The Tale of Amar

Once there was an old, gray Mutt with a large bushy white mustache and black feet named Amar. Amar was floating on a boat made of reeds on a sea of charcoal and ash. He magically appeared there one Friday afternoon after eating some black and white mushrooms that had bright red hairs growing out of its cap. They tasted like the earth and smelled like the morning dew.

He found the mushrooms on the side of the road after roaming in mourning for almost a week. You see, Amar had lost his companion Tally, a runt of a Raccoon, a week ago Thursday night, and he was now the last Animal on earth.

Any other day, Amar would not have eaten those mushrooms, but today he was grief stricken and desperate, so he ate them hoping to forget. Still, as he swallowed he could only think of Tally: the way he clamored up fences, the way he smiled when eating, the way he always had a tale to tell.

Full and exhausted, Amar slept. He woke up floating on the ash and charcoal sea with dreams like white dandelion seeds carried by a breeze dancing above his head. He could not be bothered by those dreams because he knew none of them could come true for his biggest dream was the return of Animals and his most pressing dream was to bring Tally back to life. Dreaming was hopeless; it meant the impossible. He preferred to sleep.

And, sleep he did. The gentle rocking of the charcoal waves lulled Amar into a deep black slumber. As he rocked in his reed boat, his left paw fell over the side and touched the ash sea. His black slumber erupted with memories of the First Animals.

Diona and Mirwais were the First Animals from which all else were created. Diona was an elephantine ant with a large, extended abdomen, and Mirwais was a monstrous onyx jackal whose head was larger than the Sphinx. Diona and Mirwais roamed the earth as it still formed. Magma did not burn them; nitrogen did not freeze them. They were great and more powerful than god, but gods they were not. The were, simply, the First Animals.

With each step they took, mass solidified beneath their feet. They wandered in complete silence until the earth was a large desolate rock. Nothing grew on its surface and its atmosphere was inhospitable to anything or anyone one other than Diona and Mirwais.

Upon seeing the desolation, Diona sighed and created the First Wind. It traveled the world picking up loose debris and dust, the tiny particles not forged in the footprints of the Animals. The debris and dust assaulted the earth forming high mountains and deep canyons.

Mirwais overjoyed by the frenzy of formation laughed boisterously. His laughter morphed into a wild tempest. Blue-gray clouds soon blanketed the earth. Then, lightning lit up the entire sky, which bore thunder. It was the First Music of the world, and it made Diona and Mirwais dance.

As they danced, vast deserts and wide valleys formed. The earth was finally beginning to take shape the way we know it today. Still water and life and language were missing.

Diona and Mirwais danced for what seemed like centuries until they were finally so tired they tumbled to the ground and fell asleep. And they dreamt the First Dream.

Diona was not just an Ant; she was the keeper of all things on and beneath the Earth. Her extended abdomen undulated as if something grew inside her. She was a radiant bronze, glowing like a sun and just as hot. Everything she touched melted until she found herself in the exact center of the Earth.

Mirwais was more than a Jackal; he was the gatekeeper of the borderland between the heavens and Earth. His obsidian fur sparkled like a galaxy. He grew and grew and grew until he completely surrounded the Earth creating the night sky.

Mirwais and Diona had not known loneliness for they had always been together. Now that they were apart it caused the First Sorrow.

The Jackal cried until all his life fell to the Earth as rain. The inconsolable Ant, driven to madness by the separation,  tore open her abdomen. Out poured the Second Animals.

The death in their Dream was not a dream. Rather it was their transfiguration, and it became the First Memory.

Amar witnessed it all as he slept in his reed boat, his paw lightly skimming the ash sea. As he slept, he, too, cried. The death of Tally was but an echo of the First Sorrow. It overwhelmed his entire body, and his paw in response slipped deeper into the ash sea.

Another memory flooded Amar.

Mira was a Second Animal, and she looked like a Great Panda except tufts of bright red fur grew between her claws. The tufts looked almost like paintbrushes -- some coming to a fine point and others flat and wide.

She spent most of her days quietly chewing bamboo observing the world around her. Mira loved the way the sun, wind, and bamboo brought the forest to life through light and shadow. She loved their dance.

Sometimes, when the wind blew from the east, she heard echoes of the First Memory. She heard it not in words but as the tickling of her bright red tufts. The breeze caught inbetween her toes, and she found herself lifting her front paws to the air. Then, as if someone else took hold, she painted the air and watched the story of Diona and Mirwais unfold before he.

A longing grew deep inside Mira that mirrored the First Sorrow. She wanted a companion. She no longer wanted to be alone.

One late afternoon when the sun was about to kiss the horizon, the air grew bitter cold and the earth warmed beneath Mira's paws. And while Mira knew she needed to endlessly chew bamboo for her body demanded its daily nourishment, all she wanted was to hibernate, to curl up in a cave and let winter pass.

The sun went to sleep and the first star appeared. It twinkled bright red the same as the tufts on her paws, and it called to her. She followed it all night across a wide, turbulent river and up a perilous precipice until she was on top of a mountain covered in hard, crisp snow.

Mira had never climbed the mountain though she had seen it many times on the Northern horizon. Now that she was on top she forgot the bright red star and looked out over the valley below. She could barely make out her bamboo home in the distance, and she felt a longing for her homeland sprout.  She watched the sun rise turning the black sky a deep violet, then navy then ultramarine and periwinkle until finally the sun was high in the azure sky.

Mira hadn't noticed her weariness and hunger mushroom as she followed the bright red star, but in the crispness of day it was impossible to ignore. Her belly rumbled and her eyes itched. There was no bamboo on the top of the mountain, and she hadn't the strength to climb back down. So she set off to find a place to sleep.

She wandered all day finding nothing. In fact, Mira had tried laying down in the snow, but as she closed her eyes waiting for the final slumber the wind visited her bright red tufts and jostled her awake.

The sun set bringing an even more bitter cold and a more desolate darkness. Mire was no longer weary; she was frantic and desperate. Her head turned furiously hoping to catch a glimpse of the bright red star of some other hope. That is when she noticed a flicker in the north. She ran and ran and ran towards that flicker until she buckled from the weight of her laborious breathing. The cold enwrapped her and turned her bones to ice. As she lifted her head for what she thought was surely her last breath, she saw a glowing cave in front of her.

With every last ounce of life, she crawled into the cave. A fire and bamboo greeted her. Grateful she ate. Then, she slept.

In her dreams, the Ant and the Jackal visited Mira. They showed her in minute detail every moment of their creation and death. What once had been whispers carried on the wind and afterimages painted in the air was now solid and clear. And the First Sorrow, which had only been but a mirror, was now physical and real.

When she woke, the fire still glowed. She watched the shadows dance on the walls, and she longed like she had never before longed for the dance of bamboo, sun, and wind. It was then that Mira knew the bamboo forest was her companion, and she also knew she would never see it again. This was the Second Sorrow.

The fire died leaving behind soot and charcoal and one tiny wisp of smoke. The wisp tickled Mira's bright red tufts and pulled her to the entrance of the cave. There in front of her was a large pool of water, and she knew exactly what to do.

Mire mixed the water and soot making the First Paint. She used her bright red tufts as the brushes she knew they were and painted the walls of the cave with images of the First Memory and the First Sorrow. When all the walls were covered and she had no more life left to give, Mira curled up in the center of the cave and welcomed her final sleep. Thus, from Mira was the First Language born carrying with it all the beauty of the Second Sorrow.

The sorrows poured form Amar's eyes and formed as a pool in his reed boat. The pool lapped Amar's back paws and woke him. He did not remember where he was or how he got there. He could only think about Mirwais and Diona and Mira. Images and emotions whorled inside him making him dizzy and the rocking of the reed boat was no longer lulling; it was nauseating.

It made him sleepy, sleepier than he was before. Amar collapsed over the side of the boat and his front paws fell deep into the ash and charcoal sea. His bushy white mustache skimmed its surface.

Another memory engulfed hum as flames consume gasoline. This time it was not of some distant history. It was of Tally.

Tally traversed a glowing white field of snow towards a looming mountain range in the South as if called by it. His diminutive frame made it seem as if he was floating instead of walking. He didn't even leave any footprints.

Tally never paused. He did not stop to take in the marvels of the snow-covered land. He did not stop when he wolves howled their hunger nearby. He did not stop when the cold bit his toes and nose causing them to crack. Tally had a singular focus of which nothing could distract: the mountain.

The sun set and rose six times, and still Tally pressed onward never eating and never sleeping until finally the steep cliffs rose before him. Then, Tally flew. He flew with the speed of the wind up the mountain. At the top, a cave greeted him. 

He quietly and quickly entered the cave.

In the middle of the cave grew the most glorious mushrooms. They were black and white with bright red hairs that looked like the bristles of a sable paint brush grew out of its cap. And they emanated the most glorious warming bronze light, which illuminated and brought to life the paintings that decorated the cave walls. Tally was mesmerized.

Before him unfolded the tale of the First Animals and the First Sorrow. Never before had he witnessed the power of the First Language, and it now made all words seem inconsequential and insignificant. It was as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes and he could finally see the world as it is not as it is perceived.

He immediately wanted to share this experience with his companion, Amar. But Amar was a whole world away. Tally knew he could never describe this beauty, this sorrow. It could only be lived.

Then, as if a chorus rode on the wind and rose from the mushrooms, a song filled the cave.

Tally born of the morning dew
the First Memory is shared with you
for as one of the last of our kind
you must preserve it for all time.
We wish not to fade from history.
Thus, take with you the First Memory.

Tally gathered the mushrooms and held them tight to his chest. The bronze light faded and so too did the First Memory.

Suddenly, Tally was surrounded by a blackness that was more than just the absence of light. It was a tangible blackness that gripped his heart and cause the deepest sorrow he had ever known. In that despair, he whispered, "Amar, where are you?"

The wind heard his whisper and rushed to his aid. It lifted Tally and carried him back to his home. There it laid him down, and Tally slept.

The next morning, Tally was covered in dew still holding the mushrooms close to his chest. He recalled a dream about a mountain and a cave covered in magnificent paintings. There was a story to share, he remembered, a story that must be told, but the details were all so fuzzy.

Groggy and still clutching the mushrooms, he rose. He rushed off to find Amar careless of the world around him. As he crossed a busy street, a silver car struck him dead. His limp body tumbled over itself until it was on the side of the road. His arms still clung to the mushroom, which now were covered by his corpse.

"Noooo!!!" Screamed Amar and he shook himself awake. Gone was the reed boat and charcoal and ash sea. Gone were the dreams dancing like white dandelion seeds on the gentle breeze. Gone was Tally. There was only Amar laying on the side of the road. 

Bright red mushroom spores covered Amar's black paws and looked like a galaxy. As the spores whirled like dervishes each memory that had visited Amar as a dream replayed itself. Mirwais and Diona. Mira. Tally. Over and over and over again. Amar wept.

It was thus that the Third Sorrow was born.

When Amar had shed his final tear, he finally understood who he was. He was the avatar of the First Animals and the herald of the First Memory.

Amar to this day wanders the Earth telling the tales of "Diona and Mirwas", of "Mira and the Cave", of "Tally and the Mushrooms" to anyone who will listen. In fact, he shared it with me on the night of the full moon in December 2011. I found a black and white mushroom capped with fine bright red hairs growing in my backyard. It called to be eaten, and eat it I did.

I fell asleep and witnessed the First Memory unfold. The next morning I woke covered in dew.

And this...? This is but my humble attempt to put into words, which are so inadequate, the Tale of Amar.

A Collar and Eyeliner

"The Lord be with you," Father O'Leary mumbled from the pulpit. He knew the automatic response and only need wait for its monotone reply. He didn't want it to come. He wanted his sheep not to be led, but ritual breeds complacency, and Catholics love their ritual. He finally was questioning its purpose. Standing in front of his congregation wasn't the ideal place for chaos, doubt, or skepticism, so he wiggled his shoulders trying to shake it from his body hoping no one would notice as they blindly kept their faith. Notice they did, but they just thought it was Father O'Leary trying to keep himself awake. He had been known to fall asleep at mass on occasion.

Barry sat at the back of church. Black ringed his eyes, a left over from the night before, and cast shadows of hope. He wanted to believe. He wanted to be among the parishioners; he wanted communion. He wanted the warmth of nostalgia and childhood memories. He longed for the black and white simplicity of sin. His life, complicated by disease and an undying belief in compassion, waxed gray. He needed a little separation.

The mass continued its dull progression. Father O'Leary droned dispassionately. His homily was a meditation on boredom that bored the congregation to the verge of dreams and disillusionment. His lack of conviction almost produced his hope: there was a young man with black around his eyes that continually dropped the song book creating a reverberation of dissonance that echoed throughout the chapel; its loud thud caught on subconscious thoughts of conformity and habituation. It became like a metronome metering the monotony of Father's monologue. It sunk deep to the point of omnipresence: everywhere and nowhere at the same time. But then the weight of ritual and prayer overwhelmed, and everyone, including Father O'Leary and Barry moved on to the Apostle's Creed.

Professing devotion to a singular being wasn't something that Barry could do. He'd seen too much to believe in one truth above all else, yet that was precisely what brought him to church. He so wanted to believe in something other than his senses and reason. He liked the concept of blind faith, the ultimate release of one's self to something otherworldly. He just couldn't accept its reality or disconnect from true responsibility. If one could repent to be forgiven, why ever bother with doing the right thing at all? He placed the song book back in its wooden placeholder and stood to leave. This wan't what he really needed. It's what he thought he needed. As he began to leave, an itchiness grew.

Everyone rose in unison with Barry. His metered book dropping wove a web between him and the rest of the congregation. It spun deep into the nether regions of free will and critical thought. He held them captive beyond the grasp of Father O'Leary's doctrine and liturgy. Being sheep, they didn't notice it wasn't time to stand. Rather it was time to kneel, to press knees on hard planks of stained wood, to be uncomfortable, to remember suffering as a component of faith. It was modern self-flagellation.

Father O'Leary watched his parishioners stand. He was momentarily baffled and scared. Had they heard his dark thoughts of doubt? Did they know how bored he was of ritual? Were they rejecting their faith? And he had a moment of clarity made manifest by the man with the black eyeliner making his way towards the exit: he loved his power; he needed his parishioners. A crack in composure brought a point of panic and a scream let loose snapped the invisible strings connecting his congregation to Barry.

It sounded more like a whistle or a soprano's high note. It was more melodic than a scream, but underneath the melody was untethered emotion: a feeling of despair, disjointedness, disbelief. It was eerily intimate. It was that which Barry was searching for, and when it tickled the tiny hairs in his ears he abruptly stopped, turned, and stared at Father O'Leary.

The congregation stood between these two men locked in limbo. They buzzed like fireflies trapped in a jar aimlessly wandering, searching for an exit, unaware of what kept them trapped. Without their guide, their leader, their father they were left directionless and hopeless. They were waiting, like those trapped fireflies, for their last breath of air until their light was extinguished.

Father O'Leary stood motionless in front of the pulpit. He watched his fireflies like the child who trapped them: detached and slightly titillated at the decreasing oxygen and increasing lethargy. He now knew the true power he yielded, and he hoped it would respark his faith.

"My dear congregation," Father O'Leary lulled in his best imitation of his best Sunday voice. "You are my children. You are the reason I am here. You must not leave."

Barry turned again to leave. This wasn't his place any longer. He had left it behind when he put on his mascara at nineteen, and it still wasn't his place. It was a mistake coming back. He should have known this, but his body ached for relief and simplicity. His body wanted a final healing before its final release. The disease was growing. He could feel it multiplying underneath his skin causing incredible pain and discomfort and sensitivity to touch. Father O'Leary's message meant nothing to him. He wasn't a child and didn't want to be treated as one. At least not in these final moments. He wanted peace.

The congregation, conflicted, didn't know which way to face. Half stared blankly at Father O'Leary. Half faced Barry's back. They were still trapped somewhere between devotion and disbelief.

"Stop!" Father O'Leary demanded, and something broke inside of him. "Stop!" He yelled again as tears streamed down his face. "Sto..." and he couldn't even finish the word because he found himself falling to the wooden floor.

Barry heard the pain. It was more real than the aches in joints or burning red rash that covered his body. He wanted, no needed, to comfort that pain. Something told him this was his healing. He rushed to Father O'Leary's side.

"My dear child," Father O'Leary began.

"I am no child," replied Barry.

"Forgive me. Please forgive me. I have failed you."

"I can offer no forgiveness, Father. Only solace."

The disease quickened its deadly progression. The red itchy rash bubbled and blistered. Joints popped. A fever burned and boiled blood.

Father O'Leary just cried. Cried and cried.

The entire congregation witnessed Barry clutch Father O'Leary in his arms and kiss his forehead. They watched as Barry's body turned fire red and blood flowed from his eyes. They beheld Father O'Leary's body go limp. They bore witness to the passage of life and the relinquishment of power, doubt, and belief.

They were free.

Shadows and Footsteps

 
There from behind the shadow of a memory almost forgotten it stares at him calling him towards itself beckoning him to just be. He approached cautiously familiar and reminded of time unknown. The soft footstep on the dirt below echoes through the pines and dampened sunlight. It reaches his ears as a whispered verse: "We must hunger after our deliverance." (--Gandhi)

Immediately, his belly rumbles and reverberates its response, "I do not wish to be delivered." The stranger in the shadows disagrees. The sunlight as it dances behind the fog disagrees. The pines as the wind rustles its needles disagrees.

"Now!" Says the footstep as it gathers dust and dirt forming a small ball skirting across the ground.

He clasps his hands over his mouth signaling his disagreement and fear. The dusty dirt ball halts its progression and lays itself to rest. The footstep retracts back to the shadows, and the stranger is gone.

He is so alone he cries. He wishes he was braver. He wishes he had strength. He wishes for his deliverance. But all is gone.

So he leaves too.

Of Accordions and Monsters: A Poetic Pause

Julius stood on the platform, his shoulder length black hair rocking thanks to exuberance and wind, waiting for his train. It was supposed to be here twenty-two minutes ago. The monitor said he had another seventeen minutes.

Other travelers stood on the platform too. Each in their own world unaware of anyone else. Darkness grew making visible large white circles from lights above. Everyone avoided the light. It was as if light and person repelled each other as two positive ends of a magnet repel each other: there was no physical way one would come in contact with the other.

At home, Julius' auntie paced. She only let him leave because they perfectly planned everything. She was reluctant to let her thirteen-year-old travel to his audition alone. There were too many monsters. She knew. She still kept one in her drawer she picked up at eleven. It only came out now when she was stressed. She ran to her room, pulled it out, and lit up. "Where is he?" She worried.

Seventeen minutes became thirty-four. Darkness became black. Repulsion became stronger. Exuberance became anxiety.

Julius didn't notice time pass or darkness become black. He was remembering his audition, the spot light, his rendition of "China Girl" that no one else got. The director asked, "Why 'China Girl'?" "My auntie likes it," he replied. He liked it too, but thirteen-year-olds aren't supposed to like old people music.

Ash fell into the crowded ash tray. Her monster unleashed, Julius' auntie hacked violently. Time ticked on her digital clock next to her bed. "Forty-six minutes," she said. "Forty-six minutes." Counting continued. Another drag drawn.

More travelers appeared on the platform. It was as if being in darkness multiplied them. They were amoeba splitting, creating new beings. They were viruses.

Julius had now been waiting over an hour. Still no train. Still stuck. He knew he should call his auntie, but that meant finding a phone. He didn't want to weave between people looking for a phone booth. He didn't want to ask for help. He was grown and could take care of himself. His auntie only need wait.

A circle of light on the far edge of the platform sparkled. Julius noticed it. He saw it dance and flutter. He wanted to dance as it danced. He wanted to be in the spot light just as he'd been in the spot light on stage. An itch scratched now pleaded for more scratching. He started humming "China Girl". The light responded rhythmically swaying its beat. Somewhere above the platform an accordion echoed it antiphon. Julius quieted straining to hear poetry and verse.

Alone among many
Light repels dark
Step into the spot light
Let me make my mark

There on the platform
Trapped in time
You sway and hum
I'm waiting for your rhyme

Dance with me gingerly
Step into my spot light
It's time dear, Julius
Do not fear the night

Her eyes blinked close. There was a lullaby somewhere in a dream. It was one of those childhood lullabies that sound so sweet by lyrically menace. She didn't want it. She didn't want to be lulled to sleep. She was waiting for Julius. Her monster burnt her finger, and she snapped awake. The digital clock read 11:49. It was too late. He should be home. She contemplated driving to the train station, but her monster roared. She lit another and began counting again.

The travelers were numerous. They crowded the blackness. They pushed its expanse threatening to burst light. They were agitated, angry, ablaze.

The accordion kept singing its nighttime song. Julius searched for its origins not with eyes but with hear and ears. Eyelids closed he felt. Its high timbre shook shoulders. The click of keys tickled toes. Th back and forth fanning propelled his pelvis. Julius moved towards the dancing circle at the edge of the platform.

The clock read 11:59. Julius' auntie, too aware of midnight hauntings, cried. She wanted him home. She wanted safety and protection. She wanted innocence and naiveté.

Julius stood at the edge of light. The music sprung from the lightbulb above. He knew that without sight. He knew everything as only children know everything. He lifted his foot steady for his next step.

The travelers buzzed. The monitor read "Arriving". A low distant grumble reverberated down the platform. Julius' auntie fell into a dark sleep. Together, it pushed little Julius. He stumbled and stepped into the light.

The accordion stopped. Travelers boarded. An ember fell from auntie's monster igniting bed and bedroom.

Julius held. It was his spot light. It was his verse. It was his.

And he had no clue what to do next.

The Specter and the Volcano

  
The specter visited Miri not when it was night nor in dark spaces. It visited her when the clouds blanketing the sky cast monochrome; that unique time when everything and everyone fade into backgrounds; when there is no distinguishing between object, subject, thing, being. It made itself known by minimal movements deftly defying gravity. Miri liked its visits. She prayed for cloudy days.

On the other side of the world, a volcano beckoned and billowed. Its low soft grumble invaded dreams across nations. People stirred, tossed, flung arms and legs as if a spasm burst from bellies. Miri's dreams were quiet. Her specter already warned her about its friend. "Soon, I will never leave," it said one Tuesday afternoon. "I shall walk among you thanks to my friend, volcano. We will never part, dear Miri. We shall be as one. You must remember until that time comes."

Miri woke each morning eagerly rushing to her computer hoping for news about volcanic activity, disappointed when none was found. Time ticked forward, and Miri's anamnesis waned. Her childhood friend became an adult hallucination that faded with each ray of sunlight or moonglow. Each visit was more fugacious leaving less and less on which to hold. The hope of permanent union became smaller than a poppy seed.

And the world moved forward too. Quickly. The pace of lazy afternoons cavorting with friends was replaced with instantaneous internet connections demanding continuous response. Casual business lunches spent listening and inquiring shifted to conference calls about bottom lines and increased efficiency. Time became smaller and more incremental: measurements meant to lengthen only shortened. Faster and faster everything spun. It was so accelerated dreams were lost.

Still the volcano beckoned and billowed.

Miri sat in her cube -- ear buds plugging external sounds and eyes mesmerized by green flashing cursors -- as outside clouds bubbled. A soft pitter patter cascaded down windows only a few feet away. Lights crackled and thunder clapped. Miri was static; lost between the virtual and the real. She didn't notice the gray wash everything. She didn't feel the tiny flick of her specter caress her cold, pale cheek. Hope, even the tiny poppy seed-sized hope, had shrunk. And so too did the specter vanish from recognition.

No one noticed it. No one. Everyone experienced it. The moment the volcano spewed its ash everything halted. Airports closed. Computers turned off. Phones hung up. Cars stalled. Business ceased. The back and forth buzz of clatter and commotion silenced. Monochrome covered all.

In the universal gray, shadows danced.

Miri's screen went black and her music stopped. She felt a warm itch on her cheek and scratched. Something tickled its response. She had the vague idea of a cloudy Tuesday afternoon and a hint of remembrance. Annoyance at interruption almost eclipsed childhood hopes, but hopes are tricky things: while shrunk beyond ocular perspicacity they never truly cease. They infect your body waiting to be recalled, only their awakening is more violent, catastrophic, cathartic. They are like chicken pox becoming shingles.

The itch on Miri's cheek mushroomed and soon enveloped her whole body. She was on fire, flush red, a stark contract to her cinereal surroundings. Her body burned quickly and noiselessly. Her curly black hair now a charcoal burnt scalp. Her once freckled skin a crusty scab. Her sunny sundress soot beneath her broken feet.

In that moment of combustion, she remembered; a door opened; the specter entered. They became one. And right before their communion one emotion pervaded everything: hope.

On the other side of the world, a volcano wailed, "The time of the specter is here."

The only thing that moved was Miri.

The Razed Playground: A Parable of a Dream

     
Have you ever been told, "You can't do that"? This is a story that proves everyone else wrong. But it does come at a price.

She sat on the playground with her toy trucks, pile of broken twigs, and a few rocks she dug up from the dirt patch adjacent to the playground. It was her construction site, and she was waiting for her crew to being building her city. They were over an hour late.

Yesenia picked up her dump truck and inspected the wheels. Three out of the four worked. The fourth hung wobbly off its pin-sized axis. It wouldn't rotate. She picked up another truck and did the same thing. All in all there were five broken wheels on six trucks. She grabbed her olive shoulder bag, the one she carried the trucks over in, and pulled out a small notebook and pencil she stole from the library. She wrote down which trucks needed which wheel repaired and threw the notebook back into her back. Still no friends arrived.

The real construction crew arrived at the dirt patch and began their digging, hammering, and sawing. The noise called Yesenia, and she hopped off the playground and walked towards the dirt patch. The crew was all wearing canary hard hats and neon orange coveralls. Each on had a specific, discernible task. The man with the clipboard checked everyone's work. The one at the table saw was cutting wood of different lengths. The ones with the shovels were either digging trenches or filling them in. There was one gentleman standing in the corner, chest held high, hard hat slightly crooked, closely watching everything. The man with the clipboard checked in with him after every visit with a crew member.

Yesenia loved the order and control of it all. She wanted to be the one with the slightly crooked hard hat. She just needed her friend to show up so she could begin being boss. Thirty more minutes passed, and she was still by herself.

The dirt patch was transforming before her eyes. It was flatter and smoother than earlier in the morning. The trenches outlined different size boxes making the dirt patch look almost like a quilt. Now, some of the shovelers were digging deep holes for large wooden posts. The guy at the table saw was cutting cutting the posts that would soon be filling the holes. The man with the clipboard was smiling. The man watching it all was also smiling.

Yesenia was smiling. Her friends still weren't there, and she didn't care. She was happy watching everything from the top of the slide and taking notes. She considered it good fortune that she had this time to prepare. Her notebook was full of roles and instructions for each on of her friends. She was now ready and ecstatic to build.

A loud scream erupted from the far end of the dirt patch, and  men ran to find it. Yesenia slid down the slide and joined the crew at the construction site. There in one of the holes was a man crying, blood pouring from a gash above his eye. The foreman with the clipboard ran to a truck parked near by and returned with a white plastic box. The man with the crooked hard hat furrowed his brow and squinted his green eyes; he dabbed the wound with a red handkerchief he pulled from his back pocket. Blood continued spilling to the ground.

The foreman man opened the first aid kit and started dressing the wound. After a number of bandages and gauze, it was apparent the injured man had to see a doctor. Nothing stopped the bleeding. The boss looked looked worried and rubbed his hands back and forth. He surveyed the dirt patch and pulled clipboard man aside. Yesenia followed.

"Harvey needs ta get ta hospital. Ya take him. I'll try and keep on schedule," said the man with the green eyes.

"You sure? We need to finish setting all the beams today or we'll fall behind. We need to be ready for concrete tomorrow," replied the man whose clipboard now sat on the dirt beside his feet.

"We need ta keep our men safe. That's the most important thing. Just go. I'll figure it out."

Yesenia looked back at the playground. Her friends weren't there. She turned back to the conversation between the two men and interjected, "I can help! I've been watching you all morning. What can I do?"

The two men turned to her and noticed her brown pigtails, ruddy cheeks, and dirty jeans. They both let out a small chuckle that reached Yesenia's ears and made her frown.

"I just want to help. Isn't there anything I can do?" She snapped.

The green eyed man replied, "Kiddo. Yer a little too young. Thanks for the offer, but ya could get hurt."

Hearing the reply, Yesenia sat down on the dirt. "I'm not moving until you find me something to do."

The foreman tapped his boss on the shoulder and whispered in his ear. The corners of the green eyed man's lips lifted. "Of course," he whispered loudly.

He turned to Yesenia. "We have something ya can do, but ya must follow our rules. They're there to keep ya safe. Do you understand?"

Yesenia jumped to her feet. "Of course I do! What can I do, and what are the rules?"

A few minutes later and Yesenia was holding the clipboard in her hands and a yellow hard hat pushed her ears out so she looked a little like Dumbo. The injured worker and the original clipboard man left for the hospital. Everyone else was back at work digging holes, cutting wood, and placing the posts in the holes. Yesenia tiptoed carefully between the stations and reported the progress to the boss.

"Everything looks okie dokie," she said. "I'm paying close attention to their work and the items on the clipboard just like you told me. So far nine of the sixteen items are done!"

As she was giving her report, her friends strolled up to the playground. They saw her in the construction site and waved. She ignored them and continued her report. When she was finished she asked the boss, "What's next?"

"It looks to me like yer friends have arrived. Why don't ya go play with 'em and leave the construction to us," he replied.

Yesenia began fidgeting. She was torn. She wanted so much to run to her friends, tell them about helping out at the dirt patch, and begin building her own city, but she also loved being a part of the construction crew. Here she had a finite task and knew exactly what her role was: to check off tasks on her list. There she knew what her role would be too - boss - but with it came more responsibility. She didn't know which she preferred.

"Could my friends help you out," she asked.

"No, Yesenia, they can't. It's too dangerous here for kiddos."

"But I'm a kid, and I'm helpin' you out."

He laughed. This time it wasn't a small chuckle, but a full bellied chortle. Its harsh braying tone hit Yesenia's ears and she started crying. She knew it wasn't a laugh to humor her. It was a laugh making fun of her. She turned her back to her boss.

"Listen, sweetie," he said, "yer a girl. Sure ya've been helping me out, but I only gave ya that task to make sure ya didn't get in our way. This ain't a place for ya. Go along and play with yer friends. We've already had one man injured. Don't need a kiddo injured too. Especially a girl as pretty as you."

Yesenia stopped her crying and whipped around to face the boss, her black hair a messy, untamed flurry. "Just because I am a girl and a kid doesn't mean I can't help. You just wait and see mister boss."

Green eyed man laughed a little more as he turned away from Yesenia and returned to the construction site. Yesenia grabbed the clipboard determined not to give it back, and joined her friends on the playground.

Many years later, Yesenia was the lead contractor on the new world's tallest building. She surveyed the construction site, which currently housed a housing complex, with her clipboard in hand, scribbling notes and secrets she wouldn't show anyone else. It needed to be razed for construction to begin.

Next to the complex was a playground that also needed demolition. She meandered over to the slide and inspected it. There in the shade underneath the slide was a toy truck half buried in the sand. She picked it up and fiddled with the wheels all four of them were broken.

She picked up her pen and made one last note on her clipboard: "To childhood dreams, may they be razed with care."

The Red Dot(s): November 23, 2009

This is the journal of Martin Morowitz.

***
So...I didn't get to you yesterday. Sorry. It was a hectic day of cooking and entertaining. I set time aside in the morning to start this story, but instead called my grandma. (She's reading Going Rogue.) It seemed a better use of time. At one point during our conversation, I could have sworn she said something about a new package of red dots she just bought to price her homemade baked goods she was selling at the Christ, the Redeemer Bake Sale. But I could be crossing my wires. All I can think about are the red dots.

Which brings me to the beginning of my story.

More...

***
To read the first entry in The Red Dot(s), click here.

The Red Dot(s): November 21, 2009

This is the journal of Martin Morowitz. I've had some really weird things happen to me recently. All involve red dots. I am not exactly sure what they mean or why they keep showing up in the most random places -- old journals, television commercials, gossip rags, murals on buildings, people's clothing -- but I will figure this out. I have to.

More...

Kiki's Pogo Stick: A Consequence of Inaction

This story was inspired by two things. First, a young girl was pogo sticking up our street on Sunday. The noise of the pogo stick was loud and reminded me of fun and childhood. Second, I watched Cornel West on The Colbert Report last night. He said, "Indifference to evil is more evil than evil itself." Here is the interview:

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Cornel West
www.colbertnation.com
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor Michael Moore

And here is the story...

***
Kiki jumped on her pogo stick and hopped up the street behind her mother. everyone in the neighborhood could hear the squeal of the spring as it bounced. Some looked out their windows trying to place the noise. Others sat behind their closed curtains cursing the disruptive boing. One opened his front door and yelled at Kiki and her mother, "Can't you just shut the hell up. That fucking pogo stick is goddamn noisy!"

Kiki kept bouncing. All the other neighbors kept quiet. Kiki's mom replied, "We''ll be around the block in a minute. If you go back inside, you won't notice us at all."

"Go to hell,"said the balding man with hazel eyes, tufts of white hair where sideburns should have been.

"Don't talk to me that way. And stop cussing in front of my daughter. That's more foul than her pogo stick. No one wants to hear it!" Kiki's mom turned her back on the pudgy man and continued walking up the hill. He slammed his door shut and followed.

Kiki paid no attention to the fight quickly escalating around her. She kept a steady one hop, two hop, three hop, four hop as she climbed the hill. Occasionally, gravity grabbed her and on hop three or four she slid backwards losing a little ground. She'd compensate and push really hard and jump further ahead to make up the lost distance. She laughed a little every time this happened followed by a long, deep breath.

"Don't turn your back on me!" Screamed the old man. "I was talking to you and your little prick daughter."

Kiki's mother whipped around her deep black hair flying everywhere; a small piece grazed Kiki's eye. Kiki lost her balance, the pogo stick skipped, and gravity took control. Suddenly, Kiki and her pogo stick were on top of the man's foot.

"OUCH! Get the fuck off me," he howled.

People peeked out of their windows watching the entire scene explode. Their eyes darted from Kiki to her mother to the old man to the pogo stick. Their hushed whispers saying "We should do something." "But it's not my place." "Everything will be fine, just fine." "Should we call the cops?"

Soon, doors were being locked, windows were shutting, curtains were being drawn. The convenience store clerk closed the store's metal gate. The road repair people started jackhammering to drown out the noise. The post woamn put on her earphones and changed her route to avoid the fight.

"Don't you dare talk to my daughter like that." Kiki's mom's eyes widened and her voice boomed, amplified by protectiveness.

Kiki was stunned. She had fallen on her butt and it was sore, slightly throbbing. She let out a little whimper that got overpowered by the jackhammers and screaming.

The old man kicked his left foot trying to get Kiki and her pogo stick off it and his foot caught Kiki right in the place she was hurt. She let out a little cry that reached her mother's ears.

"Do NOT touch my daughter! You WILL be sorry! I don't care how old you are."

"Then get your daughter off my foot!"

More doors locked. More shades were  drawn. More whispers filled homes.

Kiki grabbed her pogo stick and looked it over. Everything seemed to be fine. The pain in her butt, while still there, was subsiding. She grabbed her mother's hand. "Let's go. I'm okay. I won't play on it any more," she said amid the two grown ups who were still screaming at each other, fingers pointing at each others' faces.

Kiki's mom screeched, "That's not the point," as she ripped her hand out of Kiki's. The force of this action threw Kiki off balance again. This time the pogo stick went flying and anded with a large metallic clang down the street. It toppled on top of itself and finally rested at the bottom of the street. Kiki ran after it.

"If you don't back the fuck off, I'm gonna punch you!" Yelled Kiki's mother, her face red.

"Try it, you bitch," he shouted, his wrinkles smoothing from tension.

"You don't think I will! Just cause you're old doesn't mean I won't."

"And just cause I'm old doesn't mean I can't fight!"

All of the neighbors remained in their houses distracting themselves with television or cooking dinner or playing on the computer. No one did anything.

Kiki's mom and the old man finally stopped their fighting. The old man whispered, "This isn't fucking worth it," and turned his back to Kiki's mom.

Kiki's mom sighed, "What just happened," as she looked for Kiki.

Kiki sat at the bottom of the hill next to the stop sign. Her pogo stick, in two distinct and broken parts, cradled in her arms.

The Finch and the Apple: A Tall Tale of Forgiveness

This story was inspired by a dream my husband had. In it, a bird flew into my mouth. My husband tried to get it to come out, but it was trying to climb out my ear. He doesn't remember if it ever flew away. 

Here is my interpretation of the story.

***
He prayed every morning to God recalling the previous days events and asking for forgiveness when he did something wrong or hurtful or foul even when he wasn't the perpetrator but the victim thinking that he was still somehow to blame. His prayers would sometimes take hours to complete. He rattled his transgressions off, list-style, point by boring points sometimes lost among the mundane. His knees ached from the hours of kneeling on the thinly carpeted floor. He was often late for school excused by his mother's note. He had more than 50 of these excuses on file each year.

One morning after a strange dream where a bird flew into his mouth and built a nest between his ears and incessantly chirped making him unable to pray and hear the word of God, he woke up, showered, ate his breakfast of Pop Tarts and Sunny D, and got to school on time. His teacher looked at him, unsure who he was, and said, "Good morning. You're name again?"

He replied, "Josef Benedict Smith, III."

"Good to finally meet you," and his teacher marked him present for the first time that year.

Josef was in a fabulous mood all day. He even caught himself whistling or humming unaware he was doing it, the song reminiscent of his dream. He smiled as he passed other students in the hall. He didn't sit alone in the cafeteria eating his packed lunch of a ham and American cheese sandwich with Miracle Whip, banana, Chips Ahoy, and strawberry-kiwi Capri Sun. Rather, he risked sitting next to students from his early morning class and they said: "Hello. I'm Sally. Have a seat. We were just talking about..." or "Hey. What's up?" or "God! I fucking hate that teacher. Don't you?" He didn't talk to anyone. He just sat quietly, eating, nodding occasionally in acknowledgment or disagreement. No one could tell.

He arrived home and was greeted by a little bird with yellow patches on its head and breast the rest of its body a brownish gray perched on the apple tree his mom and him planted a few years back. He recognized the bird from his dream and walked to the tree quietly hoping to not disturb it the bird. It just sat there as he approached.

When Josef got close enough to almost touch the bird, it flew off the branch, and Josef gasped loudly remembering the vision from his dream and the bird zipped into his mouth carrying with it a small piece of apple from the tree. Shocked, Josef closed his mouth and swallowed hard, and the bird and the tidbit of apple it carried glided down his esophagus and filled his belly. He became dizzy and stumbled to his room. He plopped down on the bed and the room spun.

Soon, he found himself lost among a landscape of Honeycrisps, finches, bright sunlight, and soft moonglow. The song of dreams echoed creating a beautiful round filling everything.

"Hello," whispered Josef. "Hello?"

He meandered the rows of trees ducking out of day into night and back again. He watched the ochers and viridians and crimsons and grays zip across the sky creating streaks of vibrant color that danced upon his eyes. He became dizzy again, the kind of dizzy right before throwing up, and fell to his knees. He started coughing and small strands of spittle flew out of his mouth. Next, he was heaving, stomach convulsing, and out flew the bird, the apple gone from its beak, wings dripping with saliva.

Josef was exhausted from the ordeal and laid on the grass looking up at the half day, half night sky. The finch hopped on his shoulder shaking its body to remove the spit. A little piece landed in his eye. He wiped it away with the cuff of his t-shirt.

"Hello," sang the finch.

"Hello," said Josef as if talking to a finch were nothing out of the ordinary.

"Why do you pray, Josef," asked the finch, its voice high and airy.

Josef hesitated. Then, replied, "To be forgiven?"

"Forgiveness, dear Josef, is not the land of finches or gods." The finch flew off Josef's shoulder and joined the myriad of finches in the apple orchard as another line in the beautiful round still echoing everywhere. Its gentle lullaby lulled Josef to sleep.

The aroma of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and apple pie wafted up to his bedroom and tickled the hairs inside his nose. He woke up -- the green and yellow walls of his room slowly coming in to focus, a small song outside his window, his mother yelling, "Josef! Josef! Dinner time!" He pushed himself off of his bed and walked to the window. A small finch greeted him with a cocked head and a wink. He smiled.

"I'm coming!" He yelled down to his mom. "Just one minute."

"Hurry up or it'll get cold," she yelled back.

Josef looked at the finch and said, "Thanks for the adventure. I think I understand."

He walked downstairs and joined his mother at the dinner table.

"Mom, why do you pray," he asked.

"Josef," she laughed. "That is a silly question," and dismissed him.

"No, mom. Why do you pray?"

"I don't know, Josef. I just do. I learned it from my parents, and I've been doing it ever since. It's just a habit now, I guess. And besides, if we don't ask God for forgiveness, who do we ask?"

"But what if God can't forgive us?"

"Josef, let's stop this silly conversation. God always forgives. It's His job.

"Now, how was your day?"

Josef smiled. "Good. It was the best."

"Excellent," said his mother as she started sorting through the pile of mail next to her dinner plate. "Now, clean your plate so we can have some apple pie."

The next morning, and every morning after, Josef awoke humming the song of the finches with the taste of apples upon his lips.

The Knock

It started with a very simple knock made many years ago. He came to my house having seen my work in other places and then finding my address through an internet search. He knocked on the door, and I thought it was the mailwoman. He came to ask me about my work and how I had created it so innovatively. He wasn't the first person to show up at my door, but he was the first that knew a lot about me and asked insightful questions. He made me want to talk to him and tell him everything, even against my own instincts.

Well, at the end of that conversation, he leaned in close to the point where I could smell the stale caffeine on his breath and asked to see something new, something others hadn't seen yet. I was flattered. I needed that stroke to my ego having toiled so hard to create my masterwork and having felt no appreciation from anyone else.

Let me digress for a moment. When you do the work I do, you can sometimes get so cut off from others that you just create in a bubble and hope to god that it will be loved. Yes, you can invite your friends, family and colleagues over and get their feedback, but that is not the same as having created around others and having gotten that tiny piece of criticism that changes design and scope instantaneously. When you always have to search out critique versus it spontaneously being give yo you you lose some of the creativity and conflict that is essential for a better product.

He came at the right moment: that time when I wasn't looking for feedback or critique. I immediately seized the opportunity hoping it would help me find that spark that would push a breakthrough. I knew he had to have shown up for a reason other than just showering me with compliments and gushing about my brilliance.

I took him to my large white work room filled with gadgets and machines and showed him my new work. He was awed. It was such an honest reaction he couldn't even feign restraint. I immediately lost any respect I had for him. Where were the comments: "This is a piece of shit!" "I mean really you thought this was good work?" "I would have done it this way." I wanted him to be hard and unyielding in his critique of me and my creation.

Instead, it was all: "This is marvelous." "I could never have done anything like this." "It is just brilliant." "I'm sure it will be a big success." Yes! All of my work is a big success. So fuck you! I don't need you to point out the obvious. I need you to tear it apart, tell me what's wrong with it, be fucking critical. I need you to have a thought other than praise and compliments.

While staring at the new work, he asked how I made it. I told him in broad brush strokes the meticulous process used to create it. I told him about the hours toiling on my hands and knees, the straining of my eyes, and my aching back. I showed him the tools I used to create my work. I displayed my materials. I was fucking bored, and I wanted nothing to more than to get him out of my house. He just kept blathering on and on.

Finally, I told him I had to get back to work and "Would you kindly leave?" He obliged and started walking with me to the front door, but before I was able to push him out and slam the door shut, he asked "Would you mind if I took a piece of your creation with me? I would be honored to have a piece of your work."

I just wanted him our. I wanted to be left alone now that I was in a piss-bitter mood. I wanted to harness this idiot's complete lack of originality into something new, but he needed to get out before I could begin. So I said, "Sure. But it is in my work room. Would you kindly step outside, and I'll bring it to you." I had every intention of slamming the door behind me, locking it, and calling the police.

But instead, he said, "Don't worry. I grabbed a piece on our way out. I had no intention of taking it without permission. I just wanted to feel it in my hand for as long as possible. I mean you are a genius, and I wanted that genius to rub off on me."

Once again against my best intuition, I said, "Fine. Take it, and please leave. I must get back to work."

He left, and I went back to my work room and stared blankly at my creation frustrated that he liked it and angry at myself for having entertained him for so long. I immediately destroyed my work and started over.

I was fucking shocked when he showed up in the local paper a week later. He gave an interview to a reporter that had been following my work for many years. The article did nothing for my reputation of being difficult or, as many like to call me, a "character". In fact, much of the article painted me as someone who was ungrateful and inhospitable, an asshole who has let his ego get to his head.

These are comments I am not unused to. It goes with the territory when you are creative or innovative or push the boundaries of what is "normal" or acceptable". My work has always evoked very strong reactions from others, and I have accepted that there is always someone that thinks you are a piece of shit. I just say "Yup" and move on. What pissed me off about this article was that I thought he loved my work and was a fan. I did not expect him, of all people, to sell me out to a reporter.

After reading the article and letting its filthy message ferment in cycles of depression and anger, I called the reporter to tell my side of the story. She agreed to come to my home and do an entire piece on my life and work. This provided the motivation I needed to create something new, something that would be unveiled to the world and awe them link nothing else had.

I set to work creating, building, constructing, planning. I wanted to visually represent my thesis: complexity is simply simplicity repeated repeatedly. I wanted to find a way to harness that structure and take it further. I wanted to repeatedly repeat complexity. And I wanted to do so using the topic of identity.

It was a difficult undertaking, but I knew no one else was doing this work. It was going to be glorious. And I would convince the reporter that I was original and unique, a true innovator.

The reporter knocked exactly as the clock struck noon, and I opened the door after her second knock. I brought her to my living room to begin the interview and tell her about my new work. I wanted to build up her anticipation, so when I revealed my work she would be speechless. I knew it would be a hard task to leave a reporter speechless, but I stove for nothing less.

We sat on my orange and red plaid couch sipping tea and eating cucumber sandwiches I prepared. She asked questions like: "How do you start?" "What are your influences?" "What do you say to those people that call you pompous?" "Why do you think he dislikes you so much?" And with each question I found a way to bring it back to my new work.

I said, "I don't think he dislikes me. Actually, I think he sees a lot of himself in me and my new work. He has found things about himself he doesn't like. As you know, I have always dealt in complexity, simplicity, and identity. My new work is all about reflecting that which one does not see about one's self. It is about seeing the complexity within and beyond our selves."

We kept this banter up for almost an hour until I finally said, "So, do you want to see this new work? But I must warn you, you might not like what you see."

And she refused!

I was outraged. Why in the fucking hell would she come all this way to interview me and not see my work? She had been covering me for eight years, and she had always wanted a sneak peek so that she could scoop all of the other papers and reporters. I had always been loyal to her and granted her exclusive access. Now that there is some other fucktard that has a story to tell about me, she doesn't even want to see my work. What? Does interest in me and my work so easily fade? Am I just a fad?

She placed her hand on my shoulder and said, "I hope you enjoy the article. I know I'll enjoy writing it. Ciao." She was in her Mazda 3 and off my property in less than a minute. I slammed the door, walked to my work room, and destroyed the new work once again, screaming the entire time.

The article in the paper was promoted as a scathing expose of my fucking ego. I included this:

"__________ thinks his work is more original than anything anyone is working on, but I could only remember the call from his previous visitor and these word of caution his visitor gave me, 'He is a drone. Nothing he does is original. It is all stolen from others.' So when he asked me to see his work, I politely declined because everything he told me about it I had already heard from his previous visitor. And I had no desire to stroke his ego any further. I knew that if I saw his work I would be forced to tell him how utterly dull it was and how it was a ripoff of someone else's work."

She trahsed me and my work, and in doing so she threw my career and life in the gutter. How could I ever respond to her dribble? If she is already claiming how utterly unoriginal my work was without ever seeing it, what could I do to prove her wrong?

I decided to create something completely new and then host a reception at my house.

I will not bore you with any of the details or even any of the stories about the reception. It was all a fucking failure. It didn't happen because no one was going to show up. He stole all of my glory when he hosted an opening at his home and unveiled a work almost exactly like mine a week before my reception was even announced.

Had I known about his opening, I would have attended and showed how big of a fucking fraud he was. I would have brough my work and called him a thief and a liar in front of everyone. I would have destroyed his career the way he was destroying mine.

Unfortunately, I found out about his opening through an article in the paper by that damned reporter after the event. She called him "brilliant", a "one of a kind thinker and tinkerer", "someone that pushes the limits of originality, complexity, and identity", and wrote "His work forces the viewer to see themselves differently. It is about reflecting that which one does not see about one's self. It is about seeinf the complexity within and beyond our selves."

What? She described his work exactly as I described mine. I immediately called the reporter and demanded she print a correction that she attribute the concepts of his work to me. I clearly was working on this before he was. Didn't she remember our conversation only a few months ago? But since I did not get her personally, I had to leave this all as a message on her voicemail. I ended my message with a demand she call me back.

I got no response, and, as I was so despondent b this point, I didn't even bother to call her agina. I resigned to just push on and create something that was so outstanding I would be in the limelight once more. I destroyed my work, yet again, and started over.

Over the next three years, this same cycle continues. I created something in solitude telling no one of my work for fear that someone would steal it. And right before I was about to show it to the world he would throw a party or a street fair or a concert in a bar and would reveal something almost exactly like mine. Then, I would destroy my work and start all over again just ot have him best me every time.

I became a recluse. I no longer went to the grocery store for fear of hearing gossip about him and how marvelous and intellectual he was. I stopped reading the local paper because every now and then there was an article about him and I couldn't bare the thought of seeing his name in print. I talked to no one, not ever family, for fear that any word I uttered to anyone else could be gleaned for brilliance and originality and be used against me ot used to create something similar to my creations. I was completely alone, and I hoped that this absolute isolation would ensure my success.

Three years of repeated creation and destruction took its toll on me leaving a shell of bitterness and anger with no energy to do anything but wallow in memories of my former glorious work. I lived in a world of nostalgia constantly rereading press clippings, reviewing drafts of old concepts, touching the exteriors of things. Some days I would lie in bed all day with the journals of my life spread in all directions just thumbing the pages too exhausted to even look at them let alone read them.

I carried on in this self-pitying state for almost a year letting it seep into the spaces unseen in my reflection creating a void. Nostalgia unlocked a new image of myself one that was stripped of ego and left me lighter and thinner. I covered all mirrors and locked away all of my cameras fearing a sudden glance at my reflection would break my egoless self and that the camera's lens would unwittingly capture a moment that was meant to pass. I removed everything from my work room, painted its interiors black, and only returned items of simple linear design that were also black. I was constructing an external void to my internal one, a room of no distractions or originality, a space where nothering entered or escaped, a place where my new work would emerge free from constraints.

Once these tasks were completed, I was ready to begin.

I worked in a blackness darker than midnight completely reliant on mu intuition to guide my work. I had become accustomed to bright florescent light and white walls with hours of plotting and planning. I had always been surrounded by diagrams, models, contraptions, tools, and machines. My previous work was created in clutter, weighed down by structure. And in the expanse that only pitch black can bring, I found it.

I am not exactly sure what it was, but, as I was fumbling around trying to fin a chair in which to rest, my linky brushed something slimy and spongy. I jumped and pulled back my hand suddenly afraid of what else was in my void. But my hnd reached out of its own accord. I tried stopping it, I didn't want to feel that mucous like thing again, but my brain and hand weren't communicating. Simultaneously, a dull orange glow started permeating the room. It took my eyes a long time to comprehend that it was getting lighter in my work room, and it seemed sudden when I was able to make out corners and edges. The room also started willing with the scent of manure and raw earth. It tickled my nose and a sneeze violently escaped. The sneeze's spray covered the thing I touched which, until that point, was still unseen, and the chuncks of snot and saliva glistened in the dull orange glow revealing an amorphous glob.

My hand still reached towards it and it reach back until it completely filled the room, and I was covered in a fibrous slime. You would think and expect that as one is covered your breathing would become laborious and quick because panic sets in. My reaction was completely the opposite. I relaxed and let iy consume me. I mean nother that was not an extention of me was within this room. I had made sure of it when constructing my void, so sure this was to be my next great work. What harm could come from release of self to one's creation?

As I breathed deeply, the damply cool and warmly heavy air filled my lungs, and carried on the tiny oxygen molecules were miniscule fibers of the glob. I was completely immersed in my creation insude and out. I could even eel the fibers replicating in my body. It made my muscles spasm and twitch.

The glob kissed my neck and brushed my lips. It carressed me and loving filled me. I was overcome with emotion. I wanted to kiss it, love it, consume it because I didn't want any of it to stop. The flood of emotions ripped me away from nostalgia. It provided a spark and rekindled something deep in the recesses of my reflection. Just like it emerged from the blackness of my work room, and new identity grew from the void in my shadow. It threated to destroy what once as, and I was too unaware of its emergence, too preoccuppied experienceing all of my emotions and senses that I didn't pay any mind to the small physical changes.

Then, there cam a knock. It was far away, and I couldn't exactly tell what it was. The glob dampened the air and the humidity silenced noises, so it is any wonder that I actually heard it. Then another, louder knock. The glob recessed and the dull orange glow dimmed. And as suddenly as the glob appeared, it disappeared, and I was left cold and wet with only the memory of the glob and a loud knocking coming from outside.

I must digress again because it is important you truly understand my state of mind. I was dazed, confounded, and exhilerated. Whatever that glob was, it changed me fundamentally and, I can say with almost complete certainty, genetically. The many that emerged from that room was not the same as the man who entered. My mind was spinning, swirling, with the kind of dizziness you get from either vertigo or riding the Tilt-A-Whirl at the State Fair. It was heavenly. I can't remember ever feelin this way. I had been locked in a pattern, a repeated rhythm, for so long that it was linke I had finally moved on to my song's bridge and was entering an entirely new key. Sure, I could recognize the chorus and verse, but now that it was played in C# instead of G(flat) it was a completely different song. I was that new song, and I wanted to hear it fully.

But the knocking kept on, and I was forced to finally leave my work room and see what produced it. It came from the other side of my front door begging me to open it, so I did. Fuck! He was on the other side with her. They both were back to torment me and steal my ideas. It wasn't enough that they had already destroyed me and left me to wallow in my own nostalgia and pity. No. They were back to ruin me again. Yet those initial thoughts were but a reflection of something I had thought. It was not what I was thinking at the exact moment I saw them. And so I welcomed them in and offered them tea.

"Welcome. Welcome. Sorry, I am in the midst of something the world will be talking about, so I am little preoccupied. Sorry if I am not making the most sense at this moment. I am distracted. I am lost in my own thoughts. Yes, it really is nice to see you both again. Yes, it is. Have I said welcome? Yes? Really? No. Really, welcome. It is wonderful that I can entertain you as I am so close to a revelation. It is right there. I am on the verge. Yes. Welcome. Tea? Yes. We must have some tea. You really look like you could use some. You're looking a little tired. Tea will wake you right up. Come in. Have a seat. Yes. Welcome. Welcome Welcome. "

I ran to the kitchen to put the kettle on, but when I got there the tea was poured and cups were already set on the black plastic tray. of course, I know, had known, that they were coming, and so I prepared it before going in to my work room that morning. Yes. I must be confused. I must've just momentarily forgotten, so I piucked up the tray and walked back to the living room readying myself to talk and entertain.

They sat motionless and silent on my plaid couch. I set the tray on the cherry coffee table and poured their tea into the white porcelin cups.

"Milk? Sugar? I like mine black with only one cube of sugar. It is just slightly sweet and licks the taste buds nicely. It removes that bitterness that lingers. You know what I am talking about? That bitterness? Yes. I am sure you do. We all know about bitterness."

Still they sat there. Neither picked up their tea. Neither said a word. I was left to ramble, and I was growing quite annoyed by their lack of response. Why were the here? What brought them to my doorstep on the day of my discovery? Was this really a coincidence? I could hardly think it was. The last time he visited it was on the same day as a discovery. When she visited, I was going to unveil my new work. Now they were both here when the glob appeared. Yes. They were here because they knew something.

"I beg your pardon, but what has brought you here today? You see, I am working on something new, and I just so happened to be making excellent progress on it when you showed up. Yes. Yes. That's right. You interrupted me. But that is quite alright. We are enjoying this tea. Or at least I am. You haven't even touched it. Wouldd you like something else? I mean I have other things to offer if you don't like tea. Really I do. My fridge is full. Would you care for juice? A glass of cold milk? I have some soda. Coke? RC? Pepsi? I love cola. All of them. I even have Tab. I bet you haven't seen that in a while. Shasta?"

I just kept on mindlessly. I wandered from topic to topic not linfering for too long on any one subject, and they did nothing other than sit on my couch. It was like they had become manequins devoid of emotion, completely blank, ready to be sculpted into the creation of some designer or window dresser. There was a basic form and function to them, but beyond that nothing. They were a human void. Anything said to them was completely lost never tyo be retrieved or responded to.

"You know, I never heard back from you about the article you wrote about me. You said some fairly scathing and unfounded things. I mean you didn't even look at my work, and, yet, you had many opinions about it. How is that even possible? And you... You stole my ideas. You took that piece of my work and then created things exactly as I did. How did you do that? At first, I was angry. Fuck, I wanted to come over and destroy your work. But it provided the kick in the ass I needed, and I have discovered a breakthrough. It is unprecidented. It is utterly fantastic. And I know there is no way you would come up with somthing like this."

Still silence. I decided to try another tactic. I shut up. I sat on that couch quietly observing them hoping they would initiate some sort of conversation. I noticed the lines around his eyes. They weren't in my memory of him, but they were now a prominent feature of his face. They stretched outward towards the sides of his face and were deep and permanent. They were not the links you get from smiling. Rather, they were the lines of age. She had similar lines around her hazel eyes. In fact, I found myself counting the number of lines around each eye and discovered that they both had exactly twelve line around each eye. As I looked deeper, I also noticed that their color was unusually similar including a speck of blue in the right eye in the exact same spot.

I became uncomfortable. There was something uniquely familiar about their eyes, and it creeped me the fuck out. I touched the sides of mine and felt wrinkles, deeply etched wrinkles from the stress of the last many years. Their ridges vibrated against the lines of my fingerprints producing a resonant bass ringing in my head which produced the beginning of a migraine.

I excused myself from my company, although I doubt they even realized I left, and went to the bathroom. I opened the medicine cabinet and took four Excedrin hoping it would lessen the oncoming headache. I turned on the faucet. Cold water flowed. I cupped my hand and splashed it on my face letting my hands continue up to my forehead, fingers then running through my hair, and finally resting on the back of my neck. I repeated this gesture again. And again. And again. And again. It slowed the looming migraine.

I looked at myself in the mirro, and for the first time really looked at my eyes. One. Two. Three. Four. ... Ten. Eleven. Twelve? This can't be. And there! There was that blue speck in my right eye. No. No. No. Something was wrong.

A loud knock echoed through the house. It as a sound like two giant metal pots being thrown together. It was hollow and metalic and beckoned me.

I rushed out of the bathroom towards the sitting room I had left my vacant guests in. They were gone. I frantically searched the house. First the kitchen. No. The bedroom? No. Closets? No. the yard? No. The dining room? No. With each room search my migraine worsened.

The last room left to search was my work room. By this point my migraine was pulsing behing my eyes. Occasional specks of bright white light flashed obstructing my vision. I placed my hand on the silver doorknob and slowly turned. Flash of white. A low rhythmic knock. Another turn. Another flash. A louder knock. When the door swung open, the light of the hallway spilled in. I fell to the ground, and for a brief second, right before everything turned white, I saw her and him and my glob repeated repeatedly. Thousands if not millions of them crammed in to my tiny work room. All of them reflections of each other.

And I knew that we all were the same. He was me. I was her. She was he. And the glob? It is waht we all are: amorphous, indistinuishable, identical.

As the white washed over me, I finally surrendered. Then, there was a knock at my door.

An Exercise in 2nd Person Narrative

Yesterday, you came by and were gentle, serene, almost peaceful in a manner and style of some sort of spiritual leader, a yogi to be more precise. You strolled to the door, no motorized transportation present, and gently knocked. Your knock was almost unnoticeable. It was indistinguishable from all of the clatter and noise from the street construction outside. You knocked again. This time slightly more forceful but acutely aware not to be too forceful because that would go against your very nature.

You waited patiently at the door knowing that someone was there on the other side waiting to welcome you and possibly share a meal. You weren't bothered by any of the noise of distraction or waiting. You were just there at the door quietly knocking.

Your mind never wandered father than "How many knocks have I done?" You had no anticipation of what was next and were completely still in a moment stretching it beyond its normal constrained limits. You were not human. You were not caught by the hustle and bustle of the ever quickening world. You paid no heed to time. Really, you couldn't have been human.

You were there with your slight fist keeping your own time and rhythm against everything else that was taking place. Knock. Two. Three. Four. Five Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Knock. Two. Three. Four. ... Twelve. Knock. ... Knock. ... Knock. ...

It is no wonder that you never knew what was next. You were trapped. You were there but you were not aware. You were at once completely present and utterly detached. You were that lone person who assumes all else will bend to your time and temperament. You believe your reality to the point of blindness.

You were knocking on that white aluminum door gently keeping pace. ... Knock. Two. Three. ... Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Knock. ... Knock. Two. ... Knock. ... Knock. ...

And when the door opened, all that remained was a rhythm that distorted the harmony that once was. And you? You were gone. And I was alone.

Fables/Stories I Am Working On

I am currently working on a few more fables. It is awesome! I haven't felt this great about my writing in a *very* long time. Here is a preview of what is to come:

The Cenotaph: Turq tries to avoid the inevitable credit man that comes for him when he stops spending money and tries to pay down his debt. What awaits him at the heart of The Cenotaph? No one know. Not even the credit card company.

Infinite Depth: Charlie is gifted: he has telescopic vision. When he looks to the heavens, he sees all of its wonders in crisp detail - satellites, moons, nebulae, black holes, creation itself. But when others realize that he sees connections no one else can, his greatest fear is forced upon him. How far will he go to find infinite depth?

Fortune's Loop: Josephine sees a warning written in her own blood on her bedroom window - "You are forewarned" - on the day of her first period. After that fateful warning, Josephine starts seeing visions of the near future in the reflections of surfaces. Only they are not just visions. They are windows through time. Will Josephine be able to escape fortune's loop?

These are just a sampling of what is to come.

The Magic Sandbox: a harrowing of structure

This is a fable I wrote as a means to get back into the habit of writing. I found myself wandering a lot this past year. And the wandering was good. Somewhere along the journey, I found that I was struggling with two different concepts and notions: structure and fluidity. This is my attempt to grapple with what happens when you just ignore it all.

****
The Magic Sandbox: the harrowing of structureby: Jason Wyman
(c) 2009

Cynthia and Marjorie, the best of friends, were playing in the sandbox one hot sunny July day. The sandbox was at the edge of town and was kept enclosed by a large chain-link fence. It was their favorite place to play. They would create castles, houses, towers, so many different sand sculptures that were loved by all. Then, the rain or the wind would come and fell them. Cynthia and Marjorie would start all over, laughing and playing, always creating something new.

This day particular July day was extremely hot and very sunny with not a cloud or breeze in the air. It was stuffy, claustrophobic, as if someone had put a giant plastic bubble over the whole town and set a big magnifying glass between it and the sun.

Water was a crucial ingredient for Marjorie and Cynthia to build their sand sculptures. Luckily, the sandbox was adjacent to a big park that had a faucet, and Marjorie always carried her bucket. This combination of materials and tool made magic.

Cynthia and Marjorie were the only ones in the sandbox that muggy day. No one else braved the scorching heat.

"I have an idea." said Marjorie to Cynthia.

"Yes, Margy?"

"How about we create our biggest sculpture yet? We have the sandbox all to ourselves. We can start in the middle and build an entire city. It will be spectacular!"

Cynthia jumped up, grabbed the bucket, and skipped off to the faucet screaming behind her, "Excellent idea, Margy! Be back in a jiff."

Now, it was a sweltering hot July day. The kind of day that kills plants and makes most people miserable. The kind of day when your body is sticky and never clean. It was a day for swimming in pools, taking of showers, running over sprinklers, and carefully controlling indoor environments. It was a day of overusing resources.

Cynthia placed the yellow bucket under the faucet and turned the knob. It sputtered and wheezed and blew out warm air. It did not pour out water. Cynthia turned the knob some more, and still nothing came out. She was confused and sad. How were they going to create their great sand city?

Cynthia turned the valve back off, and just as she got it all the way shut, a tiny droplet fell into the bright yellow bucket. She guarded the small piece of precious material and walked slowly back to the sandbox and Marjorie.

Marjorie jumped up exclaiming, "We can get started!"

Cynthia looked at Marjorie wavering at the edge of tears. "Dear Margy. There is no water. How will we build our city?"

And as she finished her question, big sad tears welled in her eyes and began running down her face. Marjorie grabbed the bucket and placed it under Cynthia's chin collecting her tears.

"Keep crying, Cyndi. We're getting all the water we need."

Cynthia let out a little laugh.

"No silly. Don't laugh. Cry!"

This sent a wave of giggles through both of the young girls. Soon their giggles turned to chuckles, and their chuckles to chortles. They both fell to the ground, and, as they fell, Marjorie let slip the bucket from her hand. The precious water and tears collected spilled onto the sand creating one very small patch of wet sand near the corner of the sandbox.

Cynthia's laughter gave way to a scream.

"Nooooo!!"

Marjorie ran her hand over the top of the small wet spot.

"We can do this Cyndi. We will make our city. It will be glorious."

"You think we can do this Margy? Really?"

"Yes, I do my friend. Anything is possible."

The hot pressure cooker of the sun was threatening to evaporate that little patch of wet sand. So Marjorie and Cynthia quickly went to work.

Nobody knows how it happened, not even Marjorie or Cynthia, but that little patch of wet sand was not so little. Maybe the pipe to the faucet burst making all of the ground underneath wet. Maybe they had more water than they imagined. Maybe it was magic or a miracle. Whatever the cause, it mattered not because it provided enough wet sand for Cynthia and Marjorie to work for hours building their city.

It was a city unlike any other. Instead of tall rectangular skyscrapers and Gothic columns and glistening domes on government buildings, they created a landscape of rising and falling curves, jagged edges cut into giant dunes, and spiraling streets. From certain angles, it looked like waves readying to crash, clouds about to explode. The scale of the city evoked deep canyons as if instead of building up they chiseled down. It threatened to extend beyond the sandbox and overtake the chain-link fence. It was their most remarkable sculpture.

Despite everyone being inside of doors, whispers of Cynthia and Marjorie's remarkable city sculpture spread out through the town. It could have been that someone saw them walking down to the sandbox earlier that day. It could have been the groundskeeper at the park who overheard the laughter and crying. It could have just been all gossip and tall tales. Regardless, what it produced was a town abuzz with anticipation of what the girls created.

It started simply with eight year old Jose in his royal blue swimming trunks and slick black hair. He was was the first to venture out into the blistering heat to see what Marjorie and Cynthia built. When he arrived, he was overwhelmed. The cityscape was larger than any other he had seen. It made him seem as if he was an ant outside an anthill.

Cynthia and Marjorie looked haggard. Their hair was caked with sand. Their skin an irritated red. They were lost inside their world, unaware that Jose or any other townspeople were outside. They just kept building, creating, sculpting.

Pretty soon everyone from the town braved the out of doors. They just had to see this magnificent and surreal city. This included Mayor Square.

Mayor Square was exactly the type of person you would expect with the name Mayor Square. He was electable because he was unremarkable. He liked his boxes and clean lines. He ran on a platform of structure, safety, security. He was the one that put the chain-link fence around the sandbox. He was concerned that some young child would run out into the street and meet a fatal end on the front of a car.

When Mayor Square got to the sandbox, he gasped. Marjorie and Cynthia's city was more beautiful than anything he had ever seen. It moved him. It produced a moment of awe unlike any other. And in that moment he saw that everyone looking at this city, this sculpture, was feeling the same thing.

Then, he got nervous. He knew that if this continued to grow it would threaten his electability.

"Excuse me! Excuse me everyone," screamed Mayor Square.

The townspeople ignored Mayor Square. His voice was minuscule to the feeling produced by Marjorie and Cynthia's sculpture.

He had to act quickly or he would lose his townspeople's votes. Mayor Square saw Jose with his face pressed against the chain-link fence, mouth gaping, and he ran up to Jose.

"Hello, Jose. You seem to love this city. Would you want to help build more?"

Jose looked briefly at the Mayor. "There's no more room, and I couldn't create anything nearly so pretty."

Mayor Square responded, "Tindersticks! In this town we are all equal. You can most definitely create, and you shouldn't be banned from doing it just because there is no more room. Come with me, and we can get in on the building."

This made Jose very excited. He followed Mayor Square back into the heart of town.

There in front of his boxy house with its Gothic columns and official looking gold dome, Mayor Square spoke, "Now, Jose, here is the help I need.

"First, gather all of the hoses you see laying about.

"Second, connect all the hoses end to end.

"Third, stretch those hoses all the way from the sandbox to my house.

"Last, get out of the way.

"You got it?"

"Yes, Mayor. But where will I find all of the hoses?"

"Start with your house. Then start asking your neighbors. I have two at my home you can use as well."

"Alright!" And Jose hurried off to his house.

Mayor Square rushed back to his tool shed and rummaged around searching for the one tool he knew he would need. He found the screwdriver, the saw, the hammer, the wrench, the pliers, the drill, the... Well, he found everything except the one tool he needed more than anything. Then, he remembered.

"Yes. Yes. Yes. I banned it when we built the fence around the sandbox to keep the children safe," he mumbled.

He walked out of his tool shed into his home, and proceeded down stairs. He pushed up a tile in the drop down ceiling and fumbled around with one hand.

There is was!

He grabbed a big box and pulled it carefully down. Unfortunately, the box was a little heavier than expected and it fell to the ground with a thud. Out fell the giant chain-link cutter.

About this same time, Jose showed up.

"Hey Mr. Mayor! I have connected all of the hoses and stretched them to the sandbox. Now, I need your two and we can begin," he yelled down to the Mayor.

"You can find them in the tool shed next to the house! Connect one to the faucet on the front of the house and meet me at the sandbox!"

"Okie dokie, Mr. Mayor!"

Mayor Square lifted the chain-link cutter, rested it on his shoulder, trotted back upstairs, and staggered out the front door. The hoses were stretched out from the front of his house all the way through the middle of an ever-growing crowd. The crowd was so big now he couldn't even see the chain-link fence.

Mayor Square took this as a sign that he needed to work faster. He flung the tool over his other shoulder and stared half jogging towards the crowd. However, the chain-link cutter was too heavy, and it slowed his pace to that of a snail.

When he finally reached the crowd, it spread out as far as anyone could see in all directions. Jose was holding the hose trying to keep his spot as people jostled and bumped him as they vied to get a better view of Marjorie and Cynthia's ever-expanding sculpture-scape. Mayor Square pushed his way forward and stood next to Jose.

"What have you got there Mr. Mayor," he asked knowing full well it was a chain-link cutter.

"I have a tool for the job at hand, dear Jose. And you have the other tool. Are you ready to get started?"

Jose looked at him puzzled. "But, Mr. Mayor, I thought that chain-link cutters were banned!"

"Yes, they have been banned. But I had the foresight to know that one may be needed one day, so I tucked mine away safely in my house."

"But, Mr. Mayor, weren't you then lying to us when you said it was dangerous? That it would make us unsafe?"

"Listen, Jose. Do you want to help build this sand city? Or do you want to argue with me about this tool and its safety? You can't have both," responded the Mayor with an air of defensiveness and contempt.

"I want to build."

"Then help me out and get the crowd to back away ever so slightly from the fence."

Jose wiggled closer to the fence and started doing his best dance moves hoping his moves would entice people to step back and watch.

Well, it had the effect he was hoping for. People did watch and back away. However, people backed away because they thought he was having some sort of seizure or attack. His body was jerking and making harsh, sharp movements. People were worried he would fall and hurt himself or crash into them and make them uncomfortable.

Mayor Square took the opening and snuck behind Jose and began cutting the chain-link fence.

Someone in the crowd called 911, and in five minutes an ambulance arrived. You heard the sirens first far in the distance. Then, you noticed the flashing red, blue, silver. Finally, you saw the paramedics in their starched white uniforms holding a gurney preparing themselves for the emergency.

The crown parted making room for the gurney and paramedics. It was only as the emergency personnel started approaching that Jose realized they were there for him. He let out a laugh.

This confused the paramedics. How could he be hurt if he was laughing?

Everyone else was looking puzzled. Everyone except Mayor Square who had just finished cutting the last chain link and Cynthia and Marjorie who were too lost in creating their city sculpture that they were completely unaware of what was unfolding around them.

By this point, Marjorie and Cynthia were a dishevelled mess. Marjorie's luxuriously long black curls looked like a Barbie's synthetic hair after it has been washed and brushed. Cynthia's cropped red locks fared no better. Their clothes were fraying at the edges. Their skin was sun-blistered, rubbed raw by the constant friction of sand.

Whether they felt the stings of the blisters or cared about their looks was unimportant. They were of a singular focus: build the cityscape; create; express. This focus drove them onward unaware of the massive crowd and the chaos erupting beyond the chain-link fence. It was as if the fence provided a certain safeguard, a barrier to the outside world. It provided a concrete edge to push against. It gave them the confines by which creating happens. The fence was their laws of gravity.

So it is no surprise that Marjorie and Cynthia were unprepared for Mayor Square's interference. They didn't hear the staccato snapping of the links in the fence. They didn't see Jose flailing his arms wildly as he danced. The didn't feel the excitement as the paramedics arrived.

The chaos kept building.

After the initial shock of Jose's laughter, the paramedics realized he might still be in danger, so they proceeded down the cleared pathway, gurney in hand, ready to strap Jose to it for his own safety. Mayor Square positioned himself behind Jose and signaled to the paramedics, "Hurry up and take Jose!"

Jose fell to the ground, riotous with laughter, laughing so hard his body shook with violent spasms. And the crowd became silent watching this all unfold.

Eventually, Jose was strapped down and taken away in the ambulance leaving only the Mayor standing at the end of the cleared pathway. The entire crowd turned their attention to the Mayor as he puffed his chest readying to bellow a proclamation to the crowd.

Marjorie and Cynthia kept building.

"Hello. Hello. Ladies and Gentlemen. Fellow citizens of our fair town of Suburbandale.

"I am proud to be your trusted Mayor, your confidante, your visionary. As such, I have brought you here today."

There began some muttering in the crowd.

"I mean I have joined you here today," he corrected himself, "to make an announcement. One that is an important step in the development of creativity here in Suburbandale.

"Behind me you will see the wonderful sand cityscape Marjorie and Cynthia are creating."

The crowd erupted with applause and cheers. The Mayor paused waiting for it to die down. Then continued.

"Their creation is beautiful. Magnificent even. What they have built is unique, unlike anything we have ever seen in Suburbandale.

"But I ask you, is it fair that only they get to play and create in the sandbox?" Mayor Square paused.

Everyone turned to one another and gave quizzical looks of upturned eyebrows, wrinkled up noses, and curled lips. A low murmur started from the back of the crowd and found its way to the front.

"But Mayor Square," asked a gentleman with graying hair and wrinkles around the eyes. "How can we create anything so beautiful?"

A woman in the middle of the crowd with her pink hair in curlers said, "I am quite enjoying watching Margy and Cyndi create their sculpture. Why should we disturb them?"

A child no more than five whose father was holding him securely by the wrist, but who was trying with all his might to escape his father's grasp yelled, "I want to build! It isn't fair! I want in, and I want in NOW!"

Mayor Square took this as his cue and his strong bellowing voice shook the crowd.

"Yes, my boy, you are correct! It is not fair. This city was built on a foundation of fairness. And I say enough is enough! Cynthia and Marjorie have had their opportunity to create, and now it is time for everyone to contribute. It is only fair that others be able to join them in building.

"I also know," he yelled at the top of his voice over the cheers of the children in the crowd, "that going in and destroying what they have created is not fair."

Some of the adults clapped.

"Therefore, so be it resolved," he added in his most Mayor-sounding words, "that I have found a solution! One where Marjorie and Cynthia can keep on building, and we can support their creation by building around it!"

Another murmur passed through the crowd and out of the gentleman with the few gray hairs' lips, "But Cynthia and Marjorie have built over the entire sandbox. The only way we can build around their sculpture is by tearing down the fence. Isn't that against our laws?"

Mayor Square answered, "You are correct. If we want to create, we must change and adapt. We must do away with the laws that hinder our progress! Therefore," he mayorally said, "I announce a new law effective immediately! 'The City of Suburbandale shall no longer fence in its sandbox. It will be noted that this sandbox is central to The City's identity. As such, no fence shall ever confine our creativity."

And Mayor Square walked over to the fence, gave one good tug, and the whole fence fell down exposing the entire cityscape with its towering stalagmite buildings and its river-winding streets and its dune-like sports complexes. The crowd gave out a gigantic gasp. The man with the graying hair and wrinkly eyes took a step back. The woman with pink hair in rollers let out a tiny squeal. The boy escaped his father's clutches and ran to the front of the crowd ready to start building.

The Mayor grabbed the young boy's hand and addressed the crowd.

"Yes, my fellow citizens, this is a work of art. Therefore, we must be careful to preserve what Marjorie and Cynthia have created.

"Before we begin, I must lay out some guidelines so we may create together."

And as Mayor Square started laying out the new guidelines, Cynthia and Marjorie began to become slightly more aware of what was happening around them. It happened to Marjorie first. She heard their two names being spoken in the distance, turned to Cynthia, and noticed how filthy she looked. Cynthia heard the thud of the chain-link fence falling, but hadn't placed the noise. Slowly, they became more and more present. However, it was not fast enough.

Mayor Square instructed the crowd that order was what was needed to be the most creative. It was therefore ordered that:

1. everyone who wanted to add on to Marjorie and Cynthia's sandscape do so outside of the sandbox;
2. only rectangles, lines, and right angles be used when creating buildings (It was argued that this would bring structure to 'support' Cynthia and Marjorie's chaotic sculpture.);
3. people should bring sand from their houses, adjacent parks, etc, so as not to disturb Marjorie and Cynthia;
4. the hose provided was to be used as the source for wetting the sand (The Mayor stressed that the water was coming from his house and was his personal contribution to creativity.

No one complained about the "guidelines", as Mayor Square called them. In fact, everyone seemed to love them because it provided form and a system for building. People from the crowd immediately identified what "role" they wanted to "play". Some were sand carriers. Others were sculptor-builders. One was the hose monitor. And a good number were cheerleaders. Mayor Square was the director.

By the time Marjorie and Cynthia realized what was happening around them, the crowd had built a colossal labyrinthine cityscape. Cynthia looked up at the towering skyscrapers.

"Margy, what is happening?"

"I don't know, Cyndi. Let's take a peak outside."

They walked to the corner where they spilled their bucket because it was near the entrance to the sandbox hoping to find the exit.

"Oh my!" Marjorie yelled. "The fence is gone! How do we get out of here?"

Cynthia and Marjorie set out down the crowd-constructed city streets. They turned hard corners, searching for an exit. They walked for what seemed like hours becoming more and more exhausted, which made their hearts beat faster and panic set across their faces. It appeared that there was no exit from this gigantic sand sculpture. They were trapped.

Marjorie and Cynthia became desperate. They started clawing at the walls splintering fingernails, tearing deeper gashes into their already blistered hands.

But there was some greater force at work. Maybe it was the heat of the sun bearing down all day on the sand. Maybe it was an act of God trying to teach some sort of lesson. Maybe is was something else in the water the Mayor provided like glue or resin or pollution. Maybe it was just magic. Whatever the reason, the outcome was the same: no matter how much they clawed and scraped and screamed the walls held their shape and no one heard their screams.

Outside the sandbox the crowd was fading away. What once was exciting transformed into novelty. What once was creative mutated into a chore. What once was new morphed into blandness. Mayor Square achieved what he hoped: structure, safety, security. What once was a chain-link fence became a box of sand.

No one knows what actually happened to Marjorie and Cynthia. Records indicate that they never came home that night nor ever. Articles were written hypothesizing that they were trapped in the box of sand and died trying to get out, but there was no way of proving the hypothesis because there was no way of getting to the sandbox. That same magic or act of God or stroke of Mayor's scheming created an impenetrable sand monument at the edge of Suburbandale.

The citizens of Surburbandale were forever changed. Mayor Square said something like "The death of Marjorie and Cynthia is a tragic loss to our community. Let it serve as a reminder of the risk of creativity," as he accepted another term as Mayor.

Marjorie and Cynthia's parents mourned their daughters and rarely set foot outside of their homes. They became completely reliant on others' visits to bring them food and other necessities. There was so much pity for them that the banks forgave them their mortgages, and The City picked up their utility bills. They didn't realize any of this due to the weight of their grief.

The man with the gray hair and wrinkly eyes became even more gray and wrinkled. The woman with her pink hair in curlers cut it all off and let it grown back its natural mousy brown. The boy who escaped his father's clutches never strayed out of eyesight of his dad.

And poor Jose. Once on the gurney he kept screaming, "The Mayor's got a chain-link cutter!" This mixed with his flailing arms and Mayor's signal to the paramedics that Jose was crazy only confirmed that the Mayor must be right. So the paramedics took him to the hospital to have him monitored. It is in the hospital where Jose learned of Marjorie and Cynthia's disappearance. This caused a break so deep and fundamental that Jose became mad and never recovered. He can still be heard muttering, "If only...If only...If only..." never able to finish the sentence.

The large box of sand sits as a memorial at the edge of Suburbandale. It has a placard on the Northeast corner, the corner of the original entrance, that reads "Here lie Cynthia and Marjorie and all of our creativity." And every July, when the heat is unbearable and everyone in town is swimming in pools, taking showers, running their sprinklers, or in carefully controlled indoor environments, I come down to this memorial and sit. And every now and again the walls become translucent, and I can see Cynthia and Marjorie's masterwork. And if the breeze blows just right, I can sometimes hear their crying, laughter, and screams.