Epigrams

Date

In her tight black dress,

she’s eager to caress me.

In the bathroom I panic and stress,

finding the toilet paper roll is empty.

Killer of the Week

The culprit was soy.

We threw it out, all it did was annoy.

My mother found a strange joy

Studying new food

that could kill or harm. “You’d

better stop eating that crap, or you’re screwed!”

Reality TV

Terrible people, famous for being terrible:

I’m glued to the TV with my wife; it’s unbearable.

Hipster

Vintage records, Polaroid photographs,

fixed gear bikes, and an eighties mustache.

-Your Obsessive Chronicler,

Ryan

A Day in the Eyes of The Grim Reaper

A Day in the Eyes of The Grim Reaper

Blue sky, birds singing, offset by street clamor.

Bodies rush and bump, awkward exchanges are made.

People from all walks of life search for glamour.

Millions of faces destined to fade.

Orange skinned women injected with pseudo beauty

chatter hollow words as they pass by,

while a mother buries herself in her phone, forgetting her duty

attending to her baby’s desperate cry.

By day, businessmen trample all in their way.

By night, they drink and gamble,

relaxing while strippers struggle to earn their pay.

Hopes and dreams left in shambles.

They’re as good as swine.

Their souls are mine.

-Your Obsessive Chronicler,

Ryan

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The Toy Maker

Here's my first attempt at flash fiction. I hope you guys enjoy.

The Toy Maker

It’s been three weeks since the toy maker disappeared. I ask around town. No one seems to remember the name. When I flash his photo to irritated passersby, all I get in return are blank, confused stares. His apartment has been cleaned out. In his place stands an old woman in a creaky rocking chair.

“Excuse me ma’m, but do you know the toy maker? He used to live here.” I ask the gentle old woman over the noise of a cheesy old soap opera booming from the living room.

“Is this some kind of joke?” She furrows her brow. “I’ve always lived here.”

I persist.

“I’ve always lived here," she says.

Marionettes hang from the ceiling. I take the hat off my head and press it to my chest.

"I just have a few questions." I reach into my trench coat pocket and reveal a badge.

"Come in," the woman smiles, "make yourself comfortable, detective. I'll go fix us some tea."

I take a seat on a plastic-covered chair. Porcelain dolls occupy shelves. The marionettes looked like hanged men from the ceiling. Buttons, strings, and cloth lay on a small work table. Masterfully crafted wooden clocks click from the crowded walls.

The old woman shuffles from the kitchen and hands me a small cup of tea. Mint brushes against my tongue when I sip.

"What seems to be the matter?" She says.

"A man has gone missing. He used to live here."

"I've always lived here."

"I'm confused, ma'm," my voice deepens, "because I visited him here last week."

"You look tired, deerie," the woman smiles, "would you like coffee instead?"

My patience wears thin. "Did he move?"

"Who?" She asks.

"The toy maker," I growl. "The toy maker."

"I've always lived here," she repeats. "Let me go make us some tea."

I rise from my seat. "I should be going m'am."

"You can't go," she says.

"Thank you for your time. Goodbye."

I walk to the door. Two steps, five steps, ten steps, one hundred steps, one thousand steps. I still have not reached the door. One hundred thousand steps. I am in the same place. Two hundred thousand steps. I collapse from exhaustion.

I wake on the shelf. I cannot move. I cannot speak. My eyes are my sole weapon. I look around. My hands and feet are small, wooden. A wrinkled hand grabs me from the shelf by my strings and attaches me to the ceiling. I see hundreds of marionettes.

The doorbell disrupts her daytime soap opera. A young man with a comb-over stands at the door.

"Ma'm, I'm with the police department, and I have-"

She smiles. "Come in, dear."

-Your Obsessive Chronicler,

Ryan

The Great Rain Dance

 This is a story very special to me. I wrote this in one night, with the help of a few energy drinks and Explosions In The Sky blasting in my ears. It's a reflection of a few things that were on my mind at the time. I hope you enjoy.

The Great Rain Dance

By Ryan Gonzalez

This is where we were born, but it feels like a foreign world. Noah doesn’t seem to mind as much. Wrapped in a green blanket covered with dinosaurs and curled into a little ball in the backseat, he’s spent most of the trip sleeping his troubles away. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t envious of him. The point of this trip was to get away from it all: to escape the house, escape the yelling, and most of all, the tears. I thought that taking the annual family trip down to Earth with just the two of us would be good for Noah. It could give us a chance to talk, provide us with some much needed bonding time. So far, there hasn’t been much talking or bonding between brothers. I know it’s because we’ve both been feeling the same way. It’s not the same without the four of us.

I’ve always viewed Earth as a mysterious place. When I was in the third grade, right around Noah’s age, my family fled Earth, climbing to the stars instead. Every year since the move, we would take a trip back down and revisit our small summer home in Colorado. It was much more beautiful than the floating metal husk we called a “colony”. We didn’t have trees, real sunlight, fresh air, snow or seasons. When I would explore in the woods, swim in the lake, or sit by the warm campfire in the chilled nighttime air, I felt renewed. Then, we would pack up our things and go back home, to a place where everything was metal and cold. The colonists said they lived a good life, away from the troubles that Earth brought, but I never fully believed them. I would always count the days until we went back. As the years passed, less and less people populated the polluted cities and barren countryside of Earth, doing everything in their power to flee what economists called a “sinking ship”. Now, only tourists flock to the lonely planet, providing them with a “vintage” and “cultural” experience. That’s how the travel brochures defined them, anyway. The tacky, eye-roll-inducing tourists never stopped us. We visited our little home no matter the circumstance, not only for the refreshing beauty of the landscape, but because we truly loved the time our family spent together. My mother was so thoroughly entranced by it that she insisted her next child be born on its surface. A few months later, Noah was born in a small hospital on the outskirts of what had been Denver. After that year, the trips had taken a turn for the worst.

My mother became too infatuated with the planet; she was never really quite the same. A deep depression had swept over her whenever we returned to the colony. She resented my father for keeping us “trapped” in space, an “artificial man in love with an artificial life.” With each passing year, the yelling and fighting grew in intensity and viciousness. Whenever we returned to our summer home, Noah and I would play in the woods or countryside until sundown, fearful of our return to the little house, now a cramped space that forced the worst out of everyone. Our enthusiasm to return to Earth diminished each disastrous trip after another. This year, the divorce was to be finalized and the trip was the last thing on anyone’s mind…except for mine. I saw how Noah would look longingly from his window, down into the black abyss where the blue planet sat. I couldn’t ignore it either. I gathered all the money in my savings and took Noah. This trip was for us.

The first half of my money went towards getting us a shuttle to Earth, then one to the coast of California. We’d have to drive the rest of the way. I managed to scrounge enough cash to rent an antique car, a rusty 1967 Ford Mustang on its last leg of life. Despite the worn tires, squeaky breaks, and a trunk that didn’t like to stay shut, it runs fairly well. The tourists eat this kind of stuff up. It’s a tribute to how people got around in the “old days”.

This year is the first time I’ve driven by myself on Earth, a journey that becomes more difficult with each passing year. The roads are unkempt and craggy, especially the ones through the country. They cause the car to rock back and forth and the suspension to groan in agony. Grass slowly infiltrates the roads further and further, determined to blend asphalt into earth. Old telephone poles line the sides of the road, made of flimsy rotting wood. They sink into the ground at different angles, some at different heights than others. The wires stringing them together are tangled and gnawed through, most likely by ravenous crows or hungry squirrels. Various weeds and plants coil at the base of the poles, reclaiming the rotting structures. Despite their withered state, they stand tall amongst the empty countryside, massive aged monoliths that cast refreshing shadows amongst the brutal summertime heat. I find a subtle charm in them; it’s been years since I last saw one.

It’s a shame Noah is missing this; he always liked to point at the birds sitting atop the telephone poles and gaze at the azure sky, trying to associate the puffy white clouds with various objects and animals. Noah was always curious about anything and everything concerning Earth. He brought a slew of books with him from his school’s library, ranging in topics from prehistoric dinosaurs—they’re his favorite—to the Great Collapse of the 21^st century. Under his arm rests a history book, titled “Native American Culture”. The book rests awkwardly between his chin and his elbow, digging into the side of his cheek and his ribcage. I reach into the backseat and try to wiggle the book free from his grasp, but he cracks his eyelids open and responds with a yawn. 

            “Where are we?” He rises from the backseat, still cloaked in his dinosaur blanket.

            “Almost there, bud. About forty miles away.”

            He rubbed his eyes and stared out the window, hair pointed to one side. “I was sleeping for that long?”

            “Yeah, you knocked out,” I said while reaching for the passenger seat and grabbing a sandwich wrapped in tinfoil, “you forgot your lunch from the rest stop. Eat up while you can, we won’t see another restaurant until we get into town.”

            Noah fixed his vision on the passing landscape, unbothered by the sandwich I was clumsily forcing to his hand. “I’m not really hungry.”

            “You said the same thing during breakfast.”

            “I wasn’t hungry during breakfast.”

            I could feel my temper rising. “Just eat the damn sandwich.”

            “I’ll eat it when I’m hungry.” He pressed his forehead against the window, hiding his face between the glass and his shoulder. The car fell silent for a while, until a series of sniffles projected from the back seat. Through the cracked rear view mirror, I could see Noah’s exposed cheek turn a bright red.

We remained silent the rest of the trip. Noah buried his head in his Native American book, and I cranked the radio up, listening to a station popular in the colony. The prairie slowly transitioned into a forested area as we got closer to our house, the air ripe with the smell of pine. From here, the directions to our house were simple. Take a right on a road called Sycamore, then a left on a dirt path that could hardly be classified as a road. This leads to a hill in the middle of a large clearing where our house sits. However, the drive isn’t quite what I remember. There are far less trees this time. The vibrant emerald, blue, and pearl hues of the mountains was gone. Noah seemed to notice the change, too. He pressed his nose against the window, a look of confusion washing over his eyes. Then, a small flicker of hope ignited within me. In the distance, we saw our little house, unchanged, standing tall atop the hill.

Noah and I wasted no time running to the front door and letting ourselves in. Everything was exactly as we had left it; our warm, comfortable furniture, various electronic devices, our old bunk beds, pictures of the family accumulating dust. While I was overcome by nostalgia, Noah stood by the massive pair of sliding glass doors on the back wall of the living room and stared into the wilderness beyond.

            “What happened?” He points.

            “What do you mean?” I glance out of the window. The clearing is dead.

The once mighty pine trees that populated the clearing withered, their branches now barren of life. Brown pine needles litter the ground, blending in with the other dead plants. Even the small pond beside the hill was no more; dried into a muddy pit. The various streams running through the clearing also evaporated, reduced to mere trenches of pebble.

            I try to search for the right words, but they don’t come.

            “Maybe we should leave. It’s not the same anymore.” Noah said, avoiding eye contact.

            “Let’s give it a chance. We came all the way out here, right? We should make the most out of it.”

            Noah grabbed his suitcase. “I’m going to go unpack.”

            “Ok, I’ll start setting up then.” I smiled. He responded with a faint smile of his own and headed to our room with the bunk beds.

Hours passed as I ran through the usual things we did when we first arrived at the house. Turn the electricity and water on—check. Give the house a quick cleaning—check. Check the mailbox on the bottom of the hill—check. It contained a single item, an advisory pamphlet concerning the longest drought in the history of the country, issued by the Earth Tourism Committee. By the time I finished the tasks and unpacked, it was already sundown. Noah still hadn’t come out of his room.

I tip toe over to his room, gently nudge the door open, and poke an eye through the crack. He’s sprawled against the bottom bunk, asleep, suitcase still full of clothes. On one side of him was his Native American book, and on the other side was an old picture of the four of us. Although closed, his eyelids were red and puffy.

My heart sank. I know my efforts are meaningless. No matter what I do, or what I say, I can’t change anything. The divorce will still go through. Noah will still cry. I’ll still have anger and resentment linger within me. But I also realize, I have to be strong for him. I know my role is crucial. I have to let him know he’ll never be alone in this world, in space, in the universe. Words aren’t enough anymore. In the colony, with so many artificial people and things, words have lost their power. I have to show him. I grab the Native American book from his bed and spend all night reading it. One chapter in particular catches my eye.

When I wake in the morning, I immediately get to work. I pick various twigs from the dead pine trees and string them together in a circular pattern first, then attach them standing in rows along the circle. All the pots and pans from the kitchen are now outside and I have a few strung through my belt loops. I gather all the pinecones I can find into a pile. They’re what I’d like to call my “centerpiece”. I manage to find a few feathers on the ground, mostly from crows, blue jays, and cardinals. Once I attach them to the makeshift headpiece I made out of twigs, I’m ready to start my dance. It’s a scorching summer’s day, but I’m going to make it rain.

I start in the early afternoon. Basing my movements on the contents of the book, I dance in a circular pattern around the pinecones, reverberating my voice through the bottom of my throat. I beat the pots and pans strung across my waist with wooden spoons from the kitchen and clang them together while making swaying motions mid-dance. I must look like a damn lunatic. There isn’t a cloud in the sky.

In the corner of my eye, I see Noah staring at me through the sliding glass windows. A big smile is strewn across his face. I keep dancing, despite the fact that my stamina is quickly running out. I keep moving, only to trip on a pinecone and land flat on my face. Noah laughs hysterically at my blunder, now sitting on the back porch of the house watching my clumsy dance in fascination. I get back to my feet and give him a thumbs up. He greets me with a smile and a wave back. Still no clouds.

I dance and dance, in the same circular pattern, for what seems to be a little over an hour now. The afternoon heat is beating on my skin, but I persist. I find new ways of making noise, like dragging fallen branches against tree bark, rubbing the pinecones together, beating the pots and pans with metal spoons. Noah has disappeared from the porch. Has he gotten bored? Dismissed me as a crazy person? Is he reading another book?

I hear the sliding glass door open and close, and my doubts are instantly erased. He stands proudly on the porch, in a costume of his own. Cardboard tubes circle his arms, feathers from his pillow haphazardly glued on. Blue chalk from the pool table upstairs runs in streaks across his face, proving to be intimidating war paint. In his right hand he holds empty toilet paper rolls taped together and at the ends, filled with rice to create a rain stick. His dinosaur blanket is tied to neck, creating a mighty cape. I signal to him to come over. Noah runs behind me and mocks my dancing, adding his own twists here and there. The sky turned grey.

We danced and twirled around the pine cones, banging on the pots and pans and shaking the toilet paper rain stick towards the sky. Occasionally, I would add in my variation of the robot and Noah would “shake his booty”. I would pick him up and swirl him through the air while he makes superhero “whoosh” noises and shakes his rain stick towards the clouds. It was then that I felt a drop of rain plop against my cheek. “We’re almost there!” I let out an excited yell. Our dancing has now reached a fever pitch. We dance frantically, causing the clouds above to shift and spew lightning across the sky. The wind picks up and we dance even harder, our legs numb from exhaustion. Without warning, the rain comes down in sheets. We raise our fists in triumph, screaming to the sky with roars of victory. We high-fived and hugged, and I lift him on my shoulders, propelling him higher towards the sky. He raises his soggy rain stick with a laugh, and in that moment, we had conquered nature. It was us and the Earth, how it used to be.

When I woke the next morning, and packed all our stuff and loaded it into the car, I saw Noah standing by himself in the middle of the muddy clearing.

            “What are you looking at?” I called to him from across the hill, slamming the Mustang’s trunk multiple times until it finally closed.

            “Come here!” 

I rushed over to him, scanning the plot of earth he was examining.

A small sapling managed to break free from the mounds of dead pine leaves scattered across the ground, a green speck amongst a sea of brown.

            “Looks like all it needed was a little bit of water.”

            “Do you think it’ll be ok when we leave?”

            “It’ll be fine. We gave it a good start.”

            “Grow big and strong, ok?” Noah patted the ground and followed me to the car, back to the stars.

Little did we know that in the years to come, even though we were worlds apart, we would watch the sapling grow. It would be the tree our children would play on, and our children’s children.

-Your Obsessive Chronicler,

Ryan