And on the Eighth Day...

The dead rose up
And shuffled slowly to the pub.
They crowded around me
And pawned their jewelry.

Rings, necklaces, cufflinks
Plucked from their own graves.
They bartered for drinks
They could not taste.

They shoved and elbowed me
Leaned in and pushed up to the bar.
They stumbled and waved for the bartender.
There was only one.

It was Monday and otherwise empty.
A bowl of neglected pretzels.
One lonely muffin in a case by the register.

Who eat's a muffin at a pub?

And the dead were thirsty.
They ordered stiff drinks
With well spirits
And poured them down
Papery gullets straight away.
The drinks splattered on the floor
Flooding through holes in stomachs and throats.

And they ordered another
And another.
I didn't want to say anything,
But they pushed up beside me
Shouting, waving, insisting.

I turned and asked,
"What's the deal, fellas?
Afterlife not cracked up
Like they lay it out in
Those goddamn books?"

"Brother," one said in
Careful, quiet tones,
His breath stale and bitter.
"You don't know the half of it,"

Pointless Cursing

Fuck You

We build mallets
To swing at the floor
And make thunder
Like drums on the horizon

The World hums along
And doesn't care
How long we breathe

Fuck Me

I've learned you
By watching myself
I have passed careful verdict

We are worthy creatures
Rare treasures

We deserve all
The hells
We conjure in torment

Just A Moment

A moment please, my dear.
Just a moment more.
I want to show you
What I can do
But I'll need just a moment

I want to tell you something, my dear.
But what can I tell you
That you don't already know?
I just need a moment to think.

I want to sing for you, my dear.
A song to frame you face,
To follow your grace,
A beat to sway your waist.
In just a moment, I'll have it.

I want to be a man for you, my dear.
Strong and sure and wise.
Just the man for you, you'll see.
It'll only take a moment.

Someone Else's Legs

I woke this morning and was very surprised to discover someone else's legs dangling under my body. I stood and marched around the house. Sure enough, they obeyed me as a proper pair of legs should. If anyone that wasn't me were to look in through a window, they might not know that these legs weren't mine. I might not otherwise know my own legs underneath had I not spent my entire life previous with the same pair.

They were fine legs, strong and healthy, but they were not my legs. I gave the matter some thought over breakfast and reached the simple conclusion that they had to come off. I tried a few of the kitchen knives, but it was all too messy. I went out to the shed and tried the hacksaw, but the thin blade got all gummed up with ligaments. I couldn't get a proper angle with an axe or machete. Luckily my old circular saw was up to the challenge. I had to dismantle the safety shutter, but otherwise it all went smoothly.

I had gathered materials for tourniquets and bandages. I had even crafted a crude wheelchair for myself with some old bicycle parts and a deck chair. After all the fuss and splatter, though, I noticed that there was very little blood. Reaching down, the wounds had already healed smooth. Even further, I could stand up and march about again.

My torso hovered perhaps three or four feet off the ground. I could will myself here and there as if I still had legs. In fact, my torso would bob up and down like I was taking steps. I could run without being winded. I could kick over junk on the ground. I could jump up and down on broken glass. I could dance ontop of a campfire, though I had to stop once my bottom started to burn.

That first day was remarkable. I felt quite magical and interesting. I fell asleep that night thinking of the fun story I could tell my friends and perhaps some silly pranks we might be able to pull.

I woke with a strange itch. My legs felt fantastic, or at least the vaccuum of their absence felt fantastic. But now I couldn't help but view my arms with suspicion. There was no doubt in my mind that they belonged to me. Unlike yesterday's legs, these arms were certainly the ones I've been swinging around for all these years. Still, compared to the grand utility and simple delight of a pair of magical legs, two regular old arms seemed rather dull.

It bothered me all morning. I tried to put it out of my mind, but by early afternoon I was marching out to the shed again. Click, whizz, crunch, splatter. My old arms flopped to the ground, an ignoble end for such helpful creatures.

You can imagine my relief when I was able to wipe my own brow with my new, magical arms. Just like my legs, My shoulders healed smooth and clean. My new limbs, seemingly comprised of solid air, were strong and fit. I spent the rest of the day teaching myself to juggle burning embers. I wanted a show to match the story for my friends.

The next morning I couldn't help but notice how silly I looked as a floating torso. The human body isn't meant to float around like that. In the mirror I looked odd and oblong. And this began a terrible thought. If I laid a blade across my throat and severed the head from the torso, which would fall away?

Would I be a little head bobbing around? Would I be a sightless chest, wiggling its odd little nubs?

I should have learned not to ask such questions of myself. Sure enough, it bothered me all morning and by dinner, there was nothing else to it. I marched out to the shed, bent over and hit the button.

When I look in the mirror, I only see whatever lies behind me. For all intents and purposes, I have become invisible. I can't remember feeling tired; I haven't bothered to sleep in some time. I run as the birds fly, dance along planes in flight, and tumble off of buildings for fun. I've seen such wonderful and frightening things. I'd love to tell my friends, but I don't think they'd recognize me.

I Guess It Was Turkeys

He climbed on the bus and stood there with his fucking crazy eyes. Out of breath, he gasped, "You guys see those turkeys?"

No one replied. It was six in the morning. Turkeys could have been out there riding tandem bicycles and no one would have cared. The man was still standing when the bus started back up. He lurched forward and had to catch himself on the rail. He was still looking around. Everyone turned away from him, pretending to play with their phones, or searching for interesting sights out the windows. No one wanted to hear about turkeys.

He eventually found a seat near the back, across from me. He had a plastic grocery bag with a small lunch all wrapped up tight. I know this guy, or at least I've seen him before on the bus. He is a regular. Nearly everyday he has some kind of weird story. One time, he told a guy about a terrible accident he was in. He showed his leg to the guy; it looked like a chunk of strange meat, colored red-brown like liver, and stapled to the place where his calf muscle should be. This other time, he had a cooler filled with porkchops from the store. He bought too many and was trying to sell off the excess on his way to work. The week before, he wouldn't shut up about how he was being chased by ghost, sleeping in a ditch to escape them. That day, I guess it was turkeys.

It was hard to place his age. He carried himself in a perpetual cloud of dust with his mussy, off-blonde hair down around his ears. He had bright, youthful eyes and an excitable demeanor, coupled with the hard lines and wrinkles of a rough lived life, he could have been anywhere between twenty and forty.

"I mean it was amazing," he told me, "I was waiting for the bus and they just came up to me,"

I nodded. There was a part of me that wanted to hear his story, but the rest of me was wrapped in the vast apathy of way-too-early. I wasn't feeling very talkative, but I resolved to humor him with an audience. I can be very patronizing when I'm tired.

"I'm out there, and I have a coffee from 7-11," he demonstrated, holding out an imaginary styrofoam cup.

I settled in with a little smile.

"And then I look up and there's, like maybe twenty big ass turkeys just standing in the road. I didn't see them walk around or climb out of the woods or whatever. They just stood there like they were supposed to stand there,"

He took a sip from his imaginary coffee. I swear he even blew on it to cool it down.

"And some of them were looking at me," He waved his head back and forth as if overcome with some strange energy, "And I knew I just had to protect them. There was a car coming so I ran out and held up my arms. The guy stopped and he didn't honk or anything. And there was another guy who stopped and he didn't honk or anything either. It was like we all just knew that these turkeys had to do whatever they were doing,"

He locked eyes with me. Those last few words he spoke very slowly, making sure he conveyed the proper gravity of such a revelation.

"So I walk back to the bus stop and stand there. The turkeys all follow me off the road. The cars wait and eventually they can drive around the... I guess it's a flock, no wait, a gaggle, right? And so we're all just standing there. Me and like twenty fucking big ass turkeys all waiting for the bus. And I have this coffee and the biggest turkey, like King Turkey or whatever, he is all sniffing around the cup,"

He held the imaginary cup lower, staring down at his empty hand in awe.

"And the big one pecks at it with his beak. He's taking a sip. And he starts..." The guy tried to come up with a word, "I don't know, he's making some crazy noise and then all the turkeys are going for the cup. I had to drop it or get my hands all pecked up,"

He dropped the pretend coffee and snatched his hand back. He scootched away from his seat on the bus, as if distancing himself from the phantom gaggle.

"Those turkeys fucking loved that coffee, man. They were crazy for it. They were licking it off the sidewalk and tearing the cup apart. Then, boom, they all run off together, back into the woods. I look up and the bus is right there,"

He leaned into the aisle and checked the bus driver. He looked out the window at the passing trees.

"That was, like, just now," He hopped around in his seat, excited. He wanted to keep talking about it, but ran out of things to say.

I nodded again and offered a "That's pretty crazy," because it was and the awake part of me enjoyed the story.

He was silent for a moment as the bus rounds a wide corner, passing a Newport Creamery and a small donut shop.

"Is there..." Again, he looked for words, "Something you can do with turkeys? Like a job?"

I didn't really have anything helpful to say.

He continued, "I just feel like something changed in me. Like I want to go work with turkeys now. Like my life is changed,"

He wasn't really talking to me anymore, just directing questions to the universe.

"That happens in stories. Someone sees something crazy and everything's different,"

I nodded and looked away. His stop is coming up and mine is ten minutes after. Maybe enough for a nap.

His eyes strayed back to the spot on the dirty bus floor where he spilled his imaginary cup of coffee and all twenty of the pretend turkeys crowd around.

All Your Jagged Monsters

"You Fucking Idiot," cries the Red Robed
Lizard with the Ginsu Fingers
As you get carried away at the table
And all your friends look down,
uncomfortable.

"Will you ever be happy?" a croak through
thin lips and serrated teeth.
A face flat like a plate, wide like a table
"Maybe when you ruin everything for everyone,"
it concludes.

And a chorus from the chains
Wrapped around your wrists,
The ones held by old ghosts,
"Can you ever shut the fuck up?"

And, worst of all, the whisper.
The needlebug, razor-slim and hissing
In your ear, "You know, this is all your fault,"

They Just Keep Coming

When you get into this job... When you sign up, you don't want to spend the whole day yelling. You have a few heroes in your head and you want to be just like them. Mentors who helped guide you through rough parts in your life. You see yourself becoming just like them. You feel like you could really help others, really help shape the future. It's a powerful kind of feeling.

Mr. Blowsky was a young guy in the seventies. It was his first year teaching fifth grade. He had a huge pile of curriculum folders and he followed them pretty clearly. We gave him a hard time, those first months, but he had this great energy. You couldn't help but like him, he was so honest and friendly. People like that often burn up quick in this business, but I didn't know that then.

After a few months, he started working in some of his own ideas. He was fresh out of a super-liberal college out in California. He had all sorts of ideas about alternative education. We made special flash cards for math. He set up a pen pal program with another classroom in Australia. He would sometimes stop a boring history lesson to have some of the antsy kids get up and act out the lesson. They would dance around, but he could keep them on task. Everyone would laugh, but it would stick in our heads. Those memories remain some of my favorite childhood moments.

So I got involved, in time, with teaching. And, after a stint as a teacher's aide while working on my master's, eventually found a job teaching fifth grade. The school gave me all the curriculum folders, I brought along a bunch of my own books. Radical, exciting, new paths of education. Games, tricks, management techniques. That first year was really tough. Every day those kids shrieked and bickered and I did my best to keep them working. It was discipline all day. I spent alot of time yelling. In the lounge, the teachers reassured me, "The first year is always toughest".

I kept in touch with Mr. Blowsky. I sent him a letter every month or so and he'd always reply a week later. He loved hearing about my plans for my classes, different approaches to teaching certain topics. He loved reminiscing about his old classes. He was still teaching, still in the same room. That thought used to make me feel powerful, like I was lucky to be connected to something really great.

So year two and now I'm ready to try out some of these crazy techniques. I never really got a chance that first year to do any of the play acting or word games. There was a kid in that class, Gary. Gary had some serious issues. He wasn't too bright, but not otherwise very badly behaved; he just needed constant attention. I tried giving him special duties, like sweeping up or organizing the game closet. I tried isolating him. I tried incorporating him. I tried running more group activities, teaming him up with kids that might help redirect or... Yeah well, nothing really worked. In the lounge, the teachers recommended I complain to the principal, "Send him to the special needs class or something,"

I'd write about Gary in my letters to Mr. Blowsky. He'd just reply "It's okay, you'll get it. I know you will,"

I didn't want to just give up on Gary. I spent the whole year trying to work with him. He never really could keep still, never could stop harrasing everyone within reach. I spent the whole year yelling.

By year three I had a reputation among all the kids. I was the mean one. The big, shouty teacher. The kids were terrified of me. It worked well enough. I got through plenty of material those first few months. I was ahead of schedule by January and ready to try some of the new techniques. I had little costume pieces and huge namecards. We were doing some French Revolution stuff. The class was confused when I brought out the box of props. They marched around, pretending to be nobles or peasants. The kid playing Napolean... Christ I can't even remember his name. Anyway, that kid jumped up on a desk and started dancing. I was shouting at him and he fell. He didn't get hurt or anything, but I lost it. I had everyone put their heads down on their desks. We didn't get anything else done that day.

I wrote to Mr. Blowsky about that day. Again he just said, "You'll get it. It takes time,"

We didn't try any of the play acting again until April. It didn't go over too well. Another year of yelling.

The next year and the next year, it was always something. I started lying in my letters. I told Mr. Blowsky of all the fun things we'd done in my classes. I told him about all the bright, hopeful children I loved working with. In truth, I spent all my time with the awful kids. The bright, well-behaved, thoughtful, pleasant children sat neglected all day while I maintained order. That was my job, really. I was a warden.

And Mr. Blowsky's replies stung me so deep, "Ah, you see? I knew you had it in you. I knew you'd get it,"

When he was close to retirement, I drove back to my hometown to meet him. I brought a couple of sandwiches, he loves egg salad, to his classroom. I got a chance to see his last class of the day. There were no costumes or props. There were no flash cards posted to the wall. They were studying for some standardized testing, filling out booklets. He was yelling.

I threw out the sandwiches. I spent the night visiting my folks. I drove home early.

That's really the thing of it. Every year, you get a whole new bunch of kids with all sorts of problems. You hardly get a moment to help them and they move along. You spend the whole time yelling. Some people are good at this job; it's like they're built to do this work. I'm not one of them.

Not Just Any Bed

Once upon a time, I was a real boy. I can remember sitting on a blue bed with a book of stickers. All the stickers had robots and swords, or maybe dragons flying through space. Some of the stickers were puffy, and some glittered. I had lots of paper too. I used to sketch back then too. That's why I'm sure it was me, and why I'm sure I used to be real.

I don't know where that bed is. I must have had some parents or something, but I can't remember them at all. They must have loved me a whole bunch, to buy me all those stickers. I really loved drawing and comics and playing with pictures and stickers and they got all that stuff for me, so I must have been good to them and they must have loved me. That is a good feeling I have. I hold on to that one.

I live in a small apartment, but it's kind of nice. I have all sorts of stuff and it's pretty cool. Best of all, there's a whole room for my paintings. I set up these huge canvases right in the middle and I get to paint and draw cool stuff all day. I want to draw dragons and swords or whatever, but they never come out like that. Every painting I make ends up looking like the shapes in the darkness. The ones in my dreams that take me apart. The ones I can't get away from.

The paintings make lots of money. There is a woman who helps me sell them. She sets up galleries all over town and I go to shows. People always act really excited to see my work. I try to explain how I want it to be different, but they don't really listen. The woman is really good at selling my paintings and I make plenty of money. She wears huge, fancy glasses. I think she throws away alot of newspapers.

I have a bed now, but it's not blue. I was going to buy blue sheets and everything, but the color wasn't just right. Also, i knew it wouldn't be the same. I don't want a blue bed, I want the blue bed. I want to be back there just like in my memories where I'm real. But that can't happen, can it?

I don't like leaving the house when it's dark out. All sorts of things can hide in the dark, but that doesn't scare me. When something is in the dark, then the dark can't be there. That's what I'm really worried about, the dark. People don't think the dark can get you. They don't think the dark wants anything. They're wrong, but they won't listen to me.

Sometimes infront of a mirror, I can see through myself. I can fade away if I'm not careful. They took so much out of me, those shapes. They took away all the pictures I had in my brain and now it's just darkness. I can't even remember how I grew up. I can't remember my real name.

I hate my paintings. It's not my work. It doesn't belong to me. It's all theirs. The dark did this to me so I could make those pictures, so everyone would see them. Maybe that's how they get people, by looking at those pictures. Maybe that's how they got me.

No, not any more. I find a blade. I find a lighter. I find a hammer. I put on my walking jacket. I grab that mask I wear when I use oils. I can get a list from the lady with the glasses. I can find all my paintings everywhere and cut them up. Even if the dark tries to stop me, even if they take me back. No one else is going to forget their own names, not if I can help it.

I'll never find that bed. I hope my parents aren't too worried about me. I hope they think that I'm somewhere being happy, that I have all sorts of stickers and eat ice cream whenever I want. I hope they think that I'm a brave boy and they did a good job with me. Even if I can't remember them.

Preparation is Everything

I found a glass staircase where a wall was supposed to be. At least, I'm pretty sure the wall was supposed to be there. It had been there yesterday and the day be... no wait, I didn't come round on Sunday. Well anyway, at all previous sightings, the wall was perfectly wall-like as I imagine walls are supposed to be.

I mean, people build walls so that they stay there. A wall keeps stuff in, or it keeps stuff out. If the wall took a vacation, it wouldn't be a very good wall.

So maybe the wall took a vacation that day, and perhaps Sunday as well, I can't say for certain. And there was this glass staircase right in that same spot. I use the word staircase only because I can't think of a word to describe the appearance. It was a series of wide glass plates floating in the air a few inches above each other. They were offset by a foot or two, creating a great spiral leading up into some kind of sparkly cloud. If you know a word for series of floaty spiraled plates going into a cloud of glitter, please let me know. Or perhaps you could just write to a dictionary company. I imagine it would be a very interesting addition to their book, whereas they must get swamped with new words for bugs or puddings. I don't know if they get many letters about floating plates.

Well I've read a few books in my time. I used to be quite fond of jungle adventure stories. I would curl up every night with another story where maybe a scientist is looking for a secret cure from an ancient, hidden civilization and then maybe a plane crashes and a beautiful woman needs help and maybe they all get caught by a greedy bunch of bandits who run a hidden diamond mine, enslaving innocent natives to... Well those books never mentioned a glass staircase so I can skip all them. There was another book I read because I thought it was about jungle monsters. It did talk about jungle monsters, but it talked about other monsters too.

There were giants and people that were just bags filled with beetles and a man with needles for fingers and a whole family that lived under a tree and they could peel off your eyeballs to see what your life life would have looked like if you lived it but you won't because they already killed you. There was other stuff too, like princesses and castles. There was a part where a man tricked the devil into teaching him how to fly. He flew all over the world to pick the most beautiful flowers for his love. I really liked that story.

I should have picked up more books like that, but everytime I go to the bookstore I see a picture on a cover with a guy and his shirt is all ripped up and maybe he's fighting a panther. The jungle has got to be the coolest, scariest place in the world with all the trees and poisonous animals hiding. Of course, I have never walked up into a glittering cloud, so maybe I don't know so much.

But this book had a few stories about regular people going on a magical journey and saving someone and battling monsters and they would all start with something like a floating glass staircase. Well, none of them had a staircase exactly, but it was the closest thing I had to go with. So there you go.

But these heroes always get into trouble on their journey, so I knew I needed to prepare. First off, the heroes always have some kind of mighty blade or axe or something. They rarely get a chance to use it, as the monster might often swipe it away or steal it or eat it. And then the hero must rely on his wits to outsmart the beast. However, I think I should still bring something for the monster to take away. If I didn't have some kind of mighty blade, it might not take me seriously.

I went to my backyard and there was a fallen branch. We had a storm on Sunday that must have knocked the branch off and I'd not noticed till just then. Come to think of it, the storm was why I didn't go out for my walk and maybe the wall was on vacation then too. Though it must have been a crummy vacation in the middle of a storm with branches blowing around.

I cleaned off the branch and clipped away the little twigs until it was mostly straight. I found an old can of silver spraypaint and sprayed the stick so then it, well it didn't look exactly like a sword, but maybe it could be a magic wand or a king's sceptre. It was pretty mighty looking.

So another thing, is there's someone who needs help. Someone has to be in trouble for the story to work. Maybe a little girl trapped in the same dream forever and ever, or a little milkmaid who picked roses from a magical forest and now she's growing roots and leaves and flowers, stuck in the dirt. Or a beautiful princess all alone, shackled with icicle chains that can only be broken with a loving kiss.

Of course, it could be a guy who's trapped. Or maybe a horse. I would still save them, I don't mind. I could just kiss the guy on the cheek, if he really needed that. I probably wouldn't kiss the horse. Hmm, now that I think about it, the staircase seems kind of weird.

Well anyway, back then, I didn't think about maybe having to kiss horses. I looked for a gift. In the stories maybe it was a magical apple, or special ruby that fell burning from the sky, or the bottled tears of an angel. The gifts were special and that's how the princess knew that she was being saved. That's how she knew to trust the hero.

I didn't have any rubies or anything. My grandmother left a ring in the bureau. It was 'her little chip'. That's what she called it. It had a diamond, no bigger than a speck. My grandfather bought her that when he didn't have much money. It was during the war and everyone was scared and broke. Years later, he bought her a proper ring when he made more money, but she kept wearing her little chip. She wore it because it was special. The perfect sort of thing a princess might appreciate. Anyways my grandmother doesn't need it anymore, and I'm sure she'd like someone nice to have it, maybe even a princess.

Also, the hero needs to use his wits. They always have to trick a monster, or confuse them. Or maybe just sneak around. I don't know any riddles, so I looked for a book. All I could find was a book of jokes. It was my little sister's when she was little. Her favorite color was yellow and she always wore yellow and everyone said she looked like a little bee. And so this is a joke book all about bees. Some of the jokes are:

What is the healthiest bee?
A vitamin bee!

What do bees like to chew?
Bumble gum!

Why do bees have sticky hair?
Because of honey combs!

I don't really know how well those will go over. Maybe the monster will be a very big bee and get terribly upset if I tell him any of those jokes. Still I'm not always very clever and it's better to be more prepared than otherwise.

So I took my stick and my book and grandma's little chip and went back to the spot where the wall was supposed to be and it was back. The wall had taken its place in the wall spot, keeping things out and keeping things in. I was sad for a little bit, but then I started thinking.

If I had just run up the stairs without any of this stuff, the monster might be upset that I wasn't a proper hero, and I wouldn't have any tricky riddles, and the princess or the milkmaid or the horse wouldn't trust me. That would have been a terrible story and I wouldn't want to tell anyone about it. Maybe that's why all these stories are so old, no one bothers to prepare anything anymore. They rush off and have stupid adventures and come home early and try to forget everything.

Well not me. I have my stick, my book, and this ring. I walk by the wall where the wall's supposed to be everyday. Maybe I'll see the staircase again, maybe not. Either way, now I know there's more to the world than jungles, and when an adventure comes my way, I'll be prepared.

Birthday Boy

The boy wanders away from the city. There is no moon tonight, the forest is nearly perfectly dark. The boy can't see very well, he trips a few times on roots and stones. Even after his eyes adjust, he continues to stumble. There is a cut on his hand and another one on his knee. There is a drying dribble of blood down his shin. It hurts a bit, but none of that matters to the boy, because tonight is special.

The trees are thick here. He's not sure which way he is going, he might have gotten turned around. He doesn't really care, he's not going anywhere specific, he's just trying to get away from his old home. He left a messy room and an old computer that doesn't work very well anymore. He left an old, beat up Gameboy and a newer, beat up Gameboy and maybe a bajillion games. He left a whole bunch of clothes and a skateboard he's terrible at and a guitar he never learned to play. He left a bookbag, he left some comic books, he left some sodas in the fridge. He left two sleeping parents who are going to miss him alot. But that's just something that can't be helped. Tonight has to happen one way or another.

He finds a bald, rocky spot in the forest. It just might be perfect. There is a huge boulder jutting up around the rocks. None of the trees could grow here, though they reach above, trying to blot out the sky. They resent the rocks and try to hide the clearing like a comb-over. The trees seem very self-conscious.

The boy climbs up on the boulder, sits atop, and waits. Nothing seems to happen right away. He's a little early, probably.

His old life wasn't so bad, really. School was kind of fun, really. Most kids weren't very nice, but that seemed natural. He had a few really close friends. They'd have all sorts of fun building swords and axes out of foam and plastic. They'd pretend the garage was a castle or a cave. The boy always liked being the monster. That seemed natural too.

His folks were always busy, but they tried to make time. Every couple of months, they'd all vacation together. Usually it was nothing too special, maybe a weekend on grandad's farm, or a day of deep-sea fishing on a rented boat. It was something, and it was good. They'll blame themselves, but it's not their fault. This has nothing to do with them. There was no real way of explaining any of that to them, so the boy just left.

It's so dark here, but somehow the few stars poking through the trees light enough of the clearing. The boy can see his hands again. They never really felt like they belonged on his body. He never really liked them. But that's okay now, he won't be needing them anymore.

He could feel something starting, a shifting in his stomach, one of his ribs twisting and cracking. It doesn't really hurt that much, the boy feels relieved. He was tempted to take along some aspirin, but he didn't really know how that would affect things. There is a kind of wet crunching noise coming from inside him. He grimaces as he touches his belly, the skin is very tender. It turns a furious blue-black like a huge bruise, or the swollen, rotting, balloon-belly of a floating corpse.

The boy struggles out of his shirt and undoes his belt. He probably already should have been naked for this part. A part of him was still shy, it seems. He is still embarrassed by this body. Tiny, pink, inadequate, weak. A worthy target for mockery. A cage.

His stomach doesn't hurt anymore. He can't feel his legs. The boy can feel his eyes darken and the world seems to fall away. He spasms backward, splayed across the huge boulder. Blood puddles up in his mouth and his chest ceases to move.

The body lies motionless across the rock like a grim sacrifice. The wind rustles the branches of the forest. Perhaps it was the trees themselves shuddering. Perhaps the trees can see the boy and shake at the horror.

Then, something moves. A boney limb pushes up against the dead, bruised flesh of the body's stomach, stretching it like rubber. A claw, sharp like a razor, splits the skin, which falls away quickly. The body almost pops, spilling open, releasing a splash of blood and ichor. A stink rises from the grisly wound. Something crawls out of the body.

It moves slowly at first, unsure. Long, webbed limbs lined with tiny scales claw around senselessly. A small head, pointed with a reptillian beak, flops around and lifts up. Eyes blink as the neck fights to raise the head completely upright. It struggles for a moment or two, then gags and coughs. Lungs take air for the first time. The creature gasps and gasps. Slowly, as the ichor on its flesh dries, it seems to fill in and swell to a healthier shape. New muscles flex and tense. The creature pulls itself from its old coccoon and stumbles on awkward claws to explore the clearing with new eyes.

The creature looks at the old corpse with disgust. It opens it long arms and extends a boney plate. A wide wingspan of perhaps ten feet. A few test flaps and it is ready. A step, a leap, a push, and the newborn creature flies up and out of the clearing.

The wind is cold up here, but the creature doesn't mind. Flying seems so natural, so perfect. It feels like it's been doing this forever. It runs its thin sliver of a tongue across a row of tiny, serrated teeth. It is very hungry, it must find food.

In the distance, just beyond the forest, gleams the city. Yellow lights trace odd little box-patterns around dark buildings looming like monoliths. Somewhere among the lights and the buildings is a messy room, an old computer, some Gameboys, a can of soda, and two sleeping people who will never be able to understand any of this.

The creature spares one glance. Its slitted, cold eyes cast across the streets and toward those two people. A single moment and the look is unmistakable. A tiny, fading sliver of humanity in the creature's eyes. Regret. And then it is gone.

The creature turns away and flaps, gliding through the night, hunting for meat. It will eat and eat tonight in celebration. Tonight is a special night. Tonight it is born.

Humbled

She likes to sit in the sun
By the big window
There's hardly anything left of her
She's been fighting for so long.
Bald and tiny
And fragile,
Like cobwebs and paper.

She holds a small picture in her hands
Smiling through tears,
"My life was so good,"
She tells me,
"In my pride, I asked god for a burden.
That I could help shoulder
The sorrow of the world.
When I got the cancer, I thought,
'This is it, my burden'
But I was wrong,"

She holds up the picture,
"Living without this man,
This beautiful man..."
She is too weak to cry.
She holds a cloth to her face
And turns away from the big window.

Comets and Crazies

Her shift was supposed to end an hour ago. The manager stepped out to run to the bank. The girl that was supposed to relieve her hasn't shown up yet, that selfish bitch. It was already starting to get dark out; the automatic lights in the parking lot clicked on. There was all sorts of things that needed doing: neaten the shelves, vaccuum the mat by the door, total the morning receipts. Like hell she was going to do any of that. She was supposed to be home an hour ago.

Wendy has worked at Shoes 'N More since high school. She's been here for like six years, going full time after college. She's paid more than some of the assistant managers and could run this whole store in her sleep. It was a super slow day and the past few hours have been totally dead. She wouldn't mind the delay if things were busier. She wouldn't mind so much if she had someone to complain to.

The door gives an electric chime as a man struts inside. He seems out of place. Not many men bother coming in here, the aesthetics are geared toward a feminine demographic. This man, however, would likely seem out of place anywhere outside a forest. He wears tight black bike shorts and a stained, faded green shirt under a red flannel. There might have been some kind of logo or picture on the shirt once, but the design has long since worn away. His hair is a tangled grey bird's nest poking out from under a greasy black beret. His needs, however, seem immediate and obvious. He is barefoot.

Wendy watches him with interest. If she wasn't so bored she would've otherwise headed right over and asked him to leave. Crazies sometimes wander in and scare away customers. Shoes 'N More had a few notoriously regular crazies. There's one woman always wearing track suits who comes in once a week or so and, if left unattended, will try to pee herself next to the same spinning display rack of shoes. It never seems to matter which shoes are displayed or where exactly in the store the rack spins. She hunts it down with a single minded focus unless Wendy shouts and claps and shoos her out. This guy is not a regular. He's a new crazy. Well, maybe he's not crazy. Wendy hasn't talked to him yet, he might just be eccentric, or maybe his house just burned down and he didn't save any of his clothes.

The man swings by a shelf, grabs a pair of black loafers without really looking and marches straight up to the counter. He moves with a kind of assured confidence. He could be a Howard Hughes secret billionaire or some loon that builds tiny architectural replicas out of mouse bones and ear wax. 'No wait,' Wendy thinks to herself, 'I don't know if he's crazy or anything yet. Don't be judgemental,'

He slaps the shoes on the counter with a pleased, wild-eyed grin. "I would like these shoes,"

Wendy doesn't remember stocking those. They don't really carry men's shoes. They don't carry children's shoes either. They don't really carry a decent selection of women's shoes, for that matter. The name of the store is very misleading. Shoes 'N More should really be called Some Shoes 'N That's It.

But she just smiles and points the lasery-price-gun at the tag and BEEP. The computer finds a price and displays it on the readout.

"Feet are important sorts of things, you know," he beams at her.

She just smiles and nods.

"You know, some people believe that parts of the foot connect to the rest of the body in special ways," his eyes seem to twinkle.

Ah jesus, he is a crazy. Wendy turns a little green and just hopes that this guy wanders out and away just as quickly as he came in.

"I've even heard there is a place on the foot that, at a touch, can stop a heart!" his voice takes on a theatrical tone, dipping conspiratorial low, then pitching up to a friendly crescendo.

Wendy smiles and gestures to the price readout, "Yep, well... thirty bucks," she paints a forced smile on her face before adding, "for the shoes..."

The crazy continues undaunted, "That seems kind of silly to me though. People walk on their feet all day. If there was a spot that killed you, people would drop dead all the time,"

"Well people do drop dead all the time," Wendy replies without thinking, really. It all falls out of her mouth and she immediately regrets it. If the crazy thought she was a friend, he might never leave.

Instead, he stares at her in surprised awe, "They do, don't they," He takes a full minute to process this idea. It shakes him terribly.

The door chimes again as Sara jogs in. She's wearing some hoodie with her work shirt bundled under her arm. She mouthes an "I'm sorry," to Wendy with a guilty look. It's all an act, though. She's just fucking lazy and always late and now she's going to go in the back and try to stall until the crazy leaves.

"Right," Wendy now wants this guy to vanish more than ever, "So the shoes will be thirty bucks. Then you won't have to worry about the heart attack spot,"

"Hmm?" the crazy is deep in thought.

"On your foot," she tries to explain his own craziness back to him, "the death spot thing,"

"So here's the thing," he explains, "I don't have any money,"

Wendy just raises her eyebrows in a 'So what the fuck now' kind of look.

"But I'll tell you what. I can grant wishes on special occassions," he states in all seriousness, "and you are a very special sort of person,"

Wendy simply stands there.

"And so, if you give me these shoes, I will grant you one wish,"

"A wish,"

"The next wish you make will come true. A wish in your heart," he smiles.

Wow. Wendy just can't believe this guy. He is a good and proper crazy. He likely has a fine collection of tin foil helmets to block out the alien mind control lasers. She looks again at her watch. She looks at the back door, Sara is totally taking forever. She looks at the parking lot, the manager is still at the bank. And she is stuck here with this crazy motherfucker untill...

Wendy blinks. You know what?

"Sure," she smiles along with him, "that'll do nicely. One wish," she punches her code into the machine. The thirty bucks will come out of her paycheck. With the overtime she's racked up today, it shouldn't hurt at all.

He beams at her and picks up the shoes, "Now remember, it is a secret wish of the heart. You can't tell anyone of the wish or that you've wished at all. That's how this kind of thing works,"

"Great, well I only want the one wish," she adds, "so no more shoes unless you bring money,"

"Of course, of course. I can only grant wishes on special occasions," he reminds her.

"Right, got it," she nods, humoring him, "Of course,"

Without another word, he takes the shoes and skips off out the store. The electric chirp of the door chime marks his passing.

Lo and behold, Sara pops out of the back room as soon as the crazy leaves.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry, Wendy," she begins her prepared excuse.

"Don't worry about it," Wendy had a whole diatribe she was going to use. Earlier, she wanted to lay into this bitch and tell her off. Now, though, she just pulls off her nametag and heads for the door.

Wendy shares a little apartment with a roomate. Everything is pretty cramped, but he lives his whole life on the computer, and she works all the time, so they get along rather well. He's a bad slob, but keeps all his trash in his own room. She watches TV and likes to cook for herself. She brings boys over every now and then and he never seems to mind. The boys don't often stick around long. They never seem to take Wendy seriously. They like her well enough to try to get in her pants, but not much more. She must be the kind of person that boys just don't think about.

She gets home that evening with a little chicken wrap she picked up on the way. She nibbles on it, her heart's not really into it. She's thinking about that crazy man and the wish. She kicks off her shoes and curls up on the couch. She is too tired to change out of her work clothes. She is too tired to hunt for the remote.

She used to believe in wishes when she was little. She looked for falling stars at night. She hoarded pennies for fountains. She had a very special prayer that she would try to say every night. Someone told her once that St. Joseph could grant wishes. If you wanted and wished for something hard enough, and prayed to him every night for thirty nights in a row, he would help. Wendy never made it past nine or ten nights without forgetting. What was she always wishing for? It's hard to remember. Love maybe, or money. Perhaps something silly like a pony or a castle.

She can just make out a flicker of blue light under her roomate's bedroom door. That's how she knows he's home, a computer flickering in a dark, silent room. He'll blast music on his headphones and chew away on a pizza, leaving reluctantly only for bathroom breaks and cans of soda. Oh jesus, her feet stink. Wendy rolls around on the couch, burying her face into a throw pillow. Too tired to change her socks.

And so now, what does she want? More money? Maybe a real job? She went through all the trouble of getting a journalism degree without really thinking why. Love? What would that even look like these days? Everyone's so independant, how can anyone really love anything?

What then can she do with a wish? Perhaps nothing, or more specifically, a want for nothing. Is that legal? Can someone wish to wish that wish away? To become someone who would wish for nothing?

Her laptop is nearby, she clacks a few keys on her iTunes and Ben Folds bangs away on his piano. He sings about people in trees and beautifully weird girls and picking up all the pieces of a broken life. Wendy drifts off to sleep, dreaming about comets and fountains and greasy black berets.