Real Fugitive

This was my 22nd day of being a Real Fugitive game show contestant. The ads screamed for you to watch as real people were chased like fugitives, all for big money. I won the honor for the latest match by correctly answering 15 questions about the 60’s show, The Fugitive. I decided to triple my possible earnings by letting the hunters use live ammunition.

The day before, I had reached a new plateau. No matter what happened, I was guaranteed $300,000 if I threw out the provided white flag and surrendered. Six more days and I’d be up to $450,000. If I made it through eight weeks, I would walk away with the grand prize: $6,000,000. Paid in installments over the next 20 years.

The last three weeks, I’d been sleeping on the sides of highways, in barns, even under a bridge. I’d been using the meager $1,000 in cash they gave me to buy Twinkies, Big Macs and Mountain Dew. But, as the show had gained popularity, it became harder to do. Three days ago, I had to bolt from a 7-11 after a stoned clerk recognized me as the “Real Fugitive” and picked up his phone. To make this game even harder, they were offering an undisclosed reward for my capture.

I no longer went to convenience stores. Hunger burned at my stomach, pleading for me to give up.

To top it off, I had twisted my ankle on day 17 ducking behind a Burger King dumpster. It was three o’clock in the morning. Two shots had been fired at me. I sat there for ten minutes, biting my lower lip, listening. Five days later, I’m thinking less about the shots and more about the dumpster smells of cheeseburgers and fries. That dumpster must have held the mother lode of discarded deep-fried food.

You may ask, why would someone do this to himself? Don’t I have a job, a sense of self-respect, a will to live? Nope. In my life, I’ve flunked out of a state college, alienated my parents and both of my brothers, and lost six decent-paying jobs because I can’t seem to get to work on time. This show was my ticket to escape from future failures.

I was too young. Life was too long. I needed to go all the way by any means necessary.

On day 21, I decided to spend my remaining cash on a gun. I kept my Real Fugitive contract folded in my wallet and there was nothing in there about doing this, only something about being prosecuted for any crimes I committed. I ventured into the city and limped up to men on street corners who wore baggy pants and backwards caps. I assumed they could sell me weapons. I was wrong the first eight times. The ninth time, I was able to score a .38 revolver and ammo for $350.

I figured that, eventually, they would rather kill me then pay me. One clause of the contract: winnings were not transferable to anyone else upon my death.

If they wanted to kill me, they were getting a fight.

On the show’s first day, they made a big ceremony out of my initial run. The announcer guy, with stiff graying news anchor hair and matching gray suit and tie, said, “From this moment on, you are a Real Fugitive!” and he pulled his arm from around my shoulder. I had to run after he said that line. It was in my contract to do so.

I was alone out here, in the American fugitive land. Before I used to hear about people on the run. The FBI’s 10 Most Wanted List. America’s Most Wanted with John Walsh. It seemed like half of America was on the run. Where are they now? Isn’t there a support network? Or is it just every man for himself?

There was a rush to being a fugitive. I savored it in the dead of night, when I was hidden and all was quiet. When this ends, I return to life as the loser I am, no matter what I win. They don’t make shows about that. On The Fugitive television show, I always wondered what Richard Kimble did after his name was cleared. How could he go back to being a doctor, drinking wine and eating cheese with his doctor friends, sleeping peaceful sleep?

It was late at night. I was behind a Wal-Mart dumpster, clutching my gun, ready to fire at anything.

Santa's Last Stand

The year he resumed gift delivery, Santa was shot down by an F-111 fighter plane. He saw the missile coming and knew he couldn't evade it. The reindeer bucked and brayed and threw howling fits, and both sleigh and beasts went into a dive after the missile's impact. Since magic, though now undeniably diminished, was on his side, Santa's sleigh was not destroyed by the blast, but he crashed hard into the Canadian tundra, and his sleigh was rendered inoperable. The reindeer, dusted in snow, gathered in a misshapen circle and hung their heads in dismay. They knew the score--shot down before visiting one house. The situation seemed hopeless.

Santa had been watching the pilots since infanthood--Gus Rodriguez from San Antonio, Texas, Jimmy Seevant from Brooklyn, New York--and, though he had been on hiatus during their childhood, knew that he would've put presents under their trees, the little troublemakers, as he had done for most children. Gus, who couldn't help himself when it came to firecrackers and armadillos, and Jimmy, who never saw a street fight he didn't start. Until age seven, both of them believed in a Santa who didn't actually bring their gifts. After someone stopped believing, whether or not Santa was active, the belief could never be restored.

For the world's children, Santa had always overlooked youthful transgressions and put something under the tree as long as they believed in him. It was the holiday's promise of hope. For hundreds of years, he was the deliverer of hope and the fulfiller of dreams and wishes.

That ended in 1951, when Santa quit. That year was the other time he had been shot down. Television, advanced weaponry, swelling paranoia--he saw the coming trend. The world's population was growing exponentially. He could handle that. But the new technologies, and the new ways of thinking that accompanied them, had squeezed him and his magic out. He had embraced a cynical thought he had never known--let the people of the world get their own gifts. And he refused the wishes of Bertram Wingberry, his former elfin Chief Officer of Toy Weaponry and Combat, who, in a letter written to Santa once a year, stated he should've made the holiday more Lethal Weapon than Miracle on 34th Street by fitting the sleigh with a guided missile system. On Donner, on Busey, on Glover and Gibson, he wrote. This was not what Christmas was about, Santa thought. It's better I bowed out, left the world alone.

In the snow, Santa tried to encourage his reindeer. The night's still young, he said. Somehow, we'll get airborne again. Hope is on our side.

But how? After Santa nixed Christmas, the elves quit. They had nowhere to go, and ever since have wandered the world hiding in shadows. They couldn't bear Santa's abandonment of the world and left. It was just the reindeer and Santa now, alone in the cold night. Neither reindeer nor Santa, unlike the elves, was a sleigh mechanic.

Restarting Christmas giving was a venture that welcomed failure. There were many questions. Since Santa had been gone so long, parents had been buying their children toys--what would he do about gifts already under trees? He could enter homes without notice, but seemingly couldn't fly without being tracked on radar--how would he counteract that? He knew that his magical abilities were diminishing--how would he adapt? And since the elves were gone, how was he going to build all those toys?

Despite the questions, Santa decided this year was the time to return. From the North Pole, he had watched the world the last fifty-eight years. It had become an unforgiving place, especially for children. In the last few years, the deterioration has accelerated. The world--the children--needed hope once again.

So, he worked feverishly making toys himself, deciding not to worry about the rest, and, on Christmas Eve, suited up and hopped in the sleigh. It felt great. The cold air washing his cheeks, the stars painting the night sky in twinkling white light. He could already taste milk and cookies, the warmth of lived-in homes. He had been thinking of stockings embroidered with children's names when he heard the sear of the missile approaching.

On the ground, Santa saw Gus and Jimmy returning for the kill. The reindeer scurried behind him, as he stood firm, red clothed belly extended toward Asia. There was still hope, he thought, as the plane, like an angry shark, moved feverishly closer. There's always hope.

Taking Hostages

Here’s another story originally published elsewhere. “Taking Hostages” originally appeared in the Winter 2005 issue of JMWW Quarterly, and the link to it appears to no longer work. This story represents a continuation of sorts of my story “The Writing Life.”  It's always a fun exercise to not only use writers as characters in stories, but to poke fun at the writing process as well. 



He peeked out the window, his fist gripping the shotgun, saw the line of police and news crew vehicles and wondered, how was he going to finish the novella he was writing? The flashing lights, the hourly phone calls from Detective Hanshaw, the building intensity outside. An ambulance was parked a block up, a perimeter of yellow tape and road barriers had been created and ordinary people lined themselves around it, standing shivering in the cold and snow, waiting for resolution.

He looked at his hostage on the couch, a woman in her late thirties named Lois, who had dark hair and dark circles under her eyes—she looked dishevelled, obviously from the experience, but he imagined most of her days were like this. She had cried briefly but had a hardened aspect to her, as if she had spent other parts of her life as a hostage, as if she wasn't even really concerned what her resolution was going to be. She sat in a reclined pose, her arms and legs bound with cord, smoking a cigarette with both hands.

Before taking a hostage, he had tried to write a novel—he had a plot idea about two young lovers who steal a car, travel across country, get into frequent trouble, and keep moving from town to town—but it wasn't working. The strain of being a clerk at the paper mill's dank, wood-paneled office and finding free time when he wasn't exhausted beyond belief or out drinking beer was too much for him. In order to write, someone had once told him, you must live as a writer. To him, this meant desperation, existing on the fringe—what better way to do this then to take a hostage? Sure, a longer work would have been unsustainable under such circumstances, especially in this rushed age when crimes such as hostage situations had a short news lifespan; but why not something shorter?

His mother had always accused him of being short-sighted. He'd spend his weekly allowance no sooner than it touched his hand on baseball cards and Swedish fish, not saving for bigger items, like a Huffy bike, or Commodore 64 video games. His mother would shake her head every time she saw him with cards and candy, until he would sneak them in the house in his pants to avoid her disapproval.

If she were alive, his mother would admonish him for what he'd done. Sure, you can write the novella if the standoff goes seventy-two hours. Maybe it would reach ninety-six and you could do a reasonable rewrite. But what was your plan after that? Had you devised a getaway to Mexico? Where would you settle? How would you live? You don't even speak Spanish. Or, were you resigned to being a prison author, hammering out works by hand or on a rusting manual typewriter if you were lucky (oddly enough, what he had been using, in case the cops cut the power) between scrubbing the cold floors and keeping yourself incognito while doing twenty-five to life? And, most importantly, where were you going to submit this novella?

After thirty-six hours, he'd had thirty-four pages. His protagonists had just eluded the police, slept in a barn and had a whimsical encounter with a pig.

Hanshaw called, after he'd just started a fresh page. She asked him again for demands. He told her, leave me alone, that's what I want. But how can we do that if we don't know what you want?, she said. If you just let Lois go free, we can talk about this, figure out what it is you want.

He would've told her, I'm trying to write a mid-size piece of fiction, something with little market in journals or on a bookstore shelf, but maybe the start of a collection, but that would've been absurd, and she wouldn't have understood. She would've laughed, and in minutes, helmeted cops would've ran the door down and pinned him on the ground.

Leave me alone, I'll let you know when I'm ready for demands, he told her, as he had done each time she called. But she kept calling back. He wanted to tell her another piece of writing wisdom he'd heard: in order to be a writer, one must write. He couldn't do that if she was going to keep interrupting. But, hey, she wanted resolution, just like everyone save Lois.

He'd told Lois about his story after he pulled the duct tape off her mouth. She said, it sounds kind of pedestrian, isn't that what every other book out there's about? He swallowed her criticism, then vowed not to tell her anymore about the project.

He was finishing page fifty when, with the whoosh of a circling helicopter fading away outside, Lois said, breathing smoke through her nose, I prefer nonfiction myself. You know, biographies, gossip about celebrities, real life kinds of stuff. Fiction is just so made up.

Lois. In another time and situation, perhaps someone like Lois would have been a suitable lover for him. But not now. The kidnapping aside, the divide between them had grown chasmic.

He'd entered the sixty-fifth hour and hammered past page seventy—enduring Hanshaw phone calls, the rhythmic chants of "surrender now!" from the crowd outside, and various failed attempts to end the story after his two protagonists engaged in long-awaited intercourse—when Lois said, nobody's going to read your story, I don't even know why you bother, it won't ever get published.

He heard this and his head collapsed on the typewriter. She was right. Who was he kidding? The phone rang. He felt like crying.

He told Hanshaw, I give up. He said he would walk out with his hands up and he did, with the news cameras rolling, photo flash decorating the air, and hundreds of people applauding as he was handcuffed and escorted to a police car.

All of this commotion, he could hear his mother say, and you didn't even finish the story.

The 101st Scorpion

Helio would play like a corpse while his assistant covered his naked body with scorpions. Wherever they were, people traveled long distances to see skin and bones, frizzy-haired Helio be covered in scorpions. Spectators would fill with money the open violin case left nearby. The giving would grow furious as the stunned silence from the covering spectacle subsided. The spectators would form a snaking line, drop money then leave. Everyone marveled at the amazing Helio, who, miraculously, had never been stung.

Helio claimed he knew each scorpion. Each had its own personality, he said, and he had developed individual bond with each. This, he claimed, was how he was able to avoid being stung. Sometimes, he would proclaim, I am the 101st scorpion. In the evenings, he and his assistant, along with the members of his entourage, would sit around a fire, eat roasted fish, ingest mushrooms, and he would speak about how he and the scorpions formed a continual circle that represented the oneness of all life. His stoned onlookers marveled at his words and moving lips, the philosophy he’d cultivated after a decade of performances.

Breaking the life circle, he said, could be disastrous.

He had known scorpions all his life, finding them in the wild as a kid. His life’s defining moment was when his younger brother Casimiro was stung by one that had made its way inside their house, crawled into his bed. Their village was too remote for assistance, and the boy died within hours, his helpless father holding him as his mother was on her knees, head bowed in continual prayer. Helio watched, in horror and morbid fascination, as his life's purpose was planted in his mind, emerging years later in his teen years.

Occasionally, a scorpion would die or escape. Helio would suspend shows until he found a replacement, as he insisted upon exactly 100. He would browse available specimens, both wild and captive, an often weeks-long process, studying and handling each one. The circle was perfect, he would say, and only suitable for perfect specimens.

Not long after Casimiro's death, Helio’s father left. Before their split, his mother often cried and his father often yelled. Once his father left, Helio never saw him again. His mother had various male lovers over the years—sneaking inside once Helio was thought to be asleep—but none lasted. When he was sixteen, his mother developed cancer and soon died. A week later, knowing his purpose, he hit the road. For him, it was rebirth, an erasure of his old life.

He and his entourage were headed to a town played before to big crowds and money. Halfway there, they stopped to camp. Come dawn, as they gathered for breakfast, his assistant was gone. Helio and the other five travelers searched nearby, but he was gone. His belongings, gathered in a small canvas sack, remained, and the scorpions were all in their cages. Helio asked the others if they knew anything. Buy they didn’t. They ate breakfast and, nearing departure time, his assistant still had not appeared.

So, just before leaving, Helio said: I need a new assistant. Who wants this job?

They huddled briefly. Soon after, four of them declined in unison, fearing the black beasts. The other, the youngest at sixteen, said, I will do it. Helio looked at the thin, mouse-like boy and smiled. As they traveled, Helio gave him instructions, detailing the delicate processes of covering and removal, making him repeat his words. Helio wondered about the boy’s abilities, but told himself, it’ll be okay.

At the town, people had already gathered. Entrepreneurs were selling roasted meats and cold drinks from rickety wooden carts along with handmade pottery and knickknacks. Before the show, Helio coached his new assistant who, at one point, said, maybe they should cancel. Helio said, you are in the circle now. All will be okay. Just think—I'm the one who’s getting covered with scorpions. Just before show time, Helio looked at the scorpions skittering about in their cages, their tails feverish scythes, an army awaiting his call to battle. For the first time in years, he felt fear.

He recalled his former assistant’s words: one day, these creatures will get you. You will not be talking circles but death. This is the true nature of life. You are lucky but cannot be so forever. Helio blocked these thoughts. The former assistant had disappeared—now out of the circle, his words were meaningless. The kid was the one now.

The crowd was the largest ever—people fifteen to twenty deep. Helio was flat on his back, naked, and saw his assistant step hesitantly toward him with several scorpions, as the crowd hushed. Don't be afraid, Helio told him, you're doing fine. Helio closed his eyes as he felt those familiar points on his skin. Once he was covered, the crowd murmured, occasionally gasping. He heard coins clinking in the violin case. He opened his eyes, saw clouds in the sky shifting quickly.

Then, suddenly, he was stung over and over. He let out a small cry, went silent as he was hit with overwhelming pain. His assistant saw what was happening and screamed, confused as to what to do, standing at a distance as the beasts held firm on Helio’s twitching body. The crowd screamed; some came to help but stopped in a short circle around Helio. Two boys stole the violin case, coins trickling to the ground as they ran.

Eventually, his assistant was able to remove the scorpions. Some remaining spectators demanded killing the scorpions but kept their distance.

Helio's lifeless body was black and purple. Paralyzed, he felt cold rushing numbness course through him, poised to erase his mind. He thought about Casimiro, how he now knew what his dead brother had endured. His assistant knelt next to him. Helio wanted to say something about circles, but couldn’t speak. Instead, he stared into the sky, watched clouds sailing away like trails of smoke.

The City Where I Live

If you’re reading this message, it’s because it has been successfully delivered to the world outside the city where I live. For years, I have been writing by hand messages about my city. I fold up the paper, hand it to someone on the street, who in turn hands it to someone else. It keeps going and, in theory, makes it to wherever this city ends and reaches you on the outside. If I or the relayers are caught, we will be killed. But we must try and hope that someone will liberate us.

Where I live, the question you’re not allowed to ask is, what city do we live in. As a responsible citizen, if someone asks you this question, you are expected to pull out your issued gun and shoot them directly between the eyes. Even if it’s right out in the open, on a city street amongst crowds of people, or in an eatery, with people face down in tasteless meals of rice and gray chicken. Occasionally, if you’re outside on the streets walking in the shadow of tall beige buildings, or inside your apartment reading issued literature, watching issued television or sleeping, you will hear a gunshot. It will echo. Then you will hear silence or scared birds flapping their wings. Someone whose curiosity has gotten the best of him, or has tired of living, has been killed. Once, I was close to an execution but didn’t realize how close until I arrived home and found my right cheek and ear had specks of someone’s blood.

You must understand that, if you’re asked the question, and don’t shoot the asker, you may be shot by a fellow citizen for not fulfilling your civic duties. Sometimes, you will hear double gunshots indicating that this has happened—one shot for the person who didn’t shoot, one for the asker.

In this city, I live alone and work as a wire cutter. I sit alongside other men my age at a long white table and cut wires into halves. What happens to the wires after we do this is uncertain. We get fifteen minutes to eat a somber, issued lunch that is always a gray, tasteless mush in a plastic cup. Then, after ten hours of work, we leave and return to our apartments, alone.

There are rumors that there are some people living amongst us who know the city’s name. They know the name, but are not allowed to repeat it under penalty of death. Supposedly, they are guardians of the name. This seems like a terrible burden.

You might wonder why, since everyone has a gun, why we don’t just rebel. It’s not that simple. If we are caught rebelling, we are imprisoned for life, and our families are executed. We are continually reminded by issued television broadcasts that the police have powerful weapons—automatic guns, helicopters, missiles.

Lucky for me, I had spent my thirty years of life walking the streets with my head down and not being asked this question. That is, until today. Walking home from work, an old man with scant gray hair and heavily wrinkled face stopped before me and asked. His eyes were a sad blue. I clenched a fist and held it at my chest. There was no way I could take this man’s life. I stared at him briefly and walked away without answering. My heart jumped as I waited for that gunshot that would end my life. But it never came. I defied the law, more directly so than with the written messages, and survived.

Since we don’t know where we live, it is hard for me to tell you how to find us. I have not seen the city’s limits. Where I live, there are many identical tall buildings. On a summer day, the sun will move between them at dusk and illuminate many windows, creating a blinding streak of light. There is a small lake that is three blocks from where some of these tall buildings are. There are police officers walking the streets carrying rifles and eyeing up the normal people, nudging us along when we pause.

We hear rumors of your outside world. Where everyone is free and there are amazing things like open grass fields, loud rock concerts where people dance and sing, and beaches where the sun toasts your skin and salty waves roar against the sand.

I hope that your world exists. I feel that with each passing day, I am closer to it. Someday soon, I will be there.

Incompletion

I’ve found it’s impossible to complete anything. It’s not that I have an attention-deficit issue, but rather I just suddenly stop in the middle of doing something—could be anything—and walk away, like a robot who’s just received a new directive. This is a serious problem. Try holding down a job with this condition, or having friends. Bosses aren’t too thrilled when you’ve ended your day at 11:30 AM. Friends don’t stay friends when you’re laughing and having fun, and suddenly, you abandon them to take a nap or read a book or go skiing. I’ve tried psychiatrists, but my 30 minute hour is quicker than their 50 minute one.

Sometimes, even a sentence is a problem. I have a thought, and I become determined to write it down, but just as I get started…

I’ve gone grocery shopping and abandoned the cart in the store. I needed the bananas, the toilet paper, the tuna fillets that were in my cart, but that wasn’t enough for me to finish. I’ve been pushing a cart down an aisle and just let go of it and turned away. I could hear the screaming of an old lady, cans crashing to the floor. Later, I’ll look in my refrigerator at the stuff I’ll never touch again—the half-cooked and half-eaten meals, the beer bottles three-quarters full—and wonder why I couldn’t have just breezed through the express checkout.

Once, I was getting married and, while reciting my vows, I just stopped and walked out of the church. Gasps of shock and a verbal threat from the almost-bride’s father didn’t keep me from leaving. I felt bad later, of course, since it takes time to meet someone you like, get to know her, ask her to marry you, plan the wedding. How come my instinct for incompletion didn’t step in sooner, to save all involved the trouble?

One day, I sat down and figured out why. This was one thing I took to completion. I wrote extensively in a journal, explaining my personal history and feelings. I even consulted some psychology books. I pulled it all together, and the conclusion I came to was…

I’ve abandoned functioning cars on the highway and on city streets. I’ve walked away from bank tellers as they were counting out cash from a transaction. I’ve not caught my connecting flight and instead booked passage elsewhere. I’ve had procedures involving local anesthetics where, in the middle, I’ve stood, fighting off the doctor and assistants, walking away from the operation, sporting open wounds and not fully clothed.

The worst thing is when I suffer spastic incompletion. When I go back and forth between activities I’ve abandoned in simultaneous moments. This has happened before going to work. I’ve walked toward my car, then halfway there, turned around and headed toward my front door. A few steps later, there I was. turning back toward the car. I kept doing this, the intervals becoming shorter to where I was just spinning around in circles. Eventually, I became dizzy and collapsed on my half-mowed lawn.


When I’m telling a story, I often just stop. I get to the juicy part, and just…

Killer of Worlds

Outside her front door she found it sitting there: a small violet-colored box, the size of a billiard ball, with a note, folded into a small square, attached to it. The note read, "opening this box will cause the world to be destroyed." The box, light as air, fit within the palm of her hand. She contemplated opening it. If it truly worked, it would annihilate her last love, who left for another woman the previous week. It would eliminate everyone who has broken her heart or wronged her. But it would also wipe out everything else: herself, her family, the decent people of the world. It was selfish and not what she imagined herself like; nonetheless, destroying everything appealed to her. All in pain would be free; all causing pain would be destroyed. It was like killing the body to claim victory over a disease.

Feeling abandonment, rejection and loneliness—a chasm of life pain—she opened the box. Nothing happened. The pain was still there. She laughed then cried. She realized, somewhere, a stranger was breathing, eating, getting dressed. A speeding bullet, moving closer to the day he would enter her life and inflict pain upon her. She looked down at the open box. It was black and empty inside.

Love and Impossibility

Here’s another story originally published elsewhere. This originally appeared, about five years ago, in issue 11 of Prose Ax, a now defunct small-run print publication based in Hawaii. This story was my first accepted short story, after at least 36 rejections (probably more like 50--I didn’t always keep a record). It’s funny how your perception of a work changes over the years. I still like this story, but I would probably write it in a much different way now.

A woman stuffed her lover in a suitcase. Based on his size, it looked to be a mathematical impossibility. Yet it worked. She did this out of love and to rescue him from poverty. She was making her way through customs after departing a ferry. It looked as if she were going to get through. Then she averted her gaze from the customs officer and looked down at her suitcase. That’s when he looked down, his eyes cold blue, and saw she was not lifting the suitcase but dragging it. He heard a grunt as she stopped. He grabbed her wrist. She turned cold. He asked her for identification. She showed it. Then he asked her to open the suitcase. She said, no, she couldn’t. He reiterated his request, open it, madam, else I cannot let you proceed. She begged, please don't, crying.

As they traveled by ferry, the waves tossing them about as they proceeded to the better life she talked about, he had complained through the suitcase fabric that his legs were numb, his bladder full, his body twisted into a nightmarish configuration, that he wasn't Houdini and was afraid of dying. She feared the suitcase would pop open. He would be exposed, unable to stand, perhaps urinate in his pants. They would drag him away, perhaps throw him into the water or bludgeon him to death or whatever was done with illegal immigrants.

She and her lover could not have been more different. He was Tunisian and Muslim. She was Belgian and Catholic. They discussed having interracial kids, what customs to follow, what holidays to celebrate.

The hope that all people could find love, cross divides, find happiness despite differences--it would all be negated, once the suitcase was opened. The customs officer couldn’t have been older than twenty-five--probably still lived with his parents-- he was the one to end it. A stranger, a nobody in their lives and others as most people were with each other--he would decide their fate. How can it be like this. How can the random person decide the fate of others. She wept.

He ordered her to open it a third time, but she refused. He moved her aside with a stiff arm and forced the suitcase open. Her lover, his skin pale like death, his eyes sunken with dark circles, fell out. He flopped over like a dying, out of water, fish. He wetted his pants as the officer pressed his shoe into his abdomen.

The officer began waving his arms and shouting in a foreign language. Three officers similar in appearance swiftly appeared at his side and grabbed her lover. They dragged him by his arms. She screamed. He was silent, staring at her with paralyzed eyes, unable to speak or resist. The officer grabbed her arms, strengthening his grip until she finally stopped screaming.

"You will go to the authority headquarters," he said, in French, which she understood. "There you will learn his fate."

"Will he be deported?" she asked.

He looked at her for a second, then turned away to other passengers without speaking.

At headquarters, she gave a person behind a desk her lover's name. She waited in a spacious waiting area with other people. There were crying children, mothers tending to them unsuccessfully, fathers sitting in dazed, wide-eyed silence. Many languages were spoken. Various names were called. People stood, collected their belongings, disappeared. Some returned. Others cried. New people filled empty spaces in the room. Hours passed. She thought about him, how they were only a footstep away from freedom. What would it matter, she thought, if one more person, one who was good and loved by someone, came in amidst the hordes. Day turned into night. She inquired about her lover. There was a backlog, they were trying their best. She waited again. More people came and went. She asked again, a different person at the desk this time. I'm sorry, he said, there's no record. She spelled his name for him, described his appearance. The man shook his head, I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do.

Her lover was lost to her. There were probably thousands of bodies, thousands of names, not all of them matching up, some missing, some dead, many lost forever in the chaos of the system. They were no longer people but numbers, statistics, annoyances. She pondered this for awhile then stood and left, walking out into the street amidst a vortex of people, never looking back.

Conspiracy of Me

This story was originally published in the October 2004 edition of Skive Magazine. It's no longer stored online with that publication, so here it is again, with some slight alterations.

There’s only one thing to say when 217 clones of yourself are walking the earth, wreaking havoc, conspiring to install a global oligarchy despite how many lives are ruined and innocents killed: I’m sorry.

I'd be the first to admit, somehow things went wrong. These things start when you have a semi-expensive university education, nothing but a crusty jar of mayonnaise in your refrigerator, and are willing to sell blood, marrow, organs to supplement your income. Soon, you're in a place like Madagascar, and, next thing you know, you’re signing papers before a so-called doctor with insect-like facial hair, amidst a symphony of tribal drums, screeching birds, and gunfire, and getting a huge check--the true value of your parts. Then, you’re in an exotic locale such as Kuala Lumpur, you see someone familiar amidst old-world shanty vagrants and new-world skyscraper businessmen, chase him until you reach the city's outskirts, and amidst a symphony of, well, tribal drums, screeching birds, and gunfire, you're face-to-face with yourself. What do you do? Stop, scream, run like hell, of course.

After my first encounter, I figured, it was just a nightmare. Then, after the second, I figured, drugs, alcohol, sleep deprivation--I wasn't engaged in these, but they'd make good explanations. Then, they're everywhere--in passing cars, the bank, bowling alley. Complete infestation.

The doctor I had visited called. Dr. Multiplication was his name—yeah, really. He said to resist them. They're trying to contact me. They want to control the world, achieve global oligarchy, eliminate the English royal family, the World Bank, the Illuminati. They've already started. He said, I must not talk to them. They will hunt you down, you must flee.

So this doctor had granted me fugitive status. I was free to abandon my life--and my recently stocked refrigerator--and run from pursuers he created. Free to run from multiple versions of myself, no less. Great. How would you explain this to your therapist without her putting you on the thorazine submarine? You don't.

I traveled across the country, frequenting motels that rely on neon signage for communication and empty soda machines to make your experience truly miserable. All the while, I was dodging my clones. They're pumping gas, eating pancakes and sausage at diners, hitchhiking along dust-baked roadsides. Several times, I ran as a pack chases me. Saying my name, in stereo, in my now-hated voice.

I caught news snippets from CNN and discarded newspapers in diners. A Kremlin break-in. An assassination attempt on the Turkish prime minister. Some world-renown financial policymakers have disappeared. I think, this has to be their work.

Eventually, I tried calling Dr. Multiplication. His phone had been disconnected. I called his university department and, idiotically, asked for him. The receptionist said they'd never had a Dr. Multiplication, perhaps I should check mathematics, or elementary education.

Great. They got him too. More likely, he gave a bogus name. Of course. I'm such an idiot.

Later, I was at the beach. It had been two days since I'd seen a clone--perhaps they'd quit. Cotton candy and kite-flying would've been fun, but instead I contemplate the ocean and think--the ocean's filled with millions of identical fish, crabs, octopi, sharks. The water itself is infinite identical molecules. So's the sand I'm standing on.

I pondered this, then noticed others on the beach. The clones, slowly forming a tighter circle around me. There wasn't an opening. I moved from side to side, looking at this much-despised, much-replicated face.

They got close, and, as I felt I was about to be crushed, they stopped. I closed my eyes, heard my voice coming from distinct points around me. They're speaking. Theodore, Bartholomew, Regis. Their names. Gilbert, Ezekiel, Thomas. I opened my eyes. They're staring at me, like patient children, waiting for me to speak.

"Um, hello," I said, demonstrating a true gift with words.

The one named Bartholomew stepped forward. He said Dr. Multiplication was a madman, that they weren't trying to conquer the world. They're just lost, without identities, want to learn about life from their original self.

In the distance, I heard screams, hurried footsteps, speeding cars. We'd been spotted, and had scared the crap out of some folks.

It's an army of me. God help them, they're looking to me for guidance.

First thing, I said, was kites and cotton candy. Then, home to a stocked refrigerator. After that, who knows?

We're going to scare the hell out of people.

For this, I'm truly sorry.

The Writing Life

The author was in the midst of one of his 750-word stories when there was a knock at the door. He stopped and bit his bottom lip, pondering what he should do. No time for intrusions. Every minute, keystroke, brain cell spent, counted.

Pop-Tart crumbs, cold coffee with dead creamer outline at top, an unconscious cat. The act of writing, here before him in full-swing, as he deliberated. It was never the words but what was around them. They were secondary. But, in a way, it really was the words. Every word must be analyzed and counted.

Should he answer the door? There was another knock. Three short raps. Death knell knocks. On the other side: distraction, annoyance, death. Not expecting anyone today. It was rainy outside, a stiff breeze, an umbrella breaker. The cat stirred but didn’t wake.

The author did what any good writer committed to his work would do: he pulled out his gun. A Glock 9-mm with a full magazine and two extra clips. When you’ve got your rhythm, let nothing—NOTHING—stop you. He could shout, go away, but no one ever goes away. Everyone and everything wants a piece of your time. Especially when you’re writing.

He kept pounding away at the keyboard, birthing word after word. One hundred words became two hundred. At two hundred he hits a nasty bend and slows, becomes two hundred thirty-two, idles there for some minutes hitting the accelerator blowing off exhaust like a waiting car, then bursts into two hundred fifty-three and burns into the middle stretch.

He stood and went to the door, stealthily put his ear to it. The previous tenant had painted the peephole with shoe polish and no one had removed it.

Nothing. No sound. His gun was locked and loaded, ready to blast away.

He recalled the story about the novelist up in Ann Arbor who took hostages so he could write a novella. Regular life held too many distractions. Becoming a kidnapper removed them, made one focus on the here and now. He hammered out a seventy-eight pager in the midst of bullhorn negotiations, keeping an eye on his shotgun, and rationing food. Now, he’s probably doing life in the state penitentiary. Plenty of time and solitude to hammer out stories, novellas, and novels.

He leaned against the wall, felt his heart typing away at his rib cage. This was, by far, a waste of time. It kept him from writing. To him, these moments were like padding. Kind of like were you would stall and delay and drag things out so that somehow some way by hook or by crook you make it to the bitter inevitable end.

Another set of three knocks. The door rattled. It sounded like a strong determined fist. Solid knuckles, perhaps even brass ones. Did he owe the wrong people money? Probably—he couldn’t keep track of his debts.

He felt it. Away from the desk. This disturbance…right now he could be at word five hundred. He could be making his way to the end. Always he was somewhere in a story.

Perhaps madness was setting in. His dreams were filled with deleting one word, adding two, poring over page after page of a thesaurus, his brain spinning trying to find that word swirling on his tongue but never finding it. He would wake from his dream, find that he was still asleep, and then wake for real.

Right now, was he in between dreams? He didn’t know.

There was only one way to resolve this. He unlocked all four locks. His finger was primed on the trigger. He swung the door open and pointed his gun out the door. There was a loud female scream and the thumping of a body hitting the floor.

He looked down. It was his mother. She was lying in her own lasagna, the dish still in her hand, aluminum foil peeking out from under her body.

“Mom?” He reached down. Her wrist was limp. He checked her wrist and neck for a pulse but couldn’t find one.

This, he realized, presented a serious problem. Kneeling by his mother, he turned and looked inside. He could see the computer screen—some words, mostly white space. The cat, now awake, looked at him then turned away, indifferent.

He thought about the situation. Ambulance, hospital, surgery, paperwork. Or death, funeral arrangements, requisite mourning period, paperwork.

As he came inside for the phone, he mumbled, there’s always something, when does it end?