P.S.A. from Fyodor

Hello Comrades!

The blog shall be irregular this month, as Fyodor is in the process of invading long fiction.  Do not fear.  We have not died.  We have not even been maimed.  We are simply redirecting our energies for a while.  If our endeavors go well, our blog shall return with full force in August.  Stay with us, as we may post excerpts from our longer works along the way.  Thank you citizens.

Love,
Fyodor

AT THE BRIDGE

His legs hang over the side of the bridge, dangling a twenty or so feet above the fresh water. Small minnows swam among the current, scattering with every swoop of the birds. The smell of gasoline lingered in the air—the source being the cars that zoomed on the bridge over. Sitting on the concrete ledge, the boy held a crumpled piece of paper between his hands.

He was hunched over, his spine popping out of the back of his t-shirt. He nervously rolled the paper between his hands, biting his lips and sighing quietly.

Summer school. He was going to need to go to summer school again. Last year, it was for his failing math grade. This time, he would have to retake English and geometry. He barely had a sufficient grade to pass science. It didn’t matter that he did fairly well in Spanish or that Mr. Spinster wanted him to apply for a photography scholarship. He failed two more subjects and his father was going to kill him.

For a while, as he sat there on the bridge, he thought about letting the paper go. It could fall like rain out of his hands and plop gently into the water. The water would eat it up in an instant and there would be no tangible evidence of his poor grades left. The thought comforted him for a moment, until he remembered his father.

The side the boy mostly saw of his father was a tight and exact man. He could barely remember a day when the man was not wearing a crisp black suit. Every evening, he came home expecting the chores to be done and a hot dinner on the table. According to his sweet mother, his father was a warm person. Somewhere between his rough hands and bald head there was a side of sincerity to him. He’s never seen it. In his father’s eyes, he has yet to earn it.

The boy knew that if he told his father that he never got his report card or that he lost it on the way home the old man would straighten his tie—tight and exact—and go to the boy’s teachers himself. He could already see him adjusting his tie and asking how his intelligent young boy has done. Already, he could see his father’s face turn red with anger when he found out that his son has, once again, failed.

The boy chocked and placed a hand over his mouth. No matter what, he was sure that the end of his life was upon him. He was sure that his father would not listen to any defense he had to give. The last year, when his father learned that his son had flunked out of algebra, the boy could see the anger simmering on his skin. The boy had stood in a trembling silence for a whole hour, watching his father pace around the kitchen as he raged about his son. “I have never met anyone half as lazy as you,” he had scolded, his voice loud but never quite reached a scream. “You are a shame and you will never be anything if you don’t get off your lazy ass and study!” The boy had glanced back to his mother and pleaded with his eyes for her to rescue him. But she had merely ducked her head and hustled back to the kitchen. He was left alone to fend himself, to grit his teeth and bear through the lecture.

The very thought of repeating such an incident—the anger of his father and the idleness of his mother—consumed the boy with trepidation. Everything from his skinny arms to his knobby knees shook with fear. He did not want to repeat that. He would give God anything to avoid going through such torture again.

The boy sniffled as he noticed someone from the corner of his eye. A lean jogger who huffed and puffed as he jogged down the length of the bridge. The jogger wore red gym shorts with an unfamiliar school insignia on it. The boy swore that the jogger was a little older than him, old enough to be graduating. When he was a few yards away, the boy made sure to look away, wiping his nose on his arm. He swore. He had not realized that he was crying.

But what did it matter now? He would rather cry now than later—his father would call him a pussy if he did.

The boy stared down at the water, not lifting a finger to wipe away the tears. They created two straight lines down his face, like invisible war paint. At first, the boy thought that the jogger would just turn up the volume to his music and ran right past him and it seemed like he was going to do that at first. He slowed down as he pasted the boy, peering at his puffy red face. The jogger bit his lip and checked the time on his IPod. The boy gave him another side glance as he stopped completely, pulling out his ear buds and steadying his breathing.

The boy cursed his luck. Now he was going to get some unwanted attention from one of his peers. He quickly wiped his arm over his eyes, suddenly hating himself for breaking down into tears in the first place.

The jogger, meanwhile, whistled and stretched his arms. “Hey there, pal,” he said, taking a place right next to the boy.  He simply ignored him, concentrating his eyes on the water below. The jogger coughed, scratching his chin.  “Look—I know it’s not my business or anything, but it’s usually not a good sign when there’s a crying kid on the edge of a bridge . . . is there anything you wanna talk about?”

The boy tore his eyes away and looked down at his lap. There his hands were folded and there the paper was crumbled. “No,” he said, voice barely rising above a whisper.

The jogger looked down at the paper and sighed. “Alright then. Can you at least do me the favor of stepping away from the edge?” he asked. The boy could not help but to look at him with knitted brows. Despite the awkwardly casual tune of the jogger’s voice, the boy could see how uncertain he was—scared.

Still the boy shook his head and looked back down at his report card.

The jogger glanced back at his watch again and shook his head. He swiftly unbuckled his silver wrist watch and slipped in into his pocket. He pulled himself onto the ledge next to the boy, swinging his legs over the edge with him. Doing his best to put on a carefree smile, he extended a friendly hand. “I’m Tyler by the way,” the jogger said happily. “What’s your name?”

The boy looked between Tyler’s sweat-dripping hand and face. He was not sure what he should do. Part of him wanted to take his hand and make a friend of him, but the clear voice in his head ordered him to swallow his words. A blank stare would be his only reply.

Tyler held up his hand for a moment longer before slowly letting it fall. “Shaking hands is old fashion anyways.” He leaned back on his hands and they were silent once again.

Above them, a seagull cawed as it swooped over the heads.

Tyler looked down at the boy and his paper ball. For a moment, he picked at the dirt under his nails, keeping his eyes low. He asked, “So it’s the end of the year . . . kind of wondering if you got your report card—” The boy flinched and huddled closer into himself. Tyler stopped picking at his nails. He made a small ‘ah’ and nodded appreciatively, saying, “So it is. I hear ya pal, I hear ya.”

The boy looked up at him. “Did you get a bad grade too?” He asked quietly. Quiet, but hopeful.

A hearty laugh left Tyler’s mouth.

The boy grew smaller, cursing himself. Why did he say that? Now this Tyler kid thought that he was an idiot. It was bad enough he was a failure in his father’s eyes. The boy crunched the paper between his hands, creating a tighter and tighter ball. He looked up at the water. Down the blue current was the ocean and there he could see boats sailing among the waves.

He could hear his father’s voice in his head, criticizing him and his terrible social skills, his stupidity, lack of muscle, his everything.

Growling beneath his breath, the boy awkwardly rose to his feet. Tyler’s eyes went wide as a new wave of sweat dripped down his forehead. “Hey, don’t do that!” he said hurriedly, watching the boy crunch the paper into an even smaller wad. The boy could tell that it was taking him all of his will power not to shout. “C’mon—I’m sorry!”

The boy shook his head. Once he felt the paper ball turn as dense as possible, he raised his arm high into the air. In an instant, Tyler grabbed his other arm, trying to hold him back without pushing him further. “Don’t jump! I swear to God, don’t you dare jump! People care!”

The spark that possessed the boy left him, dripping and dragging off his skin like slime and pooling at his feet. It left in its wake a heavy arm and shaky knees. He felt so tired, yet he knew that no sleep would never quench it. The boy closed his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he lowered his arm and sat back on the deck. Tyler did not say anything as the boy closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. The boy muttered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, it’s fine.” Tyler placed a careful hand on his back. “Just promise not to scare me like that again.” He hesitated.  Looking at the boy hopefully, Tyler asked, “And perhaps tell me what the problem is?”

The boy bit his lip. He owed it to him, right? “Fine . . .” He shoved the paper into Tyler’s hand. “Read it.”

The boy told himself that he was not going to look—not meet the eyes of his superior, but he could not help but to give a sidelong glance. He was amazed to see the revered looked in Tyler’s visage as he carefully plucked the ball from him, asking, “You sure?”

The boy nodded.

Carefully and delicately, the jock unraveled the ball, peeling away the paper with ginger fingers. There was a comfort in his movements. The way Tyler treated the ball like a museum relict made the boy feel as though someone else was as worried about his father as he was.

Tyler smoothed the creases of the paper on his leg, flattening it with his hands. “So what do we got here?” He asked, giving the boy a comforting smile before peering at the paper. His eyes scrutinized the smeared black words, registering their damned meaning. “So you failed math and English and—” He squinted his eyes a bit more. “And you’ll need summer school.” He looked up at the boy. “And you earned these grades yourself?”

The boy lowered his head, hiding his face under his bangs, and nodded.

Tyler placed a thought finger on his chin. “Well, be damn proud about it then,” he said.

The boy’s head snapped up, his mouth gaped. Tyler was still smiling his comforting smile, seemingly unaware of his offence. But his bright eyes beckoned at the boy, kindly asking him to talk, to explain why he was not right. The boy opened and closed his mouth a few times as he tried to think of the word. “I-I can’t be proud!” He squeaked at last. “How can I? I failed!”

Tyler nodded. “Yeah, but by your own means.”

“My dad is going to murder me!” The boy jammed a finger into his chest, saying, “He told me that I had to go to summer school again—”

“But you passed history.” Tyler stuck his nose into his paper, saying, “You have great grades in Spanish and you got through science. And hey! you earned an A in photography, but . . .” He shrugged. “I guess that’s an easy one anyways…”

The boy frowned. “I could earn a scholarship,” he said quickly. Tyler hummed and looked up at him with interest.

The boy could not help but to look down again. An itch appeared on his arm and he scratched at it until white lines appeared on his skin. “Mr. Spinster said that I could if I entered one,” he softly explained. “He thinks I have a career in it.”

Tyler smacked a hand on his back, saying, “Just tell your old man that you want to run away to be a photographer and I’m sure that he’ll be proud of you.”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand.”

The boy huddled into himself, hugging his legs to his chest. The tips of his sneakers were on the very edge, hiding his view of the water. A part of him screamed to stay silent, that there was no way Tyler would understand anything of what he’s going through. He did not see how anyone could understand the screams and yells. But Tyler had that comforting smile on his face. He looked attentive, ready to listen to every problem on the tip of his tongue. The boy could not help but to be frank with himself—he wanted to tell Tyler. He knew that once he showed his father his grades, he would have no chance to give his excuse. His father always thought that that excuses were flimsy and loose. The boy knew that this would be the only time anyone would want to listen to his side of the story.

After a long moment of dead air, the boy sighed, “My dad, he  . . . he wants me to have good grades. He says that without a sport scholarship, it’ll be the only thing that’ll get me into collage and I can’t throw a ball to save my life. I try—I really do, but math makes no sense and I no matter what I do, I can’t focus in English. The only thing that I want to do is take photos and that’s the only thing I’m good at, but my dad doesn’t think much of it.”

Tyler grimaced. “I see . . .” He drilled his fingers on the deck, tossing the idea around in his head. The boy looked up at him expectantly, waiting for the response. More than anything, he did not want to be rebuked. He did not want to be told that his father was right and he really would end up becoming nothing. He was not sure what he would do if someone as grand as Tyler thought poorly of him.

Just when the boy was positive that Tyler was never going to speak to him again, the jogger stopped his drilling and looked at him kindly. “Like I said, be damn proud—”

A growl twitched on the boy’s lips and he shot him a glare. “Why?”

Tyler held up his hand, not bothering to meet his eyes. It was calm, silently taming him like the owner to his scared dog. “Pal, you better let me speak before strangling me,” he ordered firmly. The boy opened his mouth again, but what was the point of arguing? He lowered his eyes. “Thank you. Now listen up since I’ll only say it once. I say be damn proud of your grades because you earned them fair and square. Yeah you screwed up math and English, but you earned them. You’re going to get that photography scholarship because you earned it. You have a skill, pal. Be proud of that. At least you have something.”

The boy didn’t need to ask him to explain. Tyler jammed a finger into his chest, saying, “And me? Well I have nothing. I’m like you, you see. Overly demanding father wants son to earn scholarship. You and me, we’re the same except I was too much of a stupid coward to earn them myself. I have three older brothers who aced everything they ever did and I’ve never been able to do right. But what does that matter to the old man? The youngest has to out do the oldest, doesn’t he? But I’m damn stupid and I couldn’t do it. So I cheated every assignment I ever did. I cheated on homework, projects, tests—everything just to get that A. I’m going to UCLA next year, but I still only got that scholarship because a sorry uncle put a good word in for me.”

Tyler looked down, revealing to the boy one thing—fear. His vivid green eyes were so wide, so full to the brim with an unspoken anxiety that the boy could see Tyler’s shell crack along the edges. He watched guiltily as Tyler’s smile dropped from his face. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. His voice came out like a weak breath. “I’m going to be an adult in three months and I know nothing.”

The boy was silent. He was sure that he should say something—anything—to comfort him, but nothing came to his brain. He felt sorry for Tyler and felt a sphere of sympathy well in his gut. But most of all, he felt selfish.

Tyler dropped his hand onto his lap, letting his mask cover his face once again. He played another smile on his lips as he chuckled. “You don’t need to say anything, pal. Just putting what you got into perspective.” He lightly punched the boy’s shoulders, a vain attempt to lighten the heavy atmosphere. “Hey, don’t look so down,” he said. “I mean, I came over here to comfort you and all.”

The boy looked down, not at his lap but at the water. The minnows were still moving on with their short lives and the stench of gas was pungent in the air. But there was now a light breeze, cooling his back and drying the sweat on his neck. The boy shook his head. “No, you did,” he said. The hush tone of his voice remained, but there was a sense of dignity to it now. “Thank you, Tyler.”

Tyler smiled, watching the boy rise to his feet. “Anytime. Where you going?”

The boy gave him a small smile. “I gotta go home and talk to my dad.”

“Then take this.” Tyler held out the report card. “This is really important, pal,” he said kindly, looking up at the boy. “Don’t want to forget it now.”

The boy nodded and plucked the paper from him. As he carefully folded it into a neat little square, he saw Tyler pull out his wrist watch once again. The jogger raised an eyebrow at the time, but said nothing. The boy rolled back his shoulders. “Thanks,” he said before finally turning on his heels and making his way back to his house. His gait was strong, his fist loose and steps sure.

The boy did not turn around, only continued to march back to his father.

Tyler did not look up from his watch, staring intently at the face. Then, without much though, he let it slip through his fingers and into the water below.

BISMARCK

BLUE HAIKUS BY VARIOUS AUTHORS

Running on caffeine

As blue as suffocation

My eyes are twitching?

Colors offend me
Blue...a social construction
Laughing in my face

Pulsing in my brain
A web of electric fields
In blue monochrome

The ocean ate me
Then it set me on fire
Blue friends are no friends

WASTEBIN

I'm going to have to jail you in the wasteful teacher said

That's not what they promised me back home

Home is far far away

I hurt

From the cramped wasteful

Well that's too bad you are trash stay with trash

But I'm a human being

A human being

No you are in the wastebin jailed in the wastebin.

No. I will rise up.

You may try.

Maybe I will

It's not such a bad jail

Then what is the punishment

Can't cage a free mind can't cage a madman

La da da du Fi for future

Reference don't call me trash because I'd hardly believe you

I think we're going mad

That's entirely possible bc I'm a specialist in bottling emotions until they ferment into liquid fire

I have to stop with the drug references I’m an expert in hurting myself in the heart of darkness a heart of crazed behavior

I smell disaster.  Handle it well

Well how can I what is thousand things to be said I don't have any of them with me. Maybe it's best if I just wait

I always wait and waste my life waiting. I've only ever broken shadows and dreams

For every thousand words of nonsense you get three of wisdom

I need to know I am real

Tell me you believe

Tell me you can feel me beneath your icy fingers that I exist

I think spewing out thoughts is probably bad for my composure but I need to save that for the morning what if it

Is cold

Then I move on again.

I want to know what's happening don't jail me in the wastebin.  Do you know how sad it is to wait for a question that never comes.  I should sleep

FIEND KING

For many years the Fiend King ruled
The Hauntlands of the far-off East-He was strong, but also cruel,

And housed he many a beast,
Which he used to keep all of his citizens controlled-
Nightmares had he
With lock and key
Unleashed whene’er he called.

There was a knight both strong and brave
For honor he did live-
Full of might with armor bright,
Confidence he gave
To the people of the Hauntlands
Amidst the bleak twilight-
And the Fiend King in his castle feared
The knight wanted to fight.
A duel between the two of them
Would surely not go well
So the King took up his hammer and
He struck his pewter bell.

He called to all the shadows,
He called the imps and nix,
He called the dead of battles passed,
He emptied out the Styx--
And these he let loose on the knight,
Full of might with honor bright,
But the knight was not surprised,
He met the darkness with the light.
So the Fiend King’s army
Though fear-inciting frights--
Were fin’lly bested when was tested 
The sword of the fine knight.

Yet from within the darkness,
From deep within the black
There lurked a monster oft forgot
With unstoppable attack.

Its onslaught was not physical, 
It was within the mind,
This vicious beast was Fear--
Most vicious of its kind.

In the fading glow of victory,
The clouds furled across the sky
The victor realized victory 
Had not yet been realized.

But the shadow, it swept toward him,
He didn’t understand.
But how could he, why would he?
And Fear seized it man.

The fear of failure leads to failure,
This the knight knew not.
The sharpest weapon ever forged,
Was a knife of thought.

He could defeat most anything
Foe live or foe undead.
The only foe he couldn’t beat
Was within his own head

Even though his freedom, 
His moment was so near,
The knight though brave and bold,
Just couldn’t fight the fear.
He couldn’t fight the fear.
His moment, it was here, but,
He couldn’t fight the fear.

So in the Hauntlands lives the Fiend King, 
Rules the Fiend King still.
No one’s yet defeated Fear-
No one ever will.

STANDING ON A STRANDED BRIDGE

Standing on a stranded bridge
Staring at eternity--
In the frothing flailing waters,
All is one and one is free.

Whether sleeping or awake,
There is no immunity--
I have nothing left to live for,
All of life’s a dream to me.

The water’s dark the future black,
My mind is weak, my heart is slack.
A foreign man in foreign land,
Incapable of looking back.

Faith and hope are such fine friends,
Why did they abandon me?
In this place so far from home,
All that calls me is the sea.

RACISTS BEWARE

Being biracial, racism is a bit contrary to my nature.  However, I have seen that other beings exist who don’t share my views.  I suppose I am biased, but I like to think that my white half and Asian half are worthy of each other.  Unfortunately, I’ve met both whites and  Asians who don’t think so, some of them my relations.

But this isn’t about my relations, not at all.  This is about a fine specimen of humanity at the hospital where I volunteer.  Now, I’m used to people asking if I’m Chinese or Japanese and saying, No I’m half Korean, with a smile.  I know that going to restaurants, people will expect me to in a flash know Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese, and Korean.  I don’t even know Korean. Nor does my mom, though she was born there.  But I digress.

I was walking around with Hector, who was, unlike me, pure one and a half generation Korean.  He had a slight accent, and took Asian stereotyping very seriously, though he fit most of them with his studious habits, thick black hair, glasses and pale skin.  He had an appreciation for eighties funk though, which ruined the whole image.

Anyway, this fifty year old leprechaun of a man sat there with his ailing wife, staring at us.  I could see his glinting dark eyes follow us as we began cleaning a bed nearby.  Hector didn’t notice.  

I passed the leprechaun to throw away some disinfecting wipes.  He giggled and said,

“Hi.”  I stared at him, and not knowing what else to do, smiled.

“Hello.”  He seemed to think that this was funny, which I didn’t understand, until he put his fist and open palm together and bowed to me kung-fu movie style.   

I would tell you that I smashed his head in, but that might be a slight exaggeration.  In reality, I did nothing, because as far as I could tell, there was nothing to do.  I thought it was funny--couldn’t the idiot tell from my light hair that I wasn’t full Asian?  As I returned to the bed I heard him mutter,

“Ching chong ding dong way--hiya.”  I glanced back at him.  He giggled to himself.  

Hector had a tense expression, so I assumed he had heard.  When we walked away, however, and I said, “Can you believe him?” Hector frowned.  

“What?”  I told him what happened, wondering how he could have missed it.  Hector stopped.

“He did what?”  He bugged his eyes out.

“He was just goofing around, you saw him--”

“I didn’t see anything.  You should confront him. You don’t have to take that you know.  That’s not part of the job description. They can’t abuse us like that.”  Hector began shaking his finger, as if I were the one bowing to him.

“Well it’s too late now.”  Luckily, Dr. Fernandez had just gone into the room where the leprechaun-man was. Shaking his head Hector narrowed his eyes and snorted.

“People are so ignorant.  Unbelievable. Who does he think he is?  Some white guy imperialist type.  If he says anything else, I’m not holding back.”  I smiled, alarmed as Hector muttered to himself.  Hector was generally a reasonable guy, but apparently, this wasn’t one of those times.  I really didn't see what the big deal was. The man was obviously detached from reality.

I was thinking how easily offended people were, and how high strung Hector was when the doctor came storming out.  He put his clipboard on the desk and said,

“He asked if I was a chink?  Can you believe it?  Just because I’m a doctor he thinks I must be Asian.  I’m Mexican.  Who the hell says chink anymore anyways?” the doctor continued streaming irritation for a good five minutes.  I stared in amazement as Hector nodded in approval and Dr. Fernandez slammed his clipboard around on the desk.

Luckily for the man’s sake, his wife soon left the hospital.  If he had stayed much longer, there might have been need for an extra bed in the ER.  Dr. Fernandez and Hector both glared as he walked out, bouncing and grinning as if he had successfully stolen a lollipop.  In the door he turned and gave another little bow before skipping out. I swear Hector growled.

The world is becoming a dangerous place for such fossils.  

THE DAY AFTER HAPPINESS

Why?

Why can't I just die?

Everything important to me just died.

It died on February 15, 2014 a day away,

From a very happy, loved filled day.

Why can't it all just go?

Go and leave me alone.

Alone here to die.

To an eternal dream of misery.

A misery of a dark crystal.

A crystal that will never ever shine.

Till all is gone.

Then I will atone for all I have done

THE POET

BLUE FIRE

Even as the needle punctured Ilya’s skin, he felt the blue fire in his brain. His connection must be deepening.  The Alchemist warned of this, especially after the fifty hour meditation session.  Only those from the session were given the syringe.

He could erase the lines of time.  Time was a social construction. It could be Transcended, the Alchemist said.  As the dashes around the clock on the wall dissolved, Ilya grinned.  The hands shattered on the floor and the clock began to unwind into a line.  As he reached out, one of the ends floated towards him.  Of course it was not a full line, an eternal line was the same as a segment cut from an eternal circle. He grasped the clock and snapped it like a whip in the air.

The syringe was empty.  He put down the whip and pulled at the plastic.  It seemed he sat there for a long time as the needle stretched longer and longer. He was struck by it’s resemblance to a droopy-faced hummingbird.  

Ilya stood up.  The blue fire had reached his eyes.  

He couldn’t remember what color his door was, but it was turquoise right now.  The paneling looked like a face.  A mouth opened and began to speak to him in what was certainly German.

“Buenas días Señor.  Es el tiempo para acostarse.”

“Niecht.”  Ilya blinked.  The tones of blue flashed.  

“Pero senor.  El reloj ha dicho que--”

“Clocks are irrelevant.” Ilya giggled.  He watched as his curtains lifted in parallel with the ceiling, floating not two inches beneath it, fluttering slightly and deepening to a shade of navy.  As he approached the window, and gazed into the night, a hummingbird with milliliter marks on it’s back and a long beak buzzed near his shoulder.  By the time he reached the sill, he was no longer touching the floor.  

“Señor.  No hay ninguna persona que pueda sobrevivir cayendo esa distancia.” Though he did not turn to face the door, Ilya could see it’s paneling jittering.

“Fear is mortal quality, Herr Puerta.”

“Usted es mortal, no?”   Ilya swung his head back and forth.  With each swing he said niecht.  Niecht, niecht, niecht, nein?--and cracks on the ceiling split into faces to join him.  “Niecht, niecht, nein,” they said together as he lifted his arms and felt stardust bursting out of them.   The universe seemed a straight line.  It seemed an eternal line that was the same as a segment cut from an eternal circle.  If he could leave the line the Alchemist said that he’d know.

“El esta tratando matarle.”

“No, Herr Puerta.  Why he kill me?”

“Son unos que no necesiten una razón para matar.”

“Believe me I know.” Ilya spat, and it hit the far wall.  “The Alchemist has answers Herr Puerta.  Answers that could set you on fire.”  The word “answers” resonated in his ears. He slammed his hands into the door’s eyes, but the panels drifted apart.  He tried to catch them, but they were too fast.

“Cuidado Senor.”

“You are only being here right now because of the Alchemist.”

“Siempre he existido.  Que van a pensar su familia?”

Ilya pointed to the door and a flame burst through it.  Herr Puerta was quiet.  For a second, Ilya saw photographs of his family curling into blue flame. He saw his twin brother smiling wide with his mother clutching at his shoulder.  His father had forgotten to tie his tie. Ilya watched the photo disappear once more. The flame was beautiful.  

Ilya looked out the window, and with his fingers, cast fishhooks and line onto the streetlamp.  He pulled it up, up to his window.  It thinned and dipped like chewing gum.   When he put his hand out, his fingers were webbed with suction cup tips. Funny, that was just what he had needed.  Despite the begging of Herr Puerta, Ilya climbed out the window to the darkness below.  The gum snapped back and he flew through the air.  He seemed to see other faces floating around him, eyes rimmed in blue flame suspended along the same trajectory. He was ready for descent.  

The traffic was stopped in the street, people with mouths half-open and steps half-formed.  Despite the brightness, he could see clouds of stars in the sky.  With his index finger he wrote his name in their dust, pushing them aside to fit the characters. A few seconds later, the stars returned.  He saw other names appear after his, so many.  The ground was coming soon.

The Alchemist appeared.  He stood atop a taxi cab and wore a fluffy white hat and checkered pants.  He was pouring steaming tea into a shot glass. It was overflowing.  The drops didn’t hit the car, but split into wasps that then surrounded the Alchemist before bursting into droplets of flame.

“Don’t forget dear Ilya.  We’re Transcending.”  

Ilya was one of five-hundred in the city posthumously convicted of arson.

tsarina