A Soddened Existence

A thrush flitted among the underbrush,
carefully dancing by the thorns
and pausing contently near patches of light.
He cared most for those moments of brief beatitude
during which he came upon a delectable beetle
but did not shy from the more bitter nuts and
fruits of the forest.

A soft voice called to him from a distance,
and he curiously approached its speaker.
And with a thwap! the net was cast.
Desperate, the thrush crashed against the
nylon fibers. But it was to no avail;
Exhausted, he crumbled to the ground.

Weeks later the thrush chirped and,
burdened by his clipped wings,
he looked through his cage -
daunted by the hostility.
Softly, mournfully, he sang his song -
Lamenting not his sudden relinquishment of freedom,
but the simple capacity he once had
to enjoy the simple fruits of the forest.

"What the fuck."

Greg stared blankly at his computer screen. He had opened Microsoft Word hours ago, that little paperclip guy mocking him and his inability to write. The asshole kept looking at him, blinking intermittently.

He couldn't stand it and slt+tabbed to Firefox. Maybe he had some new emai- nope. Nothing. Just some spam ads from DSW. Why the hell was DSW sending him emails, anyways? Twenty dollars off winter boots. Awesome. Except he wasn't about to walk around campus in suede leather and 2-inch heels.

I wonder what Facebook is up to, then. And a full half hour later, as he finished planting his Farmville cotton, he alt-tabbed back to Word. Still nothing. Not that he expected words to magically appear while he was dicking around. But what the hell was he going to talk about? This assignment wasn't going to write itself.

He sighed, and once again browsed the timesuck that was the internet. Casually he scrolled over the newly uploaded porn videos on his favorite website; nothing good. Unless, of course, you were turned on by sagging tits and urination. Greg supposed that there were at least a couple saps on the site right now watching it. Some people are turned on by that shit. He just wasn't.

It was then that the idea hit him. In his vehement procrastination Greg had looked at about twenty naked chicks on /b/ and then took some time to make fun of some poor soul that was foolish enough to ask for advise and expect people to take him seriously. So, why not? He posted on /lit/, asking for an idea for a story. He went to the kitchen to grab some coke and sat back down at his computer, hitting refresh.

"Dwarves.. fucking..?"

The fact that someone recommend he write about midgets having sex didn't shock him. He was, after all, asking the shithole of the internet for ideas. But it wasn't just one person, or two, or even three. Among the first seven posts were five depraved requests for intercourse among little people. Fine. He'll do it. And so he alt-tabbed back to Word.

"Snow White had always been a curious girl growing up. Her mother - before she died - had almost daily scolded her for playing with things she wasn't supposed to. So it was no surprise that, this one particularly dull Thursday evening, she made this offer to her guests.

The seven dwarves looked among themselves, first bewilderdly, then probingly. Granted, having to see Doc naked wouldn't be the best. But goddamnit they were going to run a train. And that was worth dealing with wrinkly dwarf sack. Grunting, Grumpy began to take off his clothes, his erect four inch penis barely visible underneath his bulbous stomach. Grumpy really did have something to be grumpy about."

The Subway

The two of us walked hastily down the stairs, descending into the bustling tunnels. I stepped into a small puddle at the foot of the stairs, quite by accident. In passing I noted how quickly we were walking. It was slightly remarkable, I thought, how fast many people ran down those steps to get out of the rain. And none of them, it was important to mention, so much as stumbled over the slick steps. But they were designed to prevent just that anyways, I concluded.

We walked over to the green line to wait for the subway train. I checked my phone for the third time since coming down the stairs. The game started in 20 minutes; it would be impossible to make it to the stadium on time.

I looked around anxiously. Why exactly we do this I do not know. But since as far as I can remember we do. Nothing I had seen on a television or read in a book seemed to indicate otherwise. It was simply the human condition to look about when we are impatient. Maybe it gives us an air of importance that we so humbly know we lack. Or maybe we are desperately trying to not look so preoccupied by the time.

In any event I, like many others there, looked around wondering just where the hell the train was. I saw a man a few yards to my right, kneeling near the edge of the platform. He was wearing brown corduroy pants and a gray sweatshirt. It was a perfectly fine outfit, of course. Though I did find it a little queer to be wearing corduroy so early in September. Still, New York is perpetually filled with fashion-less idiots, so I did not take too much stock in his clothing.

But I noticed he was leaning over a bag. It was a Pet Co. bag and seemed to have a perforated box of some sort inside. I assumed it some sort of animal newly purchased. Idly, I wondered what it could be. It did not seem to be making any noise, and was not agitating the box, and so I doubted it was a cat or dog.

But then the terrifying idea crossed my mind. It was precipitated by a few fairly obvious questions that, for one reason or another, I hadn't gotten around to asking. Why was he kneeling down next to the box? And why was he so close to the edge? When I happened to connect these two dangerous inquiries, his intention was immediately evident to me.

My palms began to sweat. My mind raced as I desperately tried to decide what I should do. It would be abhorrent of me to do nothing. How could I stand there, knowing full well that he would throw the poor animal in front of the incoming train? But I absolutely could not bring myself to stop him. I froze, eyes fixated on the man, and imagined the forthcoming gore.

I so desperately wanted some other person to intervene. It seemed terribly unfair that I was the only one at the platform who knew for what the man was preparing. As my eyebrows furrowed I cursed my perception and again deliberated on my inaction.

I looked in despair towards the little girl between me and the man in the corduroy. She was wearing a blue raincoat and a skirt with purple tights. Of course, she was with her father; the two of them were likely also going to the game. This time I groaned. Like most good citizens, I had not tried to put myself in this situation. I simply found myself as the only one able to do anything to prevent what would have a horrendous affect on this poor girl.

And then I heard the thunderous roar of the train. It was only seconds away, and in less than a minute I would be cleaning the gore from my fleece jacket. Shamed from my cowardice, I resigned to watching as the man readied the box. He grabbed it firmly, and raised onto his haunches, waiting expectantly for the train.

As the train zipped by I cringed at the expectant smack of the animal. The man lifted the box into his arms, and rested it on his chest. With a small grunt he stood up, carefully balancing his purchase. The train stopped and its doors opened. Impatiently, he waited for the passengers to step out and onto the platform. Then, eager to set the box back down, he entered the train.

The Man with the Reverse-Sock Tan

It was late in the afternoon when the questionable man walked into the restaurant. Joshua had been enjoying the cool summer breeze that came from the lake by which the shadowed patio was made. It had been an unusually hot day, he thought to himself. But the heat was now thankfully retreating along with the fallen sun. He sipped on his coffee and smiled at his girlfriend, Mary. It had been an unusually fine meal, he reflected, and he did not want to be on his way.

She returned his smile with a polite turn of her lips. When the waitress came with the hot coffee in the fancy ceramic pot Mary coolly placed her hand meaningfully over her empty cup. Joshua did not, and smiled once more at his girlfriend as the woman refilled his cup. He thanked her as he lifted the cup to his lips.

"This coffee isn't half bad," he remarked. Though he looked at Mary, the waitress responded.

"It's actually my favorite blend. I come here for my coffee off-hours."

"That's lovely. What is your name again?" Joshua took another sip of his coffee.

"I'm Chasity."

"Lovely. Isn't that lovely, Mary?"

Mary said nothing, but gave a brief smile in return. It was not particularly sardonic but was also not self-deprecating. Joshua looked at her for a moment before turning to the lake water. They said nothing for some time. Meanwhile, a different waiter, a male, had seated a new party. One was a nondescript woman. She was neither pretty nor homely, Joshua decided. A loud man with a wide-brimmed hat, who appeared to be escorting the woman, offered her a chair.

The second man, the third and last of the party, with some time came to seize Joshua's attention. His slightly tall stature was unable to counteract his bulk. Not to mention, Joshua thought, how the Hawaiian shirt and tan khaki shorts served only to enhance the apparent size of his midsection.

The shoes the man wore, however, provided the keenest speculation. Contrary to his experience with such figures, Joshua noted the tan ankles of the man. But a mere few inches upward revealed a most shocking contrast of skin color. The man was by no means darkly tanned, though he was impressively tanned given his German heritage. But his calves were remarkably white. Not the color of porcelain, of course. But the immediatecy of the tanned ankles caused the eye to increase the appeared difference in color. The whiteness continued up the man's leg beyond his shorts. It must have ended somewhere under there because Joshua saw no sign of such a dramatic shift elsewhere on the man.

The man’s legs baffled Joshua. Sock tans were quite normal. Given the man’s appearance, Joshua did not for a second doubt that he was capable of what was quite an accidental, though ignorant, tan. But a reverse-sock tan?

“I wonder how he managed to get that,” he mused.

“Get what?” Mary said, after some delay.

“The man over there. His calves are white.”

“Is that so?”

Again the two fell into silence. She fumbled in her bag for something while he continued to stare at the man’s calves. The two men did not notice the odd behavior of their neighbors and continued their conversation. They did not talk loudly and Joshua could hear them discuss the food.

The woman glanced at Joshua intermittently while listening to her companions’ conversation. She did not appear to know what he was doing. The waiter came to take their orders. The men each ordered the Salisbury steak with loaded mashed potatoes and Portobello mushroom. The man with the hat asked for his medium rare. The man with the reverse-sock tan asked for his well done. The waiter hesitated briefly before writing this down. The woman ordered a filet of haddock. She then whispered something into the waiter’s ear and turned back to her lemonade, blushing.

The waiter went back inside with his orders and put them through. He then paused at the door before catching the eye of his coworker. When she came over to him he spoke softly so the patrons would not hear. The waitress nodded, and walked over to her table. Chasity smiled apologetically to Joshua. Mary continued filing her nails.

“Hi. I’m terribly sorry to even mention this. But someone asked me if you could please keep this a comfortable environment. I know you probably didn’t mean anything by it, but it’s our mission to take care of the needs of every one of our customers.”

“Oh, me? I’m sorry. I wasn’t even thinking about what I was doing.”

Chasity smiled again before setting the bill on the table and leaving for another table. Joshua did not pick it up but instead continued to sip his coffee. Mary briefly looked up at her boyfriend and smirked derisively. She snorted and went to brush her hair.

A smoke

I decided I needed a smoke and asked Charley if he would share it with me. Of course he agreed.

"Much appreciated, my good Chap," I said.

"Piss off."

Charley came from across the pond. He did not care to overemphasize this within our circle of friends. Naturally, none of us would have it and we took advantage of his upbringing every opportunity we could. He was none to fond of this.

We stepped onto the porch of Doug's house and I shut the door behind us. Still, the muffled sounds of merry-going seeped through. I did my best to ignore it and focus on the drizzle outside. I lit my cigarette and handed another to Charley.

"Bloody hell, did I need this. Too much political philosophy going on in there, old fellow. I never much cared for political philosophy."

"It's a damned sham," he agreed, nodding.

"I always thought Rousseau and Locke were a couple of blowhards."

"John Locke does on occasion say something useful," he contested.

"That's true. Most of it is garbage, though. An utter waste of time."

Charley did not reply to this. I walked over to one of the chairs and sat down. I watched as the bugs gathered around the porch light. There were quite a few, but not as many as usual. The rain was fairly heavy. I watched one moth in particular who strayed dangerously close to the open air. A droplet must have hit him because he slowly fluttered to the wood, struggling.

"What would it be like to be a moth during a rainstorm?" I asked Charley.

"I imagine it would be a hard life. There aren't many places one could go without risking his life."

I nodded and took a long drag of the cigarette. I wouldn't much care to be a moth. It was interesting to think about, but was something I would never actually consider. I liked the rain too much. A frog, now that was an animal I could get behind. Sit on a lily and wait for flies to come to me.

"Hey Frank?"

"Yeah, Charley?"

"Are you anxious about the future?"

"I try not to think about the future. It's too far away."

"You know what I mean, Frank. There are at least a dozen other guys just like us back in Doug's house. We all know there are not enough professorships to go around. I can't imagine investing the time and effort for my doctorate and end up teaching social studies."

"What a load of rubbish," I told him. "Those guys don't know a whit about metaphysics. They're a batch of hackneyed politicians and moralists."

"I suppose."

I finished my cigarette and flicked the butt onto the ground. We stood up and went to go back inside. As I closed the door behind us, I hesitated. The moth remained on the porch since it had first fallen. But now it was slowly raising. It began to circle its way back up towards the light to join the other bugs.

Discussion

The three sat around the poker table, each nursing his own brandy. Charles carefully tracked the others' consumption. Not, he told himself, because it was his brandy and he hoped they enjoyed it. But because, as a crafty player, he had to see how inebriated the two were.

John's drink could be ignored for this purpose, though. Even after five glasses of the stuff his face would still be stone. And it didn't help much that he refused to make any but the most necessary conversation. Charles thought It was understandable. Still, it was irritating. This was a goddamned social event, after all. Why did the bastard insist on turning it into a bloodthirsty competition?

"I'll call."

John then counted out some chips and threw them into the pot. They clacked heavily and the tower slid over the rest of the pile. Henry smirked from underneath his thick German beard. Charles had to call, now.

"Me too."

He was not overly confident in his hand. None of the upcards matched - just a bunch of junk. He managed to get a pair of Queens on the opening deal. Those lovely ladies were the only reason he was still in this mess. He sighed, though. It wasn't an overly expensive pot, so it would not hurt too much.

His servant then tidied the pot and announced its total. The three showed their hands simultaneously to each other.

"Son of a bitch!"

Upon my bed I lay, without repose.
From whence my weary soul has come, distraught,
is much too daunting. ‘gainst me such my prose
has pled, “Release, I beg thee! Struggles fought
in God’s eternity, our passions’ throes,
remain without resolve. I ask why, caught
‘twixt love and lost, thou press thyself so. Ought
one cherish heart’s gift, passion orange rose?”
To this misguided art thus I replied:
“If our sad plight reduced to such, then we
should not distress ourselves. But this is quite
disparate. I discovered, shocked, her sight,
her smell, her music, forgotten to thee.
This shame revealed, I now ask: has it died?”