A Great Flood

By Jem Ashton 

My knuckles are rubbed thin by my persistent, aggressive, maybe unnecessary handwashing. 

In the cold weather, the thinned skin cracks and my knuckles bleed. Sometimes, I don't notice for awhile, only realizing my injury when I finally have reason to look at my hands and see the frozen blood dew - dark red and sticky - on my knuckle peaks. As soon as I can, I wash my hands again. I rub the blood away along with more skin. 

In the following days, I'm more careful. I treat my hands gently. I talk myself out of believing every surface is so nasty that I need to rub away my skin after touching anything. I remind myself I need a healthy dermal layer to protect myself from germs. I moisturize, do what I can to retain the oil my skin needs to survive. Scabs form, my skin heals. 

My hands look good, as if I never washed my skin away.

Historical Moment: The Carcass Wash Incident

 By Jem Morgenstern

Ron Clark was pinned under an overturned cattle truck - right under the gas tank, which was mangled and leaking fluid over his body. His jaw was broken, his leg was twisted, and he felt a sharp pain in his back that turned out to be a dislocated vertebrae. He could only smell the gasoline that drenched his clothes and wet his skin. He could hear the other children, his friends, crying out - some sounding in agony, some begging to be killed because the pain they were in was unbearable, some praying. Ron himself prayed for the first time in awhile, as he’d recount 30 years later in an interview with Dennis Romboy for the Deseret News from June 10th, 1993, which coincided with the dedication of the memorial erected in remembrance of the accident in Carcass Wash. 

“I kept asking ‘why why why?’” Ron said.

Tom Heal and Brian Roundy were both tasked with making their way up Hole-in-the-Rock Road towards Escalante to find help after each narrowly avoided entrapment. Tom had tried jumping from the back of the cattle truck as it began to veer backwards, but his foot caught and he was pulled into the wreck. He found himself buried beneath loads of camping gear with several broken ribs, but he was able to wriggle himself out from beneath the truck, after which he quickly passed out. When he woke, Kilmer Roundy, Brian’s dad, handed him a canteen and sent him with Brian up the road. They expected to walk the whole 47-mile stretch of dirt road, but the boys came across a rancher just two miles up, who drove them into town and brought them to the police station. 

It took about four hours to get help from Escalante and the surrounding towns down to the crash site. The rescuers were able to pull bodies from the wreckage by jacking up one side of the truck, holding it up with flat stones, and then jacking up the other side of the truck to do the same. It was a long, delicate process. Eventually, it came to a point where two boys were left beneath the truck, Ron Clark and Lee Colver. The two were pinned by opposite ends of the truck. Lee had been riding on top of the cabin with two other boys, one of which jumped from the truck as it rolled back and was subsequently crushed to death under its wheels, the other rolled across the dirt and avoided the same fate. Lee was pinned into place by a rock and a steel toolbox that was pressed down by the weight of the overturned truck and crushed his right foot. The rescuers weren’t sure if they would be able to save both Ron and Lee. If they jacked up the side of the truck trapping Ron, it seemed likely the truck would roll again and crush Lee. If they jacked up the side that pinned Lee, the precariously stacked stones holding Ron’s side of the truck would likely collapse and the full weight of the vehicle would fall right onto him. The rescuers explained the situation to the boys, both told the rescuers to save the other. Both braced themselves for death.

But both were saved.

“Something physically or emotionally reminds me of it daily,” said Ron in his Deseret News interview, “I recall the day as if it were last Monday.”

Night's Approach in Willow Gulch

By Jem Morgenstern

            Under Broken Bow Arch, there’s a creek that falls into a muddy pond. A muddy pond with crawdaddies paddling their way across the floor, pushing their ancient bodies under rocks to hide from my eyes peering down at them. I could crush them like the 13 Boy Scouts who were crushed by a rolling truck 20 miles and 55 years back at Carcass Wash, but I am much kinder than the God they prayed to. I drop a couple spinach leaves into their water – just enough for me to feel like I might be feeding them but not enough for me to feel like I’m polluting. I don’t know if they eat spinach, but I like feeling like I might be making their lives easier for one moment.
            Aside from the crawfish and the ghosts of western tragedies, there are only two others in the gulch with me. Right now, they’re back at our camp that’s nestled in the dunes of an alcove directly across from the arch. Their feet rest in the cold red sand while they share a portion of the one bottle of liquor we managed to fit in our packs. The echoes of their conversation breaks the perfect silence, but I don’t mind the noise because I like listening to them talk.
            I hike back up the dunes to join them and share their dry spit and booze from that same bottle of liquor. The night slowly drips into the sky as the burning dusk falls below the desert walls of the gulch. The black birds swimming in the darkening sky look like they’re knit from their own shadows.  We talk about those birds and the stars that speck their shadow figures, because the moonlit sky is all we can see in the blackness that reigns over desert floors at night.

Children Passing Time

By Jem Morgenstern

Pebbles on the windows

Her eyes catch children

who bedevil haggard widows

A voice like sour grass

pointed, green

wincing bitterness

A face like cottage cheese

spotted by rot

slipping off bones with ease

The hag watches closer

now sat on the porch

in light, even grosser

We stare

at her ragged hair

cracked wooden chair

We wait

for the day

she goes away

Green River Autumn

By Jem Morgenstern


Roaches settle under milkweed patterned floors
Summer sets on churning bodies, wilting  
  daisies nestle on garden stones
Wooden homes along dirt roads, stretching 
  only from the one-eyed man's home 
  to the farthest point his eye spies

Quiet folk keen on speaking with pointed eyes
   and locking their doors before the gloam
To the well, they do not send their children fetching
   or else the beast will chew their bones
Passerbys' screams keep mother from her quilting
   and the locks stay on the doors

Family Above All

By Jem Morgenstern

In our Father’s Arms

Blood on the linoleum. Muffled crying. I could picture the scene in the other room clearly – I had seen it before, I had been in her position before. Children, like us, are dangerously likely to make small mistakes. He didn’t like small mistakes, he didn’t like children.

            Blood on the linoleum. Muffled crying. She could picture the scene in the other room clearly – she had seen it before, she had been in my position before. He had one hand over my boiling mouth and the other pressed down on my neck.

He said, “stop, you little bitch, be quiet.”

So we would be quiet.

In our Mother’s Arms

            She put an arm around me and told me it was okay, so I believed it was okay. Blood would stop leaking from my nose. Bruises would come and go. The room was bright with the sun’s light. I believed this was a good place.

            She put an arm around her and told her it was okay, but she knew it wasn’t. Blood would stop leaking from her nose. Bruises would come and go. The sun’s light poured through the windows from outside. She knew a better place was out there.

            She said, “he won’t do it again.”

            But he would do it again.

Brandon, OR/ID: Part VII

Suspended Pinks
By Jem Morgenstern

A cello sits quietly in the corner of the room. Its dark body stands out against the blushing pink walls. The wooden floors are similarly dark. Anne is sitting on a yellow chair. This is a room she hasn’t been in before. The cello in the corner is a stranger to her - a distant relative to her own cello. She is staring at its peg box. The head of each peg is parallel to the others - an impossibility that leads Anne to ask questions that she doesn’t intend to answer or vocalize. She wonders if the cello is tuned properly. She wonders why it wouldn’t be. She wonders if the cello’s cellist has a method of tuning the cello in a way that keeps the pegs perfectly aligned with each other. An impossibility.

She stands. Her shoes are between the doorway and the wardrobe. The left side of her left shoe is parallel to the right side of the wardrobe, the right side of her right shoe is exposed to the air flowing in through the doorway, the heels of both shoes are against the wall behind them. Their laces are undone. Each time she looks at the shoes, she is bothered by the end of the lace on the right shoe that is frayed. She is planning to replace the laces soon, because she is trying to minimize the number of small details in her daily life that make her uncomfortable. The next pair of laces will be the fourth pair of laces that have been on these shoes. She replaced the first pair because they were a particular shade of blue that didn’t match well with the peachy yellow of the shoes’ bodies. She still has this pair of laces stored in the bottommost left drawer of her own dresser at home. She has considered lacing that pair onto the shoes rather than buying a new pair, but she decided the combination of colors would cause the same amount of discomfort as the frayed end that she is attempting to ignore now. The shoes are now on her feet and she is walking down the stairs. The stairs are steep - otherwise, her pace would be quicker.

There is a long hallway at the bottom of the staircase. The walls are bare, likely because it is hard to pair artwork with the intricate wallpaper. The floors of the hallway are the same as they are in the room with the cello. There is a small decorative table near one of the doorways. Nothing is on the table. The rooms in the house are wide and spacious, but this corridor is suffocating.

The tiles in the kitchen are a muted white that is similar to the tile on the countertops, the cupboards and walls are a heavy blue. On the countertop near the sink, which is below a wide window, there is a wooden cutting board. There is a column of drawers next to the white fridge - two cutting boards that are identical to the one on the counter are in the middle drawer. The knives are all kept in the drawer above the cutting boards. The drawer below the cutting boards contains miscellaneous tools that are not used often. None of the handles to the cupboards or drawers are matching. There is an asparagus green kettle on the stove and Anne hears it begin to whistle. Two teacups are set next to the cutting board on the counter. Something is placed on the cutting board - Anne is unable to identify what it might be by just the sound of its heavy body landing on the wooden board. She enters the kitchen and does not look at the cutting board.

“I have to go. Are you busy later this week?”

Anne knows that he is busy later this week, but she feels that asking this question makes her unexpected exit seem more polite. Her question and presence in the kitchen are met with a concerned expression.

“Yeah, the rest of this week will be kinda busy, but I can see if I can find some time. Is everything okay?”

She knows that ignoring his question might spark some suspicion, but she chooses to anyway.

“I’ll text you later. Let me know if you can find time.”

She can tell he isn’t satisfied with this response. They talk for another short amount of time before she is able to leave. She’s glad that she decided to leave before he was further into the lunch-making process. They both exit the kitchen and walk down the narrow hallway towards the front door. There is a table next to the door with a stack of small books. Anne glances at the titles and finds that they are almost all contemporary christian fiction. She’s glad that she decided to leave before she was further into the romanticizing process.

It has been two hours. Anne is walking through the mall to a store she believes will have shoelaces. The mall is crowded and she worries for the unsupervised kids who are chasing each other around the always ignored mechanical rocking horses. She thinks about coming to the mall with her parents - she is surprised by the lack of change and she experiences a mild sensation of loss while thinking about the things that have changed. She wonders if the children understand how temporary childhood is - though she then hopes that they don’t, because she doesn’t want them to worry about the impermanence of their childhood freedoms. She doesn’t want the pleasure of childhood to be spoiled by the aggressive reality of temporality. Her thoughts sway between the consideration of childhood as a concept and memories of her own childhood. She remembers the excitement she felt when her parents gave in to her begging for a ride on a mechanical rocking horse and the dry embarrassment she felt when she got on the horse and discovered it wasn’t as fun as she had imagined. She tries to pinpoint the exact moment her childhood ended, but eventually determines that the loss of childhood is a gradual process of it being torn away rather than a single moment.

The store’s shoelace options are more limited than she had imagined. There is white, black, off-white variations, and a small group of neons. None of them are particularly attractive to her. She takes a few off the rack and holds them against her shoes. A sedated blue, a muted yellow, a pristine white, a violent neon pink. She puts the neon pink and the white back on the rack. She holds the blue and yellow against her shoes again. She puts the blue back on the rack.

At home, she replaces the laces on her shoes. The old ones are placed in the garbage bin. She feels like throwing them away is a waste, but she knows that keeping them around will do no good. With the new laces on her shoes, she is relieved that she won’t be bothered by frayed laces again until these ones are also worn to their limit. This small chore was the only activity Anne had planned for her day. A moment of stillness follows the completion of this one goal as the embrace of her achievement loosens. The stillness is a midpoint between her short pride in her small accomplishment and the inevitably approaching fear that the empty hours following will be filled with nothing but the questioning of what to do next. Anne is ashamed of her ruthless habit of killing time - the guilt of idling while time passes overwhelms her before the time she is afraid of wasting has begun to pass. There is some dirt on the rug in her bedroom, she thinks, so she decides to vacuum. She knows this will only occupy a small portion of the time to follow, but she is happy that the few minutes it takes will be spent in a way that she considers productive. With the vacuum on and the bedroom door closed, Anne doesn’t hear the knocking at her door. She would never know there was a knocking at the door and she would never know why.

Anne is able to occupy the rest of her day with small activities similar to vacuuming the rug in her bedroom. She finds a short time to play her cello, but she hasn’t yet forgiven her talent for the work it created when she was invited to perform at the Philadelphus Lewisii Music Hall nightly each day of the previous week. She punishes herself for the stress she has caused herself. At this time, playing her cello evokes the same stress her practice sessions had before, which is unpleasant. Overall, she is satisfied with how she spent her time.

She receives a text from the date she abandoned. He has found some free time later in the week and wants to know if this time aligns with her schedule, because he would like to see her again. Anne isn’t sure if she wants to see him again. She doesn’t respond.

Anne’s shoes are in the hallway. Her left shoe is on the right side of her right shoe - the toe is against the wall and its heel is against nothing. Her right shoe is pointed in the opposite direction. Her socks are still on her feet. She is sitting at the kitchen table in silence. There is an empty floral white bowl on the table in front of her. The head of her spoon is resting in the bottom of the bowl. There is a matching plate to the right of the bowl. On the plate, there is a small portion left of the bread she cut herself from the loaf she bought the day before at a supposedly French bakery. The texture of the bread isn’t as satisfying as it was the day before. Anne hasn’t yet decided if she will finish eating the bread. With the potential for love and the bread on her mind, she’s reminded of one of the many Johns she has known throughout her life. His absence doesn’t darken her mood. She wonders what he might be doing with his life now - she knows he’s no longer a gardener and she knows the friends they shared haven’t heard from him for a long time. Although she doesn’t care about him, she hopes that he is doing well.

Tunnel Shears

By Jem Morgenstern

The walls were once slick with condensating excrements and the scent of feces was an inescapable force that lingered in the air at all times. Now, the sewer corridors are as dry as the desert above them. Putrid scents come and go as the winds blow through galleries of semi-petrified masses of ancient feculence - or the scents are carried from fresher excrement after the wind passes through corners of the sewers reserved for stews of waste and rotting dead of the present day.

These corridors, once solely the home to pests and shifting excretion of the old age, now house the people who could not bear the striking heat of the dual suns and the jagged sand winds. All who abandon the arduous journeys above for the security of the sewer passageways face the questionable hospitality of the indigenous craftspeople known as The Sewers.

The Sewers are the last remaining people of the Northwestern Landmass who have the skills needed to manufacture clothing. Because it is the only skill that offers them an advantage in the trading networks, they cruelly guard the secrets of their techniques. Without their secrets, the only product they could offer to the markets would be the petrified manure of the ancients. With only that to offer, they would find themselves starved and dying because so few ask for the petrified manure.

The Sewers reserve all garments they make to be sold in the world above them. Because of this, they all live their lives disrobed. The docile underground wind wraps its fingers around their bare bodies, refugees from the desert avert their gaze until they finally become accustomed to uncovered skin, nudity is only interrupted when they dress themselves in newly made clothing to ensure it will fit similar bodies in the dusty world above.

The Sewers’ utilize their nudism to distinguish themselves from the refugees whose bodies are veiled by clothing. Although those who are clothed are not treated poorly, they are excluded from greater sewer events. They are not invited to the occasional dinners afforded to The Sewers by their monopoly on skills of clothing production, but they are treated to the leftovers from these feasts.

The Sewers are kind enough to allow outsiders to participate in their industry, too. For a long period of time before they are truly considered part of the sewer community, the outsiders work as liaisons to the desert markets. They bring the clothing up and the traded goods down in exchange for gradual acceptance - plus, they are compensated for their labor with popular currencies and necessary comforts.

Eventually, some outsiders become Sewers and are offered the privilege of learning the skills hoarded by underground dwellers since the beginning of this age. There have been attempts by desert travelers to infiltrate the indigenous sewer communities by stripping their rags from their bodies and entering the tunnels while pretending to already be Sewers. The Sewers, having exceptional eyes for details, are able to distinguish a dust dweller’s skin from their own. With exposure to the desert, patches of skin are rugged with scars that do not occur in the sewers. If The Sewers discover intent to steal their secrets, the former potential thief is quickly tied and brought to an empty corridor that is strictly used for immolation. Afterwards, the body is transported to a waste corner where it is left to decay.

This brutality towards thieves is the only violence found in the sewers. There is no other place that provides the same asylum from barbarism. Above, even the air is savage. Below, the world is gentle enough for nakedness to be commonplace and for inhabitants to be so untroubled by their surroundings that they are able to socialize without irritation piercing through their interactions. Couriers, wealthy travelers, and even the Dust Raiders rest in the company of Sewers - to escape the suns, to rest without worry of Horrible Centipedes emerging from the sands, and to disrobe and refresh in gentle air.

A Poem About Cement and Me

By Jem Morgenstern

The cement
has more personality than I do
because its history is vocalized

It's strong and present
the water stains
the cracks
the gum

Mine is internal

It's swallowed and drowning
in my stomach
the intestines
the cracks
the crevices

I hoard my words
as if they're more valuable
inside of me
than outside
to be eaten by the people
who are hungry
for my words
and my presence

Erase

By Jem Morgenstern

The wood burned. Fire tainted every color its wrathing arms could reach. Bright embers and dark ashes slowly fell onto the white floors, painting it black and spotted red. Blue wallpaper disintegrated: curling downwards, crumbling, fading to brown. Blinding yellow flames rose into the sky and bled into the blue horizon dyed orange by the rising sun. The blinding light would wave and the smoke would peer over the hills, but no eyes would look in its direction. None were near enough to witness the building’s excruciating mutation. Nobody would hear the aching wooden skeleton crack and fall apart. Nobody would smell the distinct, uniquely putrid scent of the burning evidence: the sulfurous stench of keratin, nauseating odor of heated bacteria, or fumes from unused chemicals.

No roads led here. Nobody ever wandered here. Discovery of what happened here was unlikely. If anyone did happen to find this ruin, every question they could have would forever be unanswered. The specifics of the crimes committed would never be uncovered. The identities of those involved would always be a mystery. Their stories would never be told, shared, reported. Nobody would hear about the cold nights they spent in that building - body shivering, teeth chattering, hands shaking - waiting. Waiting for the breathing to stop. Watching a body laboriously force itself to continue living until it lost the strength to keep itself running. Sometimes, it would take minutes. Sometimes, so much time would pass by that they felt their own bodies might give up before the one collapsed on the floor would finally croak out its final breath. They wanted it to last, so they could savor the intensity of seeing life inch itself out of a body with every shaking moan, every quiver of the body, every exhalation. So they wouldn’t have to clean up after themselves. So they wouldn’t have to begin the tedious process of finding another again so soon. They always wondered if anyone would notice these people were missing. They always did their best to choose lonely people. Quiet people who nobody noticed. Ones that were almost expected to disappear someday anyway.

It was when they noticed somebody had begun looking for one of their people that they fretfully decided to burn the building down. Tears rolled from their eyes, as they set their place of ritualistic pleasure ablaze. They watched the walls that housed so many memories of joy crumble to the ground. They burned their souvenirs along with it. Erased any proof of their dark avocation. Though they didn’t intend for the loss of their house of memories to put an end to their past-time. So they set out to find a place to begin again. One as hidden, as disposable, as perfect as this one. Where, even now, they continue to derive joy from watching their victims struggle to stay alive. Where, even now, there is no trail that leads to them - to their discovery, guilt, or conviction.

Brandon, OR/ID: Part VI

Wet and Yellowed Denim

By Jem Morgenstern

The music began and the audience’s quivers of anticipation settled. Their bodies gave into the hum of the cello, letting it fill their pores with the scent of vibrating spruce and maple. While Scott’s ears followed the melodies, his eyes wandered the aisles of the music hall: stopping to memorize every seated figure, taking advantage of the music’s sensory captivation, familiarizing himself with their bodies and the assumed identities he could yield from their appearance. There was a woman in her mid-forties, who wore a midnight blue cotton blouse with an imperial collar that was a close-enough match to the sapphire studs she wore in the holes in her ears. Her hair was slicked back into a neatly wound bun that sat just below the centerpoint of where a crown would sit. For all he knew, she wasn’t wearing any pants; he could only see the portion of her body above her shoulder blades. She either came alone or wasn’t close to the ones she came with. If she did come with others and they were the audience members sitting next to her, they weren’t emotionally close. If she did come with others and they were elsewhere in the pool of bodies, they were simply not within a personal proximity of physical distance. She and the bodies surrounding her - together - did not radiate a feeling of warmth, like most friends do when they are sharing an experience within a personal proximity. There was a man in his early thirties, who wore an outfit that (in Scott’s opinion) was too casual for this event. This judgement was, of course, only made from the pieces of the outfit that Scott could see, which was all from the shoulder blades and above. For all he knew, he could have been wearing very fancy pants. However, in this instance of reaching a conclusion without having been provided all necessary evidence to reach a definite determination, Scott was correct; the man in his early thirties was dressed in an outfit that was too casual for this event. The man in his early thirties was not wearing very fancy pants. This man’s attendance was mandated by the other man in his early thirties, who was sitting next to him. This other man wore an outfit that was entirely reasonable for this event. This led Scott to have a more favorable opinion of the other man than the one that the other man brought with him. Scott decided that, if he were to ever interact with the two men in their early thirties, he would appear amiable towards both, but his internal gratitude would very much be shifted towards the other one. There was a man wearing a denim button-up and ornate brass earrings. After first landing on a mostly negative opinion of this man’s choice of attire, Scott’s opinion shifted towards an applauding appraisal. Throughout the four hour performance, the denim-clad man continuously captured Scott’s attention. The scent of his personality was magnetic. Even halfway through, when everyone began squeezing their legs together and sweating due to straining their internal controls, which is a scene that would generally break his intense optical invasion, Scott’s eyes were locked onto the man in denim. While (nearly) everyone else shook in their seats, the man in denim remained steady and intent on the performance - his stillness in the shifting sea of bodies made it even more difficult for Scott to look away. He found the man after the performance.

Three days later, the man in denim can now be called Daniel. Daniel’s desk is cluttered, with an indiscernible but apparent organizational system. Its surface is stained by droplets of ink that were ignored for too long. Some of the spots could probably be cleaned away, if Daniel cared enough to do so, but he did not care enough to do so. They are tangled together on the bed, nesting their bodies together like two spoons. Scott has been waiting for Daniel, whose arms are tightly wound around his body, to wake up. He doesn’t want to move, because he doesn’t want to wake Daniel up before he’s ready. While he waits, he clings onto the intimacy of the moment and stares at the desk, which he now feels he has become more familiar with than his own. Scott, like most people in this city, rarely used his desk. He used it most often for leaning on, while staring out the window above it. On occasion, he would pull his journal from beneath his bed to write about the scenes outside and his recent obsessions. Those occasions were infrequent. While writing in that journal, he would most often sit at his kitchen table. He didn’t like to spend too much time in his bedroom, the room in which his desk is located, despite its welcoming warmth. He could never place the source, but there was something in his bedroom that he described to himself as maddening. He spends as little time in his bedroom as possible. Daniel, however, spends an obscene amount of time in his bedroom and, unlike most people in this city, used his desk almost daily.

Three more days later, Scott is sitting in his bedroom at his desk with his journal of obsessions open to a blank page.The subtle warmth of the beige walls, deep red blankets, Eastern Red Cedar desk, and African Rosewood bed frame endow the room with a welcoming glow. The complex floral carvings in the sideboard of the frame, the cleanliness, and the well-kept collection of friendly letters suggest gentility and a kind femininity. He presses the tip of a pen against the paper and writes about the window, the view from the window, the cravings the window instilled. Above the desk, a window offers a longing temptation to strip the exceedingly lavish decor from the exterior and interior walls of The Property. Above the bed, a mirror reflects the window’s view, embedding an obsession with The Family’s wealth. His journal reflects that obsession. He has compiled every notable detail he has been able to ensare from his view of the massive estate. The lanterns in The Property’s gardens were illuminated, as the the city’s face was turned away from the sun, highlighting the immensity of their gardens, acting as another burdening indication of The Family’s excessive prosperity. The dawn brought an immemorable sunset with dusty browns and fading blues. Crickets scraped their instrumental wings together. As traffic dissipated, its bellowing was replaced by the sound of wind in leaves. In the dim garden lights, Scott could see a figure. The Gardener was still working: trimming the rose bushes, plucking blades of grass the mower missed, inspecting every other detail of the sprawling yards to make sure everything was as perfect as The Family wanted it to be. This gardener, Scott realized, knew every immaculate crevice on The Property. The longing temptation to strip the wealth from The Family’s walls, floors, drawers, ceilings, pockets, knuckles, bushes, fridges, doors, and closets became something more. After this realization, Scott began to stitch together a plan.

From his window, he watched The Gardener. He absorbed every detail that could possibly be significant. Scott familiarized himself completely with The Gardener’s work. The daisies were always kept at an even number - if one grew, one would have to be chopped; if one died unexpectedly, another one would have to be sacrificed. The Northeast lawn was mowed on Tuesdays, the Southwest on Wednesdays, the Southeast on Thursdays, and there was no grass in the Northwest portion of the gardens. The rose bushes were trimmed obsessively. Sandpaper was used to scratch off the smallest flaws. Their height was kept perfectly aligned with the bottom of the window above them. The Gardener would often spend dozens of minutes staring at the border between rose and window to ensure the alignment was perfect, Scott thought. That staring, however, revealed itself to be something else. Weeks into his spying, Scott bought binoculars. Spying with the use of only his eyes had been difficult. Because of his frugal tendencies, he attempted to make it work, but it had become enough of a hinderance that he decided the use of additional tools would be beneficial. While considering the purchasing of binoculars, he also had a thought questioning his need for all the wealth of The Property. Scott, as indicated by the use of the word ‘frugal’ not so long ago, doesn’t spend a lot of money. He makes enough money to meet all his needs. He makes enough money to build an admirable amount of savings. He doesn’t need more money. This sparked a self-discovery session in which Scott analyzed his cravings. Eventually, he settled on this rationalization: he feels as though he could never have enough money to feel confident he could make-do in an extreme crisis and he feels deeply unsettled by that fact, so acquiring a grotesque amount of money would allow him to feel comfortable about his chances of making it through an extreme crisis, therefore, he would never have to worry about anything reliant on his monetary resources again and he could be truly happy. He felt good about buying the binoculars. With those binoculars, while watching The Gardener stare at the rose bush alignment, he noticed a longing expression. This expression made it clear that The Gardener wasn’t staring at the rose bush alignment. He was longing for whatever it was he could see through the window. He was obsessively desperate. Scott knew this could be used to his own advantage. This could be his key to recruiting The Gardener.

Vague Introspection

By Jem Morgenstern

Footsteps sunk into the room from the apartment above and dialogue from a movie playing down the hall was muffled by the walls. Crickets played their repetitive music. Cars drove by intermittently, with traffic slowed from the daytime flow to the nighttime lull. A man was shouting down the street, interjecting his voice into the otherwise calm summer fade. The screaming city was getting as much rest as the people inside it would let it have.

Keeping my eyes closed took more effort than leaving them open. I couldn’t sleep, so I stared at the ceiling and listened to the dry breeze make passes through the small gap between the window and the sill. I had a lot of unresolved worries and questions; without closure, my day didn’t feel conclusive.

When there’s a show with episodes that usually end with resolved stories and one episode suddenly comes up with a “to be continued” notice at the end, there’s an urge to immediately move onto the next episode. At that moment, I felt like my day was the equivalent to an episode like that and I wanted to watch the next one right away to get the answers I needed, but I had to wait. All I could do was obsessively think over the moments that were stuck in my head and guess what the answers to my questions might be.

I got up from the bed and  redressed myself: a grey shirt, standard blue jeans, and a pair of black leather shoes. After putting on my shoes, I stayed on the floor for a minute more to look around and to set up a vague plan for the walk I would take myself on. I thought about going to that stone staircase at the end of the neighborhood a few blocks north, the steep road with a contemporarily geometric house surrounded by classic victorians, maybe to the top of the hill.

I made my way out the door, down the hall, down the stairs, and out the building. I turned West and started walking. The yelling man had stopped. The crickets were still playing their songs. The the streets were still being illuminated by the occasional car driving by. I walked down the street, no detours, no change of direction. I didn’t go to the staircase, to the steep road, or to the top of the hill. The path I was walking on felt pneumatic. Setting myself in motion expedited my train of thought, providing me with the right level of distraction to cut away the thought patterns that were hindering progress through my overgrown field of worries.

There were definitive answers to some of the questions I had, but I was left with plenty more that I would have to wait for the continuation of the story to answer for itself. I set them aside, kept walking, and put my focus back on the night. I felt the freshly chilled air brush against my dry skin and fill my lungs. I took pleasure in the muffled city sounds. I was enamored by the cityscape that changes so completely from sunshine to moonlight and I was thankful that it offered me the meditative milieu I needed to ease my aggressively active thoughts.