“Got that report, Richard?”

Tick.

“You’re 6 minutes late, son.”

Ticktick.

“Haven’t you worked in sales before? Your resume says you have. You some kind of liar?”

Tickticktick.

“You might be too black for some of our customers.”

Ticktickticktickticktick.

His was not the kind of life-in-hell story most people sympathize with. Just a man who knew right away he wasn’t fit for a certain kind of existence. Not a literary man, he thought On the Road was simply a popular travel atlas. Richard had never heard of Woodie Guthrie, and had an irrational phobia of trains.

But something went off.

The battle raged for hours in my parent’s basement. Dr. Pepper cans and Doritos littered the field of combat. Fatigue had set in. Our moves weren’t as fluid as they should have been. If fresher, a spectator would have seen a dance unfold before them with grace and poise. Neither of us could request a break at the risk of sounding weak. I could see it in Darren’s red, sleepy eyes. He was at his wit’s end. I made my move.

When I landed that Sonic Boom on Chun Li, it was one of the greatest moments in my life.

Teaching had been a disappointment from the beginning, and Winston Vaughn swore he would quit before the end of the year.

He once dreamed of being a writer. Those who can’t do..., etc., etc.

Last night had been rough. The baby cried, as did his wife, until four. He was in the back of the classroom fighting sleep when Morgan rose for her turn. Her kyrielle sonnet was entitled Sonic Boom, and she read it to the class in her usual milquetoast delivery.

Still, Morgan’s voice galvanized him. Something inside trembled.

He saw her for the first time that day.

Recovery was difficult. I was in the hospital for one month and the physical therapy lasted another year. Relearning to walk with a steel rod in my leg was much easier than putting up the colostomy bag. Fortunately that wasn’t permanent, though I’ve heard they often are. Everyone was very supportive during my recovery, but it seems that spirit has diminished. Old rivalries and emotional baggage keep rearing their ugly heads. Bygones are no longer bygones. Life is back to normal now. Well, with the exception of a few scars, it’s back to the way it was before the accident.

She checked her bag one last time:

Journal
Pens
Tampons
$37 cash
Captain Giggles
Photo on her and Diana in Ecuador
3 pairs underwear
Two t-shirts
One pair shorts
Ibuprofen

Looking around, she couldn’t think of anything else she would need. If so she could always have Richard ship it to her.

Richard. She was going to miss him the most. He was, after all, the one who inspired her to do this. She imagined a smile creasing his weathered lips when he discovers her gone. He’d know that she had finally taken the leap.

And he would die fulfilled.

Mr. Vaughn,

With deep regret I am submitting this letter in lieu of last night’s writing assignment. While I respect the exercise, I simply cannot find anything to say regarding the chosen topic. Perhaps “laceration” is an uninspiring word. Perhaps not.

To be frank, the word fills me with an inexplicable feeling of sadness. I do not know why this should be. Can one have a phobia for certain terms? I tried translating the word into Spanish and then writing a story, but the sadness only intensified. Even as I write about not writing about…that word…I smell death.

Sincerely,
Morgan

It was a cliché: The screeching tires; the feeling of time slowing down. The scene was like something out of a film. The impact of the on-coming car moved me forward at an impossible speed. The wheel bent as my rib cage shattered. Glass broke and tore my flesh. Shards cut into my hands, arms, and face. The hood of the car gave way to asphalt. The mingling of glass, asphalt, and blood created a stench of dying. The smell of asphalt still makes me nauseas. What started as lacerations have turned into scars. They throb when a storm's coming.

Morgan’s alarm went off around 6:30. She didn’t have to be at the bookstore until 9, but always allowed time for a healthy number of snooze depressions. Bzzzzzzzzzzz – smack! Back to the popcorn munching dream.

And so it went. Bzzzzzzzzzz – smack. Dream. Bzzzzzzzzzzz – smack. Dream.

Her lover found this extremely irritating. Diana was the manager of the Slurp n’ Chirp, and most nights shed barely get to sleep before that alarm shit started. Despite pleas, Morgan was as stubborn about this as she was with everything. Onoffonoffonoffonoffonoffonoffonoff. Christ, thought Diana, I can’t do this anymore…

Morgan woke from her dream.

When she walked in, he thought, "At least I know I'll get laid tonight," and was immediately disgusted with himself for thinking it. He resolved tonight would be different. The party was teeming with eager young talent, and he worked the room. He was charming and funny. He said the right things at the right times, and made all the right moves. But nothing changes. By the end of the night, they were together again. As they fucked each other, both thought of tomorrow, when they would part ways in silence. Not for the first time, or the last.

Look. There. See? There it is again. He’s been doing it for over an hour. I don’t know. I haven’t really noticed a pattern, but I’ve only been paying attention for about fifteen minutes. Huh? He’s doing it with his porch light. On. Off. On. Off. Short. Long. Long. Short. That’s what I thought, but I don’t know enough about Morse code. Do you? I know Michael does. Yeah, he does. He learned that shit when he was in the service. I’ve started writing it down. Man… maybe he’s in trouble. What? Yeah, he probably is just fucking with me.

She didn’t do those things, with Mr. Vaughn or anyone. Why the roof? Details like that make stories seem real. She didn’t even know how to get up there. That was the last straw. They didn’t really hate her, but she hated them. After twelve years she realized they were right - she was different. She was better.

This thought made her stomach hurt.

On the last day she found the ladder. That evening, she snuck out her window, walked to the school, and climbed on top of the cafeteria. She stayed there for hours, staring up at the darkness.

I was acquainted with Travis. He was younger, but we were at the same parties, knew the same people. It was at a graduation party where we first really hung out. We sat on the roof till dawn smoking, drinking, waxing about the shit you wax about at that age; good times. Two days later he killed himself. Even though I barely knew him, He seemed like a smart guy with a level mind and bright future. I have to trust he did what was best for him. It’s sad, but how do I know it wasn’t the right move?

Melquiadas studied the box on his desk. He picked up the phone and dialed.

-Terry? Um, what's the deal with this box?

-Oh... well, it was here when I came in this morning.

-It doesn't say. No return address either.

-It's about five cubic inches and brown.

-I don't know.

-I can't.

-Well, that's the thing... it has no seams.

-None. It's as if it is one continuous piece of cardboard.

-I know most boxes are, but they glue or tape them shut. This is just... I don't know... there's no flaps or anything.

-I've checked it several times.

-I know that's impossible, but I wasn't about to start cutting this thing open without talking to you first.

Melquiadas and Terry studied the box on his desk.