Breadcrumb #11

Bob Raymonda

Argus wanders the bazaar with purpose, but allows the flow of wealthy tourists to determine his path. Tent after tent of children’s trinkets and wall hangings assault his eyes, but none catch his attention. He spends far more time looking at the merchants themselves rather than the wares they pedal. She hasn’t yet appeared, but he’s confident she will, even if he has to spend all day in the upper district.

     Everyone here makes Argus uncomfortable, but he’s convinced the endgame is worth it. He tries not to pay too much attention to the navy blue tint of their skin. He even tells himself that the time they spend in the warm rays of sun will kill them, rather than give them a healthy glow. He scoffs when he catches hundreds of his own reflection in a tent run by a straight-backed glass worker. The mirrors scream of his inadequacies, the sky blue of an under dweller’s skin, the wiry frame of a person who hasn’t had three square meals a day since before the upper platforms were built.

“The mirrors scream of his inadequacies, the sky blue of an under dweller’s skin, the wiry frame of a person who hasn’t had three square meals a day since before the upper platforms were built.”

     “Looking for anything in particular?” the mustachioed steward asks. Argus shakes his head and wonders what he would look like with facial hair. The steward rolls his eyes. “If you’re not interested, keep moving.”

     Argus clenches his fist, nails biting into his sweaty palms, but obliges. He can’t speak up the way he’d like, or one of the robed security guards might catch his attention. He doesn’t want anyone realizing he shouldn’t be here, at least not until after he finds her.

     The next tent stops him with the scent of smoking meats. He isn’t sure of what most of it is, as the carcasses are headless, but the emptiness of his stomach doesn’t mind. He points to a skewer of purple cubes and hands over one of the few banknotes he scrounged together for this trip. The flavor eludes him; it’s unlike anything he’s ever tasted. Receptors scream inside his cheeks that he never imagined existing. He lets each bite linger on his tongue before swallowing, unsure of when he’ll have a delicacy like this again. Tonight, he’ll dine with his brothers on the many-legged vermin they’re paid to clear out of Uncle Vernon’s sewer tunnels. It sounds worse than it actually is, as long as you have the right condiments.

     Argus resumes his ascent into the upper reaches of the bazaar. He climbs a chain-link ladder hanging from the highest platform to reach the last few tents. On his trip up, his skewer falls out of his mouth and strikes a child in the face. Argus is almost to the top of the ladder as he glances down and watches her aggravated mother alert a yellow robed security guard of his mistake.

     He hurtles up over the edge and stumbles into the first tent he sees, knocking over a rack of diamond letter openers. A teenager with a pencil behind his ear glares at him, but doesn’t move from his place behind the table, too busy with a sale to fix the toppled rack. Argus takes off running and bumps into several other angry wanderers. They curse at him in tongues unfamiliar. A woman in a yellow robe approaches him from below, but there is no urgency in her movement. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees what he came here for.

     She is the most elegant creature Argus has ever seen, and he wonders what she’s doing up here among these rich scum. Her tentacles hang over her left shoulder and glow the iridescent violet of someone from the western reaches. She frequents the bar his sister owns, and up until this moment, he’s only pined for her from afar. But last night, she’d left behind a satchel, the one tied to his hip, and he made the trip here determined to speak to her. He approaches calmly and with caution. He chooses to ignore the woman in yellow gaining on him.

     Her tent is colorful — there are glass phials filled with orange and green and purple powders everywhere. Most are corked shut, but the few that are open smell vaguely of the sea. He yearns to know what’s inside, to share any common interest with her, but will stick with what he’s got. She smiles at him, a vague look of recollection on her face. His heart jumps up to his throat as he inches toward her, unfastening the satchel from his hip and handing it to her.

     “Thank you so much,” she squeals. “Where have I seen you before? How did you know this was mine?”

     Before Argus can respond, the woman in the yellow robe appears behind him. She clutches his shoulder with a gloved hand, and before he can react, slaps a pair of plasma cuffs on his unsuspecting wrists.

     “Please go about your day, Helena,” the woman in yellow mutters, and drags him off toward the imposing castle in the clouds. Argus should feel a crushing wave of despair right now, but he doesn’t. Because even though he never got to speak to her, she spoke to him, and that’s half the battle.

• • •

Breadcrumb #10

Jen Winston

The girl was breaking her New Year’s resolution. Or, technically, she had already broken it, and now she was just feeling the effects of fucking up (euphoria, rise in body temperature, impaired judgment especially so). The third glass of wine had been the culprit, but what was she supposed to do — refuse? A two-drink limit was too optimistic for a year-long goal, anyway. Besides, now they were walking to her apartment, and that meant she was about to achieve her other resolution. This one trumps drinking less, she thought, biting her lip.

     Girls looked cute when they bit their lips, the other girl thought. It was a nervous act, but also a sexual one. As hot as self-doubt could be.

     She wondered why she wasn’t also nervous. Sure, she’d done this before, but only once, and it had taken six whiskey sours and some joints before she’d felt anything like herself. But tonight, after just three glasses of bad Malbec, she was comfortable. Almost more comfortable than she’d ever been on a normal date with a guy. She liked the girl — found her attractive but unremarkable, nonthreatening. She liked the way her worried eyes carried a hint of possibility, like this might be the moment where things turned around.

“She liked the way her worried eyes carried a hint of possibility, like this might be the moment where things turned around.”

     The girls were both conscious of his presence behind them, but each pretended to ignore it. As they talked about the glory days of surf rock in the '90s, he walked five feet back and watched their asses, taking note of whose was sticking out further. It was a trick he’d learned: If an ass stuck out because of a dramatically arched lower back, it meant that ass’ owner was trying to impress you. Holding that position required focus and intent, so women only used it when their confidence was low and they needed an easy seduction ploy, fast. He expected a desperate move like this from the other girl — after all, she was the stranger here — but this arched back didn’t belong to her. And that worried him.

     The girl’s apartment was just around the corner. It was soon to be his apartment, too, and they were going to get a dog. He’d imagined lots of puppy-related scenarios — athletic days at the park, lazy nights on the couch — but mostly, he imagined the two of them arguing over what to name it. He knew he would suggest “Kierkegaard” since he’d met her in the Philosophy aisle; she would say that was cheesy, douchey, and hard to pronounce. Then she would suggest “Sia,” and he would ask who that was. She would call him pop culturally ignorant, and they’d meet in the middlebrow with something like “Lou Reed.”

     They reached the building, and the girl fumbled with the key. Her lower back was still curved, and now he could see she was doing that lip-gnawing thing she did sometimes. Should they go through with this? The whole thing had been her idea, but tonight she hardly seemed like the bold prowess who’d suggested it in bed last month. Maybe he was overthinking, but when he’d scoured forums for the advice of experienced couples, they’d all said to be overly cautious of the female’s happiness. “Women tend to do what’s polite,” one poster said. “To make the social moves that are easiest in the moment. It’s up to the man to decipher his partner’s actions. If you intuit that she wants to leave, you leave, or you suffer the consequences.”

     Why were they doing it, anyway? Things were just fine between them — they had fun together, the sex was fantastic, and the promise of Lou Reed gave them more than enough to look forward to. He could end it here and now — dismiss the other girl and have the girl all to himself. He’d go slow, the way only he knew she liked it.

     They walked upstairs, single file, and the other girl noticed the girl’s posture. For me? she wondered. She’d used that lower back technique before, but had always assumed it looked desperate. Now that she was on the receiving end, she realized it just felt good to be wanted.

     The girl fumbled again at the apartment door. The guy rubbed his hands together, trying to figure out what to say, how to cut the wires. “It’s getting late,” maybe. “We’ve got to be up early, so.”

     Before he came up with anything, he watched the other girl step forward, placing her hand on the girl’s bent back. He watched the hand slide lower, watched the girl turn around. She closed her eyes, and the nerves turned into something else. Maybe he was overthinking. Maybe he should just relax.

• • •

Breadcrumb #9

Bob Raymonda

Erin hands her daughter a fuzz-covered peach before returning to the dishes. Margaret smiles from the table and bites into its yellow-orange flesh, slurping to catch the nectar that spills out onto her face. Erin makes no attempt to mask her disdain for her daughter when asking, “Could you maybe try to eat a little quieter, sweetie?” Margaret stares up at Erin defeated, nectar still streaming down from the right corner of her quivering lip. She sets the peach down on the countertop and tears well up in her tiny eyes. Erin can tell it’s going to be a doozy, because the sound of her sobs is pitiful.

     She grabs the peach (wincing at the combination of nectar and saliva on her hand), slaps it on a cutting board, and dices it into thin cubes. She isn’t sure why she didn’t do this in the first place, but Margaret’s tears are abated when Erin returns the newly desiccated fruit and coos, “Here, baby, this will do the trick.”

     Her mother always told her that childrearing is no picnic, and that doing it alone would be no small task. She often wonders if that’s why she went through with the adoption, like some sort of challenge. It surely wasn’t out of some innate feeling of motherhood. In fact, she was quite relieved when she found out her womb is barren. Yet somehow, here she is: a mother. Her once sleek and modern two-bedroom, five-floor walkup, strewn with the detritus of a budding toddler. Crudely drawn stick figures replace the fast-food menus on her fridge; her eggshell-white walls covered in dirty handprints and long swaths of brown crayon.

     Her therapist assures her that she just hasn’t had enough time to form a lasting bond. But how long should that take? Margaret has been in her life now for over a year, and every time she comes down with a cold, Erin would rather barricade the snotty monster in a room for three days than care for her. Of course, she ignores these impulses — she plays the loving mother, but why doesn’t she feel it? Why can’t she feel this “undying” love that her sister Diane boasts when talking about her three brats?

“Why can’t she feel this ‘undying’ love that her sister Diane boasts when talking about her three brats?”

     Erin nicks her finger with the steak knife she used to cut Margaret’s peach. “Fuck,” she shouts, as droplets of her blood gather at the bottom of the sink. She grabs the wet dish towel from her shoulder and tries to stop the flow. Margaret looks up at her mother with a look of faint concern that turns to marked indifference and plops another piece of peach into her mouth. Even without the abundance of nectar present in the whole fruit, she manages to slurp while sucking on it. Erin would rather be lying in a bed of needles than listen to her own daughter eat.

     There are a few pieces of fruit left on the plate and, with her bloody hand, Erin tosses them into the sink. She watches as they become unrecognizable lumps of grey under the still-running water, and thinks it might be what her heart would look like if it were outside of her chest. She feels a sick sense of satisfaction as Margaret runs off into the living room crying. She wonders how inappropriate it is to return an unwanted child, or if it is too late.

• • •

Breadcrumb #8

Daniel Toy

B., ~37 y.o.
Case ID: 6-TT9

<Loc> described as “mountain of blue-green glass” by person of interest B. upon exiting the SomethingShoppe off Singleway 6 on [date last seen] — though, according to Witness III, who stood ~17 feet from the SomethingShoppe exit (the last confirmed individual to have seen B., and who also overheard B.’s aforesaid depiction) noted — later, to be clear — that “grass” could have been misheard as “glass,” making the <Loc> in question a “mountain of blue-green grass” and not a “mountain of blue-green glass” as originally reported. (It should be noted that this small uncertainty on the part of Witness III unfortunately calls into question the validity of the phrase in its entirety.)

     SomethingShoppe shopkeeper Scott, former employee of Best Buy *, reports B. purchasing a brand-new CelPal with in-store activation, which B. then (again, reportedly) used to audio-comm another individual. (It was the tail-end of this CelPal comm, re: possible description of <Loc>, that was overheard by Witness III, who last recalled B. entering her auto and continuing down Singleway 6.)

      A compiled description of B., based on the accounts of Witnesses I, II, & III and SomethingShoppe shopkeeper Scott, is as follows (in subjective and, at times, metaphorical terms): “lean” (WII); “of a copper complexion,” “delicate,” and “salty, like a beach” (WI)**; “more likely to be a customer of Best Buy than SomethingShoppe, if you know what I mean” (SomethingShoppe shopkeeper Scott); “fatigued,” “moved with a reluctant gait, as if, like, just walking for the second time ever, or something… I felt kind of like uncomfortable watching, to be honest” (WIII).

      On [date last seen], WI encountered B. in line at the Chop-‘n’-Go in the city, WI wearing the Team’s standard dress with logo patch on shoulder, B. to his right, smelling vaguely of the sea, compelling him to lean inward, which is when he couldn’t help but notice a particular set of coordinates filling the screen of B.’s old-model ArmPal (which, itself, was odd to see, on account of those not being popular for years), and he (thinking, of course, as always, about the <Loc>) became curious, or paranoid, or suspicious, or some combination of all of those feelings of B., at which point B., he thinks (see: speculative) glimpsed the Team logo on his uniform, because then she hurriedly left her place in line (and if you’ve ever been to that Chop-‘n’-Go you know never to leave your place in line because wow does it take a mighty minute just to get in the door), dropped her ArmPal on the cement, it complete-crashing after falling from her hand (it being a super-old Pal device), and he not wanting to overreact [plus also still wanting his Chop-‘n’-Go because it had been him in line for ~52 minutes, his stomach not stopping noise-making, a definitive sign he (his body) needed said Chop-‘n’-Go], so he watched B. drive onto Singleway 6 from inside the Chop-‘n’-Go before (finally) grabbing his foodstuff and sending a lit- and audio-comm to Team headquarters to be on high alert for an individual resembling B. heading west on Singleway 6, this comm resulting in the testimony of Witness II, who happened to have his AutoPal tuned to pick up all types of alerts (reason unknown) and saw someone fitting B.’s description getting off at Exit 82 “where, y’know, that Somethin’Shoppe just, uh, opened up.”***

      After picking up Witness II’s comm identifying approximate location of B., Witness I stepped into his auto and did the following things in an order he cannot completely, fully, 100% remember on account of high levels of stress and a history of panic attacks: a) exceeded 95 mph on S-6 in pursuit of B.; b) grabbed a handful of Chop-‘n’-Go greens and dropped them into his mouth, three times; c) just in case, tuned the AutoPal from a song by Geese Geese to his alerts station (which was a shame because he’s been really getting into Geese Geese); d) nearly hit another auto trying to merge right to take Exit 82; e) took Exit 82, narrowly.

      He questioned passersby in the area off Exit 82, including, eventually, Witness III, who directed him to the SomethingShoppe where B. exited moments before, thus leading him to SomethingShoppe shopkeeper Scott, a generally unhelpful and unlikable informant. The rest, as dictated way, way above, is just mountains of blue-green something.

“The rest, as dictated way, way above, is just mountains of blue-green something.”

      And so concludes case 6-TT9, another report in a series of reports re: the <Loc> concluding in “So concludes…” As it wraps up, something to wonder about is: What would it feel like not to always be retaining forever this warehouse of information? Another thing: What if B. had just been on her way to an out-of-town interview for a fancy, stress-free new job (speculative), or to a tropical getaway on an all-inclusive vacation (speculative), or even to elope with a beautiful stranger (speculative), and she needed those coordinates to find her way, so when she accidentally broke her old Pal outside Chop-’n’-Go on her rush to get there, she had to buy a new one, for something everyday, and lovely, and real? But this report, like the hundreds of others that this scribe has composed regarding the <Loc>, will become all that’s definitive, because no room exists in this warehouse-mind for anything else, and there’s no vacancy for finer things, things like copper skin, or Geese Geese songs, or freckles, or senseless, simple speculation.

     At this time, the whereabouts of B. — and the <Loc> — remain unknown.

---

*Lateral career move calls into question, slightly, the character of SomethingShoppe shopkeeper Scott

**Without breaking RSR (Report Style Regulation shorthand) in the official transcript above by transitioning into a first-person perspective, it should be noted that the first witness to this case on [date last seen], WI (Witness I shorthand), is the scribe of this report and the headmost suspector of B. (see: me)

***At this time, since RSR prohibits editing of any kind, Witness I would like to add something, on account of he forgetting to mention way above (and he regrets not already mentioning this) but in the description given of B. by himself, Witness I, well, he intended to note the pattern of freckles covering a patch of exposed skin on B.’s back due to the cut of the garment being worn. Now, as he writes this report, additional almost-forgotten details (like the lamp-shaped freckle patch) reveal themselves to his conscious mind.

• • •

Breadcrumb #7

Bob Raymonda

The cold bites against his few stretches of bare skin. No clothing he’s ever found has been truly impenetrable against the winter wind. He remains in the state he was born in despite this. He claims that it’s a liminal period, that sooner or later he will extract himself from the polar vortex, but there is no true weight behind his words. At least not yet.

     The rush of traffic and people drown out the sound of music in his ears. He fights to gain traction against the slick concrete, but feels a brief moment of joy when he slides down a wooden ramp erected to cover a hole in the ground. He is briefly reminded of a rush he hasn’t chased in ages. The suspension of control he used to feel sledding, letting momentum take the wheel. Abandoning the cool, calculated steps that regularly reigned. The jumps he built with neighborhood children were sometimes taller than he was. At least at the time. And now a four-inch incline can, for a moment, match the feeling of riding headfirst into the pillowy, snow-covered earth. He isn’t sure whether to feel relieved or depressed, though it’ll likely be the latter.

     With holdover adrenaline, he decides to cross the street after the foreboding orange hand stops flashing and urges him back. He steps onto the opposite curb just as the light turns green and wonders what it would take to excite him the way climbing up a hill and barreling down it again for hours on end once did.

     The snow that cakes the ground now is nothing like the welcoming mounds of his childhood. It cements itself into the nooks and crannies of the street before melting away into a grey unforgiving slush. It seeps into his shoes and ensures that even his bones are cold. No rubber boots or waterproof pants to protect him here from the elements. Just his jeans and the promise of a bad cocktail made with old ginger ale and whiskey from the bottom shelf. He considers pouring it out, but commits. Because something as simple as a drink can help to dull his indifference, and lessen his desire to relive moments past.

“Because something as simple as a drink can help to dull his indifference, and lessen his desire to relive moments past.”

     He skates across the living room floor with his drink and microwaved leftovers into his self-imposed solitary confinement and ingests as quickly as possible — both the sustenance in front of him and the media he uses to avoid: the blank page, or the prospect of a trip home to go sledding again and relive his youth.

     He climbs into bed and kicks off his socks. He tries to stop thinking about the incline. The rush of flying face first down a hill toward certain injury. He ignores his urges to go up on the roof of his building and replace his memory of childlike glee with one of at least adult awe at the sight of the city skyline. He chooses instead to close his eyes and attempt to forget, once again, what it’s like to be alive during the coldest time of the year.

• • •