peacebone

"...which reminds me of something that happened last night. Where did I go?" Jamaal asks. He is sitting in a rocking chair, smoking a cigarette.
"You jumped in the lake yelling,'my hands, my hands!'" Samuel replies.
"I couldn't see them in the dark. I could feel them in front of my face,but all there was, was black."
The fingers on Jamaal's right hand are stained burgundy. His left hand is poorly bandaged, the white dressing now leaking red.
"We got away though, and that's all that matters." Samuel says.
"But now it's like we have a huge rhino watching us," Marcus says.
The three boys look at a blue car parked on the lawn, all of its doors open. The back window on the right side is broken, points of the shattered glass stained red.
"Elephant, Marcus," Jamaal says. "elephant, not rhino."
The boys are on Jamaal's porch. The house is and old and the porch is wide. Magazines and cigarette boxes litter the ground around them. A picture of a man and a young Jamaal, standing in front of a blue mustang is nailed to one of the rotting white pillars.
"You're still alive, thank God." Marcus says."It's thanks to God we didn't get caught last night."
"I'll need a sign to believe that," Jamaal says, winking at Samuel. Samuel rolls his eyes.
"What kind of sign? I have to be home by seven." Marcus says. He is visibly younger than Samuel and Jamaal, perhaps by three or four years.
"I am going to jump in the lake again, and we'll see what happens; if God saves me," Jamaal butts his cigarette on the stool, millimeters from Marcus' hand.
"I'll go get the keys to the elephant." Jamaal says opening the door to the house and stepping inside.
Marcus and Samuel can see Jamaal rummaging through cushions from the front window. Marcus sighs heavily and folds his arms across his chest.
"Calm down man, I thought you went to church." Samuel says.
Jamaal emerges from his house and tosses the keys to Samuel,who catches them. Marcus' eyes catch Samuel's as they board into the car.
"You're an idiot." Marcus says.

The boys park in a playground. It is twilight. Marcus and Jamaal exit from the back doors of the car, leaving them open as they walk away.
"You can't park here!" Marcus yells.
Jamaal crouches down, his knees not touching the ground. He strikes a match on a rock; the match does not produce a flame.
"It rained earlier," Marcus says. Jamaal takes off his shirt and then begins to unbutton his pants.
"Your boxers too," Samuel interjects.
"Why?" Marcus asks.
"Naked as we came, no?"
Jamaal pulls his boxers down and steps out of them, leaving them in a crumpled pile.
"Okay I'm ready. Don't watch me jump you queers, turn around."
The boys turn. Marcus looks at his wrist as if checking the time though it is bare. Minutes pass before a splash is heard. Marcus turns.
"Wait," Samuel says grabbing his arm “just wait it out a while.” Momentary silence.
"I'm going in after him," Marcus says using the heel of his left foot to slip his right foot out of its shoe.
"No, stop!" Samuel pushes Marcus to the ground.
Marcus breaks free from Samuel's grasp and runs to the lake, diving in fully clothed. Seconds later, Jamaal's head appears. He raises both hands and pulls himself out of the water where he stands, shivering.
"What are you doing?" Samuel asks.
"The water is freezing. Where's Marcus?" Jamaal's voice is shaky.
"He jumped in after you."
"What? Why?" Jamaal swallows uncomfortably.
"I don't know, don't ask me questions. Just pull him out so he doesn't break his curfew."

"Help me with his legs." Jamaal says to Samuel. Samuel reaches down into the water and pulls. Jamaal pushes the shoulders upward, maneuvering Marcus onto the dock. Jamaal begins to pump his palms against Marcus' chest. Marcus begins to sputter and spit.
"You okay man?" Jamaal asks.
"This was your idea," Samuel says looking at Jamaal, "and now look at him."
"He's fine," Jamaal gently slaps Marcus' cheeks.
“See Marcus? I saved myself again, and you,”Jamaal says, “God is still on vacation.”
Jamaal stands and walks to his pile of clothes. Marcus struggles to prop himself up onto his elbows, still coughing. He catches a glimpse of Jamaal's palms as he passes him; the bandages gone, the flesh of his palms now holding circular pools of red.

gravy

Three boys sit on a brick wall. The wall overlooks a river.


One boy inhales though clenched teeth, and tastes the salty air on the back of his tongue. The second likes to ask passers-by if they'll adopt him, or if he can "at least just watch them wake up and get ready for work in the morning". The last boy is wearing an orange sweater, and never is impressed with anything.


The river is quiet. The river is quiet until something makes it not quiet.


"What is that thing?" the first boy asks, pointing to a foreign object that has emerged from the murky waters.


The thing is a body. There are holes in the body and the flesh looks likes it's turning into liquid. The body is becoming one with the river.


"That's gross. He's dead." the other boy remarks.
"I wonder who put him in there."
One of the boys throws a rock. The rock lands on the body's head. The rock sinks a little, into the flesh.


"Goodbye Goliath." orange sweater boy finally speaks. The body sinks.


The first boy eases himself down from the wall. He walks toward the river without looking back.
"There is something I recognize." The second boy and the boy in the orange sweater watch the first boy's jaw move up and down though his back is turned.


The first boy wades into the water. There are pieces of garbage floating atop the black water. He kneels.


"There is nothing familiar in there at all!" the second boy calls out after the first boy. First boy is completely submerged underwater. In seconds he is standing again. He turns, a large glob of deteriorating flesh in his mouth.


"You see anything down there?" the second boy appears intrigued.
"Spit that out!"
First boy tears the flesh and chews.
"You boys have a lot to learn."

failure

I'm in the kitchen and my sister comes downstairs into the kitchen.
"I had the best dream. I dreamed that I was riding in a coach bus that could jump over buildings. How is that even possible?"

How is that even possible?


Why can't I have nice things? Nice in the sense of being content - not nice in the sense of casual sex and food tasting really good. I don't ask that question in the mirror. I did once though. I asked, "Why can't I have nice things?" in an acquaintance's powder room. This was after I had opened their cabinets and touched everything inside once. I touched the Viagra with my middle finger. I killed a spider that emerged from a dusty corner of the cabinet. I wiped my finger on the wall and left a brown and red streak. I thought it looked like something else.

The towels are teal with a red streak. No one had even called out to ask if I was okay. I could be doing incriminating things in here. I could be incriminating. I open a jar of something. There is powder inside the jar. I blow inside it and a puff of white comes out. The puff of white looks like a puff of white. How ironic. Or maybe it looked like a pillow. Happy now?

Why can't I have nice things? I look out the bathroom window which is open a crack at the bottom. I see into another bathroom. A tree is in front of the other window but I can still see inside. I see two people, they are kissing. I keep my hands at my sides. This is so stupid. I want to climb out of the tree and tell them something, or ask them a really dumb qusetion - anything actually. "Hey, did you guys even get Lost? Because I think the whole thing was actually so simple." and I would put emphasis on the 'so'. What could it hurt? Maybe my crotch - from sitting on the tree.

I open the window more than a crack and put on leg out. I am on the tree. I can hear the couple kissing because their window is wide open. It sounds like wet suction. "Hey," I whisper. They stop kissing. The man turns to me.

"What are you doing out there, you freak?"
"Did you guys see Lost?"
"I think you're lost!" the girl covers her chest even though she is wearing a shirt. Stupid.

"Climb down and go home."

I climb down one branch and fall down the rest. I don't hit anything on the way down, just the ground. I hit the ground hard and there are rocks.

3. Outdoors in the yard, it is cold and green.

I'm a weirdo. I like petting small rodents in the shade of evergreen trees. I have a brother that started to learn a certain woodwind instrument when he was twelve and then he quit. He knew I wanted to learn it but he quit. I was seven and I tried to learn but he said that I couldn't because I was younger than him. My mother always made me say sorry to him even though he was the shit talker, so now I have an ulcer. Can you tell me what's fair about that?

It's a little fair actually, because my mother was actually a small rodent. She looked like a hamster but preferred to be treated like a common house cat (feared for while and then hated after a period of about three years). She was aloof for most of my childhood years. We would stroke her stomach and say things were going to be okay, when my father said that he was embarrassed to go out to dinner with her. She would sob and it sounded like a cat being drowned under water, or a really weird clarinet. My brother would comfort her more than me because I thought it was weird.

My Dad would smoke at the kitchen table while I would warm milk in a bowl in the microwave for my mother. "Why do you enable her?" he would ask me. I would say, "She's only a hamster Dad, you have to be nice. We all do, we don't have choice." The microwave would beep but only the bowl would be hot, but the milk inside the bowl would still be cold. "Shoot. Another 30 seconds."
"Well, she's not getting any more toys out of me. Money is tight this month." Dad would say.

One time my Mom got hurt when she left her basket. She had been wandering in the woods and came back with blood on her coat. "Is it her blood, or the blood of something else?" we kept asking, because she wouldn't tell us if she was in pain. My Dad got really angry and threw some magazines against a wall; and then he knocked over a chair, but it didn't make a very loud sound.

"I am going to go out and kick down all the beaver dams in all the lakes! I'm going to fill all the groundhog holes with rocks!"
And Mom just sobbed. I left the room because I could feel tears in my nose.

I walked outside towards the woods. I looked back and saw my brother stroking my Mom's back; she looked smaller.
I walked down some dirt pathways and saw animals scurrying back and forth.

"Who hurt my Mom?" I called out.

"She fell." A bear said. "Where did she fall?"
The bear pointed with his paw in the direction of a small clearing. I walked over to it and I saw pieces of cloth material and photographs. I felt so sad.

"I have no idea what she was doing but it was hard for her to drag the cloth and hold the photographs at the same time."
"Don't tell me that." I started to cry.

I ran back to my house. My Dad was on the computer and my Mom was sitting beside him on a tall stool, watching.

"Mom?" she turned around.
"Dad is embarrassed to take you out for dinner, but I don't think it's because you're a hamster." She nodded. I knew I wasn't helping.

"What the hell man?" my brother yelled. "Dad was just online looking for places to have dinner! You ruin everything!"

"Mom was trying to make a fort outside! She doesn't even want to live with us anymore!"

"My foot is asleep." My Mom said. I picked her up and put her on the floor. I watched her scurry off into the room beside the kitchen. I sat beside my Dad on the stool. My brother glared at me. I could hear my mother running around on the plastic wheel in the next room and I felt depressed.

Life is "beautiful" #2

I put my laptop beside my head when you’re not in bed with me, not for the warmth, but for the radiation waves. The radiation waves have already infiltrated the waves in my brain and now they are friends with each other. Because of this, I often lose my footing while walking down the stairs at Dufferin subway station.

The waves have really heated, vibrated debates in my head like, What is the fastest route to the Royal Ontario Museum? . . . Read the Twilight saga, bleep bleep h-t-t-p- colon, backslash . . . Oh damn, maybe you should see a therapist . . . nah.

And then I have dreams about the day before. You’re in my dreams and so are all the other people that I find repulsively sexy. All the people that I secretly have crushes on that I see in the Laundromat and American Eagle are in them too. I am the most comfortable when acting in my dreams, but I only ever speak to the girl from the Laundromat. I say acting because I’d never do the things I say and do in my daydreams in my real daytime life, and I say confident because I’m not really behaving like myself. That’s why everyone likes me in my dreams. People want to kiss me and ask me for my phone number. People ask me if I like to drink bubble tea, and I say, “only if it’s from the C’est Bon Bubble Tea shop.”

I say, “You look lovely,” to the Laundromat girl in my dream, and she’s flipping through some ridiculous chick-flick magazine and drinking some name-brand drink. I ask myself why am I even interested in someone drinking from a name-brand cup, because that’s so cliché. I try and make a joke, and she calls me a crude name but my heart doesn’t twist like it normally would. Normally, I’d throw a jab at something to do with her physical appearance; but then we wouldn’t get to make out like we do in every single one of my dreams.

I put my cell phone and my radio beside my laptop too, all lined up on my mattress. The more electronics the more waves, and the more waves the better my confidence in my dreams, and then I’m happy. My legs shake when descending the stairs outside, I don’t know why that is, but I can deal with that. I could never deal with making an actual fool out of myself in my normal mind in the normal dirty world. I just like the humming sounds and the neon lights I see when I close my eyes; they look like the lines in pictures taken by cameras set to the long exposure setting.

Life is "beautiful" #1

When I feed my fish I put more than just one pinch of food in the water and then think, “they don’t know any better.” They swim to the surface and began to make the flakes smaller with their circular mouths.

And then I think of what it might to be like to be a fish. I wouldn’t be able to Google things, well, I could try, but I’d either suffocate or get electrocuted. The sparks would burn my poor fins and they’d lose their shine. What if I was an aluminum fish, but not like a robot. Well, only robotic in the sense that I’d speak with an extremely monotone voice and I’d have pre-programmed emotions that I wished that I could control. Someone would ask me out on a date and I’d say yes in my robot voice but I’d want to say no because the person was sweaty and sweat could drip on one of my electrical parts and that would suck.

I’d rather be plugged in to a wall in a really eclectic room and watch someone else’s life play on a screen for me. Even though they had a harder life than me, they are happier than me.
And then I’d think of myself in cartoon, I’m still a fish and everyone else is a human. I’d try to talk to them and be cool and the most popular girl would say, “Don’t you have to have to be somewhere?” like Pet Valu? “No, like gasping for air in a puddle somewhere,” and then they would all laugh, and I’d laugh too, but only because I didn’t understand that ‘gasping for air in a puddle’ was actually slang for we don’t want to hang out with you. Some other kid tries to be my friend and tells me that ‘gasping for air in a puddle’ is sexual innuendo and that the girl has a crush on me. I say “Oh yeah?” but inside I’m thinking: bullshit. Goldfish are bullshit.

I feel really sad when I look at the castle in the fish tank; it’s just a castle with an entrance that is also an exit. Then I think that I’m really thankful for doors, but only when I’m a human, not a fish, because getting stuck inside a fish castle with a door would be a bitch to get out of. I don’t like to let people in, unless we’re just going to watch TV sitting on opposite sides of the room. And it can only be the TV show about them, because my life program was cancelled when I realized that I have to keep lying to myself to maintain any form of sanity or normalcy.

Something about watching a movie of someone's life on an underwater television makes me content.

story

Carter, 19, leaned his unicycle against the aluminum fence. He walked down the path of metallic debris, accompanied by the warped reflection his thin frame cast against the chrome rubbish; occasionally acknowledging its presence through his peripheral vision.
Small wisps of smoke rose and danced in the heavy air. They would rise and vanish into the dark sky. Some white vapor strings teased other waves of gray blur and then died out together. If Carter were to stop walking, the smoke wisps would congregate around his ankles, orchestrate their suicides, and then present a new game of resurrection to each other.
Heat would arrive and leave in flashes. It hovered above everything, causing all unstable surfaces to rumble. It was operated in shifts, through a mechanical ‘churn’ of sorts. The churn supplied warmth and light to a lot called Borough 27. It housed thirty-seven families, totaling three hundred and seventy-seven civilians. The churn was manually operated. Residents worked an eight-hour shift, either pedaling with their feet, or ‘churning’ with their hands.
Warmth and milky-white light would spill through cylinder tubes on poles. Light and heat were both generated by the same machine, both making no promises to remain for days to come. Individuals would arrive late; others would miss their shifts entirely, leaving residents in cold darkness.
The imitation of natural light in this lot was “God” to Borough 27’s inhabitants. It lit their homes, and the pathways to and from their workstations. It cooked their meals and kept them warm at night. Standing near it gave an individual a luminescent halo. Residents who had nominated themselves as the youngest survivors, would stand underneath it and re-enact big-screen scripts that everyone only vaguely remembered. The older generation would reminisce of a more comforting time, embellishing make-believe tales to make up for the moments that had left their memories forever.
Carter remembered his father’s booming voice once reciting comedic lines from famous screenplays. He recalled watching him performing the theatric pieces by candlelight in the front room of their house. He had grown up believing his father had written the phrases, until he heard on one of them spoken by a civilian during one of their improvised performances under the “angelic light” one day. Carter repeatedly reminded himself that he was in this world alone now. The only existing fire would infrequently stir behind his chest when he thought of a simpler time.

Carter neared the clearing where the largest spotlight stood. He ascended the stone steps that lead to a two-story apartment. The door to room seventeen was ajar, and Carter approached. He tapped softly on the wooden plank.

“Safety,” Carter spoke into the empty room. Each section of the lot had established a word of protection before entering any location unannounced. He pushed the door open farther.
The room was disheveled. Alternating piles of bricks and books patterned the floors. Tattered fabric hung pathetically in front of opaque aluminum windows, that the residents had repeatedly told themselves were reflective. With the disappearance of the sun, there was no glass or any form of a substantial mirror. There was plenty of sand however; plenty of sand as well as the judgment of others.

“Is anyone here?” Carter spoke to the walls.
“Where are you coming from?” a voice replied. Carter turned to see Lank, a boy three years his elder.
“Home Life.” Home Life was section seven, one of the smaller lots across the field.
“I forgot you were coming. I’ll get your things.” Lank turned and left through a darkened doorway.
Lank looked much older than twenty-two. His face resembled a worn leather bag. His hair hung in long braids against his tanned shoulders.
"I managed to salvage mostly everything.” Lank said, re-entering the room.
Carter watched as Lank shuffled through a large box. He walked over to it and touched it with the palm of his hand, forgetting the name for its material.
“It’s not much I know, but I do know that he would have wanted you to have them.”
“Do you think so?” Carter asked. Lank allowed the corners of his mouth to respond, as they arched into a smile.
“That, and they are only collecting dust in my closet. He would have hated that.”
“He’d be used to it by now.” Carter remarked.
Lank walked over to the opposite side of the room and pressed a button on the side of the wall. Hot water began to dribble, then spit, then run down into a ceramic bowl. Lank dipped a bare foot into the bowl to test the water, cringing as they met.
“Cold?” Carter asked. Lank nodded. The room began to darken.
“I’m late.” Carter spoke, “I’ll pick up my things tomorrow.”
“Don’t forget. My girlfriend is moving in tomorrow and I promised her a dresser drawer and half a rack in the closet.”
“I won’t forget.”

Carter left the apartment room, descending the stairs two at a time.
A woman was standing in the corner beside the exit handing out flyers. She gestured to Carter by uttering a loud, exaggerated cough.
“No, thank you.” Carter said, without looking up.
“Please?” she shoved a slip in his face, “You’re not carrying anything.”
Carter looked at the woman. She was paper white and covered in scabs. Some of the wounds were open and oozing a brown fluid. Her hair looked as if one day it possessed luster and volume, but it was now grey and straw-like.
After a pause that felt like an eternity Carter spoke, “I’m late, you don’t want to freeze tonight do you?”
“A little chill never hurt anyone before,” she fiddled with the end of her skirt, lifting it slightly. As she did this, she released a rancid stench that Carter felt like he could taste.
The remaining light was fading quickly. Voices in the apartment could be heard yelling and complaining.
“I’ll read it on my way to the churn.” Carter suggested.
“Read it now,” The woman grinned, revealing a checkerboard smile.
Carter sighed heavily and opened the pamphlet. The sheet was glossy with bold lettering written diagonally across the front and back. The contrast of the bright letters against the darkened background of the paper irritated Carter’s eyes. He managed to make out random letters between blinking.

Carter heard the door open behind him.
“You’re still here?” it was Lank, “its’ getting dark.”
“I’m leaving.” Carter stepped down the outdoor steps, glancing backwards as he often did in his dreams. As he predicted, the woman had disappeared.

Carter jogged back along the dirt trail he had walked on moments before. He picked up his unicycle and carried it under his arm to the pole in the center of the community lot. He placed it on the ground and knelt. He opened a compartment in the pole, revealing an electrical outlet. He pulled out a black cord from his back pocket and plugged it into the outlet. He attached the other end to the back of the unicycle’s seat.
Carter mounted his one-wheeled bicycle and began to pedal. He hated how it was impossible to tell what time of the day it was. He often wished that he had been born into these times, so he would not have any recollection of the heat and light of the sun’s rays.
Carter continued to pedal and tried to read the pamphlet from the woman in the apartment. He assumed it was a religious tract of some kind, because nothing else was worth promoting those days in that world. He became bored with it and tossed on the ground.
He saw someone in the distance and recognized his body language. It was Lank, carrying Carter’s box. Lank began to run. Suddenly, he lost his footing; the box sailed through the air and dropped on the ground. The contents of the box fell in different places on the cement ground and Carter shuddered to think of what might have broken.
Lank struggled to his feet and then resumed his position on the ground to gather the picture frames and other nick-nacks. Carter continued to watch as a woman approached the scene. Lank turned to her and then turned to the direction of the central pole. Carter could feel Lanks’s eyes on him, even though they were so far apart. He began to pedal harder.
The woman walked closer to Lank and then gestured to the box. Lank pointed at the box and then pointed in Carter’s direction.

A tube atop one pillar suddenly exploded into small pieces. The tube above where Carter was pedaling began to spark. He felt the orange and yellow sparks fall and kiss the back of his neck and ears.
Carter felt as though small flames were swimming in and around his leg muscles. His speed increased and the reflections in puddles on the ground began to reflect artificial rainbow prisms.

Carter watched beads of sweat fall from his nose and onto his thighs. He crossed and uncrossed his arms; he was on a unicycle after all.
He could here someone calling his name over the sounds of the lights shattering and his feet slipping, and then finding themselves back onto the pedals.

“Hey Carter!” It was Lank again. He was standing atop the box waving his arms in the air. The sky grew lighter.
Carter blinked through the sweat, letting his arms fall to his sides.
“I’m sorry about your father!”
Carter’s pedaling didn’t slow. If there were birds in the air, they might have flown overhead at that moment.
Carter watched Lank take the woman’s hand and walk back into the apartment, leaving the box in the middle of the pathway.