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(Short story from 2016, Junior Year at Ohio University)

 A sugar maple emerges from the Appalachia, casting a perfect shadow over a crossed-legged figure resting in the shade. In this patch of cool isolation, the lotus figure draws yawning breaths, expanding the cavities of his lungs, until the very point of consciousness withers into a tranquil departure. The figure repeats the rhythm, eyes sealed shut; gently fading the tone of the Pennsylvania highway and the constant anxieties, which yank and wrench at the balance in his stomach. The mind voyages as the heart pumps life, constructing a connection to the blades of grass that wisp along the hairs of his leg. It tickled, but now a new sensation was evolving. 

Tender palms enclose the edges of his shoulders, filling his soul with a thawing serenity. He senses her breath around his collar, followed by a nibble on his ear.

“Ray, we should probably hit the road again.” The sweetness of her voice permits Ray to drift from his meditation, and his eyes to rack focus on the West Virginia truck stop where they had pulled over to rest. Mila, his travel partner stood perched on her knees behind him, and as Ray caught Mila’s eyes, he could not help but admire the fire kindling behind those indigo mirrors. 

Ray and Mila crossed paths at a Flaming Lips show outside of Philadelphia. The woman appeared vibrant like the rising sun, swimming peacefully through the acid’s kaleidoscope ether – eyes linking during the chaos of “Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots,” and while they hadn’t known each other previously, it didn’t matter. They were entranced. The music, the vibrations, and the drugs allowed their hands to ravel, to intertwine, and their lips united underneath the melting twilight, sparkling like twin flames.

When the concert ended, they strolled through Market Street, alone, exchanging dreams and passions like trading cards – blowing cigarette smoke until the sun ascended over the skyline.

When Ray awoke the next morning, Mila was at his side tracing the black ink that scaled his flesh. She provided Ray with a captivating cuteness that scrambled his brain with the potency far beyond any drug. He didn’t know if he was in love, but he knew that his life had changed. He knew he would do anything for her, and she for him: and while they had known each other for less than fifteen hours, Ray could not resist the pull, laughing and smiling as he embraced the ridiculousness.

He wrote a letter to his family and friends, abandoned his college degree, and decided to uncover the absurdity of the American Dream, just like his heroes Kerouac and Thompson. Ray, recalling the response of his parents when he told them about the departure. First came the anger that narrowed the brow of his father, then the melancholy that drained the color from his mother. They begged him to finish school, to pursue a real career with real incentives, to understand that he was still just a kid, but in the end arguing was pointless, and only fed coal to the fire. Ray’s parents saw the fierceness in his eyes, the determination, and he assured them, “this is something more.” With the help of Mila, they began their journey with eight hundred dollars in cash; a pint of LSD infused orange juice, two ounces of marijuana, and a Merry Prankster’s wet dream.

So here they were, in the middle of nowhere – heading west, just Mila and Ray with their love for each other’s ideas, their differences, their aspirations, their need to find potential, and love, and truth in a world where it’s seemingly too easy to find the critics, heartache, and willful ignorance. They would embrace each other underneath a pale moon. They would share their triumphs and misfortunes – the knowledge they wished to expose. They were each other’s only protectors on this road, and on this road they were small. They were so small, but their dreams were big. 

* * *

Streetlamps withered like fleeting spirits, disappearing in the rearview mirror as Ray and Mila ascended into the abyss of the Appalachia. The tracers of sunlight that spray-painted the horizon dissipated behind the tree line as the sky had fallen somber. Mila’s passenger window remained open, allowing a subtle breeze to pass through the sliver. She inhaled mists of cigarette smoke, and gazed calmly at the darkness overhead. Ray would glance in her direction, watching as her strawberry lips grasped the edge of the filter. He found it mysteriously seductive. Ray loved the comfortable silence. He loved the soft hum of the radio and the whipping gusts that filled the gaps in their conversations. They had driven over five hundred miles, and not once did Ray feel the need to entertain Mila like the girls before. Not once did Ray feel the need to engage in the competitive nature of small talk. He knew the silence was bursting with dreams and ideas that exceeded words. This journey wasn’t about impressing Mila. This is something more, he told himself.

“Ray,” her voice floated through the cockpit of the Mazda, “Am I going to see Wrigley Field by morning?” He glanced at the dashboard, eying the digital clock that read 12:06 AM. They had been driving for nine hours, and when Ray registered the thought, his legs felt cumbersome against the car pedals. 

“It’s past midnight. We’ll pull over at the next exit to get some rest.” The black Mazda raced down the interstate, passing the occasional headlights on the opposite lane of the highway. Ray found it eerie, as the cars and trucks seemed vacant in the cloak of night 

Ray exited the highway outside of Wheeling, West Virginia, coasting down the empty town in search of food and shelter, but saw only crumbling brick from the flickering of street bulbs.

“There’s not shit out here.” Ray said, peering through the windshield, awaiting tumbleweeds to summersault through the empty streets.

“I don’t think anyone’s lived in this town for forty years.”

“Or when they ran out of cousins to bone.” 

“Also a possibility, Ray,” she said sarcastically.

They chuckled before spotting a bright aura in the distance. The car twisted along the hollow town until the light transitioned into focus – A bright neon sign that read: TAVERN.

“A tavern… the only place open in West Virginia? Who would’ve thought?” asked Ray.

“Some stereotypes are too good to be true.”

“Too good.”

Ray parked the car to the rear of the tavern, gathering dollar bills from the portable safe. They had made four hundred dollars in Pittsburgh the previous night,pushing LSD infused gummy worms to curious college students at the University of Pittsburgh, and they intended to savor every penny. Ray counted fifteen and placed the rest in a rubber band next to the bottle of LSD and bags of grass. He placed the safe in a backpack, and threw the bag over his shoulder. Better safe than sorry. Mila arose from the car, extending her hands into the summer night, enlarging her chest, and revealing the belly button piercing that dangled beneath a black tank top. Ray peeked over, admiring how graceful and refreshing her movements were against the backdrop of an old coal town. 

The front of the tavern was littered with Harley Davidson’s and the scent of diesel fuel, and the scene only intensified once they entered the tavern. The pungent smell of diesel was overwhelmed by vomit, and absent compared to the viscous set of eyeballs that stalked the couple’s movements. Men with leather cuts, jackboots, and fingerless gloves stalked a rustic bar that trickled liquids between slits of wood. Tacky hunting memorabilia hung crookedly from nails, with deer mounts decomposing to the walls of the tavern. Ray and Mila were obviously outsiders, and Ray noticed a weight burrowing in his gut.

“C’mon Ray. Never been to a biker bar before?” The soothing of her voice slapped Ray from unease, as she led him to a booth in the far corner of the tavern. He removed the backpack and placed it under the table, hidden from sight.

“I can’t say it’s ever been my scene.”

“What is your scene, Ray? Music festivals, where you can entrance little girls on powerful hallucinogens?”

“Jesus, when you put it like that…”

“Relax. This is all part of our experience. Trying something different, we’re expanding our horizons. What happened to the bad boy attitude?”

Ray permited a smirk to wash away the anxiety.

“Baby, I’m bad to the bone.”

Ray removed the bills from his pocket, fumbling between the singles. He motioned toward the bar and ordered a turkey club with a side of fries for them to split. He placed his arms on the countertop to flex the tattoos scarred to his flesh. He had hoped it would dissuade the bikers from confronting him, but he was mistaken.

“Ay boy… you ain’t from around here.” Ray wasn’t sure what was worse; a threat from a bike gang, or the ludicrous stereotype Ray had stumbled upon. He chose to ignore the comment, and waited for the bartender, a pudgy grey-haired man, to return with his change. “Boy don’t you have any respect for your elders? You see, boy. We have rules around here. Rules that prevent lil runts like you from strolling to parts they don’t belong.” 

Ray continued to ignore the comment, but a panic yanked the hairs on his spine. He was outnumbered, fifteen to one at least, and he had Mila. He had to protect Mila. Quickly, Ray turned to the men, and narrowed his brows just like his father. “I’m just passing through. No problem here. Just here with my old lady. We’ll be gone.” The bikers glanced around before finishing their drinks. The alcohol dribbled from their mouths and disappeared into their untrimmed beards.

“Your old lady, huh? What’s she doin with a peckerwood like you? Why don’t you let some real men take her for a ride? Bet she’d like that.”

“Fuck yourself.”

The bikers began hooting and stomping their jackboots against the floorboards. Ray felt flesh glide around his arm, as Mila came to his side. 

“Come on, Ray. We’ve got better things to do.”

“Aw, lil man needs protecting from his lil lady,” said one biker.

“We don’t play too rough, promise.”

“Baby, you ever feel what a chopper does to your lady parts? You won’t ever go back.”

Mila stuck her middle finger in the direction of the bikers.

“Y’all can’t handle this. So why don’t you climb back on your crotch rockets and go back to your leather circle-jerks.”

The bikers erupted into laughter, inching closer and closer to Ray and Mila. Ray pushed Mila behind him, as he spotted a beer bottle sitting idly on the bar. One good swing, he thought, but then what? Ray knew he stood no chance. He reached into his pantpockets, fishing for the Mazda keys. He would give Mila the car keys; tell her to run as quickly as she could, tell her to never look back and save herself. Fuck it.

Ray lunged for the beer bottle, grasping the empty glass by the neck and raising it high above his head, thrusting it to the table where shards of green glass splintered onto the tavern floor. 

“Fuck with me. I fucking dare you,” said Ray.

The biker’s laughter dispersed into a silence, but they continued to inch closer.

He tossed Mila the car keys, but before he heard the keys slap her hands, a voice roared from behind them.

“That’s enough.”

Ray noticed the bikers’ pause and retreat to their places at the bar.

When Ray turned, he spotted a thin man who stood in the doorway to the kitchen. He looked to be in his thirties, with an orange button-down that tucked into his jeans, with combed hair and a clean-shaven face. 

“It’s a Sunday. Can’t yall take a break from fighting on the Good Lord’s day off?”

​The bikers twisted their attention from Mila and Ray, returning to their night of beer and whiskey, and the pudgy grey-haired man exited the kitchen and placed the turkey club with a side of fries on the bar beside Ray.

* * *

​The handsome man apologized to Mila and Ray, alerting the pudgy bartender to sweep the shards of glass that scattered the floorboards, and to pour serve drinks to their booth. He said his name was Phillip, a local who inherited the tavern a decade back. His father was the previous owner, who had fallen ill and passed away while Phillip was in his early twenties. Cancer, he said. Mila apologized for his loss, and Ray could see the astonishment in his eyes. It was apparent that sincerity was rare in a place like this. He had dreams of getting married, raising a family – having someone to provide for, and someone to continue running the tavern. Phillip then turned to Mila, asking her about Philadelphia, music festivals, and the trip across the country. His eyes widened and his teeth chewed the flesh from his lower lip, as he observed her from across the booth. 

​“Why leave home? Why put everything behind you?” Phillip asked.

She took a final swig from her cocktail and placed the empty glass beside the rest. She thought about the question for a moment, licking the remnants of alcohol from her strawberry lips. 

“I didn’t feel like my life was headed anywhere special or meaningful, and I know I’m the one in control of where I go.”

“You are charming. May I ask where your next stop is?” 

Mila beamed with excitement as she listed off their destinations: Columbus, Chicago, St. Louis, Denver, San Francisco, each city slipping from her mouth with escalating enthusiasm.

Ray took a few sips from his glass, sitting gawkily as Phillip and Mila exchanged stories. He began to feel drunk, which meant Mila was already drunk, but she seemed enthusiastic, happy to be in the middle of nowhere. He felt absent from the conversation, but took notice of the bikers who would occasionally glance over. They sipped their alcohol and whispered amongst themselves.

“So why him?” Says Phillip, as he beckoned for another round of drinks.

Ray skimmed the booth, not realizing Phillip was pointing toward him. Ray didn’t like the question, and he began to squirm and stretch. Mila laughed and grabbed Ray, drunkenly throwing her weight onto his body. Ray didn’t know what she was going to say. He had never asked.

“Ray and I are going to change the world,” she smiled, “When we met there was something behind those eyes. Something behind the laughter. Something behind the way he smoked his cigarettes. He has so many layers, and every time I reveal them, I learn a little more about myself. Anybody can travel, but its how you leave your mark.”

Phillip smirked and raised an eyebrow in Ray’s direction, as the pudgy man slid two tall mixed drinks across the table for Mila and Ray.

“Is that so, and how does one change the world?” 

Ray felt warmth radiating from Mila, as she leaned against his shoulder.

“I know Ray and I can achieve anything. We don’t need approval from anybody. It’s just us. Whatever happens on the road, we can manage. Our dreams depend on it. If we can make it here, we can make it anywhere.”

* * *

Ray peeked at the analog clock that hung crookedly from a nail. It read: 2:09. Mila and Ray stood from their booth, pushing the cocktail glasses to the center. Phillip stood from the opposite end of the booth, placing his single cocktail glass on the corner of the bar. The bikers had taken off, along with the pudgy grey-haired man, leaving the three to finish their night of drinking in solitude. 

“Once again, I’m terribly sorry for the rough crowd earlier. Hope you guys find everything you are looking for. It’s so unfortunate you have to leave so soon. Are you sure you can drive? I have some vacancy in the tavern. Why don’t you stay awhile?”

Ray shook his head and insisted they leave, while Mila shook his hand goodbye before they drunkenly stumbled from the bar, hand in hand.

“How the hell does a guy like that run a biker bar?” Ray asked.

“What, can’t picture him revving a bike and slingin’ dope?”

​“Yeah sure. Bet he tokes some crystal meth after he’s done parting his hair.”

​When Ray reached the car, he realized he had given Mila the keys. 

“Hey babe, can you unlock the door. I gave you the keys.”

Mila felt her pockets, feeling nothing but linen and pocket lint.

“I put them in the backpack. Are you even good to drive?”

“I’ll drive us the closest campsite or motel. This is town is spooky as hell. Where’s the backpack?”

Realizing Ray had left the backpack in the tavern, Mila kissed him on the cheek and told him to wait by the car while she retrieved the backpack and used the restroom. Ray protested, but she was already gone, a free spirit prancing through the darkness. He yanked a cigarrete from his container of Camels and ignited the end, chambering smoke through his lungs, and glaring into the shadows that traced the small town.

Minutes ached by as Ray stumbled about the parking lot, pretending to take sobriety tests while walking along a straight line. When his footing stumbled along the yellow parking divider, he knew they would have to find somewhere to spend the night. Ray paced to the front of the tavern, appreciating the lack of motorcycles. He was thankful for the handsome man in orange, thankful that he and Mila had been spared from a biker brawl in West Virginia. Thankful they had taken time away from the road. This time Ray felt comfortable, strolling into the tavern like a drunken biker.

Ray staggered into the tavern, but could not find Mila anywhere. The hunting memorabilia hung crookedly, Mila and Ray’s cocktail glasses lay in the booth, and Phillip’s lonely drink sat perched on the bar. When Ray moved to the booth, he peered underneath the table, spotting the black backpack in the exact location it was left. Ray threw the backpack over his shoulder, but began to notice the hairs standing on his spine. 

“Mila… Phillip?”

Ray called their names into the emptiness of the tavern.

There was no response. 

The cocktail glass perched on the bar peaked Ray’s interest, as he tugged the glass from the gritty bar. The cocktail was filled to the brim, as the alcohol struggled to stay within the glass. Ray took a sip and set the glass back on the table, but not before noticing a black cloth strewn across the tavern floor outside the Women’s restroom. Ray removed the cloth from the floorboards, noticing shards of green glass that stuck to the linen, left behind by the pudgy grey-haired man. Alarms erupted like flames – flames that would engulf the entire Appalachia; flames that flowed through Ray’s veins and scorched his bones. Mila’s black tank top. Ray placed his ear against the door of the restroom, ignoring the sludge that drooled from the rotten wood, ignoring the deer trophy that gazed mockingly with a singular eye. When Ray heard the tender voice of Mila through the rotten wood, his foot was already halfway through the door. 

* * *

​The Mazda zipped through the West Virginia highway, passing through time and space like a burning chariot – reflecting the emerging sunrise against the Mazda’s black finish. Ray kept his eyes ahead, glaring into the darkness, while the beams of sun crept into his rearview mirror. He desperately tried to stay alert, chain-smoking Camels and shoving energy drinks down his throat, stirred from the adrenaline circuiting his synapses. He clenched the steering wheel with fists that leaked blood, and his eyes never blinked. Mila lay asleep, her head leaning against the embrace of Ray, her stomach covered in a thick rosy slush that splattered her dangling belly button piercing.

Images of violence reigned vividly, as Ray struggled to explain to Mila whatexactly had happened. She didn’t deserve a lie, but she didn’t deserve the truth either. He was only thankful that she didn’t remember, that she wouldn’t have to relive those memories. He would hold onto those images for her, and bury them when his body turned to dust.  

Ray and Mila pulled into a campground near Ohio, following the gravel path that circled the base of a small mountain. They reserved a campground far on the mountaintop, and Ray set up the tent while Mila sat by the kindling fire. Daylight had fully arisen, but the canopy provided Mila and Ray with pockets of darkness that shielded their weary eyes. Ray placed himself next to Mila underneath the shade, and they sat in silence – not a comfortable silence, a silence that squeezed triggers and slit wrists. Ray’s eyes drifted to the fire, and he could see the flames ravaging his bones, pulsating in his veins. He saw Mila and the flesh of a man in orange bent crooked over a beige toilet seat. He saw fingernails slashing and pushing. He saw hands noosed around wrists, and limbs wrapped within limbs. He saw a belly button piercing pinned against crème flesh. He saw evil incarnate, handsome, looked upon the beast and unleashed vengeance. Ray couldn’t explain it, but the fire could. The fire showed him everything. Fists ravaged flesh, until his fists could no longer make fists. He shattered bones with the lid of a toilet, until the lid was no longer a lid. He dumped LSD down his esophagus, until there was no more LSD left to dump.

“Are you ready for Columbus?” Ray finally asked. 

Mila lay quiet at first, and in the silence Ray pondered what he had done. How he had taken this sweet girl from safety and put her into harms way. How Ray had driven them only five hundred miles before being consumed by the darkness of the world. How Ray had underestimated the risk and failed to protect her. Is this what I’m looking for? He thought. Is this the American Dream? 

When her tender hands drifted over Ray’s, the thoughts ceased. Together, they rested by the crackle of the fire until the sun waned behind the mountaintop – Mila lying within Ray’s arms, as she peered at the stars through tunnels in the canopy and whispered:

“No, I want to go home.” 

(Short Story is from 2016, Junior Year at Ohio University)

The three of us squatted on the corner of 52nd and Market Street, rotating broken cigarettes and a can of Arnold Palmer, observing as the city of Philadelphia lay rotting underneath the blistering rays of an August sun. The beams of sunlight rippled the brick-scale architecture into coiled wavelengths, shattering the proud historic landmarks into a crumbling ooze that melted to the soles of our tennis shoes. I imagined the statues of Benjamin Franklin, strewn throughout the city, melting into a heap of liquid bronze, splashed by the sun-stroked dopers and corner boys who cluttered the streets. However, I never gave it too much thought. It was hard to think clearly in the heat.

​When my bottom began to seep with moisture and our cigarettes kindled low, I removed myself from the searing concrete and demanded we head back to the corner store.

“We need to hit Rowdy’s again, man.” I said while sticking the butt-end of a cigarette into an empty can of Arnold Palmer. “We gotta re-up on some goods if we’re gonna make it through this goddamn heat. I only got one more cig and nothing to sip.” I pointed to the lone cigarette tucked between my crown and a lavender bandana. A plain black t-shirt dangled from my frail eighteen-year-old figure, absorbing the flames that rained from a cloudless sky.

“I’m broke, my dude.” Jimmy said while pulling himself from the street curb, a vintage Iverson jersey fastened to his back. “Rowdy charges us like, three dollars a can and another nine for a pack of boges. Shit’s a hustle. Can’t he respect the come up?” 

Jimmy was always preaching, upset with the way things were. Whether complaining about the extra dollar for a can of drink from Rowdy, or the continual funding of the “military industrial complex”, Jimmy’s complaining became routine. He felt everyone was against him. See, Jimmy wasn’t raised on the streets like the rest of us. I never held it against him. His moms passed when he was thirteen, and his pops had to relocate after his decent into Xanax. We’d ask him about the suburbs, but on this subject he spoke solemn: “It’s a ghetto for the rich” he would say, but I didn’t believe him. I think a part of Jimmy died with his mom back in the suburbs. I think he really misses her. I think he really misses the suburbs. Though, it didn’t matter now, he’s a city rat like the rest of us, and Jimmy’s friendship came with benefits. 

The street corners were laced with crack, cut coke, pills, and meth, but Jimmy was from the suburbs. He explained to us that suburban traphouses operated through a different arrangement of drugs and clientele, particularly LSD, and that’s how we met Acid Dave.

“Shit, I betchu he gets those cans of Arnie for twenty-five cents a pop. You do the math on that?” 

Acid Dave, who had remained quiet during the loitering chirped in, “Better than a Wal-Mart, ain’tit?” 

“Fuckin’ A,” said Jimmy.

Acid Dave, now the last to emerge from the curb, stood towering over Jimmy and myself. He was flush with a cinnamon twinkle from the beads of sweat that trailed his dark skin.

“Man, Jimmy, you don’t even pay for shit, lets just hit Rowdy’s real quick. What’s good for tonight anyway?”

Jimmy attempted to withhold a smile, removing a sheet of tinfoil from his back pocket.

* * *

​Two summers ago, Jimmy and I were crossing through Temple University on a blustery Saturday evening, scrounging for hotties with unveiled belly button piercings and short mini-skirts. We were passing through shadows and fulgurating street lamps when we saw a dark boy thrown from the base of an apartment staircase. Close behind, a mob of five college students cloaked in polo button downs descended the staircase in pursuit, armed with clenched fists, beer bottles, and their parent’s attorneys on speed dial. Jimmy and I acted instinctively. They weren’t hotties with vanilla crème skin and strawberry lips, but they were drunken fratboys, and we loved kicking the shit out of fratboys. We dove headfirst, connecting fist with flesh, knuckle with jaw, until the fratboys retreated, leaving their wounded facedown in the concrete. I snagged the jumped boy by the collar and crossedtwelve blocks before hindering our sprint to a nimble jog. That’s when the boy turned to us, bruised and stained with blood, with a half-cocked smile dangling from his lips.

“Man I can’t believe I got saved by two white boys.”

Acid Dave wasn’t always Acid Dave. In a past life, he was just Dave. After the Temple brawl, we linked up outside Rowdy’s, standing under a vivacious neon glow that read “BEER”, where Jimmy paused to unfold the corners of a tin foil sheet. He removed vibrant colored squares of paper, distributing them between the three of us. When Jimmy motioned the tabs toward the boy, he quickly shook his head. 

“No, I don’t fuck with that shit. Makes you stupid.”

The insult rattled Jimmy, who darted his eyes toward the boy.

“Man, who told you that?”

“Easy Jimmy.” I said

The boy shifted uncomfortably. He had escaped the clutches of violent fratboys, but now he was staring into something new.

“I don’t know, man. Shit rots your brain’s is all I know. Just crazy white people drugs.”

Jimmy licked his lips, drawing attention to the words that would spill from his mouth. “Let me tell you something…?”

“Dave,” the boy replied.

“Let me tell you something, Dave. This right here is going to shine a spotlight on all the critical thinking in your brain. It’s going to embrace you, man. It’s going to show you everything that you’ve been missing. You think government wants a high population of critical thinkers? No way, Jose. Then they’d see how fucked up and fragile this all is. You think they want young black men like yourself exploring the depths of their mind, questioning the status quo? You wanna find out why those fratboys really despise you so much?  You’re a threat, man. You’ve got free thought and you have to utilize it. You have the ability to make choices and accept change, and that frightens powerful people. Listen to me man, call me goddamn tinfoil hat sportin’ lunatic, but this right here is a one way ticket to understanding this giant shit rock.”

Dave darted his eyes between the tablets and the fiery passion that raged behind Jimmy’s pupils. He had heard the promises of salvation many times before, and this was not entirely different. Nervously, Dave turned his head in my direction. I noticed his eyes, aching and tattooed with painful memories. He was indecisive, fumbling over the idea of sprinting away from another pack of wild white boys. However, before revving his muscles for a long sprint home, he glanced at my hand, which lay trembling in a lonely breeze, battered, from delivering round after round of high velocity fists. He watched as the sanguine liquid trickled from my open wounds onto the ashen concrete, before grabbing the tablet and thrusting it down his throat.

* * * 

As we crossed through the streets of Philadelphia, the sun began to diminish behind a horizon of skyscrapers. We gazed at the spectacle of gridded apricot hues through our pupils, which expanded into cannonballs, loaded, and ready to engage. We were a block from Rowdy’s when we noticed threads of yellow wrapped around the base of the infrastructure. There were no glowing neon lights, no loiterers, only an eerie emptiness.

When we approached Rowdy’s, we could easily identify the yellow tangle of plastic tape. It read: POLICE.

“Looks like we’re beat, man,” said Jimmy, who motioned about the corner store, peering through grease-tinted windows. 

“There’s no way, man. We were here four hours ago. Think Rowdy got popped for sellin’overpriced Arnie’s?” asked Acid Dave.

Jimmy chuckled, “Fuck it, man I would’ve done it myself.”

The LSD was beginning to reach maximum efficiency when my vision narrowed into fractals, and the conversation between Jimmy and Acid Dave echoed through the empty gaps of my skull. How long had we been standing here? Acid Dave extended his arms into the wings of a 747, pretending to swoop back and forth between Jimmy and I. He announced that his flight to Chicago was on time with eighty-seven degree sunny skies. Jimmy fell silent, glaring into the sight of city ants hurdling over the dilapidated sidewalks. I, however, insisted on following the fractals from my vision, approaching as they beckoned me from afar. I tiptoed around the edge of the store, noticing that the back door had been propped open by a chunk of brick, a common practice by Rowdy on his cigarette breaks. I whispered for Acid Dave and Jimmy, who peered around the corner cautiously. When I extended my finger in the direction of the open door, Acid Dave bolted ahead.

“Houston, we have lift off,” he screamed before soaring through the blackness of the doorway, the cries of his space shuttle becoming withered and faint. 

Upon entering Rowdy’s, a foul odor stung and pinched at my nose, and a darkness heaved at my eyelids. Acid Dave leapt from the countertops and dove into the aisles, while Jimmy cracked Arnold Palmers and seized pockets full of candy. I ignited the cigarette from my bandana and stood in the middle of the room, attempting to close my eyes to embrace the grand infinity of the mind. I wanted to be in the center. I wanted to feel the room breathe. However, the odor broke my meditation, scorching my nasal passages like charcoals. I followed the fractals and grids from the drug once more, this time leading me to the cash register, the pungent smell flourishing in the vicinity. 

That’s when I saw the crimson. It scuttled down the register in thick canals, intertwined withfloating crumbs of white and pink. My eyes began to dart, my mind rush. There were crimson streaks splattered on the cigarettes and Hershey’s bars, it trickled along the edge of the refrigerators, into slicks of cherry-red and sidewalk chalk. It was wrong. Something was wrong. Shrieks pummeled my eardrums, shaking the fractals in my vision. Jimmy had collapsed into a puddle, sobbing, begging for his mother, unable to remove himself from the mess. Acid Dave had retreated to the corner of the store, driving his fists into rows of magazines, clobbering the celebrity figures on the front page. My skeleton, quivering in distress, wanted to rip the skin from my flesh, and bolt out the back door, but not without the rest. I couldn’t abandon Jimmy and Acid Dave.

I bustled toward them, scooping Jimmy from the saturated floor tiles, and catching Acid Dave by the collar, towing them through the bloody mess, slipping through cylindrical casings. They were hysterical, but we needed to escape. I dragged them out the back door, and sat them on the curb across the street, but I wasn’t done. How could I be done, I thought. Without a word, I shot back into the corner store. Alone, I moved through the fractal images and fluttering electricity, removing alcoholic beverages from the fridge, dumping them onto the crimson floor.  Tears pattered my cheeks.The alcohol birthed images of my father; the blood my mother, but I knew the past didn’t define me. I knew that I was given a choice of how to live this life. I knew which experiences I cherished. I pulled a box of matches from the counter top, and readied to strike, but paused to grab an Arnold Palmer and pack of cigarettes, leaving twelve dollars cash on the counter top for Rowdy. I struck the matches, and turned to run before the flame ignited. I followed the fractals through the back door and into Philadelphia night, as the wrath of the flames ignited the tips of my hair like wicks in a candle. 

We loitered from an adjacent street corner, my arm wrapped around Jimmy who sobbed quietly, while Acid Dave rested on an apartment staircase. I inhaled a cigarette, chambering the smoke through my lungs, grasping for each hit of nicotine. We exchanged the can of Arnold Palmer, sipping casually, and watched as the flames engulfed Rowdy’s Corner Market.

(Short Story was written in 2015, Sophomore Year at Ohio University)

​Ethan detached the water pipe from the embrace of his lips and exhaled, observing as the smoke ascended into a blanket of developing stratus clouds. He enjoyed watching individual wisps of smoke twist and sputter into shapes before dissipating. It was sweet and abstract – numbing yet sensational. Across the room, The Flaming Lips’ propelled “Fight Test” through a pair of Klipsch desktop speakers, shuddering the direction of the haze with each roar of the bass. Ethan began to feel the psychedelic effects of the bud. The drive of the music inflated the room, and penetrated the racing thoughts consuming Ethan’s conscious. A warm vibration crawled up the length of his spine, and settled in the core of his brain – a euphoric sensitivity that nudges the darkness back into the deep void of his mind. 

​Between the potency of the bud, the vigor of The Flaming Lips, and the calmness of his breathing, Ethan was able to drift. He sauntered through a vast forest engulfed in plush grasses, crystalized by the radiant beams of sunlight creeping through the canopy. However, when Ethan gazed into the awning of the forest, he noticed something bizarre. The branches. Each tree stood lofty, towering over Ethan’s miniscule figure. Yet, every tree possessed the same quality. The branches appeared to be growing on a single side, all arching in one direction. Ethan came to a halt, and shifted his head from side to side, attempting to decipher the meaning of this unusual spectacle. However, his thoughts were interrupted with a disturbance. The noise seemed to shake the forest from the roots of the arching trees, to the horizon that lay beyond the canopy. All at once, the subconscious reality began to disintegrate. 

​There was a pounding on the opposite end of the room. Ethan sprung into place.

“Open this door now,” a voice exclaimed.

​Shit. Ethan realized he had fallen asleep, and quickly attempted to recollect himself. He knew his parents were standing on the other side of the door, ready to ignite him for smoking in his bedroom. It was a routine all too familiar.

“Ethan, goddammit, open this door right now.” 

​With the water pipe still clutched in his grip, Ethan jumped from the futon and began opening windows, allowing clouds of smoke to escape into the damp, spring evening. He shoved the water pipe into a cardboard box and placed it underneath his bed. How long have they been knocking? It didn’t matter. He would face his parents regardless.

​Ethan grabbed the brass knob and twisted, listening patiently for the lock to disengage. When the door clicked, Ethan let his father and mother take the stage. They hauled the door open, ready to attack. His mother stepped inside first. She appeared disgruntled – eyebrows angled menacingly. Ethan couldn’t remember the last time her eyebrows lie horizontally. Ethan’s father lumbered into the room short after, attached to his mother’s ankles like a shadow.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Ethan’s mother asked.

His eyes floated around the room, double-checking for any signs of paraphernalia or hovering mists of smoke. 

“Napping,” Ethan said while trying to avoid eye contact. “Do you need anything, or can I go back to sleep?”

Ethan’s mother locked eyes with his father, a universal sign for backup.

“Listen you little shit… It reeks in here, your grades suck, and your throwing your goddamn life away. Stop smoking or I’m ripping the door off the hinges.”

Ethan looked his father in the eyes.

​“Then fucking go for it.”

​Ethan watched as the vein along his father’s neck flooded with blood flow, and paused to see whether he would retaliate or leave the premises. The attention went from his father to his mother. Ethan knew the comment, although ill mannered, would most likely diffuse the situation. A wave of discomfort passed along his mother’s face. Ethan had escalated his tone in order to spark uneasiness between everybody in the room. If all goes according to plan, Ethan’s mother will drag his father out to prevent his short temper from conquering all rational judgment. Ever since his father struck him across the face, it had been like this.

​“This isn’t over, Ethan. No more smoking. You’re a seventeen year old burnout for Christ’s sake.” His mother pushed his father out of the room, and slammed it shut. Ethan could feel the anger radiating from his father’s company. He had foiled their plan.

* * *

Ethan slumped his head against the window of the 2004 Dodge Suburban, marveling the emptiness of his hometown. This was his favorite time of day. He imagined millions of people lying horizontally in bed, meandering through the creations of their slumbering mind. He thought of all the people who slept alone, all of the people who slept with lovers, all of the people, sleeping. He wished his mother’s eyebrows would lie horizontally.

“Yo Ethan, you hear me, dude?” Ethan’s trance was shattered. “You’re all quiet and shit, man. It’s buggin’ me out.”

Ethan pulled his head from the stiff glass surface and peered at AJ. AJ was sitting at the wheel, occasionally eyeing Ethan in the passenger seat, ducking beneath the ceiling of the Suburban. AJ soared over Ethan in height. He was a natural-born basketball player, looking at scholarships from everyprestigious school within a two hundred mile radius. That was until four guys jumped him on his way home from practice. Broke a few bones. Turned out to be the wrong guy. Shit happens. 

Ethan and AJ met during a party at the end of last year – a friendship that wouldn’t have existed if not for AJ’s absence from the basketball season. With the sport out of the way, AJ was free to party as freely as he desired – no more drug tests. So thus began their friendship, and while still new, Ethan and AJ both cherished the bond. 

“Man, I said where are we going?” AJ’s voice whined, becoming irritated. 
​Ethan brought himself to full attention and glared through the windshield to determine where he was located. Nothing looked familiar.

“How long have you been driving?” Ethan asked.

​AJ twisted his lips and clenched his left eye – deep in thought.

​“It doesn’t matter. Make the next left.” Ethan shoved his index finger in AJ’s line of sight. “Looks pretty secluded back there, man.” 

​AJ smacked his finger away.

​“Chill dawg. Get your fingers outta my face.”

​AJ disregarded his turn signal and with a quick motion of his wrist, brought the Suburban into the left lane and onto the road ahead. This path was different. Ethan tried to find familiarity in the location but no words accurately matched the description. The road seemed to intertwine with the local state park, but neither could be sure.

Neither Ethan nor AJ spoke a word. Instead, they focused on the unknown destination ahead. The clear sky faded beneath the foliage. Immense trees hobbled over the Suburban, growing denser with each advancing movement. Nonetheless, Ethan noticed something peculiar about the vegetation of the area. The branches. They clung to one specific side of the trees leaving the rest bare. 

Ethan glared over at the driver’s seat.

“Hey AJ, you noticing these trees man.”

The comment passed through AJ like a ghost in the wind.

“Nah, I don’t know. I’ve never been back here before.”

The trees continued to arch in a single direction, as if they were guiding the 2004 Dodge Suburban. The branches did not move either. Each tree stood perfectly still.

In the distance, a dead-end was visible. No more roads, however, there was something else – something entirely different. 

* * *

The RV was tan with orange stripes down the center of the body marked: REPOSSESSED. The metal tin sat along the curb of the dead-end, and had a rustic ambiance that could be felt from the exterior of the machine. The wheels sagged with air loss, and the headlights were smashed. It was pitiful, but Ethan loved it.

“All we did was go looking for a place to smoke and look what we stumble on,” said AJ, “Like, why do you think they left it here like this?”

“I don’t know. But lets go inside.”

AJ halted his advancing steps. 

“You serious? There could be like, squatters in there. I don’t know how I feel about that.”

It was too late. Ethan ran to the side door, grabbed the rusty latch, and sprung the door wide open. The swinging door carried an odor that surged through the air, pungent yet not foul enough to keep Ethan from bolting up the stairs and into the RV. Ethan’s curiosity had peaked, especially when he realized that the encircling trees all pointed to the RV with their twisting, spring-blooming branches.

“Are you serious?” AJ hesitated, but was not far behind.

The inside of the RV was carpeted in two-inch deep shag – homage to a distant past. The kitchen counter-top and seating area were also layered deeply in a mysterious black substance. 

“What do you make of this, E?” AJ pointed at the black substance masking the furniture. 

Ethan extended his fingers, felt the substance, and brought his fingers up to his nose.

“Ash,” Ethan said, “Looks like someone beat us here.”

AJ began feeling uneasy – nauseous.

“Relax, looks like whoever did it hasn’t been here in a while,” Ethan reassured his friend. “Lets just smoke up. I mean, how many people can say they’ve smoked in an RV in the middle of nowhere, am I right?”

AJ shuffled around nervously before brushing aside the ash and plotting himself down onto the soft embrace of the sofa.

“I swear, anytime I hang out with you we end up doing some Rambo-type shit.”

Ethan removed the herb grinder from the pocket of his hoody, untwisted the cap and began pinching freshly ground marijuana. He placed the herb between a Juicy J pineapple paper, and began shifting his fingers into place. His thumb rolled forward on the filter, causing the edge of the paper to curl around the sticky substance. 

“Hey man, so like, what’s up with your parents, they freak on you?”

Ethan began licking the length of the pineapple paper, and folded the top piece over the rest of the figure.

“Who knows anymore? All they talk about is how I’m fucking up my life. All because I smoke a little bit of pot.” Ethan ran his fingers around the joint, checking for uneven creases in the paper. “They don’t care about anything except how much capital I’m gonna make so that I’m happy. Like, no fuck that. We make money and for what. Like who the fuck am I? And How am I supposed to prepare for a word in five years if I’m still trying to figure out how to prepare for this moment right now.” Ethan sprinkled the remaining bud into the cone shaped joint. “Think about it. Think about all of the jobs that don’t even exist yet. Think about how much can change in five years, in one year, in one single day. I don’t even know what I’m good at.”

“I feel you bro, it’s not like I can play ball anymore. I’m beat too. Parents talking about trade school and community college. Like shit, I never did well in no classroom.”

“Yeah, but you grow some damn good weed.”

“That’s twisted, man.”

“I know it is, bu-.” 

“No, I mean, you twisted the joint already.”

Ethan gazed down into his fingers, and noticed a freshly rolled joint. For a brief moment, he forgot about the angst that clung to his soul, and instead he admired the wonderful creation.

Ethan took out a lighter and studied the journey from spark to flame. He watched as the warmth disintegrated the paper, delivering fragments of ash onto the kitchen countertop and silk-threated sofas. 

The joint circled back and forth between the two boys, until eventually it became too tiny. Ethan took one last deep breath and exhaled, permitting the smoke to rise and clutter like clouds amongst the RV. Ethan grabbed the joint roach and placed the carcass in the sink for use as an ashtray. There was a sizzle before one last strand of smoke withered into nothingness. Ethan let go of the roach and observed it’s decent. He became intrigued of the finite destination, the floor with the smoke’s infinite possibilities. Ethan’s mind faded from the conflict at home, because right now this moment, this falling piece of a joint is the most important occurrence that he can possibly perceive at this time.

 “God, I’m fried,” said Ethan.

Ethan and AJ exited the RV, closing the door behind them. They entered AJ’s 2004 Dodge Suburban and began their voyage back home. Ethan placed his head against the passenger-side window, and allowed his eyes to wonder to the canopy of the encircling forest, gazing upon the darkness of the night, the possibilities of the now, but most of all, the direction of the branches, pointing toward the exit of the RV cul-de-sac.