The Unauthorized Biography
Of
James Mackenzie
The Unauthorized Biography of
James Mackenzie
AJ ERNST
dedicated to Jimmy Mackenzie
Until Then…
His first open-mouth kiss, his dead father, his hair cut – the odd
assortment of images contorted his dreams while dancing to the
classics in a cool autumn drizzle. How the breeze felt delightful
as it caressed his rigid facial hair, peeling off layer after layer
of his clammy skin. The pinching in his thigh and the pulsation
in his retina seemed to catalogue the opalescence of this
brilliant night. A shooting pain ripped through his spine as he
thrust his body erect in his bed. He groped at the tightly tucked
sheets and kicked wildly and unreserved until they gave way.
He checked his faced for skin shavings and spied out the
spoiled window for God, in all his glorious milky iridescence -
the arrogance of a purulent child. The art of embellishment,
even at this hour, he reveled in his own pretentious habit. This
was not how he thought or talked. Everything was foreign.
For the last two months this ghost dance had become more
vivid, with sharper details and sickening aftertastes. The room
became increasingly crowded with condescending ancestors,
infamous assassins, petulant heroes, but mostly trivial
acquaintances that he had met in real life and fake life.
Knowing the futility of the action, he would still pursue some
trashy baggage at the bar and ask for a spin on the ballroom
floor. He knew that this sort of thing was frowned upon and
that it might be risking banishment from the family. She was
related to him in some way, and even with his tireless efforts,
he would never pull the right strings or completely commit.
Her number was a grail, a fountain, an answer. He wanted that
fucking number - seven goddamn digits. At this point he had
no idea what the hell he was talking about. He never did when
it got this late.
But this time, it worried him. This time there seemed to be
some sort of purpose - and it frightened him. He let his fingers
inadequately tease a rose that hovered on the edge of an
inappropriately oversized coffee can on the cedar table adjacent
to his bed and began to chew on the petals, an old habit that
had become increasingly addictive, but always fell short of full
satisfaction-there were never enough red and pink extremities
for gnawing. That was just his style, half-assing the whole
thing. Where’s the motivation? What’s the point? You don’t
have a goddamn clue but somehow somebody is getting
something from this. And of course there’s that self worshiping
idiot in the back row, who, right now, is nodding in agreement
at these ambiguous and pointless combination of fragments and
commenting on how it was a metaphor, a symbol for death, and
personification of the sun.
Shut up!
He caught himself in that moment. He remembered he was still
in his room, alone. This was a little embarrassing. By grinding
his teeth faster, he thought he could distract his brain from
dissecting the foul recurring images like a shrink. The clicking
of his tongue drowned out some of the depictions, but the taste
still infected his mouth. The bed was covered with hair so
licking the enticing soft, blue velvet was denied as an option.
Searching for another outlet, he noticed on the lapel of his
pinstripe flannel pajamas lay a live cigarette, still smoking and
turning the fabric into dark brown ashes, gradually. The aroma
seduced him and his neighbor and his girlfriend and their
cousins and a five year old boy with bruised elbows and knees
twelve blocks down. He got out of the bed and approached the
open window which ran the full length of the room, top to
bottom, and rested on a hypothetical ledge. He stuck his head
out the pane of glass and sucked on the limp paper cylinder
between his lips. With every drag he suffocated the
diminishing stars and planets in that cold October sky and
glared out at his quiet suburbia, unaffected and silent.
Someday he would have to write all this down.
J.M.
Part 1:
It was pouring down like God was trying to ravage the Earth in
one final fury. He had never seen a storm like this one. It did
not impress him though, this sort of compellation of His
“Greatest Hits” that could shock others into fear and faith. It
was so common in lesser proportions that a kind of sterility
formed over his eyes and muffled his ears from years past.
This cleansing would not break him. The skeleton of steal
shattering the oncoming lightening bolts and the rebound of
pelting hail crumbled like dreams under his breath. He was
seeking something to wash him away. Although he sneered at
his own weakness and desire, a part of his lip cornered tightly
and inched up in such a manner that would give children good
reason to run to their mothers. His knees gave way and the
joints collided with the cratered surface. He longed for
torrential downpours, and this habit had become a ritual of
futility. This bare-chested beast with knotted hair caved in an
excursion of ecstasy. Jimmy stretched out his arms as to fill
out the emptiness and tilted his head to the sky so that passing
cars would think that they had seen something symbolic on the
peak of that overpass. Passing vehicles would only steal a
quick glimpse of his cliché finale and then have to make up the
rest to tell their friends at dinner parties.
A sensation of falling from the top was so formidable and
deemed appropriate because he knew what laid within the next
step and missing puzzle piece. His fall would come full circle
and overcome the logistics of their reality. With every
desperate retreat and surrender, it always ended with one more
chance.
And he always loved the Spring that never surrounded him
with the strange ethnic sounds of solitude that tampered with
the strong mind that kept his pieces together. She could flip
the pale fading slices onto their duller and blander beige sides
without a second thought and the preconceptions was that the
ending was too distant if not to close and the frightening facts
became the ones that could not change. This was a whole
different entity that originated in the essence of origination - a
sort of birth culminated in the fear of something new and the
death of something uncertain and understandably sure.
Following instinct beyond the correct methods for distraction
and discovering the right path for destruction was all contained
in the ceremonies of tradition that began in the still
undeterminable autumn sun, giving birth to the stars with the
setting sun.
Similar to most facts we learn at a young age, that come in
waves and sets and different bows, equally untied and
predictably sporadic if scrutinized in the aftermath, but that
was beside the point. It was finally Sunday and his weight
found support under four wooden pegs and some rough fabric
built and systematically replicated around the droning
dormitory. The off-whites blended with the odor of
replacement homes, resembling new carpeting and electrical
smoke. It was an unlikely and uncomfortable familiarity that I
feared would last longer than the allotted time that my grim
imaginations and patience would mutiny the tapered screen that
stops the saner men from harassing attractive women and
profiting off the corruption of the innocent. The ware and tare
of the years always allowed some of the draft to escape the
greenish night, but ultimately, the admitted truth was that even
if that room was polluted by the entire atmosphere of
abhorrence, contaminating the peacefully teetering mind and
turning the uncouth blue carpet into the jungle green of its
intent, a little white glow would exist inside him where the
heart should have been.
Moving on from the vague concept of this birth right and
internal goodness that may have meant something, it still
would stop the boy from wanting to break path from his father
and fly beneath the underpass and into town. It was assumed
that every child would grow into some sort of being with one
of two options that really were not left in his hands, or any
child for that matter. After a certain age, depending the pure
upbringing, the options were to rebel or conform, and then their
children would follow suit. It did not make sense to James, and
even though he could not see that white orb inside of him,
either when he would try to see the glow through his throat in
the mirror or ask the doctor to look at his x-rays just a little
more carefully. If there was no bright ball in his chest, then
why would he desire to break his rigorous and completely
satisfactory running route. He could not dissect this conundrum
and continued with his adolescent life assuming nothing and
praying for more.
James would always ask his father for money and for help and
for all things of this sort, but for some reason one day the
young boy wanted to know why his father had gotten sick.
This had never happened before and there had to be an
explanation. Due to the pride within the soul inside the
dominating man, his father answered the question in his drawn
out and booming voice and shot the question down. This sent
the confused boy on a spiral and for no apparent reason began
to cry. Unexpected results from what he had assumed would
have been a simple question and answer session had turned
south for the moment and now James found his way out the
front door and in the middle of the street. The flashing colors
danced past him. The wind slapped the tears off his cheek and
turned him in a different direction then what some would have
guessed - a way that he did not know or, looking back, even
wish to know, but ultimately it had to happen in the utmost for
us all. It got colder and the sky turned an almost deathly
maroon color and that set the perfect backdrop for the boys
departure. The cars finally began to slow down to see what the
crazed young man would do next, perhaps lead them
somewhere so they could fill the dinner conversations with
something besides the typical workday stories. James took his
first step in the wrong direction and turned it all upside down,
which was all we needed to see.
He Always Forgets
It had been a full year since James had found the cold lips of
his childhood sweetheart under the rumbling bleachers of his
high school’s football field during the halftime performance.
Some classmates looked on, distracted by the two clutching
each other’s palms. It was easy to mumble inappropriate
remarks at the couple while eating a hotdog. Neither of pair
had noticed the minimal audience.
James’ father described his fall obsession as a Casablanca stage
of his life that he would grow out of within the upcoming
months. At the dinner table he would prophesize to the space
in front of him of the uselessness of relationships at such a
young age. James never understood what the Casablanca
allusion implied, but he found himself lost in silence within
days, trying to explain his new founded occupation. He craved
her contact, but there was only so much of her warmth he could
grasp and actually value.
There was a distortion to the romance when they would fall
asleep, collapsed in tangled mouths, molding each other’s
limbs. There was a presence of looming dependence like a
stranger’s gaze over a playground that kept even the children
wary. James recited the digits that made up his girl friend’s
number to himself during class. He was mesmerized by how it
added up to eleven, the same number as her address, and this
had meaning. When she would ramble about her daily
activities, James would see if he could decipher the
possibilities for the digits to form words if the numbers stood
for letters. She would be angered by the way he ignored her,
but if she had known he was only searching for hidden clues
about her, she would have stayed content. One time he wrote a
song with them, and she loved him for it.
It disturbed him that they were once friends. He felt as though
their lives were constant and situations should remain the same,
but James had never found an explanation for relationships in
the local paper anyway, so it was all too confusing. Still the
universe of gravity and reason that structured his mere
existence seemed tilted. She used to hate his habit of
exaggerating the state of the world, but she had warmed up
over the years to his verbal promiscuity.
James was mostly unaffected by events in his life that typically
shook others with even the greatest of metaphorical armor.
This attribute served to benefit James when his grandmother
died, but today it hurt a bit as the lack of emotion appeared
forgetful. He knew that his girl friend was trying to remember
a time when he cared about special days to compare him to, but
there was never that time. He would rather just tell her that
nothing had been planned that would create a mood or define
today as memorable.
James concentrated on one thought as he sat on his doorstep
preparing for her bombardment of insults and accusations. He
was always afraid of forgetting her name. It was such a
flowing name, filled with sensations of blue and gold and a
typical ray of sunshine. Even James felt its power, as if she
should be famous, but she was dating him. Names possessing
inherent beauty last longer than just words of commonplace.
He repeated it over and over in his head, tapping to its rhythm
on the dampened wood beneath his boots.
Madison Elizabeth Heart. Madison Elizabeth Heart.
Madison caught herself as she wiped off the glaze from her
eyes. This time she would not be mesmerized by his tactful
antics that would so often sweep her off her feet - but always
after she walked away. He would cover his mishaps like
potholes. Every time she would retrace their steps together,
she felt the bump from too much pavement. Now matter how
sweet the gestures, traces of his broken promises made the
comeback rough around the edges. It was his imperfections
that was her love.
Stay strong.
Where was this relationship even going?
She would repeat different pieces of advice she had acquired
from black and white films and ancient novellas.
No one should be this serious at this age.
She hated how most of those stories ended with true passion, or
true tragedy. She just did not want to be in the end of her
story. She wanted to be tossed aside and forgot somewhere
near the beginning and lost without a side plot.
She turned away from the street to head back into her house
and begin the loaded steps toward solitude. Madison wondered
if the library was open but rejected the possibility.
What if he was there?
A car rolled up to the front of her lawn.
He would definitely not be at the library. Was it open?
The door popped open and a head appeared from behind the
Cadillac. Something in her twisted as she arched her head back
and saw that it was not Jimmy. She was happy until she
realized that if he was not in the car, he was .
The part of her that had still thought, or hoped it was Jimmy
was gone. With determination she asked the young man, who
was dressed as a driver, if he needed any help, any directions,
any chance that he would want to take her for a ride. She had
covered up her scars, and she had concentrated specifically on
the edges. She made them smooth.
He politely walked around the car and opened the rear door in
front of her cold eyes and this driver saw a flare that could
have been from the sunset, but that would never be how Jimmy
would tell it. The driver looked his brother’s best friend’s
girlfriend in the eye and spoke to her. “Happy Anniversary
Madison Elizabeth Heart.” It made a complete turn.
Five minutes after she had gotten into the Cadillac, she realized
that she had no idea what was going on and tugged at the
driver’s hat from the backseat. He told her that everything was
a secret. Jimmy loved surprises and would got to any length to
achieve them. As she quickly learned that he would typically
go to ends of the earth, she always expected so much, which is
why he had to dance on the line of pretending to forget and just
forgetting. When he let her down, she rarely recovered fully.
Madison laughed until all the contempt in her was gone; she
had always thought that he might mislead her. The car slowed
to a stop and the nameless driver opened the car door. She
turned to ask where they were, but the car peeled away from
the woods. The path in front of her led to the township park.
Once Madison had met Jimmy here after he played basketball,
but she knew nothing and was excited. She looked all around
and yelled out Jimmy’s name. What was going on? Something
was not right - and it was getting dark.
She took her first step into the park and felt something squishy
give underneath the sole of her new expensive shoes that she
had bought for the occasion. Before she could get upset she
noticed that it was a gummy bear that she had stepped on, and
two feet in front of that one lay another bear. And two feet in
front of that one lay another. She followed the path of candy
with her eyes and submitted to his clever antics. A path of her
favorite candy to what seemed to be a baseball field - this was
all over her head. The night seemed to quickly set in on the
park as the sun peaked over a small hill. Madison somehow
thought that Jimmy was forcing the sun to set in pace with her
steps. Its light blinded her view of the field and she stumbled a
bit as she tried to see if Jimmy was on a horse or some other
ridiculous contraption. Madison found balance on a water
fountain at the foot of the field. She fixed her shoes and
supported herself by placing her hand in the cool metal plate
with a small pool of water that made her sleeve damp. Madison
shook her wrist vigorously and saw that the water had not
stopped pouring out. Right as she tried to fix it while
simultaneously drying her shirt, she heard the sound of music
coming from the field. She had never heard the song before,
but it was familiar to her and it made her grin. Jimmy had an
obsession with old music and always found it hysterical when
they were in the car listening to one of her CD’s and then the
voice of Barry Manilow would follow whatever pop song that
had been playing. Every time, Madison would start shifting
frantically in her seat and fidgeting with the disc. Finally she
would realize that Jimmy had made a duplicate of her Maroon
5 album and inserted the love ballad Mandy. It was one of
those cute memories that her girlfriends would giggle at when
she depicted the event at sleepovers. Few sounds like a big
orchestra and his voice brought some many memories. She left
the water overflowing.
Madison pulled at the gate to the fence that surrounded the
sand and grass field. All things seemed to come together at that
very moment as she stepped towards him in beat with the
music which kept getting louder with every step. A mist settled
down around them creating an angelic atmosphere. She looked
at the candlelit dinner that had been set up on the pitcher’s
mound on a small green card table. Behind the second base lay
a blanket covered with small stuffed pink bears of all sizes and
types. Gifts lay wrapped, and she already knew that under the
paper were presents that would be too wonderful for her accept
without becoming over emotional. Madison was convinced at
times like this that her boyfriend had some special relationship
with the universe that allowed all these unbelievable
occurrences to work so perfectly.
He floated towards and swiftly wrapped his arms around her
waist. His grip was locking and she was so taken that she did
not even notice that the were dancing. As the song reached its
climax with every instrument climbing to its highest note,
Jimmy whispered three words into her ear and let his lips graze
along her cheek until they met hers. He pulled away for a
second and she reached for his touch. Already overwhelmed,
she heard the igniting of a fuse. Bright lights went off behind
their bodies and the loud thunder of fireworks echoed
throughout the park. He had set off the fireworks, he had made
the dinner, he had taken the sun down and made the moon
glow. He had no trouble with the words, they poured like
poetry, but she would never be able to express everything that
she felt. Was it that something that he always spoke of every
time he saw her. She believed in it, now. She somethinged him
- but she somethinged him completely, and forever.
They are Beige
He was little. He was frail. Tommy could not play t-ball and
had never gone trick or treating. At one time, he could read of
life and of coming of age, but his boyhood was restricted and
timed. His eyes were barely slits now and film had glazed over
them in layers. Everything was dark and still.
Doctor Mackie is what the children would call him, even
though he was not a doctor and hated his last name. Tommy
had become his favorite. Mackie spent all of his free time
sitting in Tommy’s room, usually on the hospital bed, reading
stories of great adventures like Peter Pan while holding his
hand. His parents at one time visited Tommy every day, but
that was in the beginning, and Doctor Mackenzie had seen this
sad story a hundred times before.
Mackie leaned over in bed and shared his anxieties for this
boys life with his girlfriend, Isabella. Everything in his life felt
trivial and fleeting when compared to this beautiful boy dying.
It felt wrong, but he could not see why. The death of a child
was always terrible, but it was different. It was formulaic: a
child can never die in order to ensure a happy ending. There
was never an explanation for that story technique, but it was
common knowledge, common courtesy, like flashing your high
beams to warn drivers about a upcoming speeding trap.
Isabella did not understand what he was talking about,
especially at this hour in the night. It was the second child this
year that her boyfriend had become close friends with, but in
the end, it dies. Did he feel that he had a responsibility or did
her actually enjoy these miniature connections?
She felt so heartless and wrong for thinking it, but she did think
it and always had felt that way. Her boyfriend’s fixation with
death was something she thought a lot of people in his
profession dealt with, but that did not make her comfortable
with his obsession.
It should be routine. They come to die. They come to die.
She had not meant to say that out loud, especially to interrupt
him. It was quiet. It was completely dark until that morning.
Tommy was so different and unique. He listened. Most of the
other patients typically complained about their ailments and
cried for more medicine, but Tommy just lay there, receptive to
her every word.
Doctor Mackenzie spoke of his breakup, his lost family,
disconnected past while sitting on Tommy’s beige plastic bed.
Tommy had never experienced any of these things and
Mackenzie stopped himself, not wanting to discourage the boy,
he got back to Peter Pan. Tommy needed stories about
victorious youth and love. The doctor needed the book, he was
great at telling stories, but he was always unable to tell an
isolated event, and thus a beautiful story would run into
something not perfect. He would trail off the plot and leave
them both searching for answers - but they had none.
Doctor Mackenzie began to spend all of his free time with
Tommy. After he finished Peter Pan for the fourth time, there
were puzzles and board games. Mackenzie would roll the dice
for Tommy and move the metal hat on the Monopoly board,
and both enjoy the mornings, afternoons and nights they spent
together.
It was Tommy’s thirteenth birthday, and Mackenzie had
brought in things from his home to make the frigid room cozy.
He hated the pale whites and yellows, the light browns. He
never understood why the hospital had to look so grim. Was it
to remind the children of their fatal outcome, some sort of sick
joke the designers had when painting the building? Why not
bright, with blues and greens. Most of these children were
dying and the thought of beige being Tommy’s last memory
truly was painful.
He brought in his baseball card collection to show Tommy, and
late into the evening he told stories of the Babe and Mickey
Mantle. Every card had a glorious story behind it, filled with
lore and myth that everyone thought was true, but no one had
anyway of knowing, especially Tommy who had never seen
these heroes, but dreamt of them. Mackenzie fell asleep
holding Tommy’s hand in the chair next to his bed.
He woke up two hours later in a pool of drool on Tommy’s
bed. Doc Mackenzie cleared his throat and put away the cards.
He went down the hallway to get some coffee and saw
Tommy’s family come through the front doors. Immediately
Mackenzie turned around and settled himself in a chair across
the doorway to Tommy’s room so he could watch the family.
He observed every move they made, ensuring the young boy’s
safety. He was disturbed by this visit, as it was rare that the
negligent family would visit their maimed son.
Mackenzie came in after the family left and returned to his
comfortable chair next to Tommy, where the boy’s ignorant
mother had been sitting and pulled out a book. Jack and the
Beanstalk was another favorite of the duo. Before he began to
read, he noticed Tommy’s chest slowly rise and fall. He must
have watched it for hours on different days, but that moment,
something was different. A small wheezing crept out of the
boy’s mouth. Mackenzie leaned over to see if he could hear
what the boy was trying to say.
Tommy’s eyes shot open for the first time in two years, ripping
his atrophied body out of its nightmarish comatose state.
Finally he had escaped the darkness, but things were far from
normal. Something was very wrong. His entire body began to
tense up and violently shake. His mouth opened and closed,
like he was biting nothing in the air, and a crack ran through
one of the big teeth until it was struck from the gum and
followed by a rush of blood as a piece of the tongue was bitten
off. Tommy turned to the right and saw a man in a white coat.
Was he in a hospital? What the hell was going on?
“Mackenzie to main desk. Mackenzie to main desk.”
Rebecca had just had her left leg amputated, but apparently
there were still multiple problems with an infection. He
wheeled her to the beige room, but could not stay. She had
family, friends and connections. She was also going to leave.
Rebecca wanted nothing to do with an aging nurse that liked
being called Doctor. Mackenzie gathered his baseball cards and
children stories, took down the paintings and put away the
board games. Mackenzie did not want to listen.
Tommy flat lined and died with whispers of a boy climbing
from the voice of a complete stranger. They were holding
hands.
People Get Mad For Not
Jimmy was not an only child. He had two younger brothers that
looked nothing like him. His grandmother called them Satan’s
helpers, a loving pet name that only a grandmother could give
to her grandchildren. The name was fitting as they truly reeked
havoc around the house. Sounds of smashing glass would
reverberate off the walls and hit Jimmy’s mother who’s
reaction to accidents had become a reflex over time. The boys
would be waiting by some precious plate they had broken until
someone with authority would come by and give them a
chastising. As soon as the two boys would hear something
spoken in a tone of disapproval, they would dance around like
the imps they were, proud of their success. Their mother could
never truly yell at her beautiful baby boys, so Jimmy always
found her outrage directed at him. He had learned to deal with
it at this point. If he left the toilet seat up, he would get an hour
lecture and punished for a week. It was fortunate that Jimmy
rarely slipped up.
Jimmy could not sleep in his room most nights. The noise of
his two younger brothers wheezing kept him awake. He would
go out of their room and past his parents bedroom and down
the stairs past his grandmother’s room, which used to be a den,
and into the kitchen where he would eat a bowl of frosted
flakes and listen on his AM radio for stations in foreign
languages. It was peaceful - listening to a story and not having
to follow a plot.
“You wouldn’t believe what just happened.”
Tom burst into Jim’s kitchen through the basement door. There
was open window so neighborhood cats could come in from
the cold, not so his neighbor could come in to see Jim at three
in the morning. Tom shoved his hand into the cereal box and
drank the milk from Jim’s bowl. He was bleeding.
“What the hell happened to your eye?”
It was a long story. It was always a long story. Tom loved his
adventures. A trip to the deli somehow became a crusade for
freedom in the fight for turkey wraps. Despite the stupidity and
sometimes outrageousness and oversimplifications, the stories
were always amusing. Before Tom could start, he explained
that they needed to leave and that he would tell it to him in the
car. Only Jim could drive.
They got into the back of Jim’s truck. It was really his dad’s
construction truck, but on the weekdays he got to use it. There
was a decal on the back window of a wolf. Jimmy’s father
laughed when he saw the sticker and heard that it was the
symbol of Jimmy‘s gang. Although his mother was concerned,
both parents agreed that it was good that Jimmy was making
friends again.
Jimmy changed friends by the season. He never stayed with
one group for any long period of time. Whether it was a
incident with a girl or a cop, Jim’s pride or intolerance would
stir up a fire that would end in typically a fight in which Jim
would beat the life out of many people at the same time. People
around school called them rage blackouts, but Jim’s knew that
he was more focused than ever when he would beat someone
who crossed him.
The Wolfpack as not the run-of-the-mill gang. In fact, they
were not really a gang. The 47th Street Spics. That was a gang.
The 48th Street Shits. That was a gang. Two competing gangs
that coexisted violently next to each other in the downtown
area of Howell. The two streets were ghettoes of Hispanics and
blacks - both hated the world, but mostly they hated each other.
Real war had gone on between the two groups for two years.
Three members had died in the later part of the year. They
were legit.
No one knew whether the mayor was racist, or was just
frightened, or perhaps he did not want to risk the lives of good
cops for worthless teens that would only ever amount to
heckling women and then dying somewhere. Somewhere in
that combo there was eating and sleeping. The town would not
even flinch when any of them did anything. People were
indifferent to their childish graffiti and other petty acts of
vandalism. And that aggravated Jim. It really got to him.
It was only when a five year old was shot in the crossfire that
autumn did the county react. She was young, white, and
promising. She was raped of love and charity - the doting of
her grandparents and the embarrassment of adolescence.
Nothing epitomized purity and innocence better than a young
girl. There was a cry for action and it was urgent. Donations
poured in for funding the campaign against gang violence. The
mayor spoke of battles to be fought and guaranteed results. He
would not rest until the gangs were put to rest. Two black guys
were arrested and the police bought new uniforms.
Jim’s father had tacked the black and white photo that was in
the newspaper of the policemen in the new uniforms with bold
letters stating killers caught. They were not killers. Reality was
that no one ever intended to go that far. They were pissed off,
high school graduates that never made it to college and
somehow over time had gotten switchblades and automatics.
Loitering became more than a habit, but the only option.
Unemployment provided time for nothing. Sitting on the stairs
of the local church, watching kids play ball in the park,
gambling - they began to run low on options. It was too easy
for people to ignore them. Parents taught their children to
avoid eye contact with them in order to avoid danger. They
started to ask people questions, heckle the newspaper man,
blow kisses at women, swear at the passing students. No one
really challenged them - no one cared.
People wanted an outlet when something like this happened. A
quick fall man. The photo was settling and reassuring, but not
as reassuring as the faces of the perpetrators behind bars. It was
over as far as the town was concerned. The gangs still crowded
corners and vacant strip malls. They hung outside the movie
theatre. The police stopped looking and everyone seemed to
move on. They had nicer uniforms, everyone slept peacefully
at night.
Jimmy followed Tom down a staircase unconsciously, lost in
thought, mimicking his leader’s footsteps. The cellar was filled
with cold, red faces. The Wolfpack was pissed. Ten members
were on the township baseball team, two were from the
Borough and Jim and Tom were from the suburbs. Over the
last two years the kids had come together and now rarely
traveled without one another. Everyone knew who they were-
the guys in the back of a pickup truck drinking beer, students
who would skip class to sit in the parking lot, the token
jackasses of the town. The group would typically move from
house to house on the weekends and get trashed, hook up with
townies and fight. Because they had numbers, it was easy to
steal the thunder and remain unchallenged. Tonight Jim found
out that apparently there was an agenda to the club, a purpose
beyond the partying.
Fresca stood on top of stool, dressed in black, and preaching to
the boys, his men. Fresca had started the gang two years back.
He was skinny and always wore a broken wristwatch. His hair
was black and gelled so every hair stood alone on his steaming
head. There was no reasoning behind the apparition that
inspired his creation - just teenage guy stuff, like his parents
said. Fresca was red from screaming, as was the group, who
echoed their leader. A thicker version of his older brother stood
shadowing Fresca, pounding his fist overdramatically to get the
point. His name was Cheatcodes. He was younger and perhaps
more dangerous for his unquestioning faith in his delinquent
brother. Fresca spoke of violence, and immediate counter-
attack, blood from both of the gangs.
His younger sister was walking home from school earlier that
day and passed by the old church. She was carrying home a
book from class, the first book she was assigned to bring home
for work. The feeling was exhilarating. She was excited about
work.
“They called her fucking Mama Sita”
Fresca either had a good sense of humor or he had completely
lost any grasp that he had once had on reality. He burst into an
uncontrollable laughter right after he told the account that had
taken place earlier between his giddy sister and the parasites
that had infested his town for too long. The 48’s and 47’s were
going to pay. The Hispanic or black guys who were probably
not members of any gangs but just happened to be a minority
and hang out in groups became the enemy. They were yelling
at girls and Fresca was not in the mood to let this go
unpunished. No only parties and girls, but now vandalism
would be added to the list. They would establish themselves as
a true gang. Jim wanted to fight them there and now. He did
not know why the feeling had come, but he wanted to beat
them until they stopped bleeding. A foul image shot through
his head and caused shivers to run down his spine. Fresca
yelled at Jim to get his car ready. Jim did not have a cool
nickname.
A three car caravan ran down the main street and into the part
of the neighborhood that no one ever went to anytime of the
day or night without fearing for their lives. People told stories
of vicious crimes and dangerous assailants, but Jimmy could
not remember anything that had ever happened in these parts.
They were just broken down dual lexes that were for low
income families. There was an occasional tire and mattress
tactfully placed as if for a movie shooting for a scene in the
stereotypical bad neighborhood, but it was so tightly compact,
it actually had a cozy feel. During the day kids of those
assailants played stickball in the streets while their criminal
fathers cooked on the grill outside. It was quiet until the roar
of the engines stormed down the road.
They pulled onto 47th Street, home of the Hispanic gang and
jumped out of the cars. Jimmy waited in the truck as Fresca led
four guys to spray paint 48’s on the cars. Cheatcodes brought
three guys with him as they ran over to 48th Street and spray
painted all of the cars in that parking lot with 47’s. Despite all
of the screaming, no one seemed to wake up. Within ten
minutes, the caravan was headed to the twenty-four hour diner
to celebrate their masterful plan over some burgers and fries.
Tom was called Beamer. There really was no reason why, but
Jimmy could remember kids calling him that back in fourth
grade. Tom had moved next to Jimmy in the fourth grade from
the Borough. Tom played baseball on the township team, and
from the fifth grade on had a group of talented handsome
friends, all in love with themselves. Tom never had a serious
side, but whenever something serious would come up, he
would leave the gang and go talk to his neighbor, who was
more of a loner. Two years ago, the group he had hung out
with his whole life decided to give themselves a name. Jim was
the only new member to the pack. Tom argued for him
mentioning his honor, loyalty and brute strength. No one really
cared, they just wanted to party.
“And God bless those of us who have had bad judgment in the
very recent past.” Jim’s mother had a very effective way of
never getting too specific in order to spare Jim the
embarrassment in front of his family and God. He felt as
though she was staring at him through her tightly shut eyelids.
She closed them as if she saw God while she was talking to
him, she would go blind. Jimmy coughed to try to cover up his
laughter at the image. His mother darted a glare at her eldest
son and continued her player louder and even more directly at
the sinner. He was used to it by now.
On three different occasions this month had prayer been
directed at Jimmy, but now it was in front of the extended
family, too. Jim had a way of always putting himself in the
wrong places at the wrong times, routinely once a week. As he
now reflected on how getting caught out late was blasphemous,
he also thought back on how this did not even compare to the
last two prayers. Last time his parents found him laying on the
stoop as they were going to church. He was drunk and half
naked. However, even better than that was the time he had
gotten a ticket for being in the park at night. It was one in the
morning when the cop car pulled along side the truck with
steamy windows. The officer knew the plates, he had gone to
high school with the boy’s father. The cop went up to the
window, tapped on the glass and started to laugh. Jim heard a
noise, and even though he had been making out with his
girlfriend, a part of him was thinking that someone had
followed him. He thought they would find him. Jim saw the
shadow in the window and kicked open the door without giving
any warning and hit the figure directly in the crotch, stunning
him. He slid out of the seat and prepared to fight in his boxers
and socks, and saw it was Officer Paxton. Jim did not even try
to apologize. He turned around and put on his pants. He knew
he was going to hear about this one long after he died.
“And God help Jimmy find the life of righteousness again.”
His younger cousin kept laughing with the repeating prayers in
an attempt to save Jimmy. The kid started tapping on the table
in a consistent rhythm. At first Jimmy listened to the pulsation
to distract himself, but now it was getting to him. There was
significance to this sound. Something had happened.
“What the fuck happened to my goddamn car?”
His father shouted it more as a declaratory statement than a
question. The old man had blood pumping through his veins
again. He wanted revenge. He wanted answers. They both did.
Jim jumped to his feet and ran past his dad to look out the
window. It was there. How could this all be happening?
He was scared - terrified by his father, his mother, her God,
and the band of Hispanic and black kids that had come by
overnight and literally turned his truck into scrap metal.
Shattered glass and chunks of machinery lay across the front
lawn. And there, in bright yellow spray paint on the driveway
where the car had once been were two numbers - two pairs of
numbers. Both of them. The symbol of the Wolfpack that had
once been on the truck was stabbed in his front door.
“That’s fucking awesome! We are legit now. If those shits
want a fight they got it.”
He added a couple more profane words at the end of his rant
and the all the boys in the basement let out a huge cry. The
attack on Jim’s car was a victory for the group somehow and
they celebrated it. Jim was in the corner with his heads in his
hands. He let it sink between his legs like a dead weight.
Fresca continued his speech of great purpose.
Jimmy’s head clouded with two competing voices. He kept
hearing a stream of vulgar and violent descriptions while the
booming voice of his father resounded in his ear. Both sounds
shook his head. His life was over. Until graduation, he was not
permitted to leave the house unsupervised. After he got his
diploma, he was out of the house. His father might have just
been overreacting, but he still needed to leave. He heard
Cheatcodes scream about fighting back. Jim ignored it. Fresca
wanted to take the town back.
Jimmy heard Fresca. He wanted his life back. He wanted to go
to the movies with his girlfriend and not feel violated. He
wanted to get ice-cream late at night and not be scared. Hw
wished he had been waiting with gun to blow the fuckers
away.
Jimmy stood up and forgot his mother and father and
remembered all the little important things that actually
mattered to him alone.
“I am gonna fuck them up cold!”
They all answered with a shout and then rushed towards the
door. Four station wagons sped down the silent street on that
Saturday night. It was awkwardly barren. It was empty, except
for the 7-11. The neon sign shined light onto the bikes in the
otherwise vacant parking lot. Two Hispanic guys were sitting
on the curb drinking beers in beaters. The four cars screeched
to a stop on their feet. Every single member of the Wolfpack
got out of the car a rhythmically began to beat the two kids.
Jim made his way to the front connected with one of the guys.
He pulled the kid’s head up as he straddled the son of a bitch
for another punch. It was a massacre. They only got one swing
off. As the gang waited in anticipation to see Jim lay a finally
deathly blow, holding his opponent’s head by the hair, as the
other guy slammed a crowbar into Jimmy’s upper arm,
spraying blood onto his face. He immediately went pale. He
could feel his body pound. He looked at the metal implement
lodged into his arm and then to the mob beating on the enemy
that had nailed him and finally back to the unconscious guy he
was pounding on - pounding into the asphalt. He slowed down.
He knew who the kid was, and he did not care if he was in a
gang or not. The Hispanic kid had history class with Jimmy.
He fist ceased to strike the classmate. He remembered carrying
a table with him in 8th grade - an odd image to remember.
Jimmy stopped and everything went black.
Breaking Silence*
“Five Dead In Greenwich”
Father Mackenzie stood at the dock overlooking a small stream
at the edge of his small town. A graveyard hovered behind him,
which even now, at three in the morning, was in the shadow of
the church. He stood on the four or five planks of this
miniature dock that sometimes his nephews would fish off. He
dropped the newspaper onto his feet.
“Our Father, who art in heaven…”
For the first time, the Lord’s Prayer seemed to have an effect
on him. The Reverend had always loved that prayer. He loved
all prayers - the idea that God was listening. Father Mackenzie
laughed out loud just to break the silence. Perhaps this is why
this career choice was obvious for him but baffled all others.
The pastor played opposites and enjoyed only the unexpected.
The newspaper had landed with the black and white
configuration of dots that formed five elementary students
staring into the man’s pious face. He puzzled for a moment
about how they were smiling and dead. At least they were
happy once, but that still didn’t stop the scratching feeling in
his stomach or give him an excuse. He thought he would have
rather died at that age, when the color of the leaves matter. His
friends called him Jimmy. Father Mackenzie wore a sterile
collar and a choking black cloak. No one called him Jimmy
anymore.
Jimmy held the hand of his four year girlfriend and high school
sweetheart, Sally Wincott. They smiled with their cheeks
pressed together for one last photo after graduation. After the
flash went off, Jimmy took his time opening his eyes. He
looked all around Sally’s face scanning for something. He saw
her looking deep into his eyes, he could see that this was the
day. They got into his blue Chevy Apalla and drove north to
the town they had picked out on a map two weeks earlier,
arbitrarily. They both would find work during the summer and
Sally would start college in the fall while Jimmy would
continue to pay the rent. The thought of real life sent a chill
down his spine. He had always heard of the expression, but he
had never really experienced the sensation before. Jimmy
gently swerved in the road while he checked to see if the tiny
black box was still in his pocket.
Father Mackenzie plucked at his collar with his index finger.
He started to press his tongue into the back of his teeth until it
was raw. An small flame had formed in the pit of his stomach
that had not been conjured since high school. The reverend’s
stare into the ripples of water became more intense as if he was
looking past the surface and into the abyss that should never be
explored, especially after the sun goes down. The anger inside
him was so fresh. It aroused him. It scared him. He steadied his
breath. Apparently God could still smoother the puny spark,
but could never kindle the flame.
Jimmy drank from the water fountain outside the motel he had
rented for the evening. He had already run out of cash and it
was only his second day away from home. Jimmy laughed out
loud and bit his tongue to get the taste of dirt out of his mouth.
Home wasn’t left or right, and it definitely wasn’t behind the
beige door that led to his empty apartment with cold, stiff
sheets. He had left home and now that feeling of home had left
him. Everything he owned was in his Apalla with a full tank of
gas. The sense of displacement was a swelling sensation that
sparked the urge to drive. He was free from obligation, from
remorse, from everything that had defined his homely life.
Lacking direction or a sight of destination, Jimmy peeled out of
a vacant parking lot and began to drive furiously wherever the
road would take him. It just made sense.
“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”
“I don’t know, but I might have raped my girlfriend.”
In the confession booth Jimmy laughed at how absurd the
fragment sounded as it resonated in the his ears and through the
mesh to the shadow figure that seemed to wince in response.
He had not stuttered or slurred it, the phrase poured from his
steady lips like poetry he had practiced for months. Sally had
fallen asleep on his shoulder. He tapped her gently and ran his
fingers through her hair and then down her face until they fell
upon her hand. Her turned off the ignition and Sally flinched
and then yawned, which made her face scrunch up like she was
sucking on something sour - this was his favorite face. Jimmy
got out of the car and opened her door. They approached the
beige door that was covered with scuffs and had pieces
missing, but in the moonlight, it shined like glitter. Hand over
hand they twisted the key until they heard the click which
caused both to stop and gasp as they tried to salvage the lost air
from their apartment. He held out his hand and led her through
the threshold of their new home. Inside lay nothing and
everything.
He loved her. She loved him. He began to kiss her on the
shoulder as she started to talk about what painting she could
hang here and what picture she would put there. A certain
vitality began to resonate from her that brought life that
aroused Jimmy from the numb state that driving for hours had
made him feel. He loved her and she loved him.
They had never spent the night together, or at least never alone.
They both tried to avoid the awkwardness as they both got
undressed on opposite sides of the bed staring directly in front
of them, with such focus as to not be able to see each other.
Each of them slide underneath the covers and they kissed.
Jimmy joked that she would have to do the unpacking the next
day. She laughed. He wanted to kiss her. She kissed him back
and grasped his bare back with her strong fingers. He couldn’t
wait and she wasn’t’ ready.
Remembering back to the day he stumbled into this off road
without a cent to his name and only that he could say was his
was a blue Apalla that was now more of a gray that lay ten
miles up the road, probably still steaming now. Reverend
Mackenzie smiled as he reminisced about the time he had
tumbled into this very church and into the very booth he was
in, just on the other side. Father Mackenzie had not seen the
man enter, but a voice startled him as it began to tell a story.
Mackenzie listened carefully hoping to help the young man, as
the previous preacher had helped him. The man across the
booth paused to clear his throat and message his neck.
“Forgive me father for I have sinned”
The children were dead. Five flower smelling, freeze tag
playing and Popsicle licking kids were strangled, maimed and
sliced up in a variety of ways, and the man explained it with
such poise and calming detail. He stared across the mesh into
this dark figure of a beast. The shield that had kept him sterile,
fought emotions and suffocated passion scratched at his
surface. He saw images of his dead nephew in a coffin. His
crying relatives. Father remained calm as the religious
counselor for the family. For the first time he saw his nephew
and he hated that it was because of this animal. His nephew
smothered the love of God. Father Mackenzie hated. And he
fought it.
He stayed silent.
“May God be with you.”
He walked away. The Reverend told himself that he needed
oxygen, which was true, but he really needed to get a good
look at the fucker. He leaned out the door and saw the back of
head. Father Mackenzie tugged at his collar to scream out for
help. That’s him! He could stop the killer. Be man’s hero. Be
his own hero for a change and laugh at God out loud. But the
collar got tighter and choked the flame out of his neck. The
pastor gathered composure and returned to his dark box.
Hail Mary
Full of Grace
Grab his leg
Stab his face
Father Mackenzie stood on the dock where his nephew used to
fish off of in the spring. It was almost four and it was finally
decided that Jimmy was wrong and God was right. Now that it
was resolved, he leaned over and picked up the newspaper that
had almost been blown away by a gentle nearly-morning
breeze. He smoothed out the new creases and placed it under
his arm. The shadow from the church had finally reached the
dock and the Reverend could feel its warmth.
Father Mackenzie undid the top button of his nephew’s Sunday
shirt and took one last look at the peaceful boy right before he
pushed the lifeless body into the vastly consuming stream.
Water splashed for a second, then it was gone. Reverend
Mackenzie walked away from the dock and saw a drop of
water on his newspaper and laughed at God out loud - laughed
with God just to break the silence.
Breaking the Silence
Breaking the Silence was the title to all of James Mackenzie’s
journals and other written documents. A symbol that had once
been thought to be just an arbitrary black spot found in all of
his work is now understood to be what he used to represent:
“silence.” He felt that writing and drawing were, in a way,
breaking that silence and was discussed in some of his other
work. It should be mentioned that he felt words were
inadequate for conveying moments and emotion in entirety. As
strong as the evidence is that James Mackenzie did commit acts
of homicide, there are still no other records or clues besides his
graphic writings. Because of his numerous bazaar fictitious
accounts that he claims to be true are also within his diary,
nothing can be taken very seriously. James Mackenzie lived a
modest life according to his congregation, but according to
himself, there was a lot left untold.
The following is a collection of certain selected poetry, diary
entries, drawings and an incomplete story from the documents
of James Mackenzie that is currently located in the library in
Freehold.1
1 128 Mayberry Street, Monmouth County Archives, Freehold Library,
Freehold, NJ 05483
a Goodnite
As she giggled again, her face danced in and out of the light.
The moon thrust through the intrepid night and refracted on
the omniscient windshield in strange patterns of blue and
white. They played tricks on players’ expressions and created
borderline obsessions. He could tell by the way his mind had
begun to rhyme that it had to be late. He wanted to look at the
clock, he wanted to listen to the radio, but everything besides
her breathing became background noise – a distracting white
noise that had once been his life. He could not pull his eyes
away, not even to steal a glance at the stars just to confirm that
he was right to marvel in her eyes and her eyes alone. How
could someone so small, so tiny that when she brought her
knees to her chest he could hold her like a little ball, be so
consuming, so overwhelming, so fulfilling. Her overpowering
heartbeat catered to his and together, in unison, they resounded
out of his car and around her deserted street. It filled the night.
It truly did.2
2 Taken from a journal entry dated the February of his eighteenth year. It is
assumed it is about his long-term girlfriend Madison Heart, but among
many of his records, evidence was found that he did partake in other brief
relationships either mentally or physically.
____________________________ Madison Elizabeth Heart was the only known girlfriend of James Mackenzie. She attended the same high school as James, but had few friends, possibly due to her time spent exclusively
with James. Her life before and after Mackenzie has no unusual patterns. She attended Rutgers
University after four years with a BA in finance. She worked for thirty years and then moved back with her mother and took the house after her mother’s passing. She resided there until her
own death five years later. It is unknown why the couple broke up in the summer after high
school. Classmates assumed they were getting married. The records seem to indicate that perhaps a rape or assault occurred. No one was charged, and thus there is no other evidence to
indicate that or otherwise.
blue Eyes3
I was staring at the dead phone in my hand for more
than an hour and the numbers still refused to be pushed. I
looked down at the crumpled piece of paper with the blue ink
smudged onto the palm of my hand. Sweat had made the
elegant script into tainted, unreadable figures. Ignoring
memorization, I created another excuse not to call the girl from
the party. Then the phone came to life, dancing in my hand,
and I answered having to clear my throat to get rid of the
evident fear in my voice. I had spoken to this girl at a party
comfortably and confidently only worried by how soon she
would have to leave. At my friend’s house, I found myself in
an awkward situation. Two of my guy friends and their
girlfriends were off in other places of the house, and I had
3 What seems to be an autobiographical account of a relationship. Although
research shows that James Mackenzie only dated Madison Heart, this entry,
if accepted as true, would provide evidence otherwise. Taken from his
childhood journal (8th grade through the 12th)
found myself alone in the basement talking to an older girl
from another school about movies. Discovering that we had
many things in common, my interest started to grow. I looked
up at the clock and noticed that the party would soon end. I
feared that when she left, I would never see her again, which
actually reassured me at first. I became overwhelmed with fear
in her presence, even though I enjoyed being with her.
Watching her walk away, a feeling of sadness and safety ran
through me. Now I found myself stuttering and slurring,
reaching in my empty recollections and creating intangible
stories of a fictional past to try to impress her. Though I knew
Tracy4 had enjoyed my company, I had convinced myself she
had forgotten me immediately the moment I left the sight of
her blazing blue eyes. I regained my confidence, stood up, and
paced back and forth in my room creating a small valley in the
blue rug under my stumbling feet. While she humored me by
giggling during stories not worthy of her time, I lost track of
where I was going. Returning to reality, I heard the words that
answered my prayers that I had been making for years to god
of lonely teenage boys. I hung up the phone and prepared
myself for the most stressful and feared night that I had look
forward to my whole life.5
I presented myself to my family, who was also getting
ready to go out for the evening, searching for a ride. Breaking
into a sweat I tried to explain how this life altering and all
4 Tracy Harden resided in the exact location that Mackenzie describes;
however died before anyone could inquire of her relationship to James, so
validity of the relationship is still questionable. 5 His common overstatements and exaggerations recur throughout his
writing; one of the trademarks of his style
important event was none of their business, however, they had
no choice but to give me a ride. I was above everyone else,
leaving all earthly things inferior in my mind.6 A girl higher in
social status, age and beauty brought my ego to a throne only
filled by the blind, ruling kings.7 Forcing my dad drop me off
at the beginning of the block so I could walk the rest of the way
not only confused my dad, but troubled my own sense of
confidence. Staring in the sidewalk, avoiding the cracks, I
tried to plan what I would say. I attempted to decide between
‘hi’ and ‘hello,’ but got distracted by the street sign. I turned
onto Sycamore Lane8, the street where Tracy lived. Chills ran
down my arms and I put them in my pockets. Returning to the
sidewalk, I grew more nervous and began to work up a sweat.
With my head still buried in the ground, I almost did not
realized I was standing at the stairway leading up to the
apartment where she lived.9 Stalling as I walked up the
staircase, I made thirty seconds into an eternity. Exhausted and
out of breath at the top of the stairs, I was greatly rewarded
with an overwhelming hug that sucked the only remaining air
out of my chest. Then she grabbed me by the hand and led me
into her house and out of my world.
She had already planned the whole day, which kept the
two of us busy enough to prevent any awkward moments from
6 Many times, James reflects within his writing on his actions at the time,
rather than his thoughts in those moments. 7 This allusion seems childish, and would suggest that James is young at the
time of the composition 8 Street address located in the Avalon Boulevard Complex
9 Living in the top level of one of these dual lexes indicates that Tracy is
from a low income family, which is accurate
occurring, for most of the evening. Sitting in her family room,
we discussed each other’s hopes, dreams, regretted pasts and
improbable futures. As talking became flirting during a game
of Scrabble, I realized how much we actually did have in
common. While pondering this revelation, I looked at a series
of useless letters and tried to sneak a fake word onto the board,
subtly trying to get caught. She pounced on me and we began
to wrestle across her small family room floor. Finally, after I
was pined, surrendering to her gentle grasp, I caught glimpse of
those blazing blue eyes that hooked me into a constant longing
for a life I had never known. Before this romantic moment
could turn awkward, the sound of a car pulling in at the foot of
the staircase broke into the sphere of our world. Tracy’s mom
introduced herself and then gave the keys to her daughter.
Apparently the mom’s boyfriend was picking her up and we
could have the car, but we were limited to the movie store.
Rental Star10, the local renting chain, was only down
four or five blocks from Tracy’s house, which I had been a
frequent regular to for years, but this trip was by far the best of
all. Walking in, I realized how out of place we looked.
Acknowledging that this night was a huge event in my life, I
dressed in formal clothing, but still kept, what I thought to be, a
casual-cool look. Dressed in a glossy blue collard shirt and
dark dress pants, I was more than just over dressed with Tracy
by my side. She was wearing only some pajama pants with
small dogs circling her legs and a baggy shirt that was
obviously sized for a bigger person. While it was evident she
had put no effort into her appearance, I was still awed as were
many of the employees. Her natural beauty was resilient. The
10
Actual video rental store in Howell, NJ
lack of makeup, the uncombed hair and disheveled clothing all
became part of the pureness that made me comfortable and still
left me wondering how she was so simple and yet complex at
the same time. The way she let her bangs hang down and the
mass of hair that was shoveled to one side where she had slept
the night before captured my imagination. I watched her chest
rise as she took a short breath and the way she cupped her
mouth when she sneezed and I realized this is what had been
missing from my life. I could not understand why my parents
had shielded me from this feeling of absolute happiness. As I
continued to examine every detail of Tracy, all other trivial
things left my world. I found rest in her blazing blue eyes that
had once made me quiver, but now I had become addicted.
Simply and complexly, I was in love.11
The trip down the four blocks to her house became a
blur as now I was fixated on her presence. She had rented a
terrible old horror film, that she had no intention of watching.
We sat down on her couch at opposite ends and began the
gruesome, fake horror film from the 70’s. In my mind, I knew
exactly what was going to happen next. Never having been in
a situation with a girl next to me on a couch during a horror
movie, I still knew that this situation was the perfect “make
out” situation. Starting out on separate parts of the couch, I
started to break out into a cold sweat, constantly glancing to
my right to see Tracy’s actions. Becoming frustrated with my
lack of aggressiveness, she slowly inched her way closer to me
on the couch. Even though I wanted her to get closer to me,
the anticipation and lack of my own courage froze me in a state
of paralysis. Somehow she had worked her way over to
11
Another moment of sappy, exaggerated romantics
literally on top of me, and yet I still could not get enough
oxygen to my brain so I could take her in my arms. Finally,
my head found a way to face her, and as my head turned, I
could feel her cool breath running down my neck, then my
cheek, then directly on my lips. I stared, unmoving from her
eyes that were only inches away. In her eyes, I could see that
she was patiently waiting for me to lean in to kiss her.
Convinced she desired my contact, I was still scared of
rejection. I finally sputtered out a fragment of a sentence
telling her that she was going to have to make the move on me.
Before finishing the first word, I felt her loose, moist mouth
press against my dry, virginal lips. Invaded with her warmth, I
felt her radiating hands slowly stroke up and down my back.
At last, my arms exploded from my lap and I wrapped Tracy’s
small body into my trembling arms. Loosing my balance, our
entwined bodies collapsed onto her couch. Though I had
already made the move on her, or actually had the move made
on me, my body still was in a state of fear. While making out,
my body shook, I tried desperately to mold my mouth in the
right shape, and take the fewest amount of breaths possible to
allow for the most contact between our lips. The noises of the
world became background music to her breathing.12 The crash
of her coffee table I knocked over and the eternal beep that
played after the credits did not shake our infatuation with one
another. I closed my eyes for what seemed to be a second, but
the banging on the door startled my utopia. Slowly opening
my eyes, I watch her scramble to fix her shirt, the table and
then answer her bedroom door. Returning from her date with a
12
Endless detail indicates that the first kiss was extremely significant. It is
interesting that it was not with Madison, if this account is true.
smug look on her face, Tracy’s mom calmly told me that my
parents were outside waiting for me. Tracy’s mom closed the
door, satisfied with herself knowing the events in what she
thought was her daughter’s simple teenage love life. As I put
my shirt back on, I knew that this was far from a regular
teenage crush of holding hands and slow dances. Though
Tracy’s mom knew the events that had taken place that
evening, she had no idea what had actually happened.
Inside the frame of the door to her apartment, just out of
view of my parents, I held her close to me and kissed her once
more. Hopping down the stairs to the sidewalk, I looked back
four or five times, practically tripping over myself. Entering
my car, my parents released a fury upon me for my actions that
evening. I had not called once that evening when I had
promised to call at least twice to let them know if I was going
to dine with them. Consequentially, they skipped dinner and
decided that after ten o’clock it was time to find me. Saddened
by leaving Tracy and now angered by my parents inability to
understand the insignificance of their hunger compared to the
events of that evening, I attacked my parents. My parents
decided that I was not mature enough and able to have a
girlfriend, so I denied their accusations. Even though I talked
my way out of huge trouble, my parents comment disturbed
me. Despite the fact that my intentions had been to lie to my
parents about Tracy, I might have been telling the truth. After
the evening, I had assumed that we were a couple, but nothing
had been official. She gave no information about her future
intentions, but inside I felt we connected on a bigger level, not
just because she had been my first kiss.
Waiting pensively in my room on my bed, I stared at
the phone. I could not call her. I refused to embarrass myself,
showing how needy I had become. I heard the phone ring after
already slipping into sleep. Adjusting my voice, I answered the
phone. Looking at the clock, I was surprised that it was three
in the morning, but acted as if this natural, carrying on my
conversation. Tracy was in tears on the other line. She began
explaining how her boyfriend had just shown up and they got
into a huge fight. At first, I was confused, but when she said
he had hit her, I grew angry. A vision kept repeating itself in
my head of a man beating upon her as she described it so
vividly. Swelling up with anger, I almost forgot that she had
said the word boyfriend. Throbbing with jealousy, I sat up in
my bed fully awake. Tracy kept screaming hysterically. I
began to raise my voice repeating different questions about
where she was, her boyfriend’s name, and what the status was
of the relationship. Finally, she poured out the words I longed
to hear. She had broken up with Brian Smith for me. I was in
shock. Brian Smith was the captain and quarterback of the
town’s football team.13 Overwhelmed with bliss, I started to
get dressed and told her I would sneak out to see her. I put the
phone down on my bed and began to put on my shoes.
Halfway out the door, I heard the booming voice of my
father and turned around to find two glaring eyes glazed with
disbelief. Looking back, choosing the front door as an exit
point was not the wisest decisions I have made in my life.
Trying to come up with some pitiful excuse about why at three
in the morning I was leaving the house, I found myself
shouting the truth into his face. Overcome with purpose I
stormed out the front door and began walking up my driveway.
13
What is seemingly cliché is actually true. Brian Smith: Varsity
quarterback for two years; co-captain senior year
When I turned right at the end of my driveway, the street was
surprisingly bright. I lived on a main road and my path was
very well lit. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I stared at
the ground watching each foot find its place in front of the
other as I kept widening my stride. When I reached the
intersection, I waited for the walk sign to turn green even
though I could see there were no cars on the road. The muscles
in my neck grew stiff lacking protection from the brisk autumn
wind. My bare arms began to pay the price for my rash
decision-making when I stormed out of the house only thinking
of the pain Tracy was going through. Stepping into the
crosswalk, I started to think of the consequences that my
actions were going to incur. After the third mile, I shook off
the fear of punishment and focused on Sycamore Lane. The
road made one huge loop and joined back to the main road a
mile down from where I was standing. The road had many
twists and turns so the lights could not reveal ever corner and
bend. Rounding the second curve, I saw her, isolated under a
single flickering beam from the streetlight above her. Her head
was shoved between her knees and I could hear a pathetic
whimpering echoing off the surrounding apartments. As I
approached her shaking body, the noise of breaking leaves
under my sneakers pierce the cold silence of the night and
channeled into her ears. Startled, she looked up, finding me in
seconds with a look of terror on her face, as if she were
expecting someone else. I could see a single tear glistening in
the pale light as it ran down her cheek, and she slightly cringed
as in ran over a cut just below her eye. Tracy stood up, still
with a look of disbelief that I, at four in the morning, would
have ventured across town on foot to comfort her, and now
stood only inches from her face. I was overcome with anger
and love and could not find the right words that expressed both
feelings. Tracy looked as if she too wanted to say something,
but was also plagued by the same ailment. Simultaneously, we
grabbed onto each other as if someone was trying to pull us
apart. I pressed my lips to hers and could not find a reason to
stop.
We sat back down on the curb and held each other in
silence until the sun began to rise. Beams of light hit Tracy’s
face directly, causing her face to turn into a beautiful pale
color. The bright light made the bruises disappear, but
accented the large gash on the rim of her cheek. Asleep in my
lap, she looked so peaceful and had obviously forgotten the
night before. I kept picturing what had happened to her and
surprisingly it filled me both anger and happiness. Tracy had
been my one and only, and now I was the only guy in her life.
Breathing in and breathing out, I watched her chest rise and
fall, and felt obligated to always ensure that it did. I stole a
glance at my watch and realized I had an hour to get to school.
Unwilling to disturb her, but well aware of the trouble I was
already in, I slowly edged her head off of my lap and brought it
as gently as I could up to my face. Reluctantly she came out of
her unconscious state and blinked her eyes repeatedly to make
certain that she was actually awake. I kissed her on the lips
and whispered that I had to get to school. She jumped on top
of me and pulled me close to her, not wanting me to go, but
knew I had to leave. I stood up in the street, looked in her
blazing blue eyes, and found the energy to run three miles
home.
I raced through the town in an all out sprint watching it
come alive. A cramp started to grow in my stomach, and with
each additional stride, the pain grew sharper. Passing my
school, I saw my classmates going to breakfast, and I knew I
had to keep running. Finally I turned into my driveway and
collapsed, scraping my head on the coarse cement. A
deafening sound rang through my head as my skull bounced off
the pavement and then returned to the ground. I sudden rush of
adrenaline ran through my body forcing my limbs to thrust my
head up and the rest of me followed, leaving and trail of blood
behind me, I ran through the open front door and ignored my
screaming parents. In my room I changed my shirt, packed up
my unfinished homework and tumbled down stairs just in time
to avoid the questioning of my parents. Passing by their faces,
I walked out the door and into the car, awaiting my dad to take
me to school. Knowing that my dad would not want me to get
into trouble at school, I knew I would only have to take the
accusation for five minutes. The combination of pain and
fatigue made the day useless. Throughout the car ride and the
entire day of school, I could only hear a steady ringing in my
ears and see the image of Tracy’s blue eyes blazing in the dark.
When I returned home from school, my parents were
surprisingly silent. They had received a call from the nurse at
school, telling them I had a concussion and could not play in
that evening’s game. I retreated to my room and did my
homework without even talking to my parents. I called Tracy,
but her mom answered instead. She thanked me for staying
with her daughter all night and told me that she was forever
grateful. As our conversation continued, she told me that she
was planning a surprise party the next week. She had asked
some of Tracy’s closest friends and knew that I would not have
been invited because her friends did not know me. I told her I
would be there and hung up the phone excited for the party.
Returning from the mall the day of the party, I asked
my parents for a ride to the clubhouse in Tracy’s apartment
complex. My parents had given up fighting with me and
surrendered, barely ever speaking to me. I ran up stairs into my
bedroom and quickly wrapped up two hundred dollars worth of
jewelry. I had spent all of the money I had saved up over the
years in an old cigar box my grandmother had given me. I put
on a clean shirt and hustled to my door, yelling at my father to
finish his dinner faster so I would not be late to the party. He
seemed to move even slower than ever whenever I mentioned
that I was going to a surprise party and could not be late.
Finally, my dad made it to the car and got there on time. As he
pulled away, I suddenly wanted to go home.
Looking at the large crowd of people, separated into
different clusters, I knew I did not belong. I was not
acquainted with any of her friends, and found my way into the
clubhouse to put my presents on the table, adding to the already
towering stack. I huddled into a corner near a table where
drinks were set out. Five other guys were the only other people
inside of the clubhouse and they stood in the opposite corner
looking at me and making comments as if they could not tell
that I was able to hear them. After a half hour, I realized
something was being passed around the crowds outside about
me, or I might have been just paranoid, but gradually different
clicks of teenagers trickled in and began stealing looks at me. I
started to examine myself to see if I had spilled anything on my
shirt or if my fly was open, but I finally concluded that it was
just that I was younger, and nothing more. As the clock above
the door entrance to the clubhouse struck eight, a hush
resounded throughout the crowd that was packed inside the
now dark room. A girl not visible whispered that Tracy was
coming in the door. The door opened, and blocked my view of
Tracy, but I yelled surprise with everyone else. As the
screaming and laughing died down, a second silence began to
smoother the room as a tall kid stepped into the clearing in
front of what I assumed was Tracy who was still blocked by
the door. He rubbed his stubbly face and chapped lips and
cleared his throat as if he was preparing to give a speech. As
he opened his mouth, I knew who he was, and anger began to
build up in the bottom of my stomach. Confidence started to
swell inside my head, and I straightened my posture to try to
match his overwhelming height. He told Tracy that he was not
going to let her out of his life, which she immediately replied
by telling him that it was over. In her voice, I could hear the
beginning of emotion swelling up, preparing to burst. I started
to walk towards the front of the crowd so I could rescue Tracy
and if necessary, to beat her ex-boyfriend, defending what was
now mine. The moment I got to the front, she burst out in tears
and shouted that she never stopped loving him and embraced
him in her arms. Some clapping started to celebrate the union,
but was immediately stopped as all eyes turned on me.
Something broke inside of my chest as the air escaped my
lungs. Anger turned my face red and I knew what I had to do.
I walked right by Tracy starring into nothing, but knowing
where I was going. I walked out of the party, out of her life,
out of my first love and swore it would be my last.14 As I sat on
a bench in the park that night, my tears began to fog my sight.
Everything that was once clear became a blur, as my optimistic
outlook on life became forever jaded. The stars that night
shined with brilliance, but why look up. Three hours later, I
pulled myself together and walked out off the park committed
14
If this is true, how does he either continue or begin to date Madison
to never complete my life. If I never took the risk or tied a
knot, I could never be undone. Originally, in my mind, this
was the only option, but as I walked out of the park, I did not
realize that I was never in control, or ever had been.
___________________________ The picture was taken from a sketchbook found along with his journal in the archives. No name or date was found with the drawing, but it is a match with a yearbook photo.
Look at her face
He stares into demons that somehow originate in between our
lips and he can’t help but desire your touch and still crave your
suffering. You shorthaired freak. Dye in blonde and black and
pink. I’ll find you…I know you inside all too well. All too
fucking well. That story for you is for shit.15
tease Me
Starting my junior year as a reformed man helped all aspects of
15
A later entry believed to refer to Tracy. Her disappearance still makes it
impossible to know for certain.
my life. A month into school I was acing all of my courses, the
star of the football team, and at the top of the world. Standing
in front of my school, I felt untouchable. I was chosen to host
a ceremony honoring military veteran alumni.16 I deserved it.
After the show was over, I left the auditorium finally done
shaking hands of numerous fans. I started to walk to where I
would soon be picked up. Halfway to my dorm, I realized
someone had been following me. Normally I would have kept
going, but tonight I was feeling unusually cocky and turned
around to confront my stalker. Lacey17, a senior classmate, had
been following me from the theatre. After a brief conversation,
I was arm in arm with her, walking back to her dorm. Flirting
back and forth was not an unfamiliar action for me and I knew
exactly where this was going. When we finally arrived at her
door, I was presented with two options. I could have leaned in
and completed this romantic and enticing moment. She was
attractive and by the glimmer in her eyes and the moistness of
her lips I could tell she just wanted to hold me on that brisk
autumn night, but I new as much as it would fulfill her then, I
would only leave her with emptiness in the end. I chose the
second option and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. I paused
for a moment and stared at her closed eyes and partly puckered
lips. I was only saddened, knowing that by doing this she
would know that I was not the arrogant bastard I pretended to
be at school and fall in love with me more for this sweet guy I
16
James did in fact host a banquet for veterans in the beginning of his
junior year. 17
Another account with a girl. Again, the validity is unknown, however the
person, Lacey Hardifer did in fact exist and go to Mackenzie’s high school.
She was also deceased before an inquiry could be made. He was still dating
Madison at this point according to records.
could also act as on occasion, but I had honestly changed inside
and did not want to hurt her. As my lips pressed against her
soft cheek, I could see disappointment in her face as I pulled
away after only a second, but her expression was overwhelmed
by the obvious desire for more when her eyes opened,
adjusting to the bright lights of the nighttime. Looking deep
into her eyes, I shoved my hands in my pockets, shrugged up
shoulders and walked off into the night proud of my actions,
but still unsatisfied. Still unsatisfied with that empty night.
____________________________ The picture comes from a sketchbook in the archives. It was matched to Lacey Hardifer’s yearbook photo. It is ironic that she is the only sketch without a glimmer in her eyes. The
significance is unknown.
Sharp quit fragments of thought kept playing, pausing, and
racing through his mind. They flooded his dreams, like a
disease. These pieces of consciousness collected themselves to
stir false memories, confusing him of the truth behind the
images. Either way, he turned to the cedar night table where
his notebook lay and wrote down the nonsense on the paper -
at least it took form.18
18
His final entry, and a very appropriate one at that.
Details and Diversions
new egypt19
Too many drinks and too few lights
Outgoing, outstanding, arousing, despite
The love of New Egypt
From Washington State
Raised on a farm
But it was just fate
That tapped on my shoulder
And warned me so true
Evasive and transpired
So coy in the room.
Off towards the beach
It took us ‘till night
And the glistening in your eyes
Pulled my conscience out of sight
And I followed my answer out through the door
And she led me to a path often traveled; no reason for
And fate would have me guess
And my weight ran to hide
As the fireworks burst down her back
Twinkles live in corners
Presumptions in conclusions
I followed the sparkling trail
And I drove along the same road
Where my breaks have always failed
Screeching, swerving, smashing
Gently the river ran20
19
an allusion to a new thriving culture
Across my pillow marble cold
Engraved the letters into my hand
Misleading and conniving
The egg cracked inside the pan
And the heat was turned up higher
To ensure I’d understand
But would I? Could I?
Was it possible to?
Tearing horizontally
The bathroom sink ran cold
So the mirrors always knew
Scratching, pinching, cutting
Te freckle wouldn’t go away
Repeating scrubbing
Fixed the freckle would stay
I tried to lick up the pain
But it still ruined my shirt
Dropped a razor on my knee
And I feel the wound with dirt
Windex my eyes and sweep my feet
My legs can fill your eyes
As a craving for the meat21
misdirection
The smoke peels off his skin
20
the Mississippi River. According to records, James obsessed over the
river 21
Mackenzie had a scar on his right elbow
As he takes a slag of exhaustion
To keep his pace with the three brothers
One ignorant, one queer and one epitomizing brilliance
He doesn’t give a shit, and why should he
A question that plagues his consciousness
Raping the longing of being nonchalant
Shaved out with a scrounged up face
Of displeasure and a strong sense
Of the professor being evasive
How could he mix them up
The other was obviously more stupid
And he wasn’t a fucking queer
Was his mistake purposely directed
Transgressions growing far beyond his comprehension
Urged for caring, yielded for trying
An effortless yelp nonetheless
And the queer slightly adjusted his dress
Ignorance starred into the dark
And I watched brilliance fix his collar
To separate himself from mortals
To become a hero, protecting his shadow
That smothered his affection
And brilliance carried me above the rest
prioritization
2 hours and 45 minutes left
And one paper to write
You’ve put it off for 16 days
I begin to slay the desperate night
As the pile of laundry builds up on the bed
But you’ve always wanted that way
Just the right amount of time
Like the shine of the trophy from 2 years ago, to this day
The space around it reeked of potential lost
As ghosts wrought shadows of a hero that could have been
As a warm phone, laying in your hand next to a pen
Appealed when it began to dance and sing
A tune so tempting, so distracting, so unforgettable
I got up and danced along
Singing to a familiar tune
That I somehow always got wrong
She was 8 miles over the speed limit
But only getting faster
No cop or sign, or lust as love
So blind that could ever stop her
The one that had been true
With payments still coming through
Always late, never complete, in fact it never came
And always keeping my line free
Never going places to be
Arms open, eyes glowing of false wisdom
That I could always bullshit through
Even though I was always authentic
In the Night that I had given to
I hid in the rhythm within the symphony of friendship
I grab a hand full of Light
And cup it in my hands
Never to reach open to clench
And walking holding your grains of sand
Slipping through my fingers
The chances fell onto the floor
As I reached down to pick them up
Unconsciously I dropped even more
When I realized the grave I had dug
Only had one broken ladder to get out
I seized it and started to climb
But sacrilege led me to doubt
And we talked four 2 hours
That lasted for days
Finally said our goodbyes
And she had no reason to stay
Into the driveway the car pulled in
In the soft, calming glow of the moon
The dark sky and infant sun battled
But the predetermined truth caught on my shoulder to loom
And one last time I put the glass on the edge
Teetering, keeping its swaying at bay
I shouldn’t have placed it, I shouldn’t have started it
I should have keep quiet and not say
Imbecile, slow witted, once again you have lost
Barely as convincing as a friend
And she laughed and shrugged it off
Said “Thanks” and “Goodbye” and the line went dead
And with your dignity spread out on the floor
Like the clothes you’d worn this week
A little energy, no distractions, that’s all it would take
Procrastination made their outcome look too bleak
And you wake up again
Not even from your sleep
At least dreams leave you something
Which is better than nothing to keep
And with 2 minutes left, you make your way for the door
With a backpack with nothing inside
And the trail of where a tear had been
That not even those bags could hide
You have the same clothes on as yesterday
But your appearance isn’t much of a crime
Lost 2 hours and change, a grade, a girl and hope
But at least you made it to school on time
black washing face
The black washing face
That stares at me in mirrors
Does not feel like apple pie
It tastes like prose
And ends with toes
I’ll stick to the plot from now on
Masks of fascia and canary yellow
Mauve youthful beige
Smell my battered byways
Sniffle, sympathetic delight
A ten hour sitcom
My face is still black
And I still feel an aroma of your teeth
It’s so sweet
And if I should down chapel’s hall
And be maimed by pleasure delight
In the smile, a knowledge child
Hat rocks like the impishly scheme
For twice that I knock
A bucket with rocks
A shadow with an open dream
The black washing face
Is comfortably clean
come running
This is my beginning
My hated place to start
My fated place to end
This crumbled work of art
A tower built on sideways
The crooked bridge must fall
Crushed my dreams from both sides
I’m trapped inside these walls
But I can see the light now
Let the others hear my call
I will break these chains and fly
I will soar above them all
Rise beyond the flames here
But you have to fail and try
You will know my name tomorrow
To live I must surely die
And I’ll cry to let her know
And I’ll die to let her go
And I’ll come running….
and I’ll come running
so count it with Numbers22
Part I.
And it calls you from ashtrays
Shaves with a dull blade
Peels plaster from metronomes
Gives away endings to Bowmen importers
Blames it on brothers and runs me into the ground
Unsettling aromas flee from my fingers
For reasoning, sincerely covered with spicy herbs
Of gardens pitifully scarce of wind and willows
Unspeakable sounds of the roads we choose
Is it too perfect and outlined so clear?
Wrists scream for attention
You’re shaking
You’re here
Obsess with the various faces that got away
Or were given too much slack
Leashes too taught, tied to a sickle chained around your
underbelly
Running from time and strolling through
Press it for confirmation, call for confessions
Carved out for conversations
Perched upon steeples, praying for painful arrays of strangling
22
when trying to decipher this poem, which seems to be the secret voice
behind James, I found impossible, as it seems that he purposely misleads
the reader into thinking they have figured it out only to find themselves
even more lost.
wire
To only deafen the stagnant shouting
Recurring dreams of leaping in these blithesome flower fields
We carelessly label missions
Burning castles of perverts and fantasies
Flights to small children in naptime bottoms
And a candle at both ends
Overwhelming with pheromones
Oh God, it’s glorious!
Dive into the dull earth
Which at this point is unparalleled with patterns
When I took her to lunch
And this one to the movies
And screamed and dialed and mimicked and pleaded and lost
in desperation
It can’t be the color of settling
Pink had always made me puke
When I spied on my naked cousin
To pierce a lone child, ravaging his brittle head
Chuckle at his convulsing frame, slam him into the shopping
cart
So the demons that posses my leg
Strangle my breath
Only to paralyze stiffening ligaments
From groping at your breast
Built in the weakest of temptation
Pondering how we do sleep to rest
Fires up the brain
Pairs letters before me
Pushing insanity over the counter, into your lap
Dropping blood into heroes’ fountain, streaming from the neck
Cause I deserve their end
A Saturn among simple stars
As flesh upon no man
If you have to stab your eyes to stop
The instinct from winning to relay the organs
Feel my hand along her back
Curves from origins, to lift the gentle hairs
Chivalry begins to crack with that hesitating stutter
Don’t answer her cries with best intentions
Stay in-between the breeze and the darkness
And the halo falls limp on your shoulders
Constant twitching
Jumping was worthless as it proved to never produce the
ground
Striking different poses to sequence the best of your life
Prevailing absence of sand sucked it through pores like a leech
The eternal grammar school crush stays glorified and
embellished
Before she got pregnant, and did two years ago
It’s like your teeth colliding with the pavement
Grinding even faster, ever so subtlety
It’s a chemical fixation that resonates in my shower
Only hot water burns through dirt on my shoulders
Clinging like nuns on the arms of our precious boys
Shapes that conjure Styrofoam formations that languish for
oxygen
Closer to the growing pining
Pluck at the puddle of cess that collect around my ankles
Milky suds of cancer lint corrode the plaster and shatter the
tiles
It finds each blue dot and annihilates its childhood imagination
That turn furniture to cascading oceans and leg springs
I can scrape the sky and gouge its vulnerable pelvis
Paranoia turns obsession for the best of us
Freezes after four hours until it loses faith in scampering
A vice can hold it in place as its limbs are removed slowly
Shoot it up the cold veins, tired of something new
Spinning redlines that can’t connect the years into fancy fables
Wrapped in leather retardation
And paper cut out records replacing some petaless freak show
Sifts for seamless paths to follow…
…..the Faces….
Oh God I can see all of her
Everyone of her
The smothering masses crowd and climb and bring me down
A pitiful whimper for help escapes my lips
And they creep up because I want to be let alone and preyed
upon
I starve for a limbo of hellish uncertainty to feed the
masochists inside
And this is what I’ve been looking for
All along
Part II.
Sit in my arms
I’ll hold you down
How does something so simple
Become something profound
Impulses, sensations
Windows and chairs
Crumpled in corners
My vision’s impaired
There’s haste in your moment
Burning through lips
When you refuse me
It rushes and rips
She sees you as vibrant
So you throw away clear
It’s only our happenstance
Like lights spy for deer
Different shades can change
And mingle through the day
To browse for vintage tea sets
To play another way
Collapsing on a park bench
Finding footing in the dark
But it’s a foolish surface
Staring makes it wet
Page 2
Starlit nights filled with half yawns and fumbling fingers
Obligations to round cul-de-sacs where streets are
coincidentally named for girls
A spell of gloom, brushed off the shoulders and lingers above,
circling
In spurs and satires, letters bore my laagering lashes
Excites the thing that makes us shiver beneath the blanket until
It’s affected
We dance outside chapels, around songs we know the words to
But choose to mumble and make a hard right
Because we wrote the words
The beacon to my tower, where howlers graze at night
Sifting through the tune of fallacies can be
A most quiet desperation
Who can giggle at your tragedian moments and chastise the
soliloquies of your saint
Tears at dawn, refuses a design, sleeps on the lawn, lost at the
forefront
Speak to me of vague conceptions and talk of mistalks
Tell me of the details and diversion that I can be
Hanging by magnets of the door and tied to tinsel in the foyer
It’s like teaching a grown man how to ride a bike
Fucking embarrassing
And it keeps my shoulders spread
To dance between windshields and her exhaling sighs
That should not be explained or excused by hailing time spent
Why wait for a reason in the lexicon of games
Somehow still waiting for the red light to change
What if the burning bush just never comes
Like the war of the roses and forever
Don’t die drowned out by the rain
My loss for words cannot be explained by simple silence
To be your only chance when you fall
Oh stellar faith in the quintessence of nothing
Delight in roots and bearings or lack there of
To hold steadfast on the hood of my coupe
Condensation from palms pressing on frigid glass
Waking the sterility of my hobbling inspiration
And caress its essence
And she moans when I kiss her
Page 24
It did not make sense
Nor did it call for an explanation
And he still hid it between silver disks
And named her secretly in patterns and scents and scenery
The melodies, he realized, were eternally on repeat
Misplaced with papers, stacked in closets until they reached the
surface
Spark to a flame to tease it and then I wrote her twice that year
But only to send one of the letters and made up the rest
His habit of routine had lost itself in October darkness
It was fleeting and ripped
Only one was transcending in nature
I was oblivious to that world when the sky could crack
He craved originality and desired sleep
They were all there
He was never here
But that was after the fact
And he had finally run out of words23
23
it was better not to footnote because it seems that the poem gets across its
meaning without giving any real details away: “details and
diversions.”However one comment could be made that the four sections do
seem different and leave the reader changed at the end as well.
.
her Book24
24
her bible
a story by James Mackenzie
Book One
Grace Mani25 worked in the local bagel shop that was located
in the center of town since she had turned fifteen. Her mother,
divorced-twice, knew the owner and cut a deal where she
would work on Sunday mornings from dawn until dust, under
the table. She would have worked Saturdays as well, but that’s
when she volunteered at the children’s hospital. Her mother
told Grace daily that community service was necessary for the
soul to fit in its skin comfortably. Grace’s mother constantly
reminded Grace of the benefits of the activity as if her daughter
constantly complained, but Grace was quiet and content.
Grace was not sure if she would have worked there on her own.
Sacrificing the weekend seemed like such a huge tragedy to
others, but she had never really experienced a so called
weekend so she had nothing to compare it to except for the
glimpse of a romantic comedy that would show on her
mother’s television26. On certain nights, when Grace’s mother
would watch the news, her daughter would sneak downstairs
and open a window. The cool breeze never failed to put her
mother out and Grace would take a yogurt and a plastic spoon
and sit on the edge of their coffee table and watch whatever
show came on after the weather. She was too afraid to change
the channel because once she had tried and the flash had woken
her mother. Watching the kids go to the movies and dance in
clubs, Grace fantasized about these activities and it brought so
much joy to her. She smiled at the pleasant images and went to
25
an allusion to the Mani and his cult following of God. A sect of
Christianity that believes God has left the world to be and describes the
need to constantly fight the forces of evil./ 26
he goes out of the way to show ownership
bed, prepared for work early the next morning.
Students and teachers would mock Grace, who they were
certain was pretentious as pretentious could be. A small group
of faculty members or a school team would silently make jokes
about her solitude at lunch - especially the way she smiled all
of the time. The strict rules which restricted Grace’s younger
life should have caused some sort of outburst, but it did not. It
was whatever made Grace real began the saga and mixed up
the mood that would surely send the ending another way.27
At the other end of the empty lunch table sat Brian Beel28,
another rejected individual from the community. Brian Beel
had one thing in common with Grace, and that was they both
were the only students with perfect attendance. Aside from
that, there had never been two people so different. Brian
would fiddle with his fries at lunch and break of the prongs of
his fork and chew on them like gum. Brian had received the
effort award ever semester for every sport he played. He would
walk up to the podium and a couple of pitifully sympathetic
parents would snap photos of him for his absent parents as he
received the award. He liked being alone.
The Beel family lived a quaint house up a long pebble
driveway. His mother cooked and cleaned and his father left
every day at a quarter to seven and returned home half past
five. Brian would have biked back and forth from school, but
he could never balance his books.29 He turned down rides from
other parents and then laughed at them as they drove away,
knowing of their discussion of his parents. No one knew what
27
the first hint of something 28
Beel: Beelzebub 29
something is off with Brian
his parents actually did.
It was the beginning of June and Grace loved walking to school
especially this time of year. She would get up early because it
was over a mile to school and she had to make breakfast for her
neighbors, not because they could not do it themselves, but
Grace just wanted to make their lives easier. She would carry
the same loosely woven basket she had made in Home
Economics in fourth grade and fill it with some sort of fruit and
bread. She had started this tradition on her own. No one
wanted to admit it, but the truth radiated from her as she went
through the two white lines symmetrically, only to break the
pattern to hug the crossing guard.30 Brian would watch Grace
everyday from his window and then get up from his seat by the
window and go to school.31
Book 2
Jeremy Crane32 came about in the city right outside of his
30
goodness breaking the rules 31
goodness breaking Brian 32
Jesus Christ
suburbs.33 He was a normal baby, one of three that night that
had been born. Jeremy was a crier; the moment he left the
womb, he had not stopped crying. Apparently this was not an
odd situation, but it still made people nervous.34 Even though
he was a baby, he cry was more disturbed and off-color. His
mother thought it was due to the fact she smoked. That
thought was quickly extinguished, as she had gone through a
pack that day, and forgotten it during contractions, and
something so good could not be bad. It was a long labor and
she deserved it. In the background she could still hear Jeremy.
She put out another cigarette. There had to be a reason.
In the summer between fourth and fifth grade Jeremy was
running in a circle on the road in front of his house which
happened to be across from Brian‘s home.35 Brian was
watching this for an hour outside his window. For some
reason, right before the toll of the hour Brian spotted an ant on
the street and came up with a great idea. Brian sprint
downstairs and outside to Jeremy. Jeremy came to a stop and
watched Brian pull the ant apart. Jeremy felt sick and wanted
to leave, Brian handed him an ant. Jeremy took longer, but he
pulled the last segment from the front segment and that was
that.36
He was a story teller.37 He wrote a lot of things. Jeremy then
wrote that he wanted to be a talker when he grew up under the
career category in the sixth grade yearbook. The few teachers
33
allusion to Matthew 34
something was wrong with him from the moment of birth 35
he is waiting 36
the temptation of Christ, but he fails 37
the word of God
that actually read it laughed so hard at that they cried - even the
ones that did not know him. Jeremy had a very genial
personality that everyone liked. He had become widely
regarded as the popular guy in the schools. People would love
to hear his stories. They were not the typical depressing stories
that had really sad and absurd plots like someone like Brian
would sometimes write about, but wholesome stories that had a
main character that everyone wanted to be like. No matter how
different the plot or character was, the heroine always ended
doing the right thing, and it left a warm inside all of his
listeners. Jeremy Crane loved telling stories.
Jeremy did not really like running in circles very much, but he
did not complain much to his father, who would drive him to
the park daily to go to soccer practice. Afterwards, Jeremy
would jog seven miles home, and after three years of this
routine, Jeremy was arguably the best runner and teammate,
but was not as good at telling his stories anymore. He tried,
but his teammates never listened so sometimes he was forced
to talk to ants. The pressure came down on Jeremy in the worst
way. His father badgered him and he rarely fought back, but
sometimes he could not stop himself from lashing out on the
oppressive bigot.38 However sometimes Jeremy would cry
after fighting with his father because he knew somehow his
father was always right. At least that was what he was taught.
38
God
Two weeks into his senior year he noticed a guest at his soccer
games. She wore a really short skirt and a low cut top and she
stood with her hips shooting out to the side. Jeremy started to
show off, moving out of his position to go score, which he did,
and then did it even more when she clapped. Her name was
Sybil.39 At least that was what had been written on the paper in
his locker next to a phone number. He never did find out how
she got the number for the lock, but he called her, and after
four tries she answered and they went on a date. Jeremy had
never been on a date, and that might have been the reason he
39
the muse
fell in love with Sybil when she first touched his arm when she
laughed, but no one knew.
Jeremy lost interest in telling stories and playing soccer - he
had Sybil now. He was really happy, and that was more than
he could have said before the girl, and his father did not like it.
No one liked it in particular, but by spring people had not only
accepted it, but decided that they were going to get married and
were already wishing them the best of luck. Sybil and Jeremy
always held hands. By the time that Jeremy would start to
wonder who was holding the other one’s hand, she would kiss
him goodnight and run across the street home. Jeremy loved
watching her run from his lawn to her porch, turn around and
blow a kiss goodnight.
Brian would watch Sybil run and wonder why he had never
seen this girl in prior years, and then forget it as Grace would
return home about the same time from the retirement home.40
She had a smile on her face like she was doing something
besides working for the last six hours, but she had not. Brian
sat and watched Sybil and Grace for a long time and could not
decide which one he hated more. Both were pretty and talked
too much, even though both had never said a word to him.
Brian often played a game where he would think of two people
and then choose which one he would kill. He could never
decide between Grace and Sybil.
On a not so very special morning, Grace got out of bed and
hummed all through the morning. She spent a longer time
combing her hair than usual, but she still would not be late to
school. Her neighbors that she had always brought the bread
and fruit for that live a quarter of a mile up the road had died,
40
both distracted
and Grace did not know what to do. She watched Sybil and
Jeremy leave together and she decided that she too needed
someone to talk to and anyone would do as they were all
decent individuals. Grace saw Brian limp out of his house.
Grace caught up to Brian and after she startled him, she began
to talk to him. For the next two weeks this happened and
Grace began to like Brian. It was not supposed to happen.41
REFER 42
He approached the podium to give the speech.
The revelation43 of Jeremy Crane, which his father gave him to
show his closest friends what must soon take place. He made it
known by sending Sybil to his best friend Chaise, who testified
to everything he saw - that is, the word of his father and the
testimony of his own. Blessed is the one who reads his notes
and journals and those who take it to heart because time is
near. Look, he is coming with the clouds and every eye will
see him, even those who pierced him. Did no one scream for
his unjust equality. He raped us they shouted, they killed our
children and beat our bleeding knees and you come with open
arms - his daughters cursed in disgust and stomped in
frustration at their pious and self-righteous father.
I am your father. Never are you to judge your elders’
commands. It is always in the best interest of the community,
and thus is yours. The men cheered at the decree and the
41
the happening 42
James apparently was going to discuss prom the events that took place
after. This missing section seems to be crucial to the plot as it describes the
humanization of all of the characters. In his notes he explains the victory of
God during the sex Sybil has with Jeremy 43
Revelations
women surrendered to their father’s sadistically barbaric ways
and stopped struggling with the ropes and joined their brothers.
Sound the trumpet for Jeremy’s father always had the power,
living vicariously through his conquests and condemning his
failures. He was who is, and who was, and who is to come. He
was obsessed with numbers, a specific amount of them and
how they were used. They were not used for just counting, but
something beyond the ordering and rambling. Jeremy was a
hard worker, even during the most arduous of deeds, but he
could still not tolerate a wicked man. Despite the constant
pressure from his father, Jeremy knew it was the highest power
he would ever be oppressed by in the course of this short
existence.
His father came down upon him in the worst way. Jeremy had
held it against his father all along as it seemed there had
become no means to his ends, no reason for his own demise
and the possibility for redemption made him sneer. Jeremy
began to sweat as he approached the podium and that gentle
shaking that had plagued his left hand started again as he saw
Chaise’s arm rest upon Sybil’s shoulders. There was no
reaction - no one else in the room could hear the ringing which
of course motivated him to speak. Sybil knew what he would
say, but she always had and for one of her various explanations
she chose not to again. If she had, Jeremy would have caught
onto the plot and changed what his father had deemed an
appropriate destiny.44 Of course she knew. There had to be
44
somebody else knows the secret and God does not
some sort of excitement that could jeopardize everything, and
also maintain the balance that would ultimately force Jeremy to
decide, and if executed properly, kill himself. Sybil made no
call to preserve.
Jeremy walked off stage behind the curtain and began to cry
onto the gun he held in his hands. Brian who had seen the tears
coming began to giggle a bit and Grace stood up to go console
Jeremy, who had disappeared backstage and it seemed as
though this was it. Jeremy had told the people what they
needed to do, but none of them chose to heed the order and
only silence followed the speech.45 Brian had a dead look in
his eyes as something began to take root. His body lifted from
the seat and he floated down the aisle to the podium. He
refuted every word that Jeremy had said and then lifted his
arms to the sky and Jeremy’s father applauded him and gave
the final orders. Brian smiled for the second time in his life at
the screams that began to start from outside the auditorium.
Jeremy was still huddled over his knees like a ball listening to
the calming words of Grace, but he knew he had lost and that it
was over for everyone. He could not believe that it had come
to this and he did not want to die alone. He pressed his lips to
Grace’s and she pulled away - his father started in to stop him.
He got upset and grabbed her and brought her closer to his
face. Jeremy released the rage inside and started to force
himself upon the virgin senior. She broke free and sprint for
safety screaming. Jeremy had blown it now and in a last
attempt to at least die sacredly and completely and hide his
humanly repulsive side, he pulled out the pistol and fired at
Grace’s left temple as she ran away.
45
only sinners
In the middle of sentence, as the fires had begun to start by his
order and the burning of the air had started to sweep over the
land, he saw the bullet illuminated in his eyes. He watched it
slowly approach Grace and felt something inside of him twitch.
He felt something that he had never felt before and it ran along
his legs until it moved towards the girl. He started moving
faster and completely forgot he could have just moved Grace,
but found his footing in front of the bullet and then he sped up
time so he would not have to watch the bullet enter his chest.
Grace huddled over Brian as he gasped for air one last time.
Grace kissed him on the lips and the clouds disappeared and
the fires stopped and the rain swept threw the town. The police
arrested Jeremy, but he already knew what he had done and
what that meant, and he was overwhelmed. Knowing that he
had restored order, wrongly, but restored order nonetheless, he
got into the cop car and fantasized about what the future
withheld for everyone - for Sybil. Jeremy decided that upon
arrival at the police station, when he was alone he would bite
off his tongue and die content with giving them all a second
chance. His work had been done for a while, he had just given
us a little more time. He doubted they would learn, but then
again, there was still Grace.46
46
This story obviously alludes to the Bible in numerous section and should
be looked into. It seems to catalogue the events of the apocalypse, although
it is vague, and it seems that Grace saves the world with her inherent
goodness, rather than Jesus.
______________________ * the early story Breaking Silence tells of Mackenzie’s demented state as he took on
the role as a serial killer. Although bodies were never found, a fair amount of
children did go missing in Greenwich over the course of four years. Nothing ever
really indicated that James had become a killer, but this picture was found in a secret
compartment under his desk. It is a portrait of a girl. She is unknown. There is also a
possibility that she is Grace. The truth will never be known.
everything all at once