The Oracle 2024

Founded in 1902, Brunswick School is an independent, college preparatory day school in Greenwich, Connecticut, providing character-based education for boys Pre-Kindergarten through Grade 12.

The school is located at 100 Maher Avenue, and can be reached by phone at (203)625-5800 or by fax at (203)-625-5829.

Submissions to Oracle are open to all Brunswick students and faculty with a desire to display their creative works, with a submission window from September to April. Submissions can be emailed to oracle@brunswickschool. org, but are often personally solicited from students and faculty alike.

Oracle 2024 Staff Members

Editors-in-Chief

Luke Brooks ’24

Will Schmitz ’24

Heads of Design

Reed Gilbert ’24

Ethan Yoo ’24

Writing and Editing Staff

Gabriel Lopez ’24

Johnny Saunders ’24

Thomas Whidden ’24

Benjamin Wu ’24

Preston Elms ’25

Nicholas Grippo ’25

Jacob Pelham ’25

Leo Simon ’25

Emil Sogaard-Srikrishnan ’25

Charlie Tortorella ’25

Pierce Crosby ’26

George Kapp ’26

Nicholas Stern ’26

Faculty Advisor

Dr. Brian Freeman

BEGINNING

A Dismayed Display

I wake up to the four glass walls that define my life. Walking groggily to the kitchen, I roll my eyes at the perfectly-centered doors I pass. Although they’re firmly rooted to the ground, I no longer question the reason for their existence. The glimmer of hope that used to follow my gaze outside had died out years ago, and my once instinctive reach towards the handle was now just a worn-out sigh. As my naivety melted away, the illusion of freedom that the doors presented became obvious like a black cat sitting in the snow. My innocence left, and with it departed my happiness.

My routine continues as I turn past the cylindrical bathroom to reach the kitchen. Breakfast, the highlight of my day, arrives in a cabinet underneath the sink. I have a suspicion that the base of the furniture ascends and descends like an elevator. The food must come from somewhere, and I know it does not pop up like the magic I’ve read in the books — my life was far from a fairy tale. I think back to a memory from a previous time. Curious to see how the food appeared, I once left the cabinet open and sat against the glass wall, promising myself that I would not fall asleep until I discovered how the food emerged. Secretly, I hoped that the plank would lower, so I could then hop on and greet the creatures or people underneath. Loneliness had become the dominant emotion in my childhood, and I desperately needed a companion. Besides, my burning questions were dying to be answered. Do I have parents? Is this my forever? The latter thought always scared me. After three grueling days of my hopes and emotions rising and setting like the sun, the exhaustion had gotten to me. Tears in my eyes, I shut the door in despair and collapsed to the ground. My curiosity began to fade as the reality settled in. If I had not yet grasped it in my head, the sharp pain in my stomach was physical confirmation. No more disillusionment — I was destined to be alone. The next day I woke up to my first meal in a while. There was much more food than normal, but even the fluffiest pancake could not rid me of the emptiness I felt the night before. The feeling stays with me today.

Shaking the remembrance off, I squat down to open up the drawer and take out the glass container. Inside, there are buttery scrambled eggs and crispy bacon strips next to a chocolate croissant. Maple brown sugar oatmeal, my favorite, lies off to the side. As I nibble a piece

of bacon, its rich flavor gives away the extensive care put into the food, and I close my eyes. I try some eggs next and taste warmth and dedication in my mouth. It’s the closest thing I’ll get to love.

I turn around and peek at my reflection before I sit down to eat. A brown-haired boy with tan skin blankly peers back at me. His eyes are glassy and out of focus, and it looks as though the brightness in them had been drained out. His lean figure contrasts his broad shoulders, and his bad posture and slumped back render him dazed like a tired intoxicated laborer. Is that really me? I reach out my palm and run it along the glass. How paradoxical, I think. Walls are typically used for privacy, support, or for sectioning off an area. A wall made entirely out of glass, however, cannot serve any of these purposes. Maybe they could section something off, but not in a way that would grant any peace or solitude. Ultimately, they can only contain or be used for viewing purposes. Like the cubicles at aquariums and the case that held my breakfast, they were small prisons that gave off an impression of freedom. One would never know unless they were trapped inside. I walk across to the living room as I ponder the thought. Am I the food? Me, someone else’s nourishment? The trickling idea opens up new concerns in my mind. I’m an object at a museum — something to be observed. Then there must be others outside this glass house. Others who are close … close and caring enough to watch me … me! I start to get excited, and my heart pounds in my chest. Stop, I command myself. I think back to the heartbreak I faced when I was younger, and I force myself to expel the thoughts from my head. I have no sound reason to believe this, much less any proof. Even if the books were true, and other people do exist outside, there aren’t any reasons they would help me if all they do now is watch. Having no resolve left for speculation’s temptations to break me again, I leave my rumination alone and go on with my morning.

I sit down on one of two brown chairs in the living room. Room is a strong word. It’s more of a rectangular white carpet contrasting the stark brick floor than anything else. Nevertheless, it’s the closest thing I have to a separate space. I place my food down on the glass table in front of me and stare at the painting ahead. The painting, the only one I’ve seen in my life, depicts a landscape with geography quite different from the unchanging grass hills I see outside. In the landscape there are people — many of them, in fact, walking and chatting on carved

out paths. Further down the road, opaque white buildings with grand columns populate the area, making up some sort of a city. Today, my eyes wander over to the focus of the painting: two people walking away from town carrying an object hidden under a white tarp. I never really gave its identity much thought, but this morning I am particularly drawn to it. I lean forward in my seat. The left side of the tarp is spherical, and the length of the tarp looks to be about the height of the humans carrying the contraption. It resembles … a person. Is this person … dead? That must be why they are carting him out. My emotions burst into my mind like water rushing through a broken dam, and my brain starts overflowing with thoughts and proposals. Stricken by my thoughts from earlier, I begin to scheme.

Say there are people outside observing my every action. Would they come get me if I was on the verge of death? I toy with the possibilities. They might think my dead body is an eyesore; furthermore, they must’ve invested too many resources maintaining my meals and living conditions to ignore what could possibly be my demise. I ponder further, even going as far as to consider the slight chance that they care for me. I do not raise my hopes up too high, though. No one in their right mind would inflict this sort of punishment on someone they love. I pray they won’t leave me here to rot, like one of those mice in an experiment. In my mind, it was still worth a try. And if there isn’t anyone watching, would I regret my actions? I glance to the left, where a murky lake beneath the hill lies with no inhabiting life. How sad, I thought. A tree that resembles one in the painting sways in the wind. My surroundings have looked so static my entire life, and I am unsure now of whether the scenery outside is even real. I spot my reflection again, and see that my eyes have lit up for the first time in ages. I want this. If nothing is outside, I am better off dead.

There have been countless moments in the past when I played dead or tried to break myself out, but today was different. Today, I’m attempting something extreme. Something that may actually work. I do not plan to die without reason. It would be better if I live after seeing the truth, or at least discover the truth, even if it’s momentary. I need to be extreme, but not impulsive. Calculating, I take a deep breath and fall backwards onto the countertop. My head hits the edge, and my vision goes blurry. A hot searing pain runs through my body. My thoughts are jumbled, and I feel a warm liquid leaking out of my head onto the

side of my face. Both ears ring, and I want to throw up. I scream but no sound comes out. Blurry figures in hazmat suits walk in.

My mind flows in and out of consciousness. I am no longer in the glass house. Someone is talking. Two people, actually: one man and one woman. The man’s voice is deep, calm, reassuring. The woman’s voice quivers and shakes. Her words have no rhythm, and they jumble up like toddlers first learning to talk. Both of them speak in a grave tone.

“Is my baby going to-to die? I don’t-I don’t understand how this could hap-hap-happen again. We’ve tried everything. Everything!” The woman cries out. She sobs and sobs, and the sound of her tears splattering the ground are all too familiar. The man’s voice comes next.

“I’m sorry, Honey. I truly wanted this to work out. I just want him … back,” he says.

My thoughts run wild in my head as memories from my childhood play one after the other. I try to make sense of everything, but I have no energy left. I let out a croaky groan. “Why?” The voices are back again, but only briefly this time.

“Wha-wha-what should we do with the rest of them?”

“I’m not sure. Clearly, the technology isn’t ready yet.”

“Of course the technology isn’t ready yet! This is the fifth time he’s died or gone crazy! A life with us, a library, an animal shelter, a padded cell, and now glass. None of it works! And it’s always seventeen. Is it us? Is it him? Is there some divine interference? He has yet to become an adult, any version of him. This can’t keep happening. It’s the car accident all over again.”

“Honey, you’re panicking. We’re not stopping here. Let’s go check up on Four, Nine, and Thirteen. Thirteen seems to be doing just fine, and I’m sure he will be the one to make it past seventeen. Once this works, we will change the whole world. Think about it: Determined Parents Reunited with Dead Son After Landmark Trial Succeeds. Every experiment requires multiple trials, Honey.”

“A-and then?”

“And then we’ll release him. He’ll be our son again.”

“That’s what y-you said last time. And all the t-times before that. You-you don’t even seem that bothered this time. Our son just died!”

Oracle Ben Wu

“Honey, you know he was just one of many… and those times were different. We can create as many Alex’s as we need now, so there’s no need to worry. Let’s head downstairs and cook some lunch for them. Our son is waiting for us.”

“I-I think we should have left him a-a-alone after the car accident. I-I just want to hold him again … to see him in college. I never even got to say goodbye.”

“Nonsense, honey. Our little boy will return to your arms in no time. I want him back just as much as you do.”

The ringing stops. Everything goes black.

Leaves

I grew up in the east. If you’ve ever been you know about the wind. If you visited in autumn the sky would be more orange gold and red than blue. Out there sunsets are the warmest hue. You always know the fall is coming when that first wind hits. It comes from the side, slicing at the sinews of your skin as you brace against it. Suddenly the leaves fall, not one by one, but all at once. October brings death, the ground a mass grave. But in some ways it feels like time begins again when warm days become cold nights.

Where I am from we become nocturnal sometime around the weather’s turn. I would spend my nights under streetlights, often walking late and solitary, but not alone. Because you could never see the stars, we all had too many neighbors, it was hard to find an escape. I discovered it in the sounds of silence. Sometimes when I would walk, in clothes much too thin to stop the blades of wind, I would pretend that I was the only one. I would find backroads, away from the streetlights, where I could imagine that the houses flanking me were empty, and the far off sounds of the highways were some sort of soundtrack. I would always end those attempts to run away with my return to the sounds.

When the trees turn and the vivid leaves fall, the color drains from our demeanors. I am meaner in the winter, I wouldn’t smile if we passed each other. To survive the desolation, those months with no green, no golden sun, no bursts of color found in flowers, we find warmth elsewhere. In fireplaces, In close quarters. In the walls of buildings, every corner and stairwell the scene for time spent avoiding the wind. There is a part of me that loves the dead season. I thrive when I’m forced to brave the storms. I never was bothered much by the wind and dark. What always got to me was the monochrome outside the window. Where are the leaves? Why does the sun seem to hate me? Its light is somehow cold in the frozen time. I don’t know how to describe it. You’d know what I mean if you have ever felt it follow you, streaming hate into your face through the window of a city bound train. We find comfort in what warmth we can create. Thick stews and rich soups, pasta with cheese oozing across an alabaster plate, sometimes the cold is all that can convince people back home to season food. I warm my hands on coffee cups. Sometimes I would go out

in my royal blue hoodie, feeling like a force of nature myself. I always refused to dress for the occasion in the quiet gray times. Maybe it was a kind of denial. I would walk to a café and find solace in the spiced brown cup of liquid. Cinnamon scented drops dribbled down my chin as I would scald my tongue to nothing. I never minded those burns because at least my mouth, no more warmed by pleasantries or passing chatter, would no longer be numb.

I hate the winter here.

Staircase

It is time to go to bed. I close my book and begin to stand up. I push the blue ottoman aside as the rain still falls and the fire crackles. The embers flicker in the somber family room. I give my dad a nudge, “it’s time to head up” I say.

His body rises sluggishly. He puts on his slippers and walks beside me as we make our way through the hall to the base of the staircase. We long for the gift of the second floor where our beds reside and cozy pillows await. Sixteen distinct platforms separate us from that beloved sanctuary.

I start my climb. My bare feet stand on the cold wooden floor, so I do not climb, I run. I run so fast skipping a step with each leap, running as though I had never felt the sweet treat of sleep.

I look down and watch as my father embraces the support of the railing while making contact with each individual step. One, two, three, four. He completes the grueling journey of all sixteen and he embraces me at the top with a warm hug, “I love you” he says.

We split our separate ways as his room is to the left, and mine to the right. Not my room, not my bed, not even my pillow, were as comforting as the hug I shared with my dad at the top of the stairs. I drift off and fall asleep to the dream that I was still running up those stairs, always and forever running.

The Back Seat

I seem immersed in this world, At peace.

I am oblivious to what’s around me, Asleep.

I am transfixed by a new world, Isolated.

I am oblivious to what’s around me, Lying dormant.

Slowly I gain consciousness, groggy. My eyes come into focus, And I slip my phone into my pocket, And slowly walk away from the glistening water.

I brush sand off me, Get in the car. The heat of the sun on my arm, My phone feels hot in my pocket.

I gravitate— Like a planet; Circling around its sun, The world flies by. Day and night I look on— Up— Down. Tap. Tap.

I’m Riding through: Life In the back seat.

A Fair Comparison

Rap is like porn to middle-class suburban white kids.

Like me.

We all claim to listen for the plot. But that’s not the reason we put Dot on repeat And let Atlanta echoes rattle through our duplexes.

We want to see something other than these clean streets And our mostly bright futures.

We just want to convince ourselves That, because we are not as rich as our peers, We’re somehow more real.

We want to watch something while it rots But not take responsibility, Because we’re just caught up in-between.

We really do love it! Though the culture will never be our own, And far more than five letters separate us.

So we continue to live vicariously, Through those soul samples and 808s.

I say “we” to protect myself from the mirror.

A Beautiful Wound

With the brush of fingertips, two billion neurons radiate, Eyes flutter, and their signals dance in the night. Yet, in your gaze, not a single cell ignites. If hell is frozen, you’re absolute zero. Meat would spoil under your malign influence. Black ooze from your soul widens my void.

You stole my heart, shattered it twice. Rise again; you can’t steal my life.

Replace my eyes, erasing your visage from my mind. You continue the chase; my vision pierces your facade.

Neurons fade with the echoes of your voice. Siblings cry when they see my choice.

I’ve bleached your name to purge the stain. Disposed of my memories, left them in flames. Cut out the chunks in which you played your part. Severed the ties frayed by your cruel heart. Disconnected the signal from my brain; I hope these wounds will bring you shame.

Perhaps there is beauty in my pain.

Sunshine Of My Day

I cross the road and peer through the crowds of people ahead of me. I search for her, knowing she’ll be there. I continue forward down the path waiting for the sight of her figure. There she is, walking my way.

I look to the ferns and the dangling leaves to my right as a way to contain myself from staring at her as she nears me. One foot after another I continue on awaiting the inevitable crossing of our paths. The moment comes and I shift my gaze off the familiar green and beige landscape and lock eyes with her. “Hi,” I say. “Hi,” she says back. I smile, she smiles, and we continue on down the same path, walking our separate ways. I’m thankful for her response, even if it may just be a simple reflection of my initial greeting, her reply made me smile.

However, she seemed to not be as thankful for me. She appeared to only acknowledge me throughout our seemingly surface interactions. For good reason though, as I had never done anything or said anything to expect thanks from her. However, I wanted to thank her for everything. Thank her for her hair being the color of the sun just peeking over a snow capped mountain right before it descends into the depths of the earth. Thank her for her smile exuding the same amount of energy and life a child does when they come across a playground. Thank her for her voice being as soft and soothing as a wool sweater on a brisk winter day. I thanked her for being her, as who she is is everything to me. Yet, I never said any of that to her. I kept it to myself hoping one day she’d see straight through me and my starstruck gaze upon her and see that I wanted to know her, and wanted her to know me.

So the days went on. Everyday at the same time I’d cross that road, awaiting her approach so I could utter that plain and simple word: “Hi.” It became routine, at times habitual to the point where the moment held little meaning. To the many others on that path observing this daily interaction, it might seem that from time to time there was no sign of a human connection, rather two different people moving on to do their own different things.

I felt more and more like this everyday. I was annoyed at myself for not having the courage to say something more, while also frustrated that she showed little interest in offering more herself. But how could

I be mad at her? After all, why would she see a reason in offering more to a man who appears to offer nothing himself? So I woke up the next day determined to say something more, anything more. The time came and I crossed that road waiting for her appearance on that narrow gray path. I turned to my right and looked upon those ever-changing leaves and the maze created by the intertwining ferns. I looked back and was disappointed. She was not there. Not her hair as gold as the sun, not her smile as bright as a diamond, not her voice as soft as a pillow. All of her was gone, and nothing of me remained.

A week went by and still nothing. My gloomy demeanor was apparent to all who still walked that long stretch of path. The weekend passed and I rose from bed sluggishly that next Monday morning uninterested in another week of walking that gray path. Yet, I got up and I continued on ready to cross that road again. As the time came I looked down the long stretch of path and to my suprise, there she was. Nothing in the world would have brought me greater excitement than that moment. I walked forward and so did she. We got closer and closer and as I looked back up to lock eyes with her I muttered “Hi, your hair looks nice.” She looked back at me and in that moment I felt as though the day had finally come where she saw straight through me. She smiled and quietly replied “thank you” as she kept on walking down that long gray path.

Offense

The blazing sun sets on the battlefield, where The warring factions face each other in different uniforms. They embrace different cultures, They speak different languages.

Leaders line the sides in formal regalia as they plot their next moves, But it is the men on the field who give their lives.

In the moment when they stand eye to eye with the enemy— With only a sliver of air between them— That is when they have to make their choices. They move back and forth, with no real gains, but their movement seems poetic. They run with seeming ease, carrying the weight of their nations on their shoulders.

The stalemate requires desperate reactions from the troops— They must win.

Salty sweat pours from their pores, Their hearts race, for They have long been prepared for this moment. Decades of perfecting athleticism, molding impenetrable mentalities. They push on, they must gain an advantage. That is when the other side breaks.

Civilians from neighboring towns keep a very mindful distance… But watch on.

They sweat as much as the battling men, For they know what is at stake.

The men trust in each other. If they need help their ally will be there to support their charge. In a variety of formations simply as planned. If they go down they have each other’s backs.

The sun disappears and the faint blue in the sky transforms into blackness.

They know it is mere minutes before their fate is sealed. In a last ditch effort, The defending troops prepare to mount an attack.

Generals are yelling strategies in foreign languages. The men begin to sprint. Their footwork is precise and delicately crafted. The skin ripples on their legs as the defined muscle is put to work. Chiseled and aware of what is about to happen. This moment is the paramount of years of instruction.

Men flank the sides. They slice between enemies who speak a different language. Languages that only can be deciphered by shouts of desperation.

More men follow in suit.

The sheer mass of the troops incites fear in the enemies. They have met their ultimate match. The charge is inevitable. The regime will be toppled.

The men gain confidence charging the opposition’s land, Moving with an equal dichotomy of ease and aggression. Their hands are shaking, but their feet are poised.

They eye down the final defense.

The attackers of the front force, unscathed by the initial onset of fighters, mount their final blow.

They take position. The strikers are so close they can see the pronounced whites of their enemies’ eyes.

The enemies know their fate is in the hands of the attackers.

The man who spearheaded the charge takes aim. He shoots. It screams past several men,

Each willing to die for their country but none using their face to save their demise. It even bends a little bit. And it’s a goal.

Unnamed

“Oh come on!” rang my refrain as I got cut off once again, “Seven times in three miles!”

I pulled my hand back inside the car and rolled the window up, leaning on the horn unremorsefully.

The scowl on my face was temporarily negated by carplay’s reading of “Message from Jackie:”

This hellish Tuesday was supposed to be remedied by our evening together.

Siri’s voice finished: ” See you in 10 :) My dad is excited to meet you <3”

The scowl reformed as I remembered our plans for tonight. Dinner with her dad.

Yay

I had yet to hear anything good about her dad. We had spoken over the phone briefly, but her father’s gruff voice and prickly personality had scared me into feigning busyness.

To make matters worse, I would not be seeing her in ten. Poor planning had left me with twenty minutes to make a forty five minute drive.

“It’s nice to meet you Mr. Smith,” I said, reaching out my hand.

“You’re late.”

I stumbled on my words for what seemed like three minutes before I squeaked, “Sorry.”

Jackie finally found it in herself to assist me, saying, ”We should get going”

Apparently her father found my empathic agreement of “That sounds great” unsatisfying. He gestured toward the family room. “Let’s talk”

I tripped on the rug and nearly face-planted into the sofa.

I looked up at him and saw his thoughts written across his forehead: ”She’s too good for him.”

A honk jolted me back to reality as I pulled into her driveway. I pushed a smile onto my face and approached the door.

“It’s nice to meet you Mr. Smith,” I said, reaching out my hand.

“It’s my pleasure Theo. I’ve heard so many great things about you.”

I looked uncertainly at Jackie and was reassured with a smile. “That’s great to hear. I’ve heard nothing but praise for you. Jackie is so lucky that you’ve taken such good care of her all these years all on your own.”

Muscae Volintantes

(Flying Flies)

I see the sudden movements, Nothing but the darkness. Then bursts of light arise, and the circle phases out.

The black circle collides. Left! Right! Up! Down!

I search for the circle, where can it have gone?

I isolate my soul and sit in silence. Slowly the circle reappears, My pupils search endlessly to focus.

I look left, it moves left. I look right, it moves right. Its ceaseless movement reflects my own. Where life takes me, it seems to follow.

All of a sudden the process stops—and I open my eyes.

Solo Sit

The red lights grow smaller across the field, Civilization departing along with them; Yet I remain— Alone.

I trudge through the snow into the nearby woods. Finding myself within a clearing, I set down my pack— And sink into the snow.

The serene stillness surprises me, My breathing seems loud in comparison. They prove what I already know to be true: I am a civilized foreigner in this untamed land.

My mind remains empty, Tranquil, like the surrounding nature. I force my thoughts to pass the time, But fail to prompt any true contemplation— So blankness resumes.

My eyes settle on the stars, Whose light illuminates my body and my mind. Suddenly, the thoughts begin to flow, Flooding my mind like a nearby river feeding some remote lake.

The vastness seems impossible. There has to be something more, Something to control the sprawling expanse, The perfectly organized mess. Religion, science—it’s all the same: Attempts to capture the elusive truth, The single idea that connects everything, Including me.

Now I am part of everything,

One with my surroundings, Foreigner no longer, A mere piece in the grandness, Yet just as important as the rest.

I have been lent this body and this mind— Until I return to the vastness. There is much to do in this short spell of consciousness, And I want to do it all. My potential feels untapped, A reservoir of power that is distant and obscure, but ever within my reach—

Inches from the grasp of my human fingers.

Thoughts turn to words; I am talking now. This is no silent wood, It is filled with the harmonious melody of infinite ideas Waiting to be discovered. Each moment here lasts an eternity, Yet time rushes by.

Civilization is returning; I am warned by my surroundings. I feel footsteps radiating throughout the snow, An extension of my human body. Then I feel the cold, And I am awakened from my trance.

The red lights grow larger across the field, The time for thought is over, The time for action is now; I will do it all.

MIDDLE

Americone Dream

It was 4:30. Dan was just about out of the woods. It had been a long day, a long week, but then, it always was. The end of the day was right there. He put his phone down and decided to finish up. One more report, one more call to make. He wrote some more numbers on a page, the same numbers as the day before and the day before that, before a ding from his phone jerked him from his trance. A text from a friend. He’d check it later. He just needed to get out of that office. Dan’s friends liked him and he liked them, but he never felt the need to comfort himself with their presence. He had the comfort of a secure future. The warm arms of his own hard work held him tight, and they wouldn’t let go.

At twenty-six, Dan had already worked his way up the ranks. Finance came easily to him. Whether he was dealing with high school classes, studying in college, or work, Dan’s brain was just built for getting things done. His co-workers knew him as the killer, they knew him as the young gun. The one destined to become a partner. And, to his credit, he was all of those things, he guessed.

He had a tall, slender figure that he draped in gray pinstriped suits on Wednesdays (he had important meetings on Wednesdays), and some combination of khakis and a button down each other day. He preferred brightly colored shirts that always complemented his kind of pale complexion, while he typically added darker pants for contrast. He wore prescription glasses like Ray Bans that he hung from the second button down when he wasn’t using them. His shiny black hair was meticulously gelled every day, slicked back so that it almost tore his scalp. His co-workers would joke that if someone were to take a fingernail to his hair it would clack. They never tested their theory. His strut resembled that of a high-class prostitute, or at least that’s what he was always told: confident with a touch of something extra that nobody could quite put into words. He intentionally held his shoulders up, which helped to make up for their relative lack of width. His body was thin all the way down, with a torso too long for his stalk-like legs.

He did not go out much, and he used this as his excuse for his lack of success in bringing women home. There just weren’t many opportunities. But in compensation, he did own a zero-percent fail rate. His work consumed him even after hours, and he scarcely ever found

himself in a bar when he wasn’t going on a work outing or a client meeting. He did have his friends, but saw them on occasional Sundays to watch football. The other ones were spent in his apartment with a blanket and some Breyers Vanilla Ice Cream.

This particular Friday wasn’t special. Dan had had a pitifully strenuous week, so he made the executive decision (over nobody in particular except himself) that he would stop for some ice cream on the way home. Stop & Shop was a few minutes out of the way, but the early Autumn evening was as inviting as his grandmother. Some extra time outside would do his fatigued brain some good. Maybe he’d jog, try to break a little sweat.

There it was once again his old reliable, nestled pristinely among its counterparts on a middle shelf of the icebox. As he opened the freezer door to grab one, Dan was floored by the blast of cold air coming from the box. It was a weekly thing at this point, but it nevertheless felt rejuvenating to grab his favorite treat. Something about this Breyers Vanilla just did it. It was so smooth, so reliable, was perfect for scooping, never too hard; it was just perfect. Comfort like nothing else. Starting towards the register, his hand grazed softly by the case with the Ben and Jerry’s pints. He stopped for a second to scoff at the labels. “Cherry Garcia”. Psh. Cool pun. He hated the Grateful Dead. “Americone Dream?” Come on now. He clutched his Breyers tight and headed to checkout with some pep in his step so as to keep it from melting too much between freezers.

Dan shivered through his hoodie as he removed the scooper from the drawer. The ice cream had been sitting in his freezer the perfect amount of time, allowing the soft trickle from the melted parts to become solid again. He moved his meeting notes out of the way from his spot on the couch and started back to the kitchen to grab a bowl. In about a minute he was on his ass, TV remote in hand, spoon in the other, bowl in lap, speeding through the channels. It took him forty-five seconds to realize he had scrolled right by ESPN, his mind focusing on the week ahead and what he’d need to do before Monday. He made an attempt to clear the thought with a small shake of the head, as if the physical motion would knock his jumbled thoughts back into place. Gripping back the remote that was too small for his hands, he found ESPN once again. Bowling was on. Friday night was the worst for sports.

He watched mindlessly as the athlete rolled five strikes and a spare before taking a bite of ice cream and finally thinking something. What if I bowled? The thought settled itself in his brain for a couple seconds as he conjured an answer to his own question. In thought, he watched the man on TV, Peter Weber, bowl another strike. Peter Weber wore sunglasses and a sweatsuit to his professional televised job and celebrated like a maniac upon every single accomplishment. Peter Weber traveled the country, competing in tournaments for the sport he loves. Peter Weber was simply the best at bowling. Dan knew he was the best—or to be honest, close to it—at banking. But he knew it wasn’t the same. The work Weber put into bowling was barely half of what Dan put into his work effort, or so he imagined. And plus, Weber hardly made any money. Dan was making enough to start a family. And his prospective family was going to be perfect, you could be sure of that. A pretty wife to greet him with dinner after work. Three kids that would grab his legs with excitement to see him after a long day. It was the American Dream. The thought phoned up his memory of the Ben and Jerry’s pint that had laid conspicuously in the supermarket freezer: “Americone Dream.” Its caramel swirl and fudge covered waffle cone bites brought a grimace to Dan’s face. He was used to the smoothness and consistency of his vanilla. He could never buy an ice cream like that, it was so pretentious. After all, he knew he was already experiencing the American Dream. His time would come, but he would have to work hard in order to live well, and the hard he was living now was not quite enough. He didn’t enjoy his work, but that wasn’t important. It was a necessary evil to gain freedom later. Right?

After a second or two more of silent thought, Dan brought the spoon back up to his lips. He chomped the scoop down, once again noting the familiar taste spreading across his tongue, but the same, sweet bite he had taken thousands of times before, the same bite he knew and loved, felt bitter in his mouth. The sweetness became too much to handle and the consistency was mushy, lacking substance. In hopes of a crunch, he desperately tried to chomp down on the slush that steeped in his mouth. It just felt the same. Nothing happened. He frantically scooped and scarfed down another sizable bite. Slush again! He downed another and another until his bowl was empty, trying desperately and failing to taste the ice cream as he had his whole life. Each bite just bled into the next, and all that came with it was an unpleasant

salty aftertaste. He shot up from his seat and scurried to the freezer, fumbling with his beloved pint as he took it out from the cold. Crying now, he skipped the bowl and tore into it, sobbing harder after each bite, every time it tasted worse than the last. When the container was empty and he’d thrown it across the floor, Dan slumped down, sitting on the floor against the sharp countertop. He wanted to throw up. He felt each sob shoot a pain throughout his abdomen. He didn’t have the strength to pick himself up.

He spent a few minutes down before mustering the resolve to think again. He thought about Peter Weber. The man who had such a silly, childish life and job. He thought about his beloved ice cream. The ice cream that had been so good to him for all his life. After this, he thought about Americone Dream. The silly, childish flavor that surely didn’t cost much. And he thought about his own Americone Dream. He groaned as he got up, then Dan made his way back to the couch to finish his night in peace. Weber was finishing up his second round of the night, hoping to close his spectacle with one final strike. Dan needed to turn this off. He needed to escape the reminder. He darted around for the remote, finally spotting it poking out of the cushion. The bowling ball rolled and spun out of Weber’s hand as Dan grasped the remote, and the ball struck the pins just in time before the channel flipped. Dan snuck a peek at the carton of vanilla ice cream that had been thrown across the floor, now dripping its melted remains onto the tile of the kitchen floor. This was no Americone Dream. Hurting from the weight of the double pint he had already consumed, Dan picked himself up again from the couch, walked over to the empty, leaking carton, and, clutching it tight one last time, headed toward the trash.

Craving

Russian dressing drips down my lips, And strips of pastrami sit on my tongue and melt.

The caraway seeds… They carry me away, Back into the middle of those dreams…

The one where I walk down a brownstone-lined street. Or the one where I stand underneath a bridge, Hoping to stay awake as the L trains weigh on rusted beams. Or the one where I squint into the southern sun, Scorching me from up above. Or the one where I run away from what I am, Chasing what I can’t be.

The oil splatters, Momentary pain as potato pancakes fry.

Piles of the shredded spuds, Torn flesh of onion bulbs, Making mounds of clay for latkes, Sculpted circles of grandma’s love.

The smell of thick, rich broth and matzah brei…

But in the oven it’s just another roasted chicken Sprinkled with salt and pepper.

So I go back to the dreams.

And There It Goes

The crisp clear air bites at my face, Waves crash, each an ounce of the vastness of the sea.

The radiant stars pierce the ink-like sky— Each in its own world.

Solitude feeds the beauty; Each moment passes, bringing untimely cessation.

The tide recedes, (as if eager to ruin the moment), revealing a new world.

The sun mercilessly beats the stars, bringing with it a lustrous orange.

A seagull announces the hour with a graceless screech, Reminding us that time has come.

A car engine putters woefully, (And then off it goes).

Ambush

“We’re being surrounded—take cover!” I call out. My comrade, a look of surprise washing over his face, hugs the ground, getting his green uniform stained with dirt.

“Our front lines have been broken through. We have to retreat!” My comrade nods, and we scurry hastily to the fort. Once under the cover of its walls, I let out a sigh of relief.

“They’re much stronger. How are we gonna hold our ground?”

“I don’t know—at least we’re safe . . . for now.” As I hear a pair of footsteps marching nearer, the ground shakes violently. The fort’s support beams begin to teeter from the heavy tremors. My comrade and I share a glance, acknowledging the coming destruction.

“Hey, we have to get out of here, quick, before we end up under a pile of—” A row of pillars lining the middle of the fort collapses, bringing the roof down. As I roll to the side, narrowly avoiding the mass of falling debris, I watch my comrade’s body disappear under the descending pile of rubble.

I call out to my comrade in desperation, only to be met by silence. The area where he had been seated was filled with collapsed debris from the fort’s roof. Despondently, my clammy hands reach for my Walkie-Talkie in my pocket.

“Hey, are you there? . . . over.”

A minute passes, before my comrade responds, “Barely. I’m stuck beneath all this debris . . . over.”

“Oh, thank God. Don’t worry — I’m gonna get you free . . . over.”

I leap to the pile of debris, and dig at the remains that have buried my comrade.

As I begin to lose faith, and start mourning for my fallen comrade, a figure towers above us and removes our pillow fort’s collapsed roof.

“Boys, playtime’s over. Start cleaning up this mess.”

Mise en Place

I would often opt for opulence until I popped the lid. The pot was filled with populations praying for a prophet.

It was dissonant, And I was discontent to let it sing. I covered up my criticisms with a silver lid.

In the bile-covered bubbles, I wonder if they huddle. In the midst of tidal waves of boiled starch and melted muscle.

No silence in the kitchen as the liquid simmers. Upon the flame hissing hateful names at hungry sinners.

My Parisian Dream, Girl

These problems always arise when I try to remember my finest moments in life. I’d call my relationship with her—unrequited. She was a loose and colorful muse that set me free. That Parisian woman showed me what life was—and what it should be. I recollect her hazelnut, flowing hair and . . . Damn it! What else? Is that all I can remember?

I scratched the cigarette burn on my forearm. It was a reminder from mon coeur, my blue eyed beauty who’s now awaiting my return at Brussels-Centraal. The other day I booked her a premium seat on the 9 o’clock train to come visit me, and I had Francis, my valet, pack her luggage and all her other lavish luxuries. Apparently Francis forgot to pack my love’s favorite blue beret, and the seat I had booked was not an aisle seat. So, she couldn’t make it. I had to learn from my silly mistakes, as Mon Coeur says, I forget lots of things. I forgot to get an aisle seat and I forgot to tell Francis to specifically pack her silk beret. I deserve whatever my fate is when I arrive at the train station in Bruxelles. I shut my eyes and my mind began to wander.

I think of my love’s perfect face, her flowing blond hair, and deep blue eyes. I imagine her hair started to sink into a hazel color, and her eyes a smoky gray.

Yes! I thought,

This is my Parisian dream. I clench my eyes tight and cover my ears to drown out any disturbances.

Think! I yell at myself, Yet every time I try to concentrate, her face blurs. I must have looked insane to the other passengers in my train compartment. My posture tightened, and yet my mind still wandered.

I remember meeting my coquette near Notre Dame. It was dusk and lovers were exchanging hopes and dreams along the Seine. A romantic scene. She walked towards me swaying like a model, like a cat approaching her unexpecting prey. She was dressed in all black leather. Black leather dress, black boots, and leather beret. She wore bright red lipstick. She took my hand, and with a sensual giggle, led me away from the Seine and all the hopeless romantics along its banks. I saw myself in a red-lit room. A room that held fond and enjoyable memories. I

remember feeling confusion, compassion, regret, sexual desire, sadness, joy, and love. The ring I had once worn as a promise now was lost, just a piece of metal, like an old,cracked metal bell incapable of singing, now lost in the gutters of a private Parisian street.

Now I sit on a train bound for Bruxelles, ringless. My little coquette’s face is blurred in my mind. I try to recover the depths of my experience, yet — nothing. I opened my eager eyes in hope to see her sitting across from me — nothing. I slumped and placed my mitts into my pockets. My left hand brushed against a laminated piece of paper.

My Polaroids! I shouted, when at last I remembered I had taken pictures. I remembered taking pictures with her in front of the Seine, and in front of the Eiffel Tower, and in our red room. I pulled out my last hope in my pockets. My heart sank as my last lifeline went flat. The first image showed me alone in front of the Seine. The second was a picture of my drunk ass in front of a fake, mini-Eiffel tower, grasping the air next to me as if someone was there. Then I reluctantly pulled the last polaroid out. It showed me alone on the couch of the local Parisian strip club.

END

Solace

Solace was a bottle for my grandfather. In my hands I hold the shards. Slashing at the silence, In the dark I find a beaten heart.

In my hands I feel the shards…

Solace was the small moments On my own, When the sky was the only thing above. When I was loved, I was dodging grandma’s hugs. When I was young, Solace had me staring at the sun until I saw none.

I caught a cough that made me stop to catch my breath. Death is no way to die, I can’t rest… I handle stress like a pan to the head. Casting iron-clad doubts with a glance, But I digress.

I rest my case on the floor and find it stolen. Someone took my brief reprieve from pressure, Took it as an omen.

From the weight on my shoulders, my spine caved. The old days were hardly safe, but we were okay.

We were making it to old age. One way or another, I was gonna see my grand babies getting paid. The generational way, That’s what I’m trying to say.

Solace is a plan in my son’s hands, Abandoned by pain.

Accompanied by plenty of rain to let the flowers grow.

Future’s looking brighter as the sun melts the globe. To each his own, My lows are in the past tense. When I was young I hopped a fence to see how grass felt. The hand they dealt was nothing special, but I bluffed well. I found solace in my cards while I was walking through hell. I found solace in the honesty.

No one talk—

Please don’t bother me.

The Lone Item

I am a wealthy man, a modest one to most. I sit atop my riches with little to boast. Yet, men envy my worth, so they rob me one day, storming my home to take it all away.

They kick down my door and smash every light. Stashing each item that comes into sight. They take the pretty blue vase I bought just last spring. They take the earrings and bands, and even my ring. My forest green watch is gone, and so is my hat.

Away with the carpets and my kind welcome mat. Silverware, books, cards, tables and much more, They continue their splurge until they’ve cleared out the store. They strip the clothes off my back and the hair off my head. The voice in my lungs and the dreams from my bed.

They take, and take, and take, until they cannot take any more. I am left naked with no home, and a body that is sore. Yet still, I am a wealthy man, sitting alone with the one thing they can’t take.

An item stronger than stone and something even robbers can’t break.

I sit here cherishing the love I hold from you. With that, having nothing is nothing I can’t get through.

The Perils Of Perfection

Emmet’s life was composed of routine. To others, his lifestyle may have seemed mundane, but he graciously accepted sacrifices in pursuit of excellence. He demanded perfection in all aspects of his life: career, health, the people he surrounded himself with, and his mindset reflected this fierce demand. The only path Emmet saw to reach perfection was through a rigorous and disciplined routine, and he rarely strayed from it in his life’s journey. Emmet worked as a lead architect, driven to the top by his relentless pursuit of perfection and attention to detail.

After work, Emmet was occasionally invited by his colleagues to go out to grab a drink or some food. Emmet rarely accepted these invitations—less than a quarter of the time. He knew that the more you are seen or heard, the more common you appear, something he learned from Law 16 of his favorite self-help book, The 48 Laws of Power. Emmet frequently read this kind of book, desperate to gain an edge over his peers and be his best self. However, Emmet also knew that these informal get-togethers would help to grow his network, giving him a greater advantage over his competition. Also, he found it somewhat nice to have company for dinner, a change of pace from his home’s solitude.

At the close of a particularly fatiguing day in late November, Mike, Emmet’s office neighbor, invited him to join a group of guys from the firm for drinks. Emmet was hesitant to accept; however, he decided that tonight, he would allow himself to stray from his after-work routine, as he’d had an extremely productive day. He told Mike to give him five minutes, and that he would meet the group in the lobby. As Mike left, Emmet began his closing time routine. He glanced through his twenty-two open tabs, saving and filing each one into folders that he had designed to maximize his work organization. He then turned off his desk lamp, turned his pictures around to face the wall, grabbed his coat, and headed towards the elevator.

The elevator doors opened to reveal the recently renovated lobby—a design Emmet was particularly proud of. The head of his firm had given Emmet absolute artistic freedom in the redesign. Marble pillars lined both sides of the room, and off to the left he found Mike and the other guys in the waiting area, sitting on circular couches Em-

met had imported from an Italian manufacturer. The group looked up with surprise when he came toward them, and Emmet thought he heard Mike whisper “I told you I’d get him to come.” The group headed towards the rotating door and filed out. He came last, taking one final glance at the lobby—his lobby—and headed to join them.

A taxi was quickly flagged down, and Emmet overheard Mike directing the driver to Attaboy, a popular downtown bar. He hadn’t heard of it. In the back seat of the taxi, Emmet put on his earbuds to gain a last moment of focus, and was able to respond to two inbound inquiries from companies interested in his architectural prowess. The others pretended not to notice.

After a quick ride, the group piled out and headed through the bar’s front door. They sat on barstools, and ordered drinks. Emmet took a professional notice in the architectural style of Attaboy. He decided he did not like it. Too trendy, it drew on Modernist influences but applied too liberal a patina of pseudo-classicism to the details. The men opened tabs, most of them ordering margaritas, but Emmet started with a vodka soda, wary of the potential hangover sugary drinks could cause him. The group engaged in small talk about their recent vacations, golf outings, and other hobbies. Emmet did not find these topics interesting, as he deemed their hobbies as distractions and tried to lead the subject towards work multiple times, only for the conversation to swiftly be shifted back.

Eventually the topic turned towards women, as it always seemed to do. Anthony, a vice president at the firm, spotted a group of girls at a table in the back corner, and ordered a round for them. The group watched in hopeful anticipation as the server carried the tray towards the girls, turned to gesture towards them, after which the three girls gestured their thanks, hands waving merrily in the air.

“They better come over to display their gratitude,” said Anthony, with a smirk. Emmet glanced toward them, looking them over critically. The girl on the left was decent-looking, if perhaps too tall for his liking. The middle one had black hair, which he was not a fan of. The one on the right seemed to meet his approval. She was ideally sized and had shoulder length dirty-blond hair, which he thought could be a little lighter. Nonetheless, she stood out among the trio.

The server started back towards their table. “The girls want to repay the favor; they said to order whatever you’d like.”

So, another round of beer and one vodka soda made its way to the table.

The girls eventually made their way up to the bar to join them. As they walked up, Anthony seemed proud that his effort had paid off.

The black haired girl broke the silence by asking, “What do you guys think of this spot?”

Emmet momentarily froze, and let Mike answer the question. Mike’s response, Emmet did not hear. Emmet instead instantly thought of Law 28, demanding one take action with boldness.

“The drinks are good but the atmosphere could use some work,” he said.

Michael and Anthony stared at Emmet, surprised by his opinionated remark. However, the dirty-blond girl jumped at Emmet’s statement.

“Exactly! The music is too loud, the walls are empty and boring, and I can barely hear in here.”

Michael and Anthony internally sighed relief at this, glad the girls were not put off by Emmet’s comment. Emmet smiled; the laws once again paid off.

The group grew more comfortable as time passed and the rounds piled up. By the fifth round, each man had paired off into a side conversation with one of the girls—Emmet with the dirty-blond haired girl, whose name, it turned out, was Ashley. It turned out that Emmet and Ashley had a lot of shared interests, including architecture and fitness. Ashley boasted that she was a beginner runner and Emmet went into grand detail on his hybrid athlete program, and told about training for the NYC Marathon. He believed that intensive discipline and fitness translated towards success in all other aspects of life. Ashley was a commercial real-estate agent, which explained her disdain for Attaboy’s poorly designed ambiance. She was, however, enthralled with Emmet’s descriptions of his work, soaking in every detail he provided. Emmet found himself smiling throughout their talk, desperate to build upon this connection.

During their conversation, Emmet’s eye hyper fixated on a minor imperfection he’d just discovered. One of Ashley’s eyes was slightly lower than the other. A minor fault, unnoticeable without proper inspection, it seemed glaringly obvious to Emmet. He tried to put it out of his mind and focus on the topic at hand, but everytime he looked

at her face, her mismatched eyes were all he could see. He realized it would not work for Emmet.

Eventually Emmet checked the time and knew he must be heading home to ensure his required six and a half hours nightly sleep. He was already slightly annoyed, as he knew the alcohol would affect his sleep quality, thus jeopardizing his peak performance for tomorrow. Emmet gathered his belongings, and thanked Mike and all the guys for having him out. He said goodbye to Ashley, and she looked him up and down expectantly.

“What is it? Did I spill something on my shirt?” asked Emmet.

“No. But give me your phone number, so we can hang out again soon,” replied Ashley with a slightly lopsided smile.

Emmet obliged as to not be unnecessarily rude (Law 5: So much depends on your reputation, guard it with your life), and headed home to his apartment in Hudson Yards. It was walking distance, and Emmet did not mind burning off some of the calories from a night of indulgence. During the walk, Emmet had two realizations. One, he was significantly more drunk than he had thought, and two, he had actually enjoyed himself tonight. Besides the initial awkwardness with the group, he had come to feel comfortable with them, even with the girls. With Ashley, certainly. She was a nice girl, he told himself. That was all. Nice, but nothing to risk pursuing.

Once on his floor, Emmet entered through the double doors of his apartment, feeling immense pride in what lay before him. He had spent months furnishing his apartment, using a minimalist mid-century modern style as his inspiration. His home had become his safe haven, a manifestation of his architectural ability and success.

Emmet began his nightly ritual. First, he set the temperature to 64 degrees, optimal for sleep. He then shut his blackout curtains to prevent city lights from interfering with his deep sleep, and flipped on his white noise machine. Finally, he washed up, performing his eightstep nightly skincare routine designed to slow aging.

He rolled into his linen sheets, which he had chosen because other materials breed bacteria, and attempted to fall asleep. If he fell asleep in his normal five-minute window, he would have six hours and 28 minutes of sleep, an appropriate time for his standards.

He did not fall asleep in his five minute window. Emmet tossed and turned on his linen sheets for what felt like hours, his mind unable

to keep from analyzing the events of the night. Ashley was stuck in his mind. On paper, she was nearly everything he wanted. She was wonderful, a trophy girl with like-minded interests. He pictured his potential in life with her. They could date for a year before getting engaged, wait for one more year, marry, then have kids three years later (two in total, three years apart). He imagined their picture-perfect family, like the ones you see in infomercials for medicines with life-threatening side effects.

He pictured their children, one girl and one boy. They were beautiful. Except, he couldn’t keep his imaginary progeny from sharing her imperfection—her uneven eyes. His perfect television family couldn’t be allowed to share her flaw, that nixed the deal. Emmet eventually drifted off after deciding he could take no part in pursuing her, he would have to wait for a truly flawless partner.

The sound of the morning alarm was a painful shock to Emmet’s soul. His mind raced, desperate to stop the suffering the alarm was causing him, but his body was moving so groggily. He eventually managed to turn off his alarm, and saw that the time was 5AM. The same it always was. Waking up that early had never been a problem for Emmet. He viewed his morning wakeup as vital to his success, and he had done it for as long as he could remember. This morning felt different. Emmet felt glued to his bed. Every time he tried to move, his linen sheets stuck to his back. When his eyes closed, he felt like he was spinning on an amusement park ride, including the full experience— even feeling ready to vomit at any time.

Yes, he was indeed hungover. He feared he would not be able to perform his morning routine, and thus, his day was in danger of being ruined. The very foundation of his day and overall success was at risk. Anger began to boil inside Emmet’s mind. He knew he had messed up—messed up big time. He was disgusted with himself, the fact that he’d let himself stray from his routine, and jeopardize his goals in such a major way. Right then and there, he decided he would no longer take part in after-work social gatherings, and stay focused on his career and self-improvement. Ashley flashed into his mind, but he quickly shut that thought down. He was determined to move on, to continue his journey.

During the next two years, Emmet didn’t experience any

further hiccups or bumps in the road like the one of that long ago November. He dedicated himself to his routine, and perfected the art of efficiency. He had zero time for distractions, and cut off everything that was not in the path to success (Law 23: Concentrate your Forces). In those following two years, Emmet continued to climb the corporate ladder at his company, then left that company and with his old friend Mike started a competing firm of their own. Emmet was doing well for himself and was proud of how far he’d come. He had only routine and dedication to thank for how far he had gotten.

His relationship with Mike was the only factor that survived from that night in November. After that night, Emmet avoided participating in Mike’s social outings, but they stayed amicable. Emmet recognized the beauty of Mike’s design work, and viewed his friendship as another strong connection to maintain. So, when it had felt like the right time, Emmet and Mike decided to create their own firm, and in the following year found great success. Their relationship, however, remained purely business-related. Emmet had no time to join Mike in his extra-curricular activities, nor did he bother to listen to him when he talked about his life outside the office. They were merely business associates as far as Emmet was concerned, using each other’s experience and expertise to move their careers forward.

About all Emmet knew about Mike’s outside life was that he now had a fiancée—and was about to get married. Out of respect for their mutual business success, Emmet decided to take a rare day off from his routine, and attend their wedding. It was true that Emmet had never enjoyed weddings before, as he had not yet found “the one” himself. The “plus-one” section of the invitation frustrated Emmet, a harsh reminder of his romantic shortcomings. He was always too preoccupied with his career, and could never seem to find a girl that met his standards. On the day of Mike’s wedding, Emmet woke up early to complete his routine and squeeze some work in before the morning. He dressed in his favorite Brioni suit, one of the perks of his dedication.

The wedding venue was beautiful. The couple had chosen The Reform Club in Amagansett, New York, a hour drive from the city. Upon his arrival, Emmet found himself feeling annoyed despite his gorgeous surroundings. He seemed to be the only guest without a “plus-one.” He attempted to mingle with the other guests and went from table to table, desperate for a familiar face. He finally found

Anthony, whom he’d rarely seen since that distant November night. Anthony was delighted to see him. He staggered over to Emmet, already roaring drunk. He knocked over a wine glass on the way over. Emmet forced a smile on his face; it was nice to catch up with an old friend. They talked about work, and when the conversation shifted to what they had been up to, Anthony took a drunken interest as Emmet expatiated about his chosen lifestyle of discipline and austerity. His admiration gradually shifted to surprise, as Emmet went into more detail about his dull daily routine.

“That can’t be good for you man,” said Anthony, speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear.

“Hey, quiet down. What do you mean?” responded Emmet.

“You’re missing out on all the fun. Speaking of which, you need a drink.”

Ignoring Anthony’s offer, he pushed him on his earlier question: “Missing out on the fun?”

“Yeah. You’ve got too caught up in the rabbit-hole of the corporate world. You’re missing out on stuff like”—suddenly Anthony got distracted and called over a stunning girl in a blue dress—“Hey, honey, come over here!”

“Stuff like this,” said Anthony with a boastful smile. “This is my wife, Sarah.”

Emmet did his best to hide the shock from his face. He did not understand how a fool like Anthony could have found himself with such a goddess. He shook himself back to the present.

“Hi, I’m Emmet, one of Anthony’s old work friends.”

Emmet felt an unusual sensation, jealousy. He tended to pity men such as Anthony, who were going nowhere with their financial lives, who spent their lives so focused on going out and meeting women. But suddenly at this moment, he was envious of Anthony, of the benefits of his lifestyle.

The wedding procession started soon after this. He sat next to the aisle beside Anthony and his wife, faking a smile to conceal his internal anguish. The music began, and the veiled bride began to walk out hand-in-hand with her father. As she made her way up to the podium, Mike unveiled her, and the official ceremony commenced. Emmet’s hands grew clammy, an unfamiliar feeling of envy creeping up his spine. The bride was gorgeous, but also oddly familiar. Did he

know her from somewhere? He strained his eyes and repositioned his head. He finally managed to see her face more clearly, and then he realized that it was Ashley. Her figure was not entirely clear from the billowing bridal gown, but it was surely her. She was as beautiful as the day he had met her. Emmet’s heart pounded and his hearing dulled. His eyes strained, glued to Ashley’s face. He remembered the connection they’d felt that long-ago night, their shared interests, her undeniable beauty.

Jealousy once again consumed his body. Why had he ignored her, left her in the past? Following his hangover, and that unforgivable breach of his essential routine, Ashley had reached out multiple times. It began with a simple text the morning after: “Hi :). How are you feeling?” As a result of the fallout from his hangover, he let it be. She waited a few more days before texting him again: “I realized you probably do not remember my number, but we talked at the bar a few nights ago. It’s Ashley. I’m hoping we can spend some time together soon.”

Emmet had thought about responding, but he had believed he needed to focus on his goals, and feared she would only be a distraction. Besides, her defect, the uneven eyes, had made her ineligible to be his partner. She stopped reaching out.

But now, Emmet could see no imperfection. All he saw was Ashley, and she was everything he now wanted. His eyes darted to Mike, who was looking dreamily at his bride. Emmet sank in his chair and lowered his somber eyes, dreading witnessing the couple’s affection. He left the wedding reception as soon as he could, without saying congratulations to the bride or groom.

The drive home was tough. Emmet was teary-eyed the entire time. Ashley and the family he once dreamed of having with her flashed before his eyes, blurring his perception between fantasy and reality. He realized he had no one to blame but himself. He had stupidly let her slip away. He alone was responsible for his loneliness, the fact that he was the only guest without a “plus-one.” It seemed as if everyone else was truly happy and fulfilled. When he at last got home, Emmet felt himself losing control. The sadness he felt at the reception was quickly transformed into rage and resentment. Emmet lashed out at everything he had once thought he loved. He destroyed his work station, the place pivotal to his success, by punching through his monitor

screen and ripping apart binders and folders. He tore down the large schedule he used to meticulously plan his days.

His alarm clock went off the next morning, as usual. Like a man possessed, Emmet rose from his linen sheets. He began his routine.

Eight Hours

What happens when the curtains to our spirits close shut and we disappear in a foreign realm?

We are outsiders reaching in, and for a matter of minutes, we fight to enter into a life of anomaly.

We sober up many hours later with mere glimpses of the recent past that now feels so distant.

We never think to contemplate this state of being in which we waste 46,000 hours of our precious time on earth.

We are told trite similes from the cradle. “Like gasoline for a car,” they say,

“Like moths to a flame,” as if to brainwash us into a reality that this mystery need not be solved.

One of the rare aspects of our lives that is irreplaceable and irreproachable.

While our endlessly inquisitive minds seldom submit to the acceptance of misknowledge, the enigma persists. The purpose of this alternate reality may forever elude our understanding.

Like dark matter, the origin of earth, or the afterlife, this paradox will live on in my nightmares.

Endless

The yellow sphere of day dips. Oceans calm and streets fall quiet. Luminescent darkness takes over. Elsewhere, on goes a tranquil riot.

You turn the tide of the hour, Distinguishing between morning and dawn. Life as it is continues to be, An invented moment of living now gone.

The endless sight of hope waits. The dense gloom fogs the mind. Dream the only source of sight, Tomorrow only seen by the blind.

We with open eyes close our hearts. We break our lives into meaningless parts. Those who shut their eyes keep an open mind. The future to them is as good as what’s behind.

Tonight and tomorrow, separated by what? The moon’s flurry, maybe the sun’s flame? The senses of the spheres mean little. For the blind approach it’s all just the same.

Blinded by darkness and malice. Blinded by light and serenity. Blinded by yourself and others. Blinded trying to find your identity.

You made these distinctions. You brought us the sun and the moon. You made life timeless while timed. You made us come live with You soon.

Yet for now we abide by day and night.

Moving along although day may never come. But we must still live life to the fullest.

Greeting each day to the beat of our drums.

From The Journal of a Traveler

2/11

It’s not human nature to sit down and decide to ruminate in your thoughts. To simply find time and nitpick your life and all its details. But as I’ve sat here for the past hour, trying hard to think of nothing, I can’t keep off my more self aware sentiments as they enter my mind. I’ve found in my days that it’s hard to reach a point of reflection without another person there to prompt it. And then, is it really truly honest? Incidentally, I haven’t seen a real other person in weeks, so I know to recognize this rare moment distinctly. It comes when there is no other thing to do than to think. When you’re at a place of such peace, such satisfaction, that there is nothing that can keep you from the deepest thoughts in your mind. Nothing, that is, except yourself. I’m on top of a hill right now, with a view above the trees to the land beyond. My footprints are the only imperfection in the sea of snow around me, out of which I’ve made a chair to lounge in. Night time noises are starting to sound and the sun is just beginning its set. There are no roads, there is no human touch, no sign of anything except real life. I wonder, if I were to take a picture of exactly what I can see right now, if there would be a single other person anywhere in it. I would guess not. I’d like it better that way.

2/20

I chopped a tree down today. It’s not my first time. Every so often I set up my home at a new place. I walk until I find somewhere that looks sustainable enough for me. It needs enough cover, water nearby, and animals close for eating. I harvest a tree first every time. I’m not sure why it’s become a ritual of mine, but I can’t do anything until I have my pile of wood separated and ready for use. Some is for shelter, some for fire, the rest for utensils and furniture. I found my spot today and scouted for a worthy opponent. I found one quickly. With its strong base and girthy trunk I could tell there was plenty of timber. Challenge, maybe, but I hacked at it for about an hour. It felt good watching as each swing took out more and more wood.

2/22

It’s been 10 days I believe since my first entry in my new, empty book.

This chapter of my life has taken me to corners of this country that I like to think only I’ve seen. My two most recent years have been spent up and down the land, and to be honest, I have no clue where I am right now. I stumble my way into towns every so often which helps me to orient, but I’ve been alone for just about all of it. I thought I was a people-person early on. I was a popular kid. Loved video games, toys, and sports like the rest. Suddenly I just wasn’t. It was Hemingway’s romantic writing that did it for me. The two-hearted river drew me in, and now I find myself wearing shoes with holes for toes and lugging a wet backpack with broken straps. There are, like sunsets, certainly romantic moments. But much of this journey I’ve spent with cold feet, a dirty face, and aching bones. From Hemingway on, I guess I knew I was meant to experience the rhythm of nature. There was no place for me in the popular world, and that was fine. I found mine in the real world. People are a necessary sacrifice to achieve the life I see for myself. This is not able to be shared.

2/26

Today I threw up. It must’ve been some dirty water or a bad berry. It was the first time in forever. Probably the first time since college, definitely the first since I left. Oddly though, I was happy during. The camp I found today reconciled with the sickness I was feeling. I have a cave rock over my head, moss on the ground, and water nearby for the first time. Just 10 minutes up the incline I found another clearing with a view to infinity. I was exploring it, and as I bent over to be sick, I noticed the insects in the snow in front of me. So much detail, so much life in such a small image. 4 square feet on the ground was a whole planet to those insects. Even covered in a film of powder, there was so much to see. The view to my left was the same. Call it hundreds of square miles. I could see everything. That was my world. Even with the film of snow covering the trees there were so many colors. So much life brimming about the massive scape. I came back to my cave happy. Journaling is easy when I feel like this.

2/29?

Love is one thing I don’t think about. I normally wouldn’t dive this deep, but I’ve done a lot today. The thick ice covering the lake proved to

be no match for me, and now I’m just waiting for my water to boil over the fire. There’s nothing better to do, is there? My energy has always lain in my friends or my travels. There’s never been room, time, or a need for companionship. Sure, I fooled around in college, but, knowing my path would deviate from theirs, I never surpassed that first step. There would have been no point.This is not able to be shared. When I return I’ll find a wife. She’ll catch me up on the happenings when I was gone, she’ll love me no matter what, and she’ll be there when I need her and she’ll be there when I don’t. We will grow old, have kids, and make a life. But that’s for another time. It can wait. I’m here right now without a clue who that woman will be. But I know it will make this all worth it.

Middle of March

I’m starting to lose track of the time. Every time I find a town I can figure out the date, but it’s been far too long. Sunsets bleed into the night which then blurs into the morning. It all feels like one day. It’s hard to remember the day when I don’t have anything to plan for. There are no dates, no parties, no jobs, no games, no concerts. I do really miss music. If I could have one thing for the rest of my solitude it would be the company of music. The hum of streams and shriek of birds that sufficed in the beginning have just become background noise to me. For a time it was enthralling, entertaining even to hear all the new sounds, but they’ve become predictable, redundant. I need to hear a guitar to replace them. I’d have so much time to learn out here.

Early Springtime

I do wonder what Jackie is up to right now. He’s the one I miss most. It’s not that I see him a ton anymore anyways. After he left for school I really only saw him on holidays and vacations. I think he’s getting engaged soon. He’s been with this same girl since high school. Nobody would be surprised. I’m happy for him. At least I hope I can be. She’s the perfect person for him. Bright, happy, talkative, personable. I wonder where all those qualities were lost on me. He was always the talker. He was the first to shake hands with our parents’ new friends, the first to order at restaurants. Maybe it’s because he’s older. But I know that I always have admired him. I like the solitude enough for it to be ok, but I miss him.

Spring

Trying hard to think about nothing is a doomed strategy for saving thought. Coming out here my goal was to take in nature. To exist. No thoughts, no worries, nothing. It did work for a bit. I focused on the smell of the snowed-on leaves every day and the glow of the dusk sun every day. My task was simple. Enjoy the moment. But as soon as my surroundings adjusted to my presence, it was gone. Thoughts began to flow in as I grew bored of what was around me until I had no choice but to take out my notebook and read what I had written. I’m glad I did. I’m not sure what I was thinking as I wrote. I can’t put myself into my own mind any better than someone else could. From here, though, from right now, it’s clear what I want. It was the ramble of my brain put to pen and paper that made this decision for me. I’ll be returning home now. I’ll find a way.

It’s been a few days. I know I’ve slept twice. But my surroundings are familiar again. The knot in this tree has stuck out to me before. It looks almost like a ghostface. It haunts me a little more every time I see it. I do still believe I’ll make it out soon, but it’s time for me to start helping myself out. I’m leaving this note here. I’ll start leaving the pages on the trees as I walk. Hopefully I never see them again.

Been walking for a while and haven’t come back across any of my work. It’s getting super warm out. It’s like when you have a car, when the seasons turn, the first way you notice is by the temperature inside it when you get in in the morning. But today is a milestone. I ran out of old pages to leave, so now I just have to make them as I go. I need to leave something but I don’t have much to say. I’m ready to be home.

This is it. The final page. My book is just a spine and two covers now. I’ve ripped it all out and left them hanging on trees. Left them to the mercy of Mother Nature. They’re all probably gone now, eaten by a bear or withered by rain. But I’m still churning. If this final entry doesn’t get me home I won’t ever make it. I’ve accepted that. I hope that whoever finds my pages sees a better way than I did. That my bad omens are their good. May their luck be better than mine.

Sincerely,

A Traveler

Apple Fritters

“Sarah, dear? Is that smell what I think it is?”

“Yes, my love; your favorite!”

The nostalgic scent went as soon as it came, as Alph walked past his local bakery. His hometown Casula stimulated each and every one of his childhood senses. The fragrance of indulgent baked treats and the strums of street side guitars harkened to a time far past, a world long abandoned. As often happens with one’s fondest and most fundamental memories, he could only reminisce as an audience out of control rather than an active observer.

“Who even is Sarah?”

Everything started spinning. He fell to the ground, not in a state of panic, shock, or fear, no, this experience was not a novel one, but out of a necessity to concentrate. He could not forget her again. He had to remember Sarah; it was as if this blurred image of a woman was integral to who Alph was. Without her memory, he was nothing but a pitiable old man.

“Sarah… What was her last name? Baked goods… That’s it! She’s the baker! I haven’t picked up a treat for myself since I returned home. That’s where I’ll find her, and this whole business will be put to rest.”

He wrapped around the block, passing by stray dogs and cats who looked all too familiar, yet too small for him to have known them. He paused as he reached the bakery, absorbing the onslaught of memories and joy that restored his spirit to its childhood state. Across the bakery’s facade read “Samantha’s Treats”.

“Sarah’s Sweets… she’ll be in here”.

The bakers turned as they heard the bell above the door chime.

“Oh goodness. It’s him again.”

Alph perused the selection of many treats, searching for the ones Sarah always made. But Sarah was here, so he ought to ask her.

“Sarah, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you! How are you! I’m looking for those—”

“Sir, this is the 3rd time you’ve been here this afternoon. Please, we are worried about you; you ought to go see a doctor.”

3rd time? How is that? He had only just gone outside… when had Alph gone outside? Everything spun again. He looked to his wrist to check the time, but he had forgotten he hadn’t owned a watch. Sarah was fibbing. No need to panic, no, no, she was just playing a practical joke!

“Oh, Sarah my love, just like old times! You never have a dull moment dear.”

“Sir. For the third and last time before I call the authorities to have you hospitalized: my name is Samantha, not Sarah, there has never been a Sarah who has worked here for as long as I’ve owned this bakery, and you are deeply disturbing me and my staff. Please leave. Now.”

Indignant, Alph was about to raise his voice, when suddenly Samantha looked like the prettiest girl in the world. He stopped, prepared to make the baker aware of her stunning smile, but thought better of it as everything started spinning faster and faster.

He ran out. He was struck with the realization that he had seen Sarah — no — Samantha’s face and figure veiled in an all white, shining dress so many decades ago. She was not just beautiful; she was the metric by which all beauty is compared. He had not known beauty until he had laid eyes on Samantha — no — Sarah, all those years ago. Alph recalled a dusty yet ornate white dress that had been sitting in his closet even before he had returned to Casula.

“That’s it! I’ve figured it out! She must be at home. How silly of me to forget!”

Alph hurried home, subconsciously uncertain that Sarah was not but an apparition of his imagination, yet doggedly asserting to himself that she WAS real; she MUST be.

He opened the door to a house long too uncared for. Dirty laundry littered the floor of his kitchen, mismatched pairs of shoes were scattered about his mudroom, and his sleeping quarters housed an unmade bed far too big for Alph and his lonesome lifestyle. One side always felt eerily empty.

He rushed to the closet, scouring for any glimpse of white until — there! He found it! He pulled it out and laid it on the bed. He stared at it for hours — the minute hand only moved 5 notches — in a desperate attempt to glean any sort of identifying feature from this dress.

“Nothing… nothing… NOTHING!” He threw the dress hanger across the room and heard the sound of glass shattering. Frightfully taking cover at the potential intruder, he stands back up and investigates the source of the sound. There appears a frame face down on the floor, which Alph picks up and inspects.

Overwhelming beauty. Unbounded joy. The memory of his happiest day. Here was a young man — his nose and eyes looked just like Alph’s — with his arms around a woman whose face would convince even the most atheistic that divine beauty does exist.

“Sarah… my love.”

Alph wept. Once again, he was unable to replay in his mind the day of this photo, furthermore entirely powerless to keep the memory playing once it faded away. He was at the mercy of his fading memory’s caprice.

“I know! If I can’t replay it in my head, I’ll force my mind back to those days. What did I smell before? That, fruity and tart scent, that’s what I must experience to return to her beautiful embrace!”

Alph returned to the kitchen, turned his oven on to begin preheating, and sifted through his bookshelf in search of Sarah’s old recipe book.

He was unaware that he had placed a tray of pastries there that very morning. Just as he was about to give up, he found something far more precious: “S + A, Scrapbook of Love”. He was too tempted to not take a peek.

He sat down in the kitchen as a feeling of warmth, maybe even burning heat, surrounded him. “This”, he said “this is what that day felt like. The passion of a dream come true.” He again saw that man with his nose and eyes with the woman whom the Muses would envy. There were pictures of the two at carnivals, pictures of the two in far off countries, in front of a large skeletal appearing tower, and a large, arena looking theater. He turned to the last page, trying to find when these two souls’ journey came to an end… all that he could admire were pictures of himself, Alph, in those exact same places, with scratchy, static handwriting saying “Pearis” and “Rhoam”. He hadn’t a clue what those words meant. All he could feel was an overwhelming sense of relaxation.

Everything felt hot. He was at peace. There was no worry, no confusion, no madness. Sarah was here, embracing him as overwhelming ecstasy consumed him. He felt the grasp of Life loosening on his soul. He was going home. To fields of his favorite flowers, to echoes of his beloved’s voice, to the light appearing in front of him, and to his favorite smell in the whole world. It smelt like Apple Fritters.

Joseph M Braxton

It wasn’t a snap that killed Joseph M. Braxton, it was not even a moment. Those who claimed to be his friends were shocked at his tragic passing, and had found it to be an appalling experience. Funnily enough, Joe never thought of his passing as such. He admitted that he lived a life of subtle mediocrity. As an uneducated but devout Catholic, believed that in his demise he would be plucked by an angel and gently placed at the gates of heaven. Joe thought he was a good person, likable and pleasant; a real stand up guy, someone that you could get a beer with. Yet none of these things were true. Joe had attended college, but never went to his classes and dropped out shortly after. In truth, he was a ornery and unlikable man who had the tendency to cross his friends and break rules when it benefited him. Whichever religious denomination you believe in, Joe Braxton would not be on the good side of the afterlife.

Joe Braxton did not believe in true love, fake love, or any love of any kind. He had always had romantic partners, but never felt any connection to them. He merely tolerated their presence as a path to carnal satisfaction. Thus, his home became a revolving door for various women who all entered enamored with the blue collar man they hoped to marry and left with an eerie feeling of loss and isolation. Joe didn’t even believe in friends. He thought they were a meaningless way humans interacted to gain self affirmation. His last friend he made was in college, whose friendship he maintained until Joe promptly seduced his girlfriend a few months later. “Friends are simply a means to a better life,” thought Joe, “and when they cannot offer you anything, why keep them at all?”

After dropping out of college, Joe decided that he wanted to be a plumber. He chose a below average trade school, and, despite several “incidents,” he made it out. He moved to Oregon to start his business, and soon found a wealthy customer base to prey on. He would start by making a good impression with his stocky build, his southern twang and friendly demeanor. His customers would laugh and be impressed as he would quickly fix their problems. But as he got older, his accent would disappear, his overalls would stain, his joints would become weakened in his middle age. His once charming mannerisms became

vindictive and aggressive, and clients who had always enjoyed employing his services now only did so out of necessity. Over time, Joe’s life became an endless cycle. What once were novelties, like a new customer, or partner became burdens, chores. Joe felt like he was falling forward, but never hitting the ground. A trip that started at college and has never ended, as he stumbled and stumbled towards his inevitable doom.

Joe finally relaxed sitting in his condo. Most would consider it a warm room, with its wooden floors, walls and ceilings. It had a large chimney containing a homey fireplace that was overlooked by large oak logs spanning across the roof. Joe would sit there each night and watch television. It was the one relaxing time of his day, his one moment of cathartic enjoyment. He would sit on his leather reclining chair and sit motionless for hours on end. What he watched did not matter to him. Reality shows, sports, movies. As long as he could lifelessly sit there watching. He would let his thoughts wander. He would think about his life, his regrets, and his choices. After doing so for the better part of a year, Joe realized that he did in fact not have any regrets and if he were to live his life over again, he would end up in the exact same position; in his two room condo, watching Jeopardy! reruns. As the third and final commercial of the show came on, Joe suddenly shot up, and without a reason at all, put on his clothes and went outside. He got into his 1996 Toyota Corolla, put the key into the ignition, and on the third time of asking, it purred to a start. He backed out of the parking lot and made his way to the freeway.

For Joseph M. Braxton, life is not a gameshow, where you avoid the obstacles, and get a grand prize at the end. To him, it’s like a whirlpool that you have to fight against just to stay alive. Right now, he is sinking.