The Things We Think

A storm moved in off the ocean, and the sky grayed out. The waves broke against the beach, growing with incoming wind, and the harsh white noise drowned out all other sounds, except the low scraping sound of stone moving against stone, and two young girls were caught between the ocean and the tomb.

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“It will come as a man holding an apple. He will hold the fruit and think it fresh and pure. He will look at it and bite it, chew and swallow. No one will be ready. No-one will recognize the end until it is too late.

For the apple is a serpent, and he that holds it holds death and terror, but knows it not. None shall hear the flickering tongue until it is too late.

The sky itself will collapse and crush everything it covers. The weight will smash all things, turning buildings to dust, creating clouds of smoke that will choke the breath from everything they touch. The wails of terror and the cries of children will make deaf all who can hear. The last man alive will suffer agonizing pain as his body is slowly crushed by the hand of god, squeezing the world in his righteous palm, and all will perish, and all memory will be gone, and nothing shall remain except the wrath of god.

Amen.”

—–

This note was found in a safe deposit box among many other apocalyptic ramblings. I chose this one because it was the most brutal and visual. Keep in mind, the guy who wrote this, whoever he is, decided he needed it to be locked up where only he could access it. (Until the record of his purchase of the box disappeared however, now we have to go through it.) I don’t know if this guy is still alive. I’d like to think he is and he was just too embarrassed to come in and claim his box.

I like that thought better than the alternatives.

“So…

You’re asking if I killed myself?

Well, let me put it this way. Did I stick a shot gun in my mouth? Put my big toe on the trigger? No I didn’t do that. Did I make a noose out of some bedsheets and throw em over a railing? Snap my neck and shit my pants? No, I didn’t do that either. I didn’t gargle drano. I didn’t jump off a building. I didn’t fill the tub with water and drop a toaster in. I didn’t do any of that.

But if I saw a building was collapsing on me I didn’t run. If I knew a plane I was boarding had a bomb on it, I boarded. If it turned that I had cancer, and the doctors said that starting treatment guaranteed my survival, I didn’t go near the hospital.

The act of suicide requires a will. The will to die. I don’t have that. I don’t have the will to live either.

Killing yourself requires a desire, a passion, a fight. The passion that makes a man walk hundreds of miles through a desert, without food or water, just to see his family again, is the same passion that makes a man cut the veins in his wrists. Living is such a natural instinct. Shutting it off requires enough to determination to override hundreds of millions of years of hardwiring in the brain. Or the divine plan of god, if that’s your way, you who found this note.

You ask if I killed myself. The answer is no. I didn’t end my own life. But I didn’t stop something else from doing it for me.

There should be, unless a greedy employee has gotten into the box and taken some, $400,000 dollars in here. It might not be worth much when you get it. But if it is, put it to good use like I was supposed to. Find a reason to live. Find a reason to die. Find a reason.”

—

This note was pulled from a safe deposit box. During the process of going through the bank records, we’ve been determining the contents of safe deposit boxes where the rightful owner cannot be found. We’re doing this after, and only after, an investigative firm we hired has exhausted all opportunities to determine who the rightful owner of the box is. This particular box was set up about 23 years ago. It’s owner passed away and the remaining members of his family, (if he had any) could not be identified.

The radio crackled an old Who song, and Simon fiddled with the dial a little to get it to come in clearer. He liked this song, and since he had the kitchen all to himself after closing, he could listen to whatever he wanted to without the dishwasher constantly setting it to a rap station while the chef de partie tried to set it to country. He was doing some mindless prep work, making a chicken stock out of the bones from the main courses, slicing up carrots, potatoes, and celery for the soup that they would serve in a few days, once the stock had been properly set. The worst was getting all the bones separated, slicing up the bodies. Simon really didn’t like what he was doing.

Working by himself was the only way Simon could stomach his job. He absolutely hated it. He’d always loved to cook and he had a refined palate. When he decided to go to catering school after getting his high school degree, he thought he’d found the right career path. But then he got into a real kitchen at a busy restaurant. And during his first busy service, when he had the orders for five different tables and had to get them all out within minutes of each other, the reality of his job hit him and he hated it and wanted out. The atmosphere of constant pressure was not for him. He talked the boss into just letting him come in after hours and do all of the prep work for the next day. The rest of the kitchen staff was in favor of this because it meant they could come in later. Simon loved it because the pressure to get things ready quickly was gone. But he knew this was a temporary fix. He still hated his job, he just hated it a little less. Even the prep work was a miserable chore. Simon, even though he’d worked in cooking for less than three weeks, wanted nothing to do with the job ever again.

The opening keyboard section of the song was revving up and the drums were coming in. Simon turned up the volume really loud. He loved this part. It totally jammed. Then the vocals came in.

Out here in the fields…

Daltrey finished the line and then the fight exploded around Simon. His bright blue irises dilated so wide that it looked liked he had no irises at all, only big black pupils swallowing all the light in the room. The large kitchen filled with horned demons, gnashing their fangs at every living thing they saw, including him. His jaw dropped and his hair stood on end.

“Stand still and watch,” came a whisper into his ear, as two black gloved hands landed on his shoulders. “You are safe, while we are here nothing can harm you,” the soothing voice said. But the calming words had no effect, every bit of adrenaline his body could make was dumping into his bloodstream. Every ounce of his body told him to run away as fast as he could. But the strong hands on his shoulders held him in place. He watched as dozens of men ran into the room, their bodies draped in black cloth, wielding long thin swords. They leapt and dashed about with incredible agility and poise. But the demons were just as strong and agile and they continually caught the men(ninjas)

“Is this really what I’m seeing?” Simon thought. “Ninjas fighting demons?” The battle raged and it didn’t always look like the Ninjas(men) had the upper hand. Simon’s eyes fixed in on a fight going near the deep fryers. A demon had one of the (ninjas/men) fighters by the throat and was trying to put his head into the boiling hot oil. The fighter’s face was contorted in agony and his sword was on the ground out of his reach.

I fight for my meals…

The fighter’s hand flailed out to his right slamming his open palm on the stainless steel prep table. The vibrations shook a sauce pan off a higher shelf and it landed within his reach. He took it and put it behind his head, filling it with a some of the oil from the fryer, then he pulled it forward and threw it all in the demons face. Its brown leathery skin began to boil and pulse and it let out a scream that was horrendous in its outrage.

The demons continued to flood the room, swarming everything with oppressive numbers. For every one of the black-clad swordsmen there were three of the brown, rocky armed hellions, gnashing and clawing and biting.

All throughout the room the fighters were losing their battles. They were being pinned up against walls and bitten and clawed. Their skin bitten off in large chunks, their blood pooling on the floor. A demon slashed the wrist of one fighter, sending a spray of blood into some strawberries that were sliced and prepped for tarts the next day.

Simon was panicking. What he saw before him was a slaughter, and the hands on his shoulder did nothing to calm him. He tried to get free to run away, but the hands held tight and locked him into place. “Nothing will harm you,” came the calm reassurance, wasted on Simon’s adrenaline filled ears. The carnage and gore and violence was getting to be too much. He gave up all as lost and prepared himself to be eaten alive. The fighters were going to lose and when they did, the demons would come for him next.

I don’t need to fight…

Another fighter and another demon were grappling on the floor near his oven with the chicken stock. The demon had the fighter down and was biting large chunks of skin off of his chest and arms. Another fighter ran to the aid of his friend and stabbed the demon in the back with his sword several times. The demon roared out and jumped to its feet. It grabbed out at the second fighter and caught his black clothes by the tip of its claws, shredding the fabric. The second fighter dodged the demons attempts to grab him, weaving and ducking as if his body weighed nothing, as if he were as weightless as the air. The demon made one final lunge for him, and he jumped upwards so high that the demon ended up only grabbing air. The demon let out a horrific yell of anger.

I don’t need to be forgiven…

And no sooner had the fighter leapt up into the air than he turned and looked at directly at Simon, making eye contact with the helpless frightened prep cook. What Simon saw on this fighters face was not anything like fear, anxiety, distress, or anger. The fighter looked Simon directly in the eye and let loose with a giant grin, a smile that said “Hell yeah!” And with that fleeting look of pure joy, the fighter vanished into thin air.

The radio over Simon’s head burst out with the next part of the song, the joyful energetic jam between the first verse and pre-chorus, the three chords, root-V-IV, winding up the energy level while letting out all the tension. What Simon felt in those exact seconds, led on by the completely out of place smile of the fighter, was pure energy. He was not happy. He was not ecstatic. He simply was. In the moment. No conscious thought. Just pure unedited energy. Keith, Pete, and John let loose with the big ringing distorted power chords that signaled the pre-chorus and Simon felt his heart ready to come out of his chest.

Don’t cry…

The demon looked upward to where the fighter had just been, bewildered by something he could not explain, twisting his head right and left like a dog when you pretend to throw the ball but you don’t, you just hide it in the palm of your hand.

The fighter reappeared behind the confused demon and with one quick slice, removed its head from it’s shoulders.

The men began fighting the demons one by one, turning the kitchen into an ancient battlefield. And the demons fought back hard, their claws tearing and cutting the warriors. Their teeth biting and stripping flesh, their numbers continuing to grow, appearing from somewhere that Simon’s eyes couldn’t catch. If he looked away from any spot of the kitchen, and then back, there would simply be more of them. But it no longer scared him. Now, it was just kind of cool.

Don’t raise your eye…

The fighters, outnumbered, bleeding, cut and injured, found their pace. Their swords began to dance around, maneuvered by newly energized muscles, tearing the demons apart, cutting arms from torsos and and hands from arms, ankles from shins and shins from thighs.

It’s only Teenage…

The Demons kept coming, the kitchen was awash in blood. The screams of demons and the triumphant yells of the fighters mixed together. But there was a giant smile on every single face of every single fighter. Cut, bleeding, losing, they loved what they were doing.

Wasteland…

The radio wound on, The Who jamming out. The fighters turned back the waves of demons. The kitchen filled with victory yells as the last one was cut in two.

“I’m sorry you had to see this,” came the voice over Simon’s shoulder. “They are getting more and more unpredictable. Keeping up with them is a very tough job.”

Simon was still dumbfounded. The hands on his shoulder whirled him around and a set of piercing slate gray eyes, the only visible part of the face, met his own bewildered baby blues.

“I’m sorry if I grabbed you too hard. Are you alright?” the man asked with all earnestness. Simon was having a little trouble hearing him over the blaring radio. The man reached up and shut it off.

“I said are you alright? Did anything cut you or bite you?”

Simon looked himself over, and, satisfied with a quick visual inspection, answered, “Yeah. Yeah I think I’m okay.”

“Good.” With that the man took his hands off Simon’s shoulders and let him move about of his own accord. Simon turned around, and astonished, saw that his kitchen had been almost completely cleaned, only in those places where blood had gotten on the food was there any trace that anything out of the ordinary had happened.

“We work well and quickly,” came the voice, “but we are very very busy tonight. I apologize that we could not get everything cleaned. It appears as though we ruined a lot of your food. I’m sorry for that. I suppose you’ll just have to remake it.”

“It’s okay,” said Simon, still trying to process the previous four minutes, “That’s all I do anyway.”

The man gave no response. Simon looked around to see the two way door that lead to the dining room swinging. He ran out into the dining room, hoping for another glimpse.

“HEY!” he yelled. But there was nothing. Simon was just about to give up when the man’s head popped in from the door leading out to the street.

“Yes?” He said.

“What was all that about?” Simon asked him.

The man looked Simon up and down and said, “We just love what we do.” And with that he shut the door and disappeared. Simon stood alone in the silence and darkness of the dining room a few minutes, staring blankly at nothing. Then he came to and walked back into the kitchen. He went about getting all of the damaged food thrown away so the he could prep it all over again. There was no way he would let the kitchen staff open up tomorrow with bloody vegetables in the bins.

Susannah hated the grass. She hated it because it didn’t need anything other than what it already had. Some sunlight, a little water, soil – that was all it needed to live. Susannah needed far more than just light, water, and dirt. What she needed was someone’s arms to wrap around her waist. She needed the smell of her father’s cheek, the taste of real food. She needed the sight of another person. She needed the company of other people’s thoughts. Her own were getting weary and, she feared, a little to close to crazy.

She pulls her knees up to her chest and rocks back and forth on the dirt. Her scarlet red monk’s robe draps all about her otherwise naked body. She tried not to look to her right, where a single arm lays limp on the ground. She does not want to deal with the blood and the grief, with the rest of the body and the fresh memories. It’s too much for her right now. Right now she needs to sit and stare out at the grass, those tall, hateful, smug little blades, so secure in their infinite company. She couldn’t even guess at the number of blades she’d laid eyes upon in her fifteen years of life. She could count on one finger the number of people she’d seen. She could count on a closed fist the number of people she’d ever see again.

The wind is picking up, and it is so cold and fast. Her hair whips around her, smacking her cheeks and eyes. The skyline is growing dark, another cold night is waiting, another hungry dawn. And for the first time ever, Susannah will be completely alone. Her father is dead behind her, his throat ripped out by the beast before it went back to hiding in the infinite field. She closes her eyes and listens for it, out there, somewhere, unseen and patient. She thinks she can almost hear its teeth, its tongue dripping blood and spit on the ground. If she holds her breath and gets very still, she thinks she can hear it hating her.

The sun is minutes away from setting. The wind is howling. Susannah wipes the last of the tears from her eyes and stands up for the first time since morning, since seeing her father’s dead body. She doesn’t look at it, not even now, now that she might be dead herself soon. As sad as she is, as weak as her grip on the world has become, she knows that looking would burn that sight into her mind, and she does not want her father to be a pile of blood and skin. She does not need that right now. Right now she needs to go out there, there among the hateful grass, and hide.

She stands up. She falls right back down. The muscles in her legs are weak from sitting so long, and the cramps that take her calves are horrendous. She cries out in agony and beats on them with her fists, bruising them in the process. Then she tries to stand again, and though her knees shake and buckle, at least she doesn’t fall down again. She puts one wobbly foot in front of the other and goes forward. She decides to just run, in one direction for as long as she can, never looking back, stopping only to sleep, briefly. Because the beast is stalking tonight. It will be angry. It will be waiting.

“Did you ever notice that a credit card machine and a shotgun make the same noise? You know the little kind where they take the card and they put it in the little thing and then they put the paper slip over top and then they shove that little handle forward? It makes a loud Cha-Chik.” He holds the barrel close to my ear and cocks the .12 gauge. “It’s the exact same fucking sound,” He says, his eyes drilling through mine.

“Used to be there was this Jew I knew who kept one of those little machines next to his bed and if somebody was breaking in he’d yell “I GOT A SHOTGUN!” and make the noise. Said it scared them off every time. Now you tell me why that is. Why the fuck do a shotgun and a credit card machine make the same noise?”

I don’t answer because I know it’s a rhetorical question, and I don’t really give a fuck eitherways. This fuckin’ idiot could make grand observations and metaphors like he was bill shakespeare all day long. Don’t change the fact that he failed 8th grade twice, and he can’t remember to pay his bills. But whaddya gonna do? You can’t change a guys life like that. It’s like when you train a dog to recognize it’s name, he may perk his ears up when you yell “FIDO!” but it’s probably just because he expects a big bowl of food or his belly scratched. Somewhere along the line, somebody rewarded him for sayin’ this silly shit, and if you give him a moment, he’ll bring you one of these statements like a dog bringing his owner the paper, hopin’ for a pat on the head or a slice of bacon.

“Exact… Same… Sound,” he says. He perks his eyebrows up and nods his head at me, then says it again a little lower, “exact… same… sound.” He pulls the pump away from my ear, but he don’t say nothin’, he just looks at me like I’m supposed to react and that does it. I get real hard look on my face and pretend like I thought about it real deep, then I let out a real low whistle sound and stare off over my shoulder out the passenger window.

“That’s right,” he whispers, “That’s right. They sure do.”  He let’s off after that. He puts the gun down in the backseat of the car and drinks some more of his coffee, starin’ out the window with a deep look on his face, puttin’ on a show for me like he’s some indian shaman illuminating the universe and not just a cop with a two dollar cup of coffee and a fifty cent bear claw. He looks back at me and gives me a little smile.

“Well not always,” I say, looking straight out the windshield. He sips his coffee.

“How you mean?” He asks.

“Well it’s not always the same sound. What about those kind of bird huntin’ guns where the barrel opens forward and you load the shells from behind? Those don’t make the same sound as a credit card machine.” I drink my own coffee and stare straight ahead. He swallows the last bit of his bear claw and brushes the crumbs off of his pants.

“So what’re you saying?”

“Nothin’. Just that it’s not always the same sound.”

“Right. But what’re you gettin’ at?”

“Nothin’ nothin’. Just they ain’t they always the same sound is all.”

“Well so what about it?”

“So what!” I say, throwing my hands in the air.

“So what?” he says

“So what!”

“Look, if you got somethin’ you wanna fuckin’ say, say it already. Stop playin’ around it like some fuckin’ faggot or somethin’ and say it already.”

“I’m just sayin’.”

“Well just say your mom takes it in the ass for quarters.”

“Did you ever notice the best presidents are on the bills and not the coins? Like Reagan ain’t on no bill. You ever notice that?” I ask him with the most serious tone and face I can muster. “Think about that,” I say and point my index finger right at his face.

“Ronald Reagan ain’t on no bill, no coin, or not even that fucking mountain out in the montana’s, so what the fuck, exactly, is your point?” he asks.

“It’s just an observation. I’m just pointing this shit out is all. Nothin’ else to it.”

“Well here’s an observation. Why don’t you take Ronald Reagan, a credit card machine,  a shotgun, a roll of quarters, a roll ‘a hundred dolla bills and your mother and stick ‘em all  up your ass. Fucking douchebag.”

“I’m… Just… Sayin.”

“Ullueh. I’m just saying,” he repeats in a mocking little girly voice, waving his hands around in little fairy motions. “Prick.” he says.

He goes back to drinking his coffee, cursin’ me under his breath between sips. I have to turn my head away to hide my laughs.

“What’re you crying over there? Quit bein such a little girl. Jesus Christ!” he says. That almost ends it. I have to bury my face into my forearm to keep from bustin out. Oh this guy is gonna be a source of never endin’ amusement. I almost let out a big laugh when the radio crackles in.

“This is dispatch calling all available units. We have a domestic disturbance at 121 Almond St. Possible hostage situation. Be advised suspect is believed to be armed and dangerous. All units in the vicinity of 19th and Almond please respond immediately. Over.” And then the dispatcher’s voice fades out in the static. He grabs the mic.

“Dispatch this is unit 421 responding. We’re about 3 blocks away.” He sets the mic down and I seize the opportunity.

“What’re you doin?!” I yell at him, “Did you hear the address?”

“Yeah. I heard it,” he says. “121 Almond St. What the fuck about it?”

“Are you an idiot or somethin? We can’t take that call we’ll get killed!”

“The fuck you babblin on about now?”

“121 Almond st. right? That’s twelve plus one is thirteen. What  the fuck good did you ever hear about the number 13?”

“Oh. My. Sweet. Fucking. Christ,” he says and then rests his head against the back of his hands, laying against the top of the steering wheel. He sighs heavily a few times and it takes everything I’ve got to not bust out laughin’ in his face. He brings his head up and looks me dead in the eye, his head turned completely to the right to face me.

“We’re car number 421. Four plus two plus one is seven. Lucky number seven. THEY CANCEL EACH OTHER OUT YOU MORON!” He puts his hand on the gear shift and moves it into drive, all without taking his eyes off of me. He hits the pedal and we go all of about four feet before we both go slamming forward into the dashboard and we hear a big loud metallic crunch, smoke rolling out from under the hood of the car. He hit a parked car.  We look at each other for a second and then that’s it. I lose it. I start laughin’. I laugh so hard I can’t catch my breath.

He looks at me and yells out “WELL HOW THE HELL WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THEY DON’T CANCEL! GODDAMNIT!”

I have to open my door and lean out to get some air. How else am I supposed to make a career out of this?

She has been sitting and writing for the past two hours. She is collecting her thoughts in a diary, a diary that has been with her over the last year, and recorded every single one of the 364 previous days. Today is the 365th. Today she writes this:

“Dear Diary,

I was wrong. He did it. He threw me out like a bag of trash, and I sat on the curb for two hours hoping he would let me back in. But then the trash men came and took me away like they always do. This hurts. It hurts from deep within, deeper than I expected. It feels like a bruise on my lungs. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to think. The act of forcing air into my body and moving my blood hurts.

He denies ever giving me this infection, and refuses to pay for my treatment. He denies that he ever met me or knows who I am. I’ll spend the next month or two homeless, at least until I get sick from some piece of food in a trashcan, then I’ll cough myself to sleep forever.

When I get off this plane, I’ll wander around the terminal for a few hours, spend my last 5 dollars on some fast food, try to find a place to sleep for the night, and hope I can do it all again tomorrow. I need to find some blankets and a couple of jackets, maybe get in with one of those shelters.

Maybe I should just kill myself and get it over with.

Do you think God could forgive me for that after the things I did? Probably not. Probably I’ll wake up the moment after and instead of freezing I’ll be burning…“

When she finishes this last line she cries, distinctly at first, but then she buries her face into her hooded sweatshirt and tilts her head against the window. She drops her pen onto the floor and it rolls away. Her diary lays open on her lap, her left arm barely covering the writing. She tries to keep her sobs muted, quiet. She does not want to be noticed right now. Right now she wants to be alone. She curls her knees inward towards her chest and pulls the drawstrings tight around her face. She wants to surround herself with the fact that she is going to die cold and alone and soon. The last weeks of her life, which she must endure, will be painful and humiliating. She wants to sit with this reality and let it sink in. If she is to get through it, she must accept it.

Two seats away, sitting directly across from her, across the aisle, is a young Palestinian man. She has been too absorbed in her own thoughts and pain to notice him. But then, he did not want to be noticed, not at first anyway.

He boarded the plane with a mission. But in the days leading up to this flight, doubts took over his mind. No matter how they assured him, as the actual act drew closer, hesitation swarmed all over him. Now, two hours into the flight, he has very nearly talked himself out of it. He was always reluctant, but his faith had given him strength, the fortitude to soldier on. Faith was eluding him now, now that his martyrdom was only minutes away. His hands shake and his palms sweat. His eyes dart nervously around the cabin, looking for anything, anything that will steel his resolve. These people are not demons to be slaughtered in the name of god, he realizes, they are people like himself. Now that he is close to dying with them, the thought that god would reward  murder is slipping away. Now he can only believe that he would suffer an eternity in hell for taking these innocent lives for no reason.

And whether it is rationale or cowardice, he has very nearly talked himself out of it. But as a show of faith, he bows his head and prays, one last time. He asks for a sign from god, a sign that will tell him what he is supposed to do.

He hears the muted sobs of a young girl across the aisle. He hears her and takes a keen interest. He undoes his seatbelt, leaning across the aisle and the empty seat. He sees her diary and he reads the entire day’s entry thus far. Jennifer does not notice him at first, but she senses the looming presence and quickly turns to face him. She rubs the tears from her eyes and pulls her hood back. She snatches the diary up and tucks it under her armpit.

“Can I help you?” she asks. His answer does not make sense at first.

“No miss. It is I who can help you.” He looks deep into her eyes and thanks god for the message. She struggles for a response. He does not wait for one. He strides to the front of the plane, tearing off his suit jacket. He pulls out a small chewing gum pack and opens it, exposing the plastic explosive inside. He attaches it to the cockpit door and jams two wires inside, then attaching the wires to a hand-held detonator. The rest of the plane has caught on and is panicked. He looks up just in time to see a large man sprinting forward from the back of the plane. The act is forced upon him now, not that he cares anymore, his doubt is gone, this was the right thing to do in the end.

He looks to his right one last time, catching her eyes and holding her gaze for mere seconds. She mouths to him, “Thank you.” He winks at her and pushes down on the trigger.

Click.

The Cumulogen family sat down for dinner at around 7:30 in the evening, around 7:30 as in all around it. Mother took her seat by the window at 7:22, carrying her freshly made popcorn covered in melted cheese, to drink she carried a glass of diet coke, still bubbling, straight from the can. Sister sat down next at 7:24. She carried in a plate full of stuffed mushrooms, steaming from the oven, to drink she carried a bottle of water, ice cold from the fridge. Junior came to the table at 7:29, with a large plate full of microwaved chicken sandwiches, piping hot from the microwave, a glass of milk to drink. Father was last to the party. He sat down at 7:35. He brought in the other half of a left over sub sandwich, still in the styrofoam to go box, to drink he brought a tall glass bottle of beer.

They all took their places at different spots along the long rectangular dining table. They sat at different points at different ends, no one was directly across from anyone else. Mother brought along a gossip magazine to the table. She wanted to know all about the latest exploits of Paris Hilton. Junior brought his iPod to the table, and was playing music through a set of small speakers, classical music, not normally in his taste. Sister brought her laptop computer. She needed to write a paper over Charles Darwin, and she looked up the information in plain view of everyone else. Father stared out and across into the living room at the television, his attention was focused on a baseball game, a player was about to set the all-time home run record.

Mother ate her bowl of popcorn with her fingers, licking her fingertips to get the bits of melted cheese. She openly belched as the gas from her soda worked its way out. Junior popped his miniature chicken sandwiches into his mouth, chewing them very little before swallowing. His glass of milk did not mix well in his stomach with all the greasy chicken meat, but he drank it anyway because he loved the taste. Sister took each of her stuffed mushrooms and sucked out the meat first, slowly working it loose with a deft tongue. Her bottle of water cleansed the flavor from her mouth between bites. Father took large chomps of his sandwich, washing down the bits of lettuce, tomato and roast beef with his dark lager. The alcohol buzzed him and his head was light.

In the next moment the Cumulogen family became completely still. They all sat up directly, with great posture, their backs as stiff as boards, Their eyes began rotating horizontally in their heads, the whites of their eyes flashing quickly after the dark of the pupils. Their hair grew out and began to twist around in clockwise motions, so that it wrapped around their heads in a tightening force. Their necks were next, turning faster and faster. Their arms grabbed at their torsos as if they were hugging themselves, and their chests followed suit, all turning faster and faster in clockwise motion. Their legs crossed and formed twists. Their entire bodies twisted inward, stretching out and out into smaller smaller and smaller space.

The action continued on, the force of the twisting created gales of wind, blowing mother’s magazine onto the floor, drowning out Junior’s speakers, driving a fork through the monitor of Sister’s laptop and throwing a chair in the way of Father’s view of the the television. At last, their bodies had winded up into nothing but air, and having become horrible cyclones, they twisted out of the dining room in different directions, flying out of any open window they found. Father to the east, Mother to the North, Junior to the west, and Sister to the south.

Standing at the front of the table, he addresses his colleagues on a new marketing strategy. This strategy, one he has slaved over for four weeks straight, ought to boost their profits by seven percent over the next two years. He explain his reasons in charts and graphs. His presentation skills are superb. His dress and appearance are impeccable. He projects an air of confidence and his smile never falters. He ends his presentation to a smattering of applause from the six other people in the room. The lights come on and the shades are opened, a gentle lull of traffic noise drifts up from the city streets below, a light snow falls on the window pane. He takes his seat and asks for questions.

His hands are pressed together in a triangle, his fingers touching the top of his lip. He carefully displays a facade of interest while they ask him stupid questions. He nods his head, giving them a gesture that says “Ah, I hadn’t considered that.” When really, he had considered that and he had just spent fifteen minutes telling them all about how he was going to get around it. He patiently explains himself again, his audience losing reasons to nix his ideas. His logic is sound. His desires are the best interest of the company.

At last they all agree, they will budget the appropriate money. They will implement his marketing plan. Profits will grow over the next two years. Everyone will be happy. They all shake hands and file out of the room one by one. He lingers behind to pack up his laptop and projector. When he is finished, he throws the satchel strap over his head and rests his right arm on top of the bulging bag. He gazes out of the large windows in the conference room, the sight of the busy city, the sounds of the busy people. He watches as little snowflakes land on all of them. Behind him, through the open door of the conference room, he hears the elevator ding. He looks and sees that it’s heading down. He hurries to catch it before it becomes too full. He has to make it home before six or his wife will worry.

He makes it just in time. He squeezes into the front, and he must smile and make polite laughs to the people he outran to get his spot in the elevator. He shrugs his shoulders at them, a gesture saying “Oh these crazy elevators! But what are ya gonna do? Eh?” They politely laugh in his face. The door closes and they all head down, with a few stops along the way, just so the door can open and everyone waiting to get on can be disappointed.

He does his best not to panic. It’s a long ride down from the high floor he was on. He could be stuck in the elevator for ten minutes depending on how many floors the full elevator has to hit before it reaches the ground floor. People cram him on all sides. One person in the back has to twist his shoulder into a corner in order to reach her hand up and scratch her nose. The young man does his best to endure the stifling heat and stale air.

He survives it as long as he can. The elevator only has three more floors to go, but he cannot stop his left hand from reaching towards the inside pocket of his coat. His hand twitches in, he can feel it.

Two floors to go.

The people in the back are preparing to get off. They move forward slightly. Just enough to push him against the door, locking his left arm in position.

One floor to go.

He flicks his fingertips forward and backward, trying to reach just a little further. His breathing has accelerated. He tries not to make grunting noises, but he is straining his muscles severely, trying to get his left hand a tenth of an inch further in his pocket. The people in the back make one small adjustment forward. He cannot reach any further in. He lets out a scream.

The elevator doors open and he is shoved forward. His coat swings open with all the force on his back and his left hand falls out of the pocket. The crowd moves across the marble floor of the lobby, their heels clicking, the echoes bouncing all around. He gains his composure and exits the building. He hails a taxi and heads home, his head leaning against the backseat window, watching the snowflakes assault the bright yellow body of the cab.

The Morbon family sat down for dinner at 8 o’clock in the evening. Father brought out the buckets of KFC. Plenty of original recipe for everyone, with a few pieces of extra crispy for Junior. He sat the bags down on the circular table in the kitchen, having to shove aside a pile of mail: bills, advertisements, and a jury summons for Mother. He moved aside the clutter and shoved the food into the middle.

Mother, Junior, and Sister took their seats. Father ran to the kitchen to get some paper plates and a couple six-packs of coke from the fridge. He handed these things to everyone, then fished out the plastic knives and sporks from the bags. The Family reached into the buckets, grabbing the greasy chicken, snatching the sides that they wanted. Mother took the coleslaw, Sister the mashed potatoes, Junior the macaroni and cheese, and Father was left with the fries. They spooned out their sides and ate their chicken. Father ate his meal while staring silently at the clock on the wall. Mother gazed at the pile of mail on the floor. Junior and sister looked at their food and only their food. No one talked. No one looked at anyone else. The only sounds in the room were chewing and swallowing.

In the next moment, The Morbon Family became completely still. Their jaws locked. Their skin began to droop and sag off of their bones. The hair on their heads and their bodies grew out and became rubbery, their tongues turned to mush, like cookies dunked in milk. Brown and green eyes became totally black. Lips turned a dark shade of blue and ears morphed into little watery bags of skin and cartilage.

Then, as the family was melting, their eyes popped from their sockets, the mouths unhinged, and torrents of water gushed from their eyes and mouths. Great rushing streams that hit the table and scattered food everywhere. They continued to pour out, until every bit of their bodies had changed to water. And then, all that was left of the Morbon family was a waterlogged carpet, right under the dining room table.