A chalky white canyon splays out before him. He kind of hovers above, from on high, watching this particular village's minute inhabitants go through their daily motions. Pockets of tall grass dot the area, and within these enclaves, if he squints, he can see dark bodies huddling, enjoying the shade. Or are they hiding? As if in answer, the dark bodies suddenly emerge from the brush. A salty breeze scrapes past the cliff walls, scattering miniature bits of dust and lifting their tiny feet as they wend their ways deep into the pockmarked canyon.

"Hey, Tommy!" That's Wilson's voice carrying through the air, mixing in with an ambient track of seagulls and lapping waves and ferry horns—common accompaniment in these parts. Across the grassy field strewn high with trash, old tires and abandoned appliances, Wilson spies Tommy sitting on the hood of a rusted-out Volkswagen Beetle, poking at something near the fender with a long graceful slip of driftwood. "Whatcha doing?" he calls.

Tommy looks up, brushes the tow-colored hair out of his face, and smiles a gap-toothed grin.

Trudging through the rushes, Wilson takes extra care not to dirty his new sneakers. "I've been looking all over for you." He checks his soles.

"Why, what'd I do?" Tommy smirks, throwing the castaway stick at some nearby gulls who scatter into the wind, all suddenly catching a gust and veering away into the blue like a pack. Tommy's eyes glitter like the Gulf wiggling just over his shoulder. His skinny legs poke out of his big shorts, dangling over the ancient wreck's tireless rims.

"I dunno. I just wanted to see you is all," Wilson says, sidling up to the car, belly pressing hard into the sun-warmed fender. "Missed you at the troop meet." The breeze changes, blowing Wilson's hair sideways. He squints into the wind, squeezing a couple of drops out of his deep blue eyes. He pretends not to notice that Tommy's watching him—and everything he does—with rapt attention.

"Oh, yeah, right," Tommy shrugs away, reaching out to pry a rusted wiper from the bug-stained windshield. His voice sounds weird to Wilson, not his usual chipper self. More like a remix of disappointment, anger and distress. After a couple of seconds of silent passive-aggressive destruction, Tommy abandons his task and stares out at the wavy horizon where the late afternoon sun eats its way down to the Gulf.

"Don't be like that, homes." Wilson nudges Tommy's shoulder with his fist. Tommy leans over sideways, way over, like a reed caught in a stiff breeze. "Wanna hang out?"

Tommy makes a cryptic face, its features aligned to some invisible thought. "Maybe," he says, "What do you want to do?" He turns back to Wilson, his brown eyes wide, awake. Wilson sees himself and the whole field reflected in them.

"I don't know, what do you want to do?" The wind blows Wilson's hair straight back.

The dark shapes pause at irregularities in the rock face, sometimes entering small indentations out of the sun's harsh reach. Are these gateways the entrances to secret hidden tunnels? Maybe the dark shapes live inside. These could be their dwellings. Maybe, deep inside the rock, the dark shapes huddle around kitchen tables and talk in low voices, faces poised over maps of classified locations, mouths speaking in code in the crackling glow of tempered fires. He imagines exercises involving intricately knotted kerchiefs and impossibly difficult handshakes. In his head, these possibilities—and tons more—occupy him for hours.

"You still hanging with that faggot?" That's Doug, Wilson's 20-year-old brother, home from college for the weekend, fixing a snack in their parents' Whirlpool kitchen slash breakfast room in Suburbia. "What a total fairy," Doug tuts, glomming mayo onto a couple of slices of IronKids bread.

"He's not like that," Wilson says tonelessly, half-listening, half-watching a rerun of Will & Grace that's blasting on the TV in the den. "He's not like that. He's not gay."

"Oh, 'he's not gay'," Doug mimics, smirking. "When'd you get all P.C.-like?" He whips sliced turkey onto a bed of mayonnaise. "What's on TV?"

Wilson pretends not to listen and clicks the remote to Pamela Anderson in V.I.P.

Doug sandwiches his sandwich and takes a bite. "You know," he says, slapping Wilson's shoulder on his way to the couch, "if you hang around with queers all the time, people might start thinking you're one."

Beat. Doug balances on one sneaker.

"You aren't one, are you?"

"No." The line between Wilson's eyebrows deepens in annoyance.

"Just checking, man." Doug snickers, plops down on the sofa and plunders the cushions for the remote. Wilson watches his brother's fruitless search for a few seconds before he tosses it to him, gets up and yanks open the refrigerator door, suddenly not hungry at all.

"Hey!" Doug yells, his mouth full of turkey. "There any pickles in there?"

Upstairs the lights are off. Tommy's face is close by, touching Wilson's own face lightly, tentatively. Tommy's skin's soft, unlike his own bristly stubble he has to shave off two, maybe three times a week now. Wilson feels hot, feverish? A little sick anyway. Tommy's breath rustles his eyelashes like the gulf breeze. No one's home—Doug's back at school and Wilson's parents are out shopping or something. It's just the two of them up in Wilson's room on Wilson's bed, crosslegged on the mattress, facing each other. Their hands are firmly planted on the other's shoulders, their eyes closed, each imagining the other, here, this close, shrouded in darkness. Tommy's lips brush across his own, and Wilson's heart skips a beat. In their pants their dicks jump a little. Wilson feels like such a girl. He pulls back, but Tommy's fingers dig a little into his shoulders and tug him closer. From here he can almost hear Tommy's heartbeat. He covers Tommy's hands with his own. "Don't," he hears himself say, immediately wishing he hadn't. His breath's caught in his throat, and Tommy's mouth is on his for a few wet seconds. He tastes the sweetness of Tommy's spit, the hot meaty feel of his tongue. He wants to kiss back, but he pulls away instead. In the darkness, crosslegged on the bed in Wilson's room, the distance between them quadruples. "I don't do that," Wilson's hears himself say, in a tone that sounds unmistakably pissed-off. Tommy coughs, mumbles something back; his hands yank themselves out from under Wilson's. A blinding light from the hall as Tommy leaves. When the door slams the darkness back, Wilson exhales.

The troop's on a day visit to the state park on the west end of the island. Here, away from the protection of the seawall, the wetlands thrive in the unique salt water/fresh water collision that's dotted with cattails. Loose fields of tall grasses pitch and moan in the marshy water that's laced with snakes and dead leaves and the rainbow shimmer of outboard motor oil. Rickety wooden bridges link up the high spots, hard hills of dried mud and sediment home to ancient masses of prickly pear cactus and saw palmettos. Insects buzz everywhere; dragonflies alight and descend, swimming in a sea of frustrated mosquitoes thwarted by the Deep Woods Off sprayed on every exposed scout surface.

The troop divides up into teams, groups of three whose missions should they choose to accept them are to search for examples of indigenous flora or fauna, write a descriptive paragraph about them -- with distinguishing details -- sketch the found samples and bring the specimens back to the Pack Leader in the peanut butter jars provided.

Tommy and Wilson are paired up, as per usual, the third wheel being the new kid, the fat kid from England or wherever—he's been in the troop for a couple of months now, but still hasn't managed to blend in. Do they even have scouts in England? Tommy wonders. According to Wilson, the answer to that question is a bleedin' no. As a result the troop tends to regard him with suspicion.

"Great," Wilson mumbles into Tommy's ear. "We got the Limey."

Cecil looks up from his canteen long enough to catch their eyes, then wipes his lips on his kerchief.

"What's our mission, mates?" he asks, spying the instruction sheet flapping in Wilson's paw.

"We know you're not from Australia," Wilson cuts him short, hatefully. "And even if you were, you'd still be lame."

Cecil blinks once, twice. His lips twitch open a second, then close.

"Hey, Cec," A passing scout calls. "What kind of peanut butter jar they give you? Extra chunky?"

"Leave him alone," Tommy says, nudging Wilson with his elbow, his eye catching Wilson's too long. His fingers brush Wilson's "accidentally."

Wilson shakes Tommy off and hauls ass down the trail.

"Hey, wait for us!" Tommy calls after him.

flora
It lies low, almost flat to the ground, and has tiny branches on either side of its stem. At the end of each branch is a spray of fingers. It's in a clump, mixed in with the grass. It's really sensitive; the fingers slowly close shut if you brush them with your own.

It's the first camping trip of the fall. Wilson and Tommy are working together on a map. They're laying out the campsite for Troop 2323, tracing contour lines along benchmarks of equal elevation. When they finish this project, Tommy will get his cartography badge, a brightly-colored patch which his mom will sew on later. Tommy's glad to be paired off with Wilson, who's 16. Tommy hates being lumped in with all the little kids, after all he is 14. Wilson's pretty much done all he can in the Scouts—he's acting as a kind of assistant to the pack leader until he makes it to Eagle. With a scale ruler, Tommy and Wilson measure the distances between each tent and their proximity to the main campfire. They mark stands of trees with respect to the camp, the lake and the road. Together, hunched over a big sheet of vellum, they recreate the microcosmic existence of the troop in #2 lead.

fauna
He's 16, big for his age. His most distinguishing detail would have to be his cool blue eyes, hands down. His face is nice too, kinda normal. He knows at least one thing about everything, which is lucky for me.

Wilson plants a coil of flame in the firepit, which he's constructed to look like a mini-Stonehenge. His brain's working overtime, imagining situations where he wouldn't have to babysit a bunch of kids at these stupid overnight trips. He knows he has to do it, that it's just one more stop on the road to Eagle, but it totally sucks nonetheless. He imagines an alternate scenario, one where he's the baby, surrounded by a bunch of older guys who'll teach him things and take him under their wings. Thinking about that makes him feel warm and fuzzy, maybe a little sick. But he supposes there's nothing wrong with the feeling—he used to get the same kind when Doug would help him build a model Camaro or show him how to fly a kite—before he turned into an asshole, that is. Feelings like that are totally normal, he tells himself over and over.

Tommy's face enters the fire's orangey cast; it looks impressed. Wilson snaps back to reality.

"Pretty cool," he says, plopping down on the ground, back up against a log worn velvety smooth, like pencil lead.

"Shouldn't you be out catching bugs or something," Wilson says.

"I kind of forgot my jar," Tommy mumbles, throwing a look over his shoulder at some of the younger scouts chasing lightning bugs.

"Dude, that's the first rule," Wilson says. "Be prepared."

"Right, I'm a spaz sometimes," Tommy nods kind of apologetically.

"Sometimes." Wilson digs his canteen out of his bedroll and shakes it.

Tommy pauses. "You sleeping out here tonight?"

Wilson looks up at the sky, unpockets his Swiss Army Knife and starts chipping away at a random twig, sharpening it to a point. His bedroll unfurls with a nudge from the tip of his sneaker.

"I was going to sleep in the tent with some of the other guys. But if you want I can stay out here and keep you—"

"Nah. That's cool. I don't think your sleeping bag's the Arctic kind like mine. Besides, someone has to keep watch for you little brats." Wilson manages a smirky smile and tosses his stick into the underbrush. A high-strung scout squeals in terror. Probably the Limey.

"You sure? My sleeping bag's pretty good."

"Yes." Wilson's voice borders on exasperation.

"Ok," Tommy says, all nonchalant. He looks back, but Wilson's looking off into the shadowy trees. In the shifty light of the campfire, they can make out the fat silhouette of Cecil, who gives a little yelp upon being discovered and clumsily scrambles away.

"'Night," Wilson says, snapping his knife shut and arranging himself for sleep. His face is burning up. He can't look at Tommy.

"Hey, when are you going to help me with my map?"

Giggling erupts from inside one of the tents. Wilson grimaces. He can't look at Tommy right now.

"Go to bed." Wilson zips himself away.

Crickets.

fauna
It has a hard outer shell, like an exoskeleton, more than 2 legs and a couple of antennae. You can always hear it when it's close, because of the chirping sounds it sometimes makes. What is the meaning of this noise? Is it a signal of some kind? On the whole it seems to be very independent and seems to travel alone, not with a group.

The dark line of mysterious shapes sets out on its mission in unison, single-file, each tuned to the other, as if by their very vibrations. They've left the high-backed canyons and have reached a clearing now. Their path graphs some complex equation. They seem to be guided towards something, relentlessly trudging forth in a long serpentine squiggle. The clearing is dotted with tall bizarre tree-like plants that seem to have no leaves, only thin, green, blade-like trunks. Their pace quickens, and they gather at their destination: a watering hole of some sort, its surface shimmering like a rainbow. Here they regroup. Briefings take place and instructions are passed along by sleight of hand -- invisible to the naked eye -- perhaps delivered through some cryptic chemical exchange. Suddenly an avalanche of boulders encroaches upon their position. The tip of Tommy's sneaker has nudged the sand from where he's been carrying out his observations near the front tire of the abandoned Beetle. The ants quickly scurry away into the cattails.

"Well, if that's your decision," Wilson's mom intones, seated to his left at the dinner table. She studies Wilson's dad as her fork lifts some French-cut carrots to her mouth. "Doug decided when he was old enough... You're old enough to make your own choices."

"What brought all this on, anyway?" Wilson's dad pipes in, shifting his attention from Wilson to his glass of wine. As he drinks, his huge blinking eye stares at Wilson as if through a fishbowl.

"I'm just tired of it," Wilson yawns, cracking his neck for effect. "It's the same stuff every weekend. It gets old. I don't even like camping."

"You used to like camping," his mom inserts. She tosses it to Dad: "Didn't he use to like camping."

"You used to beg to go camping," Dad says, lowering his glass to the table before picking it up again and repositioning it slightly. "We, on the other hand…" He pauses, takes a significant breath. "So what's wrong? Did something happen?"

"Like what?" Wilson answers.

"You tell us." Wilson's dad repositions his glass again. A few seconds tick by.

Mom jumps in: "Has anyone…?" She and Dad exchange a look. Dad looks down on cue, this time arranging cutlery, his fingers careful and deft. Mom continues, strangely self-conscious, "Has anyone ever...?"

There's a huge pause. Wilson stops chewing.

"Have any of the adults ever said anything or... done anything... inappropriate?" Dad pipes in. They're both staring at him. Wilson drops his fork onto his plate.

"Are you kidding me?" Wilson looks from Mom to Dad, and back again, incredulous.

"We hear stories," Mom says, reaching her hand out to touch Wilson's arm. "I was on the internet yesterday, and..." He yanks it away. Her eyebrows furrow and she looks down at her plate. "You can talk to us," she says quietly.

"That's why this Supreme Court ruling is so important you know," Dad wipes his mouth with a napkin and thrusts it back into his lap, suddenly vehement. "Some people might not agree, but when it comes down to it, I don't want an avowed homosexual teaching my son how to shit in the woods."

"Tom!" Mom silences Dad and aims her face back at Wilson. "We're concerned. You can tell us anything." Her expression pushes Wilson into the corner.

"Can I be excused?" Wilson's chair scrapes against the polished wood floor.

"You can tell us anything," Dad says, trying on Mom's face. It doesn't fit; he just looks scared—and incredibly stupid.

"There's nothing to tell." Wilson grabs his plate to clear it. He looks back at them, trying not to sound too pissed-off: "Really. I haven't been molested. I promise."

"Ok," Dad says. A look of relief settles on his face, washing away the dumb one.

Mom takes a long sip of wine. "Ok," she says, her face settling into a benign smile.

They both pick up their forks at the same time.

Up in his room, Tommy works on The Map. It's his latest project: the world, his creation. Wilson's going to help him with it, supposedly. It's basically a big island, loosely modeled on the junky field by the gulf. He's laid it out like an archeologist graphs a site, or how the cops map out the scene of a crime: on graph paper, the kind with the really small squares. Different marshy areas of the field represent lakes in his handscrawled world, the bombed-out VW an impossibly high mountain range, various stands of tall grass and cattails are impenetrable forests of redwoods. He's named all the various locales and has added towns, each with varying degrees of population. One town near the mountain is built underground, due to frequent landslides; houses in the hamlet near the big marsh are built high on stilts in case of flood. His map is incredibly detailed, crammed with names and elevations in his cramped, tortured hand. It's kind of modeled on the map in the front of his tattered copy of The Fellowship of the Ring. He finished that one and is halfway through The Two Towers. In his head, Frodo, Sam and Pippin explore his world, penetrating thick stands of trees, traversing wide open spaces, sharing stories in towns at various crossroads. Most of his other friends are content to play Grand Theft Auto 3 on their PS2's. They sure don't know what they're missing, he thinks—nudging the Tolkien paperback in his hip pocket—then smiles at the thought. His pencil scratches forth.

Night. Stars. Wilson's wired; Tommy's half-asleep. Together they trudge through the tall grass, blazing a trail through the watermelon rinds and dogshit and dirty diapers. Their destination: the Volkswagen Beetle. Wilson's heart's beating really fast, and sweat stands out on his forehead. He's a few steps ahead of Tommy, navigating the field like the true scout he is. His flashlight carves out a dull, clandestine circle that hovers just out of reach of the tips of their sneakers.

When they get to the Beetle, Wilson pries open the driver-side door and pushes Tommy inside. Wilson's hot on his tail. The door slams shut. Once they're in the musky darkness, things start to unravel. Everything's moving too fast, and Wilson keeps hitting the dashboard with his knees. Tommy's sleepy face is slick under Wilson's palms and keeps sliding away. The only sounds are their quick, sharp breaths and the warm thuds of their limbs against the car's interior.

fauna
He's 14, kind of scrawny, talks too much. He likes to hang out with me and always does whatever I want to do. Whenever I want to. Did I mention he talks too much?

Per Wilson's request, Tommy's agreed to skip school. It's a weird day, really foggy and rainy. The palm trees drip water from the ends of their fronds, making little rivers on the pavement. Tommy shows up at Wilson's door, knocks. Wilson answers and pulls him inside. The rear tire of Tommy's ditched bike spins on the soggy lawn.

"Hey," Tommy says, wiping the rain off his forehead, trying to catch Wilson's eye.

"Hey," Wilson mumbles, turning away, motioning for Tommy to follow.

"I'm going to get D-hall for this," Tommy whines. Wilson ignores him. They mount the stairs towards Wilson's bedroom. The sound of TV bleeds through the open door.

"Would You Like To Play A Game?" Wilson says in a robotic voice as he shuts the door behind them. His arms are stiff, at right-angles to his sides. Creepy.

"Sure," Tommy says, calling shotgun on the foot of Wilson's bed.

"You like Resident Evil? Tomb Raider?" Wilson mumbles, losing the rigor mortis, digging through a pile of game discs. His face turns towards Tommy after a second. "Wait, I bet you like that Dungeons and Dragons crap. Admit it."

"Nah," Tommy smiles. "My mom wouldn't let my older brother play it. TSR stands for Towards Statan's Realm, you know." Up-and-down eyebrows.

The joke doesn't register. Wilson's not listening anyway. The disc's loading, and Wilson crosses to his bed and scooches his butt up on it, until his back hits the headboard; Tommy plops down at the foot of the bed. After a second Wilson waves his sneakers from side to side, catching Tommy's eye. Tommy looks up over his shoulder at him and swims a little up the mattress. Wilson reaches down for Tommy's shorts, worming his fingers under the waistband of his Fruit of the Looms. Tommy's fingers wrap around Wilson's arm and pull himself aboard.

Down below, they hear the front door slam.

"Shit." Wilson freezes. He slowly gets up and crosses to the door. It opens quietly, Wilson's face slipping outside for a few seconds before reemerging. "It's my fucking brother," he whispers.

"You home?" Doug's voice booms down below. "Wilson?"

"He'll tell my mom and dad." Wilson's voice sounds weird to Tommy: not just busted, but…

Doug's footsteps chase his shadow up the stairs.

"Cmon!" Wilson yanks open the window. Tommy follows Wilson out and down the side of the house. They take off towards the field, Wilson watching their backs until the subdivision behind them disappears completely.

"I don't think he saw us," Wilson says, squatting in the grass near the Beetle. With an old two-by-four he traces a goofy face in the mud and then stabs it in the eye.

"Shit, I left my bike out front," Tommy says, squinting into the distance at some birds lurking in the cattails.

"Would you shut the fuck up? Don't you ever stop talking?" Wilson yells out of nowhere. He stomps a few feet away and smacks an old crushed beer can with the board as hard and as far as he can. It splashes somewhere in the fog. He turns around to face Tommy, his face all screwed up with something. "He didn't see us, all right?"

"Yeah, sure, he didn't see us," Tommy gives, prying open the Beetle door and sitting shotgun inside. He flips open the glovebox and peers into its rusty depths. "Why are you so pissed?"

Wilson marches back over. "We need a story." His eyes are shifty. Over his shoulder ghostly tankers slip silently past one another in the gulf.

"A story?" Tommy tries to decode what's up.

"In case he did see us." Wilson paces a few feet away, thinking.

"I thought you said he didn't see us," Tommy says.

"I know what I said," Wilson snaps. "I'm saying in case."

"So what if he did see us," Tommy tries. "We weren't doing anything. Not really. Everybody skips school."

Wilson stops in his tracks and turns back to Tommy, yanking him out of the Beetle by the elbow. Tommy hits the dirt.

"Hey!" Tommy yells. "That fucking hurt!"

"Let me fill you in on a little secret," Wilson says into Tommy's face, his hot breath rustling Tommy's long eyelashes. "My brother knows you're a big fag. He's totally on to you."

Tommy's eyes dilate. He looks way scared. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

"Ever heard of guilt by association?" Wilson spits, kicking Tommy away.

Tommy gets up and takes a step towards Wilson. "Look," he says back into Wilson's face, keeping his cool, "I don't care what your asshole brother thinks. He's a dick."

Wilson slams Tommy back down onto the ground, hard. Squatting over his chest, his eyes bore holes into Tommy's. "Look, you little faggot, everybody knows. Even the guys in the troop are starting to talk..." He smacks Tommy's cheek and grabs his chin, twisting Tommy's mouth into a baby's pout. "Listen. You are not going to fuck things up for me. Do you hear me?!"

Tommy squirms as Wilson presses him down by his forehead with the butt of his hand. "Fuck things up how?"

"You know what I mean." Wilson feels hot, feverish?

Tommy doesn't know whether to push or pull, the way Wilson's eyes focus on his, reflecting him in their blueness. He always liked their strange blue, they always reminded him of the sky. Wilson's face and chest have begun to spout sweat, like tears from all over his body. His loose fingers inch around Tommy's throat. Tommy's breath is caught inside him. Wilson shuts his eyes as he squeezes the words deep into Tommy's throat so they'll never come out. Not ever.

"I'm not going to let you fuck things up for me."

Wilson feels sick. Tommy's head feels light. Just above Wilson's red face, Tommy watches a trio of egrets float through the fog...

The dark shapes have moved in, set up shop. This new location's prime, owing to its height and safety from frequent floods. They swarm around their new home, eager to explore its hills and dells. Suddenly they feel the ground beneath their feet jostled, like an earthquake deep below the surface. The sky above them slides by. After a series of aftershocks, their terra becomes firma. Further surveys indicate the topography to be rich and varied, dominated by an incredibly tall plateau. Its surface is warm, perhaps an indication of hot springs bubbling below. From the mass of dark shapes emerges a Leader, beckoning them follow him up. Dark heads swivel to and fro, dark faces unsure and frightened. The Leader starts the journey up without them, stopping in his tracks after a distance. His dark face wheels over them slowly, weighty with judgment. After a few moments, they too begin the journey up.

fauna
The size of a softball, his left knee peeks out from under his long shorts, which are stained with mud, shit and urine. One of his shoes is missing and is now a permanent resident of the garbage-strewn landscape. His socks have sponged up the brackish water, turning them a sickly yellow, loose around his thin hairless ankles. His legs are all akimbo, flattening grasses and cattails. His fingertips are buried in the dirt.

At the top of the mount, the dark shapes huddle in wait. The Leader watches the sky for something, a sign? The masses watch their Leader. The turning stars overhead reveal intricate mythological maps. Satisfied, the Leader turns to the others and nods. In response, they scatter to the far ends of the plateau, seeking out shelters and foraging for food. As they settle into their new homes for the night, they collectively take pause in appreciation for their leader and his wise ways. They also collectively notice that the ground beneath their feet has somewhat cooled.

His face is shrink-wrapped in plastic. A grocery bag (brown, translucent) drapes his features: it's pulled tight, secured around his neck with a piece of ragged rope. The plastic sack forms a crater on the lunar surface, his mouth a deep concave scream. His big brown eyes assume a glassy, shocked expression, stuck to the plastic, varnished with tears.

Wilson sits in the kitchen, watching a rerun of Will & Grace. Doug comes in.

"Hey, did you see the news?" Doug says, face in the refrigerator. "That fag got knocked off."

"Who?" Wilson says, switching to Baywatch.

"You know, your little thidekick," Doug thays thibilantly.

"He wasn't my sidekick." Wilson says.

"I thought you two were best buds or something."

"No, you were totally right about him. He was a fucking fag. He tried to touch my dick."

"No way!" Doug crosses to Wilson, eyes wide. "Did you kick his ass?"

"Looks like someone did." Wilson sees his face mirrored in Doug's dark eyes and looks away.

"And who says there's no justice in this world." Doug says as he plops down on the couch. "Hey, you seen the remote?"

Wilson throws him the remote and quietly disappears into his room.

His black tshirt is pulled back, up over his scrawny white chest, tucked under his pits. Scrawled on his chest are the outlines of his ribs, tented under the bluish-gray pallor of his dead skin, now inhabited by a tenacious colony of ants. Upon close examination, you can see where a couple of his ribs have been broken, snapped like twigs. Purple bruises spider over the fractures, but when they pulled the mattress off of him, it looked like he hadn't bled for days.

On windy days the trash scatters and makes little tornadoes that rush through the grasses and marshy spots: someone's homework, an errant shoelace, squashed cigarette softpacks. Birds step through the debris on spindly black legs, searching for something, anything. When the wind hits them right, they all alight into the blue in a pack. Or in a school. Whatever you call a group of birds. Which direction they fly and who chooses it is anyone's guess.

 

©2003 Travis Jon Mader - Contributor's Bio