It was on June 1, 2016 at the In-N-Out Burger near UCLA. After a long day on campus, where a great number of events left all the students feeling tired, I headed to In-N-Out Burger to eat the stress away. Once I picked up my order, I noticed a young blonde man, roughly my age, dressed in a suit from the 1940’s, and sobbing with a book held to his chest like it was his diary. It’s always unusual to see someone cry in public, since everyone around them knows the crier has lost all sense of shame. We’ve all felt that defeating acceptance, I’m sure.

Nevertheless, the book he held in his hand was tossed into the trash can. He did it with such little care, I thought it was a marketing stunt. But since he wasn’t a pretty crier, I knew it was real. At the moment, I just finished my second serving of fries, being too busy to care after that tedious day trapped in a UCLA classroom for too long.

After throwing the book away, he walked away, probably hoping nobody witnessed him commit that crime. Once I cleared my two burgers, another side of fries (no salt), and a vanilla milkshake, I realized nobody bothered to even check on book. So I did what any book lover would do.

From the trashcan of In-N-Out Burger, near the end of probably the most exhausting day of my student life, I held this chimera of a book, riddled with napkins that held a puzzle of their own. I knew people were watching me with the same sense of curiosity and slight disgust for the blonde dude, so I stuffed it in my backpack and walked. The next day at Powell Library, I hid in a secluded corner to examine the find.

The book itself is an oddity. It has a weird smell to its cloth cover, which barely displayed the worn letter ‘A‘. I traced my finger over the font and felt its indentation despite being eroded over time. Only until I opened the book, with napkins tucked away into every page, did this discovery intrigue me. Its opening page had no title page, just the initials, W.S. and three stories.

The first was Borges’ The Aleph in its original Spanish. While I understand my Spanish as el español de los gringos, I felt more confusion when I saw this story as an introduction to the next two stories. It felt like I found a joke, and my reaction was its punch line. The second story was Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter, complete with its own introduction. I wish I paid attention in high school and read the book. I still haven’t read it, and I’m dying to know why the stories are included in the same binding. The third story didn’t really bring any clarity either. It was Nabokov’s Lolita.

The book’s presence, with that worn ‘A’ etched into its scarlet cover, and random stories that weren’t even in chronological order, made it all more compelling and out of the ordinary. Even when I confronted a student librarian, she explained, “the book’s not in our system, so it technically doesn’t exist. You can just take it home, sell it, whatever. We don’t care.”

Within the book were 64 napkins, written in perfect handwriting that held a hidden fourth story that existed beyond the confines of that very out of place book. I typed out most of it, despite some redactions.

As far as I can tell, it was written in three ink colors. Since I am red-green colorblind, it’s hard for me to distinguish more than my own limited eyes (look it all up). I am sure three colors existed on those napkins, at least. While I didn’t replicate the original writer’s use of color in the rewrite, I hope that you, as the reader, can assume the dedication and control to organize that story for us, and then have it misperceived by me.

One of the more interesting, and somewhat entertaining, dimensions to this “story” comes from the fact that I have no clue whether this “author” is being mocking or is seriously insane. The style is obviously delusional, but it’s that kind of delusion that could be seen as ironic joke, or an actual destructive drive. Even as I write this introduction in the very Powell Library that the “author” fetishizes, I get that uncanny feeling of a spider walking up and down my spine. Every few minutes, I steer my head away from my laptop, and inspect around the library shelves just to see if anything is out of the ordinary. A part of me expects that blonde dude, dressed like some looming ghost, watching me, waiting for a reaction to the writing he titled, A Burning Itch. As far as titles go, I kind of get it, but I don’t really know if it’s meant as some frantic reference to a work of literature I haven’t read or to some venereal disease. I hope it’s the former.

If the blonde dude is reading this, he can gladly have the ketchup soaked napkins and book back any time.

Whether you laugh at its corny prose and fancy attempt at pretentious writing, or shiver at its cruelty (or maybe both), the most I can wish for you is a simple bon appétit. -AnB

Dearest reader,

I stood there, witnessing him walk across that large lawn before the notorious Powell Library. His head gazed down at his phone. That’s when I knew he was the chosen one, my chosen one. The poor, little fool was meandering towards his class like the rest of the students flocking together as one, or like a group of birds that fly south for the winter. With his little head snapped down as he walked clumsily through the crowd, it looked like this little birdie of mine had a broken wing.

My distant vantage point gave me the perfect view, all while his shirt maintained a simple black color that could not go unnoticed within the usual tide of colored shirts. Imagine, dear reader, how a light pierces through darkness, so too did his unusually black shirt shine through the lightness of colorful attire everyone else wore. Poor young bird, just as the raven destined to dirty its feathers into a pitch black, he soon would drift to a doom further than his own out of place shirt.

I will tell you this, reader, my plan relied on me forcing an interaction, which is never as lovely as it sounds. I’m sure you all know. Off I went, nearby my favorite tree, and commenced an improvisation. Such a shame it was to witness a gross monstrosity of litter around that tree. I picked up one of the pamphlets scattered here and there as a prop. It would do its job well to ignite a spark of conversation. I waited until the walking crowd placed him near the mighty steps of the intact Powell Library. Once there, he did not even budge from his distant location. He merely glanced down and did not even bother to express any type of gratitude before UCLA’s great piece of architecture. How I long for the days where people would walk without waiting for some mindless interaction with others or themselves, where they should be witnessing the world of beauty before them. That is a poem Wordsworth would write. Such a shame that those lost souls will never encounter the smooth, delicate architecture that breathes every hour with glorious bells bellowing louder than a nightingale’s CHUKAWIG in the wind. I am glad to be beyond all those mindless musings.

I prepared my cue once I saw him approach the exact imaginary mark I imagined right before the library’s perfect steps. His approach allowed me to see the fine details of his face form like an instant photograph. He had a thin mustache peppered onto his upper lip, as if a meager caterpillar inched its way over as to prepare for a metamorphosis. His black shirt had a white animated font that was beginning to fade away like some worn piece of silk. It’s a shame to wear a shirt so worn.

“Excuse me!” I interjected. “Would you like a pamphlet? We worked very hard to get physical copies and I would appreciate if you gave it a gander.”

He paused his pathetic walk and signaled me to wait for a moment.

He must be a joy at parties.

Before the little bird could even lift his delicate head, a beautiful and monumental laugh erupted within the pit of my stomach. It was a laugh that escaped from a deep chasm within the body, like how some magician reveals a horrific object behind the illusion of a curtain. The poor bird seemed to be shocked by its authenticity. I took that as a cue to tune myself.

You must forgive me, reader, but the next inclusion of my fit of hysterical laughter must be included. I completely understand your need to skip over this gratuitous moment of emotion. It is rather disgusting, in my sincere opinion and if it comes to you as boring, my apologies. If anything, I wish my laughter may bore you into a deep reverie.

It is so very dear for me to express myself in completeness. It’s an artistic necessity to supply these pure moments of joy. Just as a match awaits for a moment of friction, I too need that burst. (REDACTED DUE TO REDUNDANCY AND WORD LIMIT)

“I apologize for that unexpected laugh. I’m so very, very sorry. I was simply marveling at the text on your shirt.” Here, reader, was my pitiful attempt to recreate that laughter. I am dismayed to report that I failed terribly. I promise it will pick up towards the end.

“Heh, no problemo brotendo,” chirped my bird. I sensed his words were filled with benign intention. Innocence is the most beautiful virtue. He snapped his neck up and I had a glimpse into his weary eyes. “What’s that pamphlet about?”

“It’s…” I took a glimpse at his shirt. “It’s the meme club. You wanna join, brotendo?”

That’s when I witnessed his most sincere smile, reader. It was a smile that could guide him through the hottest flames of hell and back, and probably elicit a friendship from someone with kinder intentions. Too bad that smile would never guide him to safety. From that enlightening moment, I forced a riddling smile.

“Yes! Of course! I would love to join your club. I love memes!” He snapped his soft head down to the smartphone and I could see the reflection of his worn eyes beaming out of his besmirched face like a lighthouse beaming its glory through fog. I hope he didn’t witness my blank face once I glimpsed at his smartphone. “Sorry, one sec. I just have to finish this, real quick.” As luck may have it for me, dear reader, he would never look up.

While he wasted more of my precious time, he motioned his hand up towards the pamphlet, attempting to grab the prop. I pulled back, letting the little bird scratch at the empty air as if he was clawing out of a rusted cage. It was a dance a leper could perchance perform as well.

“My apologies. This pamphlet has information from last generation’s meeting.” The little bird kept his gaze down, but nodded his head to signify a rudimentary acknowledgement. “Will you just come inside Powell library? I know where to find some updated ones. It won’t be forever, promise.” I attempted another dramatic pause, just for art’s sake. Based on the look on the bird’s own face, I had improved. “You will only vanish for a moment,” I said. He paid no attention to my sudden change of tone.

“What’s your name by the way?” asked the bird. He brought his glance up for a moment. Was it to taunt me or just check if I walked away? I wished to open his head and find out. Soon, dear reader, soon we shall all see what is locked away and hidden in that beautiful mind.

“My name?” I was glad to find a chipper tone. “My name is Tommy.” Of course, as you can guess, reader, this name is completely fictional. “Tommy Dunn. The one and only.” Forgive me, reader, for I would find amazing pleasure in revealing my actual name, but unfortunately, I must remain two steps ahead of those malicious critics who pursue me for the actions described within my written pages. Sorry for the annoyance and inconvenience.

“Nice to meet you Thomas.” He placed his phone into his ripped jean’s pocket and extended his fragile hand. I grabbed his hand with the delicate touch of an archeologist uncovering the lost skull in Pompeii. “My name is Edgar.” I sensed a pause of hesitation and regret erupt out of his hand in the form of moisture. “Most people call me Ed. Yeah…Ed now, Edgar is my old name, before I transferred.” He paused and brought his hands up and forced a cringe-inducing salute. “Go Bruins!” Why did he suddenly provide this interjection rally? I have no clue. Even reflecting on this response, I still cannot believe people talked like this in real life.

Ignoring his attempt to evoke any sort of enthusiasm, I tried to react appropriately. “Ah! Ed is a better name anyway. It’s the name of my favorite writer. Have you heard of Poe, Edgar Allen?”

“Yeah, actually. I’ve never really read any of his works though, sorry.” He spoke with such a confidence in his timid ignorance that I was appalled how one could go on living for this long with their pathetic lives, not reading the bountiful works of the greatest and most influential writer in the history of all the written and spoken literature. Shame to his eyes for not glancing. If I could have carved any shape into his body to help this troglodyte mourn for his ignorance, it would be a million frown emojis. I hope he would scream after each agonizing and worthless step taken within his life! How dare he choose to burn the name of greatness onto his decaying body of worthlessness. Forgive my excessive curse words here, reader, for I am writing to the page without any pause and I am doing my best to maintain a steady flow of prosaic thought while staying true to realistic, artistic integrity.

“Not a problemo, brotendo,” retorted I with perfect calmness. “Just a writer, nobody special in the long run. And hey, he’s not going anywhere soon.” Will you now give him a hello for me, my dear Edgar? Please?

“I just like the sound of his name.” He brushed his fingers over his awkward facial hair over his upper lip. “And I really dig his ‘stache.”

As we began walking up the steps of the Powell library standing tall and proud before my act of passion, Ed gave a chirp.

“Could you show me some Poe books to check out? I’ve heard a lot about him. He sounds totally goth.”

Can you imagine, dear reader, how boring his would writing would seem? How much his prose would perambulate around the actual plot?

“Of course! I know the exact shelf where I stash away all my favorite authors.” This new detour may have complicated my intended script, but the thrill of improvisation possessed my body. I gladly accepted the challenge in devising an easy cure for Ed’s plaguing illness I diagnose as living.

He followed me into the library. At once I could tell the feeling of wonder had aroused his ability to perceive our world. Ed awed at the step’s firm structure, the delicately placed mosaic artwork decorating the walls of the sublime library with a curved yet subtle beauty. I shall always envy and adore it all like some lunatic raging to the moon. Within every single memory I possess from then till eternity, I shall never forget the beauty of these walls, each delicate lamp, window, even the computer stations emitting a luscious light embellishing my view of this unruly world, enhancing my ideals. Symmetry and beauty will be blossoming, all shall quiver before the prophetic mysteries of that didacticism.

I continued to guide Ed towards the lowest floor of the Powell library. Just as a helpless animal would follow a trail of crumbs to their demise, so too did he follow me through the maze of shelves filled with ancient books that nobody had ever bothered to read. If only little Ed kept his gaze on the decaying labyrinth I had created by my Virgil guidance, he would have escaped the fiery pits of his coming hell.

“You know Ed, I always loved libraries. All the books, new and old, placed above and below our line of sight, looming everywhere like ghosts still lingering after their doom.”
“Too spooky for me, man.” He gave another subtle grin and expected me to understand some reference. Alas, poor Ed, I knew not his reference well.

“Oh but my favorite idea about the library is that it’s a catacomb, like the ones under Paris. Every book is another lost skull or their shade trying to sing their song, luring each passerby into one’s doom with their stories, waiting perhaps for eternity to release their lore out from painful shelves.” The foolish Ed ignored my reverie. It seemed like a just treatment. But could he ignore my jokes as well?

“Maybe they want to escape their graves? I know I would never be able to cope knowing my life’s work is trapped under a layer of dust amongst the others.”

Still, no response.

Yet at last! I directed this humorless little bird to take shelter in a chair hidden behind a massive bookshelf. It seemed as desolate as the rest of library given the lack of sound from the students studying.

“What’s the wifi btw?” he asked. I did not feel like giving a reply and ignored him with a well-executed walk away.

The library became the perfect lair. Ed sat in a chair that seemingly appeared far too large for his little body. Yet I could tell he took comfort in its wooden framework of the seat only until he removed his smartphone from his pocket and directed his gaze downwards once more.

“I’ll be right back, friend Ed.” I could tell my words had reached his ears, given the faint response he returned, but I realized that he fell into another trance. I could easily have wrung his neck like a little bird that fell from mother’s nest, but I knew the noise would be eruptive and not as exciting for you, my grateful audience. Can you empathize with me, reader? Wouldn’t you want to see a sublime display of action, plot, destruction bursting at the seams of existence? I know you all want to be entertained, not annoyed. I knew how Edgar would perish and how the effect would render best in the written words.

I sprinted to find the first copy of the book Ed had requested. The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe felt firm in my hand. Like a freshly scavenged heart from the tomb, I knew of its soon to come power, its bloody thirst for companionship. The cover felt smooth on my youthful face, although I do admit, I somewhat expected every page to bleed blood onto my face. Unfortunately, such miracles cannot be expected of reality. There is more blood to come, trust me reader.

“Here ya go, ranch Eddorito. My favorite story, The Cask of Amontillado, is here for you.” The fool nodded his head slightly, not bothering to look up and witness my smile. I imagined a jingling jester’s cap bouncing along with his ignorance. I placed the book at his feet, like it was some sacrifice to an almighty deity. He seemed mesmerized by the soft sounds and illuminations from the device.

What joy once again bloomed from my soul when my prediction had come true. Ed would never budge or react to any other stimulus unless it possessed any sort of relevance to his own world. I could have once again wrung his neck like a pigeon, but like I said, what joy would that bring to us, reader? What entertainment? The urge to laugh once again possessed my soul. I contained myself to a silence, dear reader, since I truly believed that the entity of the library is an institution of silence that should be respected.

In the next hour, I sprinted throughout the three-dimensional maze of the library, placing each book as a brick. At that moment, I realized that the chime of the hourly clock tower bells would awaken sweet Ed from his dream within a dream. It may even result in a sour turn of events incongruent to my improvised plot. I began to run, like the cliché, as fast as the wind could carry me.

I could only bring the best novels of my knowledge that deserved to be part of Ed’s casket. A few of those perfect books over 800 pages were the first bricks to be laid. After all, I found that it was true they had the support, due to the rigidity of their bound structure and intricate plots of epics like Don Quixote, Ulysses, In Search of Lost Time, Gravity’s Rainbow, yadda, yadda, yadda. If everyone held their head up to these fascinating written perspectives before our Ed, the world would revolve twice as fast!

A sudden pang of paranoia tapped me on the head like a lobotomy. I was, once again, aware of the possibility of my bird breaking free from his shell. It could be the hourly bells that awaken him from his trance, or my inability to keep him away from hypnotic boredom with my antic disposition.

Sometimes, I could not resist providing some exposition. My first slip of the tongue arrived when I brought forth William Blake. I knew he never heard of him before, yet he deserves an introduction.

“Here is a poet I adore, Edward. His name is William Blake, known for attending a marriage between heaven and hell. He’s a glorious poet. Even Jim Morrison loved his work. You know Jim Morrison? He went to UCLA, isn’t that wild? ‘Come on babes, just light my little-o fire. Yeah oh little fire just do it.’ Okay, you caught me—I don’t know the lyrics. It’s such a catchy tune, right?” Ed nodded his head and I still felt the sting of ignorance burn my skin, despite the poetic justice of my actions.

“Ah, once again Edwin, here is another classic that I adore. Lolita by the mighty Nabokov. Oh, what I would do to be a child again, hear my dear old Uncle read me this piece of novel writing before me as I went to slept. Who could forget the first opening lines? ‘Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul.’ You have heard this, right Ed? It is legendary.” He vaguely shook his head to signify a disagreement. “Oh my soul burns with the passion of a million stars bursting the sky. How rude of me, I’ll lay this poetry right here for you. Be careful, some of the pages are a bit sticky. I suppose someone had a bit too much fun reading. You can even feel the moist hand print on its spine.”

I brought more works that would reflect the irony of Ed’s soon to come situation, until I discovered every high has an eventual crash. Although every book felt like well-placed bricks cemented into a growing casket, I began to feel less euphoria after each placement. Fahrenheit 451 didn’t feel as sufficient as placing the star-crossed lovers, American Psycho and Infinite Jest, on top of each other. Both The Divine Comedy and The Secret Agent had a diminished effect once I placed The Satanic Verses with the Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire before Ed’s pile. It’s true, the classics are losing worth.

I was saddened to feel bored with this act of careful plotting. I paused midway and held my hand under my chin like some detective searching for a clue. At last! As I placed Les Fleurs de Mal between Wuthering Heights and Rebecca, The Diary of a Young Girl onto Labyrinths, The Bell Jar sandwiched between Call of Cthulhu, and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mister Hyde, an epiphany appeared. I had found the perfect cherry to place on top of Ed to send him and his casket straight to the oven. I couldn’t wait to whisper bon appétit.

I sprinted to the next library on the campus, Young Library. I must confess, I am gravely disappointed. With its vague quotations from Borges, I deem it an insult to true libraries like Powell Library. I do apologize to the other students who seem so kind and serene, but I would have rather have this library ignited like a tree in a forest fire. One day, I will satirize it all. For now, I apologize once more for this necessary digression.

I emerged into the lower lever of the library, cupping my hands to shield any real eye contact. In the corridor, directly beneath the stairs, sat a lonely silver shovel. The shovel had apparently participated in the founding of UCLA. It was encased in some glass casket, which seemed more of a tragedy than a reflection on the past. It would be best to put the retired tool to a more productive use rather than letting that relic rust.

I plucked it out of the glass casing, like some fruit upon a tree, and ran back to the casket of the little bird. It took exactly 440 steps to return.

At this point, I must admit there may be some flaws in accurately describing things. I will provide an oath before you, reader. I swear the perceivable events I have and will depict are valid, cogent, and true.

Upon returning to Ed, I was pleased he had not even budged. But I did begin to worry about the health of his neck and posture.

This is where I hoped to end his suffering. I held the shovel, slashed its silver blade at his head. It landed between his eyes. I was proud of my precision. Yet to my dismay, the blood did not seem to spurt like some fountain. Perhaps the many films have given me unrealistic perceptions. Yet I have discovered one maxim this entire journey. Experience shall always provide the truth.

From here, I deserve to mention that it was eleven o’clock and the jingle of bells chimed throughout the holy body of the library. Unfortunately, the walls did not tremble, the floor did not quake once hour summoned the tolling bells. Our Ed still did not budge from his hypnosis. I did feel my body ache, reacting to those bells like a wolf with the moon. As the bells chimed, I had struck a source of golden euphoria within me. At last, I found joy.

He tried looking up at me. Oh, what poetry had I dug up beyond his human skull? Beyond his fleshy interior, with his blood running as like river throughout Eden, lies the mind, the consciousness. The bells continued to chant. The sweetest delirium of the Elysian Fields brought me to conceive an unspeakable glory. I hope my words reflect that emotion.

I withdrew the silver shovel glistening in redness. The blood seeped out like moss on a prison wall. Perhaps with my optometrist treatment, he could see me now.

I know, reader, you are dying for me to answer one final question. When did the hourly bells finish their chime?

I have no clue.

In my defense, I was not entirely aware of my surroundings. The rush of sublime and serene emotions molded together and produced novel sensation. Reader, I hope you can understand the thought of seeing colors never described by poets, philosophers. I felt myself enter a new dimension of reality.

I felt flames appear within the stacked books surround the silenced Ed. After opening my eyes, I saw the flames spread onto Edgar. It was too damn godly to extinguish, for I knew it was a miracle.

The magic possessed me and I fell into an unescapable joy. I realized the truest sense of the present, the truest moment of the present. Can you understand how the past and future can burn away?

Nobody noticed my burning pyre. I wanted to leave a plaque to commemorate the offering, stating “A BLOOD-STAINED SHOVEL KISSING A SKULL — EXCALIBUR LODGED WITHIN ITS ORGANIC STONE.”

Ed’s phone continued to chime after his murder. The students hushed at the sounds. As I danced out of the library, the urges for silence grew louder as the chimes from Ed’s phone evolved into shrieking alarms. I hope to only hear echoes of those bells and alarms in my dreams. Those bells of victory.

I pray those bells drown out Ed’s device as well, for I still hear its chiming echoing in my mind as I write. I would rather not be haunted. I fear that I may be flawed and my mind is corrupted.

I hear it is everywhere now. As I drive on the 405, as I watch my favorite shows, as I jog, even as I watched the library melt into a mound of ash while the sky was shot with crimson, like a splash of blood.

Ariel N. Banayan is a dual degree MA/MFA Student at Chapman University, focusing on short fiction and novel writing. Previously, he as taught children reading skills and literature comprehension in after school enrichment programs, as well as piano musicianship and karate. He is a first generation Iranian American, born and raised in the West Los Angeles area. He received a B.A. in English from UCLA in 2017.

Featured Image: “The Raven” by Kevin Burkett is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0 

Author Image: Portrait by @yoni_keynan 

When he stepped into the foyer, a place he remembered as ocean blue, the first thing he noticed was the missing white bench.  It had been replaced by a flowered antique cabinet, a burnt brown hue that nearly matched the new paint on the walls.  Maybe it wasn’t new.  He couldn’t remember.  Once, his mother had called him on the phone to tell him she was repainting the walls, but he couldn’t place the exact time of that call.  There had been so many phone calls.  Especially near the end.

His father greeted him, his hair thinner than the last time he saw him, a year ago in the city, when he put on a brave face and pretended that everything was going well.  There was no point in worrying his mother, the one time she would get to see him all year.  He was surprised that his father made it to the door before the dog, but then he remembered that the dog had died two years ago.  He thought about how little emotion he felt when he got the news, a feeling he was not proud of as he realized he would have been an intruder in the dog’s mind.

That first night was hard.  He promised himself three years ago that he would never move back into his parent’s house.  And although he didn’t have anything to move in, he couldn’t help but feel like some sort of failure.

He stared at the ceiling fan, still stuck on the medium setting, just like it had been when he first broke the remote when he was 15 years old.  Ten years ago.  Yet everything felt like it happened in one jumbled yesterday.  He couldn’t put his finger on where things went wrong, because really, they hadn’t. He had done everything he was supposed to, as well as he could, and yet still, he lay in the same twin bed that he had spent his entire childhood sleeping in.

And before he knew it he was sitting in McNamara’s, or “Macs” as they all called it, his four best friends flanking him, each drinking a $2 beer, something that he had never realized he missed so much.  They talked about nothing, just like the old times.  Everything went along as it used to; like there wasn’t a gap in their history.  Maybe it was social media, or the pointless group chat, he didn’t know, but something made this feel almost like it could still be home. That’s what terrified him.  He remembered thinking how that final sip of his fifth beer – the sip that finally got him drunk – tasted so much like regret.  His friends would never judge him.  He knew that.  They didn’t care what he had been through, and they didn’t question it either.  He appreciated that.  After all they would never understand.  They still lived with their parents, dated girls who slept in their parents’ houses, and ate food bought and cooked for them like they were still children.  For three years he had survived off of take out, dated girls his parents would never meet, and paid rent far too expensive on a salary far too low.

He drifted off into the sinking space that had become so much a part of his life of late.  It was like being trapped in a plastic bag, just barely below the surface of a lake.  He knew he was so close to emerging unscathed, unharmed, but the extra bit of effort it took to break through the molecules, always felt like too much.  His legs were too weak, his mind growing rich with panic.  He thought about the day when he finally made the decision to leave, but then he removed the intrusion.  If he was going to leave the west coast behind, he had to erase it entirely from his memory.

Then he was staggering up to his doorstep, walking across the cool, damp grass of early Autumn.  He looked up at the clear sky and saw stars. He had spent so much time in a city with so many, yet he almost forgot what they looked like. He stumbled to the door, his breath stale with beer, reached in his pocket and pulled out his keys.  He put the keys in the door, and only then did he remember that he had not taken a new house key from his mother.  For all intents and purposes, he was homeless.  His keyring lonely with just two keys from his first job and a safe key for a box he left back in his old life.

He kicked off his shoes, walked down to the sidewalk, and stood above the sewer grate.  He stared down into it, remembering the time that he had jokingly put his friend’s hat over it only to be spooked by a passing car and drop it in.  His friend’s mom had screamed at him relentlessly.  Pathetic, he thought.  He dropped the keys and watched them disappear into the darkness.

He woke up the next morning, got on an old bike and began to ride, feeling every bit like the child he had respawned into.  He rode the bike down to the trestle where he had spent so many nights in his youth.  As he meandered down the dirt path, hearing the soft ripples of the creek approaching, he was surprised to hear his name shouted.

He looked up to see two men, shirtless, with faces so recognizable but names so elusive.  He threw down his bike and said hello.  They offered him a beer and he was back at it again.  He sat off to the side as they did backflips off the trestle into the creek.  When they lit up a joint they sat next to him and offered him a hit.

The man with the darker hair said he thought that he had moved away; that he was working in the movie business or something, living his dream.

He was quiet for a moment before telling the man he had just moved back, something had happened, and he needed a change.

The lighter haired man laughed, took a rip of the joint, and announced that even the most perfect people fail sometimes.

Then he was back in Mac’s with his four friends, their girlfriendss well.  The conversation carried on.  He was included.  He was never left out, making his witty comments like he had always done, hiding the pain inside of him like he had always done.  Again, he went home with the stale taste of beer in his mouth.  But this time instead of throwing away his keys he threw away his cover.

He sent her a text and imagined her sitting up in bed, her roommate nestled closely into her, eating the vegan cupcakes that she had forced him to eat, and that he surprisingly enjoyed.  It was only 10pm where she was and he knew she wouldn’t be at a bar.  She hated bars.  He always joked that it was fate that they should meet at one.  Something extra put us there.  She had cried when he said he was leaving, but he knew she would get over it.  She was too good for him anyway, something she hated that he said.  While he was working his ass off, 10 hours a day getting screamed at, she was hiking, painting, seeing the world.  It was the life he wanted but wasn’t talented or brave enough to have.  As he laid in bed waiting for her response, he felt guilty for all of the things that he said to her, for never really giving her a chance.  His self-loathing was exhausting and yet it never scared her away.  He fell asleep.  She never texted back.

The next day he rode his bike 23 miles to the boardwalk, his legs aching, butt sore from the seat.  He walked out onto the sandy beach, empty because it was a Tuesday and it was September, and watched the seagulls fly helplessly into the wind.  He walked toward the ocean and sat down just as the beach began to slant downward.  The waves crashed and occasionally the water would lap at his toes—the bubbly white froth that looked so menacing when it thundered down, but was so peaceful on the sand.

This was the furthest he could possibly be from his old life – the other side of the country, his back to the ocean that he had called home for too long, his eyes facing out at another sprawling in front of him.  He started to cry.  It was pitiful, but he didn’t care.  No one could see him here, and after moving back, crying was to be expected.

When he woke up it was dark and a beach police officer was shining a flashlight in his eyes.  The officer asked if he was drunk, if something had happened.  He stood up and walked passed the officer.  The officer didn’t even question him, the defeated man, covered in sand, his face leathery from the sun.

That night at Mac’s—for the third straight night—the conversation faded to the background and he broke down.  His friends stared at him, the waitress asked what was wrong.  He said nothing, stood up, and stormed out into the parking lot.

His friends followed—of course they did—why wouldn’t they?  He told them he was a failure, that he couldn’t live with himself, with no direction, no dreams, and no idea why he got up in the morning.

Failure?  You can’t be a failure.  You went for it.  So, what you came back?  People move on, people change, people get different ideas about their lives.  If you’re a failure than what the fuck are we?  You’re here today, we’re all here today, but that doesn’t mean we’re all going to be here forever.  We’re struggling, but what else can we do?

He told them he was meant for something greater, something more.

We all hope that.  But maybe we’re not.  Maybe we’re just ordinary fucking people meant to live ordinary fucking lives.  Is that so bad?  You’ve seen the other side.  Why did you come back?  What you told me was everyone was miserable and you didn’t want to be a part of it.  Well now you’re here and we’re all miserable too.  But at least we have a reason to be, and Goddamnit, if Mac’s is the only source of joy we have – if we’re the only source of joy we have – well fuck, we better make the most of it.

They all hugged him one by one, as he stood shaking in the parking lot, like some sorry little boy.  It wasn’t sadness, it was frustration.  A feeling they shared.  They all had a sinking space, just like he did—everyone had a sinking space.  But it was up to him how he wanted to handle it.  It was up to him if he would surface and rip the plastic bag from his head.

That night he texted her again.  He knew she wouldn’t answer.  When she didn’t answer it was purposeful, not simply missed in the chaos of the day.  He thought about her hiking to their secret spot, high up in the mountains, her bag strapped tightly on her shoulders, her hair flowing in the breeze, as the sun set over the city.  She would look down and in that swarm of people and lights, she would unknowingly see her future.  Her husband, who she would meet at an art exhibit—not a bar.  The empty warehouse where all of her work would be put on display.  The conference room where she would pitch the idea that fulfilled her purpose.  The street she would cross, lost in her music, oblivious to the car barreling toward her, the driver texting his mother that he would be late for dinner.

Her whole life would take place in that city, and she would never speak to him again.  She was the one thing he regretted more than anything.  He hurt her when all she had wanted to do was help.  She was too good for him.  He wasn’t wrong about that, but through his mania he couldn’t see that even in a city with such scourge, some people really could love.  His hasty decision that had been years in the making came at a time when he selfishly told her to stay, that he didn’t want to be the reason she gave up her dream.  She promised him they would find a place, to just give it a little more time.  To let her figure some things out.

And then he left.

He laid in his bed, wide eyed, staring at the ceiling fan, slowly spinning, the rain softly pattering against the window.  Pathetic for texting her, pathetic for crying in front of his friends, pathetic for living with his parents again.

The next morning, he rose from his bed a sleepless zombie.  He stumbled downstairs passed his mother who was drinking coffee and reading the morning paper.  His father was there in a polo and faded blue jeans, heading to the body shop yet again.

His father said he noticed that he’d been coming home late.  He wanted to know if everything was alright.

He lied and said it was.

His father said that he could get him a job just to get him on his feet, that he had to start working again.

He said nothing and walked out the door, hopped on his bike which he had thrown down in the middle of the lawn the night before.  He rode as fast as he could for his friend’s house, and when he got there he found his friend walking out the front door getting ready to leave for work.

When his friend saw the look on his face, he knew it was dire.  He picked up his phone and called his boss, told him he needed the day off, his stomach wasn’t right, and then he stepped back inside the house holding the door open for him.

They sat at the table and his friend offered him coffee.  He didn’t drink coffee.  His friend opened the fridge.

Too early for a beer?

They sat at his friend’s parent’s kitchen table, drinking beers before 9 am.  He told his friend that his father had offered to help him find a job.  His friend said he should take it, look at it as temporary.

And then he opened up.  It wasn’t another night of shaking in a parking lot.  It was what was truly inside of him, something no one could heckle him for because no one could see it.

My whole life has been temporary.  It was here, then it was college, then it was there.  Job after job after job, being treated like a raw slab of meat needing to be tenderized in order to be properly prepared.  I couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t tough it out and watch my 20s disappear while the world around me continued on.  A world I was never going to see.  I despised those people.  Those people who preached happiness and peace for all and then turned around and demeaned me and everyone else until they no longer felt human.  They used to tell me my parents should move out there, that they could live in the richest, most beautiful parts of the city.  Gagging on their silver spoons they didn’t even think to ask what my parents did or what they could afford.  Ignorant, yet so intelligent.  Wealthy, but so unhappy.  I see those people who look down on my father from their mansions, high up in the hills, or their palaces along the ocean.  I look at my contemporaries, as they scream and march, acting holier than thou, all while banishing anyone with a differing opinion.  I wasn’t like that.  I wasn’t raised like that.  And that’s how I knew that my father, my mother, they are so much greater than any of those people. 

But, I don’t want to be my father.

His friend looked at him, clinked his beer against his, and then leaned back.  His friend said he understood, but they would never know the easy life because whatever they got they had to earn.  And no matter how bad he wanted to help him he couldn’t because they were all just as helpless.  Every morning was a choice.  And he had made his.  He wasn’t worried about proving himself to anyone.  He wasn’t worried about how successful he was perceived to be.  At the end of the day he was worried about coming home and being happy.

He got up and made for the door.  His friend stopped him.  He wanted to know where he was going.  He honestly didn’t know.  His friend thanked him for the day off and then watched as he walked out the door.  His friend sat at the kitchen table where his parents used to cut his meat for him and force him to drink milk.  He looked at the refrigerator, saw a picture of a newborn baby, his niece, just entering into the world.  He stared at her for a moment, then sighed, chuckled to himself, and took a sip of his beer.

He was riding out to the ocean again, this time with much more purpose.  By the time he got there the sun was already going down, twilight starting to set in.  He threw his bike on the beach and stomped down to the water as fast as he could.  He stopped on the precipice just before the decline to the ocean.  The waves crashed, much stronger than they had been yesterday.

He texted her one final time.  It was exactly 83 days before she would meet her husband.  She considered answering the text this time, his persistence and her attachment to him weighing heavily.  But then her roommate came in and had an incredible story to tell her about a date she went on last night.  She listened intently and by the time the story was done she had forgotten all about the text.

He stripped off his clothes, the sun descending quickly behind the dunes at his back.  He stood there naked looking out at the ocean, the dark sky beyond creeping up on him.  The wind was whipping hard off the ocean, his hair blown back like a movie star.  It was cold and he had second thoughts, but then he took the first step down the incline, and then the second, the third, fourth, and then a wave finally touched his toes.  It was freezing but still he sprinted directly into a wave as it crashed.  He dove, completely submerging himself.  He came up for air and lifted his feet off the sand.  For a moment he floated.  He looked back at the sun, lifted himself up over another swell, listened to it crash down on the shore.

And then he went under.

The ethereal darkness took over as the waves continued to crash on the shore.  His friends texted him to see if he would meet them at Mac’s.  When they didn’t hear from him they went anyway.  His mother and father watched a movie in their bed.  His father asked if his mother had heard from him.  She said no, but it was nothing to worry about.  In his old life she went for a walk, her headphones in, and passed by the bar where they had first met.  She remembered that he had texted her yet again, and feeling a twinge of nostalgia thought about responding.  But then she continued walking on, her hands still in the pockets of her black bowler.  This was something she was going to have to let go of.  And she did, as we all do.  But there were nights when she would lay in bed, the desert heat simmering in her apartment and wonder what might have been.

After a minute he came up for air, inhaling desperately, his lungs burning.  He made his way to shore and stumbled as a wave crashed at his knees.  He struggled to his feet, the fresh wet sand giving out beneath him, and for the first time in years he saw clearly.  The past was irrelevant and the future unknown, but in that moment, the moon illuminating his wet, naked body, he was in control.  And with that power he made his choice.

Phil Wood is pursuing his MFA in Creative Writing from Chapman University.  Previously, he held jobs at numerous companies in the film and television industry, including Foresight Unlimited and Warner Brothers.  He also conducted film sales at the Cannes Film Festival, Berlinale, and American Film Market.  A Miami (FL) alum, Phil currently serves as a staff writer and podcaster for CanesInsight.com, where he provides football and basketball coverage.

Featured Image: “liquid metal days II” by nosha licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0

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We took away four major lessons on writing from the master class with Max Brooks:

1. Passion is important for writing, especially when you’re dealing with people in the industry.

“For me, it was all the question of passion, all the question of what am I writing that I want to read and that’s always been my favorite authors. They tend to be people who come to writing later in life and have other jobs and do it as a side thing and then it takes off. For me it’s about passion and it’s the only way I know how to survive criticism.

Now if he [referring to the general students in the room] goes into a regular job, then he can stay inside that little millennial bubble and not get hurt. But if he’s an artist, holy shit are you in for it. And that’s if you’re successful. If you get your shit out there, they will come for you and your parents can’t protect you. And this little school that just wants your parent’s money and is right now protecting you; they can’t protect you. No one can protect you. He’s going to get out there and he’s going to be subject to the most vicious, horrible criticism, what some people would call cyber-bullying, he’s going to call Wednesday. And the only way he’s going to be able to survive that is by loving what he does. Every minute of every day. Even when he hates it, he has to love it. Because that’s the only way to survive. Because otherwise don’t do it.

Don’t think you’re gonna become a screenwriter because people are going to love you, people are going to take giant dumps all over you every day and that’s just life. And that’s not just the people that are in your very business, because if you’re going to be a screenwriter, you’re going to have to deal with every day with a group of people who are part of a jobs program for the mentally deficient (they’re called creative executives) and their job is to turn good scripts into bad scripts and those are your bosses and after you go through them and then get your movie out there, some shithead on some website is going to basically pee all over you, so you have to love it. Any one of you whose considering doing anything artistic, you have to love it, you have to keep going, because that’s all you can do when you try to be artistic.”

2. Playing Minecraft on Survival Mode is a great lesson on life and writing.

“When my son got into Minecraft, I got into it with him and I realized this is more than just a game. If seen through the right lens, Minecraft can teach you how to survive real life. If you play it on the survival level, it teaches you about patience and planning and dealing with failure, everything you need to know for out there. And you never stop learning no matter what age you are.

I think the creative level should be played sparingly. It’s really good for creating awesome structures, but it doesn’t teach you the awesome lessons that Minecraft really has to offer, because you just get stuff handed to you. And that’s not a great lesson for surviving life. Nobody’s going to hand anything to you. I don’t know any rules for writing, but I do know some rules for surviving writing. And in my survival guide, you need discipline. You need to keep doing it, like Matt [a screenwriting student in the session] is going to write the first draft of his script and it’s going to be awesome and creative and it’s going to flow. That’s great. He’s going to need to do 17 more drafts and that’s not going to be awesome and beautiful but the shit’s gotta get done. That’s called writing. That’s discipline. That’s a job.

And you learn that when you play Minecraft on survival. You have to stockpile food or else you will starve. And it’s not always fun to plant that wheat. But you gotta do it. You gotta clear the ground. And then it teaches you patience. That wheat’s gonna grow. And yelling at it’s not going to help. And you better find something else to occupy your time while this is happening. Minecraft teaches you time management. I have x amount of daylight hours before the mobs come out. I have to use my time well because then when I’m forced underground, there’s stuff I can’t do outdoors. What can I do indoors, what can I do outdoors? It teaches you how to plan. In order to plant that wheat, I gotta punch that tree, make tools and get seeds. What do I need to do first? So all these lessons are amazing. These are lessons that as a middle aged dude, I’m still struggling with. This is an amazing game and it teaches you how to recover from failure.

In Minecraft, as I have done, you can build a beautiful house that takes you forever and accidentally burn it down. So what are you going to do? Cry over it and quit and not play Minecraft again or are you going to clean up the windows that are still hanging in mid-air and build another house? So that’s the thing that Minecraft teaches me. I thought, if you write a Minecraft novel, take time to note those lessons so that they’re clear. And that’s what I’ve done.”

3. Juggle your time wisely.

“I wrote the novel in my spare time and I became a screenwriter because I didn’t care as much. I didn’t get sports and academics. I sucked at. So I had nothing except my writing. I wrote my first short story when I was 13 and it was like a world I could hide in. Every day for two hours a night, for my life, I would hide in my room every day from 9-11 and write. And I thought that I can’t show this to anyone. All I had was this thing. If I bring my writing out into this world and it gets judged, it gets judged poorly, well then it’s time for the heroin needle. So I kept it away.

When I wrote Zombie Survival Guide, I thought I cared too much about this to see the light of day. Maybe I’ll hit something I don’t care much about like screenwriting or SNL. And it was actually when I was on SNL that I took the book back out and dusted it off. It was time to put up or shut up. It was time to be brave and take something that I care about it, which is novel writing and let it into the world. And be done. Because I can’t hide from it anymore. That’s how I did that.

Now, I’ve had to adapt it because I used to be a night writer before I had a child. The problem is that I’m the kind of writer where the best stuff comes at the end of the day. And it’s hard because at the end of the day I’ve gotta go pick up my kid from school or I gotta go home. And the hardest part for me is switching the brain off because I’ve gotta go home and all the cylinders are firing and god forbid there’s a problem I need to solve and I can’t let go of that. I’m like a dog with a chew toy. I gotta take off the writer jacket and be a father and a husband.

And my wife’s going to have problems and my kid’s going to have problems. And at that moment, their problems come first. I can’t say to them all, you all go to hell, I am a writer. Some guys did that. I think the toughest part is the juggling. I need a space. My wife’s a writer too—she’s a playwright. So for us, the juggling comes down to deadlines. Whoever has a deadline gets priority. If she’s got a deadline and I don’t, then I’m Mr. Mom. I’ll pick him up from school; I’ll take him to tap dance. I’ll do what I gotta do. I’ll deal with the plumber. That’s on me. If I’ve got a deadline, she’s gotta do it. So that’s how we’ve managed to organize our schedule.”

4. Always follow your passion because you never know where it will lead you.

“I kind of wrote Zombie Survival Guide, the way Tom Clancy wrote Hunt for Red October. He was not a writer, he was an insurance salesman. At the end of the day, he’d write a little bit of Hunt for Red October. While I was writing scripts during the day and then at night, I was writing a secret project that only I thought I would want to read. I didn’t think anybody else cared. And it was called Zombie Survival Guide. Nobody was into zombies in the 90’s. We had an awesome life, but there was this looming fear called Y2K and people were starting to panic about it and I had always been scared of zombies. Always.

So Y2K is happening and I’m thinking, what if there’s a zombie outbreak and not the kind you see in the movies; what if there was a real zombie plague? The more I thought of it, the more I realized that 90% of people would not die from zombies. They die from malnutrition or dehydration or some sort of disease or they prick themselves on a rusty nail and get Tetnus or they fall and break their leg and not be able to hunt. That’s what happens when this incredible web of first world safety and security breaks down. People die from secondary and tertiary problems, not the primary problems.

Growing up in Southern California with the threat of earthquakes, we had earthquake kits and we always planned like how are we going to survive. In an earthquake most of us aren’t going to die by something falling on us; most of us are literally going to die of dehydration. So I took all that knowledge and I took some personal experience that I had. When I was in college for the first year, I was in ROTC so that’s where the beginnings of my weapons knowledge came from. So when I’m talking about the M16 being a crappy gun, I can tell you from personal experience, it really, really is.

So I sat down and wrote a book. For me. And I shoved it in a drawer. I didn’t think anyone wanted it. And then when it got published, they tried to market it in the humor section. Because once again, zombies were not popular. And people thought, well he’s just written for Saturday Night Live; he’s won an Emmy and he’s Mel Brooks’ son, so clearly he wrote this making fun of zombie nerds. He can’t be that much of a loser. This guy clearly didn’t really think about it. He’s lampooning and I said, “No, I am as much of a loser as you think I am. I’m really into this.” So I had to start doing zombie lectures to self-market it. And that’s when it sort of took off because I knew other people are into this just like me.”

Photo credit: Dennis Arp

Photo credit: Nate Rankin

We are Chapman’s new graduate interdisciplinary academic journal. We hope you enjoy our inaugural issue on fear.

At Anastamos, we hope to promote the blending of disciplines through encouraging cross-disciplinary research and creative work, and by placing different modes of thought next to one another. In this, they can create a conversation about a topic, bringing their diverse perspectives together to form a more complete image.

We hope that you’ll embark with us on this academic journey.

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Stop by to check out the new ways you can join the conversation, and submit to our next issue! We’re always looking for engaging new content for our issues.

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The Anastamos Team