Best Served Cold

I

I depart the granite calm, I watch

The cold of hate to fill the image when

You destroyed me in May. I vow

I will set fire to you in winter

A thought to a wound, I poison

The cotton clouds and I light and I burn

Horizons. Your heart will be a scorched earth

Covered in the light ash of snow.

And the sea falls in like boulders.

People never die here and yet

Every soul a fortress I plan to break.

Men have killed for less

And lie with dead minds for lack,

Like a symbol of warning that your

Blatant immortality is choosing to crumble

Amidst clouds long since burned away.

II

You swore regrets would chase me down.

Some part of those words flooded

My world in a curious form

Of smoke on the horizon.

My leaves have turned to color, or

So you spite through clenched

Teeth. I'll abide and let you smolder

Because I always liked that about your eyes.

You're something different now,

A new kind of creature whose pretty

Ivory claws sing across the granite,

Sharp and meant for me.

You've more life in you now then

You ever did. You're bright and

Burning, but I don't think you realize

That is my doing too.

Burns

I.

Mist in the morning and it's fallout,

birds chirping slowly like geiger counters,

sunlight burns lethargic and it's florescent bulbs

in a place that I don't want to be.

And the birds chirp a little more

when I come near.

II.

Days like these when the leaves are middle-aged

and surrender to color,

the world hums a bit with some hidden purpose,

clouds remind me of you and four years

didn't happen.

I always think of burning buildings, because

somewhere they did, and someday

they probably will again.

III.

Night haunts storm drains,

waits for reality to fall, to creep out

and fill the lurking space

between blades of grass and climb

up rough bark of trees to strangle

the birds, so they don't sing.

The night finds me

and I tape my fingers because,

I don't know,

this darkness could burn and

expose film. Instead it masks thoughts

and the things I need,

so I escape to the woods,

which are quiet and mine.

IV.

Stars, like silent friends,

have to obey some laws:

like gravity, and nights when it's windy

it's hard to light.

Your name, I write on paper,

and in the gun-room,

I set it on fire

and watch you burn up.

By Ben Chamberlain
Written 10/06/11, 8:30 AM. Revised 12/06/11, Revised again 04/30/12

Finding Sarah

The sounds of the city splashed and resonated over and around Will, swirling his mind like a leaf down a street drain. Boston’s skyscrapers towered over his head, imposing long shadows across the streets, the signs spewed unintelligible words at him, and cars charged by with menacing horns. Will ran his hands through his hair, trying to calm himself down.

He was lost. Dammit, how did that happen? The buildings were grey and red, monotonous, unyielding. Did he get off at the wrong subway station? The week had become dangerous as the broken windows of Sarah’s car, red and blue lights reflecting from the crumpled glass through Will’s mind.

The building across the street from him was a hotel. A Meriden hotel. Where was the subway? He didn’t even know which direction he had come from; he should have paid more attention to where he was going. But how could he have, with how fast the day had been progressing? He blinked, ran a hand through his greasy black hair again and wiped the sweat from his eyebrows. Signs. He was at the corner of Franklin and Oliver. Will racked his brain for the names, but couldn’t ever remember being on them. There had to be a map somewhere nearby. The people spiraled about him, flowing up and down the street. Will let them carry him down Franklin like water rushing down a street toward a drain, until they slowed at a crosswalk.

Several people were gathering, waiting for an opening in the hordes of cars. The city was hostile and the sun was setting. None of it seemed familiar, despite all the weekends he had spent in Boston with friends and family. He needed to get to the dock! He scanned the streets for any sort of map, then stared up at the buildings, looking for some sort of landmark that would identify his position, but they only crowded chaotically against the sky like broken and twisted metal. A woman beside Will idly glanced over, and shifted away. He must have looked wild in yesterday’s torn jeans and black shirt. He hadn’t managed to shower; after he got the phone call things had moved so fast. He had driven to Sarah’s immediately. He breathed, slowly, trying to calm down. He ran through last night in his mind again, over and over. He remembered hearing the sirens, they were unusual for his town. He never thought it would be her. Then Steve had called; his dad was a volunteer firefighter, he heard all of the emergency calls going out from Newton. “Sarah was in an accident,” he said, tension straining his voice. “I thought you would want to know. I mean, you two are close. You know.”

The chirp of the walk signal cut through the air, sharp and warning. The crowd leapt towards the opposite side of First street, colliding halfway with the equally intent crowd on the opposite side. Will dodged around each leather briefcase and Redsox baseball cap, pushing through the sweaty crowd. He stepped over the curb and was swept towards the setting sun.

The sun. It set in what, the west? He needed to be east. She would be at the dock, and she needed his help, he was sure of it. He needed to be at the water! He whirled around and tried to force his way past the crowd. The dark figures bumped into him and he clenched his grey backpack tightly, ducking his head and gritting his teeth, pushing forward. Suddenly he broke out of the crowd into an open sidewalk, and he shielded his eyes from the light of the sun glinting maliciously off of the top of cars speeding across the street. At every piercing horn or screeching brake Will couldn’t help recoil, hunching his shoulders to protect himself from the hostile sounds of the city.

It was the Charlestown Naval Yard. She had to be there. It was on the freedom trail, it shouldn’t be this hard to find. He’d walked the path before, more than once. His and Sarah’s families always used to travel there, look at the USS Constitution, and infinitely more interesting to Sarah and him, watch the newer ships sailing in and out with the ocean’s tide. They used to spend hours skipping stones and fragments of the cobblestone streets across the water, talking. But he couldn’t find it! He had been there so many times and he just couldn’t find it! There had to be a map or some sort of direction somewhere.

And suddenly, there it was! It looked like a bus stop, hunched and battered, crouching underneath an old brick apartment complex. Will jogged, his nervousness twisting his stomach. 

He stumbled across to the back of the concrete and steel awning and sighed with relief at the sight of a street map of downtown Boston, streets crisscrossing like a haphazard puzzle.

There was a little yellow arrow denoting ‘you are here’ pointing to a spot in the thickest of the maze of streets. The coast was studded with wharfs and docks, all thankfully labeled.

“You lost?”

Will jumped, whirling around and grabbing the straps of his backpack. The man blinked, stepping back guiltily. He looked to be about thirty years old, an African American man wearing a red t-shirt under a yellow raincoat and a blue baseball cap. His body was long and skinny, but his lips curled into a crooked friendly smile. He looked like he might have been homeless. He leaned eerily towards Will.

“Yeah,” Will said, turning back slowly to the map. The man chuckled as if he were indulging in some inside joke.

“Me too,” he said, laughing again to himself. “I’m lost!”

Will turned to look at him again. He was still laughing, as if what he was saying was the funniest thing in the world. He smiled and shook his head gleefully, his eyes warm and eager. But who talked to strangers in downtown Boston?

He stuck out a bony hand. “I’m Samuel,” he said, still smiling. 

Will flinched slightly. He didn’t know this man. He stared into his eyes, searching for some hidden motive, but only saw the reflection of his own suspicious face. He imagined Samuel robbing him in an alley, but it didn’t seem to fit together. He slowly took the man’s hand. “My name’s Will.” Should he say something helpful? Samuel said he was lost too. “Where, uh, where are you trying to get to?” stammered Will.

Samuel laughed to himself again, as if Will was missing something. “I told you, I’m lost!” He repeated. Will watched him, confused, and then turned slowly back to the map. He was at Franklin and Oliver…

Samuel suddenly leaned in, squinting at the map as well. Will shifted slightly to accommodate him, keeping a tight grip on his bag. He scanned the coastline, looking for the Yard. The freedom trail, it would be along that… 

“Aha,” Samuel muttered, glancing out the side of his eye at Will, almost breathing down his neck. Will frowned. What was he doing? It seemed like Samuel was hardly looking at the map.

It didn’t matter, because the words “Charleston Naval Yard,” were right there at one end of the freedom trail. He found it. It wasn’t far; he must have gotten off at the wrong stop. He didn’t want to risk trying to find another subway stop, so he quickly memorized the route and then shifted his backpack, stepping away from the bus stop. Samuel straightened and followed suit, smiling at Will again. “You still lost?” he asked.

“Ah, no, I don’t think so. Look, it was nice to meet you, but I should be going,” Will spoke, backing away, starting down the street. He watched the cracks in the sidewalk passing him at a brisk pace and then slowly turned to look behind him. Samuel was only a few steps behind Will, watching him carefully.

“The buildings,” said Samuel, when he saw Will had noticed him. “You can’t see the horizon. They block it. Can’t see in front of you or behind you, it’s no wonder you get lost!”

“Sure,” said Will, wanting to be agreeable. He couldn’t see Samuel having any bad intentions but he nonetheless made Will nervous. There was the Citizen’s Bank on the corner which he had seen on the map. He knew where he was going.

Samuel scratched his head. “I don’t think there is a single one of us here who really knows where they are going. We’re all traveling blind in here, don’t you think?”

Will looked over his shoulder. Samuel was still smiling and nodding at him. “Blind as bats,” Will commented, continuing. 

“Exactly!” Samuel cried, trotting next to Will. “The city is a pretty confusing place. Whoever designed Boston must have been crazy.”

“Of course,” muttered Will. He suddenly wondered for a moment if Samuel was mentally ill, or disturbed, or dangerous. These thoughts followed him across one street and then another as the street signs flashed warnings all over, and scenes flashed into his mind. He had driven past the site on his way to her house; he remembered the chill when he saw her crumpled car upside-down in the grass. There was only one ambulance left, and two sleek police cruisers. Men in dark uniforms were already clearing the debris, and the flares on the street were just dying away.

“So where are you from, Will?” Asked Samuel nonchalantly. He gazed through the windows of a cramped Starbucks at the customers hunched over their evening coffee.

An image of Samuel with a crowbar, smashing the window on his little suburban home flashed into Will’s mind, but again, it didn’t fit. Still, Will thought, it was odd. “I’m from Newton. Y’know, a little ways west. Where are, uh, where are you from?”

Samuel shrugged. “Around here,” he said, staring at a hot dog stand across the street. Will frowned at his unfulfilled answer. He was definitely homeless. “Hey, do you have money for a hot dog?” He asked, looking hopefully at Will. 

“Yeah, sure,” said Will, glad for the chance to be rid of Samuel. He fished three dollars from his wallet, handed them to him.

“Thanks!” said Samuel, and he took off across the street at a jog without seeking a crosswalk. Will shook his head and continued around the corner, stopping to cross the street. The walk signal was red as cars sped back and forth.

“What are you looking for anyway?” Samuel suddenly asked, appearing again behind Will, who took a startled step back.

“Oh! Uh, I’m going to the Charlestown Naval Yard. The one with the Constitution,” Will said in surprise."

"The Constitution is at the Charlestown Naval yard?” Samuel mumbled with a full mouth.

“Ah, no, the U.S.S. Constitution. The boat,” Will said.

Samuel nodded vigorously, taking a healthy bite from his hotdog. Will punched the pedestrian button on the pole for a second time.

“Got it. Who’s there?” he asked with his mouth full again.

Will blinked. “What?"

“Well, you’ve gotta be meeting someone,” Samuel gulped, turning away from Will and looking across the street. “I mean, what’s the point of going there alone at this time of day?”

“Ah. A girl. A friend of mine,” Will muttered, glancing anxiously at the light. This crosswalk signal was becoming uncomfortably long. He glanced down the street. There was a momentary gap in the cars, but he didn’t want to risk it.

Samuel shook his head and laughed, turning back to Will. “A girl, we-ell,” he said, extending the word.

Will glared at him. “A friend. I’ve known her for a long time.”

Samuel smiled, putting out his hands as if an old friend had caught him at a joke. “Of course. Sorry Will. I hope you find her.” Samuel glanced at the walk light and yawned. It finally flashed, displaying the white walking man. The cars had stopped, but stood at the lines, quiescent and dangerous. He was glad he hadn’t driven. Sarah wouldn’t have liked it, and besides, he hated driving in Boston. He remembered her mother saying something this morning about Sarah refusing to get in a car after the accident. He had to get to the Yard, and God, he hoped she would be there! She had to be, where else would she be? She always used to go there when she needed to think.

Will walked briskly across the street and Samuel followed. Samuel looked both ways at the cars suspiciously, hopping over the lines in the crosswalk. Will tried to ignore him. Only a few more blocks. He walked quickly, but Samuel matched him pace for pace.

He remembered getting to her house and charging through the front door. He caught a glimpse of Sarah as someone escorted her up the stairs. Her parents were sobbing. He was confused at first, hadn’t that been her walking up the stairs? She looked fine! Her parents were wailing and moaning in the other room. But it wasn’t Sarah. It was her sister.

Samuel looked around as if orienting himself to the new surroundings. “I think I’ve been here before,” he said casually. He turned and grinned at Will. “This way?” he asked, pointing at a wide bridge. Will glanced up, looking at the street signs. It was the Charlestown Bridge, Samuel was right.

“Yeah,” said Will, starting across the bridge. The sun was going down even further, casting long shadows across the buildings.

Samuel followed. “Look at all these people,” he commented. Will looked at the men and women crossing the river, some were calling out to their friends, and clapping each other on the back, others were staring straight ahead and pushing their way through. He had hardly noticed them until now. “That’s what I like about the city. The people. So many of them, each with their own lives and stories.”

Will blinked, continuing at a brisk walk, winding about the people. Businessmen were crossing the bridge from the office, couples wandered to and from restaurants, tourists lining the railing holding out their small cameras. Everyone seemed calm and happy, as the cars hummed by on the metal crosshatching. It suddenly struck Will that it was a fragile picture. What had they called it? Seatbelt failure. They were both wearing seatbelts, but one of them just hadn’t worked. It sounded technical, and wrong.

“I mean, think about all the people you talk to in a day. Or all the people you walk by in a day. There are thousands of them. I like to think, ‘for one of these people, it must be the best day of their life.’ But of course, it’s the worst day of someone’s life too.” Samuel rambled, gazing across the water at the Bunker Hill Bridge, it’s cables and towers bone white in the setting sun. “I guess it’s completely arbitrary whether it’s a good day or a bad day. Everything that happens is random.” Samuel looked back to Will. “This has been a pretty good day, I think.” 

“Not sure I can agree with you there,” Will muttered. The end of the bridge meant he was close. He had hardly slept last night; images of Sarah’s sister had swept through his mind. She would tag along with him and Sarah when they took their trips into the city or to the movie theater. She had always looked up to Sarah. He remembered waking up, unsure whether to try to see her and talk to her parents. He eventually drove over right after lunch and found that Sarah had disappeared. Her parents had already dispatched the police; there was a local search in progress. Her parents reported that she wasn’t at any of her friends; she wasn’t around the school or the coffee shop. That was when Will though she would here. This was where they would come to talk things out. She told him once that it reminded her of their childhood, the easy days watching the ships and skipping stones. He had left without even telling anyone. Should he have told the police instead? Would they have come all the way out here?

“So, what’s the name of this girl you’re lookin’ for?” Samuel asked, peering at Will through furrowed brown eyebrows.

“Sarah,” Will said absent-mindedly, watching for the next street sign. He was only two blocks away.

“Sarah,” Samuel said, mulling over the name. “What do you need to find her for?”

“I-“ Will stopped. Samuel’s questions were awfully probing. He glanced back at Samuel, frustrated, but Samuel’s benign smile melted his anger. Instead he turned back to the streets, and sighed. “I need to help her.”

“Ooh!” Samuel cried, as if he had stumbled upon a secret. “The knight in shining armor! The savior of the damsel in distress! Damn, Will, you are-”

“She’s my friend!” He exclaimed, starting across the street. “That’s it, okay?”

Samuel shrugged, still smiling. “Okay,” he said, still following Will. 

Friends. They had always been friends; they had grown up together. He and Sarah would do almost everything with one another, they had talked each other through applying to colleges, studied for the AP English test together, even gone to a Dropkick Murphy’s concert together. She had a way of always making him smile. Even though he always told people that they were just friends, he knew that maybe they were a little bit more.

The last block. The buildings had opened up into sparsely decorated warehouses and boat moorings. It was at the end of the dock: a small, concrete viewing platform, looking out over the harbor, and he knew that was where she would be. Will broke into a slight jog, thinking over and over, she has to be there, she has to be there! Everything faded from his mind, he came around the edge of a brick watch house, and there it was.

She was there. She stood at the railing, her waist-long brown hair spiraling about her, her hands limp at her side. Will stopped. She still wore the white blouse and jeans he had last seen her in, being taken upstairs with tears in her eyes. She stood at the end of the platform, unmoving and staring into the horizon.

He walked slowly up the grimy steps, settling next to her quietly. Her face was blank and her eyes were wide, she didn’t turn to him. He nearly shuddered with nervousness. “Sarah?”

She turned her head slowly to look at him. She hadn’t been crying recently, but she blinked and licked her cracked lips. She almost seemed confused. “Will,” she responded softly in a voice that sounded oddly like it was not her own.

Will stared at her. Was she okay? He had spent so long worried, looking for her. He didn’t know what to say now that he had found her. “Everyone is worried about you. You didn’t leave a note, you didn’t take your phone…” Sarah just stared blankly into his eyes, as if she hadn’t thought of any of this but it didn’t surprise her. A few strands of her hair blew across her face, and Will moved to brush them away but she flinched at his hand. He looked down at his sneakers and then back up at her. “Listen, are you okay?”

Sarah turned slowly back to the ocean and looked out, her hands grasping the rusty iron rail. It seemed like she was thinking about the question, but she didn’t say anything. Will didn’t know how to continue.

“Look,” Will said. “Look, we need to get you home.”

She recoiled at the words, stumbling back and looking at him, shocked. “No!” She cried, backing away. She gazed at him, a panicked expression on her face. He stood there, not knowing what to do. “No,” she replied again softly. She blinked and breathed, color slowly returning to her face.

He stepped forward, trying to read her eyes. “You need to be home. Your parents are worried. They can’t stand to think of losing both…” He choked back his words. He knew what she was thinking. He was out of breath. Suddenly, the tension of the day was just too exhausting, the shadows were long and the sun was setting behind the skyscrapers. “They don’t,” he said. “They can’t blame you… blame you for this!”

Sarah looked down, her blue eyes wide, frightened. “How could they not?” She murmured, brushing away her bangs. “I did it! I was driving! I crashed! I killed her!” she collapsed, falling to her knees as Will rushed in to catch her. She looked at him, tears darting across her face. “We went the long way. We were going home, and her favorite song came on the radio. I wanted her to hear it; I took the long way home… If I hadn’t… If I had just gone the right way, she would still be here!” She sobbed, dropping her head to his shoulder.

Will stayed kneeling there, stunned. “No,” he replied, his voice sounding small and distant as he wrapped an arm around the back of her head. “No, it wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.” Her sobs shook her body and his, and he didn’t know what to do.

She cried, and from his shoulder gasped. “I’m lost,” she said. “I don’t know where I can go from here. Everything is so… so wrong! I can’t undo it, and she’s dead! Why her? Why was it her?”

“No,” Will repeated, holding her. “Accidents will happen. You don’t ever want them to, but they do. But it doesn’t mean it’s anyone’s fault.” Her fists were balled against his back and she held onto him as if she was drowning. “We’re all lost,” Will continued. “I don’t think anyone really knows where they are going. The future is never easy and you can never see far enough into it to navigate. You can’t change the past. But don’t worry, I’m here to help you. It’s not your fault, Sarah. It’s not.”

Her shuddering slowed and he just stayed there kneeling, half hugging her half holding her up. Her hair was in his face. He stroked her back in what he only hoped was a calming way. Sarah was quiet and then spoke again. 

“I don’t know what happened. She was there, we were singing to the radio…” Her voice threatened to break into sobs again. “And then I don’t know. We were spinning. She had her seatbelt on, we both did! What happened? We were upside down, but she wasn’t there! I didn’t see, and then… And then the sirens…”

“I know,” said Will, rocking her back and forth gently. “It was an accident. It was random. There was nothing you could have done, Sarah. Sometimes it’s just the worst day in the world. It’s arbitrary. I’m so sorry.”

Sarah sighed and released him, standing and wiping her tears with her sleeve. She gazed out at the water, at the darkening horizon line. She breathed slowly, her eyes narrowing as if she was making a decision. The water was black, choppy, splashing against the pier rhythmically, quietly. She shivered suddenly and turned back to Will. “I think maybe I need to go home,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself. 

Will nodded, putting an arm around her. They turned slowly away from the water. Samuel stood there, fingering the hem of his jacket nervously, looking surreptitiously sideways at Will. Will looked at him for a while and then nodded to him quietly. Samuel smiled grimly and let the two of them pass, walking slowly back into the city. Will held Sarah to him tightly and she walked carefully, letting him guide her.

They walked all the way back down the streets as the lights flickered on and the late night crowd emerged. Will noticed Samuel following them from a little distance back, as if making sure they made it home. Sarah seemed to gain strength with each step they took, walking more and more upright and looking around in the half- light. They crossed the streets and watched the cars cautiously as their lights sped by. 

They walked down the subway stairs as the rumbling of the train sent a blast of wind up the corridor, lifting Will and Sarah’s hair. The trains weren’t crowded so Will thought they’d be able to find seats. He walked for the door and then stopped. He turned around. Samuel was there.

“Thanks,” Will said, loud enough to be heard over the mechanical sounds of the train at rest.

“For what?” Samuel said, looking down.

“For helping me find her,” Will replied. Samuel looked up at this. Will smiled. Samuel broke out into a broad grin.

“It was nice to meet you Will,” Samuel said. The doors pinged, and Will stuck a hand in them to keep them from closing. Sarah had already gone in.

Will looked at Samuel for a second and Samuel sighed. “Go! What are you waiting for?” He said.

Will nodded and stepped into the train. Sarah was there, her knees tucked under her chin, head resting lightly against the scratched and grimy window. The doors hissed closed behind him as Will took a spot next to her.

“Who was he?” she asked, not moving her head.

Will thought for a second. “I really don’t know.”

The train gave a lurch and started forward. Will looked out the window and then rested his head against it like Sarah had. He watched the station crawl past and thought he saw Samuel wave just before the tunnel cut him from view. Then he just let the lights of the tunnel wash over him. The train would take them where they needed to go.

By Ben Chamberlain
Written 9/28/09 to 12/8/09

The Fissure

 We were walking down the street when the world fractured.

It seemed to be a normal summer day, bright and shining. Chris, Jen and I walking toward the bookstore across from the green in our quiet town. The morning had been full of card games and TV, we were enjoying the last few days of summer vacation. The leaves fluttered in the wind, birds dashed from branch to branch, and the bricks in the old buildings of town were warm and rough to the touch. It was hard to tell anything was wrong at first, but then a car blew out two tires, slid over the curb into a tree, and came to rest smashed on the sidewalk in front of us. 

Jen screamed, and stumbled into me. I would have appreciated it more if I wasn’t so surprised myself; the blasts of the tires had torn a hole in my mind, muddled with the summer heat. I quickly tensed, the electricity of adrenaline spreading from my heart to my limbs, my senses sharpening, and at once I felt her soft body pressed into mine, and I put an arm around her. 

Chris, who had simply leapt sideways and muttered “Jesus!” stepped toward the car inquisitively. He blinked and wiped his black hair from his eyes, his face was starting to show the first sheen of sweat. It was odd; the tires had been blown to shreds, the hubcaps both had broken strangely, but still were bolted to the wheels. Chris jumped when the driver struggled to kick open the passenger side door, the other one still crumpled against the tree. The man clambered out clutching a red hand crisscrossed with cuts, his suit rumpled and bloody.

Chris started towards him to help, calling out “Are you alright-“

Then another car blew all four of its tires at once in a screaming cacophony, and we all turned to watch it. I clutched Jen’s shoulder closer as the car slid across the centerline into a frightened Honda Civic, its wheels bent out at odd angles, metal twisted, and both of them screeched to a crumpled stop in the road. That’s when we noticed the rupture.

It was odd, like a fissure in the air, a line that had no dimensions. It was there, but it looked almost like a crack through glass, immaterial, and it disappeared at odd angles. But it existed, hanging over the road as if the air itself was flawed.

I blinked and rubbed my eyes. It was a one-dimensional line, twisting through the air. Chris saw it too, blinked.

“What is it?” he asked.

“That doesn’t make sense!” said Jen, leaning into me. Her hair smelled like summer roses. “Chris, call nine one one!” she said hesitantly.

Chris turned towards me, made eye contact. His green eyes were wide with fear, his face blank with nervousness. He shook his head as if he didn’t believe this moment could exist. 

“I…” I started. Jen looked up into my face, her body wonderfully positioned into mine. I blinked trying to clear my mind; my vision blurring one instant and then becoming wonderfully crisp the next. “I don’t know. Yeah, we should call.”

“I’ve got it,” the man from the first car said in a strained voice. He had taken off his jacket and wrapped some sort of handkerchief around his bleeding hand.

Chris stepped forward to look at the Fissure. Jen tensed. “Careful!” she said, stepping away from me towards the man with the phone. The two cars in the road were steaming and still, people inside them beginning to move around.

The man from the first car was blinking in the sunlight, leaning against the wall of the bookstore. He had pulled out a Blackberry and was punching in numbers, and Chris stepped into the street towards the cars.

Then, with a bang, the fissure spread. It spiderwebbed through the air, splitting and branching through nothingness. It seemed that nothing had changed and yet the impossible lines shot through the air like bullets. Oddly, I saw a tendril split through the window of the Civic first, and the person behind the window struggled strangely, something threateningly wrong. The reflection from the sun made it impossible to see through the window, but my stomach dropped. 

Then Jen stumbled back into me and gasped, and I noticed the tendril that had gone through Chris.

He stood still, his back too us, his pose awkward. Then he shuddered, convulsed oddly, and turned, and red blood blossomed through his yellow t-shirt at a frightening rate, and he collapsed.

I stood perfectly still, watching him, my mind refusing to panic. I didn’t understand what was going on, I couldn’t comprehend what had happened to him. My limbs went slack and I stared, and it was Jen who stumbled away. I realized then that the fissure had nearly cut him in half.

Then the world shattered.

The man leaning against the bookstore dropped his phone and turned and ran, but was caught and fell to pieces. A scream from the Civic and someone opened a door only to have the glass shatter and the door skewer itself on the crack. 

“Come on!” Jen screamed, starting to run, but she stopped as the cracks split around in front of her, and she cried and backed away into me. She sobbed in fear and when I saw her wide eyes my mind finally caught up with itself, and I ducked down, holding her face to my chest. The splinters of the world were separating, my vision was splitting and we crouched down as the world was destroyed around us. The cracks spread like clutching fingers around and around us and we held each other, and Jen cried and held on to me as if I could help her.

And so here we are, and I feel the odd pain of the first fissure passing through my chest, digging it’s way through me inextricably, and for some reason all I can think about is how damned good her hair smells.

By Ben Chamberlain
Written February 5, 2010, 9:20 PM
Revised March 9, 2010, 11:15 PM

School!

So not only am I moving into school and starting training to be a Residential Assistant, they took us on a surprise two day camp retreat the day after we got here. I'll put something up next weekend!

Shuttles

I have a dream where I am burning.

The lights on the terminal are flashing, warning klaxons in screaming agony, and the world is shaking itself to pieces. I'm strapped to the chair in my suit, and the acceleration is causing my vision to go red, and the noise is a horrible screeching explosion. Andrew is in his suit next to me yelling, strapped into his chair, shaking like a rag doll. I can't tell what he is saying because the shaking is snapping my head back and forth and I can't focus my eyes on anything. I want to close my spacesuit visor, I know what is about to happen but my arm is pinned to the back of the chair by the force of the rocket and I try to lift it, I try and try and I almost reach my helmet when the screen in front of me peels open and the air rushes in and then fills with fire, burning a horrid red. I see it engulf Andrew and he screams, being shaken apart and burning, and I need to close my visor but I can't and then the fire pours into my suit through the exposed glass over my face and stains the backs of my eyelids as I close them and feel the flesh scorching away off my face!

Then I wake up, sweating. In my bed, in my house, in Florida.

Not in the rocket.

Not in my spacesuit.

Not flying. Not on fire. Not being pressed down by the G-forces. Intact. 

But my NASA flight suit is in the closet, the picture of me and my team in our pressurized suits is on the table next to my bed. The launch pad is a few miles away, the banks of computers with flashing lights and dials and numbers and somewhere, one of them flashes in my mind the bright red words “system failure”, and no one is there to notice it.

I run my hands through my cropped hair, I feel my face, my body, make sure it is there, intact. Only then does my heart begin to slow beating, only then does my breath even out. 

I don't know what it means. I don't know why, but I've had the same dream the past three nights. Each time I wake up and can't go back to sleep. Visions of it haunt me, images of the warning lights, of flames rushing in through a gaping hole in the material of the ship.

I make myself coffee, sip it slowly. The heat slowly fills me up, giving my body substance. The lights of my kitchen are hash, white. They are the same fluorescents as the control room at the station.

The station is in the middle of the plains, dry, flat, and sticks up like smashed bones from the monotony. The scaffolding propping up the shuttle is a dull red, muted by the flames that have poured over it in the past. The checkpoint at the front clears all the cars that go into the station, checks IDs, runs license plates. My dusty civic pulls slowly up the the lonely checkpoint, brakes whining to a stop.

“Hello, James” Bill, the security guard says.

“Hey, Bill.” I hand him my NASA identification, and my drivers license. He laughs. 

“You know, I wonder” he says, drumming his fingers on the metal windowsill. “I run your ID every morning, it's always the same. I wonder why I can't just let you on.” He smiles. “Well, I'll do it anyway. Just a bit funny I guess.”

“Protocol, Bill,” I respond.

“Protocol!” He laughs. “Yeah, they're watching you in there,” he says, gesturing to the security camera pointing at my civic. “Smile for NASA James!”

I look at the camera briefly, it's dull, round lens staring back. Watching. Checking for weakness.

Bill keeps talking. “You know, they take security real serious here. Gave me a gun and all, I've never used it. Why would I need to? It's not like this is the Cold War any more!”

“Sure isn't,” I offer. Russian missiles come to mind, targeting our satellites, our rockets. They don't have those any more, I think. All old, obsolete. Mostly forgotten.

“I can't think of anyone who'd want to do anything here. A terrorist- maybe. But why do anything at NASA when there are all these nuclear power plants all over?” He scratches his head.

“Hey Bill,” I say, rolling my tongue through a parched mouth. “How long you worked here? At this booth?”

“Lemme think,” Bill says, sliding the card in the machine. “It's been... eight, no, nine years now. All in this booth, running the same cards over and over.” He chuckles. “Over and over.”

“Bill, how many times, since you've worked here, has one of these things- you know, the rockets- how many times has one blown up?”

Bill leans down out the window, and frowns. “Now, James, what kind of talk is that? You know as well as I do these things don't blow. Haven't had an issue since the Space Shuttle Columbia disaster, and that was over in Houston anyway, just around when I was starting over here.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I know.”

Bill drums his fingers against the windowsill. “You alright James? You look tired.”

“Oh, yeah, I'm fine,” I say.

“Good, good.” He smiles, and hands me my identification with a bandaged hand. “Guess what? You're clear.”

“Thanks Bill,” I say. I put my hands on the wheel to drive away. “Hey Bill?”

Bill turns back to me. “Yeah James?”

“What'd you do to your hand?”

Bill smiles, thumbs his bandage. “Stupid, you know? So simple. I grabbed the coffee pot in the wrong place, burned my hand pretty bad.” He shakes his head. “Could've avoided it.”

I nod. “Be more careful, alright Bill?”

“Hey, you too James,” he says, as I pull away into the heat.

Administrator Rogers has a bored look on his face as he reviews the readout. He sighs, tugs his mustache. “Alright,” he says. “What happened?”

Nick, the engineer leans forward. “The, uh,” he coughs. “There was a warning readout on the pre-launch sequence- an oxygen tank blew a gasket, ah... put a small hole in the framing, caused a small fire... all under control of course.”

Everyone at the table is silent. I can't remember the last time we had a problem with pre-flight- it always goes smoothly. The fluorescents burn a slow white light.

“Repairs?” Administrator Rogers asks.

“Oh, ah, of course! We've run another pre-flight, a clean sweep. We're set to launch on schedule.” Nick pushes up his glasses. I look left to Andrew, who was leaning over to whisper something to Amanda, one of the computer people. I can see the oxygen tank rupturing, shrapnel punching a neat hole in the side of the shuttle, flames boiling out of the side of the ship.

“So,” Administrator Rogers said, shuffling to sit up. “Why'd this happen?”

Julie, one of the other engineers, clears her throat. “We usually put these through heavy testing. The failure was a... surprise, and was damaging. We're lucky to catch this now, it could have caused a catastrophic failure during launch.”

I know what catastrophic failure means. It means a botched launch. It means an explosion. It means a crashed rocket. It means me dead. This catches Andrew's attention, he sits up.

Administrator Rogers grunts. “You didn't answer my question. Why did the tank fail? I want a direct reason.”

Julie frowns. “We're... not actually sure. It could have failed for any number of reasons, unnoticed damage, faulty equipment, installation problems-”

“Sabotage?”

I said it before I meant to, and I regretted it already.

Julie seems surprised, and Administrator Rogers manages a distinct croak of the word, “what?”

Julie coughs. “Unlikely- there is no reason or evidence of any sabotage for any-”

“Why would anyone sabotage the shuttle?” Administrator Rogers stands, cutting off Julie.

“They wouldn't,” Nick says quietly.

“No!” Administrator Rogers quips sternly. “Let him answer. Why would anyone sabotage the shuttle?” His eyes burn into mine, angry.

“They wouldn't,” I can only echo Nick. My throat is a desert. “I- it was just a theory.”

Administrator Rogers leans back, and regards me with a frightening intensity. “You've repaired the damage and replaced the part?” 

“Yes,” Julie answers.

“And you've run the test again? The shuttle passed?”

Julie nods again.

“Then I see no problem proceeding with launch.”

Everyone is getting up to leave, but I stay seated. The walls seem closer, and I can feel a pressing heat- I feel a fire, somewhere. That rocket must have dozens of tanks of oxygen, each with a fragile o-ring gasket, one which seems fine down here but when the rocket is being shaken apart during launch, thrust into space with inhuman intensity...

I can feel flames licking at the walls, I can feel a slow bead of sweat tracing down my jaw. I can see images of the old Russian warehouses, missiles and explosives stockpiled quiescent, and one of them suddenly lights up, active, preparing to shoot me down...

“What the fuck, man?” Andrew whispers in my ear. “It's fine. Routine. Bringing up sabotage doesn't do anything, just pisses off Rogers.” I don't answer.

“Whatever. Just figure out your shit before we climb on that rocket.”

My mother's house is small, modest. My father died when I was young, but he was an astronaut in the golden age of space travel. My mother's shelves are filled with photos of him in the old suits, sown-on american flags, smiling faces, posing in front of the old rockets. She keeps the house neat, still has my room arranged as it used to be. There is still a picture on the wall of me when I was five, gripping a toy shuttle as my father smiled with me in front of the life-size toy, the real rocket. That was one year before he died of cancer.

“Your father would have loved to see you now,” my mother says over my shoulder, mixing batter for cupcakes. She always makes me cupcakes before a launch.

“I know,” I reply. My father would have loved to see his son in his shoes. But the dread is creeping on me, it's beginning to consume me. I can see men loosening bolts, prying away panels. I can see loose tanks, frayed wires. I can smell fire.

“He told me he knew you'd be an astronaut, you know,” my mother says, wandering down the hall back to the kitchen.

“I know mom,” I say. “You told me.”

“Did I?” she says. 

She did, several times. I walk slowly out of the living room, floorboards creaking loose underneath me.

“Well,” she says. “No matter. I love the idea of the two of you, up there, exploring the stars. Get the oven, would you?”

I open the oven door and heat billows out, and I flinch before I can control it. She slides in the pan of fresh batter. “Oh, careful!” my mother says as I close the door. The glow of the heating coils leaves an imprint on my vision, the hot air leaves a slight burning feeling on my arm.

“Well,” she says, taking off her oven mitts and looking at me. “Are you alright dear? You look worried.”

I close my eyes, and take a breath. I can see the flames from the engines, I can see a crack spreading the length of the shuttle, I can see the explosion, the flames everywhere.

“I'm afraid, mom,” I say. “I'm afraid to go on this mission. Afraid of sabotage, of system failure.” I look at her eyes, and she smiles. She grabs my shoulder.

“Oh, my son the astronaut,” she says, and hugs me. I don't know what to say, but the dread creeps further into my stomach. “I miss your father so much,” she says, and when she pulls back there are tears in her eyes. All of the sudden I can't hear her, and her lips are moving but all I can hear are the flames, the slow crackle of the flames. And there are tears in her eyes, but I don't understand, and I sit down.

“Well,” she says. “Call me when you land again? I don't think we'll be able to eat all of these cupcakes tonight.”

Every step is heavy. 

The gantry clanks, and the suit is massive, it weighs me down. I can't see side to side, and I can hear my own breathing as I approach the rocket. I look at it, trying to see cracks, holes, but it seems fine. The door is open, waiting, a technician standing, waiting for me. 

It's a bomb.

I can feel the thousands of pounds of fuel, the ignitors, the tanks, the compression coils and wired banks of computers. A thousand things to go wrong.

“Sir?” the technician asks.

“Come on, James,” Andrew says, passing me. “Let's get this done with, I want to be in space.” He climbs through the doorway. 

My gloves are lined with sweat. I look back down the long gantry to the station, but the distance seems to extend to infinity. I slowly step through the doorway, and turn to climb the ladder. The technician closes the door, and I hear the locking mechanisms slide into place.

My fate is sealed.

I strap in in the cockpit, go numbly through pre-flight checklists. Andrew calls out the sequences, and I stare at the bank of green lights in front of me. 

“We are green on all systems, clear for take off,” Andrew says. “Wait- hold on control, I've got a system failure on the oxygen tanks again.”

My attention focuses in like a razor on the tiny, burning red light above “oxygen” on the control panel. The radio is silent for a moment. 

“We read, shuttle,” it crackles. “Try toggling the power, it's probably just a bug in the system.”

“I got you,” Andrew says, flipping a switch back and forth. The light above oxygen winks out and then back on, green this time. “Roger control, shuttle reading green on all systems, including oxygen. I repeat, green for takeoff.”

“Roger, shuttle,” the radio crackles. “Takeoff sequence beginning.”

“No,” I whisper. “No, no.” The light is red again. The oxygen light is red again, it's loose screws, a broken valve- enough to kill us. “It's red!” I say to the radio.

“Engines, preparing to engage,” the radio crackles.

“No!” I yell. “No, no, we've got a system failure on oxygen! I repeat, a system failure on oxygen!” 

 

“James, what the hell are you doing?” yells Andrew. “The light is green! Look at your fucking panel! Control, we are green for launch, confirm no system failure.”

“Confirmed,” the radio says. “Engaging engines.”

“No!” I scream, undoing the latches that pin me to the chair. The whole rocket is about to blow!

“James, what the fuck are you doing? Get back in, stay down, the engines are about to-”

And them the world starts shaking, and I'm half out of my chair, and Andrew's head snaps back as the rocket lurches.

And red lights blossom across the panel, and warning alarms go off. “No!” I scream, as the roar of the rocket engulfs my voice. Andrew's head lolls to the side, his visor still up, and the rocket shakes, air rushing past, gravity pushing in against us. And the screen in front of us begins to warp, and it's the dream, and I've got to get to Andrew before the fire burns him, and I'm halfway to him when the screen explodes and fire pours in and I remember that I never closed my visor either and then the flames turn my vision white and all I can hear is the roar of the rocket.

Bill sits on his chair at the security station, waiting. Another morning. More cards, more coffee.
 

A black Corolla winds it's way towards the station, pulls up to the window. The man inside hands Bill his identification. Andrew Higgins, NASA employee. Bill runs the cards, which come up clear, and hands them back to the man. 

“Thanks,” Andrew says and starts to pull away.

“Ah, excuse me Mr. Higgins?” Bill calls. The car stops.

“I'm sorry, sir,” Bill says. “I haven't seen James in today. He's usually in by now- and I checked, his identification is no longer valid for the station. Why, he's worked here for years, and that usually only happens when someone gets fired...”

Andrew frowns. “James won't be in any more,” he says. “He broke down last launch. Before the engines even engaged, just started screaming, yelling that he was on fire.”

“Oh,” Bill says.

“Yeah,” Andrew says. “He washed out of the space program, I hear Administrator Rogers has him transferred to a desk job somewhere. Said he wasn't cut out for space.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that,” Bill says.

“Yeah, me too.” 
 

The car slowly crawls away towards the station. Bill thumbs the burn on his hand thoughtfully.

By Ben Chamberlain

Written 2/20/11

Finished 2/23/11 2:45 AM

Windshield Wipers

I'm lying on my bed with the lights out at 11 p.m. on a hazy Wednesday night, music filtering through my headphones. I close my eyes, trying to blot out the slow sound of the cars going by outside my window, and I focus on every note and chord. The drums pound a slow background, and the piano keys clink a small tune at the top of my spine. Each chord rings, each spoken word registers carefully in my blank mind. I try to cleanse my thought, let everything drain out the back of my skull, let each mechanical sound of the music grate like a metal pole scraping slowly across the inside of brain. And yet I still can't get the sound of the car wipers out of my head.

Whump. Whump. Whump.

They were the first sign of the past, their steady, methodical, beating. A kind of music really, a coarse, basic beat, always playing, always repeating. It was an overcast day, the rain slowly pooling on the windshield, being swiped clean by the ever-working wipers. It was always the rainy days that got to me the most.

Whump. Whump. Whump.

The shrapnel of our life is still embedded around my room. Somewhere in my desk there is a picture of you, I put it there a few days after it happened and haven't looked at it since. I still have some of your books on my shelves, your Thoreau, your Emerson. Somewhere in my dark closet your grey and purple hooded sweatshirt you always wore is hanging on one of those blue plastic hangers. The gold necklace I gave you that you left the last time on accident is curled up like a cat on my bedside table. I let the beat of the music fill my ears, seep through my brain, filter out the sediment, but underneath that beat those wipers keep just

Whump, whump, whump

Through my mind. The slow rattle of my car filled the space in between, its heartbeat that is soggy from the laboring rain that has been falling all day. The landscape was decidedly soaked, water dripped like sweat from the leaves of tired trees onto a saturated shoulder. My car was pulled over to the side and the headlights still left a yellowed path through the air, igniting each drop of water into fire. The sky was grey, hardly a trace of direction to notice the sun.

The drops beat themselves across the window, the wipers sweeping them away without a glance. They kept beating a steady

Whump, whump, whump

You used to lie with me here. I still have the same sheets, if that matters. I remember the feel of your body, and your warmth. I remember you, your face, your smile. But the card you made me for my birthday last year is forgotten in the file folders under my bed. The mix CD you made for me is still in the last slot in my CD case, and that is sitting not far from your copy of Walden. I hardly even find it useful to remember what is mine, I only know what was yours. The music is calming, flowing, sweeping through my mind, wiping across it without a second thought but a

Whump, whump, whump

And in the rain I was looking for that old booklet I used to keep all my expenses in, tabulating cost and benefit, the scale and size of my bank account. I don't know why I was looking for it, something in the rain and the grey but I was rummaging through the glove compartment. I hadn't opened that glove box in a while, and now for some reason driving through these old Maine pines on a rainy day I just felt like I needed to.

And the rain keeps beating, the car rattles softly, and the wipers just go back and forth with their

Whump, whump, whump

And I can't seem to cry anymore. I only think. The darkness is satisfying, and it seems to give me air, give me space. I do this every once and a while, when I remember, when I feel bad, when I give in most to the depression. Forgotten also are those meds you wanted me to take. I think I left them in that carved wooden box you made me. The room crouches with the music, it fills my body and leaves me with no physical person, but with sense, with feeling, with a

Whump, whump, whump

And I hadn't opened the glove compartment in so long. Pens, pencils, tissues, my registration, and there was the book, and I grasped it in my hands, felt the green leather and the stenciling, the gold trim. I recalled how proud I was of it so long ago, a symbol of my financial capability and independence, and I was about to crack it open when I looked back in the glove box and remembered. 
 

There was an old picture of us, your brown hair curling in the way it always did, hanging elegantly in the air, and your slender arms curled around my neck. You were trying to kiss me, but I was looking at the camera, and your face was in my hair, I was smiling because just then you whispered in my ear and I heard the

Whump, whump, whump

Sound before I saw you, and I remembered that day, three weeks after the picture was taken. You had gone away for a week, told me you were seeing some family members in Massachusetts, you wanted me to come but I said I wanted to get a surprise for you when you came back. The sky was dark and sullen, and the rain was falling, there was no hint as to the direction of the sun. But I was happy despite it, I was waiting for you at that overlook on coast road, with the sound of the wipers and my car engine eclipsed by the slow pulse of the waves down the cliffside. I didn't care that the rain was eagerly soaking into my jacket, I just thought about you following suit, soaking into my clothes and into me and I would hold you and say that I missed you. And I saw your car come around the corner, and I was elated, and in a momentary lull of the waves the

Whump, whump, whump

Of the wipers could be heard, and I was back in the woods. Under the notebook was the photo, and you whispered into my ear, and I was starting to smile. And I picked up the picture, and then the little box under it, the soft felt box that I remembered feeling in my pocket. And I felt the springs on the box give that slight, perfect resistance, and I looked at the ring. I realized I didn't know why I stopped on the woodland road and why I was looking though the glovebox and all I could hear was the

Whump, whump, whump

And I fingered the felt box in my coat pocket and imagined you slipping your hand in my pocket as you always do when you kiss me and feeling it, and pulling it out. And so I watched your car come around the curve, and I was confused, because you were far enough away that the sound came a second or two after the movement, like a movie that fell out of synch with its audio, and I didn't hear the screech of your brakes until your car was sliding through the wooden fence and over the side of the bluff. Then I heard the crumpling noise of the flimsy wooden fence splintering across the hood of your civic, and I watched in panic as so far away, you plummeted. Then all I heard was the strange

Whump

As your car slid under the waves in the rain. I thought for a second I saw the brown curls of your hair and then I never saw you again.

And so this scene and that noise still plays in my head despite the music as I stare at the white ceiling. And I held that leather book, and remembered, and that photograph, and remembered, and that ring, and remembered that at first I nearly threw it into the water, because you were gone, because I couldn't do anything, and because maybe it would sink beneath the waves like you, and then I thought that I could sink beneath the waves like you too but then I just threw the ring and the box in the glove compartment instead.

And I looked in that leather book and I see that the last thing I wrote before I left it in the glove box was: Ring! It's a lot, but I don't care because I love you. And so I read those words when I was parked on the side of the road in the woods in the rain, and I think it was enough to send me as far deep into missing you that I possibly could. And then I was just sitting in my car in silence and just listened to the

Whump, whump, whump

of the windshield wipers playing through my mind. And so I was lying on my bed and realized the last track stopped a while ago, there is no music but the sound of your brakes, the crash of the wood, and the subtle, ever so subtle splash of you disappearing from the world forever, and the whump, whump, whump of the wipers setting the beat impassively as I watched the waves.

And then, instead of those noises, I feel your face in my ear, Your arms around my neck, your waist in my hands, and I am looking at the camera and your lips are whispering into my ear. And I can't hear the whump, whump, whump of the wipers anymore because all I can hear is you whispering, whispering ever so lightly in my ear, that you love me.

 

Written September 16^th, 2010, 11:15 PM

Revised September 17^th, 2010, 3:30 PM

By Ben Chamberlain

 

The Boy and the Sun

A boy once stood in the desert and looked into the sun.

Or so my people told me. They say he walked through the oppressive sand dunes about the very same Sahara-bound village I grew up in, a young boy of only eight. His father had been lost in a sandstorm two years ago, and his mother dead in childbirth. He spent his days wandering- and then one day, in the village center he stopped, and stood, gazing straight up into that unseeable point of the sun. That single, white-hot drop of flame that splashed and melted into the sky. And he stared at it.

For the first hour or so, the people went on. But then one boy noticed his eyes were watering, he was crying sorrowless tears, running furrows into his warm cheeks. The second boy ran to his father, tugged on his sleeve. And the father came.

“What are you doing, boy?” He said. “Don’t you know looking into the sun is bad for your eyes?”

But the boy’s eyes did not come off the blazing sun for a second. “It’s beautiful,” He said. “It is beautiful.”

The father looked into the sky, to see if he could see what the boy saw. All he saw was the sun. “It’ll ruin your eyes, boy!” he said. His brow furrowed in consternation, and he wondered why the boy was so enraptured.

The boy’s arm suddenly rose, and he pointed at it. “But look!” He cried, pointing straight up as if the heavens had tied a string to his finger and were trying to hoist him away. “Look at it! Look at how beautiful it is!”

By now several passersby had stopped, and they all gazed upward. They shaded their eyes, muttered, and looked at the sun. Their eyes darted round it, but all they saw was the searing light.

“But boy, it is only the sun!” said the father insistently, and worriedly. “It has always been there, it always will! It gives us light; it gives us day! But it hurts to look at!”

But the boy stared into the hole in the sky, the sun melting the very fabric of the sky in which it was anchored, like a phoenix captured somehow in a coin. “But look at how beautiful it is! It burns in such a flame! It has power! It has beauty! It is life! It is death! It glows; it burns brightly, smolders darkly!” He gazed even more intently, as if the strength of his eyes could hold the sun in place. “It has witnessed creation! It will witness destruction! It has seen my father, my father’s father, it has seen me, and now I see it!”

The father looked at the sun one last time. He could not look at it though, despite his best efforts his eyes traced the blue about the hole in the sky, they darted away. He only saw a moving button, a bright yellow button that could not be fixed on.

But nonetheless, the child stared at it unblinking. “See!” He screamed. “It burns to the depths of the sky! It is melting through the world! It will never stop! It is beautiful!”

And indeed, the sun burned beautifully, burning a neat hole into the sky, melting everything it touched. But then the father shouted, for he realized that the child was not crying, that the sun was not burning into the sky. The sun was burning back into the child’s eyes, deep and hot, and the liquid of his eyes was falling away like tears.

The father cried, and covered the child’s eyes, and sobbed in horror.

The child screamed. “No! It is beautiful! Let me see it! I need it, I need it!” He thrashed and writhed. He fought like a drowning man, wriggling in the sand, throwing it in the air, trying to pry the father’s hands off of where his eyes once were. But the father sobbed resignedly, and pressed his strong, cool hands to the child’s face. Eventually he was subdued, and lay still.

The child never saw again, blinded by the sun. But he once told my father that it was better to have seen and been blind then to have never seen at all.

Or so my people told me. The people still mutter, and shake their heads. But they still look at sun bemusedly, and wonder what the child saw that they were blind to. I do too; I gaze into the sun, and look. But I don’t really see it. My eyes dart around it, incapable of fixing directly on that little yellow coin. No matter how much willpower I put into it, I cannot see what he saw. Maybe I do not believe him, and his tale of beauty. I shouldn’t.

Or so my people tell me.

Written 3-31-09, 8:35 PM

Revised 4-10-09 7:30 PM
By Ben Chamberlain

A Purpose

Hello!

I'm Ben. I go to school at Tufts University, live in Vermont when I'm not in Sommerville, and I like writing. However, I have a problem: No matter how much I like writing, I sometimes have trouble finding the time- and getting into a regular pattern I find hard. So I had an idea. It went kind of like this:
I thought to myself "Gee, Ben! You really like writing but don't do enough of it. You should come up with some way to motivate yourself to do more! You should make a promise to someone that you are going to write them something once a week. Even better: you should make that promise to the INTERNET."

Now, I read a lot of webcomics, and I originally had the idea to write a long story- novel length, perhaps- in weekly installments in the same way. However, I want to take a little while to organize my plot and get a full outline before I start- the problem with installments is that I can't go back and change the beginning to line up with the end. Also, I fully aware that the desire to read something on the internet decreases exponentially with regard to length, so I figured I'd start with short stories.

I like writing and I like sharing my writing. Perhaps that makes me a narcissist, as I know a lot of people that hate sharing their writing- but oh well. I'll start with some short stories I have stockpiled, while working on a framework for something larger and writing more. My plan is to post a new story every weekend, and hopefully write a new one every week. We'll see how it works!

Also, the pressure to write increases with readership- so if anyone does end up reading this, let me know- it'll incite me to write more. Criticism, constructive or deconstructive is encouraged! Anyway, this will do for a first post- I'll get to a story.