Wednesday Night

World reduced
to a room
lit only by
an AMOLED screen

The sounds one
makes when
success is no
longer a thought

Abandoning a
notion of
attempt in favor
of successful silence

A silence which
cannot be so easily
taken

A silence held
tightly in my
arms

A silence which
is only broken by
choice

when the AMOLED
screen illuminates the
room and I forget
about success

Two Dogs

There are two dogs walking.
Both golden retrievers.
Both grinning and wagging and
panting lightly.
Smiling.

They walk on the sidewalk,
as the rules clearly state they
should, stopping obediently at
intersections, waiting for the
signal to walk across

the street to the next sidewalk
and begin again. They do
a good job.
Everyone looks at the dogs and
think in unison: Wow, these

dogs are doing a good job!
And this excites the two dogs,
the two golden retrievers,
walking down the sidewalk.
So they keep at it, knowing

that they’re doing the right thing,
the good thing. A good job. As
they stop at another intersection
known for its long wait times
they both sit on the pavement,

occasionally glancing at each other,
knowing that they’re doing a
good job.
The signal changes, indicating
that they can resume their

forward trajectory and they do
so, grinning and wagging and
panting lightly.
Smiling.
As they cross the street onto

the sidewalk they notice a
man walking toward them
apparently not sure whether to
list to the left or to
the right.

The dogs, in an attempt
to do the right thing, the
good thing, correct their
movements in relation to
his only for him to

realign their inevitable
collision course. The dogs
orient themselves to the right and
slow down, eventually stopping,
and the man walks around

them, leering at their
grinning faces. The dogs
respond by nodding politely,
their bodies
a respectful distance from

his, their panting measured,
their drool appropriate, their
every minutia dedicated to
doing a good job. The
man passes and

before the dogs could
resume their initial speed
their heads snapped back
at the sound of the man’s
voice saying:

These dogs are doing a terrible
job. His shoulders shrugged, his
head shaking, his face a
mixture of disgust and disbelief
as if to question why

the two dogs were even
allowed to be out in public.
The two dogs’ smiles slide
into frowns and they stop
panting, their bodies frozen

like two ancient mosquitos
trapped in amber awaiting the
lonely hands of an explorer
to discover. The two dogs look
across the street at a

fellow pedestrian only to
see their face also contorted
with disapproval and in a
moment of uncontrolled panic
the dogs flee, running as

fast as they can in
the direction to which they
had began walking, hoping
in some way that a destination
will reveal

itself
and as the dogs come to
an intersection
they panic
and run

through the crosswalk, through
the traffic, through the rules
they were previously obedient
to when they were doing
the right thing, the good

thing. A good job. And
as the dogs continuously
increase in the speed at
which they run, they notice
the gaps between the

concrete panels of the
sidewalk increasing,
though they lack the facilities
to do anything
beyond noticing and

suddenly everyone in the
area looks at the dogs and
think: Wow, these dogs are
doing a terrible job. And
this horrifies the dogs

who now run as fast as
they possibly can and as
the occasional gaps between
the concrete panels begins
increasing the two dogs

notice that what lay below
the concrete panels is a
darkness, radiant and
infinite. And as the
gaps become wider and

more frequent the two dogs
have to jump in order to
avoid falling into the gaping
maws of nothingness, alternating
running and jumping, the

distances between the concrete panels
increasing until
the dogs jump and the
panel before them shifts
just slightly.

And the dogs miss
and fall into absolute
radiant nothing. And the
gaps between the concrete panels
close and no one notices

anything, or even remembers
the two dogs who tried
to do the right thing,
a good thing.
A good job.

2/11 - 2/18/15