Homs, Syria by J.D. Ferguson

Abu walked to the wooden box lying on its side. was painted on the top in red. He kicked it and looked up.

“Ahmad, there's something over here,” Abu said.

Ahmad walked slowly to the box and kicked it.

“Fell from the sky? Let's get it inside before someone else sees it,” he said, bending down to get a better look.

The two boys pushed the box to the recently abandoned apartment complex in which they were living.

“How should we open it?” Abu asked.

“Should we even open it?” Ahmad said, knocking on the box. “It could be a trap, a bomb or something.”

“Fuck it, it says it's for us. For me.”

“It says 'For You,' we don't know who that is.”

“Fuck it, open it.”

“With what?” Ahmad asked.

“A crowbar, or we could smash it. Just smash it. Kick the fuck out of it.”

“It looks strong,” Ahmad said, giving the box a few swift kicks.

“I don't want to scuff my Jordans, you do it.”

Abu sighed and sat on the box.

“I don't want to scuff mine either. I wish we could film this,” Abu said.

“For what?”

“To be on CNN. People are filming the government shooting at us and shit. CNN is showing the world what is happening, they are showing the world how horrible our lives are.”

“We don't care about that though, Abu. We both have new shoes, and this whole apartment complex to live in. No one is shooting at us anymore. Our families are dead and I'm happy. Our mom was a cunt.”

“She really was. I'm glad she's dead. But I want to film this: us opening this box. CNN would put it on the news and it would be awesome. We would be famous on YouTube. Politicians would bring up our story when they argue whether or not to give us guns.”

“I don't want guns,” said Ahmad.

“I don't want guns either. I want an iPhone with a 3G connection. I want to film us opening this box. I want a MacBook so we can edit the video. I want to watch Downton Abbey while I wait for it to render. I want to have a Tumblr and have a lot of followers who'll reblog our video. I want to be famous on the internet and have people think they're connected to me in some way by commenting on my work.”

“That seems pointless in our situation. We don't have any food. We just have these shoes and a bitchin' place to live.”

“There's more to life than food, Ahmad. There is fame to be had and fortune to be made. We could fill these rooms with movie posters and have cool animals walking around. We could smoke expensive cigarettes and weed and drink coffee even though we have nothing to do that requires being alert. Fuck, I want an iPhone so badly.”

As soon as Abu finished speaking, one of the sides of the box fell open. A man in a black turtleneck crawled out of the box.

“Hello Abu and Ahmad. I am Steve Jobs.”

“Holy fuck, Steve Jobs. We thought you were dead,” Abu said, wrapping his arms around Steve Jobs.

“I know, everyone did. But I'm not! I've been going to each tragedy ridden country in the Middle East and handing out iPhones so people can record what is happening.”

“That is so brave of you, Steve Jobs,” Abu said.

“Thank you, Abu.”

“Do you have any food?” Ahmad asked.

“No, unfortunately, I don't. I do, however, have two brand new iPhones for you gentlemen. I want you to take them and show the world what is happening here. I want you to tweet and create Facebook groups. I want people to be part of your cause. I want them to share your stories and 'Like' them, and talk about them in their sociology classes. I want you to make people feel good about telling other people about your story and that they are so sorry and lucky to be living where they are living.”

“I feel like you're spoon feeding us some pretty obvious satire, Mr. Jobs,” Ahmad said. “This is like an episode of Family Guy or something. You can't be serious. I'm hungry. We can die out here. Our mother died. ”

“She was a cunt, Ahmad,” said Steve Jobs.

“She really was,” said Abu.

“Oh, and I almost forgot,” said Steve Jobs as he looked back into the box. “Here is a porcelain plate that Barack Obama wanted me to give you.”

Abu quickly grabbed the plate out of Steve Job's hand.

Abu read the inscription on the plate: “Commemorating the election of Barack Obama. 2012. Change has come. Again.

“Thank you, Mr. Jobs,” Abu said.

“No thanks are needed, boys. I should be the one thanking you.”

“Why is that?” asked Ahmad.

Steve Jobs winked at them and began walking out of the room.

“Oh, and boys,” said Steve Jobs. “Nice shoes.”

J.D. Ferguson blogs at caliperwake.com and tumbles at caliperwake.tumblr.com. He is desperate for Twitter followers @justdferguson.