One Hundred and Twenty Two

The old man in the apartment next to mine speaks to me through his coughing. He looks unkempt, like the kind of man who doesn't take care of himself very well. Every night I hear his coughs through the wall, and other than this, we have no interaction. I hear him coughing, and I imagine that he is coughing directly to me, whispering "this is what life will do to you, boy."

One Hundred and Fifteen

He is sitting alone on his sofa in his apartment. His television is on but the sound is muted and he's not paying attention to it. The word "grenade" is stuck in his head. "Grenade," he says out loud to himself. It sounds like a small island in the middle of the ocean made entirely out of sidewalk cement. "Grenade," he says again, and falls through a crack in the sidewalk, drowning.