Midnight snack

As Johnny crawled out of the bunk bed, one that he shared with his two younger cousins, he glanced over at the small, rectangular shaped alarm clock that sat on a small, square shaped night stand, standing next to the bunk bed tucked away in a small corner of the room. The large red letters read: 12:02AM. Tonight, like many nights before this one, was another sleepless, agonizing night. Johnny could sense that there defiantly was something wrong in the household, but he did not understand exactly what that problem was.

The air was thick with humidity. It was middle of summer, in a small town in the heart of Texas, and even night fall offered little, if any, relief to the extreme heat. Johnny could feel the moisture in the air as he breathed in and out. It was near impossible for him to get any sleep what so ever, for the sheets would cling to his sweaty body.

As Johnny silently made his way closer to the door, he began to recall a dream that he was beginning to have, in a sleep that was not really a sleep at all, but more of a light slumber. He saw his two cousins sitting on the edge of the bottom bed, with faces blank and empty as porcelain dolls. A thick fog seeped in from the doors, and filled the room. His aunt entered into the room wearing a slinky knee-high red dress. She wore black fishnet stockings, and black high heel shoes. (Like the women on the T.V. that mommy told me about. She says that they sell there bodies for money. I wanted to ask how they got them back, but mommy didn’t want to talk about it any more. She told me it was inappropriate.)

“Mommy’s gotta go do some work,” She said in a raspy, low pitch voice. (Mommy says that’s what happens when people smoke too much.)

“No mommy,” The younger of the two of them said in a nonchalant voice. A tear crawled from his eye down to his little red cheek. He stood up, and slowly, lifelessly, approached her. He loosely warped an arm around her left leg, and gently rested his head on her thigh.

“Get off of me you little shit!” she screamed in a loud roar. Her voice barley sounded human, more like some kind of evil demon.

“But mom,” The kid said without effort.

“But nothing. Mommy has a date with a very important man. A king. And he could make mommy a very rich woman.” The kid proceeded to hold onto her leg. She got aggravated, and kicked him aside. His brother sat there, unobservant of what was going on, almost as if he were trying not to see.

At that moment, Johnny's mother and father entered the room. Something was off about there appearance. They were not real people, but puppets. Giant strings were connected on there hands, and feet. A large man, with a cigar hanging from his mouth, was controlling the two of them. He wore large, gold, and diamond rings on all ten of his fingers.

“You shouldn’t do that to your kids.” Johnny's father said in a robotic voice.

“Oh pleas! Just what do you plan on doing about it?”

“You should know better, you slut.” Johnny's mother said. “You know we disapprove of you being a whore.” Her voice was very plain, and emotionless.

“This is our house, and you will abide by our rules. I didn’t want to have to go this far, but hold out your hand.” The woman smirked, and did as ordered. Both Johnny's mother and father lightly slapped the woman’s hand.

“We hope you learned your lesson.” The father said.

“I did,” the woman said in a sarcastic tone.

The mother and father both gave a pleased grin, and walked away. Johnny stood in amazement at how they could let her off so easily.

How bizarre, Johnny thought to him self. What a wired dream. I wonder what it means. Probably nothing important.

Just before he opened the door, he turned over and looked down at his two cousins. They both shared the bottom bed of the bunk beds, and they were both sleeping soundly. Johnny thought it odd how they could sleep so soundly with all of the problems surrounding them and there mother. They seemed to be completely oblivious that there whole lives were crashing down all around them. There mother had just filed bankruptcy a month ago, and was forced to move out of there small, one bed room apartment. With no where for to turn, Johnny's parents offered them free room and board with them until they got back on their feet.

Johnny pulled open the door, and left the room. The carpet that lay just out side the room was a light blue color, and to Johnny, it resembled a river. The blue carpet extended down the stair case, and stopped at the kitchen. Johnny had planed on going down stairs for a midnight snack. He found that this offered some kind of momentary alleviation for his ailments.

As he proceeded to the stair case that sat just out side of his door, he noticed that the light in his aunt’s room was still on. He could here her shouting to some one on the phone. He, being a very nosey 13 year old, leaned in closer to the door, and put his ear next to it.

“God damn it, I told you that you can’t be seen here no more. The little shit-hole 13 year old kid almost got me busted. Can you believe that the little fucker got child services called on me?” It was almost two weeks ago that this entire ordeal took place. While sitting down at the dinner table with his parents, the first time that they had a dinner all to them selves in a long while, Johnny brought up a few concerns he had with his aunt, and his two little cousins.

“Mom, I’m worried about my cousins.” He looked down at his roast beef with a side of corn, and moved, and stirred it around with his fork. “I don’t think that she pays enough attention to them. And she yells an awful lot.” He raised his head from his plate, and looked desperately at his parents. “Don’t you think that we should do something about it?”

His mother gave him a very perplex look, one that Johnny did not understand. “Well, you see, she may not be the best mother in the world, but she dose try her hardest to do her best.”

Johnny's father cut in and added: “And she’s going through a hard time right now. She’s still trying to get things together.”

Johnny, not grasping what his parents were saying, said in a mater of fact tone: “Yes, but we still should do something about the way she’s treating them. She’s not a fit mother. My teacher at school said-”

Johnny's father, in a furry, interrupted his son. “What did you tell your teacher son?”

“Just that I think that my aunt may be mistreating her kids, that’s all.” Johnny looked up as if he were a hero who deserved a meddle of honor for what he did.

“Johnny, do understand the severity of what you have done? She could lose her kids. And if so, she would never see them again.”

“Well, maybe she deserves it. She doesn't pay any attention to them.” Johnny felt that he was very much on the defensive.

“Damn it, Johnny, do you have any idea what this is going to do to the whole family? You should have come to us first. You should have said something to us. We are the people who take care of you, and what you have done could destroy us. If your teacher doses call child services, which I’m sure she will, they won’t just investigate her, they will investigate us as well. I understand that she may not be the best person in the world, and the things she dose may be unjust, but following that unjust act, with another act that is just as unjust, will only help to destroy that witch is helping to protect her, and her children; and you. She is with us, and believe it or not, we do step in, when necessary, but we also have to keep within our boundaries. This is where the children are most safe. What if now, she blames us, and moves? Then what? What would that mean for her children? At least they have us now. If you think that they are bad off now, then how much worse will they be with out us?”

“I just didn’t think…” And that was the all that he had to say. That was all he could say.

“I think it’s all his parents fault.” His eyes widened at this. He held his breath, and put his fingers over his nose, to keep himself from sneezing. “And those damn kids of mine, they whine too much, as it is. I don’t think that they need some little punk kid putting ideas into there heads. I think Johnny is a bad influence on them. They should be happy with what I do give them; three meals a day, and a roof over there heads. It’s not like I beat them or anything.”

“Ahhchoo!” Johnny could not hold in his sneeze any longer.

His aunt slammed down the phone, and swung open her door. “And just what do you think you’re doing? It’s bad enough what you’ve already done! Now you’re listening in on my phone calls. Go on, back to bed with you.” Johnny went back into the bed room, where his cousins still peacefully slept, and waited a few minutes before going back out into the hall.

Before going down the stairs, he slowly crept over to his parent’s room. He saw that their light too was on. He heard his mother and father talking. He could tell that this was not a happy discussion, but more of an argument. He also could tell that they were trying carefully to talk as quietly as possible, so no one else could here what they were saying. Johnny quietly leaned next to the door, and tried his hardest to listen in.

“What are we going to do with our son,” Johnny’s father said.

“I just don’t know. He could have gotten us all into a lot of trouble,” his mother sighed.

“I think there’s only one thing we can do. We have to send him to a psychiatrist. I think that there is something wrong with the boy. This isn’t the first time he has acted carelessly, and without thinking.”

“I agree. It’s like he just doesn't pay any attention. I think he might have that, what is it called, the um, ADD, That’s it, I think he has ADD.” He could detect a slight panic in his mother’s voice.

“They have medication for that. I’ve herd on the T.V. that it’s really suppose to help.”

“Well, then, it’s decided, first thing tomorrow, I’ll take him to see the psychiatrist, and get him put on the medication.”

“Now, lets get some sleep, I have an early day tomorrow.” And with that said, his father turned out the light, then silence.

He walked back down the hall, and over to the stairs. He, being a playful 13 year old boy, walked down the stairs, the vibrant flowing river, backwards. He turned back around just as he reached the kitchen. He walked over to the refrigerator, and peaked his head inside. He pored himself a glass of milk, and had three cookies, before returning back up the stairs, backwards once more, and reentering his bedroom.

He crawled back into the top bed, and pulled his white sheets over himself. He thought nothing more of what he herd from his aunt, and his parents. After all, there was really nothing he could do about it; or not to him at least. And he had better things on his mind, like finally getting to sleep.

Cody Hobbs

Tears from Persephone

i
It had only been eleven months and already I could see her getting older; things that ordinary people would not notice; an extra line on her forehead, the skin over her hands becoming more stretched and like parchment every time I held them, and the bags under her eyes had grown heavier and slightly darker. Her eyes were where I noticed the most change, deep inside of them; they had become evermore drawn to the shadows. She looked at life with a growing distance and impatience. I knew she would ask me to turn her at some point, it was an inescapable inevitability. It was my presence that enticed her, so to a great degree, I am responsible.

Her name was Angela, and we met by accident. When I first saw her, she was just a meal, my next victim. She smelled clean, and I longed for a change from my usual pray. She had taken a wrong turn, and ended up in the Tenderloin, the spot I usually found people to feed from. Most of the time the people just assumed I was a pimp, and the girls I picked off were ones that tried to scam me on my money. My prey was not chosen out of a moral conscious, but rather a convenience. Girls in that part turned up dead all the time, either beaten to death, drug overdose, shot; and the few I added were just categorized with the rest. All of the women on this street have a stench to them, a stench from shooting junk into their veins, but Angela was different; she smelled clean. I was interested, at first, in the idea of having a meal that wasn’t mixed with heroine or crack. Typically I don’t talk to my prey, prostitutes make for lousy conversation. I felt excited about getting to hunt Angela. And that’s what started my trouble.

The first romanticized myth about us is that we are morally conflicted creatures. The changes that occur after our hearts stop beating go far beyond physical. The veil that each day is porcelain is immediately lifted and you can see the road of your existence stretching forever into the dark future. The bond that ties all mortal humans together, the bond that life is fragile and that you could die at any moment, is severed as quickly as you take your last breath. I feel no more remorse for any of my victims than a man who slaughters lamb. But Angela changed that.

It was a cool evening, and I remember smelling her sweat. It was clear from her demeanor that she didn’t belong to this street; and she looked much too frightened and lost to be here for a score. I started following her at Polk and Hyde Street, and I did not make my presence known until she was two blocks from Market, a particularly wretched part of the T.L. The stench of sour milk and urine had increased, the sidewalk became evermore grimy, everything darkened, and I could see her start to tremble. I eased myself beside her, my ghastly appearance veiled by the yellow streetlights, and said, “Pardon me, but might I ask what a woman such as you is doing in this neighborhood?”

She was thin, and her skin was fair and smooth like baby flesh. “Excuse me,” she snapped, with a mixture of fright and surprise.

“Please, I hope I didn’t offend you,” I said. “You look like you are lost.

“Well, you see…” She thought for a moment, trying to decide if she could trust me. Standing outside of a liquor store stood a large, shirtless black man who was eyeing her in between large gulps of cheep vodka. She decided I was her safest chance. “I don’t want to sound naïve, but I just moved to the city.”

“This isn’t the place you want to be lost in,” I explained. Somewhere close by, a woman’s voice cried out.

“I think you’re right.”

“Where do you need to go?”

“I live at the corner of Divisidaro and Sutter,” she said. “I don’t know the bus system here.”

“You want the 38 Geary. It’s just a few blocks from here; would you like me to escort you? I think it would be safer if I went with you.”

Her face eased as she let out a heavy sigh. “Really, I don’t mean to burden you.”

“It’s no problem. I only live two blocks from there myself. I would enjoy the company.”

“If you’re sure it wouldn’t be a problem that would be great.”

“My name is Creve, by the way.”

“I’m Angela,” she replied.

I offered her my arm, and she took it wither her thin, pale freckled arm. She was surrounded by a faint, understated scent of jasmine; a soothing relief from the normal stench of the people that crowd the T.L. Already, makeshift beds of cardboard boxes started to appear along the sidewalk, and under awnings.

“So what brings you to the city?”

“I just graduated from UC San Marcos. I’m working for an envoi mentalist lobby group. My parents thought think I was foolish to move to the city. They said I would never be able to survive here, and I’m starting to think they may have been right.”

“The city can be a frightening place, especially when you’re alone. But don’t get discouraged. You are doing noble work here, don’t forget that.”

“I just feel so insignificant here. San Francisco’s such a big place, I’m afraid I’ll just be another face in the crowd.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that.” She smiled, and her skin was so light that when she blushed, she blushed with her entire body.

We had reached Geary Street just as the bus was stopping. Inside, it was mostly empty. There was a man in ragged cloths stretched out across the back seat of the bus traveling to no particular destination. She wasn’t alarmed by my pastel appearance; there were enough people in San Francisco masquerading as our kind that it drew little attention to me. As the bus drove further away from the T.L., one could see the city transform little by little with each passing block. There were fewer people sleeping in the streets, graffiti were whitewashed from the walls, the sidewalks were less grimy; the entire street seemed to lighten as we left my world and entered into hers.

I pulled the stop cord, and we got off of the bus at Divisidaro Street. Her entire body loosened as she recognized where she was. I walked with her the two blocks up to Sutter Street. She stopped in front of a Victorian style apartment building.

“Well, this is where I live. I can’t thank you enough,” she said as she pawed through her purse.

“Don’t mention it,” I said. I wrapped my arm around her thin waist. As I leaned closer to her, I could feel her hot breath on my face. Then, as I leaned in to kiss her, she turned her head, exposing her long and smooth neck. I was captivated by this subtle display of modesty; modesty I had not seen since I was a mortal myself. I realized then that she was a creature of another time. Hungry as I was, I could not bite her. A sharp pang seized my whole body. It went against the entire nature of what I was, but I could not bear to tear her from this world; she was an artifact of a time long pat. Before parting, we arranged to meet the next night at a café only two blocks from where she lived. For the first night since I was tuned, I did not feed.
ii

Another myth about our kind is that we can feed from animals. A condition of turning is that we are not able to imbibe anything other than human blood. After one drink, we start to choke violently, and cough up whatever we just swallowed. For us, it is ecstasy to drain the life from a human. Since the night I met Angela however, it filled me with disgust to feed. I killed as little as possible, drinking only enough to maintain my strength. It is possible to feed without taking the others life, however, it is too much of a risk to leave witnesses; our kind prefers to stay in the dark, and anyone who jeopardizes our secrecy becomes an enemy. The punishment for such an act is not death, a vampire cannot kill another of its kind; rather, we are shackled, taken underground, and starved. It does not kill us if we do not feed. We waste away, loosing all of our strength, until we are literally nothing but skin and bones. Even if we were ever to be brought back to health, the madness from starvation erases any trace of elegance; we become savage beasts, hardly recognizable as anything that was once human.

I have never made a habit of keeping company with mortals, and with good reason. They can never understand what our existence entails; they only know of the romanticized fairytales recited by naive writers and poets.

Angela became my link to a world that had been long dead to me. She introduced me to the world of modern music and art and poetry. With each passing night, I felt myself falling deeply into something I thought was distant to me as the rising sun, I was falling in love. After two months, I had to tell her who I was.

We went to see Phantom of the Opera at a theater on Market Street. We took a bus to Treasure Island and watched the lights of the city from a distance.

“Can’t we watch the sunrise here,” she said staring at the reflection of the Transamerica building in the water.

“Angela, there is something I have to tell you about myself.”

“What is it Creve,” Angela said, not breaking her gaze.

I took her by the hand, and stroked the back of her neck. “I’m not sure how you are going to react to what I am going to tell you. If you never wish to see me again, I will understand.”

Angela’s face sank. “Creve, whatever it is that you have to tell me I swear to you it won’t make a difference. There is something I must tell you. Creve…”

“Angela, wait,” my un-beating heart felt heavy as a stone inside my chest. Before I could speak, Angela covered my mouth with her finger.

“Creve, I’m in love with you.” I could see a tear glistening in her eye. “Nothing you say can change that now. I am forever yours.”

I took a step back to gather my courage. I had never reviled my secret to a single living soul. “Angela, I am a vampire.”

Angela was silent for a long while. Then, she began to laugh. “Creve, be serious.”

“Angela, I am serious. I am in love with you, too. That is why I had to tell you.” Her smile faded. “I can show you.” I opened my mouth wide and exposed my fangs to her. Her eyes filled with terror as she watched my face grow even paler, and my eyes turned to black.

“Creve,” she gasped. “It’s true. You are a vampire.” She started to back away from me.

“Angela, I am sorry.” I chased her as she began to run, I couldn’t bear the thought of ending our relationship this way.

“Stay away from me,” she shouted. “You’re a monster!” I stopped following her. I had to let her go; if she was ever going to trust me again, I had to give her time.

I did not see her again for two agonizing weeks, and I only feed twice the entire time. I had given up all hope of ever seeing her again, until one night, I heard a scream. It was at Polk and Hyde, where I had first seen her. The scream was unmistakable, it was Angela. Two men were dragging her into an ally; Angela was too small to fight them off. I rushed to her, and through the men away from her. One of them pulled out a knife, and lunged towards me, stabbing me in the gut. I pulled out the knife, and he watched in horror as my wound healed before his eyes.

“You ain’t right man,” he said, his voice trembling. “Let’s get outa’ here!” The two men quickly scampered off. I didn’t bother chasing after them, I had there scent. I would deal with them later.

“Angela, are you hurt,” I said, rushing to her side.

“I’m fine. Just startled, that’s all.” I helped her to her feet.

“What are you doing here,” I asked.

She didn’t answer for a moment. “I was looking for you. Creve,” tears started to stream down her face as she spoke. “I’m sorry. I’m still very confused, but I love you.”

“Come,” I said, taking her by the shoulder. “Let me take you home.”

We went to her apartment. “Would you like something to drink,” she asked.

“I can only drink…”

Angela was contemplative for a moment, and then her face eased. “Creve, tell me about your kind.”
“Well,” I began.

iii


I told her the story of the first vampire, a legend among our kind. Weather it is true or not, I cannot say. In the legend, the first of our kind was a beautiful woman named Persephone. She was a gift to mankind from the angels. Beauty followed her wherever she went. After man was expelled from the paradise, the earth was mostly baron, and whatever did grow was colorless and ugly. After the angels gave man Persephone, however, mankind saw flowers once more. She created the scented jasmine, oleanders, she gave man the ability to recreate the garden that had long been lost; wherever she stepped green grass grew from the dry and cracked ground.

One day, a demon, jealous of mankind, plotted to take Persephone away from them. He had only planed on killing her, but fell madly in love with her upon first sight. He knew their love was forbidden on earth, so he planed to seduce her, and take her underground to be his forever. This demon had all the beauty of the Dark One, and some have rumored it to be the Dark One Himself.

Persephone resisted at first, but she naively gave into temptation, unaware of the consequences. She was banished from earth, and the demon claimed her for himself. The humans protested to the angels, begging them to let her return. But, the angels said, there was nothing that cold be done. However, they would not accept that Persephone was gone forever. After much protest, the angels made an agreement with the demons of the underworld that Persephone could return once a year, in the springtime to flower the earth with her bliss. This is how she became known, by some, as the goddess of the harvest.

After her return, Persephone fell in love with a mortal. It was for him that she created the most beautiful of all the flowers, the rose. But, since she was only allowed to return to earth for brief intervals, and he was mortal, there relationship would be short lived. One year, just before she was about to rise to the surface of the earth, another demon told her of a way that her mortal could live forever. He said that if he let her drink of her blood, he would not know death. So, Persephone let him drink from her. However, because she belonged to the underworld, the man was banished from the light, and his heart would never beat again, and he was forced to drink from the blood of man. His soul was also condemned; to choose temporal immortality over the immortality of the soul was the greatest sin. It was a forthright act of denial. That is also why our kind can never look upon the sign of a cross.


I knew that Angela would ask me to turn her eventually. Our love was forbidden, and it occurred to me the price that we must both pay.

iv


She walks between both worlds,
Between the dark and the light,
But she is not free.

Her pleas to take repose in the ever slumber of death,
Forever go unanswered,
And each morning the dew on every emerald blade of grass,
Are tears from Hades captive Persephone.


Tears from Persephone, a reminder of her constant mourning; her gift to the rising sun. I gave this poem to Angela, hoping that it would change her mind. I told her that being a vampire was a burden and that she would be forever condemned to the darkness; but it was to no avail.

“Persephone was a fool,” Angela said bitterly. “She had the ability to live amongst two worlds, and her love would forever live! And yet she weeps!”

Angela could not realize what she was asking me to do. She walked into my arms, and turned her neck toward me. I said nothing, knowing that there was no way I could change her mind. I leaned into her, and before I bit into her neck, I whispered “I love you,” into her hear. She closed her eyes as my teeth sank into her neck. Hers was the sweetest blood I had ever tasted. Her body trembled in my arms as I drained the life from her body. I stopped, and watched as she struggled to turn her head to me. She weakly grabbed at my wrist, waiting for me make the cut for her to drink. After a moment, her hand fell away. Her heart first hastened, then beat slowly and heavily, like a pounding drum. Each breath was more of a struggle. Then her heart stopped, and her eyes rolled back into her head. She was gone.

Whenever you drink from a vampire, weather or not you are aware of the consequences, you are making a choice. You choose to forever walk in the darkness, and you condemn your soul never to be reunited with paradise. Had I not taken Angela’s life, I know some other vampire would have gladly turned her; in this city, unscrupulous creatures of the night are not hard to find. I know she would have sake one out. For me, the decision had already been made; I could not save my self. But that night, I was able to save Angela.

Cody Hobbs

The best laid plans of mice and women

Mommy said there would be orange juice this morning. At the market last night, I saw her pick up the oranges – we have a juicer at home. This was going to be the squizerd kind, not the poured from a box kind. When I was getting ready for school, I spent an extra long time combing my hair so mommy wouldn’t notice I just rinsed instead of brushed my teeth – the toothpaste makes the orange juice taste icky so I didn’t want to brush them especially not with toothpaste. As I was rinsing my mouth, I thought about the juice being squeezed, and it made my mouth go all tart and I had to spit out the water and then I started smacking my lips. I usually don’t like getting ready for school, but I was excited this morning because mommy said there would be orange juice.

I went down the stairs al skippy because I was so excited. I went into the kitchen, sort of hopping like a bunny but when I got in there I could see something was wrong. I didn’t see mommy. All of the stuff was laid out and if I stood way up on my tippy-toes I could see a glass under the juicer with just enough juice for a swallow. So then I went into the T.V. watching room and I could see mommy on the couch watching something that looked like news and she was sad because there were tears coming from her eyes.

I looked at the man on the T.V. to see if he could tell me shy mommy stopped making the orange juice but he couldn’t because all he was saying was about these airplanes that got high-jackered, and hit some tall buildings and I didn’t understand what that had to do with mommy not making the orange juice any more and if she didn’t hurry she couldn’t make it because she had to take me to school soon. I went to go sit in mommy’s lap, and she started playing with my hair and kept saying “Oh my God, oh my God”, like she was trying to say a prayer, but didn’t know what words to use. I looked back at the T.V. and decided that there wasn’t going to be any orange juice this morning.

The red light

It was two o’clock in the afternoon and the sun was in the perfect position in the sky: directly overhead; it left all the visible sky blue and regardless of which direction you drove there was no glare. It was a busy hour in Menifee and the line at the intersection was endless. Cars swarmed like ants through each rotation of the light.

I moved into the left-turn lane and hopelessly watched as the light changed from green to yellow, then from yellow to red just as I approached the signal. I stopped with the nose of my car just over the white line of the crosswalk. The light on the opposite side must have changed to green: the cars facing me began to move forward. That is a lie. Or a half truth rather. Some of the cars turned right (my left) instead of going straight across.

I was in the inside turning lane and all to my right and behind me cars sat in waiting: waiting for the light to change once again to green. The lane facing me had cleared, but their light remained green. And mine remained red. I knew that I had a bit more to wait; before my light would change I would have to sit through a rotation of the light controlling the traffic on the street perpendicularly crossing the street I was on. I would have to wait through a rotation of their left-turn signal and their through traffic. And all the while, my light would remain red, and I would have to wait or face the penalty of law. So I waited.

And all the while the street facing me remained clear. I could see about a half mile up the road and there wasn’t a car to be seen coming from that direction. And still the light remained green. I looked at the car next to me. I stared at the driver who simply looked forward, keeping his eye on the red arrow; the arrow that dictated his actions and guided his future. I began to wonder to what allegiance this man had with this particular light; what bond had been formed between man and traffic signal that he felt so compelled to give it such respect, such adoration even. I looked at the man until he noticed me looking and looked back. To the light he demonstrated a quiet respect, but for me, for his fellow man, he showed only a slight annoyance, like I had called him away from something important: his waiting.

It made me uncomfortable to look at him for any longer. It was as if the light had taken something away from him, something human and replaced it with something… something empty. I looked into my rearview mirror at the car behind me. It was a red mustang. On its hood, I could see the heat of the afternoon shimmering off in waves. An Asian woman sat behind the wheel of the car. She was small and was contorting her tiny frame in agitation. Or possibly dancing to a strange and Eastern music. Either way, her face was contorted: her lips were twisted in anger and her brow was pulled down to make her eyes squint in pensive rage. I imagined her as having somewhere important to be and the gestures she was making with her body was some form of summoning dance, like a wild rain dance, but one to change the light instead of split the heavens in rain.


I looked over at the round orb light to my right. It was green, but it wouldn’t be for much longer. Still, no cars passed on my left, and still the road was clear for a half mile in the direction facing me. And that’s when the thought came to me, but it approached me in a rush of nausea. I could drive through the light. I could transgress the rule of law, and in doing so, transgress this intersection, too. Every muscle in my body tensed in preparation to lunge forward. But my foot felt heavy as lead and wouldn’t budge from the brake. No, it wasn’t in my foot that this feeling came; it was like an invisible force was holding my leg in place. I checked my rearview mirror and didn’t see a police car anywhere. But that didn’t matter, I thought. This area, especially during this time of day, crept with cops. My mind played the scene out in my head like a movie: I would lunge forward and find my car instantly flooded with light: red, blue, red, blue, red, blue, red, blue, red…

It wasn’t worth it. The red arrow and the letter of the law were perched above me – above mankind. I was, after all, only human; the light and law were immortal and transcendent – whatever that meant. So I would wait. I would be a sacrifice; a necessary casualty to defend a higher order. What does it all mean?

Yellow

Red

Wait…

Wait…

Green

End.

Cody R. Hobbs
9-12-2007