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Mr. Moskowitz picked up a dirty, plastic flower and placed it back on his wife's coffin. An ineffable sadness hit him like a hammer, but the numbness held strong...like cheap vodka. The priest had already left and the diggers were starting to take her out of the coffin...he could only afford one to rent. He watched them as they put her in a cheap bag, right in front of his eyes, and hauled her off for medical testing - probably some pre-med kid's final exam.1

Tomorrow, Mr. Moskowitz turned forty-three. It would be another day: same alarm at 6:05 a.m., a cup of coffee with no sugar and a mud-flavored fiber bar, half an hour of drizzling traffic...no one cared in traffic. He would arrive at work, the papers' incessant screaming would make him cold and he might just wish someone would give him a birthday present, even if it was just a card or even a simple, "Happy Birthday." This of course would never happen and all the while the papers would taunt him in a wailing, sardonic chorus. 2

And so his birthday came...and went - just like that. 3

Later that Tuesday, his boss came down from the tenth floor to Mr. Moskowitz's cubicle at exactly 3:29 p.m.                                                                          "John, I need to have a word with you," he spoke in a dutiful drone.4

"Yes sir," Mr. Moskowitz replied with lead eyes, marble pupils.5

Mr. Moskowitz's boss proceeded to sit down, uninvited and helped himself to a chocolate from a coffee mug that Mr. Moskowitz's son had given to him the day he left for the Middle East. Mr. Moskowitz never ate it.6

"John, theres a problem in our company. According to these statistics we ran, we have a problem. The market hasn't been so swell these days...dammed war," he grumbled,"Anyways, John...the thing is we got too many people we're paying and no money to pay them."7

He had delivered this speech many times - this was apparent to Mr. Moskowitz. 8

"I see, sir," Mr. Moskowitz managed to form politeness in his words under any circumstances. 9

"Well, have your things packed up and gone by tomorrow evening...we'll arrange some options for you."10

"Thank you, sir."11

Mr. Moskowitz left the papers there, still snarling.12

The next morning, Wednesday, Mr. Moskowitz heard a knock at his door as he read the paper and drank coffee. Men in uniform - a feared image for all parents of soldiers. 13

"Mr. John Moskowitz?" one inquired.14

"Yes."15

"We have news about your son. Here are the papers...Good day."16

And with that they left Mr. Moskowitz standing short and alone on his front porch with a yellow folder, pale with a sickening message. 17

Mr. Moskowitz got dressed in his finest work clothes: Black slacks, black saddle-shoes, black socks fading to a more ashen colour, black triple-breasted blazer. He went down the usual route to his bus stop. On the way he noticed dried blood on the sidewalk. The sun hit it with enough hate to boil it back to its crimson cream. He approached a homeless man sitting on the decaying concrete - a decaying plea with a decaying tear. The next 14 hours were forgotten.18

Mr. Moskowitz woke up in a strange part of the city. His head pounded and he tasted blood in his mouth. The streets beckoned for him to come out of hiding. And so he stumbled out into the streets - the sky was a dark purple. The city was empty. Windows were shattered, roads were cracked, nothing moved but the wind. Up ahead Mr. Moskowitz heard laughter. Desperate to leave this place he walked nervously towards it and the laughter grew louder. He turned the corner and saw two young me probably in their early twenties. They stood over a cadaver shining bright in the dark city like a dead angel. As Mr. Moskowitz approached he made out who the body belonged to. Horror crept onto his face as he saw the young men laughing at the body. They were poking and prodding making explicit gestures and degrading his wife's dead body to no end. Then they began to cut. They cut out her eyes and carved two holes in her abdomen to place them in. They cut more off and made more jokes and cackling louder and wilder...Mr. Moskowitz ran.19

He ran fast and hard through the ghost streets until suddenly he heard gun shots off in the distance. He stopped and breathed hard with sweat pouring down his tired body. A gun sounded close to him and he ducked behind an old car, burning in the hot night. And as he sat there, scared beyond thought, he heard a groan next to him. He turned down to see his son laying there in a warm blanket of blood. His stomach was a pulp of tissue, cloth, and worms. He opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was a thick, black tar that oozed out his mouth and ears. Mr. Moskowitz vomited. 20

He started to lose his sight and he stumbled around the humid streets. He felt himself being suffocated by the sticky air. He looked down at the street in front of him. The buildings had all grown taller and closer. The road was paved with ants. Millions and millions of ants flowing on the road. Up ahead Mr. Moskowitz saw a light. He waded through the ants and saw a puddle growing in the ants. In that puddle he saw a rose growing and out of it grew a dove. It desperately tried to soar but was pulled back to the earth by gravity. The ants devoured it in seconds. 21

And so Mr. Moskowitz laid down. He felt them crawling and biting - in every inch of him. And as they forced their way into his mouth and his nose he gave in. His sight went and he stopped trying to fight it. 22

That is when it began to rain - pour. The ants fled into the cracks and holes. Mr. Moskowitz choked a few times, but found his breath and felt his mind return. He lay on the asphalt, alone in the rain. It rained cold green rain on his face and he realized it. He made it. He fought his fight and now he could sleep.23

And so Mr. Moskowitz slept. 24

They found him the next day - cold inside a church, sprawled at the foot of an apathetic cross. There was a smile on his placid face.25