Jacen Vaughn

I awoke as I did every day. Cold, weary, and aching. The insistent beeping of the alarm was shut off as Shadow hit the off button with her paw. She came over and nuzzled my palm then hopped up onto my low bed to lick my face til I got up. I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and walked to the bathroom with my hand on the wall opposite the stairway out of my small apartment. As I walked I felt every little ridge and crack that passes under my fingers. The plaster flakes off a little time every time I run my hands along it. The whole apartment smells like mildew and stale dog food. I turned on the shower, only cold water came out as usual, even when I turned both knobbly cracked valves on the shower. Everything was in its place easy to find by touch. As I toweled off I walked back into the main part of the apartment running my hand along the wall until I reached my dresser. I pulled a carefully folded set of clothes out, underwear and socks from the top drawer, a shirt from the next one down, and pants from the one below that. I retraced my footsteps around the wall past the bathroom to my bed where I pulled my shoes from the drawer under my bed. I could hear Shadow happily munching on some dry dog food in her corner as I finished getting ready for the day. I called to Shadow to come to me. When she got to me she let me know where she was by nuzzling my hand. I put on my coat with its special extra pockets sewn into the inner lining so I can carry the tools of my trade, the pick gun, torsion wrenches, and various picks that I use to supplement my very modest income from the government. As I finish my preparations Shadow slips into her harness and comes around my bed and nuzzles my hand again to get me to tighten down the harness.
We both ascended the stairs and emerge into a chilly room that smells of old books. This is the bookstore I live underneath. The old man who runs it is kind enough to let me rent out the basement since his business has no need for it. I turned and locked the door to my abode and allowed Shadow to lead me towards the door. We exited out onto the street and turned out of the front door to the bookstore. The air is cold and crisp and smells like it rained the previous night. The sound of birds chirping in the crisp chilly morning air came floating out of the woods behind the bank as I walked towards the coffee shop where I spend many of my days waiting for business. We round the corner and the aroma of coffee and fresh bagels wafts down the street towards us, but the effect is ruined by that biting aroma of some kind of oil leak in the street next to me. When we reached the coffee shop we entered and Shadow wove her way through the tables until I got up to the counter to order my usual breakfast, two bagels and a cup of coffee with three sugars, and a piece of bacon for Shadow. I allow myself to be led back down to my usual table by the window where I can set up my sign that says I can get into apartments, houses and cars if you've lost your keys for a small fee. There is a enough demand for a locksmith in this neighborhood for me to be able to afford the little luxuries, especially one who cant see who he's working for or what he's working on. I settle in and bask in the low sunlight that comes through the window and wait for someone to need my services.

Yung Li

Every night he comes with his blue sleeping bag and bright orange tight curly locks. And every morning I come with my broom in hand and makeup on. I come into the living room and begin to unscrew the wooden stick from the sweeper. I turn the stick and it squeaks, metal upon metal, and the young man’s feet twitch suddenly. I put the sweeper against the wall and look at him. I just look at him. His body is curled up on the hard carpet floor, and his back facing me about three feet away. I turn around and pull on the blinds to let some light into the dark room. The man’s orange hair is illuminated by the sun. His hair looks like gold, the gold specks my grandfather once brought home to me and my sisters from the mines.

His feet twitch again and I remember what I came for. I raise my stick and yell “YI! YI! YI! You! get out of my house! You! Why you in my house? I don’t like you! You don’t make me happy! You! GET OUT!” My stick falls in continuous motion upon his back and buttocks. He squirms and pulls himself out of the sleeping bag.

“Sorry maam, sorry maam,” he whispers as he stands up and picks up his sleeping bag off of the floor. I hit him, I hit him again, I hit him one more time. He is at the door, opens it, steps out, leaves it a peak open, sticks his head in and whispers, “Sorry maam.” PANG! I hit right where his face should have been. He shuts the door. Sighing, I lock it. Resting my stick against the wall, I rush to the bathroom. Splashing my face with cold water I rub the makeup off with a rag. I never wear makeup.

October 27th, 19-- (Details to include)

It's snowing; the power goes out at 6PM for two hours. Because of the colder weather, the roaches encroach into the apartment building and other residences.

Greta

The bus decelerated, wheezing, before a imposing building and pair of waiting figures. Greta watched the pair carefully as the bus approached: just as her acting coach had instructed. The man, in stained diner smock and navy windbreaker, held a double-folded paper in two fists. His eyes, in a head that drooped forward a little, were trained an inch or two above the top of the paper.

Two or three feet down the bench sat a woman, perhaps younger than the man, but not young. Every part of her (knees, feet, hands, elbows), thought Greta, was carefully contained -- except her eyes. Her eyes wandered over the street, into the sky, onto the man.

Inside the building, Greta gave her name to the manager, a woman in an ill-fitted skirt suit who sat behind an empty desk and flipped through a celebrity gossip magazine.

"Can I leave my bags here for a little while?" Greta asked. "I've got to go to a job interview."

The woman pointed to a corner of the grubby office. "Where's the interview?"

"Le Royale Theater." Greta tried to keep the anxious pride from the words, tried to act as though she was used to this sort of thing. "Well, it's an audition actually."

The woman raised her eyebrows and scanned Greta's jeans and beige pea coat. "An audition, eh? At the theater? And you're renting here?"

Greta nodded, puzzled. "Actually, could you tell me how to get to Le Royale?"

The woman pointed to the street beyond the grubby window. "You came in off Rouse. That street there on the side is Polaski. Walk a block down that and you'll hit Main. You can only turn left. The, uh, theater," (here came a stiffled snicker), "will be on your right. "

Felix, The Tunnel Under Rouse Blvd.

Felix opened his eyes slowly, they were heavy with sleep and cold. He pulled the Daily Post over his chest attempting to warm himself. Felix lay on his back facing the domed ceiling of the tunnel in which he lived. By the darkness of the night, Felix estimated the time to be about half past midnight, one learns these things after living outside for years. He closed his eyes for the twentieth time that night, and as he drifted off to sleep he listened closely to the incessant dripping of water from the ceiling into a puddle below. A rat scampered across Felix's toes, yet he did not flinch. Felix had become accustomed to sharing his home with the lovely little creatures.

About an hour later, Felix awoke to a sound he did not recognize. He sat upright and looked around, however it took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the dark. When finally Felix was able to see, he turned around and with a look of confusion noticed a man sitting on a ledge staring at him with a mysterious smirk on his face. The man was not exceptionally interesting or unique. He was of average height, average weight, and looked to be about about 40. He had brown hair and from what Felix could tell in the darkness of the tunnel he had brown eyes. The only remarkable thing about this man was the smug look and devilish gleam in his eyes as he inspected Felix.

Pokey Swain Apt. 111

Pokey Swain was worried about the impending cold weather. He had just left his mother's apartment twenty blocks away; she had given him his bag of early winter clothes. Lined goloshes, a flannel and wool plaid coat, the black stocking cap, multiple pairs of cotton and wool socks that he carefully arranged in the top drawer of his dresser, flannel shirts, and six pairs of lined jeans. His t-shirts and boxers were already in the second drawer. He counted them before he went to see his mother on the second Thursday of every month. If his mother thought it necessary, she would provide him with more, after he had given her the carefully recited inventory of his dresser. She worried about Pokey and checked and doubled checked his bag before he left.

"Don't let this bag out of your hands until you get to your room."
"Okay, Mom."
"Make sure you make it on time to dinner."
"Okay, Mom."
"Don't talk to anyone on the bus ride."
"Okay, Mom."
"Pokey, did you take a shower this morning?"
"Yes, Mom. But only a short one. The water was too cold."
"I'll call the manager. You pay on time and there's no reason why you shouldn't have hot water."
"Okay, Mom. The 4:15 bus will be here in 15 minutes."
"Take this thermos and don't leave it on the bus."
Pokey sits on the first row of seats that faces the opposite window and he watches the city move slowly by. He worries that the traffic will make him miss dinner. If he misses dinner, he knows that in the morning, he will feel foggy. He might forget to eat breakfast and be late for his job as a parking garage attendant.
He had missed dinner once before and was late for work. He didn't want that to happen again. Pokey would only order the early bird special. The diner two blocks away served meatloaf as the special on Thursdays. Meatloaf, greenbeans, potatoes and rolls sprawles across a greasy white board that has long ago lost any semblance of being white. It now hangs precariously on the nail just inside the diner entrance. Years of grease, smoke, as well as the general grime that creeps into the diner every time the door swings open, has coated the daily-special board, the wall and most of the diner. Pokey's stool, the third one from the door, has a similar glaze. The tiled floor which was once white now carries the same nebulous grime. Each tarnished tile is outlined in thick, black lines of unknown density.
His thick brows furrow at the lines of cars trying to escape the city. Pokey reaches inside his coat pocket and unravels his headphones. He carefully places them on over his cap, pulls them into place and hits play. Coltrane, in mid-rift, fills his his ears. Pokey closes his eyes and waits for Miles's trumpet to follow.