February 6 - Conservation

My love for you is conserved
       - like angular momentum or charge -
So that when you tell me
       - I love you -
I return the favor

But I do not give you any more of that
       - though I want to -
Because I was told once not to give my heart too far to anyone

So I keep some to myself
And watch you slip away

February 5 - she hands me a flower

She hands me a flower.  A bunch of hydrangeas.  And she wants nothing. 

“Here you go sir.  Have a nice day!”

I walk on down the street.  She dives behind some boxes in an alleyway, giggling.  The vast, vulgar architecture of the city rises up around me, spiraling into the sky, clawing at the last fresh breaths of air in the stratosphere. 

She handed me a flower.  And she wanted nothing.

The cross-bracing of the black, toothy edifices of main street (with a small m.  It is far from the way that Fox News talks about Main Street) trap the heat of the day in the trench of the city.  Summer, how far from winter when white snow covered the streets and for a moment refused to be blackened by the grime of the metropolis.  I wipe my hand across the back of my neck to remove some of the grime and sweat of the train.  I walk on.

She handed me a flower.  And she wanted nothing.

The boy on the corner cries out about some scandal to sell a paper.  He’s lying, but he’s working the system.  Winning? Maybe.  Doing better than me at least. 

I know she’s still lying in bed, brooding.  The sheets tossed about her naked body because she’s too set in her ways to sleep without sheets even in this heat.  She’ll be thinking about how it’s my fault we don’t have air conditioning even when it was her idea to save that $50 a month on our shitty apartment.  She’ll blame me, even though it was her idea.  Damn this heat.  I slog.  It has turned the air into a liquid through which to swim.  All she does is want and want.  But that girl…

She handed me a flower.  And she wanted nothing.

I turn around.

“Girl! Little girl, come back!”

She pokes her head around the corner again, scared now.

“Why did you give me this?”

“Do you not want it?”

“Why did you give it to me?”

“You looked like you needed a friend.”

“So you gave me a flower?”

She nods.

“And you want nothing?”

She nods.

“Why?”

“You… looked like you needed a friend.”

I look at her.  She is a grimy street child, hair limp, skin blackened, eyes yellow and sad.  She seemed to peer at me through her still thick lashes.  

A friend? Yes, I need a friend.  But not the kind of friend she thinks.  I need the kind of friend that greets me fresh at the door with a cold beer and her body.  That's the kind of friend I need.  The kind of friend that also wants nothing in return.  But this child, she needs the kind of friend that will care for her and caress her and make her forget that her parents left her naked and cold and too hungry to cry.  They bequeathed to the world a stupid child without even the good sense to die.  A flower in an arid, hot, grimy city, buckled down against the beating heat of a rainless, nuclear yellow sky.

I hand it back to her.

"You cannot be my friend."

February 4 - La Reina

A mournful saxophone plays on the steps of a classical museum of modern art housing works we each pretend to understand for the benefit of the other.  And we two, like lace and leather, scowl at each other out of love as we ascend to the entrance to greet a fee that we will argue is too much but will pay any way even though you will worry about your student loans and I will worry about a child that we might have in the future.  A boy named after your father or a girl named after my best friend because you love your parents as much as I hate mine.  But we will decide it's not too much - even though it probably is - and enter a museum only to grow angrier and angrier about the fact that we both cannot admit that we do not understand modern art.

February 3 - 55 Fiction 1

Fifty-Five Fiction is a genre of fiction that is comprised of 55 words.  No more.

What is it to me?

I can watch you walk away and dismiss all the fantasies of prom dates and movies and dinners.

So what is it to me if you walk away?

“Wait, John…”

“What?”

“Say something, please? Just tell me why.”

“Why what?”

“Why you’re discarding me.”

“I’m not discarding, just letting go."

February 2 - Virus

“Is that right?”

“I mean, I think so…”

Emily looked at the problem again.

“… well, I mean, I don’t know.  I’m not in this class, why are you asking me?”

“You’re smart.”

She grimaced.  “Yeah, maybe.  But either way, I’m not taking Microbes.  Why are you asking me?”

Because you’re hot. “Because you’re sitting here and my lab partner isn’t…”

“Thought so.”  She stood and squinted at Davis. “Anyway, you’re graphing natural growth, so it should obey a natural growth function.  Get back to me when you figure out what it is…”

v ¢ ¤ ¢ v

“You’re not seriously texting a girl about a class she’s not even taking?”

Davis looked up [Hey.  What about | ] “No.”

“Good.  Because that’s a stupid way to talk to a girl.”

[Hey. | ] “You’re probably right.“

“I am.  Still working on that virus?”

[ | ] “Yeah.”

“Good luck man.  I heard the professor’s a bitch.”

“Dr. Obreht’s not that bad.”

“Still, good luck…”

v ¢ ¤ ¢ v

Davis sat in his carrel, staring dumbly at the data.  The virus confounded him. Fuck this class.  You’re a senior.  Fuck.  This.  Class.  He stared at the data.  Thunk.  He stared at the grain of the carrel.  Fuck this.  He dug into his pocket for his phone.

[Hey.  Where are you?]

[Library.]

[Come Outside!]

[Cant.]

[You’re no fun :)]

[I have to figure this out for Dr. O.]

[kk.  good luck]

[:) thanks]

[Text when senioritis gets the better of you?]

[haha Sure]

A girl is texting you.  A hot girl.  Go outside.

His stomach grumbled.  His bony fingers returned to the keyboard of his MacBook.

Is this really taking precedence?

“Yes”

You realize you’re not talking to anyone, right?

“Yes”

You realize you probably look like a schizo?

“… Probably.” He ran his fingers through his hair.

“Shouldn’t this eventually make sense?”

No.

“Well, you’re a downer.”

I’m you.

He sighed.

Fine, try a different function.  Maybe this virus is different…

v ¢ ¤ ¢ v

“Have you made any progress Davis?”

“No.”

Dr. Obreht looked at him over her glasses.  He cringed.  Buttoning and rebuttoning her lab coat, she walked over to the other researchers. Davis crumpled a little.  He had been accepted last minute into the Microbes class and everyone had been surprised, and rightly so, when he was granted a spot on the Doctor’s research team.  She was a severe woman and intolerant of other’s mistakes.  Davis was a skinny, nervous senior who made an awful lot of mistakes.  And this was probably the last straw.  The other students looked over their shoulders and shook their heads… at least they seemed to. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being looked at.  He returned to the data graph.   

“I need a better function.”

How are you going to come up with that?

“I have no idea.”

“Who are you talking to?” asked Elizabeth

She sat down next to him.

“No one.  Myself.”

She smiled and wrinkled her nose. “No worries.  How’s our data coming along?”

He grimaced.  “I can’t make sense of it.  It doesn’t look like anything we’ve learned about.”

“No?  Hmm.”  She looked again. “I think… you’re right.  Should we talk to the professor?”

“No.  Let’s get another set of data and see what happens.”

“Ok.”

v ¢ ¤ ¢ v

“This is wrong.” Dr. Obreht looked down her nose at Davis and Elizabeth after glancing at their data. “This does not happen.  This kind of data would indicate a killer.  An unequivocal killer.”

You shouldn’t have taken that last set of data.

“I know it looks irregular…”

“Irregular doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

“… but that’s what we collected.”

“I don’t believe you.  Davis, I run a serious research facility; if you tamper with the data, I get in trouble.”

And if she gets in trouble, guess what happens to you.  You. Are. Fucked.

“SHUT UP!” he roared

Elizabeth and Dr. Obreht started back.

“Davis, who are you talking to?”  asked Elizabeth quietly.

“No one.  Myself…”

v ¢ ¤ ¢ v

“Can we tell what’s wrong with him?”

Davis paced back and forth in the hospital room.  He had been sealed in two days ago and hadn’t heard anything from the outside since. 

“No.”

Dr. Obreht looked at Davis’s data again.  The graph still didn’t make sense.  No one could make any projections about the progression of the disease.  Davis kept pacing.  Elizabeth dug into her pocket and pulled out his phone.

[Hey.  I think I may have found the right function. 

Text if you still want it.]

[Sorry, who is this?]

[Emily, silly.]

[Sorry.  No name came up.]

[Who’s this?]

[Elizabeth. Davis’s lab partner.]

[Oh.  Can you give his phone to him?]

[No]

[Why not?]

[He’s sick. He’s in isolation.]

[With what?]

[His virus.  We haven’t named it yet.]

[I’ll be right over with the formula]

February 1 - Stream of Consciousness Ramblings: Airport

Are we?  Are we really going to do this?

Ok, fine.  Yes, you know me.  Yes, I know you.  And, yes, we are going to continue to stare at our respective reflections in the 5:45 AM blackened window trying to figure out if we really are who we look like. 

Honestly, do I look that different?  I’m still short and, as my ex-girlfriend says, “deliciously curvy”.  I do not look that different.  Ok, I cut my hair by about 18 inches; but my hair’s still pretty long.  It still hits my shoulders.  And I don’t wear it any different.  But you’re a guy so you wouldn’t notice that.  Maybe I’m spottier.  Oh God!  I have acne again.  No, calm down, it’s just a minor break out that he’s not noticing anyway because he’s a guy and you don’t have a massive goiter sprouting from you’re forehead.  Do I?  No, your iodine levels are fine and goiters sprout from the neck anyway.  Oh.  Yeah, “Oh”, calm down, you’re not in 8^th grade anymore.  You don’t think he’s cute anymore.  He has that vacant lax bro look in his eyes now.  You know that look, dumb ass, don’t pretend to look like you don’t get it to the other half of your own consciousness. A) No one can that look. B) I am partially you, don’t try to pull that shit.  Sorry.  You should be.  But I honestly don’t look that different, do I?  No, you still look like the same girl the creepy, zit-y guy wouldn’t kiss when you all played spin the bottle.  Oh, ha ha.  But seriously, you don’t look that different.

So why don’t you recognize me, boy I’ve now been staring at via window-turned-mirror for two minutes that I liked in 8^th grade.  Holy god I’m creepy.  I should just stop.  Or maybe follow the Honesty Box advice I got that same year.  No, you moron, you should not.  That was written with horrible syntax, worse than that which you employ yourself in your own mind.  And you honestly can’t take seriously any suggestion that you should “shot yurslf becuse yr a crepy lesbian and evryone knows it.”  Also, you’re not a lesbian; so the suggestion’s void.

He’s looking at me again.  Same vacant, lax bro look.  God damn a vacant look can make you think so much…

January 31 - Aim for the Head

The third of four creative nonfiction essays written for my Junior year English class.

My mother has always been slightly disturbed by my ability to quote movies that I have never seen.  Of course some of the quotes – like “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.” or “I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.” – have entered the common lexicon; but some are a little less ingrained in the national psyche.  Like “You either shoot ‘em or you burn ‘em.  They go up pretty quick.”  I have never seen Romero’s Night of the Living Dead, but many of the lessons therein have been with me since childhood.  In fact, I am a Level Five Zombie Hunter, committed to ridding the world of the undead scourge.

            I cannot talk about a second education without mentioning the sleep-away camp that I attended for six of the best summers of my youth: Camp Wingate*Kirkland.  There I met some of the best people I know, one of whom is Zachary Brenner.  Brenner at W*K, Zach at home, he has taught me some of the most important lessons I have ever learned in the venue of a period called “Zombie Hunting Academy”.  Training proceeds like this:

Level One. Simple Combat:  One can either kill zombies with a ranged weapon (dodgeballs) or in mêlée combat (accomplished by pulling a flag football flag from their waist).  Zombies are killed by headshot or by torso-shot.  Extremity-shots result in the loss of the use of that extremity.

Level Two. Ranged Combat Training: Only ranged weapons are permitted on the training ground (i.e. a simple game of dodgeball).

Level Three. Mêlée Combat Training: Only mêlée tactics are permitted.

Level Four.  The Introduction of Special Zombies: Until this point only classic, Romero zombies were present on the training field.  Now, the trainee must protect him or herself against zombies that can run, take multiple head or torso shots to kill, can fight back, and that can re-reanimate themselves.

Level Five. Mêlée Combat with Special Zombies: The rules of the Level Three and Level Four tests combined apply.

Level Six. Human Protection Training: Combat against special zombies with the added complication of having to protect two defenseless humans at either end of the training pitch.  They can neither move nor participate in combat.  If either dies, you loose.

Upon passing your first test at the Zombie Hunting Academy, you get to take on a code name.  Mine is “Striker”, chosen by Jet Blaze (Zach’s Zombie Hunter Alter Ego) for me because of my archery skills. He says that, on the actual field of combat, my archery training will serve me well and “Striker” is a proper name for an archer.  Striker is currently the highest-ranking member of Helter Skelter, our zombie hunting organization, other than Jet Blaze himself who is a Level Seven Zombie Hunter.  I know that last sentence gave you pause because you are wondering about the name of our organization.  Either it is named after a Beatles song or that phrase the Manson family scrawled on the walls of the houses of the people they killed.  Well, it’s neither.  In the words of Jet himself, it is simply “the most bad ass sounding name of all time.” 

Zombie hunting has taught me a number of things, the most important of which is “Aim for the Head”.  This is not a phrase to be taken lightly.  “Aim for the Head” is more than simply advice regarding how best to kill a zombie.  It is the only way to kill a zombie.  More than that, it is advice on how to focus your life.  On the weekends I give up to acting in Zach’s movies on the subject of Zombie Hunting I have to prioritize my work.  So I aim for the head.  When a lighting fixture goes on the fritz, I aim for the head.  When a problem in physics presents particular difficulty to me, I aim for the head.  It really means start with what is most crucial.  When on the field of combat facing off against hordes of the undead, it is crucial both not to waist ammo and to kill as many as possible.  So you aim for the head, the center of zombification. When trying to prioritize your weekend, it is crucial both to get as much done as possible and to enjoy your weekend. So you aim for the head, bring your chemistry notebook to the set to study while filming.  Aiming for the head can keep you alive, both literally and figuratively, during tough times.

            My daddy taught me a quote from a classic zombie movie when I was a kid.  Zach taught me how to put it into practice.  Nowadays, when Zach calls me up and says there’s a filming date, I drop everything to be there.  Helter Skelter is a close-knit group of people who pretend to protect the world from the walking dead, and it means so much to me to be a reoccurring character in one of the many storylines in the Brenner-verse.  Beefdog was brought to Helter Skelter with the offer of a sandwich.  Dan joined up for the thrill of it. Sleeping Bag Buddy brings the power and mystery of a zombie hunter who works exclusively from inside of a sleeping bag.  Action Man remains a riddle wrapped inside a mystery wrapped inside an enigma.  And Jet? Jet brings us together as both an army and as a bunch of nerds who know, when the time comes, they will be prepared in ways that the average American will most certainly not be.  Aim for the head my friends.  Aim for the Head.

January 30 - Diets

Celery for lunch and grapefruit for dinner…

No, I’ll just skip breakfast and maybe lunch – perhaps dinner -

Fads and pop culture have taught me, as well as the cliques,

These are a few of my favorite tricks.

Bony arms and lack luster hair?

No worries darling, there’s Ipecac there.

A few more pounds and you won’t care a bit.

As long as you’re skinny, you don’t give a shit.

Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes,

Ladies with skin the color of ashes,

All run to the bathroom after their meals.

Each to keep up with their devilish deals.

When the skin goes

When the eyes dull

When you’re felling weak

You simply remember the tricks of the sex

And you’ll follow the will of the clique….

January 29 - First Brush

“Jesus, how much farther is it?”

“It’s only a little farther. It’s by The Lake”

The two boys scrambled over another mossy trunk.  They had left the path ten minutes ago, and now found themselves in the unmarked part of Iona Woods Park.   Recent storms had brought a number of the trees down, which had created a lattice of dead and rotting wood for the boys to navigate.  Drew cast his gaze outward on the crest of a trunk, straining to see The Lake in the distance.

“Look, Mike, it’s just there.  See?” said Drew.  

Cradled by the branches of yet another fallen tree was their destination: a crudely built, used-to-be-in-a-tree tree house.  Some of the longer branches just brushed the surface of the water, but for the most part the ex-house was still over land.  A rock jutting out from the embankment now provided the bare minimum of support needed to keep the structure from crashing into The Lake.  Mike looked at the structure and paused on the top of a log.  Running his fingers nervously through his hair, he thought it looked like it was being held up only by the grace of God.  Jumping down, he scrambled after Drew.  

Drew grabbed onto the window frame of the ex-tree house.  Mike, more carefully, hopped in after him. The house had fallen on its side with the tree, so the only way in was through the windows.  Though crude, the ex-tree house had been sturdy.  Drew’s older brother had come in and decked the wall that now faced down so that the boys could walk on it safely; now the the precipitous drop was the only aspect of the house that could be said to be dangerous.  

“Hey watch it!  Don’t shake the frame.”

Jack looked up angrily from the cards he was holding.  He and Rick were already seated in the ex-tree house.  They were playing Texas Hold ‘Em, betting matches instead of pennies.

“What’s up with the matches?” asked Drew. “I was looking forward to winning a little something.”

“You’ll see.  ‘Sides, you never win anything anyway,” replied Rick with a grin.

“Fuck you.  I cleaned Ian out the other day!”

“At Go Fish.  You cleaned out Ian while we were playing Go Fish,” pointed Mike.

“Shut up Mike,” said Jack.

“So you gonna tell us? What’s up with the matches?” asked Drew.

“Wait.  Everyone’s got to be here,” replied Jack

“Well who’re we waiting on?”

“Ian,”

“Why?”

Jack shrugged.  “You’ll want him here.  You’ll see.”

Drew grumbled and sat down next to Rick on one of the support beams his brother had put in.  “Deal me in Rick.”

“We haven’t finished this hand yet.  Next one.”

Mike walked over to the window over The Lake.  This part of the ex-tree house was genuinely hanging over the lake.  The other boys had congregated in the portion of the structure that was still over land, and as long as they stayed there one person could look out the other side.  Ian said it was like flying if you put your upper body out the window, but no one else in group was either daring enough to try it or literary enough to put it that way.  While the rest were reading comic books and stolen porno magazines, Ian read books; and he never let them forget it.  After all, he was the smartest, not only because he read but also because, at 15 he was the oldest.  Mike gulped as he properly stepped off of the part of the house that was over solid ground.  It already felt a little like flying, or what he though flying must feel like.  

The other boys were engrossed in their game.  Drew had finally been dealt in and was intent on winning, even though the prize was worthless today.  Rick knit his brows together, looking at his cards with concern.  Jack punched him, joking that his winning streak was over.  Rick punched back, and the boys began to fight.

“Gentlemen!  Gentlemen!  Don’t fight!  I am arrived!”

Ian swung in one-handed.  He had a plastic grocery store bag over one shoulder, which was opaque enough that the others could not see inside.  Ian settled himself in the center of the structure and pulled from within the bag another bag tied around a small square-ish something.  Drew stared intently at the box, knowing full well that he was the only one in the ex-tree house that didn’t know what Ian had brought that cared.  Mike was just as in the dark as he was, but his curiosity was not nearly as intense.  

“Come on Ian, what’d ya bring?” asked Mike leaning forward as he tried to see through the plastic.

“Have we left you in the dark?  Fear not, everyone shall be informed.”

“Yeah, but Rick and Jack already know what’s going on.”

“They think so, don’t they…”

“We don’t?” asked Rick, looking up from his cards.

“You don’t,” replied Ian “Mike, get over here. You’re missing the dramatic unveiling.”

Mike looked over at Ian.  Taking one last glance out the window, he moved to join the group.  They crowded around Ian on the landed side of the ex-tree house as if they were worshiping a god. But that was how Ian liked it.  Just as much as the boys looked like worshipers, he looked like a golden idol.

“Gentlemen, I bring you - from my dad’s cabinet - cigarettes!”

The packet dropped from his hand with a nonchalant flourish and fell with a thunk in dead silence.  The boys looked on in shock.  Marlboro.  The golden crest and painted gilding stood out against a white dulled by handling.  This was not a new packet.  Emblazoned in larger letters than the brand was “Smoking is highly addictive, don’t start” in block typeface.  

“What the fuck, Ian?” said Drew, leaning backwards.

“My sister showed them to me,”said Ian, disregarding Drew’s interjection. “She says the way to go is to smoke out a window, that way you don’t keep inhaling after you’re done.”

“Does that make sense?” Jack asked Rick.

“Maybe....” Rick’s voice trailed off into nothing.

“Oh, have some fun!” Ian cried, deftly bending over to grab one from the pack.  He grabbed one of Rick’s matches.  Rick opened his mouth to protest, but he saw the futility before a sound escaped.

Mike looked on with a blank face.  He stood again to go to the window on the floating side.  

“Here, Mike has the idea!” Ian tossed him the box.

Mike contemplated the package and tossed it back. “No, man, that’s not what I meant. I’m not interested.”

“Well fuck you guys,” Ian said standing and walking toward Mike, “I’ll show you how it’s done.” He continued walking toward the window, growing closer and closer to the edge of the land bound ex-tree house.

“Watch it.” Drew said, standing as well and taking a few steps forward.  “Watch the boarder.”

Ian continued toward Mike, tapping out a cigarette as he did so.  Later Jack would say that he had warned Ian against walking any further and Rick would swear that he had felt the ex-tree house tip, but neither had.  In fact, no one really felt anything.  Yes, the ex-tree house did tip a bit; and, yes, Drew had certainly thought about saying something.  But that is of no consequence.  Nothing was said.  Ian simply kept walking toward the window where Mike looked out over The Lake.  

“Fuck you guys.  This how you do it.” Ian muttered again.

Mike remained silent through the whole ordeal.  Perfectly and unshakably silent.  He watched as Ian walked across the newly decked floor, and thought of Drew’s older brother warning the bunch about the house.  He had told them to watch the overhanging side because he hadn’t been able to fully secure the new floor. He said it had tipped when he was hammering.  

“This is how you do it,”  Ian said more loudly.

With that, his toe caught a slightly raised nail and sent him pitching forward.  That sent everything tipping.  The boys, as always, followed Ian as he scrambled up the falling floor.  Mike simply remained where he was.  Matches clattered around his feet as they all fell.  And they watched, all of them, as Mike closed his eyes and prepared for impact.

The headlines in their town ran the next day in big black letters: BOYS LAST TO SUFFER EFFECTS OF STORM.  But Drew knew better.  Mike was alright.  Kind of.  He was still in the hospital.  Jack and Rick were both a little bruised but otherwise fine.  They had grown quiet after the accident.  They didn’t chide each other as much, and they were never too excited to play cards.  Ian simply disappeared.  Rumors ran that he had moved with his family to the next state over, but no one really knew for sure.  All Drew remembered was watching him scramble out the window they had used for a door.  People came by his house to ask about what had happened, but he always said the same thing:

“My brother said it was dangerous, and so did Mike.  But they didn’t say it out loud.”