Every year, my family catches the 6:32 a.m. train and we ride it up to Chicago's Union Station. In Union Station, I am home. I have been there so many times through the years that every trip back is another knot coming undone, another reminder of how much I've survived and how long I've been on this planet. But every time I'm there, seeing the groups of people and the workers and the yelling and the smell of human sweat and looks from the homeless and all the rich businessmen that try to pass me in line for the bathroom, I can't help but feel isolated. I am surrounded by humanity in all of its forms. Pickpocketers and mothers are looking for their children, kids are running around making noise and there are men who have just missed their train and are giving the rest of us a show. When I am in a large crowd of people, like the ones I see in Union Station, I remember that I am in no way unique or standout-ish. I am the general public. I am a member of society judging, regulating, becoming annoyed, staring. I am the traffic, a jam made of flesh, and there are people in front and behind me who wish I could vanish in a poof of smoke so they could simply walk through where my body had been. I'm an entity that has no business existing in anyone else's world. I'm a kid, no, a teenager, no, it actually doesn't matter.

I am in the way, that's what I am, and I really thought I could be happy in such a memorable place.

The elderly man living next door divorced 10 days ago, and per his wife’s request, he was kicked out of the house immediately. She was a beast, and controlled and abused him, and when he tried to stay we’d see her burn his things. Both of them were deaf.

After he left, she began messaging the police more than usual. Her packages were being stolen, and she begged for her camera footage to be reviewed. I would run over with a mask on and snatch her newspapers, but I was not the only one.

I know nothing of the garage.

When I wake, I’m cold. I’m sat on a metal moving chair that glides along, unsuspended from the ground, carrying me somewhere. I cannot see the floor. The chair is leaned so that my face is buried in a screen in front of me. This is what I watched as a kid in “Wall-E”. Where am I any way?

Suddenly, my chair stops. I am annoyed, I had gone back to being relaxed and so very abruptly it was ruined. I curse and I try to look down at my belt, but my stomach hurts. My neck hurts. I can’t. My head aught to go back looking into the screen. The colors and images move so fast I cannot process the vulgarities they’re shoving in my brain. But it is entertainment. So, I watch. When will I get out of this chair?

A rather well-known unsolved mystery involves shoes that have washed up along the shores of Canada that contain in them human feet that have been in some way detached from the body of those they belong to. These shoes have washed up without reason or rhyme, and have remained an intriguing topic that has stumped investigators to this day.

Many people who stumble on the subject ask questions involving where these shoes must have come from, why they landed only on the western beaches of Canada, and to who do these feet belong. In all three instances, the uncertainties and speculation fail to ponder the real mystery: what could have happened to break twenty-one feet off of their matching person in such a manner?

It was brought to my attention not some time ago that pilots who are active in the Air Force are required to wear their military boots at all times during their flights. While not the ideal choice for these pilots, if they have to eject from a plane these steel-toed boots will keep their legs intact and protect their limbs during their descent. The boots also serve their purpose in case of a plane crash; if enough force is acted upon during a crash, the pilot’s feet can and have broken off of their bodies without the proper footwear. Thus, military steel-toed boots are highly encouraged.

It is my opinion that the shoes found on the coast of the Salish Sea belong to plane crash victims, though I do not have a select theory on which plane crash this must have been. If a crash over the Pacific left no bodies to be found, this could reasonably account for those people, as well as offer an explanation as to how these feet have been so cleanly and ‘naturally’ cut off.

The last time I ever talked to my old neighbor Tod he threw himself through his own kitchen window, and had his mother been much younger and up to the physicality, I’m half sure she would’ve smitten him for ruining her Chinas and all the other dishes on the countertop. The box of cookies he tried to hand me sat upside-down on the grass where he began his run-up into the house. How I wanted those cookies. Plenty of times from years present and even earlier Tow would come home from grocery shopping and have a box of M&M cookies specifically for me to have whenever he’d catch me outside. My parents preventing me from accepting any of his cookies when it came to attention that Tod was a much active drug addict. Thus, on the fateful day of the jump through the window, the box rested not in my arms and on my tongue but on the grass, ever so in view.

After this interaction, though not because of it, my parents moved us out of that 850 foot house and into an apartment building about two hours away, where we continued to keep in touch with our grandparents but gained no new information about Tod. His mother was an elderly lady of around seventy years old, Tod being thirty or forty, and her knowledge and consumption of the internet was limited to absolutely nothing.

My grandparents, who lived only a block north of our old place, expected us to call every Sunday afternoon as a family immediately following supper, and of course they would call every now and then to check up on us, especially on my younger siblings, and ask about school and tell funny jokes they’d heard in the paper. I loved hearing my grandpa tell some Garfield jokes over the phone and ask if I remembered the times he’d take me to school and even once or twice pick me up. I remembered every instance fondly. I liked when my grandma would complain about the kids she’d have to ‘babysit’ as a substitute teacher and talk to me in a strange way because I knew what everyone else must be thinking. ‘Oh boy, what a lovely lady!’ Spoken in a sarcastic solitude. And of course, talking to my uncles about sports, if I had seen them, what I thought about the world cup and who I expected to win, if I watched WWE or golf or even college football. It was like I never moved.

One day my grandpa called me while my grandma was out at the temple around an hour away. It was Saturday at noon which meant lunchtime for him. I could hear him eating on the other end as we called, but I didn’t mention it. My grandpa is the nicest man I’ve ever known.

“Hey there, Yousuf.”

“Hey grandpa!”

“How’s your school going?”

“It’s going pretty good. We’re just getting started on reading a new book about an immigrant from Vietnam.”

“That sounds like an interesting book,” he responded. He had fought in Vietnam as a part of the Navy.

“Yeah. How’ve you been?”

“Oh, well, I’ve been alright. I did wanna ask you something about your neighbors when you lived here.”

“Which ones?” I asked.

“The man and his mother that you lived right next to. The Doyles.”

“What about them?”

“Well, is the man some kind of a zombie?” He laughed.

“I don’t think he’s a zombie,” I said, caught slightly off-guard. “I know my mom and dad say he’s addicted to something.”

“You mean he has some kind of a drinking problem?”

“No, I don’t think he has a drinking problem. I think that it’s drugs he’s addicted to.”

“Oh, I see now,” he said, chuckling. “Do you know his name?”

“Yeah, his name’s Tod.”

“Tod, huh? Well, he sure scared the neighbors and me last night. He must’ve walked up to our block last night with his arms outstretched and talking all silly, and the neighbors across the street from us saw him and asked if he needed help or directions or anything and, well, he just started cursin’ and cursin’.”

“That’s so weird,” I said. “That is like a zombie.”

“I know it. Those neighbor guys sure went back in quick.” He was laughing again, and this time I laughed too.

“Well,” he said, “that’s all I wanted to trouble you for. I’m glad you’re doing well and I hope you continue to do well with your schooling and your duties. And please call me whenever you’d like.”

“Okay, grandpa. I will.”

We said our ‘I love you’s’ and I hung up the phone. The air outside was hot and humid, otherwise I’d go out and play. Calling grandpa always gave me a huge burst of energy. I sat in bed instead, wondering for some time if I would ever see Tod again, and what state he would be in if I did, and I have this to say:

I hope to see Tod again someday, on a day when my parents won’t have to worry about what may be in the box of M&M cookies.

On Sundays it’s Min and I. We stroll out past the wooded areas around the house and toward the capitol building at the square. The capitol is a great grey industrial building, gray but rich with a great sense of work ethic and harmonious brilliance. Min and I love the square for its complete silence and excellent view of the capitol as well as the land we know well, the forest and the smell of the lumber and the wood from the trees. It’s Sundays when we’re both off work and past being tired, those feelings are for Saturdays when the world seems to rush by. It’s us and it will always be, and on Sundays it really is.

Min and I are married now. Father’s hooked up too much in the capitol to return any of my calls or reach out for congratulations, but we’re happy. Mom’s stopped to visit recently, just last Sunday now that I’m really thinking about it. Her, short of course, but this time I’ve noticed quite more clearly than ever, a hunch in her walk and in her daily life. I’ve never known a human being to shrink. In the living room I set out a tape measurer and laid her down. Seven entire inches shorter than last time, down to 218. And to think there was a time that she had been big to me at 250 inches. Alas, those days are long gone.

This time, as Min and I walk, we’re thinking of pumpkins and imported vegetables and the Colombian Exchange. We ponder the innerworkings of a government, of a father, much too secret for our taste. It was only a few weeks ago I swore our curtains were a plum purple. And now they are red, to fit the season, presumably.

“You’re breathing heavy,” Min said to me. “Here, let’s sit down.. There! There’s a bench over there. Are you feeling alright?” I looked over at Min and cracked a minute smile. My breathing was quite impaired, and I smelled wet dog and sloppy, inedible food.

“Do you smell that?” I asked. “There’s dog hair here, somewhere there is. Everyone knows there’s no dogs allowed on the square.” Min looked worried. “Please, let’s get to the bench.” Min wrapped her skinny arm around my coat and we huddled over to the little gray bench facing the capitol. The wind was calm but the smell remained. Min took my hand as we sat down and kissed it gently. I looked into her eyes, and in them, I found joy.

“Can I kiss you here, Min?” I broke out rather immaturely. Without a warning she burst into a clap, one with a great smile on her face as if she’s heard some excellent bunch of news, as if the war’s over. And she kissed me good. Lovely. It was about then that a peculiar sound began.

From down past the way we came was a boy of nineteen years old, being about the same height as my mother now, and he whistled a tune as he kicked around a small skipping stone across the square in our direction. I pulled from Min and turned to see the boy, and it wasn’t until I turned that the boy noticed us and stopped in his tracks like an animal hypnotized by car headlights.

“Good afternoon,” said the boy.

“Afternoon!” I called out with a wave. Min waved as well.

“I don’t.. I don’t suppose you know how to walk into the capitol, do you?” The boy had his hands in his coat pockets and a beanie cap on the top of his head to regulate his body temperature.

“Walk all the way down this side of the building, and just before you turn, there’s a small door that’s always unlocked.” I nodded as he did. He went to go with his body, but then stopped and looked back at me.

“I don’t want to go in there,” he told me. “I remember before everyone worked in the capitol building. I want the city back.”

“I miss it too. I always do.” I sighed. “I hope you find what it is you’re looking for.”

“Thanks,” the boy said. He searched for his walk and continued his stroll, though he wasn’t whistling anymore.

“I love you,” I heard Min say. I turned back to look at her, and before I could make sense of the sight before my eyes, my face was quite enveloped in hers.

@cjmoznette35

I was very loyal and involved with an activity during high school called Scholastic Bowl, or Quiz Bowl for everyone outside of Illinois. In my room are notebooks upon notebooks that I filled out completely of information I looked into and researched to be as good of a player as I possibly could. My team only got better and better as the years went on.

My Senior year of high school, our team was rather prolific. We had one of the best Science players, one of the best History players, and I was one of the best Literature and Fine Arts players in the area. We went to regionals, we looked through and adventured around various schools, and we conquered every single team, winning us our first regional title in at least 5 years.

Sectionals were next, and we were up against the hardest teams in the area. We had to travel to a very small school in rural Illinois where our essentially powerhouse teams played each other, and my friends and I made time enough to explore around the place like we always did. We always liked to have fun.

Our team won the first game, which didn’t put us quite yet into the final, but was a great start. The team we played against that first game was not very good, and was rather weak compared to us and the other two teams.

Our second game was very neck-at-neck, and we ended up losing that game in overtime, which didn’t cut our chances of winning regionals but did make it significantly harder. But one key factor of the second match was that at half-time, our coach told us to give them all of our phones, and this was a coach we all trusted and liked so we did it. For some reason, and she made this apparent, she really did not want us to look at our phones. We went with it and continued on.

The last game was against the best team in the area. All of us were incredibly nervous. And though our nerves were pressed and our phones were still tucked away, I am proud, beyond proud, that at halftime we were beating that team by 180 points. Now, this story doesn’t end happy, and as I said they were the best team in the area so we naturally fumbled our lead which led to us losing sectionals, but that game was by far one of the greatest games any of us had ever played in. We were all worn out, distressed, but understood all of the elements and reality we had just witnessed. We were quite happy to leave.

We get on the bus, and now we’re all asking for out phones back and joking about how strange their behavior was. My coach tells us all to sit down and we do, and then she has us be quiet.

“At 11:30, they found Mr. _____ at the high school..” I don’t think any of us comprehended much past that. She mentioned other things about it, maybe she mentioned that he had his guitar in his hands, but he was gone. And our coach told us, regarding our phones, that she knew we were going to find out and didn’t want us to know about it until the games were over so that we wouldn‘t want to forfeit or anything and that we could keep going.

The teacher that was found tragically deceased was one of the most eccentric, most amazing teachers of our school. Absolutely everyone felt his absence. He always stood outside of his classroom every morning and he’d tell everyone “good morning” by name. He walked like the scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz with his arms unintentionally flailing about through the halls. He loved the school and he loved the area and he spent so, so much time with us students.

Though I never had him as a teacher, one of my favorite memories from him was walking into his class to grab my girlfriend’s homework because she was sick, and in the packet of things he had for her he also included a “Get Well Soon” card with the stack of papers. Just an amazing guy who wanted everyone to feel welcome and safe.

We had his celebration of life in the high school gymnasium. Our band (which I play tuba in) learned and played some of his favorite songs while seemingly completely unrelated people gave speeches about him. He was like that, he treated everyone with the same eccentricity and high energy no matter if they were a stranger of not, even if he had just met them or not. He was a lover of people, and people absolutely loved him.

One story I remember hearing from my principal during the celebration of life was that when they interviewed him for the position, everyone that met him thought he was incredibly weird, like when he was in the waiting room it was as if he couldn‘t control his limbs. He was whistling and snapping and tapping his feet and just going crazy, eventually standing up and dancing. Everyone who saw him and asked him questions would say will full chest: “Hire that man!”

All of us miss him, all of us want him back. Even people who never met him wish they could so badly that they can react as bad as someone who had a connection with him. He called our band the pride of our town, and now our band uses that phrase on our t-shirts and hoodies and uniforms. Every time we play, we think of him. And every time I hear our band, I sometimes think I can still hear him go crazy for us.

https://youtu.be/hjpF8ukSrvk

Whistling tune, da da da da. Ba dum ba da ba da dum ba.

Leave, sky under the dome

Flowers, heat’s a burning’s done

Right around the vessel bend

Damned leaves are turning red

Again

Woosh, de do da. Do de da dah. Woosh, de do da. Do de da dah. Braah da da dah. Braah da da dah. Dum da do dah da, braah da do doo dah.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five.

Now the pot’s boiling over.

The man with the plan threw the knife round a handkerchief and stuffed both in his coat pocket. The body no life laid limo yet shocked, transfixed in time, no way or chance of survival.

Steam. An oven left on. A red face, make that two. The water overflows. Now the pot’s boiling over.

Maybe someone will notice the whistling has stopped.

“What’s wrong with that guy?” The kid sucked down on a lollipop when he asked. He was peering over at an elderly man some feet away who had stopped in the middle of the store. Next to him was his wife, offering her hand and asking what was going on herself.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no.” The man grabbed for his belt. His wife quickly scanned the area; no bathroom. People swarming the couple all around. “Oh no, oh no, oh no.” A look of terror in his eyes. He shuffled his hands all about his waistband, his breathing hard to regulate as something within him grabbed hold and paralyzed him in shock.

“Do you need to go to the bathroom?” She put his hand in hers. “Come let’s go to the bathroom . . . . Sir, which way is the bathroom?” An employee answered her quickly.

“No,” he told her. “No, no!” The kid with his lollipop, now surrounded by friends, remained fixated on the couple as they shimmied about. What could it be these old folks were dealing with?

“Kids, don’t look.” An authoritative figure, one of the kids’ parents. He looked at them and looked beyond, and he kept them back from looking and talking.

“What a dumb old man!” Cried one of the kids. “Don’t they know there’s bathrooms at the front?” A boy in the group failed to find a trash can, and instead of rummaging and asking for one, he easily threw the slobbery stick onto the floor. Not his problem, hardly a mess.

The couple pressed on, she scared and he mortified. But he didn’t need to use the bathroom. She had figured out right before she walked him in what really was going on. His belt around his waist had been pulled too tight, and his terror stemmed primarily from the minute tinge of pain inflicted from its leather. She teared up her eyes as she fixed the issue, in front of people much younger and much faster than them.

“What am I doing here?”

The lady took him home that night after half an hour of walking around the store, helping her husband, fixing his belt. She hadn’t been out of the house much in weeks due to his inability to be out and keep up straight. He hadn’t been out in months. His bathroom habits were frequent and nonstop, and her patience tried what it could to keep up. But something pained her most when she left with him that day.

“We live together?” He asked her. And she, for the life of her, couldn’t remember what had come of their cart.