It's Far Too Early For This Kind Of Thing, Submission 8 by Jay Johnson

"I won't deliver."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that: I… will… not… deliver… your expectations, I mean. It isn't that I don't want to. Nothing would make me happier than to live up to your fantasy – I want you to know that I will not, cannot deliver the construction you've built. And just so there's no confusion, I want it to be clear that nobody can deliver your expectations. It's not a deficiency in me… it's just an impossibility."

Just for a second there, just a second – something slid off her face and she looked, I don't know – flat. Like soda-pop gone stagnant in a sticky cup, abandoned on the counter. Her eyes were glassy and hollow, instead of sparkling and full. Her smile was plastic and forced instead of genuine – as if it never had nor ever would, reach her eyes.

And, I feel so much. I feel myself splintering, like a tree caught in an ice storm – sap frozen and expanding until the trunk bursts. I don't know how to handle my splintering. I am too many shards. Before a tree and now only tinder.

And, God, I loved you. I loved you so much. Too much. I don't think a person can handle that much love. I 'm not even sure a person deserves to be loved that much. I'm not sure that we fickle, oscillating, petty people deserve to be loved like that.

It's chilly and the breeze off the Pacific chases rubbish down the street. It's too early for much in the way of signs of life. There is a motor scooter parked on the street, only now revealed because your car has pulled away from blocking its view.

Early Morning or Late Evening Discussion with an Island on the Colorado River, Submission 5 by Jay Johnson

"I often converse with inanimate objects and sometimes cannot stand being me. But, the water is cool and the breeze is too, and I like this spot by the river's edge. So, Hello River, and, Hello Island, I see you over there, by your lonesome – not significant enough to split the river in two, but substantial enough to jut about the water's surface. I don't know why I described you, as if somehow defining your parameters actually means anything. Well, I guess it does. Defining things gives me a sense of control over them. I am telling you, Island, that you are 'this' and not 'that.' And, because you are 'this,' you're mine. Do you understand?

I think everyone (everyone being a general term for people that actually think about this stuff) eventually has a problem with the idea of 'significance.' It's just a different way of asking if anything one does is actually important, which is – of course – a very bland extension of the 'why are we here?' question. Actually I think all questions, regardless of subject or origin, are just a manifestation of that question. I won't, but I am pretty confident that I could show that any question asked ends up just being a version of 'why we're here.' Again, I won't, but I so totally could. Just realize when you are asking some teenager behind the counter at whatever fast food store, for a straw, you're really asking why you're here.

I'm sitting here talking to you about things that should be important – that are important – but I'm having a hard time getting past my apathy. I do the majority of my life utterly terrified, but I hide it. And I don't mean – 'I'm nervous about my fifth grade Christmas recital terror' – I mean fucking 'realizing your about to be in a car wreck and can't do anything but think about how frightening this is and how much this will hurt,' terror. But then, I ball it up and save it for after I'm done doing whatever scares the shit out of me. I don't know how I rationalize the fear away, but it all ends up coming back anyway. I wonder; is this how everyone lives? I can't imagine that my 'human experience' is all that unique or different from everyone else's. We're all just creatures of impulse – some of us are just better at ignoring the impulses. Either way, Island, I'm pretty sure the next big storm, this summer, will wash you completely away. T.S. Elliot showed us fear in a handful of dust, but I bet that storm will do the same to you with a bucket full of rain drops.

I generally feel awkward around people and I feel, strangely… guilty, about that. But, God, everyone keeps brushing up against me, so now I'm feeling angry. Please stop, but they don't, and every one of them, unknowingly, takes a little bit of me, like the water slowly eroding your tiny shores. All metaphors are tired. Attempts, again, to define – visualize. I did it again – in my complaint about metaphors being another attempt to define things, I defined metaphors… I just did it again. I could own the world… the whole fucking universe, if I could find the right metaphors and I know I can find the meaning of everything through any question. I think in long soliloquies to inanimate objects, sometimes animals, because I don't think telling a person makes sense. I don't think I want a response. We're all so beige anyway."

But, for a moment there I just got confused. My perception changed, and instead of seeing the river slide past the constant, immovable land I saw the earth flow past the constant, immovable river.

An Unplanned Admission, Submission 3 by Jay Johnson

"What's with all these brochures?"

"They're from adoption agencies. I'm thinking about adopting a child."

"You're serious? YOU are going to try and adopt a kid?"

"Yeah, but I'm going about it a little differently."

"Oh yeah? How so? Why are you even trying this anyway? You know you don't stand a chance at passing the 'parental' tests and crap they do to see if you're fit."

"I think I am fit and prepared, and I think they will see that. Perception is reality, my friend. Besides, the babies I am interested aren't in high demand. They'll practically be giving them away."

"How's that? What kind of baby are you trying to adopt?"

"An A.I.D.S. baby."

"An A.I.D.S. baby?"

"Yes, an A.I.D.S. baby. You know – like those babies that are born addicted to cocaine, because the mother was addicted? Like that, but…"

"Yes, Yes! I know what an A.I.D.S. baby is! Why in the hell are you even thinking about this?"

"I want to adopt a tragedy."

"You want… WHAT? That is some of the lamest, post-modern, 'I'm trying to be shocking – thus deep – thus substantial' bullshit I've ever heard. I am seriously questioning our friendship, right now."

"Chill out man. The kid gets a loving home environment and I can see if I like being a parent. And, if I don't, well, the kid does have A.I.D.S. so it's not, you know…"

"Oh my God."

"…a permanent situation."

"I don't know if I can go on with this narrative. This is, maybe too fucked, even if it is just a short fiction story."

"Stop it. No breaking the fourth wall."

"Third wall."

"Is it? Maybe you're right. Yes, third wall, or whatever. Either way, knock it off. Besides, think about all the trim I will score with this! Girls will go apeshit when they hear I've adopted an A.I.D.S. baby. They'll see how sweet and sensitive and tragic it is."

"Fuck you, man. That's what this is all about, isn't it? Women. And, not even just trying to get laid. Admit it; this is some sick manifestation of your fucking intimacy issues."

"You're ruining this. You're ruining the dark, humorous punch line that I was building up to."

"Fuck that and fuck you. You're so terrified of building intimacy and it failing again and getting hurt that you're just going to go ahead and manufacture an intimate relationship of an already known quantity, which has a predetermined point of failure. Like a motor part in a car – built to fail at a certain mileage."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. And, by the way, you stole the whole 'wall-breaking' thing from that one guy's first book. Fucking plagiarizer."

"Plagiarize is such an ugly word. I prefer to think of it as a tribute. And, you've totally ruined the path this story was going to take originally."

"Good. You need to face this shit. You know what the biggest bitch of this whole situation is? It's that you know your mindset in this is fucked up, but you still maintain it, because you've completely lost your way. A.I.D.S. babies are not a proper metaphor for women. Intimacy isn't destined to always fail, like those kids are. And you know that, so quit being a self-fulfilling prophecy. You're smarter than that. Fix you're fucking life and learn to love yourself again."

"God, expository prose is so trite."

"Whatever, you're the one who got yourself in this situation. Don't be such a fucking cliché."

Casey by Jay Johnson, Submission 2 by Jay Johnson

"Where the fuck is Casey?"

"I don't know. She was here a second ago. I had a beer with her."

"You got Casey to drink a beer? Dude, where the fuck is Casey?"

Dark, straight, short, soft hair. Casey was just here a second ago. Soft, kind, brown eyes. Or, maybe she wasn't? Casey was muscular, for a girl. Time is measured in drinks. How many beers ago was Casey actually here? My friend walks back inside, calling again and again for Casey. Percocet mixes with alcohol to produce a heightened buzz. Should've tried this long before. The night air is warm tonight. Humid. This party smells redundant. I doubt I'll fall in love tonight.

"The line to the bathroom is too long, man! I gotta take a piss!" This fucking guy has two polo shirts on for some reason. He's somebody else's friend.

"Just go around back, man. That's what I did. I opened the gate from the other side – it should still be open. Piss over in the side yard."

Two-polo comes back.

"Check it out man."

Two-polo produces a plastic bag.

"Ever had 'shrooms?"

Two-polo likes to share. So many shots. So many beers. Kissing some girl I've known for awhile. Now we're on the side yard by the gate. Entangled tongues. My fingers sticky between her legs. Her hands around my cock. Heavy breathing. Bare chests, the grass is chilly. Skin to skin contact feels important. I feel important.

"What the FUCK?"

What-the-fuck guy cuts through my buzz. He can't possibly be pissed about this – this is fine. She wanted to. He knows that we like each other – we've hooked up before. What is his problem? She said yes, and yes still means yes, yes?

"Did you open the fucking gate?"

I roll my head back and look, upside down, at the gaping hole that a gate normally fills. She's still on top of me. She's on top. She's a totally willing party. He can't be pissed about this. I'm still inside and her cunt gives a little squeeze. I laugh at her audacity.

"You think this is fucking funny?"

I prop myself up on both hands.

"The line to the bathroom was too long. Just needed to take a piss, so I used the side yard."

"FUCKING Christ. You motherfucking asshole. Casey was out here."

"Oh shit."

I move to get up.

"No, you've done enough, thanks. You're too trashed anyway. I'll fucking find her. Her leash is still in your car, right?"

The case of Starting a family v. Green m&ms, Submission 1 by Jay Johnson

The case of Starting a family v. Green m&ms

When I think about starting a family it frightens me. Not for the regular reasons, like the life-changing responsibility, well never mind, I guess that isn't totally true. It is responsibility that scares me. But, I see it in episodes. In little twenty minute clips of responsibility. Like, teaching your child how to take pills. That's terrifying. What if your child just chokes to death in front of you and all you were doing was teaching him how to swallow a pill - with m&m's. And now that little candy coated shell (probably a green one – the green one's were always fuckers) – is lodged deep in his throat. Clearly not fucking melting in his mouth, else he wouldn't be motherfucking choking, right? What would my wife do? She'd probably try to kill me out of grief, which would make Holiday's and family visits awkward. And then there's my boy on the ground writhing and clawing as I'm on the phone trying to help and call 9-11 and why the hell can't he just hock this thing up? I've choked before and I won! Hock that thing up boy! Jesus, why does he even need to learn how to take pills? This isn't a life skill! Wait, is it? No, certainly not – he could've crushed the pills. Mr. Heimlich seems to be mistaken about his technique. In retrospect, to all that, being single isn't so bad. And I really love my dog.