Cobbleology

We’ve been walking for some time now, almost forty minutes, and though the day itself seemed calm, a looming sense of dread could be felt as we neared our destination. Our small group was approaching the precipice which divided present and future, and deep within that vast ravine lied every possibility at once; to reach across and grasp it required a plunge. It was clear to me, as though it were sent from a higher power, that I would be the one to grapple that infinite stretch of time and space, to hold it within my hand, and determine a course for us to follow. And, as we reached our destination, the time to seize this moment was nigh.

“This,” I said, pointing towards a small rock situated in the exact geographical center of Boulder, Colorado, “is not a boulder at all. It’s a cobblestone.”

A hushed gasp came from our small congregation, which had thus far been completely silent, voraciously listening to my analysis. Their expressions ranged from utter shock to anger, and fluctuated between these states as they collectively turned their attention towards the mayor, a large and bulbous man named Villy Hitchens.

“This has to be a mistake of some kind,” said Villy, who was now standing apart from the crowd. “This city has been founded on—no, divinely inspired by—the fact that this very boulder rested in the perfect clearing for a new American center. This boulder, our guiding light, has bound us together both then and now, so please, I believe that your characterization here is misplaced.”

“Oh, I am certain beyond any doubt that what you have here,” I said, gesturing towards the small rock, “is nothing short of a fabrication.”

“This can’t be true.”

“You hired me, flew me out here, and hosted me in your own home only to now doubt my analysis? Why? I’ve done as you asked, and can verifiably tell you that this city ought to be called Cobble, Colorado. As it is now, virtually any aspiring geologist would be able to point out the defect in its origin. This rock is indeed a rock, but it is no boulder, and that is beyond debate.”

“Beyond debate? Please, do not end this so, uh, un-scientifically. Is it possible that the standards by which rocks are classified into boulders, cobbles, and pebbles has changed since the city’s founding?”

“Not a chance.”

“Not one?”

“No.”

“Okay. Is is possible that you—your education, your certification, your credentials—are just simply mistaken? It happens to most of us from time-to-time.” Right then, Villy leaned in close and whispered hastily, “I’m certain that you can understand how much is at stake here.”

“Villy,” I said at full volume, “I don’t mean to be hyperbolic, but your case here is spiritually, morally, and academically depraved. This city has an identity crisis, and you’re at the center of it.”

He turned from me and gazed into the crowd, which had grown in both size and agitation since our arrival. “People,” he began, “please, do not incite an incident here. We’re only at the beginning of this mystery, and it’d be untoward of us to rush to any conclusion. Professor Marple here has been so kind to lend us his time, but I fear that his mental aptitude is simply lacking in this matter; no doubt his seemingly unending background in matters of geology is the result of affirmative action favoring the controversially-inclined, those being, namely and regrettably, the Welsh.”

I turned towards him in disgust. “Welsh? You’re just making things up now. Tell me, who among us graduated with the highest honors in rock identification? Who spent his youth travelling the deserts of Dasht-e-Kavir in pursuit of rocks the likes of which have never been seen before? Who was invited here to get to the bottom of this matter?”

Villy stared at me gravely. “A betrayer.”

The car ride back to Villy’s residence was quiet, but thick with tension. The air between us . . . it stung with hostility, and though I feel like I’d had some part in its escalation, I am otherwise absolving myself of bearing responsibility, if for no other reason than I was preyed upon with an assumption of being Welsh.

“Professor Marple,” Villy said, “that was heated.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Look at this city,” he motioned towards the window. “Watch as these people, lacking in something to believe in, drag their feet. They hang their heads low. We really needed a win today.”

“There’s no such thing as ‘winning’ when it comes to scientific rigor, Villy.”

“Your words may be true, but they drip with a lack of understanding.” He shook his head. “All these people, they’ve come here from all over . . . and for what? To be let down on a daily basis by its government? Somehow, my approval rating has fallen over the course of these past few years. Days like today really could’ve turned things around, had they gone the way I’d envisioned.”

“All right.”

He eyed me with despair. “Some say I was elected solely because my opponent was completely disintegrated in a head-on collision with my campaign bus, but I feel as though there’s more to it than that.” Villy turned towards me, “I think people voted me in to restore a sense of wonder in this city.”

“In Boulder, Colorado?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“All right. And you thought the best way to do so was to invite me to inspect your city’s rock?”

“I can hear the disbelief in your voice, and I can understand where it’s coming from, but I happen to believe in something greater than myself. I believe in our shared symbols.”

“The cobblestone?”

“The boulder.”

“From what I understand,” I began, “the classification of that rock . . . no one really contested that it was or wasn’t a boulder until you invited me over.”

“It’s nice to know some things for sure.”

“And this?”

“Well, not this particular time, no.”

We parked in his driveway, and as he pulled the keys out of the ignition, he sighed. “Things are changing here. This year is an election year and, well, I’m running short on ideas.”

“Okay.”

“They’ve suspended my Class B license after the accident that happened last election cycle, so I’m left with even fewer options at my disposal.”

“I can understand that, and I’m sorry for the predicament you’re in, but I’m unsure of what else to say.” Changing my tone, “Though, you may be excited to hear that my flight home is tomorrow, so I’ll be out of here soon.”

Villy paused for a moment. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes, in the morning.”

He leaned towards me, our foreheads almost touching, “Professor Marple,” he whispered, “is there anything I can do to assuage your concerns about boulder classification? Can the rules be stretched just this once to save the founding mythos of this city?”

“No. I’ve done everything I can for you, Villy. But I cannot lie on this matter, not even once.”

Villy leaned back in the drivers seat, and sighed. “I guess that’s all there is to this.”

“Correct.”

There was a long pause between us. “Then,” he said, “let’s head inside.”

I eyed him. “Sure.”

We stepped out and walked towards his home. The sun was beginning to fall below the Rocky Mountains, and the amber sky was alive with passing, swirling clouds gliding above and away from us. Here, just before reaching for his front door, Villy beckoned me over towards a small garden next to his porch. “Have I taken the time to show you my little project here, Professor?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“This garden is what I have to look forward to after a long day of governing.”

“Hmm.”

“I can sit here, tend to the plants, and rearrange things as needed. I can think about things here.”

“Right.”

“Do you see these?” He gestured towards a few large rocks set around the plants. “Could you tell me, are any of these boulders?”

I sighed. “Perhaps, Villy.”

He bent over and hoisted one, bringing it closer to me. “And what about this one?”

“This one appears to be a boulder, yes.”

“Ah. So we’ve finally reached a consensus.” He then grunted, lifting the rock above his head. “And thank you for your analysis, Professor.” With a swift motion, he swung it downwards, crashing it into my skull, and sending me to the ground. I felt nothing, and have lost my awareness of time. I can only see the blackness now, a dark and cold embrace which has wrapped around my fingers, moving upwards. And now, I am gone.

Bearing It

I’m an iconoclast. A believer in living in the moment. I want to push the boundaries of what’s acceptable and determine reality for myself. These guardrails that keep us in line, secure—they’re just chains. It’s an embarrassment to see just how confined we are.

My journey towards radical re-alignment began when I was in my mid-thirties. I was alone, weak, and working in a call center outside of Harlborough, New Jersey. The tedium there can break a person’s will to live—Jenny, a woman I regularly and aggressively flirted with in the office, threw herself off the building in a desperate attempt for freedom from monotony. Seeing her broken, mangled body on the pavement below shook me awake from the conditioning of modern society. Things had to change.

The next day, I went into work shirtless. A little rebellion, something I thought up as I did my morning calisthenics. Just something to break the mold. My boss, a fearful and meek leader, saw my power growing and immediately informed me that the company was opening an investigation into me on several reported incidents of ‘sexual harassment’ prior to Jenny’s death.

The nerve.

I immediately throat-chopped him, sending him to the ground. Then, LaQuanda, a stout, proud African-American woman—someone I would’ve expected to be on my side—screamed, sending the office into a frenzy. It was time to move on.

Two years and many identities later, I found myself working at the Barnum and Bailey circus, performing as an animal trainer. And despite going by different names at every show, they love me. They’d never guess that I’m wanted by New Jersey state police. Instead, carnival-goers shout in awe as I crack a whip and have tigers jump from platform to platform. Lions roar at my command.

This . . . this is real. This is living outside the bounds of the average day-to-day. And while I have found my freedom here, working alongside the most dangerous creatures on earth, I still find the common man to be chained without his recognition. I watch as average people lazily wander about as they enter and exit my tent. Their eyes glaze over, and they clap when expected to do so. This breaks my heart, for in some way, I am responsible for continuing the cycle—being their source of entertainment for the duration of my show and, in part, their master—but for the longest time, I could only help myself. That is, until I came across Beef, the eleven-hundred pound Kodiak Bear who’d just arrived from Lakeland, Florida for training.

His fur, a deep and unrelenting brown, shimmered as he shifted around in his cage. His snout twitched in curiosity for his new surroundings. And though his claws were trimmed, they remained long and intimidating. An utter force of nature. He ignited a flame in me, more so than the other animals, for he possessed an spirited anger whenever someone walked too close. He’d bare his teeth and growl, revealing to onlookers that he was alive. What a powerful message, and one that reverberated through my entire being. And it struck me—this was the beginning of a new machination, a great awakening, something to stir the public into recognizing the velvet handcuffs that bind them. And it just so happened that my next show was tomorrow afternoon.

But for tonight, I decided to approach Beef in my natural form, naked, just man to bear. I had no intention of training him, for how could I impart the rigidity of commands at the expense of his inborn grace and power? It was impossible. The other animals in the show, they were too far gone. Just puppets who’d had their natural instincts stripped from them far before I’d ever entered this tent. But with Beef, my understanding was that he was still wild, still of the primordial earth, one that was rapidly disappearing. What I have before me was an opportunity to bring that back—that sense of reality—to the people who’ve been conditioned to accept things for how they seem, rather than for how they are.

This was it. A final overture to saving my fellow man.

The night passes, and my nerves grow more uneasy. My hands shake, but they do so in anticipation for a great undertaking. Beef stares at me hungrily. I understand his desire, for I too have been encroached upon by modern society in all its ugliness. The time is nigh.

Here, the sun has begun its descent across the afternoon sky. The smell of wet mud and burnt popcorn waft in from the outside, and with it, people. The tent bleachers were filling up, and from behind the curtain, I could peek out and see the faces of those ready to receive an awakening. Beef, watches me, and I nod. This was it.

I step out and introduce myself, bowing and waving my arms around in excitement. The noise is exhilarating. My assistants, two Puerto Rican midgets, push Beef’s cage out into the center of the tent—their short statures, childlike, quiver in response to Beef’s every movement. Their small bodies struggle to move the animal, and with every shift of his weight, they wince. Once positioned, they hurry off, feet slapping the dirt floor, and leave me there, alone with Beef, surrounded by hundreds of unwitting participants. I bow again, and in one motion, release the clasp on Beef’s cage, pulling it wide and removing the boundary between man and beast. The crowd cheers, and Beef, tentative at first, touches his paw to the ground and steps out. He sniffs the air and turns from side to side. He eyes me, and I can feel that primal connection. No training could create this bond. It was native to the human spirit.

I motion my arm towards the crowd, and Beef seems to understand. In a moment, he’s off, bounding towards the front row, and the crowd, yet unable to shed the veneer of circus entertainment, waits a second, and then yells in alarm. Beef clasps a woman and immediately tears her asunder, throwing her body from side to side as though it were nothing at all. People begin running towards the exit, stepping over one another in the process, and in doing so, agitate Beef, drawing him towards the howling mass. This was what I wanted, what I needed. The blinders have now been removed, and people could once again recognize that they were human, and this world was hostile. They’ve been ripped awake! Moved outside of the norm. And this was what it took.

Beef crushes a stroller under his weight, and through the chaos, looks back towards me. We lock eyes, certain that this was justice, and after a moment, he charges me. I spread my arms wide, and he runs into me like a train, bulldozing me into the ground, cracking my spine, and releasing me back into the ether.

The Email Professional

It has occurred to me that during the course of our lives, when we talk with one another, the topics of conversation will oftentimes drift towards a discussion on our work. That being, what we or others do. This is such a commonplace occurrence that I find it difficult to believe anyone would have lived without thinking on what happens in the world on a day-to-day basis, and what might be had circumstances been different. People will sit there, daydreaming, talking, imagining the hypotheticals, the conceptual them. I believe this sort of imagination is inherent in our very being, so much so that it may very well be implanted in us from birth, stretching across generations, from our recent great-grandfathers to, perhaps, the nomadic tribes that wandered across prehistory.

With this in mind, how do we frame this for ourselves? How do we interpret this line of imagination?

We do so using the framework we find ourselves navigating already. It seems simple that our great-grandfather wouldn’t have pictured himself working as a computer scientist. This is obvious, but nonetheless important; we think in the terms available to us, in the norms and expectations set on a societal scale.

If you were to ask anyone, preferably an adult, just to list any ten occupations within a few minutes, they’d probably tell you something resembling the following:

1. Farmer

2. Firefighter

3. Doctor

4. Artist

5. Police Officer

6. Construction Worker

7. Journalist

8. Businessman

9. Politician

10. Teacher

This list is basic and excludes many, many other very real lines of work that people do, but serves as an example to ground our discussion. Others may give varying answers, but my guess would be that we’d share a few in common. I, being the author of this website, came up with these ten in a matter of maybe forty seconds, and in doing so, have revealed a little about myself. And before going further, I’d encourage readers to do the same, or at least just note a few professions that come to mind whilst reading this.

The jobs listed above are easily definable; most people would be able to picture any single one and be able to give a rough description of what it would entail. Accounts of any given occupation may vary from person to person, but would, in all likelihood, be somewhat accurate. We’ve come into contact, at least at an abstract level, with each of these, even if we’re young.

An interesting revelation occurs when we realize that these jobs are very much grounded in reality, that is to say, the physical world. This will inevitably vary from profession to profession, but most would agree that this statement is relatively true, at least by most measurements. It conforms to our notion of work. Understanding this, what does my list above lack?

It excludes a category of employment I’ll refer to as ‘email jobs’, as undertaken by ‘email professionals’. These jobs consist of sending emails, taking phone calls, attending meetings, filling out Excel documents, noting things onto forms, updating websites, and other similar, abstract tasks. I myself work as an email professional, and didn’t mention it in the list above. I would be willing to assume that many, if not most, people reading this have, at some point or another, worked as an email professional themselves. And to those who have, ask yourselves: did you list it? My guess for many would be no. The trouble here comes when we realize that this type of work occupies a very sizable portion of the job market here in the United States, perhaps in Europe as well. So, why don’t we list email professionals when we typically conceptualize occupations?

The answer is straightforward: we can’t conceptualize email professionals as an occupation. They exist outside of our societal frame of reference, and yet at the very same time, form an integral piece of it. This contradictory position characterizes our time, in the current moment of history, as awkward. The proof of this can be found within everyday conversation; when talking to another who has an email job, the amount of additional information needed to simply ground the discussion is excessive. For example, we can imagine a potential casual chat between acquaintances going like this:

“What is it that you do?”

“Well, I’m a business analyst.”

“Oh, interesting. What is that?”

“It involves collecting information from our clients to determine what they want from our company.”

“Okay. And how do you perform your job?”

It isn’t difficult to imagine that even as such a conversation progresses, that one party would still be left confused as to what it is the other actually does, even on just a day-to-day basis. This is becoming more common as the number of email professionals increases. It is at this point where we encounter the problem at the crux of this phenomenon.

Because email professionals exist, have vague characteristics, are difficult to communicate with, and are becoming more prevalent in our society, we are facing an issue of peer-to-peer relatability. If we accept the assumption that what we do comprises a large portion of our personhood and lived experience, then we are truly masking ourselves from each other. And make no mistake, it is happening. No one can sympathize with, say, a business analyst like they can with a farmer, or a fireman, or a doctor. Getting to such a level of understanding for an abstract occupation isn’t possible, even if both parties were business analysts themselves. This obfuscation hides us from one another, ultimately making it difficult to connect past a superficial level.

Compounding on the emerging difficulty of communication, this phenomenon extends out from the interpersonal space to the societal space. The vast majority of the institutions which surround and shape us are, today, carried on the backs of email professionals, the underlings which mainly serve to disseminate top-down information from those at the top of the institutional hierarchy. This is a fact. How, then, can we discern the true essence of the things which form the basis of our society? The answer, at least in some part, is that we can’t. It’s virtually impossible. The vague space involved here has, intentionally or otherwise, created a barrier between ourselves and an explanation for the nature of society’s modern structure.

Let’s take a moment to recount our steps:

1. When we conceptualize things, we use a frame of reference provided by our societal context.

2. Occupations, being no exception, are thought of by considering their relation to our norms and expectations.

3. Occupations form a large portion of our personal identity and lived experience.

4. Our common understanding of occupations does not include nebulous email professionals.

5. The number of email professionals found in our society is growing.

6. Interacting and communicating with email professionals is made difficult due to the vague nature of their work.

7. Our society is comprised of institutions.

8. Discerning the structure of our society necessitates understanding what institutions do.

9. Institutions utilize email professionals.

10. We cannot accurately discern the nature of our society.

11. A barrier is formed between populations and the institutions which shape them.

One may wonder how devastating this actually is. After all, there were undoubtedly periods in human history where the structure of society has mystified the general population. This is true, but if one were to compare the organization of generations passed to today, they would notice markedly different social conditions, namely, the alleged de-stratification of our contemporary time. Taking the premise that our liberal democracy allows us social movement, the inevitable thing to do would be to seek upward social mobility, both for ourselves and our children.

How may we visualize this goal? By becoming a part of a societal institution. And what does that look like? Here, we encounter the problem once again.

It is within these vague email professions that true societal stratification is maintained. If, for instance, one were to enter an institution for the express purpose of affecting society, they would be utterly lacking in the means necessary to enact actual power. The reason for this is that most institutions, protective of themselves, would bar the vast majority of people from entering into any position with real authority. Instead, most would be given an email job, one that may or may not serve a meaningful business function. Only through intense internal review would anyone be risen out of what I’ll call ‘the email class’. Those who are promoted are thereby shielded from any legitimate scrutiny using the email class as a barrier to entry. Of course, a few types of institutions stand out as more pernicious in this regard; unelected bureaucracies, non-governmental organizations, large corporations, and even local-level social clubs, to a lesser degree.

So, where does this leave us? I am unsure. It would seem to be self-perpetuating, but I would have to spend more time thinking on it. And unfortunately, I have to go. I have a meeting at 3:00 PM to discuss the upcoming monthly email distribution list.

Fall-Tastic Drink of the Season: Pumpkin and Apple Cider Smasher Recipe

Hello there, avid reader! Today is a great day! The leaves are turning, the breeze is sweeping by, and it’s the perfect time of the year to whip up an amazing seasonal drink for all to enjoy! This mouth-watering, thirst-quenching, delectably-driven, pumpkin and apple cider-infused cocktail is sure to attract everyone to your next fall shindig! With a combination of spicy and sweet, it’s sure to pair well with any fall-themed lunch, dinner, or dessert!

The recipe truly couldn’t be simpler! But, before we dive in, a little backstory on how we came up with this amazing treat!

Earlier this week, I was standing in my kitchenette, gripping the handle of our four-inch pairing knife (a must have for any kitchen-pro). The urge to plunge it deep into my sleeping husband was pulsating through my veins, reverberating from my chest. I could picture it, me standing over him. The couch drenched in his blood, the blade jutting through his ribcage. Sensing that I was about to act, I quickly forced my hand to drop the knife and retrieve a hidden bottle of Celexa. It calmed me, giving me a chance to compose myself and continue my food blog (a big win for all the busy moms out there), but I was beginning to sense that the feeling inside couldn’t be quelled forever. Each day, the want of violence grew stronger.

But why focus on the little things? With the arrival of the new season came opportunities to enjoy the outdoors! I stepped outside and took another Celexa. I didn’t need it right then, but my body had almost acted autonomously; gripping the bottle, twisting the top off, and palming another pill. Mmm, mmm, mmm! The dry, sour taste titillated my senses, and then it came to me: why not combine the earthy taste of pumpkin with the spicy, tart taste of apple cider in a wonderful fall cocktail? The two were meant for one another (and at your next fall get-together)!

Stumbling to my feet, I hurried to my garden, looking for a nice herb to garnish a prospective new recipe (it’s amazing how blurry my vision gets when I stand up too fast). To my surprise, I found a little possum, shifting through my vegetables! Angrily and without thinking, I lunged at it, gripping the thing with white knuckles. It hissed at me, showing its pointed, needle-like teeth, but I didn’t care. Pressing it to the ground, I began to squeeze. With one hand clamped around its ribcage and the other around its neck, I could feel the animal shifting in agony under my weight. I kept going. Rage had taken over, and my face felt hot, dripping with sweat. As the possum attempted to wiggle away from me, its motions became more erratic, spasming and twisting. I began to howl directly in its face, bellowing something from deep within my chest (we’ve all been there before)!

And then I blacked out.

Waking up, I rolled over to see the possum’s mangled corpse. Phew! Glad that’s over. And now, let’s get that recipe!

Ingredients:

1. One-half cup of your favorite apple cider

2. Two teaspoons of pumpkin extract

3. One-third cup of vodka

4. One-third cup of whisky

5. A pinch of cinnamon (or, better yet, a splash of cinnamon schnapps)

6. (Optional) A slice of orange to garnish

And, once you have all those delicious ingredients, just mix them together for an amazing fall cocktail!

The Steakout

It is 11:26 AM, and Milford High School was experiencing it’s very first unannounced drug raid. Police officers, clad in black, bulletproof vests, clench the reins of their dogs as they comb through each echoing hall, one after another. They excel in bringing that dreadful atmosphere, the kind that makes young boys, even the innocent ones, quiver in anxiety. The hurried pants of German Shepherds could be heard alongside the forceful steps of their handlers, and a very cold, intense feeling ran through every classroom, science lab, and restroom. This was an occupied place now—every nerve of every student was perched on a razor’s edge and ultra-sensitive. The memories of smoking behind the bleachers, sneaking Adderall at lunch, and sharing sips of hidden liquor materialized in jagged detail. What was in vogue a few days ago was now being hunted. Rooted up.

But the main cause for the police raid wasn’t the regular sort of delinquency that found itself home here. It was sudden and unexpected arrival of black tar heroin. Large amounts jump from locker to locker, from the opium fields of Afghanistan to the jocks, theater nerds, and alt-kids of Milford High School. What was an educational institution had at once been transformed. Hallways resembled the frankincense-drenched markets of Kandahar. The gym, a new Kaaba, drew the school’s wandering students closer with the temptation of hidden dealers. If one were to close their eyes, they would daydream of unending fields at dawn off the coast of Karachi, with sprouts of alhirwin bursting forth from the earth. This was a new place.

However, it wasn’t always this way. The school, up until this point, had been relatively clean; students were soft, impotent, and tame. The suburbs, with its culture of placidity, had done well in substituting the ambition of youth with tobacco and alcohol—but nothing more. The appearance of hard drugs was wholly unaccounted for, and as the whispers of well-to-do housewives crept up to the local school board. Action had to be taken.

The police moved through the hallways at a steady pace, and the nails of their dogs were clattering across the vinyl flooring. That ominous sound wasn’t lost on Chester Holmes, who, under the cover of using the water fountain, scurried out of his homeroom unseen. His overweight frame bounded towards his locker, and with thick hands, unlocked it, revealing a cooler stuffed with frozen meat wrapped in cellophane.

He didn’t deal in drugs, no, but bushmeat: a mixture of raw meat from exotic species across Africa. This was his game, the illicit collection and sale of imported tastes drawn from crocodiles, zebras, lions, chimpanzees, lowland gorillas, wildebeests, hyenas, and, most treasured of all, the endangered black rhinoceros. How he, a portly high school freshman, managed to position himself at the end of a complicated and illegal supply chain is an utter mystery to outside observers, but the benefits were enormous. By the end of the school year, he’d have earned his father’s salary seven times over from his dealings with the students, teachers, and administrators who craved the texture and umami taste of untamed game. The police dogs wouldn’t find heroin, but instead, one of the greatest news stories to ever emerge from Milford High School.

But Chester wasn’t going down this soon.

His fortune being built on risk had steeled himself on the possibility of disaster, and now it was time to take drastic measures. Thankfully, Chester came prepared; he grabbed a roll of duct tape hidden behind a stack of textbooks and began wrapping the meat directly on his body—slowly at first, and with heightened speed after every passing second. His stomach was soon covered by the piercing bite of frozen idube and inkonkoni. Still, the pain was better than spending the rest of his life in prison, and he knew that. Lowering his shirt, he could sense that he looked ridiculous, with bulging areas around his midsection being somewhat conspicuous, but the faint echoes of heavy boots and grunting dogs made him abandon any thought of changing course now.

Cargo secured, he hurried back to class and was able to retake his seat without issue. He felt somewhat secure in a crowd of his peers. Glancing around, he noticed kids with vacant stares and track marks on their arms—abrasions left from the sting of hypodermic needles. These people were hopeless: they were wasted most of the time, drool running down their chins, but regardless, they made fine customers. The rich kids could afford to tweak out and select their own cut of hippopotamus at the same time. And as for the adults, well, they had their own tastes.

Teachers, with a sense of inadequacy from being out-earned by their spouses every Friday, turned to Chester. Administrators, usually too stupid and lazy to sort paperwork, covered for him in exchange for choice selections from each new shipment. This was all to his benefit, but the vast majority of his wealth didn’t come from low-level dealings between classes and after-school office hours; instead, it came directly from the top.

Principal Gawain, on the outside, was a man who believed in institutions, in their power to structure society and pave the way for students to succeed. His demeanor was stern, fair, and wholeheartedly geared towards using his position in the school system to bring about real, constructive change. He presented well, both to parents and school board members alike. A perfectly capable and firm man who embodied that sort of old-style school management—the way, in the eyes of taxpayers, it ought to be. The propagation of illicit drugs under his watch was utterly unexpected.

And yet, as the years have gone by—and with the arrival of black tar heroin—came cracks in Gawain’s rigid grip. He came in a little later, left earlier. He wore a suit, until he didn’t. This was the effect of sweet Afghani pipe dreams and their velvet stranglehold. And through the chatter of his aides and suspicious cuts of meat stacked in the employee fridge, Principal Gawain came to know of Chester Holmes. They met, shook hands, and made one another a trusted business partner. It was the beginning of a new type of cartel.

Pulling out his phone, Chester began typing:

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Idk, not sure lol,” replied Gawain. “Can u meet me rn?”

“I don’t think so. Police are in the halls.”

“K hang on.”

The intercom beeped and crackled: Chester Holmes, please report to the front office.

He sighed and stood up, feeling the frozen meat shift on his stomach. Its crinkling, awkward frigidity made him feel numb, but he didn’t dare show it. This was determination, a will to survive. Leaving the classroom, he quickly stepped towards the office and, turning a corner, found himself facing a handful of police officers. One of them pointed up and said, “Was that for you?”

“Yeah,” he handed them his school ID and pretended to be distracted by the ceiling tiles. Their dogs began sniffing near his feet, panting heavily. A few officers eyed his midsection.

“All right,” one of them said. “Get going.”

Nodding, and attempting to appear as just a normal fat kid, he passed the police and kept walking. The act of evading suspicion was an art, but not a sustainable one. Sooner or later in these conditions, something was going to break. Or, worse, someone would talk.

Pushing through the doors of the front office, he gave the secretary a look and entered Principal Gawain’s office.

“My man!” Gawain said, arms wide. “How are you?”

“Not great,” Chester said, lifting his shirt. “Look at this—this is fucked. What’s going on?”

“Looks like a little drug raid.”

“Yeah. Of course, but no warning? Nothing?”

“Oh, relax—they’re not after you, man. Come on. They want the big boys, you know? The ‘el blacko taro heroino’. The, uh, ‘mucho drugo’. You, you’re not even on their radar.”

“Well, I don’t like unexpected surprises. Those dogs out there, if they sniffed my locker and found a bunch of frozen meat, they’d look into it.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s unusual.”

Gawain sighs, “We live in unusual times, Chester. This world is no longer the one I grew up in. It’s different . . . the people are different, their values are different. Our institutions, those three-letter agencies that, ostensibly, work to serve us, don’t. The Constitution, which was meant to preserve our natural rights, has been ignored for the past eight decades.” Reaching into his desk, he retrieves a spoon and a few black pebbles.

“You’re going to do this here? With the cops walking the halls?”

Ignoring him, Gawain continued: “I used to believe in all this . . . structure. But look at our communities, Chester. I see broken homes with people who look nothing like me, act nothing like me—I’ve been made an outcast on the same street I’ve lived in for the past twenty-two years. And for this reason, our neighbors eye one another with distrust.” Pulling a lighter from his pocket, he flicked it to life and let it dance under the spoon. “These conditions didn’t just appear across the country overnight, you know. They were created and molded by the administrative class. Sowing discontent, prompting a further consolidation of top-down power. Every possible upset, every shooting, every riot, it feeds into them. But, I feel like things are spinning even out of their control. The levers of power have been pushed in so many directions . . . the people that engineered them have long since returned to dust. And now,” he said, rolling up his sleeve, “the forces which organize and shape society are moving faster each day with no one behind the wheel. Have you thought about that?”

“What’s your point?”

Pulling a needle from under his desk, he sucks up the black liquid. “My point is that, sooner or later, everything is going to crash. The unelected bureaucrats that sneer at us from up high will lose their nerve, maybe push their narrative a little too far. Retaliation . . .” Gawain’s gaze drifted. “It’ll be bad. People will die, our neighborhoods will collapse, the family unit will be abandoned, and everything we recognize as normal will cease to be. And to that, I say ‘let it happen’, because, at the end of it all, we’ll have an opportunity to remake our society in the way it was meant to be. To dispose of those petty tyrants—that’ll make everything worthwhile.” His eyes seemed to wander through space before focusing back on Chester. “And this,” he said, holding the needle out, “this is going to bring us there a little faster.”

“You’re an accelerationist?”

“A what?”

Getting frustrated, Chester shook his head. “Never mind. Listen, I need to hide out here till they leave. The meat is thawing, and the smell is going to start getting attention.”

Tossing his needle aside, Gawain stood up. “You’ll be a sitting duck here, dude. The police chief is supposed to give me an update once they finish their first sweep through the school.”

“Then what the fuck are we supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, I don’t—well, hang on a second.” He peered through a small window on the far wall. “This is risky . . . but can’t you just run for it? Climb out through here and just get out?”

“I have over six-thousand dollars worth of exotic meat taped to me right now. If I drop even a single cut of rhinoceros, that’d set me back for weeks. This stuff doesn’t come in often.” Chester paused for a moment. “And also, if they see me sprinting away from the scene of an active police raid, they’re going to arrest me.”

“Look, I wasn’t going to say anything at first, but you have a real defeatist attitude right now.”

“Wait! The ceiling tiles,” Chester pointed up towards the ceiling. “I can hide up there till they’re gone.”

Gawain’s eyes went wide. “Yes! That’s it! Here,” he positioned his desk so Chester could climb towards the ceiling. “Get up there and be quiet. Once they’ve left, we can get you down and out of here.”

“Thank God.”

“You know,” Gawain said, pushing on Chester’s thighs to help him up, “this is really an Anne Frank situation we’ve got here.”

Chester didn’t say anything in response, but grunted as he slid up and into the ceiling, hidden from view. Now, he forced himself to remain still. His muscles were tight and his body lied rigid as Principal Gawain rushed to reassemble his office.

It was dark. A thick film of dust coated the small space above the ceiling tiles, and Chester’s breathing sent small plumes of it drifting through the air. By now, the meat had almost completely thawed, and its wet embrace sent juices running down his sides. Some of it was salvageable, sure, but the rest was gone—smooshed beyond repair. This was the price of freedom.

Chester could hear the building creaking from up here, but below, it was quiet. He could kind of peer through a small slit between two tiles, enough to be able to sense movement, but not much else. Then with a burst of sound, the door opened and two men stepped inside. One, what appeared to be the police chief, stepped towards Gawain’s desk.

“Mr. Gawain,” he began. “We’ve just finished our first sweep of the property. You’ve got yourself a very bad situation out there.”

“All right,” Gawain responded. “What’s going on?”

“Our dogs have found seventeen pounds of black tar heroin. Seventeen pounds. It’s unbelievable.”

“And that’s a lot?”

There was a pause.

“Yes, it’s a fucking lot. We’re talking thousands upon thousands of dollars worth of hard motherfucking drugs all across your school. It’s truly, truly unfathomable to have that much in one place.”

“Widely distributed, we mean,” the other voice added. “This shit was in every other locker. We haven’t done personal searches yet, but I can tell you right now, that no one is leaving this school till they’ve been patted down.”

“Okay, so, what happens now?” Gawain asked.

“Our team is beginning to go classroom-by-classroom, but I think you need to come with us in the meantime.”

Chester heard the building creak again, this time louder, and he could feel the reverberations beneath his stomach.

“I’m under arrest right now? Is that what’s going on?”

“We just need to get a statement, and then we’ll go from there. How does that s—”

Chester’s body collapsed through the ceiling tiles and slammed into the police chief, sending them both to the ground. The other officer let out a scream and stepped back, drawing his pistol.

“Wait, no!” Gawain shouted, climbing over his desk. Six shots rang out. Two lodged into Chester’s side, and the rest into Gawain, killing him instantly.

Chester awoke with a gasp, finding himself handcuffed to a hospital bed. What the—”, feeling his stomach, the meat was gone. He wasn’t in any pain, but his mind raced to determine what was going on.

In the corner, a police officer cleared his throat. “So, you’ve survived.”

Turning towards him, Chester responded, “What’s happening here?” He looked around the room and saw a few other officers standing around his bed.

“Well, you fell through the ceiling and killed the police chief during your descent,” one said. “The vertebrae in his neck shattered on impact. He died within seconds.”

“And this,” another officer groaned, stepping towards him with a slab of meat, “took two nine-millimeter bullets for you. Absorbed them completely. The doctors estimate that you’d be dead right now if it wasn’t taped to your body.”

Chester’s face went white. “Jesus Christ.” He jiggled his handcuffs. “And this?”

“You’re being charged with third-degree murder, assault on a police officer, assisting in the sale of illicit drugs, and disturbing the peace.” The officer sighed. “You’re going away for life, kid.”

Later that day, Chester was discharged from the hospital and taken to Milford Juvenile Detention Center to await trial. As time passed, he felt the cold, concrete interior begin to fade. He began paying attention to his peers, and found familiar faces. The empty stares, the track-marked arms. The former students of Milford High School. Welcome home.

A Sense of Loss and Reminiscence

Breathing in deeply, Walter Brimbly gazed out his window and watched as the neighborhood slowly came to life. Mothers waved goodbye as kids stepped onto their buses. Retirees picked weeds from their gardens. Birds flew across the sky as the sun rose from beyond the tree line. It was a nice view—life, as it had always been spoken about, was blooming. Being his age, Walter’s understanding of time, of it’s passing, had changed. Hours and days were interchangeable. Things have slowed to the point where reflection was living. Thinking back on the years where being in a routine seemed so . . . rigid, dull. The details, when motions felt automatic, seemed mundane. Normal. He longed for those times now.

Today, like most days, he sat alone holding his coffee as the neighborhood rose from its slumber. In the background, a clock ticked on and marked a faint rhythm. This was what Walter did in the mornings, afternoons, and evenings. It wasn’t much. Through the years since her passing, he’d found less to do. Less to contemplate, less to look forward to. Life had settled, so to speak. And here, now, Walter was engaged in that solemn placidity.

It was Autumn, just a few weeks from the beginning of November. The maple and hickory trees which covered the hillsides were warm, with yellow and orange leaves striking against the fair blue. The earth itself seemed rich, full, and bursting—a last swell of energy before the cold. This was her favorite time of the year, and when Walter’s mind drifted the most. He could see her, not as she was when she passed, but when she was young, healthy. When she was truly alive. Her hair, that curly red, danced in the breeze as they walked. Her eyes were always drawn above, looking towards something he could never discern. Her beauty, shining now in remembrance. He loved her. She was life.

They lived here in this house and built it as a place to grow old together. The floor always creaked at night, the roof moaned during heavy rains, but the foundation was solid. It was theirs, and with it, they were strong. But as they grew together, so did the longing for family, to give back to this earth something more.

* * *

Years passed. The floor creaked. The roof moaned. The foundation remained the same as it had always been. But it was waning.

A dream they shared, that of a full household, scampering feet, excited cries—that dream was hazy, and over time, had begun to lose its vivid color. She still smiled that sly smile, but behind her mask, he could feel the sorrow. They couldn’t have a child. All the effort, all the chances they took, it amounted to nothing. The seasons changed and time had let them be, but the feelings remained. The wanting. The warmth of family. Completeness.

In her twilight years, she became quiet. Prone to stillness, watching out that window, holding her coffee. Walter shared her pain in his heart, and understood it was now better left unspoken of. They had one another, and like they’d agreed many, many years earlier, it was enough for them.

But here, now in the present, Walter would clasp his hands together, speaking to her through gasps and wet cheeks. That longing, what had plagued them for so many years, sunk its daggers into him, and with her passing, left him to plead with God to let them be reunited once again.

This was the highest form of love. The kind that awakens one’s spirit at its absence. Let it be a reminder of what we truly care about: that which moves us—stirs our being—guides us towards that more perfect fulfillment. Even the losses, the feelings of shame, fear, sorrow, and desperation, these emotions bring that image into focus. Their bite may be what rouses us from our foggy day-to-day. Even if it hurts.

New Hire Orientation

Hey there, and good morning! Thank you for arriving on time, ready, and eager to start your first day. We are absolutely thrilled to have a new employee start their United Front Incorporated journey! To help prepare for our adventure, your itinerary for today is as follows:

• 8:00 AM: Start Orientation and Mandatory Paperwork

• 8:15 AM: Introduction to Company Mission

• 9:15 AM: Office Tour

• 9:30 AM: Coffee Break (Coffee, Muffins, Bagels, Adderall, and Lemonade is Available in Employee Lounge)

• 10:00 AM: Meet and Greet with C-Suite

• 10:15 AM: Product Showcase

• 12:00 PM: Client Team Introduction

• 12:15 PM: Lunch

• 12:20 PM: Employee Benefits Selection

• 1:00 PM: IT Equipment Meeting

• 2:00 PM: Coffee Break (Coffee, Muffins, Bagels, Adderall, Nicotine Tablets, and Lemonade is Available in Employee Lounge)

• 2:30 PM: Desk Set-Up

• 2:35 PM: September Company Forecast Message from CEO

• 4:35 PM: Coffee Break (Coffee, Muffins, Bagels, Adderall, Nicotine Tablets, Prozac, Craft Beer, and Lemonade is Available in Employee Lounge)

• 5:00 PM: Company Happy Hour

• 7:00 PM: Closing Thoughts from CEO

• 8:00 PM: Finish Orientation

I bet you’re thinking: Wow! That’s a lot! And you’d be right, it is a lot. Here at United Front Incorporated, we work hard and we play hard. You’ll see just how hard soon enough, but for now, we just need you to sign a few forms—you know, just the standard, boring stuff. While you’re working on those, let me fill you in on United Front Incorporated’s mission.

The first thing that comes to mind when people think ‘United Front Incorporated’ is usually our outstanding and unwavering commitment to our clients. We’re dedicated to them. We love them, and they love us. It’s that simple. To put it metaphysically, we made our clients. Not literally, of course, but in terms of who we want our clients to be. Through our product, marketing, and sales teams, we’ve identified the perfect traits for a perfect customer: they’re loyal, they’re strong, they’re responsive to our campaigns. They’re everything to us, and in turn, we do our best to be everything to them.

We serve our clients by bringing them what no other corporation can: unparalleled, high-quality, instantly engaging, retention-holding, personalized content. You probably knew that by now, but it’s completely true, United Front Incorporated has the largest market share in the entire video streaming industry space, and that’s for a reason. We’re constantly dreaming up new media—new shows, mini-series, movies, documentaries, you name it—and we deliver it to our clients exactly how they want it, entirely based on their demographic data. In fact, our analytics team can pull up any of our clients, any of the 2.6 billion United Front Incorporated subscribers, and tell you exactly what content to deliver them to drive engagement. You might have noticed it yourself—you’re undoubtedly one of our own clients already! When you finish watching your favorite show, the entertainment just doesn’t stop there, right? We always come to our clients with the next best thing, recommended just for them.

This is a lot of information, but I want to emphasize that last point. It’s important. We empower our clients through curated, personalized content recommendations, and in turn, they live for us. It’s what we call a feedback loop, and it’s quite a thing to look at once you get your computer credentials. From collecting a person’s demographic information, we can tell exactly what type of content will stimulate their tastes. Data is fascinating! And, speaking of data, let’s do a quick, thousand-foot overview of how exactly we categorize our client base.

We measure each client individually using the following criteria (weighted from most to least impactful on our content personalization algorithm):

1. Sex

2. Race

3. Racial Animus

4. Political Belief

5. Religious Affiliation

6. Educational Background

7. Wealth

8. Number of Children

9. Property Ownership

10. Criminal History

There are more—over two thousand additional measurement criteria—but it’s best just to start with the top ten to give an idea of what we’re working with.

You might have noticed that these criteria categories are broad, but the truth is, they’re broader than anyone could have possibly even imagined! The sheer number of possible permutations for just a single person is humongous, and with 2.6 billion United Front Incorporated subscribers, it takes an awful lot of computing power to identify the right content for them, a total of 174.7 gigawatts per day—that’s higher power consumption than all of our competitors combined. And, understanding our core mission of delivering content to our clients, we’ve reached a bit of a crossroads: keep expanding our power usage (wastefully) as we accept new subscribers, or do we be the change we want to see in the world?

With all this in mind, our C-Suite has found a means of reducing our technology overhead: changing our client base. That’s right. It sounds absurd, but it really couldn’t be any simpler. Instead of altering our energy-hogging process of content curation to suite the needs of an infinite number of possible personal interests, why don’t we just change the interests? We know that certain people like certain things; personal qualities are heavily correlated with an attraction towards specific types of media on an almost one-to-one basis. This is abundantly clear from our data analysis. So, if we modify our client base over time, we can limit our scope, limit our algorithm, and limit our expenditures across multiple other fronts.

Allow me to explain: with 2.6 billion United Front Incorporated subscribers, our company has more reach than virtually any other organization on the planet. Cool, right? With that influence, we can have a real, measurable impact on the demographics of almost half the globe! You’re probably thinking: Wait. How is this even possible? You can’t change a person’s immutable characteristics! And you’re right, at least in the short term. We have our production team working out the details on this, but the basic idea is that through small, subtle changes in the media a person consumes, they themselves change. Now, obviously, if we show someone a scary movie, they’re not going to start believing in ghosts! But, if we introduce ideas bit by bit, slowly, over the course of years or decades, then the norms themselves change. Likewise, the people change too.

We’re not just doing this out of our own self-interest, either. We’re a responsible corporation. Think back to before your time, back to the movies and shows popular in, for example, the 1950s. Could you even imagine anything so sexist, racist, and exclusionary being broadcast on screens today? And things only get worse if you keep traveling backwards in history. Thankfully, the times we live in today are much more Diverse, Inclusive, and Equitable. But why stop? We have a real opportunity to elevate social solutions to social problems. By homogenizing different groups of people, say, on the political or religious axis, we can effectively eliminate the social strive caused by those differences, and at the same time curate the exact right content to drive engagement. It fits together too well to deny.

We call this initiative: The Perfect Subscriber. It’s a working title, so bear with us! Our marketing department is dying for a rebrand.

It’s all rather brilliant, neutralizing seemingly incompatible elements—people, I mean—towards one common taste, but there are limitations to keep in mind as we move forward; namely, you can’t make these changes too quickly, or else risk alienating a large percent of your subscriber base—and in our case, that would equate to hundreds of millions of people we’d be depriving of content! No, no. We have to do it slowly. A sort of de-Balkanization campaign.

All said, this will take time. The weighted criteria used to personalize content in our algorithm, the ten I shared with you earlier, clearly cannot change overnight. But, with enough of a coordinated effort across our departments, we can effectively bridge those gaps. Political and religious affiliation to start, then maybe racial animus, and then the others. You may be left wondering how we’re going to tackle the coalescence of sex and race, and, well, we’re still working on that. Nothing is impossible, and as an LGBTQAS+ ally, we’re doing everything we can to meld the sexes into one, but time will tell for everything else.

Soon, when we look back at the programming shown in years past, we’ll be able to appreciate how far we’ve come. Maybe we can eventually model our subscribers to take on social causes as a part of their personality! Instinctually! And, at the same time, create the perfect, singular content to keep their eyes on our streaming platform. Wow!

The opportunity to bring this change really needs to be taken, and here at United Front Incorporated, we’re doing what no one else can. I know I mentioned that it was our C-Suite that came up this idea, but really, it was the genius vision of our CEO. You’ll be hearing a message from him later this afternoon, but I’ll let you in on a little secret: he’s going to announce his campaign for the presidency! Can you imagine? We can’t wait to see him bring his vision to the forefront of American policy, and we’re so excited to bring you on board.

Now, let’s do the office tour! I can’t wait to show you the ping-pong tables in the employee lounge!

Air Duct Dreams

Another lonely day is upon me. That thought stung me for many, many years when I first found myself here. Its rigidity was cold and sharp. But, perhaps, it focused my mind. Made it quicker and more keen.

Prior to me being lodged up here . . . it is difficult to say what those years were like. Tumultuous. Hazy. Uncoordinated. The boundaries of my memory have been made loose over the years. Much like my current situation, I can only see down one corridor at a time, one narrow line to follow. The grander picture of my past experience, as they say, has been replaced by one linear focus. But I suppose this should have been expected. The present shapes the past. Being up here in the air duct of a local Walmart has given me enough time to think on things.

The ducts themselves are rather spacious, I can easily crawl on my hands and knees from one side of the building to the other without issue. There are sections tall enough for me to sort of crouch-walk for exercise, which I’ve made extensive use of. Now, my legs are larger and stronger than they’ve ever been before. The metal of the duct system is cool to the touch, which I found uncomfortable at first, but have since grown accustomed to, and even appreciative of. However, the greatest treat of my present circumstance are the vents from which I can peer downwards and see the masses of people wander around, from isle to isle, from one place to another. They form a sort of system, one that is difficult to describe. They way they move . . . it resembles that of an ant mound—it’s extremely stratified—but perhaps that implies some sort of collective consciousness, which is absent here. I will have to think on this more before settling on an appropriate analogy.

This voyeurism is something I would’ve stood strongly against when I was one of them, one of those people down there. It would’ve gone against my belief in a right to privacy. But I think it is abundantly clear, now more than ever, that such a right doesn’t exist. Maybe it did at one point, but no longer. The age in which we live is perhaps defined by surveillance; so much so, that our people, our common understanding of the world has been warped as a result. What I mean is that the conditioning of the 21st century man to accept his observance is so complete, so baked into the core of our everyday interactions, that it has been rendered mundane. Normal.

I recognize this is nothing new. Far more eloquent people have raised this point a thousand times or more. However, I believe I’m in the best possible position to observe this fact dans la nature. Being here allows me to watch people and study their habits. I make inferences based on what I see. It’s fascinating.

For instance, between the slats in this vent, I can see a male Walmart employee inching closer and closer towards peering through cracks in the door of the women’s dressing room. Interesting.

We wait a moment and notice an obese, balding man shuffling towards the girl’s toy section. He’s sweating hard, looking over his shoulder. Interesting.

I call these small-scale observances ‘micro-events’, of which, I see hundreds on a daily basis, maybe even more. Micro-events are intimate and personal, but give us clues as to the complicated nature of life and the various forces which organize people into stratums. Over the years here, I’ve made a number of insights which are not wholly infallible, but provide some sort of basic truth within them:

1. No one looks at the ceiling in department stores.

2. A person’s gait—the way they walk—is easily the best indicator as to their place within our society.

3. Tattoos are class signifiers. They signal moving downwards in class. It wasn’t like this in the past, but it is now.

4. People are very aware of their place within the social hierarchy, and they demonstrate this physically.

5. The book section in most department stores mostly exists to sell cheap romance novels to old women.

6. Junkies and tweakers shop for clothes that are far too large in order to hide their bodies.

7. Screaming children typically belong to families with weak fathers.

8. Women will sniff an item—it could be virtually anything—before deciding to purchase it.

9. Walmart is an excellent containment zone for people who couldn’t possibly be employed anywhere else.

There are more, undoubtedly, but most seem too obvious to be worth listing here. I’ll have to do more thinking on this.

In terms of my own welfare, there are some challenges. Most notably, Walmart, by virtue of being open twenty-four hours per day, makes it extremely difficult to determine the time up here. My internal clock has long since been out of sync, and my sleeping schedule is mostly dictated by my body giving out on me. This is frustrating, especially when I have my sights trained on an interesting person. I’ll try to fight off the gloomy lure of sleep, but my chest will grow heavy, my breathing will slow, and my eyes will close, leaving me to wonder what sort of inference I could’ve gained if I’d just stayed awake another minute.

And here, now, I can feel that sensation again. To embrace the cool metal. To rest.

I will strive to have more insight when we meet again.

Rogue Manatee

On an unknown date in the winter of 1999, a fisherman out on a remote Florida creek had, unknowingly, driven his boat over a large, rotund West Indian Manatee. There was no one around. The boat’s propeller left a total of eight cuts into the manatee, all of which were deep—not so deep as to be life threatening—but deep enough to puncture the animal’s thick, blubbery hide.

This is doubly unfortunate: first, because of the harm done to an innocent creature, and second, because the cuts had, by some random accident, been left in the shape of a swastika.

Two months later, a college student visiting a tourist center in Apollo Beach spotted what appeared to be a manatee resting in the nearby warm, discharged waters of a TECO power plant. On its back, white scar tissue bore the unmistakable symbol of Nazi Germany. She immediately dialed 911 and officers were dispatched to the scene.

* * *

The governor of Florida, Kenneth Mackay, had been briefed on the situation. His aides sat with him in his mobile command center, or MCC as he called it, and he practiced a short speech meant to calm the tumultuous hearts of Florida citizens as they rode out towards the site of the incident. “There is not,” he began, “a more serious threat to peaceful life in Florida than that of Nazism. Man or manatee, we make no exception for hate, regardless of which species spews it out.” His aides nodded at him in approval. Another patted his shoulder and handed him his prescription bottle, which he waved off. “Maybe after,” he said. “I’m feeling good today.”

When they arrived at the tourist center, Governor Mackay was greeted by the Apollo Beach police department who’d established a perimeter surrounding a small stage and podium. “Sir,” the chief said, “we’ve searched the area. The manatee has fled the scene. We’re beginning a larger sweep of the surrounding waterways, but,” his voice trailed off, “you know how elusive they can be.”

Mackay nodded, “Thanks for your work here. Tell me, how’s the local pulse? How do people feel?”

“Not good.” The police chief held his stare at the governor for a long time.

* * *

As he approached the podium, Governor Mackay noted the large swath of press and cameras surrounding the stage. They’re hungry, he thought. They’ve been wanting to get a hit on you for so long now, Ken.

He straightened his tie and leaned into the microphone.

“My fellow Floridians,” he began, “I am sure you’ve heard the news lately. I am sure you’ve felt the same pain in your hearts that I’ve felt. This is, by all accounts, the greatest threat to our democracy that there’s ever been to date. What we have here,” he said, motioning towards the nearby waterway, “is a rogue agent, a rogue manatee, who feels as though our country is his safe haven.” He paused for a moment, looking directly into as many cameras as he could. “Let me be clear. It is not.”

You’ve made a good start, Mackay thought. You’d better not fuck it up, Ken. Though, if you did, it wouldn’t be the first time. In his mind, he heard a faint cackle.

“I am certain that the great police force of Apollo Beach are doing everything they can, searching every river, every lake, and every puddle within the local vicinity to track down this threat. What we need now is a concerned and alert citizenry,” he said, pointing towards the cameras. “If you see something, say something. There is not a more serious threat to peaceful life in Florida than that of Nazism. Man or manatee, we make no exception for hate, regardless of which fuckin’ spic—goddamn it—my apologies, which species spews it out. Thank you.” He stood there, silent for a moment. “We’ll, uh, now begin taking questions if you have them.”

Congratulations, Ken. Who would’ve thought you’d be able to fuck up a speech condemning a manatee? Now look at them, he thought, you’ve just thrown them red meat. Another hit on Governor Mackay . . . it’ll sell papers around here. But, I suppose we both knew you weren’t the man for this job. No, you belong in a padded room. I mean, just listen to yourself. Listen to us!

He waved towards the press, who’d moved closer. “Governor,” one began, “can you please clarify your message? Did you use the word ‘spic’ as a slur towards Latinos, or was this just another verbal slip up?”

“No, no, no—we value our Hispanic community here in Apollo Beach, as well as the rest of Florida. I misspoke when I said that. Of course I wouldn’t use a racial slur.”

“Sir,” another reporter said. “You just mentioned that you wouldn’t use a slur, but if you’ll recall from earlier last year, when dealing with the tiger who’d escaped from Lowery Park Zoo in Tampa, the one who was exclusively stalking poor, black neighborhoods, you did in fact use a racial slur in your speech at that time. How can we be sure this incident wasn’t intentional?”

That’s a good question, Ken. How can we be sure? These, what do you want to call it this time, verbal slip ups? They happen far too often to just be simple mistakes. Though, I’m sure you can reassure yourself that it really wasn’t you. Not the ‘real’ you, whatever that means.

“This incident,” Governor Mackay began, “this verbal slip up, is not conducive towards our conversation here. Let’s refocus on the threat at hand: the manatee with Nazi sympathies.”

One Hispanic reporter pushed his way towards the front of the crowd. “If you have a problem with me, cerdo, why don’t you come down here and talk?”

“I feel as though we’re not being civil towards one another here—”

“You couldn’t even catch a Nazi manatee,” another reporter shouted. “Why should we trust you?”

“No manatee ever called me spic,” the Hispanic reporter said. A few others began repeating it, and a moment later, the press crowd was chanting ‘No manatee ever called me spic, nuh uh!’

“People,” the governor pleaded, “please calm down!” He looked back and saw the police chief with his hand on his holster, looking nervous.

A reporter climbed on stage and approached Governor Mackay, “We ain’t your people!”

“Sir, please—”

The reporter pushed the governor and they fell to the ground. From behind the two of them, three shots rang out. And then another. Governor Mackay suddenly felt a rush of cold, and as he pushed the reporter off of him, he noticed that his neck was bleeding. The reporter had three shots to his side, and wasn’t breathing. Ken looked over and saw the police chief with his gun out, looking aghast. The noise from the crowd was beginning to fade. The sky up above seemed to lose its blue hue, but in a way, he felt calm. As though his heart realized what was happening. His pulse slowed. Time slowed.

Well, this is the way it ends, the voice in his mind began. You and me, going out together. What fun, but . . . we should have seen this coming. After all, you being you, and me being you, there wasn’t any other way for this life to go. That is, us on the end of a gun. I had a good time, though. And, frankly, I don’t think I’d really want it any other way. Goodbye, Ken. Maybe now you’ll get some peace.

* * *

After the incident, the Nazi manatee case had intensified, with calls to find the creature broadcast on every local news station for weeks. The state of Florida held a special election to replace the late Governor Mackay. One candidate, who ran on an exclusively anti-manatee platform, won with an overwhelming majority—the largest win percentage in the state’s history.

To date, the rogue manatee was never found. Some had speculated it had fled south, down to Argentina or Chile, but any real, tangible evidence for this is slim.

The Gull Attacks

It’s a Tuesday, which means I’m sunbathing. I’ve found that doing so in preparation for a significant artistic undertaking has led me to my greatest successes, as well as my greatest failures. It’s a sort of spiritual exercise. I sit here, open, naked, and I feel the sun’s warmth on my skin. It’s a sort of cleanse. In doing so, I’m enabling my inner nature—or whatever you may call it—to come flowing out onto the page. As a poet, it’s a personal practice. And likewise, poetry is a personal art, one that may reveal the beauty of the writer, if they allow themselves to become open. Understanding this has set me ahead of the game, insofar as being wholly, completely authentic.

My contemporaries, oppositely, have irrevocably attached themselves to inauthenticity, in one way or another. Athelward, a perfect example of a dull and repetitive poet—I loathe to admit he shares my profession—has spent his life suckling the nearest fat aristocrat with money to spend. His works more closely resemble that of a wanting teenage girl than a distinguished and skilled poet (a particularly egregious example of his poetry comes to mind, a piece titled The Battle of Maldon—completely unoriginal and trite). The rest of my peers here aren’t any different, pelting out one low verse after another. It’s all meaningless, but, to their advantage, the overwhelming majority of the local lordship are ignorant of what makes truly beautiful art. They’d rather hear of their own exploits, romanticized beyond reproach than something that reflects the world around us.

This is the circumstance which I am forced to navigate. Understandably, then, my previous works have amounted to very little. My latest, The Gull Attacks, had it’s life cut short after having been circulated up the chain of royal Northumbria. It goes as follows:

The Gull Attacks

Lo there, and hold

In the view that there gull

Whomst dives deep, bold

Towards ye who stumble

With beak and claw he tears asunder

Suffer now under that there gull

And bear ye mark of wings like thunder

It’s an impressive piece! One that had taken me upwards of fourteen months to perfect, with its final release in the summer of 1011. But, as an artistic expression that challenges its readers on an intellectual level, it did not get far in the court of the local lord, the King of Northumbria, Alfred the Third.

Alfred the Third, referred to as ‘Alfred’ or just ‘the king’ from this point forward, is not an intellectual. He isn’t smart. He doesn’t appreciate fine artistry, and unfortunately, he serves as the trendsetter here in his kingdom. His advisor on arts and culture intercepted The Gull Attacks after I’d released it for his consideration and wrote me back. His response reads:

I didn’t understand this, and likewise, I didn’t enjoy it. Please cease sending the court your stories.

- William Clarke, cultural and artistic advisor to King Alfred III

This was troubling on two fronts. First, it’s not a story. Second, my chances to make a real impression on the court have begun to dwindle. I’ve had other outstanding poems in the past, of course, but The Gull Attacks is clearly my greatest yet (as an aside, it’s somewhat embarrassing to share the content of my earlier works with others, especially when I’ve created better works since; perhaps it’s a curse of mine to be touched with such artistic mastery that my previous efforts seem somewhat quaint in comparison). Regardless, my window of opportunity is closing, that much is clear. To solidify my place within Northumbrian history, I must put something together soon.

* * *

By now, the sun has been beating on me for a while, and I can feel a headache coming on. Art is born from pain—good art, I mean. The Gull Attacks, for example, was written under the agony of having been kicked by a horse (a few times over the course of fourteen months). That sort of acute suffering is a tool used to sharpen the mind, and in doing so, will allow me to generate true inspiration. And here, along the rugged, rocky expanse of Briton, it seems as though inspiration would be easy to come by. The Gull Attacks was subtly grounded on my experience of watching two fishermen be hassled by ‘wings like thunder’. A previous work of mine (not suited for retelling at the present moment) captured the raw emotion of a young woman being bitten and dragged out to sea by a large seal. It all coalesces into what I will refer to as the poet’s experience. The desire for those scenes, to bear witness to them and everything new, is precisely why I left the foothills of Wessex and traveled north, eventually settling where I lie now.

My lodge is located on the eastern edge of Noreshire, a medium-sized town bordering Alfred’s castle. It is, in fact, as far away from the town center as I could have possibly built it. As a poet, having some sort of refuge from the noise of everyday life—life within the walls of Noreshire—is virtually a requirement. And out here, it’s calm. I sunbathe on Tuesdays, a luxury afforded by the open sky and vast fields of Northumbria. The rest of the week is dedicated to practicing my artistry. I do get the occasional traveler, usually someone on their way to the king, but most of the time, it’s quiet.

From my periphery, I sense some motion. I sit up from the ground and notice a pair of men on horses approaching.

“Ho there,” I say, getting up. “Who are you?”

The men dismount and walk up. “We’ve summons from the royal court,” one says. “We’re looking for a writer around these parts.” The other, a pudgy man, holds out a piece of paper and hands it to me.

On behalf of his Highness, King Alfred III,

The court is seeking an educator. One who can read, write, transcribe, and mentor the eldest heir of the kingdom in matters of art and literature is requested by royal authority.

“Is there any particular reason you’re naked?” One of them asks.

“It’s a personal practice. I’m a poet.” I eye them for a moment. “Are you seeking me out specifically?”

“We were told there was someone out here who wrote,” the pudgy one says.

“Who told you that?”

“King’s advisor, William Clarke.”

The other one squints at me, looking concerned, “Are you, uh . . . by any chance the guy who wrote something called The Seagull?”

I pause for a moment. “Yes.”

They nodded and went quiet.

* * *

I get dressed and the fat one helps me onto the back of his horse. It’s about an hour’s ride through town and to Alfred’s castle gate. Noreshire, bordering the most significant marker of authority in what amounts to the whole northern half of Briton, is understandably—unfortunately—stocked with bureaucrats and peddlers. It’s difficult, insofar as being wholly draining. You can’t walk more than a few seconds without encountering some traveling backwater hick trying to sell you cheap jewelry or wooden idols. Or an young socialite haranguing a castle guard for entry to the royal court.

Being a poet both by trade and by nature, it’s easy to identify that these people are the scum of the earth. If I were to stop and read them The Gull Attacks, it’s artistry would not only go unrecognized, but also enrage them. In my own experience, trying to engage them with the beauty of verse, of the poet’s experience, is a dangerous exercise in frustration. Early into my career, back when I thought people could be saved, I attempted to make that connection between artist and man, but I’ve found that most lacked the cognitive ability to appreciate poetry as a whole. Oftentimes, after straining to get them to understand a simple concept—something small to start out with—they’d give up almost immediately and begin getting aggressive. When I lived in Wessex as a young man, I’d been hit enough times by enough philistines to realize that they’re beyond redemption. Art, it seems, is that sort of liminal barrier that separates those with acuity and those without.

We ride through the castle gate and into the inner courtyard, where a few men in armor direct us to hitch the horses and proceed inside. Two great wooden doors open wide as we enter, revealing a wide foyer, and immediately, the scent of roasted lamb and herbs washes over us. The interior itself is lit with hanging barristers, torches, and a large fireplace set against the far wall. The floors were made of stone, but were well-covered with thick rugs and animal skins. Ahead of us sat a large chair atop a small series of stairs. There were clumps of people conversing, and their chatter filled the warm air.

The two men who’d brought me here motion toward an older man dressed in robes. “That,” one of them says, “is William Clarke.”

William, by now, had noticed our entry and was walking over. His gait is quick for an old man, and his face wears an expression of determination. “Gentlemen,” he says as he gets near, “thank you for your work in finding our writer. Truly, your speed and efficiency are recognized here. Please,” he gestures towards a corridor, “get some food and rest.”

“Aye, we’re off now,” says the pudgy man, patting my shoulder. “Best of luck to you.”

“Now,” says William, “I have to thank you for coming on such short notice. I trust you weren’t preoccupied?”

“Truthfully, I was working in preparation for a significant artistic undertaking.”

William purses his lips and nods. “I am certain that this is somewhat confusing for you, being asked to come here. Did our couriers show you the notice?”

“It mentioned the need for an educator.”

“That’s correct. We need one who can teach and mentor our king’s eldest heir. His upbringing, you understand, has a direct and tangible impact on his ability to rule when that time comes.”

“Certainly, I agree. But I must admit that I am puzzled here . . . you see, I’ve written a large number of poems. I’ve sent one here before, and it seems as though my work was perhaps too ethereal, too intricate, and may not have received the most welcoming reception.”

“You’re The Seagull writer, correct?”

“Yes, well, it’s titled The Gull Attacks.”

“Ah,” William says. “Yes, you’re the one we’re looking for.” He pauses for a moment. “I feel as though you may need some background as to our approach here. Please, follow me.”

He turns and leads me towards a corridor on the other side of the foyer. We walk for a while in silence, passing other officials as they move about with purpose, and we eventually descend a small staircase towards a doorway terminating at the end of the hallway. The lighting, as we proceed, seems to grow weaker. I can hear a sound emanating from the other side of the door—something resembling humming.

We stop before entering, and William turns toward me. “What we’re aiming to do here, is establish a multi-tiered educational program.” He pushes the door open, revealing a small room and a large, chubby teenager sitting at a table, mumbling to himself and slapping a piece of paper set in front of him. Not angrily, but more so in a playful manner. His cheeks are bloated and his eyes seem to bulge out as they peer downwards.

“This is King Alfred’s son, prince James the First.”

I begin to speak, but don’t.

“I’d like to explain what it is we’re trying to achieve.”

“He’s retarded.”

“No, no, not retarded,” says William, “he’s soft of the mind. A major difference, one that can be overcome with the right education.”

“I’m confused. You want me to teach a retarded kid?”

“Yes, partially. You see, for James, we can’t jump right into excellency. It’s too difficult for the untrained mind to immediately understand something grand in both scope and form, especially in regards to reading and writing. It’s virtually impossible. So instead, we’d like to work him up to that sort of level. We want to start him off with something easy and banal so that he can begin to understand the concepts.”

“But,” I say, “my poetry isn’t easy. It isn’t banal. It’s artistry.” I stare at James. “I think there’s been some sort of mix up. My work is certainly not entry-level stuff.”

“I really don’t know how to explain it to you, but I’ve read your story, The Seagull thing, and I can just say that after discussing it with King Alfred, we feel that it’s indicative of someone who can provide a sort of, eh, beginner introduction to art and literature.”

“Jesus Christ.” l look at William, “What do I get out of this?”

“You have to understand,” he says, voice growing stern, “this is a matter of national security. The governing ability of our future leadership, and everything that goes into it, is a matter of national security. Him being able to understand the written word is necessary. You’ll start him off, and then once you’ve done what you can, our other contacts will pick up from there.”

“What other contacts?”

“A few others. One’s named Athelward. He’s from these parts, too.”

“Fuck.” I pause for a few moments. “Do I have a choice in this?”

“No.”

* * *

Some time had passed since William left me to tutor James. I’ve been sitting here, watching him slap paper this entire time, mumbling something. I can’t discern what. The room we’re in is, what I assume to be, James’ bedroom. It features some furnishings (a few cupboards line the walls, a few of which are stocked with ink and paper; a large bed is situated in the corner; and a table set in the center of the room), but is otherwise lacking in every way that made the main foyer so grand. The stone floor is bare and cold to the touch. Our sole source of light is a few candles scattered here and there.

“James,” I say.

He stops slapping and looks up at me. His eyes appear vacant.

“Do you know how to write?”

“Uh huh,” he spurts out. He sits up, pulls out a quill from his pants pocket, and draws a single line on the paper.

“Hmm.” I sigh. “Do you know . . . words? Can you write down a word?”

He stares at the paper for what feels like a long time. This is an uncomfortable task, I must admit. Being here, watching this . . . kid, trying to get him to do something. I’m out of my element. While there have been times in the past where I’ve showcased my work, trying to get a small audience to understand the intricacy behind my poems, teaching something so basic feels markedly different.

“James,” I say, motioning to the paper, “may I show you what I mean?” He hands me the quill and slaps the paper twice. I take it, gingerly, and flip the paper over to it’s clean side. On it, I write: The horse rode to town. “Now, can you recreate that as best you can?”

I give him back the quill and I can sense him gripping it with force. He mumbles something and begins scribbling something on the paper, but hides it behind his arm, so that I can’t see.

Eventually, he finishes and slides it back to me:

O’er lowland and rock shore alike

There, in its prime, stride a beast like no other

Tall and long in stature, and wild in eye, it match ye rider

Hold, Boudicca, and note thy rike

Of free expanse, of our free sist’r and free broth’r

Ride, ye beast, hold her high, let her shout of a land lit brighter

To war and battle cry

For home and race alike

For us now, she will die

“What the fuck,” I say. The words are flawless—literally flawless. Its rhythm goes along, beat by beat. It’s utterly captivating. I turn towards James, who sits there rocking side to side, continuing to mumble. “How the fuck did you do this?” I ask him, but he doesn’t answer. This must be some kind of joke; I get up and open the door just enough to peek through, and yet, there’s no one around.

I sit back down. There’s simply no way this is possible. “James,” I say, pointing to the paper, “can you do that again? Can you write another poem there?”

He sort of nods, but, considering how large his cheeks are, it’s difficult to say for certain. Regardless, he grabs the quill and begins scribbling again. This time, I lean forward, making sure to note his writing.

Where Alph, that sacred river, ran

Beyond incense-bearing trees

Gave life to e’er a humble man

Of Kubla Kahn’s decree

And now, in weathered dreams again

That humble man, a memory

Finds Alph, rolling there, leading him

Towards high reverie

“My God.” I lean back into my chair, and James resumes slapping the paper. What the fuck is happening? That wasn’t some sort of inexplicit miracle—not twice in quick succession. Not twice.

I stare at James, who, by all accounts is incapable of speaking a single coherent word, but is somehow able to pelt out expertly-crafted poems in, what? Seconds? The Gull Attacks took me fourteen months—over a fucking year—to perfect. But a retard put together something even better.

I snatch the paper between slaps and stow it in my coat pocket. “Listen to me,” I say to James, “don’t do anything.” He looks at me with that sort of . . . I don’t know, blank expression. “I’ll be back, but for right now, I need to you stay put. If anyone asks you to write something, don’t.” I stand up and head out the door, running towards the stairs and the corridor back to the main foyer.

* * *

There, William is approaching the chair in the center of the room with a set of papers under his arm, and I rush over to intercept him.

“William, sir—”

He turns to me in surprise. “You! Watch yourself! Why are you back here so quickly?” He grabs my shoulder, “You’d better get yourself down there and resume your work.”

“Please, I need some more information: have you ever tutored James yourself?”

“No.”

“You’ve never seen him write?”

“No.”

“Has anyone ever seen him write anything?”

“No,” he says, his voice getting sharp. “I’m an advisor to the king, understand? I don’t have the time to watch over him myself—James can barely speak, he’s soft in the mind, I doubt anyone’s ever seen him jot more than two words before—”

“Is this our man?” a voice echoes from the chair. Atop it sat a man, middle-aged with gray flecks in his hair. He’s dressed in white.

William turns from me and does a quick bow, “Yes, it is, sire.”

“Good! Come here, both of you, I’d like to discuss how things are going with,” his voice went a little lower, “James.”

William, with his hand on my back, pushes me towards King Alfred. “Sire,” he begins, “I’ve just sent our man here to start James’ tutoring, maybe about an hour ago.”

“All right, well, that wasn’t too long.” Alfred eyes me. “What’s come of it?”

“Uh, there’s not been much development yet, you know. We’re just starting out, and as such, James is, uh . . . beginning to get acclimated to the English language.”

“Okay. I understand that you’re sort of the introduction to this whole thing, right?”

“That’s correct, sire,” says William.

Alfred looks at me, “And that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone’s got their lot in life; perfect case in point, some of us can be truly great writers and poets, while others can be skilled at different things. I read your, hmm, what was it—the bird poem, and I immediately thought: ‘Wow, this guy would be great for an introduction to literature,’ you know, something small to start with.”

“Truthfully, your honor,” I say, reaching into my coat pocket, “I’ve been working on these for some time.” I hand him the paper. “They’re, I think, a cut above anything you’ve read by me before.”

Alfred and William share a look. “All right,” the king says, “let me see.”

* * *

“Wow,” Alfred says, leaning back with the paper in hand. “That’s really something. You can sort of feel the beat of the words as you read them, you know? That sort of rhythm. That’s . . . wow.”

William looks at me. “These are truly impressive. Are these finished? Your poems, I mean. Are they going to be published?”

“Well,” I say, “I do want to spend a little more time with them, but they’re in the final phases, certainly. The last part may be the most difficult—naming them, and then the distribution.”

“Absolutely,” says Alfred. “I can absolutely see that.” He and William share a nod. “You know, I think we may have been, hmm, perhaps too quick in our initial judgement of you. The Seagull was a sort of warm-up, I’m sure, to your poetic abilities.”

“The Gull Attacks was a masterpiece by my own standards,” I say, “but it’s for a certain audience. Its subtle intricacy may elude most readers. These, oppositely, have that sort of mass appeal.”

“Oh yes, definitely.”

“I had to actually dumb myself down in order to even write them.”

“That’s fascinating,” says William.

“Indeed,” says Alfred. “I’d like to offer you something—and this isn’t how we normally do things, but I’m left with a sort of artistic hunger from your work—I’d like to offer you a court position here. I’m sure William would agree with me when I say that we’ve been moved by your poetry.”

“My God,” I say. “I’d be honored, sir.”

“Please,” he says, “it’d be nothing but a benefit for us here—art, as I’m sure you’re aware, is an integral part of any ruling body. And your art is something we can’t lose.”

“Now,” says William, “sire, I feel as though we should revisit our discussion of James and his education.”

“Yes, of course.”

“With the revelation of our good poet’s abilities here,” he motions to me, “we may want to save his tutorage for later.”

“He’s too advanced, you mean?”

“That’s right. I’m suggesting that we replace him with someone like Athelward for now, and once the beginner lessons have been completed, we can then bring in our man here.”

“You’ve got an excellent point. James is, well, he needs to be acclimated to writing. You,” Alfred says, looking at me, “your work is just on another level at this point. It’d be too much for him.”

“No, no, sire,” I say, beginning to sweat. “You must understand, we’ve made great progress over just the past hour. I truly don’t mind, James is an excellent student.” I lean in, “This, as I’m sure you know, is a matter of national security. I don’t think I’d trust someone like Athelward to be able to handle the matter.”

“Hmm,” Alfred pauses for a moment. “That’s true—the weight of this situation is tangible. You may be correct . . . since you’ve been ingratiated, it may be somewhat of a faux pas to remove you now.” He leans back, deep in thought. “Yes, I think that’s the way to approach this. Go on, and return to your tutoring. Athelward can wait.”

“Thank you, sir.” I shake his hand, bow, and head back to return to James.

“And one more thing,” says the king, “please, as soon as you can, bring us another one of your poems. I’d like to share it with the entire court.”

* * *

Moving through the corridor and down the stairs to James’ bedroom seems more natural this time. The stone brick walls and dim lighting takes on more of an intimate tone as I descend and, upon reaching the door, I feel this is what I was meant to do.

While it is somewhat troubling to take what isn’t wholly mine, I cannot help myself. The poetry’s beauty is inarguable, and if one were to really think about it, I am simply helping to broadcast it out to where it’ll be most appreciated—and make no mistake, James’ art would’ve never seen the light of day had I not taken the initiative up there. But, more importantly, with a court position comes recognition, and with recognition comes authority. Here, finally, I can distribute my own work with royal approval. Have it be recognized as the masterpiece it is. James is just going to help me get established.

I open the door to find James facedown on the floor, next to the table.

“James,” I say, “come on. Get up.” I give him a gentle kick to his side, but he doesn’t respond. I give him a harder kick . . . still nothing. “Fuck.” I get down and roll him with great effort. His rotund body slumps over, and I can immediately sense that he isn’t breathing. His wrist is red, with the quill stuck deep into the vein. Looking down, the entire front half of his body is soaked in blood.

I stand up and grip the wall. “Jesus Christ.” On the table lies a paper marked with scribbles—I clench it with trembling fingers, and notice that it reads:

As I sit here, my mind remains a fog

Thick fingers graze my face, which takes strange form

And beneath this wick’d stone, my life, a cog

For what dull purpose does my blood run warm?

To slap thy paper, write at thy command?

To be hid away beyond thy loved sight?

A life like mine, I cannot understand

I don’t think I can carry on my fight,

Can’t carry on this lost and empty life

To be born this way, I’ll return the same

My lifeblood

Spills over

I bolt up the stairs and into the foyer. “Please!” I shout, “I need help!”

The room goes quiet, and the king stands up, “Guards!”

“It’s James, he’s dead!” I yell.

A group of armored men push by me and sprint down the corridor. “My God,” says Alfred, running now, “what happened? My son! What’s going on?”

“Here,” I push the paper into his hands, “read it! He . . . I think he killed himself.”

The kings eyes scan the poem, flicking from side to side, line to line. “What is this?”

“My lord!” The group of men return, hoisting James into the room. “My lord! He’s not breathing. There’s no pulse!”

Alfred’s stares at James’ limp body, “My son . . .” The king’s eyes fixate upon the quill in James’ wrist. “You . . .” he says, turning towards me, “you, what the fuck did you do!”

A pair of guards draw their swords on me. “My king,” I begin, “that paper was left on the table when I found him . . . you must believe me!”

“Is that a joke? You know James’ condition! He can’t even speak, let alone write anything! This,” he says, gripping the paper with white knuckles, “this is your work!”

“No! Sir—”

“Shut up!”

“He wrote it himself, I swear to God!”

“Guards, hold him!” Alfred paces back and forth, and then looks at his son. “You there,” he says to one of the guards, “hand me your weapon.”

“God, no! No, no, I didn’t do anything! Why would I? Look at him, it’s his wrist! Why would I kill him? This was suicide!”

The king stands before me, blade in hand. “You’ve ruined my life.” And I feel a sharp intrusion into my stomach.

* * *

The feeling doesn’t hurt, and to be honest, it doesn’t feel like much of anything. Like the sensation of being lowered into water. I fall to my knees and then onto my side. People are talking, but everyone sounds as though they’re whispering through a curtain. And the floor, I can feel it’s warmth now. This is the moment, I think, the one where every color is swirling in perfect clarity, one in which all of my senses have been titillated and are now coming down from that high. I feel as though I’ve been out sunbathing for some time. And in my mind, I can see the words and the verses all coalescing into what I’ll call the poet’s experience.