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Every night when she got home, Aubrey would pull out the sheets of paper–hundreds of pages, connected at their edges by Scotch Tape–on which she calculated her happiness. Thousands of variables multiplied and divided, sqaured and subtracted preceded an equals sign which preced a value of 100,000. 100,000 was the nubmer that signified her optimal happiness, and she was working to solve for all the variables that came before it.

These variables represented all the myriad factors in Aubrey’s life. Some were set in stone, like n₁, which was her birth name. Aubrey had no intention of changing her name, so n₃ carried the same value, as n₁, though it might be changed, should it prove necessary.

So every night she sat in front of the coffee table in her bedroom, rearranging numbers and operations and little letters with numbers under them.

The difficulty of this long equation was not only that she didn’t know the necessary values of the variables (and a hundred always changed each time she changed one), but she didn’t know the proper formula to begin with. She was constantly rewriting sections of the equation, recognizing the flaws.

One night, Aubrey’s roommate, Susan, observed Aubrey working on solving for g₅ (the number of years of an undefined foreign language she should take in college).

“Oy gevalt,” Aubrey moaned (she had until six months ago been a non-practicing Catholic, but had recently converted to Judaism per her conclusions on r₁₆ and was injecting Yiddish vocabulary into her speech to smooth the transition–till the dictates of r₁₉ would make her an atheist in 2014), “g₅‘s in the wrong spot entirely!”

“Hey, Aub,” Susan suggested, leaned up against a doorjamb, casually sipping a cup of tea, “what if you just plugged in all of the variables that sound best, and just go with whatever you end up with?”

“I’ve tried that, Susan!” Aubrey snapped, “and I end up with 79,846.43333 and on! Does that sound like 100,000 to you?!”

“Just a thought,” Susan shrugged. “Don’t gotta bit my head off about it.”

Aubrey sighed. “Sorry I snapped, Susan. I just know I can get it perfect, and I can’t stop till I do.”

“Alright. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Thanks.”

Susan walked away. Aubrey erased g₅ from the equation, and began sifting through the pages, tattered from age and revision, and searched for where it belogned.

______________
This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Davey Morrison, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, and William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. This week’s theme: ‘Algebra‘.

Two eighteen-year-old boys, unable to return home.

Two eighteen-year-old boys, trying to make it on their own in the big city.

Two eighteen-year-old boys, cute but unlucky.

Two eighteen-year-old boys, selling their bodies for money.

Two eighteen-year-old boys, each surprised at the youth and beauty of tonight’s tricks.

Two eighteen-year-old boys, taking turns screwing each other in a dark apartment.

Two eighteen-year-old boys, anxious, sitting across from each other in the quiet with not a penny between them and pimps expecting their four hundred dollars.

Charlie skipped home with an extra spring in his step. Today was Wednesday, after all, and every Wednesday, his mother would take him to the supermarket and buy him an ice cream cone, scooped from one of the sixteen tubs of ice cream behind the glass. Fifteen of these tubs contained consistent flavors of ice cream week by week, day by day. One tub, though, cycled through an unknown number of flavors every week, something he had not picked up on until eight weeks ago. He was only seven years old, he reasoned, so even though he and his mother had been honoring this ritual for the entirety of his school career, his observational faculties had only recently provided for detecting such patterns.

Charlie wondered what flavor would be in the sixteenth tub this Wednesday, and whether or not it would be intriguing enough to sway him from his desired rocky road cone. He wondered what flavor could convince him to

As usual, Charlie rounded the corner the separated the living room from the kitchen, where he expected to find his mother either sipping some afternoon coffee and typing on her laptop computer. Instead, he found his mother seated next to a slight whisp of a bald man, dressed in a dull gray suit, both surrounded by sheets of paper, stacks of paper, strips of paper.

“Hi, Charlie,” his mother smiled, looking up from the papers in her hands. “This is Geoff, our accountant.”

“Hey, Charlie,” the accountant said without looking up. He was pressing buttons on a calculator that noisily spat out receipt tape.

“Hi, Mom,” Charlie said, touching his hand to the wall. “Are you ready to go to the supermarket?” he asked. “It’s Wednesday.”

“Oh, honey,” his mother sighed. “I’m sorry, but today’s Tax Day. We’ve got to finish these tonight and I can’t take the time away to get to the supermarket.”

“But it’s Wednesday,” Charlie

“I think Tax Day supercedes Wednesday,” the accountant looked up and chuckled to himself.

“I know, sweetheart,” she said from across the kitchen. “We’ll go tomorrow, okay?’

Charlie was an agreeable child. “Okay,” he nodded. He let his backpack slide down his shoulder, turned around, and walked back into the living room.

That Wednesday was the day on which Charlie learned that traditions are merely fragile constructs of human design, that life’s pleasures can easily be derailed by life’s obligations, and that all things are impermanent.

At long last, after a separation of years and oceans and fields and mountains, the man and the woman were reunited. Their correspondences had sustained each other with the warmth of love through the biting realities of life, cold and dark, hungry and alone. The memories of each other’s faces had become ever more obscure and, they feared, idealized. But when they laid eyes on each other, they were immediately struck with how no image in their minds could compare to the real things. And together, they were more beautiful than they were alone. They embraced, and the warmth they carried inside of them fused and burned with the intensity of a thousand suns. Zing! went the strings of her heart.

They spent the day together, the night together. Zing! went the strings of her heart. They laid in each other’s arms one day from sunup to sunrise, staring out at the horizon, speaking only of their love for one another. Zing! went the strings of her heart.

They walked along the beach, hand in hand, bathed in moonlight. They leaned into each other, they supported each other. Zing! went the strings of her heart.

“Are your heart strings going to keep doing that?” he asked.

Their steps halted. “I believe so,” she stammered, suddenly fearing, doubting his devotion.

He took a deep breath, mustering up every ounce of tolerance he could. “In time, I hope that I shall accept it, and maybe even grow to love it,” he said to the waves. Then he turned to her and smiled.

Zing! went the strings of her heart.

We regret to inform you that you have fallen into a bottomless pit. The pit you are now falling through is indeed bottomless and you will continue to fall from now until eternity. The magical powers employed to create this human-engineered anomaly have endowed the shaft with the capability of sustaining the basic nutritional needs of its victims. You will not hunger or thirst, though you will age normally. Eventually, you will meet with a natural death, though your corpse will continue to fall until it finally wastes away.

As you continue to fall, you will find no objects or people here in this bottomless pit. There are no exits and there is no chance of escape, by your own hand or another’s. The blackness you see around you will be your only company from here till the end of your life. Please, make your best effort to utilize this time to reflect on your life, and to enjoy the fall.

BEEP!

We regret to inform you that you have fallen into a bottomless pit. The pit you are now falling through is indeed–

“Oh God!” cried Herman as he continued his free fall through imperceptible space. “Will it never stop looping?!”

–eternity. The magical powers employed to create this human-engineered anomaly have endowed the shaft with the capability of sustaining the basic nutritional needs of its victims. You will not hunger or thirst, though you will age normally. Eventually, you will meet with a natural death, though your corpse will continue to fall until it finally wastes away.

As you continue to fall, you will find no objects or people here in this bottomless pit. There are no exits and there is no chance of escape, by your own hand or another’s. The blackness you see around you will be your only company from here till the end of your life. Please, make your best effort to utilize this time to reflect on your life, and to enjoy the fall.

BEEP!

“The golden evenings of my Summer at the ancestral beach house initiated their too-hasty retreat into the past. And soon enough, we had but two weeks left. Still, though, faced with the imminent return to our studies, my cousins and I found ourselves growing bored with our freedom.

“One afternoon after lunch, however, we found a curiously shaped shell while my cousin Tabitha was carelessly kicking her feet in the sand. Something about it caught our attention and we began speculating as to its origins. Little Geoffrey incorrectly identified it as “coral,” but the name took.

“In the course of our whimsical speculations, it was determined that the shell must have possessed some magical properties. Soon, we found ourselves concocting some loose rules and assuming roles for a new game.”

*
While he continued his story, the candles on their table shed their wax and the other patrons of the restaurant left and took with them their contribution to the warm evening ambience. While he detailed the rules of his impromptu childhood game, their waiter made several visits to the table, but was always shooed away with a flick of hand, unwilling to let his tale be interrupted.

*
“At last, the rules were finally codified for maximal enjoyment for each one of us. The rules were complex and challenging but elegant and fair. It was a tremendous amount of fun, and we all agreed that it was the highlight of our Summer. Indeed, we played our Coralball until the sun began to set and our grandmother summoned us home. All smiles and laughter, we vowed to resume the game after breakfast the next day.

“Yet when we congregated at the beach the next morning, the magic of the game had The exhilarating feeling of invention and adventurous spirit of discovery had been drained from our dear Coralball, leaving us with an overwrought set of rules that was as dry and boring as the shell we had once celebrated so. We lied to ourselves for a few hours, pretending to enjoy what we believed we should, but ultimately could not–”

“Okay, I get it! Fine,” she snapped, picking up her purse, “you don’t want to see me anymore. Whatever. Fuck you.” She stormed out of the restaurant.

Last night, I laid in bed in the same manner I have most nights since adolescence. Restlessly, I tossed and turned, fluffed my pillow, and contorted my spine, seeking a comfortable spot in which to fall asleep. These efforts were futile, of course, because it was not my body that sought comfort, but my mind. For hours I was prodded by the myriad demons that haunted me during my waking hours but became heavy and articulate with nightfall.

I had my beliefs, my opinions, and my ideals. Still, I knew that billions of other people had their own sets of beliefs, opinions, and ideals that differed from mine. Whose could be reight? Self doubt filled me with anguish. Perhaps my entire moral universe was askew, and who could know how much suffering and setback the world suffered at my ignorance? In the darkness of my small room, the cries of one or a thousand people erupted from my skull and echoed off my walls.

This morning, though, I awoke with the dawn, energized and clear of mind. The world had snapped into clear and shining focus; the burdensome mantle of my self doubt had been lifted from my shoulders. I was right. About everything. My impulses had never and could never lead me astray. A smile is now fixed upon my face and I employ my peerless certainty as both sword and shield.

Prepare thyselves, motherfuckers of the world, ’cause I’m fucking right. About everything.

A plan initially made some months ago in haste and in jest, Sundae Sunday finally arrived this March 1st, 2009. It was cute and it was ironic, and by God, Shirley and Dan were going through with it–a whole day dedicated to these happy homophones, a whole day of sundaes for every meal.

“Sundaes all Sunday long!” they said in unison, imagining the marketing campaign for such an event.

“Perhaps,” Shirley said, “if this turns out well, we could make the first Sunday of every March from here on to forever Sundae Sunday.”

As Dan rounded the corner into the dining room with the lunch sundaes, his suspicions were confirmed by the grimace on Shirley’s face that mirrored his own. Sundae Sunday would be a day to forget, not remember, and it would not continue on.

Becky’s shift started at nine o’clock. She shared an office with Janice, whose shift started an hour later. Becky would be well engaged in her work–typing memos, emailing reports, reviewing spreadsheets–by the time Janice would drop her mighty purse on her desk, noisily swing the door to hang up her jacket, and make a loud, tired pronouncement about whatever day of the week it was. These pronouncements would echo in everything Janice would say to her officemate or passersby for the first and last two hours of her shift, when she seemingly had an acute awareness of the day of the week. Becky liked to keep communication with Janice to a minimum and dreaded her ten o’clock arrival.

Recently, Janice had taken to complaining about her “case of the Mondays,” a term she happily and unironically confessed to lifting from Office Space. This “case of the Mondays” apparently had infected the neighboring Tuesday. Thursday was the interminable countdown to Friday and Friday was the interminable countdown to five o’clock.

But Wednesday was “hump day.” And this day was Wednesday.

Becky stared into her computer monitor, unable to concentrate on the scores of emails that required her attention. Instead, she was fixated on the time: “9:59 AM.” Right on schedule, she could hear Janice’s voice approaching from down the hall. The sound of Janice’s feet hitting carpet were amplified in Becky’s ears, thunderous and malicious. Becky’s fingers, at rest on the home row, tensed and involuntarily typed “jafkl;d” into a report to the district supervisor.

Without looking up, Becky knew Janice was now in the office with her: the air was stuffier; it reeked of cheap perfume. Becky grinded her teeth. Janice slammed her purse down on her desk, its contents jingling and crinkling in cacophony. Becky’s eyes strained and her vision blurred.

“It’s Hump Day!” Janice croaked melodically. Becky moved her lips mockingly. Janice maneuvered around the office. “I made cupcakes!”

Becky looked up from her monitor. Janice towered over her desk, grinning generously. She extended to Becky a plastic container populated with chocolate and vanilla cupcakes. Atop each one, inscribed in icing, were the words, “HUMP DAY!”

Becky smiled in return. She delicately plucked the chocolate cupcake nearest her from the container. “Thanks, Janice,”

“You’re welcome, hon. We’re halfway there, aren’t we?” Janice chirped. Becky had already stuffed her mouth full with cupcake. She nodded. Janice laughed. “We’ll get there. Hump Day’s just two days away from Friday!”

Janice made delicious cupcakes.

Three friends decided to take a semester’s break from their busy college schedules, to regroup and recalibrate their energies. Still, they did not wish to let their sharp minds dull. As such, they enjoyed meeting to discuss art, literature, and other academic pursuits.

“Hey, Jake,” Ben said. “What you reading now?”

“As we discussed,” said Jake, “I just recently finished reading Goethe’s Faust.” Ben and Dave both nodded. “So I haven’t really started anything yet. But I think I’m going to tackle this next,” he indicated the volume on the table.

“Dude,” said Dave, suddenly smiling, “Is that title 26–?”

“Damn straight! It’s the United States Tax Code.” said Jake. “Y’know, I’ve been meaning to get around to it for a while.”

“I picked up a copy of last Fall but still haven’t cracked it,” said Ben.

“It’s apparently a tough one to crack,” said Jake.

“I don’t think I’d want to read it cover-to-cover,” said Ben, “but there are certainly some sections I’d like to read.”

“Like?” asked Dave.

“Section 501,” Ben grinned with a knowing tone.

“Dude! Non-profits?” Dave said, sitting up in his chair.

“You know it!” Ben replied. They high-fived.