Parva Gradus

A Day on the Farm

December 30th, 2024

Vicesimus Septimus Gradus

Daniel dunked his hand back into the numbing water. Sweeping it across the surface, his arm caught hold of twigs and leaves. He scooped them up over the edge of the container. The sunlight struck his bare skin in the most pleasant way; a flush of warmth after an icy plunge. The tractor hiccuped over a divot as it started toward the next tree, but Daniel kept his balance. Water sloshed over the rim and drenched his jeans. The man smiled with a shiver as the conveyor belt roared back to life and more branches, leaves, and cherries tumbled into the container with a splash. Daniel batted away the biggest branches, plucked away the smaller waste, and scooped up what remained at the surface when the belt stopped feeding. Few cherries dropped to the ground due to his precision and tact, the former a consequence of his experience and the latter a consequence of his personality.

Hydraulic groaning preceded the routine clang! and thud! of the machine’s claw tightening and clamping down on a trunk. More whirring sounded, accompanied by a fresh shot of the smell of motor grease, as another mechanism extended from the tractor and a huge, upside-down umbrella fanned out beneath the tree. Daniel stared at the process, enamored, as he always did. The machine began to shake. On his first ventures, the machine jostling him around was a nuisance, but Daniel had since grown to appreciate the relaxing quality of the experience. Instead of tensing up, Daniel allowed the vibrations to wave through his muscles in a sort of massage.

But if the machine shook, the tree trembled. Her branches and leaves whipped up a maelstrom of their own. A cascade of red swept down from her like silk sheets falling onto a bed. The wave of fruits plunked onto the umbrella with a beautiful sound; it was as if hail could land gently on a roof overhead. It could make Daniel snooze, but it was inseparable from the mechanical screeching of the tractor and the rustling protests of the tree.

When the shaking finally stopped and the claw returned to the tractor, the cherries and debris from the tree rushed down the chute. With the relative quiet, Daniel could hear the bouncing fruits, rolling branches, and whisking leaves with perfect clarity, a symphonic collaboration of nature’s bounty and man’s machine.

It was interrupted, as always, by the racket of the canvas folding itself up and pulling away from the trunk. That, itself, was interrupted by a belch of the tractor’s engine as the train pulled forward to the next tree.

As the conveyor belt rolled, Daniel sorted through its falloff. He treated it like Tetris, preparing now for what was coming in a moment. His present motions had been decided seconds earlier. Commitment to his predetermined actions enabled his efficiency and efficacy as a cherry sorter. The belt ran out of debris, so Daniel stopped it and looked toward the next tree, ready to admire the umbrella.

But he didn’t see it, and he didn’t hear it moving into position. Instead, he heard the engine break into an idle. Wilbur hopped out of the driver’s seat and walked toward the tree. Curious, Daniel quickly fished the last of the waste from the container. Finally at rest with the tractor, the water within settled into a flat sheet, cherries glistening under the surface. A ripple crossed it as Daniel leapt off his foothold.

Wilbur was now kneeling by the tree, inspecting something around the other side.

“What do you see, Will?” Daniel called. As much as he enjoyed the experience of sorting the cherries, he appreciated a lapse in routine. He stretched his limbs as he strode.

“Well,” Will spoke slow, and very low. It was a voice to which one pays careful, patient attention if they wish to hear what it says. “It looks like a fox hole to me. What do you think, Dan?”

Wilbur shifted as Daniel rounded the tree. Kneeling, Daniel noticed faded tracks. They weren’t perfect prints, or even scattered prints, but tracks nonetheless—dirt patted down in a way it couldn’t be without animal tampering.

“Yeah, I’d say so,” Daniel agreed, puzzled by their choice of estate. “But they must’ve moved out. Nothing’s been around for a while.” A breeze fluttered the yellowing grass over the hole. Daniel stopped feeling the breeze, but he continued to hear it. “Wait, shh,” he said as he bent closer to the hole.

Weak whimpers grazed Daniel’s ear.

“Huh, I was wrong,” he said. “There’s definitely pups in there. But I’m sure nothing’s been around…” he wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“D’you think Mom’s in there?” Wilbur asked. Daniel had him move in to listen, then explained their whining. “So you’re saying she’s not. And she hasn’t been for a while. You don’t think she’s lost, do you? Or worse?”

“Oh, man!” Daniel exclaimed, “I don’t believe foxes can get lost. But worse… I hope not.” He tapped a finger on his chin, staring at the hole. “If she is, we’d better help.”

“Well, what if I skip this tree for now, and we’ll keep an eye out for Mom. If she doesn’t show, let’s bring ‘em back some food. Say, what do fox pups eat, anyway?” Daniel gave him a punctuated answer as the men headed back to their positions on the tractor. The thrum of the empty orchard snapped away as the motor roared back to life and lurched the machine forward. Daniel swung onto his foothold as the tractor crawled to the next tree.

Daniel expertly plucked sticks and leaves out of the tank as it filled with bright red cherries. The water darkened as it shallowed, both due to the decreasing depth and to the orange attitude the sky adopted in the early evening. While the cool water was a welcome comfort in the heat of the day, it became frigid as the sunlight receded. Daniel’s lips began to shiver. The hair of his arms stood on end.

As Daniel was about to holler to Wilbur, the driver turned and shouted over his shoulder. Daniel couldn’t make out his words over the clanging and bustling. He didn’t need to. He smiled, finished clearing the last load of cherries, and rubbed his arms dry to stop his shivering.

They made for the tree with the fox hole. Daniel craned his neck around the tractor, desperate for a hint that Mom had returned for her cubs. His heart clung to hope as they neared, but he saw no change in the grass or dirt surrounding the den. Wilbur beat him there, kneeling and listening. He moved out of the way as Daniel approached. The men shook their heads.

“Got a box?” Daniel asked. Wilbur shook his head again. “Well, maybe they’re small yet.”

Considering how to pull them out, Daniel listened to the soft coos of the kits wafting from the hole. Gently, Daniel slid his arm inside, letting the dry dirt roll alongside the fabric of his sleeve and skin of his arm. His fingers met the young fur of a kit. Soon his fingers pet the meager body of the young fox. It seemed to purr as he cradled it within his grasp, finding the best position from which to pull it into the open air. The kit remained calm as Daniel cupped it, and, gently as he put his arm in, scooped it along the tunnel and into his arms. It was bony. Daniel thought it might fall apart in his arms, scattering its bones among the grass. Its fur was dull and weathered despite being kept inside a hole. Wilbur stared at the creature, shivering as he took it from Daniel’s care.

“Poor things probably would’ve died tonight,” he observed, solemn.

Daniel returned to his delicate chore.

With practice, Daniel gained speed in fishing the foxes out of their den. There were some snags. One kit, he found, was tucked behind a kind of corner. Daniel spent considerable time maneuvering the wild baby within the hole, positioning it so that he could extract it properly. On another dive, Daniel noticed that a root had sprung up. He grabbed hold of it and yanked, loosening up dirt all around the hole. A pocket knife sawed through the root and allowed for the last of the kits to be brought out. They were caked with dirt. Daniel brushed them off.

He listened at the hole for a good while. All he could hear was the cricketing of bugs in the orchard as dusk’s gray-orange light began to draw the color out of the field. Finally, he stood.

Wilbur held three on his lap, tucked under his shirt, as he drove back to his farmhouse. Daniel cradled two kits in his arms, snuggling them to protect them from the sloshing water. They cooed and breathed deeply. Daniel felt them pressing into each other to conserve what little was body heat they had left. Even dulled by malnutrition, their orange coats were striking—a beautiful stroke of nature’s portrait, complimented by the well-faring evening sun.

Wilbur’s farmhouse came into view. The machine rumbled up the driveway. The tractor popped and heaved as Wilbur put it to rest for the evening. Daniel was off before the tires stopped, hurrying the kits into Wilbur’s house. Wilbur trudged behind him.

Inside, Daniel balanced the foxes in one arm as he ripped up a blanket and formed it into a makeshift nest. He set the animals into the blanket. They swaddled themselves with their tails. Daniel leapt away from them to find a shoebox, which he stuffed with soft towels.

The screen door creaked on its rusty hinges as Wilbur pulled it open with a boot. He shuffled inside, settling the siblings into Daniel’s nest. Daniel turned back into the kitchen, shoebox in hand, and scooped up the smallest and weakest looking kits. He tucked them into the shoebox before settling in a kitchen chair. He watched them, counting their shallow breaths as their ribs rose and fell so barely. Wilbur set milk on the stove and cut some bites of jerky.

Satisfied that the foxes were going to be alright for now, Daniel picked up the landline and dialed the conservationists. A soft prayer rose from his lips while the phone rang.
Trudge, part two

March 17th, 2024

Vicesimus Sextus Gradus

Marsden’s boot pressed into the dusty, split earth, eager to soar through the air again. His pace was quick and his face full of the joy in his heart. The sun drew sweat from his skin like a bucket draws water from a well, but he kept up. The merciless air sucked the breath from his lungs, but he kept up.

The cacti applauded his advance. Or so he imagined, or so was the case.

Ah! He seethed into the wind as a fine, long stroke of pain coursed up his forearm. He paused, the wind gently lofting dust around him. Peeling back the layers of his bandages, Marsden inspected the wound. The healing was coming along well. Too well, in fact, for a man who’d been secluded from medicine and in the wilderness for…

How long? How long ’til I am reunited with them?

He pours water—the freshest water his canteen has held—over the gash-turned-cut. The pain recedes, swept away by the flow. The salty, bloody water rushes down his tan arm and off his worn fingers, sprinkling the ground. Marsden pats the cut dry, then replaces the bandages as he makes off again toward the town.

No time to focus anymore on the evidences of the desert critters. No notice is given to the cursive of the snakes, the dens of the jack-rabbits, the footprints of the birds. There is no time to invest in the details of the journey, for Marsden was busy rejoicing at the destination, grateful for the revelation, bustling in his mind with thanksgiving and love. Ah!

Marsden wonders at how the fellows will receive him. Will they welcome his return? She, and he, and he may. Will they sneer, or mock? He will, she, she and he may, too. His lips draw apart, his teeth gleaming in the bright sun, and he smiles at the thought of all the people welcoming him back in their myriad ways. He smiles, eager to share with them all.

He imagines the town, but sees no picture, as he trudges toward it. Rather, he feels the town in his heart as the faces of his friends and his enemies, his neighbors, parade through his mind. He hears their voices singing with him in the chapel, their whispers conspiring to kill him in the dark. He feels their sadness seep into his soul through their faces, and he feels their happiness warm his heart through their eyes.

He hurries now, his walk an unfamiliar bubble.

He feels apart from them. Kept apart by the desert that lays between them. Kept apart by their struggling to grasp at what doesn’t exist, like he had tried to do.

How long? How long until I can be with them?

He feels apart from himself, as well, as if there is some new thing that has replaced him. Some new him that is no longer him but is now fully him. A him that is plagued by the ghosts of the old, but which pays them no mind, for the new is a him that stands apart from, but always with, the prior. It’s… a better him living a better life.

He wonders how much longer the vanity of the desert will surround him, how much longer his pride will continue to impose its consequence.

Oh, the tragedy!

That in my despair, I had carried myself so far from the task now revealed, the one task that matters, the one comfort that I have been called to, now held so far away!

Rippling skin, yelping muscles, his heart skips a beat and he jumps in the air, excited by the joy in his soul.

Indeed I may be wiped away by the storms of this accursed world. My body is of dust, and destined to dust return, but within writhes an immortal soul! Yes, our bodies will melt away in the sun, or be consumed by beasts, or buried and rotted under the earth. But the earth itself is being weathered by an even greater wind. What a joy! What a great…

He leaps again, clapping into the air.

…relief! The waves of eternity are eroding the despairing world. Eroding, not merely to destroy, but to adopt into perfect eternity. All will be as it should be. Look! See the withered cacti? See the animal corpses strewn about me, their blood and gore scattered by the scavengers? Blessed are they who are dead and relieved from this earth, for all here is vain, but they are tasting now the glory yet to arrive. I pray I might join them soon!

Later. Later, I will die. First I must reach the town, and I must eat. Yes, I will break bread with my friends and my foes, and with them I will share. I will smile, I will invite them into joy!

Experience the promise, dearest friends, all of you! That there is a whole life beyond the pain we endure, or the things we hate, or the meaninglessness we bear. There is hope, in the wilderness, and here, and everywhere, if only it grows it your heart.

Dust rises from his feet as he trades wild ground for that settled by his fellows. His pace quickens, restrained only by his awareness of the necessity of breath for speech.

“Look!” Marsden shouts in the town square, pointing to the wilderness from which he came. “That is where I found it. The greatest comfort, the depth of joy. My heart yearned for what I cannot understand. I thought it was there, but it is not. The same strange thing your hearts yearn for. Blessed will you be, you who are true, and meek, and who hold dear the ungraspable truth!”
Trudge, part one

March 15th, 2024

Vicesimus Quartus Gradus

Marsden’s boot pressed into the ground with that satisfying crunnch again, then again, his ears relishing the noise. The sole of his boot molded the cracked dirt with the softness of a thumb rubbed over a lover’s wrist, leaving a signature of love imprinted upon the wilderness by which he was so smitten. The wilderness enveloped him, its comfort tight and warm around his soul.

The cacti, denouncing the desert’s parching heat with their stores of moisture, surrounded him. In his periphery they became silhouettes of the friends he once knew. They disappeared behind him as he walked.

The sand, cracked dirt, parchment drawn upon by the beasts and vipers and birds, gripped Marsden’s attention as he soaked in every detail. His dreams rendered the minutest detail of the landscape with picturesque accuracy. A detail which escaped even his waking mind, but which to his unconscious self seemed the most important fact of all Creation. By morning, the detail is wiped away by the silent wind of vanity, the destroyer of record in both dream and reality.

Marsden wondered when he, too, would be removed from record by the wind, falling to the sand, collapsing into dust.

Later, later. The answer is always later.

Presently, a pain seethes on his forearm, tearing attention away from the wilderness. Marsden turns to a deep gash on his arm, shabbily wrapped in bloody bandages. He pauses his step and places the pad of his finger and thumb on either side of the fleshy crevice. Pinching, he hears the gentle gsh of flesh reuniting, of blood being roused from pools within his skin. A thin streak of bright red appears on the darkened bandage above the gash. The pain subsides, and he carries on, scanning the desert for a suitable place to rest for a moment.

He settles upon a slight dune to rewrap the gash. Then he takes a sip of whiskey.

Overcome by temptation, he turns his head back along his path, scanning the horizon. There is nothing to see but the edge of where he has been and where he can not reach. Yes, the town is out of sight, put behind him. But for all his love of the wilderness, he cannot kill the adulterous longing in his heart for return. He cannot put the dusty, pale boards out of mind; the packed, trodden roads out of mind; the jesting and birthing and rearing and gossip and betrayal and joy and hatred and murder and music and drinking and preaching and cursing. Those things which seem to evade the erasing wind, stored away from the weathering wilderness. But surely they, too, must succumb and meet their end?

Even the cactus dries up in the scorching sun.

A bead of sweat rolls over his dirty face, trudging over his pores and flecks of sand, parading through his hairs, desperate to touch down on the sand and burst into mist.

Marsden tears his eyes away from the horizon, stands, rightens himself, and hears that satisfying crunnch again, moving away from that temple of man and into the heart of the Earth.

How far? He wonders, How far must I go to be apart from them?

And in the back of his mind, the itch to turn whispers, always swaying like a sign in a breeze, always lurking like a spirit in a graveyard, coaxing one more glance toward the town, on threat that this time, when he glances, he will take a step toward it.

How far? He wonders, How far must I go to be apart from myself?

When I go until I cannot go any longer, will I at last collapse into dust, and will then my stricken pile be dismissed from corporation by the first gust? Will I be but as hundreds of flecks, irrevocably separated, yet unified, still clinging to legacy, my legacy, the murderer, the healer, the griever, the rejoicer, the regretful, the contented, the proud, the generous, the wise and the fool? Apart, but bound together by the air which roused my selves from their former companionship and cast out to all the world? Apart, but bound together by origin; I will cease to be, and be yet.

Then, I will still be when I am no more? Will the wind return and wipe my remains away, completing my destruction? Surely, they are doomed to be washed away by the wind, and so I have left them. But here, too, the wind snatches the sand, and the animals lay their corpses down, and they become dust.

I thought that here, surrounded by the death of life, that I could wrestle the wind into submission? That apart from them, nature would preserve me?

No, I am them, and they are me, and here, too, the wind will reach me, and I have no better chance of wrestling it away when comes that fateful morn.

Marsden spat through a frown, scorning the wilderness as he might a challenging duelist.

Whether I wrestle here, or I wrestle there, the match is lost.

With the sun rising overhead, Marsden continued trudging through the desert, away from them and toward his end, contemplating these and other matters.
Avian Procession

July 3rd, 2023

Trigesimus Sextus Gradus

“What’s the mouthfeel of that spider?” To you and I, of course, it sounded like a series of gobbles and an avian wail of inquiry. To the gaggle, it hardly needs mention, the sounds read exactly as reported.

“Gooey, squishy… moist. It provides a good coating. Crunchy at first, naturally,” came a chipper reply (a cluck and a purr, nonsense to us. And such would all of the following speech sound to our ears). Mergle swallowed the spider and apologized to her mother for speaking with food in her mouth. Even for turkeys, it’s an unbecoming habit.

The inquirer happened to be the master of the turkey flock. She was leading her comrades through the lake-adjacent forest, their ancestral home. Their claws still sunk into the white ground-above-the-ground for most of the route, though the white shroud had slipped off of the trees by now. Some of the trees were regaining their feathers. Over the past few days, the slow-falling sky had turned to fast-falling sky, drenching the forest in the smell of fresh eggshell-to-be.

Thus, the turkey maidens (and him, who I will introduce later) marched toward the cherished Clearing Place. The turkeys of this valley preferred to congregate there first, for it was the fabled nest of the First Hen. Her spirit presides, in purified form, above the valley, visiting the gaggles and gangs now and again to usher in reiterations of the cycle. At present, she was hidden, prancing behind the stagnant, gray, brush piles of the sky.

The master bird stopped with a cluck, prompting her comrades to meander into an imperfect line alongside her. Stretched before them was the scratchy, black, frozen-not-slippery-river on which the Smelly Things roared. The hen purred, her head snapping to pause over segments of the river. It was quiet, today, and no Smelly Thing passed them by. The river gleamed, and in the glimmering she made out the writhing forms of long, pale bodies. Her tail ruffled.

“Let’s have ourselves a snack! The frozen-not-slippery-river is peaceful and fruitful, it’d be a shame to leave it unharvested,” she whooped. The others cheered with gobbles and purrs of their own. Claws planted on gravel, the hens stretched over the blacktop to snap up worms, spreading themselves further along the length of the road. Hearing the plucking of her brood grow distant, the master stretched her neck, kicked her strong legs, and strutted onto the hard, scratchy surface. She snapped up three worms in rapid succession, purring loudly.

The other hens, necks tired from reaching to the center of the road from the shoulder, plodded after her, seeing that it was safe to stand upon the frozen river. The spoils were bountiful, and each turkey ate her (and his) fill. The master garbled and trotted to the opposite edge of the road, whereat she ushered her compatriots back onto the pebble-filled frozen-not-slippery-river bank. Satisfied that the road was clear, she stooped her neck and took a mouthful of pebbles into her beak, swallowing them carefully. She trotted up and down the row, making sure the rest had consumed their portion.

Desperate yammering cut through the silence. He squawked and flapped his feathers loudly, generating great alarm among the hens. The turkeys snapped their heads upright and scanned either side of the river, bodies tense for fear of a screaming-fast Smelly Thing.

Instead, they saw a Spinning Thing carting a featherless biped.

“Such a ruckus could drive us to danger! Will your alarm ever match the threat, Freggens? Or are we condemned forever to bear the clatter of your feeble spirit at every drop of a leaf?” the master bird scorned him. The bird who had wailed, with a gray eye and patches of exposed skin, hung his skinny head and waddled to a distant edge of the group of hens, who danced away from and gobbled at the biker as he safely, slowly, passed them by.

“Hup, now! That’s plenty of refreshment and featherlessness for now. Form up!” The master bird reordered the gaggle. As a unit, they trudged back into the forest, leaving the frozen-not-slippery-river behind them. Freggens made his way along from the rear, pouting as he went.

“This way, dearies,” the master bird chirped, ushering the gaggle up a hill. Stepping through the white ground-above-the-ground was not preferred, especially uphill, but the wise master bird knew that the crest of the hill would have a very shallow coat. So the gaggle bore with her, careful to trace each others’ steps, carving a path through the forest. Freggens, mulling his mistake, chose to forge his own path behind the hens. He did not deserve to walk the easy trail blazed by their marching line.

Such went the pack, cooing and gargling various conjectures and positions on topics political and apolitical alike, with Freggens distantly trailing, stinking of scorn, for many an ebb of wind.

Mergle chittered and growled. Her mother stopped, and the hens began to circle up. Freggens, head down, didn’t notice the change in pace, and continued trudging along.

The master bird scanned the forest in the avian way, snapping her neck to and fro, angled in curious positions. She caught a sliver of orange fur whisking behind a trunk. She hollered and flared her wings, arousing the rest of the gaggle, who made themselves large and loud. Freggens, shocked by the display, leapt into the air with so little control that he landed on his side.

The sliver of orange popped up from behind the trunk, revealing itself to be a creature lesser in size than the master bird herself. It had orange fur, and green eyes, and sharp fangs and a long tongue, and its name was

“Miss Vue, you villainous wretch!” The master hen called. Her voice began with a bite of rage, but gave way to relief by the end of her greeting.

“Margelgel, my friend! What a fine gaggle you have found under your wing,” Miss Vue replied, strutting toward the pack.

“They are. Quite attentive, you found? And ready for a fight?”

“Quite, quite. They are well-prepared for predator response. The hens, that is,” Miss Vue glanced at Freggens, who was now stumbling back to his feet. Margelgel followed her gaze.

“Indeed. Thank you for the drill, as usual, my dear,” she gobbled. The other turkeys relaxed, returning to their smooth, striding formation. Freggens, twice now embarrassed, lagged further behind than before, wattle like a waterfall dragging along the ground. Miss Vue joined the group, chatting with Margelgel about the waning winter, and other topics apolitical.

When they came upon the second frozen-not-slippery-river, Miss Vue gave her regards and slipped back into the woods. Margelgel clucked, and the turkeys formed a tight, three-bird wide line. When she decided the Smelly Things were far from their path, she began to trot onto the black ground.

“Come along, dears,” she encouraged, “the Clearing Place is but a few paces hence. And they’ll be no more excitement ‘fore we reach that sacred plot.”

Uplifted, the birds began to skip along the road. All but the six at the end of the lines failed to hear the Smelly Thing passing behind them, and even those six paid it no mind, for it was, after all, behind them.

The gaggle pranced their merry way along the familiar path. They celebrated as they poured out from the trees into the Clearing Place. It was beautiful, even with the still-gray-sky above. Turkeys from many other packs were streaming in to the place as well.

Margelgel spun on her claws to count her gaggle, haphazard-like, for confident she was that her hens were safe. But, her count was off. She seized in cold, eyes wide, and looked her group up and down.

“Where, pray-tell, is Freggens?”
Mister Watchman

February 20th, 2023

Quadragesimus Quartus Gradus

Rising out of the lukewarm water caused Vasco’s skin to tighten around his muscles, which began to quake in the freezing air. Vasco blew a breath through tight blueing lips and snatched his thin towel off the rack. He stayed in the shin-high water as he scrubbed himself dry, unwilling to plant his feet onto the cold tiles until it was necessary.

Setting his towel around his neck, Vasco reached over to the sink, where his laptop was sleeping, and began clacking at the keyboard. The laptop quivered precariously on the edge of the sink, but Vasco hardly noticed as he flipped from window to window cutting, pasting, dragging, resizing, re-editing, double-checking, formatting, rendering, and stepping out of the tub, sloshing onto the tiles and recollecting his towel from its perch.

Bending, he dried his legs in a frenzy before dropping the towel into a pile and dressing himself. His eyes were plastered to the computer screen as he dressed, his mind racing to complete the presentation, his fingers itching to relay his desires to the computer and make his plans a virtual reality. He broke his stare long enough to glance at himself in the mirror. He was, indeed, dressed.

Snagging the laptop, the screen now full of condensation, he darted out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. He plucked his phone off its charger with unusual but welcome ease, pocketed it, then set the computer down and picked up a mug of coffee (on which Vasco singed his hand, because he couldn’t thread his finger through the handle).

He noticed that the computer screen was foggy. Groaning, he set the mug down, intending to wipe the glass. Instead, coffee sloshed over the edge of the mug and splashed onto his trackpad. Stifling a yelp, both from the pain in his hand (which he now noticed) and the concern for his computer, Vasco repositioned the laptop and dabbed at the puddle of steaming coffee with the bottom of his jacket. Flustered, Vasco pressed save on his projects, snapped the lid shut, and stumbled out of his apartment, kicking the door closed behind him.

The frosted glass door slammed shut behind him. It rattled into silence as Vasco winced. He hadn’t meant for such a boisterous entrance.

Mart glared at him with an expression caught between unbelief and contempt. He pressed his suit coat with flat palms as he leaned back and crossed his legs.

“Hey-y-y, Mart, sir,” Vasco cooed and smiled. He fumbled with his computer bag, his fingers arguing with his orders. “I know corporate is upset with my attendance, but after you see this, they’ll be begging you to pull me back on board.”

Vasco pulled the laptop open and placed it on Mart’s desk. While doing so, he noticed that his shirt was untucked, and covered with a continental coffee stain. Shhhh….

Mart stared, without looking, at the screen, but Vasco didn’t notice. He was busy stuffing his shirt into his pants. And realizing that the zipper was down. Shhhhhh!!

Mart blinked like an owl. His eyelids rested low over his pupils, his lips venomously neutral. But his eyes began to scan Vasco’s work even as Vasco attempted to turn away and fix his zipper. Mart had never seen such a confident yet such an ineffective attempt at subtlety.

“Just… have a seat, Vasco,” he sighed.

Vasco struggled to settle. His ears turned hot.

Mart took his time to consider Vasco’s work. It was well-researched, precise, airtight, and expertly presented. Beautiful artistry of charts and numbers and citations.

“I believe that art can be viewed separate from its artist, Vasco,” Mart drawled at last, “which is why I’m stuck in middle-management. Pretty reports like this just set my soul ablaze,” Vasco couldn’t discern Mart’s cryptic sarcasm from his pessimistic sincerity, “but they don’t erase reliability records. Corporate wants you out, Vasco.”

They locked eyes for a moment, Vasco waiting for Mart to continue and, like the prodigal’s father, welcome him back to work with arms wide open. A smile started to pull at his mouth.

“And from now on, corporate gets what she wants.” Mart leaned forward, crossed an arm across his lap, sharpened his eyes into focus on Vasco’s, and patted the top of the laptop. “Get out,” he spat as he snapped the lid closed.

Vasco stood with a zippt noise, snatched his laptop, and darted away. His eyebrows furrowed and relaxed in a cycle as he squirmed his way through the building and out of the door, which rolled shut behind him.

Vasco stretched in the shadows until he felt warm. He slinked through alleys, considering every step to minimize noise, eyes panning every streak of light to learn where the shadows were darkest. If it weren’t for the sweet, familiar anticipation that now consumed him, his body would be wailing for rest. He reached out and scraped his fingertips on a brick wall, elated that the sensation of rough brick sliding over his skin reached his awareness immediately. Maybe he wasn’t concussed that bad this time.

He would’ve pulled out his phone map if he thought it would’ve helped him. It wouldn’t. He wasn’t after anyone in particular, since his last lead got away. And he already knew where every security camera in the commercial districts were tucked away and exactly what view they could capture. Tonight was a wait-and-strike kind of night. Those sometimes performed well with the algorithm.

Vasco settled near a dumpster to stretch some more. Dumpsters are an excellent hiding place; their bulky forms exaggerate shadows and mask silhouettes. The rotting smell disciplined Vasco as he timed his stretches, reminded him that he could overcome any challenge.

A van squealed two blocks away. Vasco glanced over to see it crawling over the road. That meant it was stopping, as was Vasco’s stretching routine. He began jogging in the van’s direction with long, casual strides, sticking to the shadows.

Squeaky engines aren’t a very sneaky choice, maybe they’re not burglars, Vasco thought, his heart sagging, his pace slowing. Deciding that it was still worth checking, he kept on, unenthused.

As he jogged through another alley the squeal of the van petered out. Toward the corner of the building his ears picked up on the rumbling of the engine. So, the van parked, but didn’t shut off, on Patch Street. Either this was some late-night drop off, or there was about to be an active burglary. Vasco felt giddy and ducked around the other side of the building where he would find a fire escape ladder and a perfect perch for his phone camera. From that angle, he was able to identify three masked individuals. One armed with a crowbar, one staying in the drivers’ seat, and the third nervously glancing back and forth down and up the street. Vasco clicked record, then grinned as he slithered back down the ladder. He sauntered back around the building so he would emerge behind the van, intending to evade the driver’s alarm until he had dealt with at least one of the burglars.

He could hear Crowbar and Anxious chattering over the rumbling van as he approached the corner. Crowbar’s voice was monotonous, as if this was routine, while Anxious sounded… well. And for good reason. As the crowbar clicked against the doorframe of the building Vasco sprinted out from the corner, his shoes pad-pad-padding like paws on the sidewalk. Before Crowbar even noticed him coming, he had smashed his baton into his fingers. The crowbar clanged to the ground and the man yelped in pain. Vasco wrapped his baton around Crowbar’s neck and pulled him into his knee, then up and down into his knee again, striking the air out of his lungs and traumatizing the diaphragm. He crumpled to the ground, throat creaking as it begged for air to pass through it.

Anxious leapt back an impressive distance, turned on his heel, and slammed a hand into the passenger door of the van before Vasco could catch him. “Andrew!” He managed to scream before Vasco grabbed his head and bashed it into the window, shattering it. The driver sped away right when Crowbar was able to suck in a breath, filling his lungs with black exhaust. Vasco cradled Anxious’ limp body as it folded to the ground.

Turning his attention to the coughing and heaving Crowbar, Vasco produced rope and a knife, then secured his arms behind his back and tied them in place. He did the same with Anxious, then taped their mouths shut. Prancing to the fire escape to collect his phone, he left them on the steps of the… Rocket Tax Assistance Center? He resolved to interrogate one of them (meaning Crowbar, unfortunately, since Anxious was asleep) when he got back down there. What could make this place a suitable burglary target?

His phone screen was black. He tapped it. Still black. He wiped the screen, then shook it, then tapped it. Still black.

The cleanest hit he’d had in months, never captured, and unsharable.

His face steamed. Vasco clenched his eyes, thinking. Patch Street. R-TAC. Right next to the credit union. His eyes snapped open, his fingers battered his cheek. The fire escape was for the credit union, which was crawling with cameras. It really wouldn’t be difficult to slip in, snag a tape, and slip out. And it wouldn’t be criminal, just borrowing… and it was footage of his likeness, anyway, and he had stopped a crime next door.

As he built up his case in his mind, his body was already breaking into the building.

He dropped out of the ceiling and touched down on the floor with feline grace. His soft shoes pad-pad-padded on the glistening tiles as he crept into the security room, unfazed by locked doors. He plucked a flash drive out of his pocket and stuffed it into a computer, then dragged the security footage onto the device. It copied without a hitch. No one at the credit union would ever know. The drive pulled out with a snipt, and the door snapped closed with a clikt as Vasco glided up the counter and started hefting himself back into the ceiling.

He started to pull his leg into the pitch-black crawlspace as it was flooded with light. White light bathed the credit union, then red and blue spiraled over the walls, then Vasco heard the wailing sirens of the police cruisers and the internal security system.

Vasco gasped and clambered into the crawlspace, dashing as fast as his crouched position would allow toward the fire escape vent he’d broken in through. He heard officers flooding into the building beneath him. He resisted the urge to leap out into the night, and instead checked his corners. Two officers were scanning the alley. He ducked back inside the building before they looked up.

Heart thumping in his ears, Vasco took a knee. He started to take shallow breaths, then they started to quicken with his thoughts. Do they know I—

A ceiling panel collapsed beneath his weight and he crashed, shoulder-first, fourteen feet down into the red- and blue- and white-shining tile floor. He groaned. He dragged his arm beneath him and tried to push up, but his elbow gave out and his chin fell back to the floor. His vision blurred.

“That’s a great mask, honestly, up close like that.”

“Aw, shuddup, Tommy. The Nightwatchman? That’s what you call yourself, correct?”

Vasco groaned.

“Well, Mister Watchman, you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say….” He didn’t hear the rest of his rights, because he dropped too hard into unconsciousness.
Thank You for the Undead

February 20th, 2023

Quadragesimus Quintus Gradus

Heavily inspired by “Thank You for the Venom” by My Chemical Romance.

I recommend listening to the song before and/or while reading this story. A familiarity with the song may enhance the reader’s enjoyment of this story.

The kill team encircles the facility, shadowy specters against the oily trees of the morning forest. Eddie severs a padlock, kicks in a door. Angie swings inside. The shadows storm through the hallway. Muzzles aimed at scrambling lab coats cry out with flashing rage. They clear the living, converting them to the dead. They clear every room, converting each into a mass casket. Bright blood from the slain spatter roses across the coffin doors.

At the end of the hall Angie scurries toward a frosted glass door, weapon nuzzled in her shoulder, barrel steaming. The opaque panel shatters as she nears.

“Sister!” Eddie yells as she’s caught by the rotting arms of a bloated corpse five times her size. Her pretty face screams, she pulls the trigger. Brown mush spurts out of her attacker’s back, a spray chasing each bullet. They don’t stop the fangs of the monster from sinking into her neck. She never had a chance. Her flesh splatters to the floor as the monster turns and leaps onto another person, then another, lurching from wailing victim to victim. Each becomes a pile of mutilation seeping over the polished floor.

Eddie fires at the monster until it disappears behind a corner. Screams echo out of the corridor. He bellows and kneels next to Angie, alive and suffering. “So this is what life’s like…” she managed, but Eddie didn’t hear her. The screams of throats and guns drowned her whisper in a putrid symphony. He pressed his ear to her lips “…bleeding on the floor?” She exhaled with her life.

Eddie pulls his blood-soaked ear away only for a chorus of moans to scratch it, even over the fray around him. Outside, dozens of decomposing legs stumble with haste toward the facility, gushing through the tree line.

Guards clad in white armor storm into the rotunda. They exterminate two of Eddie’s team before they can return fire. Eddie scrambles among the lockboxes in the lab, bashing glass cabinets with the butt of his gun. He tears open a door and finds them. A searing pain cuts his side. He growls and raises his eyes over the counter to see three guards.

“Give me all your pills!” Eddie screams as he sweeps his rifle across the counter, holding the barrel down with his meaty arm. The guards crumple. Maroon rivers taint their matte white armor plates.

Eddie sets his arm on the shelf and drags the canisters of pills into his satchel. He hoists the rifle upright and begins to sprint back down the corridor. His surviving teammates fall in behind him as the guards pour into the room.

The kill team bursts out of the facility and slam the door closed only to face a horde of unhinged mouths that belong to rotted faces.

“Hallelujah, lock and load!” Eddie orders. In the spare seconds they have, the specters reload and re-chamber. The barrels of his kill team raise at the same instant, blasting open the skulls of the dead and cutting a pathway of blood through the courtyard out into the forest.

Spilling into the tree line, Eddie hears a roar emanate from the facility. He turns over his shoulder and catches a glimpse of the great beast bursting out of the rotunda’s glass roof with a squirming guard in one hand and half a scientist in the other. As the monster turns to consume the head of the guard, cracking through his white helmet and splashing his brains over the roof, it notices a train of survivors pouring into the forest opposite Eddie’s kill team. The corpse drops the bodies and lunges toward the fleeing crowd.

Eddie pushes off the ground, shouldering a decaying man hard enough to rip it in gory twain, and sprints toward the survivors with a roar.

“Eddie!” His team screams behind him, “You’re running after something that you’ll never kill!”

“Give me all your hopeless hearts,” Eddie cried over his shoulder to the team as he carried on, spraying down the dead in his way. He took a hand off his rifle and sunk it into his satchel, tearing out a canister and popping the lid with his thumb. He hurled the satchel back to his team.

“If this is what you want, then fire at will,” his team blessed him as they turned to make their escape with the pills.

Dropping his empty magazine and stuffing it into the eye socket of a corpse, Eddie began to vomit. He remained on his feet and forced his burning eyes to remain locked on a fresh magazine, replacing his rifle’s food. The puke poured over his chin and down his neck, soaking his chest. Hands clamped down on him from every angle. His pace suffered. The scratches and bites hurt, but they couldn’t kill him. They couldn’t turn him.

“Give me all your poison!” he taunted the dead through his bile, “it’ll be the last!”

He stopped running and thrusted an elbow back, lodging it in the chest of a corpse. It kept his aim steady as he circled, blowing heads apart all around him. Enough space cleared for him to pull his arm free and carry on, he sprinted once more toward the monster that had ripped his sister apart. It was amongst the crowd eating every bullet the guards threw at it and every soul it captured in its grip. The bodies in now-red clothes rained over the dark forest.

Eddie felt a shin snap below his foot and heard a yelp of pain. Shocked by the expression, he turned to look at the victim. It was a scientist, who gazed forlorn at the monster.

“You’re going after it,” the woman whispered. “It can’t be killed!” Her body quaked. “But… give me a reason to believe…” she let her final wish fade into the screams of the forest, the screams of both the dead and of the dying.

Eddie reset his attention on the monster. He shot at its head. No flash or noise revealed the shots. His gun was empty. Yelling, Eddie threw the empty rifle at a stumbling corpse and scanned the carnage for another weapon. All he found was a fire axe. Hoisting it up, he ran again toward the violent beast. Swinging the iron axe head with adrenalized ease he cut down multitudes on his way to the monster, leaving them to rot into dust at his heels.

He leapt into the air with the axe behind his back. The blade spliced the beast’s sternum. Eddie sunk his fingers around its clavicle and took the axe in the other hand. He cut into the chest over and over, the dead flesh hanging like mourning veils over the holes he gored. The monster struck Eddie, tearing away his grip. He spewed gasping for breath into the crowd of dying people and stumbling corpses.

“Love it or leave it!” Eddie heard a man scream.

“I don’t understand…” Eddie began, choking on spittle. He heard a wet gargling, but before he could turn to look a body collapsed onto him. It pinned his hips to the ground. He stared into the barrel of a PAW-20. The guard’s finger, warm dead blood still draining, was collapsing into the trigger. Eddie’s muscles snapped into action to punch the corpse’s arm away from the gun and take it into his own.

Still pinned, Eddie spun the launcher, nestled the stock into his shoulder, and squeezed the trigger seven times. Seven rounds split through the air sailing toward the beast. They bounced off its gray skin, or rolled around its feet, and a few sunk through the axe wounds. One by one they exploded into a hail of shrapnel and flame. Brown blood and bits of flesh blanketed everything in the fray, soaking Eddie’s face. He sputtered and wiped his eyes. The beast was both nowhere and everywhere, and Eddie wore it on his sleeve.
Archibald

March 30th, 2022

Octavus Gradus

The first month I lived in my apartment building I found a closed enveloped peeking under my door. My heart jumped a little when I saw it; I was worried I had made too much noise the night before or had otherwise irritated my new neighbors. I put off opening it for an hour or so as I proceeded with my morning routine; coffee, breakfast, a quick web search for friendly but relatively independent dog breeds. I was excited to have my own apartment, finally, with a stable career ahead of me. I wanted to share it with a little buddy.

I finally got around to opening the letter, breath held. To my pleasant surprise, it was simply an invitation to a summer get-together the tenants hold every summer. It was a community event. Everyone was encouraged to pitch in with planning or providing something so we could take advantage of the beautiful summer weather together. I was definitely interested in the get-together. I was eager to meet my new neighbors, make some friends, and hang out in the well-gardened yard, which was also a group effort.

When it was about a week away, everyone was ready for the party. I got a spree of notifications on my phone from local news reports and neighborhood watch apps; a break-in had occurred a few blocks away. The robber had apparently broken into a few different houses, made off with a sizable amount of valuables, and had escaped, leaving pretty much no evidence as to who it was.

After this, there was some mumbling about whether or not to hold the party. We decided it would be pretty ridiculous to cancel it. After all, it would be during the day, the robber wasn’t supposed to be violent, and a week should be enough time for the police to catch the criminal.

Still, I was uneasy about the situation. I spent about twice as long in the mornings making sure, and double, and triple sure that my door was locked. I kept my windows shut, spending a bit more money on the A/C, but it was worth it.

I talked with my mom about it, and she was worried for me. But, with motherly wisdom, she suggested that perhaps I find a bigger dog, one that could defend the homeland while I was away. I wanted one anyway, right?

Right, but nobody else had a dog. From what I could tell, maybe they didn’t even have any pets. I didn’t want to impose. After all, dogs could have a big impact on any or all of my neighbors, especially a big one. Someone could be scared of it, it could be loud, it could have big poops and leave them in the lawn. No, I would just lock my door and close my windows.

At work that day, I daydreamed about someone breaking into my apartment while I was away. They’d ruin my entire new, independent life. But in my daydreams, if there was a dog on duty, he would scare the robber away and chase him, hollering, down the street.

After work, I explored more dog breeds. I started to narrow my focus, and even pulled up some listings in the area. I checked shelters first and breeders second. I kept searching, and some ads got me interested in food bowls and cute little toys, too.

I heard a knock on the door. I looked through the peep hole to see my landlord. He had a fella I didn’t recognize with him. When I opened the door he told me the gentleman was going to install a more secure lock for me, if I didn’t mind. If I didn’t mind! I was elated, of course he can put it on!

That night I slept like a baby. I had new lock; I wouldn’t need to invest in a new dog after all. But then I had a nightmare. What if the locksmith was the robber? I imagined him sneaking into the building, unlocking the door with a secret key, then coming in and stealing my stuff, maybe even worse. I woke up sweaty and chilled. I knew it was ridiculous, but I couldn’t help but be nervous at work all day, imagining that at any moment the locksmith would be in my apartment, taking whatever he pleases, leaving no evidence of a break-in, just like at the houses down the road.

When I got back from work that day, I explored my apartment, pretty much taking inventory of everything there, holding my breath. Then I got a flood of notifications; another break-in had occurred just a few doors down!

I packed up my wallet, made sure the door was locked, and headed to a shelter across town. There, I met Archibald. I was eager to get him home, but we stopped by a local pet store and got all the goodies he could want.

Not a week later, I woke up to the sound of Archibald hollering. I hurried out of my room, ready to quiet him down. I was worried he’d wake up and annoy the neighbors; maybe I should give him away.

But I was horrified to see Archibald biting down on a hooded man’s leg, now knocking him over. The next-door neighbor opened his door, then another rushed down the stairs. They held down the robber, and I pulled Archibald off of him. We had caught the criminal.

I couldn’t believe it myself. I can’t imagine what might’ve happened if the robber—who, turned out, was not the locksmith—would’ve gotten in with no resistance. Apparently, he broke into a few lower-floor apartments and would’ve escaped with hundreds of dollars worth of property if it weren’t for Archibald.

At the summer party, he was pretty much the dog of the hour. He played fetch with the kids and got lots of pets and “good boys” from my neighbors. Especially from those whose property he’d saved. They love him. Even the news teams interviewed us. He’s recognized every time I take him for a walk; Archibald is a local hero. Then I clean up his big poops, but I suspect no one would mind if I left them.
Judge Marshall’s Definitive Decision

March 29th, 2022

Trigesimus Quartus Gradus

Judge Marshall wiped his mouth, hand shaking, before lurching forward once more and vomiting into the pink porcelain bowl. When he finished, he gasped, then rose to a quivering stride to the sink. Here he cleaned his spattered face and dragged eye boogers from the corners of his eyes, flicking them to the tile floor. There was a knock outside the door.

Judge Marshall winced as his arms—hands shaking—shot up to head level and hovered around his ears for an instant. Hesitant, he forced his arms to droop low as the door cracked open.

“Your Honor,” Ms. Dawson chimed, “the Court is ready to proceed.”

He hated her glistening white, perfect teeth. They made him recoil.

“I am the Court. And stop smiling.”

“Also,” she added, smiling, “Principal Lars is on the line. Again.” When it was clear that the judge intended to ignore the call, she finished: “he wants you to know that if your son’s grades don’t improve he will be disqualified from school-sponsored sports.” She ducked out of the room, chuckling, as an empty paper towel roll clattered against the doorframe.

The dim courtroom fell silent as the massive chamber door clanged open and banged shut with a satisfying snikt. Judge Marshall stormed up to the judge’s bench. His face was red, his eyes puffy, his shoulder thin and hunched as he huffed into the soft-cushioned seat. Suddenly the courtroom was filled with whispers. Deliberations by the lawyers, petty conversation among the observers. The bailiff winked at a woman in the crowd. She handed a bill to the man next to her, who shuffled over and delivered it to the officer.

Where, pray tell, has respect run off to? Marshall wondered. He took a moment to breathe and refresh himself on the contents of the case. The plaintiff, an under-qualified prospective employee suing on the grounds of unfair hiring practices. The defendant, some corporate entity based God-knows-where arguing that the spoiled-rotten rich frat kid doesn’t deserve a spot on their managerial staff just because he passed with a C in his macroeconomics program while hungover last semester. Their multi-million-dollar lawyering team will spend too much time arguing as if they hadn’t already won the case.

“Ordery—ahem—Order in the court!” Judge Marshall banged his water glass on the stand. Shooting a confused glance at it, he set it down and picked up his gavel. A quick scratch behind the ear with the handle will do. He threw a pen at the court reporter, shouting, “I heard six too many key-clicks, Mr. McKay!”

“Now then,” he groaned, “who wants to go first?”

Several rounds of verbal combat later, Judge Marshall was itching for a soothing salt bath and a few glasses, make it bottles, of wine. As he predicted, the defendants had dominated the time on the stand. Through it all, his mind had not been changed, except to make the plaintiff’s spoiled tantrum more absurd. Of course, the plaintiff had no room to accuse the defendants of unfair treatment, no matter how much he or his daddy whined to the bench. Of course the plaintiff needs to know that Yucatán is not one of the fifty United States if he wants to be the company’s Lead Sales Ambassador for Foreign Nations in the Western Hemisphere. Of course the company is within its rights to ask him if he knows, indeed, that The Free and Sovereign State of Yucatán is not one of the fifty United States.

“But your Honor,” Mr. Ewing begged with his pouty blue eyes. This was his last chance to convince Judge Marshall to decide in his favor. “Consider this document…” the judge nodded, chuckling, and the bailiff brought the paper up to the bench “…it’s a graded examination from my fifth grade year at Saint Lincoln-Washington West Eagle Elementary School of Freedom. Notice the teacher’s marks on question 8, your Honor.”

Judge Marshall’s eyes widened. The date on the paper matched Mr. Ewing’s age, it had Mr. Ewing’s name, and it had the title of the school in full display along with its symbol—an eagle eye the iris of which was painted like an American flag. It was legitimate evidence. Question 8 read, “Which of these is among the fifty states of the United States of America?” Of the four options, Yucatán was one. Mr. Ewing had not selected it, nor the correct answer, but the teacher had not indicated which of the four was the correct option. Thus, Yucatán could have been the correct answer, causing Mr. Ewing to live all these years of his life living with a false belief that led him to disqualify himself from the hiring process.

“My God…” the judge muttered. “Mister McKay!” He shouted to the recorder, “make sure you get this down word-for-word!”

“As always, your Honor,” he whispered. A pen collided with his forehead.

“I object, your Honor! The decision may not proceed until the defense has seen a copy of—”

“Silence! I’ve heard enough from you, Principal Lar—ahem—Mister Lee, and the damnable corporate carcass you speak for!” Then, a moment later, turning to Mr. McKay, he shouted, “Too many keystrokes, McKay!” The recorder narrowly dodged the gavel.

“Now, as I was saying!

“Let the record show, Mr. McKay, Mr. Lee and the rest of the defendant’s counsel, Mr. Ewing and your…father’s disinterested attorney, humble observers of the court, that on this day, I condemn the education system of America. Mr. Ewing never stood a chance in any corporate HR department because his school—” the judge gave the exam a vigorous shake above his head—“set him up for failure! How, pray tell, can Mr. Lee’s employer—” (“I’m really more of a contractor”)—“hold Mr. Ewing responsible for a lack of knowledge he clearly never had the chance to gain? Indeed, Mr. Ewing was unfairly treated by the corporation, which held against Mr. Ewing the failings of the public education system, and not any legitimate concern with Mr. Ewing as an employee himself. The employer is responsible for providing prospective employees with the skills and knowledge required to complete the job, and therefore must lavish these skills and knowledge upon prospective employees as part of the hiring process, and may only then consider other factors when making the decision whether to or not to hire.

“By order of the court, the corporation must pay for Mr. Ewing’s training and faithfully execute the onboarding process.”

“Your Honor,” Mr. Lee interrupted, “the expenses involved with that will bankrupt hundreds, thousands of small companies in America! Consider the economic—”

“Order, I say! Order! If after this investment into the person of Mr. Ewing he turns out to be an unfit employee, then fire him! Case dismissed!”

Judge Marshall banged his empty water glass on the bench, stood, collapsed, rose, and left.

The decision upset the legal system across the country. Judge Marshall was brave to make such a drastic decision. The decision was upheld unanimously and permeated across the country at every level. Employers, not schools, were responsible for teaching their employees basic information necessary to perform a job.

So, children failed every exam question possible. They could not be held accountable for knowledge they never learned. Sometimes, they would accidentally get a question right, and their families would mourn. Every correct answer was a liability when it came to securing a career.

A generation later, not a public nor private school existed in all of America. Instead, children were reared within corporate training facilities, because if employers were wholly responsible for the education of their prospective employees, it was most efficient to train them from the womb forward.

Indeed, as Mr. Lee predicted, thousands of businesses had gone under, but this simply made it easier for employees to decide which of the three or so remaining companies to work for.

Of primary importance, Junior Marshall got to stay on both the track team to set the worst time the school had known to date and the football team to have a knee blown out during a scrimmage match.

Of secondary importance, Mr. Lee and his legal team never worked another day in their lives. They retired to their own private islands, fraternizing with their contemporary Justices who had upheld Marshall’s decision.
Accident Prevention

March 17th, 2022

Trigesimus Septimus Gradus

Mel felt his fingers begin to slip over the steering wheel. He tightened his grip and gave it a slight turn, allowing the car to slow a few miles per hour around a gentle curve. As he mouthed the words to a song, hiding his voice from his ears, he noticed the tight line of trees on either side of the road. They were split intermittently with cracked, pitted driveways in no better condition than the shoulder of the road itself. A driver like Mel could better discern the lanes by deep channels along their borders than by the road commission’s worn paint marks.

Rhythmic eyes bouncing back and forth across the windshield, Mel took note of the cold-looking clouds up above. They were bright, but in a gray kind of way, as if they could burst into sunshine or downpour in the same instant.

A soft movement caught Mel’s eye on the right shoulder up ahead. Snapping to it, Mel could see an older man with a snug hat and huge jacket tugging at his mailbox. Mel edged the car toward the center of the road, raising his head to determine if any oncoming traffic was going to come up over that hill.

Headlights.

Can’t give you much space. Sorry, sir, Mel thought to himself, projecting the thought toward the old man as if he could hear it.

Still, Mel kept as close to the center of the road as he could, and passed the man—and the other car—without incident as kept struggling to get the mailbox open.

Considering how close his huge piece of machinery had been to that vulnerable man, and how short the shoulder of the road was, and how slippery it was as well, Mel thought aloud: “I had that man’s fate in my hands!”

But isn’t it true that he could’ve jumped in front of you?

“Or slipped… or just backed up too far.”

If that’d happened, what fate would you have been responsible for?

“None, I guess.”

The leaves, Mel noticed, were all but gone from the passing trees.

We both had to play our role to perfection to prevent a deadly collision. I just had to stay in my lane and make sure I kept my car in control. He just had to…not get in my way, I guess. We danced a dangerous dance, then, he and I. To an extent, I had to trust him. And he really had to trust me. But his trust was without a second thought. Do you think he even heard me? He had a generalized trust for anyone who might’ve been driving by as he was getting his mail. And yet, we both played our part perfectly well….

An acorn fell onto Mel’s windshield, but he hardly noticed. His arms rotated the wheel with fluid, mindless ease, guiding the car around the tight, wood-walled curves.

That’s the same way stop lights work. Everyone is supposed to look around, though, too, and not just follow the light blindly. Even though I was expecting him to uphold his end of our deal, I still needed to be wary in case he didn’t. That way, I could still take action to avoid an accident that would’ve occurred if I hadn’t been expecting it and therefore didn’t act on it!

If he fell, for example, I should’ve been going slow enough to be able to stop, and hopefully glide out of the lane and borrow some of the oncoming lane. That’d’ve been better than running him over. And, much the same, that oncoming driver, I hope, would’ve seen his mistake, noticed my compensatory action, and himself made room for me to make room for him so we could all escape without incident despite there having been a hiccup in our little, dangerous dance!

So not only do we have to be able to play our role well, but we have to be able to adapt to potential mistakes made by the other in a way that will prevent an accident that might’ve been if not…

He uttered a sort of growl at himself, “Now I’m just repeating myself.” Switching to a smile, he concluded: “Suffice it to say, accident prevention is a cooperative effort!”

A thud and a lurch, and then Mel’s foot clamped down on the brake pedal. He glided onto the shoulder, heart clenched, sweat already beading on his forehead and cheeks.

“Uhh,” his voice quivered as he looked over his shoulder, then ahead, then repeating, before opening the door. He swung his leg over to stand, but the muscles didn’t thrust him out of the seat. He choked, felt a pressure on his throat. He cursed, then fumbled with the seatbelt and finally released himself from the car.

Whipping his head to the left, he swallowed hard, fearing what he might see. Nothing. Jogging to the back of the car, he scanned the ditch next to the road. A bundle in the road two dozen yards back caught his eye. He hurried over to it, sweat falling over his face. It was hard, in that gray-dark-bright light, to see what it was until he was quite close.

He saw a yellow-scale claw. He imparted a sigh. The sweat turned to ice on his face and neck. The bundle was a mess of feathers which hid a body that was oblong, pushed out of shape by the weight of something large and fast. Hmm.

Walking around the bundle, Mel confirmed his suspicion that this was a turkey when he saw its bald head and big wattle, which hung over the neck of the thing like a fleshy petrified waterfall.

Mel verbalized disgust, then felt pretty bad, so he said, to the dead bird,

“Sorry, little dude. Tough luck I guess. Um… here.”

He bent toward the creature and grabbed the back of its neck with his fingertips, but it was too heavy to lift like that. Sighing, he wrapped his fingers all the way around it and, carrying the body far away from his own, laid the bird a little way into the ditch, feet first.

Shaken by cold and wiping his hand on his pants, Mel hopped back toward the car. About to set himself in the driver’s seat, he hesitated, then curved around to the front to check the damage.

Come on, dude. Seriously?
A Time to Mend

February 11th, 2022

Quadragesimus Primus Gradus

The sweet bathroom air had wicked away the moisture, leaving the toothbrush to rest dry along the edge of the cup. Its bristles nodded more directly toward the bathroom door than when she’d left, but it was an imperceptible difference.

Above the toothbrush resided a mirror. The glass was as clear as to be invisible. By one angle, its smooth reflection of the baby-blue wall together with its white decorative rim rendered the silvered plane indistinguishable from a window. By another angle, the mirror captured the next room. From this angle, it recorded an ever-rolling history of the living room’s events.

Of particular interest to the mirror was the fireplace. The pale stones that surrounded the cavity stood apart from the blue-gray walls. Less often than so, the tongues of the fireplace danced between the wood, reaching vainly toward the white stones, able only to stain them with smoke. The gentle orange cast of the flames brought significant beauty to the mirror. Within the confines of the mirror the light blue paint would embrace the vibrant glow in a union of elegant gradients and strikes, as if a sunset were occurring during the brightness of noon. Though, presently, as it were, the fireplace rested.

The wood within creaked four times throughout the day, groaning at the same pain which caused the metal grating to retract into itself; wintery air.

A pen rested, ink stubborn from the chill, on a stack of papers. Its ends were perfectly aligned with the corners of the sheets. The sheets were stacked precisely atop each other as if freshly cut on a factory line. The rest of the table was clear and fresh with disinfectant.

Plip… plip… the mouth of the bathtub watered.

The door opened, betraying no noise itself, but introducing the chit-chatter of friends in the hallway to the apartment. The conversation fell away in a smooth curve punctuated by the click, snikt of the door closing and the lock triggering.

Her warm breath whirled invisible before her mouth in the chilly room.

Her finger, skin tight to the muscle to preserve heat, brushed two switches in one stroke.

Tk, tk.

Suddenly the mirror burst to life, welcoming the writhing flames as they built their strength around the wood. The room, darkened by the evening and the gray walls, smoothed into the soft, orange light of a cabin in the woods as lamps rose to life. She casted shadows throughout the room as she navigated through, the mirror noting her familiar path toward the bathroom.

She cut around the corner, her face captured clearly in the mirror, all the dirt collected into streaks on her cheeks, congregated in the corners of her eyes, smeared on her forehead in the places she’d brushed with the back of her hand a dozen times that day. The mirror noticed the minute streaks of red that lined her face, microscopic abrasions that had drawn scarcely a full drops’ worth of blood when considered altogether.

Leaning over the bathtub, her dirty fingers pressed the lever. The rushing noise of water was met a moment later by the crashing of water on the bathtub floor. When the current began to steam and her skin was brushed by its warmth she flipped a switch to stop the drain. Then she stood upright before the sink.

She reached her hand to the handle. The cold, crafted metal sent a ripple up her arm. She sucked in her breath, turning the faucet. Bending to the bowl of the sink she washed a handful of water over her mouth, felt the dirt and grime rinse away. Rising, she took soap in her hands and cleaned them, remembering the first time she washed her hands after replacing a bike chain, the hours she’d spent scrubbing at the grease. Now, she was contented with ten seconds, confident that what would come off had come off.

Out came the toothbrush from the cup, and on its bristles squeezed a pea-sized blot of paste. She brushed her teeth in small, circular motions, targeting each tooth and being gentle over the gums. The taste and smell of lunch and labor, of a mouth anxious for water, was siphoned into the foam of the paste, ejected and washed down the sink. When she replaced the toothbrush to the cup she smiled, exhaled, and felt a surge of energy that spun her on her heel and put her back into the living room.

The crisp air of the bathroom dragged behind her, curling with the warming living room air. She stood for a moment in front of the fire place, allowing the heat to wrap around her as it rushed forth to counteract the little winter trapped in the apartment. She swayed there, enjoying the smell of the woodsmoke. Closing her eyes she saw late night campfires before her, the smoke shifting and driving itself toward her sister, then her brother, before they were both gone, replaced by college friends, now younger versions of themselves, now a vast fire clawing at an old couch. Grinning, her eyes fell open as she turned, reaching for the pen.

The mirror watched her snip it between her finger and thumb, twirl it like a cowboy’s revolver, and let it rest in that comfortable pocket of flesh between her thumb and her index finger. The ink flowed, broken up by the twirl and the rising air, and her mind fell into the pages, staining them with her elegant script. She peeled back the top sheet, crumpled it, and let it fall onto the table. Again the pen pressed against the paper, jumping and scratching fast across its grain, it and the ink and the page becoming her the longer she scrabbled prose into it.

The deep thumping of water pouring into itself began to rise as she lifted the pen from the paper, clicked it closed, and rested it with points perfectly aligned with the corners of the sheets.

She bobbed into the bathroom, pulled the lever down, allowing the faucet to hiss back to rest. She sank into the water above her head. The dirt and grim lifted from her skin like hummingbirds from branches, whisked away by the soapy water. She exhaled, listening to the bubbles as they rose and bursted up top, smiling at her memories of the ocean, the waves crashing down on her and her friends as they struggled to surf. She remembered the violent smell of salt, now replaced by a relaxed rosy fragrance.

Vicesimus Septimus Gradus

Vicesimus Sextus Gradus

Vicesimus Quartus Gradus

Trigesimus Sextus Gradus

Quadragesimus Quartus Gradus

Quadragesimus Quintus Gradus

Octavus Gradus

Trigesimus Quartus Gradus

Trigesimus Septimus Gradus

Quadragesimus Primus Gradus