#pictures squared

Where to begin with my wishes...

I wish I was that kind of person. Who could rate other people, profit from my judgment. Assess the crowd and give a number and when my scam starts to gain traction, I change course. Be friendlier. Let others judge others for me. Take a step back. Sit and watch everything. I wish I could see it all unfold in front of me. This cruel god with the face of an animal cracker.

Am I already cruel? Am I judging? I wish not to know. I already think the answer is 'yes' and I don't need others to tell me. I need my privacy. I need to know everything about others. I need them not to have their privacy. I wish to have all the money and dominion over everything and not to have it go questioned. I'm sorry, I'm not your friend. I'm not Tom. I'm not open to the public.

I want to be the recluse with the smiling face. I want to absolve myself of great responsibility while keeping all the power. I wish not to be questioned on my methods. I don't want them to know there is no rhyme or reason. I wish that if I was caught cooperating with evil that I not be seen as the evil one. I want to be so rich I can start my own currency.

Or we could just forget about all those things because most of all what I want is the seclusion. All the rest is irrelevant. But I signed the terms of service and now I have to follow through. I can't close myself off because I started opening myself up and no matter how much I try to take myself off, I'm still out there. Even in memoriam, you can still see me. I wish that was a luxury I didn't have.

And data? Is that all I am? Series of traits, series of DNA, collected to be harvested. Was that in the terms of service? I wish I was the one at the other end, exploiting everyone, extracting to build a farm of advertisements. I wish I didn't have to care who to cater to or who my audience was. That everyone can see it and urge everyone to join in on the fun. But I don't see it as fun. That's why I would let others watch instead. I'll be off harvesting land, devastating whatever I wish. Does that sound cruel? Does that sound selfish? Well, don't be foolish. I only wish I could be cruel and selfish.

At one point in time, with due diligence, I could have learned computer programming. I could have applied myself and not fallen behind in my lessons. I could have focused. I could have learned to code and start up my own website. I could have thought up a means of making money to keep the website running until the website made its money for me.

I wonder if that's why I wanted to learn. That if I learned to code and program, would I have really done such a thing? Still, there was potential. There was potential to be rewarded for being an asshole. For having the same attitudes as bullies, for displaying all the traits of what some call toxic masculinity and because I chose what some call nerdy, I would be rewarded for it. There was potential there. But was it me? I think there was potential to corrupt myself, just a little. I think I would have to start with already having that in me. I think there was every opportunity to have some of the negative traits of man and still be rewarded.

But I am no man. Maybe that's just one of my failings.

I can't even begin to explain how I might have the capacity for unnerving cruelty and I could be so cruel with the most innocent of looks. That even among those who make their jokes, I've still got their lives in my hands. That someone could make a movie of me, portray me in a negative light, and I will still be the one benefiting.

In court, they will see my face, and I wish for them to see nothing. That is how much I want to show to the world. Even thinking of how I am not plugged in, not signed up, and I am still on display, at any moment, but there was a moment where I thought I didn't have to be.

Does it look like I'm spending so much time picking on someone so timid? This is me hacking away at myself. I wish I wasn't the timid one. I wish I could be seen as timid without actually being timid. That I had an inflated complex and I could tell myself how important I've made myself out to be. I wish I could tell myself how much people depend on me, regardless if those people would admit it. Regardless if they want to. I wish I could get others to run my empire, but therein lies the folly: I never want to start.

I don't want to make people comfortable with being spied on. I don't want to work with corporations and the police. I don't want people to spy on each other, to foster paranoia. I am afraid people already are comfortable with these things. I wish they weren't. I wish I could make a statement letting them know they don't have to be okay with these things. I wish people would like what I have to say, and share it.

I know that if I was the architect of such an empire, that there is a sliver of a possibility of me being comfortable with a dominion of ignorance or a people comfortable with rights being taken from them. That so long as I get my privacy, everyone else could kiss theirs goodbye. Does that scare me?

She inspected all the local fruits and vegetables at a farm on an island. Every month or so she would go when she had extra money to set aside. It was a sort of paradise, getting to enjoy the labors of foods grown near her. Memories of her childhood when her parents would take her and her brother to the pumpkin patch, take home corn, and pluck the peaches off of their trees. Such memories was what led to her coming to this island farm each month.

″Spectacular Watermelons″, read a sign. Curiosity got the better of her. Whether her mind or her legs wandering off, she found herself in the patch of spectacular watermelons, unsure what awaited her. Yet to take anything home, it may not have hurt her to look for guidance in the watermelons. Many looked plump, only a few small. It was hard to determine which was good and which wasn't, but according to the sign, they were spectacular.

″Speak and tell, speak and tell,″ she heard some voices say. Others saying things like, ″falling from a windowsill.″ She didn't know where those voices were coming from. There was no one else in the fields with her. Other people were cherry picking fruits in any other fruits besides cherries. Vegetables were inspected from faraway. She could only see, but not hear the mouths of humans. Besides, these voices didn't have a particular tone or inflection, rather seeming to be a mish-mash of varying tones and inflections from her years of listening to people speak.

She thought she saw a round watermelon, such a perfect sphere, but she was deterred from picking it up when she heard a voice just behind her whisper.

″Look for the sign of the silver owl,″ it said. 'It' in question, being a watermelon. A little weathered, a little bruised. Seeming to have seen better days, but no less spectacular than any other. Unsure whether or not in a haze from the late summer sun, she knocked on the watermelon.

″Hey!″ It barked, but with no mouth to bark with. Only a little bit of dirt on its surface and vines surrounding it. She tried poking it. No ″hey″ this time.

″Look for the sign of the silver owl,″ it said again.

″What do you mean?″ She asked, hoping for an answer to this juicy riddle.

The watermelon repeated itself, just as a watermelon does.

She decided that there must have been some answer somewhere and that watermelon must have been the key, or at least some hint. The start of an adventure or a good luck charm. She pulled the watermelon and dropped it into her bag, which she then walked off, prepared to pay for the enslavement of such a being. All the while, the watermelon repeated the same thing, on and on.

Her way was becoming obscured. Elephants were better at this, but she was not in the right mind that day. She thought she would have been there by now, the place to check out the items and go home. Her car must have been miles away. The sky was changing shades, reflecting a passage which seemed unlikely. It was just early in the afternoon the last time she checked her phone, but now she looked and it said 8:45 PM. All logic may as well have been thrown out the window. In her bag was the watermelon, still saying the same thing. Only this time, there was also a couple shucks of corn, green beans, and bushels of grapes.

At least being in the corn fields were a little more comforting. She knew it was closer to the checkout area than where she was before. The watermelon still repeated those words. It was growing darker. Despite having corn in her bag, she had only just arrived in the fields. Birds of varying shapes and colors fluttered and landed on the stalks. Pigeons, crows and ravens, blue jays, hawks, doves. No silver owls.

Because of the words of the watermelon, she kept her eyes peeled. Why? She didn't know, but there must have been some significance. Funny, or coincidentally, enough, she saw owls. None of them silver. Most of them brown, or even some black ones. Owls that resembled ravens more than they did their owl kind. Each owl had one eye closed. Some their left, some their right. It was a peculiar thing. No explanation.

Some tragic accident? She asked herself.

″Look for the sign of the silver owl,″ the watermelon continued. This was a wasteful effort. What signs were there?

″Can you shut up?″ She asked the watermelon, although her tone suggested more politeness than her words, she was annoyed. The politeness came from exhaustion.

There was no shutting up this watermelon. She should have known after hours of carrying such a burden on her shoulders. Owls aren't all that interesting. Why did I listen to a watermelon?

In fact, despite the lack of interesting features she found in owls, she was beginning to see more of them than any other bird. None of them silver, still. The corn rows were beginning to form shapes of owls between them. If the last remaining bit of light hit the spaces in between just right, she thought that maybe there was just a sliver, just a little hint, of silver...

She was reaching the end of the corn field and she could see the canopy near the parking lot. The place where everyone went to pay. She had to be quick, for she knew that soon the place would close down, all the shopkeepers would go home, and the gates would close, leaving her stranded in a parking lot with a whole bunch of fruits and vegetables.

Despite knowing this, before she could move, she hit her head against a sign. Looking up, she saw a silver owl, perched. The watermelon stopped chanting.

Will woke up that morning and slipped on his slippers. He was still waking up and took slow strides toward the door. Once he reached it, he opened the door and took his steps downstairs. Grace hid underneath the bed.

Will made coffee, eggs, and bacon. Will did not eat the coffee. Nor did he drink the eggs, nor the bacon. After Will was done with his breakfast, he put his dishes in the sink and rinsed them off. He put his dishes in the dishwasher. He started the dishwasher. Grace hid in the cabinet under the kitchen sink.

Will went into the bathroom, removed his clothes, started the faucet, and turned on the shower. Will liked his showers lukewarm. Lukewarm showers made Will feel comfortable. Before Will went into the lukewarm shower, he removed his clothes and set them on the floor. Once Will was naked, he stepped into the shower and began the process of soap and lather and rinse and repeat. That was what Will did. Underneath the bathroom sink, in the cabinet, Grace hid.

Will finished his shower, put on a towel, picked up his clothes, and set them in the laundry basket. After performing such a good deed, Will proceeded to the bedroom, which contained Will's bed. Will sat on his bed and then Will stood up, went to his dresser, opened the dresser drawers, and took out some clothes to wear. Socks were the first to be put on, then shirt, then pants, then underwear. Or maybe the other way around. After he was fully clothed, Will took his towel and hung it up to dry. He let out a deep sigh. In his mind was the promise of another cup of coffee. Grace hid in the washing machine unit, adjacent to the laundry basket.

Will went back to the kitchen and poured himself another cup of coffee. This satisfied him. So much so that he crossed the threshold of the living room and stood next to his front door, slipped on some running shoes, and made the decision to step outside. This involved opening the front door. Winds swept upon opening the barrier between indoors and outdoors. Air hit Will and made him exhale a pleasurable sigh. Such gentle breezes gave way to Will stepping foot outside and closing the door behind him with the intention of going for a run, or going downtown. Grace hid in the bushes in his front yard.

Will did not drive. Instead, he was a good jogger. Everyone loved to watch Will in his yoga pants and sports bra. All the neighborhood cheered Will on. This persisted until Will reached the downtown part of town, to which he got distracted by a coffee shop which just opened up. Coffee sounded good at the time, so he figured why not, and went inside. Right outside, were tables. Several people read newspaper and sat at those tables. Grace hid in the mailbox right outside the coffee shop and next to the tables where the people sat at.

Will exited the coffee shop after having declared the coffee as “some mighty fine coffee”. This was the third cup so far and it was still before noon. Will noticed it was still early and decided to take a stroll through the park. He did not jog this time. He just walked. The park was not far. Only a few blocks. Once he arrived, he strolled about, just as he told himself he would. Grace hid behind the park entrance sign.

Will noticed all of the smiling faces and the children playing and it exhausted him. He sat alone at a park bench and watched all the commotion; he wished that the park had been empty. He forgot it was summer and children were on vacation. The adults, as well, or at least, most likely the case, were on vacation. Or maybe they were stay at home parents. Will could have stayed at home. He was already starting to drift off to sleep. There were gears in his body that were slowing down, indicating that he needed more coffee. He would have killed for some coffee, but not really. Not something so extreme. Maybe he would have sucked a guy off for some coffee. That sounded reasonable. Grace hid in the dirt, underneath the bench.

Will was still running low on steam and so far from home. Would if he could, he would jog the rest of the way home, but the blood in the veins of his well toned legs were stiff and slothful. Through sheer determination, he found his way home. Not by jogging, not by walking, nor biking, but by calling a taxi. The taxi picked Will up and saw the state Will was in and said that this one was on the house. Will didn't even argue. Driver of said taxi already knew where Will lived, as this hadn't been the first time. Without a sustained supply of coffee, Will could not support himself. Will sat in the back seat. Grace hid in the trunk.

Will exited the taxi, not before thanking the driver and handing the driver a rather large tip. The taxi sped away and Will was left with the task of making it inside. He could do that much. Through the thick of it all, Will never questioned how the taxi driver knew where Will lived. He figured that he must have taken that taxi before, though he could not remember when. Rather strange, but he shrugged it off and headed to the kitchen, picked up the cup of coffee, and chugged it down. Grace hid in the backyard and watched through the window.

It began among several families; television sets being turned on and the default channel being the local news. The anchorwoman began.

“Breaking news: a recall was just issued on cantaloupe after a reported listeria outbreak. People are advised to throw out any cantaloupe they have and not to consume any for the time being. We will keep you all posted on any updates as soon as they become available.”

In the kitchen, within eyesight of the living room, sat cantaloupe, on the counter. Slices of it had already been eaten. Many families had already made the mistake of diving in, filling their bellies with the sticky sweet juices.

Mere moments passed and families flooded hospitals in droves; children and parents alike convulsing, exhibiting fevers and headaches. Muscle cramps, confusion. Doctors and nurses alike were disoriented as said families claimed to have consumed contaminated fruits and had contracted listeriosis. Despite the claims, medical practitioners could find no such evidence. Blood was drawn, with no sign of the bacteria. Even still, the symptoms could not be ignored.

Word travels fast.

The fact that the majority of those coming in with the symptoms was no coincidence. In school yards and workplace break rooms alike, people were talking.

“Did you hear about the outbreak?”

“Yeah, I've got a friend in critical condition. Though the doctors say there's no sign of anything wrong.”

“I looked up listeria on the internet. I think I might have it.”

Panic. Misinformation.

First sign of danger and all precautions taken. No fruits consumed.

“I hear there's a 20% death rate,” another states, as a matter of fact. Those thinking they are well informed and seeking out the worst case scenarios.

Even still, no one knows what to do about it and just a week after the madness began, a new news report comes in.

“This just in: The CDC just reported that the previous report of a listeria outbreak was false. They would like to issue an apology.”

Few tuned in this time, but those who did spread the word again. After a few days, the hospital visits were dying down. There were still jokes and talks of the scare, but much fewer reports of symptoms. People started buying fruits at the grocery store again with a renewed confidence that everything would be safe.

Although in theory, this would mean things were well again, there were still those who shuttered at the mere sight of cantaloupe. Who would not dare let the fruit into their homes. Or who would pass it by but refuse to eat it. There were some who vomited at the mere sight or scent of it. There was therapy that could help with such things, but little else that could be done. It wasn't an allergic reaction, but one born of a time such people would rather forget.

Two months passed since the incident.

No news report of a recall.

No signs of contamination.

In spite of that, people flocked to the hospitals once again in droves. There were plenty of people whose illnesses could be given a clear diagnosis after a few tests. But then there were the ones which baffled everyone involved. The symptoms were reminiscent of the false listeriosis outbreak of a couple months prior, but with a little added bonus.

There were those who came in pregnant. Miscarriages and stillbirths without a known cause. Of those who came in pregnant and reporting seizures and meningitis, not uncommon in those with listeriosis, their children also bore infections. Yet with their blood drawn, no sign of the bacteria was present.

What was worse is that it didn't stop this time. In spite of no sign of any bacteria, listeria or otherwise, patients kept coming in. Food inspections doubled down, yet everything came up safe. If a new bacteria was found, it would have been a breakthrough, but no. Every patient, whether previously healthy, low immune system, or pregnant, who showed symptoms had no harmful or abnormal bacteria present.

Talks began.

“Is this a ghost disease? Are people just possessed with the ghost of an illness?”

There were jokes abound, but the incidents did not stop. Across the country, more patients lined up. Of the patients who believed themselves to have the infection, a small portion of them died. 'Small portion' being a misleading way to put it, given the volume of patients coming in and suspecting themselves of such a serious condition.

Reporters were floored. News stations, local and national covered it as a hot button issue. Independent journalists and those in syndicated magazines followed each report as new updates followed. It seemed things were getting worse. Hundreds of deaths were reported. There were speculations that it would soon hit the thousands.

Then one day, nothing.

Not only did it stop, but it was like a dream, one of such little note that everyone had forgotten. No mention of it in the news. No mention of it in passing, between people on the street, strangers, colleagues, kids on the playground.

Two months pass. Still nothing.

It was almost like it never happened. Or, at least, one would have thought, given the lack of focus on it. But it wouldn't make any sense for it to have been imagined. All those patients in the hospitals. All the coverage. All the deaths. All reduced to the imagination. For everyone to forget what had transpired defied logic, just like the incident itself.

An imagined infection. Or would it be more fair to say an imagined epidemic? A plague set forth by a notion that gave way to the real thing. But not the real thing, no. Only an illness borne of the thought of an illness. Contradiction giving way to deaths, spread out from city to city. Town to town.

Word travels fast. Thoughts, faster. Word spreads, infecting others who happen to be in the vicinity. Sweet taste of panic swallowed down one's throat.

April and May had been dating and after a few months, decided to move in together. All was well until just last night when April and May had gotten into a bit of an argument. After passing a flower shop on the way home from work, April decided to surprise May with flowers. April walked through the door and presented May with flowers as well as a note saying ″sorry about our fight, dear″.

May lit up.

″Oh, the petunias. Oh, the begonias. Oh, the violets and the black roses.″

She fainted and rested on the couch. Mission accomplished for April.

Or so April thought. But then the next day, May didn't water the flowers, nor did she the day after. Upon discovering that, April was so upset that she brought it up with May and the two got into a fight which culminated in the two laughing and making up with a hug and a kiss before telling each other goodnight.

Regardless, April felt bad and went to a florist to pick up flowers. When April came home with flowers, May brightened.

So it followed that April and May would get into fights and flowers would follow. It became so routine up until April noticed the habit she was getting herself into, so she stopped herself and confronted May about it one night.

″May, I love you, but we have to stop with these fights.″

″Are we going to fight about this?″

″I would rather not. I'm exhausted. It seems like we've been fighting every night.″

″But flowers.″

″Is that all I am to you? I'm starting to wonder if you love me or the flowers more.″

May looked around. The entire living room was covered in flowers. It was a feat that they were able to move around and talk to each other without stepping on, knocking over, or swallowing a flower on accident.

″Obviously you.″

″It's just, you know, I don't want to keep having to do this.″

″We're doing this right now.″

May was right and April knew it. She rushed to the flower shop first thing in the morning. She rushed to every flower shop in town. After work, she rushed home and hauled the flowers up the steps to her apartment, where she greeted May.

″Bad news, dear. I just sold out all the flower shops in town.″

May poked her head out from many bouquets.

″Now that you mention it, why don't we move out so we'll have more room for flowers?″ Good ol' May suggested.

″Our lease isn't up yet! We can't just move out any time we want!″

May was about to say something, but April interjected.

″I know what's about to go down. We're going to get into a fight, I'm going to go out of town tomorrow, buy more flowers. There won't be any room in here to walk in so I'll just throw the flowers willy-nilly. You'll be overjoyed, elated, even, and I'll be complaining about how many flowers there are, to which we'll get into another fight.″

″Okay, but how do you know that will happen?″

April let out a sigh, her breath mingling with the flowers, creating a fragrance May loved to an exponential degree.

April came to a conclusion she wished she had come to sooner.

″You know, I can bring you flowers without us getting into fights.″

May tilted her head, the flowers tickled her neck.

″That true?″

″Look at all these flowers. I wanted to give them to you because I thought it would make you happy.″

May sipped on a petal. ″Aye, that they did.″

So April and May no longer fought, but each day, April still brought flowers to May. April and May slept outside, in a tent, and in the day time, would water their flowers. When their lease expired, they moved out into a bigger space, brought all their flowers with them, and managed to sleep inside.

Every morning, before and after April's shower, the couple would check on the flowers. April provided the water and May bloomed.

″I've learned something,″ May waxed in her greenhouse (a house made up of flowers which the flowers built for themselves). ″Would you like to hear it?″

The two of them were perched on vines which would soon house grapes, which would soon give way to wine.

″I think I already know,″ April waned, just before the two drew closer. April and May were kissed by tulips.

″I learned that while I loved being bought flowers, I love growing them even more.″

″I love growing them with you,″ April sipped on honeydew.

″We ought to fight,″ May suggested.

″Please, no,″ April retaliated.

″Yes. Let's fight – the victor decides what plant we grow next.″

″But how shall we decide the victor?″

″We will decide when I win,″ May decided. ″Speaking of which, I propose we grow a mandrake.″

″And to what end?″ April envisioned a world, ravaged and torn by May's onslaught of mandragora plants. The farmer's markets would be desolated, few survivors would remain. Those chosen few would be enslaved by April and May under May's mandrake army.

″Until I decide on another plant.″

″I think we should grow psilocybin,″ April suggested.

″No!″ May stamped down the idea just as it grew. ″Fungi are not flora!″

April slumped, ashamed. ″We could put petals on it...″

″For the sake of peonies, it wouldn't be the same.″ May gave some bluebells a pat, to cheer April up. ″Babe, this is us.″

April peered, glanced, even gazed. ″You may be right.″

May may have been. For the two were carnations who bloomed after storms.

Katy made good on the execution, I only came up with the idea. It was a joint effort, but for the record, I couldn't have done it. Katy could and Katy did.

We came up with the idea after seeing an open question someone had asked on the internet.

“What is the greatest fear in a relationship?”

The top reply?

“Building a man for another woman.”

We both looked at each other. Our first look was that of confusion. Our thoughts, despite our inability to read each others' minds were:

Gee, I'm so glad we're a lesbian couple.

What was said aloud?

“Fear? That sounds like a great business plan.”

Katy said it, I didn't. I asked Katy what she meant by that.

“Think of all those straight women out there, single and wanting a man, but are really picky.”

“Can you blame 'em?” Was my response.

“Of course not! But they don't have the prowess we do! We can build them a man! We have the technology!”

So we got to work. Or, Katy did. I was more in charge with the logistics. The business side of things. Katy did the nitty gritty. She was good with creating life out of spare parts. I majored in marketing.

It took a few lives before we were successful. It was more than physical. We had to tweak some brainwaves to create certain personality traits. After witnessing what Katy did, it was time to put up flyers.

At first, we got nothing. We were ready to throw in the towel. But then our phone rang.

“Hey, I saw your flyer. Can you really build a man for me?”

It was I who answered the phone.

“What are you looking for in a man?”

“Well, I want someone who can support me, you know?”

“Mhm...sure...”

“So that's why I was thinking instead of a human nose, I'd like one of an elephant's. And a large turtle shell that I can rest my head on after a long day. Also, if he can have long, flowing locks, that would be great. I'm talkin' real Fabio material here.”

“What about personality?”

“I'm not picky. If he could do some stuff around the house, that would be nice.”

“Responsible. Got it.”

“One last question: do you guys deliver?”

Katy said we did. I didn't. Katy took the phone. She said she could have him built in three days time, with same day delivery, so long as our client was willing to pay shipping and handling.

I was shocked, but if Katy said she could, then Katy would.

Our first client was so pleased with her built man that she referred some friends. Soon we had a full-fledged business. We decided to call ourselves 'Build-a-Man Workshop.'

I set up the orders, Katy did the work.

Soon we had men asking for custom built men. This delighted us, as they had even better requests. Men ten foot tall, men born with hats on, men with dog tails, men who only knew how to say one thing and at one thing on command (that one thing being “they're grreeaaat!”)

Men for men, men for women, soon we were getting more orders for humans built for relationship purposes. Katy was breaking a sweat. I could only sweat mentally.

“You know, I'm starting to realize why this is such a great fear in a relationship,” Katy said.

I didn't realize why. I told her such.

“It's hard work. Building all these men. Such a laborious business.”

“Who knew good men were in such demand?”

Katy considered quitting. But we didn't. We looked at all the money we had made. How could we stop now? We had to come up with something, though. So we built men for each other, but not for relationship purposes. We loved each other, we just needed something to take the load off. One man handled orders over the phone, and the other man helped with the building of men.

The man who built men started learning to speak. That surprised Katy. I asked if Katy did that, but she didn't.

“This feels like slavery,” the man said, while building a man with hulking muscles whose only desire in life was to suplex other men.

“It's like, we're building men whose only purpose is to serve others,” the man working the reception chimed in.

“Yes, but we built men to enjoy it,” Katy said. I didn't. I snorted.

“What do you propose we do?” I asked the two men.

The two men huddled together, their bodies a perfect symmetry for each other. If anyone was to blame for that, it was Katy. After the two gave each other a warm embrace, the one wearing glasses (I forget which) spoke up.

“We demand a cut of the pay. By the way, we're a couple.”

I was surprised, but Katy wasn't. She said she already knew that. After all, Katy did build the two that way.

“All right. You two work very hard, so it's only fair.” I agreed to their proposal. Then, I added. “By the way, you two make a great couple.”

Katy did that. Katy made them so they would be a perfect couple for each other.

All I did was suggest it.

One of the men, who had become accustomed to being called Brian, had a grievance with a client.

“So I'm working on this man. Vagina up to the abdomen. Client keeps changing their mind. First wants the man to climb a tree in the middle of the night, then wants the man to be in bed all throughout the night and with a body like a tempur pedic mattress. It's been three days and I'm getting frustrated.”

“That's the design business,” Katy said. Brian wanted someone to finish the job.

Every day, April showers.

She makes sure to shower every day. For a time, it wasn't the case. One day she went into work and overheard one of her co-workers talk about how it's bad to shower every day. How it's better to shower every other day. So April took this advice.

Every other day, April showered.

But April's hair got all greasy and oily. She hated the way her skin felt. So she decided that her co-worker was untrustworthy and went back to showering every day.

Every day, April showers.

Sometimes, April showers twice a day. Those times happen to be on a day when it is particularly hot or she went out for a run. She heard exercise was good for her body from an infomercial. She took the advice of the infomercial. But after coming home from runs, she found herself covered in sweat. So she would shower. On summers, she would sweat without ever running. April found the best solution to said problem would be to take constant showers.

Every moment of the day, April showers.

At least in the summers. Except when it came to sleeping. But sleep was a struggle. So much tossing and turning. It was easier to sleep in the shower. It was where she grew the most comfortable. She had gotten into such a habit that every summer, she would quit her job and spend the whole three months in her shower. Come autumn and winter, there was a towel ready for her to dry herself off with. Still, even if it was no longer a constant, she couldn't go a day without stepping over the tub.

Every day, April showers.

She got tired of doing it in the day time, though. Nights were so much more convenient. In the mornings she had to get ready for work and sometimes when she got out of bed, she didn't have time to shower. It took long enough as it was just to get dressed. But once home from work, her body smelling of everything she came in contact with, there was her lover with a head that sprayed down water.

Every night, April showers.

But then she would wake up and find her hair a mess and decided the best way to fix it would be a shower. She decided to take one in the morning and take one at night. It would be just like when she exercised. After some time at her job, she discovered that there was a workplace shower. She cheered once she made such a discovery and every day on her lunch break she would disrobe and take a shower. Before her break would be over, she would get back dressed in her work uniform, itching to take another shower.

Three times a day, April showers.

But three times wasn't enough. She thought about showers whenever she wasn't in one. Some days she would blurt out to people on the streets how she wanted to be in the shower at that very moment. She didn't mean to, but the urge grew stronger with each passing day. Showers were much more pleasant than whatever the world was like outside of a shower. People don't stare down at you and spray you with miniature rain clouds on command like a shower does. Showers got her. People didn't.

April showers.

So should you. April thinks so. April thinks you should be taking a shower right now. It helps you relax. April's best thoughts are in the shower. She thinks about how she would like to give motivational speeches about showers while in the shower. Showers showering praises upon her. April loves showers and April hopes showers love her too.

April fell asleep in the shower.

She had a dream where the shower showered her with affection. Its head bowed down to her and sprinkled little love fluids, or, in her own words, water. April loved water, but only in the shower. The shower loved April too, but only in April's dream. When April woke up, she was still taking a shower. She closed her eyes and imagined that the shower was taking her as well. Away to a far off land where she never had to step out of the shower. Perhaps she was already there. In that land, showers were everywhere and for every shower, there was an April, occupying.

April showers.

Just as she should. It is hygienic and good for the pores. She has become the ultimate prune and her skin has never felt so fresh. So smooth, so ready to peel off. How callous for the skin to die off and be replaced by healthier, better skin. April didn't need skin. She had surpassed nakedness. She surpassed the entire concept of 'skin' into a realm of existence that could only be described as 'shower form'. Many researchers have looked into 'shower form' but the results have been inconclusive as no one else wants to replicate the experiences of April. But that's what makes April special: the fact that April showers. In fact, even in death, April never stopped showering. Some debated on turning the shower off, but even though there was no longer any hot water, they found it disrespectful to interrupt someone's shower.

So to this day, April showers.

Whatever one might consider April to be, it is a known law that what occupies the shower is April. When that law was established it was placed in the history books, then the Museum of Modern Art. Following that, many publications ran articles on how problematic the law was. There were protests, riots, revolts, followed by revolutions, coups, and overthrows. When all was said and done, many decided never to take a shower again. Such a notion gained a following until that too was made into law. The new law stated:

April showers, no one else.

After a while, some noticed that their names were April. So a new law passed:

A note was found at the crime scene:

″In my darkest hour, I buried the hatchet in my friend's head. I let bygones be bygones and came out as bisexual. I said goodbye to goodwill and then gave it all away so I could reap all the benefits. It was a write off written on a pink slip. It was a slit slithering across the hall. Halls are cough drops but they are also a narrow way with many doors. One of these doors has Jim Morrison. If you look closely you can find some near-sighted people.″

At another crime scene, another note was found:

″Punch me on the way to the punch bowl. Go bowling in a fish bowl. In bowels of hell, my bowels are clogged. In the depths of dreams, I am wide awake. I use too many adjective. I modify too many things. I am a cyborg without technology. You can look at the wonderful feelings that have been felt. Felt animals are hard to make. Makes and models of cars long forgotten are the clues to the puzzle. Some pieces don't fit. Nothing is a trail of breadcrumbs. Some trails are covered by ants.″

Actually, this note wasn't found at a crime scene. It was found on the fridge in the break room:

″Okay. Who ate my donuts? Those donuts were laced with rat poison and now someone's dead. Good going, guys. No one was supposed to eat those donuts. Those were my donuts. I wasn't going to eat them, either. I wasn't about to poison myself. But you guys weren't supposed to be poisoned either. Now, as to why I put them in the fridge...my fridge at home was full and I needed a place to put them. Okay. I'm sure your next question is 'why do you have donuts laced with rat poison in the first place?' Let me just say this: that's a stupid question. I do what I want. Just because I have food laced with deadly poison doesn't mean I was planning on poisoning anyone.″

At the funeral for the one who ate the poisoned donuts, the pastor read the eulogy. The eulogy went as follows:

″My wounds are a womb. When my water broke, I grew rich. I spent all my money on lottery tickets and won nothing. But my fingernails went through a manicure from all the scratching. Cats are envious of my claws, which I use to dig my own grave. I made it, now I will lie in wait as I watch the clock tick away. Here again, I am late. Forgiveness is reserved for those who hold a grudge. Never mind the ones who forgot. They are elephants and need a bath to smooth out their skin. Dermatologists recommend rhinoceros. Horns are effective in dealing with horny followers. Leave them at the door so they may take the next cab home.″

When interviewed after the funeral, the pastor had this to say:

″I am deeply disturbed by the lack of disturbing content in today's media. I remember turning on the TV, then turning it back off. I can't do that anymore. I sit through things and that's all I do. I sit through it. Now, if you're asking me if I know who the killer is, that's neither here nor there. The killer was donuts. Sure, a co-worker poisoned donuts, and sure, someone died because of it, but really, isn't that what life is? Life is just a big mess of people poisoning donuts and other people eating them. If you ask me, life should get thrown in jail. Don't even give life the death sentence. Give life a life in prison sentence. Make life think about what its done. Lordy, has life done a whole lot. Too much, if you ask me. If you're not asking me, what are you even doing?″

On trial, the co-worker who brought in the poisoned donuts testified with this statement:

″Funny how we could go from an unsolved serial murder to this, huh? In reality, those donuts weren't poisoned. Look, I'm eating one right now. In reality, I think the victim had an allergic reaction. All apologies on that front, but someone with an allergic reaction probably shouldn't be eating something they know they're allergic to. My nose runs at the site of construction, but you don't see me huffing wet cement. I'm just saying, it's like this: my girlfriend proposed to me the other day and so I did the reasonable thing and bought a pet alligator. We bought the farm together and now raise an alligator farm. You are all welcome to join me, but the problem is that I will be moving tomorrow. Yesterday I packed my bags and at the grocery store I chose paper over plastic. In the strangest of senses, I plead guilty. But I only plead guilty to being innocent. When it comes to being innocent, I am guilty as charged.″

The judge made a decision. This is what the judge declared: