there's nothing as refreshing as pure hate. not pimply teenage angst, but unadulterated shit melting hate. hearing a stream of foul language issue unerringly from someone as tall as my nose with such conviction is truly inspiring. congratulations KD you scary little punk. once you learn to drive you'll be making kuya aj proud.

someday, someone looking in hospital employee records in california will discover that I died on september 2003 and that someone was sad.

THE LOCKPICK APPRENTICE
Part Four - Things Lost and Found

He had barely opened the door when the smell wafted out and laid grimy hands on him. Jon gagged and fought down the need to puke. Moments later, courage clutched in hand, he strode in to investigate. Much later, after a half-minute of retching, he had seen enough to piece together what must have happened.

By that time almost two weeks had passed since Janitor left for good. His replacement, Curly, who was as bald as Jon and three times as wide, never bothered to venture into the empty high school compound and so the maintenance room had remained unopened for all of that time. Which proved tragic for the dog.

It was probably Janitor’s habit to let the bitch sleep inside during the night and he would let her out the next morning. He was expecting her to give birth soon and maybe he figured she was safer inside. Sadly, Janitor lacked the foresight to predict his getting fired. He could have told someone else about the dog’s plight, but he forgot, and nobody really cared. Like everything else, she and her family became victims of indifference.

Had she not been weakened by labor she might have managed the two weeks with only a shallow basin of water. Not that she didn’t want to have kids, it’s just that times were hard and you can’t be a good parent when you’re trapped in the janitor’s closet. Her brood must have suckled her raw and bloody but what could she do? They were ravenous and they needed milk and mother was too skinny from malnutrition to spare any. Maybe she eventually died from a broken heart as she watched her pups wither one by one.

Damp from a previous rains had come in from the small, high window. That and heat had bloated the bodies, but the school dog still looked gaunt. Most of the soft parts were already alive with maggots and the sweet smell of rot and dog poo hung like a thick blanket. Bile threatened to make a come back even as salt water gathered under his eyes. Jon needed desperately to look at something else.

His eyes skittered across an assortment of knick-knacks on shelves. Janitor was a curator, no doubt, of things left behind. A chessboard, pencil cases, calculators, a legion of combs. There was even a jar with someone’s dentures but it was too big to belong to a student. Comic books, a harmonica, a poster of Rodin’s Thinker that someone had probably brought to show-and-tell. A generation of careless students and here was their story.

Jon was only barely registering all of it until his survey came to a copy of the New Testament with a navy blue cover. It pinned down a piece of pink paper on the worktable. From four steps away he recognized the pattern of stars that trimmed the stationery, and his insides twisted. He closed the gap and picked it up.

What use is a fine day if the sun spurns you?
The caress of breezes only a prelude to abandonment
Is it not better to cease the charade?
To quit the stage for better actors
Who might do more to warm your heart
Than I ever could
Was I not Europa for you Jove?
Why lead me to foreign altars
Only to slaughter my love
But even as I bleed
I bleed but for you

09/07/1997 10:35 PM

The date froze him into a state of surprise and old despair. No one had mentioned a suicide letter; as far as he knew, there wasn’t any. But who, after all, had found the body? Janitor could have swiped her lunch money had he wanted to. But that didn’t make sense. Why would Janitor keep this? Did he like the poetry? Did he need the paper to wipe his ass? Did he simply forget to tell? Maybe he only remembered the day after and wasn’t willing to raise the issue by then, since it was another proof of his forgetfulness. Possibly.

His thoughts turned to the note itself. The handwriting was impeccably neat, which was typical of her. Jon doubted he could manage such clarity when it was his turn to die. He’d probably be too busy slobbering on his pillow.

And they’d probably pull the plug if I started writing verse, he thought to himself.

Back to the note. Who was she talking to? A secret boyfriend? Now why is that thought somehow upsetting?

Though he did not do so consciously, Jon had a deep and abiding hatred of secrets. He disliked not knowing, disliked it when things are being kept from him. And as he held the pink stationery, the words written on it pried and worried away at his thoughts and would not go away.

Europa. It sounded familiar to him, something he must have read in the past. Greek mythology probably, since she added Jove, alias Jupiter. He had a feeling the name was significant and he almost scratched his head off in frustration.

Something in his peripheral vision tugged his eyes to the right and downward. A pile of rags. And within the folds… a pair of tiny eyes.

For the third time that morning, Jon was completely off-guard.

Probability would tell us that the chances of a newborn staying alive without its mother was very much close to zero. And if you extend the hypothesis beyond the first day, the chances were absurd. And yet that afternoon Jon brought home the last surviving puppy of the school dog’s litter. And for a while, Jon was happy.

i think i have a tendency to be undecisive. i think. actually, i'm not really sure... wait! i'm positive that i'm indecisive. i'm absolutely unsure.