"The American Dream is just that... a dream."

Time:

12:35 am.

Seconds - Years * Days = _____________

My eyes, dull with the greater
inadequacies of my life,
stare off into unseen hillsides
and looming forests,
sauntering off past the emotionless
faces of strangers on the bus,
in the subways, on the commuter trains.
Their eyes, at times, lock with mine
only to be shifted elsewhere
in a quick change of mind,
to the fast paced streets
of rundown houses which
otherwise look to be abandoned
or the miles of meandering wires
coupled unwantedly together
strobed by the occasional
halogen light.
Almost everyone's head is down,
lobbed off to one side; there's always
that one person smiling
as she nods her head to
her inaudible music.
Needless to say passion
exists in the world,
as does a myriad of other
ideals, but in this time
seem unspoken or forgotten.
The pall in my eyes is still lingering.
Street signs are blurring by,
the halogen lights are still
streaking by like bullets.
My destination is becoming
further and further off.
No one seems to notice
that I, not in the slightest,
have any clue as to what
I need to do.

Comments: Can write a lifetime of words.

Subject:	Across the Glowing Floorboards
Time:	12:14 am.

She comes to me with saddened glee,
with a smile that sometimes makes me cry;
holding the misuse of her time
in her ceramic coffee mug
aligned with hearts and kind words--
she moans her actions and slurs her thoughts
as she looks beyond my eyes.
She drags her feet and kicks off her shoes,
they fall helplessly to the floorboards.
She sits and stares through the blank windows--
the moon is high and the stars, bright.
Listening to her whimpers I drift into dreams
of loftier times and happier nights
when I didn't have to care.
She's crying tears that look like
falling stars in the moonlight;
they're streaking down her cheeks--
falling into abyss never to be seen again.
She's taking sips from the
air in her mug,
she's caressing it with both hands
as if it were comforting and warm.
She's always sighing and letting her shoulders
unfurl. She's making people sadder,
she's making me feel incomplete.
I don't have to care,
she doesn't even need to notice me
when her eyes are puffy like they are
or when her sighs resonate in my ears...
or when she's hanging onto
the last vestiges of something
I may never understand.

Comments: Can write a lifetime of words.

Subject:	We Used to Know Each Other
Time:	6:25 am.

He'd sit on his porch, a house as gray as mine, by himself or sometimes with his dog. Quiet and plainly observing, he'd sit for hours until the sun cast a shadow across the street. We lived at the top of the hill. Our houses started the downward slope on either side. We both had trees; his was taller than mine but mine stayed greener longer in the cold months.

I wouldn't sit on my porch. It was open, only railing to keep things on or either out. His was enclosed, but he would have been out there even if he lived in my house. Day or night, whatever the weather may have been he'd sit outside. And he'd say "hi" whenever he got the chance; either a simple wave of the hand, your name called in his frail voice or a dignified salute.

Coming home or going out my eyes would be pushed over to his porch. He was there most of the time sitting by himself. Sometimes he would be talking to no one, speaking irrelevancies to an idea in his mind. He'd motion orders, wave his hand disapprovingly or shout a string of obscenities. He'd look past you like you weren't really there and keep on talking to himself.

His face was waging hardships everyday. Competing with some unseen agenda that had ridden his nights of peaceful sleep. He's a good man when he can collect himself. He was a good man. His name was Anthony. What I know is that he served in the Vietnam War, involuntarily, and has since then been broken. Of what he had seen and experienced has never come to light.

What could he have been like before? I feel like I used to know him. He's an empty shell of himself when he can't concentrate, when he loses to his guilt--how many people has he killed...how many has he seen died? I hope that when I say "hi" to him he can snap back to the world for at least a second.

Sometimes he'd be on the porch when I leave but not when I come back. And then I feel like maybe he gave up on me. Does he wait for me to say "hi"? The creeping sensation of being alone freezes emotion and warmth. How many years has this continued on for? And how many more are left to go?

He was on his porch, talking to himself. I didn't bother to say "hi" and I left. And when I came back he wasn't there again. He was carted away a short time before. He's in a coma. He's dead. Odd chance or merciful coincidence...either way he's never on his porch.

He wasn't a bad guy. He was nice when he could help it. Who could blame him? Every time I step out of my door I look over to his porch and sadly, without fail, I find myself alone.

Comments: Can write a lifetime of words.

Time:

11:37 pm.

Glass Pages

A bedroom at night. Quiet save for the low, ambled hum of a refrigerator.

(Click of a lamp being turned on)

Tristan: Hey. Wake up.
(Begins pushing her awake)
Hope: (Rattling awake) What?
Tristan: How long has it been?
Hope: What?
Tristan: You know, how long has it been...
Hope: What? What are you talking about?
Tristan: I can't sleep. But you're not having any trouble.
Hope: I thought the house was on fire. Or the end of the world was coming.
Tristan: One day. But not today, not tonight.

(She turns on her side to face him. He's lying face up to the ceiling.)

Hope: I thought maybe someone was going to take you away.
Tristan: What?
Hope: I had this dream where police stormed in and there was a spotlight shining through our window. They took you away in handcuffs, dragging you behind them.
Tristan: What?
Hope: I don't know. But you know?
Tristan: I think so.
Hope: Just one of those feelings.
Tristan: I guess so. But really... I forget why I woke you up.
Hope: Oh, okay.

(Tristan locks eyes with Hope)

Tristan: It's been four years, two hundred and eight days, and maybe eight hours.
Hope: What was?
Tristan: You remember that night? When we trespassed onto that private stretch of land at the end of the strip mall?
Hope: (thinking) I think so? Maybe...
Tristan: We've been dating for a while. Knew each other for longer. I had to show you. I had to impress you.
Hope: That's silly.
Tristan: Always had to impress you.
Hope: It was so long ago. How do you feel about it?
Tristan: Great. It went well, no?
Hope: Far as I can remember.
Tristan: I was thinking that maybe it didn't go so well.
Hope: Hm.
Tristan: (Sitting up) I wanted you to fall for me. I don't know.
Hope: Always.
Tristan: I don't like how I feel now. It's weird. I feel like I don't know myself anymore.

Hope: (Sitting up, rubbing his back) We all change dear. It's what happens. Whether we like it or not. Things, places, people change.
Tristan: Did you fall for me that night?
Hope: I remember. Cold night, between Autumn and Winter. And you dragged me out beyond that strip mall where we had to climb over a makeshift bridge made of a shopping cart and some plywood.
Tristan: (Nodding) Yeah...
Hope: And then we had to climb that huge wall of a dirt mound which had the steeping incline and those deep cutting "ravine" type channels.
Tristan: Wasn't it worth it?
Hope: And when we got to the top, just lights. Our town, the next city, and across the water New York.
Tristan: It was so quiet. It was so nice.
Hope: It was so cold. But it was nice, peaceful, and maybe everything you wanted it to be.
Tristan: I almost fell when I picked you up and whirled you around.

(Both mildly laugh)

Hope: (Parting his hair away from his eyes) I remember.
Tristan: Well, four years ago. Maybe. I don't remember.
Hope: That's okay. We're here.
Tristan: I used to think that I was okay.
Hope: You are.
Tristan: I don't feel it. I need something. I've felt like I've been missing something for a long time.
Hope: You don't sleep do you?
Tristan: More than you probably doubt right now.
Hope: You should tell me. Maybe we can get lost together.
Tristan: I used to think that it was okay.
Hope: It is. Stop it.
Tristan: Yeah.
Hope: You're fine.
Tristan: Yeah.
Hope: Trust me.
Tristan: Yeah.

(He lays back down, soon after she follows suit)

Tristan: So the police take me away.
Hope: (Sighing) In the worst way.
Tristan: Was it for something cool?
Hope: No. Something lame. Completely dull.
Tristan: Figures.
Hope: Probably like jay-walking.
Tristan: Pigs.
Hope: I don't trust them.
Tristan: Who can?
Hope: Yeah.
Tristan: I mean, all those corruption stories.
Hope: Yeah.
Tristan: I like to think that I can, but really who am I kidding?
Hope: I know.
Tristan: Yeah.
Hope: I hate it.
Tristan: I hate it too.

(She turns away from him)

Hope: Go to sleep dear.
Tristan: I will.
Hope: Okay.

(Moments of silence as Hope falls asleep)

Tristan: I don't feel okay. (Pushing her awake) Are you sure?
Hope: What?
Tristan: Are you sure you know?
Hope: Know what?
Tristan: What you said?
Hope: Of course. Stop waking me up.
Tristan: Sorry, I just...
Hope: (Cutting him off) Yeah. It's okay.
Tristan: Yeah.
Hope: Night.
Tristan: Night.

(More moments of silence as Hope falls asleep again)

Tristan: (Sitting up quietly) Yeah. I don't know. I never seem to know. Anymore or anytime... it's always something else, something newer. It's pressing me to figure things out for myself, and haphazardly recording my mistakes for later processing. I never seem to get around to that processing step. I'm always cutting the roll short and sending it out like yesterday's news about apples and razorblades. I remember that night. I try to. It hurts a little bit. I don't know why.

(Leans over to turn off the lamp)

Tristan: I'm sorry that I can't remember how it felt.

(Click, the lamp turns off)

Comments: Can write a lifetime of words.

Time:

1:56 am.

How Long do We have to Wait until We have Waited too Long?

A crowded hospital waiting room, white washed walls and those cheap plastic seats in the same dull, blue color, and the quiet bustle of people waiting.

Adrien: (sitting down, Flipping through a clip board full of forms) Papers, papers, papers. My God... did they cut down a forest for this?
Wilson: (sitting down next to Adrien) Bullshit and more bullshit. I may as well burn over my house to the bank right now.

(Both men still flipping through their clip boards, not filling out the paperwork)
Maybe they just add more shit every single day...

Adrien: (mocking the secretary - a black, deep Cajun accent) Fill that out over there, sweety. And when you're done just sign your name up here, now, go on.
Wilson: And then bleed dry waiting or shit myself from anxiety. I need something... maybe this is how they thin the catch sort of speak.
Adrien: The DMV is better. I'm pretty sure.
Wilson: They need a box that states in bold, red, underlined letters, "If you are going to die by external bleeding or internal complications within the length of time it takes to fill out this form please check and hand in IMMEDIATELY."

Adrien: They need to do this shit when I'm done. Search my clothes for the insurance card or credit card if I die. Suck me dry to pay my balance.
Wilson: Someone's bound to die filling these papers out. Think it ever happened?
Adrien: Maybe? Why not?
Wilson: I'll ask, seems curious.

(walks up to the secretary and then comes back moments later)
She's funny, bitch. (mockingly) You better fill that out before YOU die, sir.

Adrien: She "sir'ed" you?
Wilson: Yep.
Adrien: Man, some people can't take a joke.
Wilson: No shit.

(A woman, elderly, walks by)

Excuse me, Mrs. Have you ever heard of someone dyin in the waiting room?
Elderly Woman: Fuck you!

(Everyone looks over at Wilson and the woman)
I'm still alive!
Wilson: (standing up to scoot her away) Same here, Ma'am. Have good day. This place is sickening. No one's able to take a joke.
Adrien: (laughing) Did they have words like that back then??
Wilson: Maybe? Why not?
Adrien: First time a lady that old ever said a curse in front of you?
Wilson: No. Morphine brings that out in people.
Adrien: What?
Wilson: (wrist watch alarm goes off) Well my little break is up. Nice talking to you.

(Standing up and goes over to an awaiting nurse, puts on a doctor's white coat and continues to flip through his clip board)

Comments: Can write a lifetime of words.

Time:

1:20 am.

Falling Awake

I find myself reaching for bottles of Nyquil or those sheets of tablets that you have to punch out yourself. The nights are longer and longer; increasingly more drawn out whether the winter is waning or cresting. There's a buzz in the air coming from refrigerators and broken space heaters. There's a smell of a charcoal and dust in the air.

Hands are reaching from the sills of my windows onto the ceiling and stretching down the far wall. Unsightly, unnatural in all ways; the moon is high overhead. The lunar light is dimming on my floor and making the wood seemingly shrink as my room creaks and aches. There's sound, although there's silence. Listen, and you'll hear what you want to hear.

I used to write a lot at night. I used to bring myself to write. And now I'm too tired to keep my hand up, too tired to force my hand to curve letters and dot my "i's". Too much of nothing is killing my mind in a dull sleep. And though my mind is unthinking and unchanging I'm still clinging onto the last of my consciousness like the last red lifesaver at the bottom of the roll.

There was happiness, there was hope. There wasn't as many empty bottles of sleep aids and broken shards of useless pills. Too many things don't work. Too many things go on believing that they work but instead just affect nothing. it's growing on my mind and there's nothing to do about it. If it's not broken, don't fix it. But if it's not openly broken but bother to think about it. The car still runs and the tree still makes sound if no one is around to be a witness.

I'm sleeping, supposedly. I'm breaking up in the lunar coast on this side of the greater plains. Like waves of eternity it washes over the fields of amber grain and causes them to rise and fall like the oceans. Like a hand was grazing over the stalks and bending them at ease.

I'm wake, maybe. There's no more pills or bottles of Nyquil. The hazy of the falling fingers of distant shadows breaks apart in my mind. There's nonsense in plain logic and creativity in the unknown. There's beauty in that of which beauty was never sought. There's greater things than never to sleep at night. There's greater things knowing one is asleep rather than always second guessing like me.

Comments: Can write a lifetime of words.

Time:

12:34 am.

The Union Hill Response

--Following "The Upland Riot"--

Almost four hours had passed since the panic button had been pressed in Upland. The nearest bases in the area have been converging numbers in Union Hill, just on the outskirts of the next city over, already a small army had been created; comprised of four different Army companies. Fifty large cargo trucks had been called into service, each capable of holding four squads of five men each. Military helicopters have already begun combing the airspace over the rioting city where city hall was a fiery blaze and small patch fires burned high columns of smoke. And resonating outward from the city's central square the raging mob made the asphalt and concrete streets into a living thing.

"City Hall's gone sir, there's also some critical damage to several structures," the voice over the radio was buzzing in and out, "Riot's on the move, most are heading east towards Union Hill. Think they know sir?" Everyone at the table was silent, a small staff of state officials and one in-training general, Colonel Jones West. A younger man with brown hair and deep blue eyes but of smaller stature.

He leaned back in his chair, " how many do we have assembled?" he looked around the room. An even smaller man, at the corner of the table, flipped through a stack of stapled papers.

Everyone waiting for an answer, any answer. He finally spoke as his finger underlined a total, "nine hundred and nine personnel." The colonel nodded, stood and walked outside to the assembly area. A buzz of activity was outside, rivaling that of the Upland riot. Men were lined up in their camouflage gear and assault rifles. And more men were running to their respective cargo trucks which were parked in even bigger lines, although they were parked at an angle.

Several majors ran over to the colonel when they realized he was out of the meeting. They formed a small circle amidst the sea of lines. Talking among themselves until they ran off to their company areas. The colonel himself was went back to the meeting.

He walked in and sat down, "I gave the order. Soon Upland will be back in your control. And don't worry. We'll be updated here, my majors know what to do and exactly how to do it." The roar of diesel engines and the slamming of the loading flaps signaled for the start of the end.

In Upland the riot had covered the entirety of the city at one point. Homes were left unfilled as most of its population poured into the streets. The mayor had been overthrown from his corrupt seat of power. And now the question of federal intervention lingered on the minds of the organizers.

They stepped to secure the main roads, the highway entrance and other local routes into the city. They pushed cars onto their sides, set them ablaze and piled other debris against their revealed bottoms. Once the roads were secured they retreated to the side streets and the alleys.

The helicopters made another pass. One hovered high above the on-ramp of the highway, "the main roads are blockaded with debris and overturned cars, light enough for a few well placed demos won't clear up." The Colonel nodded and then leaned back in his chair. The state officials all sipped at glasses of water. The convoy was a mere mile away.

People were already losing faith at hearing the first of the many explosions from the city's outskirts. Some had fled back to their homes and relative safety. The cargo trucks carved down Oak Ave, the Eastern most main road running the length of Upland. From here the counter offensive would begin and the state would have their prized city back.

All the men were unloaded, formed up and they began their long clearance of the city, block by block, street by street, even building by building. Each soldier carried one standard assault rifled with nine magazines of less than lethal ammunition, six mace grenades and one collapsible cored baton. Four squads will advance up the side blocks; two on either side, one in the street and the fourth sweeping behind the rest.

No one was left as an innocent, the children were huddled together and sent back to the trucks were the late hundred soldiers were waiting. The rest were beaten into submission, shot while running away, beaten by batons and left broken by the mace grenades. Unconscious bodies lined the streets; bruised all over.

By morning the city was subdued even though the fires still burned. City hall was a pile of ashes. The squads of men were reinforced by another stern thousand, the city, now as if empty, was in control of the Army. The once rioting masses were huddled together like cattle and processed into holding camps.

"So the city is yours," the Colonel said to the small meeting as he leaned back in his chair, "call in your own police within forty-eight hours, by then the last of my soldiers will be called out and the prisoners will be in your custody." The table was in agreement, "just tell me, what will happen to them?"

The head of the table, Governor Alexis, rebutted, "punishment without trial." The Colonel nodded, stood up and left the room. The assembly area was empty. Nothing was happening outside. A helicopter flew overhead, a voice came over the radio, "the camps are filling sir, where should we put the rest?"

The Colonel replied, "I don't know." A dim silence covered him for a few moments, the rush of a short breeze overtook the Colonel until the crackle of static came over the radio with an abrupt "sir?". The Colonel stood there and turned off his radio.

Comments: Can write a lifetime of words.

Time:

7:46 pm.

First as Second

They were quiet, lying in bed on the blanket of the twin sized bed. Besides for the solo lit lamp in a far corner of the room there was only darkness and them. The shades were drawn over the two windows, side by side, at the furthest end of the room opposite the door, so silent. The dim lights of an airplane lined across the sky slowly, disappearing behind the sparse clouds and then the wall.

"I'm not really into this whole saving the world shit," he said while he folded his arms behind his head, he looked over and smiled as she but held up her index finger to her lips and let out the most gentlest of a shush. He went back to looking up towards the ceiling, her eyes were closed and in her head she hummed a lovely song of gorgeous harmony and melody.

"You know," he tried again, her eyes popped open, "it's kinda like Adolf Hitler and that chick. In a sense. It's quiet, nothing's happening. We just need to kill ourselves." He looked at her again, she closed her eyes and went back to listening her song as if she had put it on pause for a moment.

"I mean, a bunker has to be quiet being far underground and all, and it's dead silent here," he looked over at her again, "I haven't killed anyone lately, haven't started a genocide this year, but it's almost the same." She cracked a small smile, her head began to slightly nod against the pillow.

He looked back at the ceiling again, "I've tried hard. I've failed, I know it. That's okay though. I think I'm fine with okay. No, I'm happy with it." She finally turned her head, still smiling and nodding her head in rhythm to her unheard music. Lifting up her index finger to her full lips again she turned her head back and closed her eyes.

"How would you have done it?" he looked at her with saddened eyes. Her song had finally ended, opening her eyes she turned her head; looking him directly in the eyes she sighed.

"I'd start with something cool. Something like a drama bomb," she smirked, "something that would get people riled up, pissed off, or something." The room was still dark, still silent now that she had stopped talking. He was still looking at her, nodding his head and then putting his index finger to his thinning lips and letting out a low rumbling shush.

"I like it better silent and undecided," he looked up to the ceiling and closed his eyes. She smiled more, closed her eyes too and sighed softly.

Comments: Can write a lifetime of words.

Time:

9:02 pm.

She's the People

She's six, only six, and for some reason I can't help but to thank God that she's not older. Has it really been six years? It seems like yesterday when she was in my arms, fragile and breathing little whispers. Now she's yelling and running around in autumn fields of dead grass and throwing chipped leaves into the air. They can but fruitlessly float back to the ground and slightly rearrange themselves. She's rolling around, her hair is increasingly messy; she's still beautiful.

"I finally got it," she said as she rolled to my feet. She smiled, whether at me or at the clouds floating by is unsure. Half the field is a muddy mess, foot prints are buried deep rising cracking walls and exposing heel sized ponds. No one else is down here: just endless expanse of fields edged by a thick, man-made tree line and the constant of the slight breeze.

"Do you want to hear?" she's smiling, always smiling. I don't remember being that happy when I was her age. Nodding she runs away laughing, whether at me or at something else is unsure. There's a flag wavering at the top of the hill. She keeps running. I'm following and keeping a short distance between us. She slows her pace as she comes to the stairs at the base of the hill.

She's like an old lady climbing those stairs, lifting her feet up more than she needs to, cautiously and slowly balancing herself on her unsure heels. She looks behind, "slow poke." I never used to that happy. She'd look down at me as if she had Alzheimer's and then continue over-lifting her legs. We're at the top and she's standing at the brink looking up.

Still looking up at the waving flag she placed her right hand over her heart, "I peg allegiance to the flag, of the U.S.A.," she sighed taking that brief moment's pause, "and for the republic for witch it stands, one nation, under God, and invisible, for liberty and justice for all." She slowly removed her hand from her chest and then her eyes turned to me and with a quirky smile she asked her question unspoken.

"Very good, lovely. Very good," I said while I picked her up and put her on my shoulders, "some parts are wrong, but it's a good start." The leaves from the trees were all gone, no more gold or orange, reds or yellows; not even brown. Besides for the sickly looking branches of naked trees nothing was there. The fountain was drained and the sun was setting. Who would want her to grow up?

Comments: Can write a lifetime of words.

Time:

6:43 pm.

Inbox

To: Str8ArT09
From: 5AM_Apple
Subject: No Subject
Date: 26.2.07

I haven't talked to you in such a long time. It's been ages. And there's nothing really more to say. How's life? How's your parents? And everyone else? There's nothing really going on here. Nothing at all, life's good but boring as always. If it were a movie I'd ask for my money back.

To: Str8Art09
From: 5AM_Apple
Subject: No Reply
Date: 28.2.07

I had a dream last night. It was weird and for some reason it reminded me of you. Crazy but still true. I was wrapping gifts, I guess for Christmas, and there was this one gift wrapped in golden paper dotted with black polka dots. It was nice, and then there was a single white square on it. Not the tag to write the name or any other marking device, but it was there it bugged the fuck out of me. I don't know why, but maybe it was you.

To: Str8Art09
From: 5AM_Apple
Subject: At the Play
Date: 13.3.07

He sucked, the fucking play sucked. Death of Salesmen was never at its worst than when they tried to murder it and thoroughly succeeded. I want to cry, but I can't. I want to yell at them and beat the crap out of them but I can't. I can't say that I'm so much affected by good plays as much as the bad ones.

To:Str8Art09
From: 5AM_Apple
Subject: ...
Date: 29.3.07

I sat down at the park today, for a good 3 hours; I was doing nothing. Just sitting there, waiting for something to happen. People were walking by, minding their own business. All these people and not a single word spoken to me. A nice breeze was coming from the harbor. The sun was setting, you know, all picturesque-like. I made a wish. Make it come true?

To: Str8Art09
From: 5AM_Apple
Subject: Birthday
Date: 2.4.07

Happy Birthday! How old are you? I'm sorry I forget, but I really have no good reason as to why. I didn't buy you anything, it's not like I'm going to see you anyways. I just wanted to say hi! and of course Happy Birthday! I can't believe how fast the years go by... it makes me sad, but don't worry now.

To: Str8Art09
From: 5AM_Apple
Subject: Mondays
Date: 18.4.07

I went to his grave today. Laid some flowers down and mumbled something under my breath. Is it horrible that I don't remember his face? That sometimes I forget how he sounded like? Is it horrible that I can't remember what I said at his grave? Or how it felt to kneel at his open casket at his wake? I'm horrible.

To: Str8Art09
From: 5AM_Apple
Subject: Mom
Date: 1.5.07

My mom asked about me. She never really told me what she wanted to know, but we talked for a long time last night. She told me that she's happy, and she's going away for a while. I mean, I'm happy for her. But where does that leave me?

To: Str8Art09
From: 5AM_Apple
Subject: June
Date: 25.6.07

The year's over, almost. It seems like it is. I had fun, I should write about it. We should make a movie, call it "Hue and June". A movie of nothingness which overstates what people's lives are like. A guy and a girl, one of whom dies in the month of June, either one. Dramatic irony and all. A friend of a friend died the other day. She was a good person. I never really knew her or talked to her... I'll miss her.

To: Str8Art09
From: 5AM_Apple
Subject: Lilly
Date: 11.7.07

Lilly's going out of her mind. She's crying all the time, doing nothing. She lost her job. She's spiraling and I can't do anything to help. She's a wreck. What should I do? I can't take her out, she doesn't want to do anything. She just sits at home and thinks about morbid shit and cries. I bought her a bouquet of lilies today. She threw them away in front of me and called me ungrateful.

To: Str8Art09
From: 5AM_Apple
Subject: Fast Food
Date: 20.8.07

I ate at Roy Roger's for the first time in years. When I was younger I thought that it was awesome. The chicken, from what I remember, was always good. Today it was a fucking hockey puck with pepper on it. And the fries were greasy cardboard chips. Nothing's good anymore.

To: Str8Art09
From: 5AM_Apple
Subject: Remember
Date: 11.9.07

I read something today about a possible conspiracy. I don't know what to believe. Or rather I hate to accept the notion that our government would lie to us about something of that magnitude. But I guess that's what power is all about.

To:Str8Art09
From: 5AM_Apple
Subject: Where are you?
Date: 11.10.07

I haven't seen you in a while again. Don't fall off the face of the earth. If you fall, yell at me and I'll try to throw something underneath you so you don't break your ass. Tell me so I can save you. Or don't and fall. I hear that people are on strike. People are always on strike. But now this one is near and dear to my heart. The stage hands are on strike. Maybe the good ones do affect me.

To:Str8Art09
From: 5AM_Apple
Subject: Good Night
Date: 21.12.07

I just wanted to say good night. And Merry Christmas. I probably won't see you, but write me back or something of the like. Make that my gift. No purchase necessary sort of speak. We should do something fun. We should do something exciting or ground breaking. We should relieve ourselves of this stutter we call life.

Comments: Can write a lifetime of words.

Time:

12:30 am.

Coming Home

July 12, 2008. My baby was born and the months of waiting, preparation, worrying and flared tempers--which seemed too slow for just nine months of waiting--a beautiful girl, she makes all those hardship and fucked up situations worthwhile. She's sweaty, damp and her face is flushed. She's sighing in unbelievable relief. The baby's resting on her stomach, crying, but then slowly calming down to the near silent whimpers of her first breaths.

Her eyes are closed, her hands almost frantically clasping--feeling for something-- she wraps her hand around my finger. She's beautiful and she's mine. My wife is holding her wrapped in a blanket, still in the medical nightgown of light blue and white flowers.

"What should we name her?" my mind was blank, too much taken aback as I stared at her just laying there. Both of them, together. And then imagining myself, out of my own mind, looking down from the ceiling or from the door. I was happy. We were all happy. Finally all that crap was behind us and we could take a fresh step in the right direction from here.

"I have no clue... we have time," I kissed her on her forehead, both of them. The baby shook her head slightly as she snuggled in and my wife smiled. She was glowing, no, gleaming. I'd be cursing up a storm if I were her, but that's just me. There has to be some kind of peacefulness from giving birth. I'd never know, wouldn't want to.

We're home for weeks now. I'm feeding her mashed apples and peaches. She's smiling, clapping her hands and looking around with an insatiable curiosity. My airplanes and choo-choo trains are a far cry from what my mom used to do. I'm not really into that kind of stuff, but it's what I remember. My mom's face acting stupid as she shovels food into my open, laughing mouth.

It's her first winter. Christmas is soon. I think I've gone overboard, the closet is overstocked with wrapped gifts and toys. If she were older I'd hide them somewhere else. Until then it's all there for my convenience. She's sick. She's coughing little coughs of near futility. As if it were all coming from one of those electronic air fresheners which periodically spurts out a pathetic gush of "fresh" air which really smells like synthesized burning cherries.

My wife is panicked, not knowing whether or not to bring her to the hospital. I bring them both just to calm her nerves. I'm ensured anyways, in and out. At the hospital we wait for nearly two hours. My baby's coughing as she's curled in my arms.

"Are you guys going to look at her or not?" my mind is racing, it's all bullshit. It's all just a process, protocol and a stern system, nothing more. The receptionist looks at me, handing me my insurance card, shaking her head and spins her office chair around to do more work.

She's burning in my arms, coughing less and less. My wife is holding her as I scream into the plexiglass to a health care worker who doesn't want to listen. She's shaking her head as security comes to oust us from the building. I drive to the next hospital. It's been hours now. She's still burning up. My wife is crying.

We run in and my wife starts yelling and crying, "my baby... someone help my baby." She's kneeling on the ground, as if broken, as a nurse runs over and takes our daughter from her arms. He brings her into a room where we trail behind him. They're testing her, listening for her heartbeat, monitoring her breathing. They're all gathering now around the small bed. Another nurse drags us away to the waiting room.

An hour passes. I'm holding my wife. She's still slightly sobbing. I think she's finally run on empty. She's still worked up though. A doctor comes down the hallway. He walks right for us, even though we're in the corner and still sitting. He looks down at us. We're looking up.

"Listen," he says sighing, "no one likes this kind of stuff. We all feel for you." We're both still looking at him, not really listening to those last words, just waiting to hear if she's okay or not.

"Why didn't you bring her sooner?" He asks. I look at him with disgust and explain. He just shakes his head, "those fuckers. I'm sorry. She's dead."

Comments: Can write a lifetime of words.

Time:

12:48 am.

The Upland Riot

The lines were drawn and the conclusion had already been set by the police. Outside city hall, a building of alabaster white marble stained with streaks of black pollution, the entire city was up in arms. Screaming and yelling madmen were being held back with a thinning line of officials and geared patrolmen. The wooden blockade lines were set and two lines of fully geared S.W.A.T. members held on both sides of the main staircase leading up to the closed wooden doors.

"No more corruption!" a crude voice soared over the droning muddle of the crowd. As if pouring gasoline onto a fire the volume ecstatically boomed. The line of patrolmen buckled for a moment and then steadied itself. The lights were on inside, the curtains were drawn but there was still light shining through. Already the streets were dark from when it all started. A mere few handfuls at the break of dawn has mutated into a raging crowd of thousands. Cars were toppled over, trees set ablaze and city flags were burning in thick piles on the ground. Traffic tickets, court orders, permit slips and tax papers fed the growing embers. People raged into the fledging night.

The insides of city hall were buzzing with activity. Phones rang off the hooks and papers were flying in fits of panic. The mayor was in his room leaning back in his leather chair listening to the roar of the crowd. His door was shut and the TV was off. He set down a half smoked cigarette and then tapped his lower lip with one cupped hand.

A knock came to his door, "Mr. Mayor, Police Marshal." The door opened for a split second and then shut, a tall man stood at attention in ceremonial uniform, "Sir, we've lost control. The panic button has been pressed but I'm afraid that we're alone for another two hours."

"Fine, fine," the mayor waved his hand as he stood and looked out the window. He looked down on the bustling crowd from his corner office, "they're pissed, no?" The marshal nodded even though the mayor had his back turned to him. "You know, fuck them. The animals, you give them freedom or whatever they want and they still complain, they still bitch. Look at them, scrabbling down there. And for what? Less taxes? Increasingly lenient laws?" Another shout came from the crowd, the words were unheard in the office, but the unanimous yells of the crowd reinforced its importance.

The mayor turned around, "The end of corruption, marshal. That's what they want. Well fucking beat it into their heads." The marshal shook in his boots, looking from side to side. "Are you fucking deaf? Until they all fucking scatter back to their homes to become obedient citizens again, got it?" He nodded, saluted, opened the door and left. The mayor closed the door and returned back to the window.

A clear voice spoke over a loudspeaker, "Cease and desist. Scatter now or be taken into custody." The voice was trailed by disgusted screams of obscenities and objections from the crowd. The lines bustled once again. This time someone from the crowd was clubbed with a nightstick until he lay limp over one of the wooden barricades. There was a scatter of gunshots, women screaming and gas canisters sizzling on the ground. Patrolmen and S.W.A.T. members overran the barricades and overwhelmed the unarmed crowd beating a slow path through the first few hundred.

People were being trampled; men and women beaten with lead cored batons and shot with less than lethal ammunition. The crowd slowly retreated backwards only to surge forward overtaking the city officials with shear numbers. Soon gear was being stripped off the unconscious police and handed to pissed off men. The few left behind the barricades retreated back to the locked front doors.

The roar was unending, deeper than before and louder than ever. The front doors were cracking as the weight of the crowd pushed against it. Rocks were being thrown through the windows and the barricades were not to be seen. The building rumbled as if the people outside were trying to tip it over. The mayor sat in his office smoking the last of his cigarette, tapping off the ashes as the front doors were knocked off their hinges. Screams of terror ensued outside of his office. And he sat back in his leather chair as the first of many stormed into his room.

Comments: Can write a lifetime of words.

Time:

12:02 am.

It Used to be like This

For years now, we used to be happy, carrying out our lives with as little interference as possible. We used to, but now we do-- as always-- recreate ourselves as people of mild regurgitation and lucid disgust. Holding each other as gently as contempt can. We used to and now we don't. She is a Mormon in a cathedral of Buddhists. She swears on her mother's grave although she wasn't dead, but now she's just silent. She's lying through her teeth as she yells violently.

"Shut the fuck up!" with a stern glare to follow her looming voice. In this instance sound travels faster than light. A kind refraction of logic as she slowly settles into a soundless boggle. She's sitting reading a book of monologues, an ageless and dirty comic of child-like reproduction. She's a gentle reproduction-- a fragile steel bream being placed into the foundation of a rather large building. She's a plastic coated apple, looking good and fresh but still rotting. A contradiction, a variable which only causes a negative.

People are taken aback, taking people by storm as they're fumbling to understand what she's thinking. But that's who she was, not who she is or even continues to be. She's a waterfall, slowly freezing over, waiting for a Spring thaw or an explosive charge. She's silent, yelling and still cursing over her mother's grave now that she's dead. Carrying on her apparent disgust as she forces her eyes away from me.

With a heavy heart she can only say, "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Her eyes dart from side to side, motioning as if something was waving behind me-- it's my guilt. The flagging persistence of who she was is not lingering over my conscience as she's no longer there. The candy smiles and sweet infractions were there only in the past, an apple in a heavy wax coating shining under the florescent lights of the produce isle. Poorly reproduced. Handed gently down by the crate load onto the floorspace where hungry pedestrians fumble by as they see her picking through the bundle.

She wasn't who she was, but really she is who she wasn't. She lives her life through contradiction, through the immediate response of those around her. She gives them blood when they'd rather have bread, and then she smiles as she walks away leaving them dumbfounded and fumbling as if trying to keep it from dripping through their cracked hands. She's laughing, but really she's pissed. She's looking through the monologues with arid hate.

"What the fuck is wrong with this?" she screams as the binding of the book falls apart. Instead of pages of words there's only pages of photoed pornography starring back up from the floor. Of nude models bending over chairs and laying prone on silken beds, all of whom have smiles as innocent as the Virgin Mary-- but we all know better. With heavy eyes she scoops up the pages, bundles them together and picks through them like the apples at the market. They're bending at the edges and ripping as she frantically fingers through them all.

She smiles when she finds one in particular and shows it to me. It's a crayon picture of a house, a gray sky and an empty lot next to it all. She's smiling as she hugs the paper into her bosom. She wasn't always like this, this isn't even really her. She's lost in the moment as if the frozen waterfall had just broken for Spring. She's a gleam of rushing passion, a wave of a glimmer of truth, she's a fable which everyone knows is true. This isn't how it used to be.

Comments: Can write a lifetime of words.

Time:

12:06 am.

A Fairy Tale Revisited

Leather bound books shelved on dusty book cases lie silent, unorganized and shambled. Of "Little Red Riding Hood", "Hansel & Gretel", "Jack and the Bean Stalk" and "Pinocchio"; tales read at bed time to make the restless young bored enough to sleep. Mothers speaking in soft tones holding books that are nearly falling apart while husbands sit watching TV drinking their first beer, and children, either wide-eyed or nodding off, lay with covers drawn up to their mouthes as wild dreams slowly work their way in.

Years passed, the books used to be a stack of pages until the senility of old age somehow misplaced them. And now the child has a child laying in bed waiting for something to happen. With a confused look on her face she slowly starts:

"Once again upon a time in a corner of the world of small villages, deep dark woods and great hopes and dreams, both ambitious and minute, lived two young children who lived with their mother in the village closest to the woods: Hansel and Gretel. And for one reason or another these two children go exploring in the woods dragging behind them a red wagon filled with Shake N' Bake boxes. Spilling crumbs slowly as they venture deeper and deeper into the darkening woodlands.

They keep going, spilling more and more crumbs, Gretel is now sitting in the wagon using one hand to spill the torn bags and the other to rip open another fresh box. The hills steepen as they walk further. Hansel was lost, leading them both into a portion of the forest yet unexplored by the young pair. Suddenly Hansel trips, rolling down a great big hill all the way down far, far away from the wagon and Gretel. His ankle was swollen and it made him cry every time he tried to move it. Gretal was alone.

Fortunately or regrettably, Hansel was found by an old man with salt and pepper hair who eyed him with a fine curiosity. Without saying a word, or even without Hansel knowing, he scooped up the young boy and headed off through the woods. Gretel sat, waiting for Hansel to come back. She laid back on the boxes and starred up into the shifting canopy of the trees. She had the feeling that something was watching her.

The old man brought Hansel back to his cottage in the woods, propping him up onto the table where the boy sat as the man took out a block of Styrofoam and began carving and chiseling away. The man carved the face, the body, the legs and began chiseling the finer details into the full-scale replica of the boy. Once done he shooed the boy off from his cottage without a word spoken and slammed the door shut. He looked on his masterpiece, calling it Pinocchio and hugged it vigorously.

Hansel began wandering around, limping as he walked, trying to find a way back to Gretel and ultimately back home. He walked for hours and hours until he came across a fine trail of crumbs on a small dirt path. He looked down the path in both directions, neither gave any sign as to where Gretel is most likely to be. He chose right and began walking.

Gretel had fallen asleep. Something was still watching her and while she slept a Big Bad Wolf crept out of the tree line and slowly began making his way to the slumbering child. Finally reaching the wagon he sniffed her curled body and licked his lips. He heard a faint scuffling of leaves down the path and hid behind the trees. Hansel, once seeing the wagon, ran to wake up Gretel with a big hug. And he immediately turned the wagon around and started walking back home. Not knowing that the wolf was in tow.

They walked without incident, without harm. Pausing only for a moment when they heard a scream from deep within the forest. A cry of bitter shame and defeat, 'No! My beautiful boy!' The cry only made Hansel speed up his pace. The edge of the woods was in sight and Hansel raced forward only to be cut off by the Big Bad Wolf. He growled and licked his lips as he showed his giant claws and teeth. Hansel fell back into the wagon with Gretel and they clutched each other in fear. And as the wolf was about to leap onto the children a giant tree fell and killed the wolf. A head peaked out from the side of the stump where a teenage boy shouted, 'Oh, sorry about that mates!'

Upon reaching home Hansel and Gretel told their mother frantically about what had happened. About the trail of Shake N' Bake, the old man who made the puppet out of Styrofoam, the Big Bad Wolf and how he died to the tree cut down by Jack. Their mother dismissed the tall tale and told them to get washed for dinner. Hansel and Gretel could only look at each other and sigh.

Some lived happily, others unhappily and others yet not at all, ever after.

The End."

"But ..." she pulls the covers from her head, "that's not how it goes." She crossed her arms in protest, sitting up against her headboard.

"It's just a tale, honey," the mother stands up to let her sleep, "night."

"But..." the girl said solemnly as the door closed and the room went black.

Comments: 1 Pen - Can write a lifetime of words.

"The American Dream is just that... a dream."

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