Slight Left

     Downtown was the location but specifically where he had no idea. This wasn't his first trip to the Box but there was a bag over his head last time and the stress of death in mind. He couldn't go out at night since the abduction and became immediately suspicious of any vans as they passed him by on the street. When they dropped him off under a bridge near Acton he sat there four hours before taking off the bag. The thought of leaving home again and the guise of security was intolerable now but here he was two days later and determined to return. He knew what to do when he arrived but he would have to find it first. 

    Exiting the freeway he remembered them turning right and following the sound of traffic through a tunnel. He drove through every tunnel he saw but it was a blur from there so when he found it he was unaware and drove right by. He pulled over on Broadway and without regard for meters or red curbs would ask passers-by "where can I find the Box?". He heard them refer to the place this way many times though they never used anyone's names. Most of the locals ignored him or we're puzzled by the question. Some played along and gave false directions, perhaps to their place of business and others just begged for change. 

   Finally in a group, one young but formidable man stepped forward. He came right up to the passenger window and asked threateningly about his business there. Knowing little about the men who took him he was sure he couldn't pass for one of them. For all he knew, this was the gang that had taken him and held him in the dark for six days. He also had little confidence in his ability to smooth talk this gentleman. What he had now was nothing to lose and courage to tell the truth. He leaned over to speak to the young man in his window and told him this: "I am Jamal Sharif, I came here six months ago with my sister.  We came to be safe. Men took us and beat us. They brought us to the Box. I ran away but they still have her. I will find her. I will do whatever it takes. I will kill anyone who tries to stop me. I hope for your sake you will help me."

  The young man paused for a moment and looked around before responding. He pointed down the road and told Jamal to take a slight left beyond a red brick building and then he said, "I am Julio Jimenez. Find your sister and kill every one of those mother fuckers. Tell them I sent you." He stepped back from the car and joined his brood. 

    The directions brought Jamal to a place he'd past three times that day. The name brought him to his sister and the threat brought the peace he'd spent a decade to find. 

Yo Melvin

Yo Melvin,

Yeah that's right, dude, some people might call you a journal but I just named you Melvin. Please take a moment to dismiss all possibilities that I'll ever regard you as Dear, and you're on crack if you think the word diary will ever appear again on these pages. Fuck that, Melvin, you are Melvin, Yo Melvin.

I have to tell you, Melvin, I'm very new to this. And frankly, I think I've already screwed the whole thing up because I have never heard of anyone starting one of these things with a prologue. And before you start tweaking out, Melvin, that asterisk is not a typo, there are just some things in life that I'm not sure about and I've recently discovered the asterisk as a temporary fix. You know, something to throw down there to cover my ass while I continue looking for some answers. Not that you should be judging me, Melvin. Don't forget that you have no say. You could be something fruity like Jinky tomorrow if you don't play your cards right. So please, I am begging you, do not stray from the point of all this. I feel like I have humored you enough, and if you don't mind I will now be getting on with my life. You are more than welcome to stay, just try not to be a fucking distraction, okay Melvin?

Anyways, I just feel weird jumping right into a single day. I’ve already made the mistake of watching Pirates of the Caribbean 3 without seeing the second one, and I vowed never to let that sort of thing happen again on my watch to myself or anyone; this even includes questionable individuals like yourself. I can sense already that you’re a real nosy fuck, Melvin, so I’ll do my best to stick to the program set forth today, and you’ll know every little moment of this “whole life that I have ahead of myself.” You might even be exposed to a healthy chunk of my afterlife in the event that my ghost remains literary. But nonetheless, I have no choice but to catch you up to speed at least a little bit on the past twenty eight and a half years of my life. We’ll rush through the necessary details, and if you’re lucky I’ll fill you in on the minutiae as the pages turn. 

Alright that's enough. Get some sleep, Melvin.

Gold

Vibrating light cast through scintillating slats in the football-field-sized skylight decorated the ballroom with somersaulting explosions of color.  At the punch table, a mime broke his vows and laughed at a joke, told by a cowheaded man in a paisley tux.  Two penguins sipped non-alcoholic margaritas through a bendy straw.

It was exactly the type of party that Flat Eddie "Thatch" Burrello would throw - all absurdity and no substance.  This was the type of gala that only the richest of the rich could afford to throw, in order to impress the richer of the richest.

I sat there, in my calloused chair of golden leaf, shrunk to the size of a pea.  To say that Flat Eddie had invited me here would be a misrepresentation.  What had actually happened was that two plaid-suited juggernauts had showed up at my apartment door at half past three with a rented tuxedo, two sizes too small.

"They say you're one of the hottest artists in New York City," the heavier-set of the two bellowed.

"Who is they?"

He didn't respond, but his partner thrust the tuxedo into my hands.  "They do say that."

The first gorilla leered at me.  "Flat Eddie is having a party tonight" (no explanation about who Flat Eddie was).  "A couple of big art investors are coming.  You're to put this on and be there at 8:05 with three of your best works."

I told them the tuxedo was too small, that the pants would barely cover my skinny ankles.

The second man waved his hand dismissively as the muscular duo lumbered back out into the hall.  "Just don't sit down.  No one will be able to tell."

Well, I was sitting, now, in a glass ballroom of madness and debauchery, a famous failure.

A few months prior, I had spilled a can of acrylic paint across a poorly rendered landscape I had conjured up for my community college art class.  Being on a deadline, I had submitted the piece, which, I suppose, had caught my well-connected professor's eye.  The next thing I knew, my splattery neo-masterpiece was showing up in everything from the New York Post to the front page of Gawker.com.  At once, I was the creator of a metaphor for the disrespect technology had for tradition and for the eventual death of Judeo-Christian values.  I was quoted without being interviewed and my artwork analyzed without approaching the artist.

Now, here I was, at a bacchanalian banquet, shrinking into my gold chair, as suited investors admired two landscapes and a still life, all crudely drawn in improper perspective with some secondhand pastels.

They say lightning doesn't strike twice, but, then again, they had also apparently proclaimed me one of New York City's rising art stars.  My hand gripped the can of gooey green acrylic paint that I had brought with me.  The lid sat ajar.  I rose, hoisted the can over my head, and sprinted towards my paintings.  This is a masterpiece.

Son of a Bench

Christopher Brentley (age 37), in his charcoal-colored suit, took a seat at an empty bench beneath the atrium of a suspiciously quiet bakery. As he gently lay his suitcase down on the empty spot to his right, he noticed for the first time that one of the latches was broken (though the hook was still secure enough to keep it from popping open). After despondently attempting to mend the broken latch through brute force, Christopher immediately likened himself to a young boy attempting to fit a tubular block through a star-shaped hole, for, despite knowing that this would yield no success, he vented his frustrations by inflicting wrath upon inanimate objects.

This strangely triggered a sequence of seemingly arbitrary memories. Reminiscences these were not:

Age 8,

MOTHER:
“Honey, please swallow this. You won't get any better without it.”

Age 13,

TEACHER:
“If you don't score a 70% or higher on this exam, we can't let you participate in the Yellowstone trip.”

Age 34,

(EX-)WIFE:
“Of all the things you could have possibly done to destroy this...What are you, a child?!”

___________________________

Perhaps it's worth mentioning that Christopher's suit was stolen from a dumpster 8 hours prior, and it had 4 obvious tears: one in the left shoulder, two in the back, and one through the right pocket's bottom.

Mr. Brentley made a very conscious decision to ignore the thrift store employee's warnings as he tossed the (now acquired) mangled attire into a dumpster.

The contents of Christopher's badly scuffed burgundy suitcase were several dozen bundles of play-money. He frivolously tossed the suitcase off the bench (worthless green papers dispersing in the wind), and after a moment's reflection, he sorely lay down upon the bench (/his bed).

Common logic won't necessarily let us tie Christopher's' current failures to a simple phrase inciting a provocation of disobedience 29 years earlier, but that doesn't stop Chris himself from doing so.

--(Who cares if it was just medicine?)--

Age 38:

(please happen)

Adirondacks

Water gurgling along, the wind whispering through tall hemlock pines, swaying the giants back and forth as they creak and dance in the moonlit night. A low hanging fog huddles over the swift moving water entangling her frame like smoky fingers. She sits upon the granite rocks within the narrow mountain stream with her dark brown hair secured by a green bandana, it was one of her favorite accessories because it had belonged to her Papa. He had used it to wipe the sweat of his brow while working the land of his cow farm in upstate Vermont. Her eyes sparkled as the moon shone off her smooth tan face. She tilted her head upward and he could see her smile at him.

Then a bright flash of light…

The sun flaring into his eyesight. He looked back up, using his hands to shade his eyes, there was no one on the granite rocks.

He had come here 2 years ago with Kalen and they had camped out on this mountain stream, hiked the summit of several High Peaks and enjoyed the enchantment of the Adirondack wilderness. Life was joyous then, no concern about the next day, just enjoying each moment.

The stream bed was all dried up now, choked with dried leaves and strewn with the shattered skeletons of the giant hemlocks. The sun beat down on the granite stones now with no shade from its glaring stare. The man hadn’t seen water in over 5 days and he had drunk the last of his supply two evenings prior. The desire for thirst was heavy upon him but the sense of loss was even greater.

Kalen had been there for a moment; he could have walked across the water and reached out and touched her. Maybe hallucinations were setting in now. The man stumbled up the rocky trail until he found refuge behind a massive limestone speckled boulder. He found a comfortable spot on a bed shaped polished rock and lay upon its cool surface. He’d wait until the afternoon heat waned and then continue the search for water.

Fire hurtling across the night sky, smoke trailing its rapid trajectory, followed by an atomic explosion, knocking one back tens of yards with a sonic boom so large that all you heard was deafening silence. There was no time to react. There was no time to say goodbye. Time was gone…

Startled awake with his coughing, the ravine was filled with thick grey smoke. He could feel the heat blazing from behind, quickly moving up the stream bed feeding off the littered path of dead trees. The man began scrambling over the rocks hoping to out run the blaze but he wasn’t sure he’d be so fortunate this time.

To Be Continued…

The Maze

Patrick awoke in the dark. A creaky melody sounded from the depths, like the merry-go-round in a carnival of yesteryear. He had no recollection of how he got here. Suddenly, wall-mounted lights flickered on, as if he were in a theater, only he was the subject, not the spectator, of a cheesy horror flick.

The lights revealed that he was in a hallway that extended in both directions. He decided to follow the lit path. As he walked, he noticed it getting slightly darker. He looked back from where he started; the wall lights had turned off as he past them. He took a careful step forward, staring at the next light as it extinguished. 

Patrick patted his pocket; his phone was gone. There was, however, a slip of paper that read, "Turn off the lights before you leave."

There was a scream from around the corner. Or was it a draft? 

Now behind him: another scream. Wheeling around, Patrick saw it: flesh like a corpse, only partially transparent- and racing toward him. Patrick bolted in the opposite direction, only to see a second visage, this one seemingly enflamed. Somehow, he noticed the hallway extended to his left, where he instinctively ran. The lights clicked off as he ran, and the two specters started to gain on him. 

He turned a blind corner and discovered a large blue screen. Heart racing and head muddled, he just stared at it. The shriek of his pursuers startled him, and his hand slammed against the screen just as they stretched out-

The shriek changed to agony, and they shriveled to the floor, electricity pulsing through their bodies until they popped into two blue mists.

“This is unreal,” gasped Patrick. Another scream from somewhere in the building. He had to get out.

He quickly made his way through the hallways, never finding anything resembling a door. The halls got progressively darker. Twice, he caught sight of a red glow, but ducked into a separate passage to evade it. 

It was now pitch dark, or close to it. Somewhere, there had to be a light still on. Either that, or he was on some infrared camera as some serial killer munched on popcorn. 

Keeping his right hand on the wall, he waded through the darkness. And then he started to see the hallway, growing redder. The scream behind him was all he needed to quicken his pace. 

Left turn- no lights.

Quick right- no lights.

Another right- a faint blue glow around the next corner! If it was one of those electroshock things, maybe he’d be alive a few more minutes. 

Patrick broke into a sprint. The red phantom was getting closer. He’d hit the corner in 3, 2, 1...

The glow came from an icy figure, dripping with dark blue liquid. Patrick ducked under its skeletal claw, only to fall into the grip of the red monster. Lifeless, he fell to the floor.

Game over.

The Roaring of the Engines

            He shot across the night sky as he accelerated. Taking a corner, (perhaps a bit too fast) he routed all of his reserve power into the main thruster. “Crap!” The thermal coupler failed and now he was overheating. Of course he new he had no business being surprised. That coupler wasn’t even built for racing, let alone handling that amount of energy in the engine. Thinking fast, he disengaged the secondary coupler and allowed the engine to engage its failsafe and shut down. As the roaring of the jet turbines stopped he started gliding lower and lower. He quickly reengaged the engine and, had it worked? Yes! Yes it had! the both couplers were back online. But now he was behind Jorinn and he new that he might have lost the race altogether by letting that happen. Jorinn was the top jet-bike racer not only on his home world, but also in the entire league. He cursed under his breath, (not that he could’ve heard himself over the engine anyway) now a racer that he didn’t recognize was gaining on him. He took a risky move and went full throttle. A burst of speed, then he was neck and neck with Jorinn. He said a silent prayer of thanksgiving that his bold acceleration hadn’t blown up the engine. Suddenly Jorrin maneuvered across the horizon to the left and released a spray of  aerosol. Then, his monitor went black, his goggles with his head’s up display was gone too. He was now flying by his naked eye, an almost impossible task. He had heard of this gas before. It wasn’t gas, really, it was a substance comprised of microscopic electronic leeches. Robots that sucked all the power out of anything they landed on. He wasn’t as preoccupied with winning anymore as he was just staying alive. All his onboard computer systems were gone as well which meant that he had no way of seeing how his bike was holding up to all the power surges that he had been putting on her. He had his basic jet systems but that was all. Then, the moment he had been waiting for arrived. His onboard systems rebooted and he was back in the race and still in second since the others had slowed down as well (the only good thing about leeches was that they effected everyone who fell into the trap). With Jorinn so far ahead he decided to go big. He dumped ALL power that wasn’t absolutely necessary into his engine and gunned it. This was it, the final stretch. There was Jorinn, ahead of him. He saw the lights of the stadium, so bright he may not need his screens. He decided to risk it. He rerouted his onboard computer display and screen power to the engine. A burst of speed. And then: A photo finish. “Curses!” He had it! He hoped that the race that he had just put everything into hadn’t been wasted. He hoped the cameras saw him win.

I Have No Idea, but Helena Does!

      At that moment Helena realized she could do anything she wanted. Her only adversary was time. Time and all the rules of physics and whatnot. Even those might have some leeway, if looked into. The question was now, of all the things in the world to do, what would she choose.

     Her first thought was to name herself as ruler of a new township. New Thebes had a certain ring to it. Secondly, a darker thought emerged. She could do a take on the early stages of the film Fight Club, and go to therapist after therapist lying about her life. What jolly fun could be had making up devastating after devastating backstory?! Helena would never know. She ruled against it.

     Next up Helena pondered on priests. They're interesting folk, right? Choosing God over women, that's gotta put a man in a strange place. Maybe she'd comb the world over for an honest priest that could really tell her why he does what he does. What with all the hoopla these days over resigning popes and molestation scandals, that sordid ground seemed a bit fragile, so again Helena turned her thoughts elsewhere.

     Then I thought,' Helena thought, 'I could spark a war between alcoholics and chain smokers, but what fun is in that? Everybody dies one way or another. Why be judgmental for someone who picks their poison?'  Helena really did have these thoughts. Promise.

     Finally, Helena landed on snaping duck necks. She knew it wasn't the best idea she'd ever had, but she was getting tired of thinking. 'I was getting tired of thinking,' Helena recalled.

     This is where I intervened. I happened to be walking my dog that day, and I see this obese woman nearly drowning herself trying to get at some little ducklings. They were quite little fellas. Now, of course, Helena had no real chance of getting ahold of those mallards, because she was a slow, lumbering landlubber of a woman. These ducklings had already learned the ways of the world in their short lives, and staying alive was something each of those little critters was keen to do. And do well.

     I asked Helena if she needed any help. Helena thought no, then said, “No.” Then I invited her over for some tea (I’m a writer, you see, so we like to drink tea or brandy – I’m the tea type, so that tells you the type of writer I am… aka, not the any good at it type). I’m starting to think that Helena might be a good subject to write about, so I ask her why she was out trying to string little avian necks. She says, “Of all the thoughts I had today…” She pauses to take a swig of tea, “That one seemed like the best.” I asked her why she thought she had to think to do something today at all.
     She answered, “Well, I suddenly realized I could do anything I wanted.”