Al & Zig by Maria Herndon-Mylar

 

“Well, Al, I see you’re still wearing sweats.”
The brothers had somehow managed to score a corner table at Starbucks. Zig leaned forward, one hand clutching his soy latte, his legs crossed at the ankles.
Lounging against the window, one arm slung over the back of his chair, Al fingered the drawstrings of his tan hoodie. “I like it,” he shrugged. “It’s warm.”
“You've been wearing that since the eleventh grade,” Zig pointed out. “You need a new outfit? I can buy you one.” Zig’s own wardrobe consisted of a gray sport coat with burgundy lining, gray vest, and navy scarf, all of which might as well have had the tags still attached.

“It’s not about the money, man.” Al reached across the table and picked up his caramel mocha. “I just like it.”
Suddenly, they heard the sound of a loud car horn. Zig glanced through the window behind Al and saw a stretch limo attempting to turn onto Sunset Boulevard. Other drivers protested this maneuver, as did a throng of pedestrians. “How about the exercise program? How’s that going?”

Al sipped his mocha. “It’s going.”
Zig winced. “You’ve always been a terrible liar.”
“Okay, fine.” Al put his cup on the table and turned his gaze to the spectacle outside. Other vehicles had joined in the honking. “It went.”
Zig: “And of course, you’re still smoking weed.”
Al: “Look, man, did you just ask me to meet with you so you could give me shit about my lifestyle again?”

The massive limo inched forward, its side dangerously close to a taxi’s back end. A frantic arm poked out of the cab, causing the black car to veer away.
Zig: “Damn it, Al, I’m just worried about you.”
Al twisted the cup in front of him. “I’m healthy enough,” he asserted.
“Right.” Zig watched as the taxi reluctantly rolled six inches, allowing the limo to crawl forward another three. “I bet you couldn’t walk ten blocks.”
Al: “Ten? I could walk a hundred.”
Zig snorted. “Sure you could. That’s five miles, you know.” The car ahead of the taxi slid forward, giving the cab more room to maneuver. The limo moved another inch.
Al: “Yes, I could. I don’t know if you could, though, Mister I-Don’t-Eat-Animals.”
“Hey,” Zig protested. “It’s completely possible to get enough protein on a vegan diet.”

A long, sustained honk jerked the limo into movement again, as a delivery truck, double-parked on Sunset, finally shifted forward, allowing more room for the oversized black sedan.

“Fine.” Al drummed his fingers on the back of the chair. “Sounds like a bet, then.”
Zig snorted. “That wouldn’t be fair.”
Al: “Why? You said you could do a hundred blocks.”
“…to you,” Zig clarified.
Al snorted.

“Tell you what,” Zig continued. “We both know I’ll win here. But if you even finish, I’ll buy you dinner.”
“I’m not eating that rabbit food,” Al objected.

Zig: “You finish, and we can go wherever you want. But when I win, you give up the weed…for a month.”
Al: “Okay, but what if I win?”
Zig laughed. “Right. I run two miles a day, and ten on weekends. I can do five miles in my sleep. And half your lungs are probably black by now.” A last chorus of honks sounded outside, and the limo freed itself from the turn, only to stop at the next light. It sprawled over all three lanes across Sunset Boulevard.
Al: “Okay, but if I win, you’re eating three Pink's hot dogs.”
“No danger of that.” Zig smiled and leaned back. “Okay, then, we'll start from the Griffith Park Observatory and end at Pink's. That's exactly five miles.”
“I like it,” agreed Al.
Zig: “So, when?” The light having finally changed, the limo cruised southward down the one-way avenue, and traffic resumed its ordinary chaos.
Al: “No time like the present. Get your gear on and we’ll meet at the Observatory in an hour.”

Exactly one hour later, Zig was waiting at the Observatory for his brother Al. He was sporting a slick silver full-body tracksuit with red stars and matching silver Nikes. He looked up from his Apple watch to see Al wearing exactly the same thing.

Zig: “What the heck, Al, what do you think you're wearing?”

Al: “The same thing you are!”

Zig: “How did you even know what I'd be wearing?”

Al: “Zig, how could I not? You always show up at my place wearing that narcissistic hero get-up. I just wanted a level playing field.” Al laughed heartily. “Why, Zig, is this going to throw you off your game?”
Zig glanced at his Apple watch. “It’s just about noon. You sure you’re up for this?”
Al grinned. “A walk in the park, bro.”
Zig: “Nope. A run on the avenue!” And with that, they were off.
Zig leaped across the street and began sprinting. At Los Feliz, he glanced back to see Al puffing and struggling half a block behind. Grinning, he kept going.

When Zig reached Sunset and Western, the ‘Don’t Walk’ sign was shining steadily. Looking back, he saw his brother two blocks behind him, doubled over, with his hands on his knees.
The light changed to ‘Walk’ and Zig ran across the street. He didn’t look back after that.

Al watched his brother jog across Western Avenue. Straightening up, he strode along the broad sidewalk. Well, Al said to himself, at least it’s a nice day. He looked around, taking in the other pedestrians, canopied entrances, and ever-present construction scaffolding. Al smiled. Bet Zig is moving too fast to enjoy the view.
The light flashed to ‘Walk’, just as Al reached the cross street. “I can do this.”

Zig settled into a steady jog, the same comfortable pace that he used for his daily runs around Will Rogers Park. This far downtown, Sunset was far from crowded, and for long stretches he had the concrete all to himself. As Zig passed apartments, churches, and hulking brick and glass buildings, he slapped one Nike in front of the other.
As was his habit with exercise, Zig shut out the sights around him. After long years of living in the city, his subconscious allowed him to evade the occasional obstacle, dodge pedestrians, avoid dogs on leashes, and sense the timing of street crossings as he approached each intersection. His mind wandered, stilling itself even as his body chugged along. Effectively on autopilot, Zig jogged down North Gower.

Al, jogging slowly, felt refreshed by the shade offered by the Hollywood Freeway. Residences alternated with businesses and shops. He grinned as he strode past the Starbucks where he and Zig had spoken that morning. A woman with two preteen boys had claimed the corner table, ignoring their fighting as she mumbled into a phone.
Al wondered for a moment whether the kids would grow up to be as close, and as different, as he and Zig were. Maybe someday, they too would race each other on Sunset Boulevard.

Something caught Zig’s eye. He wasn’t sure what it was that tipped him off. Maybe something about the windows.

Perhaps something subliminal in the scent in the air. But it diverted him from his intended path to the front of a nearby storefront sign:

HEALTHY EDEN

Vegan Restaurant

Juice Bar

CrossFit Gym

Yoga Studio

Zig stood for a moment on the corner, one hand on a street sign.
Surely, he could just stop in for a quick smoothie. There was no way Al would catch up, even if he made a short pit stop. And even if by some miracle he did, Zig reasoned that he could increase his pace if he had to.
Yes…just one brief stop.
Zig opened the shop door and stepped into his own personal paradise.

Al continued his leisurely pace through midtown, where shops and storefronts catered to the opulent rich. Marking his journey block by block, he paused after Lexington at North El Centro – almost a third of the way there! Al dug two crumpled bills out of the pocket of his silver suit and exchanged them for a bottle of water from one of the many street vendors. On Vine, Al took a moment to admire the architecture of the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power building.

“This…this is really good!” Zig gushed, as he wiped green slime from his upper lip. “What’s in it?”
“Oh, the usual,” said the bartender, a dangerously skinny girl with what seemed like two hundred piercings. “Kale, broccoli, a slice of kiwi, some flax seed, and more kale. Oh, and just a few strawberries. It's all organic and locally sourced, of course.” Her name, according to her tag, was Carylynn.

“Wow!” Zig shook his head. “Why haven’t I been here before?”
“Oh, we just opened last month,” Carylynn said. “Have you seen our gym?”
“I’m kind of in a rush,” said Zig.
“Oh, I just thought…with what you're wearing…you know. Anyway, we have all the latest equipment. Also locally sourced and organic.”
Zig: “Well... I suppose it won’t hurt to take a look.”
Carylynn led him to a set of frosted doors in the back of the shop, which she opened.

Zig’s head spun. Beyond the doors was a fully outfitted gym. Gleaming exercise machines dominated half of the room, while inviting mats lined up along a mirrored wall. Free weights stood like soldiers in formation.
“Holy shit,” Zig breathed.
“I know, right? Wait until you see our yoga studio.”
“I really should get going,” Zig protested.
“Come on,” Carylynn prodded. “Slow down. Enjoy life, you know?”
“Well, I…”
“This way.” They entered another chamber, its only light coming from flickering candles – soy-based, naturally. Soft Himalayan prayer music chimed from speakers high on the walls.
“Go on. Try out one of the mats. They’re cruelty-free, sustainably produced.”
“Okay,” Zig replied. “I can take just a minute.” He knelt on one of the mats, closed his eyes, and concentrated on his breathing.

Al noticed a sign amid all the golden facades on Sunset Boulevard. Huh, he said to himself. ’Healthy Eden.’ I wonder if Zig noticed that? He tends to zone out when he’s running. I’ll have to tell him about it.

Zig opened his eyes with a start, for a moment not recognizing where he was. He glanced at his wrist. “Shit,” he spat, earning him rude looks from people who hadn’t been there when he’d come in. “Sorry,” he whispered, leaping to his feet. He quickly retraced his steps through the gym, racing past Carylynn at the juice bar, through the door, and resuming his run down Sunset. Panicking, he picked up his pace.

Al approached a brick wall containing a giant mural of Duke Ellington at his piano. The last mile had been the hardest, though he had enjoyed seeing the wide variety of people in the community as he passed them.
Sighing, Al sat down on the bus bench in front of Pink's Hot Dogs on La Brea Avenue and looked around, stretching his legs one at a time. Okay, Zig, he muttered to himself. Where are you? I know you're already here. On his phone, Al thumbed through his contacts until he found Zig. Before he had a chance to place the call, he heard the sound of feet slapping the pavement.

 

Looking up, Al saw his brother, out of breath, rapidly approaching him.

Zig collapsed on the bench.
“What the hell?” Al asked.
Zig panted and held up a hand.

Al put away his phone and waited.
Finally, Zig sat up.

“Wait, you’re just now getting here?” Al stared at his sweat-drenched brother.
Zig: “I…um. I might have gotten distracted.”
Al raised an eyebrow.
Zig: “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Al: “So…I won?”

Zig slapped Al on the knee. “Yes, little brother, you won. Come on, let’s get us some hot dogs.
“Aw,” said Al. “I wouldn’t really make you eat hot dogs.”
Zig: “Hey, a bet’s a bet. I win, you lay off the weed. You win, I choke down mysterious tubular meat things.”
Al: “Yeah, about that. You know I don’t actually smoke weed, right?”
“What?” Zig stared at Al.
Al: “Yep. Just naturally lazy, I guess. Come on, Pink's is waiting.”

The Dragonfly

 

Painting by Vasili Aleksandrovich Kotarbinsky

She walked to the edge of the lake and stared endlessly at her own reflection. She made numerous faces, trying to find herself again. She did not recognize any of the faces staring back at her. She had become her own stranger. When did it happen? She wondered. She sat down on the nearest rock and continued to stare at this stranger. The face that was staring back was the face of a failed woman, sad, unhappy with the choices she had made. At first, this woman was demanding, an action taker, then just as sudden, the face changed into a sad pathetic shell of a being, and she pondered how she’d gotten here. She had it all once, the whole American dream… then one day, it just vanished. She has no memory or awarness of it happening. does not remember it happening. It was all gone. She was alone, for the first time in her life and she had no clue of how to start living. She had lived in other’s shadows for so many years. She had lost her identity long ago. She knew diapering and the house keeping. She knew nothing else. She had become nobody. All those years she had been wasting away. Various lovers had come and left her with a wounded heart. Friends she thought she had long one by one disappeared. She felt she was no longer interesting for even witty repartee. Tonight she can see herself by the lake rotting in the dark like the leaves under her feet. She wants to feel free, but the face in the reflection mocks her, it tells her it is too late for dreams. All her thoughts, actions and hopes led to this moment before her acumilated nothingness; it starts to scream at her that she is nothing but waist. She begins to believe all these lies; she succumbs to the slowly decaying figure in the reflection. Her body begins to give, her face is sunken in like the reflection, her skin goes slack, and it begins to putrefy right before her eyes. She tries to cry, but her tears are long gone, wasted on the vultures that had preyed on her leaving deep marks on her body, mind, and soul. With a strenuous lift of her head, and she looks at the face again, one last time, and catches a tiny glimmer of hope, an almost insignificant tiny twinkle. She looses herself to it, surrenders her soul, her heart and body to this small glimmer. It begins to grow, slowly engulfing her face in this beautiful glow. Her face is coming back. She finds her honest smile! She slowly rises, allowing the glow to completely flow through her body. Her prayer has been answered. She has become what a beautiful Dragonfly! She finally has wings and feels free for the first time since she was born. She is a reflection of her old self, but better. She is no longer enslaved to anyone, she is master of her destiny and she is going to take this world and make it her own. She will have everything she always wanted. Her transformation has finally begun.

Recognition Cognition

Illustration  by  Priscilla Burris

It had been twenty years, she realized as she slipped the key into the lock. Twenty years since she left this place, this house. His house. Oh, she had been back for visits, short visits, and every single time she approached that door she felt the same icy shiver invade her heart and spread through her veins. Why had she thought this time would be different?

Cassie was the oldest of three girls born to James and Lorena Trent. She was a big girl, had always been big, even as a child. Tall, with big bones and dark hair, she was completely different than her sisters. She always stood out, never fit in. Christine and Cathy were petite and large blue eyes shone out of their magnificent faces. When they were little, blonde manes floated as they flew into the air, out of Daddy's arms. They would squeal and laugh when his giant hands grabbed them back and folded them into him, one and then the other. Cassie was too big to throw. Later, they were athletes, just like him. Cassie liked to huddle in a corner, writing her heart out.

"I am not going there," Cassie thought. "It doesn't matter anymore." She glanced at her watch. She had arrived early, of course, and the girls would be late. They were always late, just like Mom. "Some things never changed," she chuckled.

Opening the door, Cassie stood in the doorway for a moment and breathed in her childhood. She knew this house inside and out. She had grown up here, had learned to love here, had her heart broken here. Her mother had died here, in a bed in that corner.

"Not a thing has changed," she murmured as she stepped inside. "Not one thing."

Cassie's relationship with her father had always been strained. She knew he loved her, had never doubted it, but she never thought he liked her. He had never been truly comfortable with her, nor she with him, and she had always searched for a reason. When she was twelve, she convinced herself it was because Mama got pregnant and he had been forced to marry her. Of course, the math didn't work out - Cassie had arrived eleven months after their wedding. When she was in high school, she decided the reason was because she was so much like her mother. Cassie was every bit as much like her mother as Christine and Cathy were like him. The traits that disturbed him about her mother disturbed him about her, too. By the time she married and left their home, Cassie had determined it was her father's jealousy. She and Mama had a bond neither shared.

Regardless of the cause, Cassie had long ago given up on the hope anything would change. That didn't matter now anyway. Daddy was lying in a hospital bed. No one could say for how long. He had asked his girls to find some papers he needed. "They're in my bottom dresser drawer," he said, "somewhere in the stack of old stuff."

Looking down at her watch, Cassie decided to get started. "It will be time to be back at the hospital before the girls even show up," she thought, moving down the hallway to his bedroom. Feeling like an intruder, she took a deep breath and opened the drawer. Inside were two stacks of paper in varying sizes and shapes. She removed the larger stack, which immediately slipped out of her hands, spreading all over the floor. "Dammit," she cried. "Why am I always so clumsy when I'm here?" She could never please him because she could never do anything right.

As she moved across the floor on her hands and knees, her eyes fell on something that looked oddly familiar. Moving toward it, she recognized a card she had made him when she was ten. Grasping at others, she was shocked to find every card and poem she had ever written him. Every. Single. One. She had always believed he thought her writing was stupid. He seemed to not understand the love that had gone into it, what it meant to her. She thought he had never understood her. But here they all were. Everything.

"All these years, all the bad feelings," Cassie said, "I'm not sure I ever knew him. Could I have been wrong?" Quickly picking up the remaining papers, Cassie grabbed what she was sent to get and hurried out the door. "The girls can just meet me there," she thought.

Driving to the hospital, Cassie's heart swelled until she wondered if her body could contain it. She parked the car, ran through the front doors, took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, and burst into her father's room. "I found them, Daddy," she cried, waving his papers, "along with so much more!" After collecting herself, she told him she had found the cards and poems he had kept. "I never thought you liked my writing," she said, brushing away tears.

"Oh those," James said. "I figure I'd hold on to them so the when the press would come interview me after you became a famous writer, I'd have something to show them. He gave her a slight wink." Life had held Cassie hostage over the years, and she had given up on her youthful dream - until now.

"He did believe in me," Cassie told her sisters later. "All the years I thought he didn't understand me, would never be proud of me. I was wrong. We've wasted so much time, Daddy and me." They all cried and hugged, then Cassie headed back to the hotel. Once in her room, she opened her computer bag, got out her computer, turned it on, and started writing.

Melodious Monk

 

Inspired by this painting 
by 
Evgenia Klimenko

She sits quietly listening to the sound of the train approaching. The brakes screeches as it gets closer. Her eyes set upon the man sitting against the cold tile wall of the station. He slowly and deliberately moves a tiny piece of cloth along the saxophone in his hands, marred with the scars of time.

She watches him as the smooth sound of a beautiful melody fills the station, dancing along the breeze that comes with each passing train. The melody fills her mind. She is acutely aware of his refrain transforming the station. She watches a scene of beauty pass before her. 

She tries to imagine the man's life before this time and place. Maybe he was an honorable father, with a loving family, or maybe, she thought silently, he once was a hero, a man who fought valiantly for what he believed in, a war or a cause. The man is quiet and hardened. He seems weary with a sadness behind the bluest eyes she had ever seen. Yet, he created alluring melodies created by a heart seemingly empty.

She approaches to the man lost within his music. She kneels. The man slowly raises his face to hers. He smiles a bright, elated smile. She starts to place her money inside the blue velvet case that housed his instrument. He placed his hand upon hers and gave her a pained, weak smile, as he nodded his head but once in affirmation at her kindness.

He places the rag by his feet as he finishes and closes his eyes. His ocean blue eyes disappear and his face becomes quiet. He is calm and imbues a certain serenity. 

She shakes herself out of her day dream. Is she projecting her own issues onto this man? Is his beautifully intoxicating song tell the tale of a truly happy soul. Or is it a plaintiff wail?


He was the music man with no name. She was a dreamer of memories for those who had stories that were never told.