This is the beginning of a fictional story. Every chapter will be written on my phone. I have no idea where we’ll go with this project besides some kind of ending (good or bad.) The goal is to have fun and try a new writing method. “The medium is the message,” said Marshall McCluhan, or that might have been Wu-Tang. Fingers crossed. Here we go.
once I dreamt I ate a bowl of teeth for breakfast. That morning I looked up what that image meant on a dream website, and it said to lose teeth in a dream indicated a deep fear of death in life. But consumption was tricky. There was no one thing to sum up why you were eating in a dream. Most experts agreed, however, that eating was a sign of yearning, of want. But teeth were indicators of my oncoming demise.
It was all so puzzling until one day, walking through the city park, I saw a dog chase its tail. I was reminded of the snake consuming itself. And then i knew: in the dream I had been trying to eat death before it came for me. Strange breakfast.
I work front desk at a tourist center. we get no tourists in the winter. I am worthless at my job. I live in Sail, Alaska. It is a small coastal town, the kind of place that old people from Kansas imagine exploring for three hours to buy Knick- knacks till the cruise ship leaves.
Today is what winter looks like to a kid with an overactive imagination. Snow is clogging the airways and most people are inside, doing what every American does: streaming movies.
My apartment is small. One room. simple kitchen. The whole place looks like something you see in news reports when a homeless guy gets a break. I’m exaggerating, but only slightly.
I am a 30 year old white male. There is little to describe about me. If you needed a photo of “generic looking white fellow,” I’d be up there. My ex said i have low self esteem.
She also said I would never amount to anything, before leaving to Tahiti to find herself. As if a self actually exists. She found a better match for her, and i found myself marching into the welcoming arms of whiskey and bad decisions. Burp.
Don’t worry, this isn’t a redemption story. I am in my house cooking canned soup when the front door opens. It’s N.
Dunno his real name. Rumor is it’s Edward.
what’s up, I say.
Not much, he says.
We don’t talk a lot. He comes in on Saturdays, same time every time, 1:05pm, and drops off the new box of the week on my coffee table near the tv. He does this action right now, down to box landing on coffee table like it’s Apollo 11. He drops off the box. Oh, right, you want a description. Like, how he looks. He is black, six foot tall, and has the look of a man with a vegan diet in a chocolate factory. So, dismal.
He’s near the door.
hey, I stay, you can hang out if you want.
no, he says, that sounds awesome but they want me back at the compound.
N merely shrugs and walks out the door. I walk over to the box and open, slowly. Ever since I opened one of the first mission boxes, I’ve realized you can’t trust. Notice I didn’t say people, just the trusting mechanism in general.
The box is pretty, but not ornate. maybe from zales. The lid is off and now there’s a note, written entirely in complex code. I have no idea how to translate. I do know the last time I saw a code like this, somebody was under my car outside attempting to put a track on my car.
No, I’m not a government agent. Think different. Bigger. Hidden.
No, not a militia. I sell black market goods on the side. Lots of oxy and Winston cigs. I’m supposing this, but I don’t know.
to be honest, I’m tired of not knowing, but happiest to never get involved. Like life. Just kaleidoscopes of bs, then a pine box. But if I follow the current box’s hand written note, I may die today. If I’m cremated then placed in this box, then I will be eating my teeth in the real world after all.
I read the numbers and walk into the room. I need my gun and a selfie stick. It’s time to infiltrate and destroy all evidence. One can only dream.