Above me,

A murder of crows.

A procession of black

Stands broken and slouched.

It rains.

Hidden behind the clouds,

The sun does not delight

This unkindness of ravens.

The old man

Leading this parade

Carries me.

His bones show

Through his thin skin.

They lay me

In the muddy dirt.

I hear tired words uttered,

Sorrowful whispers muttered.

The line of despair

Slowly dissipates.

I am forgotten.

You ask why I did it,

And honestly, I have no answer.

I don’t know.

It was fun, I guess.

Earlier this week,

When the mailman delivered my mail,

I invited him in for coffee and scones.

I brought him to my living room

And simply thought

why not.

I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and stabbed him in the chest.

As his last, cold breath hugged me

And as Death entered through the back door,

I felt oddly excited.

Two years before,

The bombs began to drop.

We were in our homes

When the first plane’s

Drone was heard above.

The crash was heard not long after.

Our neighbors down the block

Were crushed under their house.

When the mayor

Was murdered two months later,

Death conquered the town.

With homemade knives

And hunting rifles,

We fought back.

But we are not soldiers.

I am alone now.

My town destroyed,

My friends murdered,

My family killed.

I buried my wife

And my children

With my bare hands,

But who is left to bury me?

I crossed the path of a man

Of old age and solid mind.

He asked me

To join him.

He said, “My friend,

Come with me.

You shall be shown a world

You cannot yet understand.

Trees as tall as giants

And their leaves with

Such colors.

Yet I said no, thanks, mister.

Good luck.

I wonder still what my journey with him

Would have led to.

Yet I stand by my decision.

I am happy,

Satisfied with my life.

But I wonder–

Oh do I wonder,

What wonders I would have seen.

I sit here,

In a small,

Dismal room.

The walls are gray,

The ceiling is gray,

The floor is gray.

I am alone.

Too many years ago,

The police knocked on my door

And arrested me.

They charged me with theft.

I stole my neighbor's apples off his apple tree.

I long to go home,

I’ve wanted to go home since I got here,

But I fear I will not be welcome,

I would be a stranger.

I eat my food every day,

I sleep in my bed every night,

I breathe,

But I do not sing,

I stand,

But I do not dance.

I doubt my name

Is ever spoken at my family’s

Dinner table.

I doubt my name

Is even remembered by my family.

My only friends

Are the walls that surround me,

The ceiling above me,

And the floor beneath me.

I live,

But am I alive?

A few days ago,

A child approached me and asked,

What is music?

I thought, and answered,

“Music is a complex

Arrangement of tonal

Frequencies tied together in a rhythmic pattern

To form sounds.”

The child walked away

Baffled.

I thought about the question,

For hours, I thought.

What is music?

I play no instrument,

I compose no piece.

I am no Mozart,

No Bach.

Tchaikovsky is not my bridge partner,

And Chopin is not my drinking buddy.

When I see others listen to music,

Their eyes flutter,

Their bodies sway.

There is a beauty that they see.

I feel

Nothing.

A few hours ago,

A friend came up to me and said,

Listen to this.

He brought me a recording.

It was of some violinist playing some famous piece.

It did not grab my attention.

But he insisted,

He said–

No, he commanded.

He commanded me to focus, to listen,

To understand.

Whatever that may mean.

So, I listened again expecting nothing,

Yet, when I heard that same violinist play that same famous piece,

My eyes fluttered,

My body swayed.

Beethoven asked me to play squash with him on Sunday,

Brahms invited me to his Tuesday night poker games.

Somehow,

In that moment,

I realized the beauty,

The romance,

The love

That is music.

I now saw the beauty that before

Only my friends could see.

I feel

Everything.

What happens when all the Muslims are gone,

When all the women are in their rightful place,

When all the lazy Mexicans are sent back,

When all the black people are dead, hanged from a tree.

We’ll be safe from Radical Islamic Terrorism,

There will be only strong men to protect the frail women,

There will be jobs for the real, hardworking Americans,

There will be law and order,

Respectively.

When does it begin?

I can’t wait.

For a day I was Rodin.

My hands belonged not to me,

But to Michelangelo

And Donatello.

I saw the gray block clay.

It danced before my eyes,

Upon the table it swayed and rocked

With the silent music that was

Such perfect inspiration.

I heard it. It spoke to me

Saying:

“Hear me, hear me,

My creator,

My molder,

My God.

Hear me,

I speak to thee, a man with smooth hands

And inexperience.

So listen.

Listen to these guides

And follow.

May you create me,

May you mold me,

May you rule me.”

As it continued my hands followed in its directions.

I felt humbled by its great knowledge

Of itself.

I was but the tool with which

It formed,

It created,

It ruled

Itself.

I saw it become.

First, a block,

Then a shape,

Then a soul

I saw.

Such a form–

O such a beautiful form it took.

I handed my creation to my teacher.

He cracked it

Beneath his bare knuckles.

“Follow the directions next time.”

     Words are only sounds and noises. Our mouths move in strange contortions and we breathe through them to create subtle differences in resonations. Words are only clamorous concoctions of our mouths and lungs. Yet, from them we have created everything. Words are simply sounds and noises. But then come sentences, and paragraphs, and speeches, and eventually, ideas and understanding. That’s always been the difference between hearing and listening. Understanding.

     We all have ears. We all have mouths for tasting and eyes for seeing and hands for creating. So why then are we segregated by skill. Why are only a select few able to be cooks and artists and craftsmen. Why are they alone.

     I have a number of friends. Something for which I am thankful. When I was younger, I didn’t really enjoy the comforts of friendship. I was too weird, too odd. My parents said eccentric or unique. Euphemisms.

     Everyone would laugh at the funny things I did and join me in my attempts at comedy. But afterwards my humour would only annoy. My bothersome nature became irritating, and the same people who laughed so hard as I ate the dog food we found in the corner of the floor looked away, rolled their eyes, and exasperatedly yelled, “Why are you so annoying?!” This cycle of elated joy followed by aggravated annoyance was how I spent my founding years.

     However, as one would imagine, as I entered my much larger high school, there were people for me. No matter how long I persisted, they would still laugh. Such lovely people. Such wonderful people. But lovely and wonderful do not mean impeccable.

     I have an ear. Two actually. Such nifty little things. With them, nonsensical sounds in just the right order become what mankind so prides itself on, ideas. We all carry the burden of these ideas. Ideas of invention, of philosophy, of sympathy. And yes, burden is the right word.

     Friendship is a funny transaction. It’s a deal struck between two parties, usually giving both equal satisfaction. It’s like prostitution. But money for satisfaction is far simpler. Instead, we pay in support or love or care, much rarer commodities, much harder to come by. In my case, I pay with my ear and my time. Such an odd--I’m sorry, eccentric--person like me wouldn’t be able to find friends who were stable. I probably should have expected that. I signed on the dotted line without reading the fine print.

     Every month or so, it’s another one. Who can blame them, though. Who am I to judge. Jane, she needed to talk. Now that she’s eighteen, her boyfriend is pressuring her into sex. Or Curtis, who came to my doorstep drunk. His girlfriend cheated on him and broke up with him because she “needed time to work on herself.” He vomited in my toilet before passing out in my bathroom. Or Sybil, the painter. She relieves her overbearing teenage stress by painting the clear white canvas of the toilet with such bright yellows and greens that even Jackson Pollock would be proud. Her paintbrush? The bottle of Ipecac she downs before painting.

     I’m happy to listen. I’m honour-bound to listen. They are my friends, and I care about them and their wellbeing. But even therapists get vacation hours. What of me? What of my problems? The choking anxiety I get before every test. The insomnia I’ve developed because of it.

     If I listen to everyone else, who is left to listen to me?

1

-----

     Cackling. The sound my half-present friends make every Saturday under the overpass. Just outside town, we meet beneath the overgrown birdsnest that must once have held the weight of hundreds of cars and trucks in the hustle and bustle of rush hour traffic. No longer. Now it stands as a crumbling aftershadow and a place to hide our illegal escapades. As my friends cackle, I watch. Their faces morph into grotesque figures reminiscent of innocence and void of sorrow. Yet, through these artificial veneers, eyes don’t lie. Their eyes will speak for them when their faces won’t. Jason, a boy I call my friend. While his face is contorted into a cheshire cat smile, his eyes are yelling. His mother swims in her bottle and his father won’t stand off the couch. Stephen, a boy I call my friend. Even when his body shakes with the tremors of his laughter, the windows into his soul cry out. He can’t live up to his Princeton parents and Yale sister with his C+ average. Everyone here is the same, but me. These boys whom I call friends all share the same tale, hidden behind drug-induced facades, their eyes all share a harrowing account; but I am an outsider. What is my troubling narrative? What awful circumstance have I lived through to belong among these gentlemen? I can safely say thank God there isn’t one. Am I alone then? Perhaps I am lucky, I can sit here and judge my friends, but it is lonely on this high pedestal. I sometimes envy them. They can live without regret, buying into the off-the-shelf ecstasy. I cannot take part, I can only observe. I’m almost amused by their pain. They so wish to be rid of it, they try anything to forget.

     (They never can.)

     I ask myself often why these are my only friends. These unlucky few who devote themselves to the church of fraudulent joy are the only people I call friends. I have no buddies, no chums, no comrades outside of this select group. Only in the recent past have I come to realize why: it’s easy, it’s simple. With these boys, I can rely on them without any fees. No matter what I do, so long as I come to the weekly conference, they will happily sing their drunken chanties alongside me. I have no obligation to confide in them my secrets, no need to share with them my feelings, beliefs, emotions. I show up, and they do too. If one of them were to die a tragic death, though, would I cry? Would any of the others cry? I never answer this question. To answer would call into question my entire existence, and that would be too complicated. So I remain, perhaps friendless, perhaps alone, but not forgotten. Not yet.

     “Such kind people.” What all the teachers and all the classmates and all the friends say after meeting them. I don’t disagree. They are indeed kind people. Interesting word choice, though. There is a difference between person and parent. I, for instance, am a kind person, but would without a doubt make an awful father. Such are my parents. I don’t fault them for effort, they try hard enough, but if all was measured in effort, the fools and the ignorant would be emperors.

     It seems, though, that they have given up on their attempts to parent. I get a brief “afternoon” when I walk in the door and maybe a “have a nice day” in the morning. Then I tread up to my room and seldom do we speak again. I pretend not to care, but that my own parents have forgotten me is a bright neon sign flashing I am worthless; even they who bore and raised me seem not to care enough to try anymore. Granted, much of it was my fault not theirs. Before, they were always enthusiastic, too enthusiastic. It was strained. After the twentieth or so time I screamed for nothing at their blank, unknowing faces, they lost hope. At that point, I guess I did too.

My friends are simple. I’m too tired of complex and difficult, I just want easy. My pothead friends smile at everything, so I smile with them. It’s fake, but it’s sincere in its falsehood.

     I fell asleep once under the overpass. I woke up to smell of cigarette smoke coming from the back of the gentlemen’s club behind me. Such gentlemen there. I stood up on weak legs with a sore neck and looked at the early morning surroundings. The stars were hiding as they always do, averting their faces from us on low, as if disgusted by us; they have a right to be.

     My friends deserted me, perhaps they saw me sleeping and felt it best to leave me at peace, but more likely, they forgot I was even there or never knew in the first place. The smell of skunk still lingered in the air even hours after the source fled. I walked around the block and observed. The mailman making his rounds. The hooker finishing her last shift. The bakers placing their carefully crafted dough in the just-lit ovens. The piercing morning air chilled my nose and throat. It was an awful and refreshing feeling. I walked the two miles home in the cold with no coat, my friend Robbie was my ride. But like I said, he didn’t want to disturb my sleep.

2

-----

     Ever heard of the butterfly effect? One butterfly, given perfect conditions, flapping its wings can cause a typhoon thousands of miles away. One stupid mistake and the whole of life takes a wrong turn.

     “Good morning,” I say with my practiced smile.

     He responds with a confused look, as if not understanding what I had said. Maybe he doesn’t speak English. But he probably does.

     “Good afternoon,” I say with my practiced smile.

     She steps in, swipes her card and keeps walking. I don’t think she even noticed.

     “Good evening,” I say with my practiced smile.

     It’s a beggar. He steps in with an unkempt, white beard, one glove with holes at the fingers, and a torn jacket. He had a plastic jug taped to his shoe. He faced the floor, but I could see his eyes. They longed.

     I said he shouldn't pay, just to sit down. Now he looks up, notices me, said good evening and sits down. I guess that’s what it takes.

     The bus lot is depressing at night. Bus after bus after bus lined up while they sleep. I park mine in the lineup and get in my car to start the thirty mile journey home. My eyes get so tired each day, it’s a miracle I haven’t drifted off during my endeavor home yet. Perhaps it’s a shame.

     “Hey. Hey, kid. Need a ride?” I roll down my window, stop the car, and greet the teenager walking home with no coat in the october cold.

     “I’m sorry?”

     “D’ya need a ride?”

     “From a stranger in the middle of the night on the side of a country road?”

     “Yeah”

     “Fuck it. It’s better than hypothermia”

     He climbs in the back of my car. It’s probably just a reflex from his parents driving him everywhere, but what does that make us. Him the passenger and me the chauffeur? Him the master, me the servant? I’m a bus driver, I guess that’s part of the deal.

     “Why’d you get in my car?”

     “What do you mean. You invited me.”

     “That doesn’t mean you’re supposed to accept. What if I was a–I dunno, child molester? What would you do now?”

     “I guess I’d be getting molested.”

     I chuckled. “True enough. Where do you live?”

     “Why would I tell a child molester where I live?”

     “Because that child molester’s giving you a ride home.”

     “Keep going for a mile, then turn right.”

     There was a pause for a while, but neither of us were uncomfortable. Or at least I wasn’t. I can’t speak for him.

     “Are you high?” I asked once I realized there was no skunk outside the car.

     “Why’d you think I am.”

     “I have a keen sense of smell.”

     “I’m not, but my friends are.”

     “So you go with your friends while they get high and you just sit and watch.”

     “Yeah.”

     “Why?”

     “They’re simple.”

     “Simplicity is boring.”

     “Complexity is tiring.”

     “Do these simple friends have cars?”

     “Yeah.”

     “So why’re you in mine.”

     “I fell asleep and they left.”

     “Sounds like they really care about you.”

     “Fuck off.”

     Another bout of silence. This kid intrigued me. I still didn’t know why he got in my car. So I asked him.

     “Why’d you get in my car?”

     “Why’d you let me?”

     “I’m too trusting.”

     “Maybe I am, too”

     “Liar.”

     “No more than you are.”

     “You really wanna know why I stopped and invited you into my car?”

     “Yeah.”

     “Because even if you took out a knife and stabbed me through the back of my chair, threw me out, and let me watch you drive away as I bleed out on the asphalt, all I’d be losing is a crappy job driving around the high and mighty with my badge that says “Bus Driver” sewn onto my bright blue button down shirt, a rundown apartment with rats and roaches and water that scalds when my neighbor flushes the toilet and freezes any other time, and a life of underachievement and overqualification. I might even consider it luck. That’s my answer, what’s yours?”

     “You know, I walk everywhere. I don’t have a car, I crashed my bike two years ago. So I walk. I’ve probably seen thousands of cars, thousands of people driving those cars. You’re the only person who’s ever thought me human enough to deserve a ride and break for my legs. I thought I’d give you a chance.”

     “You’re still lying.”

     “Maybe I’m just not as open as you are. Stop here, I can walk home.”

     I stopped the car and let him out.

     “I never caught your name.”

     “What’s in a name?”

     “Who are you, Shakespeare?”

     “If I ever see you driving a bus, I’ll say hi.” He closed the door and walked away.

     “I doubt you will,” I said to the ghosts that haunt me.

Title: Levi's Folly

Genre: Realistic fiction

Age range: 15+

Word count: 1716

Author name: Michael Frim

Why your project is a good fit: These two chapters are only the beginning of a much longer work. Additionally, I am a flexible writer with an open mind and am willing to listen to and implement any criticism.

The hook: "Cackling. The sound my half-present friends make every Saturday under the overpass."

Synopsis: An brilliant man forced into a the life of a bus driver befriends and mentors a teenager who reminds him of himself. Their relationship blossoms as he shares his observations of the world and the people around him.

Target audience: Anyone who wants to read (what I think is) a good story

Your bio: Michael Frim is currently enrolled in high school where he has one the honor of having his own works adapted into play format and showcased in the theater as well as having a poem in the literary journal. He writes avidly as well as studies music and of course his works hard at his work in school.

Platform: My school could act as a wonderful platform

Education: Currently a Junior in high school

Experience: Published in a poetry anthology, won a showcase award where my work was adapted and performed on stage, and two works were submitted and accepted into a literary journal.

Personality / writing style: I think I have a relaxed but diligent personality and my writing style is one that emulates the great authors whom I have read.

Likes/hobbies: I play violin and viola, I'm interested everything from science to archaeology, and I (obviously) enjoy writing

Hometown: Skokie, IL

Age: 16