Preparing myself two pieces of toasted bread, I quick wolfed them down, retrieved my purse, and scampered out of the apartment.

My legs lead me to the solemn parking lot, where cars-old and new-settled near the white curbs, letting the sun's rays sink through their polished trunks.

Speaking of the sun, the bright yellow token settled above the white wisps of clouds, where black V-shaped birds held out their wings, allowing the wind to carry them to their destination.

Watching them flutter by, I slid my hands into my jean pockets then hustled around striding people, texting their phones as if they don't have anything better to do.

In the meantime, my black purse-which hung on my right shoulder-swished back and forth like a pendulum swing.

Inside its leather cage, is my strawberry chapstick, a billfold of thirty dollars, my trusty iPod, an iPhone, three pieces of mint flavored chewing gum, a pack of cigarettes, a dark blue lighter, two paper towel rolls, one wrapped tampon, and lastly, Elle Jones' ash jar.

Despite the loud noise of swearing taxi drivers, angry horns, and chatting people, I can hear the glass jar rattling in my bag.

It was sudden and loud; almost like a kettle burning in a stove fire. As I continued pacing, the sound of rattling grew worse.

"Damn," I think, grumbling to myself.

Of all the hiding places in the world, cramming Elle's jar into my purse was the most fucked up idea I had ever had.

The more the jar shakes, the more guilty I become. Whenever I walk past people, I can picture their gaze burning through the back of my head.

Feeling paranoid, I thought about removing my sweater and cramming it into my purse, when an idea approached my noggin.

It made me think of Austin and me lounging in my bedroom, pondering over our shitty film ideas, and how are we going to create a story.

Films like Tormented Flowers, The Miseducation of Jenny Bradsten, and other nineteen works have been directed by Elle Jones and her loyal colleagues.

According to Google, Elle and her team made thirteen indie movies, five documentaries, and one drama film which dominated the entire movie industry since Titanic.

All of them were each given an Oscar or a Global Nominee for every film Elle Jones created. But the funny thing was, Elle, didn't accept her trophies; in fact, she denied every single award handed by her closest associates.

Although I had never met Elle, she was exceptionally beautiful; she has curly reddish-brown hair shimmering down to her sides, wide brown eyes, high cheekbones, and a light pink complexion.

Whenever she goes outside, Elle would wear a casual shirt, khaki capris shorts, and large brown sandals.

Other than her sense of fashion, I knew that Elle is obsessed with the color orange, her preferable season is autumn, and Elle's favorite movie is Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

Also, as Hollywood's biggest celebrity, Elle didn't have a husband or children. In fact, it was said in the New York Times that Elle's true love interest is her job.

While walking along the sidewalk, I pondered over whether Hollywood has decided to make a documentary film on the late director.

Although it has been yesterday since Elle's death, I tried to find her name through fresh newspapers or television outlets, but there had been no mention of Elle or her tight ass grandson, Warren Cole.

Instead, there were advertisements, upcoming movie trailers, and other boring shit.

Thinking about Elle Jones, I wanted to do some kind of tribute to my compassionate idol.

Something exciting and perilous, like visiting Disney World for the first time.

Squirming past distracted people, I pondered over this issue for an hour, until I felt the adrenaline rushed around my head, as painted images of vast green landscapes, furry animals, mouthwatering food, and stunning oceans appeared in front of my blue cat eyes, which became as big and bright as lightbulbs.

Once again, I thought about what Elle said in a 1987 interview. How she longed to swim in the Tasman Sea is what the synopsis of the film will be.

Elle wanted more than anything in the world to go to Australia, where memories blossomed inside her, like roots growing in a vegetable patch.

Looking inside my purse was Elle's brown jar, smothering small strips of my mint chewing gum. Although the jar was as big as a squirrels', the bag feels as if I emptied my items back at the apartment.

However, the dark, powdery ashes shook back and forth vibrantly, like bees in an active hive; altogether, they pounded, shoved, and attacked their glass prison.

But in spite of their futile strength, Elle's ashes didn't create one dent in the jar.

Poor Elle, I thought sadly.

Instead of breaking free, Elle is currently slithering inside the jar like a poisonous snake.

Reluctantly, I closed my handbag then felt compelled to return home when I notice Austin in a hostile sea of New Yorkers.

He had on a black t-shirt with bold, orange letters that says NACHO BUSINESS across his breasts; in the meantime, he wore long dark jeans and indigo blue sneakers.

As he walked down the sidewalk, the tall, awkward boy politely squeezed past the crowd, careful to avoid thieving hands slipping inside his pockets.

Austin came into the north direction, maneuvering around an old man in brown suspenders, a woman carrying her four-month-old baby, and a bored-looking businessman wearing nothing, but a brown suit, clean brown slacks, and matching shoes.

Just as he noticed me standing near a bricked wall, Austin gave me a shy smile then approached my direction. He walked nonchalantly, almost in a tired, yet positive way.

When he eventually made it to my location,  Austin gives me a quick hug, and waddled close to my heels, hoping that I can protect him from the skeptical swarm of New Yorkers.

The sound of our brisk footsteps syncs in tune, as we walked straight ahead to our unknown destination. In the meantime, the steady, morning breeze caused my hair to do a little wave over the back of my t-shirt. 

My hands distanced from Austin's, as my feline blue pupils trained on my solemn friend, whose dark eyes were trained on the litter-coated floor.

"What's with the face?" I ask, studying him for a moment. "Are you having a stroke?"

"No," Austin grumbled. "I just got fired today."

"What?" I said in surprise.

He nods mutely, not looking in my way.

How could that be? Austin stays focus, obeys every rule in the book, and he does his work.

Clenching my fists, I growled, "Austin, who is this dick and what's his home address?"

Austin, who did a polite maneuver around a carefree gay couple, frowned at me.

"Don't worry about it," he reassured, walking ahead of me. "I am going to be fine."

Disgruntled, I jostled my feet to keep up with my depressed co-worker.

"So what the fuck happened at your job?" I asked, wearing a stunned look.

"I had to clean someone's piss in the boys' bathroom floor," Austin grunted.

"Aw gross," I moan.

Nodding in response, he asks if I could spare him a cigarette.

Reaching into my purse, I handed it to Austin, who retrieved his silver lighter from his left pocket, pull the lever, then allowed the flame to touch the tip of the stick's butt.

After sliding the trinket back into his pocket, Austin takes the cigarette from his mouth, then puffed a cloud of smoke into the gritty air.

"Thanks," he grunted, sighing.

"No problem," I say impatiently. "so, why did you get fired?"

"I don't know how it happened, " he began, puffing a cloud of smoke. "I went to work on time, I performed very well as a cashier, but apparently, my dickhead of a boss thought I was a slacker or something, so I got the boot."

"Why?"

"Because he is a dick," stated Austin as a matter of fact. "My boss is having problems promoting that stupid restaurant because the kids hate it there."

"Well, you can find another job," I advised. "Do something you love. What about filmmaking or making models out of clay? You're good at that stuff."

"I want to, " he sighed, taking in a stream of gray vapor. "but my moms aren't going to give me a penny until I do something that is 'beneficial to the community'."

"Damn, " I muttered, watching my nimble boots move along the sidewalk. "Well, we will think of something."

As we passed a dozen thrift stores, Austin sucks in his cigarette, then angrily blew out the fumes in the opposite direction. 

"Really? Like what?" he snorted. "It's a good thing my boss fired me. Because after I clean the boys' urinal stalls, he is forcing me to wear this humiliating Wacky Waldo the Walrus outfit to entertain some ungrateful birthday girl."

I stare at him in amazement.

"Wacky Waldo the Walrus?" I repeated.

"Yeah." Austin nodded solemnly. 

He noticed a metal trash can sitting in front of an empty Mexican restaurant, then tossed his cigarette in the bin.

"They couldn't pick a cooler nickname?" I ask, cringing. 

"Apparently not," he grunted, strolling past a young businesswoman.

Absentmindedly avoiding the fresh pigeon stains on the concrete, I say to Austin: "Ha, Wacky Waldo the Walrus. You know, I dare you to say it three times fast."

He gave me a foul look.

"No really, " I laughed. "Say Wacky Waldo the Walrus three times fast."

"No thank you," he groaned. "That shitty mascot keeps giving me nightmares. So, what's going on with you?"

I smiled ecstatically.

"I have an idea for our new film," I say excitedly.

Austin raised both of his astonished eyebrows. "Really? What's the title?"

"Well, I haven't come up with it yet, " I admitted. "but I think I know what we should do."

"Really?" he asks. "Like what?"

"I think we need to keep Elle's ashes a little bit longer."

Austin gaped at me in astonishment.

"You want to keep the ashes?" he implied. "Last night, you and I had made a deal that we were going to come clean."

I bite my bottom lip.

"I know, " I grunted. "but what is Warren going to do with his grandmother's ashes?"

"Dump it in some recently built well? Make a display case for a thirty grand memorial?"

Austin rolled his eyes in pure disgust.

"Warren is a piece of shit, I admit, " he agreed, "but we can't wave Elle Jones' ash jar around like it's the American flag! We need to give it to the police!"

"I know, " I grinned. "That's why we are going to Australia."

"Australia?" Austin wrinkled his nose. "Why are we going to Australia?"

"So we can film our new movie, Severed Ties," I answer. "Cool name, right?"

"It's not bad, " he began "but, you do you really want us to skip school, lie to our parents, avoid the cops, and go to Australia?"

I nodded. "I'll print a map of it from the library. Then we will plan our movie, spread Elle's ashes across the Tasman Sea, and then we will go home."

Austin gives me a funny look.

"What's wrong, Austin?" I ask.

"What's wrong?" Austin repeated. "I have schoolwork, and two loving moms who would go apeshit if I decide to throw away my education."

"Then let's take our homework with us, " I pleaded. "We can do it all the way in Australia."

"Fuck no."

"Come on, it will be fun! What can go wrong?"

"What could go wrong?" Austin repeated, chuckling bitterly. "That question is like a hurricane of bad shit waiting to happen."

I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

Of all the annoying things in the world, Austin's superstitious beliefs are the worst; he avoids dumb things, like cracked pavements, smashed mirrors, and going underneath ladders.

Whenever he knocks over a salt shaker, Austin would sprinkle salt on his left hand, then toss it over his shoulder. Other than despising black cats, Austin hates anything that involves the number four, and spiders.

Cringing at the loud sirens of angry cars, I glanced in Austin's direction then asked: "What was the first thing Mr. Keswick had taught us when we were kids?"

He pondered for a brief moment.

"Critics are a movie's worse enemy?" guessed an unsure Austin. 

Strolling over the thick concrete cracks,  I replied, "that is true, but that's not what I am thinking."

Austin scrunched his eyebrows at me.

He wanted to answer the question, but he wasn't very good with guesses. Once again, Austin pondered over the subject until he shrugs his shoulders in defeat.

"Something about expired milk?" he guessed sheepishly.

I let out an annoyed groan.

"Do you ever pay attention in class?" I grunted. "Mr. Keswick says, 'Be resourceful, don't be a pussy, and take risks'."

Austin snorted, sliding his hands into his pockets. "and you think going to Australia is a big risk?"

I nod.

"Jack, I know Elle is your favorite director, " he begins to say. "but we can't just drop everything and go to Australia."

I gave him a demeaning stare.

"Why not?" I ask. "Tom Cruise does it all the time with his friends."

"So?"

"So, should we," I responded with a delighted grin. "Come on, Austin. Relax a little, smoke a cigarette, drink booze, get laid! what's the worse that can happen?"