Silent Prayer in Moscow

In one of Moscow's more grand hotels sat a haggard and worn out boy, surrounded by powerful men in suits. Judging from the expression on his face, he had great respect for the men who were yelling at each other, each with a glass of vodka in their hands. Against the boys temple there was a gun, but it was not fear one could glimpse in the boys eyes, rather expectation. For this day could both be a turning point or the end. The time was right for one of the world's most dangerous games, Russian Roulette.

Alexander's life had never been easy. From the moment he was born, the struggle between life and death had been a long and filled with trials, and he had travelled from one foster home to the next. After both mental and physical abuse, he realized that he was way overdue to leave his old life behind. Alexander said goodbye to his foster family, more a formality then anything else as he knew they wouldn't miss him or go looking for him. With him he had his whole life's possessions which could all be placed in a small suitcase, a tin soldiers from one of his previous homes when he was little and a few pair of underwear. The place which was calling for him was the streets of Moscow.

On the streets he met likeminded peers but their friendships didn't last long, some starved whereas other froze to death and since Alexander was in and out of rehab for substance abuse there was no real time for friends. In the beginning it was horrid for Alexander but as time passed this became part of his everyday life. Living a life where mere survival is the key, death is not something you beat, rather something you have escaped for the time being. The world would miss him just about as much as he had been loved. Alexander knew it was time. The Revolver was loaded and with 3 bullets in the clip there was 50% chance the tragic boys life would end at that moment.

It was Alexander himself who would turn the cylinder on the gun, and although the spin was absolutely vital to his survival, he took it rather well. He was not in a hurry as he felt that in this hall he could die in peace, and with both vodka and food at his sides didn't make matters worse. If he was going to die it would at least be a dignified death, with a belly full of food and slightly intoxicated. The men in the room were excited and noisy as if it was nothing special that in a minute Alexander would either be dead or be entitled to a dignified life as an errand boy at one of the richest men in Moscow. Alexander saw this chance as a blessing, while the Russian was only looking for the thrill of the moment or another servant.

Alexander spun the cylinder while he looked away to be unaware of the outcome. The drunk men chuckled and burst into cheering and he took that as his queue. Slowly and with a timid facial expression, he put the gun against his temple and closed his eyes. The only thought that was echoing through his head was the odds, 50/50 and he hardly knew whether he wanted to die or not. While survival only could mean a better life he wanted to avoid thinking of the past. He put his finger on the trigger, and pulled it. The audience drank a few sips from the bottle while they roared like never before.

Life

I stood in front of the endlessly long train track. This is where she died and life was unbearable after that. I just had to lay on the track and wait for the train, then it would all end. I looked at my watch, it was 20.45, the train was supposed to come at 20.55, I just had to wait for ten minutes. I laid down on the track and looked up at the sky, which was covered with countless bright stars. I closed my eyes and remembered that night one year ago.

“ Cecilia, stop it! Get away from there, it is not funny!”

“ You always say that you love me more than anything, so would you? Would you save me if a train came right now? “ She said.

“ Yes, I would. Okay? I have answered your question. Now get away from there and let’s go home.”

You could hear the distant sound of the train coming closer and closer. But she still stood there, smiling at me.

“ The train is coming, are you going to save me or not?”

I looked at the direction that the sound was coming from and could see the lights from it far away between the trees. I got on the track quickly and grabbed Cecilia’s hand trying to get her away from there. I could not move her, it was like someone had tied her feet to the track. The train was coming closer and closer and I could not get her away from there.

“What are you doing? Let’s go now!”

She did not say anything, she just looked at me smiling the same way that she always used to. But something in her eyes were different this time. The happiness that used to be in her eyes was replaced with something else, they were empty, and there were no signs of life in them. I understood that she was serious and I could not understand why she was doing this. The sound of the train was so loud that it was going to hit us any minute now. I was still trying to get her away from there but it was impossible to make her move. All of a sudden I felt her pushing me, I fell to the ground next to the track as the train passed by, Cecilia could not be seen anywhere, she had died.

As I laid there on the track I remembered the way she used to tell a joke. She used to laugh hysterically as she told it, and I always used to tease her for laughing at her own jokes even though they were not funny, but I always ended up laughing at them anyway. One time when we had my best friend, John, over for dinner, she started telling the classic tomato ketchup joke, to lighten up the mood, and as usual she started laughing when nobody else did. John and I looked at her laughing hysterically at her own joke, and we looked at each other and busted out laughing too, just because it was so boring. John said, “I do not know how you do it Cecilia, all your jokes suck but I still end up laughing every time.”

John was my oldest friend. We met when we were four years old at kindergarten, and after that we had always stayed friends. We went to school together, played football together and just hung out and did absolutely nothing together. My mum always used to say that it was like John and I were glued together, whenever we got a chance to play together, we did, and we always had a blast.

When I think about my mum, I always smile. She was a woman filled with energy and happiness. When I was sad, she was always there for me. I remember the smell of her perfume; it smelled like vanilla, it was sweet. She always made me feel secure and that everything was going to be okay.

I remember summer nights when I was a kid, playing football with my friends. There were no worries in life then. I loved the feeling when I was running so fast after the ball that I was out of breath but at the same time feeling the adrenaline in my body, making me run faster and faster trying to get the ball.

I remember taking a walk in the park on a beautiful autumn day. There were no leaves on the trees, they had fallen to the ground, covering it with beautiful shades of red. When taking a deep breath I could feel my lungs being filled with cold fresh air. I could hear the birds singing and feel the sun warming up my face.

I found myself lying on the track with a big smile on my face. The sound of the train made me realize where I was. I started breathing faster and faster, I had to get out of there, I could not go through with it. I tried to get up but something was holding me back to the track. My coat was stuck, I tried to take the jacket off, but the train was coming closer and closer, the noise was becoming louder and louder, I could not think, the train was just a few meters away. The lights blinded me. Everything went dark. I opened my eyes and found myself next to the track, just the way a year ago, with the train passing by next to me. I took a deep breath and I was happy. All the memories made me realize that life is filled with happiness even though there are some rough times, and that life is not so bad after all, in fact, it is pretty great.

um, reboot

The story which I am about to tell doesn’t bear much weight if we are to look for the truth in things. But this is not the reason for me telling it. What you have to understand is that I am asking you simply to listen, not to understand, or even to pass judgement on the man which this story relates. It tells of my grandfather, a man whose ambition eventually outweighed his common sense. In his prime he owned a successful tobacco farm. In truth, it was a front for his own little branch of the New York crime scene. It turned out that not all of those crops were tobacco plants, so to say. In the inner circles of the mafia he was seen as a monster, showing the same mercy and compassion to his fellow people as he did to the rats that would sometimes seek refuge in the rafters of his lake-side villa. If any one of his many goons ever fucked up they would often be found missing a limb the next morning, a punishment that my grandfather himself liked to administer. He was surprisingly accomplished with a knife. After all, he’d had a lot of rats to practice on.

It was ironic, they said. My grandfather was a devout christian, a puritan of the very highest moral standards. He was also a direct descendent of the very first man to be tried, convicted and killed by the American justice system. Hypocrisy ran deep in his blood heritage. And nowhere was this more evident than with his first-born son, my uncle. From what I’ve heard he was his opposite in almost every way. You would be hard-pressed to find a warmer, more loving person. But my grandfather’s ways finally got to him. My uncle killed himself. They found him hanging from the large oak tree in the garden; his neck was broken in three places. He was not a day past twelve. He was like that, my grandfather. Anything he touched died, and to this day I know not how he did it.

Yet his greatest mystery lies not with how he lived his life, but with how he ended it.

Summit fever - Final Draft

May 4, 2002
The sun was rising over the ocean, softly granting the clouds an intense red color. The water was still asleep. A bird could be sighted over the horizon but that was it. There was nothing. only the cold grains of sand under my worn feet. Almost two years had passed since the night and still it haunted me. Every night it came creeping, I could feel the cold storm piercing right through my body, the black pyramid and Carl, alone in the roaring storm.

May 8, 1999
I was struggling upwards; a couple of meters ahead of me were Carl. It was close now; we were on the brink of achieving what we had dreamt of for so long, to stand on top of the world, to summit Everest. Above us was only its black face but the earlier so pale blue sky had darkened and clouds covered the horizon and blocked out the sun. We had been climbing for 12 hours straight and I could feel the body weakening for every small step I managed to take. The oxygen levels at this altitude was a merely third of what I was used to and together with the cold it made this the most unpleasant place on this rugged earth. Without supplementary oxygen one would easily perish here. I stopped for a moment in order to catch my breath, I lifted my head only to see Carl steadily heading for the top without showing any acute signs of tiredness like me, in fact he looked surprisingly strong and fresh. I was surprised since I was by far the most experienced climber of us already with another
eight-thousander on my CV, while he only had ascended some minor American peaks, without any real high-altitude climbing they were nothing in compared to the magnitude and grandeur of Everest.

- You see that?! Shouted Carl from above and pointed at the dark sky.

- The peak is right there! I stubbornly replied

- Want to turn around?

- It is right there, another hour and we are up!

- Are you sure?! If you’re not alright we have to head back!

I did not reply, I just continued climbing. It felt almost as an insult, who was he to doubt and question my physical shape and abilities? And besides that, we were so close. The peak was within my grasp.
.
For my whole life I had dreamt of this. I commanded my languid legs to take the last heavy steps and then I was there. At the top Carl was waiting for me with the broadest of grins on his face. We had made it. We had conquered the world and now stood on top of it. There was at this moment nothing above us. I looked around and everywhere the jagged Himalayan peaks rose just like the goddesses the native Sherpa’s saw them as. But the greatest goddess of them all, “Chomolungma”, mother of the universe, had been defeated. The euphoria of our success spread a distant but warm feeling throughout my freezing body and for a second it blocked out all pain and weariness. I thought of Tenzing Norgay and Edmund Hillary who in 1953 were the first men ever to reach this oasis of nothing. Even though the jet-winds violently raged around me I felt still. We took a couple of photos of each other and then we began our long journey down. The clock had already passed 4.30pm, we were late and in order to get down at all we had to get moving. To reach the summit was only the halfway mark.

The hours passed and we were making slow progress. I looked over my shoulder and saw the last rays of light quickly disappear behind the mighty Lhotse. The night came creeping and we were desperately struggling to reach lower altitude. I doggedly pushed on through the darkening evening. The wind was even more tormenting at this point. It had begun to snow and the visibility was approaching zero.

When I reached the Hillary step, the almost mythological 12 meter vertical rock wall that makes up the last major defense line of the mountain, I stopped and noticed that I had lost Carl higher up. I called out his name into the black night but without any success. A lump built up in my throat and I realized what this could mean. As the weather worsened even more I new that I had to go back up there. The oxygen level in my canister was diminishing but I mobilized my powers and headed back up into the dark. About 50 meters up I found Carl sitting down, apathetically looking down at his feet.

- What are you doing man?! I almost screamed to make myself heard through the constantly thrusting winds.
- I cant get any air, I was going to check my regulator, it seems to have stuck…

I walked around him to see if the regulator to see if the regulator to his oxygen mask had frozen stuck but when I bent over to check it I saw that the oxygen flow was cranked up to maximum and that it was not in fact stuck, the canister was empty. A couple of seconds went passed until I grasped the consequences of this. It then hit me, the reason he had such a easy way up was because had accidentally increased the supply of oxygen rate when changing canisters, at this high rate it gave him a lot of powers but did not last long at all. All possible scenarios and outcomes rushed through my head and it felt like the world was working against me. My oxygen was also getting low and I had to get him down passed the “step” where additional oxygen canisters were located. I helped him up and began supporting him down towards the “step”.

We reached the “step” a considerable long time later. I had never been so tired in my whole life but I could not stop now, not for anything. His oxygen depleted body did not posses the strength to climb down by his own power so I managed to tie the rope to his harness with my frostbitten hands. Then I began the difficult process of repelling him down the icy rocks- meter by meter. I slowly let the rope slide down through my hands lowering him towards the canisters containing the life saving gas. By now a full blizzard had developed and the furious wind bit my worn face with unflagging perseverance. I looked out into the fierce storm and pictured life back home. How the dew in the morning grass gently cools your feet in the mild morning sun and how easy life was. It felt so distant but yet so close. I lost focus. The rope slipped through my hands and rushed down. All muscles in my body tensed, I desperately tried to get a grip of the rope but the power of my frostbitten was not enough. The rope slacked. I immediately secured myself and hurried down the wall. I shouted for him but there was no response. In my mind the words “what have I done?” circulated over and over again.



When I got down to Carl he was surprisingly conscious. I breathed out and thought that maybe this time the gods were on my side. But then my eyes traveled down his body and spotted his legs. His right leg was horribly twisted and his suit had been ripped and left the leg bare with a stream of blood coloring the inside of his blue suit red. I shocked. My body froze and I could not move. Carl tried to form words but could not summon the power to make himself heard. I tried to stop the bleeding as well as I could during the circumstances. I stuffed his suit with an extra sweater I carried with me but that was everything I could do for my friend. He drifted out of consciousness. “I can still make it, I can get him down” my oxygen deprived brain kept telling me. I connected a new oxygen canister and started to drag him down the mountain. It was hopeless. I got nowhere. I collapsed by his side and floated away. Back to the real world, back home, away from this god forgotten place. Back to the blooming trees and the scent of summer. The world stood still, everything was so unreal. Why did we go here in the first place? Why did we choose to suffer?

When I woke up I was half covered in snow. I turned over to Carl to make contact but I did not get a response. He had succumbed and his bare, obnoxiously frostbitten face was completely empty. His mittens were taken off and in his ink black hands he had a photo of his family. I took the photo, his camera and then I rose and just continued down the mountain, away from the nightmare.

May 4, 2002
I walked along the rugged shoreline, the sun was higher now. The calmness of the world was still absolute and had no intensions of changing that. Everything was still but my mind. The two years had not made it easier. It tormented me. Everyone always, every single time told me that it was not in fact my fault, that I cant hold myself responsible for what happened. Why did not anyone tell me the truth? I was the one who wanted to push for the summit, I was the one who should have realized that something was wrong, I was the one who dropped him and I was the one who could not save him. It is obvious for everyone and to deny it is pathetical. I know and so does everyone else.

The Old man and his Guitar

/Not finished, but there you go/Beatrice Hallmark

Smooth strands recognizable as Barbara Allen, issued from the small pub in the high street. The folk song struck a chord in the old man, touched a piece of him he hadn’t touched for a long time. It was live alright, although he couldn’t see the musician, the quality of the sound told him as much. Yes, he could tell it was live, the best sort of music. The woman, young by the sound of it, was a good singer, her voice chimed in pleasantly with the strings of her guitar. A warm, lonely, but not unhappy sound issued, perfect in the pub as the night wore on. The softly illuminated windows formed deep set yellow squares on the scruffy brick exterior of the Autumn Oak, in dire need of re-pointing. The pub was a small, but upright, stately building in the middle of the high street. Not your average country pub, white-washed with dark beams, oh no; as a shell it was rather unromantic, just like the rest of the hastily re-built post-war village. But the owner had made the best of it and resurrected the hub of the village. The sign above the door, painted with an ancient, gnarled oak in autumn dress, swung to the rhythm of the music. The pub music beckoned to him, like an invisible finger through the crack in the doorway. He paused in his step, arrested by a long, wavering high note from the singer. The finger of the music stretched further out and nearly drew him in by the neck of his greatcoat, but he stood his ground, unease rooted him to the spot. He hadn’t been through that door for many years, into the home of the drink that had so nearly taken his life. He had vowed never to enter that place again and he wasn’t about to break his promise. The drink and the subsequent drive on that fateful night had ended his career, if not his life. His old guitar had made it, strapped in the back seat by the seatbelt but he had lost his arm in the accident and to him that had been as good as losing his life.
He had been a guitar teacher and the local pub troubadour, entertaining once a week with his guitar and his song. Even when it wasn’t his night he would sit in the pub, he would have the guitar because he had been giving lessons during the day and people would ask him to play a song. He would accept, open the case and take the guitar out slowly, rest it on his knee. He stroked its neck once as if to make the swan sing, he was sure it wouldn’t otherwise. He would test the strings in case they were out of tune from the cold of the night, and then strike a first chord.
The lost arm precluded him from ever performing that ritual again. When he stopped playing he was dearly missed by his pupils and the patrons of the Ancient Oak, but a guitarist is no good if he can’t pluck his strings. After the accident he never entered the pub again, not even to say good bye. He couldn’t bear people’s questions and their pity. He felt naked without his constant companion. The cloak he had woven from music, with silk spun in the body of his faithful friend had all of a sudden become threadbare. And he could never repair it, what had happened could never be undone, the unspun cloak would never be re-spun.
He shrugged out of the grip of the music and continued down the high street, he wasn’t about to reveal himself and break his promise. The invisible finger in the doorway flailed helplessly behind him and then withdrew, breaking the spell.
His wife met him at home, dinner served on the table in the homely sitting room. Her smile elicited a sad one from him, her quick embrace brought back memories of her support, and lifted some of the burden once again. She was the only one who had helped lift the heavy veil of sadness he had drawn over himself. She had never replaced that veil with pity, merely stood there and smiled a bright smile at him, which couldn’t help but tear away at the walls he built. He had started delivering letters instead, walking to every house early when not too many inquisitive and commiserating souls were up. He thought the physical exercise did him good, it certainly helped him forget, no, not forget-survive.
Now, years on, strong emotions had faded. He plodded along, people understood he did not wish to talk about what had happened, but he still shied away from the pub, its talkative landlord and the music he used to play. His wife still played their old records at home, he still loved music. At first he couldn’t stand hearing the songs he used to play, when they came on and the web of sad memories covered his eyes she would just switch the record player off and take a board-game out to take his mind off it. Now he would merely smile sadly, uncertainly, but leave the song playing, old wounds smarted again but not beyond endurance.
She had read his sad smile when he came home and asked what was the matter:
”A girl was playing live in the Autumn Oak, my old stuff”
”Well, that’s nice, why didn’t you go in? She asked, in part knowing the answer. ”Dinner can always wait when there is some good entertainment”
”I didn’t want to” His standard reply, but now he volunteered more: ”she sounded good

(Final Draft)

Rapid Tokyo Transit

He had become a pusher; not the American type that fished for junkies on the streets of poor, black neighborhoods, but the Japanese type that prevented bottlenecks from disrupting the daily schedule of brokers at the Tokyo Stock Exchange with those of the NASDAQ. He shoved a white-collar worker on his way to the cubicle farm into the subway car, although it was on the brink of bursting. But it would not surprise him if a dozen more of them could be packaged. The disheveled Daesu, his fellow pusher, gestured to him to come and help on the other side of the door. Daesu was at risk of being fired. He said something in Japanese to Daniel. The only Japanese words that Daniel knew were arigato and sake, but he did not need to ponder over the meaning in Daesu’s Japanese gibberish. Daniel trotted over to the other side of the door and grabbed another Japenese in a business suit by the arm, who desperately tried to fit through the door. As he pushed him, he inconspicuously twisted his arm in a way that elicited a faint yelp from the Jap’s mouth.

The last train left the Akihabara station. Daniel’s shift was over. The Yellow Wave had been especially intensive on this particular day. The Yellow Wave was the term that was internally used among the foreign Tokyo Metro employees to describe the rush hour. Daniel walked over to the optimal, in terms of lean manufacturing, staff room, where he needed to drop off his suit before leaving. He entered the miniscule room and thought of how proud Toyoda must be. It smelled hospital. The location of every single object had been thoroughly considered. Then reconsidered, removed and replaced. Then reconsidered once more and so the cycle had gone on and would continue to go on. The traditional water cooler had been replaced by small bottles, similar to those hamsters would drink from, attached to the door of every employee’s locker. This apparently saved each employee 23.7 seconds daily, and the company 105 yen, on account of the fact that there was no waiting in line for water. An artificial, to avoid the need of watering, plant stood in the corner for, as his boss Mr. Takashi called it, recreational purposes. Daniel walked over to his locker. He unlocked it and put his hat with the Tokyo Metro emblem in it. Isamu was standing next to him, carrying out the same procedure. He was one of the security guards of the Akihabara station.

“Heard the boss was coming tomorrow?” Daniel asked him.

“Konnichiwa, Smith-san,” Isamu replied.

Daniel cracked his first smile of the day. He started to take off his suit, which belonged to the Tokyo Metro. He noticed Isamu unholstering his handgun. Isamu noticed him. Daniel noticed Isamu noticing him. Daniel cracked another friendly smile, triggering Isamu to nervously toss the gun in his locker and throw the door to it shut.

Daniel still remembered the pale lady sitting in the living room when he came home from school on that day that his classmates had stolen the teacher’s Prozac pills; the teacher had had a nervous breakdown and so the class had been dismissed early. The pale lady was drinking tea, as his father introduced her to him, not as a mother but as a friend of his. The six-year-old Daniel remembered her not because she was Japanese, which was a rarity in Austin, Texas. But he remembered her because his father’s friends, unlike this one, used to be males with ties and suitcases. His father explained that the lady could not speak English. Daniel’s six-year-old mind could not comprehend that possibility and so he asked her if she knew Bruce Lee. The pale lady only smiled in response.

The inexplicable news came the next morning, as Daniel and his Japanese cohorts stood in a perfect line in the staff room. Daesu, the same Daesu that was at risk of losing his job, had been transferred to the Ōtemachi station. The transfer was the equivalent of being promoted to CEO of Dow Jones from working as the McDonald’s mascot Ronald McDonald. The extremely short Mr. Takashi delivered the news. He spoke in English; something that had only been experienced by Daniel during his job interview. This was very strange, considering that Daniel was the only foreigner in the room. But what made it even stranger was that Mr. Takashi barely could utter a sentence in English.

“We can all learn from Daesu,” he stuttered.

Daniel paid no attention to Mr. Takashi, but instead glared at Daesu. Although his fellow pusher tried to conceal his ecstasy, no one in the room mistook the gleam in his eyes and the slight rise of his cheeks. Mr. Takashi then asked everyone to leave the room except for Daniel. Yes, give me an explanation for this decision, Daniel thought. Perhaps April Fools’ Day comes in February in Japan? Tell me that this is some sort of sick joke.

“Daniel, this is not some sort of sick joke,” Mr. Takashi affirmed.

Daniel’s mouth would only let the ensuing profanities come out of it for he was no longer in God’s household back in the States. It replaced Takashi’s classification, Mr., with those normally reserved for convicted rapists and pedophiles. Daniel charged Takashi and slammed him down to the floor. However, his biological blackout only affected his central nervous system, causing both his fists to switch to autopilot. The battering turned Takashi’s face into a distorted mush.

“Are you listening?” Mr. Takashi asked Daniel, who awoke from his daydream. “I think that Daesu has demonstrated his competence and efficiency. If you could also show the same kind of ambitious spirit…”

Daniel gritted his teeth. His fists were still clenched as a result of his daydream. He was able to push any passenger through the doors and into the subway cars, regardless of their girth! He knew exactly where to apply just the right amount of pressure to cause a chain reaction in the interior of the subway cars, causing all passengers to snugly fit! He faced the Yellow Wave with absolutely no fear nor hesitation! Daesu always became stressed out in such situations. Always!

Mr. Takashi sighed. “I know how your people think of work ethic but you must adapt now.”

“Naturally,” Daniel forced out of his mouth. As Mr. Takashi walked out of the room, Daniel bowed at a 30-degree angle instead of the usual 40-degree bow.

Daniel still remembered the suitcase with four combination locks in a row that his father would take with him on those days that he went on business trips. He did not mind staying at his uncle’s house. His uncle had always lived in his own dream-world. But he had been good-hearted man and had he also not been a senile alcoholic he probably would not have revealed to 12-year-old Daniel that he was the result of one of his father’s business trips to Japan. Daniel had not been able to process this information for he could not grasp the concept of being a bastard.

The next day Daniel could not believe his ears. Finally, the tide began to turn; an American was replacing Daesu. Daniel had a Heinz Ketchup stain on his shirt that would not come off. But it did not matter because neither would his smile.

Carson was the American’s name. He and Daniel sat during their lunch break at a table at the McDonald’s restaurant that was located in the subway station.

“Missed McDonald’s?” Daniel asked Carson.

“Huh?” Carson said, while turning his head to show an hearing aid on each of his ears.

Daniel had not noticed that Carson used hearing aids.

“Both ears?”

“Huh?”

“Both ears?”

“Grenade exploded next to my head during the war,” Carson explained while stuffing his mouth with a bite from his cheeseburger.

Daniel put down the two French fries that he was about to eat. “Next to your head?”

Carson nodded. “I guess it was a stroke of bad and good luck. Bad luck considering that only one in every twelve Chinese grenades actually explode.

“And the good luck?”

“That it was made in China. So no worries. My cranium remained intact. Would’ve been different if it was one of ours, you know.”

There was a moment of silence. The smile that would not come off finally came off as Daniel scowled.

“Want to know what happened to my hand?” Carson asked straightforwardly and rolled up his overly long sleeve only to reveal that he was missing his left hand.

Daniel looked at the mutilated stub, evoking his gag reflex. He tried to conceal his reaction by coughing faintly and covering his mouth with his fist.

“Tried to save a little girl who had fallen down on the tracks. This was during my days at the New York Metro of course. She was stuck in the subway door. Don’t know why the emergency system did not react. Or no one else for that matter.”

Daniel opened his mouth to say something but no words came out.

“Train began to move. So I tried to push the girl free to the other side, onto the platform, you know. I succeeded. But I can’t say the same thing about my hand. Got stuck in the door. The train did not stop. No one pulled the emergency break. There was no room for my hand as the train entered the tunnel. Next thing I know, I got this.”

Carson showed his stub.

“The state of New York would not let a one-handed man continue working due to security measures or policy or whatever. So I lost my job and moved to my brother over here.”

After a short pause Carson chuckled.

“My wife divorced me shortly after the accident. Know what she tells me when I ask her to explain why?”

Daniel shook his head.

“I lost my wedding ring along with my hand.” Carson guffawed.

Daniel looked down on his burger and fries. There was a moment of silence.

“ How did the Japanese allow you to… You know. Maybe it was for the best that you didn’t contin…”

“Hey! I saved a little girl’s life. God wants me to be a pusher.”

Carson did a pushing motion with his right hand and left stub and Daniel could not help but to think of the Biblical Matthew, whose stories he would hear about from Father Bob in the Austin Church of Hope.

Daniel still remembered the crispy, onion flavored Doritos potato chips that he struggled to pack between the Wonder Bread slices on the day that the phone rang. He had almost panicked and looked around the kitchen in the same way a caveman would. He could finally localize it under the living room couch by tracing the ringtone. The nurse on the other end explained that his mother had cancer, but no one to take care of her. The 41-year-old Daniel knew what type of cancer it was back then. But today, two years later, he could not remember if it was thyroid cancer or pancreatic cancer.

The Yellow Wave officially ended at 21:00 the next day, as the last train unloaded its passengers. Daniel had no sweat running down his forehead that evening for the first time in years. Carson had worked on the other side of the tracks, where the trains traveled in the opposite direction. Glass, insulating the noise from the track on the other side, was the only thing separating them. Daniel smiled as Carson noticed him. He pointed at his watch and waved goodbye, receiving a wave from Carson in response. If that particular one out of every twelve Chinese grenades had not exploded during the war, Carson would have been able to hear the incoming train. Daniel could only stand and watch as Carson’s right hand was severed by the force of the leading subway car.

The hospital smell was familiar. Daniel watched through the window Carson in his hospital bed. Daniel yawned as he looked at his American friend. Carson was hooked up to a myriad of machines. His blank stare would be able to fool anyone that he was dead, had it not been for the electrocardiograph. Daniel remembered seeing an old photo of the notorious Jesse James being buried with his hands folded over their chest. Carson looked very similar to him at this moment, as he hopelessly tried to clench his stubs for prayer.

Daniel banged his fist into the coin slot before ramming his shoulder into the snack vending machine. He looked at the Snickers bar that was stuck in the machine and sighed. He headed down the corridor, looking at the patients in the rooms that he passed; a nurse helping an old man walk to the toilet, a pale lady with a doctor standing next to her bed, another old man who… Daniel stopped. He turned around and looked into the room with the pale lady again. The doctor was checking the pulse of the lady. Daniel’s presence caused the doctor to turn around.

“We’re stopping symptomatic treatment. Her choice,” the doctor told Daniel. “You know her, sir?”

Daniel shook his head.

“Please leave.”

“Daniel…,” the pale lady muttered before smiling lightly.

The fact that Daniel was not wearing a tie generated a lot of attention in the staff room in the morning. Daniel’s eyes, peas in relation to the huge bags under them, were focused on Isamu, the only other person in the staff room. Isamu put on his Tokyo Metro hat, picked up his handgun and struggled to put it in his holster.

“Give me the gun,” Daniel said, disrupting the silence.

“Smith-San, what are you asking?” Isamu said with his eyes fixed to the inside of his locker.

“Give me the gun.”

Daniel left the staff room with Isamu’s gun tucked into his belt. He walked along the rails to the end of the platform and looked at his watch. A moment later, the Yellow Wave flooded the station and another moment later a train arrived at the station.

The train operator had, at gunpoint, run for his life as Daniel had commanded. Daniel was now alone in the cab, looking through the glass window to the adjacent car. The passengers were either checking their watches or shaking their heads. Daniel knew exactly what he would do. He had seen hostage-takers in movies, who always used hostages as human shields in the hopes of getting the upper hand. It usually worked until a SWAT team led by Bruce Willis gassed them out or until Tom Cruise sniped them from a distant point at the eleventh hour. Daniel was smarter than that.

He opened the door to the adjacent car. Everyone turned their eyes to him. He lifted the gun he had in his hand and put it against his temple.

“I will shoot myself if you do not do exactly what I tell you,” Daniel calmly explained.

The passengers looked at each other in complete silence.

“I’m serious. I will shoot,” Daniel reassured them.

A bald man in a business suit looked down at his watch. Daniel saw this and fired his gun toward the roof of the car. Shrieks erupted from the passengers of the adjacent subway car. The passengers in front of Daniel only reacted by pushing themselves to the back of the subway car. Some of them dropped their bags and suitcases to the floor.

“I’m serious!”

Sweat ran down Daniel’s forehead, as he put the gun against his temple again.

“Hey you!”.

The bald man pointed at himself.

“Yes, you. Where do you work?”

“Nichigin; Bank of Japan. I have family.”

“You have a family, huh? Listen, you will take time off work, okay? A week. No, a month. And.. And you will take your family to.. uhm.. the Bahamas. Understand?”

The bald man nodded. Daniel backed into the cab. He fumbled with the buttons until he pressed the one that opened the doors to the train. Passengers from the other cars ran out of the train.

“Now, you go. The rest stays.” Daniel indicated with his gun for the bald man to leave. A woman attempted to inconspicuously walk out as well.

“I’ll shoot myself! I’ll shoot myself! I swear I’ll shoot myself!”

The woman stopped. The fainting noise pattern of footsteps from passengers running toward the exits of the station was disrupted by loud footsteps running toward the train. Daniel looked out of the windows and saw police officers at a distance moving toward the train. He pressed the button that closed the doors of the train.

“Daniel Smith, stay calm!” a voice boomed throughout the station from a megaphone.

“You still have capital punishment in this country.”

There was no response from the passengers.

“Good,” Daniel said and took a seat.

“Daniel Smith, do as we say or we will be forced to shoot,” the voice from the megaphone boomed.

Daniel cracked a smile, while still holding the gun toward his head. “Shooting someone who threatens to shoot himself,” Daniel muttered and started laughing.

“Put down the gun Daniel and we will not shoot.”

“How often do you visit your mothers’ grave?” Daniel asked the passengers.

The passengers did not answer. Daniel shook his head.

“Tomorrow I’m going to visit my mother.”

Daniel still held the gun to his temple and stood up. He turned around to the station, where police officers hid behind trashcans, pillars, corners and every other possible object that they could find.

“Last chance, Daniel. Put down the gun. We will shoot.”

Daniel took a deep breath.

Daesu had not expected to return to his old station only a few days after his transfer. But he had run to the Akihabara station as soon as he had heard the news about a former subway pusher taking hostages. He knew that the Tokyo Police would want to question him, considering that he had been a pusher in the Akihabara station. So as a loyal Japanese, Daesu wanted help. There was a large crowd gathering when he arrived at the Akihabara station. He saw that the empty station had been taped off, as he stepped off the escalator a moment later. A police officer stood by the warning tape.

“No one is passing this perimeter,” the Officer declared.

“I used to work here as a pusher,” Daesu explained.

The officer was going to open his mouth to answer when a loud gunshot echoed through the station. Perhaps the firing of the gun would have been avoided, if the officer of Japan’s Special Assault Team, who had snuck up on Daniel, had noticed the seven bullets from Isamu’s gun lying on the dashboard in the cab of the train.

437 days

Hot vapors quietly lingered above the shiny surface of the parquet. It was a silent day, a rare one, as the heat had nested itself in the soil of the burned fields. Unexpectedly, an invaluable shadow had settled over the room. Heavy blackness spread out and devoured an upholstered sofa aging of negligence, continuing along the greasy fibers on the dusty carpet covered by Polaroids which had brought happiness once upon a time, until it reached that deep scratch on the desk. That was the place she was standing in, silently watching the sky disappearing into nothingness, erasing the lines of the horizon through the glass pane. A wrinkle which had long ago settled itself at an angle above her nose appeared, as life had become much harder at this very moment. She carefully watched what was happening in front of her, behind the fogged up glass , how life presented itself as vastly peaceful. She thought of Zach, the little life that never seemed to confirm her presence, the boy that she did not know. The Zach who made her even more concerned about future incidents. It was he who tainted the idyll.

Disappointment had become a fundamental building stone of her life. Still, she had not become familiarized to it. Her body was rejecting the sensation because it had not been part of the plan. As the picture through the window slowly ceased to fascinate and lost contrast, her mind voluntarily decided to follow the same example. She was in fact angry. Irritated over how the little cabin which she had made into her own dwelling was crumbling underneath her. It was no longer her dwelling; it was an inferno of neglect, dust particles inhibiting pores in the walls. He never leaves her alone. His eyes, colored with the same color that God had colored the oak trees, observed her in the same stationary way that the same trees stood in the forest. Motionless. There was a constant smell of pine mixing with the dirt of the house. He takes advantage of her. Zach.

The endless fields surrounding her behind the walls were caressed by a gentle wind. It was not a particularly strong nor noticeable wind, its only purpose was to apologize to the plants for the murderous heat. However, she recognized it. It was the same wind which had tousled Zach's beautiful hair. Her memory of him that day when they wandered across the fields accompanied with the afternoon sun was the last good memory that she had. He had been more vibrant, different in every aspect. He worried her so much now, but back then he gave her much back. Her hand was tingling. She could feel his petite hand enclosed by hers. How he looked at her quietly and smiled. Then he would disappear under the carpet of golden wheat, just to reappear with a small striped grass snake in his hands. Frightened, she pulled him towards her, the surprising action resulting in the little snake flying out of Zach's hand, falling in the abyss of the wheat field. She felts its scared flight on her bare legs. Zach's body was now wrapped around her chest. He was so small, insignificant. Adorable, as he laughed, pressing his body against her, the tingling of his hair triggering laughter in her.

The anger increased within her. Why had he become this way? There was no longer a smile painted on his mouth. He never wrapped himself around her, nor pulled her apron. Nor did he speak to her. Instead, her reality had become a silent longing and need from his side. His eyes gave away his secret.
It was not her fault.

Her gaze wandered downwards, acknowledging the wavy surface created by the down slope of the glass molecules, finally fixating her eyes on a shell resting alone of the yellow windowsill. She watched the meticulous shell that the sad child once had collected. Her eyes followed the rare contours, until the lines disappeared in small eddies and never came back. Perhaps she was not good enough? Perhaps Zach was never destined to experience the moment when fortune tried all its borders? The sweet vortices pulled the mind into confusion. For a long time she had not been able to sleep peacefully at night as the tears flowed down the cheeks of fear that the dream of a brighter time was crushed. It was in this unhappiness that she had become angry with Zach. She would not let him bring misfortune over her, why couldn't he accept life as it was at this very moment? She hated him, because he could not teach himself to love her. She hated the memories of each time she had expected a good word from his mouth, or a childish smile, or some other good guidance. Because, they were never there when she wanted them.

A crash. The sound of fine porcelain cracking under the pressure exerted by the floor. Her furious scream. Zach had pushed her towards an end. She needed a revenge. Her hand had collided with his cold cheek, making him fall off the wooden chair on which he had been seated by her while she was watching out through the window. The chair had scraped painfully against the floor. The hot fumes had now disappeared with the thin air. She was breathing again.

Then suddenly she came to her senses. She watched the dry porcelain peaces scattered over the floor, Zach's body in the center. She frenetically started collecting the peaces, reassembling Zach's face. Tears were flooding her aged face and her trembling fingers made it hard for her to fit the peaces together. While taping them together with old tape which she had removed from the album containing Polaroids, she whispered with great anxiety: "Zach, forgive me. I am so sorry".

She picked up the lifeless body with great care and carried it into the bed chamber. There, she put it down in a small child bed, watching how the body sunk in in the old madras. The wooden eyes watched her angrily, placed out of symmetry by her concentrated reassembling. She bent over the little body structure, caressed the fragmented cheek and crying whispered "Please forgive me". She threw herself over the porcelain doll ornamented with the same colored hair and eyes of an oak tree, now laying in the bed in which her son Zach had died in 437 days ago.