suicide flakes

Out of flakes, I went to the store.

"Sorry, sir," the clerk said, "we just sold the last box about an hour a go. You can talk to my manager if you'd like."

The manager gave me the number for the distributor.

"When are you going to ship more flakes?" I asked.

"Sorry, sir," the distributor said, "we just shipped the last crate of flakes about two hours ago. I'm not sure when we're going to get more in. Let me get the manufacture's number for you."

I called the manufacture. They were out too, but they gave me the number for the flakes.

"When are you shipping?" I asked the flakes.

"I don't think I will be shipping again," said the flakes. "I don't see the point anymore. Maybe I'll just drown myself in some milk."

I hung up and then went back to the store and bought bran flakes instead.

salaryman

I follow the salaryman to the supermarket. He buys grapes and a gigantic fly swatter and pays with his ATM card. Then I follow him home, to bed, the office, to lunch, Starbucks, home again, to his mother's in the country, and finally to a love hotel.

"Don't watch me," he says.

I sit in the chair beside the bed, facing the wall, listening to the salaryman moan as he fucks the blond prostitute. When the salaryman leaves I stay behind, because even the man who follows the salaryman around needs to get some.

answers

I caught the outer edge of the barn from my window. It was brown and faced the fields. I closed my eyes, seeing it again, as it blended with my thoughts, dragging me down.

Feel it now, I told myself. Stop thinking. You have a right to know.

I rounded a corner. Everything seemed to be moving faster, and it was then, in that moment, that I felt something: it was rough and hard and it, too, began to blend with my thoughts and memories, as it moved into my mind. And then I saw it: it didn't look like a barn anymore; it didn't look like anything at all, actually. Curious, my body moved toward it, and then into it, as it consumed me from the inside out. Like depression.

memories

For a moment I visualized us resting side-by-side. Her tears had dried long ago. I felt her hand reach for mine, and then a smile appeared on her face right before they took her away. We were both waiting to be taken, but why did they come for her so early? Smiling again, she got to her feet and told me that everything would be fine. And then she kissed me. She was gone. Wherever they took her, I hoped she made it there safely -- and quickly. Alone again, I wanted nothing more than to protect her from that new world. To hold her again in my arms as she cried. Sometime later, I realized that I had nothing to fear for they took her beneath the world, a place where no one could touch her. Somewhere safe, and forgiving. There is a large gate there (I've seen it from a far) but it isn't meant to be opened. It's only nothing, where everything is forgotten ...

At dusk, they finally came for me, taking me back to the world -- a world where I would have to do everything all over again. I knew I wouldn't be seeing her again for a long time, but I heard her words again and knew that everything would be fine. And after my first day back in the world, I cried out for her, and that time she held me. Long into the night. Until she, too, was forgotten.

our kiss

If you could have seen my eyes, you would have seen pleasure and a breeze of browns and oranges, a whirlpool of color. The autumn motions colored the surroundings. I shut my eyes and the color remained, but the feeling dissipated, little by little. The fall shades exploded along with the kiss into the spirit. My guard fell -- anything could have entered, everything around could have upset me, apart from the feeling directly ahead. Time did not seem to flow right. The seasons, inside, reversed, and my body was warm; the light was dim. And the silent warmness quickly spread through me, relieving the ache, releasing everything unimportant. The glowing warmth started from my heart, drowning all coldness within its path.

I was lying in the grass; it must have been autumn again. My mind felt like early evening -- the windmills by the cool ocean, the trees nearby bristled in a heavenly breeze. I was in a place where the sun never sets.

A brown mist fluttered in the distance like a rainbow.

water as life

Sometimes I like to picture myself living out a novel. In this novel, I'm not a protagonist or an antagonist. I just am. And at the end of the book, I have some sort of spiritual awakening, which doesn't necessarily bring all the parts of the book together for closure; but, instead, opens the reader up to an infinite number of possibilities -- another beginning rather than an end.

Maybe it would go something like this:

I immediately felt the warmth of the water rushing passed me. There was no turning back now, I thought. This is my end. Or maybe not? Maybe there isn't supposed to be any sort of "end"? I battled the currents for sometime until they, too, seemed to disappear. I saw my wife and children, together in the living room, waiting for me to come home. I called out for them, but your image caught my voice before it could even leave my mouth. You were there -- and that's it. Suddenly, it occurred to me that in that moment the possibilities were endless.

I'd always believed that the realm of possibilities vastly increases when you close your mind, not letting your thoughts slow you down. Sure, you're a little more reckless, and things don't always go to plan, but it's a better way to live each and very moment. But there I was, living out my very theories right up until the last moment, questioning what I had believed in my whole life.

Finally, you came before me, pushing my thoughts aside, again. But, in that moment, when it mattered the most, even you couldn't save me. I took a deep breath, allowing the water to enter my lungs and remembered the dreams I used to have about water. In those dreams I'd be on top of the water, or at the very least, the water would only come up to my knees. And it was a light blue, sometimes even clear, letting me see right through. When I looked down then, with the water flowing through me, however, all I could see was black. The whole world was black.

And your image disappeared, and I left this world as effortlessly as I came in. Or so I thought. Because you were there again, telling me about the sea, and I wanted so badly to respond. But I couldn't.

***

Come to think of it, when I write fiction, I'm very comfortable with writing beginnings and ends. The middle is always difficult (and the most important part) which, coincidentally, is what I'm struggling with right now in my life. I'm comfortable with starting over (moving to NY, etc.) or ending a particular situation (quitting school or a job, etc.). But I'm very uncomfortable with staying the course and actually tackling problems, instead of running from them. Looking at it in that sense, my writing symbolizes or represents myself much more than I've ever realized before.

after all

It's late. At the beach I hold your hand. We walk along the water for nearly an hour. Listening to the rain. You tell me you haven't seen the ocean since you were a child, while I look out onto the sea. The rain picks up. And you say we should go back to the car, changing direction before I can respond. Once back, we sit in the backseat. Watching the rain come down.

"I haven't been to the beach in years," I say. And then after a pause: "I'm really going to miss you."

Don't worry, your smile says. Everything will be fine.

Suddenly, the rain stops, and I made my way to the front seat. Starting the car. You stay in the back, as I drive you home. You kiss me goodbye. Twice. And then you close your eyes. When you're finally gone, I drive back to the sea. Looking out onto the water again. Nothing but silence. And somewhere I hear your voice telling me to come back. But it's late, after all.

awareness

While in line at the bank, a man pulled me aside. He had on a dark suit, and carried a briefcase in his right hand. "Look," he said, "I know this may sound crazy, but could you spare some change? I need to get something to eat."

"You don't look like you need to be asking for money," I said.

"I know," he said.

I gave him the change I had in my pocket -- two dimes and a nickel -- and he left. At the same time, deep with me, my inner self met the same man, floating into my thoughts. He had the same dark suit on, but it was old and ragged. And he carried the same briefcase, but, it too was ragged and filthy -- and he held it in his left hand.

"I should have given you more," my inner self said to him.

"It's okay," he said. "You did what you could."

Maybe I did, my outer self said.

holism

Part of this story comes from the thoughts I had during a sleep-wake state earlier this week ...


In the center of town there was a statue of my father, staring into the sky. I passed this statue everyday on my way to work. Sometimes I went there to pass the time, wondering what my father was looking at in the sky. The whole town loved this statue. Town meetings were held in front of it. When distinguished visitors came to the town, they were first taken to the statue. People got married there. Some people never left the vicinity of it.

But one day the statue disappeared. There was an uproar in town. Houses were searched. People were thrown in jail, including my father. It seemed like the whole town went crazy. Despite those efforts, though, the statue was never found.

After a few years, the government finally gave up its search efforts, and my father was released. He went right back to work. I waited a few days before going to see him.

"What did they do to you?" I asked, upon seeing my father for the first time since he was released.

"I didn't say a word," he explained. "Not a word."

"So you know what happened to the statue?"

"No," he said, "but I have a pretty good idea."

That night I dreamed that the town voted to put a statue of me up to replace the one of my father in the center of town. After it was erected, it took a few days, but the people began to appreciate it just as much as my father's statue. And over time, everyone even forgot about my father. But then one day that statue disappeared, as well.

"Do you have any idea what happened?" the mayor asked.

I said no. I gave the same response to everyone, and, I, too, was thrown in jail. After a few years, I was released, and my father came to visit me.

"Do you understand now?" he asked.

I shook my head.

His eyes widened. "You don't know what happened to the statues?"

I said nothing. Nothing at all.