in this world

by nick nelson

a man was walking his dog down the street. he was a strange man, with a dark, brooding soul. the dog’s name was justin. the man’s name was henry - henry bartholomew morgan. he came from a long line of dark, strange, brooding men. henry was thinking of aurelia, a strange, pixieish girl with the soul of a butterfly who had spurned his advances off the coast of spain. justin was a good dog. the street was filled with tall, faceless buildings. it began to get dark. another man approached henry and justin. he was a nasty little fellow named arthur smith - a common enough name. in the encroaching darkness, it was difficult for henry morgan and arthur smith to see each other’s faces clearly. as arthur smith drew near henry, he asked - is that your dog? henry was so astonished by arthur’s unwarranted impertinence that he simply answered - yes, of course, why would i be walking somebody else’s dog? why would you not be? arthur retorted with a sneer. look here, fellow, henry, regaining his usual composure, replied. is this how you spend your days - walking up to people and asking them if their dogs belong to them? so you are afraid to answer my question, eh? arthur said. i thought as much. you people are all alike. you talk a good game, but when the chips are down you head for the exits. justin was sniffing arthur’s pant leg, and henry gave a gentle tug on his leash. you people? henry asked. what kind of people might that be? the kind of people who think they own the earth. i wouldn’t say i exactly owned the earth, henry expostulated mildly. no, just that little part of it that your grandfather left you. why, that is exactly right, said henry. how did you guess? i’ve had enough! arthur suddenly shouted. he pulled a gun out of his coat pocket and shot henry, killing him instantly. the shot echoed down the street. justin started barking furiously. arthur ran down the street. i have done it again , he thought. i have to stop doing things like this. i have to learn to control my tmpoer. henry was the fifth person arthur had shot and killed in three weeks. he had wounded two others, and threatened many more. arthur hurried through the darkening streets, slowing his pace as he approached his own building. he took the stairs to his lonely room, and threw himself on his little unmade bed. what a terrible life i lead, was his last thought before he drifted off to sleep. he had strange dreams, and in the morning he was awakened by an authoritative knocking on his door. when arthur opened the door he was confronted by a man in a brown suit, with a neatly trimmed mustache. i am detective jones of the special squad, said the man in the brown suit. you are under arrest for the murder of walter matheson, on the twenty-seventh of july. it has been a long hot month, arthur replied, but he went quietly. a crowd had gathered outside the building. that’s him! a voice shouted. there he is! cried another he doesn’t deserve a trial! a third voice bellowed.. of course i deserve a trial, the handcuffed arthur thought, as he was placed in the back seat of the waiting police car. i only want what is rightfully mine. * later that morning, in an apartment in the building across from arthur’s, a man named paul phillips was doing the crossword puzzle when his wife, judith, woke up, poured herself a glass of pomegranate juice, and joined him at their little kitchen table. tomorrow is election day, judith said. they say it is going to be a close one. you know i don’t take any interest in politics, paul told her. there was some sort of commotion out in the street this morning, said judith. you were asleep. there is always some sort of commotion in this world, paul replied.