Nameless

I have been many people before. John Hodgins. Trent Gerry. Harry Renquist. The list goes on. I have been none of them for long, shedding them their shrouds as quickly as I don them. I die and am reborn on a regular basis. This is not the life for any sane person, but alas, it is out of necessity that remain a chameleon. There are people who want me dead and I would just as soon not oblige them. So I change identities often, move from city to city, meet new people, never making friends, picking up the odd job to keep food in my stomach and clothes on my back. Maybe one day I can stop being a nomad, but it will not come until they are dead. Or I am.

Fever

The digital thermometer beeped three times and I looked at the readout. 99.7 it said. It felt like 120. World War Three was waging inside my skull. I could feel gunpowder scorching me. I popped two Tylenol and went to sleep, hoping it would dissipate by morning. I grab the box of tissues and gave one last good blow, popped a menthol cough drop and closed my eyes. If my throat wasn't so sore, I'd moan.

The Midnight Route

For anyone else, the assignment was a chore, something to be avoided at all costs. They traded it away, paid people to take it. But Phil liked the graveyard shift. He liked the quiet. He liked driving the bus at night when no one else was on the street. In the solitude, the city belonged to him and his hulking bus. There were hardly ever any fares and that was fine with him. He felt sorry for the drivers that get the day shifts. They had rush hour to deal with. They had obnoxious drivers that cut you off, double-parked cars to maneuver around, the smell of a crowded bus of people, depressed and angry riders. Night time was perfect. It was just him, the bus, and the stars up above.