114:PM
The children found the cube, and shrieked over it as children do. The adults couldn’t be pulled away from the picnic at first, and assumed that the children had found a shed snakeskin or a gopher hole during their exploration of the causeway. Only when the kid touched the monolith and burned his hand did the parents come running, attracted by the screams.
It was an iron cube, ten feet high and wavering like a mirage. The Thurber kid wept bitterly, his hand already swelling with the blister.
Nobody knew what to make of the thing. It was too big to have been carted in on a pickup truck. It might have fit on the open bed of an eighteen-wheeler, but there were no tire marks in the area, no damaged vegetation and not even a road nearby wide enough for a load that size. It was as if the block had been cast in its spot and destined to remain. And then there was the issue of the inscription.
They didn’t notice it at first, between the screaming kid and Betty Thurber’s wailing panic, hustling him back to the car for ice, and the pandemonium of parents finding their own children and clasping them to their chests and lifting them up at once. The object in question itself received little scrutiny. Only when the women took the children back for calamine lotion and jelly beans did the men notice the printed text, sized no larger than a half inch, on the shady side of the block:
EVERYTHING MUST EVENTUALLY SINK.
AM:115
The tour bus slowed to a halt and the occupants took up their cameras, craning their necks.
The young, pretty tour guide switched on her microphone. “On your left,” she said, gesturing to a modest brownstone,
“you will find where the philosopher lives.”
An audible gasp rose among the crowd. Shutters clicked and mothers hauled their children up to see.
“He lives there,” an older woman said in a daze. “He solves our problems there.”
The pretty tour guide recited her memorized notes with reverence. “The philosopher is the wellspring from which our lives flow. Without him, there would be no heaven and hell, no love or feeling or meaning. The philosopher toils in silence, alone, a thankless life. Perhaps we will catch a glimpse of him today.”
The crowd leaned forward, eagerly scanning the windows for movement. Perhaps the philosopher would peer out the window as he drank his morning coffee, or sit on the stoop and have a cigarette.
They watched. Nothing happened. The driver released the air brakes with a hiss and continued down the street.
116: PM
Try not to fill yourself with anxiety. Take your pills on time. Consider the proper way of doing things. Parcel your week into a series of days, your day into a series of hours, your hour into a series of thoughts. Know when to push yourself and others. Congratulate yourself for small successes to mask the other growing pile. There has been a ladder in your office for weeks now, and you’re trying to be polite about it.
AM:117
June believed in spells that could be broken, and in making the final push. She wrote letters to congressmen and companies and strangers. Her life’s goal was that people understand her, and each other, and themselves. It was the only kind thing she did.
118:PM
Olivia coughed when she heard him pick up the line. “Reginald,” she said.
“You’re drunk.”
“You took all my money, Reginald.”
“We talked about this. Jesus Christ, we had an arrangement. I was going to work it out.”
“Your Jesus Christ,” she said, examining with one eye the contents of her wine glass. “You took my friends’ money, too. You relied on my connections to ruin my God-dammed standing among my own friends.”
“Wash your face and take a shower.”
“Why would I take a shower when I could take a bath?” He sat right down on the floor. “I’m not playing a game with you.”
She tossed her glass overhand and it smashed merrily against the wall. “You always play the game,” she said. “We’re not playing any more games.”
“Got it,” he said.
“I don’t think you do,” she said, hanging up.
AM:119
This funny-smelling couch is a symbol of my love for you.
This mechanical litterbox is a symbol of my love for you.
This interesting pen is a symbol of my love for you.
This wooden floor is a symbol of my love for you.
This year of loneliness is a symbol of my love for you.
This concert tee is a symbol of my love for you.
This glass of water is a symbol of my love for you.
120:PM
Emily picked up the violin and played. Her back pained her, had pained her all day, and now Martha’s violin only made it worse. She felt the sweet strains of paranoia drifting back. They told her to look over her shoulder, and when she did, they told her to check the lock on the door, and when she did that, they told her that her fears had meaning and depth, and that she was right to feel them. Each shadow meant something different and strange, an unfamiliar animal or a line of weapons. These visions were terrifying, but after they went away, she felt a strange kind of peace that those things existed in the world, that her world was powerful enough to conjure them. My world, she thought.
acknowledgments
Many thanks are owed to Sam Axelrod, Justin Boyle, Zach Dodson, Jonathan Messinger, Stacey Swann, Michael Wolfe, and my parents. Grateful acknowledgment is additionally made to the editors of the publications in which these stories first appeared: American Short Fiction, Jettison Quarterly, The M Review, Take The Handle, and Wigleaf.
about the author
Amelia Gray is a writer living in Austin, TX. Her writing has appeared in The Onion, American Short Fiction, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, DIAGRAM, and Caketrain, among others. Her work has been chosen as the finalist for McSweeney’s Amanda Davis Highwire Contest and the DIAGRAM Innovative Fiction Contest. She received an MFA from Texas State University in San Marcos.