Beautiful.

The Museum of Natural History, New York City- This journal was discovered in the den of an African Black Rhino, torn, dirty, and covered with dried blood. It seems to be the notes of famed British explorer Sir Charles Cumberland, who disappeared on an African expedition in the late 19^th century. Until now, the results of this trip have been shrouded in mystery. Enjoy.

bituminous

glint

chess

Except 6, 60, 600. I don’t really write fiction, so we’ll see how this goes.

6: The Path to eternity opens tonight.

60: The bodies were arranged on Army-surplus cots in neat, orderly rows on the floor. Each corpse was dressed accordingly: a t-shirt bearing the logo of an obscure minor league baseball team, a pair of faded Levis, and a grin. Twenty-seven of them, smiling in death. The high altitude made me strain for breath as I turned back to the sergeant.

600: “What do you believe in?” That’s what Quentin asked me the first time we met, on the train from Boston to Philly.

“I don’t really know. Not much anymore, I guess.” It felt like he was gazing right through me. His face was indistinguishable from any other passenger, but his eyes shone a fierce green, like the emeralds Mama used to wear.

I spent a lot of time riding trains after Mama died. I got fired from my job at the factory after I missed a week straight, on the trip from Bangor to New Orleans. But that was okay. It was nice to look out the window at the trees and people and buildings flying past. In the winter, snowflakes blew by like fading stars. It helped me forget.

When I was little, before Quentin showed me the way, we learned in school that man was made in the image of God. We all wore uniforms then, the way we will today at the Release. Mama used to tell me how handsome I looked, in my tie and my blue blazer. She would push my hair over to the side with her long fingers, rings grazing my scalp. Every morning she’d say a prayer before letting me out of the car to join the flock of other kids walking into school. We would pass the statue of the Virgin Mother, eyes closed, hands clasped. Mama was religious. So am I now, I guess. I’m not sure if she would be proud of me or not.

When she got the bone cancer her prayers didn’t do much, and neither did mine. When she died in the hospital bed she held my hand in her right and rosary beads in her left. Rings rattling on thin and brittle fingers.

At her funeral I wasn’t sure who to blame. Mama didn’t do anything wrong. She’d prayed her whole life, and this is what she got? A slab of rock with her name on it? My uncles and cousins told me how sorry they were for my loss, but nobody really knew what to say. Especially me.

Quentin knew what to say. He found something for me to believe in. It wasn’t Mama’s fault, she didn’t know any better. Her whole life, she’d been praying to the wrong thing. If there was a God, he would have helped her. Since Quentin told me about the Path, I’ve been happy for the first time since I can remember. I have friends, and a place to live, and guidance. And a goal.

“Did you know,” asks Quentin as he dumps the shopping bags out onto the tiles, “that there’s a Double-A baseball team from Zebulon, North Carolina called the Mudcats?” A bundle of t-shirts tumbles out, each emblazoned with a grinning catfish, gazing bemusedly up at us with befuddled fabric eyes.

“A guide. A guide along the Path,” I hear myself saying. I reach up to my cheek and scratch at the stubble. We hadn’t been allowed razors for the past week or so, since we boarded up the doors and windows of the compound. We would need mirrors to shave and Quentin smashed those we had. We don’t need mirror to truly see ourselves, he said. I guess he’s right. I head over to the window and peer out at the craggy landscape beyond through a crack in the planks.

We pull on our t-shirts, and those of us who hadn’t changed yet put on our jeans. Quentin hands me a pill but all I can think about is how beautiful the mountains look.

“Why you comin’ home, five in the monn’

As the distance between us grew, I joined them for the next line.

“Something’s goin’ on, can I smell yo diiiiick?”

It was beautiful. I like it here.

“Hey, it’s almost your birthday. I’d never.” 

“Good. Because you know I’d never forgive you.” She flashes a grin and turns to the fridge, returning with a plastic container of lemonade. She takes two cups down from the cabinet, pours one, and takes a sip.

“Hey, be a gentleman,” I say. “I’m the guest. The first one is mine.” I lunge across the marble countertop but she slides it out of my reach.

“My house. My rules. And, coincidentally, my birthday.” I glance at the clock above the stove, and she’s right. It’s midnight. She raises the cup to her lips for another drink and I pounce. Swinging around the counter, I grab her around her stomach, tripping her over my pivoted hip and pulling her bodily to the ground. She gasps and spits the lemonade over the two of us. Soon we’re wrestling, and the tide eventually turns my way. She’s a giggling mess. When I pin her wrists to the ground she finally cries uncle.

“You promised” she says, mock pouting.

“Yeah. But that was yesterday. Happy birthday.”

I lean towards her and we kiss.