Overheard

"That guy was a tall motherfucker."

"Now, that's just a stereotype. Not all of us tall guys do that sort of thing. First of all, it was my sister. Secondly, it was just the tip."

Making Friends

Caleb was deep in thought; had been for minutes now. Then his eyes lit up like he had an epiphany. I imagined a light bulb illuminating above his head.

"I think I need a black friend," he said to me, as if he had come to a weighty conclusion after much deliberation. He might as well have declared that he needed to move more of his investments into bonds or that he needed a new toaster. He said it calmly, seemingly after much deliberation.

"Why?" I said, because I couldn't think of a better response.

"I was just thinking. I have you and you're Asian, well Chinese to be exact."

I nodded. No argument there.

"There's Sarah, who's Jewish. Then there's Jorge--"

"Jorge's your landscaper."

"We go out for a beer once in a while," he said, which apparently made them good friends. "The fact is, I have no black friends. Why is that?"

"Because you live in New Hampshire. You're lucky you have me as a friend. You're ahead of the curve."

"I'm just not trying hard enough. Diversity. That's where it's at. I need a black friend."

He seemed resolute in this statement.

"So you have an affirmative action friend-making system now?"

"Sure, why not?"

"You're one crazy cracker."

Cat Skinning and Other Hobbies

Joe had spent nearly an hour digging at the cold hard ground with his hoe in a doomed attempt to remove the tree stump. He was drenched in sweat and tired and sore, but all he had managed to accomplish was clear the soil around the foot wide trunk.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and threw the hoe down onto the lawn.

"You gonna give me a hand or what?" he asked Ben, who laughed.

"Who, me? No way." He swatted away some dirt that had clung onto his shirt from Joe's last swing.

Joe grunted and picked up a pickaxe and swung it at the stump near it's base. He wedged it under a large root and using a rock as leverage, tried to wedge the trunk loose a bit more. But it was useless. Futile.

"Well, there's more than one way to skin a cat," he said as he threw the pickax into the large pile of garden tools, none of which have had any success.

"What cat?" asked Ben.

"Huh?" Joe started walking to the shed. Ben followed.

"What cat are you skinning? You making a hat? A scarf?"

"You realize you're an idiot right?"

"Seriously, that must be one of the most nonsensical sayings around. I mean, on any given day, what person would be faced with not only the task of skinning a cat, but also the conundrum of finding alternates methods for it."

"Mmhmm." He was used to Ben's ranting and was already rummaging through the shed for current problem. Meanwhile, Ben continued his tirade against idioms in the English language outside on the grass.

"I mean, why not 'There's more than one way to murder a hobo'? Or, milk a spider monkey? Or--"

He was interrupted by the loud revving sound that was emitting from the chainsaw Joe brought out of the shed.

"You keep thinking about that while I take care of this stump."

Creation

It was the last gift in the pile, small and wrapped neatly in brown paper with a neat bow made of twine. Chelsea's mother handed it to her.

"It's from Grandpa Gary."

Chelsea had opened many great gifts before this: a bike, her very first computer, tickets to the taping of her favorite show on Disney. There was little chance that this small modestly packaged present could top anything that came before it.

She pulled apart the packaging to find a small box inside. Opening that, she found the strangest gift that she had ever received in her nine years. It was a red crayon, under which was a small card that said, "Use with care. It will open up new worlds for you. Love, Grandpa."

"What is that honey?" asked Chelsea's father, who had been recording the unwrapping for posterity.

"I dunno." She gave the crayon to him to inspect.

He furrowed his brow, examining the ordinary-looking red stick.

"Why did your dad give her a crayon?" he asked his wife.

"Beats me. You know how eccentric he is."

He handed the crayon back to Chelsea who shrugged and put it into her pocket before rushing to her room to use her new laptop to chat with friends. She played around with the computer for a little while and then heard her mother call from downstairs.

"Chelsea?"

"Yeah?"

"Why don't you make a thank you card for Grandpa? I think he would really like that."

"Okay," Chelsea called back.

"Why don't you use that crayon he gave you?" her father chimed in.

Chelsea took out a piece of construction paper from her drawer, folded it in half into a rudimentary card, and thought of what to draw on the cover. She decided on drawing a picture of a crayon.

She started outlining the picture of a crayon with the one she received. When she was done, she sat back and held the card in front of her, scrutinizing her artistic talents. It was red crayon on green paper, and it was a slightly squiggly, but it wasn't half bad.

Then, to her shock, the drawing started to glimmer. Her eyes went wide and she rubbed them to make sure she wasn't seeing things. A spark of light appeared on the crayon drawing and it traced the outline she drew like a fuse on a wick of dynamite. When the tracing completed, a quick flash of light emanated from the page that blinded her momentarily.

When she opened her eyes, the red crayon was on the paper, but the drawing itself was gone. But then she noticed the crayon was still gripped in her fist. But that meant now there were two. Two crayons! She looked at the tip of the crayon she had used. The tip was rounded from drawing the picture, but before her very eyes, it reformed into a perfect point.

"Mom!"

"What?" she called from downstairs.

"This crayon just appeared out of nowhere and--"

Then she remembered the card that came with the present. She ran back downstairs into the living room and pulled it out of the mess of wrapping paper and empty boxes. She read it over and over.

Chelsea's mom came into the living room.

"Chelsea? Everything okay?"

She looked up from the card. "Uh. Yeah. Nevermind."

Chelsea looked at the card again after she left the room. She said the words out loud. "It will open up new worlds for you."

She stared at the crayon, her mind racing with a hundred images a second. What else should she draw?

Red-Blooded American

"Why do people call themselves 'Red-Blooded Americans'?"

"What do you mean?"

"I just don't know what it means."

"It's just an expression. I think it means you're average. I don't know."

"I kinda understand that part, but all blood is red if you're a human. It makes no sense. I can't say it's any other color. I can't be a blue-blooded American. Or green or yellow or black."

"I guess."

"Hm.."

"Well the red part could maybe stand for something, like vigor, strength, down-to-earth."

"I think it means you need to learn more adjectives."

Prepping

"You're gonna put what in where?" he asked.

"It's really the only way to screen for colon cancer," said the doctor.

He considered not having it done, living in blissful ignorance, but what if he had something? It would be pretty stupid not to have undergone a routine, if uncomfortable, procedure just because it might feel embarrassing. He agreed and they set up an appointment.

A few days later, he got his prep instructions in the mail.

Clear fluids? Fine.

A large glass of water every hour? Damn.

Uncontrollable diarrhea. Oh boy...

Wrong Place, Wrong Time

A week out of police academy, Henry had finished celebrating his first day walking the beat with friends. They had gone on bar hopping, but he had to get home, it being a work night and all. It was too early in his career to be hungover on the job.

He walked home, a new bounce to his stride, as if imbued with new power. Then he heard three shots. Pop, pop, pop! He instinctively reached to his waist, but he didn't have an off-duty piece yet. Still, he ran towards the noise.

In the alley way, a figure laid on the grown, still. His footsteps made splashing noises in the puddle as he came to the man. His shirt was bloodstained and the crimson was spreading quickly. He was dead.

Next to the man was a crumpled paper bag. Henry peered inside. In the light of the street lamps, he saw stacks of bills held together with rubberbands. The money was in small denominations--ones, fives, tens and twenties--and old. They were frayed at the sides, creased and worn. Even though they were small bills, there was enough in the bag that there must have been at least a thousand dollars.

"Put the bag down," a voice commanded.

He turned around and looked at the barrel of a gun.

"Put the bag down and step away from the body," the woman said.

"I'm a cop."

She shrugged. "Makes no difference to me."

"I've already called for backup. They'll be here soon."

"No, you didn't."

He was going to argue, but he didn't think she could be convinced. He put the money down and backed away.

"It's a shame," she said. "Why did you have to be here? Now what will I do with you?"

"Why don't you give me your gun--"

His words were cut off by two blasts of a pistol. The woman collected the shells, picked up the paper bag, and left.

Be Like Mike

When I'm on that schoolyard asphalt, crossing over, playing that basketball like a yo-yo, I feel like I can do anything. I can take off from faded yellow free throw line and throw the rock down. I can take twenty five foot three pointers with a flick of the wrist. They sail through the air and go through the hoop, not touching the sides, rattling the chain net.

It doesn't matter who guards me because there is no defense for my offense, just as there is no offense for my defense. I pick their pockets, stealing the ball before they know they've lost it. I swat ill-advised shot attempts into adjacent ball courts as I let out primal screams. I grab boards like no one's business. Any free ball isn't free for long.

My passes are so precise they can thread needles. There is no defense I can't pick apart, throwing dimes behind my back, from my off-hand. I can break your ankles with a stutter move and toss up a no-look alley-oop from half court.

When the game is on the line, I wave away others because there is only one way it will end: in my hands, then in the hoop. I look calmly at the defender, staring him down, daring him to stop me. I dribble slowly, then change direction with a burst of speed and lose him only to be met by a double team. I spin away, fifteen feet away from the basket, and jump. Fading away in the air, I feel hands grabbing me wildly but no foul is called. It is playground ball after all. I'm in the air for what feels like an eternity. My hands feels the seams on the ball, so intimately as if we are one thing. When it comes away from my fingertips, I don't even need to look. It just feels right.

The game is over.

Among the Insane

When the teen film star came onto the slapped-together mall stage, the girls amassed in the audience went nuts. They screamed and spasmed, as if they needed exorcisms.

Frank shook his head. What was he doing here? He was wrapped around his little girl's finger. Sarah wants an autograph, she gets one. He sighed and looked down at the rolled up poster she gave him to get signed. He had put his foot down; she wasn't going to miss school too come here, so he promised to stop by early after work to get the autograph.

He should've expected this, he thought. He had thought he would be in and out. Fifteen minutes tops.

The guy on stage was dressed normally, looked normal, but there was obviously something he didn't see. Over a hundred girls swarmed the stage to get their ten seconds with him. Frank held the poster up above his head to prevent it from getting crushed.

He called home. It was going to be a long night.

Red Versus Blue

Blue raised his sword and dashed towards Red like a dart, slicing furiously. Red guarded with his wrist guard, sparks flying like fireworks. He jumped back while Blue held the advance, both of them hopping in harmony until Red finally shoved Blue back.

Red brandished his automatic pistol released a fury of bullets toward Blue, who flitted behind boulders. Shards of stone flew into the air in puffs. Then came the tell-tale clicking sound of an empty magazine.

Blue emerged from his hiding place, took one step on a boulder, and launched himself, leaping into the air and slashed down with his blade. The sword tasted flesh fleetingly as Red barely dodged the fatal blow. He wiped blood from his cheek and threw away the pistol. He reached into the folds of his billowing trench coat and pulled out a sub machine gun. It spit fire.

Blue deflected a few rounds with his sword until it shattered. He took one in the side and retreated behind another boulder. Fingering the dagger in his belt, he planned his next move.

Leaving Nebraska

"I'll be good," he said. "I promise."

She cried, but she had to do it. She didn't know what else to do. She knew that this time would come, through the long drive from Miami, deceiving her boy for all those miles. But what could she do? There was no more money. She had no job, could no longer provide for him. He would be better this way, she convinced herself.

"You'll be better off this way," she said, blinking away tears.

"No," he protested, his small arms wrapped tightly around her like tentacles.

"I'll find out where you are and I'll come for you when things get better."

She wasn't sure if she could. She was abandoning her child. What court would give her custody again? But she didn't know what else to say. If it was a delusion, at least it was enough for now.

"Momma!" he cried as she tore away from him.

An orderly gently restrained him while she left. She walked out the automatic doors and began the lonely drive back home--if it could be called that anymore--crying so hard that she could hardly see.

Flying Under the Big Top

She snuggled herself deep into the cannon. It was quite dark in there. All that was visible was the small opening in front of her, the view partially obstructed by the big red clown nose she wore. She mentally prepared herself, it being her first time. She imagined herself flying through the air, landing in the hay, ambling away unscathed.

She heard the tap on the side of the cannon. They were about to light it.

Then.

BOOM!

She was out like a dart, hearing oohs and ahhs as she soared, air whipping at her face. She held her arms out to her sides, unfurling the wings sewn into the arms of her clown suit. So this is what it felt like. Exhilaration.

Adventures in Grocery Shopping

"Simon, stop that," said the woman.

I could see Simon, a child of approximately four in a too-small t-shirt, leaning halfway outside of the child seat in the shopping cart. He was reaching with his tiny fingers to a display of bananas while his mother was picking through the apples.

I was done with my shopping, but I couldn't help but stick around. It looked like an accident waiting to happen. I followed the pair as they moved through the other aisles.

"Simon!" He was reaching for some packages of beef. I thought he was going to fall into the freezer.

"Simon. Please behave."

I followed them again as they walked down the chips and soda aisle and I knew something was going to happen. It was inevitable. The woman pushed the cart, inexplicably oblivious to her child's actions, especially with his incorrigible behavior. I saw his grubby little hands reach for a bottle of Coke. The cart was drifting too close to the sides of the aisle, making the sodas within his reach.

"Si--"

I saw the bottle fall and heard the sloshing sound as it emptied itself.

"Clean up. Aisle 5!" said the voice over the loudspeaker.

Jumped

Detective Ricks was having a bad day and didn't need any more trouble. Cases were piling up, his partner was on vacation, and the last thing he needed was another busy-work case that wasted his time.

Henry Gillies, 29, was found dead on the sidewalk outside his apartment yesterday. From the looks of it, he had jumped from the roof, but there was no suicide note, no history of depression or mental illness. He was--by all accounts--normal.

The thing with normal people was that they aren't, not really. They hide parts of themselves away from others. Ricks figured that Gillies did his fair share of hiding and one day he couldn't hide any more, so he jumped. But because things weren't clear cut, he had to right a report on it, use due diligence and all that. Make sure it was really a suicide. Basically, a waste of his time.

His captain came over to his desk. He was portly man of forty-two. He had been breathing down Ricks's neck all week to clear his caseload.

"Medical examiner's report on Mr. Gillies," he said.

"I'm sure it will be a revelation." He took the report and threw it on the desk.

"Aren't you going to look at it?"

"Why? I know what the cause of death is."

"What?"

"Concrete poisoning. A full mouthful of it."

Slip of the Blade

It was almost too easy. The cabbie picked me up at the corner and all I had to do was signal for him. It was unfortunate for him, being picked by chance, but who was I to deny him the honor?

I got in the cab and took the seat behind him; it would be the most convenient for what needed to be done. I gave him a fake address and he started driving, talking about his kids as if I cared. I put on my mask though, the one I use when I am around normal people. I tell him about my Johnny and Natalie, the children that don't exist.

In my jacket pocket I can feel the knife that I bought at the military surplus store. From World War I, the man had said. It was five inches long, sturdy, but sharp after an afternoon of honing it.

I felt unease right before I was to make my move--not out of any sense of moral ambiguity--but of my own ignorance. You see I didn't know why I did the things I did, but the thrill of it sustained me, gave me life. Without it, I surely would perish, all the while knowing that I would be caught one day.

I shook these thoughts away because he had arrived at a stop light. The intersection was quiet, not a man or vehicle in sight. I slipped the knife from my pocket and in one quick precise motion, grabbed his neck with one hand and pulled back while sliding the blade deep into his side with the other. The blade had no resistance and I could feel blood run through my fingers as he struggled. He couldn't scream with my hand crushing his windpipe, but I suspect he might not be able to even given the option. His life drained away like leaf blown by the wind. I wiped the knife on his clothes and exited the cab.

I walked away like a normal person would. When things go right, even if someone was there they wouldn't know what happened until they approached the car. There was little commotion.

I resisted the temptation to flag down another cab, even if the hunger was growing. My excitement built before the kill, but like each other time, it plummeted afterwards. Only the thought of another cab ride excited me.

Meeting Ms. Stern

There are two types of parents at parent-teacher conferences: the calms ones and the nervous ones. Kim and I are polar opposites. She is most definitely the calm one.

That night, parents converged on Hillside Elementary to find out how their kids were doing in class. Now, we consider ourselves well-informed parents who stay involved with their children, so deep down I knew that we would find that Ethan was exemplary, no different from any other teacher meeting we've been to. But I was pacing. I looked at projects posted along the hallway without paying attention to them. I stared at my shoes. I examined the tiles on the floor.

They had brought out chairs from inside the classroom for the waiting parents. A volunteer student from the honor society sat by the door to take down names. Kim sat in one of the chairs, patient, content as can be; she was the rational one. Once in the while, she would smile at me. She had long given up trying to talk to me during these times. Instead, she talked to the parents of one of Ethan's classmates.

I wondered if Ethan was doing well in class. All his homework was done correctly--we made sure of that, but was he participating in class? Was he well-behaved? He was a great son, but you never knew how kids were away from their parents sometimes. All sorts of irrational thoughts floated in my head, from potential boarding schools to tutoring services. I admit it. I can be neurotic.

It was when I was imagining Ethan in school gang that Ms. Stern appeared at the door and checked the sign-in sheet.

"Mr. and Mrs. Chang?"

We smiled, shook hands, and walked inside.

Lost in Words

The pages flip by so fast I hardly remember them go by. All there is, is the story. It enraptures me, holds me so close that I feel I know the characters, smell aromas, see vistas, hear conversations. Sometimes I lose myself in the prose, but this is the time that I treasure most. All track of time is lost and remains so until the last page.

Hummingbird Mechanics

I watched the hummingbird flit from one flower to another, hovering from stamen to stamen while it collected its breakfast. I wondered how its wings could possibly move so fast, as if they would be flung off from sheer forces. They are a blur.

I wonder what the bird would look like if it was a constant x-ray. What if I had a machine like that, watching it fly about with furious determination. Would I see its skeleton? Its body would be stationary while its wings would be gray, a mix of black and white that never stopped moving.

Spark of Genius

He rolled onto his stomach and pressed his palms to the floor. Up on his knees, he carefully balanced himself then supported his small frame with one hand on the coffee table to fully stand up. Teetering slightly, he took his first step.

His balance shifted forward and felt as if he was about to be thrown forward and land on his face, but at the last second, his other foot came forward and stuck, then the other, and over and over again. He was walking, almost running, and never fully balanced. But he was doing it. He was walking and he felt free.

He ran and stumbled into his mother's arms and they smiled and giggled while his father taped it for posterity.

Generational Speak

We're talking about the movie we just came back from. You thought it was kind of boring, lacked drama, lackluster. I say that it was smart and funny, that I know that you like the serious thrillers, but that there's always room for silly stupid comedies.

Then a voice pipes up.

"That movie is so gay," says my nephew who was eavesdropping on our conversation while playing his video game.

"What do you mean," you ask him.

"So gay," he repeats and turns his attention back to the game.

You're about to ask him something else when I stop you. I shake my head and roll my eyes.

"Don't mind him," I say as we walk into the kitchen. "That's just how he is. Anything mildly disagreeable is gay. It doesn't mean anything. He just likes to talk."

You shrug and take a sip of your drink. In the living room, my nephew eviscerates another alien in a hail of bullets.

A Dream to Remember

She was swimming in a vat of Jello, surprised that it wasn't sticky at all. She glided through the lime green goodness, a sea full of it. It was Jello as far as the eye could see and deeper than one could fathom.

Sudden, she felt something touch her feet and then she saw something yellow with black spots skim the surface. Sticking her head into the Jello, she could see--albeit in a green tinge--a figure swimming below her in circles at great speed. Then it jumped up into the air and flipped ten times before falling back down.

In the air, flecks of green flicked off its body. It had the head of a dolphin, the tail of a monkey, and the body of a cheetah. After it dove back into the Jello, it came back to the surface and talked to her.

"Wake up," it said, "Beep, beep, beep!"

Last Stand

There is a time and place for all things. George Hemlock knew this, knew that he shouldn't go to his boss right not to ask for a raise. He knew that it was the wrong time. Randtree was in a bad mood, had been all morning.

But even as George knew all this, he also was at his wits' end. Pushed to the limit, he needed to push back. He needed to do something--anything at all--if only to feel better about it. He was underappreciated and overworked. Already saddled with five different projects, he was given an additional one today. It originally belonged to Evan, but he took a vacation on short notice. The project was barely in its beginning stages and the deadline was fast approaching. They gave it to George because he was a good worker and they took advantage of his good nature.

George also knew all these things and he had to draw a line in the sand to let them know that this was it. The last straw. They were either going to pay him what he deserved, or he would quit, right there on the spot.

He stood in front of Randtree's door for a few seconds and then took a breath. He knocked.

History in the Making

"You know, today is a real special day."

"Why's that?"

"Look around you. Look at all the people voting. There's going to be record turnouts and we're probably electing the first black president."

"True."

"It's history in the making..."

"How's that?"

"I mean--it's historical. First black president. It's a huge precedent for the country. We're making history."

"I don't get that expression. Everything is history in the making. I kick this rock today. Tomorrow, it's history. I've made history."

"Well, it's more of an expression--"

"Like what you just said, just the act of saying something, that's making history. Because tomorrow or next week, you can say 'Remember when I said so and so?'"

"It's an expression. Like the fall of the Berlin Wall. That day, history was being made--"

"And that. What you just said. History just made."

"Or the assassination of JFK."

"And that."

"There's no talking to you."

Lazy Mondays

I wake up every Monday late. I hit the snooze button approximately eight times before I get my tired ass out of bed. It serves me right for going to sleep so late on Sundays.

But I do get out of bed, because I'm a grownup now and I have responsibilities. I have a job. The job pays the bills. The bills keep a roof over my head and food in my stomach.

So I quickly clean up and rush to my car. I drive faster than I should and I still get to work twenty minutes late. It is a good thing no one cares when I come in. That's the good news.

The bad news: It's another Monday.

Virgin

It had seemed like a great idea at first: a business trip to Hawaii on the company's dime. Jonah saw sandy beaches, bikinis, surfboards, hikes to volcanoes, and waterfalls secreted away in tropical forests. And he did see some of these things--out the window of the plane, through the taxi window, and in brochures at the hotel. Three days into the trip and there was still nothing of note worthy of a picture. No memories to capture. Unless one had a penchant for conference room feng shui or hotel room interior design.

Jonah had figured that the business part of the business trip would be minimal given the choice in location. Sure there was a big corporate office there, but someone must have planned it with pleasant tropical activities in mind. He could not have been more wrong. What he thought would be five-hour work days followed by afternoons in the sun were actually mind-numbing twelve-hour days in a humid room with fellow malcontents followed by a quick dinner and his head hitting the pillow from sheer mental fatigue.

The meetings consisted of thirty mid-level managers trying to come up with a comprehensive strategy to prepare quality assessment reports. That's right. To prepare them. Jonah didn't want to think about how long it took them to decide on the actual quality assessment process itself. As far as he was concerned, all the report needed was a concise retelling of the quality assessment findings in a way that was easy to understand with clear problems, solutions, and goals. What most of the committee members argued over were more important things like the number of charts to include (regardless of data obtained), font size of the title of said charts, the order in which appendices should appear, and the color of the cover. They were sure to be earth-shattering, ground-breaking innovations.

As he lumbered into the hotel lobby after another long day of decision making (or lack thereof), he had a sudden desire for a drink. The front desk girl, a cheerful native Hawaiian, had recommended he visit their bar, as did the equally amiable bellhop. Even the hotel channel on his television had invited him to refresh himself at their well-stocked bar. It seemed like there was a hotel-wide conspiracy to get him drunk. However, he did feel the need to refresh himself, or at least drown out all conference-related information from his mind.

There were helpful signs directing him to the bar, leading him out to a patio and past a pool he had given up hope of using. Just beyond it stood the bar stand, built of what looked like driftwood and adorned with touristy knick-knacks. Jonah sat on a stool among the other unused ones.

The bartender was an affable man, similar to the rest of the hotel staff. He had tied-back hair and was so large that he filled the area behind the bar.

"Aloha. What can I get you?"

"How about a gin and tonic?"

"Sorry. No can do."

This was hard to believe, but Jonah wasn't in a picky mood. Anything would do. "How about a beer then?" he asked. "What do you have on tap?"

"You're at the wrong place if you want a beer, friend," the bartender said with a chuckle.

Jonah was dumbfounded.

The bartender stepped aside and motioned behind him with his head while he wiped some glasses. On the wall behind him was a sign. It had a watercolor-drawn cartoon octopus encumbered with a variety of fruits in his suctioned arms. Under the sea creature was a large festive banner: JUICE BAR.

"Damn. What do you have then? What's good here?"

The man shrugged. "People seem to like the pineapple tropical cocktail"

It turned out to be pretty good. He finished half of it in two gulps and sighed with satisfaction.

"Mahalo. Can I take this up to my room? I'll bring the glass back."

"Don't worry about it. Just leave it out. The maids will pick it up," the bartender said with a smile.

Jonah thanked him again and made his way back to his room, where he emptied a mini-bottle of vodka into the glass.

Pineapple tropical cocktail, indeed.

Midnight at Penn

Midnight at Penn Station on Halloween is a sight to behold. John sat waiting for his train while revelers passed by his field of vision. His night was winding down; theirs was just beginning. Women were dressed in all sorts of revealing costumes that they would never normally wear. Men, drunk and silly, acted out as their alter-egos. Nearby a homeless man snored in his claimed corner of the waiting area. A couple of men in business suits slept on and off with newspapers in their laps. A woman read a novel with a shirtless man on the paperback cover. John heard an excited gasp and turned to see a girl in a Sarah Palin outfit rush towards the bathroom. She doesn't make it and ended up throwing up in a trash can. Her date was slumped up against the wall in a frog suit.

Trick

The reporters called it the grisliest scene of the night. Up there on the third floor of the haunted house, next to fake bodies and blood made of food coloring and corn starch, was a real murder.

The house was an abandoned building that a play production company took over for Halloween. They brought in props, pyrotechnics, actors, and scripts. They charged fifteen dollars a head and it was the hit of the holiday. People came from all over to get the crap scared out of them.

Police said that someone was killed during one of the horror skits in one of the themed haunted rooms. They speculate that the man was stabbed to death during a particularly loud mock murder when several actors were screaming in the darkened room. The victim was placed in the corner. In the dark and amongst the fake corpses, it wasn't until the next day that the proprietors found the body and called police.

They were on TV asking the public for help identifying the killer. I know they are also still looking for the murder weapon, but I also know that it is located in a dumpster five miles from the haunted house blood-free and wiped clean.

Yet Another Self-Proclaimed Expert

Jenna had cracked the top 1000 reviewer list on Amazon.com not two days ago, only to see her rank get knocked down to 1200. She had no idea what was going on until she went back and looked at some of her review ratings.

Someone had gone and gave her low marks on all over reviews. It made no sense and was not based on substance. Humility aside, she knew her reviews were top-notch. They were thorough and well edited, balanced and reasoned. She took great pride in them.

Sabotage! It must be she thought. Someone was trying to climb over her into the rankings board. It was enough for her to throw out her integrity and start torpedoing other reviewers' reputations to get back on top.

Then she remembered there was a separated ranking board. This one was for review ratings, but there was another one for number of reviews, where quantity ruled over quality.

She looked at her computer screen. The product was a vacuum cleaner she had never used before, but it sure looked like it was hard to use. No ergonomic features. Low horsepower.

Her fingers clickety-clacked on the keyboard.

The Sound of Water

He could hear several things from his supine position on the sand. There was the cry of gulls, the sloshing of the ocean water. He couldn't actually see the whole waves, but he could see their crests from his vantage point.

He was tied to the ground, his head only able to lift up mere inches from the ground. Rope and stakes driven deep in the sand secured his neck, wrists, waist, and ankles. He wondered if anyone would find him in time. It would not be low tide for much longer. The sky grew dark and his voice was hoarse from calling out for help.

He imagined how it would happen, the water slowly creeping toward him, advancing and retreating inches at a time. What he dreaded was the time it would take. The water would wash to his feet first, then his thighs, back, and eventually, this head. And the water would eventually swell over his head, but it would wash back after seconds of suffocation, only to give him hope--a breath of air--before the natural ebb and flow would overtake him again. With time, the water would engulf him and he would not resurface until the next low tide.

From where he lay, he could no longer see the water's encroachment. It was two hours ago when the shoreline disappeared past the tips of his toes. Not being able to raise his head up any further, there was no telling where it was now, save for the increasing volume of the surf.

His only hope was someone would find him soon. Then he felt a new sensation, the curious and cool caress of the ocean at his toes.

Ceramic Stylings

Sharon had been watching Antiques Roadshow too much. She saw a multitude of people bringing their finds to appraisers, most coming out of it with the realization of being thousands of dollars richer. There was an old creaky dresser that was bought for twenty five dollars and worth two thousand because it was made in the 1920s by a rare furniture maker that made only twenty of that model. There was a man that spent two dollars on a box of coins and found out that one of them was worth five hundred because of an imperfection in its ridge.

So Sharon became a treasure-finding hopeful. She looked through her attic, prowled through garage and yard sales. Then she found the closest city the Roadshow was going to and made the trip.

The event was swarming with people waiting for their appraisals. A woman stared at her suspiciously and clutched her rabbit etched plates closer to her chest, as if Sharon would snatch them away.

It was an hour before she was seen and it wasn't in front of a camera. The appraiser had a bushy mustache that twitched when he spoke and thick brown rimmed glasses.

"What do we have here today?"

Sharon presented her item, a pair of ceramic kittens. She had bought them at a local yard sale. The man who sold it had said they were passed down from his grandmother. She didn't know what to make of them but they had looked like they might be worth something.

"I see..." said the man, holding the white ceramic felines in the air. He turned them this way and that, examining them with great scrutiny.

"How much did you pay for these?" he asked.

"Five dollars," Sharon replied, filled with great anticipation. She was going to be one of those people she saw on TV. How much would they be worth? A hundred? Six thousand?

"Mm hmm, mm hmm. Would you be surprised to find out that these were made in China?"

"Oh really?" She was getting more excited now. She had thought that the design had an Asian influence. Would that increase their value?

"And when would you guess that these were produced?"

"Well," she said, doing a little mental arithmetic, guessing the seller's age and how old the cats had to be if they belonged to his grandmother. "The thirties maybe? "

"Not quite," the appraiser said. "It's probably closer to the nineties."

"1890s?" she said with a catch in her voice. She had secretly hoped they were older, since that usually seemed to raise appraisals.

"No."

She looked at him with a puzzled expression, so he flipped over one of the cats and showed her their white bottoms and began scratching the center with a fingernail. White pieces that might have been paint or correction fluid started flaking off to finally reveal three conclusive words: Made In China.