People say they see their dead moms in blue jays and buttercups, robins and rhododendrons, but mine told me she’d never come back as something so abominably dull, and to keep an eye out for spiders. It’s a bright spring day and mown grass, cut by a neighbor, foams at the edges of the yard like a fresh-pulled pint. I am crouched in the corner of the patio, sifting through a 50L sack of soil that’s been slumped here since she lost the strength to stand. Digging for arachnids and coming up short. Two trowels deep. Late and making us later.I’ve found roly polies by the fistful. Swarms of soil mites piled up like tiny sacs of tears. I’m building a pyre of dead wasps, their crumpled yellow-banded bodies curled around their stingers. They can no longer hurt me but I’m careful not to touch them, scooping them up with a dirt-lined plastic pot because I’m up to my eyes in hurt and I don’t think I could take another sting.“Laura, honey, the service is about to start,” calls my mom’s boyfriend Ritchie, “we gotta go.” I dig faster, abandoning the trowels and clawing holes with my hands. Tiny white perlite balls get caught under my nails. Clumps of dirt cling to the black wool of my skirt. There — I win — I’ve found her — a whole knot of spiders, an entire family, a teeming cluster crawling madly back into the damp dark of the bag. I lift them out, cradle them in my hand like I’m holding a blessing, and shout, “Okay, Richie, I’m ready," then whisper, “Good to see you, Mom. Stay a while.”
Margot is a speck of red in her bright winter coat, scurrying up the cracked and litter-strewn sidewalk, her mousy brown hair a sad pinprick at the center of this speck and her breath a puff of vapor before her. This is, at least, how she envisions herself. She rarely leaves the apartment anymore, but when she does, she finds herself imagining her appearance, always as something unsuspecting and insignificant. She has tried to give up this habit but can’t help herself. A bug-eyed pigeon hops across the sidewalk and pecks at a discarded bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. As Margot passes, it removes its head from the bag and eyes her suspiciously. Margot stuffs her hands deeper into her coat pockets. Her right hand curls around a folded piece of scrap paper, which contains a list of everything she and her boyfriend Louis need for that evening and the coming week.Grocery shopping gives Margot a sense of purpose, a destination, something to talk about when Louis returns from work and asks what she has been up to all day. It also serves as an excuse to put off doing the things she is supposed to do: practice piano, call her grandfather, apply for open positions in her field, tasks that have become both unthinkable and unavoidable during the hours she spends alone in their apartment, collecting unemployment checks.This evening, Haley and Shane, their downstairs neighbors, are coming over for dinner, a plan that makes Margot feel decidedly adult. Louis and Shane often run into each other in the hallway heading to and from work, their months of friendly interactions always punctuated by the suggestion that they get together soon. Margot’s encounters with the couple have been mostly one-sided: their dog barking in response to her footsteps on the basement stairs as she carries down a load of laundry, and the muffled sound of their voices seeping through the floorboards. While moving damp clothing from the washer to the dryer, Margot once heard them arguing, voices raised and easier to discern. “We’ve gone over this so many times,” Haley said. Margot moved the laundry along quickly and made her way back up the steps without lingering long enough to determine what the fight was about. Shane had invited Louis and Margot over for dinner the week prior. Their apartment was furnished with the previous tenant's lumpy red couch, stacks of books, thrifted paintings, mismatched wooden dining chairs, and other second-hand items that gave the impression of history and warmth. It felt like they had always lived there.Margot approaches the intersection across from the store. As she waits for the light to change, she watches the cars speed by, the faces inside blurred and briefly visible, none of them bothering to look out at her. The light turns red, and one car hurtles through the intersection. The rest slow to a crawl, and she cautiously makes her way across the crosswalk’s staggered white lines.Inside the store, she picks up a shopping basket. A wet coupon papers the bottom, and produce stickers adhere to the sides. She walks towards the produce section in want of strawberries, pears, a lemon and fresh herbs. In the grocery store, Margot gravitates towards the things she wants with ease. She picks up several containers of strawberries, examining the bottoms for mold and rotting juice, and places the freshest one in the bottom of her basket. Over the course of the past few months, she has come to find that grocery stores imbue her with a sense of calm that little else has since she lost her job. The towering supplies of neatly stacked cans, brightly colored boxes, and fresh produce evoke a feeling of orderliness, endlessness, and preparation. Consumed by these feelings, she often leaves the store with the odd additional item. Several months ago, she picked up a sack of flour, for which she had no use, only the inclination that she needed to be prepared.A mist settles over the broccoli, condensing into small droplets of water between each of the individual florets. She shakes two heads of broccoli and bags them. The parsley and cilantro are sopping wet. She picks off several stalks of each with browned, slimy leaves before bagging the remaining green, intact bunches. She moves, transfixed, from one fresh green thing to another until everything has been crossed off her list.Her basket weighs heavy, and she sets it on the floor as she waits in the checkout line, kicking it forward as the line moves every so often. It extends down the aisle, past the candy and the granola bars back to the breakfast cereal and maple syrup. It is the only open checkout lane in the entire store.The woman in front of her pushes a cart filled to the brim with everything from hamburger buns to low-fat ice cream sandwiches that will surely melt by the time she reaches the cashier. Margot appraises her own basket, free of frozen items, in a self-congratulatory fashion. She has gotten better at this at least, she thinks. She is improving.She and Louis have lived together for six months, and she thought that she would be used to it by now. She thought she would ease into the bliss of domesticity. Instead, she has become debilitatingly aware of herself. When Louis is home, she second-guesses her every move, concerned about whether she is reading often enough to appear interesting, concerned about how her skin looks each night after she has removed her makeup, and whether Louis is sick of eating the three things she knows how to make for dinner. All her actions feel heightened in his presence, on display. Tonight, Margot plans on making falafel and pita sandwiches for dinner, which she has made too few times to count among the recipes she is least likely to botch. She wonders if she should pick up an extra can of chickpeas but decides it is probably too late. Nearly at the front of the line, she watches the woman with the crowded shopping cart place her items on the checkout conveyor belt. The box of Nestle low-fat ice cream sandwiches perspires. The hamburger buns are squished, frowning faces.Margot emerges from the grocery store, the automatic doors parting slowly before her, her armpits sweating. Her big red coat protects her from the welts that would otherwise form on her shoulder from the weight of her over-packed shopping bags. She maneuvers herself between the barricades intended to prevent shopping cart theft, trying not to crush the produce.When Margot looks up, she sees it for the first time, its back turned to her. The strap on one of her bags slips from her shoulder. The hawk angles its body to ensure there is no visible threat from the opposite direction. Its yellow eyes stare unblinkingly, and it arches its wings back, spreading them casually, as if to remind her of its size. The hawk sits atop a dead pigeon with ruffled oil-slick feathers and one beady eye still open. Dried blood coats the feathers around the pigeon's neck. The hawk eyes Margot sharply, as if to say, this is my dead pigeon. As if it believes Margot might tear the pigeon from its talons, stuff it in with her groceries and make off with it. The hawk blinks but maintains its gaze, watching Margot with a ferocity so foreign that she feels almost ashamed. She remembers for a moment what it is like to want something with such conviction. Margot pulls the strap of her tote back over her shoulder. She scurries through the parking lot, eyes averted, realizing that she has forgotten the almond milk. Glancing back toward the store, she sees the hawk’s beak deep in the pigeon’s neck, its body torn in an unceremonious fashion. All that remains is a head, a gaping red tangle of innards and some stray feathers. The hawk lifts its head to regard Margot, blood dripping from its beak. Its wings flinch, threatening to take flight.Margot rushes home, keeping a brisk pace, and, for the first time in recent memory, paying absolutely no mind to her own appearance. The sound of beating wings follows her. Wisps of hair are matted to her forehead. She stops at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change, but her insides remain frenzied, churning, in perpetual motion. She is repulsed by her own scent.She enters the building, locking the vestibule door behind her and checking it twice, as if the hawk might open the door and follow her. She laughs and shakes her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She makes her way up the three flights of stairs to their apartment, her grocery bags jostling against the walls and stair-rail, then slips her key into the deadbolt and pulls it back out the slightest bit before turning it. The lock on their door is temperamental, and Margot finds herself at odds with it more often than not.She enters the apartment and pauses long enough to observe the tell-tale signs of Louis’s early arrival home from work: his bag and shoes discarded hastily by the door, the faint hum of the television in the living room. Margot, at once, feels comforted and resentful, her precious alone time cut short. She endeavors to extend it a bit longer by going unnoticed, quietly moving throughout the kitchen, gently opening and closing the refrigerator and cabinet doors, putting each item in place.She removes her coat, and the acrid smell of her body overwhelms her. She puts her coat back on and smooths her tangled hair with both hands then walks into the living room.“I thought I heard you!” Louis grins.Margot perches self-consciously on the coffee table. “You’re home early.” “My boss said I could leave after I closed our last ticket.” “Any particularly bad ones today?”“The usual. Manager insists their computer isn’t working, but they just forgot to turn the monitor on. Another employee wants me to reset their login information for the third time this week.” He rolls his eyes. “I guess I should be thankful nothing exciting happened.”Louis turns his attention back to the television, where a nature documentary plays quietly, something about the strange and colorful birds of the rainforest. Louis pats the space beside him on the couch. Margot hesitates for a moment, watching the bird on the screen perform an elaborate courtship ritual. The bird opens his neon yellow mouth to screech, fans out his black neck feathers, and reveals his shimmering turquoise chest. He hops around the unsuspecting female, distinguished by her dull coloring. “A little too much for my taste,” Margot says. She relents and sits next to Louis, the full weight of her body, winter coat and all, sinking into the couch.“Thank god. I don’t think I could pull that off.” Louis’s eyes remain fixed on the television, and his voice sounds far away like it often does at the end of a long work week. The documentary moves on to another bird with flame-like feathers. Louis begins reading an article on his phone. “So. I'm being hunted," Margot says matter-of-factly. "By what, may I ask?" Louis returns to her, his face suddenly serious, his eyes searching and concerned. He has always been good at playing along. He understands her in this way at least, which is what Margot loves about him.She widens her eyes and exhales slowly, performatively. "A hawk."Louis's features take on an exaggerated quality, certain, now, that this is a game. He gets up and walks to the window. His body is lean, his hair dark and messy. He runs a hand through it, deep in thought. Margot joins him by the window, looking out at the vacant lot adjacent to their building. In the warmer months, it is overgrown in an otherworldly way. Weeds appear prehistoric, stretching several feet up into the air with leaves the size of Margot's head. Their living room windows provide a spectacularly close-up view of the trees’ tangled branches and the squirrels and birds that occupy them. However, at this particular moment, the tree closest to them is uncharacteristically quiet. Margot follows Louis's gaze toward the tree at the back of the lot. Between two of the branches, Margot discerns the outline of a rigid and imposing creature. The markings are similar to those of the one she saw earlier, a brown and white mottled pattern on its chest and deeper brown on the wings and head. Margot recognizes its penetrating gaze.Louis turns to her. "So this guy’s more your type?" His eyes sparkle with a playful quality that suggests he believes the hawk’s presence to be a mere coincidence.The hawk's head rotates, as if beyond its own control. A squirrel climbs up the neighboring tree in a frenzy. The hawk spreads its wings ever so slightly and hops down, one branch closer. The squirrel pauses, its tail twitching spastically, the rest of its body unmoving. The hawk dives quickly, extends its legs, and collects the squirrel with its talons. Margot and Louis watch the entire thing."Poor squirrel," says Louis.Margot nods, watching the branches from which the hawk dove tremble. The vacant lot breathes a sigh of relief, a feeling that eludes her.Louis stretches his arms above his head and yawns. “I should get cleaned up.” He walks off toward the bathroom. Margot lingers by the window for a moment before making her way back to the bedroom. She can hear the shower running in the bathroom. She sheds her coat and peels off her turtleneck, balls it up, and uses it to wipe her underarms before applying an extra layer of deodorant. The floral scent of the deodorant mixes with the sour scent of her body. She pulls on a fresh t-shirt and brushes her hair back into a ponytail then steps back to assess herself in the mirror. Her reflection looks presentable but unfamiliar. She doesn’t recognize this girl with her hair up and face flushed.She pulls the soaked chickpeas and fresh herbs from the fridge and lines them up next to the onion, garlic, and spices on the counter. She disregards the step ladder in the corner and climbs atop the counter, stretching to reach the food processor stored above the cabinets. Balancing the processor in one hand, she uses the other to steady herself as she descends. She wobbles. Her wrist bends awkwardly, and the food processor falls, sending its lid and sharp innards skittering across the kitchen floor. Margot slides off the counter and exhales sharply before collecting the lid and blades, which she washes carefully in the sink. She tries to move slowly and deliberately. The shower turns off, and Louis yells from the bathroom, “Everything alright out there?”“All good!” Margot reassembles the food processor. She drains the chickpeas and adds them to the processor’s bowl. She roughly chops the herbs and onion, wielding her largest kitchen knife with trepidation. It feels as if everything in the kitchen has turned against her, poised to fall, break, and slice at will. The parsley and cilantro stain the cutting board green. She adds them to the food processor along with the onion, spices, baking soda and chickpea flour, then presses the pulse button repeatedly and watches as the ingredients crumble violently. She spoons the green, grainy blend into a bowl and places it in the fridge. Margot allows herself a glance out the kitchen window, which has a more limited view of the lot. The outer pane is caked with unreachable dust and debris, but she can see that the trees are still. She feels that she is not alone. She turns back to the counter and begins to take the food processor apart to wash in the sink. She scrubs and rinses out the lid with warm soapy water then picks up the blade. Something bumps into her from behind. “Sorry, coming through!” Louis pulls open the refrigerator door and grabs the water pitcher. He reaches above Margot’s head to open the cabinet containing their chipped and cloudy glassware. Margot looks down at her hand. Her thumb is bleeding. The red runs over her hand and dilutes with the warm water.“Jesus, Margot.” Louis places the pitcher and glass on the counter, takes the blade from her hand and sets it down in the sink. He moves her hand under the faucet, and the sting of the cut wanes. The water rushes over her thumb, leaving a clean, precise line. “It’s nothing,” she says. She pulls her hand back from the faucet, and the sting returns. “Could you just grab a couple band aids?”“Of course.” Louis rushes off to the bathroom and returns with the first aid kit. He rifles through it, finding only band aids that are either too big or small. He pulls out a roll of gauze and tape, which seems quaint to Margot. “This might actually work better.”Margot holds her bleeding thumb out, and he winds the gauze around it several times then secures it with the tape. “Good as new,” Margot says. She gives Louis a thumbs up. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “Not your fault. I was the one holding a blade and not paying attention.” “Can I do anything else?”“Don’t worry about it, really.” Margot scrubs and rinses off the blade. “There’s not enough room in here for two.”“I guess you could say that.” Louis smiles weakly. “If you need me, I’ll be in the living room, okay?”“Okay!” Margot lines up the hummus ingredients in front of the reassembled food processor, falling back into the rhythm of preparing dinner. She watches once again as the hummus ingredients break down and fold into one another, becoming something new and more uniform in color. The falafel is frying when Margot hears a faint knock on the apartment door. She spoons the falafel balls from the pan to a plate. Louis rushes through the kitchen towards the door. "I'll get it!"Shane and Haley enter, their faces reddened and chapped from the cold. "Sorry we're late. We were on the porch and lost track of time.” "A hawk's been circling the building,” Shane adds. Louis takes their coats and hangs them up then leads them over to the living room. Margot removes the falafel from the pot of oil on the stove, placing them one by one on a paper towel."A cooper's hawk," Shane says. "I grew up on a farm outside the city. We’d see them all the time. Every so often we'd lose a chicken.""Awful." Haley shakes her head and looks down. Curly brown hair falls over her face."We saw it hunt a squirrel earlier actually," Louis says."I never actually saw one kill a chicken, but the thought really got to me.""There's something so unnatural about a bird hunting another bird," Haley says.The room is quiet when Margot enters with the plate of falafel. She sets it down on the small dining table next to the hummus, cucumber salad, and pickled red onions. The plates are all mismatched, a collection of both Margot and Louis's scratched and worn dinnerware accumulated throughout college. The table is wobbly and made from medium-density fiberboard, used primarily as a surface for storing Margot’s untouched keyboard piano or for playing the occasional board game. Even Shane and Haley's apartment full of hand-me-downs had a dining table with four chairs.Louis cranes his neck to peer out the window. "Looks like he's heading out now.""She," Shane corrects. "The big ones are the females actually."Margot feels a sudden tenderness for the hawk. While Louis, Shane, and Haley fill up their plates, she gazes at the tree at the back of the lot. The sun must have set while she was making dinner, making it difficult to see anything at all, but the lot appears empty. She feels no relief, only disappointment. She continues to watch the window, observing her own reflection, faint and ghostly, everything about her wavering and illuminated by the overhead light. There is a spot of grease on her shirt."Thank you, Margot," Haley says and Shane echoes.Louis approaches and puts his hand on her shoulder. "Sorry your friend didn't stick around."Margot attempts to rearrange her features into what she hopes is a pleasant expression, turns around and shrugs. "I don't think I prepared enough vermin to feed five anyways.” Louis laughs, and Margot feels the rush of gratification she always does when she manages to make him laugh. He moves back over towards his chair with his plate, and Margot makes her way over to the table where she half-heartedly assembles a falafel wrap. After spending an hour or two preparing a meal, she often finds herself uninterested in eating it."These are really good," Shane says. He takes another bite of his wrap, already nearly gone, and wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. Despite being several years older than Margot, he has a disarmingly boyish quality that reminds her of her younger brother."Did you make all of this from scratch?" Haley asks. Her legs are crossed, her plate resting on top of them. Her voice is quiet and gentle. Margot allows herself to feel proud for a moment. "I did." She had never prepared a meal for someone else, much less enjoyed doing so, until she started dating Louis. "Hummus is easy. The falafel isn't even that difficult to make. It's really just frying it that I'm not so great at.""Don't take this the wrong way," Louis starts. "But I think these are even better than the other time you made them. They're crispier on the outside."Margot can't help but take it the wrong way for just a moment. "It takes me months to really get any recipe down," Haley jumps in. "Of course it only takes Shane one or two tries.""Only because it's my job." Shane works as a line cook at an upscale restaurant downtown."Does one of you usually do the cooking, or do you split it up?" Margot asks. Shane and Haley look at each other and laugh. "I'd like to say it's an even split, but I know Haley ends up doing most of it either because she's on her own at home or it's the last thing I want to do when I’m home from work.""You used to enjoy it, though, before you started working as a cook?" Louis asks. He puts his arm around Margot, who briefly appreciates the gesture before feeling stifled, incapable of getting up off the couch to add more to her plate or grab another drink without appearing cold and dismissive. Half of her sandwich remains on her plate, and her glass is nearly completely full. "Oh, yeah," Shane says. "I loved it before, even as a kid. My brothers would make fun of me for wanting to stay inside with my mom and help with dinner. At first, it was just a way to avoid working outside, and then I really fell in love with it. You know, spending an hour or so preparing the different parts of the meal, watching it come together, and then the satisfaction of watching everyone enjoy it.""Cooking a meal for someone else does feel special," Haley says. "I'm not nearly as creative or thoughtful with the things I make when you're not home."Margot thinks of all the times she has tried to make something new for dinner, something she thinks that Louis will like. She recalls all the burnt and undercooked and oversalted and underripe portions of meals that she has reserved for her own plate, wanting Louis to have the best. The secrecy of it brings her a bit of joy. There are some tender acts that it would feel shameful, even false, to bring attention to. "I know I don't cook as often as you, but the few times I have, I did find myself thinking, okay, I get what people find rewarding about cooking and sharing a meal with someone you love." He glances at Margot with a look of such complete tenderness that she averts her eyes. It is as if a small helpless creature has rolled over before her, exposing its soft, pink underbelly. She places her hand in Louis's free hand, the one not around her shoulder, and squeezes it, unsure what this gesture means even to her."Anyone want anything else to drink?" she asks, already drifting toward the kitchen.Louis says something, but she isn't paying attention. She grabs two seltzers and a lime from the refrigerator, then places them on the few inches of available counter space. She sets the lime on the cutting board and turns to grab a clean, though blunt, knife from the silverware drawer. She looks out through the small and grimy kitchen window. The vacant lot is illuminated by the harsh outdoor light of the house on the opposite side, which reflects off the fresh snow on the ground. Against the stark white of the snow, a stain appears red and bright and mesmerizing. Margot moves closer to the window, her nose nearly pressed up against the glass. At the center of this stain, Margot discerns something resembling a head with large, protruding ears, the upper half of a small mammal’s body, and spilling out from it, pink sinewy innards. The head is small and round, turned unnaturally.Margot feels ill with excitement. She has a sudden urge to rush outside, stand beside this strange offering, and look up at the trees with arms outstretched. Instead, she fills two glasses with ice and seltzer, tops them off with slices of lime, and walks back to the living room. She does not mention the rabbit to their guests. She does not even mention it to Louis after Shane and Haley leave. She sleeps dreamlessly and wakes early the next morning as the sun rises. She pushes back the covers, careful not to disturb Louis. Sleep softens his features. Awake, his face is dynamic: brows raised, eyes sparkling, the corners of his mouth upturned, always on the verge of breaking into a sly grin. Now, with his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted, he appears defenseless. Standing in the doorway, Margot feels as if she has intruded on a private, sacred moment, something belonging to Louis alone. She resists the urge to avert her eyes. Louis rolls over, and she sees that his cheek bears the imprint of their wrinkled sheets. Involuntarily, she steps back toward the bed, places her uninjured hand on his cheek and kisses his head lightly. He stirs, and she feels guilty about sneaking out, even though it’s only to the lot next door. Margot tiptoes to the living room. Outside the window, the sun pushes itself up over the horizon, igniting the sky. Briefly, the leafless trees in the vacant lot appear to be on fire. Some of the snow has melted, but Margot can still make out the muddied red patch at the far end of the lot. She pulls her winter coat over her pajamas and grabs the closest pair of shoes she can find, Louis’s sneakers. Her hair is unbrushed, and she doesn’t stop to check her reflection in the mirror on the way out. Heading down the stairs, she nearly trips over her own feet.The city thaws around her. Rock salt covers the sidewalk, and what was once pure and wondrous turns to gray slush. A discarded candy wrapper peeks out from a pile of shoveled snow. She cuts across the lot. The rabbit is gone. A few tufts of brown fur remain. Margot exhales, and her breath, stale with sleep, clouds the air around her. She steps back towards the apartment building, dead leaves crunching beneath Louis’s shoes. In the periphery of her vision, she senses movement. Turning slightly, she looks at the sharp, bare branches of the tree above her. The hawk is perched on one of the lower branches. It cranes its neck downward, yellow eyes fixed on Margot. She is close enough to see its downy chest feathers. The hawk’s features appear smaller and gentler, its eyes round and attentive. She notices that the feathers on its chin are completely white. The hawk feels like something she could reach out and touch.The hawk opens its beak and emits a piercing series of cries that settle into the air. It arches its wings back and out, nearly doubling in size. It pushes off from the tree, wings completely outstretched, and cries once more before swooping downwards with its legs extended, talons poised to grasp. Margot stands taller, locked in place, her eyes closed. Above, she feels the steady, rhythmic beating of its wings. She is ready—to be touched, to be eaten, to be seen.
I made sure never to start the day. Abstained from True Conscious Hours. And yet, somehow, it went on without me. The sweat underneath my upper thighs became my five o'clock work whistle, an inarguable sign that the day was already over, before it had ever begun. Weeks went by like this. So smooth and easy that I hardly took notice. For I was a junkie, refreshing my feed with abandon, in willful avoidance of the aforementioned True Conscious Hours. YouTube was where I found the good stuff. I let the algorithm swaddle me tight, held in close by its data-driven embrace. Fifteen-to-twenty minute videos filled up my daylight hours without friction. The app analyzed my viewing habits, my click-through rates, average time spent on a page, engagement (likes, dislikes, comments) and explicit feedback submissions, among hundreds of other figures, and then offered up a viral load of For You content. Up Next was left on perpetual autoplay. My Suggested Videos offered up new, pulsating veins to tap into.The algorithm led me to the strange community of glitch hunters. Those who scoured the three-dimensional plane, in search of an errant polygon or invisible wall. They looked for exposed flaws in the game design, ones that opened up new possibilities of play. And exploits, for speedruns. A number of these videos concerned Super Mario 64, a game they treated as a sacred hyperobject, the ur-three-dimensional movement game. The creators’ focus on Mario 64 went beyond mere glitches. They imposed masochistic constraints on themselves, in limiting their button presses to the least amount of jumps theoretically possible; all this within level environments specifically designed around the act of jumping. It was a mindset akin to religious asceticism, achieved through the careful study of mathematical formulas. Equations that led to new modes of movement. And the discovery of parallel worlds. The YouTubers tore apart the fabric of the game and grafted a new reality atop of it, one more pliable to the player’s will. I watched a series of videos in one uninterrupted sitting, a film festival curated by my most destructive viewing habits.
Super Mario 64 - Watch for Rolling Rocks - 0.5x A Presses (Commentated)
Here is a play by play of what I do. First, I use scuttlebug transportation to move a scuttlebug to the corner of the Watch for Rolling Rocks platform. Then, I use scuttlebug raising to raise him to about the height of the platform. Next, I use hyper speed walking to generate massive speed. Finally, I use Parallel Universe movement to navigate to the top of the course, launch to the scuttlebug to bounce on him, and ground pound in the misalignment of the platform to get onto it. And from there, I collect the star.
The TRUE Number of Parallel Universes in SM64, Solved!
Parallel universes in SM64 are a glitch where the memory for a level loops back around, caused by wandering too far from the stage. The glitch manifests as an invisible copy of the level, with varying degrees of bugged collision or objects. This has a strong resemblance to the nature of the 'Minus World' in Super Mario Bros, which is caused by another mathematical memory error.
My usual microphone is broken, so the sound quality might be a bit bad (I'll consider re-dubbing the video at some point). Not 100% sure if anyone has figured this out before, but based on what people have told me I don't believe it's been done.
Super Mario 64 - Go to The Secret Aquarium - 0x A Presses (VC Only) [OUTDATED]
I go to The Secret Aquarium using zero A presses. Unfortunately, this method is only possible on emulator and virtual console, and NOT console. This is because if Mario goes to a Parallel Universe on console without fixing the camera in the main map, the game will freeze.
So what are Parallel Universes? Well, Mario's position is a float, but is treated as a short for testing collisions. Since shorts can only hold up to 2^16 values, some information is lost in this conversion. Following this logic, there isn't just one map, but a grid of near infinite maps spread out by 2^16 intervals. These other maps are invisible, and are called Parallel Universes (PUs). With enough speed, Mario can travel to these PUs.
The Mystery of the 1995 Build of Super Mario 64 (Every Copy of Super Mario 64 is Personalized)
On July 29th, 1995, a Super Mario 64 build was constructed that forever shook the internet. From a ghostly Wario apparition to strange cases of personalized copies of the game, this precursor Super Mario 64 version was full of many different mysteries. Many theories arose surrounding this haunted occurrence and today we'll be doing a deep dive into the bottom of the Mario 64 mystery iceberg.
(Rare) Unseen Footage Of E3 1996 Demo Of SM64 (Wario Apparition)
yep it fake ok ...
Every copy of Mario 64 is personalized?
why the f**k everyone keep saying THIS?
The Wario Apparition is a rare software glitch where an unused game sequence occurs with Wario’s head in a bowser room, in Mario 64. It is commonly mistaken to be a creepypasta. Waluigi apparition is also rumored to be in the game hidden somewhere, fake or not it’s very unsettling.
I looked up from the blue light of my laptop screen. Soon I would be called down for dinner. And have to do the dishes afterwards. Then I would eat a low-calorie yogurt cup while I watched an episode of Shark Tank upstairs. Finally, I would lay in bed for five hours. Stare at the ceiling as I listened to a podcast. Fall asleep with my fluorescent light still on. My teeth unbrushed, my face unwashed. Another day completed with little-to-no resistance. I wondered how long my desecration of Time could continue. Obscene enjoyment was derived from my days spent staring at the loading screen. The internal mantra of you were bad today, you were bad, you were very very bad—a vesper delivered with an implied smirk. From the outside looking in, I could see I was locked into a game of chicken, secretly yearning for someone to come nail me down and call me on my bluff. To finally force my hand. I wanted to be taken down so fucking bad. To be shown for the heretic that I was. But no one wanted to go there with me. Those in my general vicinity danced on eggshells.There isn't just one map, but a grid of near infinite maps, spread out in multitudes of intervals. The videos got stuck in my head. I let the Parallel Universes form in my mind, then disintegrate and rebuild, unsure of their resonance. There was a certain poetry in the Youtuber’s voice over. My position is a float. But treated as a short. I nodded along in agreement. The coordinates of my spirit. Manifested as an invisible copy, with varying degrees of bugged collision or objects. The hidden realm was left largely untapped. How did I make use of the unseen copies, the glitches in my own memory loop? There was an effort, on my part, to create meaning. With minimal button presses. The apparition’s head in the room. A ghost, trapped within the RAM of a Nintendo 64 cartridge, our names already written in the code, before we’ve had the thought of purchasing the game. An old TV screen flickered, with washed out, red-green colors. It played back the graphical abstractions. But they were cruder than I’d remembered, with flattened water textures, and a pixelated tree that stuttered in and out of existence. Yeah, it’s fake. Ok?A voice called out for me. And yet I couldn't move. I was paralyzed, caught in the thick ooze of Wasted Time. My eyes scanned the room in a panic, searching for a stray platform, a scuttlebug, anything to launch me into the next map, towards an alternate grid. I longed for an invisible place, where zero presses would be enough.
Superstition slipped in with the last of the September flies. My hands were full and I couldn't get the door shut fast enough behind me. There was a clog in the bathroom sink where drain flies had nested. Something about my slowness made me wonder if we didn’t deserve it. Jake said to get hot vinegar if I was too damn scared of store bought bug killer. The sour smell drove him out all afternoon and when he came back he saw I had let the vinegar boil out. He headed upstairs with a bottle of bleach but found the bathroom door locked. He shook the handle, his mad rattling brass on brass. I kept the bathroom key hidden in a bag of bread flour and started buying loaves from Ms. Debbie. On Tuesday she said I had autumn all over me and could I please take off my sleeves because the sun wasn’t done yet. I told her I didn’t feel him. On Wednesday, Jake worked late so I cooked nothing and peered under the bathroom door. I heard more than I could see, a buzz louder than his engine in the drive. He came up behind me, a shock I can’t blame him for. I was captivated. A fly crawled under the door and then beside me on the floor, until it was under Jake's boot. On Thursday, I realized there was nothing in the drain but bar soap and toilet water. I wondered what they were eating. Jake left early the next morning, not mumbling like I thought, but shouting. Neighbor Mitchell came over with jam, said he’d seen all the bread I’d been carrying in and heard the yelling. I couldn’t think of what to reply because I hadn’t heard anything. On Saturday, I combed the crumbs from Jake's beard, wiped the jelly from his lips and stored the scraps in a paper napkin. He was late for the river yet drank his Busch slow while we waited for what, I wasn’t sure. When he left, he said the forest service would be burning the woods down and not to be afraid of any ash the wind might carry. I didn’t catch his meaning. I was busy shutting the front door behind him, then fishing the key out of the flour. At the flies’ door, I sprinkled the collected crumbs on the ground and blew them into the bathroom. There was no obvious reason for me to have grabbed the key. I knew from the first larvae floating under the faucet that I would never let the flies free, but I knew it in the way one knows a lie they like better than the truth. Playing pretend, I put the key in the lock and let it rest a while, imagining what it’d mean to open the doorand see what I’d let grow. The outside air was cooler now, no flies swarming picnics or slipping through windows. The neighbors had already begun to eat a little slower; begun to keep the lids off butter dishes. What would it mean to unleash the end of their ease? I pulled the key out knowing I could not open it and felt sick. A million flies thrashed inside that locked room. I pushed my forehead to the floor and the house vibrated in a familiar pattern, till I knew his boots were beside me. His hands didn’t notice the key still in the door; they carried a drill and went for the hinges. He didn’t notice how easy it could have been to open. I hollered, Jake, Jake we don’t want to know but the drill was in his ear and the screws fell to the carpet. At once the door laid him out flat, or rather the flies pushed the door down with him under it. I pulled the neck of my dress over my mouth and nose, sealed my eyes and through the pulsing air, felt my way to him. Flies were in my ears and over my body, the force of them so thick the air resisted as I pushed the door away. The flies did not disperse but were a continuous flood, layering over each other and on top of us, so that it took my roaming hands minutes before I found the key sticking out of the top of Jake’s leg. His hands found mine and pushed them away. He did not hear me as I said no, don’t make room for them in you. He pulled the metal out. Instinctively, I dug my fingers into the wound trying to fill the space but he didn’t understand. He pushed me out and I came back and he pushed me out again. In seconds the flies found their way into the flesh, eggs were buried close to bone. Seconds more and the larva was spilling out of his thigh, growing wings, laying more eggs. Maggots hatched the infection in his blood, then sped the decay. The flies forced the rot and ate it up and then they went for the blood on my fingers and the crumbs on my dress. They ate the wishes out of my belly and the lies out of my mouth and by the end of it all I understood superstition had just been a false name for knowing.
Shifting states. The novel-in-flash Glass/Fire (Querencia Press, 2024) exhibits the unfolding travails of girlhood, a reality adorned in rich contradiction and symbolism. Mandira Pattnaik’s sumptuous language carries forth a deep and sensuous meditation on life’s volatility. The wildness of nature’s forces at their most capricious lend an elemental intensity to fate. A dynamic and revealing exploration of growth, I talked to the author about the book.Rebecca Gransden: In the mood we were in, fire could be liquid, could be sand, or molten like lava, or flames, licking the last of us.You open the book with the above line. How important are opening lines to you and what does this particular line suggest about the book in its entirety?Mandira Pattnaik: Thank you, Rebecca. I do not particularly stress over opening lines, though I greatly acknowledge their importance, especially in flash fiction. It’s helpful to think of the opening as the answer to the question: What does it all boil down to? So, it is essentially the essence of what I want to convey. I want readers to feel surprised, or jolted, or pleased, or offended—I want them to respond in whatever way. With fiction, I shepherd some of the things that I know as truths ignoring from which field of study they originate and insert them into my make-believe world. I’ve now grown to enjoy this kind of braiding. This line, while it braids certain facts about the nature of fire, also tells something about ‘us’. Do ‘we’, as much as we are ‘in the mood’, as yielding as glass yields to fire? I asked myself this question that hadn’t been answered or addressed in my mind and wished to take the narrative forward from there. That’s the way I approach writing—a kind of collaboration between knowing and unknowing. It becomes interesting how a fractured pattern forms that I must uncover in the process while exploring what remains unsaid. Since I had the scope of a novella, and it was the first time I was attempting something of this length, I had the liberty to take or not take the chance to provide answers, and hoping the reader will decide for themselves.RG: How did you decide upon the title—Glass/Fire—for the book?MP: Glass and fire are unrelated in ordinary usage, and it is easy to forget that something as common as glass is formed by subjecting moldable liquid to fire. But then, glass is fragile. Again, some of the toughest glass-made objects are very useful. Fire is energy, enormously potent, but it is shapeless. It has many forms just like glass. Firepower, however, again like glass, has been tamed to suit human needs. So, all these facts seemed very related, though not in a general comprehensible sense. When I set upon the idea of the novella, the opening story was already out in the world, titled as “Glass/Fire”. After that first piece was published, I was sure it was a title that was full of possibilities and that could be open to interpretation (which I kind of love about titles!), and I had to name the novella that I was writing with the same title.RG: A recurring theme is that of impermanence, the fluid nature of states, whether that be of the physical, tangible and chemical type, or the psychological or spiritual. What is your approach to transience?MP: In Indian Hindu religion and mythology, from a very young age, we’re rather familiar with thought-schools such as the cyclical nature of births and rebirths, the virtue of detachment (to possessions as well as relationships) as opposed to being attached, and how change and impermanence is in-built in the universe (as opposed to absoluteness). I understand the doctrine of impermanence is very important to us as a people. Neither are rulers forever, nor is the mortal body to last eternally. Similarly for wealth or happiness, as is bad times and sadness. In Buddhism too, which originated in India, ‘anicca’ is the same doctrine of impermanence, evanescence, transience. Just as life changes in empirically observable states of childhood, youth and death, so do mental events as they come into being and get dissolved. Friends and foes appear and fuse into the mind’s horizon when their job is done. I find this deeply profound. I realize that the recognition of impermanence alleviates the stress of modern living. I seem to course around the theme of transience quite often in my prose and poetry and somehow that has touched a chord with my readers. Simultaneously, I am a great believer of fluidity and interchangeability. These preferences, I understand, gain ground in my writing in a natural manner.RG: Your language is rich, sensual, often concentrated in its descriptions. You make extensive and poetic use of simile and layered meaning. How much of the style you’ve chosen for Glass/Fire is a conscious decision?MP: Thank you so much for saying so. I’m grateful for all the praise that my use of language gathers, given that I am not a native English speaker. Also, I am not a trained writer in any sense—no degrees or writing workshops, and nothing to do with writing in my family, so it amuses me when Granta, denying me a bursary that I had applied for, compares my sample piece’s style to that of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. It also propels me to search for what is my true calling, but then I realize that, having had no training is a blessing as I have all the liberty in the world to use my natural style the way I wish to. I have often been appreciated as a lyrical and sensual writer, which of course, is gratefully received. As often happens, one is not prepared to hear anything about one’s writing—I feel so inadequate as an outsider, untrained, writer from the global south. And then one does get more comfortable. It kind of grows on you, and one starts believing in one’s writing—which I guess happened to me. It was never conscious. I am happy I am allowed my lyrical style, without the imposed regulations that academia might have suggested, or which formal training might have eroded.RG: Let’s imagine pure mechanics. Not fire. Instead of glass, let’s talk attraction and repulsion. What is to be stirred with two scoops of isinglass so courses of molecules change, or solidify like glue, or say, become viscous?It’s tempting to see a tension between the scientific and materialist language used in the book and the lyrical and artful, but the impulse to adhere to distinct categorizations on those terms is made moot early on. While you talk of the chemistry that makes us, the stuff of life, the novella interweaves aspects more broadly to present a holistic view. How do you view the scientific when it comes to Glass/Fire? Do you have a personal interest in the sciences?MP: It's really difficult to place science and art in two watertight compartments, isn’t it? There’s a constant osmosis taking place, and even one feeding on the other to enrich and enhance each other. I like this interplay. I tend to incorporate this tension between science and art amply in my writing. When it comes to Glass/Fire, the very basis of the work, starting at its title, is heavily drawn from various branches of science. I like to think of myself as a scientific and rational individual who also recognizes the limitations of science, both theoretically and practically. I have a background in science, yes, but I also graduated in economics and worked in accounts and audit—so these are all related and interwoven into my writing now. I’m also a big advocate of science explained and used in everyday life, as should the arts be. Instead of classrooms and seminars, science and arts should be part of life for the masses, not just the elite few.RG:But being suspicious in a relationship cemented with trust, is really cruel, it eats away the insides like termites.The novella addresses heavy themes such as adultery, marital breakdown and family strife. Your characters face the undermining of their foundations. How did you go about incorporating these aspects within Glass/Fire?MP: In opting for exploring certain issues, or the choices of themes we make as writers, I am not much interested in topics that essentially affect an individual or family, such as the themes above. I’d rather explore issues that affect society more broadly, such as hunger, civil unrest or apartheid. Having said that, themes of a domestic nature are no lesser in my mind, just a matter of what I am keener on examining as a writer. To me, issues of adultery or marital breakdown are simply manifestations of other problems in families and societies, and as you very importantly point out, in surviving these, the characters in Glass/Fire face the undermining of the very foundations on which their existence depends. These are ways in which the characters are forced to reevaluate the very basis of their being—and they undoubtedly fight back. I wanted to address how fragile existence sometimes becomes, when the truths and relationships you hold dear to yourself are shaken. I believe this kind of tangential approach to characterization requires more involvement and engagement. Instead of examining the said intensely domestic themes directly, or thinking about these issues as specific to one group or category, I asked myself if I could get to the core of their sadness or unfulfillment, and if there were several minor issues that were responsible for the situations the characters found themselves in.RG:There was a man dwelt by a churchyard. His wife was the enormous yew tree that shielded him from all. His children came by as autumn leaves, or as some say, they were the cattle that died grazing upon the yew. Sometimes the man coughed so hard, he’d want to be taken out to sea. But they’d trick him—his wife and his cattle-children—saying, the season’s changed and Christmas is here, when nothing ever changed at all.When it comes to narrative, the novella constantly highlights the meaning to be found in the everyday, that symbolic significance not only exists in a wider cultural manner but is amplified and changed by the personal stories we tell ourselves and are reinforced by family rituals. What was your approach to narrative for Glass/Fire?MP: I find the symbolism in ordinariness haunting me everywhere. It is like there are things on display, in nature and in people, waiting to be observed and newness discovered, until one realizes that it is only the form that has changed, and nothing ever changes permanently. I think I am going back to the theme of impermanence I discussed earlier. There is a lot of anguish, sense of betrayal, and a sense of forced mental captivity in Glass/Fire, and the only way out of it, at least momentarily, was to search for symbolic outlets for that feeling. I think the undercurrent of anguish is somewhat redeemed through the pursuit of, what I term as, ‘extraordinary ordinariness’. I’m attracted to natural, accessible objects' magnetic qualities, things and sights easily missed by the unobservant, which are significant in the way they enhance the beauty of the everyday and what is considered the regular or mundane. In that reference, my approach in Glass/Fire was to find that ray of hope in ordinariness as a signifier of extraordinariness.RG: How does the concept of freedom impact the book?MP: Ah, now that’s somewhat muddy territory for me—I mean, this concept of freedom. What is even freedom—how free are we? What is the freedom of mind? Is being free in the body enough? There are so many questions, and I can hardly begin to comprehend even if I knew the answers. But yes, I am very much an independent thinking individual and the concept of being free, or at least, feeling free is very important to me as a writer. I routinely turn down offers to write according to a certain theme or plan I’m not enthusiastic about. I respect others’ freedom, and in that context, I think it is very essential that we can be tolerant towards the ‘other’, whatever that may encompass. In this book, the narrator, Lily, their mother, Jo, and Heena—they are all seeking some degree of freedom. Some manage to achieve that ‘limited’ freedom they had been dreaming of, others don’t. So that again becomes slippery territory and I’ll leave readers to decide for themselves.RG:Gaze at the archipelago around, like it were the pores of a humungous indigo skin. Pass the tiny island where the market still spills with cheap wares people buy. Not you fancying something anymore, though—glass bangles and silk scarves and colored beads mean nothing today. Ceased to have any merit long ago.At a point in the novella you address the psychological consequences and emotionally disruptive impact of a devastating event. What struck me as particularly perceptive was the observation that in the aftermath of such an event meaning is drained from the world, rearranged or lost. Do you have a philosophical approach to meaning that is expressed in Glass/Fire?MP: I am not sure I am consciously incorporating the ‘meaninglessness’ of certain things in the aftermath of a particularly traumatic or psychologically draining event, but I think it follows as a universal truth of the human condition. When a relationship is thriving, there are several associated memories, and the lovers hold on to those as proxies of the ‘feeling of being in love’. But when there’s a disruption, the equations change, and the same things have no significance.The stories I’m interested in and truly invested in, and want to produce, are about finding the truer meaning underneath our superficial lives and delving into the raw, untouched material underneath. That is where the root is—the origin and consequence. After Where We Set Our Easel, my debut novella, I found myself thinking, What is the consequence? In my debut, I was particularly favorable to seeking a hopeful resolution. But in this one, because of its length which allowed me more space, I wanted to approach the questions of origin and consequence with more elaboration, and not necessarily a peaceful resolution.RG: Looking back, but with an eye on the future, how do you feel about Glass/Fire now? What is next for you?MP: I feel content with how Glass/Fire has been received by readers. I can perceive that it has generated critical interest and is being seen as a book that stands out from the crowd. This is extremely encouraging because I write about characters and settings that are not very common—especially because they belong to South Asia and the novella almost entirely happens in a coastal region of India. I am also happy that this means I can continue to be as original and faithful to my style as I want to. Following this, I have a collection of short stories that I hope will find publication soon. I am also excited about my debut novel that I am currently working on.
My girlfriend has started a new regiment this week. She told me after coming home yesterday from work. Supposedly, this is supposed to help her achieve her “ideal form.” Every night now she is supposed to take these fluorescent green pills with her dinner. I don’t mind it too much. She becomes so sleepy afterwards, so I tuck her in our bed before sitting out on the couch for a couple of hours. Our flat is now quieter than usual.It seems the side effects are starting to take place in her body. This morning, she woke up before me squealing in front of the bedroom mirror. Her reflection seemed sickly in color that contrasted her cheerful visage. Grabbing my hands, she drew up my fingers to her cheeks. The skin there felt taut, reflecting the light from the ceiling fan. After we got ready for work, she texted me to go get some food and blankets for the upcoming weeks. Coconut, muskmelon, and vinegar for fruit flies. Her skin has begun to constrict, pulling back to reveal new valleys and canals. I asked her if she should be more concerned about her health, but she says this is natural. It’s harder to watch her stumble around more often around the apartment. I wrap cute bandages around her fingers from all the glasses she drops in the sink. Bruises color her thighs and hips. Her eyes have begun to cloud, a soft chocolate becoming milky blue. I have started to memorize where to run my thumb in circles at the front of her scalp, feeling small bumps under her skin. She asked me to help her this weekend hemming her jeans. When I run my hand along her vertebrae, she shivers while I test the new skin of hers.She quit her job. She told me that she won’t need it anymore. When my arms rest around her waist, foreheads touching, her new antennae curl in an arc and brush my ears. I asked her how much more fruit do we need to go through, and she giggled. She pressed her sharpened fingertips to my chest. Murmuring, she tells me how refreshing it feels now to breathe, to feel in her own skin. Next Tuesday, we’re supposed to get a humidifier in the mail to help her skin break smoother. The pills are starting to run out, so I have to go pick up her refill tomorrow and grab more trash bags.The night her new limbs emerged was the worst. I had just refilled the humidifier the second time while she begged to be held, covered in a cold sweat. Gently, I would roll her over on her side while I switched out the wet towels to toss into a bedside hamper. I would lay down on my side, rubbing her naked back in circles while the skin sloughed off to reveal a set of newly emerged elytra. I lean over to see her tear-streaked face, pressing my lips to her eyelids and her mouth, gently kissing where labrums fought to break out under her top lip. We both smiled. Once she fell asleep, I gathered her shed skin into a pile and shoved it down into trash bags. I got her the lavender scented ones this time.I like to watch her eat now, watching the juice run down her neck as she practices using her new, miniature mandibles. They click while she talks and when she annunciates her S’s. She told me that soon it might be harder for her to speak without proper vocal cords, so I signed up for a subscription to an American sign language course. She sits beside me while I review the alphabet, stroking my back with one of her new, dark legs that jut out from her waist. When we lay together in bed, I like to lay by her back and rub her newly fitted wings between my forefinger and thumb. She becomes more iridescent by the day. The flat has become lively again, with happy chitters reverberating throughout the place. I had to get her a pair of crutches today. Her legs were the next to go, as I watched the marrow into chitin. The thighs I would grip were now small enough to be held in my palm. As her bones start to hollow, it has become easier for me to carry her around the apartment. She covers her face whenever I decide to carry her like a princess from the bed to the kitchen for her meals. Slowly, she asks me what I will do once her transformation is done. I tell her that I will still love and take care of her regardless of her body. Her antennae wiggle in response. That night, I carried her to bed and held her tight to my chest. It felt like I was holding a bird.When I woke up this morning, the other side of the bed had a beetle sitting on her pillow. I put my hand out, watching her crawl up my arm to my nose. I walked her out to the kitchen and sat her by the sink. She spun while I cracked open a jelly from the fridge for her to squish into her mouth. Later, we went to the pet store to pick out a new enclosure. I brought her in her old water glass. She would point out which substrate she liked, what hide aways she wanted. Everyone else there was also carrying their girlfriend in cups. I set up her new enclosure in our bedroom after. She sat on my hands chewing my cuticles. She seems to really like her new spot on our nightstand by the window.My girlfriend died today. One morning when I woke up, the bed felt devoid of her presence. I shot up, running my hands and flipping up blankets and pillows, trying to find her. When I ran over to check her fish tank, I could see her on her back, arms curled up into her chest, bright green peeking out underneath. I scooped her up with my hands, flipping her over while I sat on her side of the bed. She was beautiful. I didn’t even know how to mourn. While I sobbed, cupping my girlfriend to my chest, the humidifier screamed waiting for its tank to be filled again. I decided to put her by the edge of my nightstand afterwards. When I turn in my sleep, I can twist and look into her honeycomb eyes before hiding under another blanket. I like to imagine that she is still there beside me with her cold exoskeleton pressed against my stomach.
We stood on top of our worlds as we knew them. The fall could kill us. Or worse. All part of the thrill. Henny, Walsh, and I were on the last level of scaffolding wrapped around the Bronson Windmill in Fairfield. We were heading into our senior year at Greenfield College Preparatory School. If you think we had on boat shoes judging from the last sentence, you’re wrong. Only Henny and I had on boat shoes. Walsh wore oversized flipflops with bottle openers on the soles. We sat down, dangling our feet over the edge of the scaffolding, swinging them back and forth above the hundred foot drop. Our cargo shorts were still damp from earlier when we jumped off the cliffs at Devil’s Glen into the river below, oblivious the devil was ever there or ever anywhere.Henny and Walsh were two of my best friends. I looked over at them. Walsh with his pellet gun slung over his shoulder and his Marine haircut to be like his older brother over in Afghanistan. Henny had our communal bong, Sir Bubbles Puffington II, in the padded bong case, slung over his shoulder like it was a bazooka. His babyface was angelic and devilish at the same time. Henny was short for Hennessy. He always told everyone he was from the Hennessy Cognac family. He wasn’t. His dad worked on Wall Street.I sat beside Henny and Walsh with a plastic bag full of three Coors Light forties from the bodega in Bridgeport that never ID’d us. I handed them their forties and we twisted the caps off.“Boat shoes are the cowboy boots of Connecticut.” Henny clicked the toes of his shoes together.“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Walsh laughed.I looked out at the view. The windmill was on the tallest hill in town. We had a panoramic view. The kinda view suckers in our town paid millions of dollars to wake up to every morning. Ours was better though because it was free. Free for a limited time only though. The windmill used to power a dairy farm in the 1800s for some dude named Bronson. Then it was a nonfunctioning windmill for awhile, preserved to remind everyone of what came before us. Then a cell phone company bought it and decided to repurpose it into a cell tower which was why the scaffolding was up that summer. It was still gonna be a windmill on the outside, but it was gonna be a windmill wired to the gills with cell phone stuff too. Change can be crazy like that, turning a historic windmill into a cell tower, restoring it so it didn’t fall in on itself, didn’t just crumble to pieces. As for us three, we were falling in on ourselves a little up there at the top of our worlds as we knew them.I looked up at the sky. A high-flying jet from JFK or Laguardia was a fly buzzing over the clear blue edge of God’s dead face. God was dead to me then. Every plane, even high-flying ones, still looked like another news cycle. Walsh took his pellet gun off his shoulder and aimed it at the far off plane. I looked out instead of up, at Long Island Sound, what we call The Sound in Connecticut. To the east was The Sound, then Long Island itself, then the Atlantic. To the south, The City. The horizon aligned with the last level of scaffolding so perfectly at some angles it looked like a gangplank leading directly to the Manhattan skyline where things happened. We didn’t climb up for the view though. The view was a byproduct like resin caked in our bong. We climbed up to shout fuck you down at our town below, the words echoing back at us, too young to know what being on top of our worlds meant.It was the summer of 2004. The summer we climbed that damn windmill every chance we got. But that night was our last. After we smoked the bong and threw our empty forty bottles up in the air, after Walsh shot at them and missed, after the bottles shattered on a stonewall below, and after we shouted our fuck yous and climbed back down, we got in a bit of a pickle. We were smoking the bong again in Henny’s Jeep on the road beneath the windmill. Henny and Walsh were in the front seats. I was always paranoid, so I turned around and looked out the back window. A cop car had materialized outta nowhere a few hundred feet behind us. A cop got out, drew his handgun, aimed it down at the asphalt and tiptoed towards our car. I turned around and hunched into the front seats.“Cop, for real.” I placed the smoking bong between my legs in the backseat, covering the mouthpiece with my palm.Henny sprayed the Ozium and put all the windows down. We trained for this regularly. We were prepared. I looked out the back window again. The cop continued his slow march, one step at a time. When he got to the back bumper, I faced forward and stared straight ahead. I shoved my bag of weed under the driver seat. In my peripheral, the cop was almost at the driver-side window. That was when Walsh got out of the passenger seat. Walsh had his hands up. I didn’t know if it was because the cop told him to put his hands up, or he did it to show the cop he wasn’t holding anything. It was a blur. “Just meeting up to go out for the night.” Walsh walked towards his brother’s Wrangler he was allowed to drive while his brother was off at war. “I’m getting in my car. We’re leaving now. Sorry for any trouble, Officer.”The cop seemed confused. The cop holstered his gun and continued walking up to the driver-side window. He bent down to look at Henny. He looked like a rookie, only a few years older than us maybe. I cupped my palm over the bong even harder.“What’s on your lap?” the cop asked Henny.Henny was a smart dude. He was no idiot. He’d tell the cop it was oregano, spices for our youth group’s pizza night. He’d say anything except a bag of weed, Officer.“A bag of weed, Officer,” Henny said.A bag of weed, Officer. The honesty angle. The cop will understand. He was a teenager not too long ago.“Outta the car!” Rookie Cop screamed. “Put your hands above your heads where I can see them.”I took my hand off the bong. There wasn’t any smoke left anyway. Things got hazy for a few minutes. More cops arrived. Next thing I remember was us sitting on a curb with our hands cuffed behind our backs, unable to swat away mosquitoes eating us alive. So many cop cars it looked like a murder scene. Our wallets, cell phones, bags of weed, the bong, and the pellet gun were on the hood of Henny’s car.Rookie Cop told another cop “Three Stooges here were shooting that pellet gun on private property and smoking that big bong.” Rookie Cop had his hand on his holstered gun. “I responded to a shots fired call, guns blazing. Lady reported three men on top of the windmill shooting a gun. You believe it?”The other cop swatted a mosquito on his forearm, smushing it into blood and said “Don’t look like these three’ll be curing cancer anytime soon.”So the three of us sat on the curb with our hands cuffed behind our backs like a real meeting of the minds. I stared at our warped reflections on a cop car door. Walsh was crying. He struggled to wipe his tears with his shoulder because of his glasses. He kept muttering our lives were over, that colleges wouldn’t take us with criminal records. I looked over at Henny who had this smirk on his face like getting arrested was something to cross off his bucket list. I looked at myself. My hair was cut high and tight because Mom never let me grow it out and it was so blonde I got called Village of the Damned kid at school sometimes. I’d be lying if I said part of me didn’t think getting arrested was badass. I’d also be lying if I told you part of me wasn’t scared shitless.“I need the three bags in the back of the Jeep,” I told the cops. “My parents are divorced. I’m going to my dad’s tonight.”I was always explaining my parent’s divorce to people and not because I wanted to. And I was always having to lug around my duffel bag, backpack, and PS2 in its travel case whenever I went from one house to the other.“Relax, sweetheart.” One of the cops said. “You’ll get your bags.”The cops finished searching Henny and Walsh’s cars. Read us our rights. Crammed us into the back of one cop car. Our hands still cuffed and smushed behind our backs. We weren’t buckled in with seatbelts. Rookie Cop got in the car, turned it on, and hit the gas. But the cop car was still in park. The engine revved so loud all the other cops stopped what they were doing to laugh and bust Rookie Cop’s balls. I was surprised cops made mistakes too. I thought about asking him if they taught him that in the academy. Make the other cops laugh, bust his balls back after he busted ours, you know, live a little. Cops and robbers shit. But I remained silent.Once Rookie Cop figured out how to put the car in drive, we drove off. “Born in the U.S.A.” by Bruce Springsteen was playing on the radio. Reality hit me when we passed Mom and Pat’s house. Pat was my stepdad. It was the house I’d gotten picked up from less than an hour before, after I finished an SAT practice test and Mom searched my bags and my cargo short pockets for drugs, but she didn’t check the waistband of my boxers where I stashed the half ounce. I saw our white house with green shutters. Our golden retriever, Max, ran along the Invisible Fence line at the edge of his existence. I saw the giant sun-faded American flag that Pat had fastened to a clothesline he nailed between two trees almost three years ago, the week after The Towers fell and everyone put those little plastic flags in their car windows. The flag was three thousand ghosts flailing in the August breeze. The flag was a lot of things I didn’t understand.Rookie Cop drummed the steering wheel with his thumbs, softly singing the chorus to “Born in the U.S.A.” and mumble singing the verses. Every turn felt like the game Jell-O, our weight shifting into each other with the curving hills of backcountry Fairfield as we passed big houses with nuclear green lawns. Downtown, the houses got smaller, but the lawns were still nuclear green. Bush and Kerry yard signs everywhere. Sidewalks appeared. Everyone was staring at our meeting of the minds going on in the back of that cramped cop car. Joggers. Dog-walkers. Labs and golden retrievers. Lance-Armstrong-looking wannabes on expensive bikes. Young commuter couples walking into restaurants. Moms or nannies pushing babies in strollers with ridiculously oversized wheels. Old men with War Veteran snapbacks watering their driveways with gardenhoses. A gang of kids with glow stick necklaces around their necks about to bike through the haunted graveyard. OxyContin-addicted Phishheads from our youth group who robbed us for a half pound of pot smoking cigs outside the pizza shop they work at. Even a laminated memorial picture stapled to a tree, the picture of this kid who killed himself driving drunk a year ago. All of them had eyes that followed us. I was facing the kinds of consequences Mom and Pat had tried to prevent for years. They were always saying they didn’t want to see me end up like my stepbrother Ralphie. He’d faced all kinds of consequences from drugs.We passed Fairfield train station. Commuters walked up the stairs from a northbound local. If we hadn’t gotten arrested, we’d have driven in circles smoking the bong until we ended up at McDonald’s and ordered McDoubles with Big Mac sauce off the Dollar Menu. Henny would’ve dropped me off at the train station for the last train out of Fairfield, the 11:48 local to Stamford. I’d’ve taken the forty minute train ride, transferring once in Stamford onto the local to Grand Central which stopped in Cos Cob, a neighborhood of Greenwich without mansions, where Dad lived. Every Monday night and every other weekend, I went to Dad’s where I had no curfew, unlike Mom’s where I had to be home at 10PM sharp.Rookie Cop pulled into the back of the police station as Bruce screamed at the end of the song. We were unloaded from the car in an area resembling a grocery store loading dock. Henny and I smirked when we looked at each other. Walsh didn’t smirk whatsoever. We were led single-file into the station like a sad little parade. Henny and I were being charged with possession of marijuana (our separate bags were combined, a little cop trick, but still weighed a gram and a half short of a felony) and possession of drug paraphernalia. Walsh was being charged with the same, plus something about the pellet gun. Rookie Cop led me over to the fingerprint station. As he pressed and rolled each fingertip into the ink pad, then onto their little squares on the sheet of paper, I stared at a McGruff the Crime Dog poster. I’d met McGruff once when he came to my school in third grade for a D.A.R.E. rally while a uniformed cop helped him waddle around the gym. On the walk back to our classroom, we’d all seen it. A bald man with an upper and lower body much-like Scruff’s, but human hands smoking a cigarette and eating a sandwich. Scruff’s hollow head and front paw gloves were lying on the grass beneath the man’s paws. It was like learning Santa Claus wasn’t real. Scruff couldn’t take a bite out of a sandwich, let alone crime.When the fingerprinting was over, the ink stained my fingertips, smudges I’d carry into the future. Another cop took my mugshot. It was nice not having someone telling me to smile a real smile for once which was what Mom always said. I called Dad instead of Mom for my phone call. I’d’ve rather stayed in jail than gone back to Mom’s that night and faced Pat who sometimes cared so much about me I wondered if he cared about me at all or if maybe it was some long gone version of himself he was trying to save.“Dad, I got arrested. I’m at the Fairfield Police Station,” I said.“Jesus Christ, Sean. You were arrested a month ago.”That was true. I’d been arrested the month before in the parking lot of this Connecticut fast food chain called Duchess for yelling the chorus to “Tubthumping” by Chumbawamba at the top of my lungs and also for underage drinking. It was only a summons. No handcuffs. No cell. Just twenty hours community service and some fines.“What happened?” Dad asked.“We were smoking pot.”“I’m leaving now.” Dad sighed. I heard my stepmom, Paula, in the background, saying “What is it? What happened?” Then dial tone.I was led to a cell by a desk job cop. The cement block walls in the small row of cells made everything echo. A drunk guy in a wrinkled suit with no tie was in one of the other cells. He had his hands on the bars. He reminded me of the pirate trying to coax the keys to the cell from the dog while the jail burned in the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney World. “When am I getting outta here?” the drunk guy asked. Desk Job remained silent and pointed at the empty cell for me. I walked in. The bars slammed shut behind me. I was alone. I thought about how being arrested would effect the future Mom had planned for me. College, all that stuff. The future I had planned for myself didn’t exist.Walsh was led to my cell shortly after. I wanted to say something to him like it was gonna be alright, but I wasn’t sure if things would be alright. Henny was dumped in shortly after Walsh. We were quiet for a while. The air-conditioning was blasting. It was freezing.“Our lives are over,” Walsh said. “I’m eighteen. I’m gonna be charged as an adult.”“It was some pot and a pellet gun,” Henny said. “We’ll be fine. Fuck the cops.”Henny gave the finger to the camera mounted to the ceiling. I shook my head and slouched up against the cement wall. My teeth clattered from the cold. Walsh cried again. In the moment, I felt strong not crying. I felt like a man, like an adult, like I was ready for the real world, though it would still be three months until I could legally buy cigarettes and blunt wraps or fight a war for oil or vote for one moron or another. My mind back then told me when you get arrested for smoking pot and shooting a pellet gun and you don’t cry, you become a man. Walsh was the manliest of us three. That was the weird thing. I pulled my arms and my head into my t-shirt so it was a little tent. There was a buzzing sound. I peered out through one of my sleeves. Desk Job came into the hallway, opened the cell door with a set of keys, and told Walsh his parents were there. Walsh got up and told the cop his life was over. Desk Job remained silent as he led Walsh away.I thought about Ralphie again. About how he’d been arrested a couple times. About how he ended up. About how Mom and Pat were gonna say I was on the same road as him, a predestined path to destruction because they’d been saying that since they caught me with a pack of EZ-Widers and a few weed stems and seeds freshman year and acted like I was shooting dope into my jugular. I already knew drugs were bad. I also knew they were good. And cool. I already knew drugs were bad though because of how Ralphie ended up, but I wasn’t doing the kind of drug he ended up doing. I swore to God on my mother on my father on my life I never ever would.“I got the munchies.” Henny laughed as he laid back on the bunk with his hands behind his head. “Do you think we’ll get any Burger King? My cousin got Burger King when he got arrested. Or bologna sandwiches like the TV shows?”I told him I didn’t think so. I told him I didn’t think we’d get any Burger King like his cousin or bologna sandwiches like the TV shows. I needed to tell myself something too. I needed to be like, self, listen up, when you’re in a holding cell, there’s always something you need to tell yourself. You need to tell yourself don’t be the god of poor decisions. You need to tell yourself don’t be the god of anything as a matter of fact. You need to tell yourself you're powerless over most of the things you wanna control and everything you think you know about life when you’re seventeen is bologna. You need to tell yourself you’re an idiot kid dousing his life in gasoline. But you don’t tell yourself anything like that because you haven’t lived enough to know the difference between what you can and cannot change. You need to ruin your life before you can tell yourself not to ruin your life. So instead, you sit and you wait for your parents to bail you out. You sit and you wait next to a drunk man in a suit with his hands on the bars like the cell is on fire and the keys are gone. You sit and you wait for the cell to burn down around you or for the cell to burn you up with it. You sit and you wait and from the top of your world you scream fuck you down at anyone trying to save you. You sit and you wait and you scream and all you hear are your own echoes.
The factory closed the week before Christmas. The owner had moved his operations to Bangladesh. Emanuel had spent eleven years on the assembly line. It was the only job he knew. Marta, his wife, could no longer cut hair. Her condition made her hands tremble to the point that her clients had begun to complain about nicks on their necks and ears. They were three months behind on rent, the electricity was shut off. Their kids were eating crackers and trekking through the snow with holes in their shoes.Emanuel had once had luck betting on football matches. That ended, as all good things do. He owed Ahmad, his bookie, three thousand francs. The man had already taken his scooter. Now the threats began.“Your wife is very lovely,” he said. “It would be a shame to put her to work, if you know what I mean.” “You know my situation,” Emmanuel said.“Meet me tonight,” Ahmad said, “and your problem will be solved.”Emmanuel tucked the children into bed, kissed his wife, and put on his threadbare coat.A wet snow was falling. Sloshy puddles had appeared on the street. The air was cold enough to make Emmanuel’s teeth chatter. He slipped into a dive bar he had often passed but never entered. Some men were yelling at the barmaid. Emmanuel ordered a glass of whiskey and downed it in a gulp. He ordered two more and found himself quickly drunk. Ahmed was waiting on the street in the posh neighborhood he’d directed Emmanuel to. “What do you want?” Emmanuel said.Ahmad lit a cigarette. “Not far from here lives a banker. You’re going to rob him.”They walked a few blocks and stopped in the shadows of the hedgerows surrounding a grand house.“See that window?” Ahmad said. “Climb in. Go up the stairs. The bedroom is on the right. In the banker’s closet, you’ll find a large, gilded box filled with his dead wife’s jewelry. All you have to do is get the box and bring it here.”“How do you know this?”“In another life, I was a woodworker. I built his cabinets.”Emmanuel clambered through the window. The house was dark but for a sliver of moonlight through the window. In the living room, a portrait of the banker and his wife hung above the mantle. Emmanuel crept up the stairs and snuck into the bedroom. The banker was snoring loudly. There was something ridiculous about the old man’s head on its enormous pillow. Emmanuel knew that if he didn’t take the box this very moment, he never would. Do this for your family, he thought. The box sat glimmering on a shelf. He snatched it quickly, too quickly, and slammed his knee into the closet door.“Who’s there?” the banker said. Emmanuel’s foot snagged on the rug. No sooner had he fallen than the banker punched his back. Somehow in the dark, Emmanuel found the box and smashed the banker’s face. The old man staggered back and crumpled to the floor.“I’m so sorry!” Emmanuel cried. “I’m so sorry!”The banker’s eyes fluttered, his lips bubbling with spittle and blood. “Help me, please!”Emmanuel wanted nothing more than to get away, but the banker gripped his coat. The old man was surprisingly strong. Emmanuel had to wrench himself loose, finger by finger. He ran down the stairs and out the door. Ahmad stood across the street, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Emmanuel thrust the box into his hands. Ahmad opened it and smiled.“Your debt is settled,” he said. Emmanuel stumbled home and collapsed to the bathroom floor. He lay there for a long time, praying that God would not punish a man in this position. After a time, he felt better. He undressed and crawled into bed beside his wife.“Are you okay?” she said.“Go back to sleep,” he said.
A nun was cloistered in a convent near me. I knew her. She was the Mother Superior. She was the main bitch. Top energy. She left that cloistered convent and moved to the Midwest. I was visiting the Midwest for poetry and to fuck a writer I’d been sexting with for months. I waxed my pussy right before I went on that trip and that was a mistake. My boyfriend dropped me off at the airport. I took a pill to fall asleep on the plane. When the plane landed, my head was resting on the stranger next to me. My head was on his shoulder but he never tried to wake me up. I was embarrassed but he was polite about it. I am no longer embarrassed and it's kind of a brag. I had my head on a random man’s shoulder on a plane and I was so comfortable and he probably wasn't but he was cool with it. I wonder if he enjoyed it.When the plane landed, the writer I was going to fuck was waiting for me. He rolled my luggage to a restaurant. We had sushi. We had beers and sex. I texted the nun. She texted me her address. I didn't know nuns could live alone. The writer took the L with me to the nun’s neighborhood. The writer made a racist comment about the neighborhood and walked me near her apartment. I asked him to leave. I called the nun. She came out. She asked me to come up to her place. We went up and down a very tight staircase. Her apartment looked exactly like all the memes about the coziest lesbian homes with green walls and mismatched furniture. This was the first time I saw the nun’s hair. I had imagined it when she wore her habit. Her current congregation allowed her to wear regular but modest clothing. She could show me her hair and I liked it. Her outfit was highly nun-coded. As expected. As it should be. And I loved it. I put on a black, velvet bodysuit and jeans to my date with the nun. I had my hair down. She drove me to an area the writer hadn't taken me to yet. It was a tourist spot by the water and it was beautiful. We walked on the boardwalk but didn't hold hands. We ate Italian food. She talked about how much she loved to go camping. We got ice cream cones. We licked the ice cream cones. I had never seen her licking anything before. Her licks were meticulous. When we got done licking, we got on the wrong elevator and got lost in the parking structure. Neither of us had paid attention to where she’d parked. We were too excited. We were on a date. We kept getting back on the elevator and coming out on different levels. I was getting sweaty. She said it was the priests’ fault. I thought about giving up and getting on our knees. Asking god for help so we could find her car.I imagined her having a sexy amount of authority as Mother Superior. Making sure a sexy amount of suffering happened at all times. An hour later, we found her car. I told her I would take the L back to where I was staying but she insisted on driving. When she dropped me off, she waited for me to go inside. As you should. When you go on a date with someone you care about, you wait to make sure they're safe. I went back into the writer’s apartment. He woke me up with his dick the next morning. It was similar to the ending of Kids (1995). A drunk Casper rapes Jennie as she sleeps. He was sober and we were in bed.I forgot to reply to my boyfriend for most of my trip, so when I got back home, we broke up in his parents’ living room.
Peggy got down on her knees and asked God to send her a good man. She thought she had one in Jack but her friends told her that he wasn’t a good man, or if he was, he was good in the way that men are good which is different from the way that women are good. Something about the difference between a deal and a contract. Peggy thought all goodness was the same and maybe the goodness in Jack was hiding. For six months Peggy and Jack had dinner once a week until one day he stopped answering her calls. “He’s just not that into you,” her friends said. But wouldn’t he have said that around the time they promised that they would always be honest with each other? And couldn’t he have said that before or after he told her, I feel like I can tell you anything?She called his house at doubling intervals — one day, every two days, every four days, every eight days, every sixteen. “Stop calling,” her friends said. “He’s going to think you’re crazy.” But just in the way Peggy knew Jack was good, she knew she wasn’t crazy, so why should it matter. “What if he’s dead?” she asked. “What if he’s hurt?” Then one or another friend would say they just ran into him in the supermarket. So Peggy got back down on her knees. “Kind and capable,” she thought, that’s all I want God. Then she spoke it out loud in case God wasn’t listening with his brain-ears. “Kind and capable, please.”She had three recurring dreams about Jack. In the first one he was smothering her with a pillow. In the second he was holding her under the waves while she drowned. In the third, which was the most violent, he was stabbing her in the bony place between her breasts while she held her hands up and tried to take the knives in the smooth basket of her palms instead. The dreams were eerily silent, like the moment before Jack’s automated voicemail kicked in. The only voice in the dream was Peggy’s, always asking the same question: “Why are you doing this?” Years passed and God sent Peggy several ok men. Jack died, not from suffocation or drowning or stabbing, but prostate cancer. For months after his funeral Peggy told anyone who would listen that she was disappointed in the catering. “Jack hated horseradish,” she told her friends. “Jack hated cold cuts. Anyone who knew him would know that.”
