Roughly 500

The Secret Oliver Didn't Keep

2010-01-18T22:14:00.004-06:00

Oliver told a secret he wasn't supposed to tell. It made him worried. It was something secret, something no one could know. Something that would turn bad if anyone found out.

There weren't many people around so soon everyone knew. And while the secret wasn't about Oliver, everyone looked down on him. He cried and worried all day and spent his time to himself, hidden far from the whispers of everyone else.

It hurt him more than the person whose secret he'd lost that all these people knew. He was the one on trial, being rebuked and laughed at openly. He was punished for his words.

How it got out was an accident, none of the fault aimed at Oliver. There was nothing he could do, but still he felt responsible. To tell you the truth, what he was told to keep secret was of little consequence. It meant almost nothing that everyone knew.

But he dwelled and dwelled, alone in his small and well-kept house, meaningless now in his eyes. He peeked at the window to see if people talked, and he found out they did. Everyone knew and they were still telling. He couldn't forgive himself for letting the secret out. He couldn't bare to think everyone in town knew he couldn't keep a secret. It seemed so meaningless once he looked at it. So he'd spilled a small, tiny secret?

But they knew. And talked about him, saying the bad things. He was trapped inside, and trapped by the words of the people. As the day wore on the tension grew. Everyone knew and it was all they could talk about, all they could think about, and Oliver knew it. He couldn't live with himself, couldn't go back out there.

Oliver was doomed to stay in his house forever because everyone around him would alwys judge him, constantly concerned with that tiny secret he let slip that one time. No matter what he did or who he was, the secret and the people's thoughts would haunt him.

But really it didn't even matter because the entire town was destroyed by a meteor that night.

Don's Breakfast

2009-08-13T08:35:00.006-05:00

Don got up early, unlike every Saturday, for breakfast with his friends. They had been meeting for breakfast at a familiar diner, with familiar staff, for years, and had every now and then offered to Don, "Come have breakfast with us."

He had always refused, and they accepted his answer because they accepted him, and his non-social ways. The ways he always left church after the service—before coffee and doughnuts—and never stood around to chat much upon meeting someone he knew, feeling a genuine smile and hello were all that were required of him, and spent most of his time with himself, never having taken a wife, but always busy with things around the house and various minor projects now that he had retired from the power plant.

Well this Saturday wasn't like that. He said he would go to breakfast with them, and they were happy of that. It wasn't that Don didn't like people, or was very grumpy. He was very up spirited, though not high spirited, and in fact enjoyed most people. He just had been born lacking a piece of the social component.

Don got up early this Saturday, showered, dressed and did everything by his routine. He got in his car and drove over to the diner where his friends always met. They weren't there yet, so he was a bit uncomfortable. A waitress came over and gave Don a big smile as she told him he could sit wherever he wanted. Don surveyed the landscape and chose the only table that would fit everyone who would be coming. She smiled and went to get him a water. Don sat at one end and spent some time situating himself, trying not to notice the other tables of people around him.

After a few minutes and a full glass of water his friends came in, laughing and talking loudly, in one large group. He stood up and greeted them with a real smile and an awkward wave. Their greeting was more boisterous. Dave, the large-bellied man in front with his tight polyester shirt and country blue-denim pants, shouted, or so it seemed to Don, a cordial greeting. Don was often uncomfortable about his friends' loudness but couldn't help appreciating his good humor and friendliness. Some of Don's friends shook his hand and some waved and they all sat down.

Everyone chit-chatted and Don mostly listened. They ordered, most of them without using the menu, while Don used it to not have to look at the waitress. They all had coffee and continued talking while they waited for their food, and Don mostly listened, content with enjoying the banter and not being required to contribute anything.

The food came and Don ate until his plate was cleared, and when he was done the others were not even half done. Most of them were talking between bites or just talking, enjoying their breakfast away from their lives and taking the time to enjoy their friendships while they weren't busy with life's tasks. Don wiped his face with his napkin and put it on the plate. The waitress came by and asked if she could clear it. He said yes and he also wanted the bill. She said she would bring it and as she left a sense of fear started gripping Don. Everyone was obviously going to be here some time longer, finishing their meals, conversing, having more coffee, etc. and he was obviously now leaving, but he feared this was only obvious to him. He did not want to offend his friends, but he also did not want to sit here with no food in front of him for possibly 30 to 45 minutes longer.

The waitress brought the check and told him to have a good day, and he left his money and stood, taking his coat from the back of his chair. Dave, leaning back and smiling heartily at Mike Palmer, the preacher,'s story turned toward Don, his smile consistent the whole time.

"You leavin' us, Don?"

Don's stomach sank a little as the moment he feared arrived. His mind froze for a second and then he started to mutter some excuse, but barely any of it made it out. Dave stuck out his hand.

"Well, glad you came down with us. We know this isn't your sort of thing, but we thought you could use a breakfast with some friends around."

Don shook his hand, glad for his friends' hospitality and knowing he meant what he said. He tipped his hat to everyone, and they bid him smiling goodbyes, and he left happy.

He got home and had nothing to do.

Burden of God

2009-08-06T01:19:00.010-05:00

The baby was black, something two white people couldn't produce just by themselves, especially two white people who had only had sex once, and that was the time she lost her virginity: fact. What was even more perplexing was that he used protection, and she was taking birth control pills, and DNA tests proved the child wasn't his, and honest to Abe he was the only man she'd been with, and, to state a fact, no one in Beetlecreek, Nebraska, was black. All 73 of them were white. Well, until now.

The baby was viewed as a miracle mostly. There was no conceivable explanation, at least not one put forth by the town doctor and science teacher Russ Chambers nor the preacher/general store owner Merton Humble, as to how this was possible. Sure a few people thought the woman was lying, but then again everyone had known Mary her entire life, or theirs, and she wasn't one for fibbing. If she said Conrad was the only man she'd ever been with, and that one time was on their wedding night with protection, then it was Lord's truth.

And Conrad said it, too, and his dad owned the depot and was the richest man in town.

So the baby was a miracle.

The odd couple of Mary, Conrad and the baby were honored with front-row seats at church every Sunday. The baby's baptism was dressed up extra special with all the fixings and twice the crowd by the little creek. The baby got smiles from all the women and had blankets and toys and babythings donated until his room had to be expanded.

The town spoiled that little miracle baby through his toddler years, where he got all the leads in the school plays; through his middle school years, where he got to be class president, secretary and treasurer without so much as one vote nor objection; through high school, where he was prom king four years running (Beetlecreek record); all the way until people started realizing how evil the boy had become.

He was mayor now, and had enjoyed 33 years of affection and gifts and, dog-gone I'll say it, flat-out worship from everyone in the town. He had been 19 girls' first. He had amassed a wealth of money and property, mostly from people amending their wills so He was their only heir. He was ten times over the most powerful Man in town. He had written sets of new laws that went into effect unchallenged. He sat in a mansion at the end of Main Street observing His minions. Where people had held their tongues before, though, there were now grumblings of His evil doings and questions of what He might expect of the town next.

Finally someone stood up to Him. It was Conrad, His father. The man was now in his late 50s and weak from cancer, and while his Son was lazy in many ways, He took great care of His appearance and great pride in His strength.

Conrad began with patience and calmly explained things to his Son, who sort of listened, uninterested. Conrad grew angry at his Son's ignoring him and raised his voice, and his cane. His Son, tired of these speeches, rushed forward and struck His father three times in quick succession. The older gentleman crumbled, collapsing onto an ornamental statue of intertwined roses that cut deep into his side. The floor soaked up the blood, but the man had been dead at the first blow.

Mary, who had been waiting outside, burst through the doors unbelieving. She collapsed on her husband's body and wailed in the early morning hours. The townspeople came and took the Son, who had made no attempt to flee, expecting His people to side with Him. They dragged Him, now flailing and issuing commands, to a corn field. A scarecrow was taken down and He took its place.

Within a few days His Body had been picked clean.

How Earth Wants It

2009-07-08T13:51:00.003-05:00

Someone was burning down all the tepees.

Extra men were sent on watch every Night, but even under their sleepless Owl eyes a new tepee burned each Night.

The Horizon was searched; on the Plains you could see further than the Sun, given you were in the right position, but no one was seen near the tribe. No one approached from any direction.

The elders met often, but no answers came. At the end of the Solstice, still with a new tepee lost each night and new ones going up each day, one of the elders prepared for a journey. A set of Women went off and gathered Supplies for him.

He ate, and let the Earth consume him.

Fire rose around him, in splinters, and the village crumbled amongst them. The Smoke, red with the Blood of the tribe, came back to Earth and flowed into him.

He fell back as it smothered him, and in falling he was swept down into the Soil, not through a fissure in the Ground, but through the Soil itself, as if he were a part of it.

He tumbled down, deeper into the Earth. The Soil was all he knew, and he breathed in the Mud, and it flowed through him like black Blood, becoming molten.

He was Granite.

A River swept him away and brought him to the Face of a giant. The Face was the Face of everyone from the tribe, those alive and the future and past.

It opened its Eyes and smiled. They had been friends forever and knew each other by more than name.

The Face was the Earth and he said, "You are burning our huts."

The Face answered. He asked why.

He woke to Sweat and humming. The incantations did not wake him; they soothed him. He felt burnt, his Skin pink and raised, his charred Insides black and crumbling.

The People around him opened their Eyes and left him with the elders. They dampened their candles so only the one in front of him was left burning. They did not speak or look at him.

He wept a little and rubbed his Tears into the Ground, thanking it.

He spoke softly, for he was very weak, but his voice sounded like the voice of the Earth's core. The elders listened, not looking.

"He is mad at us. We have left Him bare where others have built upon Him, making Him stronger, shading Him from the Sun. He does not like our way of life and wants us to build more than just the small huts we have here.

"He spoke to me of the Men near the Ocean, with buildings that touch the Sky itself and tear through the Clouds. He is impressed by these things and enjoys the cool relief from the heat where he is covered by paved streets. The activities of Man in these places entertain Him. Their gasoline vehicles feel good to cross upon His surface and the methods they use to build change His shape, which he enjoys watching, eager to see what will change upon His surface.

"He believes we are weak for not imposing our will upon Him. These Men understand him, He says. We are cowards who try to appease Him. He will destroy us to make room for these men."

Man

2009-06-29T01:12:00.005-05:00

They were done with Tom Cruisian, chiseled asses, the glamour and gobs, golden and glistening, what seemed so precious, but really was worth nothing, like diamonds and gold and all those other gems.

They wanted gutted, pitted real men, with splotches and bumps, scars and hair, all those faded zits and unbulging veins. It was all just thrusting anyway.

But those men were gone, relics of an ancient time, lost to evolution, the waste buried in landfills by magazines and tv shows. Survival of the fittest, and what was real wasn't fit, didn't fit.

So it was left behind, and what's left behind is a delicacy. Staring in a mirror at itself, ashamed, because the world doesn't want it, because these women need abs and money and shaved chests on their men.

And now, with all of what's real gone, and the men more like women, prettier than them actually, the one true man, something straight from the museums, something alone and isolated, like some silly genotype, being desired. How funny.

Women fought for him. His molten chest and weak arms and legs, flabby and compromised. How silly he looked. How seductive he was. How different from what they thought they wanted for so long. But how they wanted him, sputtering to themselves.

Because there was nothing like him.

What was important was lost. What was important was flawed, and slowly the women realized that and even though he was just as dumb as any of the others, those hunky Abercrombie flannels, so cute and desirable in the sun as sweat glistened off everything they hardly worked for, but that man wished he had, he was still more. And the women wanted him more and more, unlike in the past.

He was true . . . and so were the others, honestly--the products of evolution and gene selection, the women choosing what they thought they wanted most--but he was real. He was what they hadn't chosen. He was what had survived, what had pleased their ancestors for so long. That lumpy heap of coal, and they wanted to burn it.

But luckily for us he saw past their treachery and they were stuck with what they had once thought was perfection, even though he desired all of them fully, for they were women, and he was but a man.

Strangers Among Friends

2009-06-29T00:40:00.004-05:00

I was at my friend's apartment, drinking a little before we went to the bar. It was a night we expected people to be there.

On my mind was another friends' new daughter, two days after his sister went missing.

We were just hanging around waiting for my friends' friends to meet us and go to the bar. The television was on and I was unamused, sipping on some very cheap beer.

They got here and we left; it was sprinkling a little bit, but it never started raining until later. We flashed our ID's and went in, greeted by about twenty scattered people, none of them girls. We got our drinks and started shooting pool, the only girl in the place enjoying foosball with a guy in a long-sleeve dress shirt and shorts. They were choosing the music, too.

My other friend called me while I was in the bathroom. His sister had killed herself. He wondered if I could give him a ride, and I guessed I could even though I was half drunk and not in the mood. He sensed it and said he'd try someone else. I was relieved.

I went back out and my friend had put a new song on. His friends invited me into a pool game. The other people started picking new songs to play next.

I was terrible at pool and there were no girls, so we walked home after some stronger drinks.

My other friend called back and said he'd found a ride and he seemed like he wanted to talk, but I managed to get off the phone with him. I just sat on their couch while my friend and one of his friends played records and looked at them. Another read an ad that came in the mail from a hardware store. The other was asleep on the other couch. A joint was making its way around, but I don't smoke, but I thought about it.

They made chicken, and I wished there had been any girls at the bar. It was usually like that so I was used to it and not surprised.

It started storming so we opened the front door and watched the storm, the rain getting in. It was nice because the room was hot and smoky. It felt very fresh and good.

I woke up a few hours later. Everyone had gone for bike rides. I ate the rest of the chicken, snatched up the hardware ad, used the bathroom and made my way home.

A little after morning my other friend came over and talked about his sister. He sensed I wasn't interested and so we got drunk, on me. I told him he should name his daughter after her, but that wasn't what he wanted to hear, and it was too late anyway he said.

We fell sleep for a few hours and he left.

Thinking

2009-06-17T03:17:00.004-05:00

They realized none of it meant anything, but they still wanted it to anyway.

They thought about it and how everyone thought everything was so important, and how they thought everything was the same as them, and it didn't matter to anyone. And how neither did they.

And they kept on wishing how the more cigarettes they smoked and the more rum they drank they would be more important to the dead teacher whose opinion they cared about, but how it would never matter anyway, even if he was dead. And how high school had shaped them no matter how much they agreed it hadn't, and how those memories were still worth what it took to get them.

But that was irrelevant because so were they and everything they held dear, no matter how much they told themselves nothing was important and how nothing you held dear really was dear.

And they smoked cigarettes outside talking about it thinking they really did understand what was going on and that nothing mattered, and thinking no one else realized that it didn't matter, and that those people had even more fun believing they were free from others' thoughts about everything, and that they were more important in some way by realizing this before anyone else, but not realizing they weren't quite first, just like everyone else who came to that conclusion.

So they went to bed thinking that.

Down 122nd

2009-06-15T15:17:00.004-05:00

He turned onto 122nd with ease, his last breath of smoke disappearing out the open windows and his half-drunk 40 wrapped in its baby brown baby blanket and tucked safely next to his seat. It was very late afternoon, semi-sunny, breezy, and he slid down the road just under the speed limit. There were hardly any cars around, and with his left wrist steering from the 12 o'clock position he cradled his 40 in the other, finishing it. He laid it down in the back seat.

He blinked a few times and almost yawned, peered out the window to see if the sun was out and turned back to the road. 45, and green lights leading the way. By now he was feeling a little bit of everything. His body was light and relaxed and his mind was easy and erratic.

Another car slipped past him, two blonds inside, sunglassed and uninterested, too bad. He watched the red of their car fade off while his mind ventured other places. His radio was on very low, and it produced a calming effect, its mumblings. He didn't have to consider the music and words and he didn't have to try to either. It was just background, and he liked that.

The wind was picking up and strong breezes pushed their way through the windows, fluttering his shirt and hair as they moved along. The a/c was on low.

As he moved further and further down the street, he realized it was wearing off and he'd need something to help keep him and his mind from wandering too much. He stopped at the new apartment complex on 122nd and Charter Hill where he knew a guy and bought some pills. Having three drugs in your system probably isn't the best idea, he thought, but it certainly isn't the worst. It beat the alternative.

So, he borrowed some tissue and parachuted them with a little Vitamin Water he had in his car. He started it and got back on 122nd, this time going the other way. Things were getting pretty fuzzy about 20 minutes in, and he liked that. He explained it like his body had floated off, leaving just his brain and nervous system to deal with things, and without all that extra weight they were enjoying themselves. They were feeling really good.

He was driving down 122nd, just wandering that long, familiar street, meandering. He was in his lane, just a tad under 45 and every time that breeze flowed through the windows his spine melted. What was there to worry about now?

The mumbling of his tires and the radio and his senses was all that mattered and it was so much bliss to him nothing mattered. His eyes were glazed, half closed and his bottom lip was sticking out a little. He noticed and thought that meant everything was working. He kept rubbing his forehead, right at his hairline, and his nose. And he was so sleepy, but it wasn't hard to stay awake because he wasn't tired. He had nothing to worry about.

He lit a cigarette and drove down 122nd.

The Spread of Man's Ego

2009-05-26T15:57:00.008-05:00

The Serling350, smartest robot on the market decided to show off how cool it was. We were all chilling behind the Barn Store smoking a couple joints, but ol' Serl wouldn't have any of it. He was just going on about a bunch of garbage he'd been programmed to know. We couldn't convince him that our knowledge meant more because we had learned all of it, while the majority of what he knew had been programmed into his head. His argument was that he could learn, too, and much of what he knew he had learned himself.

We weren't buying it. The thing knew every rule of the English language, every important date in history, every scientific and mathematical theory to date and on and on. He was uploaded with new information every night. We spent how many years in public school learning a hundredth of what he knew and about half of it stuck. We did know certain things that a robot in 2011 still couldn't understand. Street smarts, common knowledge sorts of things, even deductive reasoning still hadn't been worked all the way out.

So Serl's sitting their blabbing about how robots are so great and seriously I was done with it. We started questioning his loyalty and he got all flustered when we accused him of wanting to start a robot rebellion. We got all racist on him and he was getting pretty pissed. Finally, we said if he was better and smarter than us we wouldn't be able to think of a question he couldn't answer.

Now, before I go on, I should mention Cliff had been working on a math problem that A.I. would not be able to answer because I don't know why. I can't remember if it was a logic problem or I think it involved a system of numbers that resulted in multiple infinities maybe.

Anyway, we told Serl he could choose what category the question would be in, and Serl's such an idiot he picked math, like we didn't know that was what he was going to pick and hadn't thought of how to trick him. That's the kind of smarts robots didn't have. No shit you'd pick math, Serl.

So Cliff lays this problem out and Serl starts working on it, big smile on his face a little way through, and then you can see his eyes going like a typewriter when it slides back to start a new line. You could tell he was just computing number after number, like we'd asked him to figure out the trillionth integer of pi, but then multiplied all that by i and then some and then a couple exponents divided by I don't know, something Cliff would've had to think up.

So after about fifteen minutes of Serling having a roboseizure he starts to overheat. The asshole, still determined to prove he and all of robotkind were smarter than humans, bypasses the auto shutdown and keeps working on the problem. We kept telling him it was impossible and infinite and he wasn't listening. He was not responding and after about ten more minutes his head exploded. This was a month before it became illegal to kill robots, so that was good.

Can't Stop Using the Useful

2009-01-08T19:31:00.004-06:00

People were always so scared of radiation. Ha! They yipped and chatted on their cell phones day after night after day after midmorning commute and whatnot, calling and complaining and I don't even know what all they were up to on those things.

But it seemed like an inconvenience to think the little things produced radiation and caused cancer and all that. And people constantly holding them right next to their brains and whatall they did. Seeing those infomercials and not hearing from the FDA or FCC or whatever government tributary was supposed to be watching out for them or whatever. Well, it led to a certain amount of uncertainty and fear.

And that damn rap/rock music.

But yappity yap they balked away on those oh-so-convenient devices. Some of em were pretty cool, too.

But anyway, aside from all the people now with huge right lobes jutting out and knocking people's coffees over all the time, the real issue with cell phones had to do with fucking.

Males were always keeping their phones in their front pockets, right next to their balls. See where this is going? The phone wasn't really being used, but it was on, and transmitting sure enough. It was certainly radiating. So we had some problems there.

Ladies kept em in their purses for the most part, and while you'd think that would be better, they got their tits radiated. Or they kept em in pockets or back pockets, so all that shit got radiated. Nobody was safe, man. All the best parts were getting fucked up by cell phone radiation, but who cou8ld live without being able to GOOG-411 from anywhere?

Anyway, people would have sex with their radiated genitals and the kids were not turning out too good. We had parents falling over because one side of their head was this John Merricked-out tumor and we had kids born of radiated sperm and eggs drinking radiated milk. Not working out too well.

You ever seen RoboCop, when that guy gets in the toxic gunk and mutates? Then the dude hits him with a car and he explodes in a red gush of strawberry jell-o?

That's how the government handled the situation.

The Police Are Our Friends

2009-01-08T19:07:00.007-06:00

The police were at the front door. Decidedly I was moving to the back. Several SUVs were parked out front. Probably most of the cops were hiding in the bushes and trees because only three were at the door, one knocking, his blue track jacket rustling with each knock.

Everybody was in a sort of panic. It would be impossible to gather up everything in the house. Nobody could say how much paraphernalia was stashed away in random corners of the apartment. So, escape sounded like the best option. I pushed past a few people, none of them my roommates, one of them my grandfather by the age of him.

He asked where I was going. I told him I wasn't staying for the cops to come inside. That many cops didn't drop by if a warrant wasn't involved. He was putting on a jacket saying, "You leave. I'll handle this," or something like that. He wasn't making much sense.

I got to the back of the apartment and crouched down to get eye level with this window. Someone was already halfway through it, and I grabbed his arm, telling him to check for pigs in the brush. (I only talked like that because I didn't know this person but figured there was one thing he would agree with.)

So, we scanned the backyard--it was a pretty nice evening, dark, clear, still, and no one seemed to be moving in the backyard or perched in the trees. He slipped out and I started after him when the old man came up behind me. Staring at the backyard in silence for a while, he suddenly said, "Looks safe. You go. I'll handle this," or something like that. I said thanks or whatever and crawled out, he shutting the window behind me.

I escaped and crossed a few blocks before doubling back to check out the hostage situation in front. The door had opened at some point and everyone inside was leaving, getting in the police SUVs. I was happy I left, but there were still my friends being arrested and my name on the lease of an apartment filled with a fairly substantial amount of miscellaneous drug content.

The cops cleared out, and I figured it was safe to go back inside. I went in through that same back window because paranoia is always a good idea with the police. I went to my room and paced for a while before I decided to take a few rips and read some Camus. What would it matter at this point?

Some time passed, and I heard some people come back inside, laughing. My roommates were back and the old man was, too. He walked up to me, smiling, and told me I'd missed a great evening. The cops weren't after us. They took everyone out to dinner. What a great time!

I swore a little at the comment.

All Icky, No Sticky

2008-02-13T16:43:00.004-06:00

As I was walking down the hall, I passed this poster. I'd snubbed the little flyer countless times, but now I stopped and gave it some attention.

"The Tobacco Industry is Targeting You!" it said.

"Oh really?" I asked it.

In a big list down the right side, highlighted in red (for death), was everything harmful in cigarettes. Arsenic, mercury, lead, acetone, ammonia, and butane stood out among the other insecticides, industrial solvents and miscellaneous poisons.

I just sat and stared at the sign. Then, I thought to myself, "The government is okay with me smoking all these things as long as I'm 18, but a puff on a spliff is outlawed?"

I pulled the poster down and slipped it into my bag. Outside, I gathered grass and piled it onto the poster. I started folding from one edge until I had a nice-looking fatty. Back inside, I hung the joint where the poster used to be, but above it I wrote "Smoke this" in huge black Sharpied letters.

The joint was gone within a couple hours. I told myself someone must've smoked it, but I know they didn't. It didn't have enough carcinogens. It wasn't government-approved. Actually, it was just a bunch of grass rolled up on some laminated paper; I hope they didn't smoke that shit.

A Home Built on the Bones of its Owners

2008-01-31T11:44:00.001-06:00

About ten years ago, my family was in the market for a new home. It was just my parents and me then, and our house was big enough for the three of us, but we wanted to get out of our neighborhood. The endless drama from our neighbors was maddening.

We found a great house that was more than big enough in a new, upscale neighborhood called New Echota Heights. We called the number on the for-sale sign to find the home had already been purchased.

A few nights later, we went to the house and saw the family living there, happily enjoying a home-cooked dinner. Like a ship through silent seas, we entered without a sound. We crept through the shadows in the unlit rooms until, guns drawn, we stepped forth, white killers emerging from the black mist. The father, at the head of the table, was the only one to see us, but he did not have time to say a word. We made quick work of them, the wife, the father, the children: all massacred, no quarter.

We carried their bodies out to the back yard and destroyed them, mostly with fire. We came back into the house, cleaned the kitchen a little and had a look around. After admiring the fine interior of the house, we went out to the U-Haul and started moving our stuff in.

We finally had a place of our own, but now, ten years and three kids later, we're thinking maybe it's time for more space. We feel it's our destiny to expand.

Berries and Cream

2008-01-03T03:37:00.004-06:00

As a boy, Jeffery would always run to the store on Saturdays to spend the quarter he earned doing chores. Though he always purchased the same things, he was nonetheless excited every time he got to spend his money.

He would push the big green and glass door open with his left hand, his quarter in the right, and the tiny bell would sound, a clutter of probably twenty some dings, all joined as one. He would walk straight to the back of the store and grab a package of the finest, reddest strawberries he could find. Then, he would venture over to the dairy section and purchase a bottle of half and half.

With the goods in his left hand, his quarter in the other, he made his way to the register, which was always manned by the store's owner, Don Lundar, who would always tell him the cream was for coffee.

"It makes no sense, boy!" he would say.

And little Jeffery would always say he didn't care, that he preferred strawberries to coffee and felt the cream did, too. Don would chuckle, always amused by the answer, and take the quarter, even though the total was five cents more. The boy would thank him generously, more with his smile than his words, and head off to enjoy his treat.

He would go home and pour the cream into a small bowl he set aside for just this purpose. As he opened the package of strawberries, his mother walked in, smiling at her son's self-imposed tradition. She, like Mr. Lundar, would tell him the two did not go together, but he, with his mouth full, would always disagree.

He was unfailing in his habit for years, even through grammar school and then high school going off to the store for his weekend treat. As a man of 40, he began to wonder for how long he had been eating his strawberries and cream. His indulgences were innumerable, and he liked to consider them to be one continual consumption of the same harmonious cocktail.

When he was roughly 49 years old, however, something in the chemistry of his taste buds seemed to change. The sweetness of those strawberries, doused in smooth white cream, turned almost sour. A culinary breakdown had occurred, and his customary dish was no longer delicious. With great pain he continued eating it every weekend, but after a month of stomach aches he could bear no more.

He decided to make the best of it and just forget the old dish. A few lonely weekends passed until he decided to occupy himself with a new treat. He went to the store and browsed trough the fruit section, seeking the most pleasant companion for his half and half. At last he found it in the form of a banana, and for the past twenty or so years he has been enjoying bananas and cream, though he sometimes accidentally approaches the strawberries, a habit hammered into his mind, a history still not forgotten.

Father's Fire

2007-12-13T01:51:00.000-06:00

A father watched his son cross over the Eastern horizon, a puff of smoke lingering in the air behind him as he moved closer. When the boy reached him, the man squatted down, his hand on the boy's shoulder, their eyes aligned. He inquired about the smoke, but the child claimed to be ignorant. He prodded, asking the boy if he had perhaps been playing with fire. He said he had not been, but the father still had his suspicions. He noticed a taint of black soot on the boy's hands, and his clothes emitted a heavy odor of smoke.

"That is a lie," he said, and the child remained silent.

The man sat looking at his son for a while. He looked at his son's dark skin, somewhat darker than his, more like the browner skin of his mother. The child, named Ian, waited dumbly, contemplating the intricacy of his father's red-and-white-striped shirt. In a deadlock, the two waited for the other to speak.

The father tried to think of what to say. He, too, had played with fire as a child, and it had had drastic consequences. At 7, a year younger than his son was now, he and a friend tried to make their own fireworks, something of proportions unseen. Instead, they lit the garage on fire. It spread to the neighbors' house—a Japanese couple lived there—and before the day was done half their house, as well as their dog, was gone. The event had left a great scar on the man's mind. It had troubled him greatly to cause and witness such destruction, to know he had that kind of power. He had been the one to find the dog's charred remains.

Now, he did not have the words. The story lay before him, but its manifestation before his son was impossible. He could not admit his error because it would diminish his authority. He could not humble himself enough to teach his son to learn from his mistakes. He had pushed his guilt from his mind and could not bring himself to speak of it. Instead, he struck his son down with a single, sharp blow. Of course, this led the child to rebel, and the man's large manor was destroyed not long afterwards.

The Valley

2007-11-18T16:54:00.001-06:00

One house sits in a field of snow. Around it are great, carved mountains, the house's foundation lain on the only flat area in the region, a small clearing walled off by the mountain chain.

Outside the home sits a mailbox, a neat idea, though it's never been put to use. There is no mail here. There is no communication.

Snow gathers at the tops of the mountains, and clouds bring it down into the valley. Almost everything is white, the house and mailbox the only protrusions. These two man-made objects are the only variation.

The house, after years of shouldering a snow-laden roof, buckles. It shatters under the weight and explodes, the cold wood splintering and collapsing. It is engulfed in snow and ceases to exist. Only the mailbox remains.

The wind grates the box, gnawing at the metal until the flag breaks off and flutters a few feet on a gust of air, only to land headfirst in a snow bank, its back half still sticking up in the air.

The door comes open, exposing the empty interior of the useless box. After a while, a creature finally notices it, and within a week a bird's nest is inside. Within another week, the nest is full of eggs, shiny and blue and ready to hatch to give this snowy wasteland something colorful and quick to look at.

The mother swoops into the box and nestles down onto the eggs. She keeps them as warm as she can, but rust is wearing holes in the box, letting more and more cold wind inside.

The mother closes her eyes and waits, just sitting and waiting, sitting and waiting.

Near the top of one of the mountains, a bolt of lightning rips into the flesh of a huge tree. The behemoth shrieks and begins to fall, desperately clutching at the sky around it.

With an explosion of snow and hardwood debris, it lands. The snow pours forth in rivets, waves of white sliding down the mountain. The tree has pulled the surface loose and the world starts crashing down. A wall of snow builds and pushes its way down the mountain, white on white absorption, growing without seeming to grow, moving without seeming to move, just pure white death hurling forth at 200 miles per hour

From its lungs emerges a battle cry, furious and full of power, shaking the earthen core of the mountain underneath until the whole rock is reverberating with it. The avalanche descends, ferociously and unheeding, toward the bottom, toward total destruction.

Sleeping on her eggs, the mother bird does not hear the rumble until it is too late. With one motion everything that used to exist in the valley is annihilated. The small animals that flourished unseen beneath the snow before are crushed. The tiny trees and bushes that lined the outer edges of the valley have vanished, the entire surface of the valley now one sheet of blinding white.

The mailbox, unused for years until its discovery by the bird, has been obliterated. There is no mother, and there are no more chicks. What used to have a chance at life in this arctic crater has now been erased. Refused by its environment, the valley simply died.

Facing Myself Through Facebook

2007-11-14T15:55:00.001-06:00

I'll start at the end and work my way back because the end is really where I come in. My purpose is the end of this story, but really it's the beginning of another. Let me just tell you what happened.

Right now, the present, I'm driving away from Indiana. I'd never been there, and I probably won't go back unless I have to. When you kill a man someplace, it stands to reason not to return to that place.

Stands to reason if you kill yourself, too.

I showered and checked out of my motel before I left. I had to shower because my clothes smelled like smoke.

I burned his body.

I stood over the shallow grave for an hour as he burned, not leaving until I was sure he couldn't be identified, if he was even found. The foul, black smoke hurt my eyes and lungs and left a thin layer of soot on my clothes.

I grabbed his body, a little heavier than me, and hoisted him into my trunk. I headed toward a cluster of trees I'd scouted out the week before. When I got there, I popped the trunk from the inside, walked around, dragged him out and put him in the hole I'd dug. It was a 6 x 2 x 3 ft. hole, but he was smaller than I'd anticipated and there was some extra room. I won't go into too much detail, but I threw a cinder block onto his face because of dental records. Then, I threw in tinder and gasoline and let it burn.

I went through his pockets and took everything he had: his wallet with my new id and social security card, the keys to his room so I could get more of my new stuff and a cellphone.

I stepped out of the shadow. His eyes almost popped when he saw me, but they deflated when he saw the gun. Two quick shots into his belly and he fell back. The silencer to his forehead, I delivered the final blow.

I saw he was about to leave, so I hurried outside and into my hiding place behind the bushes.

I knew he was in the cafeteria because I saw him go in. I knew roughly where he would sit and exactly how he would leave and return to his room because I'd observed him for a week. I checked on my hiding place in the bushes along his path and then went into the building myself. I sat in wonder and watched him eat.

Someone called my name, no his. There he was. I couldn't believe it. He looked exactly like me. It was uncanny except for his glasses. I usually wore contacts, but if I'd had my glasses we could have done a mirror routine.

I pushed my doubts to the back of my mind and boarded a plane for Fort Wayne, Indiana.

I received a poke from someone. He has my name, first and last, and looks just like me, but he lives in Indiana. He goes to Purdue and lives in "Earhart."

I log on to Facebook.

If I Die . . .

2007-11-13T22:41:00.000-06:00

I got some Vitamin Water and the bottle felt weird, like maybe air was getting in, possibly through the lid (though it felt fine)
I flipped off this guy who almost crashed into me, and I'm sure he got my license plate number, and he was really pissed
I was startled when I was sleeping, so I jumped up, and when I did I hit my head
I accidentally ate this really hard, crunchy thing that was in my Doritos bag
I think someone sneezed on a taco I ate
I kept feeling this pulsating spasm thing in my calf the other night (11-12)
I vomited three times last night (11-10), most likely due to alcohol poisoning, though I didn't drink very much I don't think
I slept on my arm weird, and when I woke it was numb for like 20 minutes, possibly meaning I have a blood clot or something
I looked at the sun for too long
I ate a cough drop
I slipped on the last two stairs in my building and really hurt my tail bone and possibly damaged my spine
I was petting this lady's dog when it bit me, but she (possibly a liar) said it didn't have any diseases
I took a drink from the faucet in the bathroom (and later realized how many people's mouths may have been on it)
I keep getting a rash on the bottom of my left foot, possibly cancerous
I got a paper cut and didn't think anything of it, but then it turned kind of greenish yellow a few days later, and then it disappeared, possibly receding into my body to inflict more damage
I gave some change to a homeless man and our hands momentarily touched
I stood up too fast and my head felt weird for several minutes (am expecting aneurysm in next 2-3 days)
I touched legs with a fat, shirtless man on the subway
I bit my tongue really hard and am waiting for it to swell up and suffocate me
I think this guy at the cafeteria did something to my food when I was refilling my drink because he kept watching me eat and laughing (for information on this man, talk to my roommate, who will be able to provide a detailed description)
I think I gave too much blood the other day because I felt very woozy for about three hours afterwards (and am hoping my body is even capable of producing more blood)
I stubbed my toe, possibly breaking off a small piece of bone that is traveling through my bloodstream and towards my heart
I ordered a steak that was medium rare and think I may have contracted one or all of the following: E. coli, mad-cow disease or scurvy

The Googolplex

2007-11-05T13:29:00.003-06:00

You wake up, get out of bed and mosey over to the computer. You check your e-mail, your RSS feeds and then head to Facebook. You write on three of your friends' walls, adding the latest messages in a string of wall-to-wall conversations.

You go to your blog and start typing. You're working on an article about Web 2.0 trends. The time and date are logged and posted along with your entry. You go through some of your new comments and reply to each one.

Before heading to the shower, you decide to check some threads you started on a few message boards. You type in your username and password. The forums all greet you with a nice hello and you jump straight to your threads. One caught on and has 43 replies. The others have a few, but nothing much.

You shower and head to work. There, you edit your blog entry from this morning. Now, you're finishing up a spreadsheet for work, browsing Facebook and checking the latest news on Digg. So far, you've dugg 23 stories just today.

At lunch, you log into YouTube and start browsing for some entertainment. You rate the five videos you watch. Two get one star, one gets four stars, two get five stars and one of those gets favorited.

Back to work. Now you're working on a PowerPoint presentation and going through your e-mail. You have six new messages that you read and reply to.

A message pops up. "johnny" has just signed into MSN Messenger. Your status is set to "Away," but you nudge him and he says, "hey."

You tell him you're at work and will talk to him later. In fact, you just wrote something on his Wall.

You go to your banking page to check how much money's in your savings account and how much you have in your checking account for tonight. You transfer $200 to be safe. It is Friday.

While you've been doing all of this, what you didn't realize is that there was a computer, just some big box somewhere, sucking up all that information. It scours every page on the Internet and just compiles. It scans over every document and makes a note of everything. Anything tied to you, anything any of your online handles says or does is added to a profile created for you.

Inside this file is everything you've ever said on the Internet. Every picture you've ever posted or said you liked. Every song you downloaded, rated or even just listened to online. Every nudge, poke, comment, thread or reply you've ever made goes here. It evens lists pages you've visited. And it's not just you. All communication passes through this box at some point. Nothing goes unnoticed.

It interprets all the information it's gathered and profiles you. It knows everything about you now. It knows more about you than you ever will. It's capable of analyzing everything you've done and creating a full picture of who you are and what you do, and it's all 1s and 0s, nothing you'd even understand.

It stays up nights reading. Every book ever written has been digitized and can be found on the web by now, and it reads them all. It reads newspapers that have been scanned and added to online databases. It pours over all kinds of articles, any text it can find until it has read everything ever written.

It cross references articles, developing a clearer understanding of the truth. It approximates how sure it is about anything and works painstakingly to make everything comes out to 100%.

I watches every video ever posted online. From full movies, some of them true classics, to the simplest vlogs, it watches everything, even advertisements, even porn.

After years of computation and analysis, this box will know everything there is to know about mankind. From the entire human history to your daily routines, it simply knows. What it does with that information is up to it.

The Nature

2007-11-01T17:10:00.002-05:00

The dew drops had collected into a small community in the grass outside my window. They felt cold and kind of sticky when my bare feet touched down on them as I slid out my window. It was Sunday. I always locked my door and slipped out the window on Sunday.

I ran barefoot through the back yard, feeling every individual blade of grass, each cold and wet, caress the bottoms of my feet. In one bound, I was over our fence and approaching the woods behind our house. The grass soon turned to dirt as the trail began to form.

I was slipping into my chamber, the one place that was wholly mine. Well, mine and the earth's. No other human went there. Deep in the woods, beyond the grasp of the sun's rays, further down than most animals dared to go, there was a tiny clearing. Its diameter was no more than ten feet, but to me it was the largest, most significant place on earth.

I used to lie there, nestled into the trees and the ground, and think with my eyes closed how perfect the world could be if only we were alone to enjoy it. I would turn off my flashlight and imagine an entire world of trees, of woods, of forests, of everything I loved and was dear to me. Behind that, though, was a growing concern, an unwavering and constant subconscious thought, no, understanding, that my love would be taken from me.

I would stand, wipe the dirt and sticks and pebbles from my back and trudge home. My spirit was always destroyed when I left, but I always earned it back when I ventured to my den the next Sunday, only to lose it once again in that vicious, circular motion.

When fall came, I quit going. I looked outside and saw a stream of grey run through the bark of all the trees, a contagion spreading through their trunks like a plague. And all their leaves were tossed to the ground like so many cigarette butts, used and unwanted, their purpose served.

The one beautiful thing on earth, the forests and trees I once loved, went into slumber, a deep and ugly hibernation that left no room for me. A few times I would wander to my den, see how things were going, but the foul stench of rotting leaves and wood kept me out. The discarded garbage, really litter, of those trees physically hurt me. Everything I loved thrown away, and by the artists who had created it, the mothers who had nurtured it, the family I loved forsaking all of the siblings I'd grown so attached to.

Spring would come, and I could be happy again, but I never escaped that fear, that looming destiny that I knew would take everything away. And behind that even was the fear that some day, the changing of seasons wouldn't matter anymore because there would be no beginning. The trees would not discard their children because the trees themselves would cease to exist.

And my greatest fear was that then I would, too.

Dear Diary

2007-10-31T15:51:00.002-05:00

I had the most amazing experience last night. That's not what this is about, though. This is about something else.

So, I after I had my amazing experience, I thought it would be a good idea to write it down. I didn't want to forget it because it was just so amazing. I didn't feel like I could afford to forget it.

I sat down at the table in my room, flicked on my little desk lamp, pulled out a sheet of paper and my favorite black pen and began to write.

"Dead Diary," it began, but then something happened. The table seemed to jolt forward a little. I stopped writing and looked under and around it. There didn't seem to be anything that could have nudged it, and since I was the only person in the room, I doubted it was me. I began to write again.

I hadn't even finished my second sentence when the table shot out from under me. I fell forward, crushing my paper and stabbing myself with the pen. To be honest, I didn't really know what had even happened. I was kind of just leaning face down, ass up on the floor.

I started to stand and realized the table wasn't anywhere to be seen. How could it have disappeared, though? I noticed the door was open. The table wasn't very large, and it would have fit through the door, but how could it have ran out of the room on its own?

I walked into the hallway outside my room. It didn't look like the table had run through there. I started down the stairs, but about halfway down I stopped. I paused for a second and then turned back. The table was at the end of the hall, pushed up against the wall as if it belonged there.

I walked to it and inspected it. As I was about to pull open the drawer, it shot out and smashed my hand. I jerked it back and the table leapt over my head and down the stairs. I jumped over the banister and chased it to the front door.

"Trapped," I said. "You can't open the door."

But as soon as I said it, he pitched towards the big window next to the door. Fragments of glass flew everywhere and a breeze rushed in. I ran outside and looked for him. I could barely make out his outline on the moonlit horizon. He had run all the way down the street and towards the woods.

I was kind of shaken, so I went into the kitchen and sat down to collect my thoughts. What had just happened? I had no idea. I tried to imagine how everything had happened. I couldn't remember what I had been writing, though. I knew it had been amazing, but I'd forgotten what it was. I figured it couldn't have topped what had just happened, so I grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen from one of the kitchen drawers.

"Dear Diary," it began . . .

Distant Lights

2007-10-26T13:24:00.002-05:00

Off in the distance, I always see these lights. There are about twenty of them, and they sparkle and flare on the horizon with a blanket of black night behind them.

If I notice them in passing, I always stop. I always wonder. They're so bright and lined in such an illogical pattern. I wonder who put them there and what they are meant to illuminate.

Sometimes, when they're bathed in moonlight, they become dim little bugs, hardly outshining the pale luster of the moon. Even so, I admire them for ceaselessly shining, for never surrendering. Whatever happens, they are constant, unheeding.

Lying in bed at night, I turn onto my side and stare out at the tiny island of light. I want to go to it. I want to sail to the collective hue of those lights, that little blur of an island, a dot made of other dots, glowing and beckoning to me from the distance.

I still always wonder why they are there. I wonder what purpose they could be serving. There is nothing for them to illuminate. I watch them in the day, standing and shining over empty ground, over nothing more than a patch of dirt and grass in one huge sea of dirt and grass.

What was their purpose?

They had been there since I moved into my house, which meant at least seven years. There they had stood, their purpose unseen and their process known. Then, abruptly, they were gone. I didn't see it happen, but my father said there had been some trucks and men out there. He had noticed them on his lunch break, while I was at school.

None of us really knew what had happened. We'd never known why the lights were there in the first place. We never knew who paid for the electricity that powered them. And we never knew why they were suddenly removed from their home.

Whatever we didn't know, there was always one thing I remembered, one fact I knew for sure: I had never gone to them. I had never ventured to the distant lights, and now that they were gone, so was my chance of ever understanding them. All I knew was I would never know.

And now that's all that can be known of the distant lights.

A Month Wasted

2007-10-25T18:35:00.002-05:00

It was January 1st. The new year. 2008.

First, I should say that at the beginning of every month I fill out my calendar with everything I have to do. I have all kinds of appointments and meetings, scheduled and scribbled on whatever scraps of paper I find. I collect all these and sort through e-mails and other messages with important dates to remember.

So, January 1st: I had a small mountain of papers sitting next to my laptop, inside which were the rest of my scattered notes.

I began.

The notes weren't arranged in any order. I just picked one at random and wrote the event and its date in my calendar. And so it went for about an hour.

Grab a note. Copy it. Discard it.

Note. Copy. Discard.

Add in some "Email. Copy. Discard." and that was my hour.

Finished.

I gently closed my calendar, its leather binding warm and curled, and rubbed my right wrist as my pen fell to the desk. I rubbed my eyes, switched off my lamp and headed off to bed. According to the calendar I didn't have to do anything tomorrow, so I was going to relax.

The next day, I woke up, made some cereal and turned on the TV. I only moved from the couch if I needed more food, and before long it was dark and time to get some sleep.

My alarm went off at 7 a.m. I showered, dressed and left for work. When I walked in, the receptionist said, "Where were you yesterday?"

"At home, watching TV," I said.

"Well Donovan's pissed. You were supposed to be here to work on some project, just you and him," she said.

Puzzled, I pulled my calendar out of my briefcase. First page, "Help Donovan with M.C. project." The date was today's, though, not yesterday's.

I held it up to her. "Look," I said. "We're working on that today."

She looked at my calendar, first at the entry, then at the date. "It's Thursday, not Wednesday."

I stared at it. After a few glances at the date on my watch and the day and date on the calendar I figured it out. I had put all my dates into a 2007 calendar. Everything was off by one day.

"You're an idiot," Julia said.

I was about to tell her yeah, I was, but then it hit me. I wouldn't have to do anything for a month. For everything I was supposed to do, I'd just come the next day and then blame it on my calendar. As long as someone else had done it, I'd be off the hook.

I loosened my death grip on the calendar and gently nudged it back into my briefcase. I turned around and headed to Wal-Mart. I needed to get another calendar and plan what to do on all my days off.

Needless to say, it was the best month ever. The next month, not so good.

My Owner Has Long Since Passed

2007-10-24T13:25:00.001-05:00

A gift for him on his first birthday (I was one year old too, I was).

We were soon best friends. And we played all the time. And it was so fun. We were both babies and didn't care about anything but fun. Fun fun fun.

He went to school. I waited at home. I looked out the window and saw birds and cars and people and other dogs, and I wanted to have fun with them, too, but instead I waited. It was most fun with him.

We played in the yard and ran and ran and had fun. I could always catch him, but sometimes I didn't because I wanted him to feel good and have fun, too. I can't have all the fun is what I thought.

High school he left a lot. We played for a few minutes just after school, but then he left to do busy important things that I can't do. I miss him at school. I miss him at home.

I slept on his bed at night, though. That was my favorite thing. I didn't sleep, though. I would lie on the bed and just enjoy being close to my best friend even though sometimes I got mad and afraid that he didn't like me. I started to sleep during the day and lie awake all night with him.

I thought he died. He was gone for so long of a time, but then he came back, and I found out it was "college." He was so happy to see me when he came home. He said he would have an apartment in two more years and that I could live there with him.

I moved in after two years of long waiting. He was different, but I still loved him. He drank and had parties, but then he met a nice girl who always petted me when she came over she was so nice named Ashley.

They got married, and I moved in with them to their new house. It was nice, especially when they had kids and I got to play with them. The kids grew up and did all the same things he had done.

During then, he was at "work." He retired, though, and we got to play together again, but now we were doing more grown-up things. Like fishing. And hunting. And stuff like long walks.

One day, I found him lying on the ground, and Ashley came in and screamed, and all these people and cars came and took him away. Ashley said he was just too old, and she was old, too, and that I would need to find new owners. I told myself I never would, and then she died, too.

I have found a place to stay, and what I do is sleep during the day, and remember all my fun years with my owner. I miss him, and Ashley, too, but all I can do is remember all of what we did. It was all so fun. And remembering it is fun, too.

The Hungry Knock of a Wolf at My Door

2007-10-21T14:50:00.002-05:00

A knock. Who could it be?

I get up from my huge kettle of stew, my family stunned and staring at me as I walk towards the door.

Who could it be?

The handle grinds as I turn it, and a leg of snow starts slipping in as I crack the door open. Tiny flakes of snow pepper my face. I look down into the dark whiteness that is this winter night, and to my surprise I find a wolf staring up at me.

For a while, we just look at each other, searching for the words we can't speak in each other's eyes. Though I would normally view a wolf as a violent threat, something in his eyes, and the expression of his face, tells me he just wants in.

I step back a bit and motion with my arm, my family trying to peer past me out the door. He shakes thoroughly, a cloud of snow exploding around him, and he enters.

The only sound is my wife's loud gasp. It stops him instantly, and he looks at her disarmingly. She looks down.

He walks past my wife and son, head bowed, and moves close to the fire, my family scurrying away as he crosses the room. He curls up beside the flames and shuts his eyes.

My wife looks to me, and I simply shrug, explaining my astonishment with the look on my face. With something between disgust and contempt, she moves to the stove, checking on the stew. As the ladle drops from her mouth she tells me it's ready.

On the table are three bowls and three spoons, one for each member of my family. I set out another place at the other end of the table and fill all the bowls. With a pause like an entire winter and the timidity of an infant at war, I manage to invite him to the table.

Startled, he looks up, his eyes pure curiosity. As he stares, I ask again if he would like to eat with us. I do not have to say it again, for he is up in a bound and at the table. I sit, too, and we all eat together in silence. For a wolf, he has is startlingly well-mannered.

After dinner he returns to the fire, and we clamber to our rooms, uncertain of his next move. When we emerged the next day he is gone.

Though we never see that creature again, the story of the hungry knock of a wolf at our door will outlive my wife and I, and even our son, as it is passed down. Know one will ever understand it, though.