The main character dies on page 342; I thought you should know. Her name was Monique. It didn’t have to end this way. On the second reading it is clear that if the author just eliminates that one scene in Chapter 12, things will turn out much better for Monique. Of course it will also create additional problems for Marcus and Marianne, and Chapter 15 won’t make any sense. So there’s that. On the third reading I determine it would be much cleaner to just prevent Malcolm from ever meeting Monique. After all, their relationship never goes anywhere and only creates jealousy in Michael, and if he doesn’t talk to Misha in Chapter 17— okay, not so clean. On the fourth reading I toy with the idea of just removing Michael and Misha altogether, so Malcolm won’t have anyone to talk to and light the spark that leads to Monique’s death. But then it would be necessary to create new roommates for both Monique and Malcolm, and who knows what they would end up doing to botch things up. On the fifth reading it seems so obvious— Malcolm just doesn’t say anything and that solves the problem. But Michael being so nosy, he probably will discover the truth anyway by reading Malcolm’s diary, so maybe not. I am getting desperate by the sixth reading. There must be a way to save Monique, if I can just find it— even nothing more than a strategically placed comma, causing her to pause long enough that the bullet misses. On the seventh reading there is a sudden whisper of tearing paper and I find page 342 crumpled in my hand, leaving a sentence dangling at the bottom of page 341 but with Monique still alive, endless possibilities awaiting her, and I close the book in satisfaction. I love happy endings.
I draw a map of the world, charcoal pencil casting off flecks of pumice from its volcanic passage across the blank white. One continent is all that is needed— no islands, no reason to set sail to see what can be seen, only to discover there is nothing to be discovered— no foreigners, no one to disagree with what is obviously right, no one who is not the same as I. Unity in singularity. Oneness in one. I step back and the paper rolls itself into a tube. Like an explorer, I pick it up and gaze through the long tunnel to see what lies on the horizon. There is a photograph of me on the wall, dressed up for an important event, alone with my smile.
Spencer Smith is a University of Utah graduate and works in the corporate world to pay the bills that poetry doesn’t pay (i.e., all of them). His poems have appeared in over forty literary journals, including RATTLE, Hawai’i Pacific Review, Main Street Rag, RHINO, and Roanoke Review.