello?"

He stares, dumbfounded, at the receiver.

"Hello?"

Then he blinks and suddenly remembers where he is.

"Hey, it's me. Don't hang up. Look, I know what..."

"No. No. I've told you, stop calling me. It's over."

There is a click, and he finds himself listening to the dial tone once more.

"If you would like to make another call, please deposit twenty-five cents."

He hangs up the receiver and notices the various ads rustling beneath his feet. With a sigh, he seats himself on the floor of the phone booth. Inside the phone booth, it reeks of sweat still, but he prefers this to the cold world, where it smells of rain and the forest.

the choices we make paths we take smiles we fake lives we forsake

He was wearing his best flannel shirt, yea, the one that smelled of the night, and had Kerouac folded in a circle in the back pocket of his jeans. Drank wine from the bottles with the corks pushed in and splashed paint on canvases in his threadbare studio apartment in Hell's Kitchen. One mattress, uncovered, and scribbled rubbish poetry on his hands with ballpoint pens and the ink leaked and ran. There was jazz and indie and electronic and he danced.

He ventured to-day to the other side of town upon the subway to find nirvana among concrete and steel. Glass blur blur people and he looked up and spun to make the buildings fly. His heart raced the beats in his giant headphones, thump thump faster faster and such was the rhythm of the city. Hey, DJ mixed it up to the crosswalk blocks and the flashing orange hand high fiving the billboard where the roads divide and he couldn't take either because neither was the one less traveled so he couldn't make a difference. There were no trees.

Then he saw her walking out of the building in her fabulous checkered grey and white peacoat, sleek black boots, large leather purse, and beautiful face. He stopped and lowered his giant headphones and the DJ was gone. She lifted a pretty little hand and a limousine sailed in to the curb. As she reached for the door she saw him, and for an instant, she stopped, not because there was this out-of-place bohemian staring mouth slightly agape, but because he was looking at her. Then the sun snapped back into its journey across the sky and she slid into the limo, camouflaging into the afternoon traffic.

Inside the limo, she fingered the tiny hole in her ear lobe that was now empty. She turned around in her seat and looked out the back window at him, standing there among the blur of suits and yellow taxis and the curb turned a wild purple river beneath the orange glint of the glass that was the blinding smile of a city. Dropped something a long time ago like a cork in a wine bottle that could not be fished out again but there was one more drop and she had tasted it and remembered but now the bottle was lost and gathering dust in a back alley dumpster. Hey, the black leather seat would forever nary have cigarette burns and little love tears.

On the sidewalk, he watched the shipment of cars bolt forth at the switch of the colored light and looked down at his hand. He reached out and fingered his class ring from the prestigious prep school and knew it was just a piece of cold, hard metal that he could not melt and weld once more. He pulled his headphones back on and the music came alive once more to dance with the mannequins in the display case for the lifeless things that ran about in front with their suits and briefcases. Hey, the sidewalk lines would always move never stop stop go go.

She turned around and sat still for an instant. Then she rummaged in her purse for her cell phone. "Linda? We need to work on the Milan proposal. And how are we doing on the deadline for the Franco project?"

He turned around and stood still for an instant. Then he slid into the groove that the sidewalk had etched for the river to flow into the subway station where the graffitied train rumbled alive and still whispered quietly of paint-stained walls.

The Butterflies of Venus

He didn't want to return to his apartment, his dark, lonely apartment, so he walked.

It was two in the morning, and he was dressed in a sleek, black suit with wrinkles at the elbows and a bright purple tie. The air was clear, cool and smelled of rain.

He walked to the waterfront and leaned against the banister, looking out into the black emptiness of the night ocean. Far in the distance was a large liner, its charming red lights blinking in silence. Behind him was a city of lights, giggles, tears, and broken wine bottles.

He looked down at his wrists and fingered his cufflinks. Tomorrow was his twenty-second birthday, and he was scared. Scared of the stack of empty photo albums, scared of returning home and seeing how his parents had aged, scared of the dark, lonely apartment. He slowly undid his hundred-and-eighty dollar cufflinks, his twenty-two years of accomplishment, and held them in the palm of his hand.

Somewhere behind him in the city of lights, giggles, tears, and broken wine bottles, a homeless man began playing a gentle song on an acoustic guitar.

He studied the two sparkling pieces of metal in his hand, how the moonlight glinted and enchanted and danced. Then, as the ocean quietly lapped against the pier, he flung his cufflinks at the blinking, charming red lights in the dark watery emptiness.

He walked home, the guitar playing to him all the while. He climbed up the steps to his duplex and stuck his key into the door, stepped in, and turned on the light in a city of millions and millions of lights, giggles, tears, and broken wine bottles.