Phobia

They drove for what felt to be an interminable amount of time.

"Do you guys realize this is the first time we've been in a vehicle in forever."

"Yeah, since Jaime took us gallivanting. Oh wonderful day that was."

"Do you count my ambulance ride?" Joe gestured gingerly to his sling, but didn't get much out a laugh out of the rest.

"What the fuck is that?"

"Snow Gordon, this is Colorado."

"I know what the bloody hell snow is you silly tosser, I meant that." Gordon crossed over to Joe's seat and pointed towards the frame the caravan window provided. Under Gordon's direction, Mali stopped the car to the sound of snow being compacted beneath the tires.

"That's seriously fucked up."

With thee lone exception of Parker, they all stooped and peered out the windows to the view of a large mustard yellow house, the paint heavily worn, not taking lightly the dramatic chastisement of time, a sign dangling by a single nail that barely read "Clown Heaven." The building itself was situated entirely on cinder blocks, much like an abandoned mobile home.

"Should we check it out?"

"What are we, Scooby Doo? No. Fucking. Way."

"What a surprise from our fearless leader. Cars don't scare you, but decrepit buildings do?" Casey's jeer found its mark.

"Better than fearin' the almighty pickle I say." Gordon's words fell flat. Apparently they didn't get the reference.

"Has there ever been a point in your life where something truly frightened you? I mean more than the after effects of a scary movie, I'm speaking on an entirely different level. Sure adolescence is filled with twists and turns, new exposures and the light of learning, but there are some things that can shake a child's bones.

Imagine a simple trip, a small vacation your parents take you on. You walk hand in hand, ready to welcome the surprises that await you. you see the large canopy, the animated colors that await you. The smells are numerous, the most pervasive being that of sugar and sweat, which makes sense given the seemingly endless span of people shuffling into into the red and yellow striped tent and those that stayed outside wait patiently for the purveyor of tasty treats. You take your seat and wait impatiently, gripping the freshly painted board that functions as your seat and tap your feet, jumping with every flicker of movement. Whether it's the lion tamer passing through his cage, checking and re-checking his implements or the aerial experts, stretching in tandem to the side of the stage. In your anticipation, you journey towards the facility, after all, you are old enough to go on your own, you're practically a man. The journey is much longer than anticipated, but you do find them, you just don't realize the lavatories you discover aren't the ones designated for the public: rather they were obscurely placed for the privacy of the staff and crew. you ignore the signs situated above your perspective and venture forth, only to come across the most horrible moment of your decade minus one life: the smell is pungent, like the back of a butcher shop. In your view is a man, face partially smeared, the remnants of his red smile now a smattering swirl of white, blue and red stretching across his cheek. His hands are stained red and seem to be the source of the smell. He is attempting to wrest something from a cage obscured from your vision. You are frozen, entirely focused on the man in action. He prevails in the end, but not realizing his own strength, the object goes flying in your direction and rolls to a stop at your feet. Matted hair and blood cover the roundish object and before you have time to react the man yells at you. "Don't touch that, get out of here," he yells come towards you in a stalking fashion, ready to place his crimson palms on your throat, after all he has to keep you quiet now that you know his secret, but you are too smart for him and bolt, losing yourself in the crowd. You try to divulge your newfound murderous secret but no one listens. That clown is still out there, feeding stray children to his animals under the guise of a smile and a balloon."

"Joe, he was probably feeding them. Chances are if there were a murderous clown out there, we'd hear about it."

"Given about 40% of murders go unsolved each year, maybe not."

"Seriously, he was feeding whatever animal it was. You said it yourself, it smelled like a butcher shop, like raw meat."

"Fuck you. That is all........oh and this just in, go fuck yourself."

"I'll blame that on that meds, but really we should move on."

The Gadget Whisperer

Mali yawned wide and craned her neck in all different directions, searching for that elusive "pop" of the springs and joints and fasteners in the coils of her spine. A knot had formed somewhere deep between her shoulder blades and she rubbed her back furiously against the stiff, coarse cloth of the car seat to no avail. She spied a sign stating "Rifle 45 Miles" to the right of the road and summoned what comfort she could in knowing Utah was forever behind her.

Her eyes flicked to her companions, mere silhouettes occasionally illuminated in the glow of a passing vehicle. Casey, understandably exhausted, had fallen into the deepest of slumbers the moment they had driven their immense caravan off the lot and now snored with the fervor of a grizzly bear. Joe, too, had succumbed to his medication and wheezed against the window pane a row behind her. Gordon appeared awake, though his eyes were fixed on the landscape beyond, off in his own accented world of tomfoolery and biscuits. And little Parker, having finished his work in his notebook, now sprawled across the expanse of the back seat, drool pooling in the crevices of his shoulder.

With all the night for her's and her's alone, Mali's thoughts drifted across time and space. Absently, she flicked her nimble fingers across the face of the stereoplate. The dials twirled until the static faded into the haunting coos of a familiar Brit, his falsettos spiking and swirling betwixt jagged, distorted percussion.

Ha'come I end up where I started?

Her thoughts trailed to a history she had left behind, a mother and father and brother who still wrote her letters - from time to time. She could smell the citrus of her mother's favorite tea as though a pot were brewing right there in the minivan.

Ha'come I end up where I went wrong?

Her father's cigar smoke, too, now wafted through their vehicle. It burned her nose and she hastily cracked her window, hoping the coolness of the night air would steal the stench from her senses.

I won't take my eye off the ball ag'in,

The scent of her brother came with an audible cringe, a gasp of repulsion so inert and reflexive that Mali hadn't realized she'd done so until the air whooshed from her lungs. She remembered the scent of his room, a cocktail of faint body odor and the ripe sweat of aging books stacked on one another until they tickled the ceiling.

You reel me out then you cut the string.

Amazing, she thought, that he should be the favorite.

You used to be al'right,

Bolero, her elder brother by three years, was the veritable prize of her tiny community. His skill with computers and gadgets was unprecedented, even by the standards of her - graduate cum laude with honors in computer science, MS - father. Just as those in the backwaters idolize a man who can communicated with a car's engine and practically treaty it to run anew, her brother could build, mend, or negotiate with any contraption. It was his destiny to follow in his father's shoes, her mother always said.

So what happened?

Choosing to not leave his parents and baby sister behind, Bolero had opted to take his courses via the internet. For weeks at a time he would retire to his room, emerging only for the barest of necessities, explaining his confinement as the unfortunate product of slaving over manuals and technical terms. Their father would always nod approvingly, suggesting that he had done much the same when he was in school. It was enough for their mother, too.

Did the cat get your tongue?

Mali could recall a time when they were the smallest of brats, she a tomboy and he a spectacled outcast, and their secrets and discoveries were shared with the utmost confidence.

Did your string come undone?

College, she supposed, changes people.

One by one, one by one

With the absence of her brother from the dinner table, evening talks stifled and they three were left to masticate in silence. Her mother would occasionally inquire about her school work, but as soon as Mali had acknowledge that she - yes, was in fact still in school, her mother would dismiss her and resume staring at her dinner plate. Her father never spoke unless it was to agree that their son was prodigious and an ardent worker.

It comes to us all

One night, after many months of contending with her brother's reclusiveness, decided she'd had enough. She decided, against the will of the "Keep Out" poster pinned to her brother's door, to investigate just what was keeping him locked away from all the world.

It's as soft as your pillow

She crept across the hallway, her toes gingerly seeping between ribbons in the plush carpet, her breath caught in her throat.

You used to be al'right

She begged for her parents to not wake, for her plans would be spoiled and she would be sent back to her room.

What happened?

A pale blue light flickered beneath the crack in his door.

Et cetera, et cetera

Nearly there.

Facts for whatever

An outreached hand, craning for the doorknob...

Fifteen steps

"Brother?" Mali whispered as she pushed the door open.

Then a shear drop

The sight would haunt her for years to come. Bolero spun in his chair, his face a mask of disbelief and anger for his premises being violated by uninvited intruders. His hands flew to his groin to cover his swollen shame as he bolted from his seat to snatch his trousers from the bed. On the screen, a pale elf, replete with a bustier and snow white panties, glanced around coyly, as though pondering how she had come to find herself nearly nude in a land of those questing for the very best of equipment drops.

--

"Thom Yorke's a prick," Gordon muttered, snapping Mali out of her thoughts.

"What makes you say that?" she inquired, her voice shaky from the horrors of that which can never be unseen.

"A lot of people in the Merry Ol' don't care for 'im much," Gordon shrugged. "Full of himself, he is. Spends his whole career with a chip on his shoulder 'cos he got roughed up a bit in grade school. Sorry way to waste a life spent as a rock star if you ask me."

"No one did," Mali replied and turned up the radio, which had by now been swallowed in static. The electric roll of white noise carried them further into the night and on toward Denver.

Moving Along Now

"When the fuck are they going to get here?"

Joe's surly temper was partially inspired by the cocktail of medication he received that will continue for the following weeks. He and Mali passed the time playing checkers in the lobby, a task hindered by the sling placed on his right arm, a precautionary measure, but an impediment nonetheless.

"Ello ladies."

Joe's happiness at seeing the smarmy Brit enter through the spinning vacuum sealed door superseded the snarky remark made.

"You guys ready to leave?"

"Absolutely."

"You there with the potatoes for hands, come bake grandpa some ice cream."

"Come again?"

"You heard me cod piece. You and all 158,764 hairs on you."

"Uh, Gordon, care to explain?"

While Gordon filled Joe in on the events that had transpired in his absence, Penny began pocketing coloring books from the lobby.

"Is she coming with us?"

"Well I'm certainly not going to argue with her. She probably has a blade in one of her many pockets for boning and the sort. She's looking for her husband anyway."

"Where is he?"

"A Chuck E Cheese in Minnesota."

"Seriously?"

"No."

"Then where?"

"Dead."

"How does she not know where he's buried?"

"Not the proper question Joe." Gordon then pointed at her as she knelt in front of a sick child as her mother looked on with some concern.

"No need to fret lumpy wumpkins, you are suffering an an acute case of Roseola Infantum, nothing malignant. A little acetaminophen and you'll be as dapper as an ottoman."

Her words struck the mother curiously, a sense of articulacy muddled by a toothless maw.

"I guess she could be useful for.....something."

"What are you taro sucking faghats looking at? I ate all my makeup so it's not a mighty fine day."

"Well, whatever, let's get a move on then. Quickly."

"Speaking of which, it seems we've stumbled across a small bit of money that I think we should apply. How do you feel about a rental car?"

"Sounds amazing Gordon, but I can't drive."

"Obviously. CASEY, MALI, PARKER, any of you blokes have your license?"

Mali raised her hand, Casey motioned with her hand the American symbol for "kind of", an issue Gordon didn't care to investigate further. Parker stared at his feet.

"Well, looks like you little lady will be steering us to, where was it?"

"Colorado."

"Bloody good show, let's see this snow the Ruskies seem to bitch about. Agreed?"

Everyone acquiesced readily.

When they arrived at Hertz, they were greeted by a heavyset gentleman with slick black hair and a widow's peak. He was probably in his mid-forties, but his face portrayed a man at least a decade further in time.

Midway through his interrogation, the old crone threw a penny and demanded the nigger get it. Parker conceded sullenly.

Remarkably, the penny landed under a mini van, a 99' Dodge Caravan with less than 100,000 miles and sat eight comfortably.

"It's perfect," Parker said with enthusiasm, as if serendipity negated the casual insult placed on him.

After making their purchase, the lot of them gathered their belongings in the trunk and started to make seating arrangements with Casey calling shotgun the moments she felt it was applicable. After placing Penny's leather satchel in the trunk, Casey closed the hatchback and looker around only to find the resident homeless among them no longer maintaining the last part.

"Did you see where she went?"

Parker shook his head side to side, a signal reinforced by Mali, Joe and Gordon.

"What do we do with her bag?"

"I guess we take it with us, she did hand it to us after all."

They departed, Mali in the driver's seat, Casey her navigator, Joe and Gordon in the two independent middle seats and Parker alone in the back.

Parker didn't mind this. He immediately began scribbling a story in his notebook.

There once stood a tree. This particular tree was of grave importance. In fact, it was the single most important tree in existence. Protected by the angels themselves, residing in Paradiso's Garden, this is until all went wrong. The tree existed to make of man something more, something greater than it was in its creation. The Garden's owner was very protective of the tree and did not want man to grow until it had become accustomed to its own skin. To grow too fast would cause man to burn through its own shell and fade away before it could shine. Some believe the fruit was never meant for man at all, that the Gardener planted the tree to give man something to strive for.

At the time, man had no reason to scrutinize the tree. The Gardener had found a wife for him, a woman equal to himself and just as pure in spirit. Man couldn't think of a better gift. He was given a person, a companion to share his existence with, a fundamental equal with enough variation to offer new avenues of thought, roads never traveled. They laughed, lived and loved, through time that felt endless, beginning each day with a smile and ending each night with a kiss.

Then came a day different from others. A day where they received a visitor. The Gardener was busy working other plots, readying the planting of other seeds when a neighbor inquired on his garden.

"I see you have creatures dwelling within your paradise. How do they live?"

"With the greatest of comfort sir. I have nurtured them slowly, I'd rather not start again, it is an arduous task you know."

"I do, I have watched intently for some time and I understand what you are doing. Hastening your experimentation would yield tragic results, but what would occur if you offered a simple avenue, a choice as it were. Inevitably the time will come where a decision must be made by them otherwise they will stagnate."

"An accurate observation sir, a wager then in the prospect of my creation? I offer you an opportunity. You may present my creation with a situation. If they take the correct path, you are required to tend to them personally every day, nurturing their growth. If they fail, I will give you a garden of your very own to do with as you wish. Have we come to terms?"

"We have. I do enjoy your garden, let me mull over my options and I will return to you with my course of action. A pleasant evening to you Gardener."

"And you sir."

The visitor spent a considerable amount of time plotting. He was delighted by his neighbor's garden and fluttered at the thought of having one of us his own.

He decided on a simple proposition, an offer that would force man to confront a nature that was previously foreign to it, for until that moment, man and woman had been given everything they needed. His proposition wasn't to be a need.

It was a want.

The neighbor knew that as he stood, man and woman would be alienated by his presence, disturbed by the insinuation of another. He imagined they would react violently in ignorance. His better option was a guise, a form he could take that would look natural, creating a natural reaction. At first he thought of taking the form of a monkey, a form that would stray little from his current state while offering the option of thumbs. For the sake of mobility, he settled on a snake, a body that would offer infinitely more freedom and range.

He approached man and woman in their garden of Paradiso, and spoke to them like any creature would.

"Man and woman, I offer to you as a humble servant, a fruit I had found. It is of a foreign nature, the likes of which I have never seen. It was found near a large tree, the largest in the land in fact. If the Gardener was aware of such a fruit, I'm surprised he wouldn't have informed you. I suppose maybe that is why he warned against investigating the tree." The serpent hten placed the fruit at their feet, a vibrant edible adorned with a multitude of colors in a constant state of movement, as if someone was actively painting it, every second of its existence.

Man and woman were troubled. Why had the Gardener not mentioned the fruit prior? They marveled at the fruit and for the first time in their creation they had to answer a question no one had asked. They were required, by etiquette to make a decision on a question that had no right answer. Well, there was a right answer, but want was slowly pervading their psyche, igniting a fire neither man nor woman knew existed. It clouded their judgement, guiding their eyes to the fruit's brilliant display.

They spoke to one another while the neighbor observed from a nearby branch, allowing them to address the matter and come to a proper conclusion. The neighbor was proud of his plan, regardless of outcome.

After some time passed and the moon replaced the sun, man and woman agreed that if the Gardener had planted it, then the fruit must have been for them. The land was for them therefore whatever has been sown was meant to be reaped by them.

The Gardener was disappointed. His cultivation had reached only so far. They were no longer capable of being sustained in the Garden, the fruit made them ecologically different, so much so, Paradiso was no longer a habitable place. As a consolation, the Gardener planted a seed within them. The ability to seed on their own. The infant that came next offered solace to man and woman for their existence fell into their own hands from then on.

Yeah Casey, a gift.

Parker scribbled that last line out, hoping no one would pick his notes up.

The Lion's Share

How rude, Joe thought, that she couldn't wait another five minutes to die.

The doctor, replete with his I-Make-More-Than-You-Will-Ever-Know Smirk and I-Wash-The-Gruel-From-America's-Future Smock, had narrowly ducked his head in the doorway for but a moment, his mouth agape to reveal the prognosis - and, God willing, the permission to leave - before a cacophony of voices and mechanical wails sounded from the next room over, leaving Joe to ponder his fate and wrestle with the gnawing of his restlessness.

Lying in this bed of pale palettes, Joe was defenseless against the tide of thoughts and concerns wafting about in his battered head, somewhere beneath the bandage and to the right of his bruise, and now they all came creeping up on him, clawing and scratching and --

"Sorry, son," the doctor mumbled as we strode back into the room, his eyes fixed on his clipboard. "False alarm, thank our lucky stars."

"Fantastic," Joe replied without an ounce of conviction.

"Looks like we're going to have to keep--" the doctor began.

Oh god oh god oh god don't you dare say you're keeping me you fucking asshole don't you keep me here you can't keep me here I have places to be I have things to see I have stories to tell don't you fucking tell me you're keeping me here another minute you smug prick I'm a free man and I'm well enough I swear I'm well enough Get me out of here Casey where the fuck are you Don't you say it don't you fucking say it

"-- your fingers bandaged for a couple weeks yet for the bones to heal, but other than that, I'd say you're A-Okay to check out of here this afternoon."

God bless you you beautiful man with your pen and your smock and your winning smile My angel of mercy and release Thank you for saving me and all my insides I'm so ready to go Get me out of this bed right now I can walk I can run

"Now, I suspect you'll be experiencing some discomfort for a while yet. You may find it difficult to walk great distances, so try to keep off your feet as best you can. You'll probably stay sore for a while, too, but that's normal."

Sore yes that's fine I've been sore before No big deal I don't have to walk doctor I can run I wonder if I'll need a cane I don't want a cane I don't want to walk with a cane But if it means I can walk God Blessed I'll use a fucking cane just get me out of this white-washed prison cell

"You have someone coming to pick you up, yes?"

"My friends are here," Joe nodded. "Well, some of them. I think Mali's at the gift shop."

"The nurse will be by later with some forms for you to sign. Now, listen son, if you get on your feet and find you need to come back--"

No nope no sir not coming back I fucking hate these hospitals They smell like death and disease and all the cleaning chemicals you throw on the walls to clean up afterwards Oh God I smell like that too How long until I can take a shower Do they have public showers How much would they cost Where the fuck is Mali Why are you still talking you self-righteous cocksucker

"-- please don't hesitate. You're lucky your injuries weren't more severe."

You're lucky I don't leap from this bed and rain stabbity death on you and your stupid smock with that fountain pen tucked in your pocket Just want to leave just want to leave just want to leave

"Well, good luck to you son. Hopefully we won't be seeing you back here any time soon," the doctor concluded and left with a nod.

Joe sighed passively, then felt the flutter of sleep drift upon him, tuckered out from his mental assault on the lurid man in white.

"Colorado it is," he sighed just as unconsciousness took him.