roads, against the wind’s violent thrust.

This latest rendezvous’ departure, a return

from evening’s excursion, escaping everyday

life. Yet, moon’s glow is nothing more than ordinary.

This place, littered with

abandoned buildings, decrepit cars with

broken windows. The only light brightens

North of here, from giant edifices.

The cowboy knows this place well.

He wanders these midnight alleys,

searching for answers containing fire inside

lanterns, their guiding

shine surrounded by night’s suffocation.

The spark burns from his cigarette

as smoke trails from ember, increasing the high

from red-light vacations suppressing his painful scars.

The lanterns, knocked over by

furious gusts, creating cracked holes

spill the flame, leaking, lurking through crevices,

feeding its addiction. Frightening orange hues

color these ruined homes black in

contrasting beauty. Alas, his eyes mirror fire,

heading North towards salvation.

mother birds prepare their children for first

flight/fright, the seasons change without a memo.

Another day passes by

Being forced into the Wilderness

by the consequences dressed in suits.

Instincts cause my head to drip anticipation

down my temples. Awareness, by new best

friend. His company puts perspectives

in a table of contents. Let the Wilderness succumb.

Yet the city presents a getaway pass from expectation,

where billboards of memories flash through while

riding passenger on the bus of freedom.

The mixture of both settings starts

upon the discovery of forces more

powerful, than doubt.

ancient wounds caused by exotic hurricanes in wrinkled sheets

Cigarette smoke signals reach out overseas in search of just-commiseration

while crying tears through tragic eyes, unrestrained from time’s fleeing ticks

History repeats through worn vocals in high pitches of suffering in night’s limbo

refreshened under sun’s presence, using it’s glow as disguise amongst reality

Comparisons of disasters to dreams, cluster-fucked with changes and chances

creates destructive repose within vodka-driven waves crashing violently inside

Tainted grace replaces an aura so lively, lovely

Heart’s fire extinguished by saliva, semen, sweat

Amazing this agony must be to endure in this ever-testing journey

Yet, will the result ever be worthy enough, will the war ever be won

 inside my insides, triggering a meltdown

  deep down earthquake intestines in brace

   of withering fiascos in limbo infinity, killing spree

    kept away in memories within real-cold wars exposed

     as it eats away while I cough up poison-rezin risen from

      disappointment and sneeze every last apologies out of

       my system, prisoned stiff. 

    Crazy to believe possibilities found

        somewhere between influence and consequence, laying beneath

         belief.

        Habits causing decay for days, months, years, decades as it

          attacks conscience in constant tears and closed ears, where

          fear envelops decisions, polluting rotting-optimism.

                                                                                                         In the end,

              we all die slow in the glow, waiting to be reborn through body’s

                storm.

Smooth roads leading into her neighborhood

high above the city below, where affluence dwells

on top of clouds. There isn’t enough gas 

to fuel my composure as I drive past these streets,

where a home contains the memories of a forgotten bliss

so pure and spontaneous like an infant’s first words, steps.

Lost am I in the dark, as I drive through 

these winding pathways, sudden

turns cause my brakes 

to buckle, my tires

to skid

                         off the path, 

destroying well-groomed lawns, 

chaos amongst order.

I try fixing the marks I made, yet I can’t cover up the damages

that run much deeper than the divots

I created.

The rush of memories overwhelms my nerves,

driving by a place I considered a sanctuary of promise.

Reminiscing about failure’s beginnings.

These streets, these damn streets.

Then one day, she suffered a stroke while she was in her garden. When we rushed her into the hospital and waited there, the doctor told me and Dad the bad news. Ever since then, the one person who was constantly, actively involved in my life was taken away from me. Replaced with a woman who still possessed the same features of my mother, but not the same soul. A soul tormented by the body’s betrayal. As the days withered away, so did she. Then one day, she was gone. Gone forever.

Whenever I think about that day, it’s like reliving every single moment all over again. Along with the images of my mother’s final moments of life came the rush of emotions. While she struggled to muster her final breath, I held her hand as tears trickled down my face, struggling to face this reality. I repeatedly wished for all of this to be a bad dream, and that I would wake up and she would be back to normal. I even closed my eyes from time to time, hoping to reopen them to the mother I used to know.

“Put a smile on your face, darling,” she whispered. “I want the last thing I see is your handsome smile.” I wiped the tears off my face and fulfilled her request. “That’s better.” As soon as her eyes closed, I felt like my eyes were waterfalls. “Don’t worry, Thomas. One day…you’re gonna…save…the world.” Those were her last words. As a kid, I thought the heroes I saw on T.V. were real. When I finally realized that they were all made up, it broke my heart. When my mom saw me crying, she told me that one day I was going to be a super hero and save the world. “Even if their fake, that doesn’t mean you should stop trying to be one yourself.” I told her that I didn’t even have super powers or high tech gadgets. “So what? Those don’t really matter. What does matter is what you can do with what you got. Don’t worry, Thomas. You’re gonna save the world.”

But I couldn’t save the world, because I lost her. Once she was gone, it was just Dad and me. Actually, it was just me.

Before Mom’s death, I never really saw my father around. As the main financial support for our family, he constantly worked long hours. On most occasions, he would choose work over other important matters, like his family. Not once did I see him at any of my sporting events, nor was he actively involved in my life whatsoever. My dad was one of the top scientists for the nuclear power plant, which used to be in the outskirts of town, about an hour away from home. I thought my relationship with my father would change for the better when Mom passed away. Unfortunately, it got even worse.

Dad was devastated the moment she left us. While I sat by her side, he had his back to the wall, watching over the two of us. Something he hasn’t done very often in my lifetime. I never witnessed my father cry before, and after seeing it happen, lets just say that there was a glimmer of hope, a sign that issues between my father and I will be resolved as time progressed. But after her death, the only thing that progressed was time itself.

After taking a couple of weeks off, my father went back to his working regiment. Whenever he was home, he was busy telling me what not to do. Because of him, I never got my driver’s license. I’m sure the pain of Mom’s death still lingered, but it doesn’t mean that the end of the world was coming. His over-protectiveness eventually became borderline insanity.

By far the craziest thing he ever did was building the nuclear shelter, a few stories below our house. After experiencing a small leak at the nuclear plant, my dad began a project of his own — creating his own shelter to protect the two of us.

“Come on, Dad. You can’t be serious,” I said to him while he mounted the Cat to start digging a hole in the backyard. “It’s like you’re in the 50′s or something. You’re being too paranoid.”

Once he settled into the vehicle, he looked at me and said, “What if it wasn’t a small leak the next time? What if the reactor exploded, releasing dangerous levels of radiation out into the atmosphere, contaminating anything and everything in his town?”

“You’re crazy,” I responded, trying to make sense of all of this on my head, but then again I was stoned. “Nothing like that is going to happen.”

“I didn’t expect your mother to get cancer, Thomas,” he proclaimed, his tone of voice as serious as a heart attack.

Instead of convincing me, his statement made me angry, virtually killing my high. “Don’t you fucking dare bring Mom into this!” I shouted. “You’re blowing things way out of proportion, Dad! Can’t you see that? Can’t you see that, by going through with this, isn’t going to do any good?”

“Trust me, kiddo. This is for the best of us.”

“No, dad. I don’t think you know what’s best for me.”

As he started the ignition to the machine, I furiously walked back inside the house. He may be a genius in the world of science and technology, but he was an idiot at being a father. It took him two years to finish building the shelter. Tragically, it only took a few more days until it actually came in handy.

***

The day it happened started off like any other ordinary day in the summer time. I woke up, still hungover from last night’s party, and smoked a couple of bowls before making myself some breakfast. Since it was a day of recovery, I planned to spend the entire day lounging around the house, relaxing the day away.

Nothing good was on TV and I was getting desperate for any kind of entertainment. I stopped playing video games a couple of years ago, so that was out of the question. Shooting hoops in the driveway is a no-go, I’m sure if I engage in any kind of physical activity, the worse my body would feel, especially after taking 13 shots of tequila last night. Tequila Tuesdays always end harshly. I searched around the house for something to do, still nothing seemed fun enough. But when I came across the new addition to our house, a small room build for the sole purpose of entering the shelter, I stumbled upon an adventure.

“Bingo.”

In order to gain access to the shelter, I had to take an elevator down. When I reached my destination, I took the time to survey the area. The shelter itself was no bigger than two hotel rooms. Equipped with the essentials — a bed, enough food to last years, a fridge, a television set, computer, bathroom, etc. — it was like stepping into a small house. Many of my father’s inventions were in this room as well, including his water filtration system. He got the idea from the movie “Waterworld,” starring Kevin Costner as a half man, half mermaid, when Kevin pee’d into some sort of device that turned his urine into drinkable water. I’m sure my father knew it would come in handy one day. Then, I discovered there was a ventilation system in the room, which meant only one thing to me. Smoking optional. Luckily I had my bud and pipe in my pocket, so I hopped on the bed and packed myself my fourth bowl of the day.

Fortunately, along with the weed and pipe, I brought my iPod and charger. So as I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with happy smoke, I bumped my head to “Ain’t Nothing But a G Thang” by Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg. Classic tune. This is usually what I do whenever I smoked by myself. Music plus marijuana equals awesomeness. When I finished smoking, I felt as high as a kite in outer space, if kites were capable of exceeding heights to that degree. A few seconds later, I fell asleep.

Two hours later, that was when it started.

I woke up to the sounds of muffled explosions, shaking the shelter as if an earthquake was happening. I didn’t know what to think of it. For a few minutes, I sat up on top of the bed as the explosions continued. Some of them were quiet, while some were loud. The louder they were, the harder it shook.

“What the fuck is going on?”

When I spotted the television across the bed, I searched for the remote control. When I found it, I turned on the TV, and I couldn’t believe what I saw.

***

Headline: Breaking News -The End Is Near

A saddened CNN reporter looks into the camera, her composure was no where to be found. Tears flowed down her face as she reads off the teleprompter.

“On July 28th, 2013, a war has been declared between the conflicting superpowers of the world. As soon as the declaration was announced, various nuclear warheads have been launched. The first set of attacks occurred in the United States, and still continues. Shortly afterwards, nuclear warheads capable of destroying an entire country were launched, aimed at different countries all over the world.”

She wiped the tears from her face, took a deep breath, and continued her report.

“There appears to be nuclear warheads heading towards every country in the world. Fortunately it hasn’t struck our headquarters in England, but in a few minutes, it will. The end of the world is now upon us. As human beings, our destructive capabilities have reached its maximum capacity. We’ve reached a point in our existence where there is no solution and no answers to our problems such as world peace, a stable economy, a stable society, an honest government. This is the final hour of our time on this Earth, and we failed…we fai–.”

The channel went dead.

I didn’t start smoking weed until I was 14 years old. As a young, constantly bored kid living in suburbia, my friends and I had nothing better to do than smoke pot whenever we had free time, which we had a lot of. Before school, during lunch, after school, after homework, after dinner, whenever. To us, anytime was a good time to toke it up. In all honesty, it makes everything feel better. Sleeping, eating, basically whatever you do on a normal, day-to-day basis. It makes you feel relaxed, optimistic, even appreciative of the world around you. Unfortunately, it sometimes makes you feel like you don’t give a shit about anything, which was exactly how I felt when I first started using the stuff. But as the years passed by and my dependency increased, the amount of money I spent could’ve paid for a year of college. So, I became a dealer.



My grades in school weren’t bad, but not good either. I was classified as “underachieving,” a barely-average student who received more C’s over D’s. But hey, D’s get degrees, so who really gives a shit. Clearly, not me. Neither did my friends care, since we all shared the same piece of mind, as well as the same piece. Don’t get me all wrong though, I was capable of getting good grades, but being motivated to do so was a different story.



Aside from my lackluster performance in academics, I excelled in living my adolescent life to the fullest, especially during the summer. By far, my favorite season. The obvious reason being that school was not in session, but also it was because of the party scene. During these lovely three months of freedom, a typical suburban family sees this opportunity as a time for planning vacations. After establishing a vacation plan, a member of the family opts out of going after giving some believable excuse, and decides to housesit while the rest of the family embarks on their journey to a land far, far away. Luckily, the ones who stay behind are my close acquaintances. So what do a bunch of young high school kids do with an empty house? You guessed it…party time.



Being a drug dealer has its perks. Besides profiting greatly from my fellow students, most of whom share the same perception of life, I became one of the most popular kids on campus. This title granted me the access of being a part of the most adored and admired students, even though I couldn’t care less. The jocks, the hot girls, the rich kids, all of whom were among the elite who ruled the school. They were also my cliental. With that being said, when it came down to who to invite to these parties my posse and I threw, all I had to do was send out a mass text, and it was on like Donkey Kong.



From beer pong to beer bongs, even bongs, we had it all. The neighbors never complained, since I always paid them $50 to keep their mouths shut every time we had a party. The power money had over humans.



I must admit, these were some of the best times of my life. The money, the weed, the girls, the parties. I felt that if I had died during those times, I would die happy. Yet, that was not how life worked. I knew all of this was going to come to an end. Back then, I didn’t know what I wanted to do after high school. I only had a year left before I graduate, and I was still undecided about my future. What can I say, I didn’t like the world I was living in. Many of my fellow classmates were well on their way to prestigious universities and bright futures, while mine appeared to be as dim as the lights in a movie theater. I hated school, and I hated work. Everyone had a purpose to continue their lives, except for me. I didn’t have a calling, I didn’t feel passionate about anything. It seemed that nothing in my life was going to change how I felt…until it happened.

While I continued to smoke the remainder of my joint, all I thought about was the past. The memories of all the good times I had were all I had left to remind me of the life I once lived. No longer could I call my friends up to smoke a bowl before going to class, no longer could I attend one of those kick ass parties I threw during the summer. The world was much different now, in the worst possible way. All I had left were my memories because they were the only things weren’t taken away after the world came to an end.



As soon as I finished, I threw away the roach clip and turned on the lamp. Meanwhile, Max woke up from his deep slumber.
“Good morning, buddy,” I greeted, stoned off my gourd. “You wanna go for a walk, don‘t you?”
He quickly hopped off the bed and walked to the other side of the room. When he returned, Max had the leash in his mouth, wagging his tail in anticipation.
“Alright, let me get our suits.”

Every time we stood in the elevator shaft as it proceeded to bring us to the surface, I prayed that everything would be back to normal. Hoping my wish would come true, and my life would resume its normal course.
“You think today will be different, Max?” I asked.
He looked at me for a moment, and then turned his attention back to the wall.
“So much for the optimism,” I said to myself.



Once we reached the surface, the elevator doors opened. I could feel the sweltering heat as soon as the we stepped out of the elevator. I looked up towards the sky, seeing that nothing has changed at all. The skies were still dominated by the radioactive clouds that covered the atmosphere, the color of diarrhea. Then I peered out into my neighborhood, or what was left of it. The houses on my street were nothing more than skeletons. While the foundation of some of the houses were intact, everything else has been completely obliterated. Actually, everything that my eyes can see had been destroyed. There was nothing left.

My name is Thomas Feliciano, and I am the sole survivor of the attacks that occurred on August 21, 2014 and the last person on Earth.

- Charles K.

Mom broke the news when I got home from camping this past weekend. Dad and Val found you lying on your back near the tool shed in the backyard. Not breathing.

At first, I couldn’t believe it. I was accustomed to seeing you jumping and spinning in excitement every time I opened the door to the backyard. Now, the backyard is nothing more than a reminder of the dog that once roamed the area. Your chewed-up tennis balls which we played fetch with, your plastic-igloo where you spent your days and nights resting. I can’t imagine seeing those things now without thinking about you, and wishing you were still alive.

Six years ago, you came into my life. Mom and Val brought you home to me and Dad’s surprise. Although you were already grown, your energy never aged. And as soon as you entered our lives, you instantly became a part of our family.

I’m sure you had your fair share of memories of each of our family members throughout your life. The mornings and early afternoons were spent with me, keeping me company while I smoked weed then played fetch with you, sometimes performing both of these tasks at the same time. The late afternoons and early evenings were spent with Dad while he tended to his lucious garden and vegetation, or cooking mouth-watering steaks and ribs on his grill. The late nights were spent with Mom while she talked to her family in the Philippines for hours upon hours, drinking and telling them about her roller-coaster marriage to Dad and the rest of our family’s vices. You rarely spent your time with Val, even though she claimed that you were her dog. But I guess if it wasn’t for Val, you wouldn’t have been a part of our lives.

Throughout our family’s ups and downs, you were there for us, Princess. Always bringing a smile to our face whenever we stepped foot into your territory. Even if we weren’t in the mood to smile, you always managed to bring it out of us anyways.

I’ve dealt with death before in my life, but up to this day, this one has effected me the most.

If I discovered you dead in the backyard, along with Dad and Val, I know I would’ve broken down and cried. Shit, I’m crying while I write this letter to you. That’s how much I already miss you.

I’m going to miss the times we spent together because you were the only one who was there for me when no one was around. When I had no one talk about my problems, and whenever I felt like I needed company, you were always there for me.

Hopefully, when I die, I will see you again. Maybe we can play a game of fetch in Heaven, for old time’s sake.

I love you, Princess, and I will remember you forever.

R.I.P.

- Charles K.

Five days ago was father’s day. I didn’t have anything to give you because I have no reliable income, and I didn’t go out to eat with you, mom, and Val because I was watching the Lakers game. You probably think I’m a rotten kid. Lakers over your own dad? Of course, the only reasonable answer I could think of was that it’s game 5 of the NBA Finals. But still, I should’ve been there.

But as watched the Lakers blow a 19 point lead in the second quarter, squandering yet again another opportunity to bury the Celtic’s confidence and momentum (Thanks, Chris Mihm and Phil Jacksons — for putting him in), I writhed in pain as I watched, cringed every time Paul Pierce drove to the basket, yelled in disgust every time Chris Mihm sent Pierce to the free-throw line. I thought, What happened? Didn’t we just have a 19 point lead five minutes ago?

In order to avoid negative thoughts from completely filling my mind, I tried to think of something else. That was when you entered my mind, Dad.

You see, when I was growing up, I hardly ever got to see you. Your duties in the U.S. Air Force forced to you spend weeks, months out of the year, away from your family. As for me, whenever you came back from your travels, it was like meeting you for the first time again. Weeks felt like years, months felt like decades. At first we hardly spoke, but as the days past, our relationship gradually healed after our endless conversations about the Lakers. Talking about basketball made things better like medicine. Back then, my entire life was devoted to basketball. Besides school, every chance I had, I used it to play basketball. I remember one time when you and I played against a bunch of your military buddies in Jakarta. Man, that was fun. Even though your jump shot was flatter than Paris Hilton’s chest, and your dribbling skills were mediocre at best, I was happy because we shared had something in common.

Golf was your sport of choice, though. If I didn’t see you at home on a day off, you were out golfing. If you got out of work early and left the house, you were out golfing. Honestly Dad, the reason why I played golf when I was a kid was because of you. I cherish the moments we had wacking balls as hard as we could at the driving range, tagging along with your friends as we played 18 holes, listening to you guys talk shit to each other and yelling profanities like they were as common as saying the word “the” or “is”. I felt like I was part of your crew. But I had to admit, I fucking sucked at golf. When I spent one week at that golfing camp you sent me, I was the worst student there. I mean, I tried as hard as I could to improve my game, but it was hopeless. A tournament was held on the last day of camp, and I ended up in last place, seven strokes below the next guy. I suppose my only shining moment came when it was only the two of us. That day we decided to go out and play the front 9. At first, I started off playing how I usually played, like complete shit. I could tell you were getting frustrated with me, because I was slowing the game down and aggravating the group of golfers behind us. But on the fifth hole, par 3, that was when you told to just trust myself. “Just have confidence in your swing, Charlie. You got the motion down. Your eyes are on the ball, your arms are straight. All you need to do is follow through and trust yourself.” Then, you gave me a three iron and repeated the same thing. I checked my form, measured the distance between the tee and the hole, practiced my swing. When I felt ready, I positioned my club next to the ball. WACK! I held my form like a statue as I watched the little white ball arch high in the air, and land safely on the green, a couple of feet away from the hole. You and I celebrated as if it were a hole in one, but hell, it was first time I reached the green on a single stroke. All thanks to you, Dad.

I knew you were proud of me that day, especially since we were doing something you love. I bet it was the same feeling I had when we played basketball together. Yes, you were horrible at basketball. And yes, I was disastrous at golf. But hey, at least we did it out of love between father and son.

Nowadays, we don’t usually see each other that much. Even when you are at home, I don’t bother to talk to you. I guess my excuse is that I’m too busy with my own problems. Problems which led me to hinder my abilities to write. This month alone, I’ve only posted one letter on this site. I let my problems get the best of me, a virus that’s rotting my brain.

So I got fed up. Fed up with feeling helpless, and focused on writing again. At first I was apprehensive, I didn’t know what to write about. Usually when I write, I try to feed off something I feel very passionately about. When nothing came to mind, I wondered if I lost my passion for writing.

All of a sudden, you came into my mind, Pop. Although the Lakers ended up surviving to play another day, I felt guilty about missing your dinner. So I wanted to write you this letter, to tell you thanks. The moment I overcame my writer’s block was the moment I remembered what you told me on that day we played golf together. All you need to do is follow through and trust yourself. You had faith in me, Dad. Even though I was the lousiest golfer, you still had faith. And because of that faith, I found the confidence I needed in myself to block out the negative thoughts and focus on the goal at hand.

Of course, my new goal, and now my life goal, is to become the best writer I can be. May this letter effect you like it did when my ball landed on the green that day. This is the letter that brought me out of my slump, once I started to trust myself again. Hopefully, instead of landing on the green, it will land in your heart.

Thanks, Dad. I love you.

- Charles K.