Exhale

The night was actually, in all complete sincerity, a very peaceful one.  It was just shortly after dusk, just shortly after spring, and just shortly after a storm.  I was sitting on my porch, just kind of sitting, which is not something I do very often.  It was the kind of night where sitting is enough, where the cars don’t drive by, and the only sound the world exhales is the quiet murmur of your neighbor’s television.  This being outside, this sitting on my porch, it was a very nice sort of change in my life.  And at that time, a nice sort of change was a very welcome thing. 

I say that because there had been a lot of unwelcome changes going on.  For instance, my hair, well, I was losing it.  Every time I took a shower, I'd look down at the drain and I swear to God my eyes would swell up and I'd have to choke back the tears.  It is a really frightening and depressing thing to lose your hair.  It’s not a pretty sight, believe me.  Clumps of brown fur matted around the drain of a shower, honestly, it’s not something you want to see.

Also, another thing was that Molly, the only living creature on this planet who really understood me, well, she was hit by a truck two weeks earlier and died right there on the spot.  I couldn’t sleep for three days straight.  I just worked and worked and worked and I did everything I could to keep myself from thinking about it.  But like most everything it caught up with me and I cried for about two hours straight.  It’s actually really depressing because when the whole reality of losing Molly caught up with me, I had just started taking my shower.  I was in there for the whole two hours that I cried my heart out.  When I thought I was finished, when I thought I didn’t have any tears left, I turned the shower off.  But the worst part is that right then I looked down at all the hair that had been gathering at the drain for those miserable two hours and so of course, right on cue, I started crying again.  I don’t think I ever thought I’d cry over a dog for that long.  I think most people, when they lose a pet, they cry in little bits over a few weeks.  But me, when the only thing that understood me suddenly left my life without a farewell, I held all of the pain deep down inside until I just couldn’t hold it anymore.

And you know, it seemed like all I did anymore was think to myself and then cry to myself and be upset about how my life was going.  Looking back, I was very caught up in my own little world.  And that’s the way things went until that night I was talking about earlier.  The peaceful night, the welcome change, the night I sat on the porch.  I was sitting there, I was just sitting on the porch and my neighbors, they were watching television.  And they had their window open, because it was such a nice night and everything.  And whatever they were watching, I’m not exactly sure what it was, but there was this conversation between a man and his son.  And what they said, it was the kind of thing that not everyone appreciates, but if you do appreciate it, if you do understand it and really let yourself be taken by it, it can change your whole life right then and there.  What happened is, the little boy, he said to his father something along the lines of, “Father, if everyone closes their eyes at the same time, will the world disappear?”  And the father, with the softest voice I’ve ever heard in my entire life, he replied, “Only in our hearts”.

Joseph

Dear Journal,
Today is December 24th, and it is 11:46pm.  I’m sitting here in a waiting room and you are my only source of comfort right now.  My wife is currently in labor. Under the usual circumstances, I would be in there with her, holding her hand.  But it’s just that, well, she’s not having my baby.  I know this because after our first two kids, we had decided that we were going to stop, so that we could better raise our children.  And without her knowing, I had a vasectomy.
So right now I’m wondering if my surgery didn’t get the job done, or if my wife had something else on the side.  I can’t exactly blame her if she was cheating on me, because I’ve never really been the best husband in the world.  I’m always away on business, and I wouldn’t consider myself one of the most affectionate guys in the world, by any means.
To be honest, I really think I should have seen this coming.  I mean the world is in turmoil right now, and while I’m off in Seattle, my wife is alone, caring for our two kids.  And believe me, I know what it’s like to lay in bed at night, aching for someone to hold, because every time I go to Chicago or Dallas, I’m feeling just as lonely as she is.  So if she comes out and this baby is of another race, I’m not going to be too surprised.
It’s now 11:56 p.m., and two more men just walked into the waiting room.  This now makes three men without wives in the room with me, waiting for my pregnant wife to have her child.  I’m wondering which man is going to be a father after tonight.  They all look very confused, almost lost.  It’s as if they don’t even know exactly why they’re here.   But I suppose this is what any man would look like if he found out that he might have a child tomorrow.
My kids are at my Mom’s house right now, which is where I would be if my wife’s water hadn’t broken.  Christmas day is tomorrow, and I’m wondering if my kids are going to be upset when they realize that Santa missed their house last night because he was at the hospital.  Maybe I’ll give them a call in a few minutes.
I used to think that my life was perfect.  I had an amazing family.  Mary, and my two kids Luke and Amber, always filled me with an unexplainable feeling of both joy and wonder.  Life used to be so simple, so honest.  Nine months ago that all changed.
It’s now 12:01 a.m., and the Doctor just came out to tell me that my wife has just given birth to a beautiful baby girl.  I should be jumping up and down right now, but instead I’m eyeing the guy leaning up against the wall. 
My wife had wanted to name this girl Jessica.  We’d call her Jesse, she had always told me.  My wife had a way about planning out the little trivial details that we used to call our  marriage.
The three men have just walked past the doctor, and are headed towards the room where my wife and her child reside.  I’m going to follow them.

It’s 12:06 a.m. and I’m sitting in the corner of my wife’s hospital room, trying to comprehend all that has just happened.  I really think I should have seen this coming.
The three men on their knees, with their heads down, were all praying.  This is what I saw when I walked into the room.  They were all religious men.  My daughter, Jesse, born on Christmas day, was what they believed to be the Second Coming of Christ.  My wife, Mary, conceived this girl nine months ago, alone in her bed while she slept.  That is what they told me.  Jesse is the daughter of our Lord.  Or at least that’s what they thought.
I’m going to go give my children a call.

Conversation 1

 “I’m not sure exactly what I was thinking when I fell asleep, but I can tell you what I thought of when I woke up.  I thought of the night before, and I thought of they way her hair was pressed up against my skin. The funny thing is that I’m sure she doesn’t remember, but that’s mainly because she doesn’t exist.
Now I know you’re probably very confused right now, and in all honesty, I wouldn’t expect you to understand.  However, I do believe that it would be a little rude of me if I didn’t try to explain my situation.
In an effort to throw an ex-girlfriend into both a state of jealous rage and complete confusion, I created out of the figment of my imagination a homosexual lover.  But before you jump to conclusions, I would like to inform you that, no, I am not homosexual.  And no, I am not bisexual.  Those misconceived but completely rational conclusions, however, were exactly what I had hoped my former girlfriend would conceive.  And she did.  Without a doubt.  No question.
Her name, by the way, is Billie.  And so of course, in an effort to spite her, I informed her that my homosexual lover’s name is Bill.  You’d be surprised at how annoying that was for her.  In her mind, I could be an abusive drunk, but as long as we had the same color eyes and we liked the same movies, we were a perfect couple.  We were made for each other is what she would say.  So obviously, you can see how for her, me having sex with a man wasn’t nearly as bad as the similarity between her name and his.  It tore her up inside.
Everything was going pretty well with my big lie, too.  The first two weeks she called me every day and I could hear the desperation and confusion in her voice. 
“You jerk I can’t believe you can call yourself straight when we dated, and then once we break up, after we dated, you’re all, “Oh I’m so gay now”. 
She used to ramble when we would talk and she would always repeat herself.  It was very trivial.
And like I said, things were going really well with my passive aggressive revenge plot and I think it even started to make her question her own sexuality a few times.  And yes I thought I could go on forever and ever being Billie’s ex-boyfriend terrorist.  I was angry.  It was my way of coping.  I was even beginning to be happy again.
But then I saw the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on, and my plan went to straight to hell.  We met at a coffee shop, but it wasn’t how you would think.  I would like to tell you that I was sipping my Grande Latte, casually skimming an Esquire magazine, and then from across the room she walked in the door and our eyes met.  I would have smiled at her and she would order her Espresso.  After a decisive few minutes, I would approach her and the rest would be history.  That’s the story I wish I could tell.  The fairytale.
 But the truth is that I needed change for a 20, and she was trying to get her job back.  I walked in, didn’t notice her at all until the argument with her former boss had escalated to near shouting, and then I proceeded to leave.  But what happened is, in her fit of rage, she stormed away from her boss and accidentally ran into me.  Unfortunately, this is not the part of the story where we smile, apologize, and I take her out to get some dinner.  No, this is the part where she continues to bombard her way through the coffee shop until she reaches the door, turns, lifts her middle finger into the air, and exits.
 Like I said, that was the first time we ever met, if you could call it that.
I have a theory that a person will encounter hundreds, thousands, possibly millions of different people in their lifetime.  Strangers that they should not talk to.  I also believe that a person will, for a reason unknown to myself, encounter a few of those strangers several times in their life.  They never speak, or try to communicate in any way; they just make eye contact and turn away.  And for some reason they always pass them on their way to work, or see them as they are exiting a movie theatre.  They “run into each other” off and on for years and years at random locations. 
This is what began to happen with myself and the most beautiful woman I had ever laid eyes on.  A week after the coffee shop, I saw her at her new job at the dry cleaners.  Then again on the freeway.  I saw her looking at shoes at a thrift store, and twice outside an adult sex toyshop.”  I said.
“This girl, the most beautiful woman you have ever laid eyes on, is she the imaginary girl you thought about when you woke up this morning?”
“No, no that part comes later in the story.  No the imaginary girl is completely different from Sierra.  That’s her name, if I didn’t already tell you, Sierra.”
“The most beautiful woman you have ever laid eyes on?  Her name is Sierra?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“So anyway, Sierra and I played that game for about two months while my ex-girlfriend, Billie, was flustered because she thought I was dating a man.  I would tell Billie that Bill and I were going to go pick up some dildo’s and vibrator’s, and that we wanted to know if she wanted us to get her anything.  Then I would go on my imaginary date with my imaginary boyfriend, and I would drive by the adult sex toyshop.  And then of course, in the parking lot, I would see Sierra sitting there in her car for the third time that month.
Since I was already dressed up for my imaginary date, I decided that now would be a good time to introduce myself.  I thought that maybe we could strike up a conversation about how odd it was that we keep seeing one another at the strangest of places.
So I parked my car, approached her door, and motioned for her to roll down her window.  But she didn’t.  She put her key in the ignition and drove away as fast as she could.  Standing there, alone, I realized my mistake.  Approaching a lonely woman at an adult sex toyshop is up there on the list of things that only creepy men do.  Looking back on it, it’s very embarrassing, but right then, after she drove away, I pretended I was in a movie.  I imagined that there were cameras all around me, and people waiting to see my reaction.  In a very Richard Gere kind of way, I smiled, turned around and walked very casually back to my car.  I even did a really good Richard Gere head shake, almost to say that I did it on purpose and that it was all part of my master plan.
But it wasn’t.  I got back in my car, called Billie and said, “Do you want the pink dildo or the purple one?”
 “What color did she end up picking?”
 “Purple.”
 “That’s a nice color.”
 “Yes, it is.  And you know I’m pretty sure she chose it because she thinks it goes well with her skin complexion.  She’s the kind of girl who would put on a matching purple outfit before she would even get started.  She’d be afraid that maybe she’d pass out during the whole ordeal, and when the paramedics would come to save her, they’d say something along the lines of,
“You know, that purple dildo really goes well with her skin complexion, but it doesn’t match her outfit at all.”
And then at the hospital, when she would come to, she’d be so embarrassed that she just wouldn’t know what to do with herself.  You know what else she’d be afraid of?  She’d think that while she was getting off, some hot guy would just burst through the door, ready to totally fuck her brains out.  But oh no her dildo doesn’t match her outfit, even though it goes really well with her complexion.  It would completely ruin the mood and she would have to miss out on all the fun.”
“That’s kind of fucked up.  Tell me more about your imaginary girlfriend.  The one who you thought about last night.”
“Sure, well, it’s a funny story actually.  Billie really loved her dildo, even though she hated the way she got it.  I mean it was the whole jealousy thing, it just got to her.  But after some time, she finally started to get over it.  And once she was okay, she started calling me a lot, asking about Bill.  She wanted to know if he was homosexual or bisexual. 
She would say things like, “So do you guys have sex a lot?”
She would say things like, “How tall is he?”
And after a while, after she asked what color eyes he has and if he has bad breath, she started saying things like, “I really want to have sex with Bill.  I want him really bad.”
And I’m not going to lie to you, she was dead serious.  And really, I’m not sure if she wanted him so bad because I told her that he picked out the dildo, or if it was because I told her that he was bigger than the dildo.  But the bottom line is that I felt so bad about it all.  I mean here she was, fantasizing about him fucking me, then him fucking her, and all the while she’d be getting off on that purple dildo.  It would just break her heart if she knew that Bill was a fake.  So, I did what I had to do.  I went to a gay bar, met a really awesome gay guy, and told him my story.  And you know, I’ve gotta be honest with you, he didn’t really like the situation one bit. 
But the next guy, the next guy I asked was very into it.  The only problem was that this guy didn’t understand why I wouldn’t be joining.
He kept saying, “Do genital warts turn you off?”
He kept saying, “You have really pretty eyes.”
“The catch is”, I explained, “Is that I actually have a girlfriend right now.  I can’t really be participating in any threesomes or anything like that, because I’m pretty sure my girlfriend, Andrea, wouldn’t really appreciate it.  But”, I continued, “I know Billie would just love to get screwed by my imaginary boyfriend.  So if you could just do me this one favor, I’d really appreciate it.” 
The whole time I was explaining the situation, I kept pretending I was Kevin Bacon.  I was waving my arms a lot, and kind of shaking my head a little bit.
But anyway, Christopher agreed and I’m pretty sure he went to Billie’s apartment the following week.  I’m pretty sure she loved every second of it.  And I’m pretty sure she hangs out at gay bars all the time now.
 But now my big problem was that Bill, my imaginary boyfriend, exists.  And not only that, but he thinks I have a girlfriend named Andrea.  And the big scary part of the whole situation is that he told Billie, and now the two of them want to have a big group sex party in a few weeks.  So now I have to tell the both of them these big lies about how Imaginary Andrea is going out of town this weekend, and that she just got a yeast infection, and that she’s due for her period any time now.
 And all the while, the whole time I was lying, I just couldn’t stop thinking about Sierra.  I couldn’t stop thinking about how if we end up dating, I’m probably going to have to tell her this story.  And I’m probably going to have to end up referring to her as Andrea around Billie and Christopher.  And I’m going to have to refer to Christopher as Bill around Billie.  And to be honest, I’m just really sick of the whole goddamn thing.
 And that’s my problem, and I hope you know what to do about it because otherwise the next few years of my life are going to end up as confusing as this conversation.”
  “Well it's, you know I don't know what to tell you exactly.  This whole thing is just such a misconeption.  The problem is that you, you know, for whatever reason, you just won't come clean with the truth.  I guess my big question, the only thing I really don't get, is why don't you just come clean with it?"

Conversation 2

 "Hello?"
 "Hi, this is Billie."
 "Oh hey, um, I'm sorry I didn't call you back the other night."
 "It's okay, it's really no big deal, I mean, you really shouldn't even worry about it.  But I still need to talk to you.  Do you have a minute?"
 "Yeah, of course."
 "Well, I really hope you can keep this a secret.  You're really the only person I feel comfortable talking to about this."
 "Okay."
 "Basically, the problem is that I've been going to all of these gay bars you know?  To pick up guys.  And honestly it's been really, really great.  I'll seduce them all night long, flaunting my ass and licking my lips, and the whole time I just keep asking them if they'd like to stay over for the night.
 I swear to God, you'd be surprised at how many gay guys come home with me.
 We'll have sex all night long too, really great sex.  And these gay guys really are sensitive to a woman's needs too.  We cuddle after sex and they light my cigarettes for me.  Everything I've ever wanted in a lover, I've found in a gay man.
 And the best thing about it is that the next day we'll go shopping together.  All day long.  And sometimes they'll even treat me to a spa.
 Sleeping with gay men is really just about the best thing that's ever happened to me.
 I mean, I thought it was until I realized that none of the gay men ever stuck around for more than a few days.  And I was okay with this, it was more about the sex than anything else.  But a few of these men, specifically in the last two weeks, have really left an impression on me.
 It sounds a little off, but I think I might have fallen in love with at least one of them.
 But the problem is that they are gay.  They don't love me like I love them and I'm absolutely helpless about it all.
 "I'm really sorry to hear that, Billie."
 "Well that's not even the worst of it.  Remember that bar we met at?"
 "The Chaos Bar?"
 "Yeah, well, I went back there last night.  I had hoped that maybe I'd meet a really great straight guy.  But the problem is that I didn't have to seduce a single one of those men.  They practically came up to me, drooling and moaning and imagining me naked.  It was disgusting.
 And the one guy that I actually did end up going home with, he was a jerk.
 When he got off, he rolled over and fell asleep.  He didn't make me breakfast in the morning or take me out for coffee.  To be honest, he wasn't even there when I woke up.
 So I guess what my problem is, what my big task will be, is to turn a gay man, straight."

Eric Kritor

Lethan puts his head down on his cold, white desk.  With his arms hanging limp at his side, he stares into the emptiness of the wall beside him.  He should be taking his algebra exam right now, but at the moment, he’s not very concerned with exponents and equations.  This is because he has just realized that minute by minute, tick by tick, his life is ending.
 Lethan Kritor grew up in a broken home.  His mother worked 14 hours a day, and as a result of this, he took care of his younger brother.  And so because of that, Lethan’s child life was more of a dream, and less of a reality.  By age 11, he was more of an adult than his father could ever hope to be.
 Eric Kritor was an abusive, 42 year old heroin addict.  He now spends his time in a New Jersey State Correctional Institution.  Lethan hasn’t seen his father in six years because of this, and in all honesty, he doesn’t even care.
 Lethan is failing three classes.  It’s not that he isn’t smart enough, it’s just that he believes that school isn’t really the best way to spend your time.  And so day by day, his school work becomes less of an importance, and more of an annoyance.  Mr. Lethan Kritor is sick and tired of his life.  And as a result of that, Lethan is not a happy person.  It might even be safe to say that he is a very, very angry person.
 Lethan peels away his sweaty cheek from his desk, and picks up his pencil.  He writes his name at the top of his paper, and then turns it in at the desk in the front of the room.  As he walks back to his seat, he now understands two things.  The first, is that everything he does is nothing more than a reaction, from a reaction, from an earlier reaction.  It could go on for hours.  And the second thing that he now realizes, is that he accidentally wrote his father’s name, instead of his own, on his exam.  How ironic.

Eric Kritor Part 2

 Randy North is completely blind.
 However, he knows exactly how beautiful the stars are when they light up the sky.  He can tell you all about it in vivid detail.
 Randy North's favorite author is Eric Kritor.  He happens to write his novels in the New Jersey State Correctional Institution. These novels are then transcribed into brail, so that Randy North and other blind people can enjoy them.
 Eric Kritor spends most of his time in a cement cage with steel bars.  The novel's that Eric Kritor writes are some of the most descriptive pieces known to the literary world.  Most people do not care for Eric Kritor's work.
 They say, "But I already know what stars looks like.  I already know about the moon and how black the world can get."
 But what Randy North says, is, "Eric Kritor gave me eyes.  Eric Kritor gave me the world."

Untitled

The Preface:
 Approximately three decades after the turn of the century, art became nearly obsolete.  The reason for the drastic change, the evolution, was that People became very discouraged with their inability to create anything of originality.  The problem was that Van Gogh had already existed.  The problem was that Shakespeare already wrote Romeo and Juliet.  The problem was that these dead men, these artists, they had already thought of, created, written, performed, and philosophized everything and anything that was ever worth being thought of, created, written, performed or philosophized. 
 People, having realized the cold truth, quickly gave up on expression.  They gave up on art.  They gave up on believing that there was anything left to conjure.  And so over time, People stopped believing in most things all together.  UFOs, true love, world peace, Santa Claus.  Eventually, everyone even gave up on God.
 And despite the critics, despite the cynics, despite the Bible, the world didn't go straight to Hell.  In all honesty, People seemed to get along a lot like before except that society just worked a little more logistically.  A lot of the old, religiously influenced cultural traditions began to fade away.  People began to elect female presidents; the state granted homosexuals the right to marriage.
 And for the most part, People seemed to think they had it all figured out, looking at the world rationally, it was a very clear and accurate way to live.  They weren't striving and thirsting for creation like they had before.  They were content, they were happy.  People finally felt like they understood.

1

 Luke peeled his head phones away, placed them on his desk, and breathed a heavy sigh of relief.  The new elevator song he had been working on, "Composition 237", was finished.  Everything was in order, everything had been thoughtfully organized and written.  The exactness of the song was almost scientific.
 Feeling content, Luke closed his laptop and began to gather the things he needed for rehearsal.  He stuffed everything into a worn, blue duffel bag and set it down beside his apartment door.  Luke stopped into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, re-combed his hair, plucked a few eyebrows, and mumbled something about plastic surgery.  Normally, Luke would have made sure to file his finger nails, but taking the extra five minutes would have made him late.  Without bothering to turn off the lights, Luke grabbed his duffel bag and slammed the door shut behind him.
 A little about:  Luke Masons is a 28 year old college graduate.  He was born January 8th, 2019 in Boston Massachusetts.  He was raised by his single mother, Mary Masons, who he loves and cares for dearly, despite the fact that they haven't spoken in several years.  He is currently the composer of The Blossom Elevator Orchestra (which is, in fact, an orchestra that specifically composes elevator music) and has been since the commencement of graduation.  Luke Masons' hairline has been receding now for about eight months, and he has been predicting that he will be bald by the time he reaches 30.  His last girlfriend, the one who is pregnant with his baby, used to tell him that a high ratio of skin to hair on older men is very sexy.  Luke Masons weighs roughly 200 pounds, which is ironic considering his obsessiveness over physicality's.  He wears heavy, thick brimmed glasses and buys a new pair of white nike tennis shoes every year on his half birthday.  Luke tends to enjoy most things that have to do with the color green, hates the sound of Locusts, loves the smell of fabric softener, and usually watches the evening news at 6 pm., and then again at 11 pm.
 When Luke arrived at rehearsal, the Orchestra was already arranged with all fifteen bodies breathing and accounted for.  Gordon Bragg, the oldest member and most talented violinist, made certain to tell Luke that, "Rehearsal can only run from 1:30 to 3:30 pm. this afternoon because Miss Modest, the woman who owns the studio space, has another orchestra already scheduled.  Sorry for the inconvenience."  Luke barely acknowledged Gordon, he didn't even look him in the eye.  Gordon was the type of person who told you things you already knew, but made it sound like he was doing you a big favor by doing so.  He was the kind of man that was old enough to be Luke's father, but still acted like he just got out of High School.
 A little annoyed, Luke pulled his baton out of the duffel bag and stood in front of his orchestra.  The seven men and eight women were already warmed up and by now had a copy of the music Luke finished just 45 minutes earlier.  Once everything was in order, Luke counted off the tempo and began the song.  His stature was erect and he felt very in control, directing every instrument with precision and approval.  In the end, The Blossom Elevator Orchestra played the entire piece flawlessly on their very first attempt.  It was to be expected, however, because the Orchestra had been designed to work as efficiently as a machine.
 A little about:  The studio that The Blossom Elevator Orchestra rehearsed and recorded in was actually the basement of a Laundry mat.  It had been re-furnished, designed, sound proofed, and financed by the 40-something-year-old owner, Miss Modest.  The studio was relatively small, considering it was built for Orchestra's.  In addition, it tended to smell like chlorine in the summer time and had only one window, located in the corner adjacent to the stairs.
 By 2:18 pm. the Orchestra had already begun recording "Composition 237".  Luke sat alone in the back of the studio because right now they didn't need anyone waving their hands in the air.  Right now, according to the sound engineers, what they did need was for Gordon Bragg to, "Sit a little closer to the mic, if you would please."
 Even though it is completely uncharacteristic for Luke to think about something like this, at that particular moment, Luke was thinking about how much he'd like to take Gordon Bragg into the restroom and make small talk with him for a few minutes.  He was thinking about how he would be so nice to Gordon and then, once Gordon had his back turned to him, once Gordon was drying his hands, he would, without saying a word, walk up behind and strangle Gordon until he stopped breathing.  He would strangle Gordon so that he would never hear his violin again.  So that he would never look at Luke with those apathetic brown eyes, with those chapped lips that part just enough so that Luke can always smell his bad breath.
 It was at this point, while Luke was fantasizing about a very deep, dark secret, when he heard a soft voice from behind say, "Hello".
 A little about:  Amber Mirocol is the only member of the Blossom Elevator Orchestra that knows Luke on a personal level.  She is a 22 year old college student with dark, brown hair and green eyes.  Amber's favorite word is testament, her biggest fear is dying alone, and, unbeknownst to Luke, she is two months pregnant with his child.
 Startled, Luke turned around.
 "I thought you never wanted to speak to me again."
 "We all make mistakes."
 "How have you been?  Are you still having trouble sleeping?"
 "No, the Doctor gave me some new drugs, called Noctamal, I think?  I think that's what they're called.  I guess it doesn't really matter.
 Amber started playing with her hair, she was nervous.
 Luke took her hand, he spoke quietly, "Listen, Amber, I need to talk to you about something, kind of, kind of important.  I need you to help me."
 "What's wrong?  What is it?"
 "Come get some coffee with me today, we can talk about it then."
 "Okay, but Gordon Bragg's car broke down this morning and I'm supposed to give him a ride home."
 "I'll go with you, we can take my car."
 By 3:30 pm., at the end of their studio time, the Orchestra was a little more than half of the way through the song.  While people were collecting their things and packing up their instruments, Luke made sure to tell each and every one of them that, "Rehearsal next week is going to be on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, like usual".  Luke told each and every one of them that they were, "Very efficient today".
 During the 15 minute drive to Gordon's house, the car was silent.
 This was partly because Luke was thinking about his eyes.  He was thinking about how they see everything upside down, and his brain flips it all right side up.  He was thinking about how differently things would be if his brain didn't do that, if his brain didn't know any better.  If his brain couldn't figure out up from down or right from wrong.  He was thinking how if his brain wasn't working, if he saw everything upside down, he would have to adapt.  He would probably adapt really well actually, in spite of his malfunction.  In spite of the misconception.
 And then, without any hesitation, a black, 2044 Ford Explorer ran a red light.
 That Ford Explorer bombarded its way into the intersection and collided directly with the passenger side of Luke's small, compact Honda Civic.  As the door bent inward, buckling under the force, Luke could hear the sound of glass shattering.  Luke watched as Gordon's body tensed and prepared for the impact.  Gordon's legs pushed feverishly against the car floor and his knuckles went white when he took hold of the armrest.  Amber was sitting in the back, behind Luke.  She bit down hard on her tongue and dug her fingernails into the car.  It was at this point when Luke realized that no matter how tightly Gordon gripped his armrest, no matter how much Amber's tongue bled, no matter how far away Luke tried to make himself feel, someone was going to die.
 But then suddenly, very unexpectedly, Gordon began to scream.  And instead of a shriek, instead of a cry for help, Gordon let out the most beautiful sound Luke had heard in his entire life.  It came out softly at first, like a whisper, but then almost as quickly as it began, it was breathing along the walls of the car, brushing against Luke's skin, and all the while carrying with it a pulse.  Luke shut his eyes tightly, blocking out the world, ignoring the certainty of the Ford Explorer, the promise of death.  Luke allowed Gordon's scream to cater his soul.  And for those brief seconds, nothing else mattered.
 But the next thing that happened is that Luke woke up to the steady beat of his own heart.  He was lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines and still very oblivious to the world around him.
 
2

 The nurse was fumbling with some papers at the end of the bed and was more than a little surprised when Luke said, "Hello".  She went on to tell him that Doctor Kaufmann would be in to see him shortly and that he should just relax for now.
 Luke laid on the stiff bed, staring at the ceiling tiles.  He began to play back the accident in his head.  Everything was still a little foggy, but Gordon's scream remained crystal clear.
 When the Doctor finally came in, he looked like a little boy with a dark secret.  He avoided eye contact.  He spoke quietly.  He said things like, "There's really no easy way to put this, Mr. Masons".  The Doctor said things like, "We did everything we could".  And finally, he said things like, "But your friend didn't make it.  If we could have gotten there sooner, we might have been able to save him.  The problem was that the angle at which the other car collided with yours was too direct.  Your car ended up going slightly air born and actually rolled twice before it stopped.  Mr. Bragg's seat belt became dislodged when the other car merged with yours and so he too became air born.  He was found in the backseat of your car next to the other passenger, Miss Amber Mirocol.  She is in fairly good condition, considering she suffered minor head trauma from when Gordon's body was hurled into her.  Apparently, the airbags ejected and are the reason for those friction burns on your arms.  Aside from those, and fainting, you were unharmed."
 He kept talking, but Luke stopped listening.
 Luke was discharged at the end of the day and the hospital paid for his cab home.    Hospitals like to do that because they can charge you thousands of dollars for your visit, and still come out looking generous at the end of the day.
 When he got home, Luke fumbled with his keys and stumbled into his apartment, threw everything onto his bed, stripped off his shirt and collapsed on his couch.  He laid there, motionless, staring at the blank television.
 And then, without hesitation, without any notice, Luke walked into his kitchen and rummaged around the drawers for a marker.  It was a thick, dark red Perma-Marker that found its way into his palm.  Without giving it much consideration, without really thinking, he pulled out some paper and began to write.  At first it was more of a reflection on what had happened, a re-telling.  A remembering.  But what happened next, is that Luke ran out of room, the words kept spilling out of his marker and there just wasn't enough paper.  So, he started writing on his kitchen counter. 
 In big, bold, red marker, he wrote, "MAYBE PEOPLE DIDN'T STOP BELIEVING IN GOD, MAYBE GOD STOPPED BELIEVING IN US" 
 He wrote, "IF EVERYONE CLOSES THEIR EYES AT THE SAME TIME, WILL THE WORLD DISAPPEAR?"
 When Luke ran out of room on the counter top, he moved to his kitchen walls.  And when Luke ran out of things to say, things to write, he began to draw.  And what he drew, it wasn't anything anyone could have predicted.  All the science and logic in the world couldn't explain what began to happen.
 For the next six days, beginning on that Friday night, Luke created.  On the white walls in his apartment, on the ceiling of his bedroom, on the tiles in his bathroom and the wooden floors in his hallways, he wrote, transformed, destroyed, drew, philosophized, manipulated, and above all, believed.  For the very first time in his life, Luke believed.  In something.  In anything.  In everything.  And all the while, for the entire six days of creation, the steady pulse of a beautiful scream played relentlessly in his head.  And maybe because of that, Luke never once grieved for Gordon.  It was more that he understood.  It was more like a realization.  It was a gift. 
 And then on the seventh day, Luke passed out.
 
3

 He awoke on Sunday afternoon to the distant noise of a telephone.  His eyelids peeled open and he rolled over onto his side.  His muscles were sore and weak, his stomach had cramps far worse than anything he had ever experienced.  Luke had gone eight full days now without food or water.  Slowly, painfully, he got up from the bathroom floor where he had passed out.  His head was pounding and every step took more concentration than he could muster.  Using the walls as support, he stumbled along the hallway, running his hands along the murals, portraits, and landscapes.  By now, almost every inch of his apartment was covered in artwork, all of it beautiful.  All of it inspiring.  All of it in red Perma-Marker.
 When he reached the kitchen, he poured a glass of water and had trouble getting it down.  His throat was dry and began to burn when the water trickled into his stomach.  The phone started ringing again and when Luke answered it, the voice on the other end was hysteric.
 "Where have you been?  Are you alright?  Is everything okay?  What happened?", It was Miss Modest.
 Luke tried to respond, he wanted to tell her that he couldn't explain, that things were different.  He wanted to tell her about the artwork, about the car accident and the way Gordon screamed.  He wanted to tell her everything, but the only thing that came out was, "I'm okay".
 "Well, believe me we were all worried sick about you.  Are you going to be alright for rehearsal on Monday?  Are you going to make it?"
 "Yes, I think, yes I will be there."
 "Okay, okay well I won't bother you with it now, but tomorrow you better have a good reason for your absence.  Everyone is going to be expecting a very, very good excuse.  And there better be one."
 "Miss Modest, I will see you tomorrow"
 Luke hung up the phone, pressed his hands against his forehead and shut his eyes tightly.  The weight of the world was coming down on him all at once. 
 Still hungry, still in pain, he left the kitchen, pushed open his bedroom door and laid down on the bed with his palms facing up.  On the ceiling there were a mess of designs, abstract and vibrant.  In the middle of it all was a small, lonely bird.  Luke laid there, staring at that bird, listening to the quiet melody he imagined it would sing.  Luke laid this way, his heart beating deep in his chest, not moving a muscle until his eyes were closed and his mind was blank.  If anyone would have seen him, they would have thought him dead.
 He woke early Monday morning, and again, felt the pains of hunger.  This time, when he reached the kitchen, he ate.  This time, when he reached the kitchen, the phone did not ring.  He went to the bathroom, pulled off his clothes and climbed into the shower.  The water felt clean as it hurried along his body, washing away some of the red ink that caked his hands.
 And it was in the shower that Luke began to pray.  He had read about it in a history book, that people used to talk to God.  He had read about how they would fold their hands together, close their eyes and whisper their words.  This was the secret he needed to tell Amber.  This was the "something kind of, kind of important" they were going to talk about.
  
  Dear God,
   
    Why?

 It was all he asked.
 He got out of the shower, stood in front of the mirror and noticed that his weight was dropping.  He realized that he looked pale and sickly, that his facial hair had grown in and much of the marker hadn't come off with the water.  Luke stood there with his mouth gaping.  With his eyes wide open. 
 He dried off, brushed his teeth, put on his clothes and left.
 His car wasn't parked outside his apartment, it was at the impound lot.  So, he walked.  He walked the four miles to the studio and got there a little early, at 1:23 pm.
 There were 15 chairs, vacant and cold, assembled in the familiar arc that opened to his platform.  He sat down and hung his head between his legs, hoping the seconds would pass more quickly if he pretended not to notice.
 "Glad to see you're still alive."
 Surprised, Luke sat up, and, standing in front of him was Miss Modest.  Her arms were crossed.
 "Oh dear, you look terrible."  Uncrossing her arms, she covered her mouth.
 Luke nodded, he agreed.  "I know"
 "Luke, what happened?  You need to tell me.  What happened?"
 Before he could respond, before he could think of the words, the door opened and Amber walked in.
 "Luke!", she shouted.
 She looked at him with eager eyes, with questions in mind.
 Instead of responding, Luke sat, staring at Amber. 
 She's okay, he thought.
 And then the door opened again and gave way to four more Orchestra players.  All of them with concern written on their faces.  All of them with eager eyes.
 And within minutes, before Luke had a chance to explain anything, the rest of the men and women made their way through the door and into the studio.  14 bodies were breathing and accounted for.
 Luke paused, he hesitated, his eyes darted across their faces, without knowing what to do, without knowing what to say, he spoke firmly, "Let's begin rehearsal."
 So, the Blossom Elevator Orchestra did just that.  They removed their instruments, unpacked their belongings, and took their seat.  There wasn't a whisper to overhear or a look of confusion on their faces, they did exactly what Luke instructed them to do.
 But when he stood in front of them, not everyone was waiting for his count.  A handful of them, including Amber, were staring at the empty chair where Gordon Bragg used to sit.
 Stealing their attention, Luke shouted, "I don't have anything written down for us to work with, I didn't really have any time to write a new composition.  Does anyone have any suggestions?  Any ideas?" 
 Jonathan Hull, one of the violinists, spoke up.  He said he had been working on something.  He asked if Luke would mind him playing it.
 But something had changed in Luke.  He didn't respond, he stood there with his eyes closed.
 The Orchestra sat silently.
 "Do you want me to play it?", Jonathan repeated.
 But Luke didn't hear him.  He took out a spiral notebook and for the next half hour, with the entire Orchestra silent and fixated on his actions, Luke sat and wrote 14 copies of "Composition 238".  It was immediate, the music, it came to Luke instantly in his head.  It poured out of his pen and onto the paper and when he was finished, he tore out the pages and handed each musician a copy.  Despite their curiosity, despite their pessimism, they each took the music and placed it on their stand, ready to perform at Luke's count.
 He stood in front of them, his hands and arms speckled with red marker.  With his eyes shut tightly, he outstretched his arms and began the count.  The Orchestra began the song.  The Orchestra began to pulsate.  The bassoon warmed the air, striding along the floor.  The violins, the clarinet, the flutes, their melodies carried across like an autumn wind, high above it all.  Luke stood up on his toes with his arms extended, then bent low, almost touching the floor, catering to the music, giving the sound a soul.
 Miss Modest, watching from the side, put her head down.  Tears were walking out of the corners of her eyes.  She rubbed them away, embarrassed at first, but then, overwhelmed, allowed them to run rivers down her cheeks.
 The Orchestra, taken by what they were creating, by the unmistakable passion of the music, began to play more feverishly, more endearingly.  Their palms were sweating, their eyes strained at the composition, their souls lifted out from their bodies and danced along the ceiling.  The music seemed like the voice of God, craving their attention, craving their consent.
 And all the while, the whole time, the sound engineers sat quietly in their booth and listened.  They sat in their booth with their mouths gaping open.  They sat in their booth and recorded every sound.  "Composition 238" was captured into their computer files, its melodies unwavering.
 After the last note had been played, the Blossom Elevator Orchestra sat in their chairs, exhausted.  Exhilarated.  They sat in their chairs silently and for the first time, content.
 Luke sat down where he stood, his shirt clung tightly to his sweaty back, his skin, clammy and still pasted with red Perma-Marker. 
 And it was at this moment when everyone knew that in the history of expression, the history of art, nothing had ever been created like this.
 And deep down, way deep down in places that no one even knew existed, something began to change.  Something drastic.  Something believable.  In everyone.

4
 
  Dear God,

    I'm beginning to believe that People have it all wrong.  It isn't that we don't believe in you, it's that you don't believe in us.  It's something I have been thinking about lately, something I've been thinking about a lot.  And you know what else I think, God?  I think that if you did exist, if you really were God, you wouldn't want to be.  Do you understand what I'm trying to say?  You gave up on us.  On me.

5

 Because the Blossom Elevator Orchestra composed, recorded and distributed elevator music throughout the eleven years it had been in existence, it continued to do so.  Except the only change was that the music they composed, recorded and distributed, wasn't the same anymore.
 What began to happen is that when People were at the Hilton Head hotel's in New York and Boston, and they were going from the lobby to their suite on floor 23, they weren't the same person when they got off the elevator as they were when they got on.
 What happened is that People started staying on the elevator's, riding them up and down for hours at a time, captivated.  When they got back to their rooms, they were different.  Some People, they started writing.  They wrote novels.  They wrote epics.  And they wrote about love.  They wrote about loss and ugly aspirations.  They wrote about believing and death and everything and anything a person would ever dream about writing. 
 And other People, when they got to their room, they went back out and bought paint.  Gallons of it.  And then, they too began to create.
 And what really happened, the big picture behind this whole thing, is that The Blossom Elevator Orchestra started a renaissance.
 
   *****************
 
 Luke sat across from Amber, his black coffee was getting cold.
 "I think you must be going crazy", she said.
 "This isn't funny Amber, I swear to you, I heard him screaming and it did something to me."
 "Luke, I was in the car with you, I was sitting right behind you, Gordon didn't make a sound."
 "Well then I don't know what to tell you, but I know I heard something, and I still hear it, even now.  All I have to do is close my eyes and it's there."
 Her breath smelled like doubt.
 "Okay, well what does it sound like?"
 "You never really can hear it the way you want to, like in a dream, how sometimes you can't always see everything.  But only, with this, you're always shutting your eyes tightly, trying to hear it a little more clearly. It's never enough.  And also, it comes in waves, it pulsates.  And you can almost feel it sometimes.  Almost like a warm breeze, but maybe a little less."
 Amber took a sip of her coffee.  She started playing with her hair.
 "What's wrong?",  Luke said.
 "It's just a lot to believe, Luke.  It really just doesn't make any sense."
 "Well a lot of things don't make sense right now.  Everything is so, different.  It's just that, I don't know.  I just don't know anything, and I wish I did.  I don't understand what's happening, everything is just so fucked up right now.  It's like, I don't know, things used to be really clear for me.  My life was a routine.  I liked that."
 Amber leaned forward, she put her coffee down.  "You can't expect for things to be so easy.  You can't just hope to float on by, because you won't.  You can't.  Eventually, something will come along and kick you in the face and you have to be ready for it."
 "You can't close your eyes and expect the world to disappear", Luke said, quietly.
 "No, what I'm saying is that when you do close your eyes, you're going to get kicked in the face."

6

 For the next two weeks, The Blossom Elevator Orchestra was on the news every night, and every night, People wouldn't stop talking about Luke Masons.  People were always saying that they love what He's creating, that He inspires them to do great things.
 Luke didn't watch the news anymore.
 But what happened, is that the news starting watching him.  At first, the camera's were just outside of his apartment, waiting to get an interview.  And then, they started showing up at rehearsal's, interviewing Orchestra members, crowding the entrance.
 And it wasn't long after the camera's showed up when Luke's fans, his following, the ones that were beginning to believe, were renting out the empty apartments in his building.  It wasn't long after the camera's showed up when Luke was issued a second mailbox, when People stopped him on the street to tell him that, "You are such an inspiration, Sir".
 And this relentless praise, this constant worship, it started to get to him.  And not in the way that he started getting sick of his own name, or that he wanted to disappear from it all.  No, it started to get to him in the way that believed them.
 When they told him that He is the last thing they think about before they fall asleep, he nodded.  When they told him that His music has given them something to believe in, that they would die for Him, Luke would reply, very sincerely, "I know".
 And so for the next few weeks, Luke began to think about things very, very differently.  And to be fair, it was more that Luke started to go a little crazy.
 For instance, instead of wishing the traffic light would turn green, he would gaze into the red light, sometimes for minutes on end, commanding it to change.  And, eventually, it would.
 Luke started hearing voices in his head.  They said things like, "God, if you can hear me, please, please just give me a sign".  The voices said things like, "Help me".
 And Luke even started watching the evening news again.  But only because he had a large interest in the car accidents.  He gave a lot of his attention away to the plane crashes and the flu epidemics.  He had a special interest in the murders.  Luke would sit and think about how he must have created all of these disasters, whether he was aware of it or not.  He would sit and decide who was going to Hell and who would make it to heaven.
 His system was, a little biased, to say the least.  Generally, if you looked like a nice person and you didn't murder anyone, you got in.

   *****************

  Dear God,

    I don't believe in you.

   *****************

 Luke woke, soaked in cold, nervous sweat.  He tore off his covers, picked up the phone, and when the voice on the other line mumbled "Hello", he screamed, "Did you have an abortion?  Yes or no did you have an abortion?"
 Amber griped her phone tightly, she exhaled with hesitation.
 "Please just tell me right now, did you or did you not have an abortion?"
 She closed her eyes.
 "For fucks sake just give me an answer!"
 "yes"
 He dropped the phone, it bounced loudly on the floor and he pressed his palms against his forehead.
 The dream that woke him up, the one where Amber walks into the abortion clinic on Indianola and Fifth Avenue, it was more than a dream.

   ******************

 Luke didn't go out anymore except for rehearsal.  Except for creation.  And when he did go out, when he had to see People, they started saying things like, "Wow Luke, you should really get more sleep".  They said things like, "Hey how about we go get some lunch, on me".
 He understood what they were trying to say, he knew they were only trying to help.  Luke was fully aware that in the past month, he had lost about a third of his weight.  And not only that, but he had lost most of his hair too.
 And once, at rehearsal, after they had finished "Composition 251", Luke passed out.  When he woke up, for whatever reason, the color green didn't look the same anymore.
 Luke even stopped having conversations with Amber.  They didn't meet at coffee shops anymore.  They only spoke once after the abortion dream, after he dropped the phone.
 "Luke, I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I'm sorry--"
 "Don't be.  It's what I would have wanted anyway."
 That was, of course, a lie.
 But the problem was that Luke felt it was the truth.  He believed that the abortion must have been what he wanted.  He simply understood that he works in mysterious ways.

7

   Dear Me,
   
    If I am what I think I am, then I have a plan for everything.  And if that's true, then I suppose I can say that it was me that killed Gordon Bragg.  And I impregnated Amber.  And then, I made her have an abortion. 
    The thing is, is that I end people's lives every day, people I don't even know.  I give life to children with the intention of infecting them with illness.  With cancer.  I create and I destroy. 
    I inspire people, I let them believe in me and I let them follow me, but I don't answer their prayers.  I don't give them a sign. 
    I give them disasters.

 Luke peeled open his eyes.  He had been holed up in his apartment now for two weeks.  He had stopped going to rehearsal.  He stopped creating.  He gave up on it.

 
   Dear Me,

    People want me to solve their problems.  They want me to give them answers, they want me to fix their murders and their rapes.  Their disasters.
    They want me to fix their lives and their hearts.  They want answers and they want reasons and above all, they want a purpose.
    And honestly, all of this wanting and needing, it adds up.  And it is very, very heavy. 
    And lately, at night, while I'm trying to fall asleep, I can feel the weight of their confusion weighing down on me.

 Luke's nose began to bleed, he got up and stuffed toilet paper into his nostril.  He closed his eyes.

   Dear Me,

    People have dug themselves a very deep hole.  I don't think I can get them out.  I don't think they would even know if I was trying to help them.
    Maybe God gave up because he realized that his great creation, it wasn't going to work.  Just like the dinosaurs.  Maybe God realized that People really aren't anything special.  Maybe He left because it was too much.  Because humanity is such a huge mess that he realized that nothing he could do would ever fix it.
    He probably gave up on us a long time ago, too.  And the whole time, nobody even knew that humanity was fatherless.

 Luke got up and walked into the kitchen.  It was a Cut-Pro steak knife that found it's way into his palm.

   Dear Me,

    I'm looking for the right words.  I want this to sound the way it should. 
    I think the problem is, is that I'm tired.
    I don't want to kill anyone else.  I don't want to listen to People's prayers.  I don't want to be worshiped, I don't want to create miracles, I don't want to exist.    
    I think I'm afraid.
    But maybe I'm not.
    I think that I'm giving up just like God did.
    But really, I don't know.

 Luke gave up and the knife fell to the floor, giving way to the red blood that emptied out of Luke's tired, sickly body.

The Epilogue:
 Luke Masons' body laid in his apartment for several weeks after he committed suicide.  Because no one had seen or heard from him for weeks prior to his death, they had no reason to be alarmed.  That was, until, the other tenants began to smell his rotting body.
 People mourned his death for weeks and a large funeral was held in his memory.  Many People studied his life and wrote little poems.  Many People studied his life and wrote epic biographies.  Some People studied his life and did nothing.
 Eventually, many years after his death, People ended up forgetting about Luke Masons.  People forgot about creating, and the renaissance that The Blossom Elevator Orchestra started, proved to be short lived.
 None of the other members from the Orchestra, including Amber Mirocol, did anything note worthy following Luke's death.