by Geoff Gouveia

In the distance, a coyote howls against a yellow moon. Lingering clouds spread out like fingers groping the lunar orb. It is not high in the sky, looking deceivingly close for the true distance that separates it from the two figures walking on the train tracks. The gravel beside the train tracks grumbles under each step the two figures take in the night. Their silhouettes are nonexistent save for when one catches on the occasional stray moonbeam. They smell of cheap grapes, their clothes soaked in the smoke of the burning Swisher Sweets in their hands.

“I think that’s it, man,” the one on the left admits while blowing smoke out his mouth. “That’s it.”

The smoke drifts up into the air, a heavenward spiral that disappears forever. The night swallows the smoke whole.

“You’re done, then?” The other silhouette responds with a weak voice. He kicks into the rocks near the rail before sitting on it. “You’re giving up, George?”

“Giving up? You make it sound like I had a choice! You- You-” George shakes his head while tapping the cigar to release the ash built up on the end, “- you can’t say that.” Exhaling the smoke cuts his explanation short. “How could you say it? Don’t say giving up.” He slumps down 10 feet from the other figure towards Monroe street by the bridge. “I never had anything to begin with.”

The coyotes in the distance howl again. They ask the moon where their dinner hides. The moon complies, pointing them towards a small animal. The ensuing fight ends in the sort of blood scream let loose only in the last second of a life.

“What the heck is happening over there, Rick?”

“Coyotes. Getting the blood for the night, I guess. You done talking about it? I don’t understand.”

“I dropped it because there is nothing more to understand, dude. I’m simply done. I’m done creating. I’m done making things. I’m done.”

George finds another rock to grip. A small piece of him releases with the object and finds contentment in the loud smack against the wall running parallel to the track. The burning dollar cigar smolders in his free hand, idling awkwardly between forefinger, middle and thumb. It has been 3 months since his last smoke and it coincides with his last breakdown. He wasn’t addicted to the smoke but he was addicted to the train tracks. It helped him process, when his plan didn’t unfold like his last train track therapy session had laid out. At the train tracks, he would smoke because he knew that was what he was not supposed to do.

Rick and George had spent many nights here over the past 4 years. They watched the moon and discussed their aspirations. It was here the grand plans were hatched- how they’d make it, one in art and the other at writing. They’d arrive at 11:30 with their libations and occasional cigars. 45 minutes of planning would end in a few small piles of tobacco ash, a couple of empty bottles and the night train hauling freight back to Los Angeles. The night ended ceremoniously when they threw rocks at the train.

There was something in each rock. An aspiration, a dream, a thought, that when thrown became real. It would spark off the moving train and collapse near the track. The spark, a flash of hot hot red in the cold night was both on the exterior of the train and the interior of their hearts. It was soothing to partake in the barbaric act. Now in their young 20’s, the childish dependence on destruction for the sake of it fit them. While they aged, they never grew up. The dreams grew larger and larger until it dwarfed them. It wasn’t until looking in the mirror after a session at the train tracks, when their hair smelled like smoke and their eyes red tired from the day, that they knew how old they were, how much time was slipping away and where they were not headed. The next day in class they would only faintly remember the spark off the train.

This was college for them. The time that was supposed to solidify who they were actually made them ask the greatest questions. The answers never came, either. The rise of the Internet suffocated their ability to dream small. When they knew what was possible, it infected their minds and began to poison their dreams. It colored their vision and it was not an emerald hue, nor rose but more that of cheap sapphire. Sapphire blue like the ocean, expansive and ever reaching it touched all, like the sky, rising up even higher still into the violet of the starry night. This was what college gave them, not the paper diploma nor knowledge but the ability to ask the question.

“I don’t know the answer!” George yells.

Rick looks startled, but only by the volume. He feels it inside as well.

“What’s the point of dreams, anyways? Wouldn’t I be much happier if I never dreamed in the first place?” George hears the light screech building on the metal rails. He stands only when the light turns the corner in the distance down the track.

The rocks around him scatter and shake. Rick assembles his dreams to throw. George does the same, grabbing palm sized stones and storing them in his left hand. The train shoots a terrific beam out of its nose following with a blast from its magnificent horn. The beast stampedes down its pre-set course. The hunters close in for the kill. Familiar pops rock the side of the train, tiny sparks escaping like wounds from the beast.

Rick lets out a tribal yell into the night. The roar of the beast running by drowns out his yell. George’s heart pumps harder with each aspiration thrown at the beast. The last hope in George’s hand fits like a glove, a piece of him hardened for years. He arches his back and looks straight into the sky as his hair blows all around him.

“Screw art!” he yells and the stone sparks like the rest of them. It dies amongst the others, smoldering and waiting for another poor soul to pick it up and depend on it when thrown.

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Sometimes you write and you hover over the "publish" button. This was one was of those, as well as this story.