The usual suspects were all here. Eager for any juicy details to add to the gossip trails that surrounded the crestfallen family. It was the false pretense of the whole thing that bothered him. How many of the people filling the funeral home actually cared or were impacted, by the death…

His mother hadn’t even acknowledged him. Nor had anyone else for that matter. It had been a few years since he had been back, but if anything he looked nearly the same as the day he had left town. Perhaps its how she dealt with the loss and was able to keep it altogether, he mused. But that didn’t explain the cold shoulder his sister gave him. Or any of the cousins either.

Sitting in the back he listened to the preacher drone on about the miracles of life and death. It always amazed him how these people of the cloth could expound on the bountiful lives lived by the recently deceased, when they knew little more then what the grieving survivors could passively reflect on while mourning. For he knew the body occupying the coffin had never set foot within the walls of  any such place of worship. “Sadly,” he thought.

Startled from his brief reverie he realized the service was over and people were lining up to pay their final respects. The shambling crowd held few recognizable faces. The entire room appeared in gray-scale, right along with the people. Maybe it was just the weather permeating through walls. Or even just as death stole the soul from the body, perhaps it took some of the color out of life as well; temporarily even.

Finally he gazed upon the man laid out in the coffin. The suit looked good on hi,. He might have even said he looked svelte, he thought with a grin. Although he definitely needed a haircut and a damn shave. He had that horrible molester-like mustache on. Kneeling on the edge of the casket, hands folded, he silently offered his prayers..

“To the father, mother, and wholly spirit I ask that you watch over my brother’s soul as he transitions into the next phase of his existence. Please help him to find the happiness and fullness of heart that he could not in this lifetime. Please guide those he left behind to find peace and understanding within. I ask this as your humble servant for the highest and best. Amen.”

Upon opening his eyes he was startled to find that he was holding his brothers hand. Something he had probably never done in real life. Releasing the hand was an even bigger shock, as the hand wouldn’t let go. “Hey kid. Glad ya could make it. Guess you’re finally getting lucky, huh?” , came the voice…

The sight of the mammoth structure was always awe inspiring. The different floors and wards seemed to jut out at odd angles, as additions were made. The hospital seemed to be a growing organism of cement and glass. Construction crews were busy working on the fourth floor. Sounds of hammering and equipment could be heard over head.

How many people came and went from this place, he wondered looking for a parking space. Watching a family walk in the main entrance, he wondered which one wouldn’t be walking out again. Shaking the morbid thought out of his head while absently scanning the radio, he parked the truck. 

Tucking the keys into the pocket of his jeans, he slowly walked towards the main door. Mental snap shots taken and stored along the way. His mind actively scanned the surroundings, noting the homeless people nestled along the sidewalk, with some sign he couldn’t yet read. They appeared to be the only source of possible altercation. A woman sat behind a basket, looking dirty and in need of some new clothes. Though her shoes looked new and expensive at the same time.

“They’re new,” said the woman, noticing his stare. “Sorry?” he answered, disturbed from his thoughts. The shoes, his mind registered as she stated the same.  The sign read “Wherever a man may happen to turn, whatever a man may undertake, he will always end up by returning to the path which nature has marked out for him.”

“It’s kinda sad when you think about it,” he said nodding toward the sign. The woman sat passively taking him in, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. “I guess old Wolfgang didn’t believe in free will, huh?” , he chuckled.

The silence was brief “He was an aware man that knew you can’t escape destiny.”

“Is that your excuse for choosing this life?” , he asked with a nod of his chin to her surroundings and companions. The equally unkempt men that had previously been sitting over some crude game of marbles, elicited animalistic sounds as they rose to their feet. Sensing a challenge, their faces took primal looks, one of the men kicked up the dirt with his worn boot. The grey of his sock covered toes sticking out of the boot was enough to cause Gabe to smirk. The other man swung his arms about his body, warming them up for the altercation that seemed forthcoming.

“Boys!” , the woman scolded them, never turning back to them. “Go back to your games, the young polymath here, means us no harm. He seeks understanding not violence,” her head tilted to the side as she studied him. “Though I suspect you would not be able to cause him any harm, had you tried.”

“My lady,” said Gabe as he bowed to her and then sat cross legged across from her.

“To answer your question, I give no excuse and owe none to anyone. Rather I have accepted the will of the universe to take me where it will. I have have found tranquility in accepting that which will be.” , answered the woman.

Gabe gazed up into the sky, taking in the seemingly wise words the vagabond had spoken. “It sounds as though you have forsaken your free will and in turn responsibility for yourself.”

“The universe takes care of those that travel with it’s flow, as opposed to fighting it. Learn to listen to your inner voice and be strong enough to follow it.”

“A valuable lesson to be sure my lady.” After a brief pause he continued,  ”While I subscribe to the belief that ultimately I will end up wherever….The universe will take me. I also believe the path that gets me there, is mine to create,” he finished, taking off his sunglasses.

“For a donation I will share some wisdom with you,” she said. After a slow, deliberate nod from Gabe she continued.

“Appreciation is the key that unlocks the gates of the heart. Small tokens of gratitude can move the greatest boulders of the soul,” she said as she too removed her sun glasses.

The brief moment they shared staring into one an other’s eyes was quickly lost with the sudden gust of wind. “I suppose that’s the universe telling me it’s time to go,” he said. She smiled and shook her head in agreement.

“One last thing,” he asked while standing. “Are you really just a laid off fortune cookie writer?” The playful sparkle in his eyes matched her laugh. “I have enjoyed our conversation young scholar,” she said.

He handed her a roll of bills and then tucked his wallet back into the rear pocket of his jeans. “This aught to be enough for warm food and water, for you and the boys. And maybe even your next pair of designer shoes,” he said with a wink.

“We each keep our own treasures,” she said while gesturing towards her shoes with outstretched hands.

“So I’ve learned and now I’m in search of another man’s treasure, in hopes of moving some of those boulders you spoke of,” he said once again with a bow to her.

Off he went in search of the nearest convenience store..

The man in the tie recovered from the fall in a manner so matter-of-fact that is it was scary.  Seconds after hitting the road, he was composed and fighting back.  Frank’s eyes were wide with fear but he knew that there were no shadows to hide him now.  This time, he would have to fight.  Not only to win, he knew, but to live.  Grunting, the two stayed locked in a death grip, both of them instinctively going for the other’s throat.  It was a test of endurance at this point, at least Frank hoped it was - for he saw no other option than to simply outmatch the man below him.  His leg lifted in an attempt to knee the man in the chest, or more ideally the groin, but the slick surface of the icy road prevented him from getting a proper footing.   His boot slipped and again, his knee hit the ground.

What was a wave of pain the first time was now a tsunami.  There was no mistaking what had caused the cracking sound just seconds ago.  Frank curled almost immediately into a fetal position, releasing his grip with one hand and holding on with the other in a laughable attempt to contain the businessman.  The man in the suit seized the opportunity and swiped Frank’s other leg out, dropping him hard to the ground.  Rolling to the side, he gained the upper advantage, driving his knee into Frank’s, keeping the pain constant. 

Frank saw the world in a blur, nothing but a pale green black sky and the mesmerizing pattern of snow falling down on him.  His hands flailed in an effort to push the suit’s weight off of his knee, but the pain flowing over him and the strength of his opponent were both too great.  His arms twitched spasmodically out on the ground, trying to get some sort of leverage that wasn’t there.  But there was only the green sky, the tiny frozen kisses of each snowflake upon his face, and the warm blood that followed. 

***********

Inside the Jaguar it was warm.  The wipers thump-thumped every few seconds to brush away the thin layer of snow that tried persistently to cover the windshield.  The engine idled almost inaudibly and the dashboard lights glowed crisp and clean in sharp contrast to the rubble outside.  Thomas held up the small box that he had taken from the bum, and let the dash’s radiance flow over it.  It was just below what someone might call ‘ornate’, covered in red satin that still, after all of these years retained a certain sheen.  The container was just barely smaller than the palm of his hand, and stopping short of opening it, Thomas looked over one more time to his left.  To the body of the man in the weatherproof jacket lying on the snow-covered street.  His still form was almost fully blanketed in the thin cold film that everything else lied underneath.  Soon, he would be part of the landscape.

After bringing the butt of his gun down on the man’s head, Thomas had been able to get a good look at him.  He felt like he recognized him, not personally, but in some inexplicable sense - the way you see a stranger on the street and spend the next hour wondering how they crossed your path in the past.  Now the bum, he was positive he had never seen that one.  There was somebody different every time.  There would always be someone new.  There are simply too many of us, he thought

Turning his attention back to the container, he did not hesitate this time.  It wasn’t locked, and the metal hinges made a soft click as the lid popped open.  Inside was a tiny piece of foil, folded neatly into a perfect square, which reflected the surrounding glow even more.  Thomas removed the contents and placed the box on the passenger seat as no more than an afterthought.  This was what he had come for.  He carefully unwrapped the square, making sure that nothing inside was accidentally spilled or dropped.  If a man diffusing a bomb was more deliberate and careful in his movements, no one would have known.  Unfolding the last corner, it was revealed.

A small grey object, surrounded by a supporting pile of a similar colored dust sat in the foil.  The solid piece was flat and elongated, roughly the size of a small sewing needle.  The smell of age, of death, rose from the wrapper.  The inside of the car took on the smell almost immediately, and while it was not pleasant, it was faint.  The smell of rot that has long since passed.  Thomas was afraid to breathe and suddenly panicked at the thought of the car’s heating system automatically turning on.  Carefully he pressed a button on the console, holding the foil steady in his other hand, delaying the temperature control.  He was too nervous to even sigh.

I’m wasting time.  He brought the foil to his lips, emptying the contents into his mouth, filling it with the old chalky ingredients.  He did not wince as the sharp edge of the solid piece tore at his throat on its way to his stomach.  Saliva and age were enough the break the piece down before it caused anything more than an uncomfortable sensation.  Making sure it was completely poured in, he backed the wrapper with his hands and licked the remaining dust from the surface.  The taste consumed his mouth, leaving a lingering taste of bitterness and the past.

Thomas sighed, closed his eyes, and leaned his head against the leather backing of the seat.  Already he could feel the ache leaving his muscles - the tiny cuts from the fight closing up.  He immediately recognized the new life that was infused into him - he had gathered one more piece that brought him closer to what he used to be.  He sat there for nearly ten minutes before moving again.  The car’s heating system came to life and began to bring the slowly falling temperature back up. 

I don’t remember when any of this started, he thought.  For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to these places - to these, churches.  I know instinctively where to go, where to search, and where to find my goal.  In the past, it was nothing more than a glorified game of “hide and seek.”  If you didn’t succeed, you might have found yourself a little weak, a little more hungry than normal.  Maybe your wounds healed slower, or the cold empty sensation of being alone crept closer to you.  There was never any conflict.  Never any killing.  Over the past hundred years, more and more of “us” started showing up.  Now, if you don’t succeed, you can die.  

It took me years to figure it out.  Who we were, why we were compelled to these actions.  We’re all buried.  Each and every one of “us”.  Buried in these buildings, and at one time, we were holy.  We began walking among everyone when our graves were no longer sacred, when they had lost their sanctity.  We were the walking manifestation of blasphemy, and the longer we walked, the more we withered away.  Not until we had gathered all of our “pieces” did we have any hope of leaving this place. 

Every day on the news I see another church being sold, broken down or falling to war.  We are inside.  The more of those buildings that are lost, the less likely we are to recover ourselves.  The more relics that are destroyed, part of one of us is completely gone - forever.  In the end, most of us will die.  All of us must fight.

As the Jag grunted into gear, Thomas already felt the strange tugging in his mind, pulling him to the next broken destination.  Before releasing the brake, his eye caught something to his right.  It was the bum, standing in the entrance and watching him with a knowing stare.  He was aware that this location was clean.  Thomas wondered if he would see him again. 

He looked to his left once more.  The weatherproof jacket man was still down, but there was no doubt he would be waking up soon.  Thomas pressed on the accelarator and left him there to sleep and revel in his dreams of Assisi.  It wouldn’t be long before he knew the awful truth of what was happening.   

If love and death are the defining elements of every story, the subject of identity is - in this writer’s humble opinion - a close runner up.  At the very least, it takes those same universal themes and builds on them, making each story unique.  Just like no two people are the same, neither are their reasons for existing.

The poem below details a man’s loss of self, nothing more, nothing less.  I found it quite sad after I was done writing it, but also felt that there was a fantastic character concept lurking in there somewhere.  What is your particular identity?     

“The Greatest Magician Ever”

Through dreary nights, whereupon the soaking rains cut the still, sometimes melancholy fog,
The revelation sprang upon me that I was the greatest magician ever.
Much to my confusion, that is to say any chain binding my hands would stay bound,
Until the key relieved the lock.
Most ordinary crates would succeed in containing me, locked tightly enough, of course.
I entertain few, and surprise even less,
But through dreary nights, whereupon I realized the utter curse of this wretched title,
I escaped myself.

He quickened his step as the businessman reached the exit and dissapeared outside.  Imagining that the car parked outside couldn’t be too far away, he quickly calculated how long he would have before it was lost forever.  He remembered hearing the engine grunt softly before the man entered the church - the car was turned off.  That would buy him a few more seconds.  Frank began to run towards the door.

Before reaching the exit, the mound of clothes that was the bum caught his eye.  From beneath the rags the smallest breath could be seen, condensing in a small puff, highlighted even more by the beam of light still emanating from the ceiling.  It was the spotlight of some morbid theater, interrupted by the high-pitched boop-boop! of the car’s alarm system being deactivated.  The jingle of keys from outside turned Frank’s attention to the door and sent him sprinting towards the entrance.

It was bright. 

Of all the things that could have, should have, went through his mind upon stepping outside, that was it.  He had never seen anything so bright.  Snow blanketed every inch of the small back-alley street.  Imposing industrial structures, long forgotten, created a complex silhouette against the cloudy sky, illuminated a pale green from the nearby city’s heart.  Frank was certain that underneath it all was a thick film of grime and trash, accumulated over years of neglect and disregard.  But now it was pure, for at least a while.

There were no lights to flood the area in the blotted fashion that the city street lamps normally did.  It was the single beam of light piercing through the church’s roof multiplies thousands of times.  The few sparkles of snow now falling on the dead homeless man inside were dropping by the millions out here.  Behind him, the towering cathedral reached up into the night sky, somehow pleading for a chance to be restored to its previous sanctity.  It was quite possibly the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

All of this passed through Frank’s head, playing slowly so he could catch every detail, while he was in a full sprint towards the man in front of the car.  What amouted to two seconds recorded as minutes in his mind, and before he could stop himself, Frank’s body hit his target with a force that sent them both sprawling to the ground.

——————————————————————————————————————————————-

“Come on boy. It’s me and you to the rescue once a again,” said the old man dressed in the navy blue workmens’ uniform. His cap, which he wore proudly even with the grease stains, read O’Neil’s Auto Repair.  He nudged the kid out the door, as they made their way to the company truck. The rickety contraption was an outdated Ford pickup truck. The kind with white stripes down the sides and big shiny chrome headlights. The nearly teen aged boy wondered if the thing might one day blow up in flames tragically ending his life. His concerns all seemed lost on the old man, as his gnarled hands throttled the key and he revved the gas petal. With a grin and a wink at the boy, he slammed the gear shift and off they putted down the busy city street.

“Now what all do we need from Robbins boy?” , the old man asked. “The radiator, fittings, and make sure it goes on the business account, so there’s no tax Gramps,” replied the young passenger. “Good. Good work Gabrielle. You’ll make a fine man some day son. Did I ever tell about the time Red Mullin’s let me use his shop to do some welding on yar Grandmothers car? Back before we had our own shop. Let’s see must have been twenty.. Nah.. Mae be forty years ago.”

The story being told was a favorite of the boys’ as they made their way on another adventure. Neither of them was worth a damn, his grandfather often joked. One to old to be of much use and the other to young. Together they made a great team. Gabrielle settled in to his familiar role as listener, soaking up the words being spoken.

The story ended just as they made it to the parking lot of the huge gray warehouse. Gramps had nearly died in an explosion of acetylene tanks, having been projected out the glass windows of the overhead door. As he finished his narration, he was quick to point out the scars he carried on his forearm with a chuckle. “Just remember boy, when you get to the end of your days, all you have left is your memories,” with a finger raised in the air to emphasis his point Gramps continued, “So live’em! Everyday is a gift from the old boy up above. Ya gotta take every opportunity you can, every trip, don’t be one of them like yar grandmother, to damn afraid to live. Be a go-getter and take advantage of everything you can son! In the end all you’ll have is your memories of what you did and if you’re lucky, what you can still eat!”

The door hinges squealed as the truck doors slammed shut. Making their way into Robbin’s Supply they were greeted by a man standing behind the counter. “Top a the morning to you son,” said Gramps excitedly strolling up to the counter. “How’s your dad Willy?”

“Good Morning Mr. O’Neil,” replied Willy, with a nod to the kid. “Dad’s doing great, wondering when you’re picking him up to go fishing again. Here for that radiator I take it, huh?” , he continued gesturing to the parts that leaned against the far wall.

Seeing them Gabrielle automatically made his way over and began to take them out to the truck, as the grown ups talked. Once they were secured in the truck and he had double checked his work, he made his way back in to retrieve his Gramps. After all Dad was waiting on this radiator to finish Mcloskies truck. And lord knew how Mcloskie bitched every time he came to the shop. Smiling to himself at his fathers’ words, he walked in to see Gramps and Willy still talking.

“Ja’get’er all loaded boy?” asked Gramps as he held out a small  paper bag of candy. “Yup,” answered the boy while digging into the paper bag. Pulling out a piece of dark hard candy, he inspected it, not sure what it was. It smelled sort of like licorice. The sour look on his face as he sucked on it, caused the grown men to laugh. “What’s a matter you don’t like horehounds sunny?” asked Gramps. Shaking his head Gabrielle tossed the candy into the near by trash can and wiped his hands on his pants. “Did he tell ya to put it on the business account?” Gabrielle asked Willy. “Yes young squire,” replied Willy, handing the receipt to over to Gabrielle. “Those sure aren’t anything I’ll ever be thankful for Gramps,” said Gabrielle as he gestured to the paper bag of candy.

 ”Just remember boy, each man has his own treasures,” said Gramps tossing another piece of the horrible tasting candy into his mouth.

Occupying the center of the room, was a figure sitting on a mat of some kind. He wished it was the very grass and earth that lay beneath him. Inhabiting some peaceful and majestic gardens. Ants.. Something as simple as that, kept this complex creation of humanity from trying to find such a place. He laughed when he explained it to people, but sure enough, he was worried that ants might crawl all over him at such a time, not to mention the possibility of birds flying over head.. Therefore his current sanctuary was and would possibly forever be inside man made creations, while he sat trying to escape the creations of his consciousness.

The irony of that was not lost on the rooms inhabitant as he sat mouthing the word “Om” over and over again. No it had been someone far wiser then he that had pointed that out to him. But he didn’t consider himself wise. Curious yes. Wise, well that was a work in progress. As was evident the day he walked out of the meditation class he had joined not long after moving to the west coast. Why Om, he had asked back then. It was a sign of how much he lacked in understanding, they had told him, that he had even asked such a question. The cost of the class had used up the last of his savings at the time, but the lesson learned was priceless to the young seeker. The internet had provided the answer to the question they could not.

 The ringing phone brought him out of his meditative state. Chiding himself for allowing outside noise to affect his meditation so, he stood swiftly from his pose and bounded to the phone. Of course by the ring-tone, he knew who it was. Smiling inward at the thought that even via electronic communication, children could not avoid the call of their mother, he answered the phone. “Hi Mom, how are you?”

“It’s your brother, he’s not good.” , she answered skipping the need for pleasantries. “What is it this time? Jail time for insurance fraud? Too many counterfeit bills?” he replied voice dripping with sarcasm before continuing, “we’ve been over this before. I washed my hands of him when he decided to take the path he did.” The silence on the other end caused a cold chill to course down through his spin. Twisting his chin into his neck he vainly tried to shake the chill away. “Mom” , he quietly murmured.

“He’s sick Gabe,”  she said in that manner that says the end is coming and this person has accepted it. No more tears will be spilt. No pleading out to the Gods for answers. Nope, just resigned indignation for the eventual outcome. “He asked for the Kid.”

The storms began in his eyes, drawing inward. “How lon.. How long does he have?” he asked, fighting to regain control of his emotions and their outward affects on him. Seven years and… twenty-two days, that’s how long it’s been since I saw him, he calculated in his head. “Not long honey, a week, maybe two. But if you could… It would mean a lot to… everyone” , she finished.

“I’m on the first flight out,” he answered back. Already the need for action had taken over, disengaging his emotions; a response he had been forced to learn early on in life. What could he do to bridge the gap of silence they had endured for so long, he pondered. Amazed at the speed and power of the mind, when used correctly, he was assailed with memories of his past. They danced in the theater of his mind, one after another, at light speed.

 ”Mom?” , he asked.

“Yes honey,” she answered.

“Can he still eat?”

Cursing now the restrictive angle that the confessional kept him at, Frank came to the chilling realization that he wanted to see what the man had unearthed - badly.  He moved as much as could within the small confines to peer around the obtrusive living laundry heap that was blocking his view.  It was no use.  As much as he wanted to see whatever was removed from the church’s floor, he could not bring himself to step out of the deep shadows that continually pulled him back into the booth.  His stomach reeled from the unnatural tug-of-war that began to rage on within him.  Finding that he had to mentally make note of where his feet were planted, Frank let out a gasp as he realized that he was actually reaching his hands out towards the homeless man’s direction!

For a brief second, his fingertips left the confessional and hung in the air with outstretched arms behind them.  This time, the homeless man popped up, shaken from his trance.  He heard me!  Shit, he heard me!

Frank jerked his arms back into the black murk around him, but he frantically wondered if it would protect him this time.  And still, despite this, he wanted to reach out towards whatever the man was holding!  He tried to keep his ragged breaths in check as the bum was now looking directly at the booth, this time no longer staring past him.  No, this time, he was looking right…into…his…eyes.  From across the room, Frank saw a clear and calculated focus that was not present just moments ago when the smelly creature was barely two feet from him.

Again, the weatherproof jacket rustled a bit as he balled his hands into fists, preparing for the unknown.  You can do this, Frank.

The rancid drifter never had a chance.  A neat little hole, impossibly small but unquestionable deadly, opened on his forehead as the bullet from behind spit a discrete amount of brain matter over the dusty pews.  His big watery eyes still stared at Frank as he dropped to the ground with a sick and equally wet thud.

It was a dream to Frank.  Now he was sure of it.  There was no possibility, in heaven or hell, that he could be in this situation.  He convinced himself within that moment and left no room for argument, he would not allow it.  He was not here.  He did not just watch a man die.  And he sure as hell wasn’t trapped in some confessional booth in a hallowed out church in the worst section of the city!  Frank held onto the fact that he would wake up any second now, that the man in a clean, crisp business suit had not just emerged from the shadows with a fine wisp of smoke coming from his lowered gun.  There was no possibility that he was seeing this.

Tucking his tie neatly into his jacket, the businessman crouched next to the now-still laundry pile, lifting his form up slightly so as to have access to the mysterious object taken from the floor.  Again, the same prayer-like incantation was delivered before swiftly placing the item into the inner pocket of his suit.  Frank could do nothing as he simply watched the man walk calmly and purposefully towards the entrance of the church.

It was in that stoppage of time, when both hands of the clock stood at unwavering attention of the unquestionably insane scenario that Frank now found himself in, that he felt more like an outsider than a participant.  This was too strange a moment to be a part of, his voyeuristic thoughts tried to convince him.  If nothing else, this is a sick and frightening dream that you’ll wake up from.  The chill let through the church’s vandalized walls may linger a bit as you transition yourself back to reality, but the warm sheets of your bed will quickly chase that away.  The fetid air, so real, will not stand long against the comforting and pleasant scents of your home.  The homeless man’s helpless and ugly visage, the terrifying sounds of whatever he saw now moving in the shadows of the entranceway – all of it would be gone!  God, help him!

Frank shut the vision out of his mind and line of sight, hoping against hope that it would be gone when he looked again.  The fear of a cornered dog crept up in his belly when he lifted his head, only to find that his eyesight had adjusted as to see the scenario play out for him even clearer.

The bum stood like a demented statue in the pillar of light, looking with mouth open towards the darkness of the church’s rear.  He held his pose, bathing in the illumination from above.  A light so pure and bright against the onyx backdrop of the building’s interior that Frank wondered if the poor fool could even make out the other form that had entered, standing quietly in the shadows.

Suddenly, another twinge of anxiety surged through his body.  If he was able to see the thing in the shadows, was he plainly visible as well?  No, the confessional was much darker than even the hidden recesses of the church’s deep corners.  It was impossible, as long as he kept quiet, to have his position given away.

Shaken from his thoughts, Frank looked across the room at the homeless man, noticing that he had begun counting on the floor again, spewing his cryptic combination out in muffled grunts.  He stopped, no longer paying any heed to the previous sounds at his back, and crouched down.  Was he simply ignoring the figure at the doorway, or had he truly not seen him?  It was impossible to tell what either of them were thinking, or doing here, for that matter.  The thought crossed his mind that perhaps these two knew each other – could this have been a planned meeting?

In the end, he came to the conclusion that the bum simply was oblivious to his surroundings.  First, he had lost Frank in the confessional, standing only inches from him in the dark confines of the booth.  Now he had inadvertently blinded himself with the only source of light in the entire place, failing to notice that someone else was standing in the very same room as him.

What looked like a living bundle of laundry pulsing up and down now took the place of the idiotic, moon bathed statue.  His grunting was increased, and he was without doubt working a fervent pace, scraping the stones in the floor with some medieval tool he had hidden under his clothes.  Faster, faster, he went, again not noticing the figure behind him was now hugging the shadows along the walls towards him.  Frank wanted to yell a warning, but what would he have said?  If they knew each other, he could be sealing his own fate, or even worse, what if the bum deserved whatever he was about to get?  There were too many variables, the least of which was not his survival instinct telling him – no, screaming at him, to stay the hell put.

The scraping stopped.  At least the hectic, demanding and desperate type that he had been hearing for the last few minutes did.  Now there was a new kind.  A slow, deliberate and careful sound of rock sliding against rock.  A heavy thud confirmed Frank’s mental picture as the bum removed one of the stones in the floor, tossing it carelessly to the side.

The two occupants laughed at the sounds of the racing red rocket, as it crash landed back on the pavement, after taking flight over the last in a series of humpbacked hills. The driver chugged from his two-liter bottle of diet soda while the younger passenger sang along with the radio, staring out across the landscape. “It looks like cotton candy” , he said pointing out at the glowing sunset before them. It’s now pink rays washed out over the remaining visible clouds, like strings of the sugary candy being spun in one of those fair time machines. Sighing in pleasure or perhaps exhaustion the driver set the bottle down between the seats and began trying to put the cap back on it. “Fag.” , he said to his little brother, who sat smiling.

“Why does that make me a fag? You fat piece of trash! The sky looks like it’s filled with webs of cotton candy. The more clouds that touch the sun, the more webs of pink there are.” explained the younger brother in annoyance. The older and rounder brother continued driving, but squished his face into a grimace with chin jutting out until he finally shook his head. “Yeah I guess you’re right Kid.” , he said, “But you’re still a fag.”

Shaking his head and throwing a Combo at his older brother, the “Kid” gave up on what he thought was a brilliant description of the sky and decided to sing along with the radio instead. “Wince, do you think there is such a thing as a heart of gold?” , asked the Kid. “I mean is anyone truly pure in heart?” , he mused turning to watch his older brother Winston “drink” the bag of Combo’s they had been sharing, empty. “I dunno” , Winston grumbled between bites, as the crumbs danced across his ample belly, like autumn leaves lazily drifting to the ground on a fall day.

“Is it even possible for someone to live life, in the real world, and remain pure? I really don’t think so.” , conituned the Kid, answering his own question. “I think life has a way of taking the good and tainting it, so to speak. Like making a person jaded and mistrusting.” “Like us?” , chuckled Winston. As the lopsided grin appeared on his lips the Kid sullenly agreed ,”Yeah I guess so.”

Belching out the after affects of his diet soda Winston added, “It’s like your symbol Kid.” “What symbol you idiot?!” , the Kid snapped back in frustration; once again not understanding Wince. “You know that martial art’s one, you like so much. With the circles.” Wince explained. “Ying & Yang.” , answered the Kid in a now confused tone. “Yeah whatever, that’s your answer.”

The Ying & Yang symbol had become known to the Kid early on in his life. It was referenced again and again in his studies of the fighting arts. “I’m not sure I know where you’re going with this, Wincy.” , he said with a confused look on his face while staring out into the night before them.  “Dumbass, aren’t you always saying all the power in the world won’t help you, if you don’t have enough speed to hit someone!?” , retorted the driver.

“Yeah.” , the Kid responded trying to figure out what the hell his brother meant by this. “So, you’re saying that there is a little bad in everyone.” pausing to think, the Kid continued philosophizing, “ And theoretically a heart of gold doesn’t exist and those that search for one, will spend their lives searching for something that doesn’t exist.” Wince grunted in a agreement to the Kid’s assement of his metaphor. “I guess that would explain why sane educated people can act like savages at times, huh?” the Kid asked aloud.

“You’re not as dumb as you look college boy! Now hand me one of those brownies, fag!” , Winston said as he slammed the gearshift down. “Here you go you freaking savage!” the Kid said as he wipped a plastic wrapped brownie onto his brothers gut.

“Ah treasure, I love deez tings,” grumbled Winston as he gobbled the brownie down with an exaggerated gusto. The Kid threw one into his own mouth imitating his brother and growled out , “Freaking savages!”.  Laughter could be heard as the little red rocket continued racing toward the skyline of cotton candy shaped clouds.