Rare Raspberry #6

I threw open my curtains and looked into our front yard. “allllright!” I exclaimed. It looks like it snowed the entire night. Searching for my snow boots but settling on a pair of my brother’s tennis shoes I grabbed a scarf and my ruler and ran out the front door to the street. As I tromped down my sidewalk I did double finger crosses on each hand and chanted, “please let it be 9 inches, puh-lease be at least 9 inches.” Kneeling in the middle of the road I pulled out my ruler and slipped it in. The snow passed the number 9 and almost touched the 10. “alllright!” I screamed again.

Where I come from 9 inches means no school. Today was officially a snow day. I would have continued my happy dance out in the snow but Mom was yelling from the porch to get backside this instant. I had been praying all night for a snow day. Mrs. Carter was supposed to be giving us a spelling test that I hadn’t exactly studied for it.

At the breakfast table Mom kept sighing and looking out the window. She doesn’t like it when we have lots of snow. She does a bunch of driving for work, and it makes things slow and tricky. I told her that she should just take a snow day and that I’d let her be on my side of the snowball fight, but all I got was a halfway smile and a pat on the head. “Wish I could sweet cheeks, but I really need to get going.”

Mom said she would be back at 6 and that we needed to lock the doors and stay in the backyard. Yadda, Yadda, Yadda, “yeah Mom I know. It’s not like we’re babies or anything.”

Randy was taking forever to eat breakfast so I went on with out him. I figured it would give me a jump start in making a snowball collection for what would be a long, raging battle. The best thing about fresh snow is no boot marks. Standing on the back porch I looked over that yard and smiled. It was clean. No one had touched it yet, each snowflake was resting right where it landed and best of all it was all mine.

Randy and I played in the snow for most of the day. He of course won the snowball fight but it evened out because as Snow Queen I banished him from my half of the kingdom. For the most part we were being good kids and stayed out of trouble. I only broke the rules once and that was so I could do a snow angel in the front yard. I wanted it to be waving at Mom when she pulled into the drive way.

Worn out from a day of playing in the snow, Randy and I headed inside for hot chocolate and video games. I snuck in a second scoop of chocolate mix when he wasn’t looking because I like mine extra chocolaty. The video games droned on and a few hours passed. Six o’clock rolled around and Mom wasn’t home yet. Then slowly the short hand passed the seven and then the eight.

At eight thirty one of my neighbors came over and said she was going to stay with us until my grandma got there. I asked her when my Mom was coming home and she started to cry. We didn’t hear about the car accident until the next morning but Randy and both knew. Grandma only came over for emergencies. Something was wrong with Mom.

After my neighbor tucked us in Randy snuck into my room. We sat huddled on the bed together crying softly. I’ve never felt closer to my brother. We had bonded over the joy of a snow day and the aching of just wanting Mom to come home. When Randy fell asleep I moved to my perch by the window. Peeking out of the curtains I said a little prayer, “Please God, just let her come home. I promise to go the rest of my life without another snow day if you’ll just bring her back to me.” I pressed my nose against the pane and looked out to the road for a sign. I was looking for Mom or for headlights or for anything that would tell me it was going to be okay. It started snowing again, I watched the white flakes dance gently down from the sky and slowly fill up my snow angel. I closed my eyes and prayed a little harder.

G1 Removal, TKO #5

The results of the vote are in. After a VERY close vote (I was forced to use the total votes accumulated as a tie-breaker), the following four players are removed.

Alluring Apricot
Happy Honeydew
Mad Mandarine
Strange Strawberry

Congratulations to all contestants who made it to TKO #5 -- six players have already been removed. The remaining seven players will continue to the merge next week.

Tart Tangerine #6

What I remember most about her is the way her hair looked in the snow.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

She’d head outside, like an excited child, and spin around, her long, wavy brown hair fanning out around her head, the flakes catching lightly on her tresses. Her eyes would sparkle as she tilted her head back, tongue out, to catch the falling flakes. And when she’d look at me, her delicate lashes would be thick with the falling snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

Then, laughing, she’d run to me and throw her arms around my neck and kiss my cheek, then drag me out of the doorway to join her. I never resisted too hard, trying to keep the smile from my face. This was our game and we’d repeat it whenever the fresh white flakes would come tumbling out of the sky like icy acrobats, whirling in a ballet of motion on the chill winter wind. Then we’d head inside for hot cocoa or mulled wine and I’d watch the snowy dandruff fade from her hair in the firelight, slowly melting away.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

Just as I watched the life melt away from her eyes as I held her in my arms that night, next to the twisted metal heap that was my pickup truck, when the black ice, snow’s treacherous companion, took the wheels out from under us like a new-born calf learning to walk.

That night, it was the burning fuel that melted the snow in her hair, and the sound of my crying, rather than her laughter that filled my ears. But she still tilted her head back to catch one last downy flake on her tongue.

Then, looking at me through lashes thick with heavy snow, she made me promise to spin in the snow and remember her.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

TKO Question #6 for Group 2

Be inspired by this photograph. Write. (You can click it to make it larger). For example, you could describe the picture, write about a scene that occurs in the picture, someone has memories of this picture, etc. Just ideas not limitations.

**

Responses

Responses marked with an asterick were the most popular responses to this TKO.

* Rare Raspberry
Alert Apple
Classy Cherry
* Playful Peach
* Tangy Tomato
* Mighty Mango
* Tart Tangerine

Players Removed as a Result of This Vote

Bright Blueberry (inactivity)
Benign Boysenberry
Crazy Clementine
Pretty Papaya

Gutsy Guava #5

I couldn’t be sure if the hazy air was a result of a weather anomaly, or the aftermath of the drugs.

I could be sure that it didn’t matter anymore, really.

I had woken an hour earlier in a friend’s house downtown, practically dragged off of the couch and all but thrown out the door, my body had apparently impeded on the post-party cleaning frenzy that came earlier with each passing weekend. As walked down the street, a pulsing headache and sore arms mocked me as every new years resolution, promise, and therapy session ordered by my parents came flooding back in waves of guilt and self-resentment.

Those sixth-grade anti drug movies, about 18 year-olds with brains that MRI’s revealed to be equivalent to a 60 year-olds.

Those ex-junkies who spoke at assemblies, trying to hard to steer the impressionable youth away from destitution and addiction.

The way my mother would look at me when I told her I was going out for the night, and that she could trust me.

My tone when I said that I wasn’t stupid

All of it hovered around me, creating small voids in the foggy air as they moved with me down the street. I inwardly repeated that guilt and regret were biochemical reactions, and that last night I had the utmost confidence in my brain chemistry altering decisions.

But even then I wasn’t sure.

I rubbed my eyes while turning to look for a coffee shop where I could eat that wasn’t a starbucks. It was harder than it should have been, and sleeping in contact lenses did nothing to expedite the process. Having deviated 2 blocks from my original course home, I managed to find a hole-in-the wall café where the cappuccino I ordered was excellent, as was the croissant. The warmth, and my first food in what seemed to be ages did little but remind me that reliance on substances is necessary, and that some of my choices worked hard against sustaining me.

My eyes still hurt.

So did my head.

And I felt pretty bad about things, about my life, about my health. I had heard the sayings, the maxims, and the mottos. That it wasn’t a party if it happened every night, and health being a priority.

The sun crested the horizon, illuminating the dewy air.

I sighed.

I was tired, and needed sleep if I wanted energy to go out tonight,

Lively Lime #5

Julia stopped reading and took off her glasses. Squinting at her red wristwatch, she saw that it was 9:03pm. Time to get ready, she thought. Stretching her arms as she sat in that ergonomically correct yet chronically uncomfortable chair, she let out a little sigh of completion. Cap that highlighter. Close that 3-inch thick textbook. It's time to have some real fun.

She walked over to the mirror in her tiny studio, a home to suit her seemingly tiny life. Black hair in a pixie cut. Pale skin. Some imperfections. Lanky. Grey turtleneck and blue jeans. Julia was invisible in grad school. That quiet girl who never talked in class, and when forced to talk, gave mediocre responses. Branded as "eccentric" by the kind, "loser" by the snobby. Nobody knew the truth beneath the surface, but that suited Julia just fine.

Stripping off her civilian clothes, she opened the closet and pulled out a sleek black dress shirt. $40 from the men's section at a trendy store in the Village. Silver paint splatter design all over it, which always made her feel like someone had shot the Tin Man in front of her. Baggy black pants, gathered at the top with a red belt that matched her watch. She bent down on one knee to lace up her chunky blue platform boots. Some spiking gel, glitter on the cheeks, sunglasses at night. All set. Julia grabbed the heavy black guitar case and walked out the door.

The club was about 20 minutes away by subway. As she balanced herself on the metal pole, she thought about the day. Another boring class, no questions asked, no insights gained. It's not that she didn't like law school. The subjects were interesting enough, tons better than undergraduate classes, but it just didn't excite her. Some of her classmates, whether feigning intelligence or not, at least seemed to be genuinely inspired and enthused by the subject. The way their faces lit up when answering a question. You can't fake that confidence, she thought. Clak clak clak, the subway continued to hurtle and sway. I can't get worked up by it. I need the education, I'll need a job. Being a lawyer will be steady. I'll make a good living. I'll be happy that way. That's what she told herself everyday. She generally got along with most people at school, but nobody thought about her much. An average student. An average person.

She entered the brick building by the side door. It was almost 10:00pm. "Julia!", a call by some familiar voices. Madi, Nick, Steph. Her bandmates. Her family. Perhaps the one good thing to come out of college. Together they made up Goldfish Royals, a group of kids who decided to escape their boring lives by making music together. Madi came up with the name. She was the one with pet goldfish, and while staring at the little ceramic castle in the fishbowl one day, had a stroke of genius. Not bad for an entry-level financial analyst. Nick was getting his PhD in biochemistry. Steph was a physician's assistant, planning to apply to med school in a couple of years. They were all up-and-coming professionals, resigned to sweaters and collared shirts and sensible shoes most days of the week. They were all invisibles, part of the massive collection of educated yet faceless individuals fighting their way to the top like everyone else in this metropolis. And now they were standing together backstage, pvc shirts, faux-hawks, mascara, spike heels and all.

Julia played bass, a job for the stoic one. The one who was mysterious, always calm and logical, keeping everyone together with her leadership skills. In short, the lawyer. She stood off to the left side of the stage as Madi belted the rock songs the four of them had written together. If the stockbrokers could see her now. Nick played his guitar with the skill and reverence of someone who had handled his share of dangerous test tubes in his life. Cautious, yet ambitious. Steph's head waved up and down as she wildly but expertly struck down her drumsticks, ferociously releasing the angst and anxiety that culminated from her day job. She wants to be a surgeon.

Goldfish Royals finished their set to roaring applause. Here, they were legends. Their names and faces were known. They watched other bands play, and lounged around in the café across the street until dawn, trading stories from the office and school while swapping ideas for future songs. As they emerged, mascara a little smeared and eyes a little bleary, they saw the misty light over the skyscrapers and fell silent. A chilly breeze suddenly swept through and howled over the naked trees. It was 6:00am. Classes and work would start again in a few hours. Time to return to reality and invisibility.

But there would be another gig in a week.

Happy Honeydew #5

The shutter clicked.

"I don't know why you invited me here," Amy heard from a voice on her right, "You know I hate sunrises."

Amy lowered her camera and turned her head to look at her girlfriend.

"Because I keep hoping that you'll change your mind," she said as she reached in to grab Elizabeth's hand and give her a soft peck on the lips.

They sat on the park bench together in silence for two minutes.

Elizabeth stared at the buildings piercing the sky instead of the sunrise lost in a maze of branches.

"I have to cancel for Sunday," Amy said, "I forgot I have plans."

Elizabeth stood up.

"Do you know why I hate sunrises?"

"Elizabeth," Amy whispered quickly.

"I hate sunrises because there's no magic in them," Elizabeth began as she turned around to face Amy, "You sit there for half an hour, maybe more, while light blinds you. There's no moment where the sun conquers the horizon. There's no moment that you can pinpoint and say 'That was it. That was the sunrise.'"

Amy stood up and tried to grab her hand again, but Elizabeth stepped away.

"And after half an hour, maybe more," Elizabeth continued as she pushed her blonde hair behind her left ear, "all you've really done is just waste your time."

Elizabeth turned around and began walking toward the skyscrapers.

Amy sat back down and let her brunette hair drape her face.

***

That night Amy's husband asked her why she had a picture of a sunrise in the city park on her bedside table, but instead of responding Amy rolled over to face the table and closed her eyes.

Strange Strawberry #5

I pushed open the door and walked, almost as if I was crawling, out of the basement with the sight of ladies still dancing in my head. It’s not often that I get beat up by them, but when I do, it hurts. This time, as is usually the case, it was with what I consider “friends” that encouraged my abuse.

The morning sky was the beautiful aftermath of the chaos that had befallen me. Like a hurricane that has just cleared, the amazing beauty of the above looked upon something wrecked. However, the contrast was internal and could only be felt or seen by me. The lack of external bruises or scars makes me look like any other person crawling out of the depths of the city at six in the morning. The way I am carrying myself probably also makes me look a member of the hung over. Frankly, I wish I was – the alcohol would have been cheaper.

I half-heartily stumbled over the park – the scarce oasis in the city – and lay down upon the dewy grass. The smell of the grass brought back my sense of smell that had been destroyed from the hours of inhaling the cigar and cigarette smoke.

I needed to make a choice. The money I lost with my pocket kings to those queens was the entirety of my bankroll. As too many individuals that bad stories (and at least one good movie) have been written about, I gambled more money that I had the ability to lose. I knew I was good. I am good. These things happen.

Those two phrases have repeated in my mind over trivial and significant losses, but this was different. I knew my limits and the allure of building my bankroll high enough to play “real poker” allowed me to get thrashed. Can I do this again? Will I ever be able to give up the game? I already know the answers to these questions. Right now I know I want to quit because the pit of my stomach is giving me one of the worse feelings in my life. But, I will shake this. It is the inevitably of humanity in our ability to survive through the worse and come back for more. Only, I do it to myself.

Is it still addiction if I want to do it?

It may take awhile for me to return to the floor, but to dance with the ladies again seems all but inevitable.

Alluring Apricot #5

What is up high to the king of aces?
That which displaces
My physical being
Into seeing
The full indigoes that I'm breathing

Where I've meet my brother in Brooklyn
On 15th w Market
On hot summer days
On other ends of the world
Where it just 3 degrees short of separation
That I take my coin and
Drop it
So that you may find
Whats lost on this pavement

I remember walking high on city light
Burning radiance
Coded my existence with metric symmetry
Of our distance
looking at the vanilla sky the night did lay.

Is The Lady still holding her heavy books?
felling the crushing weight og the night upon us
the darkness sure to come
of names that have yet to be inscribed?
Does her back grow weary?
yes! for she is
holding on to Fire that those men
tring to not get burrned in the process
while they Try to use to it
to light their cigarettes

Pray you love; remember
I havent forgotten the words, exchanges
Between our lips
And smiles of advice given

I left my coins
on the street, below the budding vanilla sky
To buy you a better way out

I hope you find
The correct ingredients
for a full meal

Here love; eat these words
Like those that eat peddles
And keep you tongue colored
With the anticipation
Of something sweeter

Precious Pear #5

I intended this to be read straight through, but I also included an insane number of hyperlinks for anyone who is interested in the references. Sort of like if the Met made magnet poetry...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

(Meternity)

The autumn rhythm broke with
The creation and the expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise.
Venus and the lute player marveling at
The Allegory of the planets and continents as they watch
Christ carrying the cross; the adoration of shepherds.
The great wave splitting,
Blind to the approaching thunderstorm.

The winter scene in moonlight.
After Adam and Eve were Samson and Delilah.
Screaming woman with blood on her hands
as the angel of death takes the head of a man.
Blessed art thou among women, but cursed by the Puritan.
Heed Icarus, the bird in space,
Light but antigraceful.
Wave your white flag, before you too fall.

Two hands welcoming Spring; the Epiphany.
Young man and woman in an inn,
The accommodations of desire.
Chance encounter at 3 a.m. flames until five p.m.
The night creatures.
The flesh eaters.
The garden of love.

Summer morning dawns on a new face
Taking the road west over Brooklyn Bridge.
The little fourteen-year-old dancer with eyes wide open.
The young woman with a water pitcher pours the cup of tea-
Now the Titan’s goblet.
The woman stepping out; portrait of a lady.
Victory for the prisoners from the front.

Lucky Lemon #5

I woke up freezing on a park bench. The rising sun crept through the trees across the green grass and into my eyes. What time was it? Maybe 5am. Had I really been out all night? As the grogginess subsided, I grabbed the blanket around my shoulders and pulled my knees to my chest. “Hey there” whispered a voice from behind me. I turned and smiled. “Cappuccino?” He offered me my cup and he sat down with his. Under the glow of the rising sun the moment felt like a movie, fleeting and perfect.

“Crazy night, huh?”

“Yeah.”

A perfect ending to an outrageous night. A few of my girlfriends had dragged me out to the city to go dancing and drinking. Wanting a quick drunk, I slammed a couple of Long Islands and headed out to the dance floor. There’s something freeing about letting your body move in the company of your closest friends. I smiled and laughed and danced without regard to the rest of the room. The next thing I know, there’s a tap on my shoulder. I whiz around in a drunken state. “Hey!!!!” I squealed and threw my arms around him. Bryant was an old friend and a close friend at that. After college we’d split ways, he getting a job back home and I moving to the city and going to grad school. I’d thought I’d fallen in love with his best friend and so we’d dated a long time.

He stayed and drank and danced with us. A few drinks and shots later, we took our leave of my friends and went strolling through the city late at night. We caught up on old times as we made our way back to my apartment. Messy as always, I pulled out my stash and an old blanket. “To the park?” He smiled. We used to spend long nights smoking in parks.

A cold night but we’d had too many to care, we laid the blanket across the grass. Watching the smoke swirl its way up to the stars, our minds danced around philosophical games we used to play. Letting it fill my lungs before exhaling, I’d smile and puff out slowly. In the distance we could hear the music from a club. I got up and strained to hear. The song changed. “I love this song!” I grabbed his hand and yanked him up. He hated dancing. “There’s blood in my mouth ‘cause I’ve been biting my tongue all week” I sang. I twirled through the park and he followed me with the blanket. It finally hit him and he joined me. Dancing through the park singing our favorite old songs, we’d make out every now and then. Just a quick slip of the tongue or a roll in the grass and we were right back to it. Nothing serious, just some innocent flirting and fun. After an hour we got exhausted, and I’d passed out on the bench. He’d covered me up as I fell asleep. I don’t even know where he slept.

So here we sit. Watching the sun rise, drinking our coffee, and relaxing. As the oranges and yellows melded with the blues and purples, the world woke up before us. It wasn’t a future, just a moment, beautiful and fleeting. It’s the reason I live in the city. Privacy and comfort in the bustling public.

Mad Mandarine #5

Part of the Trade

I have loved them all, each in my own way. No one can buy love. But at least you can rent it from me and the others like me. We exist on the fringes of society- not illegal in this day and age, just illicit. After all, with so many people crowding this planet, there will be enough people offering this service to band together and protect each other. It’s advantageous for everyone to just make it legal. It’s a public service, when looked at rationally. Overpopulation and crowding demands operations like mine; it gives people hope that a slightly better future could exist.

We exist in the little black and white photographs in the back pages of certain magazines. Our numbers are written inside the doors of public bathrooms. Screen-names and tantalizing ads pop up unbidden when people stray onto graphic websites.

Men usually. But not always. It just seems as though men are willing to pay for the personal touch. They don’t simply go out and purchase the proper equipment when they can’t find anyone else to take care of them.

I know why they come to me. And I still love them. I have loved every man and woman whose shadow has darkened my door. I know that they want more than their own weak hands. I know the despair. I know that they cannot bring themselves to communicate with those that they truly love. They won’t ask a loved one to fulfill their dark desires.

They will ask me. They will ask me to lay them back, to get comfortable. They want me to listen before I start with the more technical aspects of my job. Most women apologize. They feel bad that they cannot find the release they need on their own. Most men don’t actually apologize, but the shadow of guilt in their eyes says enough. Nearly everyone who lies down enjoys feeling the weight of responsibility drop from their shoulders. It’s in my hands now.

I love them all. Each client is unique, even if the process is fundamentally the same. A few ask to be blindfolded. Some want to drink first, others want a cigarette waiting for them. Every once in a while some of them want to be tied down. They all get what they want. But it leads to the same place eventually.

They lean back and relax under my professional hands. I slowly slide off their shirts, speak in a soothing voice and inject the potassium chloride. I’m happy that I can offer the services and the attention to detail that people need.

One more loved one gone. 16 billion to go. They come to me knowing that our overpopulated world will be slightly better for their children if they leave. They come to me when the stench, noise and sheer press of humanity gets to be too much. They come to me for peace.

RIP

Killer Kiwi #5

Free and easy, said my art teacher. A spirit of play. That’s what I want you to draw. Something like that in the city.

Okay, I thought. I went to the Sheep Meadow, because it was easy to get to. And free. I went early in the morning, with my sweatshirt hood up around my ears, as it was cold. I sat down in a spot that I hoped wasn’t too wet with the dew and opened my sketchbook and attempted to be inspired. Free and easy.

I held a green pencil loosely, like a Ouija board planchette, but nothing came. I looked around the park. I looked, trying to make them inspire me, but everyone and everything was tied up and under strict orders from management. Dogs on leashes. Trash in brown cans with hard plastic tops. Women on budgets. Babies on anti-depressants. Joggers on diets. Everyone on cell phones. Eight in the morning in October in Central Park and it wasn’t happening. I looked across the park to the apartment buildings off 59th. They looked expensive and difficult. I dated a girl once whose parents lived in one of those apartments. The parents were also expensive and difficult.

The park in general was difficult today, although it wasn’t the park’s fault. It was the city’s, for standing too close. The park was trapped, boxed in. The park went to a bar and got drunk and said something bad, and then there were four linebackers on all sides of him looking straight down and thinking about how its face would feel on their fists. And the linebackers were 110th St and 59th St, and 8th and 5th Avenues. Just crowding, crowding.

I loosened the strings on my sweatshirt hood because I felt too closed in by the whole thing. I should move to somewhere with more space. Like...Africa. Or...the moon. Except on the moon everyone’s pictures from art class would look the same, so that wouldn’t be very good. I should move back to Connecticut. No, that was the worst idea yet. I would stay in New York and I would pass my art class even if it was very stupid.

I was still in the park. I didn’t like this assignment. Free and easy. It sounded like a feminine hygiene commercial. A spirit of play. I thought of picking up a stone and tracing around it and calling that finished. Or my right hand, filling it in to be a peacock or a turkey like kids do. Except even my right hand was always doing boring city work. It had to write business letters and sign credit-card receipts. Sometimes I dropped things between the stove and the fridge and I made my right-hand fingers fish them out. Not much playing to be had. I put the green pencil away and sat with my hands loose on the page.

I looked again at the meadow, at the paths that lead down to all that cute shit, the zoo and ice rink and the old guys playing chess, and it looked all wrong. Babies on leashes. Dogs on anti-depressants. I made a telescope with my left hand, the hand that never got any respectable jobs, and looked again. Even worse. Babies on diets. Dogs on cell phones. And the sky purple and damp behind black morning branches.

Oh, hell, I thought. I slid my left hand, still curled into the telescope, onto the sketchbook and traced around it with a pink pencil. I drew in the white moon on my thumb and a long scar by my wrist. Outside the hand I drew the apartment buildings off 59th, impenetrable and stone and with very tall, serious doormen. Inside the hand I drew the park, very small, but I drew it upside down, because that’s how it was that morning. I drew the dogs on diets and the joggers on leashes and the mothers in trash cans with hard plastic tops. Then I slammed the book shut. Because my ass was getting wet from the meadow. And I had to go to class.

Pleasant Plum #5

otčina (Home)

Prague, Czech Republic . She tried to explain it. The early spring air mixed with the grime of pollution. It was the smell of pastries, taxi exhaust, Astible blossoms and people. Idyllic and corrupted, ancient and modern. A place of tradition and tourism and the brilliant minds of Europe.

The faces across from her stared in uncomprehending boredom.

She had snapped senior year. Many thought the academic pressure had been to great, but it had really been the horrible vision of her future. She dutifully went to the psychologist and the counselor, but there was no change in her mind. She was set in her course. The year after, she worked her ass off. The only time to think and decompress was on Friday nights, where she flopped down on her puke green couch; not really thinking, but staring off to distant lands that only she could or would see.

Finally, it was time. A plane ticket was purchased. Armed with four semesters of German, a hiking pack, a good pair of walking shoes and hand sanitizer, she attacked Europe with an intensity that would have ended World War Two a year early.

She bought guides along the way. She would run into travelers, who taught her the survival skills. Hostels, Canadian Flag patches and discreetly “dumpster diving” to save a euro or two. She dreamed with 20 other twenty somethings in a hostel with bunk beds. She slept with men, and she might have slept with women.

Her first night in Mainz, Germany; she sobbed violently but quietly in her bunk. It was the day she hadn’t spoken a word in English. She was heaving silently, as though her body was being assimilated by something strange and yet beautiful. Roles of identity were shifting in her mind, for so long she had called herself a visitor, and now a mysterious longing wanted her “home” in Mainz.

She washed dishes, became a English tutor, and tried to hide the “ya’ll” that would give her away.

It was Prague though, that she instantly fell in love with. Enough people who spoke English, who could give just a glint-memory of home, and more than enough wonderfulness to keep her busy for months…

which then turned into years.

But she was back, warped by her time “abroad”, with more grey than her companions lounging around her unfinished scrapbook. Honestly, it was a relief for her; to do something girly, and go through the photos and process what had actually happened.

Here she had proof. When she had left, most her college friends had thought her mind had snapped.

She looked to their faces. She tried to explain where she had gone, what she had done, how it had changed her. She could see flashes of confusion and enmity as she accidentally used a German or Czech noun.

When they left, she heard one of her friends, indistinguishable from the rest of the “Midwest Twangs” (as she called them now) said:

“Boy, she really has changed, she almost seemed foreign”

She touched the picture of Prague lovingly, and remembered the smells of home.

Brash Blackberry #5

Ethan was losing blood fast. The wound on his lower left stomach didn’t look good, but we couldn’t stop driving. Jenn kept pressure on the monstrous bloody hole, but Ethan kept screaming out in pain. We had few options for where to go. The cops would find us if we went to a hospital.

My sister and I thought it was a good idea to include her boyfriend on our neighborhood cocaine operation. He seemed like a trustworthy guy – he didn’t sniff and was smart enough to hold a finance job at a cell phone company. That’s really all we could ask for.

His name was Ethan and Jenn had been with him three months before telling him the truth about how she could afford her loft. She was afraid that if she kept her secrets away from him for too long, they would build a relationship without truth. She was always the romantic one.

We drove back to our apartment building. One of the clients was a young doctor, so we took Ethan there. By the time we got there, Ethan had lost a lot of blood. Mid-day traffic can be killer sometimes.

We put him on a bed and the doctor doused the wound in hydrogen peroxide and pulled out the bullet with some kitchen tongs. Almost immediately after taking the bullet out, Ethan’s heart stopped beating. Jenn cried deafeningly on his shoulder, blaming herself for telling him about our business.

Our operation was simple – we’d sell one kilo of coke split in small doses every six months. It was the perfect way to supplement two broke twentysomethings with jobs taking them nowhere fast. I was a freelance journalist and she was a manager at a low-rate tanning salon. And to afford a decent apartment in Brooklyn, you have to have something extra on the side. We only supplied to people in our building and the one across the street. We figured keeping it small was the safest move.

An opportunity had come up to put my sister and I ahead for the year. We had to go outside of our area, 12 blocks south to be exact. I should have known it was a bad idea to begin with. One of our clients had told us about an old man who was willing to spend $60,000 on a kilo. He was having a party.

Jenn and I put Ethan’s body in a large brown garment bag we hadn’t used since a vacation four years prior. We drove to a sinkhole we’d heard about that was just south of New Brunswick late that night and dumped the body. As we cruised northeast on I-95 toward home, the sun was coming up through Manhattan’s skyscrapers. We knew things would never be the same.

We needed one person to scope the place out, someone who had never been in on our operation before. Jenn thought Ethan would work because he had an attraction to crime, but he had been too scared of jail time to ever engage in it alone.

I approved after I met him and we talked about the plan. All he had to do was dress like a pizza delivery man and knock on the prospective buyer’s door to get a look at the place. We didn’t want cops or gangs involved. After he gave me an okay, I’d go in and sell the product.

The plan was incredibly simple.

TKO Question #5 for Group 1

Be inspired by this photograph. Write. (You can click it to make it larger). For example, you could describe the picture, write about a scene that occurs in the picture, someone has memories of this picture, etc. Just ideas not limitations.

**

Responses

Responses marked with an asterick were the most popular responses to this TKO.

Lively Lime
* Lucky Lemon
Gutsy Guava
Precious Pear
* Pleasant Plum
* Brash Blackberry
* Killer Kiwi

Players Removed as a Result of This Vote

Alluring Apricot
Happy Honeydew
Mad Mandarine
Strange Strawberry

Gnarly Grape #4

Finally. After her 6 years spent at a boarding school, she would finally get to see new faces as she arrived at college. She would finally be around people more like her, people that wouldn’t prejudge her, and people that would help her grow. And she would finally escape that label she carried as an albatross through her middle and high school years, “bitch.”

In 9th grade, she caught the eye of Max, the football quarterback who was almost universally considered to be the social alpha. But when he wrapped his arm around her near her mailbox, she instinctively elbowed him right in the side of his ribcage, breaking one of his ribs. As he hunched over in pain, he screamed, “You bitch! If you weren’t a girl, I’d break your fucking face in!” But he didn’t need to hit her to cause her agony. Within an hour, the school loathed her for injuring the team’s quarterback. Her name was no longer Zoe. It was, “Stupid bitch!” Other students knew that in order to have any chance at going anywhere in the social hierarchy, they must not have anything to do with her. As she went up in grade level, she tried to socialize with the new students each year, but to no avail. When they found out she was the Zoe that had heard about, they didn’t want anything to do with her. Hating her became part of her high school’s culture.

But she would soon be in college, with the ability to escape her prior torment. Her perceived identity would finally be in her own control. She walked onto her freshman floor with confidence and soon began to busily socialize with all she could find. She knew she was strong enough to get over her past. She was going to make these 4 years the best year of her life, and no lecherous football creep would stop her.

On her floor, there were four students, three girls and a guy, who would constantly hang around each other as they went to the same high school. Because she went to a lot of the same classes, she began to hang out around them a lot and considered them as friends. She finally fit in. She had beaten Max.

But soon thereafter, the male friend had groped her after what was supposed to be a simple dinner. Convinced that her friends would support her in her time of need, she quickly walked to one of her female friend’s room and asked her to come outside, since she didn’t want everybody knowing. She then told her about the whole situation. As Zoe ended, she expected her friend to get angry and begin to raise hell. But after a long pause, the only response was,

“Well, if you were wearing that, you were kindly asking for it. It really wasn’t his fault.”

Zoe immediately slapped the girl without hesitation, disgusted that she was being blamed. She was so angry that she didn’t notice the retaliatory fist that slammed in the side of her head so hard that Zoe collapsed into the ground. She wasn’t only able to hear the words, “Crazy bitch!”

As the salty taste of her own tears mixed in with the dirt on the ground, she came to the conclusion the four were always just friends with each other and not her. Her name would always be “bitch.” No escape.

The more things seem to differ, the more things have truly stayed the same.

Bright Blueberry #4

When she told him reservations were at the place where they had their first date, he knew something was going on- that she had something to tell him.

Not that he was one to talk, with the twice - weekly vists to Dr. Missel and the constant struggles...

He hoped this wasn't about the fact they hadn't jumped into bed together yet- they had been going out for six months, but she hadn't made it an issue and he was glad of it. While he could kiss her without gagging, anything more he wasn't sure about.

She really was a lovely woman- one who deserved more than him. Tall, beautiful, with long strawberry blonde hair and makeup that was constantly impeccably done, she was practically the picutre of femininity. Dr. Missel said this was good, that if he could become attracted to her, that he could be attracted to all women. He just... there was something missing that he had always wanted, and until last year had usually gotten.

That last breakup was painful. It showed him that he would never truly be happy without changing himself, making sure he was the kind of happy that he was supposed to be. God may have made him attacted to men, but he had decided not even that mistake would get in the way of a normal life.

So, there he was, at seven thirty, waiting for his beautiful girlfriend and their table. He would make himself love her, would find a way to tell her that he had once been different, had once been on the edges of society but for her would leave them.

"Well good evening darling"

He turned around and she was... a vision. The dress, the hair... she would have made any other man practically break their neck going for a second look. He offered his arm and they strolled back to the table in the corner.

They were into dessert and coffee before she finally told him why all the worries about the evening.

"I know we haven't... done anything that most couples probably would have at this point. I know you haven't brought it up, but I know you probably are getting frustrated- most guys are by this point, I would imagine. But... well, darling... I haven't told you this because I truly feel I could love you, and I didn't want to lose you. I want to sleep with you... I want to spend my life with you... but I cannot do that without telling you I've been lying. I am not what I appear to be. Even my name could be called a lie."

He knew. Suddenly, it all became clear and he felt some internal line snap. He loved her precisely because she was the way for him to love a woman and be honest with himself.

They had Dr. Missel at the ceremony, just so they could both laugh at the irony. The truth was it didn't matter what they each looked like naked, because they were in love, and screw anyone who said how they felt was wrong just because God made a few mistakes- or maybe purposeful alterations- along the way. This was true love- the kind of love that embraces everything about the other person- even the things that they had thought should change.

Pretty Papaya #4

Sandy was still unpacking by the time her husband Chuck came home from work. They had bought the house in Livingston about a year ago. Chuck received a promotion at work but the position was at a branch in a small town two hours away. Commuting from Harpursville would have been difficult so they decided to move. They bought the house and were ready to move in but an unfortunate turn of events led them to delay their move. Chuck ended up having to commute every weekday for a year. One day he finally broke down and begged Sandy to finally move into the house. He could not take the stress anymore. After much hesitation, Sandy agreed.

“Sandy, I’m home,” Chuck shouted as he put his coat away.

“I’m in the kitchen trying to make dinner and trying to unpack at the same time,” Sandy responded.

Chuck walked into the kitchen and kissed his wife on the cheek as she was putting coffee cups away.

“How was work today?”

“Ok,” Chuck said briefly as he tasted the concoction Sandy was making that evening. She always liked to try different recipes.

“Not too bad. What is it?”

“Oh it’s a mixture of this and that,” she responded. Just like he didn’t like to talk about work, she didn’t like to talk about what she was cooking. It wasn’t that they didn’t enjoy working or cooking, it was just that they knew from experience that the other person was just asking to be polite; Sandy was not interested in hearing about stocks and he wasn’t really interested in cooking. Asking was really just courtesy… and responding briefly was really just courtesy as well. It was kind of a marital understanding.

“So, did you get a chance to meet any of the new neighbors?” Chuck said as he grabbed a beer from the fridge.

“Well, yes actually; the woman from the blue house next door came by. Her name is Helen. She wanted to welcome us to the neighborhood. Her husband Bob is the town sheriff.”

Sandy chuckled.

“What’s so funny dear?” Chuck inquired as he sat at the kitchen table.

“Oh nothing, it’s just that she reminds me of the stereotypical small town wife. She brought over a pie. Then she invited herself in. Then she started asking a thousand and one questions about you, me and Alex. Nosy little woman.”

“What did you tell her?”

“About what?”

“About Alex?” he said, this time being more insistent on her for specific details.

“Oh she just asked how old Alex was, what Alex liked to do, things like that.”

“And, what did you tell her?”

“What do you mean, what did I tell her Chuck,” Sandy said, with a sense of annoyance. “I told her Alex is 19, that she has a huge collection of antique dolls, that one day she hopes to work as a stage manager for Broadway.”

Chuck slammed his hand down on the table. “Those were all lies,” he asserted.

“Lies? No they weren’t lies. Maybe you want them to be because you never wanted Alex to pursue the theatre.”

“Sandy, dear,” Chuck said more calmly as he got up from the table, put his arms on his wife’s shoulders and starred into her eyes, “Alex was 19. Alex had a collection of antique dolls. Alex wanted to be a stage manager for Broadway. But Alex is gone.”

“No. Alex is going to come home. She wouldn’t have left us,” she said as if a combination of sadness, hopelessness and anger consumed her. Quickly changing the subject, she said, “Dinner will be ready soon. Go relax and I will have it for you shortly.”

As Chuck walked out of the kitchen, Sandy said one last thing, “I showed Helen Alex’s homecoming picture. She said she is beautiful, and that she is not surprised she was crowned queen.”

“She was beautiful dear,” he said.

“She is beautiful dear.”
…
As the week rolled on, Sandy continued to unpack her house. On Friday Chuck teased her on how long it was taking her to unpack and organize each room.

“You’re such a perfectionist dear.”

“Well, I don’t want people to think I have a messy home.”

“Who’s the stereotypical small town wife now, huh,” he laughed. She smiled but was hardly amused. “Would you rather me not unpack, not clean and leave everything unorganized?”

“No dear, of course not.”

On Saturday morning, as Sandy continued to unpack and organize the house, Chuck decided to clean up the front lawn. The hedges needed to be clipped and the lawn needed to be mowed. So he woke up bright and early and began his chores. As soon as he walked out of his house, Bob hollered from next door, “Well good morning neighbor!”

Chuck walked over to Bob to shake his hand. “Well good morning neighbor. I’m Chuck. I assume your Bob. Your wife Helen introduced herself to my wife Sandy the other day.”

“Oh yes, Helen has gotten to you already. She’s a bit…. nosey…. but don’t tell her I said that.”

“What dear?” Helen yelled from the house.

“See,” Bob said to Chuck. “Nothing dear, I am just talking to our new neighbor Chuck.

Helen quickly came out of the house, wiping her hands on her apron. “Oh hi, I am Helen. I met your wife.”

“Yes she told me.”

“You have a lovely family. She told me all about you and your daughter Alex.”

“Yes, well…”

“Your daughter Alex, will I get a chance to meet her,” Helen inquired.

“Helen, what did I tell you?” Bob annoying responded.

Chuck just looked at the ground. It was obvious that Helen already knew.

“Well…” Chuck began, “Alex… Alex disappeared about a year ago, right before we were about to move here. But you probably already know that. I mean, someone buys the house next door to you and doesn’t move in. I am sure I would be suspicious.”

He continued, “After Alex disappeared, Sandy didn’t want to move here because she was afraid Alex would come back to our old house. I told her it was silly; Alex knew where we were moving, but she insisted. I finally convinced her only a few weeks ago. Of course that was only after…” he paused.

“After what?” Helen insisted.

“Well, her friends were really supportive at first. They helped her look for Alex. They comforted her almost every day. For almost a year Sandy and her friends revolved their lives around Alex’s disappearance. But eventually it consumed them, all of them. And traveling back and forth everyday from work here back to Harpursville consumed me as well. So one day we all sat down and talked about it. All of us except Sandy agreed that we had to accept the fact that Alex may be gone forever. We would never forget her. We would still hope that she was alive. But we had to learn to live our lives again. Of course, my wife wouldn’t accept it. She said she felt so alone after that; she felt like no one cared anymore. I told her that maybe we needed a new start and convinced her that Alex would know where we were. And then we moved here.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much what the realtor told us,” Helen added.

“Helen, get back in the house,” Bob yelled. Embarrassed that her husband yelled at her, she scurried in the house.

“So,” Chuck continued, “I think it would be best for Sandy if she didn’t get to the point again where we revolve our lives around Alex’s disappearance. I try to avoid talking about it too much. If it wouldn’t be too much to ask….”

Bob interrupted. “Oh, I will not try to bring it up, and I will tell my wife not to either. Sorry about her. She’s…”

“No, don’t be sorry. Sandy needs friends. I am glad she came over. It’s just this one thing.”

“Understood,” Bob finished. Then they started talk about sports.
…
Monday came and Chuck went to work. Sandy continued to unpack and organize. She was working on the living room when she heard a knock on the door. It was Helen. When Sandy opened the door, Helen invited herself in.

“Would you like to chat over coffee? Oh, you don’t have to stop unpacking, I will make it.” Helen said to Sandy. Sandy was totally shocked at her rudeness, but she figured she could use a break.

“Ok, just one cup though because I have to finish working.”

They both went into the kitchen. Helen fumbled through everything to find the coffee, the filters and the coffee maker. Sandy just sat down, finding it amusing that Helen had to work that much harder to make the coffee. She thought, “That’s what you get for being rude,” as she faked a smile.

“Your husband came over on Saturday and introduced himself. Nice man,” Helen began.

“Thank you.”

“Yes, he told me all about your daughter.”

“He did?”

“Yes. I was just wondering, when was the last time you saw her.”

Sandy became suspicious. “One morning she left for work and told me she would be home late because she wanted to stay go for a swim at the Y. She never showed up to the pool. No body knew saw her after she left work. Why do you want to know?” Sandy said, but this time with a rude tone to her voice. “I really don’t think….”

Helen interrupted as she brought the coffee over. “I just think I can help you. Here’s your coffee. Sandy took a sip.

“How can you help me and my daughter? You don’t even know us.”

“Oh, I do know you, and I know your daughter.”

Sandy put her cup down and looked at her confusingly. “What?”

“Oh yes, we met quiet briefly about a year ago.” Helen’s demeanor changed. This wasn’t the same nosey woman Sandy met a week ago.

“Alex actually met my son Eric first. They met online through some local chat room. She was looking for some new friends here. You know how teenagers are. He even sent her a picture. She sent him one too. She was quiet beautiful in the picture. Though she had on a little too much make up I must say. And her skirt, it was a bit short.” Helen continued, with a disgusted look on her face. “Anyways, I had an idea of what Eric was doing. He was supposed to pick her up and bring her here one day after school. He was going to show her around.”

“Your son…. your son took Alex?!?” Sandy shouted at Helen.

“Not quiet. I found out about their meeting. I waited for him to bring her here but he didn’t. So I went looking for them. I found them at the Poppins Park. They were making out in the back seat of his car.”

“So, WHAT HAPPENED?” Sandy shouted even louder as she slammed her hand on the table.

“I yelled at them from outside the car but Eric told me to go away. I quickly went home and told Bob about it. He said he would take care of it. That is the last I heard of it. I haven’t seen Eric since. But if you want to know where Alex is, you have to go through Bob.”

Sandy was enraged. “Get out of my house! LEAVE NOW!!!” She burst into tears and grabbed the phone to call Chuck.

“Hello?”

“Chuck…” Sandy said through panting and sobbing, “Chuck, Helen said Bob knows where Alex is. She said she met his son. They came here, but Bob did something to them. Come home, hurry!”

“What? What are you saying Sandy?”

“JUST COME HOME!” Sandy said as she slammed the phone down.

It took Chuck 10 minutes to get home. Sandy was waiting for him by the door. As he got out of the car she started shouting and pointing at Helen and Bob’s house.

“He knows where she is! HE KNOWS WHERE SHE IS!”

Bob came out of the house to see what all the commotion was about. Chuck ran over to him, grabbed him by his shirt, threw him up against the door and shouted, “Do you know where my daughter is? Do you? Come on!”

“No… no I don’t know what….”

“Your wife told Sandy that she met your son…”

“What? What are you talking about?” Bob looked confused. Their other neighbor Rick was now in the middle of the commotion. He ran over to help. “What’s going on here?” he said as he tried to pull the two men apart.

“Rick… Rick, this lunatic is trying to tell me that MY SON met his daughter.”

“But Bob, you don’t have a son.”

Chuck took a step back. “What?”

Sandy ran over. “But your wife just told me….”

“My wife… she’s ill. Don’t believe a damn thing she says.”

“I’m so sorry Bob, I didn’t know.”

“No Chuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for her to cause you any more heart ache.”

Chuck walked away quickly, with his face at the ground in embarrassment. “Come on dear, let’s get you inside the house,” he said to Sandy.

Sandy cried for the rest of the day. Chuck felt terrible. Even though he promised himself he wouldn’t let Sandy revolve a day around Alex’s disappearance again, he went back on his rule for just this day. It was justified.
…
It was nighttime. It was quiet. Chuck kissed Sandy good night.

“Try to get some sleep Sandy, ok?”

“I will try,” she said sadly.

She turned her back to Chuck. Then she began to think, “I haven’t had a day like this in a while. Chuck was so attentive. And I didn’t have to do a damn thing! I hope all the people in this town are as loony as Helen. Your husband followed Alex and Eric! HA. Very funny. No, I made sure Alex never came here. I was the center of attention in Harpursville before Alex came. I was the homecoming queen. I was the center of Chuck’s work. I couldn’t just let her come here and get a job until she decided when she wanted to go to college. She would get too involved. This is my territory, not hers. Besides, she is much better off dead. I’ve never had so much attention in my life. Sure those dumb bitches at home, they were just too self absorbed to keep paying me attention. But not Chuck. Oh no, he’s the best. And I am off to a good start here. Already getting sympathy and I didn’t even have to try. Ha! Well… I guess it’s time for sleep. Have to get my beauty rest. Eyes are probably puffy from crying…” She began to yawn and faded off to sleep.

Crazy Clementine #4

This Father's Day, Cate gave her dad new speakers for his iPOD; Nancy gave her husband a new pair of fancy sunglasses she picked up at the strip of fancy stores two towns over. Nancy cooked a nice barbeque dinner - ribs, smashed potatos, corn on the cob and Cate baked a nice strawberry rhubarb pie. Kyle, the man of the day, sat outside on the patio and listened to the baseball game on the radio, basking in the relaxing sun of a warm summer's day.

That night Kyle and Cate walked to the Dairy Queen to pick up Blizzards and dipped soft-serve. Meanwhile, Nancy was in the guest bedroom of the Ringwald's, their next door neighbors of 15 years. Nancy was giving Andrew his Father's Day present, so to speak, as she had every Sunday night since one drunken dinner party 6 years ago.

She didn't bother to fix her smudged lipstick when she finally made it home, holding an old grocery bag with bottles of Dansani (or what were once Dansani - now just tap water, as she had used this alabi for months now - and no one in the family drinks bottled water wanyway - it was just easier to reuse week after week). She kissed Kyle hello and went outside to her garden. Only Cate noticed the smudged lipstick and messed hair, but she kept quiet, not quite sure what to say.

Nancy always knew she would never have the audacity to cheat on her husband and then look him in the eyes afterwards. Her earlier boyfriends all knew when something "was up" - when she would start having conversations with darting eyes and blushing cheekis. But Kyle never took his sunglasses off when he was around the house and in the soft, quiet moments before they would fall asleep, his gray, smokey eyes were fixed on something distant; distant and non-existant.

The next morning, Nancy when downstairs to fix a cup of coffee and saw what Cate's cold, silent stares have been screaming for years, a bright yellow Post-It with big, black letters --

"...he's blind, you b*tch. how could you?"

Alert Apple #4

The ambush came just a two clicks from the U.S. Firebase Delta along Route Jaguars. Our armored H2 rattled like a tin cup as rounds slammed into the driver's side. Mike was rambling on with another of his tall tales about anti-insurgency ops in Guatemala in the 80s when his voice abruptly jerked to a stop in a spray of blood. All I could see was flickering muzzle flashes in the deepening evening shadows of an alley. I rolled out the side door just before the RPG hit.

The smell of burning human flesh is oddly sweet. The corpse on the ground had a surreal Halloween quality, until I recognized Darryl's signature Mets baseball cap atop the blackened face. I managed to roll over before I puked. Next thing I know, I'm looking up at the business end of an AK-47 in the quivering hands of some Iraqi teenager. He jabbed me in the forehead with it, babbling at the top of his lungs until some older ones came over and pushed his rifle away with their own. I tried to raise my hands in surrender -- pulling my 9mm wasn't going to do anything except get me riddled -- but even this motion was apparently threatening. Or maybe they just wanted to beat the shit out of an American.

Calling this place a cell is giving it too much credit. There's a foul shallow depression in the corner, paint covering the small window, and a rusty metal door that looks like it would collapse under the weight of a good Pee Wee hockey check. No good though, I can see four or five Iraqis hanging out in the next room all the time. Hell, maybe they are Syrians, Jordanian or Saudis -- the intel we got from Mike's friend in the U.S. Army G-2 indicated that the local insurgents were being supplemented by foreign "volunteers".

It wasn't supposed to be like this. When I got kicked out of the Army in the 1990s during the post-Gulf War drawdown, security companies like Blackwater were an international sideshow. The media painted us as mercenaries for hire, repeating exaggerated bar tales picked up from South Africans who claimed to have worked for Executive Outcomes in Angola. Hell, maybe some of those were true. Those Afrikkaners were fucking nuts. Mostly all we did was bodyguard work for a few intrepid business guys trying to drum up oil contracts in the lawless Caucusus.

With its chaotic aftermath, the Iraq war was damn good for business. Blackwater expanded its operations by a factor of 10 in just one year after the bombs started going boom and every mujahadeen wannabe converged on Mesopotamia to give it all to Allah. We started landing contracts in the millions to protect contractors building power plants, water systems, and schools. Actually, they usually just kept doing the same shit over and over, since the 'deen blew everything up almost the very night construction finished. Whatev. It paid good.

Yeah, I'm rambling. But I've got lots of time. At least I hope I do. I've been trying all that shit that they teach you in the Prisoner Prep seminars -- build repoire, talk about your family, make them see you as human. The bastards don't even seem to notice. I don't think any of 'em even speak English. When I tried my primitive Arabic, the mean one just laughed and knocked me in the forehead with his AK-47. He likes doing that. Alot. Fucker. I think I caught his name once -- Mahmood. Dark, shiny eyes -- the glare of the fanatic. He only laughes when he's about to hit me. Last week (I think, timekeeping is a problem) he starts laughing and waving this poster at me. It's a still shot from that Berg video, right at the start of the beheading. So now I've got that to look forward to. His buddies think he's hilarious.

The door rattles -- oh looky, its Mahmood with "dinner". I won't even describe what passes for food here. I'm hoping that the fact that I am still alive is a good sign. Maybe this bunch is one of those profit-seeking outfits instead of the religious freaks. Blackwater will sometimes pay ransom.

Something's different this time. Mahmood is alone, no jeering audience. The room behind him is silent. He pulls a cover off the food plate and thrusts it at me. I'm expecting the usual maggots, but there's only...my cell phone?

What the fuck?

I look up at Mahmood. He's twitchy, glancing over his shoulder. He's worried. He suddenly grabs me by the head, shoving me out into the tiny hallway. I snatch the cell phone from the plate in mid-stumble. The outer room is empty, everyone's gone. He says something incomprehensible to me, then repeats it, louder, desperately. He waves with his hands, shooing me forward. Then he brings up his rifle, prodding me out into what must be the main room of the house, then towards a small wooden door. Yanking the door open, he jabs me with the rifle one last time, forcing me out into a deserted street.

I gotta get out of here. I run down the narrow street and into an ally. I can hear explosions in the distance, the sounds of a battle. I dial the Blackwater emergency number. Before I can even hit send, out of the corner of my eye I see a tan vehicle rumble slowly by on the street, followed by another. Army patrol!

I scream and uncontrollably scramble out into the street. The gunner atop the Humvee skews his M-60 to draw down on me. I throw myself down on the street as the patrol slides abruptly to a dusty halt and the call goes up, "American!" Maybe that is just me yelling.

The patrol commander trots over, under the watchful eyes of two PFCs constantly scanning the deserted rooftops and doorways. "Jesus Christ, you guys are a sight for sore eyes! Never thought I would be so happy to see Army pukes again!"

"We got a call about a half hour ago from an informant, reporting an American civilian wandering out on the streets here," the captain says. "This is a really bad area to be, sir. Insurgents pretty much own this neighborhood."

I start to clambor in to the commander's Humvee as the convoy prepared to move again. "Don't I know this, captain. They had me up until about 3 minutes ago."

"Three minutes? So you weren't on the street a half hour ago?" I can see the gears turning. The captain yells to the driver over the growing road noise as the patrol accelerates, "Continue the search. There might be another one." Returning attention to me, he asks, "How the hell did you get out here?"

"Fucker just released me. They've had me for a month." I shake my head, trying to clear it of the sense of unreality that abruptly grips me. "I swore Mahmood was going to cut my fucking head off."

"Mahmood?"

"Yeah, that's what I think his name was. Real bastard. Real hero. I don't fucking know."

The captain yells to the driver, "Send the word. Return to base."

I look askance at his second change of orders in 20 seconds.

"Mahmood's our informant," he says to me. "You're one lucky bastard."

Rare Raspberry #4

When I check myself out in the mirror and think, “damn this coat makes me look fat” remind me of the people on the street who yearn for something warm to wear.

If I start to ransack the cupboards and complain that nothing sounds good and that there is nothing I want to eat, give me that look that says there are millions of people sick and dying because they don’t get food period.

Next time I start having back cramps and whine the whole day about how much it hurts show me pictures of the children born paraplegic or soldiers who have lost limb and movement, fighting to defend my country.

When I start pouting because I want a nicer car, computer, more clothes and a better ipod, gently nudge me and start talking about the people who had their lives washed away to practically nothing by a tsunami.

***

Sometimes I get stuck in a rut and think my life is hard and that I face more than my fair share of challenges. This isn’t actually so. When I take the time to truly evaluate my life, I realize how lucky I am. My life is charmed and even though it’s hard sometimes, if I take a step back I can see it’s really not quite as hard as it seems.

Mighty Mango #4

Art was furious at his son, Jim. He'd been sitting with the envelope from the drug testing company while he was at soccer practice with his mom. It was the second one that had come back positive and he was seeing red.

When he finally got home, the argument dragged on for what seemed like hours.

"I can't believe you're on drugs. Didn't your mom and I raise you right? Didn't we teach you what the consequences are?"

His son yelled back. "I'm not on fucking drugs, Dad! I don't care what the fucking test results say!"

"Don't you talk to me that way!"

On the couch, his mother Jane sobbed. She hadn't said a word since getting home.

"Right, Jim. I'm sure the tests are just wrong, even though we did them twice. Just admit what you did and your punishment might be less."

"No!"

Jim stormed off into his room and slammed the door. Art was even more furious at Jim because his drug episode came in the middle of his mother's sickness. Jane had maybe 6 or 7 months left to live, and now she had to deal with this on top of everything else. Art would have to deal with his son's slide into drugs even as he lost his wife of 20 years.

Jane kept crying.

"It's okay, Jane," said Art. "We'll figure something out. We'll figure out how to get him off this shit."

She just cried harder. Art couldn't bear to see her like this. The ovarian cancer was giving her unbelievable pain, and he couldn't even imagine what it felt like. He sat down on the couch next to his wife and took her hand.

"Jane."

"Jane, talk to me."

She heaved a bigger sob and finally managed a word. "Art. It's... he's..."

More tears.

"Is it something else? Jane? Do we need to take you to the hospital?" He was afraid of the question but he knew he had to ask it. Or should. There's not really an instruction manual for "husband of dying wife."

"It's me, Art."

Art just looked confused. "You? It's what? What do you need?"

She shook her head. "No, Art. The drugs. It's... I... me."

She confessed.

The pain.

It had become unbearable.

She saw a 20/20 report on medical marijuana.

She tried to smoke it but couldn't.

She baked it into cookies and hid them in a jar on top of the cabinet.

And found the cabinet empty one day.

She sobbed.

And Art sobbed too.

Playful Peach #4

He wheeled himself up the ramp to the stage and the whole room began to stand, clapping for him. He looked out at the faces of the legislatures and saw some of the most powerful men in New York State all standing and clapping for him. He knew that his father was close behind him, standing proudly having worked so hard for his son to get this praise and recognition. He sat there in his chair smug and proud of what he had been able to accomplish. If only she was here to him now.

It was about five years ago he left for school. His father told him that he would be happier there where he could get full attention and care whenever he wanted it. He tried to reassure him claiming that Massachusetts wasn’t that far away, but to Jimmy it might have well been the moon. Because he was angry with his father he allowed himself to let the cerebral palsy shake him like he was having a seizure. Then his father would go into a panic knowing he could do nothing to help his son. He knew that he could make his father hurt more by making him pity his condition rather than attempt to articulate angry sentences that would come out sounding more like grunts than insults.

He hated it when he first got there. The toys littering the common room made him feel like a child when he wanted to be treated like the 15-year-old young adult that he was. He was even more insulted by the badges that they made everyone wear with their pictures displayed next to stickers of stars and kittens; where were they, in grade school?

The whole place was unbearable and he was planning to escape until he met Muriel. She was the first person in the school to speak to him like he was a person instead of like he was a baby. She had beautiful big chocolate colored eyes and hair the color of fresh corn. Her body was curvy, even under her plain green uniform, (which looked hideous on the other teachers), made her look bright and youthful.

He couldn’t wait for Muriel to come visit him everyday to talk with him asking him to put shapes in the right peg or to count the number of popsicle sticks she placed before him. Normally he would have reacted in anger, throwing the blocks and a tantrum, but for her he would do anything. He was convinced that she was falling in love with him because she treated him so warmly. She made him feel like there was always a warm, soft blanket wrapped around his heart.

Everything went wrong on Valentines Day. He had carefully crafted a plan of how he was going to make his move believing that there was no way she could possibly make him feel this way and not return those feelings. He had saved up the few dollars his father sent him and bribed another teacher to buy him a box of chocolates claiming that he wanted them for himself. He knew that she would be in the teachers lounge later that night and it was there that he planned to make his move.

He somehow got out of his room and wheeled his way into the lounge praying that his wheels wouldn’t squeak and alert a nosy teacher. When he had almost reached the door he realized that it was open just a little bit so he peaked in. He saw Muriel, radiant as ever and not in her uniform but a beautiful, red flowing dress. He wondered if she had been waiting for him and somehow intuitively knew that he was coming. Just as he was about to wheel into the room he saw another person walk up behind Muriel from the other door and cover her eyes. She smiled the sweet smile he thought she reserved only for him and turned around to shower the man with kisses and hugs. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing! He didn’t know how to deal with the feelings that he was having both intense anger and extreme sadness simultaneously. He recognized the man, another teacher, and the hatred in his heart grew. He memorized the man’s face and slowly began to plot how he could get revenge.

Jimmy waited a few months and finally the right time came. The man was assigned to help Jimmy bath in the morning and at night. He allowed him to do so for weeks knowing that his father was planning to visit at the end of the month. When his father came Jimmy told him that the man had touched him in his private places and made him promise not to tell. His father was outraged and more angry than Jimmy had ever seen him. But, before he reacted in anger he hugged Jimmy so hard that he felt like his father was going to crush him, he kissed Jimmy’s face and told him that it was going to be okay and that he would never have to go back there again. Jimmy smiled not because of his father’s comforting but because everything was working out like he had envisioned.

He just wanted to get the man fired but in his wildest dreams he never envisioned what his father was going to do. When they got back to New York his father starting calling all the most powerful people he knew tearfully telling them what had happened to his son and why he felt that he needed to do something about it, not only for Jimmy but for other kids that could have been hurt. His father was a powerful Lawyer with a lot of money and even more friends that had connections so it seemed certain that something big was going to occur. At first Jimmy thought about telling the truth, but then the reporters started coming around and he liked all the attention he was getting. He played the part well, bravely holding his chin up making sure to let his hands shake in front of his body revealing his condition whenever cameras were on him. He broke the hearts of anyone that heard his story, each time delivering the rehearsed tale more passionately than the next.

Then the big moment came. After spending a lot of money and asking for even more favors, Jimmy’s father did it. Not only did the man get fired and school where Jimmy went shut down he also convinced the New York State legislature to pass Jimmy’s law. This law allowed the state to screen and have more control of where disabled children were sent when they went out to out of state facility centers. But, most important to Jimmy, it meant that people would never forget him and all that he had survived. He got the revenge he had plotted and the attention he felt he rightfully deserved; life couldn’t have been better.