Summary of My Literary Interests

I study English Education because my parents believe  I will remain eternally poor, and I enjoy worrying them. I chose English as my primary focus because research papers are tortuous and I am a masochist. I chose to become a teacher because teaching is the closest profession to a drill sergeant without the required military service. I taught in China this summer, and I felt at home in the Communist Party. I chose to have you as a professor again because I knew I would be allowed to take risks. This is good practice for when I eventually drive my future PhD advisor to insanity.

I grew up reading because it gave me an excuse to hide from my sisters. I prefer Russian Literature. The Russians know how to write about misery in excruciating detail. Brothers Karamazov was my first introduction to the genre. The book was excellent as a projectile against my roommate. Also, Father Zosima loves candy and I can claim sainthood in my gluttony. I loved Tolstoy’s, Death of Ivan Illych, although the protagonist’s cathartic demise was disappointing.  Gogol’s short story, “The Overcoat”, was a wonderful summary of materialism, very relevant in today’s American society. Russian literature instills a sense of moral superiority. I can judge others with abandon and without guilt.

20^th century South American literature is my other favorite literary genre. Borges’ magical realism resonates with my whimsical nature. Pablo Neruda is great to quote on a date, especially in the original language. The novellas such as By Night in Chile and Pedro Paramo suit my short attention span. I love to read foreign literature because I can pretend I am cultured, even though I am an American.

I look forward to the cooperative paper assignments. Hopefully, my classmates won’t want to expel me from the university by the end of the semester.  I do hope I have given enough of a negative impression to start the semester on an entertaining note. 

Hurricane

The coffee was cold and the world was coming to the end. Power’s out. I bought a flashlight, but forgot to get batteries. The news called it the Frankenstorm. Frankenstein was the scientist, not the monster. So they might as well call the storm Dr. Sandy. Yesterday, I heard someone proclaim the hurricane was caused by Obama. Fiction makes more sense than real life.

I could really use a wand. Call out, “Lumos!” I always pictured the spell to look like a firefly had landed on the wand. I just want to find that book I was reading. I fumble around the darkness. Hit my head on my bedpost. Mother always said I was graceful. Like a three legged ballerina.

Roommate pounds on my door.

“Come to the kitchen now!”

“What? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“Stop whatever you are doing, this is more important.”

“Alrighty, I’m coming.” I rubbed my forehead. Felt a bump. That’s going to look good in the morning.

Our hallways were narrow, so it was easy to feel our way through. See a light from the kitchen.

“So you bought candles?” She ignored me. Grabbed my wrist and pulled me forward.

“What?”

“Take a deep breath. Now look inside the room.”

And there was Daniel Radcliffe sitting at our mangled kitchen table.  He was sopping wet. His blazer hung on the doorknob. He had short sleeves. Skinny arms. Had my roommate’s hot pink towel wrapped around his neck. His hair was still wet, tussled and frizzed. He looked up, and flashed a bright, white smile.

“Why hello there.” His voice purred.

“Whaaat.”

He put his palm on the table. Pushed himself up. My roommate shouted “No, the leg is broken!” He didn’t hear her. The table collapsed. He slipped on the puddle under his pants. He fell firmly on his butt.

I gasped. Covered my mouth with my hands. My roommate’s face turned pale. He chuckled. It sounded like a tiny moment of magic.

“Are you alright?” my roommate whispered. I stood there motionless.

“I’m quite alright.”

I reflexively held my hand out for him. He grabbed it. Felt like lightning hit. His hand was ice cold. He pulled himself up. Grunted.

“I’m so sorry! I’ve made a mess of things. Let me help clean up.”

“No, no, we’ve got it,” my roommate insisted. My hand lingered in the air, slightly open. “Come help me!” she said. I leaned over to pick up part of a plate. He leaned in at the same time. We butted heads. “Sorry!” we both exclaimed. Noticed the candle was lying on its side. I went to pick it up. He noticed too, and bent to grab it. His forehead smashed into my nose. “Owww.” My roommate looked like she might die from her restrained laughter. She picked up the candle and put it on the counter.

We all stood up. He was shorter than expected. Held out his hand. “Hi, I’m Daniel, but I’m sure you already knew that.”

“My name’s Sarah,” I stammered. Shook his hand too firmly. No one said anything for what seemed like a lifetime. My roommate clapped her hands. “Let’s take this party into the living room.”

“Let’s,” he said. As we walked out, he slipped again. I caught him. He was light. He pulled himself up. Sheepishly hurried into the living room. We followed, silently giggling. Not sure how he found his way. It was pitch black. Heard him yell out. We hurried into the room.

He sat on our cat. The cat clawed his butt. Yelped. Our cat ran out of the room hissing. He eased himself into the chair. We sat on our lumpy sofa. I lit up a couple candles.

“I’m so sorry again. I seem to be breaking everything in your flat.”

“No worries,” I spoke. “Umm, might I ask why you are here?”

“It’s a silly story. I was visiting Emma over in Providence. I was going to fly out of Boston today, but my flight was canceled because of the storm. I booked a hotel, but my driver dropped me off at the wrong address. By the time I figured this out, the storm kicked up. Your roommate was so kind to offer me shelter.”

I thought to myself, “Thank goodness for this hurricane. Also, I need to give her the biggest thank you hug later.”

As I was thinking, Daniel crossed his legs. His foot swept over the table, knocking over the flower vase. It was my mother’s. My mouth fell. “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry again!” My roommate knew the vase’s sentimental value. She went in to pick some pieces up. He leaned in and headbutted her too. She glared at him. He took a step back. Tripped over our ottoman. Did a backwards somersault and landed in the litter box. He shot up and he smacked into the overhead awning. He dusted himself off. We both stared at him.

He matter-of-factly stated, “Well, I should be off now.” He promptly walked into the wall. I heard him shuffle down the hall and unlatch the door. Heard the door click shut. Looked around the room. Disaster zone.

I say to my roommate, “Wow. Harry Potter has no game.”

Accidents

The date was miserable. He showed up late. I could tell he was nervous, but he stared at my chest the whole time. I cleared my throat but he never got the message. Told blasé stories in a monotone voice. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, nor did I care to. I knew he was a keeper when he scoffed at the waitress’s outfit too loudly. I can never respect a person who cannot respect a person in the service industry.

By dessert, he could tell the date had gone disastrously. He heard that I liked Neruda. Tried to quote some. Butchered the pronunciation. I cringed. Check came, I asked to split it. He offered to walk me home. I politely refused. I said I had errands to run. I did, but not for a few days. He understood, and left without protest.

            Got home, realized I left my purse at the restaurant. It had my keys, my cell phone, my wallet, a pen and notepad. Rang the buzzer for five minutes. No reply. Looked up, saw the out of service sign. No go. Hurried back to the restaurant.

            Three cop cars blocked the side street. I saw police tape surround the front of the restaurant. Out of morbid curiosity, I peered over. The waitress was talking to the police. Her hand was bandaged up. She had a smile on her face. A man lay on a stretcher. His nose looked broken. He was in handcuffs. His eyes were pressed closed. They peeped open and he accidently made eye contact with the waitress. She gave him a glare and a smirk and did the stereotypical male nod, exposing her imaginary Adam’s apple. He looked straight up and pretended not to notice.

            I knew I wouldn’t be able to get my purse tonight, so I walked back to my apartment. I wanted to text my roommate to tell her the funny story. I also wanted to go home and take a nap. Or go for a jog. Or finish one of the many books I’m halfway through. But mostly I wanted to get into some more comfortable clothes. Women’s fashion can be painful.

            And I walked into a pole. I heard a snicker behind me. Looked back, and the man could not hold his laughter in. He had a deep, rhythmic laugh. I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. He laughed for a while, and my laughs turned into gasps for air. We quieted down, but we couldn’t resist eking out a few last chuckles.

            “Pole came out of nowhere,” I said.

            “Because poles tend to do that,” he said.

            “I’ve had a strange day.”

            “Means you’ve had a good day.”

            “That’s one way of looking at things.
            "By the way, the name’s John.”

            “Nice to meet you. I’m Megan.”

            “Want to grab coffee and tell me about your strange day?”

            “I really should get home. It’s getting late.”

            “I should get home too. Doesn’t mean I want to.” He flashed a toothy, unabashed grin.

“Actually, I can’t exactly go home right now.”

“Why’s that?”

“Left my purse and keys at a crime scene.”

“Now you have to tell me the story.”

“Know a good place?”

“We’re in Boston. We are in a good place.”

Banjawarn

It's been 19 years since the "seismic event" at Banjawarn. Conspiracy theorists have different hypotheses. Some say a gas leak at a mining shaft blew up, but the crater is too big from something so localized. Some people point to the suspicious activity of the Aum Shinrikyo, a Japanese doomsday cult. But their access to uranium is questionable at best. Yet, no explanation can be offered for the sheer size of the explosion except for a nuclear bomb. Australia is the only place in the world an atomic bomb could explode and the residents wouldn't notice. The country is too big and all the animals there could kill you. It's been two years since I visited the epicenter of the Banjawarn explosion. I saw the crater. I saw the crystallized glass. Our team calculated the amount of energy required to create that amount of destruction. Our findings were disturbing.

 Australia's a funny place. All of the civilization is on the coast. The center is empty. In the Australian outback, all I remember hearing was the murmurs of the wind. When in isolation, Mother Nature likes to play tricks on the mind. When we were taking soil samples, I remember feeling the hairs on my neck stand up. The university made fun of us when we said we would go to Banjawarm to investigate. They said we were chasing a ghost. The Australian government wasn't so friendly. They said no good could come from there. They were right.

 It was a particularly chilly night in the desert. At night, there's no shelter. When the sun goes down, the temperature plummets and the wind cuts right through you. My colleagues were asleep. They weren't used to working outside. I wanted to get some fresh air. Can't get any from the city. Wind was feisty that night. Howled, hurt my ears. I looked out at the dunes and imagined sliding down them. Some wildlife wandered about. I could only see the glint of their eyes and hear the rustling of the sand. They moved calmly, ignoring our intrusion.

 I heard glass crack. Something had gone in the crater. I noticed the animals avoided it like the plague. I walked over. I didn't notice the animals had gone silent. The wind lets up and look around. All the shimmering eyes had disappeared, except for one pair. I heard the glass crunch again. I heard hard footfalls. The eyes rose from knee level to shoulder height. Whatever had been in the crater was coming out. I backed away slowly. Two more pairs of eyes show up behind the first pair. Then more. The steps fell in unison, creeping closer. I froze.

 My colleague comes out for a smoke. He sees me standing there shivering. He sees what I see. Wordlessly, he grabs my arm and drags me back into the tent. I let out a yelp. I didn't realize it was him. I hear hissing from the crater. I look into his eyes. They're wide and bloodshot. We hurry into the tent and pull out our hunting knives. My colleague wakes up the rest of our friends. They see the fear in our eyes and know to join us. The sand rustled all night as we huddled together. I don't pray, but I prayed that night.

When the sun rose, we radioed in an S.O.S. Our support staff said they'd be there in three hours. I saw shadows flicker on the tent's walls. We dared not speak further. Three hours pass, and I hear the familiar, but concerned voice of our guide. He had answered our S.O.S. He calls us out. I whisper to everyone else to stay. I go out and see a circle of steps around our tent. Our equipment tent is in shambles. Our guide is muttering to himself in Aborigine. He stutters out two words. "Bad people". Then two more. "Leave now". We do. I quit my job after that. Moved cities. But I'll always remember those eyes. They didn't blink. Not once.

Bus Stop

At the bus stop. Overnight trip. Eyes feel like open scabs. Terminal is empty. Bus is late.

Hear a rustling. A woman pops out from behind the bench. Her face is grimy, covered in flakes of dirt. Her clothes look like they’ve been rubbed against sandpaper. Threads stick out by the seams. She’s got three layers on, yet she’s still shaking from the cold. The woman asks for my phone. She says she hasn’t talked to her daughter in years. That she needs to talk to her. She wants to see her. Without thinking, I give it to her. I look down, because I don’t want to intrude upon her conversation. She ducks back behind the bench. I hear sobbing, pleading. Last time I heard someone cry was during my grandmother’s funeral last year. I hid back then too. I put my headphones on, but don’t play any music. I clasp my hands and wait for her wails to stop.

I look up, and she’s in front of me. Her eyes are red, like mine. But they’re a deeper crimson, as if her blood is thicker. She places the phone in my hand wordlessly. Her nails are black from wear. I grab my phone and the tips of her fingers for a fleeting moment. When our hands touch, my spine shivers and I inhale. She pulls her hand back, but leaves it floating inches from my hand. She locks her eyes on my hands. Glances up and whispers, “Thank you”.  I don’t respond.

I close my eyes. I hear her shuffle back behind the bench. Press play on my IPod. Wait until the song finishes. I lean over the bench to see if she’s sleeping. She’s gone. I sit back down and rub my fingertips. Check my phone’s outgoing calls. See the number that she called. I don’t recognize the area code. I press dial on the phone.

“This number is not in service…”

Twiddle

She twiddles her thumbs. Right thumb is winning the wrestling match. Usher sings through her speakers. She mostly listens to his older albums. He had soul back then. Now, he has David Guetta. Today’s Thursday, Friday’s shadow. It’s 9PM, time for the elderly and worn youth to sleep. But she can’t.

Her left thumb dodges a jab. It circles around, but the right thumb relentlessly attacks. One feint later, and the left has locked the other thumb in a vice-grip hold. 3,2,1 we have a pin! She thinks about the word hold. How it’s a half step from old. How it can mean grab, or to wait, or to want. Her hands lay flat, nestled together. She’s holding out hope for a handhold. Something to steady her and make her feel safe. She’s holding out hope for a letter from Hogwarts. Holding out hope for a call from an old friend.

She tussles her hair, trying to get out of this daze. A few hairs fall out. Used to shedding. Notices a white hair on her dark pajamas. Quick inhale. Remembers petting a white cat outside of the apartment. The hair is from the cat. It has to be. 

My Past

As a teenager, I specialized in high profile assassinations. Started off small, my parents introduced me to the "blood world". However, I made a name for myself for my reliability and secrecy. I worked my way up the totem pole and eventually I was entrusted with hits including high ranking political and business officials.

How does one go about hiring an assassin? Most commonly, people go through organized crime, usually through the Russian or Chinese mafia networks. The skill level of the assassin corresponds to your hypothetical payment. Most people can only afford a hired brute with a muzzled gun. For more delicate hits (i.e. someone within the crime network), a higher payment is necessary. You can expect someone called a cleaner, who specializes in false suicides and accidents. For higher profile targets, you would have to go through an independent contractor. Contractors are affiliated with certain banks in many major cities. You need to identify who has possible connections to crime, and pay your way for more information. Eventually, you will reach a consultant who will provide further instructions.

Here's what the consultant would tell you. You need to set up a TOR encryption network and access the darknet. Ensure there are several layers of proxy servers. The web browser shifts periodically overtime; it corresponds to a specific numerical pattern, which I cannot divulge. Once you access the website, you will see an screenshot of a commonly visited page, such as Google or Ebay. Your screen will freeze, and you will get a virus alert. Do not panic. Your cursor may be frozen, however you can still manipulate it. Check the source code of the website, and access the archives. Here, you can see the image file and its specifics. Your consultant will have provided another series of numbers. These numbers indicate which pixels on the image file to click on. This is how you get to the real website. Set up a down payment through an offshore bank account. Then upload the necessary information on your target. The contractor would take it from there. Because privacy is of upmost importance, never expect a face to face meeting.

As for how I actually performed my task, I specialized in poisonings. My handle was Viper, and I used synthetic neurotoxin compounds, undetectable through an autopsy. I hired an trustworthy research firm to manufacture my poisons, using a triple blind order system. (multiple aliases, false addresses, and hired couriers). Depending on the risk of the job, planning could last from a couple days to six months. You would be provided a vague timeline, no specifics in case you were working for the target as a scout for potential threats. From there, it was simple. The poisons were water-soluble, so a simple contamination of a bottle of water or a snack would do the job. I had various cover stories, but usually I would act as an escort who would chicken out last minute or a harmless maid. A young and innocent face can get a person pretty far. I retired from the business after my parents botched a job. That compromised my identity and I had to relocate.

I chose to join the work force, because it's easier. I have significant savings, but I would be bored if I rested on my laurels. But my story begs the question - why am I telling you all this? Because you should know that I inserted a skin absorbent, slow acting poison onto a surface in your office, and I have the only antidote. If you even think about telling anyone, I will disappear, and you will die within a week. Therefore, you should offer me the job and we will never discuss this again.