week twenty-nine: coward in the rye

Warning: this week's story contains strong language.

“911 Emergency.” “Oh, God, oh, God! Help, Help!” “All units dispatch to Grove University, we have a 245 in progress, shots fired! Repeat: shots fired!” “He’s got a gun and he’s shooting at all of us! Oh, God!” “Calm down, ma’am, try to stay-“ “Oh, God, he’s coming this way! No! NO!” “Uh, there’s only one and he’s got a gun- a pistol! A handgun!” “Unit 432 arriving on the scene, where the hell is everybody?!” “I don't know what he's screaming!" “I can hear them! I can hear the shots! They’re coming this- they’re coming this way!” “We’re heading westbound, we’re going as fast as we can!” “This is 432, I have confirmed shots fired, requesting permission to go in-“ “Negative! Negative! Wait on the SWAT team!” “Mom? Mom!” “Hold together, help is on the way!” “Mom… I’ve been shot. There’s a guy here and he- ah- mom, I just- Oh, God, no!” “SWAT team is inbound, ETA five minutes.” “I love you.” “This is 432. Fuck it. I’m going in.”

…

In his dorm room at just before eight in the morning, Scott Green stood before the mirror and worried about his hair. As is typical in college sophomore males, his hair's a mess; a dirty blond mess. At the same time, however, a calculated mess. He hoped his hair would offset the fact that he was a little overweight, so he paid it particular attention. After once again straightening his thick-rimmed glasses, he grabbed his tan messenger bag and stepped outside. His class is at 8:30 so he knows he has time. He always hopes to run into someone on the way, but no one is much for conversation at this hour in the morning. Thus, deciding that no one would say hi, Scott put in his earbuds and turned on his iPod. He put it on shuffle, he didn’t care what, but he needed some of kind of sound.

How It Ends – DeVotchka

Scott needed something to concentrate on besides either of two things: Class and his parents. He didn’t want to think about class because, well, it’s class. There’s little else to say about that. He could worry about his homework or fret over any upcoming quizzes or exams, but the point to that is nil. Having music in the ear deafens any apprehension. And of course, the latter of the two is the more complicated issue. Scott wanted nothing more than to be completely independent of his family. He loved them, but tired of them dangling money over his head like the proverbial carrot on a stick. As such, Scott didn’t talk to or call them much. He felt bad about that, but this is his way of convincing them that he can do life on his own.

His first class is the only class he really cares about: Postmodern Literature. Scott always enjoyed English classes, and especially enjoyed this one because it dealt with modern issues, perspectives, and emotions. In other words, it applied. Upon arriving in class, he turned off his music, sat down, and eagerly awaited continuing their ongoing discussion of The Catcher in the Rye. Although Scott had read it before more than once, hearing Doctor Spencer analyze and explain every detail never failed in yielding new insight. It was as if hearing speech, but for only the first time understanding the words.

They were at the part of the book where Holden reflects on his old friend, Jane Gallagher. Interestingly, Jane never appears in the actual narrative; she only shows up in reflective passages. For some reason, Scott found himself oddly connected to this passage. Scott felt Holden’s pain as he misses an old and dear friend, who, Scott felt, could be a romantic interest. There is definitely something anyone could relate to in this section, especially those with the proverbial teenage angst, however, Scott felt as though it spoke directly to him. He could never fully place it, though. Perhaps, however, the biggest parallel Scott drew to his own life is Holden's constant self-victimization.

Doctor Spencer always liked to end his lessons with some kind of life lesson or application. He tried so hard to make his class practical rather than merely informative. And so he told his students, and Scott listened carefully, “You’re reading Holden’s story here and I’ll bet a lot of you are thinking about how much it applies to you or how you can relate. I don’t think anyone can read Catcher and not relate in some way. That’s the beauty of it. But I want to encourage you not just to accept Holden’s little pity party. You need to look at it, reflect on it, and, most importantly, do something about it. Is your life as bad as Holden Caulfield’s? Well, that just sucks, doesn’t it?” The class laughed. “You can do something about that. Don’t run away to some hotel; don’t run away at all. If things are bad, then do something about it. Holden is a lesson on what not to be. Don’t be Holden.”

With a grandfatherly smile, Doctor Spencer ended his class, “I’ll see you all next week.”

Scott left the classroom and immediately realized he hadn’t eaten breakfast. His stomach cried for nourishment. He had gotten to the point where it didn’t exactly matter what he ate so long as he was fed. Fortunately, Grove University is a big school and the western campus has a smaller cafeteria with all of the necessities. Scott made his way there, grabbed a single-serving bowl of Fruit Loops, and filled it with milk. Scott was one of those people who liked a lot of milk in his cereal, his reasoning being that the milk afterward is the best part. Hoping to find someone to sit with, he stood there and looked over the morning faces. There was no one. Only somewhat disappointed, and not at all surprised, Scott resigned to sit by himself. As he sat, he felt his loneliness, but laughed only slightly when he realized it just made him feel more like Holden Caulfield.

“Don’t be Holden,” he remembered with a smirk.

That was when he smiled, looked around, and labeled everyone a phony. Everyone there in their own tight-knit circles with no time for Scott was officially a phony. That felt good. Oh, you bet it did. Phonies.

…

Now, let’s take a look at a real phony:

Police Sergeant Jack Maurice drove his patrol cruiser right past Grove University. It was just another morning with just another cup of coffee. There was nothing really planned except for work. Well, work, and Jack had a meeting to attend; a very shady meeting. On his left, is Grove University, but that isn’t his destination. No, his destination is on the right in a residential neighborhood.

And look, college kids do drugs. Or at least most of them, right? But how do they get them, you wonder?

Luce Montenegro.

Montenegro sold crack cocaine and needle heroin to Grove students and made a killing. Through comprehensive investigation, Jack uncovered no signs of drug dealers in this area. None at all. Grove students must have gotten their stuff elsewhere. People like Montenegro don’t exist around here. Well, that’s what the official report will tell you.

Unofficially, Jack knew exactly where Montenegro was and had enough hard evidence to put him away for life. So, what’s stopping him?

Ten thousand dollars every month, that’s what. That’s enough to set Jack for life; something his policeman’s salary could never do. It’s truly a sad state of affairs when the men in blue are barely paid enough. Of course, you never joined the force for money. You joined so you could “help people” and “make a difference.” Jack did that. He just took a little extra on the side, that's all.

Jack pulled up to Montenegro’s house and schlepped his way to the front door. With his fist, he pounded and soon a tall, lanky Hispanic man opened the door: Montenegro. “Ho, officer Jack! You’re a little early, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess I am,” Jack replied shifting uncomfortably. But he stayed firm. “You boys still being good?”

“As good as you’ll let us be,” Montenegro laughed. “You know, officer, I just gotta say man, we really appreciate bent cops like you helpin’ us out like this.”

“Fuck you,” Jack sharply exhaled. “Just give me the money so I can go.”

“What? You scared more coppers like you are gonna show? Don’t worry about it, homie,” he must have been at least a little high. Jack always thought dealers never did their own stuff, but Montenegro was his own man. Let him be. “Hey, Paulie, get this man his dough.”

“Thanks,” Jack grunted as soon as Montenegro handed him a thick stack of hundred dollar bills.

“Look, man, you can come by any time and we’ll fix you up, man, okay?”

“No way, I don’t want to smell like you,” Jack turned and didn't lose any time making it back to his car. Right there he considered flaunting his badge and arresting them all. But no, not now.

“Real funny!”

When Jack looked back and rolled his eyes, Luce had already closed his door. The bent officer climbed back into his cruiser and resumed his patrol. Since his beat was in the area, he could keep other officers away from Montenegro. Ten grand a month is a good deal; no taxes to screw it up, even. Of course, Jack felt bad about it, but come on, Luce sells to college students. They’re gonna do drugs anyway, right? Not like anyone’s getting killed.

Yet.

…

Well, Scott labeled everyone a phony except for that pretty girl sitting alone just a few tables down. He wasn’t sure, but he thought her name was Brittany. Ever since his first semester, Scott had admired Brittany, but couldn’t muster the courage to talk to her. He couldn’t even recall the sound of her voice. But to him, she was perfect: brunette and, though hidden by glasses, eyes green as spring. She was even in his literature class, evidence being the copy of Catcher she held in her hands.

As Scott enjoyed his Fruit Loops, he’d occasionally look up at Brittany. He loved the way she would subtly lick her upper lip before she turned the page or how she futilely tried to keep her bangs out of her eyes. But then, as she pushed her hair away once again, Brittany looked up and right at Scott. Man, she was pretty. She really was.

Stop staring, Scott.

His eyes locked with hers. He couldn’t look away. Brittany smiled patiently and might have even giggled a little before she returned to Holden’s world. Smiling, Scott returned to his cereal.

And then….

BOOM!

BOOM, BOOM!

Screaming. Bloody, bloody screaming.

BOOM! BOOM!

BOOM!

Everyone froze. The sounds and screams came from down the hall. No one dared move….

Someone finally cried, “Are those gunshots?!”

“Oh, God!”

Frantic screaming.

“Someone lock the doors!”

A young man ran to the doors and closed them. This was the only entrance. He cried, “There’s no lock!”

The shots and screams would not let up.

“Oh, no, oh, no… this doesn’t happen to me!”

“Dude, someone call the cops!”

“I’m calling my mom!”

“But what if it’s something else?!”

“Do you really want to take that chance?!”

Scott fazed himself out of the chaos as he realized he didn’t have his cell phone. He couldn’t call his mom or anyone else. Scott looked down at this breakfast and wondered what to do. It was all of a sudden that no one but everyone mattered. Scott glanced back to Brittany and saw the horror in her eyes as she looked to him. For an instant, a powerful connection manifested. Scott jumped to his feet. What are you doing, Scott?

“I don’t know,” he would reply.

A couple of bigger guys, the football type, stood and started trying to take command, “Everybody find somewhere to hide! Turn tables over!”

“These windows don’t open!”

“Oh my God! We’re trapped! We’re going to die!”

…

“All units dispatch to Grove University, we have a 245 in progress, shots fired! Repeat: shots fired!”

Officer Maurice was the first man on the scene. Since his patrol was right next to Grove, he pulled in only an instant after the all-units call was given. Jack just couldn’t believe it. These school shootings happen; you hear about them on the news all the time, but it’s just one of those things that could never happen to you.

Or so you thought.

Jack pulled onto the fire lane at the western campus and radioed to dispatch, “Unit 432 arriving on the scene, where the hell is everybody?!” He drew his Beretta 9mm and took cover behind the car.

“On the way, 432, hold tight until backup arrives.”

BOOM, BOOM!

Jack heard the bloodcurdling screams and shouts as the gunfire continued. There could be no mistake; all hell was breaking loose in there. “Goddammit, this is 432, I have confirmed shots fired, requesting permission to go in-“

“Negative, negative! Wait for the SWAT team!”

Jack slammed his fist onto the car. He stood there, listening to the piercing gunfire and harrowing death. There wasn’t even imagining the terror inside. How could he just sit there while this happened? You know what? He couldn’t. Before tossing his radio into the car, he said only three sentences:

“This is 432. Fuck it. I’m going in.”

...

Despite all best efforts, there was no organization, there was chaos. Most froze, while others frantically stumbled about. There was literally nowhere to go and nowhere to hide.

Scott pushed through the fray and on to Brittany. He ignored everything; the screaming, the terror, the sporadic gunshots.... For some reason, this one pretty girl mattered above all else. Scott knew very little about her, but in his naïveté, he loved her. And with that, nothing else matters.

But before he could reach her, the door burst open. Everything stopped as everyone gasped in horror. It was that one kid. Everyone knows who he is; or knew of him. He’s that kid you see around, but never say anything to. No one knew his name. Sweat engulfed his angered face, his nose ran, and his furious eyes were constricted. Blood spattered his clothes. And in his hand was a semiautomatic handgun.

Grunting, this kid surveyed the room, shouted slurred, unknown words, and then opened fire.

Scott watched with wide eyes as blood sprayed and people fell. Dead. So much screaming, the gun blaring, spent casings hitting the floor.... Scott looked to Brittany. He could see nothing more than confusion and absolute terror. And he could sense the lingering question, “Why?” Their eyes locked. Both felt as though this would be the last thing they would ever see.

Brittany was right.

Her temple burst in crimson. Scott watched with utmost shock, horror, and sorrow as she fell from her chair and hit the floor lifeless and limp. Her table obscured his view, but he heard both her body and her book hit the ground. Why?

Scott turned to the shooter, who screamed completely unintelligibly as he showered random death. The slide locked, then the killer ejected his magazine.

Scott.

This is your chance.

The gunman pulled a fresh clip from his pocket and slapped it in. The slide racked forward.

Scott.

You know what Professor Spencer told you: “Do something about it.”

So he did.

…

Officer Jack knew to follow his ears. Keeping his Beretta raised and ready, he ran the halls. For every shot he heard, he had to assume someone lost their life. This is too much.

As he ran, he saw hundreds of horrified faces. They all looked to him as most bled, some cowered, and others still were merely corpses. Jack looked to them as if to say, “It’s going to be alright.” But he had to push aside thoughts from his head that he could have saved them if he had acted sooner. If only he had acted sooner….

But in a situation like this, you can’t think like that. You just can’t. You can’t think at all; just do. Jack needs to find this shooter and take him out. That’s all that matters; lives hang in the balance.

That was when Jack made the conscious decision to shoot first and ask questions later. There was no way he could risk anything at all. So Jack flipped off his safety and put his finger firmly on the trigger. These are two things against everything the books taught. But this is no place for the books.

There: the west side cafeteria. Every gunshot and holler came from there. In all of his visits to Grove, Jack knew that the cafeteria was a dead-end. If the shooter is in there, he’s stuck. No way out. Get ready, Jack, no turning back now.

…

Scott mustered everything and bolted the shooter. Before the gunman could react, Scott slammed into his side, bringing them both to the ground. With fury, fear, and courage, Scott bashed the shooter’s neck not once, but twice. That was enough. The madman released the pistol as he gasped for air.

In a frenzy, Scott grabbed the gun and came to his feet. He kept it trained on the laying gunman and considered exacting revenge. He should pull the trigger. He should kill this- this phony! For everything he’s done, for the unknown number of people he’s just murdered… for Brittany. Scott readied himself.

BOOM, BOOM!

Pain. Immeasurable pain.

What?

Scott looked to his side and saw a lone policeman at the door, smoking gun raised. He tried to say something, but nothing came. His chest was pierced and bleeding. Scott’s lungs faltered and breath came not at all.

Limp, Scott fell to his knees and then the floor. As he lay there, life draining, he looked to his side and saw Brittany’s lifeless body looking to him. Next to her, he saw the sleeve of Catcher in the Rye. For a brief moment, he put himself in Holden’s shoes again and she was Sally Hayes. Could they run away together; leave this world of phonies? Yes, but not together. Scott, if he could, would have sworn he could see her smile just that one last time. He really did.

…

Jack holstered his pistol and, with a hint of triumph, asked aloud, “Is everyone alright?” From what he could tell, that was the only shooter. It’s over; it’s all over.

And then a chubby girl in the corner shouted to him, “You dick! That guy just took down the killer! He’s the hero! You just- you just killed him you stupid pig!”

There were no words.

Jack holstered his pistol and cut out any remorse. There’s no time for that. “Then who is it? Who’s the real killer?”

The girl pointed at the floored kid who still gasped for air, “It’s him, dumbass!”

Jack glared at her before rushing to the killer. With the utmost precision offered by his training, Jack slapped handcuffs on his man. As he was lifted, the kid shouted again. Jack couldn’t understand him, but as he looked into the kid’s eyes, he saw the tell-tale signs of heroine abuse: constricted eyes, slurred speech, runny nose…. Oh, God.

As he led the killer down the hall, some of the kids were cheering. Jack couldn’t stomach it. He didn’t do this; it was that kid lying dead in the cafeteria. He's the hero. What’s his name? Officer Maurice looked no one in the eye. Officer Maurice is a goddamn phony and he knows it.

The killer screamed the whole way. No one could understand him. Maybe it was some foreign language or something, but it was slurred. Either way, the kid needs help and not just for his apparent drug abuse. Jack could only pity him, but more so all those kids inside. Especially for whoever that “hero” was.

After throwing the killer into his car, Officer Maurice radioed dispatch, “I’ve got the suspect in custody. Situation is under control.”

“What?! You had orders not-“

Jack turned off his radio. He didn’t have time for that bullshit. Jack knew he had done the right thing; it just didn’t turn out so well. In fact, it turned out in the worst possible way. There will be hell to pay. As the SWAT teams, ambulances, and other officers arrived one by one, Jack could only think, about damned time.

…

The lovely young reporter broke the story, “Just hours ago in the building behind me, the western campus of Grove University, a massacre unfolded. A single gunman, who I am told is a student, armed with a single handgun, came to class and started shooting at random. Seventeen students and faculty were injured and twelve were killed. Remarkably, the perpetrator was captured alive by police Sergeant John Patrick Maurice, who is now being referred to by some as the hero of Grove University. There have, however, been conflicting reports that perhaps it was a student who took down the killer. Here with me is Police Chief Armin Williams to answer some questions. So, tell me, what really happened?”

“Officer Maurice is one of the best men on our force. He took total initiative and stormed the building alone. He went in, found the suspect, and took him down.”

“Some students have told us about how another student took the shooter down and Officer Maurice killed that heroic student. What do you have to say about that?”

“Those reports are inaccurate and probably conjured up by do-gooder hippies trying to make us look bad. Jack Maurice is a hero and should be treated as such.”

What a phony.

Epilogue

That night, Officer Maurice just couldn’t get the image of Scott Green out of his mind. Jack’s district head had decided to let Jack go home that night and rest it out. The full investigation would have to wait until tomorrow, where Jack was sure to face consequences. Sure, the police chief had decided to play this for the media, but justice, and the truth, would have to be served. They’d make this private and secret. Jack would probably be forced to retire or something. Either way, his badge is as good as gone.

After a long, cold shower, a shave, dinner, and an hour of contemplation, Jack found himself staring at the blued-steel of his Beretta 92FS 9mm semiautomatic handgun. He slapped a fresh magazine inside and chambered the first round. Jack knew he had to do something with it. Something.

Scott Green came back to his mind. He could see Scott down the sights. And then the muzzle flare: Once, twice. He remembered his momentary relief and the shattering when he found out he had just murdered the real hero. God, Jack, what have you done?

That was when suicide presented itself as an option. He could do it; take the coward’s way out. He is, after all, the real villain in all of this. If Montenegro had been put away, then that kid would never have gotten heroin and maybe this would never have happened. But no, that’s too easy. Any honor left in Jack would never have permitted it. And then he got it.

Montenegro.

It’s time to do the right thing.

Officer Maurice grabbed his badge and his gun, put on his coat, and got in the car. That’s right: he’s going after that drug-dealing bastard. The drive was an easy one. It’s ten at night; there’s not much traffic. He passed by Grove and could see there were still emergency vehicles around; likely just to keep order. How do you go on after something like this?

Jack pounded on Montenegro’s door and drew his pistol; he kept it in his hand, but hidden behind his thigh. Luce, clearly high, opened the door, “Officer Jack? Yo, man, hella you doing here?”

“You’re under arrest.”

“Wait- what? Is this some kinda joke?”

“Yeah, it is.”

BOOM!

Jack blasted Luce all over the wall.

Satisfied, Jack dashed back to his car and grabbed a full jug of gasoline. He rushed inside the house and searched every room to make sure it was empty. Thank God it was. After spreading the gas around and taking samples of the drugs laying around for evidence, Jack flicked his lighter.

Flames, glorious flames.

The whole neighborhood looked on as Jack walked away from the blazing home. And as they watched, Jack drew his badge and a slip that read, “I’m not a hero.” Without any second’s hesitation, he put the barrel of his pistol into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

This is as much atonement as it is cowardice.

week eight: comatose

As always, spending a night on the town with his girl induced unique joy in the heart of Jim Heller. The crisp, cool early Autumn air fed into their romantic frolicking. Dinner at a local Italian restaurant proved itself quite successful, as Jim even managed to avoid the marinara sauce staining his thoroughly white shirt. The food, however, lost luster in comparison to the fine companionship found in the woman he loved. Penelope McCormick: strikingly beautiful with hair like the leaves of fall, and eyes like those of spring. Everything that Jim could hope for in a woman was found in Penelope.

Throughout their schooling, Jim fascinated himself with Penelope. While he hid in the background, she drew the attention of so many others. Long did he consider it hopeless that the perfect girl, who possessed the rarely-found gift of choice, could ever love a nobody like Jim Heller. In a quizzical blend of courage and aloofness, Jim found himself telling Penelope of his feelings for her. To his surprise, she returned the interest and their relationship began. And soon, this bond of romantic friendship blossomed into love.

They held hands as they walked through the bustling activity and brightly festive downtown. The town lights brilliantly advertised products of every liking and delicacy. Times Square, 1966: a place of expanding promise, capitalist temptation, and carefree enjoyment. Jim and Penelope together found it oddly romantic and nothing short of the perfect place to enjoy their time together. They found a bench and she put herself against him as his arm went around her shoulder. Closing their eyes, the world became whole in their hearts. To put this moment in the most bromidic of manners: nothing else mattered, nothing but their love and each other.

After working up a considerable amount of courage, this time the wisest and truest of all courage, Jim released his lover and stood from the bench. In confusion, Penelope pondered to herself why her lover stood. The moment was one that even those most deaf to emotion knew not to break with silence and to Penelope, emotion blared, so she remained quiet. Her answer came to her in the best of ways as Jim took a knee and a heartfelt, but subtle smile. Penelope's hand reached her gaping mouth in surprise. Carefully, she listened as Jim asked of her, “Penelope, I love you so, so much. I want all of this, the love, the time together to never end. You are so beautiful and I'd be a fool to pass you up. Penelope McCormick, will you marry me?”

Words escaped her. One simple word needed to come. Penelope stood to her feet and with a tear of a joy, she exclaimed, “Yes! Yes!” Jim helped to put the diamond ring on her finger and then he stood. Their eyes shared a moment of connection and at last, they pressed their lips together. Many things are lost in the abyss of time and memory, but not this kiss; it stands forever. When they finished, celebration was in order. A wine perhaps? It mattered not. The pressing need to just go somewhere filled the air. Again, their hands joined and they were off.

They were so carefree that they went to the street caring not for whatever might oppose them. First to realize this mistake, Jim looked to his left and saw the headlights. His first, and only thought was to Penelope. He pushed her out of the way. The two lights and the blaring horn signaled the impact as the car slammed through his body. Jim flew through the air and rolled on the pavement. The world faded away as he saw Penelope over him crying, “Jim! Jim!”

Existence disappeared.

He awoke to the presence of literally everyone he knew. They stood around his bed in a darkened room, looking upon him with remorseful expressions. Jim knew not where he lay, but instantly he knew he did not like it. At the center stood Penelope and his mother. None seemed to be phased by the fact that he had survived his car crash. Something from within kept Jim from speaking. It could then only be assumed that the same thing stopped all around him from doing the same. Fear and confusion flooded his mind, which struggled to ascertain time or place.

When Jim closed his eyes, the people vanished and suddenly, no longer did he lie. The surreal grew to a point of absolution, with the only reality being the man before him. A nondescript man sat before him in an equally nondescript chair. No room provided occupancy, only an empty void. Overwhelmed, Jim fell back and landed in a chair like the plain man, who told him, “Relax.”

Jim replied with nothing but a look of confusion and to an extent, despair.

“Relax, there is nothing you can do but relax now,” the man poured him a glass of water. “Drink.”

Jim took the glass and drank. His composure stitched itself together and at last he asked, “Am I dead?”

“If you were dead, would we be talking?”

“Then where am I?”

“You're nowhere. This place isn't real.”

“Not real?”

“That's right,” the man answered. “This is the only place you can be right now. You've lost your connection with the world and now you're reconciling by making them in your mind.”

“I don't understand.”

“Give it time and you might, but you might not. Either way is fine, because neither way really matters.”

Jim shook his head and took another sip, “Who are you?”

“I am just like this place. I'm not real, therefore, I'm no one. You needn't worry about who I am.”

Taking him at his advice, Jim tried then to pick up the pieces. He saw flashes of the night before. Penelope smiled at him from across the table and then again said yes at the bench. Then the headlights blinded him before he flew through the air. Last he saw her panicking face before he knew to ask, “What about Penelope?”

“She's fine, but she's broken up about you. You mean the world to her.”

“She means the world to me.”

“I know.”

Jim drank some more, “Where is she?”

“She's with you now.”

Jim looked around, “No, she isn't.”

“Yes, she is, you just don't know it.”

“How can I not know it?”

“The car crash didn't kill you, Jim, but your mind has been severed from your body. The world, time, place, none of it matters now.”

“I don't understand.”

“It's okay.”

Jim sat back in his chair and sighed, “But who are you?”

“I'm the closest thing you have to a link to the outside world. I am, for a lack of a better word, your subconscious. I can hear everything that goes on and I keep you breathing, but I am passive.”

“So you can hear Penelope? What is she saying?”

“She's reading your favorite book to you, Catcher in the Rye, she's about halfway through.”

Jim smiled.

“She's been coming in for weeks now, talking to you.”

“But I can't say anything back?”

“No, I'm afraid you can't. Your mind has only just started letting you actually think more than just the subconscious, much less move any of your body.”

“Oh,” Jim stopped smiling. “I'll be out of this soon then.”

“No one can say when you'll awaken, for now, all you have is this.”

“This?”

“We're in your mind.”

“I'm dreaming?”

“So to speak, yes, you are, but this is the only reality that you have right now. Embrace it.”

Jim found no understanding as he tried to wrap himself around all of it. He found it exerting.

“Your mind is tired, Jim. It's time for you to rest.”

Jim nodded and the closed his eyes. He had many more questions, but exhaustion overtook him.

When he awoke again, Jim found himself in the same place with the same man. Nothing seemed to have changed and everything stood in timelessness. He had hoped that after this rest, he and Penelope would reunite. Instead, he returned to this strange place. Jim asked, “What's happened? Outside, I mean.”

“I can't say how long it's been, but Penelope finished Catcher in the Rye and then she read through The Things They Carried, now she's reading Heart of Darkness and she's about a fourth of the way through.”

Jim laughed, “She should put that away, she hates that book!”

“She hasn't missed a single day in visiting you.”

“It must have been months then that she's been coming. What has she talked about?”

The man's face was saddened, “She talks of how she misses you and how she'll never leave you. She loves you much. Sometimes she gets on the bed and just lays with you. I wish you could feel how she holds your hand. There is so much hope in her voice. People tell her that she should move on, but she is faithful.”

This made Jim smile and a tear came to his eye, “I want to be with her.”

“You are.”

The tear dropped, “But not like this. Not like this.”

“I know, but one day you'll be free. One can only hope.”

“I need to be out of here.”

“You are lucky to be alive, Jim, and healing takes time. Let it run its course.”

Jim nodded and then closed his eyes again. Periodically, he would open them again and the man would still be there. They talked of many things, mostly things stored in his mind. He entertained himself to pass time, which was still lost. Mostly, however, they talked of Penelope, who never stopped visiting day by day. Jim was glad at this, up until a certain point.

“She needs to move on,” Jim told the man.

“Why? She still loves you and you love her.”

“It's been years now,” Jim started to cry again. “It must have been years. She's read so many books now that I've lost count. I appreciate it, but she can't love a man who can't love her back.”

“You do love her.”

“I can't show it to her, I can't give back!”

“Perhaps just being there for her to talk to is enough.”

“It isn't! It can't be! I don't want that for her! I want her to find someone and to be happy with him because I can't make her happy any more. All I have left is false hope and sorrow,” Jim sobbed. “She needs to move on. She needs to go on without me.”

“She doesn't want to, Jim.”

“I don't want to be here, but that's just how it is. She doesn't want to move on, but that's the best thing for her. She's so beautiful, she can't waste it on a vegetable that can't appreciate it.”

The subconscious said nothing as Jim went back to into his sleep. He slept for a long time, longer than ever before.

When he awoke again, he was surrounded by utter darkness. The man no longer sat before him because there was nothing. Jim panicked and then felt that he was in his own body again. He grinned before realizing his situation. He lay straight and then when he tried to sit up, he head met a soft roof less than six inches above him. Trapped! A box? No, a coffin. Jim squirmed and fought as he knew he could not be dead! He yelled and screamed, tossed and turned, and breathed hard. As the air escaped him and thought he had found his dying breath, the coffin opened. Jim squinted for it was bright.

When he opened them again, he found himself in a strange room. It did not take him long to realize that he was lying in a hospital bed. Everything was different, it was almost as if he was aboard a spaceship. The equipment in the room seemed so different, but so advanced. How long had it been? Jim looked around him and saw that the room was empty. Sunlight crept through the window, indicating it must have been around midday, at least at Jim's estimation. For a few minutes, he said nothing and didn't try to call a nurse. Instead, he just tried to understand it all. He knew he had been in a coma, but had it really been so long?

A woman dressed in white suddenly entered the room. She saw Jim's wakened eyes and jumped in shock. He was awake! She instantly called, “Doctor! I think you better come in here!”

“Where am I?” Jim asked.

“You're in a hospital, Jim, you've been out for a long time.”

“How long?”

The nurse looked down at the floor.

“Well?” a pause. “How long?”

“It's been thirty-eight years.”

“Thirty-eight years?” Jim's eyes went wide. He just couldn't grasp it. Thirty-eight years? Last he remembered, he had proposed to Penelope at age twenty-three, so he must be fifty-one. Fifty-one. “Oh, God!”

An older man wearing a lab coat stepped through the door and asked the nurse, “What did you tell him?”

“Just how long it's been and where he is.”

He nodded to her and she left. The doctor turned to Jim and told him, “Listen, you need to stay calm. Your mind is in a state of reboot right now and-”

“Reboot?”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” the doctor realized that 'reboot' probably didn't mean anything to someone who couldn't quite grasp that he no longer lived in the 60's. He snapped his finger and traded his words, “Your mind isn't used to working very hard right now. You need to give it time to get back up to speed. Don't try to think too hard.”

“How can I not th-?” it hit him, “Penelope? Where is she?”

“She comes by once every two weeks now,” the doctor told him. “Listen, I'm afraid I can't tell you too much, I could risk knocking you right back out. I'm going to have the nurse get you some food and then we can work from there.”

The doctor walked out of the room as Jim sat up. No ease came to him as he came up, but the effort proved worthwhile. He looked around the room and saw the things around him. Jim could honestly say that he recognized very little of the medical equipment. Too much, too much to take in all at once. Thirty-eight years tried to come to him in an instant.

“I have to see her,” Jim stood to his feet but quickly fell to the ground as he lost his balance. He hadn't walked in thirty-eight years. Somehow, his legs just couldn't do it.

The nurse burst in carrying a tray of food and exclaimed, “Oh, no!” She helped him back onto his bed and then fed him without saying much at all. The food was standard hospital fare, nothing special. One would think that a man gone for thirty-eight years would have cravings, but 1966 is Jim Heller's yesterday. The real and true yesterday never existed for Jim. There were a lot of forgotten yesterdays; too many to count.

The doctor came back in later in the day. Very carefully and very slowly, he tried to recount the last near-forty years to Jim. Lifetimes passed and there could be no assurance as to who lived and who had died. The internet, the end of the Cold War, the destruction of the World Trade Center towers, globalization, and so many other things eluded his understanding. He felt like a time traveler who had gone into the future to get a glimpse of where life would go, but turning back could never happen. Time and its ramifications eluded him. Despite the doctor's best efforts to keep the history as objective as possible, Jim's questions always shifted back to his dear Penelope. But the doctor refused to let her come in. He told him to take things one step at a time. Time. Time was all he needed. That isn't how Jim saw it though. He saw that he had lost enough time already. Time he didn't know was there in the first place.

Fortunately, the next day brought better tidings. The doctor informed Jim that he had gotten in touch with Penelope and that she would be on her way. Worst of all was the wait, not the eery feeling that she wouldn't be who she was when he had proposed. Jim had gotten the chance to see himself in the mirror. It was haunting. His hair had grayed, his face had wrinkled, and he had gained weight. Jim Heller wasn't there, it was someone else. He had changed but it just didn't feel that way. The same man stared back at him through the mirror, but he was a twisted version of what should be.

When Penelope walked through the door, Jim saw that he was right. He didn't recognize her. Her hair had darkened and was highlighted with silver streaks, her face had wrinkled, and her once excellent figure was elderly and sagging. She wore a beaming smile on her face as she approached the bed. Jim returned it with a tear in his eye. He was both overjoyed and disappointed, not that she was ugly, bu that he had missed the chance to grow old and ugly with her. He had every intention of doing just that.

“Jim!” She sat at the chair beside him. “Oh, God, I can't believe it! It's been so long!”

Jim shook his head, “It's not even been a day to me.”

“I know,” she sighed, “This must seem so strange to you.”

“That doesn't even begin to describe it, Penny.”

Penelope reached over and held his hand. She bore a slight smile as a tear rolled down her cheek, “Oh, Jim, I waited for you for years. I waited so long. I came by every day to see you. I read you your favorite books.”

“I know.”

“You do? You heard?”

“I don't remember much,” he sighed. “It's like a dream, or a long gone memory but I have bits and pieces.”

“Jim,” she sobbed, “I could only wait so long. I'm married now.”

Those words pierced his heart like a sword through the thinnest fabric, or a nail through bread. His world shattered into the tiniest of pieces. All that he cared for and all that he wanted belonged to someone else. The friendships that he had spent the years of life cultivating would be long gone. There was nothing left in this world for Jim Heller. At very first thought, it was a feeling of betrayal. Jim tried his hardest to understand, but it felt as if she had cheated on him and run away after a night. But there she was, old and gone. At that moment, Jim wished he were dead.

Jim Heller never found true happiness in his life. He found a dead-end nine-to-five job somewhere and tried his best to scratch a living. It was hard for him because so many concepts taken for granted were alien to Jim. Eventually, however, he found himself in a unique position in that he could remember the 1960's as if they had just passed. The comatose was an asset to the nostalgic and the historians. Purpose was granted to him, but not happiness. Sometimes Jim would visit Penelope and her family, but these visits served only to remind him of the gaping hole in his heart. That tragic night, Jim Heller survived, but the Penelope he knew had died to him.

She remained faithful to him in a way that could never be what Jim wanted. Penelope was his rehabilitation. With delicacy and care, she helped him understand the world in which they lived. There was barely a snippet of what he remembered in the world. Jim couldn't understand the world and he had no friends left. Common ground was scarcely found for Jim, yet Jim Heller lives on today somewhere, still cobbling together a meager existence. He is admirable in that despite life running from him, he tries to catch up with every nth of effort. Despair and anguish attack him; giving up seems to be the most profitable alternative at times, but Jim lives on. And that's about all that can be done: live on. Live on despite the atrocities.

Live on.

week seven: the shadow

1992

Agent, double-agent. Intelligence, counter-intelligence. Eyes-only, ears-only. Strike, counterstrike. Blind, double-blind. Just a couple of things in the business they throw out to make us learn. All it really does is confuse us; I never paid much attention to the jargon. But at the same time, it's important. The more we study it, learn it, and love it, then more the enemy has to learn about us to fully understand us. The problem with that is that it makes understanding ourselves even more of a challenge than understanding them. Keeping track of both is tiring work, especially considering just how many enemies we've been stacking up over the years.

When the Soviet Union fell, there was a lot of money in being in the intelligence business. Unfortunately, all of this work was dirty money, very dirty money. The agency wound up giving me the job of playing clean-up man. I was to get in, play dirty, and take out our own agents who were playing the field. It isn't an easy job playing the field you're trying to burn.

Most of the best money was in tracking the movement of the massive weapons stockpiles that went missing when the Soviet Union fell. A lot of it went to arms dealers, but the best open stockpiles were kept in secret locations. The people who knew where to find these stockpiles, were the now unemployed KGB agents. A few of our own agents figured out the potential for profit here and decided to make a move.

The first bust was simple enough, it was just a regular stash of AK's, Makarov pistols, and a few RPG-7's. A KGB informant hired one of our agents to act as a letterbox between himself and an Irish arms dealer. My job wasn't to care about the weapons and where they went, it was just to kill our guy. If I took him out before the deal could be made, great, but that was secondary. The funny thing about dirty agents is if they're dirty in one way, they're dirty in another. I managed to lure him out in the open using a honey pot, or basically I paid a woman to get close to him. It was as simple as that: sex.

Sex sells, sex kills.

I never got to find out if the sale wound up going through or not. Doesn't matter though, I got the job done. Detaching yourself is critical if you wanna do my job. You start getting attached, then you start losing your ability to pull the trigger. You can't pull the trigger, then the other guy does it first and you're dead.

I got a lot of jobs after that. I had to do a lot of things to get my targets. The easiest way was to play dirty. I made myself look like I was just as bad as they were and then I could be trusted. The were a lot of lies and it was confusing work, but it paid off. I was good at what I did.

My newest target is a guy who goes by Shadow. Not a very creative name by any stretch of the imagination, but it fits the bill. Actually, if Croatia's OBS is to believed, Shadow is just their code word for the guy. All I really have is their word, which is the source for our intel, the Russian's intel, and so forth. He got himself quite the reputation as the dirtiest man in the books. I used everything I had to try to flush this guy out. Decoys, honey pots... everything. None of it worked. That was when I decided I would hit the source of the intelligence: Croatia.

Instead of playing this one in the dark, I decided to play this one naked, or without any cover. The Croatians knew who I was the whole time. I didn't like having my cards down like that, but there was no other way. They tell me they've captured one of Shadow's associates and arrange for me to interrogate the guy. It's a pretty lucky break for me that the Croatians have it out for this guy too. Apparently the Shadow's been taking stuff from them just like everyone else. A lot of people want this guy dead.

The first guy I'm supposed to meet is a man whose name is Boris, nothing else. It's obviously a cover, but that doesn't really matter. Pretty quirky guy, but he seems to know what he's doing. I meet him outside an abandoned trainyard and I remember exactly how he greeted, “You're the guy, yes?”

He was supposed to ask me for a password, but I figured he was dispensing with all that, “Yeah, I'm 'the guy'.”

“Don't bullshit me, American, you need the password.”

“You didn't ask for it.”

“Password or I walk.”

“The red mirror reflects blue.”

Boris laughs at that, “I wonder how they think of these passwords...”

“You got me,” I answer with a sigh.

“Silence. You speak when I ask you to speak.”

“But-” I cut myself off realizing that this might be some protocol I'm not familiar with. The Croatians are ex-Soviet, so I figure their way of doing things must be different.

“Come, prisoner is inside,” Boris says as he walks to the nearest building. It was old and rusted, exactly like you might see in a movie. The air was pretty musty and I can't imagine what kind of molds and diseases grew around me. Inside was just one guard with an SKS and a guy with the crap beaten out of him tied to a chair. Part of me felt for him, but the part I act on didn't care. Boris yelled at the prisoner, “Hey! Wake up, we've got a guest. You're going to tell the American all you know about Shadow.”

The man doesn't even look up, “I told you,” he spat blood, “all I know.”

“Look at the American when you speak!” Boris ordered.

The man looked up at me and then squinted, “Oh, God.”

“What?” I ask.

He starts to laugh, “Oh, my God, this is too funny. Sucks for you though.”

I shot my eyebrow up as high as it went.

The prisoner just keeps laughing as he explains, “I get it now! There is no 'Shadow'! That's why nobody can find him!”

Boris punched the guy, “Talk!”

“If you'd stop hitting me, I was getting there, Boris,” the prisoner said in the most condescending way I could imagine. He cleared his throat, “You are the Shadow.”

“What?” I didn't understand. That's not possible, my job is to find and kill the Shadow.

“In all the confusion of war intelligence, your dozens of covers started to cross over and eventually they formed just one master identity: The Shadow. So, little did you know,” he laughed again, “you set out to kill yourself!”

Boris opened up a file, where he must have had a picture of the one suspected to be the Shadow, and then looked at me. His eyes went wide.

“Spy games sure suck, don't they?”

I see Boris reaching inside his jacket for his pistol. I could reach for mine, but what would the point of that be? I could beg for my life, but that wouldn't do anything, would it? I was free for the killing. I'm a deniable asset; the Croatians can kill me without any diplomatic ramifications. This is the end.

Boris' pistol is out and he takes aim. Before he fires, he asks, “How does it feel? To atone for all of your murders and lies?”

“It's a relief, to be honest,” are my last words. In a split second, there's a boom followed by a sharp pain in my forehead. There's nothing after that. I'm dead and that's that. Spy games sure suck, don't they?

week six: the graveyard shift

When they talk about working the graveyard shift, they don't mean working in a real graveyard. They never do. Well, that's what I got: a real, live graveyard. It's probably about eleven or ten in the morning and the sky's overcast as it rains ever so gently. The crime scene's been tapered off, but there's not much use for it. My partner and I stand over the body, which is no more than a day old. He's been stabbed several times and lies over freshly broken soil. All around are headstones and statues. There's a very noir feeling in the air, like everything's supposed to be in black and white. Only the flowers and the grass have any color, but the gray sky, cemented death markers, and our suits keep the tone bland.

A statue of an angel hangs over us and the rain makes it cry. It's sitting over us like a guardian angel who failed. I've seen too many bodies in my life to shed any tears for this guy, but the angel definitely doesn't help make this any easier. It's kinda distracting just sitting over us, watching our every move. I wish it'd go away, but hell, it's just a statue. Something about this whole thing's got me jumpy.

Questions start piling up in our minds as we look things over, the first of which is simple: who is this guy? Or I should say “was”. Either way, whoever did this took his wallet and anything else that could help us figure out who he was. Somebody must have really had it out for him too. From what I can tell, any one of the stabs would have been enough to kill him. All of them are pretty deep wounds. The blood's almost all gone though, it got washed away in the rain and it's in the mud now. That's another problem. The rain's washed way any hope of finding decent prints.

That leads us to another question, who killed this guy? There's no knife in sight, but we've got men searching the area. For all we know, it could have been anybody. Maybe it was his grandma, maybe it was his wife, or maybe it was his damned dog. Does he even have a wife? There's no ring to tell, it's gone just like the rest of his valuables. This couldn't be a common robbery though. No way would a common thief come out in the middle of a graveyard just to rob a guy.

“Smoke?” my partner asks offering me a cigarette. I take it because somehow puffing on something helps the mood. He gives me a light and I go on with my examination.

The hardest question to answer though, is why. Why was this guy killed? There a lot of reasons you'd want to kill someone and there really aren't any good ones. At least not that I can think of. Then again, why does anyone do anything? You're just gonna die anyway. This guy just got the express ticket out of here. I have to admit, I kinda envy him. I mean, I don't wanna be lying dead at a cemetery with holes in my gut, but I would very much like for all this to be over and done with.

I look around me and I see the symbolism of a dead guy in a graveyard with a crying angel standing over him. This is the kind of stuff you'd put in a movie. That's the movies though, that's where they tell you that stuff actually matters. Movies aren't about what happens, but what you'd like to happen. We'd all like life to mean something, but all I see right now is a dead guy and I've seen so many that it's hard to care. Is there really meaning to it all?

Let's go with this movie thing. If this were a movie, we'd probably find some clue that points us in the right direction, where we'd probably spend the movie chasing down the murderer and looking for clues. It'd be exciting and I'd probably get the girl by the end of it all. I'd hope it'd be Audrey Hepburn, she's a real babe. The audience would get all caught up in the drama, but the last thing they'd think about was just how it wasn't real and that there was no murder and there was no villain. There's no hero either.

Now, let's go back to real life. You get two detectives standing over a wet, mangled corpse who have no idea who the guy is. There is no clue that points in the right direction, Audrey Hepburn is still in Hollywood bangin' her away to fame, and we'll probably never know what happened. There are no heroes and there are no villains, there's just people trying to live out their lives. Yeah, some of us screw up and and do bad stuff, and the rest of us stop 'em. That doesn't make us heroes though, it just makes us people doing their thing. The guy who killed the dead guy here, he was just trying to live his life like the rest of us and then he screwed it up.

My cigarette's done, so I put it down in the mud and stamp it down with my foot. Sure, I just littered and contaminated the crime scene, but I'll forget about in about thirty seconds. It's like this guy. Give it time and no one cares about him all of a sudden. Maybe nobody does already. I don't know. I don't know who he is, I don't know what he did, and I don't really care all that much. There's no reason to because there's no reason to do anything. There is no purpose behind this life that just ends anyway.

My partner tells me it's sad that I think this way, that I'm being fatalistic. Maybe I am. I think I'm just being realistic though. There was a time when I felt sorry for people who think like I do, now I just don't care. I am glad though for the people who think they have a reason and a purpose. Good for them because they're somehow happy in all this.

“I think we've got all we can from here,” my partner says to me as he finished his own cigarette.

“Yeah,” I agree as I sigh. Something in me wants me to find out who did this and bring him to justice. That's why I signed up for all this, but it didn't take me long to figure how the real world works. Some people are just blind to it all, I guess. Good for them though. It's better to be Ray Charles, who can't see a damn thing, but you never see him not smiling, than to be Nietzsche, who saw everything but was miserable.

“Wanna grab lunch?” Asks my partner.

I take one last look at the corpse and then answer, “I could go for a sandwich.”

And that's that. We're off. We don't find a single useable bit of evidence besides the corpse. Maybe the forensics team will find something or another, but I really doubt it. I doubt a lot of things. As we go to the car, I look back again and I see the angel. It doesn't look like she's crying anymore from this distance. It looks like she's perched over the dead guy, giving him some kinda comfort. I hope the last thing I see before I die is an angel too.

I get in the car and then my thoughts turn away from murder and onto the sandwich and the mound of paperwork I've got coming. It's just another day and this is just another death. It happens all the time and I can't figure out why it matters anymore. You can call me bleak, but I'll call you blind.

(A few comments from the writer can be found here)

week five: documentary of the drawing man

After some opening credits, it cuts to some establishing shots of a regular city park. Everyone is busy going to work, coming home, or whatever it is they do. It's not important. Everything's in a pretty faded color, likely symbolizing the dried-out nature of everyday life. City sounds are audible, but it's just background noise.

Then a black teenager shows up on the screen and he's talking like he's being interviewed, “Look, man, I don't even know how to describe him. It's just this dude who sits right over there,” it cuts to a bench and then back to the black man, “and just draws. He's there every day just drawing his little pictures.”

A middle-aged woman is next, “He's kind of thin, but not very tall. He's got this really scraggly beard and, what is that hair he's got? Like Tarzan or a Jamaican or-” She's cut off in mid-sentence.

The next person is a younger businessman who seems to be in a hurry, “Dreadlocks. He's got blond dreadlocks. I don't know what to say about him, to be honest,” he finishes with an embarrassed smile and then a glance at his watch.

The woman comes back, “And he's always got hippie clothes on. You know, like tie-dye and cargo shorts. But I've only ever seen him from a distance. One day I had hoped to see what he draws but-”

“Oh, I clean the sidewalks,” an elderly Asian gentleman answers. “I don't really notice him. I prefer to watch the birds or the squirrels,” he laughs as the sidewalks and some leaves are shown, “Or the leaves I'm supposed to be cleaning!”

“You know, I don't really know what that dude draws,” the teenager said, “but he's always acting real careful like. It's like this is the most important thing in the world for him. I think he's high.”
The cleaner came back, “I try to peak at what he draws one time, but I could not really see.”

“Yeah, I see the drawing guy on my way to work every day. I walk through here,” the business man tells us as he points. The angle changes to show where he comes from. “He's there on my lunch break too, but when I walk to the subway to get home, he's gone.”

“I wonder where he goes...” the woman thought aloud. “Does he have a home?” She asks the camera as if the man behind it knows.

“Man, I bet he be drawing whatever pops in his head, like he's on acid or something, you know?”
the teenager laughed. “Hallucinations and...” his last word is censored.

The camera goes back to the bench.

The middle-aged woman talks, “I don't think anyone ever sits on the bench except for him. It's like it's his bench.”

The Asian man sits down on the bench and smiles as he tells the world, “I make sure to keep this bench extra-clean! I don't want the drawing-man to sit in bird poop or something.”

A young, very attractive lady is next, “He's kind of cute, I guess, and I'm definitely into the whole artistic thing, but I kind of get the feeling he doesn't shower. Ew.”

“Come to think of it,” the teenager bears a quizzical expression, “I don't know where he goes when he's done. I mean, I just sort of hang around here and he's just always there and then he'll just be gone,” the camera shows a few streets and alleys before cutting back, “I don't know. I guess he's just part of the scenery.”

“It's a bit like he got himself... engraved in the culture around here,” the businessman said as he seemed to start getting into it. He bit his lower lip as he continued, “Everyone just seems so used to seeing him around.”

The woman spoke a bit more, “I've always thought about talking to him, but I just never did. I
guess I just assumed he'd always be around.”

In a somewhat blurry and even more colorless shot, the empty bench is showed.
“Yeah, I don't know what happened to him,” the business man said. “One day I just noticed he wasn't there.”

“He ain't come back for a while,” the black teenager said. “I guess I kind of miss him, you know?”

“What? He's gone?” the attractive lady looked around with a puzzled expression.

The businessman scratched his head as he continued, “You know, it's kind of sad. I don't really know how long he's been coming here and I don't know how long he's been gone. I don't even know what he used to draw.”

“I keep the bench clean because one day, I hope he is going to come back,” the Asian said hopefully. “I want this place to be ready for him because he is special. He never hurt nobody and
he always here.”

“My God, that makes sense,” the woman remarked as she looked at a piece of paper.

“What? That's me!” the teenager exclaimed as he looked at a different sheet.

“I understand it all now!” the woman exclaimed.

“That's... incredible!” the businessman looked at the paper with a barely contained jaw, he then changed his expression to one of questioning, “But wait, how did you get this?”

The camera changes angles to a shots of the papers. They are drawings of the people who have been interviewed. The businessman is eating his lunch, the teenager is talking with his friends, the janitor is sweeping the sidewalk, the attractive woman is flirting, and the middle-aged woman is looking down the road.

“He draw a picture of me? Why he do that?” The Asian man wore a baffled look.

“So, he drew a picture of all us and here we are figuratively drawing picture of him...” the
business man pondered aloud.

It cut back to the Asian and he asks, “He never showed nobody his pictures, how you get them?”

The camera shows the puzzled businessman and suddenly it moves. As it swivels, we get dizzy but then we see a neatly-dressed and trimmed blond man. He smiles into the camera and says, “I drew it.”

week three: the monarch

In a place like this, there isn't much to do. It's the morning and the sun has just come up. I'm looking out my window and I see that Spring has come and is full. Nature is busy flourishing. The trees are at their greenest and the flowers have blossomed in every color I know. The grass is growing on the hills and sometimes I'll see a rabbit frolicking in the new-found beauty. I love the Springtime. It's quiet in my room though. They built it so I can't hear much from outside, but if I listen closely, I can hear the birds singing. Their songs are beautiful. I wonder what they sing about. And then beautiful butterfly landed outside my window. I know this kind. It's a Monarch butterfly. It's wings are orange and black, with just a touch of white. It is splendid. I put my hand on the window because I want to touch it. But I can't, because I'm not like the Monarch. I'm not like the Monarch because I'm not free.

They put me in my room when they want to and they let me out when they want to. I do what they want and not what I want. Sometimes it seems that they think I don't know the difference, but I do. I know what it means to be free. To be free is to be like the butterfly. The butterfly doesn't have to wait on breakfast time to leave his room in the morning. Someone knocked on my door and then it opened. It was the man in white. He told me to come with him. Yeah, it was breakfast time.

When I walked down to breakfast, I saw other people like me. They were coming out of their rooms too. Just like me, they weren't free either, but not like me, they don't care. I sit down at a table and I eat the eggs and the bacon and the hash browns. It tastes fine, but I don't really care. Then the man in white brings me my pills. They look like candy, but candy is fun. Pills are not fun. I tried to figure out what they do. I worked hard, but after I took them I didn't care about what they were. That's when I figured it out. Just like this place is a prison for my body, the pills are a cage for my mind. They trap me into thinking about what they want me to think about.

I don't want to take them, but the man in white is big and he scares me. So I put them in my mouth and I use my chocolate milk to make them go down my throat. Chocolate milk is my favorite thing they give me. It comes in cartons, I hate the cartons, but it's what's inside that matters. It's like this prison. The prison doesn't matter, it's who is locked up in here. And that's me. I matter, right?

Then they take me to the other tables. The mind-prison works by now. I don't think about freedom, about the ghosts, or about the monsters in my mind. No, they say I think like a normal person. Normal, normal, normal, just like everyone else. I don't want to be like everyone else, but here I am. I'm drawing dogs with crayons, making macaroni pictures, or playing Connect Four with Doris. I always win Connect Four. Doris is more broken than me. She doesn't know her lefts and rights and she can't even talk straight. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever be like her. I can't be though. I'm just crazy, she's crazy and stupid.

The tricks they pull at this place are pretty good, but they don't fool me. We aren't free, but they want us to think we are. You can see outside, but the windows won't open. Even if you broke them, there are still the bars. Sometimes they tell me lies like how they make us safe. I told them that I don't want to be safe, that I want to be free. All I got was their assurance that I am free, but that's just not right. They're wrong. One day I'll be free like the Monarch and I'll show them what it means to be free.

The best part of the day is when I get to be with Robin. She's my therapist, but I like to think that she's my friend. We talk about things, sometimes happy things, sometimes sad things, sometimes angry things. She's like the birds. Robin is beautiful and she sings nice too. I asked her to sing to me once and she did, but then she wouldn't do it again. That made me sad, but I didn't tell her. She talks to me like I matter. Robin talks to me and makes me feel good. Part of me wants to love her, but another part of me tells me there's something wrong.

When they put me back in my room, I got in bed. I laid there and I thought about things. I thought about the San Diego Padres, I thought about the Queen of England, I thought about Star Trek, and then I thought about the Monarch butterfly. I want to be like the butterfly. That's when I thought of my plan.

When breakfast came and they gave me my pills, I didn't take them. I pretended to but I didn't swallow them. My mind was free, like the Monarch. Instead of drawing dogs with crayons, I drew monsters and shadows. I didn't play Connect Four with Doris, instead I read books. I didn't know how much I liked reading better than Connect Four until my mind was free. I read about a lot things. Everything seemed different, everything was scarier and I didn't feel as safe, but I knew I was free at last.

When it was time to talk to Robin, I told her about how I was feeling. I tried to not tell her about not taking the pills, but she figured it out. That's also when I figured Robin out. She wasn't trying to help me, she was just another part of the prison. She tried to do something I read about called manipulation. She made things seem one way, but they really went a different one. I was betrayed. The men in white came and they made me take my pills and then they put me in bed early to punish me. The sun was still up. It's not right!

When I woke up again, I looked out and I saw the butterfly again. It looked so happy. I felt happy for it because it was not like me. It was free. Everything outside is free and I'm stuck here on a hard bed doing everything I don't want to do. I hate it. I hate it so much. I watched the butterfly some more and then something bad happened. A bird came and the bird saw the Monarch. It flew in and then it ate the Monarch butterfly. I was angry at the bird. The bird took away the Monarch's freedom. I thought about that and I knew that Robin was more like the birds than I thought before. They were pretty and they could sing, but they took freedom from the butterflies like me.

Remember when I said that yesterday I read about things? One thing that I read was about the Monarch butterfly. I learned a lot about them. I learned how they live in North America and migrate every year. I saw lots of cool pictures of them and I think they're my favorite now. But the best thing I learned is that if you take their freedom, you'll regret it. The bird that ate the Monarch is going to die because the Monarch is poisonous.

I am the Monarch. Like the Monarch, I've been eaten. They ate my mind and my freedom so that I'm not what I'm supposed to be. I'm supposed to be flying free, but instead I'm stuck inside this dark place. People always told me that life had a meaning and that we have a purpose. There is something for all of us to do. I know what I'm supposed to do now. I am the Monarch and I have to do what Monarchs do: I have to kill the bird that takes away my freedom.

wanna contribute?

There are going to come times when I've run out of creative juices or just won't have time to get a story going for the week. It happens to all of us. So, I'm gonna need a little help. There are three ways you can help me.

The first is that you read, visit, follow the blog, and leave constructive comments. I'll take criticism, compliments, etc., but try to keep it constructive. Please don't bash, hate, or troll.

The second is that you click on the ads on the.... wait... ads? What ads? Well, Google shut the Adsense down. Oh well. I'm not going to ask for money, but if you would like to contribute monetarily, I won't say no. Send me a message and we can work something out. Your money would go to placing ads for Story a Week or possibly towards books, mostly writer's reference books.

The third is the coolest of them all. You can get a story featured as the story of the week. All you have to do is get in touch with me. The process is simple:
1. E-mail me at wajulian@liberty.edu and introduce yourself. Be friendly and if all goes well, I'll let you send me your story.
2. Send me the most up-to-date copy of your story and include a little bit about it.
3. I'll look over it, approve it, and if I like it, I'll probably make a few edits, then send my edits to you for your approval
4. If you approve, then it'll be put in the queue to be the story of the week!

A couple of tips to get it posted:
-- Try to keep it less than 3000 words. Any more than that and I can almost guarantee you I'll cut it down in the editing phase.
-- Be creative! We've all heard the same cliches over and over, so show me what you can do outside the box!
-- Twists. I like twists.
-- Get editing help. Have some friends look it over before you send it to me.
-- The biggest tip of them all: JUST DO IT

I won't pay you anything for sending in a guest piece, but you will get recognition if it gets posted. Also, the criticism and peer review you get will be invaluable.

Anyway, thanks for reading and please, I would love to hear from you!
-- WA Julian

story a week: an introduction

I, like thousands upon thousands of people, am a writer. I'm not an aspiring writer, like some might say, I'm a writer. I write. That doesn't mean I have it down perfectly or don't have anything to learn, in fact I have much to learn. That's why I'm here.

This is my latest writing project. I have decided to dedicate myself to keeping and maintaining a blog about writing. The real dedication, however, comes from dedicating myself to a writing a new short story every week. Sometimes I might post something old, sometimes a chapter from the numerous novels I'm writing, sometimes maybe I'll have a friend contribute, or maybe I'll even post an essay from a class. Either way, something new will be posted at least every week.

I was told by a fellow writer that talent has little bearing in contrast with dedication. While talent can make being great easier, it all goes to waste should the person lose sight of their goals. That's what this is. I want to put in as many dedicated hours as possible to writing and having a blog is a good start, right?

I'm also going to post any good writing links I happen to come across. For now, this will count as this week's story. I haven't decided on what day I'm going to post a story yet, but rest assured, it's coming.

I'm WA Julian and I'm a writer.