Catalyst

Excerpt 1 – Untitled

There was a dead bird lying in a certain parking lot of a certain fast food restaurant on a certain chilly Sunday morning. The carcass was against the owner’s office building just lying there on the ground. Kaji stopped for a second to make sure it was dead before he swept up the evidence. Evidence of what, you may ask? Hypothermia, probably. But that doesn’t matter.

His name doesn’t even matter—it’s only a pseudonym; it’s not real. But humor the idiot—call him Kaji. The bird’s eyes were slightly open and its beak was shut. Its wings clung tightly to its sides, chest feather ruffled but undisturbed. A sparrow, he thought. His broom pushed the befeathered debris into the catcher as he moved on, trying hard not to look at the sparrow’s corpse, covering it over with torn receipts and cigarette butts. But this isn’t what this is about. This is only a part of the whole; just a part of something bigger, like everything else. Random and meaningless.

Every Sunday morning at a certain time in a certain restaurant’s certain parking lot located in a certain city—a nameless city; though I’ll give you a hint: it’s the same name as a certain bean; Kaji calls it Bakedtown—sweeping the parking lot. Not a glorious job to be sure, but necessary. And he does this each and every Sunday morning, like clockwork Actually more like schedule. But he does this every Sunday morning. Sweeping up pop cans. Sweeping up drink lids and straws. Tossed food. Torn receipts. Cigarette butts. Dead birds.

He thinks to himself, “If I got a nickel for every cigarette butt I’ve picked up, I’d have a helluva lotta nickels.” But of course, this thought is nothing new either. He thinks this same thing. Every Sunday morning. Like schedule.

While Kaji walked on along that other side, a fat, purple tinted pigeon—flying rats—alighted and flew off. And suddenly from far away a sound was carried aloft on the wind—although it is more to carry the wind than the wind to carry it—a sound very familiar to him. A peregrine falcon.

Here in this city without a name—this city you can call “Bakedtown” that isn’t Boston, the peregrine population has verily been booming. That’s good since they help cut down on the population of flying rats. But this isn’t about the bane of modern architecture; the winged Horsemen of aesthetic society’s literal and figurative Apocalypse; pigeons have nothing to do with this story. This isn’t Hitchcock worship time here, okay? Kaji doesn’t even really like birds that much anyway.

Just then, as if summoned by the scent of brimstone and fried chicken, four flying rats burst from the depths of Hell and out of the trash room. Where the hell is that falcon when you need it? Or a Molotov cocktail.

So, I’m sure you’re curious to know just what on Earth this randomly meandering and uselessly rambling story is about. To tell you the truth, even I haven’t a clue. But if you feel brave enough to continue, toss away your sense and forget about your sanity, and please, keep reading. Just remember: you’ve been warned.

On the outskirts of Bakedtown there lives a young woman named Misaki. But her name doesn’t matter—it’s not real; it’s only a pseudonym. But humor our idiot-friend Kaji—call her Misaki. Now, you may be wondering why I would suddenly cut from introducing a new character to busting into one of these useless tirades, but I’m just here now to clear up any possible misconceptions. Reading this now, here, you may think that I’m some angsty young adult (read: kid) trying to emulate Chuck Palahniuk, or rather, his style of writing. But c’mon. If I could actually do that, would I still be sitting behind this black desk surrounded by piles of Japanese manga, medieval fantasy novels, writing and drawing utensils, and a box of pink marshmallow Peeps©? Probably. Besides, I’ve got some copies of Palahniuk work perpetually in front of me. Behind the manga. Underneath the fantasy novels and PRISMA colored pencils. The Peeps© are for Misaki.

This girl this young woman is what one in the biz would call the “love interest.” Her stats are: brunette, hazel eyes, slight—of height and form both, to tell with grand truth—kind, otaku, complex. Likes: Kaji, anime, manga, cats. Dislikes: stupid people, annoying dogs, American cartoons. Quirks: can be too complex (and therefore a thing of torturous rapture for our dear idiot-friend Kaji) for her own good; her love of things cute and fuzzy rivals on that of a one Miss Sakaki; considers Kaji’s mysterious ability to meow like a cat to be extremely, “not fair.”

And it was about now that Kaji smiled to himself, tapping his broom to the back of his catcher, dirt-covered pop cans and discarded food falling into the waste dumpster, meandered with torn receipts, dead birds and cigarette butts.