The Death scene...

Candles used to mean so much more as a child. They weren’t needed for warmth, but rather, wishes. Some wishes were juvenile, while some wishes were just naïve. Promising futures, friends forever, love. Who would have thought my wishes would have been better spent on castles, ponies, even money and men? I’ve wasted too many years and too many wishes just to see them all slip away.

On my ninth birthday, I had nine wishes. A wish for every year, my mother would say. I had a friend who never made it to nine wishes, and my mother didn’t live long enough to hear my tenth. When you’re young occurrences such as unexpected deaths don’t make much sense, and as you get older, they only become more complicated. An innocent death, one of a child, a single mother, or one of someone never really given the chance to live at all, is the most tragic. Not only is such a death unnecessary, it is always undeserved. Someone on the brink of living herself or someone who works so others may live better deserves to live for as long as the beats of her heart will let her. Or possibly him, I’m not sure who it is yet. 



These thoughts of failed wishes, of undeserved death, and of the inevitability of it all bring me here, rounding some corner on Rouse Boulevard. The slight rain does not keep me from taking the long route through the town to get to the bus station. This will be my one last journey through it. Even merely walking down the street has become much more difficult, though. Not only is the onset of old age taking its toll on my joints, the shooting pain up and down my left arm has returned. It showed up just a few days after I learned of the death to come. Some days it’s just a dull pain, a relieving distraction. Other days it’s an overwhelming reminder of an impending tragic end. But whose?

I certainly hope it’s not Ronald. I’ve come to enjoy his visits and even look forward to them most days. I left what little I could spare for him in a jar next to a freshly baked loaf of bread. The rest of my money I’ll use for my ticket. Wherever the next one out will take me. I can’t imagine being here long enough to find out whose death it is I saw. Just knowing of the unforgiving fate awaiting someone unsuspecting is a burden even the heaviest heart cannot hold. I’ve spent my life uncovering secrets I wish not to have uncovered, finding answers which would have been better off unknown, and unlocking mysteries which do more harm than good. All this I have received unasked for and not until now has it troubled me so much. An innocent death. Undeserved. Unnecessary. Unasked for.


 Coming up to the park, the light shower suddenly turns into a heavy downpour, making it hard to see more than a couple feet in front of me. The single shooting pain seems to have multiplied into several shooting bullets, racing throughout each and every limb of my body. I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad to take a small break. It’s gotten more difficult to breathe, too. It feels as if a chest as heavy as the one I left in my shop has been placed on top of my lungs. Perhaps if I could just lie down a moment, I could regain my strength and still make it to the station by morning.

The slide offers to me its protection from the rain. The mulch underneath it seems to be in the exact mold that it was when I slept here as a child. And even though I’ve grown significantly since I was nine, I still fit perfectly. I might as well not have grown at all.

Early last week a vision had shown me yet another innocent death. Even after all those I’ve lived through it dared to show me one more. Another life cut short just before it had the chance to improve. No clues as to who it will be. No chance that I can save him. Or her. Most likely someone young, but perhaps they’re older. Maybe someone new to this town, or maybe someone working hard to get out. 



My breathing is slowing but becoming easier to control. The shooting pain has become a numbing sensation, making it nearly impossible to move. All I can do is look up at the slide. No longer covered in rust, but new, bright red paint. The talk of the town. No more gum, only the shine that comes with new steel. It’s just as it was years and years ago. Safe. Nine years old. A great time to be alive. It was never my job to change the future, only predict it. Nine wishes, nine dreams, nine friends forever, nine promises kept and nine different ways to be happy. I couldn’t stop it then. I cannot stop it now. If only a person could be nine forever.

Years and years of knowing peoples’ fates. Only those first nine years matter. Nine more breaths. Nine final wishes: Nine open doors for needy visitors. Eight better futures. Seven reassurances. Six smiles from strangers. Five new beginnings. Four forgotten prayers. Three places to call home. Two kept promises. And One last candle finally blown out.

Be prepared...

You should have this next-to-last blog post completed by Monday night, the 11th. You should have five to six stellar blogs by then. (If you don't, the gods will punish you. ) Although everyone has not had the privilege of being "drawn by the hands of fate," we must move on the the inevitable death scene. Therefore, on Tuesday, we will draw the card of the poor slob who will die. That person will have the opportunity to write his/her death scene and others will write his/her final blog and incorporate the death of said character. Of course, it will be raining that day.

Fanny Mae Lewis

"Fanny? Fanny Mae!!! Open up this damn door right now!" The violent knocking persisted. "I'm not kidding woman, you know who this is. OPEN UP!!"
Fanny Mae curled up in a corner in her cold, dark kitchen. The knocking and yelling continued, but she remained still and silent.
The knocking eventually weakened and then there was silence for a minute. She started to get up to check the doorway. Maybe he finally got tired and left, she thought. But she was startled by a quiet plea from the other side of the door. "Baby, just let me in, I was real worried when you wasn't there one morning, I just want to talk. C'mon baby."
It sound like he's calmed down...maybe it won't hurt to talk this out. She opened the door slowly, and looked up into the eyes she had always found so irresistible. Wow...she thought. He's a lot taller than I remember.
"Hey," he said.
"Bert."
"Sorry about earlier... I just want to talk about this like grown ups now."
"Ok."
"Why'd ya leave baby? You know I love you, I came all this way to find you. Now come back with me."
"You know why I left," her eyes moved down to her bruised arms, "I'm not coming back."
"Look, I'm sorry baby, I was just drunk. It won't never happen again, I'm gonna try to quit drinking. I don't wanna hurt you no more, all I want is for you to come back to me."
Fanny Mae momentarily got lost in the sea of his beautiful blue eyes, but snapped back. "No! I can't, I don't wanna. I- I like it here," she lied. "Besides, I have a new job at this place called The Jaguar."
"You can't possibly like it here! This place is a dump, you're coming back with me!" Fanny Mae could sense that rage coming, the rage she had experienced several times before. She backed slowly into the counter. He approached her angrily,
"Get in the fuckin' car, woman! Don't think I'm playin', you're my wife and you best do what I say!" Fanny Mae backed further into the counter with her hand behind her back, positioned on a kitchen knife. Bert lunged at her, she whipped out the knife and stabbed him right in the shoulder. He fell to the ground in pain and she ran past him into the hallway. Outside of the room, she ran into a man in a track suit.
"Are you alright lady? I was passing by and I heard screaming and-" He looked into the apartment and saw Bert lying on the floor passed out and bleeding. "Oh, oh ok. Um, I'll call the police." Fanny Mae leaned against the wall and slid down, listening to the man talk to the police.
"Yes, Hi. My name is Jeremiah Taylor, I'm in the Jupiter Apartments and there's been a man stabbed...Yes, there is a woman here. She hasn't left so I assume it was a case of self defense...Yes...No...I'm not sure....Apartment 556C...Yes, ok thank you." He hung up the phone and turned to Fanny Mae, "Are you alright? I assume that you knew this guy, yeah? Well the police and an ambulance are on their way. Do you need something?" Fanny Mae didn't say a word, she just buried her head in her knees, sobbing as a crowd began to form outside of apartment 556C.

Robert Covington-Bradworth

It occurred to Bob, as he laid on his bed watching geometric shapes dance around his ceiling, that his life severely lacked substantial social contact. His life was empty, pathetic and alone. But how could he quantify the measure of his life? He had certainly worked hard for the last ten years; he felt he should take some satisfaction knowing that he had made a positive impact on society, and yet he was not satisfied; he felt he still had some impression to make. A million profound images flew through his subconscious as he watched squares twirl in circles around rapidly spinning triangles. Maybe he should paint a picture. At this point, it seemed like an exceptionally good idea. But first, a snack. Brain food. He fished out from his closet an art set which had inexplicably survived from his childhood. A sign. The next moment, Bob was hunched over a canvas with a granola bar slathered in nutella in one hand and a crayon in the other. He feverishly began to draw sweeping strokes, tears pouring down his face as he scrawled across the canvas as if he were possessed. A child was holding a dead rat from its tail in one fist and a book in the other. Blood was dripping down his chin as lightning flashed behind him. In his haste, Bob realized that the images which filled his head had become mixed up in this, their physical manifestation, and yet upon further consideration he could not remember the significance of any of the images on their own. He was losing touch, with his own thoughts and his surroundings.

Bob was suddenly inspired to go onto his computer, to check the youtube video which reminded him how to "roll the perfect joint." The contents of the large bag he had recently purchased were somewhat different from that of the video, as it appeared to be covered in a fine white dust, and yet it worked well enough. Tearing another thin page from his bible Bob rolled another joint and in a minute the thoughts had returned to his head as though a floodgate had been opened. Intangible, ungraspable thoughts, and yet he somehow knew that they were significant. If only he could articulate them somehow.... Bob looked over at the painting he had created. It wasn't very good, but he knew that art was very subjective, and thought that perhaps there could be an audience for his work, some genius critic who could pick apart the different pieces of the picture and discover the thoughts Bob could only consider floating through his brain. He picked up the picture and walked out his door, grabbing a pack of fruit gushers on the way. A song was playing in his head, one which was as alien and yet familiar as any he had ever heard. Even though it was cloudy outside, Bob felt as though the sun were shining on his face. He approached a man walking down the street with an army cap on.

"Excuse me, would you like to buy this painting?" Bob asked him. The man just scowled and continued walking. Bob sensed that the man was struggling, fighting some unfathomable cruelty, bathed in the agony of his own sorrow and not likely to consider the finer points of an artistic vision spontaneously presented to him on the side of the road. Bob continued walking until he came to a market selling fish. He presented his painting to the fish vendor, and almost immediately regretted it. It was the man he had met in the liquor store, the man who had been shot just the other day. The man scowled at him, and Bob could even feel the energy of the man's hatred exuding from him like heat from a fire.

"Fuck off." The man snarled. But Bob could not divert his gaze from the twisting features of this man, the ageless power which seemed to be channeling through his expression directly into Bob's chest. It seemed to Bob that these were the only two men left in the universe, standing on a precarious platform spinning wildly through space. Bob vomited onto a selection of raw fish, and the last thing he saw as he fell to the ground was a pair of bleeding eyes staring down at him before his world went dark.

Miles Walker (this blog is an early one... it's missing a few...)

Miles looked up at the small clock next to the ancient cash register. With a long slow sigh, like the air being let out of balloon, he lowered his balding head into his hands. Thirty more long minutes before he could go and relax in his armchair before a warm fire brandishing a large scotch and a small plate of shortbread. Miles raised his head looking up and the moldy ceiling. His eyes wandered to the cracked windows above the line of old refrigerators and to the warped paint chipped floor boards. For the last eleven years Miles had meant to have them fixed but figured the cost would not be worth the return.
The bell above the door tinkled as two teenage kids shuffled into the food mart stomping snow and ice from their boots on the weathered door mat and raising their hands in a casual salute to Miles. Miles returned their daily greeting with his hand in lazy acknowledgment.
"The usual?" he smirked, as the two teenagers ambled up to the register clutching two blue slushies and two bags of potato chips.
The kids smiled in an embarrassed sort of way. No one really understood Miles Walker and his attempts at humor. The lined aged face that peered down over the cash register was unreadable. Miles often seemed to absorbed in his painful past rather than in opportunity of the future.
After he handed the taller teenager the change the two kids hurried out onto the snowy streets, the grimy shop door closing with a tinkle of the aged bell and a whoosh of cold winter wind and snow. The warmth and elation that had filled Miles at the memories of his own childhood at the sight of the two young friends, left him as quickly as the wind outside rushing through the snow packed streets. He stared at their footprints left in the snow just outside his shop window. Miles imagined himself as a footprint left in the snow. An imprint of a person that will soon be wiped away, never to be remembered.

William Bunker

Uncle Harry's fists pounding on the door woke William up from an uneasy sleep. Glancing over at the dresser, the clock read 6:15. Too early for William to even consider waking up. However, he knew that school started at 8:10 sharp and in order to make it on time, he'd have to wake up no later than 6:15. Pushing the covers off of his body, the cold air instantly clashed against his warm skin. The uncomfortable temperature change gave William incentive to run as fast as possible to the shower.

Letting the hot water run over his weary eyes relaxed all of William's anxiety about starting at a new school today. All night the same question ran through his mind, Would the kids be different here than they were at home? Nevertheless, the water began to get cold again so William quickly finished his shower and got dressed.

Opening his bedroom door, his sister stood in front of him holding a bagel in one hand and bus fare in the other.
"Do you remember the name of your school?" she asked.
"Oakdale Elemetary, at the corner of Appleton St. and Bronze Avenue," he replied subjectively.

Handing William the bagel and bus fare, the two made their way out the door and onto the elevator that took them to the street. Mary pulled out the morning paper out of her oversized purse. William always felt that she carried too many things in there. On the front page read in bold letters, "FAMOUS RAPPER ARRESTED IN FRONT OF JAGUAR, THE PRESS NOW WONDERS ABOUT HIS CAREER AHEAD."
"Hey Mary, who got shot last night?" William asked puzzled.
"Some big rapper, I'm not sure of his name," Mary stated.
"Why was he arrested?" William asked.
"You should keep your mind on school William, don't worry so much about this rapper," Mary insisted.

Taking a left out of the apartment building, William and Mary approached the bus stop, but before they had time to rest, the bus pulled up to the street curb.

"Okay, here is your bus fare and lunch money, use it wisely because I don't paid until the end of the month, I'll be right here after school to take you home you here? So no diddy daddling, hurry home from school. And if you get lost, you ask that nice bus driver to take you where you need to go. I love you, be careful." Mary breathed hard and kissed William on the cheek and continued to walk to the diner.

Walking onto the bus, William inserted his fare and found a seat towards the front, close to the driver. William sat next to a man who looked fairly solemn. However, William saw pain in his face. Glancing down at the man's leg, William saw a large white bandage over his calf. Apparently the man noticed that William was staring so he replied to William, "I was shot last night by some lunatic in a SUV, can you believe that?"

"Oh...I wasn't...I mean...that's actually quite," William stuttered
"Save it kid, I know you don't know what to think, say, where are you headed off to this morning so early?" the man replied.
"School, I'm starting school today." William responded.
"Well, good luck, I'd chat more, but this is my stop, nice talking with you kid."

The man got up from the seat and walked out of the bus with a bit of a stumble but certainty of where he was going. The rest of the bus ride to school William thought about the man's encounter with the bullet wound, and that made him think of his parents. If only the car accident hadn't happened. If only the other driver had his parent's best interest, if only, William's life would be so much different.

Arriving at school, William pushed open the doors to the place he'd been avoiding until now.

Ronald Batzcavich

Cold Sore

I have licked my lips so many times that they are slowly abrading. My once blood-luscious lips have been transformed into a coarse pair of kissers, accompanied by a conspicuous cold sore that lingers on the lop left corner of my mouth. Cold sores or Herpes simplex are most commonly considered remediable, this is true. However, if this common viral infection is not remedied or treated with standard hygiene, it becomes highly invasive and converts its symptoms to those identical to herpetic whitlow, a sickening disease where the virus spreads inter-histogically until it takes up an immense portion of ones epithelial tissue; creating distasteful bumps to sprout up allover. If I want to befriend, kill, and eat Felix, I can't have these despicable sores all over my body. This is why I must go into the city today, to get an antidote for this horrid infection.

Most people are manipulated by advertisements to buy defunct consumer products that claim to alleviate cold sore symptoms quickly. These advertisement claims are only partly true. They do alleviate cold sore symptoms, but not quickly. The most efficient cure for herpes is eicosapentaenoic acid, a common acid found in pretty much any non-tetrapod chordate. This acid is found in fish oils and significantly reduces superficial tissue inflammation. Fish scrap is free at pretty much any fish market whereas typical cold sore remedies are priced anywhere from $6-$30. For parsimonious and intelligent individuals like myself the free choice is far superior. So I have decided to abandon my home temporarily to visit the local market. The one problem with getting fish scrap in this city is that you have to interact with Donald James, the most miserable and bitchy fish sales man ever to touch foot on this God-forsaken earth. But even he is not as annoying as these bloody sirens which have been going off all day, creating a deafening cacophony even I can't ignore. Well off to the market I go.

Jeremiah Taylor

"Hey, wake up."
"Wake up, we are closed yaknow."
I sit bolt upright in my chair and glance around wildly.
"What? Huh? Where am I?" I look up and a once pretty young woman is standing over me.
"Right, right, the Pub." I mutter glancing at my watch, 3:30. "Sorry, I'm really sorry."
I look back up at her and could see she looked a little run down. We suffered from the same thing. This city ran you into the dirt, broke all hope and brightness in your life and left you to wallow in its streets, its gutters.
"I really am sorry," I repeat again, "I've gone and made you stay up late, and after you let me take Kara in here and everything, I really appreciate it." I look down at Kara, dead asleep on my lap, I dread waking her.
The waiter smiled, "Stop apologizing, I was up talking to a friend of mine." She studied me closely. "Do you have a place to stay? If you don't mind my asking that is."
"Kind of," I say, brushing the hair out of Kara's eyes. "Actually, yeah, I think we can go stay with a friend."
"Is there anything else I can do for you two then? Want me to watch her while you call your friend?"
"Yeah, that would be really great, thanks." I slid my legs out from under Kara's head and she sighed in her sleep. "You're really being an angel you know." I said to her as I stood up.
"Its no problem really." She replied looking down at Kara's sleeping form, "I'm happy to help, I don't get out of the pub much so I guess I don't see as much of children as I'd like to..."
She trailed off an I could see she was blushing.
"Kara's a real sweetheart."
I start away and then turn back.
"You know what? I don't know your name."
"It's Tara, and yours?"
"Jeremiah."
"Nice to meet you, Jeremiah."
"You to Tara, and thanks again."
She just smiled and sat down in the booth across from Kara.
The phone at Alex's rang an ungodly number of times before he picked it up.
"Alex?" I said, looking over at Tara.
"Uuh?"
"Is it alright if Me and Kara crash at your place for tonight?"
"Huh? Wait, what?" Alex said, more awake now, "Whats going on."
"I'll tell you when we get up there."
"Okay, yeah sure." He said, "You can come on up."
"Thanks, man. I'll spill once I get up there, I've got alot to tell you, man. I've got a whole lot to tell you."