I don't expect many (if anyone) to read this, but if you've got 10 minutes to spare, I'd love to get some feedback.


Dots

Jimmy’s Cafe stinks of grease and sweat. John flips a sizzling burger patty while thick clouds of ascending white steam cause salty beads of condensation to form on his forehead and drip down his face.
“C’mon, Mike, would you take over, here? I was supposed to knock off five minutes ago!” he shouts.
“Hey, I’m with customers, here!”
“God...dammit I hate this job!” he mutters, turning back to burger flipping.
Forty-two minutes later, John crashes out of the back door and into the poorly lit parking lot behind Jimmy’s. Here sits John’s rusty Volvo, beaten down from over twenty-two years of hand-me-down usage. He pulls the faux-metal handle, opens the door, sits down in the driver’s seat, and shuts the door with a chunk. He never bothered to lock it, after all, who in their right mind would steal such a pile of crap? He sits silently for a moment, staring out the windshield…thinking. Then, with a sigh, he inserts a key (that shares a key ring with only one other key) into the ignition, turns it, and the car roars to life with a cacophony of unnatural sounds. He shifts into reverse, pulls out of the parking lot, and drives away into the diluted darkness of the city night.
It takes John eighteen minutes to drive from Jimmy’s to his apartment complex, however, it always takes him twenty-one to reach Jimmy’s from this point; John never could figure out why. He pulls into his regular parking space (D78) and shuts off the Volvo. The intense post-engine silence immerses him. Everyday he experiences it at this exact moment in this exact place, but for some reason, he still always half-believes a serial killer is waiting in the backseat, ready to sink some kind of sharp object into his body and send him to meet his maker. Boy, would John ever like to have a word this maker guy. Anxious to relieve the tension, John exits the Volvo and slams the door closed behind him; the chunk echoes. But the tension is not broken, for, if anything, this murderous silence is only intensified in the bizarre atmosphere of the parking garage. It is 10:42 PM on a Tuesday, and no other person should be in the garage with John, yet he still gets that indefinable feeling that someone else is there with him. He steadily walks toward the elevator, hearing echoes with seemingly no source bounce around him. It’s almost as if the garage has a heavy population of lost spirits. John tries to put this out of his mind and reaches the elevator. He pushes the button marked ^. He waits, still fearing the phantom killer. The elevator doors slide open and he steps inside. He presses the button that will take him to the seventh floor. The doors slide closed, and once again he is drenched in silence. He knows no one else could be in this 5’x5’ box with him, but still…
He reaches the seventh floor and walks down the hallway. The silence is finally dead; John is comforted by the unseen strangers in the apartment rooms behind the hallway walls. He reaches apartment 772 and slides the other key into the lock. He turns it, opens the door, turns it back, pulls it out, and closes the door behind him. He flicks the light switch, and his apartment is instantaneously illuminated. It’s a modest place; a bathroom, a bed, a small kitchen, and a TV with cable. John searches the floor beneath his mail-slot for “Letters or bills,” he thinks, “I’ll take anything.” To his surprise, there is a crisp white envelope waiting for him. He reaches down and picks it up. He’s worried it’s just another letter delivered to the wrong apartment by mistake. It is addressed to him; not a mistake! He checks the return address to find that it is from Wilmer, an old friend from college who went into some type of government or military job, the details were always hazy. John smiles and is overcome by happiness due to this seemingly small piece of joy, but if it is the only piece of joy one’s received in several weeks, it’s more than enough to make one happy. He strips off his shoes, sits at a desk, and contently tears open the envelope. He removes a one-page letter and begins reading.
Four minutes later, he’s done. It was your average “catching up” letter, nothing special. Still, John is satisfied just to have received anything, let alone a friendly letter. He sits at the foot of the double bed and turns on the television. He flips through the stations. Nature program. Infomercial. Die Hard. Sitcom. Sitcom. Infomercial. Sitcom. Infomercial. Infomercial. Infomercial. John loves Die Hard, but he already watched it the last twelve times it was on. Still, he switches back to it for background noise. He moves back to the desk and slouches into the chair. He sighs heavily. He spots a black Sharpie marker and takes it into his hands. He fiddles with it for a moment, and then begins to use it to fill in all of the O’s in Wilmer’s letter.
“Who said we were terrorists?” says Hans Gruber in Die Hard.
John loses track of time.
“Welcome to the party, pal,” says John McClane in Die Hard.
John sets down his Sharpie and stares at the dotted letter. He is taken slightly aback by what seemed like an unusually large amount of O’s. He briefly stares into the nothingness of his apartment. He sets his gaze back to the letter. He fiddles with the paper for a moment, flipping it over and examining it. He admires the strange beauty of the enigmatic pattern of dots, which bled through the paper. He sets the letter down and picks up the Sharpie. He begins connecting the dots, from top to bottom.
John loses track of time again.
When he snaps back into reality, he realizes he has connected all of the dots on the page. He leans back in his chair. He admires the interweaving lines and marvels at how something so complex can be so meaningless. He stares at it. Some gunshots ring out from the television. Something clicks in his mind. Suddenly, the patterns don’t seem to be so meaningless. He sits up in his chair and leans in closer. He examines with intense curiosity for a moment, and then quickly pulls open a drawer in the desk. He shuffles through the papers and pens for a moment and finally pulls out an atlas. He flips through it until he finds the overview of his city. He sets the open page next to the overturned letter and compares the two. His eyes widen and a grin that is filled equally with satisfaction and curious excitement crosses his face. His suspicions are confirmed: the interweaving lines of the letter actually form a route through the city. He looks up at the wall in disbelief. He releases a suppressed half-breath full of shock and childish glee. He sits in his chair for a moment, thinking. His insides are ready to burst out through his throat. He tries to be sensible and decide whether or not to attempt to follow this map, but he already knows he’s going to; after all, he doesn’t have anything better to do. If it turns out to be nothing, he can afford to miss a day of work, and if Jimmy does decide to fire him, screw it, nothing could be worse than working at that filthy grease trap anyway.
John glances over at the digital alarm clock next to his bed: 12:02, it reads in faded red digits. His heart sinks for a moment when he realizes it’s too late to set out on this newfound journey tonight, but then he discovers how tired and beaten he feels, and he rejoices at the idea of sleep. John brushes his teeth, washes his face, urinates, washes his hands, turns off the lights, and climbs into bed. The warm covers and soft sheets comfort his aching body. He does not set the alarm clock.

John’s eyelids slowly peel back, letting in the cool white light of morning. He stares at the blank ceiling for a moment, allowing his brain to kick back into functioning. He turns his head to his left, resting his cheek on his pillow, so he can see the alarm clock. 11:42, it reads. He cracks a relieved and self-satisfied smile. He hasn’t slept this late in ages. He sits up and remembers his quest. A wave of excitement splashes over him and he sits for a moment, drenched in it. He then gets out of bed, urinates, showers, brushes his teeth, washes his face, and dresses. He puts on his shoes, walks over to his desk, retrieves the atlas and the letter from Wilmer, grabs his key ring, and opens his door to leave. He looks at his apartment for a moment, then goes into the hallway and shuts the door. He locks it.
He reaches parking space D78, climbs into his Volvo, and slams the door closed with a familiar chunk. He starts the engine and drives down to the ground level, where he pauses to examine the atlas and letter. After about a minute and a half, he drives off to begin his journey.

John has been driving around the city all day, attempting to follow the somewhat unclear directions. He finally reaches where he believes the destination to be. He drives into the small airport on the outskirts of the city. He parks the Volvo, turns it off, and exits it. He glances around the small landing strips and sees various planes taking off and landing against the backdrop of a radiant orange sunset, leaving thunderous vacuums of air in their paths. He is surprised at how relaxed the security is. After a moment, a lean, muscular man who appears to work for the airport runs up to John.
“Are you John Curi?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s about time! We’ve been waiting for you all day!”
“You’ve been what?”
“C’mon, your plane is ready.”
“What are you talking about?!”
“Well are you coming or not?”
John doesn’t have time to think. He is not concerned with his life right now, only the mysterious journey at hand. He follows the man and boards a small private plane. It’s nothing fancy: eight seats (four sets of two connected seats), a cockpit, a small refrigerator, and a large sliding door in the rear (which John and his guide just entered through). The engines are already running. John sits down and the man closes the door and sits in the seat adjacent to him. The man extends his hand.
“I’m Jake.”
John shakes his hand. Jake’s grip is firm and steady. They release their grasps.
“Now I’ve been instructed to take you to a certain point on a small island about an hour from here.”
“Instructed by whom?”
“I received an anonymous letter accompanied by twenty-five thousand dollars…in cash”
Things we’re beginning to make sense, yet at the same time, they weren’t at all. John decided to just wrestle with these new developments in his mind instead of asking more questions.

The plane has been droning over the ocean for about fifty-one minutes and the sky has somehow become blue again. Impeccably fluffy white clouds dot the horizon. Jake breaks John’s thoughts.
“Alright, here’s where you get off.”
He throws a parachute into John’s lap.
“Um…what?”
“Look, strap it on and I’ll explain.”
John apprehensively complies. Jake pulls him out of his seat and slides open the door, filling the cabin with an overpowering rush of air.
“Alright, I’m sure you’ve heard the drill; jump out, pull the cord, drift to the ground, roll, don’t plant your feet.”
“Wait, what?!”
“You heard me. Happy trails!”
Jake pushes John out of the door, sending him tumbling through the sky. John’s vision is of sporadic whooshes of blue, clouds, and, occasionally, a flash of the plane, which is constantly growing more and more distant. John sees the green of land rapidly approaching, and frantically searches for the parachute’s cord. He flails his arms, trying to locate it, and finally latches onto it with his right hand and gives it a firm tug. With a thick whoosh, his parachute flies into action, and his fall is instantly reduced to a gentle glide. He watches the ground grow ever closer for about thirty-two nerve-racking seconds before he bends his knees and rolls across the grass. A sharp flinch of pain shoots up his right knee for less than a split second, and John’s cream parachute closes on top of him. He lies silent for a moment, and then struggles out of the parachute. He unhooks the backpack and stands relieved. He studies his surroundings. The air is thick, humid, and replete with the low humming and buzzing of insect life. The Earth is a lush green hue and he is surrounded with a rich variety of tropical growth. He notices a path leading ahead of him and he cautiously begins to walk down it. He gradually becomes aware of a slowly building pain in his right knee. He is determined to keep walking. He follows the path through various twists and turns for twelve minutes. A distant majestic mountain range comes into view; its peaks obscured by clouds. Even though he is preoccupied with following the path, John is still struck by its awe-inspiring beauty. The path finally comes to an end at a small wooden structure set in a clearing: a small building first, possibly an entryway, and then a connected larger structure. He curiously stares at it, wondering what awaits him inside. He hears no signs of activity. He approaches slowly and cautiously. He reaches the front door, which is slightly ajar, and pushes it inward. It creaks open.
And there he is. Right in front of him. Hanging by the wrists, severely beaten. He looks to be in agonizing pain.
“Wilmer?”
Wilmer attempts to look at John, but his eyes are so swelled with blood-filled bruises that his vision is obstructed. However, he still manages to catch a brief glimpse of him. Wilmer lets out a desperate breath and attempts to smile, but his swollen face will not allow it. He tries to speak: “J…J…Joh…”
Suddenly, a door in the back of the room bursts open and a man with a pistol walks out.
“What the hell is going on out here?!”
He notices John.
“Who the hell are you?!”
John stands in disbelief. The man aims the gun at John and squeezes off a shot. The bullet enters through his forehead and exits through the back of his head. John is forcefully thrown to the floor. An intense yet minute ringing ensues. He lays paralyzed, watching three streaks of his own blood drip down the door. Things go blurry. For some odd reason, “Sunday Morning” by The Velvet Underground pops into his head. He is flooded with nostalgic memories of his childhood.
“I told you you would regret it if you tried to get help!” shouts the gun-bearing thug.
John is powerless to do anything to stop him. He hears two quick pops accompanied by brief concentrated flashes of white light.
Sunday morning…praise the dawning…it’s just a restless feeling by my side…
Things begin to go dark. John’s eyelids become like lead, and he is overpowered by a euphoric sense of fatigue and restfulness.
He closes his eyes.
Early dawning…Sunday morning…it’s just the wasted years so close behind…
Things are blacker than they’ve ever been.
Watch out, the world’s behind you…there’s always someone around you who will call…it’s nothing at all…
There’s a phantom light coming from somewhere.
Sunday morning…and I’m falling…
Everything slips away.
I’ve got a feeling I don’t want to know…
One last thought runs through John’s mind: “I guess it’s time to have that word, Lord. Here I come…”

Uh, I gave up at the point when he gets to the airport.