"Last Tuesday Night (Bananas)" by Phil

Well, where do I begin? Her name was Helen, not actually but it’s the name I gave her. And me? I’m the man with the answers, the individual that is about to impart my world of incriminating knowledge upon your very being.

                About a fortnight or so ago, I found myself at the restaurant known as “Un Papion”; it’s French, don’t ask me what it means because I don’t know. As usual, I went there to get a drink and not to eat. Yes, it was one of those nights again. Not the cheapest place to snag a drink or two, but it had become a mere habit in my ever-busy daily routine. It was more or less of my escape at the end of the day. I never ate there because I prefer filling food to five-star cuisine. Besides, the night was far from over and I was in no mood for eating.

                People-watching had recently become a practiced hobby of mine; almost an unspoken addiction if you will. She was shockingly large in size considering her dainty eating habits, which I had observed for the past few weeks. Her end-of-day routine was more or less like mine, for we both sought refuge in the same place. Yet, that night was different from the others because this time, she brought someone with her. The second woman, who I have chosen not to give a name for reasons you will find out in a moment, was one of the most mysterious women I had ever seen. Her greasy jet-black hair fell only to the tip of her bony chin and gave her an almost ghostly appearance. She looked like a character straight out of A Nightmare Before Christmas, which gave me an eerie and uncomfortable feeling.  But I guess it was nice to have a new person to observe. Suspicious, as well as deeply intrigued at what the two were so avidly discussing, I casually passed by their table, pretending to be uninterested in their seemingly secretive discussion.

                It was particularly one statement that stopped me in my tracks and made me turn on my heels. “If I don’t get them the check for $13,612, it’ll be my neck,” Helen hurriedly said to the other woman as she pushed around her small portion of salad she had just ordered. Knowing that they would eventually realize my eavesdropping, I resided to a nearby empty table where I ordered a dish of Ahi Tuna in order to keep up my cover. I felt like an undercover government agent spying on wanted criminals. Little did I know I was not so far off point.

                I am not going to bore you with specific dialogue between the two, mainly because at that point I had no idea what their situation was, but I will tell you what I learned. Basically what I learned was that the gaunt woman was Helen’s trusted friend whom she was dealing some pretty heavy information on. Helen was in neck-deep in trouble. She had been taken to the hospital three times just the week before for potassium deprivation, and had accidentally gotten herself into the harsh black market for bananas in attempt to cure her illness. Desperate to be healthy once again, especially due to her weight issue, she had bought fifteen thousand bananas so that she would never run into her predicament again. Little did she know that a week later, she would be in debt for over $13,000 to the Black Market Banana Company, or the BMBC.

                I’m assuming her friend was very wealthy, for she wore lavish clothing and had bought a $140 bottle of wine for the two women to share. Helen obviously went to her friend for money, considering her almost fake friendly tone towards her friend before she dropped the bomb about her obscene debt. So there I was, sitting an eating my tuna even though I was not hungry, coming to the realization that Helen was both a wanted woman, and criminal. I knew I had to do something, I just didn’t know exactly what.

                Not even knowing what I was doing, I stood up and began walking towards the table. I was ready to alert authorities when all of a sudden; three gorillas dressed in old school gangster attire busted in and immediately approached Helen. The gorillas had clearly dressed to the occasion. They had everything from the stylish fedoras to the suede shoes to the black and white pin-striped suits with a banana patch sown over the breast pocket. Only now do I realize how truly silly they actually looked. But I guess it was no sillier than the idea of mobster gorillas.

“Ooooo oo ahhh…money…banana…where…now,” said the largest of the three gorillas as the other two grabbed Helen and shook her around. The gorillas made it obvious they weren’t leaving without their money. Almost as soon as Helen exclaimed, “I don’t have your money”, she was swept out of the restaurant, leaving her friend, myself, and the whole restaurant in utter awe.

                I never did see that Helen again, and her name never appeared in the newspaper (hence the pseudonym given by myself). I assume she never did pay back that debt and spent the rest of her life peeling bananas for her hungry gorilla bosses. So the moral of the story? If you mess with the gorilla, you get the banana peel. At least she won’t have to worry about her potassium levels depleting again. 

"Waiting for You" by Midnight Oil

You find the pocket watch at an antique shop.  It is buried underneath many other things in a box on the second floor.  It seems out of place, as if someone were trying to hide it.  Perhaps a child had found it and stored it away there when their parents wouldn’t purchase it.  Or maybe the store owner wanted to hold on to it for a while, and so they tried to hide it away.  In either case it’s a beautiful pocket watch.

It looks like it’s from about the civil war era, or just after.  It’s of English make, and slightly damaged.  The metal is bent a bit, and the watch won’t open.  But when the sunlight hits it, light scatters all around the room.  The details on the watch are ornate, and cast beautiful patterns all over the walls.  You can see why someone would treasure this, the light show from it’s reflection is spectacular.  It would make a perfect addition to your collection of antique watches and clocks.  You have to have it.

The girl working at the register smiles and asks if that will be all, to which you respond yes.  She writes up the purchase, $70.  (Undervalued in your opinion.)

The store owner comes up to you just as you get ready to leave and says,

“Are you sure you want to buy that?  We’ve got plenty of other watches that aren’t… damaged.”

So it must have been the store owner who hid it away.  He clearly thought the watch was valuable, otherwise he wouldn’t turn you away from it.  You tell him you would like the watch you purchased, and no other.

The shopkeeper hesitates for a moment before saying,

“Well, don’t tamper with it too much, or try to get it open.  You might break it.”

He looks at you as if he’d given you a severe warning, almost life or death.  Which you find to be a bit unusual.  You tell him you’ll take care of it and won’t mess with it.  Before making your way out of the shop.  

“What a strange man,” you think.  “But to be fair he spends most of his life around junk and antiques.  He could be stranger.”

You make your way home with the watch in passenger seat.  Quite proud of your purchase, it immediately goes on display when you get home.  You put it on a bookshelf where light hits most of the day, and the watch gives off its brilliant light display.

You go to read for a bit, but can’t stop thinking about the watch.  Pocket watches like that usually have a display on the inside.  You want to know what the broken latch was hiding from you.  You have to get it open.  You have to know.  Something, some voice is telling you:

“Open it. Open it. Don’t you want to know?”

You get a screwdriver, a small flathead.  The watch would certainly open if you wedge the screwdriver in the latch slightly.  You take the watch from its spot, and put the screwdriver to it.  You fiddle with it for about a half hour when suddenly you hit the right spot.  The watch door swings open.

You are a bit disappointed.  The clock is stuck at 1:26, and the display only has a picture of a young woman and a little note:

“I’ll be waiting for you.”

So the man this watch belonged to clearly had a lover, and he must have gone off.  She left him a note that he kept in his pocket watch while he traveled.  An interesting look into the past, but there is really nothing special about it.

Later in the evening you think about the note again:

“I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll be waiting for you.”

For a moment you can almost hear a young woman’s voice saying those words.  So tragic, it is likely that the owner of the watch never got to return to her.

You get into bed.  You need an extra blanket, even with the heat turned up the house is unusually cold.  You have a dream that night, you are in an argument with a young woman.  It seems you have wronged her in some way.  She is screaming and comes charging towards you.  Right then, you wake, startled.  Cold nights like this always gave you nightmares.  You look at the clock: 1:22.  It’s going to be a long night if things keep on like this.

But just as you lay your head back down, you hear sobbing.

Someone is crying, yet you’re alone in the house.  Is there an intruder?  Why would a robber be crying?

You pick up the baseball bat that you keep in the bedroom and go into the hallway.

As you slowly make your way toward the stairs the sobs get louder.  And louder still as you creep down the stairs.  The sound is coming from your study, and as you approached, you see a young woman on her knees, holding the pocket watch.  She notices you and her sobbing stops.  She looks at you with a piercing gaze.  She is the same woman from your dream, and the photograph inside the watch.

“You.  I waited for you.  You broke my heart.”

Your chest begins to burn.

“I waited for you.”

You try to move, to speak even, but you’re completely frozen.  The woman stands up, she walks closer and with every step your chest burns more and more.  She glares at you, her face rapidly changing from distraught to angry, her head twitching unnaturally.

“We were going to be married.  I waited for you.”

You are in so much pain you can hardly take it.  Your heart is beating so fast it felt as if it might burst.  Your chest feels on fire now, and it feels as if the muscles in your torso are being ripped apart.  Your ribs are cracking and your consciousness is fading.

“You broke my heart.  So now I need a new one.”

The woman slowly reaches toward you.  Her hand extends to right over your heart.  Her hand plunges into your chest.

The police find the body 3 days later.  There are no cuts, no blood, no external injuries to report.  The victim is entirely normal, with one exception, there is no heart.  Their only pieces of possible evidence:

A pocket watch that won’t open.

And the fact that every clock in the house is stuck at 1:26 am.

"Beggar" by Anonymous

The old lady looked horrible. She hadn’t taken a shower in over a year. Her hair was a mess. It was falling all over her face and looked dried up. Her cloths were old and ripped. The smell of rotten trash surrounded her. You could see bags under her eyes. She was sitting beside a wall holding a cup in her hand begging people for money as the walked by.

            “Spare some change? Please sir spare some change?”

            “Get off me you old hag. Touch me again and I will call the cops.”

            “Please, please sir I have nothing, just some change anything will do.”

The man looked at her then stared intently at her face for a while, then he bent down to look her in the eye.

            “You know people like you make me sick. Beggars bah. They should all just die. They wouldn’t be here if they just worked harder or paid attention or probably in your case, laid off the drugs.”

The woman was silent now. Not even looking the man in the face only at the ground.

            “People like me are the only people that should be alive. We work hard and paid attention. That’s why I actually have a job and a home. What’s your story huh? Probably the most popular girl in school? Or maybe you were the whore everyone came to, to try and get lucky with? You probably fell in love with some guy in high school, and ran away with him. Turned out you didn’t know him like you thought you did? I’m guessing he was a pimp and turned you into his “girl”. How many people did you sleep with huh?

 The man waited to see if she would answer. She never did.

            “I’m guessing you probably did drugs too? I wouldn’t know of course I’ve never done drugs. So I’m guessing that you eventually ran away and tried to go back to your normal life and that didn’t work out so here you are now. Just some lowlife beggar that can’t hold a job. Your pathetic, here take this.

The man threw a bunch of coins at the old lady and proceeded to walk away.

            “Thank you for your generosity sir.”

After a while the old lady did not speak, she just collected her coins and counted them. $2.13 she counted. She smiled looking at the coins.

            Time eventually passed and it had gotten dark. The old lady got up and started walking down the path until she came up upon a rickety building grey building. She went up the steps and went into the house.

            “Maria, how did it go?” A woman said to her

            The old lady said nothing to her, only give her the coins

The woman began to count the coins.

            “$2.13, I’ll make sure it all goes towards Laura.”

The old lady only nodded at the women then began to walk towards the door.

            “Maria,” the woman said. The old lady turned around to look at her. “ You know if I was your daughter I would be very proud of you. You should too. What you’re doing out there is a lot to put up with and it’s all so your girl gets to live a good life. You should be proud.”

The old lady said nothing just stared at the woman for a while.

            “Please take care of Laura,” the old lady said. She then opened the door and walked out.

            “Promise,” the woman said to herself.

The old lady stood in front of the building for a while. Then started walking back up the path to her spot. When she got there she sat down and began to beg.

            “Spare some change?”

"The Price of Too Much Time" by Tom Bombadil

This week's pieces of the week feature our senior tutors, some of whom represent our very first HWC tutors. We wish them the best of luck in all that they do, and especially in their writing!

     Mrs. Ferguson always walked her cat down the street at 8:00 in the morning.  This was a commonly known fact that was not debated by the residents of Ponsly Square.  The little silver bell around her tabby’s neck would softly ring as the lady and her cat ambled down the street.  Often Mrs. Ferguson would stop to admire the different flowers that grew around her neighbor’s house’s white picket fences while her black cat would pull on the leash that connected the two.  Any neighbors that happened to be outside would stop and say hi, though wishing the strange old lady would continue walking.  None of the neighbors knew where Mrs. Ferguson walked to or why her cat needed to be taken outside every day.  Though all were curious, not one person asked the lady.  And so, each day, Mrs. Ferguson and her black tabby wandered from their creaky house at the end of the block, past all the cookie cutter suburban houses, into the vast forest behind the neighborhood.  

"A Story" by James Archer

This week's pieces of the week feature our senior tutors, some of whom represent our very first HWC tutors. We wish them the best of luck in all that they do, and especially in their writing!

                The murderer’s knife, metallic and sinister in the full moon, dripped with a crimson shade of blood. She crouched to the ground, budging the weapon from the victim’s body. Police sirens echoed through the cold, silent night. Rain, pouring, washed the blood from the knife and the victim’s body. The murderer carried the body, thrusting it down an opened, then closed, manhole.

"Choices" by July K. Sapphire

      Running. How long can I keep running? I still am young, only twenty-six. I could have had a great life, if our side had won. But we lost. The Dark side has won, and all hope is gone. They are coming after me; I have to make some decisions. But how much longer can I go on like this? Sliding down the stone gray wall, I sink to the floor. Cold, gray stone. Everywhere. So unforgiving. I close my eyes and rest my head on my knees.

"Warm Delights in the Fantasy Department (Awkward)" by Bruce Steppes

            A student named Willard gloriously walked out of the boy’s restroom after releasing tension that had lingered in his stomach the entire day. He passed a few pupils who suddenly became ill as he yanked the doors open to the librare. Willard bent down to quickly tie his shoes, and found himself standing between a couple who were passionately staring into each other’s eyes. Pretending to blend in with the bookcase, his whale like eyes surveyed the premises and stopped to find bare and frigid shelves of fiction-less books. The couple had not even noticed the sour smell that had lingered in the air surrounding them. 

"Green Places" by Tom Bombadil

Sandrine grew up green.  Now, this was not because she recycled or used solar panels, but because she was a plant.  A holly bush to be exact.  She had the most gorgeous, the plumpest, the reddest holly berries among all the other holly bushes.  “I am the best looking bush in my pot,” thought Sandrine.  The other holly bushes murmured enviously, “I wish I was that green” or “My holly berries can never compare to that sparkling.”  Sandrine made sure to groom and preen herself every night.  “After all,” she thought, “who knows who might buy me?” 

"The Psycho-Maniac and the Pizza Man" by Victoria Lemmings

Note: Victoria Lemmings and Nathan Herring wrote this story together from the perspectives of the two characters. This version should be read before Nathan Herring's version.

The scent of burnt goey cheese and cheap tomato sauce wafts through the still night air as I make my way up the cracked cement sidewalk. As I approach the gloomy house before me, I contemplate how much I hate my job. Delivering low quality pizza to hyperactive children was not how I thought I’d end up spending my life. But walking up the creaky steps towards the large house before me, I can’t help but noticing this is not the normal adolescent birthday party which I’m catering to. The windows are cracked in some places, revealing an inner space that’s black and desolate. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that nobody lived in this strange abode. For a moment, I catch a glimpse of a man standing ominously in the upstairs window, staring down. Feeling uneasy, I ring the dusty doorbell and wait anxiously.

"The Psycho-Maniac and the Pizza Man" by Nathan Herring

Note: Victoria Lemmings and Nathan Herring wrote this story together from the perspectives of the two characters. This version should be read after Victoria Lemmings' version.

I sit in silence as I watch David Stranford stumble down the dark street and up my cracked driveway in his red and white shirt, matching hat and khaki shorts.  His brown hair bobbing up and down as I watch his green eyes dart from side to side and his pizza teetering in his right hand. He shivers.  I grin at his pain and rock in my rocking chair a little faster. He’s scared. Good. He deserves it.  After all this time, my plan has finally come to pass.  He hesitantly inches up the black, beat-up driveway before finally reaching the front step. He knocks on the door, and I leave my perch.    

"Ha Ha! Serial Killers!" by Patrick Oh Brien

To say they’re inseparable after ‘The Accident’ is a bit of an understatement. They don’t stray more than six feet from each other, which, incidentally, is the length of both of their arms twined at the fingers.

They people they used to know were too kind and too full of pity to say anything about how the brother and sister’s sudden proximity made them uncomfortable, so they just doted, brought them peach cobblers and whispered, “I’m sorry for your loss,” on repeat like it was going to scrub their brains clean or bring their parents back.  

They went to see one therapist after it happened, sitting together on the couch in a wide room in the middle of New York City, because neither of them were ever going anywhere remotely rural ever again. 

The therapist had said it was unhealthy; their developed codependency, Clay’s aggressive, protective nature, Whitney’s sociopathic void of emotion toward anything that wasn’t her brother. He said that they should really consider committing themselves to a hospital to recuperate from the trauma of watching their parents being brutally murdered. He said, “Oh god! Please no! I can’t breathe! Help, somebody, please help me!” 

They don’t go back to see him again. 

Clay tosses one leg over his motorcycle, revs the engine, feels Whitney press up against his back, thin arms twining around his stomach and they put New York in their rear view mirror. Neither one of them wear helmets and Clay obeys about a fourth of the traffic laws. 

-

His name is Tom and Whitney doesn’t like him. He’s got a bright, vapid smile and dead eyes and when he approaches them in a bar in Houston, says, “Nice bike,” and rolls his eyes over the two of them Whitney tugs at Clay’s sleeve and whispers, “Let’s go.” 

But something about Tom catches Clay’s eye. The old crinkled leather of his jacket, maybe. The ring of dried blood under his fingernails or the sandpaper rough cultivation of tawny stubble dotting across his jaw, Whitney doesn’t know.

Clay curls his hand around Whitney’s hip and tucks her behind him, but he doesn’t hit Tom for stepping too close, for breathing on his sister. He doesn’t hold him down and choke the soul out of him and Whitney wishes he would.

“Yeah, thanks,” Clay squints at Tom like maybe he’ll be able to see whatever it is keeping Tom alive right now in more clarity if he just stares longer. 

Tom smiles again, eyes sharp, teeth sharper. “Wittaker,” he introduces, extending a hand. “Tom.”

“Clay.” Clay takes his hand and they shake, all gripping hands and white knuckles. “And this is my sister, Whitney.” 

Whitney digs her nails into the small of his back and cuts a glare at him when he glances over his shoulder at her. They talked about this. They talked about never letting anyone else in again. They talked about how it was just them. 

Clay shoots her a small, apologetic smile. His eyes go soft for her and she knows it’s only for her.  

-

“Sorry about this,” Tom doesn’t sound all that apologetic and Whitney would call him on it if his hands weren’t wrapped around her throat. 

Clay, she mouths, fingernails rasping against the textured wallpaper of the motel room as she claws against it. Clay. 

“He’s just not realizing his full potential with you around,” Tom intones, like he’s being completely reasonable. “He could be so much more. We could be great, but you’re keeping him soft, you’re dragging him down.” 

He hushes her gently when the lights start to fade and the world starts to blur, assures her that he’ll take care of her brother, that he’ll make him into a new monster.

-

Clay’s devastated. Tom makes it work. 

"Big Lessons in the Big City" by Calvin Wintertown

           Rain makes it’s way down the window pane of the city bus. It pitter-patters in abstract patterns creating a melted, tie-dye distortion of the images beyond the glass. New York City traffic has never been bearable on even the best of days, but today in the steady rain, I’d be better off walking to the subway station. The risk of being hit by cars seems to be significantly diminished as everything has gone to a near standstill. At the next stop, I pry my umbrella from underneath the seat after donning my cold, dampened trench coat, and proceed to disembark from the wheezing, metal beast and step onto the sidewalk. As I make my way down the street, those who rush past me splash water onto my trousers, but I continue to stomp on in my soaked wool socks. No time for petty things now, I’ll be late for my business meeting. The grey and gloomy tint to everything around keeps me thinking about how much my life currently sucks: Cubicle job, awful hours (albeit decent pay), and a lingering, incessant awareness of how stuck I am here in this towering metropolis filled with people who came here because they were lost, like me; looking for success in the one place where it seemed guaranteed. The vicious cycle of the city has taken me captive, and I’ll be eagerly awaiting for the day that it ends. I’m about two blocks from the station when I’m stopped by the harsh sound of jingling pocket change. Beyond the white noise of people talking and clamoring on the sidewalk, I hear the calling of a man about 30 feet away. He’s obviously homeless, as you tend to see here. You pass them with only a glance, if even that, so often that after awhile they all look the same: Grey beard, tattered jacket, working boots, maybe a knit hat, or a circa-1996 baseball cap with the fingerless cycling gloves for that extra touch.

          As I approach him he asks if I’d like to spare any change. Usually, my time obsessive nature would never allow even a second’s delay on the way to work, time is money. However, I could use a boost of my karma today of all days, it hadn’t been going so well at all so helping out this poor guy ought to earn me some brownie points from the universe and whatnot. He thanks me and sends me a nice “God Bless.” As I’m about to continue toward the station, he stops me. Well great, as if I hadn’t wasted enough time already; he probably wants more change. I reach for my wallet to toss change into his coffee cup once again, not intending to stay.  Before I get out my change he makes a comment about my footwear, asking something about whether or not my socks get  wet while while I walk in the rain. Well, I mean yes, they do, but I’m more concerned about the leather of my good italian shoes. He chuckles and suggests that maybe I should wear some more “proper” footwear for days like this. Well, pardon me for not tramping around in old work boots that cover my ankles. I mean, I gave this guy change and he makes fun of my shoes in return? Homelessness is no excuse for classlessness in my book. As I’m about to give him a piece of my mind, he holds out a balled up pair of socks to me, surprisingly white and pristine for a pair thats been in a homeless guy’s pocket. I ask what he’s doing and he tells me that he’s offering me a new pair of socks. I ask why and the man says that I look like I’m having a bad day, and my socks must feel awfully uncomfortable in the soaking wet rain. To my amusement, he tells me not to worry, the socks are brand new and he stole them from a convenience store just the other day. I reminded him that he might need them but he matter-of-factly stated that he only really needs the pair he has, he can wash them in a restroom sink somewhere if need be. The extra pair was just a luxury he took on a whim.

          A 2nd pair of socks being a luxury?

        I didn’t know whether to laugh or feel like a selfish idiot. God knows how many socks I’ve owned in my lifetime. Hundreds? Thousands? Hell, I wouldn't be surprised. I’ve bought a pair of socks for every drop of rain that fallen on the city, most likely. He urges me to take the socks and I do, the train being in the back of my mind, and he chuckles one last time saying that I have no reason to frown today for two reasons: 1. I just got a free pair of socks, 2. I’m not him.

          Well, isn’t that fantastic, instead of getting rewarded by the gods of karma for my good deed, I end up getting guilt tripped by the one random homeless guy I’ve stopped on the street for.          Should've taken the bus.

          Thankfully despite all of that nonsense, I make it to my meeting on time. Soaking wet, but on time. The meeting is dull and uninteresting as my life tends to be; I can't even remember what’s being discussed: Bonds? Stocks? My attention is set on that man I met on the sidewalk, I have his socks in my bag and I can remember the street he was sitting on. Beyond all better judgement, I go to the store and pick up a little something and find my way to that area of the sidewalk on Broadway. Who even knows if he’s still there? These people tend to move around like termites in a floorboard. But luckily, I spy those workbooks on crossed legs on the sidewalk. I walk up to him and he greets me immediately, smile and all. He strikes up a conversation with me asking if I made the meeting; I have nowhere to be at the moment so I oblige. We chat for a good 20 minutes, or maybe 40, before he stands and says he needs to get to the shelter for dinner. He wishes me a good evening and props up his tiny luggage case. Before he can even take a step I apologize, I don’t know what for exactly; most likely for coming off as a rude, selfish, business clown who takes everything for granted. I tell him that I appreciate his kindness, and I hand him the parcel I grabbed from the store: 8 Pairs of warm, wool socks. He gives his trademark chuckle and waves his hand in denial.               

           I’m in shock. Why would he deny something he obviously needs? It’s clear to me that the man only now has 1 pair of socks, and the rain has been going on for 2 or so days now. He claims that he really meant it when he said the one pair was fine. He says that if it makes me feel better, the extra pairs would take up space in his bag. He tells me that he doesn't mind his appearance, his possessions (or lack thereof), and his life for that matter. As unglamorous as it is, it’s usually stress free, he gets his meal from the shelter if he gets in line early enough, and he can usually find enough scraps of paper to jot down poetry or notes in his spare time. If not, he has all the time in the world to think, reflect, and contemplate the beauty around him. He asks me if I’ve ever been to central park. There’s a huge rock on the east side, according to his description, that’s on the water and perfect for looking past the bush and at the city. Come to think of it, the park has always been out of my way, it’s not on the way to work, therefore there’s no reason to visit despite the years I've been here. He suggests that I make a visit once the rain lets up, and he gives me a final “Good evening” before he departs for dinner. Standing there with a pack of socks in my hand and another pair in my pocket, I watch the man I’ve become acquainted with disappear down the sidewalk. After that episode, I head to my apartment. I sit at the dinner table, sipping some old coffee and staring at the pack of socks. I can’t help but wonder where or if I’d see that man, but if I do I’d make him take the dumb things. I can’t look at them without being riddled with guilt and concern and overall self-criticism. Today,  I met a man with a pure zest and and passion for life in its purest form. The simple act of survival every day this far is considered a success for him. He has some god-given ability to remain content with being at the bottom of the social ladder, a place where money and dignity are nonexistent. To him, finding some scraps of paper to write on and getting at least one hot meal is considered a good day. Well don’t I feel blessed; I get grumpy when I have to wait in line for too long for my brunch time coffee. All I can do is feel ashamed of what my life has consisted of so far: Regard for myself and zero for others.  I can’t even remember the last time i purchased a birthday present for someone let alone a stupid card! All this time I’ve been here, I’ve wanted to move up, be the boss, make something of myself;  but people can be successful if they aren’t respected or appreciative of the little things in life,  suppose.Well that’s surely  something to think about. My angst doesn’t last much longer as my phone rings. It’s a coworker asking if I could come in for a conference on Saturday. I decline to his dismay, suddenly having something more important to do that day.

       The freezing rain stopped Friday morning, and by Saturday the sun broke free from it’s shield of grey. The day’s weather had taken a pleasant turn since that rainy day a while back. Despite the fact that I’ve abandoned commuting by bus, I still haven’t seen the man since. But it seems as though my good deed has been rewarded. I learned a lot from that homeless guy, and now I tend to enjoy the little things more, and just life as a whole. If he can be happy where he is in life, then I may as well have a giant smile plastered on my face all the time.  So instead of saturday afternoon conferences, I tend to spend my time like I am now; Sitting  by the water on a rock in eastern central park, notepad in one hand, pen in the other, wearing a pair of durable and rugged work boots with a pair of pristine, white socks. 

"2320" by Donovan Prestonville

            “Saffron, it is 8:30am and time for you to wake up,” a calm, automated voice stated. Confusing, harsh music blasted out of the ceiling speakers following this announcement. Down below a bed hovered a few feet above the ground, buzzing from the slight vibrations it was producing. All that could be seen was a knot of electric blue hair, vibrant against the stark white pillows. A groan escaped the sheets as a bundled mass rolled over. This was immediately followed by a shriek as the bundle continued rolling off the edge of the bed, and fell the few feet to the floor, landing with a muffled thump. The sheets began untangling themselves from the inside out to reveal a slender figure under the blue hair, sporting an equally striking sports bra and shorts.

            “Bed stop,” Saffron mumbled, throwing the sheets onto the lowering bed, no longer vibrating. She trudged over to one of the two mirrored walls in the room, rubbing her eyes, and attempting to detangle the blue mess. Lightly double tapping the mirror, she swayed sleepily as it turned ninety degrees to reveal a massive bathroom. This tiled room matched the bedroom in it’s pristinely white condition. “Shower on,” Saffron said, pulling off bits of clothing and throwing them into the laundry bin, just past the mini pool that was the bathtub.

            Twenty minutes later the mirrored wall revolved again and Saffron emerged, hair perfectly straight in a chin length bob and makeup on. She crossed to the other mirrored wall, stopping to peer out a window at the placid city below. “What’s the weather like today?” she asked, appearing to address the empty room. On the wall opposite the bed a screen lit up and displayed the day’s hourly forecast.

            “Today’s high is 84 degrees, and the low is 66,” read out the same computerized voice.

            “Hmmm...” Saffron mused to herself as she passed through the automatic double doors on the second mirrored wall. Just beyond the entrance she was confronted with a choice: turn right for “WINTER” or left for “SUMMER”. Going left she meandered down a long hallway, past sleeveless and short-sleeve shirts, skirts, and shorts on one side, and rows upon rows of shoes on the opposite. Reaching the dress rack she perused a bit and then extracted a bright pink, tailored peplum dress. On her way back to the main intersection of the closet, she grabbed a pair of Carl Nelson flatform sandals. Once dressed she returned to the doorway and contemplated all the jewelry hanging from the surrounding walls. Picking an obnoxious, silver necklace, consisting of many intertwined chains with a jewel dotted here and there, she paired it with simple diamond studs of varying size, for her five piercings. Checking her appearance in the mirror with a haughty glance, she snatched her tote on the way out of the closet.

            “What classes do I have today?” Saffron asked the emptiness once again.

            “You have European History, Moon Studies, and 18th Century Literature.”

            “Boring day,” Saffron muttered as she spritzed her favorite scent. “Get Felix, and if my brother asks, I’ll be home at 5,” she informed the disembodied voice, grabbing her iPhone, and exiting the room.

            “Very well. Have a good day.” The voice faded away as another automated door closed.

            Walking through her bleached house, Saffron was nearly blinded as sunlight poured in though the tall windows and reflected off every immaculate wall. Her parents had an obsession with pure white, and every surface in the house was kept polished and spotless. Clomping down the stairs in her flatforms, she payed little attention to the calls of her mother cooking in the kitchen, or those of her dad, packing his briefcase in the study. Immersed in her iPhone, she was checking status updates. The front door opened for her and she walked a few feet along the driveway before reaching Felix, her car. The little vehicle resembled one of those vintage hatchback station wagons, but it had no apparent windows or mirrors, and not surprisingly, was white.

            “Felix, go to school,” Saffron commanded, settling into the leather seats. The car’s engine hummed to life, the GPS coordinating itself. Sliding two panels out from behind the main one, she transformed her iPhone into an iPad, and pulled out a stylus to write. “Stop at Starbucks along the way, and play my ‘Favorites’,” she instructed. The car moved into gear and zipped off, Saffron in the back, scribbling on her pad.

            She was composing a quick essay on the simplicity yet complexity of modern life. Saffron paused for a moment, pensive in her contemplation of her life. She definitely enjoyed the advantages 2320 awarded her. She liked having so much free time as a result of all the computers and automated systems in her house. But really, when she thought about it, what did she achieve with all this extra time? She neither educated herself further by studying more subjects, nor expanded her mind artistically by expressing her imagination. Truthfully, she spent most of her time idly playing reality tv shows. Pretending to be someone else in more interesting situations, taking part in the holographic story. Saffron realized in that moment, how wasteful she was. She was acutely aware of the true emptiness of her technologically full life in that moment as her car maneuvered itself to the window of the drive-through Starbucks.