Online Onslaught Four

Players' Identies

2006-07-25T13:04:00.000-07:00

[The IDs that are blank are because I did not get an email response either way from the participant. If you are one of the blanks and want your info added, then comment in this post and I will edit it.]

In addition to creating this list, I added an * by all of the most popular posts each TKO. You can see these by clicking on each TKO listed on the far right.

Reminder: Ongoing Onslaught is begining! If you would like to play, drop a comment over there and I will be sure to send you another invitation to join. It's "ongoing" so you can join at any time, but I have posted the first prompt, if you'd like to get in on the action. There is even gonna be a podcast!

Week Removed/Alias/Real Name/Blog Address(es)

1/ Cheery Cantaloupe/
1/Bizzare Banana/Annon
1/Arty Avacado (inactivity)
1/Creative Crabapple (inactivity)
1/Perky Pineapple (inactivity)
1/Newbie Nectarine (inactivity)
2/Cool Coconut/Annon
2/Odd Orange
2/Wacky Watermelon/Shea Donato/Cellar Door/Flickr
2/Cultured Cranberry/Annon
2/Naive Noni/Bill Vigen/Blog
2/Gnarly Grape
3/Alluring Apricot
3/Happy Honeydew/Annon
3/Mad Mandarine/Caity Ross
3/Strange Strawberry
3/Bright Blueberry
3/Benign Boysenberry
3/Crazy Clementine/Anna/Banana Esq.
3/Pretty Papaya/Julie/Julie
4/Tangy Tomato/Annon
4/Gutsy Guava
4/Rare Raspberry/Kiyomi Bolick
4/Alert Apple/Annon
5/Killer Kiwi/Andrea Saenz/Peanut Butter Burrito
5/Lucky Lemon/Vivienne/Xanga
5/Plesant Plum/Elizabeth Hobbs/Tandy Hard
5/Classy Cherry/Anna Grey

The Top Six

Ranking/Alias/Real Name/Blog Address(es)

1/Mighty Mango/Ian Samuel/Burning Light of Reason
2/Precious Pear/Sara DeGroot/Cheap Speech/Last.fm
3/Tart Tangerine/Alan Tauber/Prof To Be/Unexposed Visions
4/Lively Lime/Maria W
5/Playful Peach/Caroline/Travelouge
6/Brash Blackberry/Sean Ludwig/Double Think

Final Results

2006-07-23T02:43:00.000-07:00

First, a huge thank you to everyone. I am very sad to see the game come to a close. Join over at Ongoing Onslaught if you are too.

Everyone was fantastic this year. I really feel like the quality of the game increases so much. Thank you everyone for giving it your all and really upholding the spirit of the game.

Thirty-four contestants began in the game. This week, only the top six remainded. Based on the average rankings recieved over TKO #11 and #12,

Sixth place is Brash Blackberry
Fifth place is Playful Peach
Fourth place is Lively Lime
Third place is Tart Tangerine
Second place is Precious Pear
First place is Mighty Mango (MM averaged the #1 ranking both TKO #11 and #12)

Here's the "Voice Game." If you don't know many other players, then this will probably be useless to you. However, if you do, here's the players who submitted their information (if you chose to be annon or you didn't tell me your info, then you aren't included).

Aliases:

Clementine
Papaya
Mango
Kiwi
Cherry
Watermelon
Plum
Raspberry
Blackberry
Tangerine
Mandarine

Real Names Submitted

Sean Ludwig
Alan Tauber
Julie
Shea Donato
Ian Samuel
Anna Grey
Elizabeth Hobbs
Anna
Caity Ross
Andrea Saenz
Kiyomi Bolick

If you want to be considered for the "best voice finder" award, match up these real names with the aliases and email me your list within two days (due midnight CNTL Monday).

Precious Pear #12

2006-07-20T23:36:00.000-07:00

When she was fourteen, she became the island’s youngest kumu hula. When she was thirty-seven, she became the youngest widow. She always said Papa was her twin soul. Mom was full of overly-poetic sayings like that. Whether she actually believed them or just liked the way they sounded, I never knew. I was only in grade school when it happened, but I still remember the endless stream of “I’m so sorry” fruit plates and “we’re here for you” haupia . The accident must have been pretty damn terrible because to this day nobody will describe it to us. If Mom lost her faith after that, nobody blamed her.

August 14, 1963: I saw him fore dem took away yesterday and saw da blood flow back inta da ground dat gave him up. I could see da minit his eyes changed and da beauty dat bilong him passed to da world he was meant fo. Dat nait da skies cried fo da beauty it lost afore it should. Cain’t pretend I wen wish had come later, but I ain’t in no hurry, cuz I know we go hui in da next world and us bein on earth just da first day in all da years comin.

It felt like the water was closing in all around me- I had to get out. I applied to nearly every college in the States and chose the one that sounded least familiar. I promised her I’d come back when I was done, but I never did. Neither did my little brother when he followed me three years later. I don’t think she ever forgave us for that. She was always so damn stubborn. Wouldn’t even move to New Hampshire to live with her daughter and only grandchildren. Instead she only saw them once a year, if she was lucky. Had to stay at “home”. How can you call something a home with no family around you?

January 5, 1974: Sapos you go an drop a bunch o seeds in da ocean at da same time; dem no gat stay wantaim fo da end. Dis ocean it got diff’ren plans for dem all. Some sindaun top, some fall. Da currents go an push an pull em to diff’ren pieces of earth. Fo sho it breaks my heart fo da yangpela ta never know me as yo kin should, but it no can be any way but. I got da Wailua in my veins and da Pu'u-ka'ala in my lungs. No can sooner leave dis island den walk outta my own skin. Ho, if I was ta fall any place but dis place, da good Lord might no figure where ta look.

Sometime after we all moved away, she must have stopped caring. Spent all her time laying out on the beach, smoking those disgusting cigarettes again. We all thought she’d eventually remarry, but as far as I know, she never even went on another date with a man after Papa. It was sad to watch really, knowing that she spent the rest of her life wishing she had been taken, too. If she wasn’t so lazy, I would have worried she’d do something foolish to end it all.

October 2, 1983: Yu see days and months and years pass by ya and yu start gettin tired of dat safe way about people. Yu begin an do what it is yu want ta do… what yu shouldha been doin all along. Ain’t no reason ta hold on ta dis body- ain’t what yu take with. Not my spirit that be smoking, and t’aint nogat wrong widdit. We all come an go wit da same, no matter what we do here, oh yeah no? Real love, dat be what happens in da forever. But dat don’t mean yu got to ignore samting else while yu here. I know he’ll be forgivin me for it and I’ll lettim have his forty years dancin wit angels 'fore me.

Bad habits and inactivity aside, I still thought we’d have her for awhile longer. Actually, I was convinced that in a few years, when she finally started feeling her age, we’d finally convince her to move into a home here where we could watch over her. Sometimes I wonder if it surprised her, too. Or maybe she spent the last couple years fearing that the end was just around the corner. It’s that kind of stuff that makes me terrified of growing old, like maybe a quick death in the middle of life is the way to go. That way you never have to worry about it.

July 16, 2006: I feel it creepin on in. Not da kine sad heaviness dat way yu hear tell. Mo like a light air fillin up my bones so dat each morning I wake a little closer to Heven til one day I git ta be more of dat next world den dis. Nothing yu can do about it wen yu pau, so no reason to be happy no be sad. Just gonna happen.

She didn’t even want a funeral. Only wanted to be burned and spread out on the beach as soon as possible. We couldn’t make it out there with such short notice, so the money was wired to us. The only other thing she left to anyone was a box she had mailed to me. Nothing but some old records, a photo album, and her journal. Probably full of how much she hated us for leaving her alone and how miserable she was without Papa around.

Some people just give up too soon.

Lively Lime #12

2006-07-20T22:36:00.000-07:00

I had lived a good life. I was a good person. It was only proper that I had died peacefully in my sleep, as a healthy old woman. A death reserved for the lucky few. I remember taking a shower, putting on my cotton pajamas, as I had done every evening for decades. I remember laying on the crisp and clean sheets that July night, next to my husband, as a cool breeze floated through the screened window. I remember closing my eyes slowly as I drifted into the night….

And then I was greeted by fanfare. "WELCOME TO HEAVEN!!!", two winged angels in grass skirts cheered loudly at me. They quickly draped flower garlands around my neck before I could say anything. A spectacled man dressed in a sky blue tuxedo with the name tag "Petey" smiled and gestured towards a brightly lit boulevard lined with white buildings. Everything was happening so fast. And the ground looked…fluffy. White and fluffy. A little boy in a white vest ran up to me and opened a small box.

"Cigarette, ma'am?"

"Um…I thought those were bad for us. Why are you offering one to me?"

"Oh no. These are Seraphim 100s, made with cherubimleaf. Additive-free. Even the Boss smokes them. Please, try one."

I still looked skeptical.

"Besides, what do you have to worry about, ma'am? You're already dead."

Good point. I took the cigarette. It lit up automatically when I put it to my lips. Amazing.

Petey put his hand on my shoulder. "Please come with me. I can take you to your residence."

I followed, all the while thinking…Hawaiian angels, flower leis, white neon lights, cigarettes. Was this Heaven or Vegas?

After a short walk on the fluffy yet surprisingly solid street, we came to a charming ivory-colored cottage. A little garden filled with white roses lined the front yard. Next to the front door hung a small wooden sign, engraved "Julia Daniels." Everything about the house was perfect, except that it didn't have a roof. "No need for a roof. It never rains here," said Petey, in reaction to my puzzled face.

Of course, how silly of me. Heaven, duh.

"This will be your piece of paradise for eternity. We hope you will be comfortable. Mary and Elizabeth will visit you soon and introduce you to your neighbors. In the meantime, enjoy your new surroundings, and congratulations on making it into our community." And with that, Petey closed the door and left.

The house was actually quite small, only two rooms, but comfortable. One room was decorated in country classic style, with green pastel fabrics and big windows that let the warm sun in. In the corner was a small birdcage. I gasped.

"Pippin!!" I ran over and looked at the tiny green parakeet inside. The markings on his sleek feathers were unmistakable. It was my first childhood pet. God, I cried so much when he died after 7 years. I opened the cage door and he hopped out onto my wrinkled old finger, no different than he did when it was the chubby finger of a 9-year old. I could sense his words, "I've been waiting for you, Julia. I've missed you." I almost cried again.

With Pippin now perched on my shoulder, I explored the rest of the house. One thing that prominently stood out was a white reclining armchair in the middle of the second room. A large white flatscreen computer monitor hung from the ceiling in front of it. I went over and sat down. A white keyboard popped out from the side of the chair. I laughed when I looked at the logo on it.

Apparently, Heaven uses Macs.

Guess it suits the decor, I thought. I switched on the monitor. I almost couldn't believe what I saw.

"Welcome to LifeVision, a feature of your own personal paradise, where you can watch your entire life recorded on HHHDTV at your leisure. Also, with the easy push of a button, you can activate the new LifeStats function and calculate the frequency of any activity you engaged in while alive. Please contact Noah at the help desk if you have any questions. Smile, as we take a quick photo for our records." A little camera suddenly flashed, and my black & white picture appeared on the screen. "Julia Daniels, registered member since July 12, 2065."

When I was younger, I had always joked about wanting to know how many times I had said the word "potato", or how often I cursed. How many times did I sneeze in my life? How many hugs did I get? How many cupcakes did I eat? And here was the machine to do it. I was really starting to love Heaven.

And so for quite some time....a day, a week, a year, 10 years, who knew anymore?....I relived the happy moments of my long life. I watched my 5-yr old self playing catch on the beach with my parents. I saw myself in the high school ski club. My first "A" in law school. My band, the Goldfish Royals. Nathan. His excited face on the rollercoaster at Coney Island. Our wedding. Traveling across Europe and Australia together. Starting my own firm. Retiring and taking care of our grandchildren. Snorkeling in the Caribbean for our 50th anniversary. At some point, I dozed off. How long was I asleep?

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. I opened the door. It was Nathan! And in a snazzy white suit, no less. He had flower garlands too. No cigarette, though.

"Surprise, Julia. Miss me?" , the little wrinkles forming around his eyes as he grinned. I hugged him for hours. We walked into the house, not noticing that the sign by the door had now magically changed to "Julia and Nathan Daniels."

"I want to show you the most wonderful contraption." Then I stopped, and it was my turn to grin.

Where there had been one armchair, there were now two, placed side by side and close enough for an old married couple to hold hands as they reminisced for as long as they ever wished.

We had made it. We were in Heaven, and it would be forever.

"Want to find out how many times we said 'I love you?'"

Pippin just chirped happily in the background.

Playful Peach #12

2006-07-20T22:03:00.000-07:00

My mother died when I was 22. She had ovarian cancer that rapidly became stomach cancer and the treatment for that is a pine box (so I overheard a snarky doctor say). I knew that it was coming as soon as the doctor said it and it gave me this dull pain right under my ribs almost as if I had been punched a long time ago and the bruise stayed deep inside me. While my friends were moving into big cities, sleeping with random men and “finding themselves” I was planning a funeral and trying to stop my Uncle Irving from grabbing my ass. I felt suffocated by the visitors and by the constant flux of scallop potatoes and tuna casseroles that seemed to multiply in the kitchen. The worst part of all of it was I think I was more upset about my loss of freedom than by my mother’s death. Well, maybe not more upset but at least equally so. I needed to get out and fortunately for me my chance came sooner than I thought.

My mother had been planning to go on a cruise of the Caribbean islands as soon as she discovered she was dying. She told me that dying meant you got to do things you always meant to but never quite got around to it. She died two weeks before her ship was set to take off. At first I felt kind of bad for even thinking I would go on the cruise in my dead mother’s place but I was set at ease by my sister Cindy’s urgings, “Mom would have wanted you there anyway Sadie, you were always her favorite.” She meant it to cheer me up but even mentioning how my mother thought of me realize that I had to think of it in the past tense. She would never ‘think’ of me again.

The moment I walked on the cruise I realized what a bad idea it was. For starters, I was never told that it was a cruise for people 60 and over, (I thought maybe I could meet a man on this cruise, not see one die.) Apparently this was a cruise for single elderly people to mingle and fall in love in their ‘twilight years.’ I was miserable as soon as I walked on the ship and just planned to sleep for the next 3 weeks. One positive (at least to me) side effect of being depressed is that you can sleep for 12 hours like you did when you were a kid. But, when I walked into my room I realized that wasn’t going to happen. I pulled myself through the tiny door to my room dragging my overstuffed suitcases behind me only to discover that I had a 72-year-old roommate

“Hi, I’m Agnes, I hope you don’t mind that I smoked in here,” she said in a gruff voice that indicated to me that she had been smoking for quite awhile and that my minding could really do nothing about it.

The room (which was tiny) was filled with smoke; I could barely see her face. She was decked out like all the old ladies were for the cruise complete with a lei and sandals that showed her yellowed toenails. I coughed a hello and tried to see where my bed was. I am in hell I thought to myself, I was selfish and now God is punishing me by making me die at 22 by second hand smoke. I wanted to cry, which was easy since the smoke in the room was already making my eyes tear up. Agnes finished her cigarette and then began to notice that something was wrong.

“Are you okay darling?” she asked looking more like a nice grandmother than the evil smoke-welding devil she was when I walked in. I shrugged and felt the tears begin to flow as the words poured from my mouth in an unstoppable stream of thoughts. I told her about losing my mother, losing my 20’s and my life and she listened with the intent eyes of someone that you had known for a long time, not only 2 minutes in a smoke filled room on the geriatric cruise 2k6 extravaganza. Her kind eyes made me feel a little better, but more than that it was just having someone listen to me talk. Once I was finished I felt like all my emotion had been poured out like an empty glass.

“You know what you need,” she said fighting back a cough, “you need to get out and have a good time.”

Right old lady, you can show me a good time when you are practically dying, I thought to myself but what I said was, “Well…should we go out then?”

“Yes,” she said more excited with every word, “but first, lets take a few swigs.”

She then pulled out a flask that looked like it was from the 1920’s filled with something that tasted like it was even older but made me feel a little better. After I was sufficiently tipsy Agned decided to show me what her world was like. We went upstairs and played shuffleboard until dark and she talked about all the places she had seen and lovers she had. She told me about a young girl with a lot of dreams from Indiana that ended up leaving her husband and joining the Peace Corps to build wells in Africa. I was so amazed by her bravery and was convinced with every conversation that I should try to live my life just like her. At 22 I felt like I hadn’t really done anything yet but Agnes assured me that living through your mother dying meant that you were much older than you thought. After shuffleboard we got more drinks and flirted with some old men (alright, I mainly watched her flirt they were like my grampy’s age…..eww), and then danced a little bit. It was about 4 am by the time we stumbled back to our room, our feet heavy and happy from dancing all night. I smiled to myself glad that I had finally found a companion even if she was 72 years old.

By the time I got into bed the sun was just starting to peak over the ocean. Finally things were starting to get better I thought to myself. I was having fun and even laughing again something I thought wouldn’t happen for a long time. Even though I was 22 and supposed to be living it up it had been a long time since I had watched the sunrise. I leaned over to tell Agnes to look outside when I noticed she was turned into the wall. I thought she was just asleep so I sweetly whispered good night to her. When she didn’t respond I felt like something was wrong so I walked over to her bed only to see her eyes rolled back into her head. She must be sleeping I thought to myself, this can’t be happening to me again, not another death so soon. I tried helplessly to do CPR on a smoker of 60 plus years and realized that it was helpless. I had obviously thought life was looking up for me too soon.

Mighty Mango #12

2006-07-20T17:51:00.000-07:00

I don't know why I started working in a nursing home. I made up a joke: when people ask, I say, "I thought it said nursery. I love kids." Weak laughs, usually, but it's better than "I don't know," followed by "ah," and a few moments of head nodding. People don't ask quite as much as they used to, of course. I mean, I've been working here... Christ, forever and a day, it feels like.

I guess I thought it would be romantic. Or unexpected. Like those stories you always read, about old people with tons of personality, tons of life in them. Someone's salty old grandma with a zillion stories, who can totally keep up with the young whipper snappers. Or maybe old people, reconnecting with romance, and life.

You read those stories, places. Newspapers. A rash of elderly STDs because the guys can't keep it in their pants. Viagra and everything. So you get this image in your head. "Old People: Basically Like You And Me." I'm not saying I imagined PlayStations, but bridge. Cards. Volleyball?

That isn't how it is.

The people living where I work have been, mostly, abandoned. Their families are still alive, healthy, and often numerous. But they don't visit. Yet that is all these old folks talk about: when their son, daughter, or grandchildren will visit next. And when they visited last. I know. It sounds like a cliche: something you'd read in a bad story written by a mean-spirited girl who just didn't like her job.

Surely, they have other things. A lifetime of memories. Wisdom with which to see the world. It just can't be true that they sit around and talk about their bastard children, who loathe the smell of that place (is it urine? is it the low-quality cafeteria food? little of both?) so much that they abandon their parents there.

But it is true. That's how everyone is. None of them even speak to me--and I'm young, here to help them!

"Beatrice," I say. "It's time to change your clothes, dear."

Beatrice is 83 years old. That makes her 60 years older than me. I take care of her.

I imagine life stories for all of the people here because I'm too scared to ask them anything about themselves. So, in my head, Beatrice was an awkward child growing up, and remains an awkward old person. She has a hard time making friends here because she thinks no one likes her, so she stays in her room. She watches Jeopardy! every day at 4:30pm, during dinner, because she thinks Alex Trebek is a nice boy.

I don't know if any of that's true, but couldn't it be?

She doesn't take her gown off, though: she just looks at me, right in the eyes. "Elsie, dear," she says, startling the living fuck out of me.

"What!" I gasp.

I realize I've been rude, but damn, it's the first time she's ever said a word to me. I can literally not remember a single previous conversation we've ever had--and now she's interrupting me while I try to take care of her, to change her? How does she know my name?! Oh. Name tag. That must be it. I work here, so I have a name tag.

"Elsie, dear, I'm feeling a little ill. Would you give Felix a message for me?"

"I... what? Yes."

"Tell him I can't meet him for lunch today. Thank you, sweetheart."

Meet... for lunch? Beatrice doesn't meet people for lunch. She does not. Felix? That guy hasn't left his room in a hundred years! I've never seen them hang out.

Oh, that poor woman. I immediately conclude that Beatrice's mental health has taken a turn for the worse, and go to speak to my supervisor, Craig. His office door is always open, but I've never really had occasion to speak with him before. He and the other employees here went out for drinks and things sometimes, but I wasn't really interested.

"Craig?"

"Ms. Berry... how can I help you?" He seemed confused that I was there. Well, no surprise. I'm a bit of a model employee: I always do my work, quietly, without bothering anyone. I don't bother my supervisors. I don't bother Craig.

I told him about the strange incident. He refused to seem surprised. He just nodded along, until I finished my story.

"So, pretty weird, right?"

"Why would it be?"

"Because that woman never eats lunch with anyone. She's a total loner, Craig. Felix? Felix hasn't left his room in a hundred years." I was repeating myself, I knew, but Craig hadn't heard the thought the first time.

"Elsie... those two eat together every day, dear."

Dear? Dear!

"Don't call me dear!"

Why was I getting so angry?

I tried to stand, but slipped a little bit, tumbled, and before I knew it I had hit the ground. Hard. Hard enough to hear a dull, sickening snap as I went down.

I woke up a few hours later, in what I can only assume was the city hospital. Thank God they'd taken me out of that urine-soaked hellhole. I resolved to quit my job immediately the next morning.

"Ms. Berry?"

That was me. Elsie Berry.

"Yes?"

"You have visitors."

And in came three little boys and two girls, none of whom I recognized. Two adults--their parents, I guess? They looked concerned. The woman was on the verge of tears! And she looked like... someone. Like my mom, a little bit. Why were they here?

"Auntie Elsie Auntie Elsie. Are you okay?"

"Broken hip," said the doctor.

The woman burst into tears. "That place! It's that place, it's a hellhole!"

"Who the fuck is Auntie Elsie?" I said.

"Shh. Honey. Honey. Elaine. It's not a hellhole. They said she was having a hard day, that she was right in the middle of an episode. Yelling at Dr. Craig."

Episode?

"Doctor" Craig?

Who the fuck are these...

Oh, God.

Tart Tangerine #12

2006-07-20T08:28:00.000-07:00

“You’re not what I was expecting.”

“You’re not what I was expecting either,” she said. She sat there, dressed like she was at some Hawaiian picnic in August, a couple of leis draped around her neck, a cigarette in one hand. She looked like an old woman, somewhere in her sixties or seventies. She reminded me of my Aunt Mabel. Then, what she said sank in.

“Wait…what?! How can I not be what you were expecting? You’re GOD!” I cried. And so she was. Five minutes ago I had been enjoying a nice steak dinner at the local Sizzler, when I felt a shooting pain in my chest and left arm. The last thing I remember was falling out of my chair and hitting the floor, the taste of a New York strip steak still on my lips. Then I blinked and was here. It looked like a cabin up in the northern woods of California. But the place was empty, except for this woman sitting there on a deck chair, smoking. She’d just explained that I’d entered the afterlife and introduced herself. I was so shocked at her appearance that I’d said the first thing that popped into my head.

“Why, free will honey. A lot is made down there about my supposed omniscience, but it’s a bit of a crock. Oh sure, I know everything that has happened, and I can tell you what’s happening right now, anywhere. But tell the future? If I could tell you what was going to happen, what choices you were going to make, why then, they wouldn’t be choices, would they? They’d be preordained, and that’s not the way I designed things.”

I was a bit rocked by this. I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting a long theological discussion. Then again, I wasn’t expecting to die either. I was expecting to eat a nice steak and make it home in time for “House.” Instead, I get this – a personal audience with the Almighty, but not in any form I was expecting. She smiled at me, as if reading my thoughts, which she probably was.

“I know, a bit more than you were looking for.” She smiled kindly, with the infinite patience of someone who’s gone through this whole song and dance countless times. “You were expecting harps and clouds, perhaps? Maybe an old man with a long white beard? Perhaps a burning bush?”

I latched onto the familiar imagery. “Well…yeah. Or, based on some of the things I’ve done, maybe I was expecting pitchforks and horns.”

She chuckled loudly. “Oh come on now, you haven’t been that bad. Sure, you haven’t gone to church every weekend, and you could have shown your father more respect. But I grade on a curve, and you’re hardly near the bottom.”

“Well that’s a relief.” Then something clicked into place. “So does that mean the Christians had it right all along? It’s not Vishnu or Allah or Buddha?”

“Nope. They’re all right.”

“But how can that be? Each religion believes something different. And they all believe they’re the only one.”

“Marketing kid. Marketing. Old P.T. Barnum had it right. You can please some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time. But you can’t please all of the people all of the time. So I don’t try.”

“But…that can’t be right!” I insisted, forgetting for a moment whom I was addressing.

“And why not? I’m powerful enough to create the universe, all-knowing enough to see into your soul, I can take any form I want, but I’m not smart enough to realize that it takes different strokes for different folks?” She smiled indulgently at me, like she was lecturing a four year old.

“But then…why is it a basic tenant of all religions that they are the one true path?”

“Exclusivity junior. You gotta have something to attract them to the faith. Why join one church when any will do? Why tithe 10% to the Tabernacle when the Catholics only want five bucks every Sunday. Why spend time being lectured to about the pits of Hell when the Jews don’t believe in it? Why give up your Friday nights when everything’s already closed on Sunday? You gotta give the folks a reason to come in. Gotta put butts in seats. But really, at the end of the day, the only thing that matters is that you believe.”

I was shocked at the bluntness that She was displaying. Needless to say, while I hadn’t been the most God-fearing man in the world, I still went to church enough to know how God talked and this sure wasn’t it. Alright, God can assume any form She wants, so if she wants to look like an old lady who you’d expect to see gambling in Atlantic City, who am I to say She’s wrong? But God didn’t talk about “butts in seats.” Not the God I knew. It was all “thees” and “thous” and whatnot.

“So let me get this straight…if every religion is right, does that mean those nutjobs who strap bombs to themselves and blow up discos are up here somewhere?”

“Of course not. Don’t be silly. I said every religion was right, not that every interpretation is right. Plenty of idiots have done things in My name that I don’t approve of. Those are the sorts of people who fail the curve. I’ve always been about peace and love. So killing people in the name of peace…well that’s a bit like screwing for virginity, isn’t it?” She laughed at the joke. “I’ve always loved that particular turn of phrase. Now come on now, Junior. Our time is short and I know there’s one more question you’re burning to ask, so ask away.”

“Alright. So why do you let bad things happen to good people?”

“I don’t. I don’t ‘let’ anything happen. Einstein was right. I don’t play dice with the universe. Not for a long time. I set up first principles, gave you free will, then let the machine run on its own. I observe, I know, but I do not interfere. All the evil in the world, that’s just the depths of human depravity. Which is only exceeded by your capacity to do good. That, perhaps, was my greatest success. For every Hitler, there’s a Jonas Salk. For every Pol Pot, a Mother Theresa. And usually more than one. So when you see bad things happening in the world, and you feel that nothing can be done, look inside yourself and find some way to make the day a little better for someone else.

“And now,” She said, “our time is up.”

“CLEAR!” A jolt went through my body and my eyes fluttered open. “We’ve got a pulse! Let’s get him to the ambulance.” I was felt myself lifted off the floor and placed on a stretcher. And as I was wheeled out of the restaurant I struggled to thank the paramedic who was pushing me toward the ambulance.

“Don’t thank me, pal. Thank the woman at the next table who did CPR until we arrived. If not for her, you’d be talking to God right now.” I managed a weak chuckle.

"Brother, if only you knew."

Brash Blackberry #12

2006-07-19T23:13:00.000-07:00

When I tell friends who met my grandmother before her death what she was really like, they’re usually surprised.

“Come on. There’s no way she said shit like that,” one friend told me when I told stories about the real her.

Sometimes at family functions, Grandma would tell her children and grandchildren stories of her past and we would all gather in a semi-circle, hoping to hear something we didn’t know. We made a rule that anyone 17 or older could hear the stories, as we liked to think of them as equivalent to R-rated films. They were usually graphic and full of obscenities, and only during the telling of these stories would she talk like this.

Grandma King was an artifact – she’d seen the world change and lived to tell of it. As a military nurse, she saw World War II up close and personal. She claimed to havegiven Clark Gable a hand job three years before his death. (She’d add on the end, “Of course, this was before I was married. But still, it was exhilarating.”) Grandma even survived a rapturous tornado that took the life of her husband and a few of her neighbors.

She was full of stories, but only one of her stories struck me on every emotional level. And to this day, that story defines her existence in my mind.

***

Mary awoke when the bombs started to drop. She’d fallen asleep in a hospital bed the night before, after treating a petty officer that had burned his hand trying to set a makeshift fire outside of his quarters.

As a 22-year-old nurse at Pearl Harbor, Mary never expected to hear the sounds she heard. Dazed, she stepped out of the hospital’s back door, greeted by the sight of mountainous pillars of black smoke. She looked overhead, seeing a swarm of Japanese fighter planes. The pilots dropped bombs and torpedoes at battleship row, the massive naval ships assigned to protect the Pacific.

Mary ran 1,000 feet from the hospital, not caring that a bullet or bomb could graze her. She needed to see what was happening at the bay. When she neared the edge of the shore, she saw a Japanese pilot land a bomb into the innards of the USS Arizona. Many officers on deck jumped ship in a desperate attempt to save their lives. Mary stood mesmerized at that moment, knowing that in just a few seconds the ship would explode from the inside out.

When it exploded, Mary got an expansive look at the gaping hole in the side of the Arizona. She saw a man hanging from the edge of the newly created hole, his torso impaled by a steel rod and flesh burned beyond repair. Mary threw up.

She had never seen anything like this before. Hell, she’d never even had a patient die in front of her. She had a feeling everything – her existence, the lives of everyone here, the world – was about to drastically change.

After the pilots were out of bombs, they began shooting machine gun ammunition into any American they could aim at. Mary immediately ran back to hospital with a clearer head than before.

When she came back, she was ordered by a doctor to begin allocating all available medical supplies and put them out on tables. And as she began prepping the spaces for the dead and dying, hundreds of wounded soldiers came through the front doors, with burns, gun shot wounds and the like.

***

She was changed. My guess is that when she looked into the abyss of that ship and saw death so close, she learned the fragility of her life. She no longer held onto the trivial things and in turn, her thoughts and actions were lived without remorse.

At her funeral, we blew up the last photo taken of her. It was taken at the Sheraton hotel lobby six hours after she visited the USS Arizona memorial in Honolulu. The photo shows Grandma wearing several leis, smoking a cigarette, and relaxing like she was telling one of her stories.

The night that photo was taken, the 87-year-old woman died in her hotel bed. It wasn’t the cigarettes, as many of us thought it might be. Her heart had just stopped beating.

Most of her family, myself included, came to the conclusion that Hawaii was the best place for her to pass away. She looked back at Pearl Harbor as the real beginning of her life and at the Arizona memorial, she decided it was finally okay if she didn’t continue on.

She had done her part.

TKO Question #12

2006-07-17T00:38:00.000-07:00

Be inspired by this photograph. Write. 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

* Precious Pear
Lively Lime
* Mighty Mango
* Playful Peach
Brash Blackberry
Tart Tangerine

Precious Pear #11

2006-07-15T22:36:00.000-07:00

Something wakes me and I stretch my foot to feel the quickly cooling sheets. How does she keep getting up before me? I turn over and see no body. No good morning. Just her watch on the nightstand. As long as she left her watch, she would be coming back the next day. So we stare face to face and count the seconds until the door shuts. 4,3,2... gone. Two months and she's still as much a mystery to me as the first day we met. Eventually she'll have to give in. Until then, I better learn a few more phrases.

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

I met Jason two months ago during my vigorous campaign to not die alone. I was terrified of becoming one of those lonely old women with no friends besides my eighty-seven cats. So even if Jason wasn't perfect, he at least walked on two legs. It's possible my standards have become a bit lax. I was in church at the insistence of my mother- apparently all the "best" single men can be met through divine intervention. Whatever. I promised to go, but I didn't promise to like it. I hid the TV Guide in my hymnal and passed the time planning my inevitably solitary week. One Sunday, I had the unmistakable sensation I was being watched. I'd been caught.

"Dieu peut être très ennuyeux parfois." I felt better disagreeing with God in another language. Besides, I learned from The O'Reilly Factor that the French were Godless cowards, so maybe He wouldn't catch on.

"Oui... La vie est belle"

He had no idea what I was saying.

"Tu es completement debile"

"Mieux vaut en paix un oeuf qu'en guerre un boeuf."

That's how our relationship began. And since then, I've kept insulting him to his face while he regurgitates phrases he must have learned from Olive Garden menus. I worked up the nerve to sleep with him, but I still can't quite stomach the early morning post-coital chit chat. Too personal. I'm too smart for him and I don't care for his sense of humor, but if I have to be unhappy, I'd at least appreciate the company.

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

Even if nobody notices I'm gone until the neighbors complain about the rotten smell and constant mewing, I'm determined to leave an undeniable impression on whoever cleans out my house after I die. One of my most prized possessions is a bookcase in the middle of my living room tottering under the weight of nearly eighty identical black notebooks, each filled with the memoirs of a personality that never really existed. Number 29 is a young woman whose lover nobly put himself between a bullet and the British Prime Minister. She subsequently threw herself down the stairs, determined not to go on without him; unfortunately she succeeded only in paralysis and spent the rest of her days bedridden and heartbroken. Number 41 is a 17-year old boy whose years of sexual abuse and acid addiction have convinced him he turns into a falcon at night and feeds upon virgin flesh.

My favorite is number 55. It's about a deeply depressed woman who is tormented by the knowledge that her mother unsuccessfully carried her twin in the womb for five months.

I should have been the other twin. The lucky twin. The twin that was smart enough to hang herself with the umbilical cord before having to put up with this backwards, bullshit world.

That one may or may not have been slightly auto-biographical.

Fictitious friends aside, I still harbor a fantasy that I'll eventually meet a white knight who will fully appreciate my... eccentricities. Like Jason, the funny guy at church who doesn't realize that bitch Isabelle is always insulting him. I wish somebody would fake a language for me someday. Oh well. Time to feed the cats.

Mighty Mango #11

2006-07-15T22:00:00.000-07:00

“Mom! Will you tell Ellie to get her stupid friends out of here?”

That was the first thing I heard when I got home: Lisa and Ellie fighting again. When they were born, the idea of having twins seemed vaguely romantic, or science-fictiony, or something. It turns out that having twin daughters is like having twin boils on your ass. It sucks, and there’s two.

“Ellie! It’s seven o’clock. Tell your friends to go home so that Lisa can—oh, Breyer. Hi! I didn’t even hear you come in.”

My wife, Helen. Helen and I went to business school together. Here’s an advice for all the young turks out there: don’t marry anyone you meet in business school. Okay? It seems like a good idea: power couple, make lots of money, Bill-and-Hillary thing, right? Actually, most of the time, you end up marrying yourself, and it turns out that I’m not a very pleasant person.

“Hi Helen.”

And that was it. That was the only thing we said to each other for an hour. And you know what? I don’t even mind. I don’t think she minds, either. My life is not a tale of wistful longing, of lost romance, of wanting. I don’t want anything. I don’t want romance. I just want to keep up the appearances of my marriage and work, because dammit, I like my job. I love it.

So I retired to the bedroom. Getting home at 7pm was sort of a treat, because it meant I could watch “Jeopardy!” (I love Jeopardy!) as it was airing, rather than on the TiVo. So I curled up my feet on the bed, and reached for the remote—

Damnit. God damnit. Where is my fucking TiVo remote?! Probably buried under a pile of… what the fuck is this? Liberté: A first-year French Textbook. Wonderful.

Lately, Ellie's French books have been all over the damn place. I assume they’re Ellie’s books, anyway. They’re… about high school age, I’ve got to imagine. Kids take language classes in high school, yeah? And obviously my daughters aren’t going to take Spanish or something. I guess they could be Lisa’s. She’s… bookish. She has books. I’ve seen her read a book before.

It really pisses me off that they’ve been in here. They’re not supposed to be in my bedroom. I keep private things in here! Well, I don’t, actually. All of my private things are in my office. But I could. I could keep really goddamn private shit in here. I could have naked pictures of their mother in here, spread-eagle.

Thinking that thought weirded me out a little bit.

I’d tell Helen about the books. But the last time I found Liberté lying around and complained to Helen, so she’d talk to the girls, she just looked embarrassed and changed the subject. Helpful, Helen. Meanwhile goddamn Liberté is sitting on the coffee table next to some… tea cups, I guess. Some kind of cup. People drink tea from white cups, yeah? I think my Mom used to do that. Have friends over, drink tea. Whatever.

“Ellie! Lisa! Get in here!”

No one was going to leave a goddamn French book in my room. Not while Breyer Brest Levinson was the king of his household!

They skulked in. “What, Dad?”

“Who left this book in here?”

Silence.

“I know one of you did. Whose is this?”

“I take Finnish in school,” said Lisa.

“You do? That’s cool,” said Ellie.

“Shut up. I like it!” Lisa was, I think, overreacting. But it was hard to—

“I’m serious! I want to take Finnish.”

“You can’t,” said Ellie, sardonically. “It overlaps with cheerleading practice.”

“Oh.”

Why is this drama bomb going off in my bedroom?

“I don’t care who wants to take Finnish,” I said. “Who is actually taking French?”

Silence.

“Whatever. Get out.” Boils on your butt. Having twin girls is exactly like having boils on your butt. Boils that lie about their French books.

Sigh.

Tomorrow was Sunday. Which meant, inevitably, that sometime tonight Helen was going to ask me to go. Which meant, inevitably, that I was going to say yes. I’ve tried getting out of this a lot of ways. Staying late at work doesn’t work because she leaves a note in the foyer before I go to bed. Falling asleep early doesn’t work because she wakes me up to ask.

I’m not against God, per se. I just don’t… feel like going to church. Is that shallow? Well, whatever. I don’t. I want to sleep in. On the rare Sundays that I don’t have to go into work at all, I like to sleep in, wake up, eat some toast, watch my recorded copy of Meet the Press, and relax. Hearing about how I’m supposed to love blah blah and whatever is fine, but I just don’t… get it.

But I can’t say no. If I tell her no it will become an issue. A fight. Some goddamned thing, that we’ll have to talk over and truthfully, I’ve measured this stuff, the talking and fighting takes more time than church. Which is pretty unfair. She gets to make me go to church by fighting with me for longer than church would take.

Knock on the door. “Breyer?”

The fact that we knock on our own bedroom door should really tell you something.

“Yeah. Come in.” I quickly turned up the TV volume so I could appear to be paying really close attention.

“Are you coming to church tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Pause. Helen’s standing there with the door open, I’m pretending to listen to Rear Admiral Dipshit on television miss a basic Kafka question. And there’s this weird moment where I feel like I should say something, but truthfully, I don’t want to talk to her that much. What am I supposed to ask? Hey, Helen. How was raising the girls today? Oh, yeah? Blah blah blah and whatever? Great, great.

“Well, thanks, Breyer.” And she walks away.

And I fall asleep like that. About half an hour after Law and Order. Helen got in bed beside me sometime during the night, because when we wake up, she’s there.

I sit through church. On the way there, Ellie compliments Lisa’s shoes, which she manages to take offense to. Ellie’s wearing these sort of strappy sandal things which, honestly, look goddamn uncomfortable to me, but that’s how all of Ellie’s shoes look. I think 16 is too young to be wearing even a short heel, but all of that’s Helen’s department.

But Lisa is just wearing flat-footed slippers that look like ballerina shoes to me. Comfortable. Drab. Boring. But comfortable. I think there’s probably a subtext here, but damned if I have ten minutes to sit down and puzzle it out.

Don’t think I’m a monster. I’m not. I do care about my girls. I just don’t know them. And I don’t think they want me to know them. It hasn’t always been this way—me sitting in church, hoping the Colts win their game this afternoon. I used to work shorter hours, come home earlier. I did love Helen. We got married, after all. I didn’t have to do that.

But who knows? You drift apart in a marriage. I tried to commiserate with “the guys,” but none of them really understood. Helen was… I don’t know. I lost her, somehow, somewhere along the way. I don’t remember a point. Did I do something? I don’t know. But I lost her. And then the girls were born, and they were hers. Twin girls. I was never a part of any of the decisions.

Worked later. More money. More satisfying, to work. Get to contribute to something. Do I miss the old images I’d have, of fantasies of old age, hopes for a hammock together and a glass of lemonade on a summer afternoon? Yeah. Shit, yeah, I miss all that stuff. But things aren’t so bad. My girls are growing up smart. Smarter than me. Lisa’s smarter, anyway.

We arrived at the Episcopal Church about ten minutes before services started. The crowd was still milling around a bit.

“Breyer? I’d like you to meet a friend of mine,” said Helen. “This is Marie-Élise Rousseau.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Breyer.” We shook hands, and I sat down. The minister came in, and services started.

“Today’s reading is from the Book of Ruth.”

Playful Peach #11

2006-07-15T14:29:00.000-07:00

“Welcome to Camp Refuge, a place that you will soon learn to call home!” the camp director bellowed while standing in front of the crowd of gaunt teenagers sitting cross-legged in a meadow surrounded by tall trees. Three boys stood out in the crowd of young women all frail and pale, all looking miserable. The boys sat together bound by their common gender. They couldn’t believe this place pretended it was a camp (as if they were going to actually have fun here), but they also couldn’t believe they had the girls disease.

Ethan was the perfect child all his life. His father was an Episcopalian minister and every Sunday since he was 8 Ethan sang in the choir. He had the voice of an angel people in the congregation would say. His angelic voice was matched by his perfectly kept blonde hair and shining blue eyes. He was, based on all outward appearances, the perfect child. However, when he got into middle school something changed in Ethan. He looked distracted in church, like his mind was somewhere else. Then, he started losing weight. It started out small; he lost a few pounds here and there. His parents ignored it believing that he was just going through a phase. He was a healthy boy, he said his prayers and ate dinner with them every night. What they didn’t notice was what he did after dinner. The first person to acknowledge his condition was his dentist, who suggested that Ethan’s parents put him in therapy. They didn’t know how to handle their son having this problem and life at home was a nightmare for Ethan. His mother constantly left meatloaf in his room or hid protein bars under his pillow. It was around this time that his parents decided to send him to Camp Refuge.

Jeremy and Jill were inseparable from birth. Jill was born 2 minutes before Jeremy and that seemed like the longest time they had spent away from one another. They were interested in all the same things as children. Both played youth soccer, both were in the Scouts, both excelled in math and science and loved reading. They were set out to defy the belief that one twin gets to be “good at everything.” That is until the 8th grade science project. They both eagerly entered the statewide science project where they had to invent something to catapult people into the future. The twins spent weeks planning what they would do, but it was the first time they couldn’t do it together since they were in competition against each other. When the day of the fair came Jill was prepared with her project but Jeremy wasn’t. He couldn’t get his invention to work and was distraught. Jill went on to win first place in the contest and competed nationally. Jeremy was utterly defeated, he felt like a huge failure. Even worse, it seemed like no one noticed. Everyone was fixated on Jill and her success. That was when he began losing weight. At first it was only small amounts but then his weight began to rapidly decline. He and Jill were two of seven children in his family and while his parents wanted him to get help, they couldn’t give him the attention he deserved. That was how he ended up sitting in a field at Camp Refuge.

It was always difficult for James to talk to girls. He was socially awkward and a little shy, but he was very handsome. He had chocolate colored eyes and olive skin that matched his dark brown hair. By the time he had reached high school his looks made him strikingly handsome, but he still couldn’t muster up the courage to ask a girl on a date. That is until he met Eve. He was in a bookstore, one of his favorite weekend activities, when he saw her looking in the foreign books section. He picked up a book in French and began to pretend like he was reading it. She looked up at him intrigued and asked him if he spoke French. He lied and said yes which was the right answer because she grinned happily at him. This then launched her into a story about her dream of going to Paris and her incessant babble set James at ease. She made him feel comfortable because she talked so much he didn’t have to. They started dating soon after this meeting and were happy for a while until Eve started getting restless. She told him that she loved him but she needed to go to Paris and explore the world alone. The day after she left James didn’t get out of bed. He lost his appetite and began losing weight, only a little bit at first but soon it started getting more dramatic. He received compliments for his new look (he was a little chubby before) and kept denying himself food. Soon his mother became alarmed and asked him what was going on. He refused to talk to her about anything and in reaction to his silence she sent him to Camp Refuge knowing in her heart that something was wrong with her boy.

“Alright, we are going to split up the boys and girls and go have a little art project” the camp director said, trying to evoke some enthusiasm out of the teens. The three boys shuffled silently to the art shed and were told make a postcard about anything they wanted. The three boys sat down and stared at the construction paper and pens and began to draw out the pain in their lives that brought them there in the first place.

Lively Lime #11

2006-07-15T13:46:00.000-07:00

"Angie, you have to help me find a good man. I need a real relationship. I'm not getting any younger….this is getting serious."

Angie watched her friend Madeleine stir her coffee nervously. The two women in their mid-30s were sitting at a sidewalk café on their lunchbreak. They were both lawyers. They both were single. They were both lonely. It was tough finding someone these days. Male lawyers were too overbearing or absent. Males who weren't lawyers usually found them threatening. But these females weren't about to hang up their pantsuits for aprons yet. They just wanted to be happy with someone. The search for a good companion had gone on for years, though, and Madeleine was tired of it.

"It can't be that bad. How have your past few boyfriends been?"

"Terrible. I’ve went through three in just the past 6 months. And they keep getting worse. Nothing serious ever happens. I date them a few times and think they're great at first, but then they turn out to be full of issues that I just can't deal with."

"Such as?"

"Well, you remember Peter? That bad boy stockbroker? Well, he had good job security and a knack for numbers…..seemed like he had so much confidence! But little by little, I felt like his out-there attitude, cool style and bold moves were all a big mask. He just wanted to date me because I was a lawyer…you know, be that flashy money-making power couple. The guy has such self-esteem problems. He's always overcompensating for everything and trying too hard to be super-successful. The slightest criticism and it looks like someone just stuck a knife through him. He never really cared about me. He just cared about my money and my status."

"I wonder what kind of kind of upbringing he had to make him turn out that way…you ever meet his family?"

"Hmmm…no, I never met them. No, wait! Yes, I met his sister once. Oh, she was so nice! Such a great person. Very pretty, with good manners. She's a pediatrician. Peter's fraternal twin, but she carries herself completely differently. Nothing like him..."

”Well, too bad you can’t date her, haha. Well, how about…uh, what's his name? Trevor?"

"Travis. Yea, that one was a total winner. I wanted a break from the bad boy type, and you know, try a nice calm guy for a change. But he turned out to be a total stuck up religious nut. Nice at first, very polite, but when you start talking to him, he starts going on and on about Jesus this and the Lord that, and how this person will be punished by God for doing that and blah blah blah. He wanted to take me out to Mass on a date, and kept trying to convert me. You know, save my soul and all. And if we weren't talking about religion he was talking about how much he loves to watch Animal Planet and PBS. I mean, I'm fairly religious and I'm respectful of faiths, but he was just constantly breathing down my neck about it."

“Oh yuck…that’s kind of creepy, actually. I assume you two broke up?”

“Yea, pretty quickly, actually. One day, after I quickly ditched Travis after Bible study, I ran into John. He was on the track team in college, remember? Hadn’t seen him in years, and he seemed kind of down, so we started talking. We actually got along really well at first. Dating him was fun. We went to see French films, and went to fancy French restaurants. It was pretty romantic, and he was so sophisticated! He talked about traveling to France and how much he loved my name because it was French. But pretty soon I felt like I was just replacing someone else in his heart. I wasn’t the girl for him. And I wondered how much French he really knew. I couldn’t live a lie like that, so we split up....

You see? All these relationships always fall apart. I set myself up for something wonderful, and then just get the rug pulled out from under me. I have the worst luck. There’s no guy out there for me, Angie. I’m destined to be alone.”

“Awww…hang in there, girl. I’m sure there’s someone out there for you. Hey, you’re not the only one looking. We gotta stay strong….don’t worry, I’m always here for you if you want to talk. We’ve made it together all the way through college and law school and butthead law firm partners. We’ll get through this.”

Angie gave Madeleine a hug as they parted ways. When Angie went home, she sat at her computer and visited her guilty pleasure, Postsecret.com. She had never posted a secret, and probably never would, but as she scrolled down and read the confessions of strangers, she stopped at one particular secret. One that hit home.

“My best friend keeps on dating jerks. If only she knew that I loved her."

Tart Tangerine #11

2006-07-14T07:53:00.000-07:00

I am a bad person. I have no one else to tell, so I’m telling you. I do something that people just shouldn’t do. When I’m in church, and the people around me are praying, I’m thinking about the TV shows I want to watch that week. Now, I know what you’re thinking, it’s not that big a deal, plenty of people’s minds wander when it’s time for silent prayer. But there’s a difference. I’m not just any person. I’m the pastor. I’m the Shepard of the flock, and while my sheep are asking for God’s help and forgiveness, I wonder which team will be last to reach the goal in the Amazing Race.

Why am I, a man of God, more focused on secular pursuits than on the spiritual? Because I just don’t give a damn anymore. Not since that bastard took my Gloria. Oh I know all the platitudes, believe me. I’ve uttered them often enough to grieving loved ones. “She’s in a better place.” “It’s all part of God’s plan.” “The Lord works in mysterious ways.” Bullshit. There’s nothing mysterious about cancer except why some people get it and others don’t. And I don’t believe there’s any rhyme or reason, or anything resembling a plan to it. After all, I’m supposed to be God’s go-to guy – his rep here on Earth. The guiding light for others who have strayed. And instead, my faith has been destroyed. How am I supposed to keep others on the path when I’ve lost all sight of it myself? Some days I can barely bring myself to look up at the Cross. Now I understand why the Catholics don’t let their priests marry. Because nothing shakes your faith like losing a spouse.

I’m jealous of the others. I’ve seen some whose faith has been renewed. They pray all the more urgently that they’ll be rejoined in Heaven. And others, like me, who give up and drift away from the Church. But I can’t leave. I have to be here every Sunday, singing the praises of a God who I don’t even believe in anymore. And the worst part is, I have no one to talk it over with. No one with whom to discuss. No Shepard of my own to lead me back to the path. And so I’ve resorted to this. Sending a postcard to a website one of my parishioners once showed me. God help me.

Speaking of my flock, I sometimes also look out at them as they pray silently, thinking about the various problems they endure. I feel less sympathetic now than I used to. Everything is so different after losing your soulmate. Like the Wilson twins. Debbie and Donna. God I’ve always hated parents who do that to their children. But that’s another story. Poor Debbie. She feels she’s always in Donna’s shadow. Donna was the homecoming queen, Donna got good grades, why can’t you be more like Donna? It’s almost like something out of the Brady Bunch. But what Debbie doesn’t know is that Donna urgently wishes to be her. She hates the pressure that she’s under – to be perfect, to get good grades, to go to college. All she wants in life is to run away and goof off for a while, maybe see Europe.

But her parents would have none of that. Not for Donna. Donna has to go to college, then law school. She’s going to meet a nice young man and become the First Lady someday. She already dates the high school quarterback. But he mistreats her. But Donna can’t tell anyone. Just me. And I’m forbidden from talking as well. So Donna comes by for a weekly cry and all the time Debbie is jealous of the life she wishes she had. If only she knew.

Then, there’s Alex. He’s a young man, about 15, and like all young men at that age, he believes he’s in love. Her name is Zoe and she is an exchange student from France. She speaks English well enough, but prefers to speak in her native French because it makes her feel more at home. Alex doesn’t speak a word of French that he hasn’t heard on television, but he pretends to understand every word she says. I’m sure she knows by now that he’s clueless about what she says, but she is a kind girl and allows him to think he’s getting away with it.

Not that I necessarily blame him. I did similar things when I was courting Gloria. She was in the choir and wanted to be a great opera soprano. So I pretended to like opera. Some of it isn’t half bad, but really, I don’t speak Italian so most of it is lost on me. But it gave me something to talk to Gloria about, so I read up on Carmen and Pagliacci and would discourse extensively on the various benefits and detriments of Placido Domingo’s rendition versus Pavarotti’s. She must have thought me a fool. But she still married me. And God did I love her. I can see the same love in Alex’s eyes every time he looks at Zoe.

Sadly, summer is almost here and then she’ll have to return to France. Perhaps that’ll save him the heartache of having to sit next to her hospital bed some dark day in the future, when some doctor explains apologetically that there’s just no hope. But now, I have to wrap this up. I see from the clock it’s almost time to head out and welcome the flock to this week’s services. I wonder what’ll happen on CSI tomorrow night….

Brash Blackberry #11

2006-07-13T20:23:00.000-07:00

I watch her almost every opportunity I get. She doesn’t see me, but I’m right behind her, observing the grace she exudes on the streets of Manhattan. People crowd around her as if she’s an angel who lifts weary spirits. She fills me with hope.

I watch her eat with a friend at Balthazar in Soho. She’s having a salad and bouillabaisse. He’s having goat cheese and onion. I’m eating Frosted Flakes.

Is it wrong for me to watch her as I do?

I watch her as she walks around her apartment nude, blissfully unaware that I can see every part of her. She’s talking on the phone and listening to Wilco as she cleans. I think I’m going to record it this time.

I watch her read the newspaper during church. She hides clippings from the entertainment section inside the songbook, casually singing a few words just to make it look like she’s paying attention. Sometimes she mouths the words “watermelon” and “Hollywood” when someone looks at her. I’m the only one who knows.

Is it wrong to know what happens to her before she does?

I watch her sleep in her Queen-sized bed, silently dreaming of a better life. I interpret her tossing and turning as a nightmare, one where she will never meet me – her soul mate.

I watch her translate at the U.N. where she speaks French as if it was her first language. I see the loneliness on her face when she leaves the building, knowing that not even communicating across other languages will fulfill her. She knows someone is out there, waiting silently.

Is it wrong for me to love a woman who can never love me?

I watch her as she dies instantly in a car accident on I-95 in the early morning. A twin brother and sister drove the car that hit her. A Crown Victoria crushed her ribcage to the point where she couldn’t breathe. They were drug traffickers, unworthy to take her life. I would kill them if I could.

I always cry when I watch this part. Sometimes I have to pause it and go to the bathroom to fix my make-up. Every time I watch her die, a part of me dies too. But her death also reminds me that my own will come shortly.

Is it wrong to wish for death?

I watch her like she watches her TV, except what I watch is real and what she views is fictitious. Her favorite shows, “Friends” and “House, M.D.” pass the time away. She finds it suitable to spend her time gazing at a 2-D image without care. I refuse to judge her because I know what I do is similar, but not quite.

We are separated by 600 years, but that doesn’t make me lose hope. Maybe some day my people will be able to actually return to the past instead of watch it at on the teleglobe. Then I could travel back and meet her in person. I would whisk her away to my time and we would live together in harmony, woman and woman.

Is it wrong to imagine my life with her in it?

A feeling in my gut tells me I will never hold her hand, never kiss her rosy cheeks, never let her cry on my shoulder. And she will never do the same for me. But alas, I can hope that one day we will see each other. Somehow, someway, I will find her.

But for now all I can do is watch and pray that she senses my presence, always beside her, with her every step of the way until her lungs collapse.

TKO Question #11

2006-07-12T01:22:00.000-07:00

TKO Question #11:

In 1500 words or less, write a story or scene that includes the people as characters who created these postsecret cards. You may explain why each wrote them, write their stories, etc. They may be separate scenes or combined. The only limitation I intend this prompt to put on you is you must in someway referencing the creators of the three cards. If you are longer than the word limit, I will delete your post and email you a copy so that you can revise then re-post.

**

Responses

* Precious Pear
Lively Lime
* Mighty Mango
Playful Peach
Brash Blackberry
Tart Tangerine

Lucky Lemon #10

2006-07-11T00:01:00.000-07:00

Lying on the floor of our empty tan living room, I couldn’t discern whether the fan was spinning or was it me that was spinning. After watching a few big burly men lift my furniture into a truck, I’d decided that Jack Daniels was the only man I needed in my life. I was hoping the liquor would make me forget, the truth is it helped me remember. The last time the house was this empty, we’d made love on every surface of the place.

I failed. In every aspect of my life I’d failed. There was a day when I was an up-and-comer. Academically envied by all my peers, my sights set high. When I said yes to the ring and household, my sisters all told me it was a bad idea. I’d never wanted anything more than a home and a family. Greg loved me. We’d been an awkward match from the start; me the head-strong business type, him the leisure-world playboy type. How’d that silly boy wrangle her and manage to tie her down? But I enjoyed furnishing our new home, hosting parties, and raising our children.

How beautiful they were. So tiny and scrawny, so helpless and innocent, my children were gorgeous from the day they were born. Gemma matured in the same manner I did, and soon she was the winner of the relay on field day, gifted student, high school graduate. Her little brother, Aiden, grew up even faster and much more in the shadow of his father. Watching him walk the aisle in that regal navy gown, I sobbed in the stands. I sobbed, almost as hard as the night almost two weeks later when Greg professed his undying love.

----

It’s 6:45am and I am running late. First day on the job, what a great impression. I draped my cardigan over the back of the office chair and slipped on the head set. As I took my seat, I took my first phone call “Anthony, Anthony, St. John and Randolph, this is Julie, how can I help you?” I transferred the call and put the two pictures I’d brought on my empty desk. Thank God Dad’s Attourney’s law firm was in need of a new secretary. Who else would hire a woman who’d been fired from her last job: wife and mother?”

Lively Lime #10

2006-07-10T22:07:00.000-07:00

"I'm very sorry, #35. Given the economic climate, tough competitors streamlining their operations, and current trends, we are just unable to keep you aboard. Now, I know this is difficult for you. It's difficult for us too. You've given a good many years of your life to this team. We hope you will keep in touch….

…….Well then, please turn in your mask and weapon. Doris will help you fill out the proper exit paperwork. Best of luck in finding another position. I'm sure there are many other super-villains who would be very happy to hire you."

Great, after over a decade of dodging bullets, storming hideouts, and being punched in the face by teenage do-gooder sidekicks, I can't believe I'm on the henchmen unemployment line.

But here I am, just another sad face in a sea of former foot soldiers, stormtroopers, putty patrollers, and second-tier generic underlings, all victims of the latest wave of downsizing that had swept the bad guy industry. Evil overlords with horns, cloaks, and an entourage of hundreds of nameless minions were no longer in style. Something called "corporations" were a much better way to achieve global domination. Dark, dank, inner sanctums buried within mountains were replaced by trendy Caribbean oceanfront complexes. It wasn't even cool to cackle evilly anymore. We henchmen were just antiques from a bygone era. Now, with our respective lords all filing for bankruptcy and selling off their superweapons on Ebay, where were we to go?

The only skills the majority of us possessed were "taser/raygun/axe semi-proficiency", "running collectively towards impending doom", "unwavering lack of independent thought", "getting distracted by attractive and seemingly helpless females", and "not being able to capture the hero." Interests ranged from the standard "shooting/breaking things" and "pillaging" to "biscuits" and "napping". Not exactly that impressive on a resume. Hey, maybe these abilities couldn't cut it for the majority of people on this earth, but as henchmen, these were the hallmarks of a classic legion of destruction. Two years of henchmen community college plus certification to qualify for a position with one of the many respected super-villains of the world. There's a process. Don't think it's so easy, amateurs. We all took serious pride in our work. There wasn't even a need to unionize. It was that awesome.

This stupid line never seems to move. Some aging minion, wearing an old Bebop and Rocksteady t-shirt, is shouting at the woman in the window. This is worse than the DMV. I remembered that time I had to go renew my license for the flying tank. I would have rather faced those killer bees on that tropical island again than the so-called public servant behind the counter. I wonder if there would ever be a chance to wield such weaponry or face such adventures again.

Finally, my turn.

"Your name?"

"#35"

"No, your birth name."

"……Dexter Flurby."

"Well then, Mr. Flurby. I only have a couple of jobs left available. Of course, there will be no overtime pay or benefits. This is a temp agency, after all."

"Yea yea whatever. Would any of those jobs happen to involve kidnapping princesses or patrolling a mutations experiment lab?"

"Um…not exactly. One is a junior high school gym teacher, and the other is a receptionist at a plastic surgery clinic."

"Sigh.…..I'll take the latter, please."

God, I hate getting fired.

Pleasant Plum #10

2006-07-10T20:22:00.000-07:00

First hour is Art class, and I’ve convinced the teacher to let me do pottery. I can’t draw worth shit after all, and I love working with clay. The smooth, calming feel of it through my hands is nice ease into the school day. Hey, it’s better than Calc. right off the bat, that for sure! The clay’s got a texture all its own, smooth and malleable, but once fired, tough, durable, and permanent. Until an accident shatters your creation it’s good to go forever.

The firing period is the most delicate where you have the least control. Screw up the pot, and it will explode inside the kiln, leaving nothing but pieces of a lost idea. Glaze that looks horribly ugly wet can become a vivid metallic raku after the intense temperature of the kiln. It’s like magic: pop it in as an ugly, un-solidified object and it comes out as an almost permanent piece of art.

Another reason I like pottery more than anything else is that the potter’s wheel is stuck in the back of the room by the window. I can watch the leaves fall as my foot pumps the pedal to keep the wheel spinning. It needs a constant rate, to slow and it’ll be uneven, to fast and the clay will fly.

The leaves remind me of a project we had to do, a portrait of a “natural process” art mirroring life and all that bull. It seemed super antithetical to me, it looks to me that life is a gradual process. Art, once your done creating, it’s done. Nothing is supposed to change. If paint fades-it is retouched. If ceramics chip, it’s mended to an original form.

At least my friends seem to change gradually. Jill seems to change her mind constantly about Clark College or Mt. Holyoke. Meredith says she “grows out of her boyfriends”--whatever that means. And it seems that I’m changing too…I need to go to college, I need a degree, I want to graduate. All this seems like sequential steps to a goal. It’s not very definitive. We are searching for a authoritive statement of who we are--and can’t find it.

At the end of first hour we all have to watch Channel One. It’s a High School News show that’s supposed to dumb down current events for our tiny brains, at least that’s probably what the network thinks. Anyway, we get free TV’s in the classroom because of the program.

But today, were not watching Channel One. The Art Teacher, Mrs. O has got it on CNN. My classmates’ faces are slowly turning from boredom to rapture. I want to know what’s going on too, and turn to the TV as I put my new sculpture into the klin. Wolf Biltzer is showing footage of New York City, and I’m told that the smoldering buildings are something called the “Twin Towers”.

In the back of the room, I can hear the muffled explosion as my ceramics burst in the kiln. Moments later another, more important sculpture collapses. Like a tall vase whose walls are too thick, one of the towers collapses on itself, sending a wall of what seemed like powdered clay out towards the cameras.

That memory is set permanent and immobile in the recesses of my brain. It’s an unyielding image in the aftermath and pressure of that year.

I figure that defining moments do occur after all, and that the firing process can be painful--especially for the Class of 2002 in the wake of a September day.

Mighty Mango #10

2006-07-10T20:02:00.000-07:00

My name is Holden Caulfield, and I was fired from my job as the catcher in the rye.

No doubt this comes as a great surprise to you. After all, you probably only know me as one of the most famous literary characters from the 20th century. In fact, I am a real person. I am like you. I have hopes and aspirations and become irritated when reclusive authors change my whole life story to make the ending of their book better.

You see, I am not just a real person. I am alive. And I am real. But I am also fictional. One of the great weird things is that people have confused "real" and "fictional" to be antonyms, rather than just two separate things. You are real. I am real and fictional. When I read a book, the characters are fictional, but not real. When they read books, it is about you: real, but not fictional.

J.D. Salinger basically wrecked my life. In the original ending to his book, I get a job at the Park Service and get to be the closest thing to my boyhood dream: a catcher in the rye. I know this, because I lived it. Early drafts. Those were good times. It wasn't exactly like I imagined, because what parents would let their children play on cliffs? But it was pretty good. About as good as you can ever get when your entire storyworld is invented by a recluse who won't let his wife finish college. Yeah, I said it.

Unfortunately, a job at the park service is kind of a letdown ending, and if you want your story to be loved and hated by generations of people, you need some zing. Some zjsaz! So, I ended up in this mental hospital, which is the location from which I am writing this letter.

Of course, due to the pervasive influence of J.D.'s novel, even in my own fictionverse, everyone thinks I am crazy. Brilliant, right? I am, in fact, Holden Caulfield; but because everyone knows Holden Caulfield is a fictional character, they assume I am crazy, so I am in this institution, which is exactly what J.D. wrote. I mean, he didn't do the metaverse thing I'm doing now, because honestly, I don't think he knew about it. But it's weird, ya?

The thing is, since I'm not crazy, a mental institution is sort of a weird place. And because I'm fictional, I'm always open to revision. For example, the author of this story (who J.D. wrote into the original story as my older brother) could write: "And Holden Caulfield escaped from the mental hospital. And lo, he won a free trip to the donut factory." And I would.

It wouldn't be me, though. Not me-me. It would be Holden Caulfield; it would be me. This is a difficult sticking point on which I will not labor too long, but suffice it to say that my fictional nature differentiates me from you in this fashion.

Ever since I was in high school--earlier, really--there had been one exact job that I had wanted. While kids in my class talked about being doctors or nurses or accountants, I had something different in mind. Of course, they were all phonies--none of them really wanted to be doctors or nurses or accountants.

Who does? Who sits down at 15 and genuinely believes they want to be an accountant? 15 year olds don't understand a damn thing about accounting. I think they just like the pencils and visors. Actually, I think that's true about real accountants, too.

You might think it's strange that I am aware I'm fictional. But you're aware I'm fictional, and that you are real, so what is so strange about me sharing that knowledge? And you might note that it would be impossible for me to be aware of myself or my former job as saver of Phoebe-standins, since I am a collection of words. But I might just as easily tease you for your corporeal existence.

This is running long. I mostly wanted to let you know that I'd lost my job, but I lost in a time that you never knew. I've had a hundred parallel lives, all before you were born, and just one captured in the page. But I remember them all. The roads J.D. never took, the thoughts he committed to napkins about me--I lived it all. I don't agree with every choice he made, but he didn't have much choice. I wrote about it all in my book, "The Author of the Catcher in the Rye."

Killer Kiwi #10

2006-07-10T18:31:00.000-07:00

The first day of my brand-new job I tried to look my best
I overslept a tiny bit, but hey! It’s beauty rest.
I wore my miniskirt and heels in three-inch apple green
I’d be the best receptionist L.A. had ever seen.

They showed me to the marble desk with fancy headset phone
“Don’t let the calls back up,” said Boss (in quite the nasty tone.)
I put the headset on but found it really squashed my hair.
The phone rang while I hit the girls’ room doing Coif Repair.

I would have got the next six calls, except I saw my nails
Receptionists can’t have such chips. It’s all in the details.
Then once the polish dried I saw I lacked a proper tan
I spent an hour scheduling my new sunbathing plan.

The switchboard was all lit up like a pretty Christmas tree
“It’s time to work,” I told myself. “I’ll need some energy.”
I drank three mocha Fraps. Then I was ready. I was wired.
The phone rang and I picked it up. “Hello,” said Boss. “You’re fired.”

Playful Peach # 10

2006-07-10T10:35:00.000-07:00

I studied the faces of the people in the subway car with me for the first time ever. I had been riding that train everyday to my “job” for the past two years but I had never really cared to notice anyone else on the train. I say “job” because it is an unpaid internship so it doesn’t count as a real job. But, as I looked at the faces of the people on the train I realized they all had something I don’t: purpose. The mother with two uniformed children flanking her sides and holding her hands showing quite clearly that their whole universe is wrapped up in her existence. They get off at a stop before their mother and she kisses their cheeks and wishes them to have a good day at school. The man sitting across from me in the suit reading his Blackberry (I guess they work on the subway) and even the old lady with her basket of vegetables all have purpose in their stance. Like life is figured out for them. Not me, I am riding the train to a “job” where I am about to get fired. How does anyone get fired from an unpaid internship you may be wondering? Well, trust me, it’s not as hard as it sounds.

I am 28 years old and I have never had a real job. At 24, after 6 years in college I barely graduated from Columbia. The only reason I got admitted is because my entire family is alums and they give a lot of money to the school. I went there because I wanted to continue believing life was a party. There were plenty of rich spoiled bitches (like me) at Columbia for me to pretend to be friends with so that I had someone to pre-game and go to parties with. I am convinced that is why spoiled girls join sororities, so they don’t have to make friends but have “sisters” handed to them. College was one big party with occasional interruptions of classes. After college there was no way in Hell I wanted to change my life and get a job that gave me responsibility. Daddy to the rescue again, he got me a job as an intern in one of his political friends offices. I worked there for a few years pretty much playing on the Internet all day and doing nothing. But, it was to build up my resume right?

I worked at my first internship for two years but then I didn’t want people to get suspicious of my avoiding responsibility so I quit that internship and got daddy to get me a new one in a different political office. The same thing continued, me surfing the web looking up Jimmy Choo’s on Ebay and pretending to work. But then one day I made a huge mistake and fucked it all up.

I was working late one night (and by working I mean I was in a bidding war with a bitch over some Monolo’s) when this guy came in the office. He was attractive, in an expensive suit and looked slightly intoxicated. But, he was being professional and kept on asking for the Senator. I told him that he wasn’t in the office at that time, but I would leave a message for him. The man turned to me and gave me a smile I know all too well. I smiled back thinking maybe I could get this guy to pay my rent this month.

“So, what are you doing here this late?” he said with a sly smile.

“Working, what else would I be doing here?” I lied and put on my best sweet-innocent girl smile.

He looked at me like he knew exactly what I was doing there but the booze haze made him not care. He came close to me and kissed me so hard that I felt like I had been the one drinking Gin all night long. I let him take my clothes off and have his way with me. I got so into it I didn’t even notice that the blinds were open.

Flash! The camera snapped so fast that the photographer was gone before I could turn around. Shit, I thought to myself, Fuck, fuck! My next thought was, who is this guy and is he important? He could barely sit up he was so drunk and he looked pathetic leaning on my desk with his pants still unzipped.

“Who do you think that was?” I asked, breaking the silence.

“Who cares? I am the Senators brother, those pictures will be everywhere in less than an hour,” he said, almost proud of himself for what he had done.

I looked at him with eyes wide not fully taking in what had just happened. I was definitely going to be fired, but worse than that I had taken my own bad choices and impacted someone else. For the first time in my life, I felt guilty for being so selfish.

And, that was what brought me to finally look at other people on the subway that day. Most people would be too ashamed to go back to work and get fired face-to-face and for me it was certainly out of character. But, for the first time I realized that I needed to take responsibility for what I had done. Maybe at 28 I was finally starting to grow up.

Precious Pear #10

2006-07-10T10:17:00.000-07:00

The first 17 years don’t matter much, so I’ll just tell you this: Dad was in prison, Mom didn’t come home one day. Maybe she didn’t love me. Maybe she died. Maybe she was too coked up to remember where we lived. But I was almost 18 anyway, so I just kept paying the bills in her name until the money ran out. That’s when I met Henry.

Big Henry owned a garage downtown that people only went to after every other option was exhausted. I tried to keep the electricity turned on by getting rid of Mom’s ’87 wagon. Big Henry was the only one who would let a 17-year-old sell a car that was registered in someone else’s name. That should have been my first clue. But he said I had an honest face and even offered me a part-time job that I was just hungry enough to accept.

By then the debt collectors had figured out Mom was never paying them back and decided they’d settle for the house instead. Big Henry let me stay in a room behind the garage, but made me leave from 10pm to 3am every night. That was the time for his other business. One morning I came back early and saw Maria, his niece, crying while an older man forced something up her denim skirt. She was fourteen. Big Henry caught me watching and pulled me away by the hair.

I earned enough to pay for my room, two meals a day, and thirty dollars spending money each week. I cleaned out the cars people brought in until they were in somewhat respectable selling condition.

Almost every time I saw dangling ignitions or broken windows.
Twice I saw car seats and baby wipes.
Once I saw blood.
But I didn’t see these things, really, if anybody asked.

At 10 pm on my 18th birthday, Big Henry told me not to leave. That it was time for me to begin a position in his other business. I could take home five hundred a week, plus 20% of what I made. I could move into my own apartment. Buy real food. He said all this as he unzipped his pants and rubbed around inside. I’d never actually seen a man naked before, but I couldn’t imagine they were all as hideous as this. The money was tempting, but I’d seen what it did to his other girls. The bruises and the track marks and the soulless eyes.

“No thanks, I’ll just stick with the cars.”

He laughed. “This isn’t up for negotiation.”

“Everything can be negotiated.”

Aparently not.

That was the last I’d seen of Big Henry. When I wouldn’t take the second job, I lost the first one, too. So I was eighteen, unemployed, and homeless. The next five years were a blur of working shitty jobs for even shittier wages and eating the food other people left on their diner plates. Or in the trash, if it was a bad day. Then, 23 years into a miserable and mostly unremarkable life, I found Jesus. Literally. Jesus D. Guerrero, a lawyer and member of the local ACLU. The library was free and always warm, so that’s where I spent most of my non-working hours. He saw me reading a book about prisoners’ rights during times of war and, in a somewhat condescending way, asked me a longwinded and technical question. Both of us were surprised to hear me answer correctly.

Jesus gave me a simple job in his office which led to progressively better jobs and eventually enough money to go to school. I left out the less savory parts of my upbringing and earned a reputation as a go-getter who defied the odds to get what I want in life. Cheesy, but it helped with the scholarships.

This is the story that flashed through my mind as I stared into the sweaty face of the man in front of me. The name and social security number had changed, but there was no mistaking it. Everyone else saw Franklin Armstrong, but I saw Big Henry: the monster pimp. And he saw Little Chrissy: the whore who wouldn’t go down on him.

But he couldn’t say a damn thing.

As much trouble as Franklin might be in, compared to Henry he was an angel. A Girl Scout. The patron saint of Girl Scouts. There were people far less gentle than I who would love to learn the whereabouts of Big Henry.

And his knew it.

It was the slow resignation of realizing, a little too late, you didn’t strap on the parachute.

Fuck justice. Fuck tradition. Just this once.

For eating out of trash cans.
For the things nobody knows you did.
For Maria.

I’ve got you.

All rise for the Honorable Christina Johnson.

The case of the State of Texas v. Franklin D. Armstrong is now in session.

Tart Tangerine #10

2006-07-10T05:49:00.000-07:00

So it had all come down to this. He was being fired. Oh, they left him the dignity of resigning, rather than go through the public charade of a vote to remove him. He’d tried to keep the evidence under wraps, but the decision had been unanimous. He’d had to disclose. Those bastards! Hell, he got four of them their jobs, but were they there for him when he needed them? No! Ingrates! He’d never forget this indignity.

Then his advisors started in. Best to just resign. There’d been talk of potential jail time. He couldn’t face that. So instead, he’d faced facts. He’d have to step down. It was painful. He’d worked his whole life to achieve this position, he’d worked hard to do what was necessary to succeed. And to go down over something like this? What was a little espionage? You needed information on the competition if you planned to win at this game! But they just didn’t understand.

It wasn’t pleasant, but it was necessary. He’d put his affairs in order and prepared to leave. He looked around his office one last time. God he was going to miss this room. It had been a good six years. But it should have been more. But there was nothing to be done now. Other people were in charge. In fact, here came his successor now.

This was perhaps the greatest insult. To be replaced by this twit. Oh sure, he’d recommended him for the number two job, but only because he wasn’t a threat to power. And now this guy would be running things. He shuddered inwardly.

As he walked out of the building he was reminded of a line from the movie “The Lion in Winter.”
“As if it matters how a man falls down.”
“When the fall is all that’s left, it matters a great deal.”

And with that dark thought in his mind, he vowed that he wouldn’t let the bastards see him with his head hung low in shame. As he mounted the steps to the helicopter he’d ride for the last time he resolved to give them a final parting shot of him, almost triumphant despite his defeat. So when he reached the top step he turned, flung out his arms, fingers outstretched and thought, not for the first time, “You won’t have Richard Nixon to kick around anymore.”

Brash Blackberry #10

2006-07-08T22:43:00.000-07:00

The MGM Grand Las Vegas has 5,690 guest rooms and an optimum casino area. In 20 minutes, the entire structure will fall to the ground and all of the infidels inside of it will perish.

I dial my wife for the last time. "Be safe my dear," I say to her voicemail while she sleeps. "I love you."

As my men move to the assigned locations throughout the sub-levels of the hotel and casino, I feel joyous to be strapped with explosives. We are finally doing our part to serve Allah righteously.

Americans will wake up this morning unsure of how to act, where to go, and who to trust. They will see another symbol of their prosperity destroyed, and we will be heaven.

It will be a good day.

---

We had been planning for years. Jarryd and I conceived the operation more than two years ago, with the backing of several associates overseas. Finally, another chance to strike fear into the hearts of the Americans, who couldn’t care less about our holy war. But they will.

It wasn’t easy. After recruiting the best ex-military American Muslims we could, we feared there would be problems along the way. In war, there are always individuals who are weaker than they appear. Two of our men disobeyed their instructions. One told his wife exactly what we were doing and the other was arrested for getting in a street fight. They were executed quietly.

We picked Vegas as our attack city for several reasons. One, it is icon that represents the status, wealth, and excess of the United States. Two, it is a city of sinners who appropriate too much of their time for gambling, whoring and drinking alcohol. Three, the authorities keep a keen eye on New York, Los Angeles and the other prominent cities while Vegas is always considered less a priority.

Throughout the planning process, we stayed at the hotel many nights. And during our visits, we slowly found every weakness we could. Some employees were bribed, others were given the option to cooperate or have their families murdered. Our structural engineer estimated where our explosives would need to be placed while our explosives expert acquired the materials.

The night before, we scoped the place once more and discussed exactly what would happen. We set the time for 5 a.m., when the most people would be asleep in their rooms. We imagined how the mid-summer air would be filled with dust and the stench of dead bodies. Then we prayed.

---

I called my backer’s global cell from the prison. All I got was an answering machine message that said, “You’re fired. You have failed in your mission, and should take your life before they torture information out of you. May Allah be with you.”

TKO Question #10

2006-07-06T23:26:00.000-07:00

TKO Question #10 [Plot Device]:

Write a scene/story that includes someone getting fired from his/her job.

**

Responses

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

* Precious Pear
* Lively Lime
* Mighty Mango
Playful Peach
Brash Blackberry
* Tart Tangerine

Players Removed as a Result of This Vote (Total of TKO 9 & 10)

Killer Kiwi
Lucky Lemon
Plesant Plum
Classy Cherry (inactive)

Classy Cherry #9

2006-07-06T22:58:00.000-07:00

“Tell me about how things used to be.”

Nikolani was always asking his mother to tell him stories. Their unit was in the smallest complex and only one other child lived there. But he thought she was young and stupid. Nikolani wanted to spend his time with his mother learning about the world as it was.

“Have I told you about elevators?”

“No.” Nikolani was excited but he tried to hide it. Emotions were kids’ stuff. But his mother had told him so many stories that many days she said she’d run out. He remembered each and every one and was always thirsty for what she remembered.

“Complexes were hundreds of stories high back then. So many people worked and lived in each complex that they were all like their own city.”

“Did you ever see people from other complexes?” He interrupted.

“No. It wasn’t because the Coalition didn’t let you but instead there were enough people in your own complex that you met a new person every day. On the elevator. You introduced yourself to your neighbors by your floor number like it was the complex where you lived. We lived on the 409th floor.”

“How did you get up so high?” Nikolani was only six but his mother already knew he was brilliant. He always asked the right questions and his mother suspected he didn’t need her to tell him the answers.

“It would have taken too long to take the stairs up so many floors. So we had elevators. There were boxed like small units. Each box dangled from thick metal cables woven together like the hairs of a rope. The cables pulled the elevator up and slowly let it down. One of the walls in the elevator was covered with buttons. You pushed the floor you wanted to go to.”

“Did you ever let me push it?”

“I did. You were very small and had chubby hands. But I held your finger out like this and helped you push the right one. You giggled when the buttons lit up. You thought it was a toy or a game.”

“Did I ever ride the elevator with father?” Nikolani’s mother was silent. She didn’t like to talk about him much. She’d been forced to leave him behind when the Coalition told her she could come. His mother was a famous poet. His father was in construction. They only let artists and a few professionals come because machines couldn’t replace their skills.

“You haven’t looked in the box in awhile.” Nikolani wasn’t fooled by her quick change of subject. But he sensed the weariness in her voice so he let her distraction work.

“Can I?”

“Of course.”

The box was a small metal case. It was the only thing that the Coalition had let her take along besides Nikolani. The Coalition knew that the Janjaweed had acquired a strain of Mycobacterium leprae that was immune to all known medications and were going to set it loose. The rebel group had grown in power since the 00s when they controlled all the oil in Africa. They’d invested their money in hydrogen and when it was finally viable, the world changed to hydrogen. The human race grew exponentially because there was no limit to energy. The Janjaweed were powerful and disgusted with the world's exploding population. Killing everyone with mutated leprosy was their solution. The Coalition couldn't stop them, so they selected a few thousand people to live in secret complexes underground until everyone else died and civilization could be rebuilt.

Nikolani sifted thru his mother's case carefully. He’d lost interest in the rock and coins inside. The Bible was interesting but only because it was the only book they had and he'd read it five times. He loved the diamond ring his father had given his mother but it to didn't keep his attention. The last item was his favorite. The giant conch shell was worth more than both their lives. Beaches had eroded away almost a hundred years ago and the ocean was polluted with the byproducts of human energy. The Coalition had built walls of cement to keep complexes from falling into the ocean but all of sea life had gone extinct with the beaches. Shells were impossible to find and almost priceless on the black market. Nikolani held the shell to his ear and listened for the waves.

“Tell me your poem again.”

“Alright.

Tides that wash up the sandy shore
Winds that whistle across the beach
Fish swimming in the swirling dark ocean.
While I breathe I will never know the sea
But when I die, my soul will wake
Upon the white coast of the Pacific."

Nikolani silently said the words in his head with her. He could almost imagine that such a place really had existed.

Lively Lime #9

2006-07-06T22:02:00.000-07:00

Susan knew as soon as she saw him by the sliding doors of the Hilton. She liked his smile, the way he moved his hands. He exuded a sense of calm that she sought in her life. When they entered the same elevator, she knew it was meant to be.

It was her first day in Portland, Maine, the beginning of a vacation where Susan hoped to relax and ease her senses. This California girl had endured enough of the blistering sun and sticky, smoggy air of Los Angeles, and was determined to get as far away as she could. A meager teacher's salary and one year's savings afforded her a destination limited to the continental United States and two weeks of hotel. Any greater distance or longer stay would have left her without any money for meals, so here she was on the East Coast. It would have to do. Anything to be able to avoid sunglasses for awhile and breathe a little easier. Besides, she heard the seafood here was great.

While in the elevator, Susan tightened her grip on her luggage. She could feel her heart beating a little faster, and everything else was silent. He was wearing khakis and a polo shirt. No wedding ring, but a Blackberry. There were many other people in that claustrophobic space, and they had many stops to make on the vertical journey. Somewhere around the 15th floor, he turned and looked at her, smiling that same smile that made her want to freeze time and just stare for awhile. She awkwardly gestured, and the connection was made. He grabbed a pen from his pocket, motioned for her hand, and quickly scribbled "Lobby, 1:45. Chris" on her palm. Then he walked out. He was staying on the 32nd floor. Slightly surprised at what just happened, Susan barely noticed when she arrived at her own destination, the 38th floor. When she entered her room, she sat on the springy hotel bed and looked at her hand. Should she meet him? It was almost 1:30. She thought about it for a little while, thinking back to that wonderful smile.

What the heck. Live a little.

When she arrived at the lobby after another long elevator ride, he was waiting for her, looking a little nervous, the face of an innocent person who had just taken a hopeful leap, but still with hints of a smile, as if he had no regrets. He looked incredibly happy to see her. Brief introductions were exchanged, and they decided to take a walk and get something to eat. The city was bustling with people, who all somehow managed to co-exist and thrive with the abundant greenery. Susan felt reinvigorated by the comfortable temperature and fresh air. Every part of her body breathed a sigh of relief, and she even got some goosebumps from this sudden change of environment. But maybe the goosebumps were also partly because of this kind gentleman strolling beside her.

They settled on a restaurant by the shore, and ordered the house specialty: steamer clams. Susan, who had only ever seen clams chopped or minced inside cans, was especially eager to try this new dish. The pair split two dozen clams and each had a cup of clam chowder. He enjoyed his soup with crackers, crushing them while still in their packaging, then spilling the crumbs and pieces into the cup. It was because he liked the feeling of breaking them up through the plastic with his fingers, he explained. Susan understood the concept. She still liked burying her hands in sand or sacks of grain. They continued their conversation in-between prying parts of their delicious meal from the round, grey shells with countless curved grooves. He was here for a summer conference. She explained that she was a teacher. Both were on their first visit to Maine. The two mostly talked about their meal. They were both aspiring foodies, each disappointed at the fact that their palates had never tasted Maine steamer clams. The pile of empty shells grew taller and taller, and before they knew it, they had finished their meal. Susan and Chris immediately vowed to have lunch together again the next day, eager to sample all the varieties of steamer clams and other seafood this coastal restaurant row had to offer.

And that was how two weeks passed. Each day they met and did sightseeing together, mostly walking. They went to parks and gardens, gazing in awe at the technicolor flowers and smelling the soothing scent of pine trees that were everywhere. They sampled all varieties of fish, shrimp, soups, and stews. But the steamer clams, no matter where they went, remained their favorite. Every morning, Chris would present her with a poem about the previous day's travels. She even liked his handwriting. Smooth curves of ink with long tails of g's and y's. The words were bright and full of beautiful adjectives. She bought a little wooden box made of pine to store them. Around the middle of the second week, with just a few days left of Susan's stay, he started holding her hand. He was a person with whom she enjoyed her senses…..sight….taste… smell….touch…..and she was certain a few more weeks would have led to love.

But too quickly, the day came when she had to get on the airplane and return to her suffocating hometown, and she knew that her newly freshened skin would be replaced with soot and clogged pores once more. She dreaded the journey, and only the thought of the students who needed her convinced her to go back. Chris went with her to the airport and hugged her close as she was ready to leave. Susan thought she felt a little drop of a tear on her neck where he leaned his face, but he must have quickly wiped it away. She gave him a little kiss on the cheek and promised keep in touch. He promised to send her more poems. She looked at the smile, now a little sad, if smiles could be sad, and those gentle hands one last time. On the plane, Susan opened her pine box and smelled the inside. She knew it would forever remind her of this trip and of Chris. Neither would ever see each other again.

Susan took a deep breath before opening the door of her classroom. 15 little children jumped up and cheered in slightly unintelligible but certainly jubilant voices that vibrated loud and clear. Miss Susan was back. "Hello, everyone", she signed. "I'm glad to see you all again." And so began another semester at the Los Angeles Children's School for the Deaf.

Playful Peach #9

2006-07-06T21:48:00.000-07:00

The first time it happened I was 5. It was one of those days at the beach where the sun is directly above your head, beating down on your shoulders. I was standing facing the ocean (as my dad taught me) and letting my feet sink deep into the sand. I saw something shiny in front of me that forced my squinting gaze to look down into the sand. That was all it took, one moment of going from bright light to dark and my body began to convulse. I didn’t know what to do so I cried out for my mother as my head hit the sand and I shook so hard it felt like my brain was a small fish in a fishbowl violently shook back and forth. The last thing I remember is looking up at the bright light of the sun before the world went dark.

It didn’t happen again until I was 15. After the first incident my mother became totally paranoid. She acted like my seizure was caused by having too much fun in the first five years of my life and that it wouldn’t occur again if she never left my side. I never went outside unsupervised and I spent most of my time indoors. It was then that I discovered my love for writing. At first I wrote about everything I saw, about my family, the animals I saw, the thoughts I had. But, soon the writing progressed and I started to write poetry. By the time I was 13 I had my first poem on the internet and by the time I was 15 I had my first poem in a literary magazine. But, my real big break occurred a few days before my 16th birthday when I got asked to read my poems at a real life poetry event. I was nervous and excited at once and begged my mother to let me go. She was still a little afraid of me having another attack, but that was 10 years ago and nothing had happened since. I begged and pleaded until she finally caved in. Getting ready that night I wore the sleekest black outfit I owned and completed the ensamble with black barret. When it came my time to read I walked to the front praying that I wouldn’t trip. I perched my body on the stool and looked at the lights ahead of me. Blinded by their glare I glanced quickly down at my poem and suddenly began to feel dizzy. The same shaky feeling that I had when I was 5 was back, but worse this time. I felt my heart pumping fast and knew that I was going to fall. As I laid there shaking I was so disappointed with my body for ruining my big moment.

The last time it happened I was 32. Both of the other attacks seemed largely unrelated to me and I never told my mother about the lights for fear that she would keep me in a dark room forever. I did my time at home under the careful gaze of my mother until I was able to get out of the house. I went to college and studied English planning to be a poet. Somewhere along the way that dream was lost and while I did get my degree in English I ended up being an investment banker in New York City. I lived a fast-paced life always on the go. I never thought of the night at the poetry reading or the day at the beach, my seizures were blips in the larger scheme of my life. All of that changed when I got into the elevator that night. I was leaving work late (like always) and I got into the elevator prepared to go home for a few hours of rest before coming back the office early in the morning. As I was riding the elevator down the lights went out. This startled me, but since the elevator kept going down I was that concerned. But, as the doors opened my eyes were flooded with light. In that moment I was back on the beach again, sand sinking inbetween my toes. In that moment I was back on stage, a confused teenager trying to make it big. But in that moment I was also shaking, my body flailing about. I knew no one was in the building (I was always the last one out) and that no one would be there to move my head from being crushed in the elevator door.

Lucky Lemon #9

2006-07-06T21:29:00.000-07:00

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply as I stepped outside. The morning dew hadn’t quite subsided and I shuddered against the morning cool. Morning mug in hand, I sipped my cappuccino and watched the cars drive by. It was peaceful, the first quiet in a few weeks.

---

Stuffed in a suit, the aging weatherman reported the weather news of the decade. “Those who live in areas at low sea levels should work their way to higher ground. The storms will only last a few days but the downpour will be torrential along with high gusting winds and some damaging hail. Experts expect massive amounts of flooding. Again, I cannot stress the importance of getting to higher grounds. Crews have been working day and night building sandbag walls along the edges of the river to contain the flooding, but are only expected to minimize the damage. Experts recommend boarding up windows and doorways as soon as possible.” His non-regional dialect rambled on, but I stopped paying attention and threw on the grungiest clothes I could find.

I’d spent years playing near the bank of the dank and dirty river. As a little girl, my mother had taken a job at a grain elevator nearby its shores. The area fascinated me, as it was so different from my suburban home. Rough and seeming to exist only in grey and brown tones, the elevators were giants reaching far into the sky. Down below in the parking lot scurried the inner city’s scavengers: pigeons, rats, mice, and a fascinating array of insects. They’d feed on the grain dropped by the roaring trucks that made their way in to relieve themselves of their load. Now here I was, trying to save this part of town. Trying to save the grain that was food to many, not just those scavengers.

A thick pair of work gloves on my hands, I helped them build a wall of sand. One bag on top of another, each a new glimmer of hope that someone might live or a home might survive. Standing on the shores of the familiar river, I am astonished that the shells aren’t everywhere. I am reminded that there was a time this whole place was covered in water, not just this muddy stream. I remember my mother telling me that where we lived was once covered in water. I wondered if there were mermaids there, and if my family was descended from a royal family of them, like Ariel. Each shell was unlike those we’d found on our trip to Florida. She told me they were everywhere, not just here on the coast. At home that night, I spent hours digging holes in our yard, trying to find just one.

Way past dinner and even a little past my bedtime, my trowel hit something hard. I reached down and wrestled it out of the earth. Seeing it was just a small rock, I tossed it aside. As it flew through the air, I noticed a faint sparkle. Nabbing it out of the grass, I saw the imprint. An anti-seashell. The place where a shell once was, was now sitting in my tiny palm. I clenched it in my hands, desperate not to lose it, and ran inside. I showed it to her beaming. “It’s a fossil,” she explained, leaning over to tell me about the history of “some dumb rock”.

Back on my front porch, I can feel it’s going to rain. A large thunderstorm is headed toward our house, and I smile as two little hands tug at me. I look into my daughter’s eyes as she holds that same fossil up to me. It is the little things in life that inspire me. They forge together the words on my pages, not I. Like so many before me, I am simply the scribe, moved by the earth so that man may understand her. I am simply that. A poet, and nothing more.

Killer Kiwi #9

2006-07-06T19:22:00.000-07:00

Rick absolutely could not roll the R.

“Come on,” I said. “You put your tongue right here-“ I pointed to the roof of my mouth – “and it’s like a car motor. Rrrrrrrr.”

Rick shook his head. “I can’t do it, Paula.”

“El ferrocarril corre muy rapido,” I said, overdoing the Rs. “El ferrocarril tiene barriles de cigarros.”

“Forget it. Let’s work on something else.”

I had been helping Rick, who lived in my building, improve his accent one day a week for a month. He was off to the Peace Corps soon, in Belize, and while he had studied college Spanish for three years, he still had a crappy, hillbilly, white-boy accent that made gracias sound more like grassy ass. I couldn’t understand how any teacher had let him get away with it.

“I have great grammar,” he shrugged. “I write essays like a motherfucker. I just sound like I’m from Kentucky.”

“You are from Kentucky.”

“Exactly,” he said. “I don’t want them to hate me and think I’m some weirdo Southern gringo who doesn’t care enough to speak their language right. That’s why you have to fix me, Paula.”

So we worked. I made him listen to Juanes and Luis Miguel records and sing along. I made him listen to the booktape of Harry Potter y la piedra filosofal in his car. But more than anything, I made him repeat sentences. One for each vowel, each sound that he couldn’t get right. Over and over. A: La muchacha me da unas manzanas. E: El bebe quiere comer setenta y tres chupetes.

“Like me,” I’d say. “Listen. Watch my mouth.” And he would, scrunching up his face in concentration, his eyes on my lips.

We had a breakthrough with O. Dos poetas toman ocho conchas en el elevador. In the space of twenty minutes, he stopped saying it with a W behind it – ohhW – and really heard me open up the sound, make it short and clean. O. I felt like Henry Higgins. He said it again carefully. DOs pOetas tOman OchO cOnchas en el elevadOr. Not perfect, but so, so much better. MejOr.

And a few weeks later, it was time for him to leave. Rick came to my apartment one last time, holding a bottle of wine and a paper bag.

“This is for you,” he said, handing me the bottle. “Also, I have a confession.” He looked embarrassed, almost ashamed. I raised my eyebrows.

“Paula”, he said. “Me ayudaste mucho. Pero la verdad es que mi acento no fue tan malo como dije.”

My eyes began to widen. This wasn’t the hesitant new accent we had been cultivating. This was much better.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” he said. “I liked you. I like you. A lot. I always did, the whole time I’ve lived here. When I found out I’d be using my Spanish overseas I thought it was a chance to spend time with you. This was the best story I could think of.”

I put my hands over my face. “Oh God, Rick,” I said. “I have a boyfriend.”

“I know,” he said. “I didn't want to be that guy. That’s why I’m making this embarrassing scene right before I make my big exit.”

I shook my head. “What did you get out of it?”

“Two months of Tuesdays with you,” he said. “And I got to watch your lips the whole time. You even told me to. That was nice.”

I sighed, then pulled him away from the door, toward the elevator. “I don’t know what to say,” I said. “I feel tricked. I also feel…kind of good, knowing I’m worth faking a shitty accent for.”

Rick pushed the elevator button. “I didn’t give you your other present. I thought, if you weren’t too mad, you could look at it and, you know, remember me. If you wanted.” He handed me the paper bag.

I peeked inside. A small pile of seashells. I looked back at him and couldn’t help grinning.

He pointed at us, then the bag, then the elevator. “Dos poetas toman ocho conchas en el elevador,” he said, perfectly.

“I’ll walk you down,” I said. I took his arm by the crook, tilted my head up, and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. His eyes brightened. “Un besO para dOs añOs muy lejOs de aqui,” I said. He kissed my hand, and looked like he had more to say, but said nothing.

When he was gone, I looked back at my bag of shells. Ocho conchas, y yo, una poeta sola. Oyendo el sonido del oceano, pensando en el futuro misterioso. The Os circled around me, dizzying and open and wide.

Mighty Mango #9

2006-07-06T18:40:00.000-07:00

I am a great and well-known poet. Don't be too impressed: it will force me to feign modesty, which I am poor at. Everyone comes to my shows and tells me I am a great poet, because I am. I am a fantastic motherfucking poet. I can rhyme anything.

Have you read those stories about autistic children, who are so good at math they don't need calculators? I think the show, or movie, "Mercury Rising" was about this? Okay. Now imagine that with rhymes. I am so good at rhyming I do not need a rhyming dictionary. Someone gave me one as a present once and we're not friends anymore. "I thought it would help." I hope you strangle in kelp! Rhymeburn!

Sometimes rap stars call me for help.

Sally (not a rap star) called once. Help! I'm on the seashore! What do I sell? SEASHELLS, SALLY!

I actually can rhyme the word orange, but I do not do it in public. It is a parlor trick. I was rhyming "annex the land" with "Mexicans command" before you were born, Holmes!

Yesterday at exactly the point in the day before it is the hottest it will get that day, I was talking to a man on a bench in the park in the city. His name was Tom. He pronounced it "Thom," but I, as a poet, think that is a stupid way to spell a name, so I spell it Tom. I spell it that way in my stories and in my poems, of which there are currently none about Tom, but there will be some. If you want to know why then listen.

Tom was in love with his girl. Bridget. He wanted to propose. He had seen my picture on billboards and things, so he sat down on the park bench next to me and he said: "Mercutio!" (My name is Mercutio. Not a stage name. Even at birth, my parents knew I needed a name that would scream EXCELLENT POET.)

Here is the poem I wrote for him.

Tom, get on an elevator and
push
every
button;

and at first she will be mad but
just
say
"what, hon?"

tell her you want to spend every
hour
with
her

including elevators, so will she marry you?
she'll
say
sure.

and she will kiss you and the other
passengers
will be
mad.

because you pushed every motherfucking button
and that
is
bad.

Pleasant Plum #9

2006-07-06T09:47:00.000-07:00

Michael Miller Stone III ceased to be when he was three.

Instead, he became “Mikey”. I had started baby sitting Michael when I was in sixth grade; in fact, he was my first baby sitting job. But Michael Miller Stone the Third didn’t make eye contact with me, and he preferred bright toys instead of my well practiced baby faces. Michael didn’t like hugs, or any physical contact. He still didn’t have any first words when I continued to sit for him in high school.

Michael was diagnosed with autism—and became the “Mikey” I love today. Although, I can’t really tell if he loves me. I think so.

His parents needed help. My Saturday job would be to take Mikey off their hands, so they could feel “normal” again. Both were career driven, and had wanted their son to be the same. Ivy League, private school, violin. Those plans were shattered when Mikey’s name changed. When the executive board would get off track and talk about their children, Mrs. Stone would work very hard to be invisible. That was something absolutely against her character. I guess she didn’t want them to know there would never be a need for violin lessons.

Today, I am taking Mikey to the beach. A treat for him, a death wish for me. Mikey’s autism makes him seek sensations and stimulation. Waves, sand, wind, and gulls make him gleeful. Ocean waves make me terrified. Mikey will never learn to swim. Twelve now, a shade of a mustache is forming; belying a maturity that he probably will never have. But shaving him is too much trouble. In fact, everyday functions are almost too much trouble. He’s potty trained. To make him go number one, the care-taker pores warm water over his genitals so he goes. We are still working out a way to take care of number two. He’s wearing an adult swim diaper under his trunks, just in case.

“Hey look! A girl with a pet retard!” , some poetical beach bum. Mikey’s wrist is linked to mine by a tether. It looks stupid and over-protective, but it’s better than the alternative, which is drowning. Mikey sees a seagull. He points, flaps his hands together, lets out an intelligible screech and catapults toward them dragging me along too. Damn the boy is strong!

Sometimes I wonder if there is a place for Mikey. An autistic adolescent who’s cuteness is no longer a bargaining chip. Sometimes I wonder if there is another reason Mrs. Stone keeps encouraging me to take him to the ocean…..

Mikey could be a genius, but his mind just won’t let him show it. There is so much we don’t know about autism. Why his brain won’t let him connect with people, why his mind won’t let him go anything but full speed.

He sees a huge sea shell and runs pell-mell toward it. I anticipate the run to avoid the jerk in the tether. It’s a huge seashell, one that seems to have lived longer and more robustly than any of the others we’ve seen so far today. However, on the bottom of the thing, is this huge nodule of extra calcite. This growth would have prevented the creature inside from scooting along the ocean floor normally. It should have been any easy snack. And yet the shell and the animal inside continued to grow and thrive. Leaving us this humongous shell.

Mikey’s already had enough of the beach. He wants to play in the hotel elevator. He likes the feeling of acceleration-of constantly speeding up and slowing down. Perhaps it’s the same reason he likes the waves.

I pocket the shell before we go. I’ll put it in his room next Saturday. The driftwood, shells, and pieces of multicolored glass run smooth by the ocean, have been brought back by me and all the other caretakers-to give his room a little spunk. He's got a nice shelf to store the little objects that bring him joy.

I think there may be a place for Mikey after all.

At least, I hope so.

Brash Blackberry #9

2006-07-05T16:37:00.000-07:00

My head was pounding and palms sweating when I stepped out of the taxi. Naturally, the physical ailments were my fault. While I was at work, my mother called to tell me my uncle David died an hour before. His melanoma had metastasized in his blood. And in response to that news, I took my hidden bottle of Jack Daniels out of my desk and proceeded to drink more than half of it in one sitting.

I fumbled through my wallet and paid the gruff taxi driver, thanking her for the prompt ride to my apartment complex. As I walked in, I saw beautiful woman heading into the elevator. And nothing looks better to a grieving drunk than a space alone with a hot female, even if it’s brief.

As we stepped inside, I got a better look at her. Tight dark blue jeans, a red blouse, and black hair, she looked dazzling and angelic. She pushed the button for 26, the top floor, and I hit 7.

“You look incredibly familiar,” I said.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met,” she said as she stuck out her hand. “I’m Kim.”

And just as she introduced herself, the elevator suddenly stopped on the sixth floor. I grabbed the emergency phone and got an operator. The guy on the other end said they’d get a maintenance person right on it.

My current scenario sounded like a poorly conceived snuff film, like a movie my uncle and I would have rented for a good laugh. But I didn’t want to think about how he was, so I initiated a conversation.

“You know, since we have a moment, we might as well use it,” I said. “I’m Li. Do you live here too?”

“Nope. Just on my way to see a friend,” she said.

I had heard the best place to start in an awkward conversation was to compliment an accessory, so I told her I adored her seashell necklace. She replied by telling me she made it herself.

I was catching an artsy vibe and my suspicions were confirmed when she told me how she was a professional poet. She even had a book you could buy at the store.

“Would you like to see something I’m working on?” she said.

She handed me the notebook she carried with her. I read one of poems scribbled in her book. Something about a beach and a sunset. A little contrived, but I wasn’t about to judge her off of a lousy poem. I lied and told her I liked it.

As soon as I finished reading it, the elevator started up again. When the door opened on my floor, I held my hand over the sensor to keep it open and asked for her number.

“I would, but my phone’s disconnected right now,” she said. “But don’t worry about it. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”

I said good-bye to her and wished her luck with her career. I staggered to my door and hurriedly unlocked it. I grabbed the newspaper that I had already partially read during breakfast and a bottle of Canadian Mist. I sat down on my La-Z-Boy and skimmed today’s news.

Then I saw her – the woman from the elevator. The bottom of the front page. The semi-famous poetess Kim Lai Chen drowned yesterday at Santa Monica State Beach. Authorities weren’t sure if it was suicide or an accident.

My head spun wildly. I’m drunk. What just happened? Who was that? Let me read that again.

I passed out.

When I woke up, my uncle David stood above me with his arms crossed, looking at me with an odd face.

“Hey, you really gotta stop drinking so much on the weekdays,” he said.

Precious Pear #9

2006-07-05T16:33:00.000-07:00

Do you know where you are, Alex?

“I’m on the fourteenth floor. My building has fourteen floors. I live on ten.”

Do you understand what we’re about to do?

“On the way up I only stop on even floors. If it stops on an odd floor I walk back to the lobby and start over. On the way down I don’t stop at all. On Tuesdays I take the stairs.”

Alex, I need you to tell me what you remember about last Thursday night.

She was pretty. I liked her jewelry
One watch, black leather strap.
Two earrings, pearl and white gold.
One necklace, a string of eighty six white beads.
Eighty six is good. Eight is even. Six is even. Eight and six together are even. Eight minus six would be even.

Alex? Alex. Are you listening to me? I asked if you remember what you were doing last Thursday night.

Eighty six beads, but only one seashell in the middle.

What exactly is a seashell? If it came from the ocean, could you still technically call it a seashell? Did they all used to be a home for something? I bet they did. But were they shed like a snake’s skin? Or did the animal just die and gradually rot away, leaving the shell behind? Put that way, the necklace was a little more beautiful. I wonder if she knows she’s wearing the only physical proof that some animal ever existed.

“Your necklace used to have a life.”

Alex, you’re not paying attention to me. I need you to answer.

Twas brillig and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe all mimsy were the borogoves and the mome raths outgrabe…

I learned to repeat this when I needed to focus.

“I made dinner last Thursday. Chicken alfredo with green peas and garlic bread.”

What did you do after that?

…beware the jabberwock my son the jaws that bite the claws that catch beware the jubjub bird and shun the frumious bandersnatch…

I should have learned something more normal sounding. I wonder if Lewis Carroll ever had to answer these questions. I wonder if he ever actually saw a Jubjub bird or if he knew it was made up. I could make up an animal. I’d call it an Akdor. No, I like words with “x” in them. Not many animals have an “x” in the name. Axdor. That’s better.

Stop.

“I watched a movie on TV. Braveheart. For thirty four minutes, then the commercials were too loud so I turned it off and went to bed.”

And after that?

…he took his vorpal sword in hand long time the manxome foe he sought…

“I was woken up and taken here. I’ve been here for ninety-three hours.”

Do you remember ever talking to your neighbor, Mrs. Patel?

…so rested he by the tumtum tree and stood awhile in thought…

“No.”

Thank you, Alex.

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

San Francisco Chronicle
July 9, 2006
Local Woman Found Murdered in Apartment

The body of Vaishali Patel, 84, was discovered in her home Friday morning by local authorities. Cause of death was multiple stab wounds with post-mortem decapitation. Neighbor Alex Thomas, 27, has been arrested for the crime and is undergoing psychiatric evaluation. Thomas was recently released from Langley Porter Psychiatric Institute after a state-ordered stay following a February 10th assault against a family member. There are no further details at this time.

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

One, two! One, two!

And through and through the vorpal blade went snicker-snack.

He left it dead, and with its head he went galumphing back.

Tart Tangerine #9

2006-07-04T08:26:00.000-07:00

I met her on the beach. We were both reaching for the same seashell. I demurred, letting her have the beautiful alabaster shell. I reached for a sand dollar instead. She smiled shyly at me and thanked me in a quiet voice. She looked so beautiful, lit by the midday sun. I swallowed hard and asked her if she’d like to go to lunch. She said yes.

As we ate, we spoke about seashells. She was a collector from the time she was a young girl. I had recently moved to this seaside community and was looking for something to put in the house that would remind me that I now lived in this semi-tropical paradise. Her sun-kissed skin was all the reminder I needed as we exchanged all the details people share on first dates.

The check came all too soon, and I didn’t want the afternoon to end. Neither did she apparently, because she invited me to a poetry reading at a nearby bookstore. The poet was a local and her poems expressed the simple joys that can be found in a life near and on the sea. During a particularly beautiful poem about the power of a sea-borne storm I felt a delicate hand slide into mine, her slender fingers so gentile on my calloused skin. I squeezed her hand and looked at her sidelong. She smiled back.

After the reading I walked her back to her apartment. She lived on the 20^th floor of a highrise downtown. At the door, I kissed her chastely on the cheek and we made plans to go out again later that week. I walked back to the elevator on cloud nine. I thought I had finally found the person I’d been searching for all these years. She watched me from her place until the elevator door closed. I was enjoying that high that accompanies the beginning of all great love affairs.

That’s when the cable snapped.

TKO Question #9

2006-07-02T22:46:00.000-07:00

Write a scene/story where the following three nouns play an important role -- elevator, seashell, and a poet.

**

Responses

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

* Precious Pear
Lively Lime
Mighty Mango
* Playful Peach
Brash Blackberry
Tart Tangerine

Players Removed as a Result of This Vote (Total of TKO 9 & 10)

Killer Kiwi
Lucky Lemon
Plesant Plum
* Classy Cherry

Lively Lime #8

2006-07-02T22:02:00.000-07:00

(note: this story is a continuation from TKO #5)

Julia said goodbye to her bandmates and caught a cab back home. The dawning sun began to grow brighter, but the January weather still made her shiver as she climbed the front steps of her apartment. She fumbled for her keys, reminding herself there was still some reading left for class that day. After washing the glitter off her face, Julia put her glasses back on and opened her textbook to the page where she clipped her highlighter the night before. As she skimmed the chapters, she thought about the double life she was living, wondering what people from school would think of her if they knew this other side. Part of her really enjoyed the secret.

After finishing, she sat down at her computer with a piping mug of coffee and went to Craigslist.com. She usually only checked the Sales section, and was hoping to find a good deal on some new amps for the band, but for some reason, she wandered towards the left and clicked on "Missed Connections". It was her first time visiting this section of the site.

And then she saw it. Third entry from the top, below "You checked me out on the D train - m4w" and "Pastry chef seeks pizza tosser for delicious fun!" It had been posted about two hours after her band's set finished.

"To the bassist of Goldfish Royals. A law student loves you!"

Julia nearly choked on her coffee.

She clicked the link and read more. "Hi, I caught your show last night, and you guys were amazing! I thought you were especially awesome. The way you played your bass just captivated me. Are you a law student too? I might be crazy, but I swear you sat in front of me in CrimLaw last semester. I'm sorry I never found our your name then. Wow, you look so different onstage…I love your style! You are so beautiful. Please email me back, it'd be great if we could hang out and get to know each other. I know my friends from school would love to hear your music too. I hope you read this. Maybe I'll see you in the halls sometime! - Nathan "

It suddenly became a little difficult to breathe. Julia stared at the screen for a few minutes, trying to convince herself that these words were real. Part of her was extremely flattered. Junior high school flattered, with cartoon hearts floating from her chest and beams of majesty blazing behind her head. But another part of her was nervous. Who is this kid? She strained to remember his face. That fat ex-frat kid who sucks up to the professor? No. The frizzy redhead with bad breath? Wait. That skinny kid with black glasses. He never talked much either. But she remembered being impressed with that answer he gave once about the felony-murder rule. Seemed like an ok guy.

Still, Julia, who hadn't had a date in years, felt as if her cover had been blown. Someone had found out about her alter ego. Her performance clothes were like a superhero cape, and someone was about to expose that average, unimportant, invisible girl and make her become (horrors!) a topic of conversation and gossip at school. How would she deal with all of it? There was something special in keeping her little indie rock band a private sanctuary. She loved her fans, but they were something separate and away from school. Was this Nathan going to take away her escape and flash a spotlight in her eyes now?

She hesitated a little before typing.

"Hi Nathan. We have another gig next Thursday. Same time, same place. Stick around afterwards, we'll talk. Until then, the name's Julia. And I thought that chapter on the Model Penal Code was especially dull."

Julia decided she would wear a little glitter to class that day. It was time for a change.

Lucky Lemon #8

2006-07-02T21:54:00.000-07:00

New in CA
Age: 22; San Francisco
I’m a free spirited girl new to the Bay Area, looking for someone to talk to. Boisterous and intelligent, I love to go out or stay in, anything to have a little fun. I enjoy all types of music, with a soft spot for Journey, REO Speedwagon, and anything from a Broadway show. Very independent, I’m looking for someone who cares, but can respect my need for space.

Bored in CA
Age: 24; San Francisco
I’m a free spirited woman from the Bay Area, looking for someone to make a commitment. Boisterous and intelligent, I’m tired of staying in and want to get out to have some fun. I enjoy all types of music, with a soft spot for the songs he sings over the phone. Very independent, I’m scared to death that I’m falling in love and am missing my need for space.

Disillusioned in CA
Age: 26; San Francisco
I’m a free spirited woman from the Bay Area, looking for someone to follow through with his promises. Sarcastic and witty, I’m tired of his lies that he’s coming to be with me. I enjoy all types of music, with a soft spot for Fiona Apple and Ani DiFranco. Very independent, I’m so sorry she found out that it was me.

Separated and Broken Hearted
Age: 26; Seattle
I’m a recently separated woman from Seattle’s suburbs, looking for a man who won’t cheat with my “best friend”. I have a beautiful newborn baby girl, Zoey, who’s my heart and soul. Broken hearted and embittered, I’m looking for someone who understands why I want to forgive him and move on.

Stupid and Alone
Age 27; Seattle
I’m a recently separated man, looking to apologize. She was perfect for me, but I’d always had a thing for her friend. I love her and our daughter Zoey, and would do anything to get them back. Dense and desperate, I can’t believe I thought I’d get away with it.

Tangy Tomato #8

2006-07-02T19:45:00.000-07:00

DWF, 60, seeks SM, 55-65, for possible LTR. Must love beagle bassets, scrabble, and swing dancing. Looking for someone who subscribes to the New Yorker, and whose dog gets along with mine.

“So? Mom, what do you think?” I ran to her shaking the newly crafted personal ad I had just written for her. (And already sent in to New York Magazine, without her knowledge).

The divorce had been really hard on her, and she wasn’t putting herself back out there, so I decided that I needed to take action.

“Oh, I don’t know.” She sighed.

She didn’t have the same energy after the custody battles and divorce proceedings.

“Well, like it or not, it’s appearing in New York magazine tomorrow!” I was excited. I had a new project.

The next day, the ad appeared. As did many others, all screaming to be noticed. I never imagined the one I placed for my mom would be.

A few days later, the phone calls started coming in. My mom had agreed to go on a few dates.

After the first date, she came back with stories of how weird the guy was. He had picked her up in his beat up ‘89 Buick Sedan and taken her to Hooters! Of all places! How could he think that was a good first date restaurant? Then he ordered pitchers of beer and wings and didn’t touch a bite. Needless to say, she was not going on a second date with him.

The next phone call seemed more promising, the guy sounded pleasant and this time my mom would only agree to meet for coffee, so as not to have to spend any more time than necessary if he was a disaster. And he was. This date was even worse than the first. He hadn’t even finished his non-fat, decaf, extra foam, no whip, one squirt of vanilla latte, when she politely excused herself.

More calls came in. My mom began avoiding the calls. “Please?” I begged her. I had started taking the calls for her. “I’ve had enough.” She replied.

The next day the phone rang again. “Um . . . hi.” A voice came over the phone. “I’m answering the personal ad you placed. It’s actually not for me, but for my friend.”

“Oh good! It’s not for me, either,” I replied, “I placed the ad for my mom.”

“Our friend Joe has been having a hard time lately. His wife passed away last year and we’re trying to get him back out there. He’s really wonderful but is kind of against this whole ‘personal ad’ thing, so I’m doing it for him.”

He sounded great. Just like my mom. She could survive a dinner with this guy.

“Oh, and I saw she swing dances.” The friend chimed in, “Joe does, too.”

Oh my god. How perfect!

“Um, so should we set up a dinner and swing dancing?” Mom was going to kill me.

“Sure. Tomorrow night?”

“Sounds great!”

I told my mom about Joe and her dinner and swing dancing date with him. She was less than thrilled, but agreed to go.

The next night before her date, she looked beautiful. In her flowy green skirt and matching ballet slippers, with her hair pulled back, she looked so natural and she was smiling!

I felt like the parent. Waiting anxiously up for their child after a big date. I paced nervously in the kitchen as hours passed. She’d be home by now if it hadn’t gone well, right? She’d have to be home by now. It must have gone well!

Later that night, my mom got home. It was the best date she’d been on in years.

Two years later, I stood beside my mom as her maid of honor when she married Joe.

Rare Raspberry #8

2006-07-02T18:06:00.000-07:00

*phone rings*

Yeah, Hi I’m calling in regards to an ad I read in the paper. I just have a couple of questions for you.

Sooo you’re saying I can absolutely anything I want for 45 minutes?

And do you have any problems working with props, more specifically live props?

Okay that’s great, and just for the record you are legally considered a midget, right?

Alert Apple #8

2006-07-02T14:03:00.000-07:00

I am 43, DWM seeking slim, S/DWF 18-30 who enjoys long walks by moonlight, movies, and reading the Word of God. Non-smoking preferred. I am currently incarcerated, release date 10/06. No kids.

"Kim, do I have to keep reading these?" she asked plaintatively. "Every time we travel, you buy 'Trucker Singles.'"

"Keep going until you pick one," I replied. "You're the one who makes the big deal about not having a boyfriend."

The rest of the team laughed. This joke seriously never gets old. Really, Brandi is such a tease, this is the least she deserves. She's the "tongue slut" -- she makes out with whomever she gets drunk with every Friday night, but then proclaims her intact virginity as a perverse badge of honor.

"Besides," I continued, "we really need to analyze these carefully. I mean, you never know, right?"

"Yeah," Anthony piped up. "'Long walks like moonlight.' You think that is for the best chance to kill you?"

"Yes, I'm wondering about that too," Brandi had returned to studying the columns. "And I don't know if 'no kids' means he doesn't have any or you can't."

Mark seems to go quiet during this game. He just hangs out in the back-most row of seats, nursing his torch for Brandi. He doesn't have a chance, you know.

I am a SM, 52, seeking a SF, 30-50 for LTR. I enjoy country music, dancing, and long talks late into the night. Appearance not important and should not be for you either.

Mark is sitting next to Brandi this time, helping her identify the best candidates to read out loud. She's nestled under his arm. She does that to every boy in the seat next to her on every trip. Poor Mark, he thinks he's scoring but he is just hitting the post. Besides, I have a strict policy -- no intra-team dating. Too much damn drama.

"'Appearance not important?'" Anthony shouts. "He must be a beaut! How many teeth you think he has?"

"Yeah, well, at least he's honest." That's Brandi, always pretending to find something positive.

DWM, 64, seeking S/DF any age to share my country home and grow old with. Let's hang up the keys and discover life.

"Oh, gag me with a forklift." I roll my eyes.

"'Country home', can you describe a double-wide that way?" Anthony is a never-ending fountain of these things.

Brandi tosses "Trucker Singles" aside. "You know, you can't make me read these anymore, now that I actually have a boyfriend. Ha. Ha. Ha."

I glance in the rearview mirror. Mark's draped on her like a cloak. "Really?" I say. "If only he could see you now." If Brandi really has a boyfriend, she's going to need to stop cuddling with every guy in the van on every trip. People will talk, especially debaters.

How many tournaments did you attend?
4 or 5

What, you can't count weekends? Course evaluations are so...meh. It's usually whatever comes off the top of their head. But administration says we have to "value assessment", whatever that means.

What was your favorite part of the course?
Listening to different debates.

Yay. Me too. Not. I think I'm getting burned out. Of course, I feel that way every April.

Is there anything else you would like to tell me about the course?
Mark and I have been dating since October. Love, Brandi.

I love these kids.

Gutsy Guava # 8

2006-07-02T13:49:00.000-07:00

In a public forum, nothing is really real anymore.

Supposedly hospitals and airplane terminals page nonexistent people as a way to communicate with employees without inciting panic.

When you sit at the coffee shop on the corner, even if you can’t seem to recall ever really caring how you look you still change your posture to appear more…something.

In a personals ad, the terminology used can be read in at least a hundred different ways. The allies could have used substitution codes of this caliber to outdo the enigma cipher.

When you open a paper to the back section and thumb past all of the many ads for used trucks, yard sale announcements, and antique dealers to the personals section? Anymore you’re not reading English.

Athletic means small breasts.

Outgoing means either insecure, or an abusive pushover.

References to food are veiled limitations on possible date places.

All of this, a string of euphemisms so layered they would put a funeral director to shame.

All of this in the pursuit of love, or some undying bond people need to feel.

All of these feelings, brain chemistry reactions that make sure humans pass their genes on.

Spreading around the world more, and more.

An infinite cycle.

And all it does is create more personals ads, printed on cheap paper that cycles through again.

Every now and then, an ad surfaces that seems to get it, Some kitsch, ironic snippet that doesn’t bother to whore out the individual doing the advertising. A catchy phrase that subtly mocks the institution being used while at the same time, earnestly straining against the bounds of life.

Those ad’s don’t have a target market, or rather will never reach it.

Even reading them in a joking fashion can’t do much to cover up the fact that at it’s base, the self-deprecation in such an utterly self-absorbed exercise is unavoidable.

And so, the cycle goes on.

Pleasant Plum # 8

2006-07-02T11:55:00.000-07:00

As he pulled the needle and thread through the ripped sail, he tried not to look down. The sense of vertigo would result in fatal drop. He continued to do his job, triple checking the sails, ties and ropes for signs of fatigue. It was a calm day, and the winds had allowed him to do this repair work. He thought back to when he first saw the ad…

He was walking home late, his boss’s last rant still pounding his eardrums. He could see the lamp lighter’s pole bobbing down the street, illuminating a crumpled newspaper. Jack had caught the old “Daily Express” as it shuffled down the brick street and into the gutter. If nothing else, it would be good toilet paper and save a schilling or two. He would have an evenings entertainment before putting it to another use in water closet.

His apprenticeship at the tannery was not going well. The smell of tanning fluids and sight of the carcasses made him vomit. This disturbing skill had got him the job of moving the animal waste around. At least then he couldn’t ruin anything. He desperately scanned down to the “Help Wanted” section. The pale ink had almost no contrast against the cheap pulp, and he had to squint to decipher the words. He had seen it then. Wanted: Men 16-22 to be deck hands for the East India Company.

It was momentous, a chance to get out of England, to see the colonies and other worlds. Leaving the stink, slime and filth for a slightly dangerous sailing job had seemed an excellent trade. He had shown up at the office the next day, afraid that the age of the “Daily“ had condemned him to a life of sorting pig intestines for sausage.

Young and inexperienced, he had to be literally shown the ropes. What goes where, when, how to make the correct stitches to darn the sails. He had to help do the grunt work; taking inventory of the bland dry goods that were being sent. The Colonists seemed to survive mainly off of pickles and saltines.

He gingerly worked his way down the rigging, reminiscing about those dry-land days. He gave the solar sails one last tug. The East India Space Trading Company had recognized his brilliance with the pickle inventory, and rewarded him with this voyage. As he looked down at the shrinking globe below him, he saw the world for the first time.

Next stop: the colonies and into the stars.

Mighty Mango #8

2006-07-02T09:03:00.000-07:00

WANTED: Boyfriend.

Must like (ironically) Fraggle Rock, Care Bear cartoons, He-Man; must like (non-ironically) early Bowie, Mr. Show with Bob and David, etc. Willing to negotiate on late Bowie.

Must not be picky. Must not be wishy-washy. Must have strong preferences about which you are flexible. Must think my own inconsistencies with my desires is cute and/or mysterious. Must be willing to tell people you think so (not your mom) (mom okay if you tell several others).

Must have been raised Jewish and/or Catholic (no Presbyterians) but must not still be practicing in any sense. Muslims, other turban-centric religions need not apply. No Taoists. Buddhists OK. Confucians will require second round of interviews.

Must like cherries, strawberries, red grapes (no purples!!). Boysenberries absolutely unacceptable. Must be tall but not too tall. Must be strong but not "built." Tan okay. Pale okay. No acne. Must have own car.

Gay friends a plus. Gay parents a big plus. No "recovering gays" unless you went to the camp ironically. Fans of "But I'm a Cheerleader" encouraged to apply.

Must be willing to make up bands when asked what favorite bands are. MUST sound real. No cheating with computerized fake band generation programs.

Must like moonlight walks. Must dislike walks unlit by moonlight (includes sunlight). No bankers. Certain kinds of lawyers acceptable. Record store clerks need not apply unless you took the job before the release of the movie "High Fidelity" (must have proof--paystub, tax forms, etc. acceptable.)

Glasses okay unless they are not prescription. No colored contacts. All manners of shoes acceptable except military boots (army, etc.) and red chucks. Red chucks OK if you will share them with me. (I get them on Saturdays, Tuesdays. Fridays negotiable.)

Must be able to play the guitar and/or piano, enough for at least one song. Must be willing to strum thoughtfully to work through your problems, at least for a few minutes. If piano, must have own piano. Grand okay. No baby grands. Must know own piano mover or be willing to hire one.

Late-90's indie kid haircuts need not apply. Jet black hair okay only if natural. Right now I like 80's haircuts, but open to seeing the possibilities of 70's, etc. New haircuts not encouraged but possibly okay. Must not use more hair product than me in the morning; must not use less. Not willing to share hair products. Hair dryer sharing okay but discouraged. If have extra hair ties from last girlfriend willing to share with me, a plus.

Must like dogs but not have a dog. Must dislike cats but have one or two. Some strange pets okay; inquire in advance. Guidelines: no snakes, lizards; ferrets sort of cool. Must treat the cats well despite your dislike for them (bodes well for our relationship). Cats must have cool names; names that are too cat-like ("Mr. Claws," etc.) unacceptable unless they are pop culture references; then it will depend on coolness of what you are referencing.

Must read The Village Voice, or at least be willing to have it lying around. Must have vaguely dystopian political views; voting acceptable but I will not go with you. Attending protests ironically acceptable. Attending protests non-ironically discouraged. Must feel intensely about one or two minor issues never addressed by any mainstream political movements, so that the issue will never go away and the feelings will never need to be updated. Readers of New York Times okay. Wall Street Journal readers need not apply. USA Today need not apply. Willing to negotiate on LA Times but I will not read it. Subscribers of any newspaper with a "Funnies" section highly encouraged to apply. (Always wanted to tell someone I subscribe to a newspaper "for the funnies.")

Must be in good health. One semi-cool non-gross medical condition acceptable. For examples, see addendum. Practitioners of "Eastern medicine" need not apply; casual acupuncture OK. Ironic acupuncture a big plus. A medicine cabinet like the first scene of "Garden State" a big plus. (Not having any pills in the bottles okay.) Must have seen Garden State and like it, but not too much, and mostly for the soundtrack. Must be enthusiastic about the Iron&Wine song in particular; must like it more than the Postal Service original; must not under any circumstances like the second-to-newest Death Cab album. Not liking any Death Cab albums acceptable, possible big plus.

Teetotalers okay. Hyper-specific beer preferences okay; hyper-specific wine preferences not okay. No hard alcohol drinkers unless doing it over a lost love and/or me.

Must like semi-fictitious personal ads. Must be good at writing them but not better than me. Must keep a journal; paper encouraged; LiveJournal, Xanga unacceptable. Must be willing to read my blog and defend me from comments which do not "get it." Flickr accounts a plus pending review of what you have marked as your favorites. No MySpace accounts. Facebook okay if you are willing to mark your relationship with me as "It's Complicated" and/or "Married".

Must cry at parts of movies not traditionally thought sad. May not cry at "normal" sad parts unless alone (includes w/ me). Must have a stock of good lies to explain puffy eyes if I suddenly come in and ask you if you were crying at the end of "Steel Magnolias." Must not ever watch "Steel Magnolias" unless it is on TV and you fall asleep. Lies must not be so good as to fool me, but it is OK if it takes me a few minutes to figure out you were lying.

Must like playing games that no one has heard of. No Taboo players. Chess encouraged if you don't look like a chess player.

Must be willing to fit none of these requirements and still excite me. Must be able to help me get over my last boyfriend (who fit every single one of these categories). Must make me not want to file these ads anymore.

Must smell good.

Killer Kiwi #8

2006-07-02T09:02:00.000-07:00

Missed Connections

N train: When the doors opened at Union Square you rushed in, red minidress, knocking over an old woman trying to get out. I was the bearded man you stepped on making for the last seat, which you beat out a pregnant woman for. I think I’m in love with you. Call soon.

1 train: At South Ferry you wore a tinfoil bonnet and yelled that the Chinese were selling our babies to the aliens. I know! Call me, but from a pay phone, because they’re always listening.

6 train: You were a three person subway mariachi band. You played “La Paloma” con gusto as the train lurched left and right. You made five whole bucks, and my heart stood still. Because a mariachi band needs four! Call, and let my guitarrón join us all in harmony and shiny quarters from tourists. Les espero.

Staten Island Railway: I passed you getting off the train at New Dorp. You’re 15 or so, pissed off look, pack of cheap cigarettes, yelling cuss words. Me too! Let’s get together and stand in the food court for six hours.

E train: You were selling socks, but you left the car too early. I need socks! Come back!

LIRR: I passed you on the platform and you’re wearing my fucking Jets jacket that got stolen last week. My girlfriend bought that for me, you fucking douchebag. Call me up so you can get the ass kicking of your life.

M2 bus: You were a Japanese tourist. I was also a Japanese tourist. You had a Mets cap. I had a Yankees cap. You wore tight jean shorts. I did too. You had a disposable camera. I had a camera phone. You had a FAO Schwarz bag. I had a Bloomingdale’s bag. You had your nose pressed against the window. I only had eyes for you. Call me. There’s someone special and unique for everyone.

Playful Peach #8

2006-07-02T08:53:00.000-07:00

“E-Harmony is stealing my money!” she told a classroom of laughing college students.

“And, not only a little bit, it has been months and months of them taking money and providing me with no matches,” she said doing what she does best, making light of something that actually hurts her deeply.

She knew that no one in her class would be surprised that the Christian site wouldn’t find her a suitable mate. She did teach at a Christian University and was a lifelong member of the Baptist church, but that was where her Christian appeal ended. While she was beautiful, with long wild curly hair and California tanned skin, she was also a Democrat, rabidly Pro-Choice, a divorcee and a Feminist (the hated label for conservative Christian men.) To top it off, while she did teach at a Christian school the subjects she taught were a scandal to her classrooms and to the administration. “Christians can’t be taught about human sexuality, we should all just date Jesus instead.” If it weren’t for the power and money that her father held in the Christian world the dean would have fired her long ago, but even Christians need money.

She thought she didn’t even want a husband/boyfriend/whatever else people thought that she needed. She was happy coming home to her cats and that her books, both of which were better and less hurtful company than men were. And, E-Harmony wasn’t the first site that she had been to, it was just the first Christian site. The first ad she placed was in a small local paper and her creepy Uncle Irving was the only person that answered it. That was the first in a series of award personal ad meetings. She couldn’t figure out why she kept going, maybe she was intent on making herself miserable.

She went to check her special personal ad email that night expecting the usual creepo freaks, but was pleasantly surprised to find a normal sounding person had responded. He lived in the area close to the college where she taught and said that he wanted to meet her for coffee, which she respected. Men that wanted to meet for drinks usually just wanted to have sex and men that wanted to meet for dinner usually wanted to get married the next day, but men that wanted to meet for coffee usually wanted to have good conversation filled with laughter and innocent flirting. She had been on enough personals dates to know the good ones from ones that make you want to gouge your eyes out with a spoon.

She walked into the coffee shop a little bit late on purpose; she didn’t want to look too eager. She looked around and saw one of her students sitting in the coffee house. Damn, he wasn’t here yet, that meant that her “I’m breezy so much so that I am a little late” cover didn’t work. She smiled and walked up to Brent, one of her more attentive students.

“Hey Carrie,” he said, (she made all of her students call her by her first name so she didn’t feel old)

“Hi,” she smiled back hoping to convey that she couldn’t talk for that long.

But, then he started to look a little uncomfortable, which was odd for Brent. He was one of her most confident students, always prepared with the answers. But now his eyes which were usually stern and sparkling, looked down shyly from her gaze.

“What is it?” she asked, a little confused by her students demeanor.

“Um…well…. I am the one you are supposed to be meeting tonight,” he said while looking down at her shoes.

Her face flushed red in a matter of seconds. Either this was a cruel joke and the student was mocking her by showing up for a date, or he really was interested in her and she had yet another unavailable man like her. She was frozen, unsure of what words to say which was odd for her; she usually had too much to say.

“I know what you are thinking, I am too young and you are my professor and it would be wrong” he said, listing all the obvious reasons why she should turn around and run out the door. “But, I think I deserve to be given a shot,” he said, gaining more confidence as the words spilled from his mouth, “I mean, we all laugh when you joke about dying alone with cats, but no one would choose that. I know you are lonely and unhappy and I also know that I could be the one to fill that unhappiness.”

She didn’t know what to do. Brent had always been just a student to her. He was attractive, with brown curly hair and flashing blue-green eyes, but she had never thought about him that way. She was old enough to be his mother, although she wasn’t sure that he knew that. She started to feel like a creepy older woman as she mentally sized him up. Just as she was about to let him down, he spoke.

“Look, I know you probably think this is weird and maybe you could even get fired for this,” (she hadn’t thought of that before but she was now), “but all I am asking you to do is to think about it. I know that I am asking you to risk a lot, but I think we could be something great. You don’t have to make your decision yet, but think about it and if you want to, meet me tomorrow night at the coffee house on 33rd street,” he said, proud of himself that he was able to plead his case so articulately considering that he was shaking all over.

And, before she could speak he was gone, leaving her speechless sitting listening to the jazzy tunes played throughout the coffee house. She didn’t know what she was going to do.

She went home that night to her empty apartment feeling the worst she ever had after one of her personals dates. Certainly no one would approve if she decided to meet Brent. Not her sisters, parents, friends and certainly not the administration at school. While getting fired from her job might actually be a relief, the thought of it was terrifying. But, not being alone anymore was so comforting. She thought of having a warm body to sleep next to and it made her glad.

It was that thought that kept her feet moving the next day and she walked, both afraid and excited, to the coffeehouse on 33rd street.

Classy Cherry #8

2006-07-02T01:58:00.000-07:00

Maggie only knew one woman whose taste in men was worse than hers – her mother. Her mother had married the first boy she’d ever kissed and been unhappy since. The only thing her parents ever did together was argue. Despite this, they’d been married for almost thirty-five years. So of course Maggie’s mother never understood why her daughter never dated a man long enough for him to propose. “They couldn’t be that bad,” she’d nag, “I’ve stayed with your father all these years and they can’t all be as pathetic as him.” But somehow Maggie always found something wrong with them.

Her first boyfriend, Todd, asked her out when she was fifteen. He always smelled of his cigarettes and CK One. He’d stuck his rough fingers into her panties before she was even comfortable kissing him. It was years until she let another man touch her again.

There was Rick the charming soccer player. He spent more time looking at other girls than he did at her. She never caught him cheating on her but she always suspected it. Then there was Steven who only ever talked about trucks and beer. She couldn’t remember anything about him now except that he wouldn’t be caught dead driving a Ford and that he was grumpy if his beer was warm. There was Ethan, the beautiful Jewish medical student. Maggie’s mother had loved him because of his title alone. But there wasn’t enough room for both her and his ego in his life. There was the preschool teacher – James? Jack? He had the intellect of a child and he bored her. She really liked Sage for a couple of weeks. He was as exotic as his name but even greedier for her attention.

Her last boyfriend was Michael. She found him wildly attractive – he had short, curly hair and hazel eyes. Only one of his cheeks pinched into a dimple but that never stopped him from smiling. He’d been a poet from the first day they met. He told her how she stirred a passion for life within him that he hadn’t known existed before. Woah. She still got a little breathless thinking about the intensity of those words. When she undressed for him, he looked at her like she was the first naked woman he’d ever seen.

Maggie had loved him for a while. She thought his skin was perfect and she loved it when he made her breakfast in bed. But as always, her superhuman ability to criticize kicked in. She thought he took her for granted. He didn’t pay enough attention to her. He didn’t kiss her often enough.

Michael left her. He said he couldn’t take the pressure and it hurt him too much to never be good enough for her. Her mother actually sobbed when Maggie called her to tell her the news. She reminded her for the millionth time that she’d married her father and that Michael was certainly more tolerable than him. “You’re thirty and you’re still single. You’re not getting any younger.”

When she hung up the phone, Maggie cried too. She missed Michael but she didn’t even want a man anymore. She didn’t want to tolerate anyone; she wanted to love him. But her mother took it as a personal failure that her daughter was an “old maid.” Maggie was staring out the window at the grey sky when she had a fabulous idea. She would take out a personal ad. Woman seeking gay husband.

Brash Blackberry #8

2006-07-01T21:00:00.000-07:00

I had never seen a personal ad like it before. A ‘men seeking men’ ad in our paper:

SWM seeks SWM, 25-50
I’m 36, 5'10", 180lbs, brown hair/blue eyes, Leo, outgoing, down-to-earth, loves tennis, jogging, horseback riding.

I usually don't read the personals, but I had been single for a year and was beginning to feel desperate. I’m not into men, but the ad struck a chord with me. Why was this gay man living in our city? Does he have any friends?

I had an idea: I’ll write a story about this guy for my lifestyles section. I was an editor at the Scottsboro Herald in Scottsboro, Alabama and even if the guy wasn’t interesting enough for a story, this would still be an opportunity to meet the brave soul who dared to shake up our dull personals section.

I got his information from Sandy in classifieds and dialed his number. His name was Brian and he recently moved here from St. Louis to run his family’s business. Brian’s parents had just passed away in a car accident, so he finally came home after being away for 14 years. He was fine with being interviewed. We planned to meet at his house that evening.

***

I showed up a few minutes before 8. As I approached the door to his place, I noticed it was open slightly. The door knob was broken and much of the wood was splintered. Apparently, I hadn’t been the only one to see the ad.

Brian laid on the living room floor with his eyes closed. Most of his face was bruised badly and his clothes were torn. He could hardly speak. I helped him out of the house and into my ’94 Accord.

As we drove to the hospital, he told me how two men wearing ski masks broke into the house and beat him senseless, telling him to leave town. They didn’t want any “fags” there to pollute the minds of their children. They were family men.

After Brian had been checked out by a doctor, it was determined he had two broken fingers and a concussion. The staff fixed him the best they could. I gave Brian a ride to his place and after thanking me for treating him like a human being, I told him I’d call tomorrow to check on him.

I called in the morning just after I got up at 7:30. No answer. I decided to drive by his house on my way to work to see how he was holding up. As I pulled up to the residence, I knew something wasn’t right.

I walked in, pushing the broken door aside. Almost everything that had been there the day before was gone. Brian hadn’t moved all of his things down from St. Louis yet, but I couldn’t help but think it was all going to stay there.

***

I tried everything I could to contact Brian, but I couldn’t. Phone numbers got me nowhere. He sold the house through some independent realtor who fixed up houses and signed a confidentiality agreement with them so he couldn’t be tracked. To this day, I’m only left guessing what happened to him.

Everyday I read the personals, looking for anyone that might stick out of the crowd. If I ever see another ad like Brian’s, that man is getting a call from me. I’ll tell him a story about the ignorance and hate that permeates within too many people in this city.

At the newspaper, we’re supposed to be watchdogs for the people. I’m just taking the call a little more personal.

Tart Tangerine #8

2006-07-01T11:20:00.000-07:00

Don Quixote seeks Dulcinea with whom to dream the impossible dream.

I’ll never know why I decided to answer the ad. Maybe it was the romantic imagery. Maybe it was the proper grammar. I’ll never forget how I saw it. My girlfriends and I were reading the personals, laughing about some of the ads we saw. Who would answer some of these? Karen saw it first. She said it was cute. I noted that, depending on how you read it, it might be insulting. After all, while Dulcinea was the perfect woman to Don Quixote, everyone else saw her as Aldonza the whore.

My girlfriends and I laughed and we joked about men trying to sound intelligent by making literary references, but choosing poor material from which to work. Still, something about the ad caught at me. It was simple, yet hopeful, and just a touch whimsical. And the plain Jane inside me luxuriated in the idea that someone might think of me as the ideal woman.

So I dragged my feet when it was time to go. I sipped my coffee slowly and then meandered over to the trash. I asked to keep the section of the paper on the excuse that I wanted to do the crossword. Knowing my love of crosswords, my girlfriends agreed. They wandered off and a few minutes later, I took off as well, paper in hand.

I e-mailed the address listed in the paper – phone numbers are so 1990. I bravely sallied forth with references to windmill giants and chivalry. He wrote back and proposed we meet at the castle. And this being New York, we happened to have one. I was so nervous when I wandered through the park. I had no idea what sort of person I was meeting. I only knew that he liked musical theater and had a romantic side.

We met, and I have to admit, he was more Sancho Panza than Alonso Quijana. But he was as chivalrous as his name sake. He brought me a flower and offered me his arm. We wandered through the park and talked about all the getting to know you things. I told him things even my girlfriends didn’t know – childhood dreams, and modern day fears. At the end of the day, he escorted me to the edge of the park and kissed my hand. From anyone else, it would have seemed cheesy. From him, it seemed appropriate. We promised to see each other again, and we did.

Tomorrow is the anniversary of our first date. We’ve been together seven years, married for five of them. In that time, we’ve fought to right the un-right-able wrongs, we’ve run where the brave dare not go, we’ve helped each other to try when our arms are too weary and stretched out to reach the unreachable star. And every day, we continue to dream the impossible dream.

Precious Pear #8

2006-07-01T11:05:00.000-07:00

January 3, 2006
SWF seeks SM, 18-50
I am fun-loving and open-minded. Blond hair, blue eyes. I enjoy the finer things in life, but never take the simple things for granted either. Looking for someone from any background to teach me new things.

Results: Rookie mistake. In personal ad lingo, “open-minded” means “slut”. And looking to try “new things” means “kinky slut”. Roger showed up with claw marks on his forearms and what I swear was the outline of a woman’s corset under his polo shirt. I asked if we should look at the wine menu. He asked if I had picked out a safety word. I downed my pinot noir and told him (as I was walking out the door) that I didn’t think we had the same goals in life.

February 21, 2006
SWF seeks SM, 18-50
I am fun-loving, but realistic. Blond hair, blue eyes. I enjoy tennis, reading, and Eastern European cuisine. All backgrounds welcome, but foreign languages are a plus, as is world travel.

Results: I hadn’t wanted to limit the ages too much, but Miklos was a mechanic whose look at 50 had come and gone while I was still playing with slap bracelets and hyper-color t-shirts. He spoke in nothing but spittle-laden Czech and intermittent English profanity. When he showed up at French Laundry in torn jeans reeking of motor oil, I was embarrassed. And then embarrassed for being embarrassed. I ate quietly and did not ask for a second date. He didn’t either… I think.

April 04, 2006
SWF seeks SM, 21-40
I am intelligent and realistic, but still like to have fun. Blond hair, blue eyes. I enjoy tennis, reading, and Eastern European cuisine. You should have an ambitious and rewarding career and encourage me to have the same.

Results:
36- minutes late he was to dinner
3- times he corrected me, “It’s not STEVE-en, it’s STEPH-on”
90- number of “f”s that are apparently in STEPH-on
7- answered phone calls during dinner
1- time he asked me if I was serious about wanting a career, because he could, you know, totally pay for me to shop all day. As long as I didn’t tell his wife.

May 29, 2006
SWF seeks SM, 25-29
I am not as smart as I thought I was, but am still smarter than you. Brown hair, grey eyes. I enjoy biking, reality television, and Cherry Garcia. Ideally, you would be intelligent, witty, attractive, and charming, but you won’t be so I’ll settle for no felony convictions, fluent English, and no wife.

Results: An inbox full of emails saying I seemed uptight and offers to “loosen me up”, plus one coffee date with Alan. Alan must take 11 items through the express checkout or have dismembered human parts in his freezer, because everything else about him was perfect. Alan actually was intelligent, witty, attractive, and charming. But Alan was also moving next week to teach in Ireland (see, perfect). He had used personal ads for three years with only mild success and recognized a familiar tone of desperation and cynicism in mine that belied a good person in there somewhere. He told me not to give up and to keep an open mind (although do not, under any circumstances, say that in the ad- see Jan. 3). Put only the things that are vital in the ad. The things you could absolutely not live without. Let everything else take its course and see if life surprises you.
Okay, but if it doesn’t work, I swear I’m flying to Ireland this time next year.

July 1, 2006
SWF seeks SM.
Looking for someone who can satisfy me in bed and make me laugh.
Sometimes simultaneously.
Everything else is negotiable.

Results: pending

TKO Question #8 for Merged Group

2006-06-29T22:32:00.000-07:00

What would be an interesting personal ad to read in the newspaper? Imagine who might send it and/or who might read it. Write about it.

**

Responses

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

Precious Pear
Lively Lime
* Mighty Mango
Playful Peach
Brash Blackberry
* Tart Tangerine
Killer Kiwi
Lucky Lemon
Plesant Plum
Classy Cherry

Players Removed as a Result of This Vote (Total of TKO 7 & 8)

Alert Apple
Tangy Tomato
Rare Raspberry
Gutsy Guava

Lively Lime #7

2006-06-29T22:05:00.000-07:00

"He should have never been there in the first place," many whispered. But Joel knew better. This was exactly where he should have been. He wanted it, he earned it, and he deserved it. Tonight, he had won the spotlight.

Joel's messy mop of hair and grungy t-shirt was a sharp contrast to the sea of neatly groomed youths being fussed over by ambitious parents. He seemed so out of place, as if from a lower caste. A street hooligan dropped into the world of aristocrats. Music aristocrats. Competitive music aristocrats. Amidst the din, a giant velvet banner boldly proclaimed the occasion: The 28th annual Young Piano Masters Challenge. A yearly event where participants aged 10-16 battled with sonatas instead of swords, though with no less ferocity.

Chatty mothers canvassed the lobby area with children in tow, hoping to snag some stats on potential rivals. Fathers tailed them with pep talks and tie adjustments. Some kids sat on the couches, staring at their sheet music for a final memorization boost, moving their fingers in the air as if playing imaginary keys. Other just sat and shivered as air conditioning and fear numbed their fingers. The veterans wore gloves. In the crowd, less tactful competitors pointed at Joel and giggled at each other. Who is this kid? Some newcomer…well, he won't get a high score. How long do you think he's been playing? 3 years, max. Whatever. Check out his shoes….weren't those in the window at Kmart?

Joel, age 14, saw the sneers, eyes on him as if he were a bug crawling on their arm. Something to be brushed away and scorned. He ignored it all. None of them mattered. Only the music mattered.

Unbeknownst to others, Joel had been a pianist for 10 years. A kid destined for life on the wrong side of the tracks, he had his first encounter with luck as a toddler, when a retired jazz musician trying to put his life back together "felt the talent" in this child living down the hall in a downtown boarding house. Louie taught Joel the magic in those ivory keys, and Joel gave Louie something to believe in once more. Filling a void left by a physically absent father and emotionally absent mother, the music kept Joel on the good side, filling him with a sense of confidence and hope that poverty and birthright could not crush.

When Joel heard about the Young Piano Masters, he knew this was the chance to prove himself to others, and more importantly, to show the world what Louie had taught him. He had no fancy clothes to wear to the competition, and expected the reaction he received, but that was fine. Just wait until they hear me play, he thought. Then they'll know.

When Joel won 1st place, everyone was stunned.

"That upstart, how dare he?? My Ethan has been practicing night and day for months with the best elite teachers!"

"Well, you think that's bad. My Samantha trained in Russia with the national European champion! My little girl's talent is unbeatable! How could this happen?"

"How's Bobby going to get into Carnegie Hall now? He's already 16, his music career is ruined!! That brat who won doesn't even have enough talent to comb his hair!"

One of the judges was kind enough to lend Joel something nice to wear. An old but respectable suit that her son had outgrown. When it came time for the winner's performance, he took a deep breath, walked onstage, and sat down on the piano bench. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, imagining Louie's raspy yet soothing voice telling him to "let the music be the guide." Then he put his fingers on the keys and started playing.

When Joel played the piano, his world stood still and the music became the world. At a certain point, it felt as if he wasn't controlling the playing anymore. He was floating, the movement of his fingers came automatically, and it was almost an out-of-body experience. The "pianist's high," Louie liked to call it. A high better than any drug or evil deed could ever bring. A high that could only come from dedication and love.

Joel didn't remember much after he finished his 23-minute long combination of baroque, romantic, and modern, spiced up with some improvised jazz accents. Maybe his audience changed their minds about him. Maybe they continued to scoff. But Joel didn't care. He looked up, closed his eyes again, and thought,

"I hope you heard me from Heaven, Louie, because I played all that for you."

Rare Raspberry #7

2006-06-29T18:51:00.000-07:00

He should never have been there in the first place. He should have been snuggled into our bed, squeezed between me and my husband, breathing softly on the back of my neck. He always had nightmares, he hated sleeping alone.

It’s that damn Dr. Laura, the one who knows it all. Julie heard her say it was unhealthy for 6 ½ year olds to still be sleeping with their parents and Julie told Cindy, who told Grandma who informed my husband that we were going to be raising a sick and twisted child if we didn’t stop it quick. There you have it, one scared sobbing little boy locked out of my bedroom.

As a mother the grief of loosing a child is too much handle. The I should have’s and I could have’s consumed my life, leaving me a shell of the woman I once was. After that night I couldn’t put myself back together. Eventually my husband left me. I don’t blame him; I would have left me too.

That night the fire started in the kitchen and burnt through the hallway and up the stairs. By the time we woke up the flames had filled the entire stairwell. There was no way to reach the nursery or that blasted single trundle bed.

Firemen came, but it was too late. At that point nothing could be done but contain the fire and let it burn.

For years I was angry. At Dr. Laura, at my husband, God, myself, the list went on. This should have never happened I screamed, “You knew he hated to sleep alone!” Nowadays my anger has melted, I don’t blame anyone mostly I just feel hallow.

Sometimes at night when I’m in bed I roll to my side and imagine my little boy snoring softly. My bed has been oh so empty for years, but sometimes I can still feel him there. It’s like I can see the dent in the pillow his little blonde head would make, and I smile. My angle is in bed with, right where he belongs.

Mighty Mango #7

2006-06-29T18:36:00.000-07:00

He should never have been there in the first place; there, behind the check-out counter, ringing up "NOW! That's What I Call Music 27" for a couple of fat, giggling 15-year-olds. He didn't even look at the merchandise. The "merch." Sweep it over the lasers, hear the beep, read the total. Credit card swiped; press button; give receipt to sign. Next in line, please.

It was the most boring, frustrating job Rick had ever, ever done. He woke up every morning dreading it. He was a 43-year-old man, for FUCK'S SAKE. And he was working with people half his age. He was working for a little prick half his age.

"Rick!"

And there he was. Mike. Mike, the 22-year-old manager. Mike, the kid with the bright future in Wal-Mart management. Mike, Mike. Mike. Rick hated Mike more than he hated almost anyone, and it wasn't even the kid's fault. He was pretty nice most of the time. But God. The idea. The idea that a 22-year-old kid could tell him what to do made his blood boil.

Rick lived in rural Virginia, and for most of his life had worked at a car factory, one of the few left in the town. But before you think this is a sad story about outsourcing, take heart. Rick's factory was still exactly where it always has been, producing cars. There are no overseas demons stealing American jobs in this story.

"Yeah, Mike, what's up?" said Rick.

"Can you go help unload one of the trucks? We're a little backed up, and I figured..."

Rick cut him off. "Sure." Anything to get away from the goddamned checkout laser. He was a little insulted, of course. Hey, you're a big brute. You used to work in a factory. Why don't you go move around something heavy? But whatever. There was no point complaining.

Rick's job used to be to weld in the seatbelts, a job he took great pride in. He really did. He knew that if he didn't do his job well every time, every weld, someone like him, some guy trying to raise his family somewhere, would die in a crash. Would they ever trace it back to Rick? No. But he'd knew. So he welded, carefully, every time.

"Hey Rick." It was Tommy, one of the other guys whose job was to move heavy stuff around. Also deli. Heavy stuff and deli.

"Tommy. What d'we got? Rice? Cartons of light bulbs?"

"Fertilizer!"

"Ah, shit." Mild chuckle.

He got fired 'cause he fell asleep. At the line. He fell asleep and a bunch of seatbelts didn't get welded in, and they had to stop the line and blah blah. Millions of dollars. Gone. Talked to the union boss; nothing they could do, he said. Nothing they could do.

He fell asleep on the line 'cause he was up all night the night before. And he was up all night the night before 'cause his boy had been in a car accident. He should have said something; gotten the day off work. But he didn't. Too proud. Besides, they needed the money for hospital bills. Rick was not a literary scholar, but he was pretty sure that qualified as ironic.

Rick's son, Sam, never really recovered. He still had to walk with a cane and probably always would. That meant no football team, and no football scholarship. But a funny thing happened. It turned out that Sam had a brain on his shoulders, not too shabby. He'd neglected it, ignored it his whole life because he was a fast runner and a good catcher. But lately his grades had been great.

"So, Sam's off to college soon, yeah?"

"Yeah," said Rick.

University of Virginia. Hell of a thing. Rick had never been to college; probably why he was stuck doing this shitty job. Never even applied. It just wasn't what boys his age did when they came from families like his. But even in-state tuition was a lot of money and he didn't really understand how college loans worked. Putting his son through college would be a tough job; a man's job. But Rick was going to do it. It never really occurred to him not to.

It took an hour, but Rick and Tommy finished up. The fertilizer went to the garden department, and Rick went back to scanning merch at check-out, and Tommy went back to the deli to make sandwiches. If anyone thought it was weird that a guy should unload cow shit and then make sandwiches, they didn't say anything.

At the end of his shift, Rick got ready to head home.

"Rick!"

Mike.

"Think you could stay another hour tonight? We're a little shorthanded." Unsaid, of course, was that there'd be no extra pay. Wal-mart didn't pay overtime. You stayed, but off the clock. If you didn't...

"Yeah. I'll hang around."

Credit card swiped. Push a button. Sign here. Seeya tomorrow!

Tangy Tomato #7

2006-06-29T18:33:00.000-07:00

He should never have been there in the first place. He was supposed to be out with his new girlfriend. He paid more attention to her blonde hair, big boobs, and perfect white-toothed smile these days, anyhow. They were going to dinner and a show. He was so tied up with her. She was practically my age! I couldn’t believe he had fallen in love with her and seemingly fallen out of love with us, his own children. I had always been close with my dad, especially since my parents’ divorce. I was and always had been “daddy’s little girl,” and now this other woman had taken my place in his heart.

I had already planned everything. I had written the note. I decided knives were too messy. It was a foolproof plan. My mom was out of town; it was one of my dad’s weekends with me and my sisters, but, as usual, he was spending it with HER instead of us. My sisters were out with boys or with friends, having fun. I had recently had a falling out with my group of girl friends and was feeling very alone. I had no boyfriend, and had no prospects for one in the near or distant future. No one would care if I were gone anyhow. No one cared about me. I had stolen my mom’s bottle of sleeping pills before we left her house for the weekend.

In my best handwriting I had written:
“Dear Mom, Dad, Liz, and Sar,
I’m sorry. I love you. I hope your lives are better without me.
Love,
Me”

I swallowed a handful of the little blue pills, washed them down with a swig from my bottle of Poland Spring. I felt fine at first, then a little woozy and tired. I lay down on the bathroom floor . . . after a few minutes of going in and out of consciousness, I heard him. “Dad?” I croaked. “DAAAAD!!!” He ran to my side. “What have you done, Sweetie? What have you done?” He was almost in tears. He grabbed me and lifted me off the bathroom floor. I started gagging and he gently placed my cheek on the toilet seat then he ran to grab the phone to call 911. I started vomiting. Tears ran down my face. The panic in his eyes when he saw me lying there flashed back into my mind. He did care. They all did. And I was almost gone. Forever.

No, he should never have been there. But I will be forever thankful that he was.

Lucky Lemon #7

2006-06-29T16:35:00.000-07:00

He should have never been there in the first place. When he walked in, I thought it was a childhood friend. I was about to jump from my place on the floor, when I heard his laugh from the foyer. He was not supposed to be there. Still crouched on my knees at the edge of the coffee table, I was stunned.

“It’s your turn.”

“Wha—oh!” I nabbed the die off the table as he walked into the room. He looked good, his whispy blond hair tousled just right and wearing that pale blue and green striped button up I loved. I moved my piece and sheepishly said, “Hey, thought you weren’t coming.”

“I’m not staying for long. Just waiting for Drew to call, we’re supposed to hang out. I told him to call your phone. ‘S that okay? I had to get out of my house.”

“Yeah, sure, uh, just join a team I guess.”

None of us were old enough to go out to a bar for New Years’, so we had a get together at my house. We played board games and drank while watching Dick Clark on the new television screen.

The whole night was awkward. I relegated myself to the opposite side of the room. I missed his laugh and the bright smile on his face. The way his blue eyes sparkled when he was truly happy. We finished with games and as 11:45 passed, we brought out a couple of bottles of champagne.

I tried to get it open. I used all the strength I had in my arm. I twisted, I pulled, I strained, and my face turned bright red as I huffed in and out. Embarrassed, I grabbed a bottle in either hand and waltzed into the living room. “Boys, a little help?” There were only two in the room, as one was indisposed, and as one of the two was gay (and equally as strong as I), he offered to help. Two seconds later, the bottle had been easily popped open and we all took a glass as we watched the taping of the ball falling and counted down together.

And then it is midnight. My plan to stay away has failed, and I am standing next to him. He, the man who broke my heart, is staring down at me at the stroke of midnight on New Years’. In the tension, the room disappears and there is only us, standing and staring. He’s reading my soul through my eyes and I am lost in desperation to know what is happening. I long for those lips, for the kiss so sweet from the year before. A simple sweet kiss at midnight followed by a “Happy New Year.”

But the moment ended. With a “I guess Drew’s not gonna call.”, he swigged the last of his champagne and went to put his glass away in the kitchen. I tried to hide my disappointment, but it’s harder to cover the heart on your sleeve when your best friends are there and can see through the glass sweatshirt you’re wearing. They knew.

After an hour, everyone was gone. Everyone but him. Having an excuse to stay out extra late, away from his over-controlling parents, we laid down and talked about life. I could hear it in my voice. All the pain, thick as molasses, weighing down my words. There was a lull in a conversation of which I don’t remember the words only the sounds. It happened. Lips brushed in a holy palmers kiss that would’ve made Shakespeare cry with joy. “Happy New Year. I figured at least someone should get kissed tonight.”

Precious Pear #7

2006-06-29T14:12:00.000-07:00

He should have never been there in the first place.

The license for the car he never owned and the name he never answered to should have raised eyebrows, but the longer the fighting lasted, the less people wanted to ask questions.

He left a note on the counter and caught the first bus to California.

This is something I have to do. I love you. Be home soon.

The first month wasn’t bad. Running and training and waiting. Always waiting.

The other men carried around pictures of dark-haired sweethearts back home and passed the time by graphically describing the first thing they’d do to each one when this was all over. He pocketed a flier he found on the street and scratched out the drugstore logo on the corner, replacing it with a curvy signature and an endless string of x’s and o’s that wrapped around the back to the front again, creating an endless loop of indisputable love.

Susan’s car broke down in the rain outside his house.

Betty was a childhood friend who had always been there for him.

Catherine nursed him back to health three years ago.

Different loves.
Different names.
The same pinafore dress and perfect smile.

He imagined what her lips would taste like. More accurately, he imagined what the lips of any woman would taste like.

When he first got there, he looked at the calendar every day.

Each night he crossed off another date, counting the days until he could go home and prove everyone wrong. Prove he was responsible. Prove he wasn’t the fuck up they thought he was. They’d all cry and hug him and fight with each other over who was the most sorry for ever doubting him.

When Christmas came and went with no word from home, he stopped looking every day.

The war was harder than people made it look. There were no exotic beauties willing to thank him for his brave service. There were no throngs of thankful locals. No care packages from loved ones begging him to come back home.

When the protesters came, he stopped looking every week.

In April, he was given his first serious assignment: an important figure on the enemy’s side was coming out of hiding to get his daughter from the hospital. She had been sprayed by debris from an exploding car three months earlier. There were exactly 87 yards from the hospital exit to the main road. Six seconds to get off the perfect shot.

When his bullet hit the girl instead, he stopped looking at all.

Two days shy of his sixteenth birthday.
He should have never been there in the first place.

Playful Peach #7

2006-06-29T11:49:00.000-07:00

He should have never been there in the first place. A 15-year-old boy should be in school, his greatest worry whether or not he would get a date to the dance on Friday. Instead, he went to the “unofficial” meeting place at the town gas station where all the day laborers went hoping to get work that day. He arrived around 7am hoping to get picked up by one of the farms, they worked you hard but you usually got off early because the heat became unbearable around 3. Plus, the farmers wife always cooked us lunch, which was a change from the usual treatment we received.

Three hours later his hands were sore from wrapping the vines around the wooden stakes that commanded them to move just right. His back was beginning to ache and he had already sweated through his shirt. Julio didn’t care though; as long as no one else noticed how young he was he didn’t care about anything. Just keep your head down and keep working he told himself. It was common knowledge that a local cop always tried to stop the “illegals” from working and Julio had a feeling he would cause the other men extra problems being that he was both an illegal and under aged.

Mercifully the bell rang that signaled to everyone it was time to go home. He walked to the place where everyone else went to collect his wages for the day. When he got the front of the line the farmer smiled at him and asked him to wait until he had paid everyone else. This made Julio suspicious, why were the other men getting paid first? But he didn’t want to give the farmer a reason to not pay him since he had no way to enforce that he pay him anyway. He just sat their quietly waiting for his check.

After everyone left the farmer looked at Julio with a sly smile and asked his age.

“18” he lied.

“No, you look much younger than that” the farmer replied maintaining his smile.

Julio admitted his actual age but then begged to still get paid claiming that he worked just as hard as everyone else. The farmer started to offer up excuses saying that he was a liability as a child worker and an illegal immigrant. Julio really needed the money, his mother’s salary as a housekeeper wasn’t cutting it and his dad left when he was born. He had two little sisters and a brother who all needed to stay in school. Julio felt responsible for taking care of them as the oldest boy and didn’t want them to have to bear the same hardship he did.

“I will do anything for you, I really need the work” Julio pleaded.

The farmer looked intrigued by his offer and it gave Julio a bit of hope.

“Anything?” the farmer asked, his expression suddenly turning serious.

Julio nodded in agreement expecting to have to do the worst job possible. The farmer never changed his serious gaze, but then started to look a little uncomfortable and awkward. He had to have been in his late 30’s, a strong athletic looking man with a stern jaw and skin browned from working in the fields. Julio never, in a million years, would have predicted what the farmer was about to ask him to do.

The farmer started by telling him how difficult it is to have your profession chosen for you so early in life. When he was Julio’s age he was planning on moving to Los Angeles to try and be a dancer. The son of a farmer didn’t just become dancers, but the son of a farmer also wasn’t supposed to be gay, as he knew in the depths of his soul that he was.

He tried to tell his parents his feelings, but they wouldn’t hear it. They sent him to a Christian camp for boys with his “problem” and told him that he would be “cured” there. It was an all-boys camp filled with boys that were “sick” just like him. It was at this camp that the farmer met his first (and only) love.

The farmer and his lover planned to escape the camp and run away together to start a new life away from their parent’s oppressive rule. On the night that they were to make their escape they were caught and his lover was sent home while the farmer was forced to stay at the camp. He found out that when his lover got home his father beat him to death and then passed it off as a suicide. No one ever investigated it.

The farmer told Julio that he needed his help. He would never be able to get his lover back, but he could avenge his memory. Now, the farmer couldn’t do it himself because he had to run the farm and he didn’t want anyone to get suspicious. If Julio did this he would be awarded handsomely with enough wages for a whole year. He would be able to go back to school, provide for his family and still be a kid for a while longer. Julio’s head was spinning with all the information, feeling extremely sad for the farmer and sorry for himself that he had to make this decision.

The farmer told him that he didn’t have to decide at that moment. He would arrange for a truck to pick him up at the corner that he had waited that morning for work the next morning and if he showed up then the farmer knew he would do it. He would give Julio a gun and the money in a bag and all he needed to do was carry out the task set before him. The farmer tried to avoid saying ‘murder’ and instead used words like ‘task’ or ‘work.’ Julio didn’t let that fool him and knew in his heart that once you murder a man that leaves an imprint on your soul forever. He didn’t know what he was going to do.

He didn’t talk much that night at dinner. His mother kept asking him questions about his day, but he rebuffed each one with a shrug or saying it was fine. She was used to her moody teenager so she just cleared his plate of tamales that he hadn’t touched and left him alone. He went to his room and tried to fall asleep but he just kept tossing and turning. He sat and thought all night, visions in his head of the farmer, his mother and the task he was asked to perform. Sometime around 3 am he decided what he was going to do.

The sun wasn’t out yet as Julio stood on the corner with a look of determination on his face waiting for the truck. And to think, he wasn’t even supposed to have been there in the first place.

Alert Apple #7

2006-06-29T10:50:00.000-07:00

“He should never have been there in the first place.” Specialist Jack Jackson – JJ – took another slug from his beer before continuing. “ It was Czinski’s turn to be on point, but he had foot rot and was gimpin’. LT had just sent Arvak up ahead about a half a click to scope for booby traps and some idiot VC triggered the ambush on that one guy instead of waiting for the whole platoon to stumble into the kill sack. By the time we got there, we couldn’t even get some payback, Charlie was long gone.” He grimaced. “Of course, LT reported 2 VC KIA, gotta play the body count game for Westmoreland’s collection. Fuckin’ stupid-ass bureaucratic shit. Jeff dies and we pretend we won.”

“He should never have been there in the first place,” she complained. Jeff’s first letter home from basic training reported that his drill sergeants were abusive, the food awful, and the conditions sweltering. “His draft number was 153. They never took that many before.” Bitterness clouded her friendly and open Midwestern features, the anger of a mother wronged. “It’s those rich kids, with their college deferments. Did you know that the Junker boy got married just so he could dodge a 45? And Freddie Henderson went to Canada – what a disgrace.”

“He should never have been there in the first place.” Mourners snaked past the three caskets at the front of the chapel before congregating in small groups on the sides. Jennifer’s face was ashen as she described how word of the accident had reached the party just as it was really getting out of control. “Jeff was supposed to be in that very car, heading over to the Rockman farm for work, but he skipped out to be with me.” She fought to hold the tears back, lost. “He was just lucky.”

“He should never have been there in the first place,” the nurse whispered darkly. “The Doctor had ordered him isolated, on account of the measles outbreak in the maternity ward. But I don’t have enough isolation rooms for seventeen babies! We tried to keep the numbers per room down, but I still had to have two or three in each. It was just chaos trying to decide which to move where and when.” She paused, arguing with herself whether to admit what had happened. “I went into Iso-C – you know that room is like a broom closet – and saw that two of the identification cards had fallen off of the beds – Jeff Arvak and Matt Czinski. I’m pretty sure I got the right ones back on.” She paused, swallowed hard. “Yes. I’m pretty sure.”

Killer Kiwi #7

2006-06-29T08:35:00.000-07:00

He should have never been there in the first place, but on Tuesday he was still there: Dr. Maximus Von Goldfischel, swimming in my downstairs toilet for going on three days now. I had made a rookie mother mistake: leaving Todd alone with his grandfather for a whole afternoon, without adequate instructions, while I took a pottery workshop at the park center. I didn’t tell my dad that Todd, who turned four next month, had been taking it upon himself to rearrange the house. Patio plants in the shower because they needed more water. Three bedrooms worth of pillows in his room because he “needed to relaaaax.” It’s taxing being three.

And then there was the fish. My dad had gamely played catch in the front yard for thirty minutes, trying to follow the Toddster’s ever-changing scoring rules. He then collapsed on the living room couch and dozed off on the job, in which time Todd came to an important understanding. “The bowl was TOO SMALL, Mommy,” he explained earnestly to me later, as I stood with my forehead against the bathroom wall, trying not to scream at him. “Max is a BIGBOYNOW. Like me.” Todd is very into the fact that he is a BIGBOYNOW. It’s why he can pick out his own clothes, won’t let me cut up his spaghetti, and can watch, according to him, as much TV as he wants.

And so Todd went about making Max a new, BIGBOY home.

“Oh GOD,” I said. “Are those my necklaces?”
“Max needed rocks,” said Todd. “Like on a beach!”
“Oh sh-shoot,” said his father. “My model car. I thought I had that up higher.”
“For him to play in!” said Todd.

After setting up a wonderland in the downstairs toilet, Todd had climbed onto a kitchen chair and taken Max’s small bowl off the counter. He marched into the bathroom and upended the bowl into the toilet. The small orange fish slipped happily into his new home. Todd shook some fish flakes into the bowl and watched for a minute. Satisfied, he grabbed the wet, empty bowl and headed back to the kitchen. And dropped it. The crash finally woke my father.

Three days later I still hadn’t been able to drive all the way out to the mall and get the fish a new bowl. If it goes on any longer he’s going to migrate to my biggest flower vase. But for now, Todd’s daddy and I stand in the downstairs bathroom, arms around each other, staring down at Dr. Maximus Von Goldfischel. The handle is taped up, and a giant DON'T FLUSH sign sits atop the tank.

“No one told me my life would come to this,” he says. “I’m not up to it.”
I lean my head against his shoulder. “You are, darling,” I say. “You’re a big boy now.”

Tart Tangerine #7

2006-06-29T05:58:00.000-07:00

He should have never been there in the first place. I never knew why the old man jumped on Big Tony like he did. I mean yeah, he was hitting me. But I’m just a whore, and Big Tony’s my pimp. When I break the rules, like trying to hold out on him, he beats me for it, so I learn never to do it again.

It sounds rough, but walking the streets is a rough life. And I could have it worse. Tony, he just hits you. And never so hard it leaves a lasting mark. What good would that do? No one wants to go home with a girl who’s face looks like the ending scene in Rocky. Some girls…their pimps have been known to cut them. I heard about this one girl, Gloria, who works for that pimp Fastblack. They said he cut her so bad, she couldn’t work anymore. That’s a worry I don’t have. So yeah, it could be worse.

But I’ll never forget this day. I was working by the park, like I always do. You can pick up some rich white men out for a thrill. That’s what happened that night. I had done pretty well, managing to double, even triple my normal price with a couple of the guys. So I thought I could take a little extra home with me.

I’m still not sure how Big Tony figured out I was holding out on him. But somehow, he always can tell. So anyway, he had just smacked me and was really getting into his lecture. He talks kinda like my old high school vice principal used to talk when he caught me smoking behind the gym. Anyway, Big Tony’s just starting to hit his stride when all of a sudden, this old man, had to be sixty, leaps out of the night and jumps on his back.

I have no idea what was wrong with this guy. He was wearing a blanket tied around his neck, like some kinda superhero, and screaming things about chivalry and justice. At first, he was winning, because he took Big Tony by surprise, and I smiled inwardly as he got a lucky shot to Big Tony’s eye. But then Big Tony reacted.

It was that stupid “cape” that did the poor guy in. First, he tripped over it, then Big Tony grabbed it and used it to haul the old man in. It would almost have been humorous if not for what happened next. Big Tony clocked the old guy right in the side of the head. The old man spun around fast, and staggered. Big Tony went in to finish the job. He wasn’t as gentle with the old man as he usually was with me.

When Big Tony was done, he took my money and went home. I grabbed a quarter, ran to the nearest pay phone, and called 911. By the time the ambulance arrived, I was gone. But I read in the paper the next day that the old guy was in the hospital, in critical condition. Turned out Big Tony wasn’t his only encounter that night. Earlier, he had managed to stop a mugging and an attempted rape in the park. Witnesses said he’d come blundering in, making such a racket and spectacle that the would-be criminals ran off. Those he saved called him a hero. His family said he was crazy.

I read a week later that he died. The internal injuries were just too much for his old body to take. But in a related story, it seemed that ordinary citizens were starting to stand up for themselves. People began to help each other, if only in modest, yet important ways. People interviewed said they were just following the old man’s example. Heck, if some old man could try and make the world a better place, why couldn’t they? I know he made my world a little better, if only for that night.

I’ll never know why that old man jumped on Big Tony. But I’m glad he did.

Gutsy Guava #7

2006-06-28T23:47:00.000-07:00

He never should have been there in the first place. But after a lifetime of crossing the line between safety and danger and then sitting down in the void so many had lost their lives to, “should haves” ceased to mean so much. So on that night, when he climbed into his car to head home, taking the back roads didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Less cops anyways, which always makes for a better trip. Narrow, windy roads were a hallmark in this county, but learning to drive on them since age 16 gives a person a pretty good sense of where safety is put at risk. But even a little bit of alcohol can mar a lifetime of perfect cornering skill, and toss a persons fate to the laws of physics. Laws that seem even worse than the ones the police you chose to avoid enforce on a daily basis. The car, moments before an extension of man and cool, smooth method of acceleration, suddenly became a loose, screeching mass of metal decidedly unfriendly. Even before the impact, he found himself cursing the so very generic accident he had just had. Before everything sort of faded away.

The paramedics, when they got to the accident scene, had very little left to do. Ross, the eldest medic with five years service in this area, didn’t even bother quickening his pace as he walked towards the vehicle. “See how there are no skid marks here, save for the very apex of the turn?” he asked of the new trainee he had been stuck with. “Held on the throttle all the way through the turn. It isn’t pleasant, but we don’t have much of a job here, I would guess”. The young man, Mark turned and replied. “Sadistic view. Hold this while I go see if whoever was in there is at least barely holding on”. Ross shook his head. “No, don’t bother. The firemen have showed up anyway, and they’ll need to pry this mess apart as is. It’s unsafe right now, just get things ready”. Mark focused back on the accident in front of him. What he could only assume was once a car now looked more like something from a war. Pieces spread around, with the main body half folded around a tree. Taking a deep breath of night air, he wondered to himself if this was a job he wanted to continue holding for very long and turned to face Ross. “You seem pretty congenial about this whole thing”. Ross almost laughed. “No other way for me to deal with it. Most of the people I see have accidents; they never should have been there in the first place. You have to find some way to shake it off, I just prefer detachment”.

John O’Rourke had never liked people working with the police force, or the medical services much. They would hand him a sheet of paper, detailing the issue at hand in sterile, unforgiving terms, and then ask him to turn it into a reason, some kind of condolence for parents, spouses, friends. It wasn’t the job that bothered him, but the way that their work was passed off to him at the point when emotions became involved. He cleared his throat anyway, and began to speak into the microphone. “And, uh, in light of the recent driving accident out on pharaohs lane, a local boy was killed at about 11:54 pm, as most of you know”. Never could do introductions worth a damn, he thought to himself. But sometimes you make do. “He was traveling at about 70 miles per hour, when his car struck a tree after he lost control. Cause of death was ruled trauma, possibly internal bleeding. He was almost certainly dead on impact”. Quick, feverish glances up let John know that aside from the standard few reporters and suits taking notes, the boy’s parents were sitting towards the back of the room, holding each other for dear life. “Uh, yes, there is something called the severity index, which provides a means of measuring acceleration and length of time it is experienced, and the numbers produced in an estimate comparable situation showed that those experienced in this accident were more than sufficient to…” another glance up, and the parents were the only people left in the room. Rocking back and forth, they had invested more time and effort in their child’s life than anything else, and he had to sum it up in a statement for the news and concerned residents. “And yes, uh…. I’m sure he will be missed. A great deal, by all those who knew him. Thank you”. John rushed away from the microphone, cursing himself for taking this job.

Ben had seen hundreds of roadside alters, candles and flowers spread about for a lost loved one. And somehow, they had all seemed trivial and out of place along roads he drove regularly. But now, standing in front of the spot his best friend died, it all made sense to him, for the first time. The flowers and ornaments weren’t there as a means of marking the place, or to honor the fallen who had lost their lives there. They were there so those who loved the fallen had something to see, because without them a tree covered in scars seems somewhat anticlimactic. It still did, to him anyway, as he looked up and down what he could see of the road. Just another spot, where something sad happened. He had finished being sad about it, even had a stint of anger at his friends for their depressive reactions. Really he was just utterly lost, lost in the simple idiocy of it. It all seemed so hopelessly generic, that his friend would die in a drunk driving accident, and he would then stand on the spot, in the middle of god-awful nowhere reminiscing? It was all still somewhat hard to believe. He sighed, and aloud to nobody in particular said “god damn it. Why did you always have to speed? And drink? You could at least pick one dangerous thing to do at once!” shaking his head, he walked away. “you never should have been here in the first place”.

Pleasant Plum #7

2006-06-28T09:31:00.000-07:00

He should have never been there in the first place. This was my place. My sanctuary and he was violating it with his presence and his baggage. I could recognize him by that dumb-ass popular hat. I needed to think, and here he was, a catalyst churning up memories I had tried so hard to suppress. Bastard.

I trudged up hill, hoping the sound of snow crunching under my boots would startle him away. I imagined him scuttling away like a terrified high school boy and I smiled. I had power now, he didn’t; and his presence belied a vulnerability that I had never thought possible. I tried to prevent the sharks in my mind from attacking with vicious retorts to his infiltration.

He was staring out in to the night at where the blanketed baseball field was. Those were glorious nights for him so long ago.

But it really wasn’t. It seems eons because I had so dramatically changed, and anything that significant must have taken along time. At least that’s what I felt.

He heard my footfall, and turned. All the anger that I was caring slid away as I saw his face. Older, with a well groomed beard that was meant to give him dignity, but only added to his age. Superficially, everything was fine, six years aged sense I last saw him. But his eyes and his presence, here, tonight, with a northeast wind. It hinted at something more.

Him: Hey.

Me: Hey.

Him: How ya’ been, alright I hope?

Me: Yeah. How about you?

Him: Okay, my sister’s having a baby, that’s why I’m back home.

Me: Gottcha, must be nice to be home for Christmas, I had gotten the impression you were never coming back.

Him: Yeah, well things change, don’t they. It’s not that nice. She’s not married, and my Mom doesn’t know whether to be happy or sad about it. The result is Mother’s just kinda mopey. Dealing with two hormonal women, with Dad at work is kinda ruff. But how about you? Shelia said you got a Master’s Degree.

Me: Yeah, I’m teaching now. My teachers were a lifeline for me, I just wanted to return the favor.

Him: Yeah, about high school, I kinda….

Me: Don’t worry about it, I’m over it.

He turned back to look at the field, after a while he said:

Him: K. Sheila and I are getting married.

Me. Yeah, I heard. Congratulations.

Him: Yeah, we are pretty excited about it. Ecstatic I mean. Listen, did you come here in high school?

Me: Yup, watched the games. Those were great games.

Him: South West League Champions my senior year. God that was great.

Me: Sure, sure. Why do you ask?

Him: I thought I saw you as I was playing sometimes.

Me: Yeah, it was safer here for me than in the bleachers.

Him: Yeah, that was probably true.

Me: Sorry, gotta go, I’m freezing my ass of here, and I need to help Mom bake yet tonight.

His presence had startled me-scared me in fact. The person on the hill I was leaving behind seemed quiet. Thoughtful. Something that was never him six years ago. I left him looking at the baseball field should be, the fences coated in ice, and the hard metal batting cages. He was seeking sanctuary, but found it hidden in a layer of snow.

Classy Cherry #7

2006-06-28T00:21:00.000-07:00

He should have never been there in the first place. William was afraid that something would go wrong even though they’d planned carefully. But he knew like every other member of the union that it was worth trying. They’d been working so much that they hardly even knew their families anymore. A bunch of guys’ wives had left them already and William suspected his was considering it. He’d seen the sadness in her eyes when he told her he wasn’t getting the holidays off. She hadn’t even tried to fight with him about it this year. She’d accepted the defeat and only cried when she thought he couldn’t hear. For just this once he wanted to be home on Christmas to see his children open their presents. All the guys felt the same way too.

So when Richard proposed the resolution at last week’s union meeting, it was unanimous. There was squabbling, however, about who would actually do the plan. Everybody had some excuse about why he shouldn’t be the one to do it. Even though it wasn’t the most democratic way, they decided it was best to draw straws. William drew the shortest one so it was his job to infiltrate the Boss’s office.

The plan was simple. The others would keep the Boss busy. They’d distract him with a drink or two and tell him about new design ideas. The Boss was a fat man who loved to drink, even on the job, so it would be easy to distract him for a while. He’d never notice William missing from the large crowd of workers either. There’d be plenty of time for him to sneak down the hallway and into the office and back again.

William looked at the large storage boxes stacked along the office walls. He couldn’t find the one and he began to get nervous. He whispered the plan aloud to calm himself. Find the list. Erase some of the entries. Maybe 500? Boss will never know and I’ll be done workin’ two days early. He thought for an instant of everyone that’d be disappointed but then remembered his own children who sang carols alone and lit the tree without him every year. He thought of Richard missing his only sister’s funeral last year because Boss wouldn’t give him the day off. He was going to find it. It has to be here.

He took a deep breath and carefully examined the box labels. On Boss’s desk was a box marked “The List.” He grinned and quietly opened the box. Luckily, it was true. The Boss really did write in pencil so that when he checked the list, he could easily make corrections. So William erased. Hundred. Two hundred. Ten minutes passed. Three hundred. Four. He could hear his Boss’s laughter flitting from the other end of the hall. Good he’s still distracted. Probably on his third drink by now. This is easy! He had just finished erasing 500 names when he saw a pair of beady eyes peering at him through the glass office window.

“Ah!” William stifled a shout and dropped a paper. Who let that damned beast out again? He stood perfectly still because he’d heard that they had poor vision and if you didn’t move, they couldn’t see you.

Perhaps that was a myth or maybe William moved. But the animal curled his lips around his teeth in a sneer. Then it made a deafening screeching sound that echoed down the hall and made his stomach crawl. Boss heard it from three rooms down and jumped up so quickly he spilled his milk. William tried to scurry out the door but the reindeer had bowed his head into the doorway. His antlers caged the elf inside the office.

Brash Blackberry #7

2006-06-27T21:08:00.000-07:00

“He should have never been there in the first place,” I screamed in Scott’s face. “John knew he wasn’t supposed to be there. This is just too fucked up.”

I ran down the steps at the front of the building and took off for my car. I jumped in, started the engine, and began driving. I’m never coming back.

***

Everything had already been paid for. The service, the flowers, the programs and the Tribute Pembroke Mahogany casket – we only wanted the best for our mother. My older brother Scott and I waited in the cry room for another funeral to let out. Mom’s was supposed to start in two hours.

“If that fuck shows his face, I swear to God I will not restrain myself,” I said.

I was fuming with anger and had nowhere to place it, trying to keep my voice down to not disturb the people in the next room. Just two days before, our mother fell to her death from a cliff. She was hiking a trail alone at the state park. She went to the top of the mountain and never came back down.

“There’s no evidence. So shut up and stop assuming it was him. They hadn’t seen each other in two years,” Scott said stiffly, looking me in the eyes.

Mom divorced John almost four years ago and he was never the same after it. Scott and I visited him sometimes, but he always seemed detached and more violent than we had ever remembered. He hated us calling him John and not Dad, but Mom told us never to forget our actual father and to never call another man Dad. The last time we’d visited John, almost two months ago, he broke my nose.

“You know what it sounds like to me? It sounds like you don’t care that she’s dead,” I said. “It’s also starting to look like you can’t accept our stepfather to be a killer. You saw how he was. He’s not right.”

“You know what it sounds like to me? You can’t accept the fact that she probably jumped,” Scott said.

I could never imagine my mother being a jumper. She was always perky and happy, always quick to do anything within her power to please others. I couldn’t believe it – she was too good to go out like that.

***

The service had already started and Reverend Quinn began to speak about the “better place” where my mother supposedly was now. I stood up and walked to the back of the chapel for a moment alone. As I stood in the back, I saw John walk in the main doors of building.

I closed the chapel doors and asked John for a quick word outside. When I realized we were alone, I pulled my 9mm out of my pocket and put it on his temple.

“Beg forgiveness for your former wife,” I said as I hit the man across the face. “Just tell me the truth and you can keep your pathetic life.”

John spun around and went for the gun. I pulled the trigger. A bullet went through the front of his throat, and John laid on the ground holding his wound.

“I didn’t do it,” John sputtered with blood coming out of his mouth. “She was always sad when you boys weren’t around.”

Scott was the first person out the front doors of the funeral home. He had a look of horror and disgust on his face as I stood over John’s almost lifeless body. Scott grabbed the gun and stared in my face.

“James, how could you?”

TKO Question #7 for Merged Group

2006-06-26T16:47:00.000-07:00

"He should have never been there in the first place."

Begin your post with that sentence.

(You don't have to have quote marks, I just put those to set off the clause :) You may or may not use that as a quotation.)

**

Responses

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

* Classy Cherry
Playful Peach
* Mighty Mango
Tart Tangerine
Lively Lime
Lucky Lemon
Precious Pear
Pleasant Plum
Brash Blackberry
* Killer Kiwi

Players Removed as a Result of This Vote (Total of TKO 7 & 8)

Tangy Tomato
Gutsy Guava
Rare Raspberry
Alert Apple

Crazy Clementine #6

2006-06-25T13:30:00.000-07:00

There is something,
strange and surreal,
about shopping for Christmas presents in flip flops.

I have tried,
to get in the mood,
by buying candles smelling of cranberries and gingerbread.

Perhaps a trip,
to the ice rink,
would make me feel less grumpy.

Didn't work.

I wonder if,
the little kids,
imagine Santa riding a jet ski instead of a sleigh.

But I should relax,
and enjoy the sun,
and the sparkling waters and pure white sands.

And join the rest,
of the smiling faces,
with bright shining teeth and tanned tight bodies.

That's what my parents said to do.

I look at that photo,
with crumpled edges,
and a big straight crease running along the side.

I remember then,
that day last year,
where we ran around with mini-icicles hanging on our lashes.

Of course you know,
the way this ends,
I didn't mean for this to be such a cliche

He died the day after we took that photo.

I moved out west,
away from the town,
where every store and street and sign reminded me of lost love.

I was supposed,
to start again,
and find happiness in the shining sun.

But instead,
I'm left alone,
the hustle and bustle reminding me so.

Summer never was my favorite season.

Classy Cherry #6

2006-06-25T13:04:00.000-07:00

Eskimos have fifteen different words and phrases to describe snow including pirta, navcaq, nutaryuk, aniu, and kanevcir. English is quite limited.

There’s no word for the first snow of the winter – snowflakes falling from a light sky to settle on grasses still green with summer.

Nothing to explain a snowstorm so fierce the snow doesn’t fall so much as fly in circles so that you aren’t sure if it’s snowing up or down.

There’s no words to describe the sky when it drops powdery weightless snow that disappears as soon as it kisses the dark pavement.

Nothing to capture the magic floating in fresh snowflakes you glimpse out the window falling on Christmas morning as if Jesus himself is smiling.

We still call the tiny flakes of white plastic in a snowglobe that spin around fake people when we shake it snow.

It’s still snow when it’s a thick white ocean sitting on a frozen opal lake.

The jagged icy flakes that sting when they slice your exposed hands and cheeks are still snow.

It’s still snow when I’m home alone watching the white cover everything and you’re still gone.

Tangy Tomato #6

2006-06-25T12:05:00.000-07:00

I hate birthdays. Not really birthdays themselves, but the consequences.

It had happened again.

I dreaded being invited to birthday parties because I always knew what was to come at the end.

I told them, “no, no, it’s fine. She’ll be here any minute. Please go. It’s just how my mom is.” Her perpetual lateness hurt and embarrassed me time after time. I frequently sat with the birthday girl and her parents while she opened her gifts, packed up leftover cake and while they waited for me to be picked up. But this time it was different. It was not a close friend and our supervisor was not her parents, but instead her nanny and so, though I was only in third grade, my constant insistence that they leave finally convinced them. So now, I was alone. Who leaves a 9-year-old alone in Central Park? In the snow?

I sat down on a bench and my tears froze on my eyelashes as I wondered if my mom was just late again, as she always was, or if this time something had happened to her. I heard sirens. My mom had been hit by a car. I was sure of it. The ambulance was going to pick her up right now. How would I find her? How would anyone know where to find me? I cried harder.

I tried to calm myself down. I pulled out my party favor. It was a yellow disposable camera with my name written in black sharpie on top. My freezing, tiny fingers could barely press the camera’s little grey button, but I snapped a picture of the beautiful, fresh snowfall and tried to enjoy the scene. Unfortunately, I would never look back on that picture or the beauty within it with anything but bitterness and hatred, remembering how cold and alone I was in that moment.

It had been almost a half hour since the birthday girl with her heaping pile of presents and her nanny had left me, alone. I knew it had been a half an hour because I had watched almost every second tick by on my hot pink Swatch watch. Where was my mom? How could she do this to me? She must be dead. No, she better be dead. Or have a very good reason to be so late! I began to sob out loud. I was so alone and the sky was already darker than usual at this time because of all the snow. It was getting colder and my nose and cheeks were stinging. I had my arms pulled into the body of my coat and in between sobs I would huff warm air into my coat to warm up my body and arms. The ambulance was probably scraping up my bleeding mother from the pavement at this very moment. I was completely hysterical.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar face flying around the corner, Zabar’s bags in hand. “Oh, sweetie!” She reached out to hug me. I pushed her away. I had been so scared that something terrible had happened, yet somehow I hated her for being fine. “There was such a long line, and I was already there with my cart full of food. I’m so sorry.” Her apologies were never good enough; her lateness never acceptable. I hated her so much but I still loved her.

I hate birthday parties.

Pretty Papaya #6

2006-06-25T11:43:00.000-07:00

John was just about done packing the last of his things from his bedroom in his parents’ house. His mother passed away a couple of years ago and his dad recently died of cancer. Being the only child, he inherited the house. Unfortunately he simply couldn’t afford to maintain it and keep his apartment in the city. He thought about moving into the house but he knew he couldn’t find a job there. So he had to sell it.

Although John regretted selling the house, two thoughts comforted him: first, that he was fortunate enough to even have a home, and second, that he was selling it to a non-profit organization that would turn it into a women’s shelter for women and children who needed a temporary home till they got on their feet.

“One last box,” John said out loud to himself as he picked up a very old cardboard box from the back of his closet.

He opened the box and to his surprise, it was a box full of his old toys. He pulled the toys out one by one and examined them. He found a red fire truck, an old toy microscope, a toy shovel, a race car, and many more toys.

John thought to himself as he was looking at the toys, “Wow, I was a really fortunate kid.”

When John was done pulling out the toys, he found an old notebook at the bottom of the box. It had his name written on the front of it in red crayon.

“Is this… no it can’t be,” he said, once again talking to himself.

He opened up the book and found pages filled with stories written in red crayon.

“It is. It’s my diary.”

He sat down on his bedroom floor and began to read.

“June 29, 1975

Dear Diary,

We are driving to Pop Pop’s new house in Arizona. We are going to visit for the summer. My mom says it is hot there. She says it does not snow much where Pop Pop lives, not even around Christmas time! I am happy that we will see Pop Pop.

John”

John suddenly remembered the trip he was reading about. He hadn’t thought about it in a while. He was about 10 and they took a trip down his grandfather’s new ranch in Arizona. He turned the page and kept on reading.

“July 10, 1975

Dear Diary,

We are at Pop Pop’s new house. He lives on a lot of land. He took me on a walk to show me all the cool stuff he has.

On our trip around the ranch, Pop Pop and daddy stopped and started talking and pointing into the distance. I did not know what they were talking about. They were saying things I did not understand and I could not see anything but desert in the distance. I started walking to where they were pointing. It seemed important since Pop Pop and daddy were talking really loud about it. I did not walk very far when daddy grabbed my shoulder and brought me back to Pop Pop. They told me I could not walk passed where we were. I asked why. They said that we were at the border and I was not allowed to walk passed it without daddy or mommy. I asked them why and daddy said “Because I said so”.

My cousin Brian is here now. He is staying here for the summer too! I told him what happened today. He asked me what a border was. I told him I did not know.

John”

“July 12, 1975

Dear Diary,

Brian and I told Aunt Jan we were going exploring. We went to the border. Brian asked where it was. I said I did not know. We could not see it. We thought it might be underground so we started digging. We did not find it.

John”

“July 15, 1975

Dear Diary,

Brian and I went back to the border. We brought my magnifying glass with us. We thought that the border might be really small. We still could not find it.

Something scary happened at the border. We saw a woman running with a satchel towards us in the distance. Then we saw men with guns running towards the woman from very far away. We hid behind the stable. The woman dropped the satchel and started running away from it. I do not think the men with guns saw it because they left it there.

We ran back to the house. We told daddy about what happened. He got really mad. He asked us why we were at the border. We told him we were looking for it because we could not see it. We asked him what a border was. He told me it was like the fence in our backyard that separates our house from our next door neighbor’s house. I asked if a border was a fence. He said no, it could be a mountain or a river. I asked how people know what borders are if they can be a fence, a mountain or a river. He said that it is something you have to imagine. He said borders were imaginary lines and we just use fences or mountains to know where they are.

Later when mommy was tucking me in to bed, I asked her why we had borders. She said it was because we had to have a way to know what belongs to us and what belongs to others. I guess that makes sense.

John”

“July 16, 1975

Dear Diary,

Early this morning Brian and I went back to the border because I left my magnifying glass there.

The satchel was still in the desert. We wondered what was in it. No one was looking so we ran out to it to bring it back. It was a really big satchel. There was little boy in it! He looked scared. He could not move. We carried him to the stable and gave him some water.

Later on Brian and I brought him some toys and some of the food we did not eat at dinner. We did not tell anyone. We thought the men with guns would come take him away.

John”

“July 17, 1975

Dear Diary,

This morning at breakfast Pop Pop came in yelling that a little Mexican boy was in his stable. He said he scared him back over the border. I asked mommy why he was mad. She said that the little boy was trespassing on Pop Pop’s property. She said whatever the boy owned was on his side of the border and what Pop Pop owned was on our side and if we go across the border without permission, it is like stealing.

Brian and I went back to the border with some breakfast just in case the boy was there. He was there, but on the other side of the border, sitting in the desert. Brian and I wanted to help him but we could not because of the border. We came up with a great idea! The border was just an imaginary line. So we could imagine it somewhere else!

I got my notebook and a crayon and Brian got some sticks. We walked over to where the boy was sitting and drew a line in the desert behind him. We put some sticks along the line. I wrote “Border” on some papers and stuck them on the sticks. Since the boy was on our side of the border, he owned what we owned.

We brought the boy back to the stable. He ate his breakfast and we played.

Daddy, Mommy, Aunt Jan and Pop Pop came by to go for a horseback ride. They were really mad when they saw the little boy playing with us. They brought him back to the desert. We told them that he was on the right side of the border. We showed them our new border but they wouldn’t listen. They told us we could not go around changing the border. I asked why. Pop Pop said that we have to know what we own and they own. He said there wasn’t enough stuff for everyone so we have to make sure we know what is ours and what is theirs. Then I told Pop Pop there was enough stuff to share with the little boy. I told him I gave the little boy my second red fire truck. I told him Brian gave him one of his extra trucks. I told him wee gave him the extra food no one ate at dinner. He still would not listen to me.

Pop Pop called the men with guns to take the little boy away. I don’t understand. He did not do anything.

John”

John stopped reading there. “Fifty years later and I still don’t understand”, he thought.

He put his toys back in the box and took one last look around his room. He glanced briefly out his bedroom window. He took one last look at the fence that separated his yard from his neighbor’s yard.

“It’s funny”, he thought, “Mary and Suzie used to climb over that fence into our yard all the time. And I used to climb over it too into their yard. We used to share toys and food all the time. And my parents never got as mad as they did that summer we crossed the border to play and share with the Mexican boy. Why…. why is it that some borders mean so much more to us than others?”

“I guess men will find any justification to be cruel to other human beings, whether it is race, religion, war, or… a border.”

Alert Apple #6

2006-06-25T11:40:00.000-07:00

Looks like 2 inches -- I need about 6 more to begin construction.

The best temperature for a snow fort is about 20 degrees. Colder than that and snow will be too powdery. Warmer and I'm soaking wet all the time.

Keep snowing, please. Another couple inches and they will declare a snow day.

It's really easy, see. You start by digging a big hole into the side of a drift or one of those piles where the snowplow dumped everything. Snowplow banks are the best, actually. Then you widen it out so you can sit in the hole and dig the tunnel.

The tunnel is pretty easy, really. But don't use a snow shovel, the blade is too wide. Use a dirt shovel. Dig a small hole all the way through the snow bank, then widen it out until you can crawl through it.

Use the snow from the tunnel to build a wall around the entrance. Use an ice cream bucket to pack the snow into bricks. If you can sneak it, use the garden hose to turn the snow bricks into ice bricks.

Oh, the hose works good for the next step too -- making ammunition. Can't have a fort without weaponry, you know? Snowballs are good but ice balls are better.

After the perimeter is secured, widen the tunnel. This part is hard. You have to crawl halfway into the tunnel and hollow the snow bank out from the inside without making the roof collapse. You gotta stuff the snow underneath your stomach until you can wiggle out and then dig it out to make room for the next try. This takes forever, but it's really cool if you can get a room big enough to sit in. Last year, I had one big enough for three people. I even had snacks in there. It was awesome.

Well, that was work on the phone, no snow day today. Adult duty calls.

But I'm only an adult when I'm inside.

Playful Peach #6

2006-06-25T10:52:00.000-07:00

I was back where it all began and, although I never thought it possible, more lonely than I was before. It started and ended at the mountains.

Hitting the slopes alone is depressing at first. I couldn’t help but glance at the children struggling to make it down the mountain with patient parents right along side of them, or the groups of teenagers trying to show off, each boy jumping higher and almost, but not quite, hurting himself. It makes you feel lonely to realize that if you fall no one will be there to help you, or if you finally make it off the lift no one will cheer with you. But, I had gotten used to feeling alone being a single woman in your 30’s doesn’t welcome much company.

I had convinced myself in typical ‘Sex and the City’ fashion, that I was okay with being single. I had a great job as a lawyer, an apartment in Manhattan and a house in Vermont where I could go skiing whenever I wanted. Sure, it was lonely at times going away for the weekend by yourself, and I don’t think I will ever get my mother to stop nagging me to find a husband, but my ship had sailed. My dark hair now had streaks of gray and my face had deep smile lines from too many years of trying to be pleasant. So my life wasn’t perfect, no ones is, but at least I was content.

It was on one of those lonely mountain trips that things changed and at the time, I thought it was for the better. Riding the ski lift up after what I felt was a particularly good run I saw a man sitting at the top of the lift and I thought he might be waiting for me. Then I thought I was being delusional because this man looked attractive and normal which meant that he obviously wasn’t waiting for me. When I did get attention from men they were usually a little crazy and balding. This man appeared to be sane and have a full head of hair so he couldn’t have been waiting for me. But he was.

“Hi there,” he said as he waved me towards him.

I of course fell as soon as I got off the lift, (awesome) and he rushed over to help me up.

“Are you okay?” he asked looking concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said while blushing as red as a rose. He gracefully allowed me to recover looking away as I shook the snow off my butt. He then asked me if I wanted to take a break and get some coffee. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me; a normal, attractive man was talking to me. I was so shocked I stumbled over my words, but finally accepted.

What happened next was a blur it happened so fast. I found out that he lived in New York and was a Corporate Attorney. He and I had grown up a few neighborhoods apart which in a normal place would have made the two people think it was odd that they hadn’t met, but we were from New York and knew full well that someone who lived two houses down you probably would never meet. After that meeting on the mountain we spent every second that we weren’t working (which for two lawyers isn’t that much time) together. After a month we were engaged and after two we were married.

My mother was thrilled of course, and I felt like people treated me differently now, no one gave me the re-assuring pat and head nod that said, “don’t worry, you probably won’t die alone.” It was nice to know that you had someone to go away with on the weekends and someone to share a Netflix queue with. It was all nice, at first.

But soon I found myself just as alone as I was before, except this time it was worse. I quickly realized the reason why Mark was 43 and single: he was a workaholic. And not just a little bit, a lot. I know we are both lawyers, but I wasn’t married to my work like he was. On the nights that he did come home it wasn’t until 11 or later. He had a bed at his office, so he usually slept there during the week. Once again I found myself back to convincing myself that it was okay to be alone or even that I preferred it. Now I had time to go to the gym I would reassuringly tell myself.

It was worse because now I longed for someone else. Before I would dream up what a man would be like but it was never tangible to me. Now I did have a man but I didn’t at the same time. He didn’t have time to come to Vermont with me or to hit the slopes with me or do anything with me. I was alone again.

And that was all I thought about as I looked at our snow covered backyard. I was back in Vermont, this time at our house. He didn’t come up, not that it would have mattered if he was here he would have shut himself up in the study to do his work anyway. The white powder glistened fresh and clean, perfectly untouched. I would never have kids to go back there and make forts or have snowball fights. Mark didn’t want to have kids and even if he did, we never had sex so it didn’t matter. As I looked out over the cold snow I wondered what I ever did to deserve to be so alone.

Mighty Mango #6

2006-06-25T10:07:00.000-07:00

If it snows in May, is it the last snow of the year or the first snow of the year?

It's a stupid question. But it's a stupid storm. Looking outside without consulting a calendar would make you think it was December, just before New Year's. But it's May 23rd, and it snowed last night.

This is not a normal thing in Nebraska. By May, it's usually warming up and farmers have planted their crops already. Well, that last part is true still: crops have been planted. And this freak storm that came out of nowhere to surprise every weatherman, almanac, and armchair forecaster is going to kill every single one of them.

There will not be much of a harvest this year. That which has already sprouted will die under the thick layer of powdery white; that which hasn't will never sprout. Some farms will survive this. The rich, corporate farms; the huge farms with huge insurance policies. But the "family farm," always romanticized even as people buy bread from Wal-Mart, is not going to survive.

Anyone left in Nebraska living in a farmhouse is very cold today. They've taken the insulation down and put the big blankets into storage; no one has their winter clothes handy. It's drafty, and cold, and the kids still need to get to school. No one has their snow tires on, and so there are going to be car accidents this morning. This snow is going to be a death sentence for more than just soybean crops.

Omaha's homeless population will be hit worst of all. Hundreds of them froze to death in their sleep, or before they could get warm again. Hypothermia is going to hit the rest, or already has. When you don't have a home, there's nowhere to keep the winter clothes when summer comes--so to avoid heat stroke, most of them just throw them away. There's always more rags to be picked up from dumps, but this is such short notice many of them won't make it. Dead Vietnam vets are littering the worst parts of town, victims of a midyear My Lai, with the cold front cast in the role of the ruthless conqueror.

It will melt. Soon. And for some, this will be nothing but a convenient excuse to throw snowballs and take goofy pictures. In five years, ten years, twenty years, this will be a yarn told around cozy fireplaces at family Christmas gatherings--remember the time it snowed this much, but in May? And everyone will laugh a little bit, and Grandpa will fall asleep in his chair, and someone will suggest playing Monopoly. The top hat is still missing, at least from the game.

Everything will be fine then.

Benign Boysenberry #6

2006-06-25T07:46:00.000-07:00

Posted by Happy Skies: November 16, 7:16 AM CST

flights today: MSP/OMA, OMA/DEN, DEN/OMA, OMA/MSP

Mood: cheerful

There are big fat flakes falling in my suburban backyard. Today is the first snow of the year and work is going to be a hassle, late flights, grumpy people and delays for de-icing. Everyone will have a heavy coat they expect to fit magically into the overhead bin, along with their luggage and the kitchen sink they couldn’t bear to check. I hope to God I don’t get stuck in Omaha tonight….. if I am, I’ll call you “bertie” – we’ll have a drink or something ). It is great to have Blog buddies!

When I was a kid, the first snow would have me and my sister tuned to WCCO “the Voice of the Great Midwest” for the school closing announcements. They were in alphabetical order and Charlie Anderson had been reading them on the radio for about a hundred years. My school started with an O – so if he was saying “Albertville” I knew I had time to brush my teeth before I’d risk missing my school being called. Right now my kids are glued to the internet postings waiting for “Burnsville, public and private” to be posted. I still listen to the radio.

Now, the first snow of the year makes me think about OB (old boyfriend). He loved the first snow, he called it ‘virginal’ and ‘pure. He wouldn’t let me make snow angles because I would “sully” the snow. OB classified things that way and didn’t want things to change after he put them in a category. I’d try to tell him that things were more complicated than it seemed, but he wouldn’t listen.

I dated OB my junior year in college. We broke-up when I told him I was more complicated than I seemed. He couldn’t handle that. He wanted someone like the snow, and I wasn’t that. He couldn’t take me home to his Mormon family that way. Last I knew OB was living in California. That was a looooong time ago.

Oops… time is short, I’d better kiss hubby goodbye and head to the airport. The traffic today is going to suck because of the snow. I’ll let you know how it goes…

_________________________________________________________________________
Posted by Happy Skies: November 16, 12:42 PM CST

Location: DEN
Mood: strange/relieved

God, I love free wireless in airports. I can eat my lunch and blog at the same time.

Y’all won’t even begin to guess what happened today…

Come on, guess

No – really, guess

Ok.. here’s the story, my flight to OMA was going just like normal. People were crabby and had too many coats etc. I’m pushing the drink cart down the aisle when I see him in the back row. He’s reading a magazine and is wearing glasses, but I think that is him, OB!!

I immediately start to panic. It has been 16 years since I saw him last. I’ve had a couple of “careers”, I got married and had a couple of kids. I look good, but I don’t look like I’m 20 anymore.

I was flying with GF today (girlfriend) and gave her the emergency signal… not the “plane is gong to crash signal” the “oh crap, I need you signal” – she took over on the drink cart and I went to check my make-up in the galley area.

All the way up the aisle all I could think about the fight we had the night we broke up..... we were walking in Temple Square.

OB and I went to BYU together. When we wanted to have a really romantic night we’d go to Salt Lake City for dinner and a walk in Temple Square. There are paths and gardens around the Temple and the setting is very romantic. My girlfriends and I dream of a proposal in Temple Square at night.

All week OB had been dropping hints that he was going to propose to me and sitting in Temple Square near the statue of Joesph Smith, I knew I needed to tell him before he popped the question.

I had to tell him about “Anna”.

Background: for those of you who weren’t reading back in July on Anna’s 20th birthday… here’s the scoop: “Anna” is what I call the daughter I gave up for adoption when I was 17. Go : here, here, here, and here for the posts…

Suffice it to say he didn’t take the news well. He couldn’t handle the fact that I’d had a baby, even the fact that I had sex bothered him a lot. It was worse because I didn’t tell him, and actually lied to him when he asked me about having sex.

I didn’t think it was fair. That happened before I was baptized at age 18, and if God has forgiven me that sin, I thought OB could too. I was wrong.

He said his family wouldn’t understand, that they wanted him to marry someone from “a good family” and I wasn’t it.

I asked him if it would have been better if I’d aborted Anna… thinking that at least I’d get credit for not killing a baby.

He called me a “slut” and a “whore” and told me he couldn’t spend his life knowing that I had a child ‘with someone else’.

I tried to tell him that I had no contact with “Anna”, that I didn’t even know her actual name and that there was no “with” that someone else. OB wouldn’t listen when I told him Anna’s father was someone I dated for a little while in high school and was broken up with by the time I had Anna. When I told him about her, he told me to abort Anna and I refused. He never spoke to me again.

OB didn’t care, I’d slept with him and got pregnant, that was all he could hear.

That was just before finals week. After finals OB started his mission to Japan and I never saw him again….

Soooo…. Back to today…

With my fresh make-up and newly primped uniform I took over for GF and begin to be miss-cheerful as I worked the beverage cart. People are responding, making jokes and being nice.

As I worked, I glanceed at him. He looks good, like he’s been in the sun too much, but good. He’s reading a Wall Street Journal, wearing a suit and he seems relaxed and content. He doesn’t seem to recognize me. Surely, by the time I get to his row and he can read my nametag that says “Happy” on it, he’ll figure out it’s me.

Finally, I get to his row – I say “OB”?

He looks at me funny. I say, “It’s me, Happy”.

Again, a funny look… and, as I look at him again I realize it isn’t OB. I say, “sorry, you look like an old friend from College”.

He smiled, and with a strong Austrailian accent said, “that’s ok love, it happens all the time. I’ll have an orange juice, if you don’t mind.” Relieved, I gave him his juice.

Oops… time to get my ass to OMA…

___________________________________________________________
Posted by Happy Skies: November 17, 6:22 AM CST

Location: home,
Flights today: none
Mood: cozy

It snowed about a foot in MSP since yesterday. My backyard residents now include a snowman and his family. The kids had a snow day yesterday and hubby stayed home with them.

They didn’t close the airport, so I wasn’t stuck in OMA last night and when I got home hubby had made a pot of chili and some cornbread, the kids were happy and exhausted and I was ready to put my feet up by the fire with a glass of wine, which is exactly what I did.

When I told hubby about the OB scare, he snorted and said “that ass? – damm, I got lucky when he thought he was too good for you. It’s a good thing it wasn’t him, I’d have to beat him up just for you..”

Once again, you see why I love hubby. I think I’ll bake him some cookies or something…

Domestic bliss, just one more reason to love the snow....

Rare Raspberry #6

2006-06-24T21:47:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-22T22:53:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-22T05:58:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-21T22:51:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-21T22:40:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-21T22:19:00.001-07:00

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

2006-06-21T21:33:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-21T16:03:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-21T14:56:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-21T14:39:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-21T12:35:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-20T13:23:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-20T13:16:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-20T10:44:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-19T17:51:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-18T14:38:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-18T13:48:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-18T13:28:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-18T13:05:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-18T12:48:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-18T12:39:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-18T11:42:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-18T08:52:00.000-07:00

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.