you walk in to an elevator destined for floor 21.

ding. third floor. fifth. sixth.

this is a solo elevator trip, a rare but not remarkeable occurrence.

stop. floor 14. everyone is upset and pacing and one girl is crying by the water fountain.

stop. floor 19. the floor is wet and the sprinklers have begun to rain. there is smoke. leave quickly.

stop. floor 20. political satire in its primitive raw form. black suits, no exceptions.

stop. floor 21. the hallway is empty and you walk to your job and you sit at your desk and you type and you drink coffee and you leave at five o'clock and when you see humingbirds you cry because they are so peaceful and free.

so completely incomplete.

What is really right?

That is what the paper said. A folded grey pamphlet with the words emblazoned in red, a clear attempt at sparking the interest in one who's flint is running low. Where I found it is not important (taped to a bathroom stall. dont touch it).

This question, though skewed with religious politics and modern brainwashing, aka religion, deserved a quick pondering.

Childhood was nice. A black and white sitcom family, wholesome, prude, and honest. Well kids, what you don't know about these sitcoms, and don't let this surpise you too much, is that there is a camera and a false wall, behind that is reality. (read:reality is where you should be now). Now, as hard as it is to completely and totally distinguish reality from that of television, I will make all attempts of will to keep the seperation distinct.

My mother was a teacher, and as the case was destined, was my teacher during my dreaded second grade year. One time, on an early morning trip to school I fake fell-asleep and my mom talked to me. She told me that one day the stars won't come out and that they will never return again, and that sometimes she wants to kill dad. Of course, she thought I was asleep so, in a sense, these words may not quite hold the validity of those spoken in complete lucidity. The possibility that these words were a dream is slim to none, I know the difference thanks.

My sister played softball and had slumber parties where only her friends were allowed. Her bedroom was next to mine and I heard what was going on. What I didn't understand is why seven girls would all be so vocal, with there moanings and sharp truncated chirps. Also, I always heard a slight buzzing sound. Some electrified board game, I suppose, operation perhaps.

My dad has a car. A red car. The subtle "kiss my ass 'cus I'm cooler then you" car. Sometimes he would visit my sister during her slumber parties. My sister's friends seemed to like him but I don't think my sister did. She once told him that she would not take out the trash, after a direct order. I wasn't there but I heard about it. She had bruises. Really big bruises on her ankles and wrists. She said she hated dad and wanted to kill him.

So. I thought about this for a while and I decided to kill my dad.

signed,
You

ps. by the time you read this I will be dead.

He didn't know that he had two heads. I suppose you could imagine his surprise. The second, of course, was much less noticeable and prominent then the large head, the head that everyone believed was the only one. The second was smaller, a small sphere behind his left ear.

He didn't know he had it until he lost it.

As a child he was told of god and the end of the earth, all of that religious propaganda that was so ingrained in his elders. The mere thought of a sin would send shivers up his parent's spines, releasing panic attacks in which open hands would meet skin and tears would fall and corners would be temporarily inhabited by children forced to think of what they had done.

But he knew he was right. He had a voice. It was always in his left ear. When his parents would tell him of his wickedness and his ultimate fate, a fiery pit where he would sit and do crossword puzzles for eternity, he silently laughed because in his left ear was the voice, again, telling him they were wrong and he was right.

His second head was ambitious. It knew what was best for him, and what was best was the opposite of his parents wishes.

One day his parents discovered his second head. They called it a "growth of worldly ways." "A weed, spoiling such a beautiful garden," they said.

They sawed it off with a small blade found in his fathers boy scout knife. His parents were so happy.

He never smiled again. Never.

The house was white with red earth-tone trim, shingled roof, a single apple tree in front. An old house, a once cherished structure, a false front for a families pride. Now an eyesore, a false front for a family to hide.

The windows are dirty, but you can see through them if you wipe it clean with your shirt cuff.

There was a basement in this old house, she never wanted to go down there. Once, she did though, and she will never forget it.

but she doesn't want to tell the story.

He's sad.

Thats what they would say and he knew it. He knew all about it. How they would mock him and make crybaby faces and animate themselves with childish cruel rhymes.

He wanted no part of that.

So on sundays he sings songs, slipping empty prayers and mindless scripture through his willing, yet careless lips. And on mondays he goes to school alone on a bus. Silent.

He sings songs when he is alone. But not the ones he learned in church.

He listens to songs as they play in his head like a stadium, with seating for one. He taps, whistles, and floats his way through the day in a haze of melody induced animation.

He says he's alone but not lonely.