The City Between Us

Ramon Hernandez was a familiar face at the NASA facility in Houston, having spent nearly two decades as a maintenance man there. At the age of 48, he had become something of an institution himself, known for his distinctive blend of competence and clumsiness. While he was undoubtedly the go-to guy for fixing leaky pipes and unjamming stubborn doors, his colleagues often shared stories of occasional mishaps that earned him the endearing nickname of "Disaster Zone Ramon."

Not that Ramon was without skills; he was literally a jack-of-all-trades. An electrician, a plumber, a house painter, a roofer, an auto mechanic, a household appliance repairman, a landscaper, and a gardener, you name it. With minimal schooling or practical training, Ramon could do it all. Sometimes, he was a little hasty in his approach, covering up imperfections and even working them into the finished job.

Ramon relied heavily on instincts, common sense, and a can-do attitude. Every task was manageable for him. He'd find electronics, computers, and TVs discarded by neighbors, take them home, disassemble and reassemble them like new. His home was filled with items he had either made himself or refurbished. A home, by the way, he built from the ground up. Okay, so what if the front porch was a little lopsided? It was built to last forever.

One fateful day, while Ramon diligently did his routine cleaning tasks, he found himself inside a high-security facility area. There, set about on a launch pad, stood Ganymede, a top-secret space exploration craft whose name was derived from the largest moon in our solar system. Ramon stood back and admired the craft, perched high atop a rocket launcher extending through an opening in the facility’s rooftop, reaching the sky above. It was a sight to behold.

"Ay, chingado!" Ramon excitedly blurted out to himself. "Check this s**t out! Mamacita, mamacita! All of my friends, with their dumb-ass low-riders—they haven't seen anything!"

Unable to resist, Ramon's eyes wandered around Ganymede's exterior. His rough hands traced the sleek exterior as he marveled at the technology before him. It was as if the dreams of his youth, long buried under the daily grind of maintenance work, came flooding back.

"You are a real beauty, my friend! A real beauty! I want to take you to the moon! Yeah? No, maybe further than the moon, damn!"

Ramon's aspiration to become an astronaut traced back to an inspiration kindled by the achievements of the first American of Mexican descent to venture into space: Jose Hernandez. While it was confirmed that Jose Hernandez had been born in the United States, much of his formative years were spent in Mexico. In a remarkable twist of fate, Ramon and Jose shared not just a surname but also a familial connection, both hailing from La Piedad in the state of Michoacan.

Ramon couldn't help but share this intriguing connection with his co-workers, proudly declaring, "He's like a second or third cousin to my father's family." It was as if the cosmos had conspired to link him to the world of space exploration, and that bond, however distant, resonated deeply within him.

As a young adult, Ramon began to dream of becoming the first Mexican-born astronaut, a dream nurtured in his early adulthood by the stories of Jose Hernandez's achievements. However, as life's practicalities and responsibilities took hold, the dream slowly receded into the background, obscured by the everyday demands of life and raising a family. Nevertheless, he jumped at the opportunity to work at NASA and took pride in being at the facility daily, even though his work was far from being an astronaut's.

Now, Ramon was many things—curious, adventurous, and, of course, a bit too impulsive—but he was never one to back down from a challenge, especially when it came to anything resembling a "fancy" gadget. As Ramon stood before this remarkable vessel of human ingenuity, he couldn't help but feel a resurgence of that youthful ambition of flying to the stars, even if it was just a fleeting moment to satiate a fanciful dream.

Ramon looked around carefully, hopped onto a long ladder extending to Ganymede's capsule, and entered the space vehicle through an open hatch. His heart raced with excitement as he contemplated the possibilities that lay before him.

"Hey, poca madre! This is some jazzy stuff in here!"

Ramon's attention shifted to the ship's expansive instrument panel—a dazzling array of lights, buttons, switches, and screens, each piece of technology more intricate and mysterious than the last.

Ganymede's master control panel seemed like a canvas of the future, an invitation to explore the boundaries of human knowledge and ambition. Ramon touched the smooth surfaces with trembling fingers, his rough hands now caressing the epitome of cutting-edge engineering.

For a maintenance man who had spent most of his work life wrestling with leaky pipes and stubborn doors, this moment felt like a dream, a journey from the mundane to the extraordinary.

And then, in a moment of impulsive daring, he let his gaze fall upon a shiny red button that seemed to beckon him.

Emblazoned with the stern warning "DO NOT TOUCH," the button appeared to challenge Ramon's adventurous spirit.

"Do not touch? What about that raise you promised me, NASA, huh? I'm tired of listening to you pinche people about what to touch and what not to touch!"

With a hint of trepidation and a sense of anticipation, Ramon extended a trembling hand and pressed it. What he didn't know at that moment was that this seemingly innocent action would trigger a cataclysmic chain of events, setting in motion a 20-minute launch sequence that would lock the exit hatch AND SEND HIM ON LIFE-CHANGING JOURNEY INTO OUTER SPACE!!

In that split second, the world around Ramon exploded into chaos. Klaxons blared, lights flashed, and the entire spacecraft vibrated unnervingly. Ramon, gripping onto any available handhold for dear life, realized that he had just set off something monumental. Ganymede began to rumble and was set to launch.

“Ah baby, lemme feel ya’! Lemme feel ya’, little mama!”

Meanwhile, inside Mission Control’s confines, the launch sequence’s sudden activation triggered a wave of panic. Alarms blared, and a frenzy of activity ensued as NASA officials, who were caught off guard, desperately attempted to reverse the sequence and abort the launch. Their voices, laced with urgency and anxiety, crackled over the intercom.

"This is Mission Control! What in the Hell is going on?"

"Yo, it's Ramon. I was just cleaning up in here, you know, and I never been inside one of these rockets. So, I got curious and such, then something happened!"

"Ramon?! Who is Ramon? JESUS CHRIST! WHO IS THIS GUY?!"

"Ramon Hernandez from maintenance! I'm the guy who cleans the toilets, yo!"

"The what?!"

"I pressed the button that says 'Do Not Touch.' I guess I shouldn't have!"

Ted McDavid, the chief engineer at Mission Control, turned to a colleague to ask who Ramon Hernandez was, but no one knew.

"He says he cleans the God damned toilets!" a flabbergasted McDavid screamed across the room.

"Oh, that must be 'Disaster Zone Ramon'!" someone chimed back.

McDavid clutched his head, "You mean to tell me a maintenance man whose nickname is 'Disaster Zone Ramon' activated the launch codes of a top-secret multi-billion dollar spacecraft?!"

"Yeah, but he's like Primo Segundo to Jose Hernandez, that other Mexican astronaut."

"What other Mexican astronaut?!"

Meanwhile, Ramon discovered a NASA spacesuit and helmet and tried them on for size. They fit nicely, and pleased with himself, Ramon began to strut about the craft's interior.

"Hey, Captain Kirk! Beam me up, Homes! Haha, I'd like to get one of these with a Mexican flag, right?"

As the clock ticked relentlessly toward the point of no return, the communication channels crackled to life with Mission Control's frantic attempts to reach Ramon inside the spacecraft.

“Ramon, are you there?!”

“Oh, yeah, man, I’m here. Where else am I gonna go?”

“Listen carefully, Ramon! I need you to stop the engines right now! Is that clear? Cut the power!" McDavid shouted in desperation.

"I just want to know if there's enough oxygen and food for me to get to the moon, Ese."

"The moon?!"

"I'm just kidding, man! I don't know how to cut the power! I tried to open the hatch - the pinche hatch won't open! Everything is crazy in here!"

"You are unauthorized to be in that spacecraft; it is the property of NASA and the U.S. government! I want you to follow my orders and cut the God damned engines right now!"

"Ah, man, don't get so impatient! You're spoiling all the fun!"

"Mr. Hernandez, this is a life-or-death situation! You could get yourself killed in there!"

"Since when are you guys so concerned about the health and well-being of your staff, yo! Seriously! I take my life in my hands every day on this job! Do you know how many times I’ve fallen off a ladder or something? I broke my forearm one time, no healthcare. Nada! I just wrapped it up in some old sweatshirt and came to work the next day, Homes!"

"Ramon, I need you to take this seriously!"

"I'm serious as a heart attack, b***h! Just tell me what to do!"

Mission Control proceeded to give Ramon specific instructions to abort the launch. Ramon scrambled to follow their instructions, his heart pounding in his chest, but his inability to decipher the complex array of buttons and switches before him did not change anything. The spacecraft vibrated with an unsettling intensity as the engines roared to life, defying his every attempt to regain control.

"Turn the damn thing off, Ramon! Find the shutdown procedure!" another voice urged him, the tension in Mission Control palpable.

With sweat trickling down his forehead, Ramon scanned the control panel frantically, his fingers darting across buttons in a desperate search for the elusive shutdown mechanism. Each moment felt like an eternity to the maintenance man who found himself in the cockpit of an interstellar vehicle, wrestling with technology foreign to him.

"Look for a green switch, Ramon!"

"Red to turn it on, green to turn it off - doesn't that sound a little backward to you?"

"Just follow our instructions!"

"Usually, I can do anything I put my mind to, you know? I can drive a tractor, a forklift, an R.V. - I can even drive a 16-wheeler, but this spacecraft thing, man, this could take me a few minutes to pick up!"

Despite Mission Control's unwavering guidance, Ramon's efforts seemed futile as precious seconds ticked down and the two-minute countdown began.

"T-minus two minutes and counting. Houston, rocket boosters are activated."

"Get the President on the line!" McDavid cried as he reached for a hotline that directly connected to the Oval Office.

"Mr. President, this is Mission Control at NASA. We have a situation here! An unauthorized launch is set to go off in less than two minutes!"

"What'd ya' want me to do? Shoot the damn thing down before the Russians get their hands on it!" the President blurted out.

"It's not in the air yet, sir!"

"Then blow the damn thing up!"

"There's a man inside the craft. He's a maintenance man, sir, a Mexican; I don't think that would be wise!"

"A Mexican maintenance man? What the Hell are you people doing down there in Houston? Call ICE and have him deported! On second thought, send him the Hell up into space and teach him a lesson for all I care!!"

"Thank you, Mr. President," Ramon, who had been listening the whole time, added, "I'm definitively going to make you proud! On second thought, I'm going to make Mexico proud, and you can go to Hell for all I care!"

As the countdown climaxed, a thunderous roar filled the air, and the rocket's engines burst to life, spewing flames and billowing smoke. The ground shuddered beneath the colossal force of raw propulsion, and the rocket began its ascent, defying Earth's pull.

Ramon, fitted with a space helmet and strapped in tight for lift-off, cracked an uneasy smile across his face as Ganymede lifted off from the launch pad.

"Houston, we have lift-off! Repeat, we have lift-off of the Ganymede Space Explorer!"

McDavid watched from the windows of Mission Control in stunned disbelief.

“Lord in Heaven, what have we done?”

As Ganymede soared higher and higher into a beautiful blue Texas sky, panic swept through the room; the realization set in that Ramon, a maintenance man turned astronaut, was hurtling toward the unknown, forever altering the course of his life and the NASA space program.

The incident that saw Ramon launched into space was a colossal embarrassment for NASA. As the dust settled and reality set in, officials at the space agency were left with the daunting task of deciding what to do next. Their first and most immediate decision was to keep the entire ordeal under wraps. They believed that the less the public knew about Ramon's accidental journey, the better.

Behind closed doors, a sense of hopelessness hung heavily at NASA. "The technical glitch" that had propelled a maintenance man into space was a problem they had never anticipated. They realized they had no immediate means of retrieving Ramon from his unexpected voyage. The sheer magnitude of the error left them speechless.

Meanwhile, Ramon was in awe at the views he saw through the craft's windows.

"Yo, Houston! Que pasa? This is Captain Ramon Hernandez! Haha! You can call me Captain from now on, right? Check this out! Ave María purísima! I can see Mexico from up here! Oh, can you do me a favor, Ese? Hey! Call my wife and tell her I won't be home for dinner tonight! Seriously. Tell her I had to go to the moon on a secret mission or something. Haha! Oh, and also, I need someone to water my chilis! They won't survive without me!"

Back at Mission Control, McDavid rubbed his temples as if trying to erase the nightmare unfolding before him magically.

"Did he just ask us to water his chilis?" he muttered incredulously to his colleagues.

"Captain, um, Hernandez," McDavid said, clearing his throat, "Yeah, um … we're going to try to figure out how to get you back. You should be concerned about that, too, you know?"

"Oh, I'm not worried, amigo. You know how they say, 'What goes up must come down.' That's physics for you! Now, is there a manual around here somewhere? Or maybe even a YouTube tutorial? Oh, wait, no Wi-Fi, huh?”

"You could try the glove compartment," someone at Mission Control sarcastically suggested, getting some eye rolls and a few chuckles.

"I'll have you know, I once built a whole gazebo using a three-page IKEA manual, so I think I can handle this," Ramon chuckled as he rummaged around the cabin, accidentally pressing a couple more buttons, which changed the lighting inside the capsule to a disco-ball effect.

"Oh, nice! Party mode! Ay, caramba, all we need now is some Selena music!"

McDavid was a step away from pulling out his hair. He sighed deeply and turned to his team, "Alright, folks, assemble our best minds. We'll need a very elaborate plan to get um … Mr. Hernandez back safely. And I mean safely. We already have an international incident on our hands; let's not turn it into a tragedy."

While the boffins at NASA scrambled to figure out a recovery mission for their accidental astronaut, Ramon was floating effortlessly in the cockpit, munching on some freeze-dried tacos he had found among the rations.

"Hmm, not bad! Needs some salsa, though. Hey, picture this: Ramon’s Moonbeam Tacos, si or no? Call the President, man! See if he wants to send all the Mexicans to the moon! Turn the Sea of Tranquility into like a Taco Haven, no?"

The communication channel crackled back to life, and McDavid's voice was tinged with urgency. "Ramon, are you listening? We at NASA want to thank you for injecting fun into the situation. But we’re dealing with a serious … “

“I get it! I screwed up! Just chill out!”

“We will try to guide you through some procedures to stabilize the spacecraft. Can you focus?"

"I can fly this baby by the seat of my pants!"

"Seat of your pants or not, let's not test our luck more than we have to," McDavid responded with a slight chuckle. "First, we need to adjust your orbital parameters. You will manually engage the Orbital Maneuvering System—OMS—for a corrective delta-V burn."

"Delta-what-now?" Ramon joked, scanning the control panel in front of him. "Ah, here we are. OMS button glowing like a Christmas tree."

"Exactly. Initiate a prograde burn for 4.5 seconds. That should give you a slight boost along your orbital path to circularize your trajectory," instructed McDavid.

"Prograde burn. 4.5 seconds. Man, you make it sound like I'm reheating leftovers in a microwave," Ramon quipped as he initiated the burn.

The telemetry data showed the spacecraft's velocity increasing steadily. "We have a good burn. The trajectory looks more circular," announced Ellen, the flight dynamics officer.

"Great. Now, to ensure that you remain in a stable orbit, we need to calibrate the gyroscopes. Navigate to the 'Stabilization' submenu in your control interface," McDavid continued.

"Stabilization submenu got it! Yeah, yeah, yeah, looks like my mom's old TV remote," Ramon said, pressing buttons with a newfound confidence.

“Select 'Gyroscope Calibration.' The onboard computer will start the automated sequence. Your role is just to monitor and confirm the calibrations."

"Call a Mexican to get the job done right! You feel me, Houston! Haha! Engaging Gyroscope Calibration. Ah, this old spinny thing is doing its dance, Ese," Ramon reported, eyes flicking over the readouts.

"Excellent. You're doing great, Ramon. I mean, Captain Hernandez. Now, listen carefully. We need to minimize fuel consumption and unnecessary torque, all right? Therefore, we will deactivate any non-essential reaction wheels. Go to the 'Power Management' section and toggle off 'Reaction Wheel 3' and 'Reaction Wheel 4.'"

"Deactivating non-essential wheels. Are we going green or what?" Ramon chuckled, carrying out the command.

"We're going efficient, which I guess is a shade of green," McDavid answered, smiling. "Now, confirm that your Orbital Stability Indicator has changed from amber to green."

"Orbital Stability Indicator is green. And not the Hulk kind," Ramon relayed, his voice tinged with relief and disbelief.

The team in Mission Control erupted in cheers. "We did it. Ganymede's orbit is stable," Ellen confirmed as she looked at the orbital parameters on her screen.

"Great work, Ramon! You might be flying by the seat of your pants, but you've got a whole team of experts stitched into the fabric," McDavid said, the relief palpable in his voice.

"I told you I got this! Teamwork makes the dream work, baby!" Ramon replied, echoing the sentiment.

Indeed, miraculously, and with considerable expert guidance from Houston, Ramon had managed to stabilize Ganymede's orbit, further solidifying his unlikely yet unforgettable role in space history.

"Okay, Ramon, you're temporarily stable. We're going to be working on a recovery plan for you, but it's going to take some time."

"Take your time! No rush. And by the way, if I encounter aliens up here, I’m going to give them citizenship. If that’s cool with you guys.”

End of part one

© Michael Arturo, 2025

Michael Arturo is a playwright, screenwriter, and fiction author who also writes random essays on social and political issues. He was born and raised in New York City. His plays have been produced in New York, London, Boston, and LA. He also created the Double Espresso Web Series from 2010 to 2014.

To support his work, please donate, purchase a subscription, leave a comment, or follow. Thank you.

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Author’s Note: Originally published last year, “Don’t Let Them Take Your Boots” was Top in Fiction’s featured Short Story the week of December 13th, 2024, and is presented here with new voice-over accompaniment.

Influenced by Italo Calvino and Nikolai Gogol, the story of Giacomo Mazzone—an Italian immigrant navigating the brutal churn of early 20th-century America in New York City—is a folkloric meditation on identity, loss, and the quiet violence of bureaucratic indifference.

In many ways, all my writing circles back to the folktales I absorbed and reimagined in childhood. Their structures were straightforward, even blunt; characters made choices, and consequences followed. Beneath the surface, a kind of distilled wisdom always lingered. Today, those stories might seem too moralistic, too unsophisticated for the literary marketplace, but I’ve never stopped valuing their clarity.

Some call magical realism the modern folktale, but that term has grown diluted. True folktales never needed to apologize for the surreal; they weren’t negotiating with plausibility. Magic simply was, because the world was never only rational to begin with. Realism, in contrast, is often deployed now as a kind of cultural credential—“Based on true events,” “rendered by lived trauma”—as if truth demands paperwork. But for those who come from oral traditions, from places where ghosts were once neighbors and dreams were warnings, that framing misses the point. The magic isn’t a metaphor. It’s memory.

In Gogol’s The Overcoat, Akaky Akakievich is undone by the theft of a garment that defined his worth. In this story, Giacomo’s stolen boots carry a similar weight—dignity, agency, the right to move forward. Both men live in systems where survival depends not on strength or cunning, but on staying invisible. Until they can't. Until something small is taken, and everything collapses.

These aren’t just stories of poverty or alienation. They’re reminders that in certain worlds, a coat or a pair of boots can hold a man’s whole existence. And once taken, there’s no appeal. Only the cold air where something used to be.

DON’T LET THEM TAKE YOUR BOOTS

There was something extraordinary about Giacomo Mazzone’s boots, though they seemed plain enough to everyone else. Sturdy, laced snugly about his feet, they carried him from the dry, unforgiving hills of Southern Italy across the vast Atlantic to the cracked and pitiless pavements of New York City.

When he stepped off the ship in 1909, his boots struck the pavement around Ellis Island with a resolute thud—a firm declaration that he had arrived. He didn’t bring much with him. No English. No connections. Just a body that could haul bricks and boots that could keep him steady while he did it.

Above his ankles, he was flesh and uncertainty; below, leather and resolve. In that way, Giacomo’s boots were extraordinary.

Fellow bricklayers would nod at them in silent respect, knowing a man who kept his modest boots in shape probably did the same with his mortar lines. The women who worked street corners clicked their tongues and admired the stubborn shine of the leather, wondering how his feet stayed dry when theirs were perpetually soaked. And the hustlers? They eyed those boots like they eyed wallets—something to snatch if you weren’t paying attention.

Every night, Giacomo’s routine was simple: boots off, boots washed, boots ready. Except he never actually took them off. He’d step right into a bathtub, laces tight, water running down his calves, while soap frothed around the scuffed tips. Call it superstition, call it an immigrant’s paranoia—either way, he trusted clean boots more than luck.

However, Giacomo’s boots weren’t so loyal in his nightly dreams. They had a nasty habit of disappearing. He’d find himself barefoot, the city’s cracked concrete biting at his soles.

From the tenement windows above, voices would howl, “Pick yourself up by your bootstraps!” It was a taunt from those who believed anything could be accomplished through sheer willpower, blind to the irony that without boots — without the means — there were no straps to pull.

But every morning, Giacomo would wake up in a sweat, patting his feet in the dark, relieved to feel the boots still there, laced up and ready. He would gladly anticipate the sound they made once they hit the floor to greet the day.

One night soon after, in a Bowery bar, too many shots of cheap whiskey left Giacomo teetering. He swayed on his bar stool, eyes glazed as if he were watching himself from high above, still clinging to a skyscraper beam.

Then gravity took over. He tipped, tumbled, and crashed to the sawdust-covered floor. When he clambered up, dazed and swaying, he felt something was wrong. His feet were light. Too light. He looked down.

Bare feet. Naked, exposed, ridiculous feet.

His boots were gone.

Giacomo turned to the barkeeper, the waitress, and the saloon manager, but no one knew a thing. How could someone detach him from his boots and walk off with them without him realizing it?

Dread gripped Giacomo as he stumbled out of the bar, panic rising like bile. He frantically searched the dark alley behind the building, his eyes darting into every shadow. But there was no one, nothing. His boots were gone, vanished as if the city itself had swallowed them whole.

Disbelief turned to rage. Barefoot and desperate, Giacomo set off into the night, prowling the streets in search of whoever had dared to take his most prized possession. Each step sent a jolt of pain up his legs, the cold pavement biting at his soles. His heart pounded, his breath sharp and ragged.

This was no longer just about boots. In the harsh, indifferent maze of New York, his fight for his footing had become a fight for his very survival.

For six days and six nights, Giacomo searched and searched. Every alley and every street. He encountered all sorts of abandoned shoes and sandals scattered along the way. But they were neither suitable nor the right fit. Some were too big, others too small; Giacomo refused to settle for anything less than his boots.

On the seventh day of his relentless quest, Giacomo encountered Salvatore, a man whose presence seemed to defy the grim reality of the urban landscape. Salvatore's eyes twinkled with a mischievous light, and his smile was as warm and inviting as a hearth on a winter's night.

"Ho there, friend!" Salvatore called out, his voice carrying the lilt of distant shores. "Why do you walk with determination yet with such pain etched upon your face?"

Giacomo regarded Salvatore with weary suspicion. "I search for my boots," he replied, his voice hoarse from days of shouting into the indifferent city air. "They were stolen from me, and I shall not rest until I reclaim them."

Salvatore's eyes widened with understanding and compassion. “Yes, yes, I read about your plight in the papers: the Italian immigrant who lost his boots. The police say you were careless!”

“Perhaps.”

“The Mayor said, ‘Don’t let them take your boots!’ as a warning to all New Yorkers.”

“Did he?”

“Fret not! I’m a self-styled shoe cobbler. From Old Amsterdam by way of Italy! Let’s see what I can do for you.” With an almost magical flourish, Salvatore removed the shoes from his feet—a pair of sturdy, if somewhat comical, wooden clogs—and offered them to Giacomo.

"Take these, my friend," Salvatore said, his tone both kind and playful. "They may not be the boots you seek, but they will protect your feet from the cruel stones of this unforgiving city. Oh, and they make a wonderful click-clack sound, like a horse."

But Giacomo, consumed by his singular purpose, shook his head vehemently. "No," he declared, "I will wear no shoes but my own. My boots are a part of me, as essential as my very soul."

Undeterred by Giacomo's refusal, Salvatore settled himself on a nearby crate, his bare feet swinging like pendulums. "Ah," he mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "you refuse my shoes yet weep for your own. Tell me, have you heard the tale of the man who cried because he had no shoes until he met a man with no feet?"

Giacomo's eyes flashed with irritation. "How prophetic," he spat, "and yet utterly inane. Am I to find solace in the misfortunes of others? Perhaps I should wait for a greater tragedy before I dare to lament my loss!"

Salvatore's smile never faltered. "They say," he continued as if Giacomo had not spoken, "that Jesus walked without shoes."

At this, Giacomo's patience finally snapped. "Good for Him!" he roared, echoing off the narrow alley walls. "Should I accept a life without my boots to be a man of God? I tell you this, Stranger: I will find the thief who took my boots and beat him soundly. And then, with my boots restored, I shall gladly live in Hell for the rest of my days!"

With that, Giacomo turned and stormed away, leaving Salvatore still perched upon his crate, shaking his head with amusement and concern.

As Giacomo's footsteps faded into the distance, Salvatore called out one last time: "Remember, friend, the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step—whether that step be booted or bare!"

But Giacomo was already gone, vanishing into the city's twisting streets, having no clue that his true journey—one that would challenge his feet and his very understanding of himself—had only just begun.

Seven weeks of searching yielded no results. Giacomo's journey took a darker turn when he encountered Vittorio, a figure shrouded in shadow and more phantom than man. "I'm looking for boots," Giacomo told the man. “They were stolen from me—taken right off my feet while I sat at a public tavern."

"Familiar story," Vittorio started, "many men have lost something they cannot live without. I lost my right hand, you see."

"Once, I was a politician," Vittorio continued, his voice carrying the weight of lost battles, the phantom limb at his side twitching as if the fingers of the hand he no longer had were still reaching out, trying to grasp something just out of reach. "My hand was the conduit of power, the bridge between my promises and those who believed in them. With every handshake, I transferred hope, from palm to palm, flesh to flesh."

Giacomo listened, each word folding into the next, like the pages of a book telling a tale he hadn't realized he was part of. "When I rose to power, I refused to play their games. My hand, which they severed, was meant to be filled with the spoils of corruption, but I kept it empty. They couldn't tolerate that."

The space where Vittorio's hand once became a presence, a reminder that in this world, what was taken from you was often more powerful than what you held onto. "They fear those who cannot be bought, Giacomo," Vittorio continued, his gaze shifting to the ever-moving city beyond.

Vittorio leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "They're not after your boots, Giacomo. They're after your feet! They want to stop you, to root you in place. In this city, to move is to live; to walk is to resist. Those who traverse reality and dream are the ones they fear most."

As Vittorio's words settled into Giacomo's mind, he continued his search, but now, it wasn't just for his boots. It was a way to keep moving and resisting in a world that would rather see him stand still.

Seven months had come and gone, and Giacomo continued to search. Turning a corner, he came upon an unexpected sight: a mob of protesters marching in unison, their voices a cacophony of discontent. However, what caught Giacomo’s eye were not their impassioned faces but the enigmatic banners they wielded: "We Will NOT Live Under Your Boot."

Worn and weary from his endless quest, Giacomo was drawn to this paradoxical proclamation. He carefully approached the crowd, eyes scanning the sea of picket signs that seemed to mock his bootless state.

Finally, he managed to pull one protester aside, a gaunt figure with eyes that reflected the city's ever-shifting shadows. "What do these signs mean?" Giacomo asked, his voice hoarse from months of fruitless inquiries.

The Protester regarded Giacomo with a mixture of suspicion and weariness. "The city has imposed new laws," came the reply, each word dripping with resignation. "Soon, no one will live free."

But this ambiguous reply did little to satisfy Giacomo's curiosity. He pressed further, his brow furrowed in confusion. "But what does it mean to live under one's boot? I don't understand."

The protester's eyes narrowed, taking in Giacomo's bare feet with a glance that seemed to pierce through time and space. "Boots are for fascists," the protester declared, already turning away, melding back into the crowd.

"All boots?" Giacomo cried out, his voice lost in the growing clamor of the protest. But his question hung in the air, unanswered, as the protester disappeared into the crowd.

Left alone at the square’s edge, a surreal dizziness overcame Giacomo. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the buildings around him stretching and warping like images in a funhouse mirror. In this moment of surreal clarity, he saw his lost boots everywhere—in the thunderous steps of marching protesters, the heavy tread of uniformed authorities, and the cautious shuffling of bystanders.

Giacomo's mind reeled with the implications. Had his obsessive quest for his stolen boots been misguided all along?

As he stood there, caught between the opposing forces of the protest and his internal turmoil, Giacomo realized that his journey had led him to a crossroads of understanding. The boots he sought were no longer footwear but a complex symbol of authority, identity, and freedom.

At that moment, surrounded by the swirling chaos of the protest, Giacomo felt the ghost of his lost boots on his feet. Were they a burden he had been freed from or a responsibility he had shirked? Were they a symbol of oppression he had unwittingly embraced or a tool for change he had failed to utilize?

The din of the protest faded as Giacomo's mind grappled with the newfound complexity of his quest.

For seven long years, Giacomo wandered the streets of New York, his search for his stolen boots becoming a twisted odyssey through the margins of humanity. He met a blind woman who spoke of a world she could no longer see yet remembered with painful clarity. Her clouded eyes looked past Giacomo, pointing toward unseen paths. He met a mute man, his silence more eloquent than speech, who gestured Giacomo forward with an urgency that transcended words. A beggar, hollowed out by relentless loss, sent Giacomo in the same direction with a raspy whisper of hopeless hope.

One day, in a crowded square, he locked eyes with a stranger wearing boots that weren’t his but might have been. The stranger moved on, oblivious, leaving Giacomo with the hollow realization that the lives we don’t live are just branches we let wither, possibilities turned to dust beneath our feet.

One moonlit night, deep in the belly of a forsaken alleyway, as Giacomo swabbed his bleeding feet with sewer water and wrapped them with some unholy rags and discarded newspaper, he heard a howling voice coming from nearby. "I stole your bloody boots! If you want them, you'll have to fight me!"

As raw as they were, Giacomo sprang to his feet and lurched toward the howling.

It was not a man but a beast, a wicked beast!

Giacomo finally met with the demon phantom who had stolen his boots. A creature so grotesque it embodied everything wrong with the world—greed, pain, famine, war, and misery all manifested into a sinister form.

Their eyes locked, and an eerie silence engulfed the air. Giacomo's heart thumped wildly, and though fear gripped his soul, he refused to back down.

"Give me back my boots," he demanded, his voice trembling with defiance.

The phantom sneered a twisted grin, contorting its malevolent features. "These boots are no longer yours to claim! They are mine now, as I embody all that is lost, stolen, and corrupted in this world!"

With those chilling words, the phantom lunged at Giacomo, and a fierce battle ensued. Blow after blow, Giacomo fought with all his remaining strength, driven by desperation and a thirst for justice.

The violent struggle seemed to stretch into eternity.

Finally, battered and bruised, Giacomo managed to land a decisive blow, sending the phantom crashing to the ground. In that moment of vulnerability, the phantom revealed its proper form—a mere projection of the darkness that plagued Giacomo's mind.

As Giacomo caught his breath, he realized that the actual thief wasn't an external force but something within himself. The boots, while dear to him, had become a symbol of his attachment to the past —a past that needed to be shed in order to embrace an uncertain future.

With newfound clarity, he stepped away from the defeated phantom, leaving the boots behind, as they were no longer suitable in any way. They'd become torn, misshapen, and abused, much like the ideals they had come to represent.

As Giacomo walked away, his feet quickly unraveled from the rags and newspaper he had found, and he felt a strange sense of liberation. His bare feet adapted to the rough pavement beneath them, each step a testament to his resilience and newfound understanding.

The city's dark alleys and merciless streets no longer seemed daunting. Giacomo had learned a profound lesson about the nature of power, identity, and the weight of the past. And so, with each step, he embraced the unknown, ready to face whatever challenges the world threw his way.

From that day forward, Giacomo walked barefoot through life, embracing each new step with openness and courage. He no longer felt the need to be defined by his past or possessions, for he had learned that the actual journey was not about the boots on his feet but the miles he traveled within himself. In this urban odyssey, he discovered the strength to survive, the wisdom to question, and the freedom to live genuinely.

As he entered the dawn of a new day, Giacomo realized that true liberation came not from the boots he wore or the paths they trod but from the courage to walk his way, leaving behind the shadows of oppression and the ghosts of lost identities. His bare feet, once vulnerable, now carried him forward with a strength he had never known, ready to imprint his unique mark on the ever-shifting landscape of life in the New World.

© Michael Arturo, 2025

Michael Arturo is a playwright, screenwriter, and fiction author who also writes random essays on social and political issues. He was born and raised in New York City. His plays have been produced in New York, London, Boston, and LA. He also created the Double Espresso Web Series from 2010 to 2014.

To support his work, please donate, purchase a subscription, leave a comment, or follow. Thank you.

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Ajay was a collector of miniature trinkets. Every Saturday, he wandered the street fairs along the Upper West Side, searching for something unusual. One morning, something caught his eye. Tucked between a signed Derek Jeter baseball and a crate of sun-faded LPs was an unmarked velvet pouch, musty with the scent of dust. Inside it rested an impossibly detailed six-inch skyscraper.

It resembled the Empire State Building but wasn’t quite: its spire narrower, its setbacks steeper, its symmetry slightly off. Its doors bore logos that Ajay didn’t recognize. The windows, though no bigger than sesame seeds, caught the light in a way that made Ajay squint—because, if he stared long enough, he could almost see movement inside.

Ajay was twelve, a straight-A student who read three grade levels ahead but struggled to speak up in class. He lived in a world of busy parents and preteen isolation. His mother, Professor Sharma, spoke in clipped English about postcolonial theory and American hegemony, her brow knitting in worry over a country that preached equality but whispered prejudice. She published papers on displacement while barely noticing her son's quiet dislocation.

His father, a scholar of foreign policy, tapped at his laptop in the living room, groaning about Senate debates and the half-truths politicians peddled. They—two brilliant souls from Mumbai, India, who had come to Columbia University for its prestige—had little time for bedtime stories or interpreting their son's silent glances. At faculty dinners, they praised Ajay's intelligence to colleagues, but at home, they assumed his silence meant contentment.

So Ajay had turned, as he always did, to his miniature world: tin soldiers plucked from flea markets, plastic dancers from birthday cake toppers, and matchstick replicas of the Brooklyn Bridge. In his bedroom, these little souls listened to what his parents never heard.

That Saturday morning, Ajay brought home the tiny high-rise he’d purchased for seven dollars and set it on his desk, where, beneath the lamp’s glow, its windows shimmered alive—soft oranges and faint blues, an eternal twilight dancing inside walls no bigger than his thumbnail.

This is impossible, he told himself, as the rational part of his mind—the part that earned him gold stars and teacher praise—rebelled against what he saw. Buildings didn't have lights. Toys didn't breathe. But his eyes betrayed his logic.

He told his parents that night, approaching them in the kitchen where they debated immigration policy over reheated takeout.

“There are lights in my building,” he said.

His mother glanced up from her laptop. “What building, beta?”

“The one I bought today. I think there are people inside.”

His father looked up from his tablet and smiled. “People? What kind of people?”

“Little people. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” his father repeated, amused. “Sometimes little people have big problems—especially if they’re trying to run a democracy.”

Ajay shrugged. “I guess.”

“Speaking in the abstract, of course,” his father leaned back and smiled. “You’re not running a refugee camp, are you?”

“No.”

“Good,” his father said, already turning back to his screen. “Give the little people what they want.”

“They’re not real, Amit,” his mother said with a smile.

His father glanced at Ajay. “I didn’t say they were. Are they real, Ajay?”

Ajay hesitated. “No. Maybe not.”

“Well then, problem solved,” his father said lightly.

And just like that, they returned to their screens, typing through the next article, the next panel discussion about belonging and displacement.

That night, in the adjoining rooms, they argued quietly:

“Look at how free this country pretends to be,” his mother hissed. “It’s hell, Amit—every other day another policy, another deportation.”

“It’s the same in some parts of India now,” his father replied. “But here—never in my wildest dreams did I imagine academics would have to choose their words so carefully.”

Ajay pressed himself against the wall, the tension making the air thrum. Outside his window, New York sprawled in all directions—millions of lights, millions of people, all of them strangers. He felt suspended between his parents’ world of theories and a reality that seemed to shift with each blink.

He stepped back, returning to his desk where the skyscraper now stood nearly a foot tall. It had grown in his absence.

No, he thought. Things don't grow. Not like this.

But inside the highest windows, a faint silhouette had appeared: a person, or something that looked like one, curled against the glass, their head tilted back in a silent scream. At the base, he heard it: a sound like "Eeeek," so small and broken it might have been chalk on a blackboard. He felt his chest twist.

By the next morning, the building stood nearly eighteen inches tall. The figure in the window was easier to see now—a woman, or something like one, holding her arms tightly across her chest, as if cold or afraid.

At breakfast, his parents hurried through their routines, flipping through notes and sipping coffee as they discussed their morning lectures. Ajay tried again.

“My building is getting bigger,” he said.

His mother paused, cup halfway to her lips. “What did you say?”

“The skyscraper. It’s growing.”

She studied him then, really looked, for the first time in weeks. “Are you feeling alright? You seem pale.”

“I’m fine. But the building—”

“We need to talk about moving,” his father interrupted gently, stacking his notes. “There’s an apartment closer to campus. It’ll mean a shorter commute for both of us.”

Ajay nodded.

He began to question whether reality was as fixed as his parents claimed. Their world—lectures, papers, policy—depended on proof. But Ajay was starting to believe in things that couldn’t be cited.

The skyscraper continued to grow. Two feet. Then three. He stopped going outside. Meals went untouched. His schoolbooks sat unopened. He watched the building more than he watched anything else.

Its walls filled with life: kitchens with ticking clocks, stairwells lit by flickering bulbs, elevators that stalled halfway between floors. On the twenty-second floor, a woman walked back and forth, as if waiting for someone—or something-to set her free.

The city outside seemed to mock him. From his window, he could see the real skyscrapers—solid, predictable, filled with people who belonged somewhere. But his building was different. It was alive, and it was his.

"You must be the new owner?" a voice came from within.

Ajay jumped back. A little man! I'm losing my mind, he thought.

A small, rotund man, around 50 years old, appeared on the first floor. "I'm the superintendent. Name's Nunzio. You the new owner?"

“ I-I think I'm imagining you," Ajay stammered.

"Kid, you bought the building. I work here. What's to imagine? Though I gotta say, you're young for a property owner. You one of those crypto-millionaires?"

"I'm twelve."

"Figures. Well, twelve or not, we got problems. Squatters on the fourteenth floor. You're going to have to obtain a court order and forcibly remove them.”

“Oh, and the boiler’s shot—no heat half the time. And there's a woman in 22C who wants to throw herself out the window every Saturday night. Did they tell you this when you bought the building?"

"No one told me anything. I bought it for seven dollars."

"Seven million? You got a good deal. Listen, I don't care if you're having some kind of breakdown, but I got a building to keep up here. So let's communicate. What'd you say your name was again?"

"Ajay."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Ajay,” Nunzio said, tipping his cap.

Ajay stood frozen. His hands tingled as if he’d touched something electric. He considered running to tell his parents about the little man named Nunzio, about the boiler, about the woman in 22C—but stopped himself. They wouldn’t understand.

He turned back to the building. The lights on the twenty-second floor pulsed faintly. The woman Nunzio mentioned. The one that he said threatened to throw herself out of the window. She had to be the one he’d seen earlier—the woman with the sad eyes and the curled posture. He scanned the windows, searching for her.

But something else caught his attention.

On the fourteenth floor, a man stood by a broken window, wild-eyed, coat threadbare. He leaned out, waving his arms at Ajay.

“Hey, you can’t evict us! We got squatter’s rights. Just because we can’t afford to pay rent don’t mean we’re not human beings!”

Ajay blinked. “I—I wasn’t going to evict anyone.”

The man pointed an accusatory finger. “Nunzio said you were the new owner. That true?”

“Yes,” Ajay said cautiously, then added, trying to sound firm, “But ownership doesn’t override human dignity. I mean, not in a functioning democracy.”

The man squinted. “You a politician?”

“No. I’m a kid. But my family is from Mumbai. Most of my cousins still live in slums.”

The man nodded slowly. “So you’re one of us, then.”

Ajay didn’t answer. He felt something tighten in his chest—not fear exactly, but a kind of awareness. A shrinking and expanding, all at once.

Nunzio reappeared in the lobby, tipping his cap again. “See what I mean? Fourteenth floor’s a mess. But they’ve got a point, too. This place has history. You’re walking a fine line. You let the squatters stay, you’ll have a rent mutiny on your hands. You kick them out, you’ll be painted as heartless. You bought yourself a real problem when you bought this building, kid.”

Ajay stepped closer. The high-rise was now shoulder height. He could see into the windows with ease—arguments, laughter, desperation—all flickering in miniature, repeating in rooms no bigger than matchboxes.

He crouched, eyes level with the fourteenth floor. The man had disappeared back inside.

Ajay whispered, “What am I supposed to do with all of you?”

The building didn’t answer.

The next morning, Ajay sat at the breakfast table, staring into a bowl of cereal gone soft. His father scrolled through headlines on his tablet, one hand nursing a mug of black coffee. His mother moved between the toaster and her inbox, already dressed for her first seminar.

Ajay cleared his throat.

“I might have to evict some tenants,” he said.

His father didn’t look up. “Tenants?”

“In my building.”

Now his father glanced over the rim of his glasses. “Ah, the imaginary high-rise again.”

Ajay didn’t answer.

“Well,” his father said, setting down his mug, “evictions are never a clean solution. You want to clear space, you get a mess. Legally, morally. Best case, you write a letter. Worst case, you get sued.”

“Dad, it’s complicated. Some of them don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“They never do,” his father said, not unkindly. “But you also can’t have a building overrun with squatters. You let them stay, and next thing you know, everyone stops paying rent.”

His mother chimed in from behind her screen. “This is what happens when you privatize housing without social policy. Even in imagination.”

“I didn’t privatize anything,” Ajay muttered. “I bought it for seven dollars.”

His father raised an eyebrow. “Seven dollars? That’s quite the acquisition. Well, you could always put it back on the market.”

Ajay gave a tight smile. He could feel them drifting already, back into their work, their routines, their analysis.

“Well, good luck, beta,” his mother added, glancing at her watch. “Don’t let the rent control laws scare you.”

“Thanks,” Ajay said quietly.

They returned to their screens. The subject was closed.

Ajay sat a while longer, letting the cereal turn to paste. Then he got up, walked back to his room, and closed the door behind him.

The building had grown to six feet in height. Ajay gasped at the sight of it. The windows flickered dimly in the soft morning light, the air in the room unusually still, as though holding its breath.

And then he saw her.

The woman in 22C.

She stood on a narrow ledge outside a window on the twenty-second floor. Her toes curled over the edge, her arms crossed against the wind, which Ajay couldn't feel but somehow knew was cold. She was barefoot. Her hair clung to her face. She looked smaller now, a collapsed version of the figure he’d once glimpsed pacing behind glass.

Ajay pressed his face close to the building.

“Hey, you!” he said, his voice cracking.

She didn’t move.

“I see you!”

Her head turned slowly. Her eyes were empty.

“You shouldn’t be able to,” she said.

“What are you doing?!”

The woman in 22C looked back out over the city. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Ajay swallowed hard. His heart was thudding against his ribs. “Please. Don’t jump.”

“What are you? And why are you talking to me? You don’t know anything about me! I'm going to do what I believe I have to do! I’m finished with this city! And I don’t want to live anymore!”

Ajay hesitated. He wanted to answer as his parents would have—calm, logical, maybe with a reference to statistics on suicide rates. But something inside him wouldn’t allow it.

“I know what it’s like to feel alone,” he said. “Like there’s no place that fits, even in your own home.”

The woman in 22C didn’t speak.

Ajay continued, words pouring out now. “I know what it’s like to watch people talk about justice and belonging and never once ask you how your day was. I know how quiet can feel like a punishment. I know what it’s like to disappear in plain sight.”

She looked at him again. Her lip trembled.

“I came here when I was nineteen,” she said softly. “I had dreams. I was going to dance at Lincoln Center. I told everyone back home in Jaipur that I’d be on stage by twenty-three. That was eight years ago. Now I clean apartments and wait tables and sleep on couches I don’t own.”

“What is your name?” Ajay said.

“Mina.”

“I’m Ajay. You said you were from Jaipur. I’m from India too. Mumbai!”

“I’m thirty-one, Ajay,” Mina whispered. “Too old for ballet. Too scared to go home to Jaipur. I don’t want to be a failure.”

Ajay felt tears rising, uninvited. “You’re not.”

“How would you know?”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “But I know you’re still here. That has to mean something.”

Ajay’s fingers were hovering near the window. “You’re very pretty, Mina,” he said, the words awkward, but earnest. “I mean, not just how you look. But you gave it everything you had for eight years.”

She said nothing. She looked down.

Ajay pressed on. “In Mumbai, where my parents are from, there’s this story my grandmother used to tell about a woman who wandered through a forest looking for God to save her. She kept walking, even after she lost her shoes, even after her voice gave out. But in the end, God didn’t save her. But all was not lost! She found a river, and the river saved her.”

“How so?”

“Because she saw herself in it. She realized she was never looking for God. She was looking for a reflection that would speak back.”

Mina blinked. Her shoulders relaxed slightly.

“You don’t need to jump,” Ajay said. “Maybe I’m the reflection meant to speak back to you!”

Her foot inched backward, off the ledge. And all of a sudden, she let out a cry, “No, no, no, you don’t understand.”

Ajay held his breath.

Mina leaped from the ledge of the building.

Ajay’s hand shot forward, not out of thought, but instinct. His palm hovered beneath her as she fell, in a fraction of a second that stretched impossibly wide.

She was in the air, suspended.

Not falling.

Not flying.

Caught.

She landed in his open palm. Her eyes were wide, her arms clenched around herself. Her knees buckled as if she had truly fallen from twenty-two stories, and yet, she was safe. In his hand. Real.

Ajay couldn’t move. He stared at her, stunned by her weightlessness, by the heat she gave off like a tiny flame, by the shimmer of life in her eyes. His room had fallen silent. Even the usual hum of the city outside seemed to bow to this impossible moment.

She looked up at him, barely whispering, “You caught me.”

He nodded. Tears were blurring his vision now. “You jumped.”

“I didn’t think anyone would be there to stop me.”

Ajay swallowed. “Neither did I.”

They stayed like that for what felt like forever and no time at all. Somewhere in the folds of that silence, something shifted in Ajay. Not what his parents measured in grades or good behavior, but something more profound: the knowledge that every person carries a story you can’t see unless you listen hard enough.

He lowered his hand gently, placing Mina back by the twenty-second-floor window. She stood, still shaken, but steadier now. She looked at him one last time, nodded once, then disappeared.

The skyscraper pulsed with light, then dimmed.

The next morning, Ajay woke to another noticeable change in the size of his skyscraper, but he was distracted by the sound of his parents’ voices coming from the kitchen. Ajay’s mother sat at the end of the dining table, cross-legged, scrolling through The Times on her tablet. His father, still in his house slippers, sipped tea and scanned a news alert on his phone.

“Agit,” his mother called out. “A young Indian woman jumped from a building in Midtown last night. Survived the fall.”

His father glanced up. “What a coincidence. I’m just reading that now. My God!”

“From Jaipur. Attempted suicide.”

“Oh, how sad! Came to New York for ballet, the report said. Miraculously, she survived.”

“Yes. She landed on scaffolding—bruised ribs, broken leg, but alive.”

At that moment, Ajay entered the room and quietly took his seat at the table. No one noticed at first. He poured cereal into a chipped bowl and added milk that smelled faintly of the fridge. He listened.

Ajay’s father shook his head. “So many come with that dream: writers, poets, artists, dancers. Their life is brutal. No safety net.”

Ajay looked up. “Do you think it’s real?”

His parents glanced at him.

“The story,” he said. “About the ballerina. How do you know it’s real?”

His mother blinked. “Because it’s in the news, beta. There’s a photograph.”

“Sometimes they get things wrong,” his father said. “But yes, it’s real enough.”

Ajay looked down into his cereal. “It just doesn’t feel like it.”

“You mean because it’s sad?” his mother asked.

Ajay didn’t answer.

His father leaned back. “She came from India, Ajay. Like us. That part of it is real, too.”

“We’re different,” his mother added. “She came with her body. We came with our minds.”

“Do you think God saved her?” Ajay suddenly asked.

“God? Your grandmother would say so,” his mother said, taking a bite of toast. “God or no God, anyone who attempts suicide is irrational in their mind.”

“Yes, well, ballerinas are light as a feather,” his father said. “Maybe that’s what saved her.”

The news moved on. His mother tapped at her tablet. His father stirred sugar into his tea.

After a quiet moment, his father looked over the rim of his mug. “So,” he said, “how are things going with your skyscraper? Settled the squatters’ issue?”

Ajay swallowed a spoonful of cereal. “The building shrunk.”

“Shrank,” his mother corrected gently. “Proper English, beta.”

“Shrank,” he repeated. “Back to six inches. Just like when I bought it.”

His father chuckled. “Guess your zoning board finally passed those regulations.”

“Or maybe your tenants unionized,” his mother said, smiling faintly.

Ajay smiled too, but distantly. He looked out the window. The skyline glinted in the sun. It was quiet again.

“Well,” his father said, “your birthday’s right around the corner, Ajay. Isn’t it? Twelve going on thirteen. You’ll be a young man. Your mother and I are very proud of you.”

“You’ll have to trade in your six-inch skyscraper for a job application,” his mother added, then smiled. “Or better yet, an entrance essay.”

His father sipped his tea, then added, more to himself, “Yes, something about your skyscraper. No matter how small or tall, it’s the shadow it casts. That’s not the first thing people notice about a skyscraper. The shadow it casts.”

Ajay looked down at his hands. Then at his parents.

“Maybe it’s because as the sun moves, so does the shadow,” he said.

“Yes, I think you’re on to something, Ajay.”

© Michael Arturo, 2025

Michael Arturo is a playwright, screenwriter, and fiction author who also writes random essays on social and political issues. He was born and raised in New York City. His plays have been produced in New York, London, Boston, and LA. He also created the Double Espresso Web Series from 2010 to 2014. Vimeo.com/espressodes

To support his work, please donate, purchase a subscription, leave a comment, or follow. Thank you.

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A gunshot echoed through the New China Arts like a starting pistol for a nightmare.

Screams rang out. Glass shattered. Security ducked. Tommy's entourage went for their weapons. Someone tripped, and someone else was trampled. Bang. Another gunshot. Then two more. One of Tommy's men went down.

The crowd surged like a wave breaking its banks onto Bayard Street.

Lillianne scanned for Eddie, but he was already gone. Swallowed by the tide or vanished of his own accord, she couldn't tell. Her head throbbed, the bullet inside pulsing like a sonar ping.

Meanwhile, Eddie took to the streets, just as rain began to fall. His heart slammed against his ribs as he ducked into an alley. He was now a hunted man, with a price tag on his head. A gunshot cracked the air, chipping brick inches from his skull. He fell back, stumbled, then took off again. No time to see who fired at him.

The rain turned the neon signs of Chinatown into bleeding watercolors, as Eddie latched on to a fire escape and climbed up three flights, across a rusted grate, and over a wet rooftop. He paused, breath heaving. Pulled his gun.

Three bullets.

He crouched low, checking the street below. A shadow lingered—too steady for a drunk, too casual for a cop.

Another shot rang out. Eddie returned fire, hitting metal.

Then a car screeched to a stop.

It was Jimmy down below. Eddie whistled from the rooftop. "JIMMY!"

"Get the f**k down here!" Jimmy shouted.

Eddie didn't hesitate. He scampered down the fire escape like a hellcat, then swung his body weight off the last rung and onto the pavement. He slammed into a line of trash cans, careened into Jimmy's car door, and got in.

Inside, the windows fogged with breath and rain.

"Word's out," Jimmy said, peeling onto Pell. "Every psychotic punk with half a gun and a quarter brain thinks wasting you punches his ticket into Tommy's good graces."

Eddie scanned the sidewalks. "You think Tommy gave the order?"

Jimmy spat out the window. "Didn't have to. They're doing it for free. That painting turned you into a bounty."

"I'm not leaving without Lillianne."

Jimmy snorted. "Listen to you, man. What, you love her now or something stupid like that?"

"Yeah, maybe." Eddie stopped cold, looked Jimmy straight in the eye, and said, "So what? I’ll admit it, I got it bad for her."

"You're crazy, you know?"

"You told me not to, but I did it anyway. Had you said 'go on, do it,' I wouldn't have done it. So it's your fault."

"You wanna run that by me again?"

"I've always been that way! Doing the opposite of what I should do! We all got flaws; that’s my flaw. Besides, you don't know what it's like being in love with a woman who knows she can die at any moment and embraces it like life itself, Jimmy!"

"Eddie, stop talking, you're not making sense. Yeah, she can die at any moment. Meanwhile, if she lives, you could be paying alimony to her for the rest of your life."

"But I'm drawn like a moth to a flame!"

"I'm getting you outta here," Jimmy shouted. "I told you she'd cost you."

"You told me, Jimmy. You said it!" Eddie’s voice cracked. "But when I tell you Lillianne is the hottest woman who has ever lived, I’m not exaggerating.”

He leaned forward, eyes wide, hands trembling like he was still feeling the scorch. “She’s insatiable. This is like sleeping with Satan’s little sister. Her body doesn’t just throw off heat, Jimmy—it emits, it radiates. I swear to God, I thought I was gonna wake up with second-degree burns.”

He paused. “And those eyes... Jesus, those black holes she calls eyes? They don’t just look at you—they audit your soul. No hiding. No charm. No B.S. SHE SEES THINGS, JIMMY!"

“What’d you mean—she sees things?”

“She knows if you’re lying, she knows you’re telling the truth. There’s no wiggle room!”

“Romantic. Just so we’re clear: you’re in love with that,” Jimmy said drily.

“Yeah. When you look past the space-heater succubus with the X-ray guilt vision,” Eddie said, voice softening, “there’s a real woman there. Real vulnerabilities. Don’t forget—she’s got a bullet stuck in her head. When she orgasmed in my arms, Jimmy, I thought she was gonna implode. I said my f****n’ Hail Marys.”

"Should've never brought you down here. You’re losing your grip! You used to be level-headed. 'Eddie, I need you to shake down some gimp who owes me money'—'Sure, Jimmy, no problem.' 'Eddie, do some pick-ups for me on Amsterdam'—'Anything you need, Jimmy.'"

Eddie stared out the windshield. "How the hell does this happen? I wasn't there that night. You know I wasn't there! I didn't even know her! How do I end up as the would-be assassin she painted?"

Jimmy chuckled darkly. "It's a Taoist curse, is what it is. Ever hear of mirrored time? Parallel moments? Taoist folklore is full of weird s**t that don't make sense. Lillianne gets shot in the head, and she lives. Does that make sense? In what world? An event of that nature throws all of the mechanisms of predictability and logic into disarray."

"What's that again—Tao?"

"Yeah, ‘The Tao,’ it's Chinese for how everything is connected.”

“So everything is in disarray but connected.”

Jimmy sighed. “I get exasperated trying to explain things to you.”

“You just said …”

“Eddie, Eddie, listen. Maybe you're not the guy who pulled the trigger, but you rhyme with him. You echo. When you stepped into Lillianne’s life, you tripped a switch. Time is not linear, and now you're looking back into a fractured mirror. It's not you, but it's your destiny."

“So, I’m not the guy, but it might as well be me. Okay, now you’re not making sense."

"Course not. Because you're looking for answers in Chinatown when you should be running!"

Jimmy hit the brakes. Red light on Canal. "You want sense? Go back to Columbus Avenue. Here, you get prophecy. You get karma. You get ghosts."

A car pulled up beside them.

Jimmy's eyes twitched. "S**t."

Gunfire tore through the window.

POP. POP. POP.

Jimmy collapsed, blood soaking the dash. The car veered. Eddie grabbed the wheel.

He swerved to the curb, jumped out, heart hammering.

Another shot whistled past.

Eddie ran.

Behind him, Chinatown howled.

End of part four

© Michael Arturo, 2025

Michael Arturo is a playwright, screenwriter, and fiction author who also writes random essays on social and political issues. He was born and raised in New York City. His plays have been produced in New York, London, Boston, and LA. He also created the Double Espresso Web Series from 2010 to 2014. Vimeo.com/espressodes

To support his work, please donate, purchase a subscription, leave a comment, or follow. Thank you.

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It was opening night at the New China Arts gallery on Bayard Street, where Gangland Visions reimagined Chinatown’s street violence with the solemnity of religious iconography. Well-tailored Shanghai investors filled the gallery, drifting from frame to frame, checkbooks ready, faces unreadable. To them, this wasn’t just art. It was curated menace. A tasteful slice of Chinatown’s underworld, framed and ready for the living room wall.

Nothing says worldly sophistication quite like a framed execution in a Chinatown alley to complement the Rothko above the fireplace.

The crowd itself was a contradiction. Armani suits brushed against jackets still bearing the creases of real fights. Manicured fingers curled around wine glasses while eyes, hard from experience, judged the compositions like crime scenes.

Tommy Huang, his silver hair slicked back, his charcoal suit perfectly tailored, held court near the gallery's center, his entourage forming a protective semicircle around him.

The evening had all the makings of high culture until Jimmy Tong sauntered in. The air shifted. Where Tommy Huang exuded old money and old grudges, Jimmy brought raw disruption. His crew fanned out behind him like shadows without orders.

“Quite the collection,” Jimmy said to no one in particular, eyes sweeping over a canvas where severed hands fed themselves into a meat grinder. “Is this art or to keep certain people from sleeping too easy?”

Tommy Huang approached. His entourage peeled off with wordless precision, leaving only him and Jimmy face to face beneath a painting of a midnight alley drowning in red.

“You’re late,” Tommy said, without warmth.

Jimmy looked around. “Traffic in the tunnel.”

Tommy didn’t smile. “You hiring from Jersey now too? I hear your uptown boy had himself a good time last night.”

Jimmy licked his teeth. “Eddie’s his own man. And Lillianne’s more woman than most men can handle. As you know.”

Tommy studied him. “You keep inviting ghosts to Chinatown, eventually they start thinking they’re ancestors.”

Jimmy laughed once, short, sharp. “And you keep hanging our dirty laundry on gallery walls, eventually someone’s gonna frame you in it.”

For a moment, silence. Tommy adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. “You know, back in the day, Chinese generals used to paint their battle scenes in blood. Not metaphor. Real blood. On silk. And then show them to the emperor as proof of loyalty.”

Jimmy bowed his head slightly, mock-formal. “Then I’m just here to admire the brushstrokes.”

Tommy leaned in, almost whispering. “Do that. And keep your crew from mistaking the art for open invitations.”

Tommy walked off and greeted another guest with a smile. Jimmy remained at the painting, too still to sip his drink.

The upscale chatter continued, punctuated by the occasional clink of champagne glasses and the rustle of silk dresses. Art critics mixed with enforcers, their conversations a bizarre blend of aesthetic theory and street survival tactics.

A woman in Chanel discussed brushwork techniques with one of Jimmy’s crew, whose scarred knuckles suggested he knew more about beating deadbeats to a pulp than making art.

Suddenly, a pair of street toughs near the back wall locked eyes, their postures rigid with barely contained hostility. Leather jackets stiff at the shoulders, sneakers planted wide, they circled each other like alley cats in a silent standoff.

One cracked his knuckles. The other tugged his shirt higher to flash the glint of something metallic at his belt. They weren’t thugs. They were actors. And something unscripted was about to begin. At first, no one noticed. The gallery crowd mistook it for background noise, another layer of gritty authenticity baked into the exhibit’s edge.

Performer 1 (low, biting):"You don’t come ‘round here no more. Thought we made that clear."

Performer 2 (smirks, louder):“We been here long before you, so step aside."

Performer 1 (mocking):"This ain’t your grandfather’s Chinatown, chump. You crossed Canal, you crossed the line."

Performer 2 (flashing steel):"I crossed for dim sum. But I’ll stay for your funeral."

Performer 1 (snapping fingers):"Dragons don’t kneel. We burn."

As the argument escalated, the entire gallery turned to watch. Pushing became shoving, shoving became throwing punches, and suddenly, steel flashed in the gallery lights.

Knives appeared as if conjured from the air; switchblades and butterfly knives twirling in practiced hands. The crowd recoiled, pressing back against the walls. Gasps rippled through the room. A few guests fumbled for their phones, dialing emergency numbers with trembling fingers.

It felt real. Too real. But something was off.

The movements were too fluid, and the footwork was too clean, like fighters who'd rehearsed the kill. The crowd didn’t know they were watching a performance. Not yet. Not until a multi-colored spray of “blood” hit a drop cloth and dried too fast to be anything but paint.

When the "bodies" hit the floor, they stayed down for exactly ten seconds before springing back to life. They took elaborate bows as the stunned audience slowly came to realize what they were watching.

The applause was tentative at first, then thunderous as the wealthy patrons had been treated to something truly unique: violence as aesthetic experience, brutality as entertainment.

Tommy Huang stepped onto the small stage at the front of the gallery, his smile sharp enough to cut glass. The crowd fell silent, all eyes turning toward their host.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his accented English heard throughout the space. “Welcome to New China Arts, where we celebrate the beautiful complexity of our heritage."

Tommy gestured toward the paintings surrounding them. “Chinese art has always possessed a delicate touch, yes? A reverence for the human soul that Western artists struggle to capture."

He paused, letting his words settle over the crowd like incense smoke.

"But we would be fools to ignore the violence that has shaped our community, that continues to shape it today. The blood spilled on these very streets is as much a part of our tradition as calligraphy or jade carving. Tonight, we honor that truth."

The crowd murmured its approval, fanning themselves with exhibition programs, unsure whether they were attending a cultural event or a confession.

"And now," Tommy continued, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, "we come to the evening's main event. A series of works by an anonymous artist, depicting an incident that changed my life forever."

At that moment, the gallery doors opened, and two figures stepped inside: Lillianne Wong, in an elegant black dress, and Eddie Cardone beside her.

The effect on the crowd was immediate. Conversations died mid-sentence. Every eye in the gallery turned toward the entrance, and the tension that had been simmering all evening suddenly threatened to boil over.

Lillianne was always stunning, but now her beauty carried the weight of tragedy. The bullet lodged in her skull had left no visible scar, but something in her eyes spoke of pain that went deeper than flesh and bone. She held her head high as she surveyed the room, meeting the stares with a quiet dignity that made some observers look away.

Eddie remained close to her side, his protective and ominous presence.

Tommy's smile never wavered, but his knuckles went white as he gripped the microphone. "Ah, and here is our guest of honor," he announced, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent gallery. "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Lillianne Wong, who miraculously recovered from injuries sustained during the... incident... we are about to commemorate."

The applause was polite but strained, like the sound of breaking glass wrapped in velvet. Lillianne nodded acknowledgment but said nothing, her silence more powerful than any speech could have been.

"The paintings you are about to see," Tommy continued, “are a depiction of that terrible night one year ago."

He gestured toward a series of covered canvases arranged along the far wall. Gallery assistants moved forward, their hands poised on the protective cloths.

"These works show us truth in its rawest form—the moment when a bullet intended for me instead found its target in the woman I loved, leaving her forever changed, forever marked."

The protective cloths fell away simultaneously, revealing six large paintings that seemed to pulse with their malevolent energy. The anonymous artist had painted the assassination attempt with photographic precision and nightmarish intensity. Each canvas captured a different moment of that terrible night—the muzzle flash, the bullet's trajectory, Lillianne's face contorting in pain, Tommy's expression of shock and rage.

But it was the final painting that drew every eye and held every breath. The assassin, partially hidden in shadow but clearly visible, bore an unmistakable resemblance to Eddie Cardone. The artist had captured something in the killer's stance, in the set of his shoulders and the way he held the gun, that made the identification inescapable.

The gallery fell into a silence so complete that the distant sounds of Chinatown traffic seemed to echo like thunder. Eddie's face remained impassive, though his eyes shifted towards Lillianne. Lillianne closed her eyes, as if the paintings had transported her back to that moment when her world exploded in pain and confusion.

Tommy stepped down from the stage, his eyes never leaving Eddie's face. "Art has a way of revealing truth, doesn't it?" he said softly, his words clearly in the absolute quiet.

The crowd clapped nervously, formally. Lillianne didn’t smile. Tommy met Lillianne’s eyes. He moved toward Eddie.

“I’m Tommy Huang,” he said, extending a hand.

“Eddie Cardone.”

Tommy’s eyes didn’t blink. “Interesting likeness, don’t you think?”

“It’s not me,” Eddie snapped, “I wasn’t there!”

Jimmy Tong’s eyes moved to Eddie. Then to Lillianne. “You see it too, don’t you?”

“I see what someone wants me to see,” Lillianne said. Her voice had dropped into a register colder than the fog outside.

“Lillianne,” Eddie said carefully, “this is a setup. I wasn’t there. I didn’t even know you then.”

Tommy Huang’s smirk held. “But you're here now, and the past has a way of recognizing its own.”

“I’ll bid one million dollars for this painting,” shouted one investor from Shanghai, breaking the silence.

Applause. Tommy’s eyes glittered.

“Looks like I’m about to become rich,” he said smoothly.

“Two million,” came another voice.

“Two million five,” a third added, fanning himself with his catalog.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I thank you for your bids. But I have an announcement to make. We have a facsimile of the actual would-be assassin among us. Mr. Eddie Cardone! Surely, someone must be willing to bid up this stunning work of art.”

“I’ll bid FOUR MILLION DOLLARS!” shouted the wealthiest man in the room.

Lillianne turned slowly toward the painting. Something in her face twisted. “I painted these,” she said, so quietly even the microphones didn’t catch it at first.

Tommy’s expression cracked just slightly.

Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “You what?”

Lillianne kept staring at the canvas. “During rehab. I don’t remember doing it. But that brushstroke? That’s mine.”

Whispers rippled through the crowd. Someone asked if this was part of the act. A collector whispered the words, “One of a kind.” Phones were out. Offers were being made before the smoke had even cleared.

Jimmy leaned in to Eddie. “If you’re smart, get your ass outta Chinatown tonight and never look back.”

Tommy moved like he was floating. “Even if you’re not the man in the painting, you are now,” he said to Eddie. “And that makes you a symbol. And symbols are dangerous.”

Lillianne finally looked at Eddie. Her eyes were unreadable. “I don’t know if you’re the ghost that haunts me, or the one I summoned.”

She turned to Tommy and shouted, “I want this painting destroyed!”

Lillianne’s balance faltered as she spoke. The room spun. In her mind, a flash went off—muzzle flash—her scream—Tommy turning—sirens, the hospital lights overhead, the sterile scent of gauze and morphine. The tremble in her hand. The easel. The smears. Faces she couldn’t place. The canvas. Her canvas. Was it hers? Was any of it hers?

She saw again the shadow of the shooter, but it didn’t look like Eddie. It looked like someone else. But who? The memory warped in its frame.

Back in the gallery, faces blurred. Investors, collectors, eyes without bodies. The air too thick. The floor a carousel.

Then—

Gunshots ripped through the gallery.

Chaos. Screams tore through the room. Eddie grabbed Lillianne and hit the deck. Other guests dropped to the floor, their heels scraping the tile, their glasses shattering. Tommy’s men drew weapons. Security scrambled. No one saw where the shots had come from.

Some patrons, shell-shocked but deluded, clapped nervously. Others asked if this, too, was a form of performance art.

When the dust settled, Eddie, protecting Lillianne’s upper body and head, peered up from the floor. His eye caught sight of the bullet holes riddling the painting of the would-be assassin.

Others noticed the bullet holes torn through the painting—the figure of the assassin's gun muzzle and the assassin’s face. The slash across the canvas created a warped distortion, a ghost within the ghost. The destroyed image didn’t ruin the work. It canonized it.

Collectors began whispering about provenance, about narrative. “Now it’s truly priceless,” one said.

Tommy adjusted his jacket and scanned the exits for the gunman.

Jimmy was missing.

Lillianne said nothing. But her jaw set, and her hand no longer trembled.

The lights flickered once.

Tommy’s men surrounded Eddie.

Outside, Chinatown exhaled smoke and secrets.

Inside, someone holstered a weapon with gloves still warm.

And Jimmy Tong was nowhere to be found.

Somewhere in the walls, the bullet in Lillianne’s head pulsed.

Like a countdown, just getting started.

End of part three

© Michael Arturo, 2025

Michael Arturo is a playwright, screenwriter, and fiction author who also writes random essays on social and political issues. He was born and raised in New York City. His plays have been produced in New York, London, Boston, and LA. He also created the Double Espresso Web Series from 2010 to 2014. To support his work, please donate, purchase a subscription, leave a comment, or follow. Thank you.

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Eddie Cardone woke to the sound of a teapot whistling. The bed beside him was empty, sheets still warm but twisted like a crime scene. Light leaked through the crooked blinds in dull slats. His body ached in good places. And bad places. He stood, winced, and limped to the window.

Outside, Doyers Street had vanished beneath a blanket of morning mist thick enough to swallow the sidewalk whole. A man, or what appeared to be the shape of one, stood on the corner beneath a broken streetlamp, looking up. Right at the window.

Eddie blinked. The figure turned and disappeared into the fog, legs trailing behind like smoke.

From the kitchenette, Eddie heard the clink of ceramic. He turned and followed.

Lillianne stood barefoot in a silk robe, hair pinned up with the same precision as the questions on her mind. She poured coffee into a chipped cup, added nothing, and slid it across the counter without looking at him.

"You take coffee?"

Eddie rubbed his neck. “Good guess.”

She made coffee for him, tea for herself, and eggs for both, sizzled in a pan. The place still smelled like crab, sex, and last night’s bad decisions.

“Did I tell you I used to work at an art gallery?” she asked.

“No.”

“Cultural center,” she clarified. “Asian arts. Mostly diaspora stuff, second-gen pieces with too much anger or not enough soul.” She gestured vaguely toward the walls, where artwork leaned in mismatched frames.

Eddie’s eyes settled on a crooked painting: an abstract sprawl of ink and oil, all shadows and implied geometry. It looked like a street scene caught mid-melt, a Chinatown alley glimpsed in a dream.

“You paint?” he asked, stepping closer.

“Used to.” Her voice dropped half a note. “Before I was shot.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, just thick.

“You work?” she asked.

“Yeah. A little of this, little of that. Storage, mostly.”

“Storage,” she echoed as if the word amused her. “You look like a man who holds onto things.”

Eddie took a sip of the coffee. It was strong, almost too strong, but welcome. “Some things are worth holding onto.”

She looked at him then. And for a moment, it seemed like she wanted to believe that.

She cracked an egg with the edge of a spatula. “So what’s your real story, Eddie Cardone? You from the West Side, or is that just a line you use when you’re down here hunting for trouble?”

He smiled thinly. “Columbus Avenue. Why would I make that up?”

“People do that.”

“Lie about themselves?”

“Yeah, lie about themselves.”

“There’s nothing much more to me. I grew up above a deli. Ma worked nights, dad split early. You want my report card too?”

“No. I want to know what a white boy with soft hands is doing running rackets with Jimmy Tong.”

Eddie froze for a second. She flipped the egg.

“I’m not running rackets,” he said.

She smiled without turning. “Okay.”

He leaned against the counter. “You always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Cross-examine your conquests the morning after? I mean, you didn’t even say ‘good morning.’”

“Good morning,” Lillianne said, sliding a plate of sunny-side-up eggs Eddie’s way. “Sorry, Eddie, I intermittently lose track of who, where, and what I am.”

“You know, I spotted someone down on the street a moment ago looking up at your bedroom window.”

“One of Tommy’s look-outs,” Lillianne conceded.

Eddie picked up his fork, pierced an egg yolk, and let it bleed. “Do you know who tried to kill Tommy that night?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached for the teapot and poured with ceremonial calm, the stream steady, almost meditative. “No,” she said finally. “But I have a flash. A shadow. A man. Not Chinese. White. Good-looking. Like you. You’ve heard of déjà vu?”

Eddie chewed slowly, eyes narrowing. “The sensation that something has happened before even though it’s happening for the first time.”

“Exactly.” She cradled her cup. “What about presque vu?”

He paused, uncertain. “Sounds French.”

“It is. Means ‘almost seen.’ The sensation of standing at the edge of memory, knowing something’s there, just out of reach.” Her gaze lifted, calm and direct. “Like something on the tip of your tongue. Like something about Eddie Cardone.”

The air shifted and tightened.

Eddie swallowed the mouthful like it had turned to stone and then said, half-joking, “You don’t think I had anything to do with it?”

She looked at him then, really looked. Her eyes were not accusing, but they weren’t kind either. “No,” she said. “But maybe you knew him.”

Silence followed. Outside, a distant siren rose and faded like the world was holding its breath with them.

“You think I’d be in this kitchen right now if I tried to kill Tommy Huang?” Eddie said voice scraped thin. “Or if I knew who did?”

Lillianne didn’t answer.

“I told you, I’m a small-time hood who runs with Jimmy Tong when he calls. Otherwise, I lift and move boxes wherever possible to turn a buck.”

She nodded once. A slow dip of the chin. It felt like the quiet acceptance of a verdict no one believed.

“They told me when I woke up I’d have false memories,” Lillianne said, her voice low, more gravel than whisper. “So now everything I remember comes with a question mark I’m too tired to erase. I remember fear. I remember betrayal. I remember the way the shooter moved. Like it wasn’t the first time he erased someone from the world.”

Lillianne looked past Eddie.

“And I remember his shape. His walk. Maybe even his face. But I can’t swear by any of it. The truth?” She laughed once, dry. “The truth is what I choose to believe. It has to be. It’s the only way I can keep moving forward without collapsing under the weight of all the things I’ll never be sure of.”

She turned her eyes to him then, steady, dark, unflinching.

“I’ve made peace with that. Because until this bullet shifts and finishes the job, I’ve got to walk like I know where I’m going. Even if I don’t.”

Eddie didn’t speak. His hands lay flat on the table, steady in appearance, but the veins had risen like wires under strain.

“I should go,” he said. “Jimmy’s probably wondering—”

“You don’t work for Jimmy anymore.”

Eddie stopped mid-motion. “What?”

“You’re mine now. Full-time. Bodyguard. I want you close to me.”

He blinked. “You’re serious?”

“You think you can survive last night and go back to selling knockoffs with Jimmy Tong? No. You’re in it now.”

Then she moved, slow and deliberate. Her silk robe whispered as she shifted, the thin fabric catching the light. One hand reached across the narrow table, not for the cup or fork, but for him. She took his hand gently, guiding it over the table, and then placed it on her chest, flat against her breast, where her heart should be thundering. But it wasn’t.

It was steady.

“You feel that?” she asked.

Eddie’s fingers twitched. The silk was warm, the skin beneath warmer. “Lillianne—”

She leaned in, lips just short of his. “I see you,” she whispered. “From the corner of my eye. Hungry. Willing to do anything for me.”

His mouth parted. His mind said don’t, but his body didn’t listen. It hadn’t been listening since last night.

Her fingers slid up his arm, slow as a tide. “How much do you love me, West Side Boy?”

He stared at her.

She smiled, half-sin, half invitation. “Answer me.”

She was a cat, and he was caught in the twitch of her tail, already under her paw. She kissed him like lovers who plan murders together. A kiss that tasted like secrets and blood.

Her hands tangled briefly in his shirt as if unsure whether to pull him closer or push him away. Eddie responded like a drowning man tasting air. For a moment, the room was nothing but silk and skin and breath and the weight of something dangerous blooming between them.

Then, as if she’d remembered herself, Lillianne smiled against his mouth and pulled away.

She smoothed the folds of her robe, collected a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and turned to refill her teacup as if nothing had happened. Her voice, when she spoke again, was brisk, almost clipped.

“There’s an art show tomorrow night,” she said. “New gallery, new money, all the right eyes.”

Eddie blinked, still caught in the heat she’d left behind.

She nodded, businesslike now. “Shanghai businessmen with a fetish for ‘gangland art.’ They’re hungry for anything that smells like Chinatown’s underbelly.” She turned to face him again, but the softness from moments ago was tucked away. “And I want you there. By my side.”

He straightened, still catching up. “Security?”

“Presence,” she corrected. “A man beside me says that I’m protected.” Her gaze lingered. “That I don’t walk into rooms alone anymore. My Ex will be there.”

“Tommy?”

“You’ll protect me, won’t you?” She moved past him, trailing a hint of perfume and purpose. “Wear something decent,” she said. “Not one of Jimmy’s cheap suits.”

“Sounds classy.”

“It’s a freak show. And I’m expected.”

She finished her tea and set the cup down with deliberate care, like placing the last piece on a chessboard.

Outside, the fog had thickened, a shroud of secrets. Somewhere in it, eyes were watching.

Eddie drank the rest of his coffee. The bottom had gone bitter, all grit and sediment, but it still kicked.

end of part two

© Michael Arturo, 2025

Michael Arturo is a playwright, screenwriter, and fiction author who also writes random essays on social and political issues. He was born and raised in New York City. His plays have been produced in New York, London, Boston, and LA. He also created the Double Espresso Web Series 2010-2014. To support his work, please donate, purchase a subscription, leave a comment, or follow. Thank you.

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They wandered the aisles like monks in a fluorescent monastery.

Warhol, in monochrome black, sunglasses obscuring his eyes against the sterile supermarket light, dragged his feet past shelves of boxes in primary colors packed tight.

“A shrine to forgotten mornings,” Dalí murmured beside him. His mustard-yellow suit flared like a torch in the artificial glow, his mustache curling toward the heavens like antennae.

Warhol didn’t reply. He adjusted his shades and gestured to a box of Rice Crispies. “I painted that once,” he said. “Or maybe I meant to. Or maybe it painted me.”

The aisles were infinite. They turned corner after corner, but every passage opened to another corridor of loops, flakes, puffs, pops, charms, and marshmallows.

“This place,” said Warhol, “do you shop here often?”

Dalí raised an eyebrow. “I do. It’s the variety.”

“Choice,” said Warhol, deadpan. “Endless, edible choice.”

“You see,” Warhol continued, waving his hand across the color scape, “we’re all expected to perform identity now. You are not Dalí. You are what you eat—Fruity Pebbles or Raisin Bran. Irony or sincerity. Sugar rush or self-denial.”

Dalí plucked a box of "Frosted Narcissism" from a shelf.

“Mon cher Andy, the cereal is not real,” he said, twirling the box like a magician. “It is the illusion of nourishment—a sweetened void. And we, in choosing, become the void ourselves. What madness! Delicious!”

Dalí bowed theatrically. “I seek the Holy Spoon,” he said, “which stirs the milk of meaning in the bowl of time.”

Warhol shrugged. “I’m just looking for something I haven’t already seen.”

A cart rolled past them, unmanned, filled with boxes labeled: Regret, Limited Edition. The characters on the box wept marshmallow tears.

They turned into another aisle. This one was older somehow. Dust settled gently on “Colonial Crunch” and “Post-Postmodern Puffs.” Warhol paused before a cereal named “Retro Realms.” The box art was from 1983.

“I remember this one,” he said. “They canceled it because people couldn’t decide if it was authentic or ironic.”

Dalí leaned closer, peering at the mascot—a wide-eyed, vaporwave raccoon caught mid-dance. “Ah,” he said, “nostalgia.”

“Time doesn’t move anymore,” Warhol muttered. “There is no 'then' and 'now.' Only 'now' repeated endlessly. Every cereal tries to be your first bite again. But that bite has no time. Just taste. Just choice.”

Dalí clutched his chest dramatically. “A tragedy without plot!”

“A snack without hunger,” Warhol replied.

They passed “Existential O’s,” whose box declared: You are the milk. You are the bowl. You are the hunger and the regret.

A long line of robotic shoppers snaked toward a distant checkout line that never moved.

“How long have we been here?” Dalí asked.

“Since breakfast,” Warhol answered.

As they walked, the mascots began to speak. Not aloud, but in how advertisements speak—subliminally, with confident cheer.

“Don’t you want to be happy?” they sang. “Don’t you want to be you—but better, crunchier, with a prize inside?”

“I don’t even like cereal,” Dalí whispered.

Then, the toucan sang from the next aisle over: “You don’t like cereal. But you like the idea of liking cereal.”

Dalí froze. He turned slowly to face the toucan, who had become more lifelike, animated with uncanny fluidity.

“Tell me, bird,” Dalí hissed, “am I mad, or is this place mad?”

The toucan shrugged. “Who can say? We all chose to come here. And you keep choosing, don’t you?”

The toucan cackled—a noise like a slide whistle drowning in champagne.

“You two speak of time and meaning, but neither of you understands the brilliance of the marshmallow horse or the cereal box maze!” the bird trilled. “You’ve made careers of color, but not a one of you can taste it!”

Dalí blinked. “Taste color?”

Warhol tilted his head. “I always thought orange tasted like orange.”

“I…” Dalí faltered. “Did red taste like blood or my lover’s lips?”

“All color is betrayal—Blue lies, red denies, yellow forgets,“ the toucan said.

Warhol gently pulled Dalí away. “Don’t listen. They loop like the commercials. You’ll get stuck.”

Dalí looked back only once. The toucan winked.

They moved on.

Eventually, they reached an aisle neither had seen before. The boxes were blank, with no labels, mascots, or slogans. The aisle was shorter than the others, and there were no mirrors, lights, or shelves that stretched to heaven.

Dalí stopped. “Andy. This one…”

Warhol nodded. “I know. It’s not selling anything.”

Dalí reached for a box. It felt heavy, but neutral. Like the possibility. Or emptiness.

“Maybe this is the choice,” he said.

Warhol smiled faintly. “Or maybe the end of choice.”

They stood there, each with a blank box, unsure of what came next. Behind them, the aisles buzzed, mascots sang, colors shouted, and the looping slogans resumed.

“Choose me!”“Define yourself with me!”“Be complete—with crunch!”

Dalí sighed.

“Let’s go,” said Warhol.

“Where?” Dalí asked.

“To aisle zero,” Warhol answered. “Where breakfast ends.”

© Michael Arturo, 2025

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Michael Arturo writes fiction, contemporary political/social commentary, parodies, parables, satire. Michael was born and raised in New York City and has a background in theater and film. His plays have been staged in New York, London, Boston, and Los Angeles.

Hop Sing’s All-Night Dumpling House was three things at once: a restaurant, a crime scene waiting to happen, and the best place to ruin your life after 2 a.m.

Before Eddie Cardone could make his move, before he even slid one foot out of the red leather booth where the soy sauce turned every elbow into flypaper, Jimmy Tong slapped a hand to his chest and said, “Don’t.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow, halfway to cocky, halfway to stupid. “Don’t what?”

Jimmy tilted his head toward the bar. “Her.”

Lillianne Wong. Twenty-seven. High cheekbones. Jet-black bob that framed her face like quotation marks. And eyes—almond-shaped, ink-dark. She looked like punk rock dressed as a fortune cookie. She was sitting at the bar, laughing at something a waiter said, while her finger circled the glass rim like she was summoning the devil.

“That’s Lillianne,” Jimmy said. “You don’t want that kind of beautiful. That kind of beautiful gets you followed, folded, and FedExed to your mom in a jar.”

Eddie smirked. “She got a boyfriend?”

“Had. Tommy Huang.”

Eddie blinked. “The Tommy Huang?”

“Yeah. That Tommy Huang. Boss of the Mott Street Dragons. Collects fingers like baseball cards.”

Eddie tilted his head. “So… she’s single.”

Jimmy looked like he wanted to slap the optimism out of him. “You’re outta your league. West Side white boys come down here every weekend with Yellow Fever and no exit strategy. You work for me, but that doesn’t grant you a passport.”

Eddie shrugged. “What’s it gonna take, then?”

Jimmy snorted. “More brains than God gave you. Look, I could introduce you to a million other girls. But not Lillianne Wong. Not unless you like funerals. Besides, she’s got health issues.”

Eddie leaned back. “What, like STD or something?”

Jimmy stared. “Are you seriously asking if she has an STD?”

“I mean, you said health issues—what else am I supposed to think?”

“She took a bullet to the head.”

Eddie sat forward. “Come again?”

“You didn’t read about it? It was all over the papers. The bullet was meant for Tommy. Missed him, ricocheted, hit her. Right in the back of the skull. .35 caliber.”

Eddie let out a low whistle. “Jesus. That was her?”

“Spent a month in a coma. Woke up thinkin’ she was in third grade. Had to relearn the alphabet. Cantonese and English. Couldn’t hold chopsticks. Didn’t know her own name for six weeks.”

Eddie glanced back at her. “Well, she looks good now.”

Jimmy glared. “She’s a walking miracle. And the bullet’s still in there.”

Eddie blinked. “The bullet’s still in where?”

“Her f****n’ head, Eddie! They couldn’t remove it! Doctors said takin’ it out was like trying to defuse a bomb. One bad move, boom—she’s wallpaper.”

Eddie grinned like a guy who only hears what he wants. “Wow. That’s too bad. So you’re saying no headbangin’ sex?”

Jimmy closed his eyes. “Are you seriously being stupid now or what? I’m sayin’ don’t go near this girl; first off, you got no cache in Chinatown. And even if you did, you’re setting yourself up for a fall. Lemme ask you a question: you ever date a Chinese girl?”

“No, I haven’t. But I got to start somewhere,” Eddie said. “Figure she might wanna have a little fun with a guy like me.”

“A guy like you? Who the f**k are you?”

“Who the f**k am I? Who the f**k are you? Who the f**k is anybody, Jimmy?”

“Well, I know who the f**k I am. Do you know who the f**k you are?”

“I got an idea.”

“I don’t think you do. I don’t think you’re even listening to anything I’m saying, Eddie. I’m trying to explain! Jesus Christ, even looking in her direction is dangerous! Unless you wanna be charged with involuntary manslaughter.”

“What’d ya talking about—manslaughter?”

“The bullet, Eddie! In her head—is what I’m talking about! All the bullet has to do is move a fraction of a centimeter, and it kills her.”

Eddie finally took a moment to let it all sink in. “Like walking on eggshells. I get it! But … no different than any other woman.”

“What if she dies in your arms, you dumb prick?! Say you wanna do something romantic with her, right? Dancing’s out of the question. One little bump on the dance floor and her brains are splattered all over the ceiling. Moonlit drive down the FDR? Forget it. One pothole is all it takes. Bam! She’s a ghost. Say she falls for you, right? You’re ripping each other’s clothes off, and she gnaws on your ear lobe and whispers something like, ‘Give it to me rough!’”

“Aw right, aw right, aw right, I get the picture.”

That’s when Lillianne turned, caught Eddie staring, and locked eyes with him. Just a flicker. But it hit like static electricity and bad decisions.

Eddie smiled, already doomed. “How do I explain love at first sight to you?”

Jimmy tossed up his hands. “Look, I said all I can say. You’re on your own.”

Eddie slid out of the booth like a man who knew the odds were against him and liked it that way. His leather jacket creaked with every step. Sleeves rolled to show off knuckle bruises he wore like cufflinks.

Lillianne didn’t move. Just kept twirling that straw like she was deciding which kingdom to burn next.

Eddie eased up beside her. “How are you? I see you sitting alone. Thought I’d come over and introduce myself. Name’s Eddie Cardone. Friend of Jimmy Tong.”

She didn’t even look. “I’m not interested.”

“Jimmy warned me not to come over. But I’m thinking I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to introduce myself to the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“Did you hear me the first time? I’m not interested.”

“I figured. Anyway, my name’s Eddie, like I said. Not from around here. I’m from Columbus Avenue. Uptown. Known Jimmy for years. I’ve done all kinds of jobs for him. Uptown, downtown. He calls me his Swiss Army Knife. So, Jimmy’s like: ‘Hey, let’s go down Chinatown, family restaurant, a little chow mein, fried rice.’ And here I am.”

“So you think because you know a low life like Jimmy Tong, you have some kind of credibility with someone like me?”

Eddie bobbed his head, pursed his lips, and delivered his next pitch.

“No, not at all. But lemme buy you a drink and earn that credibility. And, just for the record, Jimmy’s my friend. And we couldn’t be more different. But I’d do anything for him. So, what’d ya say about that drink?”

That earned him a glance. Half-lidded. Sharp. Like a scalpel dipped in whiskey.

“You always this persistent?”

Eddie smiled. “Only with women who can kill me with a look.”

Pause. Her eyebrow lifted.

He went on, lowering his voice. “Look, I’ll be upfront. I heard all about you. I know what you been through. You took a bullet. You went through hell. But got back up. Stronger. Smarter.”

She narrowed her eyes. “So what? I took a bullet. People take bullets all the time, and some of them stay dead. So, thank you for noticing I’m still breathing. You got anything else to add?”

“I think you’re the bravest person in this room. And, to repeat myself, the most beautiful. And if you were with me, nothing like that would ever happen again.”

She studied him. No smile. Just silence. Then: “Bullet’s still there, you know. One wrong move, and poof. Dead on the barstool. That’s not romantic. That’s physics.”

“Then I’ll be the gentlest man in New York,” Eddie said. “Ask Jimmy. I once robbed a guy and zipped up his jacket after.”

A beat.

“You’re stunod,” she said—dragging the word like a knife across marble, giving it that perfect Mulberry Street bite.

Eddie blinked. “Ah. So you know a thing or two?”

Lillianne shrugged. “More than that.”

“I don’t hang around them ginzos on Mulberry Street if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m from uptown.”

“You said.”

“We have a little more class.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I can smell it. That soft-boy swagger like you got nothing to prove but everything to lose.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“You’re stunod,” she repeated, softer now, seductive. “But at least you’re not boring.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

She looked at him for a long time. “Not by me.”

And that was as close to a green light as he would get. She turned away. Then turned back. “One drink. Not because I like you. Because I like your jacket. And I’m curious what I would look like wearing it with nothing else on.”

Eddie grinned. “Okay. That’s uh … a cue I’m willing to entertain.”

“I’m Lillianne. Your half-wit friend probably already told you.”

“Nice to meet you, Lillianne. Chante.”

“So what’s your story, Eddie Cardone from Columbus Avenue?”

Lillianne’s Doyers Street apartment was a tiny studio above a shuttered seafood joint, and the hallway reeked of boiled crab—thick, permanent, like the walls had been marinated in it. But neither she nor Eddie cared. Not tonight.

They both knew what was coming the second they burst through the door, tangled in each other’s arms. Lillianne, vodka still on her breath, yanked Eddie by the collar of his leather jacket and kissed him like it was revenge and he owed her interest. By the time the door slammed shut behind them, they were half-naked.

Eddie was fast, but he was thrown off his game by Lillianne, who was even faster. Before Eddie had a plan, before he could even think about a condom or a safe word or what to do if her skull detonated mid-thrust, his hands were on her hips, his breath ragged, and all he could think was, Don’t hit her head. Don’t rock her skull.

But Lillianne? She moved like she wanted to die—or be reborn. She clawed at his shoulders, bit at his jaw, yanked his hair with fingers that didn’t tremble. “Don’t be gentle.”

Eddie tried.

Lillianne stopped and looked Eddie dead in the eye. “I don’t need a sympathy f**k. I need somebody who’s not scared of me. Are you scared of me, Eddie Cardone?”

Eddie blinked, swallowed hard. “No, I’m not scared of you.”

“Why you lying to me?” She stepped closer, toe to toe, her breath hot. “Are you lying to me?”

“No, I’m not lying to you,” he said, his voice rising an octave against his will.

“Tell me you’re not lying to me.”

“I’m not lying to you!”

Her hand slid up his chest, resting just below his collarbone. She paused like she was checking his heartbeat for dishonesty.

“If I find out you’re lying to me,” she said slowly, “you’ll never get a second chance at this. And I mean anything. Not the sex. Not the chance to stand in this room. Nothing.”

“Okay, okay,” Eddie said, nodding wildly, eyes searching hers like he was trying to find the escape route in her pupils. “But what was I supposed to be telling the truth about again?”

Lillianne laughed—a short, cutting sound with no joy in it.

“You better step up your game, Mister. I don’t know who you’ve been with before, but if you don’t even know the difference … ”

“Shut up!” Eddie said, cutting her off.

She smirked. Leaned in, lips brushing his cheek as she whispered: “Not bad for a beginner.”

And then, without warning, she shoved him back onto the bed like a cop frisking a suspect. Climbed on top of him like she owned the deed.

Eddie stared up at her, stunned, breathless, turned on, and terrified in equal parts. Lillianne straddled him like a dare, grinning like she knew he’d already lost. But somewhere between the burn in his chest and the blood in his teeth, something shifted.

He flipped her—fast, hard, primal—catching her off guard and loving the flash of surprise in her eyes. Her back hit the mattress with a thud that twisted his gut, but her smile only widened.

Eddie moved in, no more hesitation, no more politeness—just raw want. He gave her what he had, hips grinding, hands gripping, mouth on her neck like he meant to leave a mark. She clawed at him, laughing, moaning, breathing like a sinner who finally found religion.

But then her head knocked the wall—just a bump, a hollow thud—and panic punched through him. The bullet. S**t. He froze mid-thrust, his hand flying to cradle the back of her skull like it was made of blown glass.

She snarled—actually snarled—and yanked him back down with her legs like a vise.

“You stop now, and I swear I’ll kill you,” she growled, voice thick with fury and pleasure. “I’ll die when I’m goddamn ready, and it ain’t gonna be from a f****n’ pillow tap.”

Eddie blinked. Something in him snapped loose.

He bit her shoulder, growled right back, and drove into her like the world was ending. The mattress squealed. The headboard banged.

Lillianne didn’t break. She laughed. She howled.

The pounding came from the wall then. A neighbor's fist. “Some of us are trying to sleep, you animals!”

“F**k off, you miserable piece of s**t!” Lillianne screamed back without missing a beat.

Eddie almost laughed. But her nails were in his back now, dragging, raking. His rhythm picked up, not from confidence but surrender. If she wanted to burn, he'd be the match. He stopped aiming for perfect, and that’s when it clicked. His body moved without permission. No choreography. Just instinct and heat, despite the surreal images flashing through his mind of Lillianne’s brain matter exploding at any given moment.

Lillianne came like a riot. Screaming. Loud. Messy. Glorious.

Afterward, Eddie collapsed beside her, sweaty and shaken, cradling the back of her head like it was an unexploded mine. His breath trembled against her temple.

She lay still. Silent. Then turned her face toward him and said, “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to go again.”

His eyes slid towards her.

She pulled the sheet over her chest, eyes on the ceiling. “Next time, don’t baby me so much.”

Eddie stared at her, half in awe, half in horror, and realized something bone-deep and irreversible:

He was in love with a woman who treated death like foreplay.

And he was all in.

end of part one

© Michael Arturo, 2025

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Michael Arturo writes contemporary political/social commentary, parodies, parables, and satire. Michael was born and raised in New York City and has a background in theater and film. His plays have been staged in New York, London, Boston, and Los Angeles.

Michael Arturo's "Suttle House" is a Victorian fable set in 1895 New York, exploring themes of evolving female roles, self-definition, identity, and the complexities of relationships. The narrative utilizes rich symbolism, particularly through the shared monocular vision of twin sisters Prudence and Abagail and the triangular architecture of Delmonico's restaurant. The story draws on theatrical traditions, including commedia dell'arte, Oscar Wilde's wit, and the structure of the American sitcom, to create a blend of humor, satire, and social commentary. The central conflict revolves around the intertwined lives of the twins and their relationship with the wealthy industrialist Nathaniel Suttle, raising questions about trust, deceit, and the nature of love.

Central Themes and Key Ideas:

Evolving Roles of Women and Self-Definition:

* The core allegory centers on the twin sisters, Prudence and Abagail, representing contrasting perspectives on women's roles. Prudence is initially anchored in tradition and devotion to her husband, while Abagail embodies wanderlust and independence.

* The reading of Sarah Brand's "New Woman" by Prudence, despite her visual limitation, is a significant catalyst for her exploration of changing societal roles and female agency. It highlights the burgeoning movement for women's empowerment in the late 19th century.

* The narrative explores the sisters' struggle for self-definition, particularly concerning Nathaniel and the societal expectations placed upon them. Their actions, both deceptive and genuine, reflect their attempts to navigate and challenge these constraints.

The Duality of Perception and Monocular Vision:

* The shared monocular vision of Prudence and Abagail is a central, multi-layered symbol. It physically embodies the "duality of perception—one eye fixed on tradition, the other blind to the possibilities of change"

* Their reliance on each other's vision initially signifies their strong bond and intertwined nature: "They relied on each other to compensate for their visual impairment, their bond so strong that they often finished each other’s sentences."

* However, this shared imperfection also highlights their limitations and inability to "truly see the world as others did."

* The physical act of facing each other, with a sighted eye meeting a blind eye, is described as a "peculiar and almost poetic manifestation of their unique connection," representing "the balance they struck in life."

* Identity, Impersonation, and Deceit:

* The narrative extensively explores the blurring lines of identity, primarily through the sisters' impersonation of each other. This is initially a playful "game they played ruthlessly" but escalates into significant deception.

* Architectural and Spatial Symbolism (Delmonico's):

* Delmonico's restaurant, specifically its triangular shape, is presented as a powerful symbol within the narrative.

* Abagails claimed the triangular design of Delmonico's "had not only influenced Nathaniel’s relationships with her and Prudence but had also cast an irrevocable spell over a prospective marriage, forever condemning it to exist as a ménage à trois.

* "Suttle House" draws upon several theatrical and comedic traditions. It is described as a "sophisticated comedic fable" that weaves together elements from commedia dell’arte (stock characters, exaggerated traits), the wit and social commentary of Oscar Wilde (sharp dialogue, satire of societal expectations), and the structure and relatability of the American sitcom (focus on domestic dynamics, episodic feel). The narrative itself incorporates themes of performance, social masks, and mistaken identity, reminiscent of plays like Shakespeare's "The Comedy of Errors" and Oscar Wilde's "The Importance of Being Earnest."

What is the core conflict between Prudence and Abagail?

The core conflict between Prudence and Abagail stems from their competition for Nathaniel's affection and the secrets and deceptions surrounding their relationships with him. Prudence's suspicions about Nathaniel's fidelity and Abagail's confession of impersonating Prudence during the courtship at Delmonico's create a significant rift. The sisters' physical altercation and subsequent aging in different directions further highlight the fracturing of their bond and the consequences of their actions.

How does the story conclude?

The story concludes with a profound transformation in the relationships within Suttle House. Prudence, having gone completely blind, becomes dependent on Abagail, who in turn gains sight in her right eye and regains her youthfulness. Nathaniel, freed from deceit, finds joy in an honest life with Abagail. While Nathaniel and Abagail never marry, they live happily together after Prudence's death, their love story forever intertwined with the memory of Delmonico's and the complex dance of their intertwined lives. The ending suggests a triumph of forgiveness and acceptance, with Suttle House becoming a place of "truth and redemption."

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Welcome to Michael’s Newsletter. Writer of contemporary political/social commentary, parodies, parables, satire. Michael was born and raised in New York City and has a background in theater and film. His plays have been staged in New York, London, Boston, and Los Angeles.

Michael also writes short literary fiction.

Cole stood near a bullet-scarred kitchen window, preparing to livestream. Behind him, Tristan dabbed bronzer along his jaw like a battlefield stylist dressing a man for martyrdom.

“You need more contour, Cole,” Tristan said. “You look like a haunted bagel.”

Cole clutched his phone like a grenade of truth, rehearsing lines in his head.

“You know,” Tristan said, dipping a finger into concealer, “this isn’t the first time my people have battled on these streets. Let me tell you, before we were a ‘demographic,’ before Rainbow Capitalism turned our pain into a pride playlist—we dialed up some serious resistance. Stonewall was no party from what I hear.”

“So if someone dares judge me,” Tristan whispered, dotting Cole’s under-eye with something faintly shimmering, “I tell them being under siege is in my cultural DNA.”

Tristan gave Cole a pat of confidence. Cole cleared his throat, lifted the phone, and hit record.

“Once a quiet tree-lined street tucked away in the West Village—where rents were historically inaccessible and squirrels wore artisanal indifference—has now become its own little war zone, spawning a conflict between blood brothers and landlords.”

Tristan made a slight gesture: good, keep going.

Cole adjusted his tone. “And what of the inhabitants of this humble pre-war, current-war brownstone? How have they adapted, resisted, survived?”

It had been more than a week since the siege began.

In that time, the apartment had become something between a commune, a bunker, and a theatrical residency for the emotionally overqualified. What once was sharp tension—lawsuits, microaggressions, pillowcase gags—had mellowed into a strange, intimate choreography of survival.

The bedroom now housed a tiered bunk bed system, custom-rigged from salvaged IKEA remnants and one ill-gotten chaise lounge. Darcy and Cole had claimed the top bunk—primarily for strategic advantage, partially for spite. Juan and Tristan took the bottom—saying it was for “accessibility,” but really for proximity to the wine crate they used as a nightstand-slash-weapons cache.

The living room was common ground. A war room by morning, a café by brunch, a low-budget speakeasy by candlelight. Their routines were synchronized now: shifts on the fire escape, meal rotation, water rationing, psychic check-ins, and exactly one communal meltdown per day, to be performed dramatically and with appropriate lighting.

No one apologized anymore. They simply adapted.

The four had also enacted what Tristan called a “wartime celibacy statute " to conserve energy and maintain spiritual alignment under siege conditions. The reasoning was half-mystical, half-logistical: arousal scattered the chi, blurred the focus, and made the hallway patrols sloppy.

"Desire is a peacetime luxury," Darcy had declared, arms crossed, eyes red from incense exposure. No one argued.

Not even Juan, who had once seduced a Whole Foods cashier using only eye contact and a pomegranate.

Now, they sublimated. They journaled. They did planks.

AOC barked anytime someone lingered too long near another’s bunk, a tiny moral enforcer in faux fur. The system worked—sort of. They were tense, yes, but profoundly alert. Monastic. Sexy in theory. Miserable in practice. Focused.

They had, through smoke and absurdity, become a unit.

Not friends exactly. Not family.

Comrades.

“I found four cans of water chestnuts,” Darcy announced as she swung in from the fire escape, dropped her gear, and peeled off her gloves. “They’re in the ration pile.”

Juan had already begun plating brunch. “Brunch is served,” he called. “Today’s theme is scarcity chic.”

On the table: one soft avocado in mid-breakdown, thirty lentils per person, a tablespoon of almond paste spread lovingly across a cedar shingle, and half a can of peaches still tinged with debris.

“Anything gluten in this hellscape?” Darcy said, breathless.

“We have a stale baguette,” Tristan said. “But Juan has declared it ‘holy.’”

“I licked it,” Juan offered, deadpan.

Darcy waved it off. “I’ve had worse at Coachella.”

“I lived on ant larvae in the Andes for a week once,” Juan quipped. “More protein than beef. And honey, I’ve had my share of beef.”

Tristan snapped a photo of the table. “I’m calling this ‘Occupation Elegance.’ It’s going in the zine.”

Cole sat, still buzzed from his own narration. “If this is the end of civilization, at least we’re seated.”

Darcy turned to Cole. “Update on the outside world?”

He gestured to his phone. “Three thousand views. One hate comment. It said, ‘This is war porn for liberals.’”

Juan raised his glass of fermented nettle tonic. “To War Porn for Liberals!”

“To the West Village,” Darcy added.

Tristan sat down, adjusting a scarf. “Is it weird I’m…happy?”

Darcy scooped lentils with a bent spoon. “It’s not weird. We’re not just defending our apartment—we’re becoming it. I am this square footage now.”

Juan raised his glass again and looked across the table at Darcy and Cole with something bordering on reverence. “To Darcy and Cole. In the short time we’ve known you,” he began, “we’ve misjudged you.”

Tristan nodded solemnly, dramatically. “We thought you were textbook Connecticut. Possibly voted third-party on purpose.”

Juan went on. “We ‘kink-shamed’ you out of our insecurities. And for that, we apologize.”

Tristan added, “Who are we to judge another person’s ’throuple’ fantasy? We’re all sexual beasts in the end!”

“It’s… honestly very queer,” Juan said. “And that’s what unnerves us most.”

Darcy blinked. “Are we being honored or condemned?”

Another explosion shook the glass. AOC scurried under the table, dragging an unexploded tear gas canister she’d claimed as her toy. But no one else flinched.

Cole whispered softly to his phone: “Day twelve. The kink-shaming has subsided, morale is high, and we’ve begun mistaking survival for aesthetics. Which means... we’re thriving.”

Then they heard a slow, deliberate knock.

Three taps. A pause. Then, two more.

Everyone froze.

Darcy crept to the door and pressed her ear against the frame. “Who goes there?”

A pause.

“After everything I’ve done for you.”

They exhaled in unison.

Darcy unlatched the door and pulled it open like a velvet curtain.

Omar stepped in through the doorway, set down his bag like a conquering hero, and pulled out a single bottle of vintage champagne—“liberated,” he explained, from the landlord’s basement stockpile.

They gasped. They applauded. Juan kissed the label. Tristan all but wept.

Darcy wiped down a coffee mug and offered it as a stand-in flute. Cole reached for the wine key with the solemnity of a field medic.

Omar unscrewed the cage and popped the cork with one practiced twist, the sound like a celebratory gunshot—only gentler.

He poured slowly, reverently, leaned back against the cracked refrigerator and said, “I have news from the front. There was a skirmish on the first floor.”

Everyone went still. Even AOC sat down.

“Unit 1M. Madame Altalina.”

Tristan clutched his chest. “Oh my God! The Mezzo-Soprano on the first floor?”

Omar nodded, eyes gleaming. “Yes. The Landlord’s men tried to seize her grand piano. Said it was a luxury amenity outside her lease terms. She refused to surrender it.”

Darcy’s mouth fell open. “How did she fight them off?”

“She sang,” Omar said simply. “A Puccini aria so precise it shattered three light bulbs and caused one of the interns to question his sexuality.”

Tristan burst into applause. “That woman is a national treasure.”

Juan raised his glass. “To Altalina.”

They drank.

And for a moment, it felt like they had won.

Omar let the silence linger. Then, quietly, he said: “I’ve discussed a truce with my cousin, the landlord. We both agree too much blood has been spilled!”

Everyone turned. Champagne paused mid-air.

“But there are conditions,” Omar added. “He’s going co-op.”

All four moaned. The sound was somewhere between grief and lactose intolerance.

Juan dropped his spoon. “There must be a trust fund baby among us. That’s the only way this makes sense.”

“Is that what this war was all about?” Darcy asked, almost laughing. “A co-op board application? With headshots?”

Cole sank into his chair. “The last rent-controlled building in the Village, devoured by equity shares and brunch vouchers.”

Tristan clutched his scarf like a widow. “I knew something was off when I smelled almond flour in the hallway. The bourgeois always come in with nut-based things.”

“Or we can keep fighting,” Omar said.

Cole asked suddenly. “We can keep fighting? For this tiny, overpriced rectangle of hardwood and trauma?”

Cole glanced toward the wall, chipped from a shell blast but still retaining its original detail. He looked at the blinking red light on his phone, still recording.

"The war may be ending. And I think we’re all a little terrified that peace... means figuring out who we are without the conflict."

Omar smiled—softly but with the sadness of a man who’s seen both leases and legacies shredded.

“You ask who we are without the conflict,” he said. “Maybe the answer can be found in—who are we in conflict?”

Omar opened his palms like he was presenting invisible receipts.

He looked around the table, not accusing—just observant.

“In conflict, you are whatever the room requires. The fierce one. The broken one. The symbol. The joke. The threat.”

AOC barked once—as if confirming the thesis.

Outside, the night was silent. The wind whispered past the fire escape like a neighbor too tired to knock.

Inside, the champagne fizzed and fizzled.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The war might be over. But they had their square footage. Their routines. Each other.

And in New York, that’s more peace than most ever get.

Cole’s voice cut the silence.

“Has anyone here actually seen the landlord?” he asked slowly. “I mean, in person. With Omar. In the same room.”

Everyone turned.

Juan blinked. “Oh my God!”

Cole pressed on. “Think about it. Omar disappears, and the landlord attacks. Omar appears again, champagne in tow—now the war’s over.”

“It all makes sense, Cole! When Tristan asked Omar if the Israeli landlord was attacking us, he said, ‘Technically, I’m more Israeli than he is!’”

Tristan gasped. ”This is like Andrew Lloyd Webber produced a one-man Phantom of the Opera! But instead of a mask, it’s a co-op board! You may be sexy as f**k, Omar, but you’re nothing but a charlatan.”

Omar didn’t flinch. He merely adjusted his scarf, then said, with great calm: “They say the same thing about the landlord.”

That gave them pause.

“They think I’m the illusion. That there is no realtor. Just a landlord with good taste and an overactive imagination.”

Darcy narrowed her eyes. “So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Omar said, standing, “it’s convenient for you to eliminate one of us! It’s convenient to declare one side fake. If you erase the agent, you erase the betrayal. If you erase the landlord, you erase the power. Either way, you deny there’s even a victim. Or a villain. You make the whole war abstract.”

Omar walked to the window again, staring out through the fractured glass.

“You know the real tragedy?” he said. “Once you pick your side, you have to live there. Even after the fighting stops, my cousin and I … will never change. He calls me the squatter, I call him the occupier, but the truth is, we both have keys. War casts us in these roles, and once you’ve been cast, no one remembers it was a family story. Peace?” He shrugged. “Peace would mean stepping out of character. And neither of us knows how to do that anymore.”

Cole studied him, uncertain now if he was staring at a man, a myth, or the most successful housing scam in lower Manhattan.

But Omar simply turned and smiled, that same vague, radiant ambiguity.

“I just want you to be happy,” he said. “After everything I’ve done for you.”

Omar looked at each of them, his face glowing with the quiet dignity of a man who’d duct-taped a dream together more than once.

Juan translated, “My New Yorican Grandfather used to say: If you’re going to screw me, at least kiss me first. I’d say Omar accomplished that.”

Omar smiled faintly. “You’re welcome.” And just like that, he stepped away and vanished into the hallway.

No one spoke for a moment.

They stood there, glasses in hand, watching the empty doorway like it might speak again.

Then Tristan raised his glass.

“To the co-op.”

Juan clinked his. “To the absurdity of shared ownership.”

Darcy nodded. “To whatever this is now.”

Cole looked around the apartment—the scorch marks, the bunk beds, the tiny war they’d made a home in—and said softly, “To enduring.”

And they drank quietly—roommates now and something that could only happen in Greenwich Village and only during peacetime negotiated with palo santo and passive aggression, Darcy and Cole, Tristan and Juan came to cohabitate in the tiniest of apartments—four souls, and square footage so small it required synchronized breathing.

It wasn’t a throuple. It transcended throupledom. It was something stranger, sturdier, beautifully ill-defined.

Eventually, they bought the place—through a complex arrangement involving ghost LLCs and a failed tech angel in Tel Aviv—and decorated it together: brutalist shelving, bisexual lighting, and a wet bar shaped like a question mark.

AOC remained neutral, loyal only to the scent of power and the rustle of unattended food wrappers. She had switched alliances more times than anyone cared to count. Ultimately, she came down firmly on the side of whoever dropped the most crumbs. And in the new co-op structure, she appointed herself Treasurer.

No one contested it.

So, they lived quite happily ever after. Or close enough. Which, in New York, is ever after.

© Michael Arturo, 2025

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Michael Arturo writes fiction, contemporary political/social commentary, parodies, parables, satire. Michael was born and raised in New York City and has a background in theater and film. His plays have been staged in New York, London, Boston, and Los Angeles.