The Unauthorized Biography

Of

James Mackenzie

The Unauthorized Biography of

James Mackenzie

AJ ERNST

dedicated to Jimmy Mackenzie

Until Then…

His first open-mouth kiss, his dead father, his hair cut – the odd

assortment of images contorted his dreams while dancing to the

classics in a cool autumn drizzle. How the breeze felt delightful

as it caressed his rigid facial hair, peeling off layer after layer

of his clammy skin. The pinching in his thigh and the pulsation

in his retina seemed to catalogue the opalescence of this

brilliant night. A shooting pain ripped through his spine as he

thrust his body erect in his bed. He groped at the tightly tucked

sheets and kicked wildly and unreserved until they gave way.

He checked his faced for skin shavings and spied out the

spoiled window for God, in all his glorious milky iridescence -

the arrogance of a purulent child. The art of embellishment,

even at this hour, he reveled in his own pretentious habit. This

was not how he thought or talked. Everything was foreign.

For the last two months this ghost dance had become more

vivid, with sharper details and sickening aftertastes. The room

became increasingly crowded with condescending ancestors,

infamous assassins, petulant heroes, but mostly trivial

acquaintances that he had met in real life and fake life.

Knowing the futility of the action, he would still pursue some

trashy baggage at the bar and ask for a spin on the ballroom

floor. He knew that this sort of thing was frowned upon and

that it might be risking banishment from the family. She was

related to him in some way, and even with his tireless efforts,

he would never pull the right strings or completely commit.

Her number was a grail, a fountain, an answer. He wanted that

fucking number - seven goddamn digits. At this point he had

no idea what the hell he was talking about. He never did when

it got this late.

But this time, it worried him. This time there seemed to be

some sort of purpose - and it frightened him. He let his fingers

inadequately tease a rose that hovered on the edge of an

inappropriately oversized coffee can on the cedar table adjacent

to his bed and began to chew on the petals, an old habit that

had become increasingly addictive, but always fell short of full

satisfaction-there were never enough red and pink extremities

for gnawing. That was just his style, half-assing the whole

thing. Where’s the motivation? What’s the point? You don’t

have a goddamn clue but somehow somebody is getting

something from this. And of course there’s that self worshiping

idiot in the back row, who, right now, is nodding in agreement

at these ambiguous and pointless combination of fragments and

commenting on how it was a metaphor, a symbol for death, and

personification of the sun.

Shut up!

He caught himself in that moment. He remembered he was still

in his room, alone. This was a little embarrassing. By grinding

his teeth faster, he thought he could distract his brain from

dissecting the foul recurring images like a shrink. The clicking

of his tongue drowned out some of the depictions, but the taste

still infected his mouth. The bed was covered with hair so

licking the enticing soft, blue velvet was denied as an option.

Searching for another outlet, he noticed on the lapel of his

pinstripe flannel pajamas lay a live cigarette, still smoking and

turning the fabric into dark brown ashes, gradually. The aroma

seduced him and his neighbor and his girlfriend and their

cousins and a five year old boy with bruised elbows and knees

twelve blocks down. He got out of the bed and approached the

open window which ran the full length of the room, top to

bottom, and rested on a hypothetical ledge. He stuck his head

out the pane of glass and sucked on the limp paper cylinder

between his lips. With every drag he suffocated the

diminishing stars and planets in that cold October sky and

glared out at his quiet suburbia, unaffected and silent.

Someday he would have to write all this down.

J.M.

Part 1:

It was pouring down like God was trying to ravage the Earth in

one final fury. He had never seen a storm like this one. It did

not impress him though, this sort of compellation of His

“Greatest Hits” that could shock others into fear and faith. It

was so common in lesser proportions that a kind of sterility

formed over his eyes and muffled his ears from years past.

This cleansing would not break him. The skeleton of steal

shattering the oncoming lightening bolts and the rebound of

pelting hail crumbled like dreams under his breath. He was

seeking something to wash him away. Although he sneered at

his own weakness and desire, a part of his lip cornered tightly

and inched up in such a manner that would give children good

reason to run to their mothers. His knees gave way and the

joints collided with the cratered surface. He longed for

torrential downpours, and this habit had become a ritual of

futility. This bare-chested beast with knotted hair caved in an

excursion of ecstasy. Jimmy stretched out his arms as to fill

out the emptiness and tilted his head to the sky so that passing

cars would think that they had seen something symbolic on the

peak of that overpass. Passing vehicles would only steal a

quick glimpse of his cliché finale and then have to make up the

rest to tell their friends at dinner parties.

A sensation of falling from the top was so formidable and

deemed appropriate because he knew what laid within the next

step and missing puzzle piece. His fall would come full circle

and overcome the logistics of their reality. With every

desperate retreat and surrender, it always ended with one more

chance.

And he always loved the Spring that never surrounded him

with the strange ethnic sounds of solitude that tampered with

the strong mind that kept his pieces together. She could flip

the pale fading slices onto their duller and blander beige sides

without a second thought and the preconceptions was that the

ending was too distant if not to close and the frightening facts

became the ones that could not change. This was a whole

different entity that originated in the essence of origination - a

sort of birth culminated in the fear of something new and the

death of something uncertain and understandably sure.

Following instinct beyond the correct methods for distraction

and discovering the right path for destruction was all contained

in the ceremonies of tradition that began in the still

undeterminable autumn sun, giving birth to the stars with the

setting sun.

Similar to most facts we learn at a young age, that come in

waves and sets and different bows, equally untied and

predictably sporadic if scrutinized in the aftermath, but that

was beside the point. It was finally Sunday and his weight

found support under four wooden pegs and some rough fabric

built and systematically replicated around the droning

dormitory. The off-whites blended with the odor of

replacement homes, resembling new carpeting and electrical

smoke. It was an unlikely and uncomfortable familiarity that I

feared would last longer than the allotted time that my grim

imaginations and patience would mutiny the tapered screen that

stops the saner men from harassing attractive women and

profiting off the corruption of the innocent. The ware and tare

of the years always allowed some of the draft to escape the

greenish night, but ultimately, the admitted truth was that even

if that room was polluted by the entire atmosphere of

abhorrence, contaminating the peacefully teetering mind and

turning the uncouth blue carpet into the jungle green of its

intent, a little white glow would exist inside him where the

heart should have been.

Moving on from the vague concept of this birth right and

internal goodness that may have meant something, it still

would stop the boy from wanting to break path from his father

and fly beneath the underpass and into town. It was assumed

that every child would grow into some sort of being with one

of two options that really were not left in his hands, or any

child for that matter. After a certain age, depending the pure

upbringing, the options were to rebel or conform, and then their

children would follow suit. It did not make sense to James, and

even though he could not see that white orb inside of him,

either when he would try to see the glow through his throat in

the mirror or ask the doctor to look at his x-rays just a little

more carefully. If there was no bright ball in his chest, then

why would he desire to break his rigorous and completely

satisfactory running route. He could not dissect this conundrum

and continued with his adolescent life assuming nothing and

praying for more.

James would always ask his father for money and for help and

for all things of this sort, but for some reason one day the

young boy wanted to know why his father had gotten sick.

This had never happened before and there had to be an

explanation. Due to the pride within the soul inside the

dominating man, his father answered the question in his drawn

out and booming voice and shot the question down. This sent

the confused boy on a spiral and for no apparent reason began

to cry. Unexpected results from what he had assumed would

have been a simple question and answer session had turned

south for the moment and now James found his way out the

front door and in the middle of the street. The flashing colors

danced past him. The wind slapped the tears off his cheek and

turned him in a different direction then what some would have

guessed - a way that he did not know or, looking back, even

wish to know, but ultimately it had to happen in the utmost for

us all. It got colder and the sky turned an almost deathly

maroon color and that set the perfect backdrop for the boys

departure. The cars finally began to slow down to see what the

crazed young man would do next, perhaps lead them

somewhere so they could fill the dinner conversations with

something besides the typical workday stories. James took his

first step in the wrong direction and turned it all upside down,

which was all we needed to see.

He Always Forgets

It had been a full year since James had found the cold lips of

his childhood sweetheart under the rumbling bleachers of his

high school’s football field during the halftime performance.

Some classmates looked on, distracted by the two clutching

each other’s palms. It was easy to mumble inappropriate

remarks at the couple while eating a hotdog. Neither of pair

had noticed the minimal audience.

James’ father described his fall obsession as a Casablanca stage

of his life that he would grow out of within the upcoming

months. At the dinner table he would prophesize to the space

in front of him of the uselessness of relationships at such a

young age. James never understood what the Casablanca

allusion implied, but he found himself lost in silence within

days, trying to explain his new founded occupation. He craved

her contact, but there was only so much of her warmth he could

grasp and actually value.

There was a distortion to the romance when they would fall

asleep, collapsed in tangled mouths, molding each other’s

limbs. There was a presence of looming dependence like a

stranger’s gaze over a playground that kept even the children

wary. James recited the digits that made up his girl friend’s

number to himself during class. He was mesmerized by how it

added up to eleven, the same number as her address, and this

had meaning. When she would ramble about her daily

activities, James would see if he could decipher the

possibilities for the digits to form words if the numbers stood

for letters. She would be angered by the way he ignored her,

but if she had known he was only searching for hidden clues

about her, she would have stayed content. One time he wrote a

song with them, and she loved him for it.

It disturbed him that they were once friends. He felt as though

their lives were constant and situations should remain the same,

but James had never found an explanation for relationships in

the local paper anyway, so it was all too confusing. Still the

universe of gravity and reason that structured his mere

existence seemed tilted. She used to hate his habit of

exaggerating the state of the world, but she had warmed up

over the years to his verbal promiscuity.

James was mostly unaffected by events in his life that typically

shook others with even the greatest of metaphorical armor.

This attribute served to benefit James when his grandmother

died, but today it hurt a bit as the lack of emotion appeared

forgetful. He knew that his girl friend was trying to remember

a time when he cared about special days to compare him to, but

there was never that time. He would rather just tell her that

nothing had been planned that would create a mood or define

today as memorable.

James concentrated on one thought as he sat on his doorstep

preparing for her bombardment of insults and accusations. He

was always afraid of forgetting her name. It was such a

flowing name, filled with sensations of blue and gold and a

typical ray of sunshine. Even James felt its power, as if she

should be famous, but she was dating him. Names possessing

inherent beauty last longer than just words of commonplace.

He repeated it over and over in his head, tapping to its rhythm

on the dampened wood beneath his boots.

Madison Elizabeth Heart. Madison Elizabeth Heart.

Madison caught herself as she wiped off the glaze from her

eyes. This time she would not be mesmerized by his tactful

antics that would so often sweep her off her feet - but always

after she walked away. He would cover his mishaps like

potholes. Every time she would retrace their steps together,

she felt the bump from too much pavement. Now matter how

sweet the gestures, traces of his broken promises made the

comeback rough around the edges. It was his imperfections

that was her love.

Stay strong.

Where was this relationship even going?

She would repeat different pieces of advice she had acquired

from black and white films and ancient novellas.

No one should be this serious at this age.

She hated how most of those stories ended with true passion, or

true tragedy. She just did not want to be in the end of her

story. She wanted to be tossed aside and forgot somewhere

near the beginning and lost without a side plot.

She turned away from the street to head back into her house

and begin the loaded steps toward solitude. Madison wondered

if the library was open but rejected the possibility.

What if he was there?

A car rolled up to the front of her lawn.

He would definitely not be at the library. Was it open?

The door popped open and a head appeared from behind the

Cadillac. Something in her twisted as she arched her head back

and saw that it was not Jimmy. She was happy until she

realized that if he was not in the car, he was .

The part of her that had still thought, or hoped it was Jimmy

was gone. With determination she asked the young man, who

was dressed as a driver, if he needed any help, any directions,

any chance that he would want to take her for a ride. She had

covered up her scars, and she had concentrated specifically on

the edges. She made them smooth.

He politely walked around the car and opened the rear door in

front of her cold eyes and this driver saw a flare that could

have been from the sunset, but that would never be how Jimmy

would tell it. The driver looked his brother’s best friend’s

girlfriend in the eye and spoke to her. “Happy Anniversary

Madison Elizabeth Heart.” It made a complete turn.

Five minutes after she had gotten into the Cadillac, she realized

that she had no idea what was going on and tugged at the

driver’s hat from the backseat. He told her that everything was

a secret. Jimmy loved surprises and would got to any length to

achieve them. As she quickly learned that he would typically

go to ends of the earth, she always expected so much, which is

why he had to dance on the line of pretending to forget and just

forgetting. When he let her down, she rarely recovered fully.

Madison laughed until all the contempt in her was gone; she

had always thought that he might mislead her. The car slowed

to a stop and the nameless driver opened the car door. She

turned to ask where they were, but the car peeled away from

the woods. The path in front of her led to the township park.

Once Madison had met Jimmy here after he played basketball,

but she knew nothing and was excited. She looked all around

and yelled out Jimmy’s name. What was going on? Something

was not right - and it was getting dark.

She took her first step into the park and felt something squishy

give underneath the sole of her new expensive shoes that she

had bought for the occasion. Before she could get upset she

noticed that it was a gummy bear that she had stepped on, and

two feet in front of that one lay another bear. And two feet in

front of that one lay another. She followed the path of candy

with her eyes and submitted to his clever antics. A path of her

favorite candy to what seemed to be a baseball field - this was

all over her head. The night seemed to quickly set in on the

park as the sun peaked over a small hill. Madison somehow

thought that Jimmy was forcing the sun to set in pace with her

steps. Its light blinded her view of the field and she stumbled a

bit as she tried to see if Jimmy was on a horse or some other

ridiculous contraption. Madison found balance on a water

fountain at the foot of the field. She fixed her shoes and

supported herself by placing her hand in the cool metal plate

with a small pool of water that made her sleeve damp. Madison

shook her wrist vigorously and saw that the water had not

stopped pouring out. Right as she tried to fix it while

simultaneously drying her shirt, she heard the sound of music

coming from the field. She had never heard the song before,

but it was familiar to her and it made her grin. Jimmy had an

obsession with old music and always found it hysterical when

they were in the car listening to one of her CD’s and then the

voice of Barry Manilow would follow whatever pop song that

had been playing. Every time, Madison would start shifting

frantically in her seat and fidgeting with the disc. Finally she

would realize that Jimmy had made a duplicate of her Maroon

5 album and inserted the love ballad Mandy. It was one of

those cute memories that her girlfriends would giggle at when

she depicted the event at sleepovers. Few sounds like a big

orchestra and his voice brought some many memories. She left

the water overflowing.

Madison pulled at the gate to the fence that surrounded the

sand and grass field. All things seemed to come together at that

very moment as she stepped towards him in beat with the

music which kept getting louder with every step. A mist settled

down around them creating an angelic atmosphere. She looked

at the candlelit dinner that had been set up on the pitcher’s

mound on a small green card table. Behind the second base lay

a blanket covered with small stuffed pink bears of all sizes and

types. Gifts lay wrapped, and she already knew that under the

paper were presents that would be too wonderful for her accept

without becoming over emotional. Madison was convinced at

times like this that her boyfriend had some special relationship

with the universe that allowed all these unbelievable

occurrences to work so perfectly.

He floated towards and swiftly wrapped his arms around her

waist. His grip was locking and she was so taken that she did

not even notice that the were dancing. As the song reached its

climax with every instrument climbing to its highest note,

Jimmy whispered three words into her ear and let his lips graze

along her cheek until they met hers. He pulled away for a

second and she reached for his touch. Already overwhelmed,

she heard the igniting of a fuse. Bright lights went off behind

their bodies and the loud thunder of fireworks echoed

throughout the park. He had set off the fireworks, he had made

the dinner, he had taken the sun down and made the moon

glow. He had no trouble with the words, they poured like

poetry, but she would never be able to express everything that

she felt. Was it that something that he always spoke of every

time he saw her. She believed in it, now. She somethinged him

- but she somethinged him completely, and forever.

They are Beige

He was little. He was frail. Tommy could not play t-ball and

had never gone trick or treating. At one time, he could read of

life and of coming of age, but his boyhood was restricted and

timed. His eyes were barely slits now and film had glazed over

them in layers. Everything was dark and still.

Doctor Mackie is what the children would call him, even

though he was not a doctor and hated his last name. Tommy

had become his favorite. Mackie spent all of his free time

sitting in Tommy’s room, usually on the hospital bed, reading

stories of great adventures like Peter Pan while holding his

hand. His parents at one time visited Tommy every day, but

that was in the beginning, and Doctor Mackenzie had seen this

sad story a hundred times before.

Mackie leaned over in bed and shared his anxieties for this

boys life with his girlfriend, Isabella. Everything in his life felt

trivial and fleeting when compared to this beautiful boy dying.

It felt wrong, but he could not see why. The death of a child

was always terrible, but it was different. It was formulaic: a

child can never die in order to ensure a happy ending. There

was never an explanation for that story technique, but it was

common knowledge, common courtesy, like flashing your high

beams to warn drivers about a upcoming speeding trap.

Isabella did not understand what he was talking about,

especially at this hour in the night. It was the second child this

year that her boyfriend had become close friends with, but in

the end, it dies. Did he feel that he had a responsibility or did

her actually enjoy these miniature connections?

She felt so heartless and wrong for thinking it, but she did think

it and always had felt that way. Her boyfriend’s fixation with

death was something she thought a lot of people in his

profession dealt with, but that did not make her comfortable

with his obsession.

It should be routine. They come to die. They come to die.

She had not meant to say that out loud, especially to interrupt

him. It was quiet. It was completely dark until that morning.

Tommy was so different and unique. He listened. Most of the

other patients typically complained about their ailments and

cried for more medicine, but Tommy just lay there, receptive to

her every word.

Doctor Mackenzie spoke of his breakup, his lost family,

disconnected past while sitting on Tommy’s beige plastic bed.

Tommy had never experienced any of these things and

Mackenzie stopped himself, not wanting to discourage the boy,

he got back to Peter Pan. Tommy needed stories about

victorious youth and love. The doctor needed the book, he was

great at telling stories, but he was always unable to tell an

isolated event, and thus a beautiful story would run into

something not perfect. He would trail off the plot and leave

them both searching for answers - but they had none.

Doctor Mackenzie began to spend all of his free time with

Tommy. After he finished Peter Pan for the fourth time, there

were puzzles and board games. Mackenzie would roll the dice

for Tommy and move the metal hat on the Monopoly board,

and both enjoy the mornings, afternoons and nights they spent

together.

It was Tommy’s thirteenth birthday, and Mackenzie had

brought in things from his home to make the frigid room cozy.

He hated the pale whites and yellows, the light browns. He

never understood why the hospital had to look so grim. Was it

to remind the children of their fatal outcome, some sort of sick

joke the designers had when painting the building? Why not

bright, with blues and greens. Most of these children were

dying and the thought of beige being Tommy’s last memory

truly was painful.

He brought in his baseball card collection to show Tommy, and

late into the evening he told stories of the Babe and Mickey

Mantle. Every card had a glorious story behind it, filled with

lore and myth that everyone thought was true, but no one had

anyway of knowing, especially Tommy who had never seen

these heroes, but dreamt of them. Mackenzie fell asleep

holding Tommy’s hand in the chair next to his bed.

He woke up two hours later in a pool of drool on Tommy’s

bed. Doc Mackenzie cleared his throat and put away the cards.

He went down the hallway to get some coffee and saw

Tommy’s family come through the front doors. Immediately

Mackenzie turned around and settled himself in a chair across

the doorway to Tommy’s room so he could watch the family.

He observed every move they made, ensuring the young boy’s

safety. He was disturbed by this visit, as it was rare that the

negligent family would visit their maimed son.

Mackenzie came in after the family left and returned to his

comfortable chair next to Tommy, where the boy’s ignorant

mother had been sitting and pulled out a book. Jack and the

Beanstalk was another favorite of the duo. Before he began to

read, he noticed Tommy’s chest slowly rise and fall. He must

have watched it for hours on different days, but that moment,

something was different. A small wheezing crept out of the

boy’s mouth. Mackenzie leaned over to see if he could hear

what the boy was trying to say.

Tommy’s eyes shot open for the first time in two years, ripping

his atrophied body out of its nightmarish comatose state.

Finally he had escaped the darkness, but things were far from

normal. Something was very wrong. His entire body began to

tense up and violently shake. His mouth opened and closed,

like he was biting nothing in the air, and a crack ran through

one of the big teeth until it was struck from the gum and

followed by a rush of blood as a piece of the tongue was bitten

off. Tommy turned to the right and saw a man in a white coat.

Was he in a hospital? What the hell was going on?

“Mackenzie to main desk. Mackenzie to main desk.”

Rebecca had just had her left leg amputated, but apparently

there were still multiple problems with an infection. He

wheeled her to the beige room, but could not stay. She had

family, friends and connections. She was also going to leave.

Rebecca wanted nothing to do with an aging nurse that liked

being called Doctor. Mackenzie gathered his baseball cards and

children stories, took down the paintings and put away the

board games. Mackenzie did not want to listen.

Tommy flat lined and died with whispers of a boy climbing

from the voice of a complete stranger. They were holding

hands.

People Get Mad For Not

Jimmy was not an only child. He had two younger brothers that

looked nothing like him. His grandmother called them Satan’s

helpers, a loving pet name that only a grandmother could give

to her grandchildren. The name was fitting as they truly reeked

havoc around the house. Sounds of smashing glass would

reverberate off the walls and hit Jimmy’s mother who’s

reaction to accidents had become a reflex over time. The boys

would be waiting by some precious plate they had broken until

someone with authority would come by and give them a

chastising. As soon as the two boys would hear something

spoken in a tone of disapproval, they would dance around like

the imps they were, proud of their success. Their mother could

never truly yell at her beautiful baby boys, so Jimmy always

found her outrage directed at him. He had learned to deal with

it at this point. If he left the toilet seat up, he would get an hour

lecture and punished for a week. It was fortunate that Jimmy

rarely slipped up.

Jimmy could not sleep in his room most nights. The noise of

his two younger brothers wheezing kept him awake. He would

go out of their room and past his parents bedroom and down

the stairs past his grandmother’s room, which used to be a den,

and into the kitchen where he would eat a bowl of frosted

flakes and listen on his AM radio for stations in foreign

languages. It was peaceful - listening to a story and not having

to follow a plot.

“You wouldn’t believe what just happened.”

Tom burst into Jim’s kitchen through the basement door. There

was open window so neighborhood cats could come in from

the cold, not so his neighbor could come in to see Jim at three

in the morning. Tom shoved his hand into the cereal box and

drank the milk from Jim’s bowl. He was bleeding.

“What the hell happened to your eye?”

It was a long story. It was always a long story. Tom loved his

adventures. A trip to the deli somehow became a crusade for

freedom in the fight for turkey wraps. Despite the stupidity and

sometimes outrageousness and oversimplifications, the stories

were always amusing. Before Tom could start, he explained

that they needed to leave and that he would tell it to him in the

car. Only Jim could drive.

They got into the back of Jim’s truck. It was really his dad’s

construction truck, but on the weekdays he got to use it. There

was a decal on the back window of a wolf. Jimmy’s father

laughed when he saw the sticker and heard that it was the

symbol of Jimmy‘s gang. Although his mother was concerned,

both parents agreed that it was good that Jimmy was making

friends again.

Jimmy changed friends by the season. He never stayed with

one group for any long period of time. Whether it was a

incident with a girl or a cop, Jim’s pride or intolerance would

stir up a fire that would end in typically a fight in which Jim

would beat the life out of many people at the same time. People

around school called them rage blackouts, but Jim’s knew that

he was more focused than ever when he would beat someone

who crossed him.

The Wolfpack as not the run-of-the-mill gang. In fact, they

were not really a gang. The 47th Street Spics. That was a gang.

The 48th Street Shits. That was a gang. Two competing gangs

that coexisted violently next to each other in the downtown

area of Howell. The two streets were ghettoes of Hispanics and

blacks - both hated the world, but mostly they hated each other.

Real war had gone on between the two groups for two years.

Three members had died in the later part of the year. They

were legit.

No one knew whether the mayor was racist, or was just

frightened, or perhaps he did not want to risk the lives of good

cops for worthless teens that would only ever amount to

heckling women and then dying somewhere. Somewhere in

that combo there was eating and sleeping. The town would not

even flinch when any of them did anything. People were

indifferent to their childish graffiti and other petty acts of

vandalism. And that aggravated Jim. It really got to him.

It was only when a five year old was shot in the crossfire that

autumn did the county react. She was young, white, and

promising. She was raped of love and charity - the doting of

her grandparents and the embarrassment of adolescence.

Nothing epitomized purity and innocence better than a young

girl. There was a cry for action and it was urgent. Donations

poured in for funding the campaign against gang violence. The

mayor spoke of battles to be fought and guaranteed results. He

would not rest until the gangs were put to rest. Two black guys

were arrested and the police bought new uniforms.

Jim’s father had tacked the black and white photo that was in

the newspaper of the policemen in the new uniforms with bold

letters stating killers caught. They were not killers. Reality was

that no one ever intended to go that far. They were pissed off,

high school graduates that never made it to college and

somehow over time had gotten switchblades and automatics.

Loitering became more than a habit, but the only option.

Unemployment provided time for nothing. Sitting on the stairs

of the local church, watching kids play ball in the park,

gambling - they began to run low on options. It was too easy

for people to ignore them. Parents taught their children to

avoid eye contact with them in order to avoid danger. They

started to ask people questions, heckle the newspaper man,

blow kisses at women, swear at the passing students. No one

really challenged them - no one cared.

People wanted an outlet when something like this happened. A

quick fall man. The photo was settling and reassuring, but not

as reassuring as the faces of the perpetrators behind bars. It was

over as far as the town was concerned. The gangs still crowded

corners and vacant strip malls. They hung outside the movie

theatre. The police stopped looking and everyone seemed to

move on. They had nicer uniforms, everyone slept peacefully

at night.

Jimmy followed Tom down a staircase unconsciously, lost in

thought, mimicking his leader’s footsteps. The cellar was filled

with cold, red faces. The Wolfpack was pissed. Ten members

were on the township baseball team, two were from the

Borough and Jim and Tom were from the suburbs. Over the

last two years the kids had come together and now rarely

traveled without one another. Everyone knew who they were-

the guys in the back of a pickup truck drinking beer, students

who would skip class to sit in the parking lot, the token

jackasses of the town. The group would typically move from

house to house on the weekends and get trashed, hook up with

townies and fight. Because they had numbers, it was easy to

steal the thunder and remain unchallenged. Tonight Jim found

out that apparently there was an agenda to the club, a purpose

beyond the partying.

Fresca stood on top of stool, dressed in black, and preaching to

the boys, his men. Fresca had started the gang two years back.

He was skinny and always wore a broken wristwatch. His hair

was black and gelled so every hair stood alone on his steaming

head. There was no reasoning behind the apparition that

inspired his creation - just teenage guy stuff, like his parents

said. Fresca was red from screaming, as was the group, who

echoed their leader. A thicker version of his older brother stood

shadowing Fresca, pounding his fist overdramatically to get the

point. His name was Cheatcodes. He was younger and perhaps

more dangerous for his unquestioning faith in his delinquent

brother. Fresca spoke of violence, and immediate counter-

attack, blood from both of the gangs.

His younger sister was walking home from school earlier that

day and passed by the old church. She was carrying home a

book from class, the first book she was assigned to bring home

for work. The feeling was exhilarating. She was excited about

work.

“They called her fucking Mama Sita”

Fresca either had a good sense of humor or he had completely

lost any grasp that he had once had on reality. He burst into an

uncontrollable laughter right after he told the account that had

taken place earlier between his giddy sister and the parasites

that had infested his town for too long. The 48’s and 47’s were

going to pay. The Hispanic or black guys who were probably

not members of any gangs but just happened to be a minority

and hang out in groups became the enemy. They were yelling

at girls and Fresca was not in the mood to let this go

unpunished. No only parties and girls, but now vandalism

would be added to the list. They would establish themselves as

a true gang. Jim wanted to fight them there and now. He did

not know why the feeling had come, but he wanted to beat

them until they stopped bleeding. A foul image shot through

his head and caused shivers to run down his spine. Fresca

yelled at Jim to get his car ready. Jim did not have a cool

nickname.

A three car caravan ran down the main street and into the part

of the neighborhood that no one ever went to anytime of the

day or night without fearing for their lives. People told stories

of vicious crimes and dangerous assailants, but Jimmy could

not remember anything that had ever happened in these parts.

They were just broken down dual lexes that were for low

income families. There was an occasional tire and mattress

tactfully placed as if for a movie shooting for a scene in the

stereotypical bad neighborhood, but it was so tightly compact,

it actually had a cozy feel. During the day kids of those

assailants played stickball in the streets while their criminal

fathers cooked on the grill outside. It was quiet until the roar

of the engines stormed down the road.

They pulled onto 47th Street, home of the Hispanic gang and

jumped out of the cars. Jimmy waited in the truck as Fresca led

four guys to spray paint 48’s on the cars. Cheatcodes brought

three guys with him as they ran over to 48th Street and spray

painted all of the cars in that parking lot with 47’s. Despite all

of the screaming, no one seemed to wake up. Within ten

minutes, the caravan was headed to the twenty-four hour diner

to celebrate their masterful plan over some burgers and fries.

Tom was called Beamer. There really was no reason why, but

Jimmy could remember kids calling him that back in fourth

grade. Tom had moved next to Jimmy in the fourth grade from

the Borough. Tom played baseball on the township team, and

from the fifth grade on had a group of talented handsome

friends, all in love with themselves. Tom never had a serious

side, but whenever something serious would come up, he

would leave the gang and go talk to his neighbor, who was

more of a loner. Two years ago, the group he had hung out

with his whole life decided to give themselves a name. Jim was

the only new member to the pack. Tom argued for him

mentioning his honor, loyalty and brute strength. No one really

cared, they just wanted to party.

“And God bless those of us who have had bad judgment in the

very recent past.” Jim’s mother had a very effective way of

never getting too specific in order to spare Jim the

embarrassment in front of his family and God. He felt as

though she was staring at him through her tightly shut eyelids.

She closed them as if she saw God while she was talking to

him, she would go blind. Jimmy coughed to try to cover up his

laughter at the image. His mother darted a glare at her eldest

son and continued her player louder and even more directly at

the sinner. He was used to it by now.

On three different occasions this month had prayer been

directed at Jimmy, but now it was in front of the extended

family, too. Jim had a way of always putting himself in the

wrong places at the wrong times, routinely once a week. As he

now reflected on how getting caught out late was blasphemous,

he also thought back on how this did not even compare to the

last two prayers. Last time his parents found him laying on the

stoop as they were going to church. He was drunk and half

naked. However, even better than that was the time he had

gotten a ticket for being in the park at night. It was one in the

morning when the cop car pulled along side the truck with

steamy windows. The officer knew the plates, he had gone to

high school with the boy’s father. The cop went up to the

window, tapped on the glass and started to laugh. Jim heard a

noise, and even though he had been making out with his

girlfriend, a part of him was thinking that someone had

followed him. He thought they would find him. Jim saw the

shadow in the window and kicked open the door without giving

any warning and hit the figure directly in the crotch, stunning

him. He slid out of the seat and prepared to fight in his boxers

and socks, and saw it was Officer Paxton. Jim did not even try

to apologize. He turned around and put on his pants. He knew

he was going to hear about this one long after he died.

“And God help Jimmy find the life of righteousness again.”

His younger cousin kept laughing with the repeating prayers in

an attempt to save Jimmy. The kid started tapping on the table

in a consistent rhythm. At first Jimmy listened to the pulsation

to distract himself, but now it was getting to him. There was

significance to this sound. Something had happened.

“What the fuck happened to my goddamn car?”

His father shouted it more as a declaratory statement than a

question. The old man had blood pumping through his veins

again. He wanted revenge. He wanted answers. They both did.

Jim jumped to his feet and ran past his dad to look out the

window. It was there. How could this all be happening?

He was scared - terrified by his father, his mother, her God,

and the band of Hispanic and black kids that had come by

overnight and literally turned his truck into scrap metal.

Shattered glass and chunks of machinery lay across the front

lawn. And there, in bright yellow spray paint on the driveway

where the car had once been were two numbers - two pairs of

numbers. Both of them. The symbol of the Wolfpack that had

once been on the truck was stabbed in his front door.

“That’s fucking awesome! We are legit now. If those shits

want a fight they got it.”

He added a couple more profane words at the end of his rant

and the all the boys in the basement let out a huge cry. The

attack on Jim’s car was a victory for the group somehow and

they celebrated it. Jim was in the corner with his heads in his

hands. He let it sink between his legs like a dead weight.

Fresca continued his speech of great purpose.

Jimmy’s head clouded with two competing voices. He kept

hearing a stream of vulgar and violent descriptions while the

booming voice of his father resounded in his ear. Both sounds

shook his head. His life was over. Until graduation, he was not

permitted to leave the house unsupervised. After he got his

diploma, he was out of the house. His father might have just

been overreacting, but he still needed to leave. He heard

Cheatcodes scream about fighting back. Jim ignored it. Fresca

wanted to take the town back.

Jimmy heard Fresca. He wanted his life back. He wanted to go

to the movies with his girlfriend and not feel violated. He

wanted to get ice-cream late at night and not be scared. Hw

wished he had been waiting with gun to blow the fuckers

away.

Jimmy stood up and forgot his mother and father and

remembered all the little important things that actually

mattered to him alone.

“I am gonna fuck them up cold!”

They all answered with a shout and then rushed towards the

door. Four station wagons sped down the silent street on that

Saturday night. It was awkwardly barren. It was empty, except

for the 7-11. The neon sign shined light onto the bikes in the

otherwise vacant parking lot. Two Hispanic guys were sitting

on the curb drinking beers in beaters. The four cars screeched

to a stop on their feet. Every single member of the Wolfpack

got out of the car a rhythmically began to beat the two kids.

Jim made his way to the front connected with one of the guys.

He pulled the kid’s head up as he straddled the son of a bitch

for another punch. It was a massacre. They only got one swing

off. As the gang waited in anticipation to see Jim lay a finally

deathly blow, holding his opponent’s head by the hair, as the

other guy slammed a crowbar into Jimmy’s upper arm,

spraying blood onto his face. He immediately went pale. He

could feel his body pound. He looked at the metal implement

lodged into his arm and then to the mob beating on the enemy

that had nailed him and finally back to the unconscious guy he

was pounding on - pounding into the asphalt. He slowed down.

He knew who the kid was, and he did not care if he was in a

gang or not. The Hispanic kid had history class with Jimmy.

He fist ceased to strike the classmate. He remembered carrying

a table with him in 8th grade - an odd image to remember.

Jimmy stopped and everything went black.

Breaking Silence*

“Five Dead In Greenwich”

Father Mackenzie stood at the dock overlooking a small stream

at the edge of his small town. A graveyard hovered behind him,

which even now, at three in the morning, was in the shadow of

the church. He stood on the four or five planks of this

miniature dock that sometimes his nephews would fish off. He

dropped the newspaper onto his feet.

“Our Father, who art in heaven…”

For the first time, the Lord’s Prayer seemed to have an effect

on him. The Reverend had always loved that prayer. He loved

all prayers - the idea that God was listening. Father Mackenzie

laughed out loud just to break the silence. Perhaps this is why

this career choice was obvious for him but baffled all others.

The pastor played opposites and enjoyed only the unexpected.

The newspaper had landed with the black and white

configuration of dots that formed five elementary students

staring into the man’s pious face. He puzzled for a moment

about how they were smiling and dead. At least they were

happy once, but that still didn’t stop the scratching feeling in

his stomach or give him an excuse. He thought he would have

rather died at that age, when the color of the leaves matter. His

friends called him Jimmy. Father Mackenzie wore a sterile

collar and a choking black cloak. No one called him Jimmy

anymore.

Jimmy held the hand of his four year girlfriend and high school

sweetheart, Sally Wincott. They smiled with their cheeks

pressed together for one last photo after graduation. After the

flash went off, Jimmy took his time opening his eyes. He

looked all around Sally’s face scanning for something. He saw

her looking deep into his eyes, he could see that this was the

day. They got into his blue Chevy Apalla and drove north to

the town they had picked out on a map two weeks earlier,

arbitrarily. They both would find work during the summer and

Sally would start college in the fall while Jimmy would

continue to pay the rent. The thought of real life sent a chill

down his spine. He had always heard of the expression, but he

had never really experienced the sensation before. Jimmy

gently swerved in the road while he checked to see if the tiny

black box was still in his pocket.

Father Mackenzie plucked at his collar with his index finger.

He started to press his tongue into the back of his teeth until it

was raw. An small flame had formed in the pit of his stomach

that had not been conjured since high school. The reverend’s

stare into the ripples of water became more intense as if he was

looking past the surface and into the abyss that should never be

explored, especially after the sun goes down. The anger inside

him was so fresh. It aroused him. It scared him. He steadied his

breath. Apparently God could still smoother the puny spark,

but could never kindle the flame.

Jimmy drank from the water fountain outside the motel he had

rented for the evening. He had already run out of cash and it

was only his second day away from home. Jimmy laughed out

loud and bit his tongue to get the taste of dirt out of his mouth.

Home wasn’t left or right, and it definitely wasn’t behind the

beige door that led to his empty apartment with cold, stiff

sheets. He had left home and now that feeling of home had left

him. Everything he owned was in his Apalla with a full tank of

gas. The sense of displacement was a swelling sensation that

sparked the urge to drive. He was free from obligation, from

remorse, from everything that had defined his homely life.

Lacking direction or a sight of destination, Jimmy peeled out of

a vacant parking lot and began to drive furiously wherever the

road would take him. It just made sense.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”

“I don’t know, but I might have raped my girlfriend.”

In the confession booth Jimmy laughed at how absurd the

fragment sounded as it resonated in the his ears and through the

mesh to the shadow figure that seemed to wince in response.

He had not stuttered or slurred it, the phrase poured from his

steady lips like poetry he had practiced for months. Sally had

fallen asleep on his shoulder. He tapped her gently and ran his

fingers through her hair and then down her face until they fell

upon her hand. Her turned off the ignition and Sally flinched

and then yawned, which made her face scrunch up like she was

sucking on something sour - this was his favorite face. Jimmy

got out of the car and opened her door. They approached the

beige door that was covered with scuffs and had pieces

missing, but in the moonlight, it shined like glitter. Hand over

hand they twisted the key until they heard the click which

caused both to stop and gasp as they tried to salvage the lost air

from their apartment. He held out his hand and led her through

the threshold of their new home. Inside lay nothing and

everything.

He loved her. She loved him. He began to kiss her on the

shoulder as she started to talk about what painting she could

hang here and what picture she would put there. A certain

vitality began to resonate from her that brought life that

aroused Jimmy from the numb state that driving for hours had

made him feel. He loved her and she loved him.

They had never spent the night together, or at least never alone.

They both tried to avoid the awkwardness as they both got

undressed on opposite sides of the bed staring directly in front

of them, with such focus as to not be able to see each other.

Each of them slide underneath the covers and they kissed.

Jimmy joked that she would have to do the unpacking the next

day. She laughed. He wanted to kiss her. She kissed him back

and grasped his bare back with her strong fingers. He couldn’t

wait and she wasn’t’ ready.

Remembering back to the day he stumbled into this off road

without a cent to his name and only that he could say was his

was a blue Apalla that was now more of a gray that lay ten

miles up the road, probably still steaming now. Reverend

Mackenzie smiled as he reminisced about the time he had

tumbled into this very church and into the very booth he was

in, just on the other side. Father Mackenzie had not seen the

man enter, but a voice startled him as it began to tell a story.

Mackenzie listened carefully hoping to help the young man, as

the previous preacher had helped him. The man across the

booth paused to clear his throat and message his neck.

“Forgive me father for I have sinned”

The children were dead. Five flower smelling, freeze tag

playing and Popsicle licking kids were strangled, maimed and

sliced up in a variety of ways, and the man explained it with

such poise and calming detail. He stared across the mesh into

this dark figure of a beast. The shield that had kept him sterile,

fought emotions and suffocated passion scratched at his

surface. He saw images of his dead nephew in a coffin. His

crying relatives. Father remained calm as the religious

counselor for the family. For the first time he saw his nephew

and he hated that it was because of this animal. His nephew

smothered the love of God. Father Mackenzie hated. And he

fought it.

He stayed silent.

“May God be with you.”

He walked away. The Reverend told himself that he needed

oxygen, which was true, but he really needed to get a good

look at the fucker. He leaned out the door and saw the back of

head. Father Mackenzie tugged at his collar to scream out for

help. That’s him! He could stop the killer. Be man’s hero. Be

his own hero for a change and laugh at God out loud. But the

collar got tighter and choked the flame out of his neck. The

pastor gathered composure and returned to his dark box.

Hail Mary

Full of Grace

Grab his leg

Stab his face

Father Mackenzie stood on the dock where his nephew used to

fish off of in the spring. It was almost four and it was finally

decided that Jimmy was wrong and God was right. Now that it

was resolved, he leaned over and picked up the newspaper that

had almost been blown away by a gentle nearly-morning

breeze. He smoothed out the new creases and placed it under

his arm. The shadow from the church had finally reached the

dock and the Reverend could feel its warmth.

Father Mackenzie undid the top button of his nephew’s Sunday

shirt and took one last look at the peaceful boy right before he

pushed the lifeless body into the vastly consuming stream.

Water splashed for a second, then it was gone. Reverend

Mackenzie walked away from the dock and saw a drop of

water on his newspaper and laughed at God out loud - laughed

with God just to break the silence.

Breaking the Silence

Breaking the Silence was the title to all of James Mackenzie’s

journals and other written documents. A symbol that had once

been thought to be just an arbitrary black spot found in all of

his work is now understood to be what he used to represent:

“silence.” He felt that writing and drawing were, in a way,

breaking that silence and was discussed in some of his other

work. It should be mentioned that he felt words were

inadequate for conveying moments and emotion in entirety. As

strong as the evidence is that James Mackenzie did commit acts

of homicide, there are still no other records or clues besides his

graphic writings. Because of his numerous bazaar fictitious

accounts that he claims to be true are also within his diary,

nothing can be taken very seriously. James Mackenzie lived a

modest life according to his congregation, but according to

himself, there was a lot left untold.

The following is a collection of certain selected poetry, diary

entries, drawings and an incomplete story from the documents

of James Mackenzie that is currently located in the library in

Freehold.1

1 128 Mayberry Street, Monmouth County Archives, Freehold Library,

Freehold, NJ 05483

a Goodnite

As she giggled again, her face danced in and out of the light.

The moon thrust through the intrepid night and refracted on

the omniscient windshield in strange patterns of blue and

white. They played tricks on players’ expressions and created

borderline obsessions. He could tell by the way his mind had

begun to rhyme that it had to be late. He wanted to look at the

clock, he wanted to listen to the radio, but everything besides

her breathing became background noise – a distracting white

noise that had once been his life. He could not pull his eyes

away, not even to steal a glance at the stars just to confirm that

he was right to marvel in her eyes and her eyes alone. How

could someone so small, so tiny that when she brought her

knees to her chest he could hold her like a little ball, be so

consuming, so overwhelming, so fulfilling. Her overpowering

heartbeat catered to his and together, in unison, they resounded

out of his car and around her deserted street. It filled the night.

It truly did.2

2 Taken from a journal entry dated the February of his eighteenth year. It is

assumed it is about his long-term girlfriend Madison Heart, but among

many of his records, evidence was found that he did partake in other brief

relationships either mentally or physically.

____________________________ Madison Elizabeth Heart was the only known girlfriend of James Mackenzie. She attended the same high school as James, but had few friends, possibly due to her time spent exclusively

with James. Her life before and after Mackenzie has no unusual patterns. She attended Rutgers

University after four years with a BA in finance. She worked for thirty years and then moved back with her mother and took the house after her mother’s passing. She resided there until her

own death five years later. It is unknown why the couple broke up in the summer after high

school. Classmates assumed they were getting married. The records seem to indicate that perhaps a rape or assault occurred. No one was charged, and thus there is no other evidence to

indicate that or otherwise.

blue Eyes3

I was staring at the dead phone in my hand for more

than an hour and the numbers still refused to be pushed. I

looked down at the crumpled piece of paper with the blue ink

smudged onto the palm of my hand. Sweat had made the

elegant script into tainted, unreadable figures. Ignoring

memorization, I created another excuse not to call the girl from

the party. Then the phone came to life, dancing in my hand,

and I answered having to clear my throat to get rid of the

evident fear in my voice. I had spoken to this girl at a party

comfortably and confidently only worried by how soon she

would have to leave. At my friend’s house, I found myself in

an awkward situation. Two of my guy friends and their

girlfriends were off in other places of the house, and I had

3 What seems to be an autobiographical account of a relationship. Although

research shows that James Mackenzie only dated Madison Heart, this entry,

if accepted as true, would provide evidence otherwise. Taken from his

childhood journal (8th grade through the 12th)

found myself alone in the basement talking to an older girl

from another school about movies. Discovering that we had

many things in common, my interest started to grow. I looked

up at the clock and noticed that the party would soon end. I

feared that when she left, I would never see her again, which

actually reassured me at first. I became overwhelmed with fear

in her presence, even though I enjoyed being with her.

Watching her walk away, a feeling of sadness and safety ran

through me. Now I found myself stuttering and slurring,

reaching in my empty recollections and creating intangible

stories of a fictional past to try to impress her. Though I knew

Tracy4 had enjoyed my company, I had convinced myself she

had forgotten me immediately the moment I left the sight of

her blazing blue eyes. I regained my confidence, stood up, and

paced back and forth in my room creating a small valley in the

blue rug under my stumbling feet. While she humored me by

giggling during stories not worthy of her time, I lost track of

where I was going. Returning to reality, I heard the words that

answered my prayers that I had been making for years to god

of lonely teenage boys. I hung up the phone and prepared

myself for the most stressful and feared night that I had look

forward to my whole life.5

I presented myself to my family, who was also getting

ready to go out for the evening, searching for a ride. Breaking

into a sweat I tried to explain how this life altering and all

4 Tracy Harden resided in the exact location that Mackenzie describes;

however died before anyone could inquire of her relationship to James, so

validity of the relationship is still questionable. 5 His common overstatements and exaggerations recur throughout his

writing; one of the trademarks of his style

important event was none of their business, however, they had

no choice but to give me a ride. I was above everyone else,

leaving all earthly things inferior in my mind.6 A girl higher in

social status, age and beauty brought my ego to a throne only

filled by the blind, ruling kings.7 Forcing my dad drop me off

at the beginning of the block so I could walk the rest of the way

not only confused my dad, but troubled my own sense of

confidence. Staring in the sidewalk, avoiding the cracks, I

tried to plan what I would say. I attempted to decide between

‘hi’ and ‘hello,’ but got distracted by the street sign. I turned

onto Sycamore Lane8, the street where Tracy lived. Chills ran

down my arms and I put them in my pockets. Returning to the

sidewalk, I grew more nervous and began to work up a sweat.

With my head still buried in the ground, I almost did not

realized I was standing at the stairway leading up to the

apartment where she lived.9 Stalling as I walked up the

staircase, I made thirty seconds into an eternity. Exhausted and

out of breath at the top of the stairs, I was greatly rewarded

with an overwhelming hug that sucked the only remaining air

out of my chest. Then she grabbed me by the hand and led me

into her house and out of my world.

She had already planned the whole day, which kept the

two of us busy enough to prevent any awkward moments from

6 Many times, James reflects within his writing on his actions at the time,

rather than his thoughts in those moments. 7 This allusion seems childish, and would suggest that James is young at the

time of the composition 8 Street address located in the Avalon Boulevard Complex

9 Living in the top level of one of these dual lexes indicates that Tracy is

from a low income family, which is accurate

occurring, for most of the evening. Sitting in her family room,

we discussed each other’s hopes, dreams, regretted pasts and

improbable futures. As talking became flirting during a game

of Scrabble, I realized how much we actually did have in

common. While pondering this revelation, I looked at a series

of useless letters and tried to sneak a fake word onto the board,

subtly trying to get caught. She pounced on me and we began

to wrestle across her small family room floor. Finally, after I

was pined, surrendering to her gentle grasp, I caught glimpse of

those blazing blue eyes that hooked me into a constant longing

for a life I had never known. Before this romantic moment

could turn awkward, the sound of a car pulling in at the foot of

the staircase broke into the sphere of our world. Tracy’s mom

introduced herself and then gave the keys to her daughter.

Apparently the mom’s boyfriend was picking her up and we

could have the car, but we were limited to the movie store.

Rental Star10, the local renting chain, was only down

four or five blocks from Tracy’s house, which I had been a

frequent regular to for years, but this trip was by far the best of

all. Walking in, I realized how out of place we looked.

Acknowledging that this night was a huge event in my life, I

dressed in formal clothing, but still kept, what I thought to be, a

casual-cool look. Dressed in a glossy blue collard shirt and

dark dress pants, I was more than just over dressed with Tracy

by my side. She was wearing only some pajama pants with

small dogs circling her legs and a baggy shirt that was

obviously sized for a bigger person. While it was evident she

had put no effort into her appearance, I was still awed as were

many of the employees. Her natural beauty was resilient. The

10

Actual video rental store in Howell, NJ

lack of makeup, the uncombed hair and disheveled clothing all

became part of the pureness that made me comfortable and still

left me wondering how she was so simple and yet complex at

the same time. The way she let her bangs hang down and the

mass of hair that was shoveled to one side where she had slept

the night before captured my imagination. I watched her chest

rise as she took a short breath and the way she cupped her

mouth when she sneezed and I realized this is what had been

missing from my life. I could not understand why my parents

had shielded me from this feeling of absolute happiness. As I

continued to examine every detail of Tracy, all other trivial

things left my world. I found rest in her blazing blue eyes that

had once made me quiver, but now I had become addicted.

Simply and complexly, I was in love.11

The trip down the four blocks to her house became a

blur as now I was fixated on her presence. She had rented a

terrible old horror film, that she had no intention of watching.

We sat down on her couch at opposite ends and began the

gruesome, fake horror film from the 70’s. In my mind, I knew

exactly what was going to happen next. Never having been in

a situation with a girl next to me on a couch during a horror

movie, I still knew that this situation was the perfect “make

out” situation. Starting out on separate parts of the couch, I

started to break out into a cold sweat, constantly glancing to

my right to see Tracy’s actions. Becoming frustrated with my

lack of aggressiveness, she slowly inched her way closer to me

on the couch. Even though I wanted her to get closer to me,

the anticipation and lack of my own courage froze me in a state

of paralysis. Somehow she had worked her way over to

11

Another moment of sappy, exaggerated romantics

literally on top of me, and yet I still could not get enough

oxygen to my brain so I could take her in my arms. Finally,

my head found a way to face her, and as my head turned, I

could feel her cool breath running down my neck, then my

cheek, then directly on my lips. I stared, unmoving from her

eyes that were only inches away. In her eyes, I could see that

she was patiently waiting for me to lean in to kiss her.

Convinced she desired my contact, I was still scared of

rejection. I finally sputtered out a fragment of a sentence

telling her that she was going to have to make the move on me.

Before finishing the first word, I felt her loose, moist mouth

press against my dry, virginal lips. Invaded with her warmth, I

felt her radiating hands slowly stroke up and down my back.

At last, my arms exploded from my lap and I wrapped Tracy’s

small body into my trembling arms. Loosing my balance, our

entwined bodies collapsed onto her couch. Though I had

already made the move on her, or actually had the move made

on me, my body still was in a state of fear. While making out,

my body shook, I tried desperately to mold my mouth in the

right shape, and take the fewest amount of breaths possible to

allow for the most contact between our lips. The noises of the

world became background music to her breathing.12 The crash

of her coffee table I knocked over and the eternal beep that

played after the credits did not shake our infatuation with one

another. I closed my eyes for what seemed to be a second, but

the banging on the door startled my utopia. Slowly opening

my eyes, I watch her scramble to fix her shirt, the table and

then answer her bedroom door. Returning from her date with a

12

Endless detail indicates that the first kiss was extremely significant. It is

interesting that it was not with Madison, if this account is true.

smug look on her face, Tracy’s mom calmly told me that my

parents were outside waiting for me. Tracy’s mom closed the

door, satisfied with herself knowing the events in what she

thought was her daughter’s simple teenage love life. As I put

my shirt back on, I knew that this was far from a regular

teenage crush of holding hands and slow dances. Though

Tracy’s mom knew the events that had taken place that

evening, she had no idea what had actually happened.

Inside the frame of the door to her apartment, just out of

view of my parents, I held her close to me and kissed her once

more. Hopping down the stairs to the sidewalk, I looked back

four or five times, practically tripping over myself. Entering

my car, my parents released a fury upon me for my actions that

evening. I had not called once that evening when I had

promised to call at least twice to let them know if I was going

to dine with them. Consequentially, they skipped dinner and

decided that after ten o’clock it was time to find me. Saddened

by leaving Tracy and now angered by my parents inability to

understand the insignificance of their hunger compared to the

events of that evening, I attacked my parents. My parents

decided that I was not mature enough and able to have a

girlfriend, so I denied their accusations. Even though I talked

my way out of huge trouble, my parents comment disturbed

me. Despite the fact that my intentions had been to lie to my

parents about Tracy, I might have been telling the truth. After

the evening, I had assumed that we were a couple, but nothing

had been official. She gave no information about her future

intentions, but inside I felt we connected on a bigger level, not

just because she had been my first kiss.

Waiting pensively in my room on my bed, I stared at

the phone. I could not call her. I refused to embarrass myself,

showing how needy I had become. I heard the phone ring after

already slipping into sleep. Adjusting my voice, I answered the

phone. Looking at the clock, I was surprised that it was three

in the morning, but acted as if this natural, carrying on my

conversation. Tracy was in tears on the other line. She began

explaining how her boyfriend had just shown up and they got

into a huge fight. At first, I was confused, but when she said

he had hit her, I grew angry. A vision kept repeating itself in

my head of a man beating upon her as she described it so

vividly. Swelling up with anger, I almost forgot that she had

said the word boyfriend. Throbbing with jealousy, I sat up in

my bed fully awake. Tracy kept screaming hysterically. I

began to raise my voice repeating different questions about

where she was, her boyfriend’s name, and what the status was

of the relationship. Finally, she poured out the words I longed

to hear. She had broken up with Brian Smith for me. I was in

shock. Brian Smith was the captain and quarterback of the

town’s football team.13 Overwhelmed with bliss, I started to

get dressed and told her I would sneak out to see her. I put the

phone down on my bed and began to put on my shoes.

Halfway out the door, I heard the booming voice of my

father and turned around to find two glaring eyes glazed with

disbelief. Looking back, choosing the front door as an exit

point was not the wisest decisions I have made in my life.

Trying to come up with some pitiful excuse about why at three

in the morning I was leaving the house, I found myself

shouting the truth into his face. Overcome with purpose I

stormed out the front door and began walking up my driveway.

13

What is seemingly cliché is actually true. Brian Smith: Varsity

quarterback for two years; co-captain senior year

When I turned right at the end of my driveway, the street was

surprisingly bright. I lived on a main road and my path was

very well lit. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I stared at

the ground watching each foot find its place in front of the

other as I kept widening my stride. When I reached the

intersection, I waited for the walk sign to turn green even

though I could see there were no cars on the road. The muscles

in my neck grew stiff lacking protection from the brisk autumn

wind. My bare arms began to pay the price for my rash

decision-making when I stormed out of the house only thinking

of the pain Tracy was going through. Stepping into the

crosswalk, I started to think of the consequences that my

actions were going to incur. After the third mile, I shook off

the fear of punishment and focused on Sycamore Lane. The

road made one huge loop and joined back to the main road a

mile down from where I was standing. The road had many

twists and turns so the lights could not reveal ever corner and

bend. Rounding the second curve, I saw her, isolated under a

single flickering beam from the streetlight above her. Her head

was shoved between her knees and I could hear a pathetic

whimpering echoing off the surrounding apartments. As I

approached her shaking body, the noise of breaking leaves

under my sneakers pierce the cold silence of the night and

channeled into her ears. Startled, she looked up, finding me in

seconds with a look of terror on her face, as if she were

expecting someone else. I could see a single tear glistening in

the pale light as it ran down her cheek, and she slightly cringed

as in ran over a cut just below her eye. Tracy stood up, still

with a look of disbelief that I, at four in the morning, would

have ventured across town on foot to comfort her, and now

stood only inches from her face. I was overcome with anger

and love and could not find the right words that expressed both

feelings. Tracy looked as if she too wanted to say something,

but was also plagued by the same ailment. Simultaneously, we

grabbed onto each other as if someone was trying to pull us

apart. I pressed my lips to hers and could not find a reason to

stop.

We sat back down on the curb and held each other in

silence until the sun began to rise. Beams of light hit Tracy’s

face directly, causing her face to turn into a beautiful pale

color. The bright light made the bruises disappear, but

accented the large gash on the rim of her cheek. Asleep in my

lap, she looked so peaceful and had obviously forgotten the

night before. I kept picturing what had happened to her and

surprisingly it filled me both anger and happiness. Tracy had

been my one and only, and now I was the only guy in her life.

Breathing in and breathing out, I watched her chest rise and

fall, and felt obligated to always ensure that it did. I stole a

glance at my watch and realized I had an hour to get to school.

Unwilling to disturb her, but well aware of the trouble I was

already in, I slowly edged her head off of my lap and brought it

as gently as I could up to my face. Reluctantly she came out of

her unconscious state and blinked her eyes repeatedly to make

certain that she was actually awake. I kissed her on the lips

and whispered that I had to get to school. She jumped on top

of me and pulled me close to her, not wanting me to go, but

knew I had to leave. I stood up in the street, looked in her

blazing blue eyes, and found the energy to run three miles

home.

I raced through the town in an all out sprint watching it

come alive. A cramp started to grow in my stomach, and with

each additional stride, the pain grew sharper. Passing my

school, I saw my classmates going to breakfast, and I knew I

had to keep running. Finally I turned into my driveway and

collapsed, scraping my head on the coarse cement. A

deafening sound rang through my head as my skull bounced off

the pavement and then returned to the ground. I sudden rush of

adrenaline ran through my body forcing my limbs to thrust my

head up and the rest of me followed, leaving and trail of blood

behind me, I ran through the open front door and ignored my

screaming parents. In my room I changed my shirt, packed up

my unfinished homework and tumbled down stairs just in time

to avoid the questioning of my parents. Passing by their faces,

I walked out the door and into the car, awaiting my dad to take

me to school. Knowing that my dad would not want me to get

into trouble at school, I knew I would only have to take the

accusation for five minutes. The combination of pain and

fatigue made the day useless. Throughout the car ride and the

entire day of school, I could only hear a steady ringing in my

ears and see the image of Tracy’s blue eyes blazing in the dark.

When I returned home from school, my parents were

surprisingly silent. They had received a call from the nurse at

school, telling them I had a concussion and could not play in

that evening’s game. I retreated to my room and did my

homework without even talking to my parents. I called Tracy,

but her mom answered instead. She thanked me for staying

with her daughter all night and told me that she was forever

grateful. As our conversation continued, she told me that she

was planning a surprise party the next week. She had asked

some of Tracy’s closest friends and knew that I would not have

been invited because her friends did not know me. I told her I

would be there and hung up the phone excited for the party.

Returning from the mall the day of the party, I asked

my parents for a ride to the clubhouse in Tracy’s apartment

complex. My parents had given up fighting with me and

surrendered, barely ever speaking to me. I ran up stairs into my

bedroom and quickly wrapped up two hundred dollars worth of

jewelry. I had spent all of the money I had saved up over the

years in an old cigar box my grandmother had given me. I put

on a clean shirt and hustled to my door, yelling at my father to

finish his dinner faster so I would not be late to the party. He

seemed to move even slower than ever whenever I mentioned

that I was going to a surprise party and could not be late.

Finally, my dad made it to the car and got there on time. As he

pulled away, I suddenly wanted to go home.

Looking at the large crowd of people, separated into

different clusters, I knew I did not belong. I was not

acquainted with any of her friends, and found my way into the

clubhouse to put my presents on the table, adding to the already

towering stack. I huddled into a corner near a table where

drinks were set out. Five other guys were the only other people

inside of the clubhouse and they stood in the opposite corner

looking at me and making comments as if they could not tell

that I was able to hear them. After a half hour, I realized

something was being passed around the crowds outside about

me, or I might have been just paranoid, but gradually different

clicks of teenagers trickled in and began stealing looks at me. I

started to examine myself to see if I had spilled anything on my

shirt or if my fly was open, but I finally concluded that it was

just that I was younger, and nothing more. As the clock above

the door entrance to the clubhouse struck eight, a hush

resounded throughout the crowd that was packed inside the

now dark room. A girl not visible whispered that Tracy was

coming in the door. The door opened, and blocked my view of

Tracy, but I yelled surprise with everyone else. As the

screaming and laughing died down, a second silence began to

smoother the room as a tall kid stepped into the clearing in

front of what I assumed was Tracy who was still blocked by

the door. He rubbed his stubbly face and chapped lips and

cleared his throat as if he was preparing to give a speech. As

he opened his mouth, I knew who he was, and anger began to

build up in the bottom of my stomach. Confidence started to

swell inside my head, and I straightened my posture to try to

match his overwhelming height. He told Tracy that he was not

going to let her out of his life, which she immediately replied

by telling him that it was over. In her voice, I could hear the

beginning of emotion swelling up, preparing to burst. I started

to walk towards the front of the crowd so I could rescue Tracy

and if necessary, to beat her ex-boyfriend, defending what was

now mine. The moment I got to the front, she burst out in tears

and shouted that she never stopped loving him and embraced

him in her arms. Some clapping started to celebrate the union,

but was immediately stopped as all eyes turned on me.

Something broke inside of my chest as the air escaped my

lungs. Anger turned my face red and I knew what I had to do.

I walked right by Tracy starring into nothing, but knowing

where I was going. I walked out of the party, out of her life,

out of my first love and swore it would be my last.14 As I sat on

a bench in the park that night, my tears began to fog my sight.

Everything that was once clear became a blur, as my optimistic

outlook on life became forever jaded. The stars that night

shined with brilliance, but why look up. Three hours later, I

pulled myself together and walked out off the park committed

14

If this is true, how does he either continue or begin to date Madison

to never complete my life. If I never took the risk or tied a

knot, I could never be undone. Originally, in my mind, this

was the only option, but as I walked out of the park, I did not

realize that I was never in control, or ever had been.

___________________________ The picture was taken from a sketchbook found along with his journal in the archives. No name or date was found with the drawing, but it is a match with a yearbook photo.

Look at her face

He stares into demons that somehow originate in between our

lips and he can’t help but desire your touch and still crave your

suffering. You shorthaired freak. Dye in blonde and black and

pink. I’ll find you…I know you inside all too well. All too

fucking well. That story for you is for shit.15

tease Me

Starting my junior year as a reformed man helped all aspects of

15

A later entry believed to refer to Tracy. Her disappearance still makes it

impossible to know for certain.

my life. A month into school I was acing all of my courses, the

star of the football team, and at the top of the world. Standing

in front of my school, I felt untouchable. I was chosen to host

a ceremony honoring military veteran alumni.16 I deserved it.

After the show was over, I left the auditorium finally done

shaking hands of numerous fans. I started to walk to where I

would soon be picked up. Halfway to my dorm, I realized

someone had been following me. Normally I would have kept

going, but tonight I was feeling unusually cocky and turned

around to confront my stalker. Lacey17, a senior classmate, had

been following me from the theatre. After a brief conversation,

I was arm in arm with her, walking back to her dorm. Flirting

back and forth was not an unfamiliar action for me and I knew

exactly where this was going. When we finally arrived at her

door, I was presented with two options. I could have leaned in

and completed this romantic and enticing moment. She was

attractive and by the glimmer in her eyes and the moistness of

her lips I could tell she just wanted to hold me on that brisk

autumn night, but I new as much as it would fulfill her then, I

would only leave her with emptiness in the end. I chose the

second option and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. I paused

for a moment and stared at her closed eyes and partly puckered

lips. I was only saddened, knowing that by doing this she

would know that I was not the arrogant bastard I pretended to

be at school and fall in love with me more for this sweet guy I

16

James did in fact host a banquet for veterans in the beginning of his

junior year. 17

Another account with a girl. Again, the validity is unknown, however the

person, Lacey Hardifer did in fact exist and go to Mackenzie’s high school.

She was also deceased before an inquiry could be made. He was still dating

Madison at this point according to records.

could also act as on occasion, but I had honestly changed inside

and did not want to hurt her. As my lips pressed against her

soft cheek, I could see disappointment in her face as I pulled

away after only a second, but her expression was overwhelmed

by the obvious desire for more when her eyes opened,

adjusting to the bright lights of the nighttime. Looking deep

into her eyes, I shoved my hands in my pockets, shrugged up

shoulders and walked off into the night proud of my actions,

but still unsatisfied. Still unsatisfied with that empty night.

____________________________ The picture comes from a sketchbook in the archives. It was matched to Lacey Hardifer’s yearbook photo. It is ironic that she is the only sketch without a glimmer in her eyes. The

significance is unknown.

Sharp quit fragments of thought kept playing, pausing, and

racing through his mind. They flooded his dreams, like a

disease. These pieces of consciousness collected themselves to

stir false memories, confusing him of the truth behind the

images. Either way, he turned to the cedar night table where

his notebook lay and wrote down the nonsense on the paper -

at least it took form.18

18

His final entry, and a very appropriate one at that.

Details and Diversions

new egypt19

Too many drinks and too few lights

Outgoing, outstanding, arousing, despite

The love of New Egypt

From Washington State

Raised on a farm

But it was just fate

That tapped on my shoulder

And warned me so true

Evasive and transpired

So coy in the room.

Off towards the beach

It took us ‘till night

And the glistening in your eyes

Pulled my conscience out of sight

And I followed my answer out through the door

And she led me to a path often traveled; no reason for

And fate would have me guess

And my weight ran to hide

As the fireworks burst down her back

Twinkles live in corners

Presumptions in conclusions

I followed the sparkling trail

And I drove along the same road

Where my breaks have always failed

Screeching, swerving, smashing

Gently the river ran20

19

an allusion to a new thriving culture

Across my pillow marble cold

Engraved the letters into my hand

Misleading and conniving

The egg cracked inside the pan

And the heat was turned up higher

To ensure I’d understand

But would I? Could I?

Was it possible to?

Tearing horizontally

The bathroom sink ran cold

So the mirrors always knew

Scratching, pinching, cutting

Te freckle wouldn’t go away

Repeating scrubbing

Fixed the freckle would stay

I tried to lick up the pain

But it still ruined my shirt

Dropped a razor on my knee

And I feel the wound with dirt

Windex my eyes and sweep my feet

My legs can fill your eyes

As a craving for the meat21

misdirection

The smoke peels off his skin

20

the Mississippi River. According to records, James obsessed over the

river 21

Mackenzie had a scar on his right elbow

As he takes a slag of exhaustion

To keep his pace with the three brothers

One ignorant, one queer and one epitomizing brilliance

He doesn’t give a shit, and why should he

A question that plagues his consciousness

Raping the longing of being nonchalant

Shaved out with a scrounged up face

Of displeasure and a strong sense

Of the professor being evasive

How could he mix them up

The other was obviously more stupid

And he wasn’t a fucking queer

Was his mistake purposely directed

Transgressions growing far beyond his comprehension

Urged for caring, yielded for trying

An effortless yelp nonetheless

And the queer slightly adjusted his dress

Ignorance starred into the dark

And I watched brilliance fix his collar

To separate himself from mortals

To become a hero, protecting his shadow

That smothered his affection

And brilliance carried me above the rest

prioritization

2 hours and 45 minutes left

And one paper to write

You’ve put it off for 16 days

I begin to slay the desperate night

As the pile of laundry builds up on the bed

But you’ve always wanted that way

Just the right amount of time

Like the shine of the trophy from 2 years ago, to this day

The space around it reeked of potential lost

As ghosts wrought shadows of a hero that could have been

As a warm phone, laying in your hand next to a pen

Appealed when it began to dance and sing

A tune so tempting, so distracting, so unforgettable

I got up and danced along

Singing to a familiar tune

That I somehow always got wrong

She was 8 miles over the speed limit

But only getting faster

No cop or sign, or lust as love

So blind that could ever stop her

The one that had been true

With payments still coming through

Always late, never complete, in fact it never came

And always keeping my line free

Never going places to be

Arms open, eyes glowing of false wisdom

That I could always bullshit through

Even though I was always authentic

In the Night that I had given to

I hid in the rhythm within the symphony of friendship

I grab a hand full of Light

And cup it in my hands

Never to reach open to clench

And walking holding your grains of sand

Slipping through my fingers

The chances fell onto the floor

As I reached down to pick them up

Unconsciously I dropped even more

When I realized the grave I had dug

Only had one broken ladder to get out

I seized it and started to climb

But sacrilege led me to doubt

And we talked four 2 hours

That lasted for days

Finally said our goodbyes

And she had no reason to stay

Into the driveway the car pulled in

In the soft, calming glow of the moon

The dark sky and infant sun battled

But the predetermined truth caught on my shoulder to loom

And one last time I put the glass on the edge

Teetering, keeping its swaying at bay

I shouldn’t have placed it, I shouldn’t have started it

I should have keep quiet and not say

Imbecile, slow witted, once again you have lost

Barely as convincing as a friend

And she laughed and shrugged it off

Said “Thanks” and “Goodbye” and the line went dead

And with your dignity spread out on the floor

Like the clothes you’d worn this week

A little energy, no distractions, that’s all it would take

Procrastination made their outcome look too bleak

And you wake up again

Not even from your sleep

At least dreams leave you something

Which is better than nothing to keep

And with 2 minutes left, you make your way for the door

With a backpack with nothing inside

And the trail of where a tear had been

That not even those bags could hide

You have the same clothes on as yesterday

But your appearance isn’t much of a crime

Lost 2 hours and change, a grade, a girl and hope

But at least you made it to school on time

black washing face

The black washing face

That stares at me in mirrors

Does not feel like apple pie

It tastes like prose

And ends with toes

I’ll stick to the plot from now on

Masks of fascia and canary yellow

Mauve youthful beige

Smell my battered byways

Sniffle, sympathetic delight

A ten hour sitcom

My face is still black

And I still feel an aroma of your teeth

It’s so sweet

And if I should down chapel’s hall

And be maimed by pleasure delight

In the smile, a knowledge child

Hat rocks like the impishly scheme

For twice that I knock

A bucket with rocks

A shadow with an open dream

The black washing face

Is comfortably clean

come running

This is my beginning

My hated place to start

My fated place to end

This crumbled work of art

A tower built on sideways

The crooked bridge must fall

Crushed my dreams from both sides

I’m trapped inside these walls

But I can see the light now

Let the others hear my call

I will break these chains and fly

I will soar above them all

Rise beyond the flames here

But you have to fail and try

You will know my name tomorrow

To live I must surely die

And I’ll cry to let her know

And I’ll die to let her go

And I’ll come running….

and I’ll come running

so count it with Numbers22

Part I.

And it calls you from ashtrays

Shaves with a dull blade

Peels plaster from metronomes

Gives away endings to Bowmen importers

Blames it on brothers and runs me into the ground

Unsettling aromas flee from my fingers

For reasoning, sincerely covered with spicy herbs

Of gardens pitifully scarce of wind and willows

Unspeakable sounds of the roads we choose

Is it too perfect and outlined so clear?

Wrists scream for attention

You’re shaking

You’re here

Obsess with the various faces that got away

Or were given too much slack

Leashes too taught, tied to a sickle chained around your

underbelly

Running from time and strolling through

Press it for confirmation, call for confessions

Carved out for conversations

Perched upon steeples, praying for painful arrays of strangling

22

when trying to decipher this poem, which seems to be the secret voice

behind James, I found impossible, as it seems that he purposely misleads

the reader into thinking they have figured it out only to find themselves

even more lost.

wire

To only deafen the stagnant shouting

Recurring dreams of leaping in these blithesome flower fields

We carelessly label missions

Burning castles of perverts and fantasies

Flights to small children in naptime bottoms

And a candle at both ends

Overwhelming with pheromones

Oh God, it’s glorious!

Dive into the dull earth

Which at this point is unparalleled with patterns

When I took her to lunch

And this one to the movies

And screamed and dialed and mimicked and pleaded and lost

in desperation

It can’t be the color of settling

Pink had always made me puke

When I spied on my naked cousin

To pierce a lone child, ravaging his brittle head

Chuckle at his convulsing frame, slam him into the shopping

cart

So the demons that posses my leg

Strangle my breath

Only to paralyze stiffening ligaments

From groping at your breast

Built in the weakest of temptation

Pondering how we do sleep to rest

Fires up the brain

Pairs letters before me

Pushing insanity over the counter, into your lap

Dropping blood into heroes’ fountain, streaming from the neck

Cause I deserve their end

A Saturn among simple stars

As flesh upon no man

If you have to stab your eyes to stop

The instinct from winning to relay the organs

Feel my hand along her back

Curves from origins, to lift the gentle hairs

Chivalry begins to crack with that hesitating stutter

Don’t answer her cries with best intentions

Stay in-between the breeze and the darkness

And the halo falls limp on your shoulders

Constant twitching

Jumping was worthless as it proved to never produce the

ground

Striking different poses to sequence the best of your life

Prevailing absence of sand sucked it through pores like a leech

The eternal grammar school crush stays glorified and

embellished

Before she got pregnant, and did two years ago

It’s like your teeth colliding with the pavement

Grinding even faster, ever so subtlety

It’s a chemical fixation that resonates in my shower

Only hot water burns through dirt on my shoulders

Clinging like nuns on the arms of our precious boys

Shapes that conjure Styrofoam formations that languish for

oxygen

Closer to the growing pining

Pluck at the puddle of cess that collect around my ankles

Milky suds of cancer lint corrode the plaster and shatter the

tiles

It finds each blue dot and annihilates its childhood imagination

That turn furniture to cascading oceans and leg springs

I can scrape the sky and gouge its vulnerable pelvis

Paranoia turns obsession for the best of us

Freezes after four hours until it loses faith in scampering

A vice can hold it in place as its limbs are removed slowly

Shoot it up the cold veins, tired of something new

Spinning redlines that can’t connect the years into fancy fables

Wrapped in leather retardation

And paper cut out records replacing some petaless freak show

Sifts for seamless paths to follow…

…..the Faces….

Oh God I can see all of her

Everyone of her

The smothering masses crowd and climb and bring me down

A pitiful whimper for help escapes my lips

And they creep up because I want to be let alone and preyed

upon

I starve for a limbo of hellish uncertainty to feed the

masochists inside

And this is what I’ve been looking for

All along

Part II.

Sit in my arms

I’ll hold you down

How does something so simple

Become something profound

Impulses, sensations

Windows and chairs

Crumpled in corners

My vision’s impaired

There’s haste in your moment

Burning through lips

When you refuse me

It rushes and rips

She sees you as vibrant

So you throw away clear

It’s only our happenstance

Like lights spy for deer

Different shades can change

And mingle through the day

To browse for vintage tea sets

To play another way

Collapsing on a park bench

Finding footing in the dark

But it’s a foolish surface

Staring makes it wet

Page 2

Starlit nights filled with half yawns and fumbling fingers

Obligations to round cul-de-sacs where streets are

coincidentally named for girls

A spell of gloom, brushed off the shoulders and lingers above,

circling

In spurs and satires, letters bore my laagering lashes

Excites the thing that makes us shiver beneath the blanket until

It’s affected

We dance outside chapels, around songs we know the words to

But choose to mumble and make a hard right

Because we wrote the words

The beacon to my tower, where howlers graze at night

Sifting through the tune of fallacies can be

A most quiet desperation

Who can giggle at your tragedian moments and chastise the

soliloquies of your saint

Tears at dawn, refuses a design, sleeps on the lawn, lost at the

forefront

Speak to me of vague conceptions and talk of mistalks

Tell me of the details and diversion that I can be

Hanging by magnets of the door and tied to tinsel in the foyer

It’s like teaching a grown man how to ride a bike

Fucking embarrassing

And it keeps my shoulders spread

To dance between windshields and her exhaling sighs

That should not be explained or excused by hailing time spent

Why wait for a reason in the lexicon of games

Somehow still waiting for the red light to change

What if the burning bush just never comes

Like the war of the roses and forever

Don’t die drowned out by the rain

My loss for words cannot be explained by simple silence

To be your only chance when you fall

Oh stellar faith in the quintessence of nothing

Delight in roots and bearings or lack there of

To hold steadfast on the hood of my coupe

Condensation from palms pressing on frigid glass

Waking the sterility of my hobbling inspiration

And caress its essence

And she moans when I kiss her

Page 24

It did not make sense

Nor did it call for an explanation

And he still hid it between silver disks

And named her secretly in patterns and scents and scenery

The melodies, he realized, were eternally on repeat

Misplaced with papers, stacked in closets until they reached the

surface

Spark to a flame to tease it and then I wrote her twice that year

But only to send one of the letters and made up the rest

His habit of routine had lost itself in October darkness

It was fleeting and ripped

Only one was transcending in nature

I was oblivious to that world when the sky could crack

He craved originality and desired sleep

They were all there

He was never here

But that was after the fact

And he had finally run out of words23

23

it was better not to footnote because it seems that the poem gets across its

meaning without giving any real details away: “details and

diversions.”However one comment could be made that the four sections do

seem different and leave the reader changed at the end as well.

.

her Book24

24

her bible

a story by James Mackenzie

Book One

Grace Mani25 worked in the local bagel shop that was located

in the center of town since she had turned fifteen. Her mother,

divorced-twice, knew the owner and cut a deal where she

would work on Sunday mornings from dawn until dust, under

the table. She would have worked Saturdays as well, but that’s

when she volunteered at the children’s hospital. Her mother

told Grace daily that community service was necessary for the

soul to fit in its skin comfortably. Grace’s mother constantly

reminded Grace of the benefits of the activity as if her daughter

constantly complained, but Grace was quiet and content.

Grace was not sure if she would have worked there on her own.

Sacrificing the weekend seemed like such a huge tragedy to

others, but she had never really experienced a so called

weekend so she had nothing to compare it to except for the

glimpse of a romantic comedy that would show on her

mother’s television26. On certain nights, when Grace’s mother

would watch the news, her daughter would sneak downstairs

and open a window. The cool breeze never failed to put her

mother out and Grace would take a yogurt and a plastic spoon

and sit on the edge of their coffee table and watch whatever

show came on after the weather. She was too afraid to change

the channel because once she had tried and the flash had woken

her mother. Watching the kids go to the movies and dance in

clubs, Grace fantasized about these activities and it brought so

much joy to her. She smiled at the pleasant images and went to

25

an allusion to the Mani and his cult following of God. A sect of

Christianity that believes God has left the world to be and describes the

need to constantly fight the forces of evil./ 26

he goes out of the way to show ownership

bed, prepared for work early the next morning.

Students and teachers would mock Grace, who they were

certain was pretentious as pretentious could be. A small group

of faculty members or a school team would silently make jokes

about her solitude at lunch - especially the way she smiled all

of the time. The strict rules which restricted Grace’s younger

life should have caused some sort of outburst, but it did not. It

was whatever made Grace real began the saga and mixed up

the mood that would surely send the ending another way.27

At the other end of the empty lunch table sat Brian Beel28,

another rejected individual from the community. Brian Beel

had one thing in common with Grace, and that was they both

were the only students with perfect attendance. Aside from

that, there had never been two people so different. Brian

would fiddle with his fries at lunch and break of the prongs of

his fork and chew on them like gum. Brian had received the

effort award ever semester for every sport he played. He would

walk up to the podium and a couple of pitifully sympathetic

parents would snap photos of him for his absent parents as he

received the award. He liked being alone.

The Beel family lived a quaint house up a long pebble

driveway. His mother cooked and cleaned and his father left

every day at a quarter to seven and returned home half past

five. Brian would have biked back and forth from school, but

he could never balance his books.29 He turned down rides from

other parents and then laughed at them as they drove away,

knowing of their discussion of his parents. No one knew what

27

the first hint of something 28

Beel: Beelzebub 29

something is off with Brian

his parents actually did.

It was the beginning of June and Grace loved walking to school

especially this time of year. She would get up early because it

was over a mile to school and she had to make breakfast for her

neighbors, not because they could not do it themselves, but

Grace just wanted to make their lives easier. She would carry

the same loosely woven basket she had made in Home

Economics in fourth grade and fill it with some sort of fruit and

bread. She had started this tradition on her own. No one

wanted to admit it, but the truth radiated from her as she went

through the two white lines symmetrically, only to break the

pattern to hug the crossing guard.30 Brian would watch Grace

everyday from his window and then get up from his seat by the

window and go to school.31

Book 2

Jeremy Crane32 came about in the city right outside of his

30

goodness breaking the rules 31

goodness breaking Brian 32

Jesus Christ

suburbs.33 He was a normal baby, one of three that night that

had been born. Jeremy was a crier; the moment he left the

womb, he had not stopped crying. Apparently this was not an

odd situation, but it still made people nervous.34 Even though

he was a baby, he cry was more disturbed and off-color. His

mother thought it was due to the fact she smoked. That

thought was quickly extinguished, as she had gone through a

pack that day, and forgotten it during contractions, and

something so good could not be bad. It was a long labor and

she deserved it. In the background she could still hear Jeremy.

She put out another cigarette. There had to be a reason.

In the summer between fourth and fifth grade Jeremy was

running in a circle on the road in front of his house which

happened to be across from Brian‘s home.35 Brian was

watching this for an hour outside his window. For some

reason, right before the toll of the hour Brian spotted an ant on

the street and came up with a great idea. Brian sprint

downstairs and outside to Jeremy. Jeremy came to a stop and

watched Brian pull the ant apart. Jeremy felt sick and wanted

to leave, Brian handed him an ant. Jeremy took longer, but he

pulled the last segment from the front segment and that was

that.36

He was a story teller.37 He wrote a lot of things. Jeremy then

wrote that he wanted to be a talker when he grew up under the

career category in the sixth grade yearbook. The few teachers

33

allusion to Matthew 34

something was wrong with him from the moment of birth 35

he is waiting 36

the temptation of Christ, but he fails 37

the word of God

that actually read it laughed so hard at that they cried - even the

ones that did not know him. Jeremy had a very genial

personality that everyone liked. He had become widely

regarded as the popular guy in the schools. People would love

to hear his stories. They were not the typical depressing stories

that had really sad and absurd plots like someone like Brian

would sometimes write about, but wholesome stories that had a

main character that everyone wanted to be like. No matter how

different the plot or character was, the heroine always ended

doing the right thing, and it left a warm inside all of his

listeners. Jeremy Crane loved telling stories.

Jeremy did not really like running in circles very much, but he

did not complain much to his father, who would drive him to

the park daily to go to soccer practice. Afterwards, Jeremy

would jog seven miles home, and after three years of this

routine, Jeremy was arguably the best runner and teammate,

but was not as good at telling his stories anymore. He tried,

but his teammates never listened so sometimes he was forced

to talk to ants. The pressure came down on Jeremy in the worst

way. His father badgered him and he rarely fought back, but

sometimes he could not stop himself from lashing out on the

oppressive bigot.38 However sometimes Jeremy would cry

after fighting with his father because he knew somehow his

father was always right. At least that was what he was taught.

38

God

Two weeks into his senior year he noticed a guest at his soccer

games. She wore a really short skirt and a low cut top and she

stood with her hips shooting out to the side. Jeremy started to

show off, moving out of his position to go score, which he did,

and then did it even more when she clapped. Her name was

Sybil.39 At least that was what had been written on the paper in

his locker next to a phone number. He never did find out how

she got the number for the lock, but he called her, and after

four tries she answered and they went on a date. Jeremy had

never been on a date, and that might have been the reason he

39

the muse

fell in love with Sybil when she first touched his arm when she

laughed, but no one knew.

Jeremy lost interest in telling stories and playing soccer - he

had Sybil now. He was really happy, and that was more than

he could have said before the girl, and his father did not like it.

No one liked it in particular, but by spring people had not only

accepted it, but decided that they were going to get married and

were already wishing them the best of luck. Sybil and Jeremy

always held hands. By the time that Jeremy would start to

wonder who was holding the other one’s hand, she would kiss

him goodnight and run across the street home. Jeremy loved

watching her run from his lawn to her porch, turn around and

blow a kiss goodnight.

Brian would watch Sybil run and wonder why he had never

seen this girl in prior years, and then forget it as Grace would

return home about the same time from the retirement home.40

She had a smile on her face like she was doing something

besides working for the last six hours, but she had not. Brian

sat and watched Sybil and Grace for a long time and could not

decide which one he hated more. Both were pretty and talked

too much, even though both had never said a word to him.

Brian often played a game where he would think of two people

and then choose which one he would kill. He could never

decide between Grace and Sybil.

On a not so very special morning, Grace got out of bed and

hummed all through the morning. She spent a longer time

combing her hair than usual, but she still would not be late to

school. Her neighbors that she had always brought the bread

and fruit for that live a quarter of a mile up the road had died,

40

both distracted

and Grace did not know what to do. She watched Sybil and

Jeremy leave together and she decided that she too needed

someone to talk to and anyone would do as they were all

decent individuals. Grace saw Brian limp out of his house.

Grace caught up to Brian and after she startled him, she began

to talk to him. For the next two weeks this happened and

Grace began to like Brian. It was not supposed to happen.41

REFER 42

He approached the podium to give the speech.

The revelation43 of Jeremy Crane, which his father gave him to

show his closest friends what must soon take place. He made it

known by sending Sybil to his best friend Chaise, who testified

to everything he saw - that is, the word of his father and the

testimony of his own. Blessed is the one who reads his notes

and journals and those who take it to heart because time is

near. Look, he is coming with the clouds and every eye will

see him, even those who pierced him. Did no one scream for

his unjust equality. He raped us they shouted, they killed our

children and beat our bleeding knees and you come with open

arms - his daughters cursed in disgust and stomped in

frustration at their pious and self-righteous father.

I am your father. Never are you to judge your elders’

commands. It is always in the best interest of the community,

and thus is yours. The men cheered at the decree and the

41

the happening 42

James apparently was going to discuss prom the events that took place

after. This missing section seems to be crucial to the plot as it describes the

humanization of all of the characters. In his notes he explains the victory of

God during the sex Sybil has with Jeremy 43

Revelations

women surrendered to their father’s sadistically barbaric ways

and stopped struggling with the ropes and joined their brothers.

Sound the trumpet for Jeremy’s father always had the power,

living vicariously through his conquests and condemning his

failures. He was who is, and who was, and who is to come. He

was obsessed with numbers, a specific amount of them and

how they were used. They were not used for just counting, but

something beyond the ordering and rambling. Jeremy was a

hard worker, even during the most arduous of deeds, but he

could still not tolerate a wicked man. Despite the constant

pressure from his father, Jeremy knew it was the highest power

he would ever be oppressed by in the course of this short

existence.

His father came down upon him in the worst way. Jeremy had

held it against his father all along as it seemed there had

become no means to his ends, no reason for his own demise

and the possibility for redemption made him sneer. Jeremy

began to sweat as he approached the podium and that gentle

shaking that had plagued his left hand started again as he saw

Chaise’s arm rest upon Sybil’s shoulders. There was no

reaction - no one else in the room could hear the ringing which

of course motivated him to speak. Sybil knew what he would

say, but she always had and for one of her various explanations

she chose not to again. If she had, Jeremy would have caught

onto the plot and changed what his father had deemed an

appropriate destiny.44 Of course she knew. There had to be

44

somebody else knows the secret and God does not

some sort of excitement that could jeopardize everything, and

also maintain the balance that would ultimately force Jeremy to

decide, and if executed properly, kill himself. Sybil made no

call to preserve.

Jeremy walked off stage behind the curtain and began to cry

onto the gun he held in his hands. Brian who had seen the tears

coming began to giggle a bit and Grace stood up to go console

Jeremy, who had disappeared backstage and it seemed as

though this was it. Jeremy had told the people what they

needed to do, but none of them chose to heed the order and

only silence followed the speech.45 Brian had a dead look in

his eyes as something began to take root. His body lifted from

the seat and he floated down the aisle to the podium. He

refuted every word that Jeremy had said and then lifted his

arms to the sky and Jeremy’s father applauded him and gave

the final orders. Brian smiled for the second time in his life at

the screams that began to start from outside the auditorium.

Jeremy was still huddled over his knees like a ball listening to

the calming words of Grace, but he knew he had lost and that it

was over for everyone. He could not believe that it had come

to this and he did not want to die alone. He pressed his lips to

Grace’s and she pulled away - his father started in to stop him.

He got upset and grabbed her and brought her closer to his

face. Jeremy released the rage inside and started to force

himself upon the virgin senior. She broke free and sprint for

safety screaming. Jeremy had blown it now and in a last

attempt to at least die sacredly and completely and hide his

humanly repulsive side, he pulled out the pistol and fired at

Grace’s left temple as she ran away.

45

only sinners

In the middle of sentence, as the fires had begun to start by his

order and the burning of the air had started to sweep over the

land, he saw the bullet illuminated in his eyes. He watched it

slowly approach Grace and felt something inside of him twitch.

He felt something that he had never felt before and it ran along

his legs until it moved towards the girl. He started moving

faster and completely forgot he could have just moved Grace,

but found his footing in front of the bullet and then he sped up

time so he would not have to watch the bullet enter his chest.

Grace huddled over Brian as he gasped for air one last time.

Grace kissed him on the lips and the clouds disappeared and

the fires stopped and the rain swept threw the town. The police

arrested Jeremy, but he already knew what he had done and

what that meant, and he was overwhelmed. Knowing that he

had restored order, wrongly, but restored order nonetheless, he

got into the cop car and fantasized about what the future

withheld for everyone - for Sybil. Jeremy decided that upon

arrival at the police station, when he was alone he would bite

off his tongue and die content with giving them all a second

chance. His work had been done for a while, he had just given

us a little more time. He doubted they would learn, but then

again, there was still Grace.46

46

This story obviously alludes to the Bible in numerous section and should

be looked into. It seems to catalogue the events of the apocalypse, although

it is vague, and it seems that Grace saves the world with her inherent

goodness, rather than Jesus.

______________________ * the early story Breaking Silence tells of Mackenzie’s demented state as he took on

the role as a serial killer. Although bodies were never found, a fair amount of

children did go missing in Greenwich over the course of four years. Nothing ever

really indicated that James had become a killer, but this picture was found in a secret

compartment under his desk. It is a portrait of a girl. She is unknown. There is also a

possibility that she is Grace. The truth will never be known.

everything all at once