My apartment has been infested by fleas.

Pesky, irritating, biting, disease-spreading vermin

that prick and crawl and leap and spread.

Purveyors of the plague,

the tiny terrors.

And so I've declared a crusade on the cretins

and begun amassing an armory:

- A brand new vacuum

- Flea spray

- Flea powder

- Flea traps

- Righteous indignation

With these tools, I go to work.

Powder, vacuum, spray.

Powder, vacuum, spray.

Day, after day, after day,

after day.

But still they persist.

Invading, gnawing, laying eggs.

Their next generation of impish delinquents

left to inherit my home,

likely to outlast me by a Millenia.

In my attempt to know my enemy,

I've researched some facts about fleas:

- They can survive 24 hours without air

- They can survive 150 days without food

- Their pupal form is resistant to heat, cold, and pesticides

- They can lay 50 eggs per day

- 30-60% of Europe was killed by the Bubonic Plague

With these facts in mind,

I've gained a certain respect for them.

What a cruel world a flea enters -

hated by man and beast alike.

Scratched at, crushed, gnawed, gassed, vacuumed.

Millions of years of evolution,

culminating in the creation of a pest that persists,

despite my animosity and conviction.

They survive and thrive and spread

and taunt me endlessly.

"Am I wrong to hold such resentment

towards one of God's creatures,"

I think as I

powder, vacuum, spray,

day, after day, after day.

The dawning of the New Year,

the dropping of the ball -

the countdown leads to revelry

as it begins to fall.

At this party is a man

mired by a lack of confidence;

meek and mild-mannered,

he goes unnoticed without consequence.

And so his gaze shifts towards the earth

and to the feet of passersby.

He turns to clues upon their shoes

to ascertain their lives:

’There’s a pair of working boots,

endowed with mud and grime.

Working days are dreadfully long,

so he appreciates good times.'

'A pair of heels strut past,

her date has a lot of money.

She laughs at all his jokes,

but they’re painfully unfunny.’

You see, these observations

are a ritual of sorts.

Diffidence,

he cannot look upon the eyes of his cohorts.

This man sips his beer in solitude,

out of fear of being noticed.

His only solace rests within

the shoes that claim his focus.

He takes notice of the details,

deduces the paths on which they walk -

it’s his way of meeting people,

for he lacks the strength to talk:

’A pair of crocs go stomping by,

she’s cursing up a storm.

Across the floor and out the door;

tale of a woman scorned.'

'The sight of sneakers stumbling by

in swerving steps of stupor…’

They stop and pivot towards the man,

“I was wondering where you were!”

The man recoils, taken aback,

with the strength that he can muster,

he breathes in deep and takes the leap

and he turns his gaze on upward.

The face he’s met with wears a smile,

and calls him by his name.

That look brings equanimity

and washes away shame.

At last, he sees the festival

of color and excitement.

An extension of acknowledgement

made the present moment vibrant.

Church bells echo in the distance

o’er vacant city streets,

families piled high

for the sewer rats to feast.

The doctors fill their masks

with lavender and rose,

they don their tools and walking sticks

to dance among the crows.

The ashes fill our lungs,

a reminder that we breathe.

Death sets upon us swiftly,

we’ve hardly time to grieve.

The last of us bear witness

through haunting hollow eyes

the book of Revelation,

man’s final bootless cries.

Unable to impede

this ceaseless march of pestilence,

the priests and preachers ponder upon

God Almighty’s negligence.

Sorrow inundates this living hell,

damnation for our sins.

The bells echo and beckon towards

the onset of the end.

The city now stands ever still,

the bells now go unrung.

The sole survivor breathes his last

through froth-corrupted lungs.

We tire of our fruitless struggles,

hearts cease beating in compliance.

Not a soul is left to ring the bells,

the rats now feed in silence.

Be still, Mother Earth,

for destruction is encroaching upon thee.

The flames that led to mankind's birth,

now power hearts of war machines.

Death cries are rendered mute

by the thundrous claps of firing lines.

Percussion of the boots,

fires raging within holy shrines.

The sirens heed the final seconds,

there's a roar followed by silence.

Ashes fill the heavens,

but at least there's no more violence.

Are we like ants,

navigating the plains of fate,

choosing our own paths

without any notion of where they may take us?

or

Are we more like leaves

being held captive by the currents of a mighty river,

left to journey upon the waves

until we reach the sea?

These ceaseless questions garner no answers,

and so the only thing we’ve left to do

is journey into that great unknown.

A fickle thing, it is,

to describe the apathy,

the dullness and repetitiveness

that inundates the empty homes

and cold beds

of the lonely.

Blue skies gray and grow grainy,

leaving but a muted world,

all-encompassing and inescapable.

The sun itself loses its luster

and its warmth,

leaving only a perception of emptiness.

I sought power, as most men do, however foolishly. It was something I was willing to wager my soul upon, as I thought my devilish scheme could outwit the Devil himself. Sure of myself and my plan, I stared into his eyes and was only met by hellfire and oblivion.

“And for what reason did you summon me,” he said in a chorus of pained voices,

“What is it that you are willing to suffer for eternity for?”

Hesitation, for but a moment, before my response.

“I want an immortal body that will never die,” I say.

I’d thought about this long and hard, for I wouldn’t go to hell if I could never die. I saw a shark-toothed grin stretch across his face, his fangs bared to make way for a barrage of laughter.

“Fair enough,” he said. “This world will become your hell soon enough.”

At the time I was unsure of what he meant, and so he took advantage of this confusion. The Devil stretched his hand out to shake mine and finalize our deal.

When we did, a tempest of flames shot from the ground and engulfed us both. I saw my flesh melt away and reveal a skeleton. I felt the fluid in my eyes boil before I went blind. I screamed until my voice fell silent and I fell into unconsciousness.

Upon awaking, I had no burns. I had gotten what I wanted.

Time passed and I was feared across the battlefield. The immortal soldier, incapable of being stopped. However the taste of victory turned to ashes in my mouth. Many men received honorable deaths by my hand, something I could never achieve myself.

Many years later, I fell in love. The biggest mistake I ever made.

She was beautiful, the only person I’d met that was capable of filling a century’s worth of emptiness. For a time, we were happy. She’d known what I was, but stayed regardless, and I was grateful. She fell ill about 15 years into our marriage, the sickness took hold quickly.

“I can’t meet you where you're going,” I told her. “Please. Please don’t leave me yet.”

She grasped my hand in hers, her grip growing weaker and weaker, and looked straight through me to the soul that was no longer there.

“You’re a good man,” she said, “Help people. Save them. Maybe then your name can join me in heaven.”

She smiled, and that was it. She died on a Tuesday.

I don’t know how long it’s been, how many lifetimes I’ve surpassed. Every form of death cannot affect me, as I’ve tried them all. I can’t even be hurt. I can no longer feel. I’ve become the hero she wanted me to be, but no matter how many people I save, no matter how much of a difference I’ve made, I still want nothing more than to die. I keep thinking to myself, “maybe tomorrow.” This world has become hell.

See me.

Unnoticed, alone,

drowning in a sea of faces,

adrift on my own.

A crowded bus

where eyes never meet,

but if your gaze meets mine

what would you see?

You know not the trials I’ve endured,

but would you see a life

comparable to yours?

Would you say anything?

We part ways and so we never meet,

like the wind and autumn leaves.

Your eyes shone with aknowledgement,

but

did you really see me?

We very well could have met before, you know. Whether it be in the line at the grocery store, or on the train ride to work, perhaps we've bumped shoulders on the street and you never thought anything of it. I smile and nod, a common exchange I've picked up on that simulates amicability and familiarity, an invisibility cloak I use to mask my own darkness. I have close friends, a loving family, people I've allowed to become familiar with the idea of the man I pretend to be. Not even they would be able to tell that the only genuine feeling of joy I experience is after butchering someone and seeing their life fleeting from their eyes, like rats from sinking ships. The process of carving into flesh, dismemberment, blood spilling and pooling. The very essense of humanity, the only semblance of emotion I've ever felt, is reflected unto me as their eyes go hollow.

I would very much like to be normal, to exchange pleasantries and laugh at jokes without my reactions being contrived, to feel something other than an unshakeable emptiness. It is very fortunate for me that people can be easy to read. It is incredibly easy to be a good person once you understand the acts that other deem to be good. I call my mother at least once a week, I buy my wife flowers occasionally, I take my son to get ice cream after school on Fridays. I've adopted these routines to try to reciprocate the love they have for me, or at least pretend to. I cannot lie and say that these connections I have are unpleasant, I'm rather greatful for these people for giving me an identity, however to say I feel anything more would be pushing the boundaries of what I am capable of.

I do experience hate. The thing I especially hate are people that I am not able to understand, whose actions fall outside the societal tendencies I've studied. People who do not smile back at me when I do, or who refuse to hold the door open for others. These people who do not partake in the niceties expected of those living in society disrupt the flow of the sea of faces I try so hard to mimic, and so I purge them whenever I can. A name of someone like this who comes to mind is Charles Wilkes, a former neighbor of mine. He furnished his lawn with decorations that were expressly prohibited by our Homeowner's Association, an act of defiance that showcased the man's inconsiderate nature. Charles Wilkes challenged the uniformity of our street, of the neat little segment of our neighborhood that contributed to the whole like cuts of beef contribute to the cow. Everything had its place, its purpose, everything allowed for me to easily understand and portray the appearance of your typical American street, and he challenged that.

Correcting this was easy, however, all it took was some initiative. I knew he'd be home alone, a recent divorcee and a retired one at that, so I waited for darkness to settle. I began by rendering him unconscious and tying him to his dining room table. Upon seeing him awake, I was able to read every emotion that was contorting his shriveled face: confusion, anger, fear. It was wonderful. I cut off his hands when he threatened to kill me if he'd gotten free, I shipped them to his ex wife along with their wedding bands the following morning. I cut off his feet so I could untie him and study his expressions as he tried to escape, however once I hit bone he passed out and went into shock. It took me some time to stop the bleeding. When he'd finally woken up again, drenched in blood and sweat, I knew it was time to end him. He was sobbing at this point, tears of sorrow and frustration, as he'd accepted the futility of his situation but could not comprehend the cause of it. I dispatched him shortly after and left his carcass for his cats to eat.

Then I went home, showered, and returned to bed alongside my loving wife. I went to work the next day and picked my son up from school. My pasttime will never get in the way of my public life, I will never let it, for it is essential for me in my quest for genuinely understanding people and connecting with them. I look just like every stranger you've ever met, I smile and nod just like anyone else you'd walk past, I hold the door open for those behind me, I conform to the rules of my Homeowner's Association, and I think it's best that you do too.

the inevitability of its passing,

just as the tides rise and fall

and the sun sets in the west,

so too, will we grow cold

and turn to ash

as the seasons pass over us.

around and around

like a great wheel;

the cyclical nature of our universe.

molecules parting and coming together

to create new wonders.

i imagine that it'll be quiet when i pass,

however maybe that is because

of my propensity to talk more than i should,

say more than i mean to.

i imagine people will remember that of me,

how my ultimate happiness

was found through conversation,

and the bonds that i've made.

so when my voice is gone,

and i've succumbed to an eternity of silence,

think not of the sadness

or my absence,

but instead feel pride.

for you have brought this babbling fool some happiness

by giving him someone to talk to.