American Turtles Page 3
* * * Author’s Note * * *
This story was written with a Neil Gaiman style in mind. I love to think about the universe, and about our conception of space and time (though I hate how trite that phrase has become). Really, I think about our lack of conception. We are infinitely and unfathomably dwarfed by the size and age of the universe—or a single galaxy, even. I’ve a bit of a working hypothesis regarding the whole “infinite dimensions and realities” thing that comes from string theory—although I should note I have no real education surrounding the matter. We think of the “Big Bang” as the beginning of the universe, and with it, the beginning of space and time. Some thermodynamicists or hobby cosmologists might tell you about the “Big Crunch,” or “heat death,” or in some form or another, the idea of the universe reaching maximum entropy and collapsing back into a point. Under this notion, the universe might from some other frame of reference (i.e. a really sped up perspective) look to be one giant explosion and then compression back to a singular point.
It’s all very cyclic, and the thought occurred to me—if the universe is being created over and over again (Big Bang after Big Bang), and has been doing that since forever, infinitely, then every possible scenario that could ever exist is bound to happen in one Big Bang or another (by the definition of infinity). Space and time are being created anew every cycle. We think of an infinite series of realities as coexisting. What if they are each their own Big Bang?
As Neil Gaiman might, I took this idea of mine and played with it, making it literal. My character is born again and again. We learn that he doesn’t remember anything from before, only what has happened since he first opened his eyes. Like Gaiman, I drew from mythology to name my character: Bennu is the ancient Egyptian version of the Phoenix; Aeon is literally the deity representing time in Greek mythology.
I think my story as a whole plays with the egocentricity of the human perspective; I still use it even as I critique it. Also, I avoided establishing any concrete setting; I liked that it made my story feel more abstract. The idea of writing this story began as I was standing in the UCLA Botanical Garden with the rest of our class, and noticed an intricate furl in the stalk of a palm leaf. I wondered how it could have gradually evolved to develop right in that spot. Imagining the generations of plants that would lead to the one before me, I had my first glimpse through the eyes of Bennu.
I sort of naturally let the story do its thing. I played with using different perspectives, as Gaiman would, to try to give the story multiple angles, instead of using a singular omnipotent narrator. It was fun to use an ironic tone in narrating Albert’s part. I also tried my best to foreshadow, or at least to give hints towards what the hell I was talking about. The story initially contains more vague and abstract language, so that the reader does not immediately understand what is going on. Further in, I shift to prose that offers more concrete facts about the story and provide some names, so that the puzzle is easier to complete—delayed gratification. As Neil Gaiman does, I tried my best to write a short piece that throws the reader off, forces them to participate in creating the plot, and provides a twist at the end that reveals the premise of the story.
The Silence of Silas Shaw
Kimberly Juarez
I am used and forgotten, but my purpose forbids me from expecting a different result.
My existence is composed of long nights and short days that blend into each other. But despite the mistreatment that I receive during the day, I continue to look forward to the moment when the sun rises above the buildings and the commotion of hurrying footsteps fills the air.
Back when I was young, I was the envy of my kind. Beautiful skin and a strong body. I was sought by everyone because I was the most reliable of us all. However, time is merciless. In my old age, I have become a sorry sight to see. I have scratches all over me and my legs are discolored in several areas. My arms have long lost their firmness and my left arm is easily dislocated. My back receives the worst abuse as the sturdy frame I was once complimented on is becoming limp and flimsy. I know that my days are numbered.
The end of my life is decided the moment I am no longer deemed useful. Tall men with suits discuss the fate of a couple of my companions and myself with little remorse. Their voices are cold and factual, for the men will soon find replacements for us. We are filled with fear and hatred for being tossed away after serving so well. It is heartbreaking.
On the day that the men come to take me away, I remember those who were kind and cruel. I was used nearly everyday, but there are those that exploited my presence. With their multitude of pens and pencils, their anxiety caused them to absentmindedly etch their ink into my arms and scratch my beautiful skin. “Silas Shaw” were the first words that were tattooed on my body after a young boy engraved the name onto my arm. Every once in a while, others would trace over it with their sharp tools, deepening the letters that became a part of my identity. They also kicked my back until the footprints became permanent. Incapable of defending myself, I took the injustices for I was meant to serve and I consoled myself with the thought that not all who used me mistreated me.
There were those that were kind. They treated me with the utmost care and carefully massaged the scars instead of creating new ones. They would probably be the only ones that would notice my absence. And despite the thousands of individuals that I encountered, I remember every single one of them.
I am carried onto a truck and secured along with the others—also broken and mistreated—as we venture forward into the end.
At our destination, the sound of the blades in the machine is deafening. One by one, we are thrown into the contraption and cease to be whole. I think about how all the endless thoughts that I have ever had will remain unspoken and with the end of my life, silence will fill the void. When it is my turn, I thank the universe for my short existence and I bid farewell to my life. It is over soon which is all I could ever ask for.
* * *
When the girl enters the lecture room, she knows something had changed. The chair in the middle row had been replaced with a new sleek model. “Silas Shaw” she had called the old chair, after the elegant name written on its arm. It had been her favorite place to sit. The girl enjoyed tracing over the writing with her fingertips and attempted to fix the dangling arm at the beginning of every lecture, but every day found the chair in a worse state than when she left it. She felt a sense of serenity and security with the worn seat and overused arms. She thought it had history and character that many of the other chairs lacked.
Although she wishes the chair was still in the room, she will forget about it within a week.
* * * Author’s Note * * *
There are authors who welcome their readers into their story by grabbing their hand and introducing you to their world. They excitedly paint a picture with such precision and detail that people lose themselves in the story and renounce reality. They guide people through a carefully constructed path. There is joy when you come across stories such as these that cause people to yearn for more. Neil Gaiman is not this type of author. Gaiman will open the door, but will not hold your hand through the story. He leaves subtle hints and small clues that you have to search for and with every clue that you find, the story becomes more confusing then when you began, until the end is revealed. His scavenger hunts are alluring nonetheless. But there is a satisfaction in reading Gaiman’s stories that cannot be found in reading other works. It is a constant collaboration with the reader as his vague descriptions allow the reader to construct the path with him as opposed to walking down a path that has been made. There is a sense of accomplishment after reading Gaiman’s texts because he made you work for the story he has created. As his readers, we tend to open the door to a familiar setting with surprises we never imagine.
The aspects of this story that are inspired by Gaiman are the mystery and vagueness of the introduction of the protagonist. The reader does not know much about the main character, which is a personified object, until its
true self is revealed at the end. This causes the reader to form sympathy for an inanimate object. It also shows a point of view that is almost never thought about. My intent is to create a story in which the readers felt a sense of desolation from the character and hopelessness. Like most of Gaiman’s stories, the ending is not always happy, but the world continues.
I Am Matt Gallagher
Melanie Gharehptian
The night was young. The date was March 3rd. It had become a tradition for Derek and I to enter the Angeles National Forest every year on this day. We had started doing this at the ripe age of sixteen, our most rebellious period filled with heavy drinking, partying, and lots of girls.
“You didn’t forgot the 12-pack of beer this time did you?” said Derek.
“No,” I yelled.
Fifteen years have passed and Derek still jokes around about the time I stupidly left the beer in plain sight in my bedroom. I had stood outside a liquor store all day pleading to every adult who passed by to have some sympathy for a seventeen-year-old teenager who simply wanted to experience getting drunk for the “first time.” Of course this was more my “hundredth time,” but a little white lie never hurt anyone.
As we made our way through the forest, we finally arrived at the meeting spot. We loved this part of the forest because we were surrounded by the biggest oak tree on the west coast. Derek and I had become national forest experts, being able to walk this path while blindfolded. Every time we ventured into the forest, we carved the date on a log nearby to keep track of our time spent there.
There was something that I loved about the forest, and Derek seemed to feel the same way. Nothing ever changed. It was as though when we were in the forest time had frozen. No time had passed and we were once again teenagers who wondered what our future lives would be like.
“Remember how we brought those two Australian foreign exchange students here that one night?”
“This was a real chick-magnet,” I laughed.
In reality, it was the farthest thing from that. Derek and I would bring a lot of our friends here to drink, thinking that this secret place would make us look cool. Many girls however, thought differently. They always remarked how it was strange that we would drink here. Many people believed that the forest was haunted and in the end, our plan made us seem less “cool” than we had hoped.
Derek and I didn’t pay attention to what everyone said. We continued to come to our favorite spot. We drank to forget about everything that was happening in our lives. My parents were going through a divorce at the time and Derek had just found out that his father was cheating on his mother. The forest was our place. It was not tainted by the memories of all the bullshit that was happening in the one place where we should have felt the safest, our homes.
We were both already on our fourth beer. Derek had reminded me not to drink that much. He had tried to quit, but could not find the strength to do it.
I believe that everyone thought we would give up drinking after what happened on the night of March 3, 1998. For some odd reason, I started thinking about that night, or the bits and pieces I remember of it.
On March 3, 1998 Derek and I had decided to visit the forest for the last time that year because Derek’s family wanted to relocate to North Carolina in hopes of obtaining a fresh start after the cheating scandal erupted. I remember feeling that it would be that last night that Derek and I would have our secret adventures. I knew I was not just losing a friend, but a brother. It was that night that we bought two 12-packs of beer and even managed to get a hold of a bottle of vodka that was in Derek’s house. We wanted to drink the night away, knowing that the next time we would meet would be that September in Washington DC, where we would both be attending Georgetown University.
The next memory I have of that night is waking up in a hospital bed, confused about what exactly had happened to me. I had a massive headache and casts on my left arm and right leg. The doctors came in asking me how I was feeling and all I kept thinking was, “What happened that night?”
I got the full story two days after when Derek woke up. He seemed to have remembered everything that occurred.
According to Derek, we had finished the beers and the entire bottle of vodka. We were so drunk that we had forgotten our way out of the forest. Derek told me how it kept getting darker and how our flashlights had stopped working. Both of us could hardly walk since we were extremely intoxicated. At some point in the night, Derek and I separated, hoping that if we both took different paths one of us would find the way out and come rescue the other.
My mother told me she had filed a missing persons report when we didn’t return home by midnight and search and rescue teams were quickly sent to find Derek and me. I was found on March 5th and Derek was found one day later.
I try to force this incident to leave my mind. I never talk about it with Derek anymore. Every time I bring it up he always changes the subject. I still have yet to understand why he is so affected by what happened that night. Is there something he is not telling me?
“How is the job search going?” I ask Derek. After the incident, Derek decided against going to Georgetown and started taking classes at a local community college in Los Angeles.
“It’s not going too well. But enough about me, when do you find out about whether or not you got the promotion?”
“They will let me know at the end of this month.”
Seeing Derek struggle always hurt me. Something had changed in him after the accident, but I knew that I needed to respect his wishes and never talk about it again. Derek had recently gotten divorced and lost his job working as a manager for a local hardware company. I was living a completely different life than he was.
I got married seven years ago and now have two children, Emma and Analina. Upon graduating from Georgetown with a Master’s degree in Aerospace Engineering, I was offered a job at JPL. For the first time in a long time I was happy with my life. Everything had turned out better than I had ever hoped for.
When Derek and I would come to the forest, we had drunken conversations about how we were scared that our lives would become just like our parents’, filled with so much anger and resentment. That was not the case for me. I was genuinely happy.
* * *
As I sit here alone on March 3rd, I cannot help but think about how Matt had an entire future ahead of him. He lost his chance at life on that fatal night in 1998. If you were to put him and I side by side, everyone would have said that Matt was going to be the successful one in life. He had so many dreams and aspirations. One night, while sitting in this exact place, Matt drunkenly confessed, “I’m going to change the world when I grow up. I know it’s a stupid thing to say, but I am. Watch me Derek. I’m unstoppable.”
I quickly laughed when he said it, thinking that Matt was out of his mind. Now as I sit here, I wish that I could watch him change the world.
I think I am becoming an alcoholic, but I’m trying to stop myself for Matt.
As the sky becomes darker and there is a slight breeze, I can’t help but ask myself what would have happened if they had found Matt that night. Why was I the only one to survive?
When I learned that Matt’s body had never been discovered, I thought that life had no meaning anymore. In a way, I still question what I am doing here. I drink hoping that I will find an answer to the question that haunts me every single day, “Why?”
I take my last sip of beer before finding my way out of the forest for what I think will be the last time. In the midst of silence, I can feel Matt’s presence. I remember when the two Australian girls that we invited to the forest kept talking about how it was haunted. Maybe it is.
I look to my right and see a figure.
“Where have you been all this time my dear old friend?”
* * * Author’s Note * * *
This story was inspired by Neil Gaiman’s short story, “The Thing About Cassandra.” I was inspired to write a story that incorporated the theme of reality vs. fantasy. Gaim
an also tends to write all about childhood innocence and the components that define the teenage years of many individuals. I used all these elements in “I Am Matt Gallagher.”
The Man of Sand
Brandon Pham
If you die in an elevator, be sure to push the Up button.
—Sam Levenson
Knock knock. The sudden sound at my bedroom door awoke me from my slumber. I looked at my clock: 3:00 A.M. I had no idea who it could be. For all I knew, I was home alone that night. My parents had left for the weekend with my older brother for his college tours, and they wouldn’t be back until tomorrow night. Peering out through my bedroom window, I saw the thunder and rain crashing onto the ground. I arose from the sheets and walked toward the door. Knock knock. There it was again.
I inched toward the door. My hand grasped the handle, and slowly I turned the knob. When I opened the door, the creature I saw before me was something from a horror story. Standing about three feet tall, it had a large crooked nose and smelled of spoiled meat. Its hands were scraggly and muddied with dirt. It wore a torn garment with frayed edges that dragged to the floor, and its feet were alien-like—with its toes extending several inches toward my one. It slowly tilted his head upwards toward my face. That’s when I realized this creature didn’t have eyes: where its eyes should have been were two shiny copper pennies.
“Who—what are you?” I demanded. My first instinct was to slam and lock the door, but the creature had already made its way through the doorway and was walking toward my bed. The creature didn’t reply. I wasn’t sure if this “thing” even spoke English. Without a tiny bit of hesitation, it began digging through my closet. It threw all my clothes, books, and papers all over the ground. It seemed as if it was searching for something. Then, it tilted its head upwards toward the top of my shelf.