Theory on Happiness

A few people say they are happy. But what is happiness? Here’s some common answers. I am happy because I aced my final. I am happy because on average, I am usually in a good mood. I am happy because I am content with what I have. People say they are happy, but people lie to themselves.

Happiness exists only in relation to unhappiness. Babies look like they are happy. They stay that way for a while, but once they learn about the imperfections of the people around them, they lose their happiness. Babies are happy because they don’t know any better. They have no conception of unhappiness, just the immediate sensory input from the environment around them. They are not ignorant; they just see the world as data. Babies exist only as a reflection of their environment. If their environment does something displeasing, then they are unhappy. If their needs are fulfilled, then they are happy.

Happiness is not an emotion. It is a state of being. Our emotions lie in constant turmoil, changing from moment to moment, sometimes gradually, sometimes suddenly. Emotionally, we are all still babies, but we can hide it better. But to be truly happy is to have every fiber of our being stretched to a higher limit. True happiness fundamentally changes who we are.

To try and stay the same and say we are happy or content or satisfied is not true happiness. The state of satisfaction equals a state of settling for less. We are figures constantly in want of more. The common example that fits would be two soul mates deeply in love. They do not want anyone else. But that does not mean they are ever satisfied. Being in love feels like being addicted to a drug. Two soul mates would never be satisfied because they constantly want more of their partner. Their emotional state is irrelevant. They can fight and be mad or disappointed or sad. But they would still be happy. Their state of being is to positively evolve, to strive for better. For one person to become unhappy, the other has to stop stretching the other person’s perception of happiness. This may come through increasing disinterest or a singular, unforgivable act. But one person has ceased to be a needed drug.

This is not to say that love is the only way to become happy. A person can be happy through their job, or their good deeds, or through a friendship. Best friends are like soul mates in the way that one person can make them happy. But a person can also become happy through their actions. A solitary artist who finds deep fulfillment in his work is happy, even though his actions are not grounded in relationships with others. But the art redefines the artist; he is in want of more beauty.

To find happiness is akin to trying to grab nothing. I cannot describe what the object of nothing is; it is the absence of something. Likewise, we only comprehend what happiness because it is so easy and common to know when we are unhappy. I can lie to myself and put on a brave smile for others. I can fool myself. But we know when we are in want of something more, and what we have is not fulfilling. And to seek happiness feels like trying to not be unhappy. We’re all lonely, because no one will ever truly understand who we are, not even ourselves. A lot of people never find happiness. But all we can do is look for something that we cannot live without, something that builds us up and does not tear us down.

After All

Terry forgot to eat again. All the late-night delivery drivers know him by name. Tonight is Thai food; Terry found an old coupon in his jeans. He made the call about an hour ago. Taps his feet while drumming on his desk.

“Shut up! I’m trying to study,” his roommate, Tom, yells. He’s prepping for some important standardized test.

Terry puts his hands in his pockets and crosses his legs. Tom is an old friend. After graduation, they Facebooked each other daily. Gave each other witty texts. Rarely would call. Terry would say he had limited minutes on his phone plan. He’d say that to everyone. Daily messages turned into weekly messages that turned into monthly messages that turned into nothing. Terry ended up deleting his roommate’s number. Couple years later, Terry gets a call from an unknown number. Ignores it. The person would probably try and leave a voicemail and would fail. Whenever Terry first gets a phone, he calls his phone and fills up the voicemail. It takes about an hour, but it’s worth it. His friends complain. Terry says it’s just a technical error, that he’ll call to fix it. Doesn’t.

Terry checked his email the next day because his boss told him to. Finds an email from Tom. After checking his spam box, he opens Tom’s email.

Hey Terry,

I haven’t talked to you in ages. I tried calling yesterday, and I tried leaving a voicemail. I hope all is well. What have you been up to since graduation? Are you still in town? I’m moving back. Unfortunately, my old job fell apart; the company went in the tank. You must have seen it in the news. I remember you used to check that website everyday. You used to tell me all about the possible dangers in the economy. I remember how bored and uninterested I was. I wish I listened. You were always right.

I’m trying to get back on my feet. I decided to go back to school, find a new career. It’s been tough getting back into study mode. I haven’t studied in years.

If you’re still in town, let’s grab coffee sometime. I really hope to hear from you soon. I’ll give you a call later this week.

Sincerely,
Tom

Terry closed his web browser. He opened up his cellphone and texted the unknown number.

“is this tom? - Terry”
A couple seconds later, he gets a reply.
“Yes! How are you? It’s so good to hear from you.”
“u too.”
“I guess you saw my email.”
“yea”
“Are you free tomorrow?”
“no”
“When are you free?”
“fri night.”
“Great. Let’s meet up at the coffee shop near the student union at 6.”
“closed down”
“Really? We loved that place. How about the food court? Same time.”
“sure, see u then.”

Terry snapped his phone closed. Went straight to bed.

Terry stood by the door to the food court. Stared at his shoes.
“Terry? Terry! It’s so good to see you!” Tom wrapped his arms around Terry. Terry patted Tom on the back. Tom’s much paler than Terry remembers. His hair was combed, but there’s a cowlick jabbing out. He had a dress shirt and khakis that hung too loose. Terry didn’t feel the old baby fat on Tom. Withheld a comment.
“Same,” Terry said.
“Let’s grab a bite to eat first. I’m starving,” Tom said. “Let’s sit over there.” He points to the table by the windows.

Terry went to the Chinese place. Tom went to the burger joint. Tom sat first.
“Same old, same old right? You always used to order that,” Tom said.
“That’s massive,” Terry said. The meat in Tom's burger is thicker than the buns.
“I told you I was starving. Let’s dig in.”
Tom’s burger disappears in a few bites. Terry’s stomach grumbles. He races to finish first.
“Beat cha,” Tom said.
Terry’s mouth is full. Chews and chews and chews.
“Heh, you must have been hungry too.”
Terry nods his head.
“You ate too quickly. You always ate too quickly. Do you still forget to eat breakfast and lunch?”
Terry gulps. Smirks back at Tom.
“So where are you working these days?” Tom asks.
“Same place.”
“You hated that place though.”
“Still do.” They both slurp at their drinks. Terry finishes his first.
“You never liked small talk,” Tom said.
“Never,” Terry repeats.
“I’ll cut to the chase. I’m staying at the motel on the edge of town.”
“It has bedbugs.”
“I remember. Laid down some plastic bags.” Terry notices a red dot on Tom’s wrist.
“So I’ve been looking around for an apartment. I found a great deal, but it’s a double. I was wondering if you were looking for a new place too?”
“Maybe.”
“You were the best roommate in college. I miss living with you.”
“Me too.”
“How about it? The realtor is asking for a signature as soon as possible. I told him to hold on to it.”
Tom coughs into his elbow.
“You still smoking?” Terry asks.
“Way too much. A pack a day.”
“You should quit.”
Tom stifles another cough.
“What do you think?”
“Well, I have been thinking a lot about moving out. My landlord sucks. And the place is too noisy.”
“This place is a great deal. No realtor’s fee. I double checked the guy’s references. It’s all good.”
“So how much per month?”
“Five hundred.”
“That is a lot cheaper than my place now.”
“You living by yourself?”
“Yup.”
“Well, that explains it.”
“So how soon do I have to decide?”
“The guy said some other people might pick it up. It’s really a great deal. There’s no security deposit. Just an initial maintenance fee.”
Terry looks again at the red dots on Tom’s arm. Tom smells like cheap soap and tap water. Terry thinks back and recognizes Tom’s shirt. It still has that bleach stain from that time Terry tried to do the laundry.
“Sure. Why not,” Terry said.
“That’s great!” Tom beamed. His shoulders relaxed. He sat up more.
“Let’s go sign before those other people take it,” Terry said.
“I agree. Let’s go.”

It’s been a couple months since they moved in together. Terry’s side is messy, like always. The food arrives.
“Ordering in again?” The delivery driver quips.
“Again,” Terry says.

Terry shoves a twenty into the driver’s hand and snatches the food. Cracks open the box. A pungent smell fills the apartment.
“Did you order food again?” Tom asks.
“What do you think?”
“I should teach you how to cook. You’ll save so much money.”
Meanwhile, Terry gobbles up his dinner. He’s standing in the kitchen. His fork scrapes the sides. Bits of peanut dribble down the side of his cheek. He slurps up the noodles and a trail of sauce lingers on his chin.

“Stop eating like that!” his roommate yells.
“Eating like what?” Terry responds.
“God damnit, I can hear you from my room.”
“Oh ok. Sorry”

Terry looks at his new videogame, but he can’t play it now. He hasn’t even bothered unwrapping it. On his desk, the newest game magazine lies open. the review for the game is on the revealed page. Underneath the two page screenshot, in bold letters reads, “Game of the Month.”

He can see Tom through his mostly shut door. Studying hard, like always. Tom’s room is even messier. Taped upside down on his door, there are several rejection letters from colleges. Terry looks at the kitchen table. His paycheck is there, one set of numbers that says money before taxes, and one set of numbers that mock him. He’s at the same job. Sits down in one of their stolen chairs.

He pictures his roommate’s face in the bowl. Pictures his seedy eyes and his too thin cheeks. He stabs down at his empty bowl. Stabs again.

“Fuck you and fuck you and fuck you some more,” he mutters.

His roommate’s imaginary eyes split like tomatoes. As Terry jabs downs, the bowl cracks a bit. Terry breaks from his fantasy. He is painfully aware of the sauce all over his face. He grabs a napkin and scrubs his face. He licks off the last of the sauce off of his lips.

“All done?” his roommate calls from his room.
“How could you tell?”
“You stopped slurping.”

Terry gets up to wash his face. Makes eye contact with his roommate. His roommate averts his gaze.

“Did he hear me curse?” Terry wonders to himself.

Terry sits on his bed. Starts doodling. Doodles turn into drawings that turn into complex structures that turn into passion. It’s the only drawing in his sketchpad. Stops. Rips it out trashes it. On the bottom of his wastebasket, there’s the pieces of an application. Terry takes out his phone and flips through the photos. Reaches the graduation photo. Terry has his arm draped over Tom’s shoulder. Tom’s crying. Terry closes his phone and holds it to his chest.

His stomach grumbles. Gets back up to make instant noodles. He’s sure to slurp even louder this time.

Power Hour #9 (Incomplete)

Henry likes to look at the ads on the train. Likes to imagine what the people in the ads are thinking. He sees a picture of two black teenagers wearing ironed button-ups and firmly belted khakis and a too wide smile. In a speech bubble above, garish words exclaim, “If I can succeed, you can too!” At the bottom, the city university name shines prominently. It’s supposed to be big and white, but because of the lights, the words emit a sickly yellow hue. The school logo looks like a haggard combination of different Ivy school logos, as if the artist couldn’t decide which parts he liked best, so he put them all in.

The two teens are crammed between the speech bubble and letters at the bottom. Henry can imagine them squeezing inward, popping the two smiling faces like cherries. He dislikes their smiles. No one should have that white teeth. It looks like they just stacked a pack of mints side by side in their mouth. He wonders what they must have been thinking when the photo was taken. Was it impromptu? Did the photographer peer around campus for attractive black kids who dress like white people? Did he think to himself, “those people probably aren’t going rob me.” There’s two random strangers, dressed in their Sunday’s finest, probably off to church, or a date, or to see their grandparents and some random asshole starts ordering them to gape their mouths and display their teeth. They probably told him to fuck off. Or, as the ad would want you to believe, these idealized youths would say, “could you kindly please leave us be.” Photographer probably slipped them a twenty, and they acted out their classy part gladly. Guy on the left could have been standing up some poor girl. He could pocket this hypothetical money and waste it on some more designer clothes. He could be a veritable prick. Henry just guesses.

Two guys across from him speak insults like greetings to each other. Don’t look like they know each other well. They’re arguing over something they saw on the train. Henry doesn’t really care, he’s too interested in these grinning idiots in the ad. The guy who’s doing most of the shouting is a brawny, black guy. He’s got thick, meaty fingers. He has on a Michael Jordan jersey. The printed number has chipped off in many places and the edges are starting to fray. He has baggy sweatpants with a tomato sauce stain on his right thigh. His shoes look like they could speak. The other guy is built, but in a lithe and taut way. He’s got a polo on that’s several sizes too large. A logo is stamped where his left nipple would be. His jeans slide around the chair, barely fastened to his buttocks. They’re probably between fifteen and twenty-five. Henry doesn’t know, can never tell when a guy has facial hair. They can’t be younger; their voices boom bass notes. And they can’t be too much older than Henry, because they’re talking on the train. Real adults don’t talk on the train. Henry says it’s inconsiderate; says that it’s better to leave someone alone. Who knows, they could be a serial killer who’ll chop you to pieces at the slightest provocation. Or they could have just broken up with their lover. Then it’s polite to listen to their sob story, and bear with their sobs. Most likely, a random stranger on the train doesn’t speak English. Then Henry would look like a racist boob speaking gibberish. Henry gets on and off the train. He’s never truly there; it’s never a destination, just an annoyance.

The big guy stands up and towers over the sitting skinny guy. His chin is jutted up. He’s pressing into skinny guy’s leg, forcing him to squeeze against a metal pole. Skinny guy’s got a smirk on his face. He’s being pushed, but body is relaxed. The big guy shouts some incoherent slang. Little guy keeps eye contact, doesn’t shirk or flinch.

Power Hour #8 (Incomplete)

The ink has run out. Seemingly nonsensical phrases are scattered about the page. Cigarette butts litter his wastebasket. There’s a slowly smoldering fire masked by day old ash. When Frank fails his ideas, he cannot stand to look them. When he started writing, he used to tear up page after page of writing. But he’d put them back together, only to tear them up once more. He’s learned to burn them.

Frank’s pen hangs limp in his hand. He throws it at the wall. There’s no more paper left either. He shuffles out of the room. As he exits, the wind cuts at his bare arms. Turns back to retrieve his jacket, but he backpedals out of the door. Looks at the spiral his feet made in the snow. He lengthens his stride and spins around again. Stretches his legs further apart. Repeats his twirl. Stretches his stiff legs as far as they can go. Creates the outer circle to his spiral. Frank looks down and marvels at the echoing curves. Smiles at the symmetry. His arms are numb, and his fingers are senseless. Goes back inside.

Halfway back to his desk, Frank freezes.
“Dammit, I’ve forgotten to go to the store.”

Searches around his room for his jacket and hat. Finds his jacket in his laundry basket. Smells respectable. But the hat is nowhere to be found. Frank gets on all fours and looks under his bed and desk, his only two pieces of furniture.

“I must have left it at the office. That’s a bother. I should be heading off now though. I should go to the restroom before I leave, it’s a long walk to the store.”
His hat lays on top of his toilet seat, crushed in.
“Why are you here?” Frank questions his hat. “You shouldn’t be here. You should be on the tacky hat rack Marie forced on me.” Picks it up and punches out the top.
“I must have sat on it this morning while I was looking at the patterns in the wallpaper.”

Plops the hat on his head and marches out. It sits too far back, revealing his receding hairline. Frank marches out the door. A blast of wind hits him and the hat flies back into the room.
“Blasted wind. These winters in Boston are trying to annoy me.”
The hat landed in his wastebasket. Picks it up, slaps off the ash.
“Hats are such a silly fashion trend. It’s like the people who make the clothes, strange people they must be, decided to tack on another piece of clothing I am required to buy. And I can never find one that fits right.”
Pulls his hat down to his eyebrows.
“I must be going. I have to finish this article or Michael will be furious. I missed the last two deadlines. He’ll have my neck.”

Frank slams his door shut. He keeps his eyes straight, as to not get distracted. His hat is grey from the ash and his jacket is quite wrinkled. None of his outfit matches. His pants are an off tone black, worn from too many washes. The shoes are a muddy brown with large scuffs at the toes. Frank hears from the side snickers from two girls. They have matching bonnets, billowing dresses and baby blue fitted jackets. Their father stares with judgmental, forked eyebrows. Frank looks at him and chuckles at their contrasting appearances. The father is dressed in a perfectly pressed and tailored suit with a silk handkerchief delicately folded in his jacket pocket. He has on a top hat, and Frank wonders how it stays on the man’s head in this wind.
“Never mind that, I really should be going.” Frank mutters to himself.

The father beckons his daughters hurry away. It’s a straight path to the store now. But Frank has gotten lost exploring the side streets many times. He steps down the cobblestone road, but only on the bricks that are slightly raised. To Frank, the flat bricks are a deathtrap. They may as well be polished glass. Without fail, at least once a week, Frank has fallen. He tiptoes down the path, ignoring the oddly proportioned dresses of the passing ladies, or the batch of frozen grass surviving in a side street, or the rippling cracks in the bakery’s walls, or the daisies in a second story window, or the clicking of his shoes, or the gradual movement of the clouds.

After much delay, Frank arrives at the store. His cheeks are red and feverish. He’s forgotten to shave again. Frank has shapely cheekbones, a proportionate face and strong jaw line. He’s only thirty or thirty-one or twenty-nine, but he looks much older due to the ever expanding dark circles under his bold green eyes. His hair is disastrous, and the cashier smirks when Frank takes off his hat.
“You stayed outside for too long again, didn’t you?” the cashier jokes.
“Seems so.”
“You’ll catch your death in this weather. Boston will freeze you to your bones if you aren’t careful.”
“Can I use your restroom? It’s quite urgent.”
“Of course, you know where it is.”
Frank walks through a door labeled “Employees Only” and stops. Sticks his head back out the door.
“Umm.”
“Frank, it’s the first door to your left.”
“Umm. Thank you.”
Frank jets down the hallway, and concludes his business as quickly as possible. Walks sheepishly back to the register.
“You made it back in record time,” the cashier remarks.
“I didn’t want to keep you waiting again.”
“So how may I help you? Did your typewriter break again?”
“It’s simpler to just write it down and have my assistant type it for me.”
“So, it did break.”
“Well, I was just about to complete a majestic article on the essential civil liberties required as a citizen and as a person, but it jammed when I reached my last paragraph. I started jabbing at the keys and the ink spurted out onto the page. There’s a hole in my wall now. I found I out I have more strength than I thought.”
“I see.” The cashier stifled a laugh during Frank’s story. He ceased to strain his jaw and belted out a guffaw. Frank lets loose deep, reverberating laughs. They both move to catch their breaths, and fail.

Power Hour #7 (Incomplete)

The city breaks people down. It’s this living, crushing monstrosity. People go in and shards come out. When Greg first came to the city, Greg was real. He felt life in all its brilliance; the rich, aromatic smells of the unknown, the sounds that ripple into the very core of a person, the feeling of wonder that changes a man and sculpts them into something brighter. Greg is no more. Greg is a statistic. Greg has a job. Greg goes to this job. And Greg functions. He gets by.

It’s said that living in a city is the survival of the fittest. People say they withstand the bastards and bitches that are their bosses because they will get a fantastic pension. People say that they will go to the gym, go to a yoga class, go write a book tomorrow. People bullshit themselves into this state of nonexistence. Greg is leaving his apartment to go to work, and afterwards he will get a drink to forget. Greg is now at work and is already wishing that it was time to leave. Greg is at the bar and doesn’t realize there is a work of art sitting next to him.

Sarah is the city. She is that woman you see in those magazines full of advertisements and complaints. She dresses as the pictures tell her. Everyday, people look at the clothes she wears, the way she walks and assume that she is a classy lady. Sarah follows the crowd and does not realize the crowd is following her. She has conformed to a predetermined definition of beauty for so long that she has forgotten what she looks like. What she looks like underneath the mascara, the foundation, the eyeliner, the blush, the perfectly curled bangs, the plucked eyebrows and the anti-wrinkle lotion. Sarah has eyes that used to see curves as part of her body, not as her enemy. Eyes that twinkled when she listened to her father’s saxophone. Eyes that watered when she first left home. Eyes that sob when she tries to look at herself and all she sees is nothing.

Sarah is at a bar not because she wants to forget, but because she wants to remember. Remember the heights and depths of emotion that a teenage girl laments. Sarah swills her brandy around her mouth because some food critic said that was the proper way to enjoy alcohol. She smells the acrid stench suffocate her nostrils. She swallows the booze because she must. Sarah sits here, pretending to enjoy liquor that’s overpriced and oversold. Sarah looks to her left out of habit and sees a man, or what used to be something.

She says hello, because Sarah has nothing better to do. Greg, in his fake drunken stupor jabs back, “What?” He looks at Sarah and he sobers up immediately. This woman looks like a movie star. She has that saloon styled hair, devoid of split ends and stray strands. She must be calling out to another man. She must be calling out to her boyfriend. That man must be living the life. Has a gorgeous girlfriend, and he must be rich, loaded. Greg clumsily turns away because he cannot deal with any awkwardness.
Sarah has no plans tonight. She has some routines and some work to attend to, but that can wait. There’s something about this man that seems so familiar. Sarah nudges him. Greg shirks from the contact. Replies with “Wow.” Sarah laughs. Greg blushes. But Sarah’s not laughing at him. She’s been courted by the most articulate, overly educated socialites the city has to offer. She has had poems of magnificent length delivered to her, oftentimes with a bouquet of roses. Sarah hates roses. They look unnatural. They’re harvested from some unknown greenhouse, doused in pesticides and diced up like cheap sushi. Sarah has had propositions of all kinds, but none as simple as just “Wow.”

Greg is trying to figure out his next move. This glorious woman is trying to talk to him. And, like the buffoon he is, he replied with a one syllabus utterance, “Wow.” “Wow,” Greg thinks, “Wow what do I say?” “I have to say something. She’s waiting. She’s getting tenser. She’s getting disinterested. I cannot let this pass by. What do I say?”
“Wow. You are something,” Greg incredulously states. “Fuck!” is what he thinks.
Sarah just smiles. She’s not a, “heaven-sent seraphim” or a “foxy lady”. She is something. She exists.
“Hi, I’m Sarah.”
“Um, I’m Greg, how may I help you?” he responds. “Fuck, fuck, fuck my goddamned job and my goddamned phone and my goddamned preset conversations,” Greg thinks.
“Are you as tired as I am?” Sarah asks.
“Yeah, work is killing me,” Greg says.
“Killing me too, by inches and inches,” Sarah says.
“Isn’t that from that old R&B song? The local radio station at home used to play that all the time.”
“Yeah, I picked it up from my father. He is, or was a musician. Greatest saxophone player I’ve ever heard. No one in the city compares. I’ve been to a dozen jazz clubs around and my dad would have scoffed at them. ”
“How bout that jazz club down on 5th Avenue?”
“Jerry’s? That was the worst of them all. Tacky decorations, and even tackier musicians.”
“Yeah, tacky.” Jerry’s was Greg’s favorite place in the city. But not anymore. “So where are you from?”
“Up north, near the border,” Sarah says.
“Out by Route 451?”
“Yup, that’s the place. Why you know of it?”
“Yeah, I grew up there. So what are the chances that two people at a bar in this huge city would both be from that hick county.”
“What are the chances,” Sarah states.
They both look down at their drinks. They’re not thinking about their drinks, or of each other. They’re thinking of that evergreen scent that they woke up to as kids. They’re thinking of the buttermilk the farms up there used to sell for fifty cents a gallon. They’re thinking of the squirrels, who hid from humans, who lived on the edge of sight like a flurry blur.”
“Home,” they both say at the same time.
“You miss it, don’t you?” Greg asks.
“More than words can express.”
“I’ve wanted to drive out there for so long but I don’t have a car.”
“Greg. Let’s go. I have a car. Let’s just go now.”
“Now? But, I have work in the morning and it’s an eight hour drive.”
“Greg. Forget about work. Forget about tomorrow. Just come with me and let’s just go.”
Greg downs the rest of his drink. “Fuck it, I’m game.”

Power Hour #6 (Incomplete)

Teddy showered, not because he was dirty, but because he did not know what else to do. He sat in the corner of the shower and held his knees. His knuckles were white, his hands were trembling. He squeezed his legs inwards, curling his body into the smallest possible shape. Teddy held his legs as if they would evaporate into steam if he ever did let go. He rocked his body back and forth to the beat of his heart. He listened for anyone outside. But all he heard was the thumping of his heart and the rain filling his ears.

The water covered him like moss on a rock. He could feel the water pool around his buttocks. It felt somewhat like sitting in a puddle after a spring downpour. It felt like the times when he didn’t care about getting mud on his pants. It felt wrong because he worried about the wrinkles he would get by staying in water for too long. It felt wrong because he knew he had to get up eventually, and the puddle would disappear down the drain. Teddy had put the temperature as hot as he could bear. He watched his skin turn pink, then redden. He knew he was sweating, but it was hidden, seamlessly combined with the water. He felt feverish, but not sick. The water pressed his unruly hair down. Trickled down his face. He looked up and kept his eyes open, but he saw only flowing water. It looked like the windows of a car during a car wash. Teddy had not touched his soap or his shampoo. He enjoyed the rare scent of nothing. He turned his head toward his elbow and watched a stream shoot diagonally at the wall. He kept on rocking back and forth, and in turn the stream would make slashing x’s. He did this for a while, but he kept on holding onto his knees, just a little less tightly.

The door was locked. He had jammed the magazine holder under the doorknob to ensure no one would enter. The room was crammed with steam. All the glass surfaces were just a white painted wall. Teddy did not want to be seen, nor did he want to see himself. He showered, not because he could, but because had to, or else he did not know what he would do to himself.

Most days, Teddy tried not to feel. At school, he had his routines. He would always sit in the back right corner of the room in every class. When he walked around the hallways, he liked to count the different colored tiles. He’d choose different columns to look at, choose how far he would count to, choose a different color to count for every day. The other kids used to interrupt him. Some kids would block his path. Some kids would push him. Some kids liked to slam him into the lockers. They liked the sound it made. They liked that they could push Teddy around. They liked breaking his routines because they knew it hurt more than punch. Teddy usually kept counting, kept marching forward.

This morning, Teddy was up to his usual business. He learned to count faster so he could make it to his next class in time. He had friends. People liked to talk about him. Some people wanted to find out more about him. So they talked to him when he wasn’t in the hallway. Usually in the cafeteria, a group of girls used to sit around him. They liked to tidy him up after the bullies had thrown him about. They liked to comb his hair and fix his collar. Teddy could do this on his own, but he liked their gentle hands. They liked to open his potato chip bags every day. He did not like this. Teddy liked to make the popping himself. They’d talk to him and tell him about their day. They’d tell him about how awful the boys were. They’d tell him secrets. They’d tell him things about their families that they were ashamed of. They’d tell him about things they were scared of. They’d feel safe around him, because Teddy looked like he was never scared. Teddy would be nice, as his mother taught him. He’d laugh when he was supposed to, smile when they would smile, and hug them when they were sad. But Teddy didn’t care about most of the girls. He couldn’t tell them apart. They had the same problems, the same mommy issues, the same bad grades and the same crooked smile when they thought he wasn’t looking.

But there was one girl who made Teddy feel.

Power Hour #5

The tremendous incontinence of the mind. Minds that succumb to normality, to banality to nothingness. The buildings are bricks piled skywards, pleading to the heavens. Time must laugh at our squabbles. Fate must laugh at our short-sighted plans. Blindness to the miniscule, intentional ignorance of the maximal. But these buildings are not made of bricks but of shards of want, of hope. There is a man who walks and sees. There is a man who feels the shards and weeps. There is a man amongst the ruins of our hopes and dreams.

The man bleeds, but with happiness. The man cries, but with purpose. The man will die, but he does not fear. The city fights this man with bloodlust and the man does not anger. The city seems insurmountable, a mountain towering over a pebble. Seems to be, but from a nothing’s perspective.

The city was planned to be a work of art, an object of pride. The architecture brazenly defied convention. Geometry previously thought impossible were rendered on a majestic scale. Words had to be invented; the city’s inhabitants knew not how to speak of these buildings. And the people filled the streets, and the mob grew into nonsense. The people were not humans, but instead, tacky decorations for the city.

And outsiders became jealous of the city. They could not create like the city, they can only duplicate. But the outsiders tried. They built a second city, proclaimed to be the peak of human civilization. However the outsiders mutilated the image of the city. This false city was trapped by the outsider’s limited imagination. It can be described as metal and marble and gold and nothing more. The second city shined in the sun, but it also blinded. The outsiders tried to expand their city. But in their hasty additions, they dismembered the soul of the city.

And the true city mocked their failure. It cackled at their insignificance. It wrote criticisms with easily accessed insults. Used tangible words. The second city attempted to rebut. But it could not speak for there was nothing they could say. And the city laughed again. It bellowed out hearty guffaws that echoed throughout the land. The outsiders meekly imitated this laugh, but all that came out was a inconsequential giggle. And the city knew it was, is and ever more, and nothing else could compare.
The hollow city raged and raged and raged on through the days. The fires of the outsiders spread throughout the second city, inflaming all the residents with hate. And their hatred woke them from their weakness. With weapons in hand, the hollow city marched to destroy the true city. The true city had grown arrogant and did not think the outsiders could harm them. But the city underestimated the storms of rage that were to come.

And the outsiders came like crushing force of a boulder. The city was caught unprepared. The people were ripped from the city. The people were shredded by the dull blades of the outsiders. The people cried out to the city, but the city stood still. And the people were massacred and systematically neutralized and then they were no more. Then the fires of the outsiders hate and rage and jealousy and spite and fear sprung to the buildings. The city burned, but no one wept. And the buildings were torn apart and their geometry was shattered and their architecture was perverted and their beauty was extinguished. Then the outsiders left, satisfied with their victory. The city was made empty and soulless and boring and ceased to be the city.

The man walks among the ruins of the city. He trips on a fallen brick. He loses his footing and crashes to the ground. The ground comes up with its hard mercy. The man hits the ground with a crunching sound. He tries to get up and cannot. He looks to his leg and sees the shards of his bone poking through his skin. He is stuck to the ground, to the cement, to the city. He calls out for help, but he knows no one will answer. He laughs a loud, reverberating laugh. The city echoes back weakly. And then all is quiet, and the man is but a forgotten, nameless memory.

Power Hour #4

Dinner was cold. I moved the peas on my plate into battle formations. Turned the mashed potatoes into bunkers. The meat became the mountain fortress. I could feel my father staring at the back of my head. Family rules said that no one eats until we say grace. The fat began to congeal. I wanted to say something, but my father was already screaming at my brother, Jake.

“When you are in my house, you follow my rules or you can just leave!” dad yelled.
“Do you really want to start a fight now?” Jake jabbed.
“I can say whatever I please. I work all day, I pay the bills, this is my house and it goes by my rules.”

My dad was all about his rules. I grew up with a bedtime like every other kid, except mine was absolute. I rebelled once, said the standard, “I don’t wanna.” My dad whipped his hand across my face. Then he’d stand over me and just wait. Wouldn’t say a word. I could feel a trickle of blood on my cheek. Dad liked his rings. I held my sleeve to my face. I couldn’t stain the carpet.

Dad said, “I expect better from my son.” His eyebrows would tense when he was mad. He’d bring his fist to his forehead and rub up and down. Looked like he was trying to erase something. He waited until I tucked myself under my covers and shut my eyes. I left my sleeve on my face; the cut was still bleeding.

He sighed, backed out of the room and closed the door without a noise. I never questioned bedtime again.

My brother crept into my room later that night. He brought in some wet tissues. Knew I would be crying. When he saw my cut, I could see his hand clench. But he didn’t say anything. He just sat next to my pillow. Jake would rub my back with his long, thick fingers. I would try my hardest to stay awake, to feel the odd sensation of a hand the size of my chest. But he’d sit, and watch me drift off. He knew I was asleep when I started drooling. I still drool.

He’s almost twelve years older. He knew how to break the rules in the house. Jake had a bedtime but Jake could never sleep so early. Thoughts would race in his head. My dad would check in and think my brother was sleeping soundly. But Jake had bought a wig that looked like his hair. He would prop pillows up under his blankets, and put the wig on a football. Dad never caught on. He just peeked in Jake’s room, then went back to his office. Jake never snuck out. Instead, he’d lie on the floor by the window and just stare out to the stars. I loved to listen to his dreams. We’d play connect the dots with the stars. I got yelled at one day at school for going out of order. Jake heard this. That night, I found a box of chocolates under my pillow.

I hated dinner. My mother was an average cook. But my dad was relentless. He’d comment on every flaw he thought Jake had. My dad hated the music Jake listened to. He hated his friends. He hated his hairstyle, which he kept the same throughout high school. Jake didn’t want to have to buy a new wig. Plus, pissing of dad was a bonus. Jake was always sly about it though. Slip a subtle insult in between his sorry’s and ok’s. I’d bite my lip to stifle a laugh. Jake would look at me out of the corner of his eye. After everyone calmed down, he’d give me the quickest smirk, one only I could see.

I hated when dinner was cold. That meant my father had a bad day and that he couldn’t wait until we started eating to dig into my brother. Usually, I’d occupy myself and try and copy Jake’s imagination. I’d look at my distorted reflection in the windows and imagine a fun house universe. I’d fold my napkin up in as many different ways as I could. I was left alone, as long as I didn’t touch my food before grace.

The night I made my food platter battlefield, Jake and Dad were really going at it.

“It’s my way or the highway.” He said that a lot.
“But I’m a grown man,” Jake replied.
“But nothing. You are too young and spoiled to know what it means to work for your meals.

Most nights, I wouldn’t be confused about what they were fighting over. I usually didn’t I care. Tonight, I listened, but I did not dare look.

“How dare you question me.”
“This isn’t about grace anymore is it?”
“No, it’s about principles.”
“Dad, can we not fight tonight. I’m really tired.”
“No, you are going to shut up and listen.”
“Listen to what?”
“That’s it, do you want me to take out my belt?”
“Listen to you? Listen to nothing but garbage? Do you think you can hurt me anymore?”
“Rules are not garbage, you are,” my dad flatly stated.
“Dad, why do you think I come home any more?”
“Because we are your family.”
“No. Because of George and no one else.”
“You are unbelievably ungrateful. I’ve done so much for you, worked so many hours for you.”
“I know. But what you can’t believe is that I don’t love you.”
“What?”
“And I know you don’t love me. But that’s ok. I understand. George was always your favorite.”
“I loved you both equally and how dare you accuse me.”
“I’m leaving, Dad.”
“Don’t you leave this table, I’m talking to you.”
“Goodbye, George.”

I turned my head around, but Jake had ran out of the house. My dad sat down, played with his food for a bit. I heard Jake close his car door and drive off. None of us said a word for the rest of the night.

I went to my room, shut my door as loudly as permissible and flopped onto my bed. I heard a crunch. I lifted up my pillow and I saw a note.

“Meet me outside at midnight. I want you to live with me. I want you to be happy.”

I tore up the note. I looked out of my window. It was a clear sky and the stars were shining. And I breathed out deeply.

Power Hour #3

The kettle shrieked, but Harold did not care; he had become far too accustomed to unpleasant noises. He was rereading a yellowed newspaper. The corners had turned upwards and the folds had browned. Harold knew each page like an old diary. He was never talented at writing, so he had long ago resigned himself to other people’s words. He didn’t particularly like the style of writing. Always grumbled about one writer in the editorial section.

“Who are you trying to convince?” he yelled at the paper. “Not like you ever changed anything. Not like any newspaper ever changed anything.”

But the newspaper was always there, sitting on his hand-me-down ottoman. It was fact, unchangeable. His memories would disappear when he opened his eyes. Always blamed his failing memory on his age. He liked to call himself a rusty blade. He turned the page with a huff. And the kettle yelled some more.

“All right, shut up,” Harold spoke.

His hips decayed from many years of marching. He leaned forward out of his rocking chair, hands on his knees. Slowly, he brought himself upright. A long plume of steam encircled his stove.

“Ok, ok, I’ll be right there.”

He turned off the rusty knobs and the kettle quieted. When he first met his wife Dotty, he faked that he enjoyed coffee. On their first date, she suggested to go to the local coffee shop. She would always decide where to go. She ordered for him that day, paid the bill too. He couldn’t reject her smile or her drink. Ever since she died, he had to drink coffee every morning. Still doesn’t like it. But she did, and he smiled at the memory.

He dumped packets of stale sugar and artificial milk in. The coffee looked like liquid caramel, his favorite candy. He smacked his lips at the first taste.
“Dotty would give me such a look if she saw me now. She’d say that real men took their coffee black. Well, I can do what I want to do now.”
Harold looked out the window to his backyard. His wife and son’s graves stood covered in ash and grime.

“I should clean those sometime.” He knew he couldn’t; the air outside was too toxic. After years of drinking sugar flavored coffee, he had grown a belly. His old hazmat suit was a somber decoration in his closet, nothing more. When he was mailed the suit from the government, Dotty gave her usual frown and tilted head. She said it was just paranoia. His son, James, thought it was the coolest thing. He’d put his own tiny suit on all the time, indoors or outdoors. He liked to take the family umbrella and pretend it was a giant gun. Harold didn’t like his son pretending to play with guns. Didn’t want James to ever get comfortable around them. Dotty grew up with three brothers. Always interrupted Harold when he would move to give James another toy. She said boys will be boys and will always want to play with guns. He’d pretend to fight her a bit, but he’d always cave in when she flashed her smile.
Harold smelled the recycled air and cringes. He remembers the day he sealed the doors and windows. It was the day after Dotty and James died. He didn’t know what else to do, so he did as what the papers said to do. They said to be safe, that it was too dangerous outside, that the people just need to wait out the war, that it will all be over soon. The writers probably knew they were lying. Harold went out to the store to pick up the sealants and air purifiers exactly twenty years ago. Harold marked down every day on an calendar in pencil. At the end of every year, Harold would take one of Dotty’s old erasers and wipe off all his marks. Then he would start again. He liked to throw himself a little party every five years. He’d crack out some cans of peas and some dried beef and some powdered beer and treat himself to a rare feast. Harold sipped some more coffee, pinky out because James thought it looked goofy. Harold thought it looked goofy too, like his hand had a frozen spasm. It was his daily chuckle to himself.
Harold returned to his paper. He was at the sports section now.

“I remember watching this game, lost twenty bucks. Threw my beer at the t.v. waste of some good booze.” The stain was still on the carpet. He tried to wash it out, but he stopped. Thought it would be a nice reminder about some normalcy that day.
“Heh, I was always a crap gambler.”

He flipped some more pages and got to where the real estate section used to be. Instead, the newspaper had dedicated the whole section to war updates. Harold glazed over this part.
“Not like reading it is going to change anything.”

Some writers wrote like it was a movie script. Some writers wrote matter of fact, just relaying the daily details. Some writers wrote like it was gospel. Harold thought they were the silliest. Trying to convert up to the very end. The editors must not have cared anymore.

Finally, he got to the obituaries. This was the biggest section in the paper. Dotty read this section first. She always worried, always worried all the time. She would trace the names down each column, hoping she wouldn’t see one she recognized. When she’d find a name, Dotty would quiver a bit. When she found some more names she knew, she’d shake harder. She’d try so hard not to cry in front of James. Dotty would go into her room to read, so James wouldn’t see. But James was smart. He knew his mother needed a hug. So he would sneak in and crawl onto her lap. She’d say to him to go to your room. She’d say it once, then she’d get back to reading. And James would stay there, nestled in her lap, whispering “Momma, don’t cry.”

Harold got to the last page of the paper. He pretended to read the other columns, pretended to distract himself. But he got to the middle of the last column. Harold stopped. He took his index finger and felt the names of his wife and son. Felt the texture of the paper. Felt each line of text around their names. Didn’t read, he had memorized each word. Harold placed his hands on his knees. And he remembered the day his wife and son died.

Power Hour #2 (Incomplete)

George sees and feels and senses and that is all. He is a man is slave to the things his brain tells him to do. Those without the Seeing Eye cannot be truly free. George is told to eat, sleep and shit because he has to, he is wired to. George intakes information, waits for the neural synapses to fire and then he knows, or thinks he knows. He is nothing compared to the rich who understand. The poor exist in the past, always waiting for their limited brain processes to complete. In the world of Simplistia, George is not, nor will he ever be.

Scientists invented The Seeing Eye so they could understand the world, not just perceive. The machine was heralded as the next step for humanity. No longer will humankind have to wonder why they act the way they do. Nonsensically. Violently. Hatefully. For the first time, humankind could see into their mind, skip the eternal barriers of time, and see the causes of their nonsense, violence and hate. The subconscious was no longer a Freudian theory. Humankind had no limitations upon thought. All was possible.

The leader of Simplistia was the first to see his mind. At the time, he was a paid guinea pig. But after gaining the Seeing Eye, he knew he could take control of the land. He slipped the scientists some tasteless poisons. He stole the Seeing Eye and took it to the capital. He bribed the senators one by one with little tastes of the truth. They promised him powerful positions, and he joined the senate. But he had tampered with the Seeing Eye. The bribed senators caught glimpses of their evil and nothing more. And one by one, they killed themselves, ashamed of their inner demons. The leader rose from the piling corpses, proclaiming order to the people. He displayed the Seeing Eye as his own invention. And the public elected him to the highest power, because he was the only one who truly knew. The rich joined him, paying him with mountains of money. And those who paid became known as The Knowers. The leader hid the machine from the general public. Outlawed any attempts to copy it. And the Knowers ruled, and no one questioned their authority.

The middle class were allowed annual momentary glimpses into their own mind. But they paid not with money but instead with their free will. And they were rewarded by the Knowers with power and lavish homes and eternal servanthood. Those who rebelled, who held on to their limited free will fell to the bottom of society. They were called The Quiet, for their voice did not matter. They did not understand themselves, so they could not understand the workings of the upper classes. The country of Simplistia grew to control the world, but the Quiet’s brains starved and no one cared.

George really wants to fuck Amy. He can say why to his friends. He likes to talk about her shapely hips, her flowing, auburn hair, her petite, ideal bust, or her melodic voice. But he bullshits. He could go on endlessly and he’d still have no idea why he was so attracted. Sarah has bigger tits. His fuck-buddy, Jamie, has a firmer ass, he knows because he liked to slap it. The models in the magazines have all of what society deemed as perfect. But he really wants to fuck Amy, and his dick hurt thinking about it.
George likes to walk about as if his cock were hanging out. He wears solid soled shoes because of the clacking sounds they make. He beats down the street and people look at him with crooked heads. His hips swivel right to left. On a crowded street, his friends would put him at the front like a battering ram. He says he’s a tall, strong man, but statistically, he’s average. He makes short jokes all the time to Amy, but he’s not that much taller. George struts to her house with some four dollar flowers. He wants many things, but right now he wants Amy.

He lives in the Quiet part of the city. He’s heard about the Seeing Eye, and he rants about the injustice. He badgers random strangers on the subway, tries to get their attention about the new march to the Knowers part of town. George will never go through with it. The Knowers put the Quiet on the edge of the city as if they were hiding a child’s mess. If a bug were to come out of this hidden mess, the parent would stomp it out of existence. George likes to live. So he bullshits some more, and most ignore him. Some people tell him to shut up. His parents tell him to shut the fuck up because the Knowers might hear. George doesn’t listen, he doesn’t know any better.

Power Hour #1

It’s been too long. This quiet of the night, an escape from continuity. Looking out of my window, I see a bird. She’s quiet and alone. Seems content in her solitude. The others know not to bother her. Silence used to not bother me. But I’ve been enveloped in a cacophany of lies, and now, when all I have are my thoughts, I feel pain.

It’s not that I regret anything I’ve done. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished. I’ve had my name in the paper. People wait on my beck and call. But it’s not enough. Why is it not enough?

Sometimes I have waking dreams, moments of non-reality, fantasy absorbed. I yearn for a childhood imagination, some purity of soul. I miss that closeness with truth. Everything seems obscured, painted with a muddy black tone. I can’t figure out what to do now.

I dream, and I wish I could stay there. I remember, because I must and I wish I could forget. The past strangles. My lungs contract, as if my shadow seizes my nerves. I hate anxiety, because I cannot control it. Why do I remember this now? Why can’t I control my mind?

There are things you wish you could take back. I feel an overwhelming sense of jealousy. This bird has no regrets. She lives in the now and she does not need. Her bodily functions are fulfilled. Sleep is nothing more than an escape. But this bird needs no escape because there is nothing to fear.

I used to look out of the window all the time. I have no time anymore. I remember when time was a friend to me. I close my eyes and I remember the day my grandmother died.

That day, the fog was back. Yesterday, the fog blanketed over our town. And the day before that. In fact, for the entire month, fog was part of our lifes, ever present. The weather reporter called it a once in a lifetime event. All the flights in the local airport were cancelled. I remember hearing the word bankruptcy and wondering why all the adults were making such a fuss. Such a silly sounding word, nonsensically spelled. Nowadays, all the reporters talk about are bankruptcies. But back then, all that existed was the fog.

My room was tiny. When I was a kid, my sisters made me watch a scary movie. My sisters made me do all sorts of unpleasant things: I painted their nails, cleaned the dog’s messes, and listened to stories about older boys with hair in places I didn’t know that hair grew there. But my sisters loved to change the channel to the movie channel, but only when I was trapped in the room and something particularly frightening was playing. In this scary movie, the space man was locked in a padded cell. I used to name the characters in the movies because I couldn’t pronounce their actual names. A lisp is God’s way of saying, “I don’t like you very much.” I named the man in this movie Bob. He was like me, imprisoned by a very mean person. I was rooting for this guy. “Yeth! You can do it!” My “thisters thnickered”. I didn’t care. Bob tried time and time again to break out of his cell. He took a nail file, a tool I despised, and chiseled it down into a lock pick. For at least twenty minutes in movie time, which is an eternity in child time, he worked at that lock. When the guards came to drop off his sad meal, Bob would hide it in his shoe. He was the man I wanted to be, strong enough to fight. I remember the sound of his lock pick breaking. I remember wishing that it was a sick joke. And I remember watching for the next hour, watching Bob resort to clawing at the walls, biting at the bars, ramming his head into the door. My sisters kept asking me if I wanted them to turn off the tv. But I was mesmerized. Bob had to make it out. So I endured. Then I remember watching his mind snap. The music stopped. Bob stopped talking. I didn’t like that. He had a voice of courage. He couldn’t lose. Then the padded walls started to creep in. And they moved ever so slightly inch by inch. I counted the amount floor tiles and saw each one disappear. And then the walls had reached Bob. They pressed on his body and he screamed. This wasn’t a scream of rage against his captors like he yelled before. This was a shriek. It felt like baby spiders crawled up my back when I heard that. The walls kept on squeezing in. His cries got quieter and quieter. And then there was a black screen and the credits.

I ran up to my room, sprinted with all my limited strength. I walked from corner to corner heel to toe. The room was thirty by twenty child feet. Much too small to stay there. So I left. I packed my candy, my comics and my pillow in my back pack and I left.
When I opened the front door, the fog was there. I reached out to touch the fog and it touched back. A little remnant of the hanging cloud swirled in my hand. I tried to look out, see if it was safe to run away. My sisters were talking quietly in the tv room. I could hear them say how much they regretted letting me watch that movie. I remember them making plans to do something nice for me, take me to the park, or the dock or the puppy store, but only when the fog cleared. I stood there in the door and hated the fog. I couldn’t stay home, but I couldn’t leave. I blew into my hand and my little held fog was gone.
I tried to take a step forward. My skin felt like it was sweating, but it wasn’t hot. One foot at a time I left the house. I took another step forward and the front door began to fade away. I moved toward what I thought was the birch tree in our front yard. And then the whole house was gone, swallowed by the fog.

Then there was the scream. I remember that scream because it was the same scream Bob cried out when he was about to die. I remember that scream because that was when my sisters found my dead grandmother’s body. I was there alone in the fog. And it was all quiet for a couple minutes. For the only time in my life, I was at peace.

Power Hours

All of the following stories have been written in one hour. All of them are far from complete. I hope you enjoy.