Falling

I first saw her after I boarded the plane. We sat in the back, so I could see steady stream of passengers coming down the aisle and when I saw her making her way to me, carefully negotiating the narrow space between the seats, she took my breath away. She looked to be in her twenties and was with her mother, I think. I watched her put both of their pieces of luggage in the overhead compartment, tiptoeing to reach.

She has lightly curled fair golden hair that runs behind her ears and down to her shoulders. Her creamy white skin was radiant. A pert nose on which a pair of wire rimmed glasses were perched belonged to a face with clean and subdued, but angelic features. She had the small, slender body of someone who was comfortable with herself. But the it may be her neck that I was the most focused on, its white, soft skin had small hint of pink. I watched it curve from her jawline down to her collarbone. I could tell she was good, kind person from the way she moved, from the way she spoke to her mother, from the way she carried herself. It's a wonder that I've never imagine beauty this way in my head, the way this girl looked, but that's what she was. It is with no qualifier or reservation that I say that I think she was the most beautiful-not just pretty or cute, but beautiful-person I've ever laid my eyes on.

She sat across from me and I stole glances as often as I could. I watched her thumb through her copy of "Nocturnes" by Kazuo Ishiguro. I tried to see what she was watching on the entertainment screen on the headrest of the seat in front of hers if only to see if we had the same taste in movies. The angle wasn't right and I still don't know what she was watching. When she asked the flight attendant for an adapter for the headphones, I detected an Irish accent, a faint one so pleasing my ears that I wish I had the nerve to talk to her so I could hear it some more. She dropped a pen a couple of times and I reached down to pick it up so that maybe she would look at me and say thank you, but she was quicker to reach both times, so I would pull back before making the attempt because it looked like I was too eager.

I caught her eye once when I turned and saw her looking straight at me. She turned away immediately and I wonder if she was looking at me or the view out my window. The view out my window probably. Or maybe she saw me in the periphery staring at her throughout the flight and wanted to see who this stranger was.

Our plane ride was short, only an hour--fine on most days but felt incredibly short on that day. Couldn't they have a storm, or a freak blizzard in August that would blanket the runway, causing us to circle for another half an hour? Would that be too much to ask?

After we landed, I struggled to catch a glimpse of her as she made her way through the gate. I saw her again collecting luggage off the carousel in the baggage collection area. And then she was gone, disappearing into New York through the revolving doors.

It is now five days later and I can't stop thinking of her. But the image I have her is dissolving. I still know that feeling that I felt when I saw her walking toward me down the aisle on the plane. I remember the idea of how stunning she was. But the details are disappearing. When I close my eyes, I struggle to combine all my memories into one distinguishable image. I grasp for the disparate visions: the way her glasses rested on her delicate nose, the sight of her bare arm when she removed her fleece, the motion of her bending and putting her passport into her bag, the color of her hair. I fear that they will not last for long because even with the lights off and sounds muted, I can no longer remember how exactly she was beautiful, only that she was and I will never see her again.

Little Known Inaccurate Facts About Matt

Matt steals candy from children because they're easy targets.

Matt was the original inspiration for "MILF," as in "Matt I'd Like to ...."

Matt fights crime from 11:30 PM to 11:45 PM each night. His signature move is the atomic crotch punch.

Matt strips under the pseudonym, Attorney General. His tag line is "Liar, liar. His pants are on... FIRE!!!!"

Matt traveled back in time and roundhouse kicked Arnold Schwarzenneger in the throat as a child, resulting in a lifelong speech impediment which is commonly mistaken for an Austrian accent.

Matt thinks Chuck Norris is a mama's boy.

Matt brought sexy back, so Timberlake can suck on it.

Matt is friends with JLo and can confirm that she is indeed from the block.

Matt finished the NYC marathon in under two hours but was disqualified for using Heelys.

Matt was trained by Navy SEALs and can kill with virtually any implement, even with Facebook messages.

Matt was swallowed by a whale and found his long lost father inside in a boat.

Matt drops it like it's hot.

Matt lost a pinky toe in a freak hunting accident with Dick Cheney, the details of which are a matter of national security.

Matt rode on a steamship on a long ocean voyage, where he met and fell in love with a young woman, drew her naked, made hot steamy PG-13 love in a car, but was eventually killed when they were struck by an iceberg and he sank into the icy abyss, slipping from his beloved's fingertips, all the while enduring a Celine Dion pop ballad.

Matt says never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and desert you. Never gonna make you cry, never gonna say goodbye, never gonna tell a lie and hurt you.

Matt beat Michael Phelps soundly in men's solo synchronized swimming.

Matt is so dope, he fails random drug screenings.

Matt operates a brothel for koalas called Marsupial Menagerie.

Matt is so fresh, he gets baked twice daily.

Matt once joined a gang, but quit when he discovered what gangbangers actually did.

Matt called Betty White a bitch to her face and has the scars to show for it.

Matt occasionally walks with a limp and goes by the name of Keyser Soze.

Matt is a mysterious smoke monster with anger management issues.

Matt stays green by stealing SUVs for chop shops.

Matt ascended Mount Everest on a sedan chair carried by sherpas.

Matt is a stunt double for one of the sextuplets on "Jon and Kate Plus 8."

Matt asked Mark Paul Gosselaar why he never saw him in Bayside and then pestered him for Kelly Kapowski's phone number.

Matt wholeheartedly asserts that the cocktail, Sex on the Beach, was created by him during his time in Fiji.

Matt vehemently denies that the cocktail, Rusty Nail, is in any way related to the events leading up to an emergency room visit that will never ever be repeated again.

Matt is earning his PhD in mystical eroticism at Hogwarts and has several restraining orders filed against him for its practical applications.

Matt joined an oil rig crew in the Pacific and is still waiting for the call from the President to drill a hole for a nuclear bomb in an asteroid of apocalyptic proportions.

Matt sells sheets of Bounty under the brand name, Shamwow.

Matt showed Crocodile Dundee what a real knife looks like.

Matt steals from the rich and gives to the poor for a small finder's fee.

Matt fathers children for replacement parts.

Matt is the subject of an adoption custody battle between Angelina Jolie and Madonna.

Matt preached responsible contract acquisitions to the New York Knicks and was laughed out of the building.

Matt has so much game that sports writers now compare Kobe and Lebron to him - with no derisive sarcasm whatsoever.

Matt is so def, conventional hearing aids are rendered useless in his presence.

Matt is so raven, he got his own Disney TV movie.

Matt is so phat, he got a "No Trans Fat" tattoo.

Matt taught Obama how to properly execute a terrorist fist jab.

Matt, as Bruce Lee's sifu, taught him the Battle Tourette's technique, wherein an opponent is disoriented, sometimes incapacitated, by a series of whoops and shrieks while he's struck. Matt claims responsibility for Little Dragon's success.

Matt has a helper monkey named Norman who fetches him beer.

Matt auditioned for the Amazing Race but was not accepted because he was deemed "extraordinary," an inherent violation of the producers' guidelines and potentially overshadowing the show's merely amazing programming.

Matt was dubbed the poor man's Sanjaya by Simon Cowell.

Matt thinks he can dance, but not in sequined spandex on television.

Matt was honored with ten gold medals in seven sports at Beijing - a first for any American - at a sidewalk vendor outside Olympic Stadium.

Matt showed up at an Iron Man competition in a red and gold metal suit.

Matt's milkshake brings all the girls to the yard.

Matt is so out of sight that you'll go blind if you stare directly at him.

Matt is an Ebay power seller of zero gravity writing instruments (pencils). He has a lower than desired rating.

Matt traveled around the world in 80 days in Phineas Fogg's luggage.

Matt yells, "Freedom!!!!!" every time he relieves himself in the bathroom... for the entire duration.

Matt is the starting center for his peewee basketball team, The Mighty Mites. He averages 34 rebounds a game.

Matt applied to graduate school but was told he was too cool for school.

Matt's cereal was stolen by a talking rabbit.

Matt hid in Amish country from mob enforcers, but was ultimately found because of his inability to grow a beard. And he's Asian.

Matt costarred in a movie with Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson titled "Starsky, Hutch, and Some Chinese Guy." It went direct to DVD.

Matt's one man show, an interpretation of "Free Willy," was poorly reviewed and grossly misunderstood.

Matt became Lindsay Lhhan's AA sponsor, just to prove that he can't succeed at everything.

Matt will play a hip-hop savvy teacher's assistant in "High School Musical 17."

Matt has a Segway for each day of the week.

Matt's competitive streak led him to complete a five day fast in one day.

Matt was exposed as a fraud when he was found lip-syncing to Sir Mix-A-Lot's "Baby Got Back" on America's Got Talent.

Matt showed up as a Great White Shark to his junior high school production of "West Side Story" to a crescendo of applause. The atmosphere soured and turned into panic when half the Jets were eaten in a tragic feeding frenzy.

Matt wanted to be Defender of the Universe when he was a child, but that title was already taken by his arch-nemesis, Voltron.

Matt singlehandedly liberated Europe from the Nazis.

Matt was going to appear in the "Fast and the Furious" sequel, but could not get his stock 2003 Honda Civic to drift.

Matt introduced Austin Powers to a shag carpet and can never look at it the same way again.

Matt was on board the little known 4th ship of Columbus, the Shaniqua Jackson.

Matt can turn water into wine, but must immediately turn it back into water again.

Matt was almost sent to rehab, but he said no, no, no.

Matt yelled fire in a crowded theater just to see what would happen.

Matt wrapped detonation cord around a tree in the forest and left a tape recorder nearby to see if it would make a noise when it fell. It did.

Matt once punched a guy while he was eating pizza and Andy Samberg stole the idea for an SNL Digital Short.

Matt has never viewed pornography. Ever.

Matt's misunderstanding of the term "seminal professional" resulted in a very awkward job interview.

Matt runs five miles a day, but only if he ran the day before.

Matt's moves are so sick, the swine flu needs a vaccine for him.

Matt has been directed to never tickle Elmo, no matter how much he's asking for it.

Matt opened a clinic, but found out that playing doctor and actually being a doctor are two different things altogether.

Matt gets frequent flyer miles for flying into the face of danger.

Matt went to a land down under, where women glowed and men plundered.

Matt smells like teen spirit and was ostracized for it.

Matt fell from Grace, but got right back on her.

Matt fishes for compliments in the Dead Sea.

Matt has been known to rock the casbah.

Matt prefers dark meat over white..., ladies.

Five Blood Soaked Tissues

This is how it ends.

Everything will change now, Jennifer thinks. She wiped down the floor some more and tossed the tissues into the wastebasket.

"I told you not to tell anyone," she says to Mark.

Mark doesn't reply because Mark is dead, with a tent spike through his chest.

"Now, you never will."

Early to Rise

Soot mars the sign like a black toothy grin. It is the only part of the store that doesn't resemble a lump of coal. I yawn. It's too early to be up. The coffee doesn't help much. The rising sun reflects off the face of my watch and blinds me momentarily. It's the seventh time I've checked it in ten minutes. Or eight. I'm losing count.

"You look like hell."

The voice belongs to the fire chief, a friend of mine, and just the person I was waiting for.

"Hi Roger. You all done in there?" I ask.

"Yeah. We should have all of it. Just watch your step. Everything's falling apart."

"Know where the fire started?"

"Looks like the kitchen."

"Accelerant?"

He pauses to think, wipes smoky grit from his face so that it leaves a streak.

"Probably. For it get so big so fast? Yeah, I'd say so."

We say our goodbyes. He asks me if I want to get a drink tonight and I say I will if I can still stand up then. He thinks this is a joke, slaps me on the back, and I nearly fall over. He laughs, climbs on his big red truck and leaves. I don't know where he gets his energy.

A smell invades my nostrils inside the shop; fragrant, pungent, and sickly at the same time. It's a strange but familiar aroma, more familiar than I care for. The floor, countertops, walls, and ceilings are slick with water. I maneuver my way around the overturned remains of chairs and tables to get to the kitchen.

That is where I see the body, which is new. It is in the corner under a fallen rack, blackened and scrunched up into a fetal position. I crouch down, seeing if I can find some identification, but it appears to be a lost cause. I'm not sure the corpse has any pockets. It's so far gone, I'm not even sure it has any pants. Whatever is encased in the crusted cocoon would require the services of the medical examiner.

"Sam."

"Jesus Christ, Feingold, don't sneak up on me like that."

"Jumpy today?" he says with an easy smile.

He looks positively radiant, as in actually emitting light. He's always this way, always bright, always eager, full of youthful vigor. I think he mainlines caffeine.

"So, you think this is the same guy?" he asks.

"Yeah. Got a body though. That's different."

"So what makes you think it's still the same guy?"

"Oh, I don't know," I say. "Three Krispy Kremes in three weeks burned to a cinder. I'm taking a wild guess."

He nods. He's easy to convince. "Do we know who that is?" he says, pointing to the body.

"Maybe the owner. No identification yet. Will have to wait for the ME."

"Time to make the doughnuts."

"What?"

He grins. "You know, from those commercials? 'Time to make the doughnuts!'"

"That's Dunkin' Donuts, not Krispy Kreme," I say, but I don't know why. It's better to ignore him, not argue.

"Just saying, you know--"

"Spare me, okay?"

He laughs and I stare at him.

"I get it. Like a tire right? A doughnut spare?"

I steer him to the door and tell him to get statements from the potential witnesses gathered behind the barricades. As he struts out to greet the public, pad and pen in hand, I can't help but imagine that he might become police commissioner one day and say a silent prayer.

I make some calls and find out that the owner and all employees are accounted for, then look around some more without Feingold and stay late to talk to Tess, our friendly neighborhood medical examiner, who promises to call me before she does the autopsy.

When I get back to that station, it is already late afternoon. I knock on the captain's door and receive a grunt in reply.

"You wanted an update on the arsons?"

Another grunt. The boss is not much of a conversationalist.

"It's probably our guy. There was a body at the scene. If we're lucky, maybe it's our firebug."

"Good," he says, which is my cue to leave.

I walk back to my desk, trailing essence of charbroiled doughnut. I sit and rub my eyes, tired beyond comprehension. At least no one has made any cop and doughnut jokes today.

"Honey glazed."

It's Feingold sitting across from me. When did he get here? It looks like he's wearing different clothes from this morning. They're clean and pressed.

I look up at him. "What?" I say. I am not in the mood for this.

"Honey glazed. That's the doughnut that you smell like," he says, beaming.

Chipper bastard.

The Other Guy

There is always THE OTHER GUY in romantic comedies. The formula has some variables, but often times THE OTHER GUY is never the focus of the story. He is a catalyst to the plot and we don't care about him. But take a moment to think about what this man has to go through. He's a doormat.

Darryl is twenty nine years old. He's a decent guy, has a good job, loves his family, cares for his friends. He is the type of person that is considered great company. One day, Darryl meets a girl, who is beautiful, smart, funny, all things you'd like in a romantic prospect. They hit it off, and in a whirlwind romance, he proposes shortly after. He does everything right and they are in love.

Then enters a third party. Surprise! It's the girl's old friend, a misogynistic, callous, womanizer. But he is a friend, so he makes nice and accepts him. But of course he is not here to be friends. He is here to ruin your life. This is because he harbors a secret flame for your fiance, one that he never knew of, and burns so much more brightly now that she is less attainable. He woos her, and she swoons with little effort because she has a soft spot for jerks and lost causes. He crashes Darryl's wedding and she leaves him, this perfect girl, to a chorus of applause. Applause!

And so they live happily every after. Minus THE OTHER GUY. What's his name again?

Prodigal Son

"How old are you?"

The boy held up three fingers, then--probably because he was bored of me--walked away and returned to his toy cars. He rolled them on the hardwood floor, making engine noises.

"Quite a kid you have there," I said to his mother, a nervous woman.

"Thank you."

She was visibly distressed, shaking.

"It'll be okay."

She looked at me. I don't think she believes me.

"Why don't we start with when it began?"

She nodded. "Two weeks ago," she said, then her eyes averted from mine and went wide.

I turned around and saw little Tommy giggling and playing with his cars, except they were floating two feet above his head, racing on an invisible track of air.

Apple Attack

The day after Melanie brought her new Mac home, strange things started to happen. At first, it was everything as advertised. It was easy to use and quick, all in a slick, fun package.

Then she found a button hidden in the back of the monitor. If she slid her hand over it very quickly, she would never have noticed it. But if she probed, applied more pressure with her fingertips, a button was depressed.

She clicked it, and when she let go, the button reformed with the smooth, glossy finish. A shiny white disc popped out from the side of the disc tray and clattered onto the desk.

She looked at it closely. There was nothing special to it. A perfect circle, smooth like glass. No discernible use. Maybe a coaster. This certainly wasn't in the brochures.

She clicked it again. Out popped another one like toast. She clicked a few more times, and each time another disc popped out. She shrugged, put them in a stack and left it at that. Strange, she thought. She'd have to ask her friend Mark tomorrow. He knew about computers.

The next day, the little white coasters were gone.

The day after that, and this is hard to explain, but the other electronics in the house started acting... strange. It was as someone dusted all of them overnight. They all sparkled, they were so shiny. And their edges were all buffed down to a corner.

All of a sudden, the VCR was easier to use. She turned the television on, and the only channel that worked was a style channel, where each show maligned and scoffed at its everyday normal guests for their utter inadequacy at arranging furniture or dressing themselves.

She tried calling Mark, but her phone mysteriously disappeared. She went to sleep.

The next day, she woke up and everything in her room had turned white.

Answer the Question

They are outside now, the press. They are going to want answers. They're bloodhounds, and they know a good story. But what can I tell them? How do you explain how an eight year old girl is thrown from a van into a ditch? How do you explain the bruises and wounds on her body? What can I tell them? That every time I see one of these cases, I think it's time to pack it in? That I go home and can't sleep for hours?

I look in the mirror in my office. My uniform is clean and pressed, presentable. The shield shines. It used to mean something to me, maybe still does. The man in the mirror looks old. His eyes are dark and hollow. I smooth out my hair, collect myself, and walk outside.

Everest

In his wildest dreams, Dennis Hinderman never thought he would be here now, on the top of Everest. It was a grueling journey. The last fifty feet took an hour even though it was on level ground. But there was snow. Oh, the snow blinded him and whipping from all directions. The oxygen was scarce and it took all his energy behind each step to make any progress.

But like a switch, the weather cleared when he reached the summit. He stood there, barely, with his group admiring the view. He could see for miles. He could see clouds below him. Clouds!

He looked down at his arm, what was left of it. They had said he wouldn't be able to make it on one good hand. That it was too hard. Give up, Dennis, they said.

The group leader told them it was time to back down. The summit or anywhere near it was no place to be in the dark. Dennis took one more look, let it soak in, and joined the others for the descent.

Catching Up With Friends

They told me the train would come in at five in the afternoon. My friends, that is. I haven't seen them in years and it will be good to be in their company again. Going by train seemed quaint, romanticized in a way. A backpacking trip across the country. I would join them after the start of the journey, while they would have already been on the train for four hours.

But I was late. Horribly.

When I got to the platform, the train was on it's way out of the station. I wonder what it must have looked like, myself running top speed, backpack flying off my shoulder, grabbing a handle and swinging myself on board just as the last car cleared the platform. Probably more dashing and exciting than I imagined.

Laura

"Do you like Laura?" the girl had asked me.

"I don't even know her." That was my answer at the age of ten, before attention to nuance and hidden meanings meant anything to young boys.

I don't even remember what Laura looked like. She may have been pretty. But perhaps I should have yes. I realize now that she must have sent her friend over to ask me that important question while she waited for the answer.

It never occurred to me why I was being asked such a ridiculous question tha thad nothing to do with anything. There I was, enjoying my afternoon at camp, playing with friends when a girl I don't know comes up to me and asks me if I like a girl that I don't know.

It makes a person wonder how many lost opportunities lie in their past, past and gone because he was too dense to realize what they were.

It Came From Above

The object was smooth to the point of polished marble. It was dense and dark. And it fell to Earth unnoticed on a cool April night at Robin McCready's farm. In between rows of romaine lettuce, it simmered, cooling after its intergalactic trip.

It wouldn't be found until harvest time when Robin sorted through the leafy greens, found the stone, admired its sheen, and pocketed it.

That night, Robin would begin to change. In ways he never dreamed of.

Storm Brew

Clouds roll in from the west, obfuscating the sun. The sky turns a purplish red, hazy and thick with humidity. There is a shimmer of light in the gray mass of sky, followed by a crack of thunder. Standing still, one can see the storm advancing, unrelenting, steady. And in a torrent of water, it is upon us. It is an orchestra of sounds and light, water and wind. Droplets fall so quickly that they form sheets of water on the ground. Lawns turn into muddy quagmires. Trees shake with ferocity. In the distance, a sliver of yellow is seen. The sun peeks through.

No Frills Baseball

Derek stood at the plate, demarcated by a frisbee. The pitcher, tossed the apple at the plate. With a mighty swing, Derek smashed the apples with a near petrified tree branch, sending apple sauce into the sky. The remainder of the fruit soared a hundred feet into the air.

"Okay. Me next," said the pitcher, and ran towards the frisbee.

Derek dropped the branch and trotted over to the pitcher's mound, a pile of autumn leaves. He picked up another apple that had fallen from the tree and wound up.

Goodbye Mr. Friskers

"I don't need you anymore," the girl said.

She looked at her old friend. His downy marmalade hair seemed to hang lower. Normally bright eyed and energetic, Mr Frisker's looked solemn. He stretched out, all four feet of him.

"Are you sure?"

The girl swung a leg absent-mindedly, scraping the school ground asphalt.

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Bye," she said and ran to her awaiting group of friends.

Together, they ran to the park. The girl turned to look back for one last look at her friend. He was gone.

Fast

"How fast do you think this thing goes," she asks with a devilish twinkle in her eye.

"Let's just keep it under 90," I say.

She eases down on the accelerator, and I watch the tachometer's needle rise as the engine whines. The added speed pushes me into my seat. We fly by vehicles left and right, deftly slipping in and out of traffic.

Then, above the engine and noise of the wind, a very distinct sound. Police sirens.

"Let's see how fast thing can decelerate," I say.

Death Fall

Randy Houghton was shot six times and died before he hit the ground. His killer, Mary Devereaux, killed him on a roof top. In a rage, she kicked his lifeless body off the building. It fell five stories, smacking on the fire escape on the way down, until it slammed into a dumpster with a sickening thud.

When the authorities came, Randy's body was hardly recognizable. The EMT checked his pulse merely as a formality, then the coroner's office zipped up the black body bag.

Mary

The girl strode into the glass booth in the private room and began dancing around the pole. She had her eyes closed, moving to the music in her head.

"Mary."

The girl looked at the source of the voice. A woman.

"Name's Ginger."

"Your daughter wants to see you, Mary."

"Wait," the girl said, but the woman was gone.

Pranks and Misdemeanors

I shush Eric. His new sneakers continue squeaking on the linoleum, but at a softer, more deliberate pace. We are in the office an hour before everyone else gets in, but I am still paranoid that someone might be here. It's the first of April and they are in for a surprise when they come in today.

We unlock the utility closet. Eric knows the janitor.

"Got the dye?" I ask.

He hands me the bottle. I slosh it around.

"That's all?"

He shrugs. I tell him to fill the mop bucket with water. When he comes back, I add in the corn starch I brought along with the dye and start mixing it into a thin slurry. It looks like almost-set red jello.

Eric has a mischievous grin on his face. "Let's go," he says with barely controlled excitemement.

We start slathering the aisles with the fake blood with mop, tracing a chaotic struggle that it is supposed to represent. When we are done, it looks like a masterpiece. A crime scene in thirty minutes.

After I am done cleaning up, I go to our hiding spot where Eric is already keeping a lookout.

"Shh!"

"What?" I say.

"Harriet is here early."

Harriet is our boss, and not a very good one. We peek around the corner of a wall to observe the unfolding result of our efforts. She turns the light on, takes one step, screams at the sight of the floors, and slips on the slurry. She falls hard, landing on a wrist, which makes her scream louder.

Eric looks at me with wide eyes.

"Oh crap..." he mouths.

Accidental Hero

Gretchen waited for the light to turn green. Then she heard a scream. Then another. Then another. She looked to see the source of it and found it. A van was barreling down the street backwards on the cross street. She could not be for certain, but the way the van was moving indicated that there was nobody in the driver's seat, or if there were, he or she was currently not in the land of the conscious.

In the crosswalk, a couple of kids had dared to cross against the Don't Walk sign. They froze when they saw the van.

In a split second decision that Gretchen could not explain with any specificity later on, she ran the red light and screeched to a halt, making her compact an improvised barrier between the children and the runaway van. She couldn't get out; there wasn't any time. Her door opened up towards the oncoming van anway. She heard another volley of screams before taking one quick look at a bumper heading straight for her door.

When she woke, the van had pushed her tiny car up at a thirty degree angle. He door was crumpled in wedged against her side. A fine dust filled the cabin and the air bag cushioned her head against the headrest. Surprisingly, she could feel all her arms and legs. Other than a headache, she seemed to be in once piece. She could hear machinery outside as emergency workers started ripping her door apart with the jaws of life.

Gretchen got out of the car without aid and heard another roar of screaming, but not of horror and surprise. It was the sound of a sea of people cheering and clapping.

Marks of the Earth

"I have seen our future and I am saddened," said the tribal chief to his people seated before him. He wore a ritual headdress of pig skin and tern feathers. The flames of the village's fire pit illuminate his ample frame.

"I see a parting of the old ways," he continued. "Our young leave for the city and do not come back. Since the beginning, we have served and protected the land and respected it because it gives us food and shelter. But I see our ways eroding. The earth is beneath our toes, but we have no connection to it."

A few of the older villagers nodded their head in agreement. Some of the younger ones stared at each other with indifference.

"Son, rise and come to me."

A teenager stood up and walked up to the chief.

The chief clasped one hand on his son. "We must rekindle the force within us that makes us strong."

He bent down and gathered a handful of soil.

"Son, will you undertake this task?"

The boy nodded. The chief rubbed the soil in his hands, chanted in an old dialect, and rubbed his thumb in a circle movement on the boy's forehead, leaving a faint mark. When he was done, he turned back to his people.

"Who else will join my son on this journey?"

There was a moment of hesitance, and then an old woman rose up and approached the chief. She tripped and two other helped her up before lining up behind her. Slowly like a reverse domino effect, the rest of the village lined up and awaited their turn.

Greetings Earthlings

Gleebok lowered the grappling probe of his spaceship into the town of frantic people. He snatched up a puny human man who wriggled in the probe's grasp.

"Hello human."

The puny human man, Geordie, cowered in the corner.

"What do you want?"

"I have questions," said Gleebok. "How do I get to Mars?"

Grand

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"Hah. Hah. Very funny," said Lucas.

Penny plopped down on the grass next to him, scrutinizing her friend.

"Well?"

"I'd rather be alone."

Penny shrugged. She leaned back while sitting, propped up by her elbows.

"I need money."

"Why?"

"I lost it at the game yesterday."

She sighed. I told you not to go anymore. "How much?"

"A grand, give or take a a hundred."

"I guess you'd need more than a penny for your thoughts then."

"Hardy har har."

Extracurricular Activities

"Just what do you think you're doing?"

I swiveled around to find Ms. Granger staring at me, hands on her hips, eyes filled with unhinged menace. I was caught. It was the end of me.

Gary had just left with the stolen answer key and I heard his receding footsteps. No doubt he had heard her. I was left hunched over her desk, five hours after the last class was over.

"Henry Thomas, what are you doing at my desk? And at this hour. Do your parents know you're here?"

It was strange that she would be here at this time too. It crossed my mind to ask her, before I dismissed that notion as suicidal.

"I...I was.."

"Hurry now. Speak up."

"I left my books here."

I said it like a question, as if I was asking her if that as a plausible excuse.

"On my desk?" she quipped.

"I couldn't find it on my desk, so I was looking all over." I motioned at her desk drawer when something caught my eye. A bottle. Of bourbon. It was partially covered by the attendance book and surrounded by a moat of pens and paper clips. I picked it up. I looked at her.

"What's this?" I asked, tried to sound naive.

She snatched the bottle away.

"Nothing."

She stowed it back in the desk and closed the drawer.

"Shouldn't you go home now?"

She was quick to get me gone.

"Yes, ma'am."

All The Way Down

"Get off the goddamned roof."

Jonathan's pleas were unheeded, at least not in the way he meant. He looked up and watched as Brett teetered on the roof's edge in a drunken stupor, no doubt upset over the latest calamity in his overdramatized life. He was wearing a plush purple elephant costume.

"Hey! You drunk fool!" said Jonathan.

That seemed to get his attention.

Brett blinked and gazed down stupidly. He took a seat, feet dangling in the air.

"What."

It was a question with none of the inflection. Jonathan was glad he finally got even a word out of him. He had been shouting at him for five minutes.

"Oh nothing. I was just driving home and I pulled up to the garage and you know what I saw?"

"I dunno--"

"That's rhetorical. Shut up. I saw you wandering on the roof in that ridiculous getup like a lost carnival attraction. What are you doing up there? And will you take off that stupid head?"

Brett twisted the head off and placed it beside him, all eight pounds of it, including the trunk.

"I got fired." Utter despair filled his voice.

"That job sucked anyway."

He shrugged his elephant shoulder pads.

"Why don't you come down?" asked Jonathan.

"Why?"

"Because with my luck, you wouldn't die from a three story fall, and end up breaking a leg. Then I'll have to listen to you piss and moan for weeks while you're laid up in the house. That's why."

"Oh, fine," said a newly resigned Brett.

But as he got up, he tripped over his big elephant toes and tumbled off the roof in a purple blur.

Twenty-Five Year Homecoming

Gareth had vanished twenty-five years ago without a trace, leaving behind friends and family who gave up hope of ever finding him after a couple of exhaustive years. Some thought he was dead, or just made themselves believe it so they could forget about him.

He, of course, was not dead. Not so at all. He left without a trace because he was running away, didn't to be found. There were people who wanted to find him who were not very nice people and although he didn't want to keep his parents in the dark, he felt it was better that way.

Gareth went on the run, never staying in one place for long for five years. When he felt relatively safe, he settled down under an alias, but never gave a thought to ever coming home again. He wouldn't know what to do, what to say. It was easier to stay away. However, he married when he settled down and had a child, who--as luck would have it--chose a college close to his parents (if they didn't move). After he dropped Sam off for his first semester, Gareth took a detour, with no intention other than driving around the old neighborhood.

That wasn't the way things turned out. After ten minutes circling the streets around the old house, he finally drove down it. And instead of driving on by, he found himself attracted like a paper clip to a magnet. He parked and stood by the car, staring at the house. It wasn't anything special, just a small two-story building with a patch of grass that passed for a front yard. He walked up and placed his hands on the link fence that encircled the yard and a small flower garden. It looked the same, like he had never left. Memories jostled under years of dust.

And then he was awoken from reverie.

"Can I help you, young man?"

He looked at the source of the voice, an old woman with a cane in one hand and the other one behind her back smiling kindly.

"No, I was just driving by and this house caught my eye. Beautiful flowers. My wife was thinking of starting a flower garden like that. I'll have to tell her about this one."

She admired the garden. "Yes, it is quite nice. Beautiful day too. Good day for a walk."

"Oh. Yes, beautiful. Well, I have to be off now," Gareth said, walking back towards the car. But he had come this far and he had to know. He turned around. The old woman was still there, as if expecting him to come back.

"This was a long time ago, but there used to be a couple that lived here. The Chungs. Did you know them?"

The old woman raised her eyebrows. "Did you know them?"

"No, not really. I just used to live around here. They were kind to me." Gareth's voice was near a whisper.

"Oh? Because I used to live here. I usually have a pretty good memory. What's your name?"

"This--this is your house?" he stammered.

"Used to be. We moved. What is your name?"

Gareth could hardly speak. He wondered how he hadn't seen the resemblance before. Age had added wrinkles and she was shorter now, but it was her. It was his mother. It took all he had to stop himself from running right then and driving away.

"James," he finally managed to say.

"James what?"

"Fong."

"Hmm," she said. "I don't remember a James Fong. But there's more than a few cobwebs in this head of mine now," she added with a chuckle.

"Are you okay?" She looked at him with concern.

Gareth was not okay. He felt sick.

"And your husband?"

"Oh, he passed three years ago. Good man."

"Yes, he was."

"Did you know him?"

"A little. He--" Gareth took two large steps toward his mother and engulfed her in his arms. He started crying. She was so small. The top of her head barely reached his shoulders. But in that instant, he was the one that felt small. He leaned in, whispered in her ear. "I'm so sorry."

He felt her tremble and then gasp. Then she hugged him back, more fiercely than you would expect an old woman to be able to.

"I knew you'd be back."

Uprooted

A large man filled the doorway.

"Ready to go? he asked.

The boy looked at him and then turned away.

"Will we come back soon?"

"Not for a while. Come on now."

The child picked up his ratty luggage bag and grabbed the man's hand. He took one last look at the house as they walked through the front yard.

"Your new parents are waiting for you," the large man said. "Are you excited?"

Roach Hotel

In Cam Trotter's garage, little black and brown creatures scatter every time the light is turned on. It is like an explosion radiating from the center of the cement floor that ripples into every dark, dank nook. There the six-footed disease carriers wait. Cam has wondered for a long time why they are there. He's never seen them inside the house, but there they are in the garage every time he turns on the light. There is no food available other than the odd pizza box, but even that seldom happens anymore in his attempt to rid himself of the vermin. Garbage is double-bagged and put outside whenever possible. He'd prefer raccoons to the roaches. But they come back. Even after poison traps, sticky pads, and fumigation. Over time, Cam begins to believe that super roaches have commandeered his garage, mutant insects with immunity to poison and hunger.

Every Time I Call

Every time I call, you say the same thing. You say that we are done. I need to stop call, you plead. But how can I when all I can think of is you. It is the first thought I have in the morning when I wake. When I open my eyes, for just a second, I imagine you are still next to me. Then I blink, and you are gone.

After I take my shower, I think I smell your perfume in the bathroom. In the steam, I can see your outline floating, wavering.

The phone rings and I fool myself into thinking that it might be you and I am disappointed when it is not. So I call you back and your voice is an oasis to the desert of my existence. Just you saying hello is worth it. But you tell my not to call again, and I will try to honor your request, until the next time I can't bear it anymore.

Visit from the Three Military Men

She knew why they were here before they rang the doorbell. She could see it on their faces. They marched, three of them side by side, in military dress.

They rang the doorbell, but she refused to answer it, as if the truth would go away if she didn't have to hear it. They knocked and wouldn't leave.

She cracked open the door.

"What do you want?"

"Mrs. McGreer, may we come in?" one of them said after he took off his cap.

"No, you may not."

"It's about your son, ma'am."

"I know. I don't want to hear about it."

"Ma'am..."

"Get out of my house!" she screamed.

The men in uniform were taken back by this outburst. They were prepared for emotional reactions but they usually came after they delivered the news.

"Please leave," she said.

"We'll come back at a better time then, ma'am."

She watched them leave, winding slowly away on the walkway. She felt her balance give way, and leaned on the wall, slinked down to the floor into a puddle.

Gone

When she left, they hardly noticed her. She was fifteen, invisible. Everyone at school went about their business and no one suspected anything amiss until the police showed up and asked about Ellen. They wanted to know who her friends were, but she had none. No one knew where she went to after school. No one had ever seen her parents, not even during teacher conferences. They found her body two weeks later. They held a moment of silence at the school and then everyone forgot her again.

Gratuity

My father had the habit of never tipping any money. Not that he didn't tip at all, it was just never in currency. He claimed that money was too impersonal, that the valet would appreciate a hot cup of coffee more than a few wrinkled bills. I still maintain that it was because he was cheap. But whether or not he was cheap, the man was creative.

He left coupons on the table one time after we ate a restaurant. They were for discounted meals at a rival chain. He gave his barber a bar of chocolate each time he went in for a trim. A free slice of pizza went to the delivery guys. He even tipped when it was generally acceptable not to. He gave apples to dentists, random grocery items to checkout clerks. He'd use anything he found around the house: spare calendars, extra clothes, long forgotten vacation souvenirs.

This Show Will Change Your Life

"That's not gonna work," Fran said and resumed her scrutiny of the programming budget. She looked down in an obvious way just to clue in Donald that the conversation was over, but she could still sense his presence. Still facing down at her desk, she peered at him over her glasses.

"Is that all, Donald?"

The man seated in front of her trembled with excitement.

"How could it NOT work?" he exclaimed. He got up and started gesticulating wildly as he repeated the description of his show concept, bouncing around the room like a hamster hopped up on adrenaline. "It's got drama! It's got comedy! It's got--"

Fran held up a hand and thought about her words before she spoke in a measured voice. "Your show, Donald, involves filming random people just going about their daily business being slapped or punched by contestants on your show. It is--as you say--Candid Camera meets The Price is Right meets Fight Club. Are they supposed to win something, your contestants?"

"Yes! Money! See they spin this first wheel right, which lands on a dollar value, say $500. Then they spin another wheel that lands on a person type, anywhere from a baby boy to an old woman. Then they spin a third wheel that lands on the dare that they have to complete to win the money. This could be anything from kissing the person, patting their head, or kicking them in the shin! Nothing is off limits. And we film it! They have five minutes to find the right type of person and perform the selected challenge. Then the studio audience and the audience at home get to vote on whether or not the action was satifactorily performed. If it was, they get the dollar prize. At the end, the contestant with the largest amount on money amassed wins!"

"Let's put aside all the obvious issues like the PR problem with having a show that promotes violence on unsuspecting citizens, or asking audience members to vote on it, or the lawsuits that would start rolling in. What happens if for some crazy reason, you get a contestant with a conscience with refuses to trip an old man or throw a water balloon at a baby? The show is sunk."

Donald smiled broadly. "I thought of that," he said, tapping the side of his head. "If anyone refuses, they are allowed to forfeit that turn, but the other contestants are allowed to steal the challenge. If there is more than one willing opponent willing to do it, then we go into a trivia round, and the winner gets to do it. Then whoever gets to attempt the challenge can win double the original cash value!"

"So, what you're saying is that not only does the show ask contestants to inflict physical harm on others for money, but it also actively discourages normal decent human behavior?"

"In a way..."

Fran adjusted her glasses and clucked her tongue.

"I'll talk to the others," she said.

Thumbing

People had always said that Harry Kringle was too kind for his own good. That was what the hitchhiker thought as well when Harry stopped and picked him up. He thought here was a sucker. But when he pulled a knife, Harry pulled a gun. You see, Harry Kringle may have been kind, but he wasn't no sucker.

Homecoming

During Private First Class Katie Stapleton's first day back from her tour, she was trapped in a bank during a robbery. In one swift movement, she deftly retrieved a guard's gun, and shot both gunmen in quick succession. In the ensuing congratulating and glad-handing, no one noticed her hands shaking when she was alone.

Jackpot

Edna looked down at the lottery ticket and then at the boy who gave it to her.

"Bye, Hal," she said the customer who was leaving and then returned her attention to the ticket.

She looked at the boy.

"What do we have here, Greg Samson? Hmm?"

The boy looked down at his shoes, arms at his back, swayed side to side.

"A lottery ticket, ma'am."

"I can see that. You're a little too young to be having one though, aren't you?"

"It's my mum's."

"Is it now?" Edna examined the ticket. Small flecks of correction fluid covered some of the original numbers and new ones were written on in neat block writing. Holding it to the light, she could see the covered numbers.

"Not bad, Greg. But you know when I scan this into the machine, the numbers still have to match, right?"

She squinted at the ticket, didn't hear an answer.

"Greg?" she said, but he was gone.

In The Blink of an Eye

After it happened, when people asked him about it, Freddie Jacobs would tell them that he couldn't remember the details, that it happened so fast. But the story of those ninety or so seconds was clear in the minds of bystanders on the street that day. It was rush hour at a busy intersection and pedestrians were walking to work en masse, a moving wall of bodies with a modicum of personal space for each individual.

The intersection was known to be a problem to the many that encountered it on their daily routes. The walk signals changed too quickly and when they did, pedestrians rushed to the safety of the sidewalk like a pack of frightened deer before the impatient drivers sped through four lanes wide. The mad dash was especially critical for the ones who were using the diagonal crosswalk.

The intersection was a nuisance for its frequent travelers, but a manageable one. For its infrequent visitors, it is a new experience when they are coralled into the wave of people and ushered and pushed across to the other side. On the day in question, one of these newcomers, a young woman, Kelly Dwyer, was squeezed out of the flood of flesh that rushed to the curb. When the lights changed, she stood dazed and alone in the middle of the street, a fleet of cars converging on her like a stampede of steel beasts.

The red lights became green for the cars, evoking an instinctual acceleration response in the drivers. Removed from direct physical contact in their vehicles, they became a mob, honking and swerving to avoid Kelly. Her tentative attempts to cross were repeatedly repelled by cars that would narrowly miss her. A crowd of onlookers gasped at each close encounter.

Witnesses said that a man, later identified as Freddie Jacobs, broke free from the crowd and raced into the street, nimbly dodging cars like a real-life version of Frogger. He reached the young woman and urged her to follow him, but she was cemented in place, too scared to move. Kelly would later say that she did not remember when the man came to her. She was facing away from the oncoming traffic, afraid to watch. Freddie recalled that it felt like she was looking straight through.

Seconds afterwards, everyone heard the loud urgent horn blasts of a braking car that was barreling towards the man and woman. It was at this point in time that Freddie said lost account of the details. Witnesses said that with mere moments to react, he wrapped his arms around her, and spun around so that his back was facing the car. When it struck, Freddie absorbed most of the impact. It hit him around the back of the knees and lifted both him and Kelly up into the air. His back rode up on the hood and when the car finally stopped with a shudder, they were thrown forward. He somehow braced the fall with one arm with the other one still wrapped around Kelly to prevent himself from landing on top of her and they rolled several yards before coming to a stop.

Kelly said that she had her eyes closed the whole time and when she opened them, he was propped up in a pushup position above her asking her if she was okay in between gasps for breath. Before she could respond, he passed out on top of her.

Ride-A-Long

"Where to, pal?" the cabbie asked after I got in. He was old, round, and had a worn face weathered by a fair share of fights. He didn't look very friendly, but at the same time, seemed like someone you could talk to.

"LaGuardia," I said.

"Coming or going?" he asked as he pulled away from the curb.

"Going."

"Not much luggage," he remarked. He looked at me off the rearview mirror.

"Just a quick trip. Business."

"Mind if I ask where?"

"San Diego."

"Could be worse places to go, even if it was just for business," he said with an easy laugh.

He caught me staring at him fiddling with the GPS.

"I didn't know you used these now," I said.

"Hell, I just like watching that cartoon car move on the big map. I don't need it. I know this city like the back of my hand. I used to be a cop. I know every inch of this town."

"I'm retired," he added, as if anticipating my question. "I just do this to get out of the house."

He pointed to a McDonald's that looked like a three-story toy store. "See that there?"

"Yeah."

"Used to be one level and a bodega. Guy sold stolen electronics from his backroom."

Midnight to Nowhere

A splash of black. Five figures emerged from the darkness, encircled Sarah, who was sleeping quietly in her bed, in her room. They converged on her slowly breathing body, each shape entering her turning her a deeper shade of gray until there was nothing but a shadow. And then they were gone, both her and the specters.

Beginnings and Ends

Denny looked around his room, the same room he'd been living out of for years, and saw something he never saw before: failure. He didn't live a horrible existence. No, but it was wasted. He made good money, but spent it on nothing. The last time he'd been on a vacation was years ago. He was not a workaholic, relished his free time, but had nothing to show for it.

Five years, he'd been there. At first, it was a compromise. He would live and work there because a man needs to make money. Graduate school wasn't for him. God knows he had enough of classroom stress for four years already. Kindergarten, grade school, junior high, and high school were easy, a walk in the park, but college was different. He couldn't skate by and still ace everything. He took on a difficult major and to his surprise, it was difficult. He also found he had no love for it, but by then it was--or at least it seemed to be--too late.

When he graduated, he got one job offer and it wasn't a bad one. If he accepted it, he would move five hundred miles away from home to a new state. It was either than or stay home and try to find another job. But it would mean becoming a burden on his mother and that didn't sit right with him when he had a job offer staring him in the face.

So, he took that job, and five years later he was still there even though the his deadline for finding new employment expired 2 years earlier. It was this sense of temporary permanence that kept him in limbo. He rented a room in a house when he could afford better. He let broken down boxes and other items accumulate, with the notion that he would need them all soon when he moved. He built very little personal connections because who needed them when you were only there short term? Who needed roots?

Five years later, he looked around at his room and saw it unchanged from when he came. He took account of his life and saw it unchanged except for a larger bank account. The things that mattered didn't change. There was no one in his life. He'd gotten used to it, having just a few friends, going home every couple of months, watching old friendships back home weakening. He was a ship with no anchor, or rather a ship that refused to set anchor because it felt it would leave port at any moment. But there is no plan, no new destination. In truth, when he looked closely at himself, a bitter reality emerged. He was lonely. He had gone through the motions for too long and he now feared it was too late to get back on track.

In elementary school, teachers asked them what they wanted to be when they grew up. No one really had any clue, not really, but they had a general time line. In Denny's time line, he should have already been engaged, or at least in a serious relationship. He should have been in a job he loved, or at least cared about. He would not be spending most of his free time home alone doing nothing even though he claimed that was what he wanted. If someone asked him now what he wanted to do when he grew up, he would stare at them and not know what to say. If someone told his young grade school self what he's become, the younger version of himself might come up to him and smack him on the head and tell him to snap out of it, that he was ruining his life.

Denny looked around his room and these thoughts swirled in his head, trying to coalesce into some original solution. But he could see none. He had to look for it. He packed up some things, loaded the car, and drove. With no destination.

The Dead Girl

"John!" he cried and pulled his partner's arm back mid-swing. "That's enough!"

John looked back at him, a crazed look in his eye. "He doesn't deserve any better," he said, spittle forming at the edge of his mouth. John threw another punch at the suspect sitting on the old wooden chair in the dank basement. He felt his knuckles crunch. It hurt but it didn't stop him.

Heaving and sighing, John propped up the man who was nearing unconsciousness.

"Where is the girl?" he asked.

The suspect smiled, blood flowing.

John smacked the grin off his face.

"Where is she?"

"She's gone," the man said, cackling, spitting up red.

John pulled his gun and pressed it against the man's head. His partner reached for him, but he was too late.

My Inheritance

"What am I supposed to do with a hot dog cart?" I said.

The lawyer shrugged.

"I don't know," he said. "That's just what it says."

"And money?"

"There are stipulations regarding money and property, but as now, your father has only left you the cart."

"What am I going to do with it?" I asked, probably to myself. "Can I sell it?"

"It's yours to do with."

"The man was rich. What did he do with a hot dog cart?!"

The lawyer closed his folder of files, had decided the meeting was over.

"I'll have Jenny work out the specifics with you."

Take-out

"I'll be back in fifteen minutes," I said to Jenny.

When I got back from picking up the Chinese, I walked to the front door, and it opened when I pushed my key into the lock. I knew I had locked the door. I was sure of it. Jenny was sitting on the living room sofa before I had left, but she was nowhere to be seen now.

I set the food on the table.

"Jenny?" I called. There was no answer.

I walked upstairs, turned on more lights.

"Jenny?" Again, there was no answer.

My heart began to race, beating out of my chest.

The Lam

We had just taken the Silver City Railroad Company for a million worth in gold. We relieved it from their new transcontinental rail line, which they were using to move some assets to their new ventures in California. There were six of us, and between all of us, it was just about as much as the horses could carry. At night, we eyed each other carefully. We had been together for some time, but a million dollars changes people. I doubt many of us slept those nights.

Sweet Caroline

At Caroline's Confection Shop, there are brownies, cookies, madelines, sweets galore. Sweet-tooths gather from all over to her little shop for her daily wares. For as little as seventy fives cents, they can walk away with a smile on their face, satiated.

Early Warning System

Everday, Jeffrey knows how his mother's mood is faring just by hearing the sounds of her entering the house. At around six to seven, she arrives. If the door opens and closes with a quiet gasp, it has been a good day. No one bugged her at work. The commute was not too long. If it sounds like the door is battling the frame trying to shut itself, it probably has been a bad day. Someone at work might have over-burdened her with tasks. Maybe she had to sit next to a sweaty, stinky man for her one hour train ride. Maybe she spilled coffee on herself.

Jeffrey hears the door close with a thump. Then a set of keys clatters onto a table and a purse is hurled at a sofa. He comes into the room tentatively.

"Hi mom." He offers her a mug of steaming chocolate with marshmallows. "Want some?"

She sit down and takes a long sip.

"How was your day?" he asks.

"Better now," she says with a sigh.

Charge!

I see that you are tired, men. I can see it. I am tired as well. Yes, they have sharp blades and quick arrows. We have swords that have rarely seen battle. We have knives. We have clubs. They are soldiers and we are farmers, bakers, butchers, teachers. But we have something they do not. They are but a few hundred. We are ten thousand strong. They shivering in the cold. Our bodies and hearts are warm because we know our fight is just. We are on the side of the righteous.

Hulk Smash!

Henry had it up to here, if here meant unfathomably incredibly angry. They were forcing him on another trip. He had just been back from another trip and here they were trying to screw him into another one. Everyone else in the office was ten years more senior than he was, and no one wanted to travel, so it was up to him. They would smile when they came by his desk. They would tell him about the new opportunity. New places to discover, new people to meet.

He could quit, but a new job would take forever to find. When he got home, he yelled at the dog, threw the mail across the room, and broke his hand when he sent his fist through the wall. The next day, he went into work with a cast and told them he'd be out for the next week, trip be damned.

Mango

The first time Jenny had a mango, she was six. It was a strange fragrant orange and red oval, its smell emanating, a preamble to the impending flavor. When it was peeled and she bit into it, it was heaven in a bite. Bits of mango and mango juice dribbled down her chin. She ate voraciously and with gusto. When she got to the seed, she sucked on it for an hour until it was a husk.

My One Hundred Million Dollar Breakfast

Cassie's Coffee Shop was a frequent stop for me for a number of years. I would stop by for a donut and coffee in the morning, sometimes for a piece of Cassie's apple pie. One morning, before my daily commute, I found myself inside Cassie's for my coffee and cruller. Then I found myself without my wallet. As a regular customer, they said I could pay them later, but I didn't like leaving without paying. I rummaged through my pockets and found a lottery ticket, a weekly ritual that has paid no dividends. I gave them the ticket, though they good-naturedly refused. Now I get my morning breakfast somewhere else. Cassie closed after hitting the jackpot.

Party Down

I walked through the mob of gyrating party-goers on the dance floor. They wore almost nothing and what they did wear was thin and nearly see through. I squeezed past them, slick with sweat and smelling of musk. I might have impregnated five women in the process.

Mutiny on the Icebox (Revised)

"We're going east! I've had enough of this! We're going east!"

I blink the sleep from my eyes. The sea spray has formed a thin layer of dried salt on my sunburned face and it crackles uncomfortably. The blazing sun momentarily blinds me and I have to shut my eyes again.

"East! East! East!" The voice flirts with madness.

I open my eyes and see a bearded man standing over me and pointing a shaking finger. For a moment, my scrambled mind thinks that we have been boarded by pirates, but the man has no eye patch, no parrot on his shoulder, and no blunderbuss at his side. It is only Tim.

"Calm down," I say.

"East! We have to go east!"

Our fishing boat was overturned in a storm and the only seaworthy vessel left in the wreckage was the icebox. It smells of fish and is just big enough enough for two people with a little legroom to spare. After Tim and I recovered from the freezing waters and returned some of the icebox's existing occupants to the sea, we decided that the best plan of action was to steer towards a buoy we saw in the distance. Tim remembered our boat passing it and since we were traveling east at the time, we surmised that we were going west. In the daytime, we were able to guide ourselves by the sun's position, but we didn't know how to read the stars at night, even as they shined so brightly.

"East!" He is still pointing at me.

Tim is normally very mild-mannered, but a week and a half stranded at sea can do things to a man, and I fear his mind has gone for a temporary sabbatical. The raw fish might not have helped either. I prop myself up, causing the icebox to shift. The water in our rain collectors sloshes around and Tim falls into a sitting position.

"East," he says, but with less conviction, his voice less excited.

"What is it, Tim?"

"We've been going west for days and we've seen nothing. Nothing. We need to change direction."

"Who knows where we are," I say. "We could be anywhere. We could have circled all the way back around during the night. Even if we're sure we've been going west, going east would just mean backtracking for a week and a half. Let's just wait, hope that the search and rescue crew will find us."

"We should go east," says Tim stubbornly.

"Fine," I say with a sigh. A week and a half stranded at sea can test friendships and I would rather placate him than hear him go on anymore.

The sun is still baking us straight overhead as he searches our panoramic view of the horizon.

"Which way is east?" he asks.

I go back to sleep, wondering how far Tim would have to slip into dementia before it was morally acceptable for me to throw him overboard.

Dinner Plans

"So what time are we eating tonight?"

"Huh?"

"I just thought you'd at least buy me dinner before you'd screw me over."

My Uncle, The Superhero

Uncle Marcus was a constant in my life, a bigger brother who was decades older than I was. My mom tells me it was like having two kids in the house when he came over. For about a week when I was a child, I believed he was a superhero. He told me he had the power to burn things just by touching them. All he had to do was think it. I was skeptical, but when he rubbed his hands together and then placed them on my forehead, I felt myself warm up. He said that it was just a demonstration. If he thought about it any harder, he'd turn me into a cinder. Later on, when I discovered I could do it too, he claimed that the power must have passed onto me. He said grandpa had it too and it must have skipped my dad. I was on top of the world, a kid with a super power. It wasn't until I went through a whole loaf of bread without being able to turn one slice into toast that I realized I was tricked.

Lions, Oh My!

In Chinatown in January, it is cold, but there is electricity in the air. The parade has begun. A group of young kung fu students march in procession down the the closed off route. Thousands of people peer over the barricades and shoulders to watch them perform their routine. A pair of lion headdresses follow them. They are bright red with white, green, black, and many other colors. The performers who don the heads wriggle this way and that, executing acrobatic jumps and flapping the eyelids. Another person trails behind him under the red cloth body. Their legs stick out from under the costume. Children giggle and even adults clap and applaud. Cameras click. Flashes go off. The policemen guarding the borders of the parade route whistle in appreciation.

What's-His-Name

"Now, when we meet him, remember, you introduce yourself and get him to do the same."

"Okay. Okay."

"Just remember."

"Fine! What if I can't though--you know--get him to say his name."

"Look, he introduced himself to me a while ago. Too long ago. And now I can't remember. And I can't ask him! How would it look?"

What If

I spent most of the day thinking of things that never had a chance of happening, then I thought of decisions I would have to make if those things happened. For example, I wondered what I would do if I won the lottery. Then I thought about what I would do with the money, then how fast I would quit my job. Then I wondered how I would leave. Would I treat my fellow cubicle dwellers? I would look cheap if I didn't, but what was appropriate. Something proportional to the payout? But I didn't want to do too much work to set up something, which is the whole reason to having money--not working.

In the end, I decided it might be better to forget the hassle and forgo lottery fantasies. The money wasn't worth it. Then I wondered how stupid I was to let something like that to get in the way of a multi-million dollar jackpot.

Surprise Visit

Bradley woke up to urgent knocking at the front door downstairs. He ignored it at first. Whoever it was probably had the wrong house, would realize it, and leave. But it wouldn't stop. He ran down and threw open the door.

"What!?"

A woman, young, grabbed onto the door frame panting. Her hair was in disarray and she had a wild look in her eye like a cornered animal.

"Brad."

"Do I know you?" A moment of clarity came to him. He saw the woman for who she was now, without the wild look, without the tangled hair. He remembered her five years younger, when she used to share his bed.

"Che-Cheryl?"

"We have to go. Now," she said.

"But--"

"Now," she repeated with earnest, grabbed his hand, and dragged him barefoot into the dead of night.

Mary, like many of her colleagues, was an ideal office drone. She did what she was told, within reason. She came in even when she was sick because otherwise the bosses might think that she lacked dedication and would remember it when they handed out the annual raises. She embraced a policy of non-confrontation because who needed the stress? She worked hard when she was at work, but left it all there when she went home. She didn't think about project deadlines or corporate presentations when her foot was out the door every day.

Management found Mary very agreeable (whether or not she genuinely was) and this was unfortunate when they approached her today. For Mary was having a bad day. The office intern had lost her project book that he was supposed to go make copies of. She ran late that morning and bypassed her coffee stop, so she had to resort to the office coffee, which someone clumsily spilled on her blouse. Mary was wholly not agreeable today.

So when they came and asked her to fill in at the eleventh hour to take over a quality assurance report from one of her incompetent counterparts, they did not receive the answer they expected. After they asked, they were about to leave, already expecting a yes, the heard the unthinkable.

"No," she said, without malice or emotion. Just no.

They asked her if she was busy with something else.

"Yes," she said, with no clarification.

The truth of the matter was that she was busy with other projects, but she would usually have made time for the report had they asked for her help. But she was not feeling helpful today. She was tired of doing others people's work and her policy of non-confrontation was temporarily lifted. Today, she could not brush it off. A plastic smile and pleases and thank yous would not be enough.

They walked away, dumbfounded, having never been so succinctly and tersely rejected. The rest of the day, Mary's coworkers whispered about her stance against the corner office lackeys. Amazing, they thought. Unbelievable, they thought, with no small amount of admiration.

At the end of the day, Mary left work as usual, without a care in the world after stepping out the door, and an extra bounce in her step.

Carnaval

Roberto slipped on his reading glasses for the finishing touches, feathering red paint around the underside of the model's breast. It had been a long three hours and as much as he enjoyed the art, he was glad to be done soon. The model fidgeted, tired from standing in his studio for so long, naked no less.

"Hold still," he said.

"Are you done? This paint itches."

"That'll go away."

He stood a few feet back and admired his work.

"All done," he said.

She stepped down from the pedestal, a phoenix off her perch. In two days, she would be gyrating and flitting around on a float, dancing into a sweaty frenzy. Music will sound, saturating the street in rhythmic nirvana. Carnaval is here.

NY

Lights explode in Times Square on a Friday night. The city is alive. At the stroke of midnight, the streets are still teeming with people dressed for a night on the town. Elsewhere across the country, sleepy hamlets have already started their nights, but in New York City, the scene is coming into full swing. There will be dancing and drinking and merry to be made until the last reveler clambers unbalanced into a yellow cab.

Personal Workspaces

Management's original idea was to create a more organic office environment where every worker would feel as if their six by six cubicle was an extension of their own home. The effort was to make it less sterile, less like an office. It would, the management decided, make their employees more at ease, and lead to an overall better attitude, a sunnier disposition, which would lead to higher productivity.

Whether or not this new initiative would bring results is still yet to be determined, but what it has brought--to no small amusement--is a completely different workspace. Gone are the grayness of bare cubicle walls. Gone are plainly undecorated desks. We are now a panoply of colors, awash in knick-knacks, inundated with photos of family, significant others, and pets.

Greg has long described in excrutiating detail how large his family is. Thanks to management's new decree, we now no longer need to listen to him go through his family tree. It is all there in glossy finish, covering every square inch of free space around his desk and walls.

Sarah, having an abundance of bobblehead dolls at home, decided to relocated about thirty of them to work, and she claims that this is only a tenth of her collection. Now, whenever we stop by her desk, it is both customary and irresistable to tap a few on the head before leaving. She does not enjoy this.

James brought a hammock. It is a miracle of space efficiency that he has been able to fit it inside his small work area. I am dubious that this addition in any way increases his efficiency however.

For myself, I did not bring anything to adorn my walls or desk. I have an MP3 player which I had before they were even allowed because I was bored out of my mind, but that is it. I did add a door, something which is probably outside the rules of the new corporate mantra. Now people must knock before they disturb me, which I find most advantageous to both getting and not getting work done.

Imperial Reconnaissance of the Galactic Variety

Two alien life forms are hunkered over monitoring equipment at a forward command post ten light years from Earth. They scan our broadcasts, deciphering our telecasts, figuring out what makes us tick. Anything could be important for the invasion.

They found us by our feeler space messages, send in a universally understood language of mathematics. And once they located us, translating our world's different tongues was no hard task for a race many times over more intelligent than ours.

"These beings are formidable," one says to another. "They talk about death and violence every day. Look at these news stories. Murder. Rape. War."

"It does raise some questions. We shall report our findings most hastily. Precautions must be taken. They do not seem perturbed by their violent tendencies. Only when it affects to them directly does it appear that they care in the least."

"And their forms of entertainment. Have you see their movies and television shows? They watch the same depraved actions for fun. As if it is not enough that it happens in real life, they must be shown more of it for entertainment!"

"Yes, they might be quite formidable indeed, for ones that seem so immune to threats, accustomed to death and destruction. It will be a long struggle to conquer them. Yes, it will take many lives."

"Perhaps our first contact, we shall not bother with introductions."

"What is your suggestion?"

"If they do not have the time for it, they cannot resist us. We can destroy all of them from orbit if need be. There is no need for losses on our side if they cannot be reasoned with. We can clean up the survivors afterwards. That would not be difficult."

"You make a good point."

"It might be good for them. It will be the greatest show on the planet."

"Oh yes. Won't it be exciting?"

Pray For Me, Father

He was barely breathing now. He had been on the other side of the confessional.

"Forgive me, for I have sinned," I had said to him. It was the first time I've been to church in many years.

"How long has it been since your last confession?"

"Long enough."

"What would you like to tell me?"

"I have killed, Father. There is blood on my hands."

"When have you killed?"

"Last night. And a week before that. The hunger for it is growing. I don't think I can control it."

There had been an uncertainty in his voice after that revelation.

"And yet you tell me this. This...this is a sign that you would like to stop. It is a good thing."

"You're mistaken. I have no intention of stopping. I don't want to stop."

There had been a silence after that. And then he spoke.

"Why are you here then? Forgiveness? I cannot forgive if you do not repent."

"I just needed someone to talk to. I have no one to talk to."

He had had nothing to say to this. This was virgin territory for him I'm sure. I hadn't blamed him.

"Father?" I said.

"Yes, my son."

"Thank for listening. And I'm sorry."

"You need not apologize to me. You must repent your sins before God."

"No. I'm sorry for what I'm about to do."

That is when I left my side of the confessional, entered his, and strangled him. You may not believe me, but I am sorry he was dead. He had been a good listener,

The Thief in Me

There are rumors circulating that I am a thief, a swindler, someone not to be trusted with money or small children. These outrageous accusations are at best, exaggerations. You steal--no, take--one lousy chair and all of a sudden you're an embezzler. I like to think that I'm smart, but criminal mastermind I am not.

We were getting new chairs, ones with lumbar support or some other catchy term. Bottom line: the new chairs were supposed to be ergonomic and would therefore increase worker production. So I took one of the old chairs (mine, in fact) and took it to my car at the end of the day. No big deal right? Wrong.

Jen in HR reported me and now I am without a job and no severance. They claim I was stealing company property. Where were the old chairs going, I had demanded? I got nothing in return but cold stares.

I don't know why Jen reported me, but I suspect it is because she has been harboring a grudge for me. When I first got here, I made it a point to be friendly to everyone, because I was a schmuck. I thought that would get me places, develop connections. I made the mistake of being friendly to Jen, who I am sorry to say, is a rotund girl. She mistook my friendliness for attraction and when she found out I wasn't interested, she grew cold, like an igloo.

God, what a bitch.

Counting Down

Mary closed her eyes, heard the rush of air when they opened the small prop plane's door. Two miles above the Earth's surface, she readied herself. Her partner checked her harness and the pilot gave them the thumbs up. Mary took two deep breaths, looked out the open door at the world below. She placed earbuds in her ear, turned up the volume on her MP3 player, and jumped. She was flying.

Roleplay

Nate entered the apartment in his interview attire, took off his suit jacket, and slumped down onto the couch next to his sporadically employed roommate.

"How's it going?" he asked.

Jimmy shrugged, returned to his television show. Nate got up and scoured for something edible in the kitchen.

"Didn't you have an audition today?"

Jimmy's attention piqued with this question.

"Nope. That was last week. It was for a commercial. A cereal."

"Oh. How did it go?"

"Still waiting to hear from them, but someone I know on the inside says that I'm on the short list."

"That's great. Didn't you have something going on today though?"

"That? I just had an appointment with the dialect coach," said Jimmy.

Nate found some cookies on the top of the refridgerator. He returned to the couch with them in hand.

"Since when did you go to one?"

"My agent says I need to expand my skillset. Next week is a stage combat class. I'm learning a British accent right now. Did you know there was more than one?"

"Speaking of acting," Nate said in between mouthfuls of cookie, "I need your help with a reference."

Jimmy raised an eyebrow.

"They asked for references at the interview today and I couldn't give them any names from the last place after what happened. I panicked. I made something up. I gave them your number."

Jimmy threw him an annoyed look.

"Look, I know I said the last time that it was the last time, but I need this. So can you just play along if they call? Think of it as an audition without a script."

Jimmy sighed. "Fine. Who am I?"

"Roger Hermann. I told them I was his personal assistant for eight months last year."

"Can I use my southern accent? I could use the practice. Or maybe the British stuff I've got going now."

Against his better judgement, Nate said that was fine. At least Jimmy was getting excited about it now.

"What's my motivation?" he asked.

"Your motivation is to get me a job so I can pay for my share of next month's rent."

"That's pretty good motivation, but what about my character's essence? Does he have kids? Is he happy with his life? Does he like Thai food or Italian."

Nate was exasperated. He'd unleashed a monster. "Please, just keep it simple. Just tell them I did a good job, all the normal basic stuff. Don't get carried away."

"Who, me?"

"Remember last time? When you told them I carried three people out of a fire? All at once?"

"Okay, that was overkill," Jimmy said, grinning ear-to-ear.

"So, I can count on you?"

"Consider it done. Think nothing of it, my good man," he said in an accent that was neither southern nor British, bowing dramatically while twirling his hand.

Starry Starry Night

They don't have night skies like this back home. There are too many skyscrapers. Maybe there are too many lights. I hardly ever see any stars; once in a while there is one lonely one. But here tonight, there are too many to count. There are hundreds--no, maybe thousands. They are bright specks that flicker in a blck background. When I look at them long enough, it feels as if I can see which ones are farther away. If I stare long enough, I can almost see evidence of the Earth's movement, see these celestial bodies shift one millimeter at a time.

Anew

The old soothsayer hands me an old dusty box and tells me it's a gift. I should open it, he says to me. Tells me that it will change my life. When I slip off its cover, there is nothing inside. He tells me to look closer, so I indulge him. The box is very small, the kind that might hold a ring. When I move closer to it, it starts to vibrate, then light strobes from within its interior. Then there is a flash, and I lose consciousness. When I wake up, the old man is gone. The box is in my hand and I am in a park, in a city I do not recognize. In the pond at the park, I do not recognize my reflection.

The First Sign

He leaned over the bathroom sink some more, so much so that he was merely inches from the mirror, nearly pressing up against it. He had been brushing his teeth when he spotted the blemish, a crinkle of folded skin at the corner of eye. With a mouthful of foamy toothpaste, he studied his face, turning this way and that, examining the wrinkle from all angles. He'd never seen it before. When did it appear? Maybe his skin was just dry. He pressed down with his fingers and pulled the skin taught around the offending wrinkle and then let go. He did this several times, watching the skin reform into a tiny valley each time, like a tributary from an eyelash. He dabbed some lotion and rubbed it in, finished brushing, and got ready for his first day of work.

He's Killed for Less

The nervous man walks into the room, pushes the door close. It swings shut faster than expected and slams shut with a crack. A man who sit at the desk looks up momemtarily, annoyed.

"Sorry, Mr. Franks."

The seated man looks back down at his crossword and finishes his last clue.

"Mr. Franks."

The seated, Carlton Franks, takes his time folding his newspaper and putting it aside on the corner of his desk. On his own time, when he's ready, he leans back in his chair and looks at his guest.

"I don't like being disturbed," he says, "when I'm working on my puzzles. I've killed for less."

The other man laughs uneasily. Carlton Franks is many things, but is not a comedian. He does not know how to make people laugh. What he says, he usually means. The other man thinks he is joking. He is terribly mistaken.

Case of the Mondays

I heard a stirring from the other end of the office. It sounded like a chair falling at first and I imagined Charlie Benson, who sat in that area, is quite a large man, leaning too far back and snapping the back of his new chair. But then I heard something thud. There were rolling of chair wheels, a rustling of paper, and eventually there were so many sounds at once that all I heard was a nondescript ruckus. I slid my chair towards the edge of my cubicle and stared out into the aisle like a curious groundhog. Down the row, I see other people staring out as well. Then there is a flash in front of me and I notice that it is Don from security running past me, chattering on the radio. My comrades and I emerge from our office dwellings and wander towards the source of the morning's intrigue.

As we got closer, the nose grew louder, and what we saw when we got there was a strange sight. I have never been in a fight in school. I think I might have witnessed one that one time, but it was very inconsequential. But there I was, standing in a semi-circle of similarly dressed office folk, watching two adults tussling on the ground while Don was trying to separate them.

As I had earlier guessed, one of the men was Charlie, but I doubt the sound I heard was him falling off his chair. The other guy's name was Jim I think, the mailroom guy. Jim was just as tall as Charlie, but about half his weight. It was almost comical to watch their scuffle. I am not sure any one of them landed one punch. It was more of a wrestling, tugging, pushing skirmish that spent most of its time on the ground among scattered papers and miscellaneous office supplies.

I ask around to find out if anyone knows what happened. Susan tells me that she heard from Rick who heard from Josh that Charlie had been frustrated with his computer's slow boot up time and had taken it out on his desk. He was pounding it with vigor when Jim came by and was handing Charlie his mail. Charlie's coffee cup shook from his pounding, teetered on the desk's edge, and fell, splattering Jim with coffee. One thing led to another. Jim called Charlie a degenerate desk jockey. Charlie called Jim a talentless bum.

After backup came for Don and both brawlers were sent home, we milled around to gossip before we were compelled to return to our desk by the presence of management types floating around the aisles. Back at my desk, Gloria--who was not my boss, but thought she was--came by with a stack of manilla folders that obscured half her face and asked me review them for her. I wondered whom I would have to fight to get sent home too.

Grand Theft Bicycle

A terrible crime spree is sweeping the nation. Rampant gangs of ten year old girls are amassing and stealing bikes in what many are calling the biggest crisis our nation has ever faced. We now go to our on-scene correspondent Harry Hamlin at Riverdale Elementary.

...I'm sorry. I'm told Harry has been beaten by wiffle bats and is on his way to the emergency room.

Stranded

As he got older, he saw friends' lives pass him by. They got married, had kids. One by one, he'd see them take that next step, leaving him in the dust, alone in his bachelordom. He was thirty now and he saw all the young women being swept up. All the good ones were taken, at least all the ones near his age. The good ones that were left were too young, or at least he didn't possess the self-esteem to be seen with any of them. What would people say. He was an island, while ships sailed by.

Nick

Nick is the type of friend you don't want to introduce to your parents. It's not so much that he's a person, it's just that you're embarrassed to be associated with this person. He has no sense of right and wrong, not sense of what is appropriate in polite company. Somewhere there is a men's manners and refinement class that he should be taking.

Nick is a good person, for the most part. He does have a good heart, but his sensibilities are...unbalanced. He might hug your parents when you introduce him when handshakes are good enough for normal folk. He's the only person I know that sends out an E-vite for a funeral, just for friends, not family--after all, that would be inappropriate.

All-Purpose Apple Sauce

Johnny had saved the snowball since the big winter storm, when Jessie surprised him and pelted him with the perfect snowball--a combination of a fluffy exterior and a hard slushy interior. They were friends, sure, but one good turn deserved another and Johnny set his revenge plan into motion. For months, his perfectly crafted snowball was hidden away in the freezer behind an old box of baking soda that never got replaced.

When spring time came, he was ready. Jessie wouldn't know what hit him. Johnny called his friend up and told him to wait for him at the schoolyard basketball court. In his rush to get the snowball out of the freezer, it slipped and fell onto the floor, dashing it into several pieces. There was enough of it left to constitute a snowball, but it was half its original size and nowhere near as impressive. In a quick bit of thinking, he mashed in a big glop of apple sauce, molded the concoction into an orb and put it back into the freezer. He had a couple of hours before he needed it. Hopefully it would be enough time.

At the schoolyard, with a thermos in hand, Johnny met up with Steve.

"What's up with the thermos," he said.

"Nothing. Just some hot cocoa."

"Now? You brought that here? It's almost seventy degrees out." Steve took a shot with the basketball. It clanged off the rim and he ran after the rebound.

"So?" said Johnny.

"Whatever."

As Steve turned around and trotted back, dribbling the basketball, Johnny opened the thermos, slid out the yellowish-whitish ball and hurled it at his friend. It hit him square on the forehead and knocked him to the ground. Steve touched his head and stared up , confounded and astounded.

Johnny just laughed hysterically. Revenge was a dish best served cold, sticky, and with a cinnamon scent.

Cat Skinning and Other Hobbies

(Originally published - The Short Humour Site February 2009)


Joe had spent nearly an hour digging at the dense unrelenting ground with his hoe in a futile 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 down the hoe.

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

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

Joe grunted, picked up a pickax and swung it at the stump near its base. He wedged it under a large entrenched root and using a rock as leverage, tried to pry the trunk loose. But it was useless.

"Well, there's more than one way to skin a cat," he said as he threw the pickax onto the accumulated pile of useless garden tools.

"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 a solution to the current predicament. Meanwhile, outside on the grass, Ben continued his tirade against idioms in the English language.

"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 of the chainsaw Joe had brought out of the shed.

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

Wannabe

"Why does he talk like that? I'm not his ese and you're not his homes. He's from Scarsdale, not the ghetto."

"Don't mind him."

"God, what an idiot. Where'd you find him? Home Depot?"

"What?"

"I figure that's where you usually find tools."

Trouble Comes A-Knocking

There is an insistent knocking at the door. She tries to ignore it, but the visitor will not leave.

"Come in," she says with a tired sigh. "The door's unlocked."

She hears the click of the door knob, but sees nothing. She is blind.

"Hello Walter."

"How did you know it was me?" he asked.

"Call it a woman's intuition. So you're still using that God-awful cologne?" She's old, tired, and even though has all the free time in the world, does not want to deal with him right now. "What do you want, Walter? I'm busy."

Walter is of timid character. It is a strange sight to see an able-bodied adult appear weak under the gaze of an old woman in a wheelchair. He stutters at first but eventually finds the words.

"Mr. Hollander sent me ma'am. He told me to tell you that he will be forced to turn your heat off," he says, preparing himself for the imminent retort.

"You tell him," she says, indignant, "that he can't do that. You tell him my son sent him a check in the mail and if he turns off my heat, I'll call the cops."

The man slinks away and shuts the door. She sits in her wheelchair, thinking that she is getting too old and too blind for this.

Silhouettes

They had us shoot at silhouette targets at basic training, paper facsimiles with point values that stood stationary while the muzzles of our standard issue rifles spit fire and sent round after round of lead into them. The skill was not difficult to learn. Quite a few of us became proficient at turning paper into pulp. They said the silhouette shape would condition our minds for combat, the theory being that it would make us less hesitant to pull the trigger in life and death circumstances--our lives, their deaths.

But as we are entrenched in this foxhole, sandbags being sacked by bullets and spewing debris, things are different. Even as our lives are in danger, there are those among us who fail to shoot back. Some pray. Some cower under the enemy's barrage. Some are frozen in fear. For the ones that do return fire, our actions lack the tenacity and certainty we had in basic training. Even in the chaos of battle, despite our conditioning, there is a subconscious part of us that knows we are taking lives. Here, the silhouettes move. And when the firefight is over, sometimes we can hear them scream.

Balancing Act

Without you, I can't seem to steady myself. When we were together, we complemented each others insecurities and weaknesses. You were my rock and I was yours. When we walked, we held hands and pressed against one another. Now that you are gone, there is no one to press against and I feel as if I am about to fall over. At the end of a hard day, there is no shoulder to lay my head on, so I wander listlessly from room to room in search of some hidden source of comfort. Strange isn't it, that I was the one that wanted you to go because I said my life was too complicated? And now that you are gone, I feel as if I've lost my identity.