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.

disappearing act

Last night, as I was thinking about my last day of school, my thoughts digressed several times to the girlfriend I had at the time. I cared a lot about her, and I ended up not going to the college I had planed, and instead, followed her to the school she picked. This presented quite a few problems, but that's a long story for another day. Anyway, I had an interesting dream last night, which took me back to that age and those times. And to her.

Like most dreams, I only remember fragments -- flashes here and there, which, when put together mean a lot. Whenever I write about dreams, I take all the fragments I can remember and fill in the holes with fiction. It's fun, and it allows me to add a little more depth to the metaphors.

***

In my dream, I'm with the girlfriend I had back in high school. It's her birthday. I walk to her house, carrying a carton of cigarettes. The day is beautiful, the sun directly overhead. Inside her house, I don't see her, but I spot her friend Julie. She has a yellow ribbon wrapped tightly in her hair.

"Why is everyone stuck inside?" I ask. "It's so nice out."

She says she didn't know. "Ask Justin," she offers, referring to my girlfriend's brother.

I find Justin in the basement, smoking. I ask him the same question, and he just shrugs his shoulders. Staring at the carton of cigarettes, he takes a drag, and then another. With nothing left for me to say, I walk back upstairs. I pass through a group of old friends, making my way to the second floor, finally stopping in front of the bathroom next to my girlfriend's room.

"There you are," my girlfriend says from behind the closed door.

I step closer to the door, and her voice tells me to push it open. I immediately notice that the light isn't on, and I can't see a thing. I take a step forward, then another. Once inside, the darkness seems more profound. There is a thickness to it, like fog. After a few moments my eyes adjust, and I get the sense that she's standing directly in front of me, waiting for something to happen. I reach for the light switch, but before I get to it, a hand grabs me from behind, pulling me back out into the hallway.

The hand belongs to Julie. She just stares at me. I start to speak but she stops me with her own words. "Whatever happened to your carton of cigarettes?" she asks, the ribbon no longer in her hair.

Before I could answer, though, it starts to rain.

man vs. man: a play

A man walks into a dinner, holding a gun.

Man: Who do you love? (pointing a gun at another man)

Another Man: I love her. (pointing at a woman)

Man shoots woman.

Man: Who do you love? (pointing a gun at a different man)

Different Man: I love her. (pointing at another woman)

Man shoots another woman.

Man: Who do you love? (pointing a gun at me)

Me: I love you.

Man shoots man.

me, disappeared

In the morning, the roof of my house was gone.

At least I can see the sky, I thought. It's going to be a wonderful day. The sun was bright, the sky blue. The next night, though, it rained so I moved down to he first floor. In the morning my second floor was gone. My friend came over.

"What happened to the second floor?" he asked.

"Not sure," I said. "How about some tea?"

We drank tea.

The next morning the north wall was gone, and the morning after my entire house was gone. I slept on the ground that night, in a sleeping bag my friend gave me. When I woke the following morning I was gone too. My friend came over.

"You disappeared too?" he asked.

"So it seems," I said.

"Say, do you have any tea?" he asked.

We went to the store since I was out of tea.

janitor speak

Scrapping the blood from the cracks in the floor, I see you for the first time. I'm afraid you won't like me but I talk to you anyway.

"I'm afraid you wouldn't like me," I explain.

You say that's perfectly normal and that even though you did just meet me you really do like me.

I say, "I'm worried you're not even listening right now."

"Again, I think that's normal," you say. "But I really am listening."

"I think if I told you that I don't really like you and am not really listening to you, you'd walk away and forget about me," I say.

"I think I would too," you say.

noise missions

I don't like the Mission. At the end of the day, as I'm walking home, I hear noises. Strange noises. When I look around, for the strange noises, I see no one or anything that could be making such noises.

I tell my friends, and they ask me to describe the strange noises.

I say, "They're just strange, that's all."

The next day, as I'm walking home, I hear the strange noises again, but somewhere deep down it occurs to me that maybe the noises aren't so strange after all.

winter light

Your voice found its way to me, keeping me awake. You said, "I can't sleep without you." I heard birds calling out to me in the distance, and a bright light filtered in through the trees. "I miss you," you said, finding me again. I miss you too, I said. Standing in your light, I wondered if you could hear me.

hide and seek

Hiding. We're downstairs in your parent's basement. It's dark.

"We're safe when the lights are off," you say.

I ask about the party upstairs, and you mumble something. I ask when your parents are getting home, and you say you don't know. I ask lots and lots of questions, and you kiss me to shut me up. When we're done kissing, you say you want a drink, so I go upstairs to get you a drink. When I return the lights are still off.

"I told them to turn the music down," I say.

You kiss me over and over again, then you whisper in my ear: "Can you see in the dark?"

I shake my head, but you can't see me.

my father, the ghost

One day my mom takes me downtown to the bank to meet my father, the banker. He smiles when he sees us. Son, my bank has more money than any other bank in the world, he explains. He gives me a dollar in quarters, and mom and I go for ice cream.

Another day, my father works as a doctor. I get sick with a fever, so he rushes home to see me. Smiling, he takes my temperature and wipes the sweat off my forehead. I enjoy his smile tremendously.

Actually, my father's not a banker or a doctor. I'm not sure what he is or isn't. Perhaps he's a fisherman, and he takes me on his big boat. Or maybe he works in a library and brings me a new book to read every night. In some other world, my father fights evil, capitalist bankers with a sword and brings home flowers for mom. My father, the superhero.

My father is neither this nor that. I really do see him at the bank, the doctor's office, and the library; on a big boat; and in my dreams, fighting capitalism. I see him everywhere, in fact. But, if you see him, please tell him I just want my father, the father.

woman of the day

I'm a man, and I have needs. Yesterday, I'm walking to work. The sky is blue and looks like the sky. The grass is green, looking like grass. The tress, flowers, and plants -- all looking like trees, flowers, and plants. It's early. On my way to work I find a ten dollar bill on the ground, then run into an old friend I haven't seen since high school.

"Hello, old friend," I say. "I haven't seen you since high school. You've aged, but you still look like you -- as you should."

"Hello," my old friend says.

My old friend leads me back to her apartment. We talk. She makes me coffee, and we have sex. On my way to work again, I notice that the ten dollar bill is gone and ninety dollars is missing from my wallet. Everything still looking like it should--the sky, grass, trees, flowers, and plants, respectively. At work I can't help but think of my old friend. She hasn't changed since high school, but that's okay, because I like her just the way she is -- as she should be.

what i say to myself: a love story

Walking down Haight Street. After grabbing a chocolate croissant, I talk to a bum about heaven and finding the path of least resistance. I give him a bite of my croissant, because he asks nicely. There's dew on the ground, and giant chess pieces float above me like clouds. Every now and then a piece moves. I wonder who's winning.

I say goodbye to the bum. Walking again, down a hill, I run into myself. Myself is wearing a colorful flannel and skintight jeans. Cigarette in hand. Myself is looking real good.

I offer myself a bite of croissant, because I think he may ask nicely. Myself says no. I shut my eyes.

"I love you," myself says.

I feel his words -- I mean really feel his words. Like nothing before.

"I love you too," I say.

When I open my eyes, myself is gone. I finish my croissant, because it looks so nice, then look to the sky: Checkmate.

smashed, unsmashed, resmashed

My cell phone and a five dollar bill are on the nightstand. Putting them both in my pocket, I think really hard about the nightstand. I hate it, I conclude. It reminds me of my ex-girlfriend. In fact, I think she may have even given me that nightstand when we broke up. I feel around my pocket, pressing my hand against my phone and five dollar bill, and pull out an axe large enough to chop down a giant Big Basin redwood. I could do a lot with that wood, like build a bridge or a really tall building, then sell the remains to a paper company.

I continue thinking about the wood obtained from a gigantic Big Basin redwood as I chop up the nightstand. I hack it into little, tiny pieces.

Afterward, I return the axe to my pocket, next to my phone and five dollar bill, and smoke a few cigarettes, sitting on the chopped wood, atop my thrown. A few cigarettes done, I throw them and the hacked pieces of wood out the window and wait for my new girlfriend to come home from Big Basin.

She saunters in about thirty minutes later, whistling some tune. I go to greet her and I see the nightstand I just smashed thirty minutes ago, unsmashed. She has a big smile on her face.

"I found this nice nightstand out front," she says.

"Oh good," I say. "We need one of those."

She sets the nightstand down. Her smile disappears.

"I also found your cell phone out front too," she says. "It's smashed. Did you drop it out the window?"

new years eve confused

Front row seats for new years eve. Waiting for the fireworks. You show up sometime after nine. I call you Lily.

"Lily," I say, "are you ready to kiss me?"

"My name's not Lily," you say, "but I'll still kiss you. Just say when and where." You brush the hair out of your eyes.

Dick Clark's on TV, but we're nowhere near a TV. Instead, I look into your eyes. They're green, blue, brown, and red. In the right light, they sometimes look gray, like the insides of some TVs.

"Lily," I say, "I think we need to buy a TV."

"My name's not Lily, but I'll buy you a TV anyway."

There's a ball dropping somewhere, but we can't see it. Instead, I ask you to sit on my lap and whisper something in my ear. You countdown from 10 to 0. At zero, you look into my eyes.

"In the right light," you say, "I can see Lily in your eyes."

I think you're right.

"Lily," I say. "I think I love you."

"I love you too," Lily says.

We hold each other into the night, way past midnight. Lily falls asleep around three. When morning comes, we're still in the same moment. The skies are gray.

Still asleep, I wonder what color Lily's eyes are.

really, really grown up

First day of work. You wear jeans and roll a tight spliff on the bus while the other commuters stare at you. You smile proudly. I got a job at the bank, you say. You transfer to a streetcar and take that downtown. With the spliff in your ear and your briefcase in hand, you exit. The sky is bright, and the skyscrapers are really, really tall. You light up the spliff and start walking toward the bank. At a red light you put the roach in a baggie and the baggie in your pocket.

A few red lights later, a man walks up to you. Anything is something, he says, holding out a paper cup. He smells really, really bad.

You reach into your pocket and hand him the baggie, then you turn around and walk back toward the streetcar. Back home, the fog is really, really thick. You eat a chocolate doughnut and stare out the window at the fog. After that you roll another spliff, grab your briefcase, and run to the bus.

clouds and other things unseen

1. Your dad waited for you at the bus stop.

2. You spotted him a block away, but decided to get off anyway. You ran in the opposite direction. He ran after you. Much quicker, he caught up to you and tackled you from behind. You wrestled on the ground for a bit. Him: punching your stomach. You: biting his ear, spitting, yelling -- all at the same time.

3. You pushed yourself away and got up. He did too. "What are you doing here?" you asked. "I thought you were dead." You noticed a single cloud in the sky. "Your mother has cancer," he said. "It's time for you to come home." The cloud circled his head like a halo. "We are home," you said. You started walking away, but he grabbed your shoulder and pulled you back. "I'm tired of your games," he said.

4. "Come with me," you said. He followed you up two steep hills. The cloud came too. "We should have taken the bus," he said.

5. "We're almost there."

6. When you reached the cemetery it was his turn to run. And the cloud, which, it turned out, wasn't a cloud after all, chased him.

the golden rule

While waiting for the bell to ring, I decide to eat somebody.

I pick Jenny.

Come with me Jenny, I say. I have to show you something.

What? she says.

It's something special, I say, like a buried treasure.

She turns away, uninterested.

I go to the front of the classroom and pick up a yard stick. Walking back to Jenny's desk, her eyes are now big. I poke her once in the stomach and twice in the face, just below her eyes.

Owe, she says.

Let's go find that treasure now, I suggest.

Jenny looks around. No one seems to be paying attention to us. Okay, she says.

I take her to the closet and remove her clothes.

She doesn't say a word.

I begin eating her. I start with her legs and work my way up. When I reach her neck, her eyes finally close. There's blood everywhere. After I eat the last bits of skull, I let my stomach settle for a few minutes, then I immediately clean myself up and change my clothes with the extra pair I keep in my locker.

I return to class.

The bell finally rings, and the teacher enters.

Instead of taking roll, she goes to her seat, turning away from us. She doesn't speak. Finally, after a few moments of silence she turns around. Class, she says, I'm afraid you're all going to have to go home.

Everyone, including me, is stunned.

But why? someone asks.

I can't say, she says. Just follow me, single file.

We follow her and she leads us to the front of the school. There's a group of men standing by the janitor's closet, and I see the janitor handcuffed, sitting on the ground down the hall.

What happened? somebody asks.

Keep quiet, the teacher says.

There's a row of buses outside the school, waiting to take us home.

Upon getting on a bus, I burp then look around.

Who's next? I ask, grinning. Jenny was just a snack.

No one seems to hear.

I sit down and, as the bus starts moving, I walk to the back and eat three kids sitting in the back row -- Carl, Danny, and Lee. I don't stop there. I make my way back to the front of the bus, eating kids, row by row. When I get to the front, I eat the bus driver. I stop the bus, get out, and start eating everybody I see.

Men, women, children. Whatever.

After eating the 76th person of the day, I decide to take a nap. When I wake up, I'm back in the classroom waiting for the bell to ring. Turning around, I see Jenny again with her bright blue eyes.

Come with me, I say.

No, she shouts. Last time, you took me to the closet and ate me.

I won't this time, I promise.

She stares at me for some time, looking into my eyes.

Please, I say.

She gets up and I take her to the closet and take off her clothes and start gnawing on her toes.

Hey! she shouts. Start with my head this time. My feet are ticklish.