1000001 American Nights

By Nelson Lowhim

One of the best and most innovative set of stories you'll ever read. Written with the same fury they had in '68, these stories range from modern fairy tales to scifi to the best MFA-wannabe stories this side of the Rio Grande. I know you'll have your doubts, but assuage them with a quick sample, then buy it lickety-split-quickety or something like that.
Be warned, though, you'll need a stiff drink of scotch to drink some of the stories down with.
Note that this contains all the stories written by Lowhim from 2010-2017. This includes classics such as Satan's Plea, The Struggle, Cleanse the Soul, Quantum Swarm, RAW: RoboAnthroWar and many more! Enjoy them while you can. Thanks to The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, OMNI.Media, LA Review of LA for being the first to publish some of these stories. Oh, and the number is binary.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nelson Lowhim
• Release date: Jan 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224738779

Nelson Lowhim

Lowhim served in the US Army as a Green Beret Engineer and graduated from Columbia University. He's been published in LA review of LA, Nine Line Anthology, and Afterwords. Born in the bubbling cauldron of Tanzania, where he picked up his first pen at the age of two and chewed. He's progressed much since then. He wrote his first story at 5, a knockoff of all the prince-saves-princess stories he'd read at the time. Life did not rest. It took him to India, then frigid Michigan. The shock, according to parent-sources, was a character building exercise. Lowhim, however, only remembered clenched fingers trying to write. Shorts about teen angst kept him going. Soon he was hitchhiking the mountainous American West where the outlaw locals kept his journal full of color. It wasn't long before he joined the US Army where the detritus of Babylon only furthered his literary ambitions. Iraq wasn't done with him. He would return, an engineer in 5th SFG. When he returned from this trip, he finished his first novel. Released upon the world, he attended Columbia University. He spent his free time writing and working with other authors. He graduated and has since been penning some of the most ambitious novels this side of that Pluto rock. Lowhim currently lives with his girlfriend in the Bronx. You can visit his blog at: http://nelsonlowhim.blogspot.com/ And you can sign up for book deals here: http://eepurl.com/DX2In His novels are: When Gods Fail (the series), The Struggle Trilogy, Tree of Freedom, and CityMuse

Book preview

A Cabin Tale

A branch scrapes against the window, and I jump. My eyes move to the window with the offending tree tips. The wind's picking up, and the branch whips away from the window and back at it. I jump again.

We should have cut that tree long ago, grandpa says. That thing is too damn close. Day like this, it’s gonna fall on us. He pushes his glasses closer to his eyes as he peers over the newspaper and eyes me. I’m not sure if he wants me to answer. Grandpa can be like that. He says things, usually a complaint, and if I answer or say something I think will help him, he only looks at me. He does the same if I don’t answer either. This time he grunts.

I look back down at my book. It’s a fairytale book that my pa gave me last week. I’m almost done with it. I can hear grandpa snap the newspaper back into reading position. Another scrape. I get up and walk to the window. Winter is almost here. It hasn’t snowed yet, but it’s cold. My nose presses against the freezing glass. I try to make out any shapes. It’s night so it’s already too dark to see much. The forest that surrounds our cabin is dark and only the branches make themselves known.

They slap against the window and I jolt back. My breath’s left an odd shape on the glass. I rub it out, the squeaking sound, my sound, reassures me.

Step back from there, grandpa pipes up. "You’re liable to lose an eye if the branch decides to go through the window.

I step back, scared. Now, in my mind, the branches have the ability to decide whether to break the window, or not. And now the entire forest has this ability. In my mind, a million branches are reaching out to me. I look over at grandpa. He snorts. He’s about the same size as my pa, though a little shriveled.

When’s pa gonna come back? I ask. Sit tight, my grandpa says.

He’ll be back.

The darkness around us, the branches that can decide, all make me shiver. I feel safer with pa around, and right now he’s out for a trip to the next cabin. At least two miles away. He went through a trail in the forest. I know my pa is tough. But sometimes I worry.

Get back to reading, my grandpa says, snorts. You can’t do much, worrying from there.

I listen to him and walk back to my book. It’s just rustling of branches, I tell myself. It’s just the wind. I look around our cabin. It’s only one room with one window and one door. If there is something out there, there’s no way it will get in here.

I stare at my book, but now the words won’t string together. Pa always says you should read as much as you can. Then some rustling starts outside. I cock my head and wonder if it's real. The rustling gets louder. Something's walking through the woods nearby. And it’s big. I even see grandpa tense up and turn his head. My heart starts to pound and I feel like peeing. But the outhouse is at least fifty feet from the cabin. I press my legs together.

Do you hear that? I ask.

Grandpa lowers his newspaper again. He’s moving his jaw and staring at me as if I’m a real problem. He’s always like that. No matter what I do, the best I can get is a grunt.

I heard it, he finally says.

What is it? I ask. I’m worried about us. And for a second I’m also worried about my pa. He’s supposed to be walking through the woods with that thing out there. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him. Mainly because if something can get him, it will definitely get me.

Nothing. Maybe a bear, grandpa says.

I stare at him in disbelief. He’s always saying things that scare me. Not

like he means it. But he just doesn’t care what it will do to me. I picture the bear coming through the window. We don’t usually get bears out here, but pa always tells me not to confront them. They’re known to carry kids away.

His eyes run over me, and he lets out some air. Don’t worry. It’s not going to come in here. Or hurt your pa. He has the shotgun, remember?

That’s true. When the neighbor’s son came over in the evening and said that his pa needed my pa right away, pa took the shotgun and told us to hold tight.

The rustling gets louder. Suddenly it seems like it’s outside the door.

Now I have to pee bad.

Grandpa puts down his newspaper on the table and gets up. It takes him a long time to stand up. He always holds his back like it’s another person. When he gets up, he walks over to the bed and to the rack above it. There’s an ax and he takes it and does a couple of half swings. I can hear the swoosh. I’ve seen my pa with that ax and he’s much faster. But even if grandpa is slow, him holding the ax makes me feel safe.

Are you scared too? I ask when he finally moves back to his chair, sets the ax on the table and picks up the newspaper.

He looks at me for a long time. It’s the same look he gave me when I fell once and made my knee bleed. I cried and he stared at me before shaking his head. My pa doesn’t like me crying either, but at least he tells me it’s going to be okay.

Come here, he says.

I walk over to him. He smells like old newspaper, and I smell the metal off the ax. Pa makes sure it’s sharpened every day.

Grandpa looks like he’s ready to shake his head, but instead he seems to think of something. I decide I need to say something before he does. I

don’t like it when he scolds me. It’s worse than when pa does it. I don’t

know how, but it is.

I know I shouldn’t be scared, I say.

He nods his head and places the newspaper on top of the ax. He squints.

The rustling around the cabin gets louder. It seems like there are more bears. I’m sure I hear sniffing. He furrows his forehead. Mmm. Damn bastards getting too close.

I should probably tell him not to say that word, because pa has told him not to say it in front of me, but I don’t.

You’re a boy. It’s okay to be scared.

I’m a boy, not a man. I’ve been told that ever since I can remember. That’s one of the things that makes me mad. I can’t help it that I’m a boy, can I? I want to be a man already, but I just can’t.

Don’t worry, he says. I’m not blaming you. If I become a man, will I stop being scared?

I hope that he will answer with a simple yes, but he gives me another one of those long looks and stares down at his hands. I look too. I like his hands. They're more interesting than mine, and even my pa’s. Grandpa’s are missing a pinky on one hand, and has scars all up and down his palms and the back of them. It reminds me of those paintings that I’ve seen in books. The ones that don’t seem to make sense. I can’t ask about them, though. I did once and he snorted and grunted and kept reading his newspaper.

You’ll always be scared, he says. Nothing you can do about it. Life throws things at you that are damn scary. But you can face it, and not do nothing.

That makes me feel worse.

I don’t get it, I say.

His mouth cracks and widens a little. I’m not sure if it’s a smile. If it is, it’s the first time I’ve seen him smile. I feel better.

It’s a hard thing to get, he says. I’m not certain if I get it.

I pause. I’ve never heard an adult say they don’t get it. I’m back to feeling worse. Wasn’t that the point of becoming a man to understand the world?

You don’t? I ask, hoping he will say it was a joke. I don’t, he says, letting out a sigh. He looks sad. Are you scared now? I ask.

He sticks out his lower lip, like he’s thinking really hard. Not really.

I hear rustling outside the door again. A loud grunt, or bellow sounds

off.

The wind picks up. I hear it shaking the window. A little of the air gets

in the cracks between, and a howling sound bounces around the cabin. The

tree branch scrapes against the window, then suddenly it snaps and hits the window hard before falling down. I look at grandpa.

It’s the wind. Don’t worry about it, he says.

And then the lights go out. We have two bulbs that are powered by propane. Now, however, they’re gone. Pee pushes out. I manage to hold it in.

Where’s that lantern at? he asks. It’s next to the stove.

Get it. And the matches.

I take short steps towards the stove, my hands in front of me. I can smell the wood cabin, and there's something else. Fur? I'm not sure but it scares me. The stove's right behind grandpa, so I make sure to stay clear of his legs and chair.

With every step I half expect to run into some creature, or bear. I want

light. That way I can be sure that there’s nothing else in the cabin. As long as it’s dark, I won’t be able to tell. I touch the stove, and move my hands over to where the lantern should be on the counter. At first I can’t feel it, and I wonder if it’s there at all.

Then I touch the lantern, and a box of matches. I pick them up and walk back to grandpa. Here, he says and takes them from me. All I hear are the howling and the rustling of the bears. I hope none of them are inside yet.

Grandpa strikes a match and his face and the table come into view. He lights the wick in the lantern and closes the casing. Most of the cabin comes into view. There’s nothing else. That I can see. Though I haven’t checked the corners, or under the bed. I don’t want to say anything to grandpa about my suspicions because he will only snort and grunt at me.

The wind probably tore down the wires, he says. I nod. Bears are mean, aren’t they? I ask.

He looks at me, then the window. I wouldn’t say mean, exactly. But I suppose that they act mean a lot. That’s just their nature. They’re big animals, and they don’t much like us around.

Why? I ask.

He lets out air like he knew this was coming. I try to stay as still as possible. He seems angry.

They’re big. Carnivores. All big carnivores act like that. They need to, or else they wouldn’t have made it this far.

His face tells me that I shouldn’t ask any more questions. But I can’t help it. Is that why some people are mean?

His face breaks in half, though I’m still not sure if he’s smiling or not. It’s a little different than that.

I swallow and take a step towards him. I’m finding that the longer I talk

to him, the more I like it. I can smell his cologne. It’s like sour flowers. Are your hands from mean people? I ask. I know that pa once said

that grandpa was in some war and that I wasn’t to ask, but I want to hear him speak.

He looks at his hands like they’re not his. For some reason I stick my hands next to his. Maybe he’ll see that his hands are his own after all.

A grunt comes from his throat when I do this, and he takes my hand and places it next to his. Your hands are soft, he says and rubs his thumb over my palm. It feels relaxing when he does it, and I wish he won’t stop.

You have no marks. Clear, perfect hands, no mess, he says.

The way he says it, it’s like he wishes his hands were like mine. That doesn’t make sense, because to become a man I always thought that you needed to have scars on your hands, or missing fingers. Why would he not want to be a man?

I wish they weren’t like that. I wish they were like yours. This time I know he smiles.

You’ll have plenty of time for that, he says. How did you lose your finger? I ask.

Other men were... shooting at me. They missed.

They shot your finger? I ask, not quite sure if he was lying or not. They did.

Then how did they miss? I ask.

My grandpa leans back and lets out a laugh. It’s the first time I’ve seen him laugh too.

I don’t know why he’s doing it, though. Did I say something funny? "Guess they didn’t. Though I’m sure that they would have liked to have shot

something else."

I don’t know what; I don’t ask.

The rustling outside gets louder, the howling picks up, and I swear I can hear them pawing the side of the cabin.

Are they trying to get inside? Doubtful, he says.

Then why did you get the ax?

His hand reaches over to the ax and runs over the handle. Just for reassurance, he says.

From this angle, the scars on his hands look deeper. Those men. Were they mean? Evil? I ask. I’ve heard that word before, evil, and I know it’s something scary, something I need to stay away from, and yet I'm not certain what it really is.

Maybe. Are bears evil?

He looks down at me and doesn’t answer me. The rustling turns into a growl outside. It’s a very deep growl. A shiver runs up my body. I’m cold, and wish I could sit on my grandpa’s lap. But it’s something I’m afraid to ask for.

But people can be evil? I ask, now certain that evil and mean are the same.

They can be, he says after glancing at the newspaper. How do you know someone’s evil?

You don’t. Well, it’s in all of us. Evil.

I pause, not sure if I heard him right. Even me? The growling is getting louder outside.

Your pa ever tell you about the first people?

My pa tells me a lot of stories. I’ve even read the good book. And yet there was never any mention of first people anywhere. I’m not sure if I’ve heard this one. I shake my head. "Well, you see once upon a time, years

ago, before even my grandpa was born, when the earth was young, there

were the first people. Like in—"

No, he says before I can finish. This story isn’t in any books. What about God?

Do you want me to finish? All those other stories are just watered down versions of this one true story, he says, his voice getting low and growling like the bears outside.

I try to stay as silent and still as possible, so he will finish.

These people were raised from the earth itself. From the secrets that the earth will take with her when she dies.

I don't know what that means, but I nod my head.

They came into being and only knew that they were the First people, men and women. They also knew that the earth provided for them. That it gave them enough to eat, to live, and not worry about dying. During these first moments, with plenty to eat, the first people never fought, never argued. They lived in perfect harmony.

My knees are tired so I squat next to his legs. I lean against his shin and instinctively hug it. The pant leg is a crusty jean, and I smell old food, mud. He doesn’t move, or react to my position so I lean my ear against it. The view now is of his giant legs, and nostrils. I stare at his nose hairs, glowing in the lantern light.

"Then one day a young boy from the First people was bored and decided to go out and explore. He ran as far as he could and climbed a small hill. Here he found a cave. It was dark in there, and though he was scared, he went in. There wasn’t much in there, just a pile of rocks. One by one, he picked up these rocks and looked at them. They weren’t

like anything he’d seen before. They were glassy, black rocks." My grandpa stops to hold out his hand, as if to say the rocks were this size.

"Harder than the hardest rock he had ever seen. As he looked at each one,

he finally found one at the bottom. This one was the sharpest, and held it carefully in his hand. Even then, he cut himself just holding it. Now remember, these were the First people. They did not have knives or sharp objects."

I nod at his nostrils, letting him know I’m listening and not going to interrupt him. "The boy took this rock in his hand and ran as fast as he could back home.

By the time he got home, his hand was cut beyond repair. His mother saw his hand and asked what happened. When the boy told her she asked why he didn’t just drop the stone. By this time his pa had come in and asked the same thing. The boy said that he didn’t know, but he just couldn’t let go of the stone. His parents cursed the wretched stone, threw it in a corner of their hut, and tried took their boy to the medicine man. He fixed their boy up, and asked them how this happened. He was one of the oldest men of the First people, yet even he had never seen such clean cuts."

Without making any noise, I try to swallow. I could picture a boy just like myself with a hand full of cuts. Once, when I stole my pa’s knife, I cut myself on my hand. It hurt. And that was only one cut. The thought of more cuts on the same hand sent a sharp pain through my hand and arm. My hands clutched grandpa’s legs. I took some of his jean pant leg into my mouth.

Grandpa snorts. Well the parents took him to the stone. They expected the medicine man to get rid of it, but instead he held it up as a holy rock. The parents were furious. How could a rock that tried to kill their son be holy?

Was it evil? I ask.

Grandpa snorts again. I don’t think he’s going to answer me.

"Well the First people didn’t know what to do. They all gathered and

discussed the stone. Half of them thought it was holy and that it would

make like easier. The other half, along with the parents, said it had done evil and would only do more."

So the stone was evil. I squirm as I stop myself from saying this. I don’t want to see my grandpa snort again. All his nose hairs seem alive when he does that.

That night they all slept in a circle around the stone. They had decided that the next day they would reason it out again, all they needed was a good night’s sleep. This stone obviously had some power over them. There had never been arguments before, and now there were. Nevertheless one night’s sleep was all they thought they would need and they could figure out a way to get back to normal. Little did they know that the stone was only starting. Grandpa raises his hand and curls his finger in front of my face. His hand almost seems like a creature and I bury my face into his pants. He lifts me up and sets me down on his lap.

The stone melted off all the boy’s blood that night. And the earth, sipped it all up. Never before had so much blood been shed. And when blood was dropped on the ground strange things started to happen. The ground grew a mind of it own and it started to take over all living creatures around.

My heart is in my throat at this point. Grandpa’s breath’s like a hot wind bearing bad news. I don’t want to hear what’s going to happen. Bad things happening when you sleep keeps me up a lot of nights.

And that’s what it did that night, it went inside all the First people and became a part of them.

The door rattles with a loud thud, and a scraping sound pushes against it. Grandpa’s eyes widen. For a second I think he’s scared, but he snorts and his face turns mean. I realize that I’m clutching his shirt and my cheek is resting on his chest.

Are they trying to come in? I whisper.

Don’t worry. We’ll give them hell if they do.

I pause. I know pa said that no man without a gun has a chance against a bear. I feel sick.

So you think they’re going to come in? I ask.

No, they won’t, grandpa says, though I’m not sure he believes this.

I wish we had a gun, I say. I really wish that pa didn’t take the only one gun we own. He could do more damage with an ax than grandpa. But I don’t say this. The wind picks up and the whole forest seems to heave, as if they’re helping the bears by giving them a chant. My skin tickles, and I want to cry. Just when it looks like the door is bulging into the cabin, the bears stop.

For a while I listen to the forest, a million branches moving to the wind. I'm tired now. I half close my eyes. Suddenly I’m where the First people were. I’m trying to wake them up before the stone got into them.

You falling asleep on me?

I lift my head up. Grandpa's looking down at me with a smirk on his face. I look around. The wind is still pushing the forest.

What happened to them? I ask. Who? grandpa asks.

The First people. The stone got into all of them, right? That’s right.

Did it cut them?

You mean inside them? Like the boy’s hand, I say.

No. It got inside them, but at this point it was like a spirit. So the spirit of the stone was inside all the First people.

I try to imagine how a stone could have a spirit, and on top of that how it could live in people.

You look confused, grandpa says.

What does it mean? I’m trying to remember why he told me the story.

Well it became a stone that they all had to carry from that day on. Except now that the spirit was inside the First people it was used to cut into others. It was a weapon and they could choose to cut into someone else, if they wanted.

So they stopped being friends?

Some did. Some went on being friends. But from that day on they were never the same again. Fights happened, and they hurt each other even when they didn’t mean it.

What happened after that?

They split up when the fighting became too much and each went their own way. That’s why there are so many people all over the world today. And we have this stone. I do? I move my hand to my chest, wondering where a stone could possibly fit.

It’s a spirit stone, remember? And yes, we all have it inside us.

Was that why I sometimes get angry with people, even my pa, and wish to hit them so hard they’ll fall down? I don’t ask my grandpa this. A large crack sounds and I jerk my head. There’s a clear line on the window. A crack. Are they trying to get inside by way of the window?

Are they? I ask, to scared to ask the entire question. Now I feel like really peeing. I press my knees together and hope that nothing comes out.

No, they couldn’t be, my grandpa says. But I can tell from the way he says it, that he’s worried. He reaches for the handle of the ax.

I squeeze my knees together, pushing my hand to tamp the piss that’s trying to come out.

Grandpa reaches for the lantern and turns it so low that it’s dark again. I want you to be quiet, all right?

I nod my head, but wonder if he can see me. Grasping his shirt, I tug

on it so he knows that I can hear him.

Good, he whispers. When I tell you to, I want you to hide in the cupboard underneath the kitchen counter.

I nod my head. I’ve hidden there before, but pa has told me not to.

Right now it sounds like a good idea.

I’ll lock you in, but you stay there until you hear one of us say something. Got it?

I tug his shirt. I can smell a faint smell, like burning coming off him. His breathing is a little faster, and that makes me more scared. My eyes adjust to the darkness, but mainly they see the outline of the window, the bed, and not much else.

The wind rocks the window. I expect it to give way, but it doesn’t. Why didn’t the bear just break the window?

It takes a few more moments of me trying to hold my pee in, and feeling my heart beating so fast it just feels like it’s pushing against my chest, to realize that there is no more rustling. This only makes me think about peeing more. I squirm.

I don’t hear anything, I say as softly as I can, because I have to talk otherwise I’ll start thinking about my pee, and then I’ll lose it all.

I know, he whispers. Let’s be quiet a little while longer.

I shift, almost force myself to think of the scary bears, anything but peeing.

I think they’re gone, I say.

Grandpa only breathes. I feel his chest rising and falling, like a machine. I think of the First people and the surprise that they must have felt when the stone entered them. Did they even know? Did they wake up like it was a bad dream and suddenly start doing different things the next day? Did they not wonder? I too feel like that sometimes. Like I wake up and suddenly

I’m acting differently than I should. Is that why? Are there other spirits? Is

that why the bears are doing this tonight? I’ve never heard of them breaking in here. And now they’re trying. Was it a spirit inside them?

Have you ever seen them do this before? I ask. I feel grandpa as he shakes his head.

Is it a spirit stone? Maybe one got inside them last night. He snorts, or lets out a half snort.

I can’t tell if that means yes or no. I guess it must mean yes. Then I think of pa out there with the spirit stone bears attacking him. My pee almost bursts out. I press down harder with my hand.

Is pa going to be okay? If the bears are listening to their spirit stones, then what can he do?

Your pa knows how to handle himself, grandpa says. I have to pee.

He lets out a chest of air and sinks his head closer to mine. Can you hold it?

I shake my head.

He nods and looks around and grabs an almost empty bottle of bourbon on the table. He unscrews it. I wonder if he’s going to make me drink it. How will that help?

Here, use this.

I stare at him. I can barely see his eyes in the lantern’s glow. Just do it, he says.

I undo my pants and pull it out, holding the bottle-top to me. I’ve only ever seen my pa drink out of this so I feel bad about peeing into it. But there’s not much time for me to think. My body convulses and I release into the bottle.

When I’m done, Grandpa screws the top and places the bottle on the table. A second later he places it on the floor. Better make sure your old man doesn’t drink from that.

I nod, and though I think it will be funny if he drinks from it, I keep

that to myself. My brain turns to thinking about the bears outside. Silence breaks through and my ears whine. The wind picks back up. I’m back to being scared. It’s like we’re waiting for the bears to eat us. What can that ax do? With my heart getting messy in my mouth, I grasp my grandpa’s shirt. I want pa.

I know, he says and pats my head. He sounds sad, and I wonder if he wants pa here too.

Nestling my head into his shirt, and chest, I try to remember what he told me to do if the bears came in, but I can’t remember what exactly. Would it matter?

The wind cuts through the roof. I feel colder than I ever have before.

With my eyes closed, I stare at the small ember-like light coming from the lantern.

I think the bears’ stones wanted the light, I say. I think so too. Will they leave us alone now?

They might. Or not.

Sleep, he says and pats my head.

I close my eyes. There’s nothing more than a brief second where I wonder what it is I would do if the bears come crashing in. Right now it would be to sleep. Even if they knocked down the door, I would like to sleep.

A knock on the door startles me and I clutch on to grandpa’s shirt. I just barely manage to not slip off.

Are the bears here? I ask.

My grandpa gets up and puts me aside. Who is it?

It’s me, pa, a voice says.

I run to the door. It’s a little dark in the cabin, but not as much as

before. I open the door to see my pa and I run to him. He takes me up in his arms. He smells of sour sweat. I hug him as hard as I can.

Pa, you’re alive, I say, because I really didn’t expect him to make it past the bears.

He laughs and looks at my grandpa who comes to the door. The wind has died down, and birds are chirping everywhere. I can see the forest clearly against the sky that’s turning light.

Where did you get the idea that I wouldn’t be?

I take a deep breath, getting ready to tell him all that’s swirling in my mind. The bears pa. They were trying to eat us. They had spirit stones in them and the stones were telling them to get the light, so we turned off the light and so they left us alone. But they were evil, even if grandpa says they weren’t, because they had spirit stones, like us. My pa smiles. It’s an odd smile.

Is that right? he says and raises his eyebrows at my grandpa. What have you been feeding him?

I can hear that my pa doesn’t believe me. And my grandpa is giving me a look like he can’t believe me either.

He’s right, my grandpa says. The bears were knocking on the sides and door. They broke a window, I say.

My grandpa nods. He’s right about that too.

The bears? my pa now looks at us both like we’re nuts.

And the spirit stone, I add, hoping this will make him believe.

Instead, he shakes his head.

Spirit stone? You scaring him? my pa says.

I was trying to explain something to him, my grandpa says with a gruff tone. They’re fighting when they should be looking for bears. I try to keep an eye out for them. "And there haven’t been bears in this area for

years. I walked here and didn’t see any. They were here," my grandpa

says. He sounds tired. Did you see them? We heard them.

But you didn’t see them, my pa says, like this settles it.

Look, I say and point. My pa turns his head and glances at the huge paw prints on the ground.

See? my grandpa says.

My pa puts me down and crouches next to the paw prints. They are huge. The size of my pa’s head. That’s really big.

There must have been at least five of them, my pa says. "Adults.

Males. Large. What were they doing here?"

I don’t know, my grandpa says. I didn’t want to believe it either.

My pa follows one set of prints to the door. There’s a huge claw mark on the top edge of the door. He rubs his hand on it. They were really trying to get in, weren’t they?

Something about the light, my grandpa says.

And the spirit stone, pa. They must have had one. Like us. Like bad people.

My pa now seems to take my words like they’re possible. Maybe, son, maybe. He turns and looks at the forest where all the paw prints lead to. Might have to see what this was about.

You can’t go alone, my grandpa says. Not with the size of these bears.

I won’t, my pa says. "But I can't leave you two alone without a gun, either.

A few minutes later we’re in the cabin eating breakfast. It’s a rabbit that my pa caught the previous evening.

Pa, so those bears had a spirit stone in them?

"Something like that son. Sometimes things are so crazy, so out of

place that a spirit stone is all that can explain what happened."

I keep quiet, as I don’t understand what he said, nor do I want to ask and hear him say that I’ll get it when I’m older. I look at my grandpa who gives me a solemn look. I like that. He’s treating me like I’m an adult. They talk about getting a party of the locals together so that we can look after the bears. I wonder how they can possibly do this. After all, the spirit stones are a part of us too. How can we hunt something that’s like us? Pa? I say.

What is it?

Are you looking for the bears to take back their spirit stones? Not exactly.

Then why hunt them, if they’re like us?

We just have to make sure they don’t do what they did last night. Do you believe in spirit stones? I ask.

In a way, I do.

Then all people want to do evil? It’s something we have to fight.

Wouldn’t killing the bears be evil? Do they know what they’re doing? My pa puts down a piece of bread and stares down at his empty plate. That’s not for us to decide.

What’s not? I ask. What’s evil or not.

I pause. I’m sure I’ve heard my pa speak that word before, evil, and now he’s saying something crazy.

What I mean, son, is that’s why the spirit stone is so hard to defeat. It’s in all of us. We may try to fight it, but it does a very good job of covering up what’s evil or not. In fact we can’t really say, and because of that the spirit stone has a lot of control over us.

My pa wipes his plate with his piece of bread. I think back to the time that I pushed down Clara, a girl in my old school. When I had done it I

hadn’t even thought about it. And only afterwards, when she cried and the

teacher pulled my ear and punished me, did I know I had done wrong. So is that it? That everyday I'll battle my spirit stone and not know what evil was?

I chew the meat, feel the long fibers in my mouth, and swallow. Maybe the bears are the same. Maybe right now they know what they did was evil. Maybe it didn’t make sense to hunt them because they already knew. I raise my head to tell my pa, but he’s already putting on his jacket and checking his rifle. Beside him, my grandpa is wielding the ax and swinging it in the air. They both give me a nod of approval and I feel happy that they want me to come with them. Will they consider me a man now? The possibility fills me with happiness and I stand up, smiling.

Cleanse the Soul

For a moment, the man thought he was back home with his mother and father smiling down on him. When he woke up, he found that he was in a room, a pool of urine around him. He tried to think of the many ways that he could escape. There were none. Footsteps echoed in the distance and came to him. His heart sank; a hole formed in his mind.

Everything went black.

He felt a pain in his armpits as two men dragged him into a room. He heard the door slam shut. Metal grinding on concrete. He willed his feet to move-they wouldn't. Was he that scared? Certainly he could at least move his feet, he thought. Again they wouldn't listen. The men threw him on the ground.

A few seconds passed, he willed himself to get up, to not take this lying down, and yet no part of his body wanted to listen. Was this how it ended? Him going out like a lamb? A cry bubbled to his lips and he clenched his jaw trying to suppress it. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry. He closed his eyes praying that the tears threatening to drip out wouldn't. After a second, he felt like he had won the war with his body's involuntary system.

Opening his eyes, he saw the two men who had carried him- recognizable by their large arms and thick fingers-looking down on him with half- grins. They sported massive jaws and long faces, with eyes that telegraphed how little they thought of him.

I think he's scared, Frank, one of them said. He had a lighter hair than the other man, and appeared to be several years older than his partner.

I think he is, the younger man says, his tone soft.

Their emasculating tones were like slaps to the man. The man took in

the room, trying to make out if this would be his new place of confinement, or the cube where he'd spend his final moments of his life. He was surrounded by cement and the smell of harsh pine smelling cleaners. Underneath those agents of households there is a stench that wormed its way into his mind. Organic and human. This aroma told a tale of flesh torn, and of fear. And that this room was used to tear flesh and was furthermore cleaned after the fact makes the man's heart moan.

There was nothing else in the room except for a metal table to the side, and a light bulb. The man propped himself up on an elbow.

Stay down, the older man in a black three-piece suit ordered.

The man listened, though he wasn't certain why. If he's here to die, why should he care? And yet he felt like there was some hope, if only he could charm one of the two men standing above him. He thought back to when he first saw the two men in front of his cell. Instead of breakfast he was given a couple of punches in his gut and a few kicks to his leg. He glanced at his legs, and made sure that nothing was broken. He shifted his legs.

Stop moving, the larger man said and took a step forward.

The man tried to speak, but nothing came out. He was torn between apologizing for everything he had done, to trying to knock the two of them down. He couldn't imagine himself bearing the pain much longer. Before this, before he had been caught, or kidnapped, or what have you