No Regrets

  
I find little to nothing in my life I regret. Regret would mean I was wrong. I've made mistakes, but I am not wrong. I've hurt others. I've made poor choices. I've taken risks resulting in tragic outcomes. These are moments like all other moments in my life. They hold no more or less weight or sway than the lovely decision to marry my husband or the exciting decision to publish my writing. In fact, these point shape who I am. I constantly look back on them and learn new lessons.

Take the seminary for example, something that could be a regret or at least regretful. While in it, my lesson was cut it of, let it go, break up with your faith if you want to live. After seminary, it was do whatever you can to disrupt the church including speaking ill of it and brining safer sex conversations into its walls. It was a reaction of pain, one I hoped to inflict in equal measure to the hurt I felt. There was no limit. Now, it is reflective still tinged with pain and anger but beyond it was well. It is a detachment that allows me to have conversations of faith without loud outbursts.

Regret is like being stuck in an emotional loop. It re-traumatizes you because your experience of the event never changes. Yes, the facts of the event don't change. I went to seminary for one semester, which can be imperially proven. But the story changes.

That is liberation. That is something beyond the initial experience. That is something others can never manipulate. That is why I don't regret anything or almost anything. If I did, I would lose my liberation.

And that is something I would regret.

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.

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.