The FFFFFFUUUURRRRRTTTTHHHHERRRRR Journals of Ramon Atila

 Egypt Kid Hari Potet was a homeless Egyptian kid from the block in Cairo. Every day he lay in an abandoned busted open room working on his tablet. Everyone on the block knew him as the homeless kid that wanted to be famous. The construction workers every day would tell him ‘Come work with us, Hari Potet. We pay three pesos a day. You can get a room and eat. And be a real man.’ No thank you, he would tell them. ‘You’ll see. When I’m finished my tablet Ima be huge. The next Amotemopep.’  ‘We all KNOW your story!,’ they yelled, weary-eyed and deranged. ‘Come work and make a real living.’ ‘Not everyone in Cairo knows my story,’ he said, embarrassed but stubbornly. The wise woman from the block would cry and bring him Tacos every day. Some threatened to tell the pharaoh on her and cutoff her welfare checks. Yeruet the street paver once lost his mind. He couldn’t stand the thought of going to work every day while Hari Potet lay around every day entertaining people for scraps. He ha...

 Infinite Ramon Atila was an old man at the end of his life. He lay in bed surrounded by his family, a gentle hand caressing his arm. He slowly fell asleep, quiet tears were shed and the doctor pronounced him dead. His family hugged each other tightly. ‘He’s in a better place.’ When Ramon died he had no memories. He had no worries. All went black. He slipped away. Peaceful calm for what seemed like centuries. Until a cold, hard cement floor absorbed his body. He trampled over himself, banged his head. His jeans, his boots lay before him. A sight he hadn’t seen in a long time. Something else he hadn’t had in a long time. Thoughts? ‘Huh?’  His voice echoed into the darkness. He felt his hands shake. He felt some fear, but it quickly dissipated. Onto his hands and on his feet he propped himself upward. His reflection in a glass mirror looked back at him startled.  ‘What?!’ He moved into the mirror. ‘Shaved head.’ He stroked his beard. ‘Black hair.’ ‘Am I 23? 35?’’ He smiled....