Mr. Brown woke up incensed. Forty years later he died.

Mr. and Mrs. Normal stood on their front steps, arms linked, breathing in the cool air of the glorious new day.

“It’s gonna be a great day, honey bunch,” Mrs. Normal remarked, kissing Mr. Normal on his freshly shaven cheek.

“It sure is, muffin, it sure is.” He pulled her closer in an affectionate squeeze.

At that moment the paper boy rode past, his basket filled to the brim with today’s news, and hit Mr. Normal squarely in the face with the latest edition of Normaltown Gazette.

“Ho ho, that’s quite the arm you’ve got there, son!” Mr. Normal chuckled, staunching the flow of blood beginning to trickle down from his handsome nose.

“Golly, I’m sorry mister! Really, I am!” Neither rain nor snow nor bloody noses could distract young Tom from his duty, however, and with a cheerful ring of his bell he was off down the street, where just a few blocks later the friendly but impaired milk man’s truck would prove more effective at stopping his progress.

“Swell kid. Someday we’ll have a whole passel of tots just like him,” mused Mr. Normal, pressing his free hand over his wife’s rounded belly. “How would you like to go take a stroll around the park, whatdya say?”

“You read my mind!”

Mrs. and Mr. Normal, hands clasped, stepped in sync through their immaculate green yard and onto the well-tended sidewalk. It was a beautiful afternoon, the autumn colors of the trees made a brilliant canopy that watched over the town square, occasionally dropping leaves that danced in the breeze and scuttled across the road. Along the way the couple saluted their neighbors and friends with politely tipped heads and hearty smiles.

The park was alive with activity. Mr. Normal bent down to pet a sociable little dog.

“What do you think, sweetie?” He tilted his head up and turned his attention back to his lovely wife.

“How about that one over there?” She gestured lightly at an unattended toddler securely strapped in his stroller.

“Oh you, you’re always the best at spotting them,” he said, already beginning to walk in the direction of the unsupervised infant, Mrs. Normal close at his side.

With hands firmly grasping both the stroller and one another’s sweaty palms, they began to casually stroll back to their charming home.

He was the kind of kid whose nose was always running. His clothes were spotted and wrinkled and you got the impression that whoever was at home didn’t really care one way or the other. His ears could break your heart- they were perfect awkward satellites, standing at odds with uncombed shocks of blonde hair, so pale that you could count the tiny violet veins. Despite all outward appearances, he wasn’t lacking any kind of self-confidence. Teachers were always sending home notes admonishing his womanizing ways- chasing the girls on the playground, sneaking kisses behind the swings.

“I’ve destroyed Santa!” she wailed, visibly distraught. The red paint she had intended as a cheerful glow for the porcelain Santa’s face now looked more like he was a sweaty lush.

“No, no, he’s fine. Maybe just tone it down with some white?” He was beyond repair, it was pretty apparent, but I was already reaching for the brush, trying to hold off the inevitable emotional breakdown about to ensue.

“Just forget it! Everything’s ruined! I’ve ruined it!” Fat tears plopped onto her sweater, leaving sad blotches on Rudolph’s woolen face.

I’ve never known what to do in these kinds of situations. Do I hug her? Do I pretend I don’t notice she’s crying? Awkward shoulder pat’s good.

“Look at all these we’ve done though, it’s just one. Come on, don’t worry about it.”

She turned to look, utterly woe-begotten, at the pile of elves rendered dragqueens with too-rosy lips, misshapen reindeer, and angels with droopy eyes that had begun to run down their cheeks, then began to cry harder.

Who taught our generation...

...that apathy is the way to go? I hate hearing people cut themselves down. I think idealism is beautiful. It makes me happy when people get genuinely excited about something.
And that's all I've got to say about that.

Dust shimmered in the wan beams of light shining through the ceiling beams, which had become gapped like crooked teeth. The windowsill had a single line through the grime where a wandering finger had wiped it clean. That tell-tale line was the only indication that anyone had been in the basement for years, and who would want to? The cement floor was blotched with stains, dark and irregular, and there were plenty of dark spaces for any passing ghostie or ghoulie or long-legged beastie to take up residence. An occasional group of kids would find their way into the house to tell horror stories by flashlight, and when they were sufficiently close to wetting their pants there would be the inevitable olympic dash back up the wooden stairs, shoving and shrieking, all of them secretly hoping that they weren't the slowest, already making the unspoken decision to sacrifice heavy-set Jimmy, huffing behind, if it came down to it.

Ed poured a little white mountain of table salt into his palm, and was brandishing it like it was a new discovery or a prize he’d won.

“Taste it. Go ahead, try it. S’nothing like it.”

I couldn’t help but wonder how long it’d been since he’d last washed that hand, and where it had been in the meantime. Little tracks of dirt had worked their way into the calloused cracks and under the too-long nails. A careful dab, and,

“Yeah. Good stuff. Salty.”

“No, no. Really taste it. It’s potassium salt, it’s different. I’m telling you, man.”

He was something like 1/20^th Native American, but he played it up for all it was worth. He made dream catchers in his spare time, for God’s sake. He whittled little creatures out of the stunted trees in his backyard and used the splinters to pick his teeth. He was as passionate about Jesus as he was about alcohol, which in the end would probably buy him a ticket to meet the guy a little faster.

As of late, his new hobby was arguing. He was good at it, too; he had no trouble getting offended before you even said anything. It made even the most casual conversation akin to taking a stroll through a field of landmines.

“So what’ve you been doing with yourself lately? Got a job?”

It was readily apparent that this, like everything else, was a touchy subject.

“I package lightbulbs. Now, you may not have a real appeciation for how important a job that is, most people don’t, but trust me-- someday you will. Lightbulb burns out, what are you gonna do, light some pansy-ass candles? Nah, man. You need yourself a new lightbulb. I’m the man that wrapped that shit up. Think about that.”

“What if I had a flashlight?” Suicide. This was as good as suicide.

“Flashlight? A fuckin’ flashlight? This guy, I’m telling you. A flashlight. Jesus H. Christ. Am I talking to a wall here? Am I getting anywhere? I don’t think I am.” Spit was beginning to fly at this point, he was grabbing at his collar, loosening it, barely able to contain his indignation.

“Don’t take it personally, I’m just saying think there are more important careers. Doctors, firemen, you know. You get what I’m saying? I’m not trying to offend. I’m just saying.”

“Alright smart guy, you so smart, you tell me something now. How’s a doctor gonna operate in the dark? Huh? I tell you what, he’s gonna be stabbing all around just looking for the patient, kill the fuckin’ guy. You can’t operate in the dark, come on!”

“Yeah, okay. You win.”

“You’re damn right I do.”

He looked skyward, longsuffering. Breaking the silence of Ed’s martyrdom, the screen door slammed open, leaving a fresh black scuff on the wall. Enter Ed’s crazy girlfriend. She was a posterchild for trailer trash with her leathery, sunken face and crispy blonde hair. A cigarette stained with her day-glo pink lipstick dangled precariously from her mouth.

“Ed, you know this ain’t no party house. You can tell your little friend it’s time to go home.”

“I know baby. Go on man, get outta here.”

…

The walk home was all dirt roads and farmland. Everything was a uniform shade of brown that rolled into flat fields and continued on for miles. The only thing that cut through the tedium was the occasional sweet acrid smell of roadkill. There were little ramshackle houses and farms along the way, but never any sign of inhabitants. It was strange, then, that somebody had stopped not too far ahead.

The stranger had planted his feet on the side of a yard and was watching a riding lawnmower roam in a looping circuit, the owner’s head having fallen onto the steering wheel at just the right angle to keep the mower going in lazy donuts around the yard. His lifeless puppet body and the steadfast mower were being dutifully pursued by dogs, their yapping through the perpetual game of catch coupled with the hum of the motor were the only sounds besides occasional birdcalls for miles. The stranger shook his head, shot a thin stream of brown saliva onto the road, and took one last look at the bizarre procession before continuing on.

“Hey! Hey wait!” I ran to catch up, stirring up tiny dust storms.

He turned around.

“Is that guy okay?”

“Naw. He’s dead. Died on the lawnmower.” Obviously scornful at my lack of perception.

“Should we do something? I mean, should I go tell whoever’s inside or call the police or something?”

“Ain’t gonna make him any more alive, is it? I gotta get going, now. ”