Hero of the Day

By Tommy McMahon

E.K. Fox was born to become the perfect man. But what does that perfection mean when the world around him is decaying?

E.K. sets out from a path laden with opportunity in order to save a dying Midwestern city, hoping that it can bring him the inner peace his perfection never could. Alongside a pack of veteran crime fighters in masks, he seeks to restore sanctuary to the City of Fountains. But standing in the Keepers way is an evil rooted so deep in the city, it almost seems to be an impossible task.

Can E.K. and the Keepers defeat the three personifications of evil that plague the city, or will they fall victim, just like so many have before?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496960610

Tommy McMahon

As a journalist, Major Tommy McMahon is bound by telling the truth, no matter how harrowing it may be. And alongside his thirst for truth, he provides a doctorate level knowledge of both comic book and traditional literary heroes. Those heroes, be it tragic or triumphant, have influenced his life in incalculable ways. Tommy lives in the City of Fountains with his two kittens as he tries to become the latest keeper of the burden of writing about the beautifully afflicting trials of life.

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© 2014 TOMMY MCMAHON. All rights reserved.

Cover photo taken by Tommy McMahon

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Except his family and classmates. Those guys are real.

Published by AuthorHouse   12/19/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6060-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6061-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014922590

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

THE NAMES IT HAS BLOWN IN THE PAST

THINK WISELY AND ACT FOOLISHLY

THIS PLACE FULL OF PEACE AND LIGHT

THE DREAM WAS JUST THE SAME

FOUND THE SAME OLD FEARS

CHANGING THIS FABLE

BEYOND YOUR TUNNEL VISION

THERE ARE MANY HERE AMONG US

SEND FORTH A RIPPLE

HELLO DARKNESS, MY OLD FRIEND

THE BAFFLED KING COMPOSING

AN ABIDING SENSE OF TRAGEDY OR STARS THAT MARKED OUR STARTING

NO DIPLOMACY LIKE CANDOR

REALITY FADES

I WONDER IF IT WAS A DREAM

NOW DESERVINGLY, THIS EASY CHAIR

STILL WAITING FOR THE SNOW TO FALL

IT’S NOT OVER BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE

VACANT HOPE TO TAKE

THE SECRET TO SURVIVAL

FAITH DOES NOT PROVE ANYTHING

NOTHING GOOD ABOUT WAR

YOU’LL ALWAYS HAUNT ME

ALREADY GONE OR I’LL FOLLOW YOU

TONIGHT THE WORLD DIES

ONCE MORE INTO THE FRAY

NOW THAT THE WORLD HAS AN ENDING

MEMORIES ARE SHADOWS

THE HIGHWAY’S JAMMED

AS THOUGH IT NEVER EXISTED

To the comic books, thanks for the imagination;

To the songs, you helped me write poetry;

To my friends, your ears listened to my heart, and you saved me;

To the heartbreaks, the best way to get over a woman is to turn her into literature;

To my family, dysfunctionally was the only way we could function;

To Sox, my heart, I miss you, darlin’;

To my Dad, the greatest man I have ever known;

And to Katy, you were my Hero of the Day.

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They’re off to find the Hero of the Day, but what if they should fall by someone’s wicked way?

Hero of the Day

Metallica

-and-

Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

THE NAMES

IT HAS BLOWN IN THE PAST

A soft breeze wearily crawled in under the ever-present moon, caressing E.K.’s face. The wind whistled its dirge and rattled the empty cans on the streets below. Its presence signaled spring, one more chance at a new beginning. Life would soon blossom from the cold earth, perhaps offering respite to those who were left.

E.K. looked up into the void littered with light that was the stars, and then down across the chasm cluttered with lambency that was the sprawling buildings. The moon was doing its best to fight through the purple sky, through the void, and into the chasm, hoping to light the dark alleys of cold earth.

Those alleys, paths of snow and pain and loss, were extended pipes overflown with the grimy water of the fountain—a fountain that had been so painstakingly close to being scoured. E.K., with all of his strength, all of his intelligence and might, could not exterminate the infestation. He could not bleach the turbid veins of the city. He never did understand that it was nothing more than a colossal illusion.

The breeze had risen from its very short rest and danced around E.K. once more. It was warm; a summer breeze that was peculiar in this time and place. He shivered, ran his hands through his golden hair, and tried to rub his eyes of the image before his mind. It was her. She had developed a way to taunt him from afar, to transmute into a breeze and tease him one last time.

He burrowed into his thoughts, traveled through the labyrinth of memories and ghosts to find her, with laughter on her lips, standing next to his family—parents, three sisters, countless friends, and even his cat. Her hair capered with the dispiriting breeze, and her eyes shot through him. E.K. shook his head in disbelief and thought, I left that, for this.

He had immediately regretted his choice to leave, but now the thought of losing her was a thorny bane flowing through him. Perhaps it grew even more ruinous because of what he now faced. When he had parted from her grasp, he had braced himself for the worst. He endured the pain and agony of loss, much like the people he was trying to save. It almost broke him. But it was not the pain from leaving her that was going to kill him that night.

Around him crept the shadows of the past that looked like buildings. In those concrete bodies contained people whose life he had chosen to save in exchange for his own. How he had hoped to save those who needed it, how he had pained to keep those people from despair. He had given it all up, the world he was shaped to have, for a world that he had hoped to, in turn, shape. E.K. let go of Emma, let go of his family, and let go his life to save others. So perhaps it was fitting that he should complete that transaction tonight and lose his life for good.

E.K.’s spine vibrated with that tempestuous breeze.

He escaped his mind and pointed his gaze at the sky, the abyss staring back. The vast serene above him only juxtaposed the scene below; the velvet sky was mocking him. It reminded him of his youth, which he had to remind himself was but two years earlier—how he would lie and watch the stars, maybe catch a flash of lightning against the purple sky and feel at peace. Now those stars burned through him. Still, he could not look away. He figured he would find a moving star, not to make a wish, but to transport him to the end of the line.

He whispered, Where are they?

That wasn’t the question he wanted the buildings or stars or empty cans to answer for him. But then again, there never was anything he wanted from anyone but himself. He had chosen this path—there would be no saving him, no cavalry to come to his defense.

He returned to his thoughts, which were of home, something that E.K. thought he hadn’t possessed in two years. It had been two years since he had joked with his friends about saving the world. Two years since he sat on top of the world. Two years since her smell enveloped him, her presence made him smile, and her love stopped time. But of course it didn’t. It couldn’t.

The city below him was beginning to deteriorate, foreshadowing E.K.’s night. And that decay was considerably more painful because he had given so much to bring the City of Fountains back from the brink. Maybe he did have a home, for better, and now, for worse.

The fountain had been so dirty, E.K. thought. It was dark and unforgiving; it was an abyss that was analogous to the nine rings of hell. E.K., Gatz, and the others had helped this town, gave hope to those who had none. The Keepers had just tormented the Kansas Citians, belied them with a false hope, a promise of everlasting peace and good. A promise that was always bound to fail. And there is no true despair without hope. It wouldn’t last, not when they had to deal with the three heads of evil that were now in front of them:

The Darkness, the Unknown, and Death itself.

His arm itched on the scar he had gained in defense of the city. A scar that would have had some friends had his own not intervened: Gatz. A man that he had known since the age of three, whom he had mirrored, whom he had hoped to be. A man that was now no longer the same person. E.K.’s eyes shifted from blue to gray thinking of Gatz’ tragic journey. There are no scars to show for happiness.

The shooting star he was looking for revealed itself, emerging from the void. Its engines hummed louder and louder as it approached and landed next to him on the roof with a bone-crunching thump. It was small and looked like a jet. It had camouflaged metal skin, four wheels, and three miniature rockets under the wings. The door opened towards E.K., and out stepped a large soldier.

He was well built and black. He stood nearly seven feet tall and was three-hundred pounds of muscle. He didn’t smile, but only acknowledged E.K. with a head nod.

Next out came a man wearing a bulletproof mask in the form of an emperor. A staff on his side mirrored the sword at his hip. He pretended to punch the first man, but stopped, fearing the pain from doing so.

Finally, out came a man to whom no epithets could do justice. He was burly, confident, and hurting. A scar, newly minted, hid behind his graying beard. He, too, did not smile. In fact, his face looked so serious that he wore it to the grave. He limped towards E.K., who put his armor back on.

When he reached E.K., he put his large hands out for an embrace. As E.K. gripped the hand, he noticed the armlets that he had helped enhance. The daggers that existed in them now had the power of a god. E.K. smiled; they would need that tonight.

The man asked, No sign of Gatz?

Not since last week…I’m not sure he wants to dirty his hands any further, E.K. replied, not believing his own words.

The smallest man, the man in the mask, interrupted, Or he’s scared. Everyone turned to him and glared. The time for jokes had passed, even for him.

E.K. didn’t need to defend his friend, especially to another, but he did anyway. Gatz has seen things that you couldn’t imagine.

Yeah, I suppose this would be right up his alley, was thrown in to shut Emperor up.

Maybe it’s better if he stayed away. Not all of us have to…. E.K. didn’t want to finish his sentence, for maybe it would finalize it, write it in the stone on the base of the fountain.

If we die, we die. We all do eventually, Wolf began, but paused. It’s like the quote from Hamlet. How does it go?

To be or not to be? Emperor asked foolishly.

E.K. ignored him and spoke up, …the readiness is all.

E.K. finally understood what I learned many years ago. He was just on the wrong end of it.

And why not die a hero? E.K. added.

That’s nice about being a hero, E.K., I mean that’s always been the point right? But, if it takes some villainy to survive, then I’m more than down. How ’bout you, Erdos?

The man who had not spoken, who barely did, said, I don’t have a problem with killing tonight.

Silence announced its presence, as the team was faced with the realization that this would be their last night alive. They imagined their deaths. None of them were right, but we’ll get to that. Wolf turned around without another word and headed back to the hearse. Devil Dog and Emperor followed, the latter tripping up the stairs.

E.K. stayed put, allowing the world to die around him. For the shortest measurable time imaginable, a quantum of life, he became numb. Emotion did not rest behind his eyes, nor his veins, and especially not in his mind. But the time came and the pendulum swung—glory was now infesting his thoughts.

His mind latched on the glorious defeats in battle, the ones that would spur on the fight to end evil. The Alamo, the U.S.S. Maine, the stalemate along the Western Front, Gettysburg, Pearl, they were all defeats. This was the light at the end of the tunnel for E.K. This was the best that he could hope for. How he had fallen from the perch he sat atop two years prior. E.K. could not save the day, for history does not allow for such things to happen.

The Liberty Memorial saluted him from his left, and E.K.’s heart skipped a few beats. The wind blew, a bird might have chirped, the sun was shining somewhere—probably in a dorm in South Bend—and the city water was beginning to putrefy. He cracked his neck, gave a laugh, and climbed the steps. He inhaled a great amount of that summer breeze and it lifted him into the ship. That breath was one of his last.

THINK WISELY

AND ACT FOOLISHLY

E.K. stared out the window to his left, finding a colony of ants crawling along the windowsill. He imagined that they were tunneling through somewhere, winding through the maze, hoping to find the feast of Cheeto crumbs that awaited them in the carpet underneath the students’ desks. The wind, however, would not allow them a chance to enter, as they all fell to the unyielding, invisible force.

Outside the school existed Emporia, a small college town located halfway between Topeka and Wichita. There was an element of another generation that existed in the small, narrow streets that were lined with tiny shops frequented by the college kids. There was a Wal-Mart, a bowling alley, a small movie theatre, and, of course, the university. There wasn’t much else to brag about in Emporia. But there was E.K. Fox, who was destined for great things, so the prevalent perception went. A star that was going to shine brighter than anything the world had ever seen began there in Emporia, inside the small classroom where he had a proclivity to daydream.

E.K. was then attracted to the green hands that were attached to the composer’s arms of the trees. A fresh morning rain had made the day cool, and after the cotton-candy sky melted away, the sun was finally shining through, blinding him with its late-May smile. He pulled his gaze indoors and began to play with the blue and silver splint that was strapped to the middle finger of his left hand. It was a precautionary measurement, to insure his injury from playing pickup basketball would not become worse and hinder his ability to grab the bat. State was just a week away.

The end of the school year was dragging on, and it was even more boring for those like E.K., the seniors who were still required to attend class, even though graduation was the next night. He was in his first class, history. Still to come were performance, philosophy, and then a humanities classes. Then practice. Then sleep. Then school again, and finally graduation. Then there was the party Anthony was throwing afterwards.

This was E.K.’s life: a constant push forward. He was always keeping busy—always doing something. It took its toll occasionally, but he preferred the exhaustion to the boredom that let the hidden fears overcome him.

E.K. stood up and headed towards the whiteboard at the front of the class, with nothing really in mind. Uhh…E.K., what are you doing? Mrs. Foster, E.K.’s young history teacher, asked from her desk. Her face was narrow, her eyes dark, and her hair was reddish-brown and slightly wavy.

To be completely honest, I haven’t a clue. I was going to wander aimlessly. But now that you’ve said something, I guess not, E.K. kidded her.

You could do your homework, she suggested.

Or, I could not do my homework, E.K. said, raising his hands back and forth in imitation of a scale. See? I think my option suits me better. Besides, we don’t have homework. She laughed and he turned his attention towards the class.

E.K. was used to getting his way. Most things had always worked out in his favor. He never really questioned it, preferring to take advantage instead. As you can imagine, it didn’t make him very likable to some.

The class sat chatting amongst each other in new desks ensconced by a white-bricked wall. The room looked cold and almost sterile if not for the fichus in the corner. E.K. looked around the classroom, past the fichus and steel cabinet, until a flash caught his attention, and he locked on to the love of his life.

He ambled over and sat down behind her quietly. He could already sense her smell, and he was content to watch her, internalizing the usually unnoticeable movements she made. As Emma talked to her friends, E.K. began to play with her hair, wondering how long it’d take for her to turn around and bless him with her smile.

Her hair color was somewhere between red and auburn. Auburn was her natural hair color, but she had dyed it red. And beneath that was bleach-blonde that peeked through just at the tips, creating a medley of colors. It was impossibly soft, and even looking at it brought back memories of lying in his bed for hours, talking, kissing, lightening each other’s souls by weighing down each other’s arms.

E.K. Fox! she said, loudly turning around. Her smile widened, her iridescent blue eyes locked onto his and warmth shot through his body.

Emma Illene! he yelled back, mocking her. Yes dear? Is there a problem? he teased.

I am trying to hold a conversation. And I am getting easily distracted by you touching me.

Really now? Can’t even hide your desires at school, Emma? Tsk, tsk… he whispered while also intimating where his mind was. She didn’t react, not wanting to convey to her friends what he had said.

So do you want to go to the movies sometime this weekend? E.K. asked, accepting her reaction with an exiguous slight.

It depends on if we have enough time, she answered with a slope of her shoulders. Even at the prospect of another engagement she felt worn out. Why, what did you have in mind?

Well, there’s a movie coming out with a lot of hype because of how amazing this ensemble cast is. It’s called Deacon and I don’t know how they got all of these actors to sign up for it. I mean the star power is…incredible, both behind the camera and in front of it.

E.K. was the type of person to know about movies two years before they were made. He was also giddily intrigued by the thought of his favorite actors teaming up. The stories that could be told. It was the chance to get away from the immense amount of responsibilities he carried. Reading is one form of escape; going to the movies is another.

Well then, we’ll definitely have to go see it, babe, she answered him without her smile. He kissed the top of her head and said goodbye to her friends, Katy, Alyssa, Brenda.

When his head came around, he found himself looking upon his own group of friends joking in the corner. Their desks were empty, their smiles were wide, and their vulgarity was percolating through the class.

This particular group of gentleman was probably the loudest in the school, mainly because they had to compete with each other to be heard. Escalation was inevitable. The loudest was Tommy, who was the one talking when E.K. interrupted.

Guys, what’s going on? Doing homework, I hope? E.K. asked, looking around at his five friends. All of them returned a confused look as he fought back laughter.

Okay E.K., since when have we had work? I thought it was understood all of us stopped doing work about a month ago, Tommy said. He shared E.K.’s appearance. Blonde hair and blue eyes, the only significant difference was Tommy’s crooked smile.

Do we have practice today? Jeff asked out of the rare silence. He was also blonde, but his tall and skinny were extreme, giving him a goofy appearance.

Yeah. While Tommy, Maxx and I run because we pitched over the weekend, you guys are going to do some pre-game and a little BP. E.K. answered

I hate running, Tommy said.

You only say that every time you have to run. But after pitching nine innings the other day, you need to run, E.K., the team captain, said.

Well, if the rest of you dicks would have scored one run in the first seven innings, we wouldn’t have had to go into extras to win. Although I’m not complaining, since I did set the state record for strikeouts in a game, Tommy bragged.

So when do we leave for state? Maxx asked. Maxx was the goofy one with glasses. He was also the only black one, although that meant nothing to any of them besides appearance. His stockiness juxtaposed his innate shyness.

Tuesday morning. We have to be up here by eight, Anthony informed them, looking up from his glasses, past his laptop. His hair was brown and curly, and usually was kept under a baseball cap. They all groaned at his disclosure.

Why so early? Cody asked. He shook his long, black hair from his face and scratched the five o’clock shadow that would make grown men jealous.

Well, we’ll probably go over what game plan we have, take a look at who we’re facing and who we could face. Then it’s about an hour drive to Wichita, we have to check into our hotel, get to the field, warm up, and we play at noon. And we can watch the first game with the extra time.

E.K. wasn’t sure why he had to explain this to them. They had all been there a few times before. They were, after all, the most talented baseball team in the country. Not to mention the most well known because of E.K. and Tommy’s prowess.

The six of them shared laughter, the kind that cracks bones, for the remainder of the class. The jokes were often simple and crude, with the occasional witty joke thrown in. Mrs. Foster, at that point in the year, had grown to tolerate their mischievousness, and even she was laughing at Tommy, who was giving E.K. his rare dose of derision.

E.K. was accustomed to being picked on by his friends. It wasn’t malicious, nor was it even degrading; it was the kind of ridicule you got only from those closest to you. From those who knew that although his perfection existed to everyone else, he was nothing more than a Marty-Stu—it really only masked the fears about being imperfect. The success and distinction only guarded the fright of failure, of losing, and of not being loved.

E.K. was very captious about himself, which also made him a hypocrite. He wouldn’t dare ignore a friend’s positive attributes to highlight their faults, but he did so for himself. It was a higher standard that didn’t need to exist.

So Tommy poked and prodded, pushing the tender spots, making sure that E.K. never felt too inhuman. His friends always laughed, unsure whether or not E.K. secretly hated them all. He didn’t. As much as he disliked the disparagement, it came with the bonds that were made. Try as they might, his friends could never absolve the fear from his heart. It would fester there until he died.

Damn E.K., look at what you’ve done already, Tommy began, as E.K. adjusted for the oncoming uncomfortableness. You led the Model U.N for the last two years. You organized that neighborhood cleanup last year. You also helped Emma with the congressman debate in the fall. I mean, dude, valedictorians at Harvard have done less than you.

Not to mention two state titles in every sport he plays in, Jeff chimed in.

And soon to be third in baseball! Tommy added, raising his Sunkist bottle. Hell E.K., all that’s left is saving this god-awful world. E.K’s heart stopped.

Before he could answer, Anthony spoke up, E.K., let me help you out here. He then turned to Tommy and said, Go fuck ya self. E.K.’s shoulders loosened, and he smiled at the reference and the sight of seeing Tommy spit out some Sunkist. The laughter died down and they turned back to E.K.

The boys continued with their jibes, and E.K. continuously flashed his perfect smile. It was all he could do. Tommy was right; he had done so much so early. The bar kept getting pushed higher and higher. Notre Dame waited with a full ride, and from there he could be anything. The heights would soon be discombobulating, and lately, his nightly demons had gained a new friend.

The bell rang, breaking the chains holding the students to their desks. Emma and her friends and E.K. and his friends were all headed to the same class, a performance class. It was taught by their English teacher, Mrs. Burns. She had brown hair and wore glasses and sometimes came across as a hippie. She was also very divisive amongst the students; there were students that loved her, and there were students that hated her.

This class always offered intriguing insights into the classmates they had pegged differently through their own subjective lenses of life. Sometimes out from the shadows stepped a completely different person. It was exhilarating; it was fascinating; it was also therapeutic.

For the last week, the class had been taking turns giving their final performances, the last grade they would get in the class. Tommy, Jeff, and Anthony were the third to last group to perform, followed by Emma and E.K., who would share their respective poems.

The classroom was an exact replica of the one they had come from. Same desks, same white blocks, same whiteboard, and same frigid temperature. The class settled in as Tommy and Jeff entered the room dressed in tuxedoes. Anthony stood in front of an invisible ATM when the two tall twins walked up to him, and in a mock fashion, pulled a fake gun out and pointed it sideways.

Sir, would thou please bestow upon us your billfold? Tommy asked with a high-pitched, terrible accent.

Anthony was utterly stunned by confusion, so asked in return, W-w-what?

Pardon me, I had posed you with a query; that you shall provide my affiliate and I with your wallet.

Am I being robbed? Anthony asked, finally catching on. Tommy laughed.

Excuse my friend’s chortle, but you are quite right sir, we are looting you, pillaging you of your belongings, so to speak, Jeff said in the same bad accent, while waving his hands humorously.

B-but why are you dressed up? Shouldn’t you be wearing a mask or something?

Ah, blast. Damn it Jeffrey, we hath neglected to wear our disguises, Tommy said, shaking his head.

But Tommy, you used my appellation! Jeff exclaimed, grabbing Tommy by the collar. Now this man could duly bespeak us to this offense.

Damn, you are right, Tommy then turned to Anthony and said, Good sir, please exculpate us of our transgression. We no longer seek your billfold and will be withdrawing said pillaging and retiring to our lodgings. Namaste.

Tommy and Jeff scurried out of the room to the sound of the class roaring. They walked back in, smiled, took a few questions, and sat back down. They opened a fresh bottle of Sunkist to celebrate. It would be the last time any of them laughed for the day.

Emma stood up nervously. The poem she was about to read was one that E.K. had shared with her on a night when she thought the world was ending. It was the first time E.K. had seen her down, and like so many times since then, he helped her up with ease.

Now, it was her turn to offer E.K. support with the same poem. Her mouth was dry, her heart racing, and her eyes were avoiding E.K. as she began to speak.

Your life is your life. Don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.

E.K. did not flinch throughout the reading. Instead, he sat there, at first letting the words bounce off of his smile. But Emma kept reading, and the words kept coming before finally finding their way in. He knew the importance of them. He knew why she was doing it, and it made him simultaneously love and hate her.

He could hear the anxiety and the emotion in her wavering voice. He could almost sense the tears wanting to follow Mr. Bukowski’s poem out of her mouth. His heart hurt. It hurt for her, and it hurt for the reason she was reading it, and it also hurt for a reason he did not quite yet know.

The class slowly applauded Emma as she began to sit back down next to E.K., still not looking at him. The class watched, waiting for E.K. to react. Finally, E.K. leaned in and kissed her on the shoulder. She looked up to him, let the corners of her mouth widen slightly, and looked back away.

E.K. then stood up, his heart now racing. The nerves replaced the awkward mixture of love, hurt, hate, and fatigue. The nerves were always something he had dealt with; they were usually a good sign.

It was now E.K.’s turn to share a poem that a loved one had shared with him. It wasn’t a published poem, and it hadn’t been shared with him in order to pick him up. It had been shared with him reluctantly, and as a last-ditch effort to help E.K. understand. E.K. could still recall reading it out of the ragged green journal. It was titled A Pendulum Inside a Maze, Wrapped in the Sea. Without any emotion, E.K. began,

Pendulum’s swing, back and forth on a wire, never stopping and never do they tire. They go down and up, forth and back, never wobbling and never getting off track. So it goes—life and the steady pendulum; the cyclical nature of the up, the down soon to come. But this metal metronome is just one piece; it’s not alone in this clime congested with caprice. This crucial core in an ironclad Maze. This resolved labyrinth isolated behind waves. In the middle of the ocean it hides and traps, I in its bull’s-eye, Pendulum but no maps. I have the moon, its light raining from the sky; my Dreams, are to escape before Death comes nigh. I have to journey past the hedges that sprout and fight past the depressions of doubt, which aims to hinder my undetermined path. I hope to reach the waters in which I can bath. This life is a riddle trapped in a puzzle. To survive, that lingering doubt you must muzzle. I fly from my throne to try and make it through, because what you make of life is up to you.

E.K. let his words hover at his mouth, then watched as the sound began to wrap itself around the minds of everyone in the class. Then he sat back down. The class hardly clapped; they were stunned by what they heard. Whenever E.K. had performed something it was usually a love poem for Emma, or he acted in the group with Tommy. This was entirely different. It was the first real glimpse inside the mind of E.K. Fox.

Emma leaned in and traded a hug for a kiss. E.K. looked over to his friends, who were confused. He shrugged; he would explain later at practice, he owed them that.

The rest of the class became a hazy memory that E.K. could only sort of remember. He wasn’t all there. He was back in time with a friend before any of the emotions he was now feeling existed.

The class ended and that same group of friends, the same group of aspiring intellects, headed to their third class—philosophy—for the last discussion of the year. It was E.K.’s favorite class because of those discussions, which were very similar to the ones he and his now-tormented friend had.

The entire year the class had been leading up to this very discussion, doing its damndest to push it past the school year, hoping to avoid the subject: God. As controversial as some of the conversations ended up being, everyone with common sense feared this particular discourse. It was always the beginning and the end of so many disagreements.

The conversation started off light and easy, most of those who had come from the performance class were still in a state of disbelief. Eventually, the soft parries and timorous ripostes gave way to the eventual momentum of anger from fear of uncertainty.

I think it’s unfathomable that a God wouldn’t exist, Alyssa said, in a matter-of-fact voice. She was sure-headed, popular, and sublimely intelligent.

What’s so unfathomable about it? Tommy asked, shaking his head, taking up the baton to oppose his foil.

Well, where does all this come from? she answered him.

Science, Tommy said with a smirk, eliciting a laugh from Jeff.

But to think that we, as intelligent beings, were not derived from creator…it doesn’t make sense. It isn’t just random happenings, Rachel said, deciding to join the conversation.

Why can’t it be random? Tommy asked her. Everything in life is random.

No it isn’t, Alyssa interjected. There’s a design to it; we’re fated to things we do, we’re pre-determined.

So a person who grows up a serial killer isn’t influenced by his surroundings or genetics, but is going to be a murderer because it’s been planned by that? And who planned it, God?

The class collectively flinched; the first strike had been thrown. Eyes darted around the room, smiles kept hidden by five-fingered veils. The day was slowly unraveling into one of those days you didn’t talk about out of lack of comprehension.

Who else would there be? she posed. She was now starting to get angry. It was a natural response to being pushed into the corner. How could billions of people, doing billions of things at once, not collide? There would be too much chaos in the world.

It’s a controlled chaos though, E.K. spoke up from his self-imposed silence. His voice was rough. It felt like he hadn’t talked in weeks, that the sharing of the poem had been another lifetime. In one way Alyssa, you are right, our actions are pre-determined—but by us. Everything we do is pre-ordained by what we’ve done.

So you don’t believe in God, E.K.? Rachel asked.

I don’t think that’s a question that I can truthfully answer, E.K. offered her. I can’t know that. Do I think there’s proof? No. But whether or not he exists, I don’t know.

Proof? You do mean like, facts? How about the Bible? she said.

You’re kidding right? said Tommy, speaking back up. The class began to murmur; you could feel the divide happening.

Let’s not get into the Bible, Emma said. She knew that the time for diplomacy had come and gone.

Okay, how about logic, Alyssa began. All of you would agree that there is evil, right? I mean, right now evil is abounding. And there has to be opposites. So, empty and full; wet and dry; light and dark. And good and evil. If there’s a Devil, there must be a God.

Who said that there’s a devil? That evil has a purveyor? E.K. asked.

The Bible, Alyssa said. Well, pilgrim, as Jeff and Anthony snorted.. They had checked out, there was no more debate to them. E.K.’s patience with them had snapped, so he turned to them and told them to keep quiet.

But the Bible is written by man. Errors would exist, E.K. said with reason.

Alyssa, to the point of tears, and with no one really coming to her defense, besides the guy she was debating with, resorted to, But can’t you feel the presence of God, within you, in your heart? Can’t you feel the Holy Spirit?

E.K.’s shoulders dropped. It wasn’t that she had failed to make a valid point. It wasn’t even that she was using something as unquantifiable as a belief to augment her point of view.

You’re talking about the Holy Spirit—the connection between God and the people of his image, right? E.K. asked, knowing exactly what she meant. You see the problem with that, is I don’t think that there is a connection, because I don’t think that is what the Holy Trinity is about.

What do you think it’s about E.K.? Emma asked, curious. Out of all the religious and existential conversations she had shared with E.K., she had not heard this point he now carried.

E.K. smiled bitterly. He was going to draw from his debates with his old friend, Harvey.

Well let me start off track. What’s the point of a trinity, and by extension, a triumvirate? To balance the power. Caesar, Pompey, Crassus; Zeus, Hades, Poseidon; FDR, Churchill, Stalin. Three powers, needing balance amongst them. And what you are suggesting is that we’re talking about God, the Son of God, and their connection to us, right? But there’s no reason for a balance there.

E.K., get to the point, ’cause you’re losing us, Emma said.

E.K.’s mind lost focus, there was