The Bounty

     The babes walked with their hips swaying, talking about their plans for the night—the smell of cocaine and rum hung pungently in the air. The bright neon sign lights up the unlit street. Vintage cars rolled past the entrance again and again, and each time, the security guards moved their hands near their hips. Nirvana and Sixty circled the lot of luxury cars. Sixty groaned as she drove up to level 5. The jackpot jingle escaped from the building along with the sound of men cheering. Nirvana admired the dancing lights bouncing from one letter to the next on the side of the tower. B-O-U-N-T-Y. The radio hummed the blues. Sixty ran her hand through her hair and slowly pressed down on the brake pedal. She looked over at Nirvana with her sleepy eyes. She ran her fingers through his hair, then she slid down to his face. She pushed her thumb into his cheek. He looked over his shoulder. 

“You should go in,” Sixty yawned, “You know what you have to do.”

Nirvana opened his mouth, but only a yawn exited. She giggled and kissed him. Their lips didn’t seem to unlock. She turned the knob for the radio up ever so slightly, shifting it from background music to the setting, and just before he could advance, she pressed the unlock button. The click shattered the immersion as their lips untethered, pulling them apart. Nirvana beamed as Sixty wiped her thumb across his lips. Nirvana stepped out of the car.

There was a jazz band playing just outside the garage. Every level Nirvana descended, it became clearer. A man burst out from the stairwell with a magazine covering his face. His shoes scratched the asphalt as he sprinted past Nirvana. He reached his car and slowly lowered the magazine to look at Nirvana. 

“Hey! You! Have you seen anyone ‘round here?” His voice sounded panicked, but he was keeping his composure.

“No, sir.” Nirvana tried to hold in a yawn. The man didn’t respond; he just laid the magazine on the hood and dug around in his pocket. Two men exited their car across from him. He tried to flee, but the assassins attached silencers to their pistols and hit him in the leg and then brained him before he could wail. The man’s heel scraped across the pavement as they dragged his body across the parking lot and hurled him into their trunk. They stayed silent as they listened to Nirvana’s shoes echo down the stairwell. 

He jogged through the street with his hands buried in his pockets and the cold night breeze slapping his face. He squeezed through groups of men, frustrated and drunk. The colors began to bleed into each other. He looked up at the tower. He remembered Sixty saying 8 stories and that you had to earn your way up each floor. His heart began to race at the thought of the sight from the 8th floor. A girl stood at the casino entrance, not dressed like the other security guards, but she looked legitimate enough. 

“Nirvana or The Doors?” He stopped fishing in his pocket for his wallet. Neither of their mouths moved, but she cocked an eyebrow, and he sent one back at her. “You can like both, but nobody likes both equally.” 

A long, ummmmmmmmmmmmm wanders out of Nirvana’s mouth. “I was named after—”

“I don’t care.” He knew the look of a drunken grin or a coked smile from his mother, but this was neither of them. It could’ve been another drug, or this could be a 100% sober woman.

“The Doors.” 

A long, mmmmmmmm vibrated from her lips. “Good answer.” She took his hand. His feet tripped on the two steps. She asked him if he was drunk, and he shook his head. She whispered “good” as they opened the doors to the casino. He asked her for her name.

“Are you going to remember me tomorrow?”

“I’m Nirvana Orozco.” He paused. The entire casino was quiet. Nothing is making a sound. Nada. 

“I know.” She pointed at the wall of fame where Luciano Orozco’s memorial hung. 43 years old. Made it to the seventh floor before he took a leak and never came out. Shanked 9 times. Nobody had replicated what he’d done. Does anyone ever look at the photo and think about that guy’s family? “You’re not going to fulfill his legacy. It’s even tougher to get higher now. A drunkard made it to the fifth floor, left the building, and I haven’t seen his car drive away…” 

She kept going on with her speech. After watching so many people killed by mafia members, assassins, and hobos, she had a lot of boiling in the pot. But isn’t the gold-plated casino fascinating? The slot machines are rolling endlessly. The poker players threw chips at each other. The chips bounced off the floor and rolled into Nirvana’s shoes. 

“I’m going to blow this place up.” He cut her speech off, and she fell into an unusual silence. “I have a detonator in my pocket that will make every machine in this room jackpot.” 

Nirvana heard his father’s voice ringing in his head as his father told him he wanted everyone to win at the casino. His eyes began to burn from the bright lights that gave the restless gamblers their juice. 

“Do you think any of these people believe in God? They’ll keep going up. Hell, they’ll reach a 9th floor.” She began to laugh hysterically. Nirvana pulled the detonator out of his pocket. He stood there in a confused silence. The laughter grew increasingly forced, sounding more like anger. She took a deep breath, and her face crinkled as she wiped her eyes. “Press it. Press the button. Kill hundreds of people.”

His thumb hovered over the detonator. He planned this out many times before. He and Sixty ran through every possible scenario. Why would it change now? Who even is this? 

“Who are you?” Nirvana raised the detonator over his head

“Fabia.”

“Last name.”

“Orozco.”

 The memories rewound like an old tape. The drunken arguments his parents had led to his mother’s cocaine addiction. By his 30th birthday, he spent less time in the house and more time at the parlor. He learned how to muffle his door better by then, but he always heard the murmurs of yelling.

His thumb pressed down on the red button.

She was the one who found his body in the bathroom. The funeral home didn’t allow Fabia to watch, per Nirvana’s mother’s request, so she stood outside the entire time. Gamblers never think they have won. Two children, a wealthy and beautiful wife, and he never stopped to consider that he had won. Now, hundreds of Lucianos were going to be born.

The gunshots woke Sixty up, but she couldn’t do much more than just grip the wheel tightly. The sound of three cars started up below her, and their engines revved away. She thought about taking their spots, but she was scared someone would take revenge and shoot at her car. It was dead quiet after the two gunshots, so maybe it was a weird engine problem. She pulled into the parking spot and walked through the garage. She followed the sound of the women singing the blues. The Bounty was the end of something big, like the final score to a movie. The only way she kept herself sane for the last 3 years with Nirvana was by seeing the world as this grand movie, but what would come of it? What’s after the button?

One slot machine began to hit 777, then two, then three, then ten, then seventy. The jackpot jingle began in unison. The drunken men all jolted out of their chairs one by one. They began to hug each other and scream. The machine operators ran out of the maintenance room. They looked at each other hopelessly. A few men ran to the front to cash their money in and leave the casino for the night, while others ran right up the stairs to the second floor. Just like Fabia predicted. Sixty found a parking spot and ended up in the jazz circle outside. The jackpots echoed into the street. The band hit their highest notes, and Sixty zoned out of the real world. Nirvana could hardly enjoy his moment. He ran outside, leaving Fabia to witness the destruction. His face beamed with a sense of victory, and he watched the neon lights flash faster and faster before the two assassins shot Nirvana in the head twice. He lay in a pool of his own blood.

The Things I Do For Love

Hiroko opens the door to her apartment, trying to avoid making the door hinge squeak. The house was dark, except for the living room television. From the kitchen, she tried to make the words out while placing her purse on the counter and taking out a bottle. Her heels clack against the tiles, which sound ten times louder at night. One foot in front of the other as she walks with a whimsical sway. The hallway carpet subdues the sound her heels make. 

Hiroko stares at the television as Mani watches Courage from the doorway. Their cat, Willow, sits in his lap as he pets her.

“I used to love Courage as a kid. My dad was always laughing at it, but my mom thought it’d give me nightmares, so she told him to stop,” Hiroko says

“How was the party?” Mani cuts her off. He tilts his head up, staring at her upside down. “Must have been fun considering you were supposed to be here four hours ago.” 

“I got you a beer. It’s the fancy kind. I stole it.” Hiroko says, a grin stretching across her face

She walks over to the couch and sits on the armrest. She slides the beer bottle over to him slowly, and as he tries to grab it, she pulls it back.  

“I danced with Micah. It was nice.” She stares at his face as it crinkles. His chest rises in quick succession as he tries to study her loopy facial expression—nothing but a drunken smile. He forces a smile on his face.

“You think I cheated on you, don’t you?” Mani opens his mouth, but the next set of words was already in play, “Let me guess what’s going through your head. I’m getting chit-chatting with Erin, and then Micah walks over to me, asking for a dance. I’m on my 3rd drink, you know that’s when I get tipsy and say the most outlandish things. Erin tells him off, but I accept his offer.  A man like him, a man with broader shoulders than you, and a soothing voice. He wraps his hands around my waist, tight. I wrap my hands around his neck and interlock them under the yellow fairy lights. We’re slowly swaying to the beat of So Anxious by Ginuwine, staring deeply into each other’s eyes. You envy his soft and gentle gaze. More than ever, you wish you were there because he’s going to ask about you. You wish I’d mention that you’re at the party so he doesn’t do anything slippery, but you aren’t. I tell him you aren’t here, and he pulls me in ever so closer.” Hiroko stops and looks over at Mani. Tears want to well up in his eyes. She runs her hand through his dreads. She flashes a smile at him. “His hands slide down my waist.  And then, I tell him that you proposed to me. All that tension breaks. His hands move back up as the song ends, and Erin asks to pull me away for a moment.”

“That’s not what’s going on in my head. You sound like you're confessing.”  Mani manages to speak. 

“That’s silly.” Hiroko giggles, “I’m just- I’m just testing you like the old times.”

“We’re engaged. There’s nothing to fight for. ” Mani raises two fingers and interlocks them. 

“I’m still competing for you, though. Me vs. the 300 girls you follow on Instagram. It’s not fair, is it? None of them looks like me either. They’re black with curly hair and snatched waists. And it sounds so unreasonable to ask you if I’m really your type or you’re just trying to do charity.”

 

“It’s all professional, it’s my job. And if you weren’t my type, I wouldn’t be dealing with you at 2:00 in the morning on a Monday.” Mani jerks as he talks, and Willow jumps off his lap and runs to the kitchen.

“I’m sorry that I’m keeping you up from your job where you take pictures of half-naked women all day. How will you ever perform to your best ability?” Hiroko pouts

Mani stands up. He walks around the couch. Hiroko pushes herself up against the couch and stands. The TV lights flicker across their faces as they stand face-to-face. With heels, Hiroko is about his height. 

“Is this what you’ve been trying to spit out? Are you jealous of my job? The job you had five years ago that you didn’t like, but you just kept encouraging me. I would’ve quit for you five years ago. I like what I do. Just because you're miserable doing your job. I love you, and I wish you weren’t so stubborn to notice.” Mani’s voice begins to crack.

“Remember when we went to see my mom right before she passed. It was a Thursday. In the hospital, it was probably a normal day for them, right? The newbies probably cry for an hour, while the veterans know the protocol. They watch old people die every day. They’re used to comforting relatives, and despite my knowing that, there was this one guy who checked in on her. He pulled me out of the room for a private conversation. For all 2 minutes, I spoke to him. He looked me straight in the eyes, didn’t break eye contact for a second. He touched my arm with his soft hands, and he gave me the worst fucking news I have ever heard. And still I was willing to throw 5 years away for him in an instant, because I know the only time I feel loved is when you are fighting for me. But what if you lost? Do I really want to go home with that, or do I want to be loved by you? I don’t want to be your easy-to-keep wife. I want your heart at my feet.”

Mani grabs the bridge of his nose and shuts his eyes tight. Hiroko extends the beer and shoves it into his chest. He snatches the bottle and sits on the head of the couch as she fades away down the hallway, and the bedroom door snaps into its latch, which makes Mani flinch. Courage gives his stupid catchphrase, “The things I do for love.”

Finchesque

The final exam of the 141 Creative Writing Studio was created to fuck over every student. Finch and the professor got along throughout the semester. Finch would tell the professor all about his aspirations to become a director, about how writing just wasn’t enough for his brain. From classmates’ slips of tongue, he earned the reputation of the most amusing yet hardest classmate to work with in the class. His latest work was about two sapphic women quarrelling over the wreckage of their party the night before, as the g-force exceeded human capacity after a moon mission going awry. The professor praised the concept and the execution of how he conveyed the couple's imminent death. Still, the dialogue felt inauthentic, as if it were bits and pieces stolen from other sapphic works.

 

Benjamin Finch’s final exam prompt was: “What led up to the person you are today?” Finch stared at the prompt on the bright white computer screen for a minute. He couldn’t discern whether the professor had given him an easy way out since he had tried to overachieve so often before, or if it was a trick. It was purposely vague. What aspect of Finch could he be curious about? How much does the professor want to know? Finch could tell him about his childhood or the high school fiascos he got himself into. The philosophy lessons his father taught him when he was younger. 

 

It clicked. The ocean screensaver flickered across the room. Duke Ellington blared. It clicked. For the climax of his favourite class, he had to go out in a tear-jerking bang. He wrote down an outline for poignant life stories, but it lacked the punch. He realized the prompt wasn’t asking for trauma dumping. In his experience, trauma did nothing but make people pity him. They create a complete ass-backwards narrative of him in their heads, twenty years of incompetence. All they see is a poor puppy, wailing for a saviour. The last thing he wanted was a self-pitying memoir.

 

He couldn’t bear to stare at the depression of the attempted exploitation of trauma for two journal pages. He decided to ask twenty men on the street about their life stories. When Finch was young, his father used to go on tangents about his philosophy that people in small towns looked like they were waiting to be asked about their latest ideas. He imagined the way they tried to intertwine a quirky stance, like a flamingo at the bus stops, with the uncomfortable, long stares into the windows they all seem to adopt. 

 

Five thirty sharp, Finch arrived at the train station, and his first victim was a businessman sitting on the bench. It ran well over the time Finch calculated, and the man left crying before the finish.

 

While walking through the train cars, Finch caught six victims, but they dried up quickly when they started talking. He felt that for the first time, his father might have been wrong.

 

 He met three friends at the second station he arrived at, where he had to gently explain to their wives about the importance of keeping it only men; they didn’t buy it, but they weren’t the fighting type. His friends only told stories that would defeminize themselves in front of their lovers. 

 

 On the train to Boston, Finch took a stranger to his favourite Japanese diner, and they spoke too far deep, far too fast, and Finch learned many things he wished he hadn’t known about. He also tried to pry interviews from the waiters, but he couldn’t untangle their broken English, and they couldn’t understand his southern accent. He left the stranger with the bill. He walked up to his father’s from there and picked up his car.

 

Finch pulled eight aside while intruding on the town of Sunderland during a town meeting. He thought the elders were all wonderful, but while rereading, many of the words made him curl his toes.

 

The 20th interview was from a hole-in-the-wall town. By this time, Finch had been given some shrooms and a number by a pretty girl while getting coffee at the rest stop. Finch drove as far as the psychedelics would allow him to, then he pulled his car into a parking lot and sat down next to a homeless man outside the drugstore. They must have spoken for at least three hours because the trip's cooldown stage started. It was eleven o’clock, and the page looked like children’s artwork. 

 

Finch drove the car back to his father’s house and took the third train back at 12 am to his apartment. Upon stepping into the train, he noticed the vibes shifted as the LEDs were unusually blue; it reminded him of his own room. He strolled through the walkway, counting all the empty seats. He noticed a girl holding a book between her legs. The only other members of this train were an old foreign man on the phone and a couple sleeping together in the far back.

 

“Can I sit here?” Finch asked the girl. She looked up at him and moved her backpack from the seat. Finch sat down. “What book are you reading?”

 

“It’s…Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami.” She flipped the book over to look at the cover.

 

“I fucking love Kafka! He’s one of the reasons I write! I want to get a name just like his. Y’know Kafkaesque.” The foreign man turned around and shushed Finch. He gestured an apology.

 

“What genre do you write?” She closed the book and looked at Finch.

 

“All kinds. All I know is that I hate memoirs.” His face sunk into his hands

 

“What’s wrong with them?”

 

“All day, I’ve been trying to write a stupid memoir for my stupid creative writing final exam. I don’t have a life story. I create art to escape the world. I’m not Elizabeth Gilbert. I don’t have massive revelations about my life, so I went out and interviewed twenty men, hoping I could grab bits and pieces just to get this shit over with, and guess what? Nothing. When I was a kid, everyone had some miraculous story that they held above their head.” He pulled the journal out of his satchel and hands it over to her.

 

She flips through the pages, skimming them.  “You’re interviewing people to escape the disappointment yourself, then only looking for a piece of you in their statements and finding nothing but disappointment with the results.” She laughs. She’s on the page that looks like scribbles. “Every person is you. The universe is you. The only way you’ll ever look at the world is through yourself.”

Two Birds

    Every morning at 8:00 AM for the last year, two birds sit on a wire singing to nearby pedestrians until they wake up. The wind blows softly in the autumn breeze. The telephone wire is straight across from an apartment complex. One man always sleeps with his window open and blinds open, allowing all the sunlight to hit him at all times. The old brick building has existed for centuries, getting renovation after renovation. There is a train that departs at 9:00 AM every day, scaring off all the birds, and then they disappear from the world until the next day. 

    "Today is the day, my friend!" The Finch says with glee in their tweets. 

    "The day?" The Sparrow says 

    "Yeah! The day! We can go to the Caribbean and woo the Ibis, meet up with the Osprey. Don't tell me you forgot about the Osprey. He's not gonna be happy to hear that!" The Finch says 

    "I think I wanna go somewhere new." The Sparrow says, "Anywhere new." The breeze hits harder than usual as the finch freezes in thought. The usual morning noise turned into the void of tension.

    "Don't yer ever get tired? We sit here every day until 9:00, when the train scares us off. I have been able to trace and call out every single person that exists. I feel like a useless peasant, an office worker of god. My shift starts at 8, then my shift ends when the train comes." The sparrow stops and looks over toward the finch

    "What in the blue hell are you talking about?" The Finch says 

    "Don't ya feel it? Every day, same old crap...Actually. Hold your thought. I can prove it right now. Right now, that guy will wake up. "The sparrow stops

    "That's what alarm clocks do." The Finch says with attitude

    "He will roll to the right side of his bed, scratch his ankle that has a sock mark up residue, look at the empty water bottle, and try to drink it before grabbing another water bottle out of his mini fridge. He'll drink about 48% of it before he loses the cap and scrambles to find it. He'll find it, then place the water bottle in his bag, but he'll remove the other water bottle and place it on his window." The sparrow says with a low pitch

     "I believe you, but why would you want to go somewhere else?" The finch cried

    "My father died when I was 3 years old. I'm 2 years old. I don't have time to just cruise control. I wanna go out there and do something God never expected me to do and then, I'll earn his respect." The sparrow says

    "I want to go too." The finch says.

    "Then let's go!" The sparrow says happily

    "But I can't." The finch says

    "Oh, come on! You have to let go of that wire one day!" The sparrow says

    "I do!"

    "This telephone wire goes from here to the islands. You have never let go. I want to."

    "You'll die out there!"

    "And what!?"

    "You promised you'd always be here for me! Always."

    "Being here for me would be letting me go north. Or whatever freaking place I end up going."

    "I'll be there, with you."

    "Will you? It's almost 9:00AM."

    "Is it?"

    The train rolls in, and The Sparrow flies off, but today. The finch stays on the telephone pole. The finch watches The Sparrow follow its dreams. The Finch stayed on the wire the entire train. The noises would scare it, but the world seemed so little for a moment, and only one sound could've existed at that given moment, and that was the sound of the Sparrow's wings flapping against the wind and its squawking of freedom.