Transitions

"There is something sexy about the way a woman looks in an evening dress," he said, sidling up to her at the bar.

Sarina flipped her hair back over her shoulder and regarded the gentleman. Older, probably mid-40s, salt-and-pepper hair, in decent shape. Stereotypical corporate vice president. She guessed the conversation would turn to his dreams of writing and moving to Hawaii, with the expectation that the night would end in a crumpled heap beneath the sheets in his penthouse. "What's that?"

"I said, there is something sexy about the way a woman looks in an evening dress," he repeated. After a pause, he stuck out his hand. "Mark."

Of course it is, she thought, good, solid overly masculine name. "Sarina. Sarina Carlysle."

"That's a lovely name, Miss Carlysle... it is Miss, isn't it?"

She held up her hand.

His smile filled the typicalness of this back-and-forth. Laugh lines, but good ones. Along the eyes, at the corners of his mouth. Enough to show that he'd lived, but not too many so that he looked old. Sarina wondered where he tanned. It was a good tan job -- a difficult commodity in this city but one that was desperately needed in the midst of the winter. Maybe he had just come back from vacation? No, she figured, the tan had a hint of orange that indicated perhaps a base overlaid by spray. "What brings you to this dump?" Mark pressed, taking the initiative to pull up a faded and torn bar stool next to her. The chair matched the decor -- grimy -- the kind of place that, even though smoking was outlawed years ago, maintained the smell for years in the very pores of the walls.

"Needed a break, and a drink."

"And the evening dress?"

She smacked her lips and set down her drink, tossing her head back slightly and giving an ironic chuckle. "A girl's got to feel pretty." Her eyes moved to his tie. "And the suit?"

Mark gestured for the bartender for a new beer and indicated that her next was him. "A girl's got to feel pretty."

It was enough to make her laugh. At least, she thought, he had a sense of humor.

---

Mark admired Sarina. She was perfect -- blond, big breasts, nice hips, charming, and elegant. And, though the red evening gown suggested a story for the night, she was leaning easily on the dirty bar and ordering whiskey sours. Though a little too frou-frou for his taste, it was not the martini or cosmopolitan he had come to expect out of her type.

The conversation progressed easily. Mild flirtation, interspersed with actual conversation. For every jab he put out, she played on back, and she seemed eager and engaged in his wish to pursue writing and move to Hawaii. Her eyes had glimmered a little when he told her about the book in his head. It was a masterpiece, he felt, and it would revolutionize the world. People would read it for generations. Graciously, she had asked the plot, and he had teased her with silence.

Overall, it had been a good pick up, and one that he was sure would end up in tousled mess back at her place.

He never brought women home. It was too messy in the morning.

Sarina had just finished her third or fourth drink -- to be honest, he had had more than he had expected and had lost count of his tab, so was unaware of just how tipsy he had become. She sighed. "Well, Mark, it is a school night, I must off for the evening."

He glanced at his watch. Shit. It was one a.m. A weekday woman should have taken much less time than this. "Yea." She started to get up. "Hey, you know that place you mentioned earlier... the restaurant?" In truth, he could not remember if she had mentioned a restaurant, or if that was the woman the night before... or was it something he had made up? Memories and conversations were starting to collect and intersect at a point just beyond his grasp.

"McCullough's?"

"Yea..." Thank God. "Yea, that one."

"What about it?"

"Do they serve breakfast?"

She stopped fussing with her purse and looked him dead in his eyes. They were green. Lovely. "Yea, I think so. It's not bad." She threw the strap of her bad over her purse. "Let me just go to the water closet... fix my make-up, you know." She gestured the bartender. "Get him one, on me, darling." The bartender nodded and moved away. Mark suddenly realized they were the only two in the bar, and the man had been hanging by all night. That would explain the alcoholic haze, and the likelihood of a high tab for the evening.

The sounds of heels clicking on the broken hard wood floor followed her away, and he watched as she moved between pool tables to the back of the bar. Click, click, click. Mark had a fantasy of her on the pool table with just the heels. Click, click, click.. clank. The bartender announced the arrival of a fresh beer.

Taking a swig, he tried to return his gaze to Sarina, whom he was sure had just walked into the men's bathroom.

I'm drunk, and he turned back to watch the muted television while he waited.

---

Hm. That was easy, Sarina thought as she touched up her makeup. Idiot. He was lucky she could come up with the name of a restaurant that quickly, else leave him feeling like an idiot. Probably some other woman he had met this week mentioned a restaurant. Idiot. And he was turning out to be such a nice guy, too.

She walked up to the urinal, pulled down the front of her pantyhose, and peed, double checking that the front door was locked. Though she wished she could finish off the surgeries, it was becoming too much fun to see the look on their faces when they realize.

But Mark was nice enough, and, after a few more drinks, he won't care where he was sticking it.

Son: Something Picked Up

The homeless man picked up the lid of the trash can gingerly, sure not to make a noise so that no one would notice him. He reached into the trash can, pulled out a half-empty pop and toop a deep swig.

All of us sitting on the short wall watched in horror.

Not seeing our disgusted stares, he set the pop down slowly, picked the lid back up and put it onto the can. Grabbing "his" pop, he started moving away with eyes downcast as if to disapppear into the background of the city.

Strange, I thought, he thinks he's being discreet.

SMACK.

I saw the pop bottle go flying across the street, the top coming off and the cola spraying onto the rain-drenched asphalt. The homeless man was staring, stunened, at his empty hand whilst a roundish black woman loomed over him. She was only half his height, but her stature dominated the scene.

"That's disgusting, man!" She was digging furiously into her oversized handbag hanging off one shoulder. She wore a scrube top with Care Bears on it. Hm, I thought. She thrust her hand out and push a wad of bills into the man's hands. "Go buy yourself something .... Shi-eeeet."

She walked paost him, tennis shoes pounding the pavement, one arm clutching her bag strap, and the other swinging almost wildly in rhythm with her steps. He was stunned for a moment -- his crazed eyes reading someone noticed me... -- before moving on himself.

I stopped the lady. "That was the nicest thing I've ever seen done." I was already plotting how to pay the good deed forward.

"Man, shoot. That was disgusting. I was gonna vomit if he dran'anymore." And off she went.

---

Later that night, I was back on the short wall with a cigarette. No one was out there.

All the trash lids were off. Apparently, he's only that precise or that careful when other people were around.

I picked the lids up and put them back where they came from.

Son: Surfing, 8-27-08

HA! I totally wrote this in English class today.

--------

The beach.

He was leaning back against his board, his feet buried in the sand his his knees drawn up to his chest. The sun was going down, and the silence of human noise -- this moment was shared mostly by lovers and romantics and the lonely hearted -- was punctuated only occasionally by the sounds of an incidental tourists' child or passing cars. Paradisio.

He stroked his surf board lying behind him. It was a relatively new skill he had acquired but found easy. He liked guiding the board across the wave, carefully balancing the forces of the water against gravity, constantly in danger of falling over and introducing his head to one of the many rocks that dotted the coastline.

It fit his personality.

"Margarita, baby?" asked his beautiful Samoan woman -- Keku -- as she stepped over the mini-sand dunes caused by foot traffic and wind. Full hips, large breasts, soft skin, and dialectic English that he found engorging.

They had met on a business trips. He been slumming it one evening -- drab Hawaiian shirt and shorts in a dirty local bar, complete with palm frond ceilings and a 300-lbs Pacific Island bartender. The drinks had been cheap and the lies had come easily.

He was looking to move here, he told people. He didn't work, the yarn went, and he was seeking the sort of personal greatness only the Bohemian crowd around him at the bar that night would appreciate. He was a star, and left with the promise of a job and with Keku on his arm.

That was nine months ago, when he had made $100,000+ a year, had a quaint house in the suburbs of a big city, drove a nice car, had a beautiful wife, and was awaiting twins. He was climbing the corporate structure. But he knew that his past was beginning to catch up with him, and when he got here, he knew it was time and the balancing act at "home" had become too treacherous. So, he left paradise for the suburbs, and immediately set about a plan to fake his own death.

A motorcycle accident. Over 50 people had been killed or seriously injured. His body was missing, and he was listed as "presumed dead." He had watched his own funeral from across the street, and he saw the cops there. They had caught wind, suspicious of who the dead man was and trying desperately to connect him.

But, like so many before, the local cops dropped it as "it doesn't matter, he's dead now." Always so easy, just don't get the FBI involved.

This was the third identity he had taken on; he wondered sometimes what happened to the handful of kids he had fathered and left behind. It was that first one -- Anna -- whom he had loved so much and whose unabashed adoration for him had so embarrassed and scared him, and shamed him into feeling his own humanity -- that made him run. She would be eight now.

Keku's belly was growing, and the questions had begun. He felt the past coming upon him.

The plan would be easier than ever, than any time before. He had been idly working out the details while she walked up and offered him a drink. "Sure thing, darling," he had affected a West Coast accent here. He didn't remember what his original voice sounded like.

She reclined back on the board, she was not skinny by American standards, and her stomach had begun the pooch of a pregnant woman. He ran a single finger across her stomach and down her legs.

"I love you," she said.

He grunted. This was the hard moment, when he realized, too, that he loved her and would have to give this us. "They say hurricane season will be rough this year -- good waves, starting any day now."

"We'll invite my sister and her kids -- you can show them how to surf. They just adore you."

He signed and laid his head down on ehr stomach, ear down as if listening. She entwined her fingers into his hair affectionately. For a moment, he was comfortable, and he thought, here, here at last he would stay, and screw whatever may come. He wanted so bad, then, to just be here for ever here in paradisio.

"Papa," she whispered, dreamily.

Or not.

----
I had problems with writing this one, so I thought I'd share the list of "free association" words I wrote down while I tried to brainstorm ideas: Surfing. Channel surfing. Television. Couch potato. Starches. Carbohydrates. Fat. Obesity. Diabetes. Loss of Feet. Foot-less. Footloose. What a feeling. 1980s. Bad hair. One-sie. Bikini. Minnie Driver is Preggers. OBGYN. Planned Parenthood.

Just so you see where the idea came from. :-) Literally, this is the sixth or seventh attempt at writing this; the rest were blah. Interestingly enough, I even went on Urban Dictionary and tried for two definitions they have there for Surf: 1) Stuck-Up, Rich F*ck; and 2) vomiting out a window of a moving car while drunk.

Neither of them did much for me.

Son: Shakespeare

Where did we go wrong?

As she peered slyly over the edge of her book in which she was reading The Taming of the Shrew, she had seen his brief moment of sadness.

Their conversation had been perfunctory. He had barely sat down before he started, "It's not you, it's me." It was a disgustingly typical line, and she quietly hated him for playing it off as a real conversation starter.

Less than two minutes later, he was up and out the door of the coffeehouse, laughing and joking and catcalling with his buddies on their way down the street.

With him, though, she had learned to watch for the private moments where he thought no one was looking. She had caught it, a brief downward glance at his shoes where he had unexpectedly communicated his loneliness. The look was not meant for anyone, especially not for her.

It had all been very romantic, the kind of love story they make teenage romantic comedies out of. She hated men, and he loved a lot of women. He was on half a dozen sports teams; she read poetry. Yet, through a blinding and absurd series of events, they had met, flirted, and had a romantic prom night kiss. Perhaps, for that night, even fallen in love.

It was the set-up for a beautiful thing.

Except it hadn't been. In fact, the apex of their relationship was the peak and everything else was just a slow tumble down.

The glow fades, the novelty dies, and then you have to settle into a the strange and bizarre world known as dating. They settled into the great Now what.

They were from different worlds, and their attempts at being together had failed gloriously. She brought books to his games, while he snored loudly in the lobby of her art galleries. They had tried to have sex, but it turned into glorified, naked cuddling that left them both with the hangover of failure the next morning.

They hadn't spoken to each other for a week after that attempt.

She was attracted to him, in some way, but it seeemed they couldn't adjust enough or correctly to fit into each other's lives.

Which left her here, at the coffeehouse, single again, and watching him steal a quick glance at his shoes and expressing more than he would ever say.

She tried to cry, even a little, shed a little tear for the discarded relationship. But it was the now open feelings that she had observed that touched her more. She flipped another page in her Collected Works of William Shakespeare, having somehow forgotten to read the last couple lines -- common, she was convinced of most people attempting to read the Bard. No one understood 90% of what he wrote these days, anyways.

Rather, she pondered her own situation and wondered where the two of them had gone wrong, and was found wanting for an answer.

Son: Bucket List, 8-7-08

Simplicity
and its willful pursuit --
rather than the ongoing worship of false gods --
Finding a means to an end of happiness rather than accumulation.

To love and put people first,
Stressing more the gifts other bring into your life rather than your needs they fill,
Chastise priorities of fun nights and choose, instead, great times and meaning.

Accomplishment,
in your own right,
Rather than those things to be talked about at high school reunions and family get togethers,
Even now,
Identify that you want this so you can feel better than everyone else.

Strive for "you look happy"
OR
"you sound happy"
OR, better,
"I am happy,"
instead of the awful and ill fated wow factor that comes with the creation of want.

A covetless life,
not to want,
but to succeed in self.

Abandon suffering and learn meaning,
Relieve evil and do good,
Express everything and hide nothing.
Accept and rejoice,
Move on and pass awy.

Make no plan for death,
or a to-do list for the end,
but
Make it matter to yourself that you live.

SON: Last Word I Looked Up, 7-28-08

Holding my cocktail in one hand, I stepped away from my current boyfriend. George had an audience, and he was going off on some obscure point in central African politics.

I had sat through enough of his diatribes, and, whereas I had once enjoyed playing along in this game, I had grown bored with the practice. George and I had been to Africa, but I always thought the far more interesting stories were the flight delays, the weird food, and the growing Americanization of the local cultures. He, meanwhile, picked up on minor points and then expounded on them with great affect to anyone who would listen.

And, since we were in a political crowd this evening, he pulled some minor occurrence about an election in Mali or Malawi or Madagascar -- no one would bother to check, and I don't even think he was keeping track at this point -- and used it as the basis for a massive speech on the faults of developing world Democracy.

He had no background in the topic, and he made up most of his facts, but he kept his audience. I watched the dark-skinned, blue-eyed twink who was gazing at George with lust. Oh boy.

It was my fault; I had let him get this bad. I had even played along, after he wowed me with enough of these yarns. I had bought into them when we were dating.

Five years later, the constant grandiloquence annoyed me. I could see right through it, and I had become familiar with the taste of his tales when they went off on fairy tale. Five years later, I found myself with a man who was far from the urbane and interesting man I believed I was dating, who was rather the bastard child of his own cleverness and the cocaine culture of short attention spans, superficiality, and instant gratification.

And, tonight, after a few cocktails, I was just over it. I left his circle of adoration and stepped out onto the balcony.

It was a cool night, and I sipped my rum and coke. I heard steps behind me.

"This is too much drama, even for you." I spun around, expecting George and not finding him.

"Well, I'm sorry, I hadn't intended on saying anything, I just needed a cigarette."

I back down from my fighter's stance. I had assumed it was George, following me out to have a "romantic moment." This would be the perfect set-up -- in front of the big windows so that everyone could see how devoted he was to his partner of years. "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else..."

He inhaled and exhaled a lungful of smoke. "Apparently I am someone else." He smiled, extended his hand. "I'm Robert."

I took his hand and responded absentmindedly, "Paul." I kept my eyes over Robert's shoulder on George, who was pointing at the walls and gesticulating wildly with his right hand -- What the hell is he talking about now?I thought -- while his left arm was around the neck of that twink boy. "Cute," I dropped the word, and went back to leaning against the balcony rail, leaning forward on my elbows.

"I am, thanks for noticing."

"You'll forgive me if I'm not too interested in sarcasm this evening." I leaned forward heavily, my feet barely touching the ground as I put all of my weight on my elbows.

"That's OK," he said with a snort, pushing the bluish smoke out of his nostrils and towards me. "You'll forgive me if I'm not too interested in pretentious queens this evening." He flicked his cigarette over the rail, began to walk back inside, but stopped and said, "You don't know that guy, do you?"

He was pointing at George, who was huddled privately in a corner with the twink boy, speaking frantically and moving his hands. I felt a tinge of jealousy, and I wondered if I would be alone in bed that night while he ran off with some crowd to "look at the stars." I suppose you can see the stars when you're on your back, granted there's a skylight. "Yea... a little. Why?"

"I'm looking for a good word to describe him, but I can't quite put my finger on it."

"Phony? Fake? Pretentious? Bombastic..."

"Wait, isn't that a good thing... bombastic?"

"Um, no."

"Oh." Robert considered the scene inside, slowly rolling the word over his tongue. I could barely hear him whispering, "bombastic, bombastic," as if repeating the word would bring the definition to light. "You sure that's not a good thing -- I mean, maybe, subconsciously, you meant it as a compliment." He turned his head towards me. "Hm? Friend? Admirer? Jilted lover?"

"Something like that, but, if it does mean something good, that was not my intent."

He took a swing of the rest of his drink, made a face, and dumped the rest over the railing. "Not suitable for human consumption."

Distractedly: "What? My boyfriend?"

"No I meant the wine." He laughed. "Boyfriend -- 'something like that,' indeed. Too bad about the relationship. I have a great dictionary at home and we could have settled our debate. Besides, you seem far too interesting for him. All the same, good night." And, with that, he set his glass down on the edge and walked into the house and towards the exit.

I watched Robert go, and let my eyes linger on George. The two of them were too close, gazing a little too long at each other, touching each other just so, and I knew I would be alone, again. I made the decision that I was going to choose to be alone, at least tonight, and the next. And I knew that I was done with him.

I caught up with Robert on the front lawn. "Is it Webster's or American Heritage... your dictionary?"

He smiled, and I knew it would all be better.

---

"Who was that guy?" the blue eyed twink asked me -- what was his name? Javi? Bobby? Whatever. He had seen my gaze follow Paul out the door, chasing the trick I had sent in his direction. Finally, I though, he gets the cajones to leave. Paul had been fun for a while, but I had been bored with him. I thought he would have left me long ago, especially after that fiasco with the Latin body builder, but I had underestimated his lack of self-respect. It had taken months to finally get the boy to go. Now, the break up would be clean because Paul had found his wings. Very little mess.

I smiled and turned back to the twink. We'll go with Bobby. "No one, Bobby... no one important."

I wasn't corrected on the name; that was a good guess.

Son: Chapstick, 7-21-08

We are at some bus station in the middle of Ohio, and you are luxuriously applying chapstick to your lips -- they are pale red, the color of dawn. Almost a peach.

Now, you are lighting a cigarette placed where the greasy stick was just moments before. Small, pale hands control your movements. Flicking on the lighter, fire delights your face. It's hot out, and the meager flame reflects off 100s of small droplets of sweat that are rolling down your cheek. Your angular, Roman-esque features provide a water park of rivulets until they meet at your jaw bone, where they disappear for a moment and reappear at your neck.

Breathe in, breathe out, blow smoke.

The girl with you makes some comment and she laughs at her own cleverness. You are broken away from the privacy of lighting and puffing the first puff, and your downy blue eyes refocus on her.

You smile, those chapstick flavored and nicotine stained lips curl in the form of a half-smile. You are turned away, so I can't see your full expression, but I know you are conscious of me, and can still feel my presence inside of you.

I left it there. You had tried to refuse but couldn't. A dirty, quick fuck in the bathroom stall, your teeth biting deep into the handle of your bag strap to keep you from screaming.

You had made a half-assed attempt at a few protests, but the time together was short and the need was so great that it left little ability to do anything but pull our pants down and bend you over.

I owned you for a minute, and that is still my sweat mixed with yours dripping down your back.

Those perfect lips, that fair, hairless facial skin that I, have no doubt, has been worshipped by the dumpy, hippy girl you are with was contorted and mangled just moments before for me.

And I know you are feeling my eyes burn into your back.

We have hours to go, and many more bus stops together.

Son: If I ruled the world...

He considered the cathedral from where he stood on the turret. It was going up quickly -- the glistening, sweating bodies of slaves worked furiously to pile stones specially carved by the finest masons in the world. The statues and detailed story-pictures were created to explain the stories of this strange God to the masses. He could hear the single bell set up on wooden stilts calling the "flock" to the steps of the building for services, under the watchful eyes of the white robed priest with a booming voice and the oglden symbol of his sacrificed Lord around his neck. The cathedral would be a masterpiece -- perfect and glorious and filled with a spectrum of light.

It disgusted him.

That man's flock was his people. The mass's unified voice, singing hymns, was a challenge to his own power. His thoughts were tinged with jealousy -- it usually took more than a bell to get people to listen to him -- but mostly he was angry.

His father, the King of Earth and Heaven before him, the man who had conquered the known world, had converted on his death bed and ordered the cathedral built. As for the Empire, he had decreed that it would be left to the eldest son who converted with him and then would swear them to continue the building process.

Five sons had converted, but he was the only one to swear to the cathedral. While the other brothers debated the point, he took the opportunity and signed the order. The Lord Proector, chief minister of the Empire, was there, consecrated the succession, and his father had died.

Five minutes later, as Lord-to-be, he ordered the death of his brothers, cast out the priest, and converted back to his native gods. They had always served him well. The cathedral, meanwhile, was harder to get rid of. Flesh cuts easily, and blood is definitive, but stone was more difficult to pull down.

He cursed his father for the oath, and cursed more the order had been signed by him, that he had not waited the few minutes before his father had passed on.

He pushed his palms together and pulled them apart, feeling the glow of the fire ball he had formed there. He wished that he could simply throw it down and destroy the building, but it would be too obvious. It was weaker than ever, now. It may not have the same force. This new God forbade the use of magic. As people stopped using it, the power was dying.

It was just fading away.

I rule the world, and this religion is becoming a problem. And, that afternoon, it would go away. He extinguished the flame, turned on his heel and went back inside as rain clouds gathered.

----

He woke up to the expected boom.

His afternoon nap had been peppered with dreams of blood, of the aftermath of war, of bodies piled high until they blocked out the sun. And every last one of them wore a white robe.

The boom was a planned explosion by specialized assassins for the built environment. A signle lightning bolt during the storm -- magically arranged -- had struck a second spell that had exploded. He smile as he thought of addressing the crowd. This must be a sign that the gods of our forefathers are angry, he would say, we must repent! The use of this new God's own language was genius and a special touch he had planned to move them. The flock would be his, again.

He dressed alone, waving off servants. He wanted to do this slowly, the whole time humming one of their tunes. This would be his day.

His entourage left the castle to inspect the destruction, the rain softening in the early vening. Everything was dark, as the clouds still blocked out the dim light. His ministers were gossiping and begging for plans around him, a muting and umbrella spell covering all of them as they walked.

He hummed, ignoring them, and practically skipped up the hill to the sight of the now destroyed cathedral.

Clink. The sound started a few blocks away from the site. Clink. The sound of metal hitting stone rang through the streets sharply; he winced, knowing the sound and marking it as the same tone that kept him awake at night. Clink. "Sounds like they are rebuilding," one of the ministers said, and the Lord of Earth and Heaven noted that that man would have to die. Clink. His heart sank and his pace quickened, and he was no longer humming but could hear the music still in his ears.

He knew what to expect when he turned the courner. Thousands of people stood around the base of the steps at the flattened church, holding candles and singing hymns. At the front, the priest was leading them all. Slaves were picking up stones and moving them. They were rebuilding, and the crowd was growing by the minute. All singing.

For a moment, he was at a loss, but he knew what had to be done. To rule the world, you had to adapt, and he felt himself moving through the shocked crowd, which parted as he stepped forward. Every instinct screamed KILL KILL towards each of the startled faces, and he wanted to bury a knife in the heart of the bastard priest.

Which is why even he was surprised when he alighted the broken stairs, singing with the crowd, to embrace the white frocked pretender at what was once the doorway.

"If I ruled the world, truly," he whispered in the man's hear, "you would be dead."

"Ah," the priest shot back, "but you can't without the people's hearts -- my people's hearts." He pulled away and turned towards the crowd, his voice booming over the song, "Your Lord is converting back! He, too, has seen the good that is our God, even in this dark hour!"

A cheer went up as the Lord of Heaven and Earth dropped to one knee and he signaled his ministers to do the same.

The toothy grin of the bastard priest looked down. "And now, you are my puppet. I rule the world."

Son: Random Phone Number, 7-7-08

We could dine for days off the meat in a single human. She had made the suggestion when we were hungriest and the first baby had died, of malnutrition as far as she knew.

She had been out and I was watching our sick, starving child -- Adam, we had named him, the first child of Earth. He was just crying and crying and my temper was short that day. Adam had not been fed for days, her breasts to dry to feed, and I took a pillow and smothered my son.

He cried, and then he was silent. And then he was gone.

She took it well, at first, accepting the inevitable death, but I saw the insanity growing in her eyes. Crazed fear behind dim brown. I imagined they were beautiful once, and I closed my eyes and thought of what they might have been whenever we fucked -- cold, meticulous, save the race sort of fucking.

We could dine for days off the meat in a single human, she had said after we had buried Adam in a small park down the street. We had imagined that, growing up, our son would love this park and play there.

I allowed the perversity, thought I know now the brief glimmer in her eyes was not hope but her growing insanity. It was practical enough -- dead bodies littered the landscape and we were able to salvage the occasional body that had not become carrion or decay-ridden.

Sometimes, with the right cooking and the right spices, we could almost believe that the hard, sinewy meat or a stew of innards came from the finest of chefs. But it was all we could eat, as neither of us excelled at the basic arts of survival we needed so desperately now.

I had vomited after the first time we ate -- hard, painful retching out of my own disgust. That's when I began to walk.

The first payphone I scratched the walls of was no further than two blooks up from where we were squatting. I held my breath when I reached it and picked up the receiver. I heard the comforting crackling dialtone. It gave me hope.

I scratched a note with a key on the wall of the booth -- STILL ALIVE, WHERE R U? -- and then dated it, scratching away the blue paint to expose the metal beneath with crude, large, capitalized letters.

It became an obsession after that and part of my daily routine. After we ate, I would wander the empty streets, seeking out working payphones. Cell phones had virtually wiped out the technology, and my range widened every day. I would wander well into the night along dead streets, empty except for the occasional individual invading wild life.

Since the miscarriage -- Adam II or, perhaps, Eve -- our attempts at repopulating the Earth were all but abandoned. My growing dependence on bottles of whisky -- found by breaking into bars and liquor stores at night -- was not helping the growing dystopia.

Months passed, and I varied my nights between carving new queries and checking the old ones. Sometimes, she would be up when I stumbled in. She would be fiercely cleaning something in their little house, her eyes blazing with obsession and fear, and I would take her from behind, wondering if she even noticed. Others, she would be gone -- at one stretch, she was gone for three days, and that was when I began the brutal work of feeding the two of us. I didn't know where she went, but we had long since stopped talking. I was never awake for the day -- rousing at dinner time and then walking away.

It was a silent existence. I would scream sometimes while I walked, believing that the echo off the empty buildings were other people screaming back. I knew my eyes were beginning to show the crazed fear I was seeing take her completely.

And I had developed a taste for human flesh, to the exception of all others. We had given up our half-hearted attempts at hunting or fishing or growing food. But the supply was dwindling, and the growing hunger was feeding our own dilapidation. Enough months had passed to reduce the supply to little more than insect ridden flecks left on now sun-bleached bones.

Some nights, that was enough.

I had given up hope. I stopped looking at old carvings. STILL ALIVE, WHERE R U? became STILL ALIVE became just the date, hatchmarks on a prisoner's cell wall. It was habit, nothing more. Thus, when a new date appeared on the first phone booth that I had carved, my heart jumped.

Two days before, two blocks from where we stayed, a new date. I felt hope surge, and I saw a light. There are others out there. My mind was beating back the insanity because someone else was out there. There was a phone number and time to be in the booth for me to call.

CALL ON... two days from that day.

Hope.

I was there that day, waiting for that exact moment. Reaching up, I shook as the receiver clicked off the rack and I heard the crackling dialtone. I had found two quarters in the drawer of a liquor store to make the call, and, taking a swig of the whisky I had swiped, I dialed.

Ring.

Ring.

Click. It took a moment to register in my head, to believe that a human voice was answering, and I fought off his first response of just screaming into the receiver. Then I heard a familiar voice:

"Hello?" It was her.

Hope died and the fear returned. It took me completely. I was finally, undoubtedly, alone and hungry.

And I wondered then what the taste of fresh human flesh was like.

Son's Post: VIRUS 6-30-08

TOPIC: Virus

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Two virii walked into a bar. They order a drink, discuss the varying mitochondria of the world, and then go home to clone.

Vince the virus had two million clones -- a moderate size family in a nice section of the GI tract. He was comfortable here. His clones merrily bounced off each other eithin their tiny cell at the end of a small cul-de-sac in a quiet part of the lower duodenum.

One day, they would become enough that they would burst free, encapsulate themselves in their own protein shell, and seek out a host cell of their own where the cycle would repeat itself.

Of course, the home of their RNA years would be destroyed in the process, and they would remember nothing of him, while he passed onto the Great Beyond. He would be unceremoniously buried in fecal matter and flushed down into the great watery grave of his people.

That's how it went, though, and he was ok with that.

Here in this part of the world, all was peaceful. Reports of bad tidings had come in from other parts via the intracellular web they had established. New creatures -- chemical, in nature, it appeared -- had begun attacking their quiet way of life. Some had been bullied out of new hosts, some had even reported break in's that stopped or destroyed clones so that they could not carry on to greener pastures.

Vince considered himself lucky. It had been a tough decision, choosing a host where he did. The night he had met with Roberto in the bar, his friend had talked exitedly about the action going on in the lymph nodes that were growing quickly, mostly north of where he sat in his comfy chair.

But the fast growth had attracted this bad element. He wasn't sure if Roberto was there anymore, or if his clones had ever made it out. Vince had, on a whim, chosen to go back to the place of his own clone years for its peace and simplicity. The newness did not attract him. His family had lived here for hundreds of life-cycles, here in the suburbs, and that was OK with him.

Roberto may already be gone. By his own internal clock, it was becoming about that time, anyways. But there was no way of knowning. Vince hoped that his friend's clones hadn't mutated like the Others, strong and more evil copies to beat back these new invaders.

He understood the need of the mutants. Their leaders insisted via the intracellular network that they were for the survival of the race. To Vince, they were pantomimes of good citizens designed for nothing more than survival. Disgusting and awful super-virii with the ability to evade and perhaps even destroy these invaders.

They made Vince sick. He was all for survival, but it was nice that his clones had maintained proper purity.

This was his thought before the first clone hit the cell wall and began to bud off. He watched the sky open up in a terrible shower of ripping protein, the cell collapsing around him. He wished his clones well.

The great sleep was overcoming him. His clones would spread racial purity. Hopefully, they would stay nearby and forego the speed and excitement of these new places. Vince believed it was these places that led to the awful mutations.

"What the hell," he thought, at the last, "we're all dead anyway, even this whole world will die, too."

The final clone passed through, not yet conscious, not yet alive, in search of its own bright future.