Why We Should Disown Guam:
by: Dr. Robert Gerzofki


The Territory of Guam is located in South Pacific Asia. It is one of many islands pushing our forces out into the Pacific Ocean over Australia. The island has a long history of outside colonialism. This started in the late 17th century with a series of attempts to convert the natives to Catholicism. The Spanish eventually settled there for a few hundred years. The island was then taken by our nation during the Spanish-American war of 1898. Other than a short time when it was occupied by Japan it has stayed a burden to our country.

Guam has a history of turbulence within American society. Unruly aground sailors stop in for quick shore leaves. They are known for their debauchery. The alcohol consumed in Guam is more than that which is consumed in New Orleans annually though the island has less than one tenth of the population. The alcohol issue is one that is found the world over, so it is not surprising it is found in the territory of Guam as well. This is not a reason to disown them, just unsettling fact.

Due to the native descent of the of these unruly sailors, the alcohol is usually illegally produced either on the island of Guam or on one of the neighboring islands. It is shipped between the various islands in the chain by many ships of uncouth pirates. These pirates are usually Chinese or Australian and speak in a tongue unintelligible to any cultured man. Their ships vary, peppered with Canadian or Spanish flags with no regard for the race aboard.

The waters surrounding Guam are teeming with these pirates. They are responsible for a reported 600 murders a year. The Australians are especially cruel. They are known for the torture Guamese women and children before their tied bodies are thrown overboard of the ships that they happened to be caught on. The pirates are responsible for much of the illegal gunrunning, drug-trafficking, immigrant transport and kidnapping that occurs within Mariana Islands.

The Territory of Guam is a hotbed for illegal immigrant transfer from the repressed area of South-East Asia to the fertile and welcoming shores of America. The Chinese pirates are much more interested in the money found in these actions than those pursued by the Australians. The immigrants are brought to America simply by loading them into empty shipping crates stopping at one of the many unguarded ports in Guam. Many of these immigrants are forced into a life of slavery and abuse once they reach their destinations.

An argument made for the maintaining of the Territory of Guam was made in 1972 by a French-Canadian priest, Robert Tredeux. He claimed that the territory could be useful for the production of new beaver fur caps, because of the numbers of imported beavers. The beaver was transplanted to the island in the 1800’s and flourished, due to the number of trees and lack of natural predators.

By 1912 the beaver numbers on the island were nearly parallel to those in the Appalachian Mountains of Eastern North America. By the 1970’s their numbers would exceed those of the Appalachian beaver. Although they have been hunted by the Native Chamorros since the 1960’s, the numbers are ever increasing. They are causing havoc in the rivers and rice plantations and are known to make their dams with the durable rubber tree. This is loved by the beavers, but cursed by the farmers. The dams cause much more flooding than dams created with wood-based trees.

The flooding caused by these dams has crippled the crops of rubber trees and oranges in recent years. This has caused more unemployment, leading to increasing pirate recruitment numbers and more native Guam residents to fall into the depressive states of alcoholism and unemployment. It is widely believed throughout Guam that these issues should be dealt with by an unappreciative foreign government. The apathetic way we have dealt with the issues of Guam has lead to political and social unrest.

Since the Chamorro uprising in 1900, there has been a cloud of descent hovering over the people of Guam. This despise for their colonial leaders is more prominent today than it ever has been. With the lack of policing the waters around the island, pirates have been able to heavily arm the native people of Guam with heavy artillery and automatic weapons. This unrest was most recently seen in a media-hidden riot two years ago.

Thirty members of the American military were struck down before we were able to stifle the violence. In all, about 300 people were killed. In the end, this has only added to the social unrest in Guam.

This claim should not be startling for Guam has a long history of social unrest. The Chamorro pirates once took the capital siege to install a totalitarian government. This was successful at first, but once our navy reached the Marianas Islands the few guns the people had were easily reduced. A law was passed in 2006 forbidding Chamarros of any age to own firearms. This has genuinely reduced the number of riots per year and the government fatalities have fallen tenfold.

The oranges and rubber that American ports in Guam are able to salvage is quickly shipped to the United States to be processed and sold in our form of choice. The oranges are often found on supermarket shelves in cans, under the guise of name brand produce. The rubber is mainly made in to roller blades, although when there are rubber shortages in other parts of the world tires are a popular substitute.

The shipping of small amounts of oranges and rubber is an utter waste of money. The costs of shipping from Guam are astronomical due to the lack of companies willing to send boats through the waters surrounding Guam. The resources would more safely be sent to China to be manufactured into useful products. They could then be shipped at minimal cost from China on the larger boats sent towards North America.

Finally, although the shipping crates are somewhat advanced, the goods are not always in good shape when they arrive in our ports. Guam is known for a strange yellow beetle that nests inside fruit while still on the tree. It does not change the shape, color or texture of the fruit it has invaded. They create dams in the holes they enter through, and the color of the hole blends with the fruit. They are unnoticed and free to lay their eggs and live in the fruit. They are relatively rare, but the infected fruit usually reaches American ports.

The beetles are separated from the majority of the fruit once they reach their destination. They quickly run out of juice within the orange and need to find a new host. This is usually the unknowing person who opens the infected fruit. At least one beetle will jump out and attach itself to a human. They quickly burrow into the skin of the victim. The beetles travel under the skin towards the face and once there they burrow through the eyes to the brain. Many food processors have died due to imported Guamese fruit. This must end if we want California to remain.

Guam is also a place of wide-open spaces and skies. That is why it may be better in the hands of an Asian nation, such as the Japanese. We own more than enough land. Our military is stretched thin. The budget should be better spent giving incompetent and retiring Navy veterans a pension instead of the salary they have for their illegitimate desk jobs. We need forces to protect us but an act like this fosters better relations with our friends in China. That is important in a small world like ours.

ലെറ്റര്‍ ആന്‍ഡ്‌ മ്യൂസിക്‌ contest

ഐ ഗോട്ട് എ ലെറ്റര്‍ അറ്റ്‌ മൈ യൌടുബെ. ഉസെര്നമേ ഈസ്‌ യ്നോര്ട്, ചെക്ക് ഫോര്‍ മുസികാല്‍ വിടെഒസ്.
പിഅണോ കന്റെസ്റ്റ്‌:
I noticed that you were a Piano fan and i wanted to message you and let you know we are having a competition on WekaStar.Com
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തെരെ ഈസ്‌ ആള്‍സോ സോമെതിംഗ് സില്ലി അഫൂറ്റ്‌ വിത്ത്‌ മൈ ത്രില്‍ ഓഫ് ലെട്ടെര്സ്... ദേ അപ്പീര്‍ ടോ ബി രേപ്രേസേന്റെദ്‌ ഇന്‍ ബിഅനരി. ഐ ഡോ നോട നോ ബൈനറി മൈസെല്‍ഫ്‌.

He Stood With His Toy Truck

The small child stood in a daze, watching me drink coffee and smoke cigarettes. He remarked that his mother did not approve of smoking and that he thought it made me smell like a wrench. I told him that I was not his mother so we wouldn't have a problem.. He stood with a limp arm holding a toy dump tuck and another arm holding a juice box. It looked as if I told him the tooth fairy didn’t exist. I don’t think he had ever heard a reply quite like that.

“No, your not Mom,” he said, “Where is she? When is she coming back?” The sun was just falling behind the large fence in the back yard. I finished my cigarette and looked at him. “Your mother went to the mall with her sister, remember? She will be back soon. Until then we can find something to do.” The child laughed. It looked like he felt independent and old. I leaned against the railing and smiled.

“Well what do you want to do?” I asked the little man. I raised my cup to my lips and realized I was drinking the last of my coffee. I placed the cup down and the ring of grounds settled into a new moon shape. I spun my cigarette butt and said, “I have to go inside now, you coming?” The child jumped towards the door and opened it. We walked up the one step and into the apartment. I put the cigarette butt in the garbage and the child said, “That’s where it belongs to be.”

I remembered doing the same thing as a small child. I was an outspoken non-smoker as a child. My mother had asked me to think like that. Now, I barely remember not being a smoker. I am beginning to feel the harmful affects of my addiction. I hope the same fate doesn’t reach this child. Perhaps he will be brighter than I was. I should have listened to the folk who refused to buy them for me. Rules are there for a reason. I should know that by now.

It is evening now. Still I am staying alive with coffee and cigarettes. I place my empty cup on the counter and exhale. “Is that all you can breathe?” The child shouts. I am taken aback a little before saying, “I never inhaled.” He laughs and shouts, “Lets have a breathing contest. Whoever breathes biggest wins, smoker versus non-smoker.” I laugh and say, “Ok, but I have bigger lungs.”

We breathe deeply for a few seconds, and then the child laughs and says, “I win. I breathed deeper.” I agree, and look for more coffee in the pot, there is none. I click the pot of the burner and debate making more coffee. It is evening now, the child’s mother will be home soon, though she’ll have no need for it.

The child brings his truck to me. It is one of the yellow metal dump trucks we used to have in my sandbox. It is large, but not rusted like ours were. He places it in my hand and says, “This is you.” He then runs and grabs a red sports car. It was oversized, one of the kind you see on stands in the library of an auto mechanic. The stand is gone and the wheels spin freely, so we are about to race.

I ask the child, “Where is the course?” He says, “All the way around the outside of the room, then up on the couch and back through the coffee table. Then we do it once more.” And with that, the child is running, racing around the sides of the room with a car in hand. I chase after him and drive my dump truck barely able to catch him. He reaches through the legs of the coffee table in a professional manner and starts his second lap. I reach the table and get stuck. My large stature is in no way helping the cause. He reaches the outside wall and flies up the now banked corner.

I realize I am outmatched but continue to chase him in vain. He reaches the couch and his car jumps across to the coffee table. He waits for me to catch up, with a look of glee in his eye. As I am about to reach the couch he throws the car between the legs of the coffee table and bursts into laughter. The red sports car his the glass door between the kitchen and patio with a crack. I jump, but we were lucky, no damage.

The child walks over and grabs his car from the floor. I am breathing heavily and the child looks at me and laughs like a hyena. “See, you shouldn’t smoke. You can’t even drive a car without breathing heavily.” I catch my breath and say, “You make sure to remember that you told me that, and never start smoking. I only smoke because I started smoking and now I can’t stop. It’s a strange addiction.”

The child looks at me and asks, “What does addiction mean?” I explain to him it is when you don’t want to do something but you have to. It is because your body needs the chemical you are addicted to, you have grown attached to having it around. Because of this your body chemistry changes and you become dependant of the chemical. The child remains confused and says, “I’ll never have addiction.”

I tell him he should remember he told me that as well. “Do yourself a favor,” I say, “and never have an addiction.” I end the thought with the phrase, “Vices.” The child questions what the word vice means. “Vice,” I tell him, “Is when you know something is bad for you but you do it anyways, because you enjoy it. Like eating candy.” The child smiles and says, “Oh, I like vices.”

I stutter and say, “No, no, vices are usually addictions.” The child says, “Actually I have an addiction. My vice is candy. I’m addicted to it. And sometimes I need to have candy or I’ll die. Seriously.” I laugh and retrace my steps, explaining candy may not be a vice. I mention that vices are sort of like candy, in a way. I have always been and strong advocate for stimulants of all kinds. Maybe someday he’ll be a coffee and cigarettes kind of guy. They are always the best people.

I am swimming in this thought and he asks, “So cigarettes are like candy?” I fight the urge to chuckle and say, “No, cigarettes are a vice. Candy is just sugar.” He seems to understand, “But cigarettes make you feel like you ate candy? I like that feeling.” “No,” I reply. “That’s more like coffee. Cigarettes are like sucking on a tailpipe.” He laughs and asks, “Why do you do that then?”

I don’t know how to reply. I have no reason to smoke that I would want to tell a vulnerable child. I think I should be honest. I smoke because I enjoy every one I have. I smoke because I thought it looked cool in grade school. I smoke because my friends did, but they have come and gone and what I have left is a full ashtray. I smoke because I am unstable, because I need a crutch. I smoke because I cannot go a day without them. But I can’t tell a child that, I’m supposed to be a role model.

The reply I give him is stammered, “Because I’m addicted to it.” I begin to tell him about all the horrible things cigarettes do and he says, “I know, Mom told me that.” I then explain that cigarettes are not like candy because candy is rarely connected to any of results of lifelong cigarette addiction. He looks at me and says, “I don’t like vices.” I tell him I don’t like my vices either.

I ask him if he wants to go outside for a smoke, like an adult. This is partially because I think its funny asking a six year old to smoke with me and partially because all the talk of cigarettes made me think of having another. No more coffee with this one, I’ve decided. It is probably for the best. The sun has gone down and his mother will be home soon. Maybe she would like some coffee, I thought.

I cough and the child says, “Don’t smoke.” I am halfway out the door with a cigarette in my hand. I look at him. He looks as if he has been hurt. “You just finished telling me how those cause cancer and strokes.” I pull him outside and light the cigarette. I think about my vice. He is still talking, telling me all the things I told him about the horrors of tobacco use. I puff on the cigarette and exhale the white smoke.

“Is it true you cough up boogers if you smoke?” The child asks me. I clear my throat and state as clear as the day, “Its grosser than that.” The child squirms and asks me to clarify. “They are like big, gray boogers.” He laughs. “Except they are wet and sticky. They fly out of your mouth and cover your hands.” He screams in disgust and asks, “Why do you smoke then?”

I don’t know how to answer his question.

I take a drag from the cigarette and say, “Ok, you are a smart kid, right?” He says quickly that he is. I explain the chemical I am addicted to in the smoke is called nicotine. I tell him that my brain cannot bridge a gap in my daily life without nicotine, now that I have tried it. I explain that when I was only a few years older than him I tried smoking and thought it would make me cool. I explain that once I had made a conscious decision to begin smoking I lost the ability to not smoke.

He pretends to understand me but I knew he couldn’t. I dock the cigarette at the halfway mark and tell him I shouldn’t be smoking around him. What would his mother say? He claims she wouldn’t mind and she would be happy that he is learning new things. He tells me they told him that once in school so it must be true. I open the pack and find I only have one and a half cigarettes left.

The child walks into the apartment and shuts the door behind him. I try to open it and find he has locked it. I hear him say there are no smokers allowed inside the house. I knock on the door and ask him nicely to open it. He laughs and runs across the room. He jumps on the couch and starts bouncing, laughing. I knock on the glass and he jumps from one cushion to the next. He falls on the armrest and rolls onto the floor. I knock on the glass one more time.

I am helpless and out of ideas. There is no other way I can get in to the room. I struggle for a moment but am saved quickly as his mother and aunt walk into the room. She laughs and shouts his name, unlocking the door and letting me in. She is laughing and asks me, “How long have you been out there?” I smile and tell her it was just briefly. She scolds the child and sends him to bed, telling me it has passed his bedtime.

She tucks him in and comes back from the hall. I am sitting with her sister talking about our mutual friends. She sits next to me and laughs. “Kids,” she says. I tell her she has a smart kid, a good conversationalist. She smiles and says, “Isn’t he just a big bundle of love?”

I look at her and ask, “He doesn’t know you smoke?”

She laughs.

“I have a half a smoke here,” I say, “Shall we?”

viewpoint of a short circuited iron

“Iron!” The cats growled. They were hungry, mangy and matted. They fought amongst themselves as I sat resting against a brick with the bottom half of a broom and two thirds of a rake. “I have no food,” I said, “I don’t look for it like you.” The tomcat cursed at me, “No, Iron, tell our kittens your story, would you please?” I looked at the tomcat, a cat that would rarely speak nicely to anyone. “Well, you did ask like that,” I said. With this, I began with a shout.

“Criminal!” She screamed towards the closed door. She seemed to over-react, I thought. I was dropped on the cloth-covered table and she stomped towards the only entryway. I sat and glanced out the window seeing a picturesque winter evening. The snow fell lightly towards the white world. There was a layer of frost from the fog that morning and the window was beginning to trace tiny fractals of ice up the panes. She opened the door and stood looking at a large man with a beard.

She looked him up and down and he asked, “Why the scream, dear?” She smiled and touched his arm, “The damned iron just short circuited.” He laughed, smiling at the reaction of his loving wife and asked, “But your OK, no shock?” She looked him straight in the eye. “I may need a new one, I suppose. Throw it in the trash with the rest, the truck comes tomorrow.” He walked into the room and lifted me up by my old black handle. He brought me downstairs and through their house to the garage. He lifted the lid of the trash bin and set me on top.

I sat in that bin all night in the dark. I sat and thought of better days, when I had worked perfectly. Why couldn’t they repair me? No use, I thought. It was simply time to replace me. I’m sure if you asked them they could list reasons why a new iron would be a much better way to spend their money. I’m sure the price of a repair on a seven-year-old iron like myself is not equal to my worth. Money better spent on one of the new irons, with all the unnecessary dials and that.

The bin was pulled out to the end of the driveway on a busy street the next morning. The vehicles moved past the house carefully as it was very cold and the road had a layer of ice on it. Quite quickly after I had arrived at the street a large truck came and stopped next to the corner. I heard the bins next to me emptied into the side of the truck. The man then grabbed my bin. He pulled the lid off and poured the contents into truck. I sat surrounded by wrappers with an old coffeepot to my left.

The coffeepot looked at me. I looked at the coffeepot. After a few exchanged glances and a moment of silence the coffeepot smiled and extended his handle. “Jake’s my name,” he said in a friendly manner. I looked at him and realized I didn’t have a name. I couldn’t think of a response for Jake. I knew I had to respond with something. “Is it your time too?” I asked, somewhat knowing the answer.

Jake laughed. “I suppose it may be. My people left the burner on over a weekend and I cracked myself up the backside. I can’t tell you were my other half is. I’m trying not to think about that. Why you in here?” I told Jake, “I’m not fully sure. I was working fine one minute and the next there was a large spark of light, some fuzzy noises and I just quit. I’m not a doctor, I’m an iron.” Jake smiled, “Seems like a short-circuit. It’s a waste to throw a perfectly good appliance out like this.”

“I wish I could have argued,” I said. I felt hopeless and I’m sure Jake had picked up on that. “I got a plan, stranger. It’ll get us out of this place. You’ve heard of where we are headed, right. It is where the crows rule. They are worse than the humans. Crows and big mean old ranked metal irons, cast-iron coffeepots, all that. When appliances get there, well, sir, there ain’t no coming back.” I nodded, “I’ve heard of that place too, I was afraid we were headed there.” “Yes, sir. It is where we are going, but I have a plan.”

He pulled out a wrapper with a map sketched on it. “All we need to do, and I’m saying all we need to do, is get out of this truck.” I looked at him and asked, “How do we do that?” He laughed and started climbing, reaching towards the light with his handle. I sat for a second and began to pull myself towards Jake. We climbed and climbed, missing four stops. At the fifth stop we were near the top. I started to jump and Jake grabbed me, “No, you can’t jump while we are stopped! They’ll just throw us back in, I’ve seen it before, son.”

The truck began to move, so I jumped off the side. My power cable was ripped from my body. A sharp pain tore through my side. I looked up and saw it hanging off the side of the truck. Jake came tumbling soon after. The hatch was lifting but we made it past the side. I hit the ground with a thud. I stood up and dusted myself off and looked around. Jake fell slightly to my left and hit the ground and simply shattered. It may have been the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen near this alley. His glass was in pieces and only his handle and brim remained. He waved at me, “At least I tried to live…” He said, and faded off.

I was on the street, so I climbed to the sidewalk. I jutted through unnoticing passersby. Dancing through their legs I reach the side of a building. I pulled up tight to the building knowing that I had to run or be found. I ran down the block and found a nice alley. It was this alley, to be sure and that is why I have never left. I walked slowly down the middle, glancing with horror and deep thankfulness at the garbage bins to either side. I tried to yell to those inside, “Jump out! When you are there, jump out!” They would understand soon enough.

I kept walking and looking above me, the building drove high into the sky. It was like nothing I had ever seen. Snow covered the ground and began to fall from the sky. I pulled my tired body into a corner and sat silently for a while. The snow began to cover my metal surface and the plastic became very cold. I shivered and reached for a small wrapper to cover myself up with. I had been sitting in this position for a very long time when I heard a rat coming at me from my left.

The rat tapped me on the shoulder and startled me. I swung at him and he jumped back. The rat paused and snarled. He looked me dead in the eyes and said “Look, pal you need to listen to me quick-like. This is my area, back up little broken kid.” I looked him in the eye and said, “I want no trouble, I just jumped for my life from a truck and I’m just looking for a place to sit for a minute.” The rat stated flatly, “This isn’t it, keep moving.” I rose and pulled the wrapper off me. I moved down the alley and the rat laughed.

I moved further down the cold alley, passing more garbage bins and eventually finding a nice cinderblock. I climbed atop it and sat down once again. I needed to make a plan. I had nowhere to go and it was the dead of winter, I was cold and would die if it were possible. I had heard of hypothermia and was afraid I would catch my death of a cold. This thought was stifled by the realization that I had no real body. I felt a bit safer in my condition.

I sat atop that cinderblock all night, keeping vigilant watch for the rats and things that would cause me trouble. I had nothing of value and was truly useless, as my cord had been ripped off in the garbage truck. It was painful but I was glad it would not hinder my journey. The next morning two rats being chased out of a doorway by a small Chinese man woke me from my slumber. I was covered with a thin layer of snow and a wrapper I used to stay warm. The Chinese man glanced at me and walked towards the cider block. He brushed the snow off me and picked me up.

He examined me for a while and noted I was of no use, not because he knew I had short-circuited but because he noticed I had no power cord. He placed me back on the cinder block and left me there. I brushed the rest of the snow off the top of the surface as soon as he turned his back. He walked inside the doorway and shut the door with a thud. I climbed off the cinder block and began to briskly move back towards the other end of the alley.

I hadn’t made it far when I was approached by one of the rats that were shooed out of the Chinese man’s doorway. The rat came to me and I was noticeable scared. He looked at me and said, “Hey man, don’t worry. We’re all in this together, right.” I said to him, “Look man, I’ll keep moving if this is your territory.” “No man, look, it’s like I said before. Here, have some bread.” I took the small piece from the rat and tried to find a way to eat it. I couldn’t find the hole that he had to chew with.

He looked at me and said, “Oh, you aren’t a being like us, are you? One of them inanimate objects, hey? I know just the place you’ve got to go. Give me that bread back.” I handed him the piece of bread and he motioned for me to move down the alley with him. “I have your back, kid. Remember to be careful. This is the gritty street, down on this level. I wish one day to be one of them big things, you know that sort. We all live off their leavings. Like that guy chasing me out of his building. One of them.” I laughed, “Yeah, I know the type.”

We walked quite a while making very little conversation and he ate both pieces of his bread. I looked around and saw the alley did not change at all. Another dumpster was usually followed by a few cinder blocks. Once in a while there was on old plastic chair. The rat stopped by one of these chairs and reached in to a large metal pot and grabbed a handful of cigarette butts. He lit these with a large orange lighter he had hidden behind the landing near the chair. “Ever try these, man?” He asked as he smoked the butt. I said to him, “I don’t have a hole to do that either, I don’t think. You’re using the same one.”

The rat smoked his cigarette and laughed to himself. “I love this stuff, makes me feel like a big man. They say it stunts your growth though. I say it adds to the growth of you personality. Your voice changes, becomes older sounding. Like a cool, refreshing hit of this stuff. I don’t know what it is, but the French have a word for that.” He put the end of the cigarette out in the snow and we marched on again.

After a few more bricks and cinder blocks we arrived at a large hole in the wall. There was a board over it, but a gap in the board was just large enough for a broken old iron like myself to fit through. It was dark inside and kind of murky. The damp was nice; it was much warmer than being cold and wet in the snow. We traveled briskly down the tight corridor. The rat would turn every few steps to see if I was still behind him. He glanced and acted surprised nearly every time I was still behind him.

He stopped and moved a board to the side. There was a light behind it. “Here it is, partner.” The rat told me, “End of my line.” I was not sure where he had brought me but thanked him for it. He replied “A good deed a day seems to help keep me fed.” I thanked him again and he scurried down the path the way we came. I glanced into the light and saw little. I moved the board and slid through.

A calculator greeted me. He was missing three buttons on the number pad and the screen had been scratched rather badly. He bumped into me and apologized. “Who is this here?” he asked. I spoke softly, “I’m just an old beaten iron, trying to find a new lease on life.” He moved towards a desk lamp, grabbed his body and asked, “Who is that?” The lamp looked at me and said to the calculator, “I ain’t ever seen this cat. Who are you?” I was ready for some questioning so replied softly again, “I’m just an old beaten iron.” The lamp looked at me and said, “Look, Ernie here, with the numbers, he’s good at math but rather blind. Me, David, I hold the light, still. I’m just always on. You can’t try to turn my light off. Its been done. My bulb is burnt, but I feel it. I’m sure you do too. You, Iron, you must have something right.”

“I don’t know,” I said to the lamp, “I jumped from a truck, they sent me away because I was broken.” “Just like the rest of us, nearly all of us anyway,” the lamp said. The calculator said to me quickly, “Look you got something in you. You are here now. That means you have a certain joy of life. A thirst for adventure, right?”

I looked at the broken old tools in the room. There were many, including an old chess set they seemed to be fighting amongst themselves, a small TV that was missing both dials and was telling a group of dishes a story and a bottom of a rake that was found rather recently with his friend a bent up old metal dustpan. “Well,” I told the calculator, “I think I may have found the place I was looking for.” The lamp joyously bounced up and down, “That’s the spirit! Welcome to our home.”

I stayed at their shelter for the winter and made many friends there with rather similar stories. Many of the beat-up appliances were just trying to avoid the dump like myself. I shared the story of Jake the coffeepot with the friends I made and they claimed not many glass-based products make it out in the gritty world there is. They were not surprised he broke on impact with the cement. It seemed a common tale around these parts. The products were all making use of their existences after they were discarded, and they were all very happy to not be fighting the fight at the junkyards we had heard about through myths. It seemed everyone here was in this act together and at some point we would all have to move on.

In the spring, when the snow melted we all moved briefly outside. This move was brought to an abrupt end when fellows from inside, some bigger items, were thrown back into dumpsters one night. We became scared and now, as we all finally know better we only come outside during the day. This world is an uncertain one, we never know who may be thrown back in a dumpster and brought to the wrecking yard.

This warning is not for you, children. We are not the same beings. The worst you can fear is a fight with other cats or maybe staying off the road. The humans care for what they call “living things.” If the humans find you, they take you and feed you. They cuddle and try and help you. In our world they try to destroy us. Sending us to a lot outside humanity where we are pushed and buried amongst each other. I have heard tales of irons and such coming back from there. It is a horrid existence still. Feel lucky you are a cat. You can run and jump and play. Your shape does not hinder you. You are free to do much more than us. You all are lucky to be cats. Myself, I am an iron.

the conclusion of - We have to be here, So this city is a Pyramid somewhere

That poor man laughed at him and the minds of former men who watched his horrid dreams and racial slurs. It was a sort of strange belief in his entitlement to your rent money. He was such a strong boy. The name his girlfriend spoke wasn’t the one that took those worlds to their old watershed.

It didn’t need to make a statement.

It just needed to face these opening words.

He found the need to share these words, so he had. The modern dilemma is a mindscape scraped and studied, opened to a point of desired submission and truth in scientific study. And they will take lives from people speaking lively in peculiar situations. So that poor old, handsome liar, he had never wanted to see this life.

And you think what is best is to walk to your sister’s and talk.

When you knock on the door her little girl ran and shouted she was getting it. This was a vibrant afternoon marked with dancing shadows caused by the trees that lined her stone tile walk shaking in the wind. Otherwise things were soft and calm that day at the house and the nine year old shouted, “Uncle Raine! Is Diana here?”

“No,” you reply softly, “I need to talk to your mother.”

You step into the house and sister comes around the corner moving quickly to the open door. She greets you politely.

The woman stands as a silhouette. Her forward leg is bent at the knee and high in the air in front of a bright white lights flashing behind her. The surrounding yard shines in patterns developed by her motions.

You smile at her, “I’m losing it, sis. I need to settle in.”

She takes a step down the stairs and asks her daughter to move inside. Your niece shows her protest and is motioned inside the brown suburban home.

“Talk to me, Stanly,” she says.

Your sister used to always call you Stanly. It came from a game that you would play together, the one that needed those silly hats for when you sat in the cardboard boxes. She kept that inside until later and began to call you that again at twenty. It made you feel good. You felt loved. But she pushed in aside again by the time she was twenty because she made bar friends.

This is the first time in ten years she has called you that.

“See, dear Sister of mine,” You begin, “It is that the minds of reasonable people are never influenced by outside forces. These are those who meet men of former glory. If men of words and men of action are taken towards in separate and distinct directions that hold the same final result, than the only man of face who really exists is the Creator. The one that the Gods claim is their God. The one that hides so far behind a tree that you can only see layers of the beings followers. They guard you as they show you that the true God is behind them. And you know to trust these entities. But martyr beware, you do not know one space from the other. The other that left us open, man. That one.”

Your sister listens intently and asks you inside. You politely decline. So she wishes you a good night. You wish her a good night. You wave at her little girl who runs towards you and gives you a deep hug. You wish her goodnight telling her your daughter will stop by soon. You make the best smile you can and walk down the block. The road is facing the end of summer now. There is only one word to feed this hymn. You begin to think of the benefits of bureaucracy. You feel safe because there are one million people between you and the man who made the law.

The Spinster at Mass

I was thinking of going to a Catholic Church

Asking if I could join the clergy

I’d stand at the back at first

A lot of dusty repentance

Speaking only when being spoken to

After a one month discourse

A vow of not speaking

Would raise my intentions

I would find myself

And meet an old spinster

Who sat in the corner like me

I would begin to speak

To an old frail woman

I would admire her

Her age

Her wisdom

Her grey hair

And thank the lord

For asking me to speak to her

It will change my life forever

Like a spell I will be reborn

My eyes open

My heart torn

old story i like

“They separated our minds when we left.” She said to me in that calm, seductive, matter of fact way that made me grow on her. I uprooted myself and crawled across the hardwood floor. I believe she was reading the gospel. Her blue hair was wild and unnecessary as she paced back and forth along the far wall. My pink vase is pastel and vague on the table across the room. The scuffed hardwood floor is running into the wall at oddly placed ninety-degree angles. The dull green walls fray my vision.

“Come back here!” She grabs for my dirty anchors, as I drag them across the floor. I manage to get just barely out of her reach and hide behind the armchair. The golden sinews decorating the purple fabric are breathtaking. I begin to search for a way out of this home. I crawl along the wall hoping she will lapse aimlessly into the TV once again, in which case I could make my daring escape.

But no, she is at the couch tearing at the pillows and blankets and throwing them wildly in the air. She screams, “Where are you? In the name of God, I hate you! Get back here! Where are you?” and rummages through the drawer. I crawl behind the couch and try to head for the vent. Slowly I drag my uprooted strands across the shape of the carpet, with pieces of dirt long left behind me. I think if I get to the grate I can get to the floor below me, and maybe outside from there.

The woman is calm now, staring into her tv and crying. She smiles, looks to her left and spots me. “I’m glad I got out of that one alive,” and smiles. “We all revert to a life of crime in the end, and we face these people every day. Walking around, knowing what they know, doing there important things, big cars, fancy houses and regular every day things, too.”

I stand up, all but six inches tall. My green leaves much darker than the pale walls. The painting across from me but above her dipped to the right. The red dragon on the left had finally gained on the green tortoise. I lifted my head and noted the lights she had posted now above me. Glued them with tack, I noted, good glue.

She was becoming enthralled in her book again. It gave her the kind of excitement that never let her down. The kind of imagination that she didn’t need friends, she had them. She was happy. She spoke softly to her self and then laughed frantically. She pointed at the man and searched the book again.

I stood up as tall as I could. I dove forward and jumped again. I carefully pulled myself through the vent and below the floorboards. My pulse raced and I began looking for an escape plan. I ran towards the dark and kept going, I saw a vent and stopped to look in it.

A doctor was helping a young man out of his coat. Her lab was set in front of her. The shark had nowhere to go. He sat on a desk near the doctor, who began to reveal her breasts. She showed the young man her intentions and he calmly began to kiss her.

I lifted my petals and looked towards the dark once again. I stumbled, dragging my anchors behind me. The dirt had rubbed off and they were beginning to hurt. My arms thumbed their way across the wood as I neared the next vent.

Two children were sitting at small desks in front of a larger red haired woman in a checkered shirt. Her pink skin was bulging out of a formal shirt. She looked like she was about to explode and kept pointing at markings on the dark wall. Darker than my skin, I thought, but not now. I looked for myself but found none. I was certain I was there, but I was not. My curves and folds had vanished. All I saw was the red haired woman, now slightly aggravated at the small inner city apes. She stomped and swore and her body shook and shivered, but the children were unfazed.

I moved to the next grate and saw him at last. There were two people sitting over him. The rug spiraled around them. One man adjusted his sunglasses. The other brushed his black suit. The younger one shifted his hat and the elder cleared his throat, and spoke in a tongue I could not understand.

He was dead. I saw him there. Limp, lifeless, free and dead. I nearly fell out of their sky but I held on. I stumbled backwards, feeding off of generic impulses at a primal level. I had to get outside, this much I knew. I walked further down my dusty hallway, thru the wires and rust these people lived on. I found my way to the back wall. I felt the air breathe outside; I felt the blue sky and the stars. I slipped through the nearest vent and fell on a large wooden beam.

I dove from the beam and landed on the ground. I sprung up and dashed for the doorway. I slid under the door and onto cement. I felt it, finally, the sun on my skin. I breathed. I truly felt alive for the first time. I stumbled down the edge of the landing and fell onto the grass. I slid my broken legs into the soft dirt and felt the cold cement on the other side. I smiled and looked towards the sky. A young girl in light pink skipped by me singing, running and then grabbing the leg of her father. He kneeled down and smiled at me, gave her a kiss on the forehead and whispered something into her ear, making her laugh.

The young girl ran inside. Her father followed her, his breeze moved closer and he looked at me and smiled. He bent down and smelled me, sighing and content. I sighed as well. I have breathed the air, I have felt the sun, and I know the earth. I believe I am happy.

songs about hats.

The Bus Depot

I wore a red cap one day

Left it at the bus stop

I wonder about it still

Did someone pick it up?

Was it worn with the

Same sort of reverence

I once wore it with?

Was it worn at all?

Was it thrown into the trash bin?

The one stooping outside the bus depot.

Was it taken to a second hand store?

Was it cleaned and given as a gift?

Or is it still sitting there?

Just over in the corner,

Gathering dust

Never to be noticed

Never to be worn again

Next time I am in Prince George

I will have to go to that bus stop

Perhaps I will find my hat.

Hat Haiku

I had that hat once,

Was a gift for my mother,

I want it back, please

Another Hat

This hat is not worth the trouble

Of picking a fight with you

This hat is draining my energy

And all I’ve done is fight with you

This hat can’t hide the secret

I’m having a hard time, too

This hat is not worth the trouble

Of picking a fight with you

Stranger in My Hat

I apologize for my resilience

But I know where you found that hat

It was sitting in the bus station

I came all the way to this city

Just to track down that hat

Came 300 miles, I did

Just to find a rat

Wearing my mothers hat

Now I’m not trying to start an argument

As you seem to consistently insist

If you look at it from my angle, man

It is as easy, as simple as this

That hat does not belong to you

It doesn’t suit your hair do

I came all the way here just to

Track down that hat for my mother

I’m not saying you took it on purpose

I agree, it’s a beautiful hat

If I had found that in the bus station

There is no way I’d ever give it back

But you must understand, good sir

I’ve traveled this land, to be sure

To find that dear hat

And take it back

Not to be a bother

For it is a gift for my mother

Now give me the damned hat back!

Recapture of the Hat

He threw me the hat

With a phrase to the effect

Of a statement of fact

He purchased the hat

But he left it at that

And ran out of the station

In fear

Sonnet of my Hat

What a wonderful red cap

I must put it on my head

Like applause the thunder clapped

As I pulled a loose thread

I feel like my life has worth

I should relax and call my mother

She gave me this like my birth

And I will wear no other

I must use the payphone in the lobby

And tell her I have finally found the hat

Chasing people down is not my hobby

But it was still something at that

I will use the silver payphone

And call my mother at home

Final Chapter

I reached the phone

With a quarter in my hand

I pulled my hand

To call my mother at home

With a quarter in my hand

I was hoping to find my mom

To call my mother at home

Back in the East Vancouver slum

I was hoping to find my mom

To talk to her again

In that East Vancouver slum

So she could be my friend

To talk to her again

Moving forward with my world

So she could be my friend

My oldest love, my girl

Moving forward to the world

With a quarter in my hand

My oldest love, my girl

To call my mother at home

Paris will never be the same again

It was written on a wall near the subway

What we have lost is somebody’s gain

Sliding down an airport runway

We had decided to pitch our ideas

To a clove of marketeers

See if we could sell it

Before the markets got darker

The last lick of light

Falling from the room

Or the day at high noon

We’ll fall asleep soon

Since we’ve arrived

We drank and lit matches

To light up the snuff box

Or relight the candles

Since we’ve arrived

We’ve drank dirty water

For lack of options

It is too black at night here

We wrapped of silk mind shades

Around broken tree trunks

Without sounding a gun

But with lights that we hung

Since we’ve arrived

We’ve drank dirty water

For lack of options

It is too black at night here

We left in a fury

After dispatching our plan

We were those who lived to tell you

Paris will never be the same again

a little mad boy

A Little Mad Boy

 

I called it afternoon

I dropped down to the basket

Asked her to confuse me

Spoke like a sliding ape

 

The little mad boy mumbles at me

Nobody else can see him

But he is right beside me

His hair is greasy and long

He buried an American flag

Crossed his arms and wiped them off

 

I called it afternoon

But it was mid morning

I stammered while I was corrected

It was the tone of the voice

That tore me

 

The little mad boy jumps to his feet

He puts on his hat and belittles my space

He twists his cane bat and drips from the chin

He holds me in chain and slides me all in

He takes a rhyme scheme and trusts I don’t live

The devil himself

That is who he is

 

He told me it was morning

The little mad boy

Swore I never seen a vice

Laughing he clasps his hands twice

Here to set things right

I felt the same

So we got up to leave

Coffee and cigarettes were nice

Moleman

This is the story of Moleman as it was related to me around a campfire on a school camping trip in the Okanagan. He is said to live in holes and caves in the forests around Lake Okanagan, though there have been incidents as far away as the Sushwap. He is often seen picking sage and it is said that he does not take souls while doing so. If you see Moleman while he not picking sage you usually do not return home to tell the tale.

Enjoy,

  
He sat in the pines waiting for the leaves to change. 
There was a park bench there, made from an old tree stump. He sat and touched his fingers together, aimlessly whittling away at his soul. A nearly empty pouch sat beside him on the far side of the old tree. A grey strap of wool held the pouch to his arm. He was hoping to come across a trader or an adventurer at these crossroads, but he found nothing.
  
He was miles from anyone, he felt sure of that. He made a sign of a cross on his chest aimlessly attempting a prayer for food. He was tired, as he had walked twenty miles that day. His water had run out and his last bit of meat was at the tips of his fingers. He pulled his fingers to hip lips and bit the jerk beef. He smiled as he swallowed and his eyes drifted towards the forest. A dragonfly flew past him creating a trail through the air. He watched in fascination.
  
The man sat alone on the bench watching the leaves begin to fall for the north’s hibernation one more time. He tapped the wood and whistled for a few minutes. He felt content in the life he had made for himself. The man looked to the left and in his eye a black dot traced the empty woods. He tried to follow the hallucination and fell towards his knees. After pausing for a moment he stood up, uneasily.
  
He heard a crack in the woods that was quickly followed by birds chirping. He took two steps towards it before moving towards his pouch. When the woods cracked again the man decided it was only a deer and sat once again. He took the other bite of his meat and watched the ground. He saw nothing and pressed his boot against some long grass. He followed an insect across the brown earth and swallowed.
  
The man imagined a mailbox across the meadow from him. He imagined children playing and an old English white cottage house, on a dirt road. “Beautiful woods for a family,” he said to the insect, “You must be very happy.” He reached his hand towards the earth and picked up a twig. He rapped it against the bench and began to whistle once again.
  
When he was brought back to the forest there was a man standing in front of him. The man wore a long black robe. He had a staff in his right hand that showed signs of age and wisdom. His face could not be seen but when he spoke the first man shivered. “In the Willows is my name,” he muttered. “You haven’t seen me here.”
  
The man leapt from his seat. The woods were empty again. He spun on his heels before settling looking at the bench. The rings were prominent in the stump. This was an old tree. He settled his nerves on the faded green surroundings just as a large brown leaf fell on the bench. He focused his energy on the stem. The leaf turn brown rather quickly and the traveller blinked so he could look at it again. His eyes squeezed shut and his nose and eyebrows came together under the pressure of the spasm. He tried to calm his nerves, fighting to force his eyes open. When he could he searched inside his pouch for the cure.
  
He proceeded to pull a leaf of mint from his bag and placed the plant on his lips. His feet were sore, but he decided it best to continue to walk. He headed east on the flat road. He passed the meadow quickly and hoped to fetch some water. He knew there was a stream a half a mile down the road. If he could make it there he could rest for the night.
  
He followed a black dot in his eye towards the road. He imagined little workers pulling his legs forward. He began to recite a poem he liked, quoting from various parts and trying to remember their order. “Any little game to pass the time,” he sung to himself. The black dot became smaller and he imagined a bird flying past, it was too large to be native to this area but the cry was that of an eagle. He imagined it breathed fire and it instantly became a tapestry wrapped around him. He was comfortable and began to drift into a dream state. The large eagle wrapped its silken ties around him and he followed the steps towards the signpost.
  
He reached the signpost that marked his way towards the stream. The man began to speak loudly and clearly, “It is not a time for panic, sir. You are on a marked path. The road in near the water, we will be fine.” He followed the path downhill towards the water. He began to whistle again, rounding the final curve to fresh water. He raised his head to see two small girls wearing white dresses.
  
The woods danced and the black dot engulfed the two girls before charging towards the man and knocking him towards the bushes behind him. The man jerked to his left and fell into the dirt. He rolled to his back and sat watching the two girls run towards him in painfully slow motion. He was scared. The girl’s pigtails stood on end and their heads began to morph into a red two-headed demon.
  
The creature became feral, growing each head a mane and lengthing its neck. The body had four red legs capped with black hooves. It growled, eyes twinkling and showed a crooked smile of razor sharp teeth. It was as large as a black bear but wearing ancient Japanese Samurai armor. Its faces smiled and winked their pairs of eyes. The creature and the man sat on the ground in a strangely peaceful moment and the creatures heads rested on the dirt. Suddenly, a line of fire  wrapped around the beast and burnt the man’s leg.
  
The man jumped to his feet and made the sign of the cross with his fingers. He backed away from the creature reciting prayers. He moved backwards up to the road and stopped. The woods were empty once again. The man wiped his brow and shuffled his feet in the dust. He searched the road and forest for the wizard he must have encountered. He found nothing.
  
The man decided to continue walking and find the nearest town, so he could find a bed to sleep in. “A safe room would be lovely tonight,” he said to himself. “If only you could make it to the road,” a voice replied. The man walked faster through the woods. A dark cloud began to form around him and he was tripped by a piece of string tied across the path. He felt the string with his finger in disbelief.
  
He sat on the ground and the man in the black robe stepped in front of him. He placed his staff on the mans chest and spoke, “In the Willows is my name. You haven’t seen me here.” The man shivered and began to cry, “What do you want?” In the Willows kept his staff against the man before stating coldly, “None shall pass.”
  
The man was alone once again. He stood and ran to the east, trying to reach the town as fast as he could. He turned his head to see behind him and In the Willows was standing in the path. His staff was throbbing with light. The earth began to shake and a vine was sent spiraling out towards the screaming man. The vine wrapped around his ankles and he fell to the ground. He was being pulled towards the black robed man. He was screaming and flailing his arms.
  
The man reached the end of In the Willows’ staff and was struck in the ankle as the vine vanished in front of his eyes. The man was struck in the temple and curled into the fetal position. The black robed man spoke. His face was finally visible, grey haired with a long stringy beard. His eyes were grey and he smiled, “None shall pass.”
In the Willows proceeding to reach behind himself, placing his hands on a large potato sack. Starting at his paralyzed ankles In the Willows slowly pulled the traveler into his bag. The man was screaming and crying. He swung his arms before In the Willows put his finger on his forehead, paralyzing him. The man screamed as the wizard closed and tied his bag. Seconds later, the woods were empty once again.
     

Jugular
By Jon Pelletier

A man pulled his car up to the valet. He opened the door and walked towards the restaurant. Throwing his keys at the young man in a red vest, the richer of the two told him, “Take care of her, she’s all I have.” The valet gave him a small piece of paper to hold until his dinner was over. The young man stepped into the car and moved it towards the street before turning into the large parking lot in front of the building. He pulled the car into a stall and shut it off. He stood and closed the door with a thud.

The night was cold. There was a small dusting of snow on the ground, covering the ice that had accumulated over the thaw and then freezing of the air. The young man stood looking above the car for a minute, looking over the bleak cityscape. Buildings drove out from the ground and towered forty floors above him. He pulled his warm shirt up around his neck, touching the cut he had from shaving that morning. The valet cringed and moved quickly back towards the door.

“Henry,” the valet’s boss said. He stepped towards the young valet before he had reached the edge of the grey sidewalk. “Yes, sir?” Henry replied. “You are done,” the boss said, “We have too many of you tonight.” Henry looked towards the ground and raised his hand towards his throat. “What time is it?” he asked. The boss pulled his shirtsleeve up and checked a silver and round watch, “Nearly seven.” The boss asked for any information that may help the rest of them, Henry knew none. He walked inside the building and took off his vest. He placed his vest in a locker and used a key to lock the door.

Henry did not have a car for himself. There was a time when he did, but since he had moved to the city it seemed the more convenient way to travel was the system of trains. He began to walk towards the train station, which was five blocks north of him. He had a heavy, dark red jacket wrapped around his body. His head was covered with an old wool cap his sister had bought him in Peru. It was white and grey. It had ear covers that fell down to his neck and a strand falling off either one that could be tied together in case of an emergency. Other people's generic witty comments seemed to follow. People would tell him he looked silly, he would simply reply that he was warm.

The sky was dark, but the streets were lit on either side. He reached the end of the parking lot and followed the road to a crossing. He reached the corner and waited for the light to change. There was too much traffic for an evening so cold. The light seemed to take twenty minutes, though he knew it was only a matter of seconds. When the chime began he rubbed his ear, moving slowly across the intersection. Trudging meaninglessly through the thin snow, Henry entered the deep canyon that was the downtown of his city. He moved slowly into an empty city block passing two closed shops with their lights turned dim and cages masking the windows and doors. The shops were old relics of a part of the city that had seen better days. One sold fur coats and was marked as going out of business. The other was an organic food market with funny sheep painted on the window. He stepped faster in the cold to keep himself warm.

Henry passed doorways and landings. One held a man covered in newspaper that was trying to sleep. Another had the door propped open with a brick and a cloud of steam was escaping into the street. Henry stopped for a moment and stood watching the fog rise from the heated building. He found it enchanting. It was a moment when he found beauty in this cold city he now called his home. He enjoyed seeing things like this. He always tried to find nice images in depressing settings. He was in no hurry so he stood until two men came barreling down the stairs.

The men were laughing and holding each other by the shoulders. They seemed drunk. One tripped on the final stair and was caught by the other man. They both laughed loudly and moved the brick out from the landing, closing the door before they noticed Henry watching them. The man who fell looked at Henry coldly. He asked him quickly, “What are you looking at?” Henry told them he was just enjoying the sight of the steam rising from the open doorway. The second man stepped towards him and asked, “You know what’s up these stairs, kid?” Henry replied that he did not. The first man said, “You should find out yourself. They shut us down.” The other man told Henry, “They kicked us out, is all. We ran out of money.”

Henry asked the man to tell him what was up there. The man pulled a knife out of his pocket. He laughed and choked on his spit. When he began to breathe again he told Henry he should go see for himself. “You’ll be welcome there,” the man said, still out of breath. Henry replied he would not just go crash a party uninvited. “They didn’t invite us, did they? Chuck? Did you get invited to this?” The other man smiled, “I just paid them. But kid, maybe you don’t want to start getting in this way.”

Henry stammered. He knew he had to keep walking. The two men laughed, calling him names. The man with the knife pushed him as he walked away. Henry stumbled but continued to move quickly away from them. Moving up the street Henry checked over his shoulder twice to make sure they did not follow.

Henry was in no hurry to get home. He usually didn’t make it back until well after ten and checking his watch he found it was still only quarter after seven. He reached the next corner and stopped to wait for the light. He checked behind him and the two men were pounding on the door they had closed and buzzing the upstairs room they had left. They were screaming into the box that they needed to come back in. Henry looked towards the ground and continued to the corner.

The light changed and Henry began to step onto the street. A car flew through the red light and Henry jumped back to the sidewalk. It skidded to a halt about halfway down the block and began to race backwards towards him. The car stopped in front of Henry as he stood in disbelief, watching. The driver rolled down his window. “Hey, Buddy,” the driver slurred, “I just barely missed you!” Henry said it was no problem, as he was on the other side of the street. “Well then I held you up, didn’t I. Hop in, where you going?”

Henry told him he was just going another few blocks to the train and could walk himself. The driver refused his answer and said he would take him where he needed to go. Henry refused and the driver laughed and pulled a handgun out of his glove box. Pointing the end towards Henry, the driver muttered something under his breath and motioned the gun up and down. He spoke louder, "I don't want to do this, but you've made them slit their wrists." Henry was afraid. The man tapped the car door and repeated himself, “Hop in, we’ll take you to where you are going, kid.” Henry began to run back towards the two men still trying to get into the building.

He made it passed three doorways and two gunshots rang out. One nearly hit him. He noticed a spark on the lamppost to his left. The other seemed to vanish in thin air. A wave of panic took over his mind. He fell to the ground and landed face first in the snow. The snow began to be painted red, streaming around his head from his neck. He tried to stand and found he could not move. The car pulled up beside him and the man got out and stood over him.

He felt as if he were being cut to pieces. He was paralyzed, but could feel his body separating. Quickly the feeling changed one that he was in the process of being sewn back together by what seemed to be a waiting ghost. The backs of his knees were set back into place and he opened his eyes and moved them from the ground. He tried to stand but his arms could not hold his weight. He felt the painless surgery all through his body. He was being cut and sewn back together, but felt content. He was lifted by two men and was in the front seat of the car that shot at him when he could move his legs again.

He looked at the driver. The man had a pale face, with a hood around his head. He wore white and had both hands on the steering wheel of the car. The gun was on the dashboard and the driver’s knuckles held the wheel tightly. Henry was too terrified to speak. The driver looked at him and said cheerfully, “I’ll take you to that train.” Henry began to shake. The car pulled down the street and turned right at the first corner. He headed out to an overpass towards a freeway. Henry tried to tell the pale man he was headed the wrong way but the words would not come. He could do little but hold his neck. The blood was still rushing from the wound. A man popped his head from the back seat.

“Hello,” the man said. You’ve been scheduled to take a wee bit of a detour, Henry.” He handed Henry a cloth. He was wearing a pinstriped black and grey suit. He told Henry everything was fine, “We’re here to calm your nerves.” He held a clipboard and a pen and began to write frantically on a once empty piece of paper. Henry held the cloth to his neck. It quickly became red, but quickly stopped the bleeding. Henry was in no pain, but still was unable to talk. Henry held the cloth tight to his neck and looked out the windows.

The car swerved and pulled into the freeway and sped down the road. Henry was looking through the windows, wishing he could tell these men they were headed in the wrong direction. The man in the backseat began to tell the driver something in a strange language, it sounded like something from Eastern Europe. The driver laughed and sped forward. The man in the backseat told Henry, “We’ll take care of you. Don’t worry, please just rest your head. We are nearly at our final destination.” The car pulled off the freeway at an exit Henry did not recognize. The driver slowed the car and headed down the street towards a residential area. This part of the city was not familiar to Henry. The driver took the main road and eventually turned left onto an access road into a heavily secured lot filled with warehouses.

The men pulled the vehicle through a gate that opened for them. The chain link fence pulled to the side as they waited. They began to speak in the strange language again. The driver seemed concerned with what was being said. He replied sharply to the man in the back. The man wrote something on his clipboard and said something calmly. The driver replied using one word, perhaps he said “Yes.” The gate finished shaking open with a creak and the car moved inside the compound. They pulled towards a warehouse with a large number two painted on the side in black. The warehouse was beige and had few windows. There was an open overhead garage door directly in front of them. The car moved inside the building and the white overhead door was shut. They stopped in front of an office.

The driver got out of the car. He walked around to the other side and let Henry out. The man in the back seat followed Henry through the front door. The two men led Henry inside and were welcomed by a large woman sitting behind a desk. The office was filled with stacks of paper and cardboard boxes. The woman asked Henry his name, date of birth and last memory. Henry explained that he was unsure why he was here. He noted to the woman that those were the first words he could speak since the street. He claimed he was very confused at the recent turn of events. The woman smiled at him and said, “Sir, you’ll be comfortable forever.”

She asked him to fill out a form. It was quick and painless, asking simply his name, birthday and a short description of what had led him to the warehouse. He handed it back to her. She directed him into the next room. He found his way to the door and looked inside. Enclosed in the warehouse was an entire city. He entered a street much like those in the pictures he had seen of Edinburgh, Scotland. The buildings were massive stone skyscrapers, molding to the hills of the road. Their peaks were all at nearly the same level. The sun was shining and the streets were filled with happy people. The streets were built on hills with gargoyles marking the great stone buildings. Green leaved trees lined the blocks and vines climbed some of the facades. The streets were paved but there were few vehicles on them. He moved with the two men from the car towards the first intersection. The driver of the car asked him, “How about a cup of coffee, I know a great shop.” Henry looked at the man. “Sure,” he said.

They strolled passed people who were pacing around the city listening to the variety of acoustic bands of the street. The people passed by the various trees and statues in no particular rush to be anywhere. The sky was sunny except for one cloud that marked the direct center of the sky about the three men. Henry then noticed his neck was no longer bleeding. He could not find the cloth and decided to thank the man from the back seat for his help. They walked on the a sidewalk before reaching a narrow alley of descending stairs. Moss and vines climbed the walls, which were lined with cut out windows. Many of the windows had small flower gardens hanging off the side. It was a beautiful place on a wonderfully sunny day. Henry could not help but smile. They turned a corner and entered a square with a traffic roundabout and a large fountain. There was an old man playing the fiddle near the fountain. He had a long white beard and was wearing a dull brown robe. There were three buildings surrounding the large white fountain. The signs stated the buildings held various services and were frequented by stars. The three men continued to an area where the roads were much flatter. There was one large hill that led up to a castle at the end of the street. This was the direction they walked, until they found the building that was their destination.

They walked through a landing and reached an open door to a well-kept lobby. A sign on a wall pointed at a door with a curved top, which was placed near the back of the room. The wall was grey, with large bricks. It was straight and had no windows. The door looked like one found on a ship. It was dark brown and had a circular window with a cross in the middle. Henry opened the door with a push. There were stairs headed down to the shop. He took them and found himself in a deep maroon room. The shape was not traditionally rectangular, with different booths and round tables jutting out in various directions. The driver, the man in the back seat and Henry sat at a booth in the corner. The coffee shop was unusually empty.

They sat drinking coffee dispensed from two brass taps near a counter at the front. The counter had a small bald man behind it, sitting on a chair. Henry made it his honest intent to pay, but he found he had no money. The man told him to take his coffee. Henry questioned this before getting shooed away. The driver, the man in the suit and Henry sat speaking idle conversation for about an hour. When Henry decided to leave the shop they walked through a different door, which lead directly to the street. Henry realized he might never have to park cars for twelve dollars an hour again. He mentioned this to the driver, who replied, “Not unless you want to.” The sky was blue and sun shone down on Henry’s tired body. The car they had arrived in was now parked just uphill from the door they had just exited. The driver and the man in the suit pulled a fine bottle of red wine out of a paper bag. The man in the suit held the neck and twisted a corkscrew into the top. He pulled away and it opened with a pop.

They passed the wine between them. The driver only took one pull, explaining he had much more work yet to do. Henry thanked the man in the suit for his wine, sipping and feeling he had a much clearer head than he had in a long time. The driver sat at a bench as Henry and the other man drank the wine. They laughed and told each other jokes, stories and other anecdotes. This passed the time until Henry noticed the sun was beginning to fall behind a building at the top of the hill. The shade comforted them, as the sun had before. When they had drank nearly half the wine, the driver stood and asked Henry if he wanted to see his new home. It would be everything he had ever wanted it to be. The two of them walked to the waiting automobile. The man in the suit wished to stay in the city.