For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn

The fog covered the cemetery, a dense white blanket for the graves. A hill sat in the center of the cemetery, which hosted a small wooden bench and a dead, skeletal beech tree. On the bench sat a young couple in their early twenties. They sat in silence and stared into the mists, the woman curled under the arm of the man. After a few moments, the man shifted and grimaces.

"He'd be three months now."

The woman closed her eyes and sighed. "Yeah. He'd be starting to teeth."

The couple fell into silence again. After another minute, the man sighed and pulled the woman closer.

"I put the shoes on eBay."

The woman looked up at him. "Why? Nobody'd want them."

"Someone might."

"Who needs baby shoes? They're practically new. Might as well get them from Target or something."

"People with children need them."

Silence again. They watched the fog roll by, hiding the stones and graves that dotted the park, and didn't speak. Finally, the woman scooted out from under the man's arm and stood up. Not looking at him, she said, "I'm gonna go back to the car. We need to stop by the market and get some more apples for the pie." However, the woman made no move to begin walking down the hill.

The man stood up to join her. Slowly, he reached over and took her hand. "Let's go." He began walking down the hill, but the woman stayed standing on the hillside. The man turned and looked up into the woman's eyes, which were staring off into the gray horizon. Tears were forming. "What's wrong?"

She didn't look down at him. "Why do we die? What's the point of life if its all gonna end, just like that? I mean, he didn't even live through five days outside of my womb, and now he's... He's..." She shook her head. "Gone."

The man walked back up the hill and wrapped his arms around her. "I don't know," he whispered, "But we have to get past it. He'll always be a special part of us, but we need to get past the fact he's gone. We have to get past it. Together."

It started to rain.

Justice

The musty jewelry store is empty, save for you and a tiny middle-aged man with glasses sitting behind the counter. You glance around nervously before grabbing a gold chain necklace off a shelf and shoving it into your coat pocket. You turn and immediately make for the glass door. Outside are the wet streets of Detroit. Your hand is on the handle when you hear the stool slide from behind the counter and the tiny man approaching you. You let your hand fall, the other hand holding the chain inside your pocket, and step away from the entrance.

"Are ye payin' for that, mister?" His voice carries an accent that sounds Irish. You peek out from the hood that covers your head. He seems like a nice guy; your conscience tells you to give him the necklace and try again elsewhere. However, another part of you steadies itself, forcing your hand into your other coat pocket. The cool feel of the metal handle calms you slightly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say quickly. You can feel the sweat run down the back of your neck, past the circle of bruises and onto the smooth skin of your spine. Your eyes flit to the doorway again; the option to merely walk away is overwhelming. The man folds his arms and frowns.

"I watched ye grab that chain," he says, gesturing towards your bulging pocket, "Ye goin’ ter hand it over, or shall I call them coppers on ye?"

You blink rapidly, gulp, then pull the revolver out of the pocket. The storekeeper raises his hands, taking a few steps back. Your tongue flicks out over dry lips, then immediately vanishes back behind your your gritted teeth. You close your eyes for a moment, recalling the scene you had imagined for days now.

"Here's... Here's what's gonna happen," you say, stuttering slightly. You don't look the man in the eyes as you continue: "I'm gonna walk out of here with this, and you're not going to move until I'm gone. Got that?" The store owner stares at the barrel of your gun, terrified, but manages to nod in response. You feel sick to your stomach, but you back towards the door and again put your hand on the metal door knob. "Good," you say, holding the gun in a quivering grip, "Just... Just stay there." You glance around the room one more time before pushing through the door and into the cold October of Detroit.

You can't feel the cold, though. The shock of your robbery - you robbed someone - still pounds through your veins like your last shot of horse. It makes you feel giddy, almost, but still makes you feel nauseous and queasy.

As you walk down the grimy sidewalk, you realize he's probably called the police by now, and you only have a few minutes before you will be completely surrounded by the blue vehicles with sirens mounted on the roofs. You quickly withdraw your hands from your pockets, and pull out your phone. It’s a lousy flip-phone, the kind that don't have a keyboard and made texting annoying and difficult, but you don't have enough money to buy anything newer. Your twitching fingers push seven numbers in and press the call button, then raise the device to your ear. You listen to the ringing of the phone; the repetitive electronic tone is almost soothing to your panicked state of mind. After only a few rings, you hear it click and a young voice answers.

"H... Hello?" Her voice is quivering, as though she's been crying for some time and has only just stopped. Your mouth twitches upwards a bit, but you can feel tears welling up behind your eyes

"Hey, Christine. It's-"

"You!"

"Yeah, uh, I just-"

"Go to hell, you... You creep!"

“No, wait, Christine! I wanted to-”

“What? What the hell do you want?”

“I wanted to say... I’m sorry. There was no excuse for what I did, and I-”

“Yeah. Mm-hmm. No excuses. When a girl says no, you back off, pervert. You don’t pull them into a hotel while they’re drunk and-”

“I’m so, so sorry, Christine. Please-”

“You know what, I’ve had enough of your apologies. That’s all you do. You do something that messes them up forever, and you have the audacity to think they’ll let you off and forgive you if you just say you’re sorry? No. That isn’t how it works.” Her voice is harder, but her crying is still

there.

“Christine-”

“Don’t call me again.”

The line clicks and goes dead. You feel the tears finally come out, and you fall against the side of a warehouse. Sobs wrack your tired body, sending spasms through your skinny torso. The shaking sends waves of pain through the deep tracks along your arm, hidden underneath the thick coat and dirty long-sleeve shirt. You know it's hopeless; she'll never love you.

Sirens emerge from the constant sound of traffic, coming down the street. You wipe your eyes, sniffing the watery mucus that has built up in your nostrils, and quickly rise to your feet. You turn and run, your feet hitting the pavement in a constant thudding rhythm. Three blue cars pull up at the pavement in a semi-circle round you, barely settling into a stop before officers with navy blue uniforms jump out. They rush behind their vehicles, steadying their arms on on the hoods and roofs of the cars. They all stare at you, pathetically standing in front of the large Mackinac Straits Fish Company sign, from behind the iron sights of their guns. You feel your face grow hot, knowing you're terrible deed is about to be repaid in full.

Because of what you did to her, you know Christine will never forgive you, much less return your love. You deserved to die. No crime like that should go unpunished. The tears return, pouring down your face, and you know that this is the end. Nooses hadn't worked; neither had cutting. Your hand goes into your pocket, feeling the metal again, which is warm and covered with sweat. You blink several times, looking at each officer in turn as you do, before pulling the pistol out of your coat and into the chilled October air.

For a brief moment, you wish it was loaded.

Hideaway

Liam pushed open the door with his shoulder, allowing some of the blinding snow from
outside to float in, melting to water droplets before it hit the ground. He quickly slipped in and
pulled the metal door shut with trembling hands. For a few seconds, all he did was stand there,
looking at the metal door. His shoulders heaved in a sigh, then he slipped his coat off and set it
on a coat hook a few inches from the door's hinges. Pulling the scarf that covered his mouth
down to his throat and lifting the goggles that hid his face up to his forehead, he shivered once
more. The cold from the blizzard outside had made it into his house, making it extremely cold.
Brushing his coat off, he walked over to his heater and turned the dial to maximum heat. he'd
turn it down later. He snuggled into a small bed with a large comforter and blanket stuffed in the
corner and looked around his house.

It was a pathetic apartment, but it was also the only one available in the Manhattan RIM
District. It was made of two Reefer shipping containers welded together on the lengthwise sides
and a gigantic hole cut in between, allowing for one to have about 102 square feet of space
inside. A door was also carved in on the side, which opened into a carpeted area that had a desk
and computer to the left, a small bed and dresser with a television to the right, and the large hole
leading to the next shipping container directly in front. Through the hole was a kitchen, with a
sink, oven, microwave and cabinets to the left and a bathroom to the right. The bathroom was
walled off, with a thin cloth partition in a doorway to the far right of the wall. Inside the
bathroom was also a linoleum floor, with a toilet directly to the left of the cloth partition and a
shower occupying the corner next to the toilet. The shower has an opaque plastic partition that
opens up at the corner of the nearly-square shower, and cabinets are built directly next to it.
Inside are towels, washcloths, and extra toilet paper, with a small hamper in an open slot at the
bottom, where some dirty clothing was lying in. A special plaster developed in RIM labs covered
the walls on all sides, creating a gloomy grayish-white layout for the entire apartment. Small
bulbs screwed into the ceiling lit each room with a dim light.

Liam shook his head. His thoughts had gotten so distracted by the bathroom, of which he
was proud of for it's organization, that he'd forgotten to turn the heater down. The apartment had
already grown stiflingly hot, and so he was glad to turn the heater down to a lower setting. He
reached out and twisted the dial, which was right next to his bedside, and he heard the flames
from the gas heater, which was next to the hole in between the rooms, diminish and quiet. He
then slipped out from under the frayed blue covers and white woven blanket, opened his dresser,
and reached inside. After a few seconds of searching, he found what he was looking for: the
DVD for "Toy Story." For him, Pixar movies never got old, and he slid it into a slot in the small
10-inch by 12-inch television set that sat on his dresser. He slid back under the blankets and
pressed play, watching the previews begin.

He missed his old home in L.A., back where it didn't snow and was nice and warm all the
time. He had a picture of him and his parents pinned to a pin board hanging over his desk,
standing outside his first apartment. He had a big smile, and he remembered how happy he had
been to finally be leaving those crazy people. He missed their crazy now. He wished he could
see them again. However, he knew that would never be possible. He was a criminal in the eyes
of RIM, and he could be shot on sight by police if he was found.

So he had moved here, to the area with the densest population in the Manhattan District,
to find his hideaway. No Republic In Manufacturing patrol would ever find him here. He was
safe; safe from the storm, safe from the cold, safe from taxes, safe from RIM.
The previews ended and the movie began. Liam Ashwin smiled, pulled the blankets
covers closer to him, and relaxed.

Introduction

Presenting to the public a collection of the unfinished, not-well-thought-out, pondered but never published, written but ignored, and eccentric works of Leviticus Eli.

Please, enjoy. It took me a bloody long time to find them all.