Cheers rose up from the small crowd. All in black t-shirts and jeans, six men were sitting in a café right next to the barbershop. They watched the groom walk.

“Ooo, Mr Groom!”

“Hey! Handsome guy!” Soon, one of the cheers evolved into a full sentence: “ Look how handsome you are!” “Sure I am!” The groom approved. His entire being smelled orange cologne. And his harsh blue suit was in perfect tune with his freshly trimmed goatee. “You know, you still have time!” Finally, a complex sentence! There were “ only three hours ” before the wedding, though. “You can still bail out!” The groom raised his head up and opened his mouth wide. All thirty-two of his teeth were bright white, making the perfect contrast with his skin. He swung his left arm behind his ear, and bid this hilarious crowd his farewell.

His pace sped up exponentially. He couldn’t wait to hop into his car anymore: His waxed leather shoes weren’t made for these crooked cobblestone pavements, and the August sun was obviously envious of his shining, august suit.

His magenta Renault banger was, on the other hand, in perfect tune with his goatee. He fondled it gently while looking at the sticker on the rear window: “We’re Getting Married!” “Sure I am!” He mumbled. In the rear end below the window, another sticker lay above the plate: “Atakan (heart symbol) Derya” . Atakan smiled. The route was as simple as it could get. All he had to do was to keep pulling and pushing the shift knob while continuously switching his right foot between the gas and brake. Thanks to these movements, he would go a bit more straight ahead, then take the first exit at the turnaround. That exit was the way home, second was the city centre, and the third was, supposedly, the road to Istanbul. Go home. Your friends from the neighbourhood will be waiting for you in their cars. Hook their cars behind yours, and go back. Now, take the second exit, and go to Derya’s house. Her family won’t let you get in and get her out just yet. They will tell you that the door is -somehow- broken. You’ll have to pass a hundred bucks under the door, so it can go un-broken again. Pass the bill, get the girl, hook even more cars behind, and go back. Take the first exit again. Your final destination will be where you started; the neighbourhood. The weddings here start on the road, go on in the neighbourhood, outflow to the road before ending up in the neighbourhood again. So it’s road, hood, road, hood. Extensively simple; no room for complexity: Shift knob, gas, brake, first, second, first. Three things were extremely important, yet somehow weren’t in this equation:

First was the clutch. Atakan put his left foot on the clutch as he started the engine.

Second was the air-conditioning. Or rather, the lack of it. Atakan twirled the window winder in his left: No wind coming yet. All he had to do was to start moving.

He checked the availability of the road through the rear-view. This handsome groom’s sweaty forehead was caught in his glimpse in the mirror. He knew his hair looked much better when they were up in the air like this, but he’d rather keep them down on his forehead in the days when he wasn’t a groom. Actually, he’d rather be a groom every day.

All in all, being a groom made him pretty.

However, it was also pretty troublesome.

Somehow, everything was breaking apart: “My beautiful brother, this key doesn’t turn!” Said the mechanic in the morning. He twirled the key halfway to his right in the air. Atakan watched the tip of the key turn. It was a perfect demonstration; the key really couldn’t start the imaginary engine. - Aren’t you the mechanic? Fix it, then. - Ha ha! My funny brother… Fixing the engine is my job, fixing the key is yours! Apparently, a hundred bucks would fix the key. Atakan reached for his right pocket. - Allah, allaah… - What happened? - The scissor… It doesn’t cut. Atakan smiled above the blue cloth covering his upper body. Another hundred bucks in his right hand under the cover was waiting to be given to this barber. What was yet to be broken was: Derya’s door, the handles of her trousseau chest, the knife that is supposed to cut the wedding cake, and all the instruments of the wedding band… They all would un-break with what he had in his right pocket, except for the zurna: The zurna player was going to kneel down in front of him. Holding his zurna up, he wouldn’t be able to say that it was broken, for he’d still be holding the end of the zurna in his mouth. Atakan would have to pour a glass of raki in its other end to make it work again. Dentist’s scaler was the only thing that worked trouble-free. It wasn’t usual for a groom to visit a dentist anyway. Atakan, on the other hand, wanted to be genuinely pretty. Many people said that the real problem of being a groom lay in its expenses rather than its troublesome nature. Atakan didn’t buy it. Just in a month, he earned what he’d used to earn in a year: Whenever they went to a wedding or a feast to perform, tips were raining in buckets. Everybody in the neighbourhood knew that the singer of this band was going to get married soon.

“Marriage has its charm.” So the saying went.

Atakan never believed that, but his father had decided to prove it to him for the last month: He’d given him enough money to cover all the expenses for his marriage. This poor zurna player had no idea about the money flow his son had been enjoying lately from singing. He’d never sung after all. Whatever was -and was going to be- broken that day had been -and would be- fixed with the money his father had spared. Atakan was way above the water with three grands in his left pocket. He had tipped twice as of then, but his left pocket still remained untouched. “Third is the charm.” So another saying went. Third was the car radio. He turned it on as he moved. The wind was blowing now. “Turkey is looking for its idol! Applications are still going on… Can you dance? … Can you sing? … What is your passionate talent? … Will you be… Turkey’s next idol?” Atakan stopped at the turnaround. Then he took the third exit. “Sure I will!” He mumbled.


Serenity knew that she wasn’t supposed to, but she enjoyed staying up late. She loved the feeling of being the last person awake. It felt like she was awake while the rest of the world was asleep. It was a strange feeling.

Her family went to sleep pretty early. Usually, they were all in bed by ten. So after ten, Serenity had free roam of the house. She tried to stay quiet. She knew which floor boards creaked, how to open her door so it wasn’t squeaky, and which stairs to skip.

She slid out of her bed near midnight, peeking out the window. Aoiski looked different during the middle of the night. Nobody was awake. It was rare that there’d even be a single car on the streets. She’d see a few people walking around, but not many she recognized.

Aoiski was small, but there were still people Serenity hadn’t met. People that she didn’t really want to meet either. Serenity perked up when she noticed a light turn on. The lights outside always turned off after midnight.

The light was coming from too far away from her to see clearly. Serenity turned from her window and pulled her door open, keeping it quiet. She made her way to the stairs, staying clear of boards that creaked under pressure. She went down the stairs and slid out from the front door.

She wasn’t supposed to be out alone so late, but considering the handful of rules she’d probably broken just from dinner, Serenity was choosing to ignore that one. She shivered a little in the cool air, walking around the house towards where she’d seen the light.

Lights were almost never on after midnight. Street lights were set on a timer and people turned their house lights off before they went to sleep. She started to feel like she was being watched as she was getting closer to the light source.

She looked over her shoulder, but there was nobody nearby. She hadn’t realized how eerie it felt for their town to be so empty and dark. Aoiski was only ever quiet during the latest hours of the night. Otherwise, it was vibrant with the people.

Serenity was sure that nobody liked staying up late because they feared that ghosts and spirits had more power during the night. Serenity thought the fear was ridiculous, but she enjoyed being the only one awake.

She stopped when she came up to the light source, a little disappointed that it was just an old, plastic lantern sitting on the ground. Nobody was there. Serenity walked over to the lantern. She picked it up and clicked the switch off, looking around for anybody.

Why would they have left the lantern? Maybe they’d turned it on and heard her coming and left. She didn’t even know what to do with the lantern now. It was wrong to take it, but if she left it, would anybody come back for it?

Serenity spun around when she heard something, backing up. She was starting to wonder if she was just freaking herself out. There was wind blowing by, so it wasn’t insane to assume that it was just the wind.

She shut her eyes and blew out a breath. She just needed to calm herself down before she freaked out. She was only scared because there was nobody else around. Nature was the one making all the sounds.

Serenity felt something grab her arm. She went to spun around, feeling herself being pulled. She went to scream, but a hand clasped over her mouth, muffling any sound that came out.

“Who are you?”

Serenity shook her head against the person’s hand. They moved their hand. “Who are you?”

“Serenity, my name is Serenity.” She said. “What are you doing? What’s wrong with you?”

“Last name.”

“Wioax. Serenity Wioax.” Serenity said, trying to pull away from their grip. She was trying to keep herself under control before she burst into tears. “Look, you don’t want to kidnap me or whatever. My family couldn’t care less if I fell off the face of the planet or ceased to exist.”

“Wioax?” They let go of her arm, pushing her onto the ground Serenity grunted, pushing herself back with her feet. She saw him for the first time and hesitated, trying to recognize him. He crouched down in front of her, searching the fear in her eyes for a moment.

She moved back when he pushed her hair back with a finger to get a better look. “You don’t look like a Wioax.”

Serenity paused to look down at herself for a moment. If she and Salvadore were placed next to each other, they didn’t look like they had the same parents. Serenity had fluffy and curly black hair from her mother’s side of the family. Salvadore had blonde hair that was mostly straight. They didn’t look related.

“I get it from my mother’s side of the family.” Serenity hissed. “What the hell is wrong with you?

Who

even are you?”

“Eryx.” He said, backing up from her and standing up. He held his hand up to her, but Serenity refused to take it and got to her feet on her own. “Fair enough. I don’t usually get that many people out during the middle of the night.”

“Have you ever done that to somebody before?” Serenity asked. “You look young.”

“You look younger.” Eryx commented. “What are you doing up so late?”

“What are you doing up?”

Eryx chuckled. “Cute, but that won’t work with me.” He said. “You’re the Wioax’s second, right? So you’re maybe 16?”

Serenity crossed her arms. She didn’t like not knowing who Eryx was. In Aoiski, everybody knew who she was and who her family was. “15.” She said. “How old are you?”

“You’re good at math, right? I’m four years older than you.”

“That’s not funny.”

“You didn’t like my math joke?”

Serenity rolled her eyes. “It might be funny if I was actually good at math.” She grumbled. “I’m the only unexceptional Wioax.”

“Ouch. That’s got to suck.”

“Gee, I wonder.”

Eryx smirked. “So little Serenity, why are you up so late?”

Serenity sighed. She thought she might have gotten away from that question. She didn’t have any reason to be up so late. “What’s breaking one rule here and there?” Serenity said. “I like being up late.”

“Don’t you have school?”

“Don’t you?”

“I told you that doesn’t work with me.”

Serenity sighed. “Yes, I have school. Whatever.” She said. “I fall asleep in class, so what? I’ve gotten enough detentions to last me until I’m 30. Aren’t you in college?”

Eryx laughed, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t go to college. We could never afford that.” He said. “I help my dad run his little bakery. He needs all the help he can get.”

“Can’t your mother help?”

Eryx’s expression hardened. “No, my mom left Aoiski when I was six.” He said. “She got tired of small-town life and she left the both of us. So it’s been me and my dad for as long as I can remember.”

“I don’t think I’ll go to college either.”

Eryx raised an eyebrow. “You’re a Wioax; you’ll have to go whether you want to or not.”

“A worthless Wioax that’s interest in art. But according my grandmother, you have to actually be good to be an artist and it’s a waste of time.” Serenity said. “I told you, my parents couldn’t care less if I fell off the face of the universe.”

“I think that they’d care if all the sudden their daughter went missing and they had to explain it to the town. It’s easier if you’re still existing.” Eryx said. “Why are you out here? A girl like you?”

“A girl like me? What does that mean?”

Eryx looked her over. “When’s the last time you saw a mirror? You look more expensive than my house.”

Serenity’s face went red as she looked down at her clothes. She didn’t like wearing pajamas, so must of the time she just slept in whatever she had been wearing for the day. They had school uniforms, so she pretty much always wore slacks and a button up shirt.

She looked back at Eryx. He didn’t look that bad. He just had a t-shirt and jeans. She’d kill to just wear a t-shirt, but her parents liked for her to look nice. It was really the least that she could do.

“I didn’t really think Aoiski was the type of place where somebody pops out of a bush and grabs you.” Serenity murmured. “What are you doing out here?”

“None of your business.”

“So you won’t tell me your name or what you’re doing out here, but you get to know everything about me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, you’re a Wioax, not a celebrity.”

Serenity laughed a little. “Wish I wasn’t a Wioax.”

“Uh huh. Do me a favor and scramble on back home.” Eryx said. “I’m not trying to take care of a little kid.”

“You mean two little kids?”

Eryx sent her a glare. “Whatever rows your boat.”

Serenity turned to leave, but she stopped herself before she walked too far. “You said that your father owns a bakery, right?”

“Why do you care?”

Serenity shrugged. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then.”


- Mr. Peterson, may I ask you a question? I was in a huge crowd of people who seemed to want to eat me alive. I couldn't see anything and I was trying to find a quiet place. Somewhere where no one can bother me with questions I don't want to answer. Yesterday I went to my mom's funeral. When I saw her last time, she was so excited about me going to this championship. She smiled and laughed, and I saw life in her eyes. I've been training really hard these past few years. I gave it my all in this championship to show off my skills and prove I'm the best. But then my mom died. I imagined her watching TV and making her usual funny movements with her hands, clapping. And I, who just won first place, am so proud of being a part of my mother's family, being her son. She raised me to be strong and supported me in every way she could. I know she invested a lot of time and money into helping me pursue my sports career. I would do anything to show her how much I love and appreciate her. My heart broke when my brother called to tell me she had passed away. I was in a different city, a different country, preparing for the final step in my journey to becoming a professional athlete. Everybody already knows me as I walk down the street. They were asking for a picture with me and asking some questions. I wasn't that type of person who easily shared the details of my personal life, especially when I had so many problems. My wife, Alie, she's from Spain, she's young and ambitious, wants to be an actress. We agreed that I'd give her some time to get ready for this audition for a short movie her manager found for her this summer. But then I should've been going to the trainings, and they were never-ending. I didn't have time to drink or sleep properly. I didn’t come back home for two months. She was angry with me. I got her, and she had a dream just like me. I knew I had to support her too. But it wasn't the right time. I should've focused on my career; there was no other choice. I told her about it and asked her to wait. But she got furious and left me. And now, here I stand. - Mr... - No, I don't want to talk to any of you, just leave me alone! - I yelled, covering my head with my arms. My head was ringing like a cell phone. They kept talking and talking, asking me questions. How do I make them stop? I found a door and pushed it open. It was a strangely small storage room, but I stepped inside and shut the door. It was so dark, like the darkness in my heart. The darkness consumed me and my mind. I was dreaming about sleeping without thinking about what was going on in my life. It was an absolute nightmare. My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I looked at it. It was my brother. - Hey, how are you, Guy? - I have no idea. I just want to escape this place. - Yes, all TV channels are talking about your failure. Your pretty face covers almost the whole screen. It is your star hour. Alie called me, by the way. - What did she say? - Hmm, she said something like he deserved it because he is a nobody, and she is going to marry someone who supports her, not this ugly face on the TV screen. - Thank you, little brother. That was a useless piece of information. I don't care about it anymore. - Guy, - He lowered his voice and stopped pretending to smile. - I know it's a lot, but you'll get through it. You made your choice, and I don't know why, but it's done now. I don't understand only one thing. You've been working towards this your whole life, and you just gave up when you were so close to the finish line? You were the best on the track the whole time, and then you just... stopped. Why? - You will understand it later, maybe. Sorry, I have to go. Bye. I closed my eyes and found myself back at the racetrack. Victory was within my grasp. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. Not because I don't deserve it, but because my friend was racing for second place. I knew him for over 10 years. We met in school. He fell on the track a few months ago while we were training. He was out for a few minutes. I tried to help him and called for emergency. They rushed him to the hospital to figure out what was wrong. I stayed by his bedside for three days, waiting for the results with him. My wife wasn't too happy when I did it, but I told her that he's my real friend and he needs my help. She didn't say anything, and we didn't talk for a few weeks. She didn't apologize, and I didn't expect her to. My friend was diagnosed with cancer. And I stopped. It was his last race, the last race in his life. Because he will cease to function in a few months at most. But he is a fighter. Even though he knew about his diagnosis, he didn't stop training despite his doctor's advice. I was looking at him, trying to compare myself to him. On the very last day, right before the championship, I sat on a wooden bench in the park and gazed at the sky, the clouds were really dark and heavy, and it looked like it's about to pour any minute. And I just realized that over a few months, I lost everything that I had. I was devastated, broken, and done. I was so mad at everyone. I was pissed at my mom for passing out before my tournament. I really wanted her to be there to see me and listen to my speech, but she let me down. I blamed my wife for not being patient with me and putting her life on the first place. I also blamed myself for being hard on everyone. I blamed people for not giving me enough support. I blamed my brother for being such a jerk. And then Garry, who was diagnosed with cancer and didn't blame anyone or anything for it. As we were nearing the finish line, I glanced at him. We were close, but he wouldn't make it before me. I was faster, stronger, and it was my moment. But I decided to give up my first place. And I didn't want to explain myself. All these journalists are waiting for me behind the door, so I'll probably stay here a bit longer.


"I can't believe you're making me go!" I exaggerated. Tyler looked at me annoyed, "You're the one who agreed to this blind date, Kyra!" I sunk into the couch, how could I have been so stupid? At first, I didn't think much of it, I've been on blind dates all the time! So of course I agreed to this one. None of them ever ended well, they all had their separate flaws; Slurping, chewing with their mouth open, and the worst of all: Country music. "Kyra you said yes and that means you're going!" Tyler grabbed my hand and before I knew it I was being shoved into an uber. Tyler reached for the seatbelt and clicked mine in for me. "Have fun on your date!" He patted me on my head and closed the door, leaving me inside the uber with no choice but to go on the date. Tyler tapped on the driver's window, the driver rolled it down. Tyler took out his phone and showed an address and the driver nodded and rolled the window back up. Of course, he wasn't going to tell me about where we were going. I sighed and the car took off. This was going to be a long 2 hours ahead of me. I looked around for a man that matched Tyler's description, "tall, brown hair, intense stare, leather jacket." Very descriptive of him. I looked back down at my phone as I leaned against the movie theatre entrance wall. I was scrolling through memes on Instagram when it was interrupted by a notification from an unknown number. I clicked on it to expand the message, Hi is this Kyra? Really? Who else could it be? I sighed as I typed my response on the keyboard of my cracked phone screen. Yes, it is, who is this? Send. A typing bubble appeared and it changed into a message: It's your blind date, are you at the theatre already? I'm at the concessions booth with our tickets. Of course, he was inside, what was I thinking looking for him outside of the building? I sighed as I turned around and entered the building. The lobby of the MegaJolena theatre was always a sight for sore eyes, but not mine. Just looking at the gold outlining decoration along with the doorway just reminds me how disgusting colored rocks are and the quartz flooring just annoys me with all the scratches on it. Oh and the worst of all, the chandelier. Who even came up with chandeliers? Like, come on, a hanging arrangement of diamond killing shards? It was a waste of diamonds and the only good thing about them was that you can use the shards to cut pieces of steak. I sighed as I walked over to the concessions bar looking for a lonely boy with two tickets. I looked everywhere and my heart almost did a reboot when something touched my shoulders. I jumped and turned around at the speed of light. It was a boy my age with big round glasses. His hair was brown and hung over his hairline with a fluff look on it. His attire was a completely different story, literally. A slick black leather jacket with dark blue jeans that traveled all the way down to his black Nike shoes. “Hey you’re Kyra right?” my face was still in shock. “Yeah, how’d you know?” He smiled as he showed me his phone, it was a picture of me staring at the camera intensely, it was the picture Tyler had taken a few days ago. “Oh.” He chuckled, “You’re even wearing the same clothes as the you in the picture!” I smirked, I’m glad he noticed. “Yeah, haven’t changed since.” finally, this was the perfect red flag to tell him that I was no ordinary girl. Normally, my blind dates would excuse themselves and leave the date after I said something like this but this guy was different, he was completely unfazed. “Well I got our tickets,” he said as he handed me one of the two that were in his hands. I faked a smile for him as I accepted the ticket. I bet he was going to make me watch some stupid Disney romance film like come on, what's so good about an orphan with no parents that falls in love with a sexist no good of a man, never made sense to me. I looked down at the ticket to see what we were watching. To my surprise it wasn’t a princess film, instead, it was a horror film that came out a few days ago. This boy got game! “Like I would ever make you watch an orphan movie.” My face lit up, how did this boy know what I was thinking? I didn’t care though, as long as I wasn’t paying for the tickets. It was a win-win situation. We walked into theatre 5 and shuffled into our seats right before the movie started. Little did I know, the boy I was sharing my popcorn with was going to change my life forever, and not in the way you think, he and I were going to go to a mental hospital after the incident at the supermarket, but let's focus on what is happening right now and why this boy is getting escorted by the police out of the MegaJolena Theatre. I was watching from the side as I saw him being forced into the back of the cop's car. He chuckled and smiled at me relieving his dimples. I couldn’t help but smile back at him. The cop slammed the door shut but the door swung right back opened, he had blocked it with his leg. The boy stood up as cops rushed over to force him back into the car. “Hey! Kyra! Don’t forget to visit me!” He shouted at the top of his lungs. I chuckled. There was something different about this boy, and not the fact that he was in the back of a cop's car, it was something different. It had definitely taken me by surprise. This boy… I need to see him again.


CW: strong language, violence        In the year 2912, the month of Ulani, or shall I say, "14/10/2912," in the world of Tyrenkia.             My name is Myles Price, age eighteen and 5'7.5 foot tall, and I am a black teenager who just graduated from high school. Yeah me. Now that is what's up.             It's another day at my workplace; I hate it. In most places I work from before, the bosses that I meet are nothing but assholes. It seems hopeless to get a cool, chilling boss to get along with from trading one boss to another. It's always a yes boss, okay boss, and I'm going now, boss.             I am a cash register in some gas station in the middle of nowhere. It's placed in the desert that nobody ever comes to pay for a visit. It reminds me of my horrible, embarrassing uncle where they never visit him because he got house arrested by his own family before they dumped him. His sons dumped him; his daughters dumped him; his wife as well. What's funny is that his house is his prison. His family tried to throw him away; however, things got into deep yogurt. Throwing him away into the streets to be homeless, he causes trouble that brings people with pitchforks. He gets problems everywhere he goes; it's best to lock him in a house without anyone with him. His own family pays the bills, making sure the creature stays at that home—alone! I now know why this gas station is similar to the taste of my horrible uncle. It's a prison in a place of nowhere—no one to see you.             I entered the gas station as I work there, clocking in at five, and my boss is giving me an attitude right now—cunt! I don't like how he crosses his arms at me, furrowed his eyebrows, angry at my face, and his lips grow to detest me. I wish I am not here right now.             Okay. I will tell you how it went from last night. All I have done is listen and blast my earphones to the max while reading my comic books online. I didn't know a six-year-old boy will steal food in the store and takes off with his mommy. How the heck shall I know? Shit! I know I didn't pay attention, but it's just one pack of candy the kid stole.             "Myles! You damn lazy fool!" said the boss, who has a bald with androgenetic alopecia. He's fat, short, and stout with a beer belly as well and an unattractive look. "I see in the camera, you reading and blasting those earplugs, ignoring what our customers stole!"             "I'm so sorry, boss; it won't happen again." Like hell, I don't care. I am only here for the money before joining the military. I bet this fat cunt cheat on his wife. His face looks like an ass already with an intimidating look. When he has a regular mug, it seems like a gruff jerk already. You can't even tell when he's angry because his angry face and his normal face are the same. It's why I call him "Mr. Asshole."             "This is your last straw! I hope you better save it for the last, kid!"             Yeesh! Okay fatso; Okay dumb-dumb. Then I start to skit my shoes on the ground, throwing a fit since it's so hot today. My boss usually works in the morning. Four people only work here, which includes me and the others. I take the night shift before someone takes the midnight shift.             My boss leaves the place and drives off home with his fancy sports car. Show-off! How the heck are you making money from this kind of gas station in the desert out in the middle of nowhere? Anyway, whatever. I don't care. At least that fat-tard is not here at this moment. I guess I will sit at that counter, bore myself to death, and wait for the other dudes to come over for their shift. Shit. I wish I can bring my electronic Handgame Vee to play online, kicking people's butts on Super All-Star Champion. It's the best video game ever in the world! It's a game based on multi-crossover characters from different console games on one platform. At least it can make time fly by so fast.             6:30 p.m. The sun is down, and the heat is dying very fast in the desert. It's going to be cold—very cold. At least I got my coat in my car.             All I did from an hour ago is to doodle around on a stupid paper, drawing how stupid my boss is, having thoughts of clowning him like some stand-up comedy. It's fine. At least I find something entertaining to do. After drawing about my stupid boss, I push those papers aside and enter to la-la land, daydreaming of myself as a soldier. My father is a war hero before he died. It's just my mom and me, living together. My mother doesn't want me to be a soldier because she doesn't want me to end up dying like my dad. I always tell her that I will be just fine and do things better than what dad does. Her answer is still a no. C'mon, mom!             8 p.m. and no customer at all—NOT ONE! I told you so! Narrator, shoot me! PLEASE!             Another two hours of nothing. I wish I can bring my A-phone, look at porn on the internet, get a ten-inch boner, start humping at the glass wall, and maybe shoot some seeds in my pants and at least—forgot, keep it rated PG-13. Whatever I said, folks, you didn't read it. Let's start over and reverse that. You never hear what I just said. I just blurted my la-la land, and I do apologize.             8:15 p.m., trying to stay awake since this boredom is killing me. No earphones or else I get fired; no comic books or else I get fired. Okay boss; okay fatso; okay retard. Instead, I rather go to school and let the professor yick-yack at me than staring at an empty store with no one here. Please, narrator, can you at least change my storyline to fun-fun land? I will do anything for you to change this subject for me. If you can't, just let me die.             8:30 p.m., I start to walk around, trying to stay awake. Suddenly, there's a car that approaches the front parking lot. It parks right there, next to the curb, in the front door of the shop. The car is black. Okay, I know this is not one of the guys for the midnight shift since the bearded dude comes at 10 p.m. while the other guy comes at 14 a.m. This car's windshield is so dark, and I can't even see the driver. I hope the dark windshield doesn't mean anything dirty by looking at me from that view to my side. If it's a fucking pedophile, oh fuck me!             The driver's door opens, and there comes out a very tall man, and he's black. Cool! I'm going to nickname him, "Mr. Cool Dude." On the passenger seat, there's a tall white man. He's quite handsome with his blonde hair, I'd say. I will nickname him, "Mr. Custani." They are dress in black, looking cool like gangsters in a businessman outfit. I return to the cash register in steadfast since I have been waiting for one customer for a very long time. Yes, my insanity of boredom is over. I feel useful again! Thank you, Mr. Narrator. At least for the moment, I can enjoy my work with them.             The doorbell rings when they enter the gas station store. I look at them, and they are pretty tall, equal in size. They are muscularly slim fit, more build than I. The tall black man approaches me, standing very tall, overwhelming with his height and intimidating looks. Gulp!             "Myles? Is that your name tag?" said the tall black man, looking down at me while I look up at him.             "Yes." I nodded. "And?"             "Last name?" when he tilts his head to the right.             "Price. My name is Myles Price. Why?"             The tall black man raises his gun at my face and shoots a bullet. I closed my eyes in a flinch, raising my hands to block it. When I did, I take a peek and see the bullet is floating, spinning slowly. What's funny is that everything starts to go slow. Mr. Custani shoots his gun at me as well from a few feet away. However, everything is going significantly and excruciatingly slow. What the hell is going on?             I touch the bullet, and it moved away from me. I raised my eyebrows in astonishment; it's as if time just went slow.             "Whoa!"             I went around the counter and went to the right side of Mr. Cool Dude. Man, this dude is enormous. I suddenly grabbed a bat, which belongs to my boss, and start bashing at the two dudes who are about to kill me. I struck them so hard a couple of times; it's as if I'm time traveling to beat them to a pulp. One bash, two bashes, three bashes. Clang; clung; thung. Then I swing my bat right in the nut for the both of them.             WHAM! I have done it. What's shocking is that when I hit them, everything is in slow motion. Holy moly, when I bash the bat in their nuts, I didn't think their schlong to be that huge, popping out in slow motion from their pants. It's bigger than mine! I'm jealous! I forgot. Keep it PG-13 for the audience. I'm going to turn away.             "Holy shit. Am I going crazy? Am I time traveling?"             I stand away to the right and see the view—going to blur the schlong out since that didn't happen.             At that moment, I closed my eyes and reopen them again; the time-traveling stops. Everything is set back to motion again.             Pew. Pew. Pew! Bam! Bam! BAM!             "Ow! Motherfucker!" when the two of them shout out loud. They dropped their gun before I snatch it away.             Now that is what you call feeling good to beat up a bad guy. It serves them right.             "You're... you're one dead fucker, kid!" said Mr. Custani, getting extremely pissed at me.             "My...MY NUTS! FUCK!" when Mr. Cool Dude starts to hold his nuts, really tight in immense agony, moaning hard.             "Go ahead, kid. The cop serves us, you stupid kid." Mr. Cool Dude, curling his legs in agony, I think I crushed his nuts too hard. I think I went too far, cracking his eggshell to mush.             As for Mr. Custani, oh shit. I think he's starting to gargling out saliva out from his mouth. Oh fuck. I went a bit too far. How will these men ever sleep with a girl again? What's the point of having a big dick when you just lost your seeds? FUCK! I forgot again. Keep it rated PG-13. Sorry guys, for the third time.             "Why are you trying to kill me?"             "You don't... don't...fuck!" when Mr. Cool Dude is still on the ground, holding his nuts, squirming loudly in agony. "You don't need to know," as he clenches his teeth while talking.             "What do you gain for killing a kid like me?"             "You're a time traveler. I know...fuck..." Yeah, that's right! Keep moaning, you cunt! Did he say that I'm a time traveler? That will explain why everything went so slow. COOL! I'm a superhero! YAHOO!             Ding-Ding! Someone enters the room as they come into the store. A nine-year-old boy and a tall man wearing a strange mask approach the two tall men, looking down at them. This boy dresses like those rich kids while his guy dresses like a butler; I wonder why he wears a black mask. Is he ugly underneath that mask like some burnt dude with a face?             "Hello, Myles," said the boy.             "Hi," I replied strangely since I am in an awkward situation with these two people, moaning in pain. "I do apologize for what just happened here, but these two assholes pulled a gun at me."             This kid gives me a smirk before raising his eyebrows with some confidence that I don't even know why he's doing that.             "Can I help you?" when I quirk my brow at the kid with his fancy staff and his fancy butler.             "Myles Price. Is that you?"             "Yes? Are you one of those assholes?"             "No. I am the one who chased them to find you. Those two gentlemen will be eliminated since they aren't even Tyrenkians."             Huh? What do you mean Tyrenkian, kid? Okay. I will act like you're pretending in some pretend-land or whatever you're doing. I'm just going along with it.             "Hey, buddy," when I smiled, acting to be his level and age. "I know that we are trying to play ghost and robbers, but hey, I caught the robbers. We can play ghost and robbers later and—"             "I know you're a time traveler, and you've just time-traveled to kick their asses."             How the fuck? Okay! In the beginning, I am dying of boredom, and now, I just jumped into trippy land and weird fucking people.             "Uuhhh..." as I hesitated. Okay. Think of a defense plan. I still have the bat in my hand and—             "Don't use your bat on me, Myles. I can read your mind, telepathically and precognition as well. Now you listen to me—" I'm going to cut his words out since I'm going to interrupt and talk to the narrator.             Narrator, why put me in a weirdo situation?             "MYLES! Damn it! Listen to me!" the weird-psychic boy shouted at me.             "Uh, yes?"             "The one who sent me to save you and come and get you is you from the future."             Huuuh? Whaaaaa? Am I sleeping and dreaming, or is this for real? I just give a quirking face at this kid. I eye at him; I eye at his butler; I eye back the kid again; I eye at the two of them. The hell is going on.             "You're confused, Myles. Let me tell you that you're not a Tyrenkian as well as me. You have superpowers like me. Also, what you're thinking is exactly how I am back then when I first tried out my superpowers."             "Okay. One question," I replied. "Just who the fuck are you, and what do you want?"             "My name is Clyde Calawis, and my butler's name is Yoban Stray."             The butler waved hi at me. I waved hi back at him—awkwardly.             Clyde Calawis? Your last name sounds like you're from Eglas. Fancy!             "We are here to save you and recruit you. I just arrested your boss for crime drugs he does overnight and—" hold that thought. I just want to interrupt and break the fourth wall.             Oh! So that is how he got his fancy sports car. You see, children. Making drugs is bad, okay? Don't do drugs.             "Sorry to interrupt, Cyanide—"             "It's Clyde!" when he rebuttals and corrects me.             "Clyde. Okay." I take a breath and smile at him with excitement, hoping my assumption to be correct. "Am I a superhero?" I screamed.             "You can say that since you do read a lot of superhero comic books."             No shit! If this is true, then that means the future me must be badass! Superhero career, Mr. fatso boss is arrested—YES! Maybe even the ladies will be with—um, um—rated PG-13. You see, audience. I kept it clean!             "WAHOO! Does that mean—"             "Yes. The future-you tells me to come and get you. The future-you said something about the prophecy and about you being chosen after my place. The future-you also recruited me in the year 16th century, telling me to get recruit you."             Whaaaa? You're that old? Wait! How the hell are you a nine-year-old? How the hell are you nine for—             "Yes, I can hear your thoughts. I don't grow or age that fast," said Clyde.             "So, 'me-future' tells you to get me because 'me-future' recruits' me-past' to get you to tell me?" I'd asked.             "Correct. I know it's hard to understand time since time has been in flux before. I'd say eight times before. This is the ninth."             "Cool! If I am recruited, when do I start?"             "You start tomorrow, and I will pay you very handsomely. You will meet the others with you since you recruited them also."             "Cool! Does this mean I can quit this place?"             "Myles. I just said—"             "OH! Yeah. I forgot. You arrested him."             Clyde, the Eglatian boy, looks at the two guys on the floor. He opens his hands at them while standing. Suddenly, it glows bright white that I have to cover my eyes. The two gentlemen that are on the floor transformed to their true form. Their beauty becomes ugly, hideous, and terrifying. They both look like a demon as they turned. Holy smokes! It's like reading off from a comic book to a supernatural story.             Those imposters burned up, leaving no ashes, no corpses, and nothing behind. I guess beating them to a pulp is a good thing. I guess.             The room dims down when Clyde stops using his strange powers to kill his enemies. He clenches his hand, shakes it, and holds it tight. When I see his expression, it looks like it hurt a little. How come my superpowers didn't hurt me?             "You okay?" I'd asked.             "I'm fine. I think it's time for us to go before those bad guys and fake cops find us. Shall we?" as Clyde suggested.             I nodded yes, left this horrible gas station that I work at, and kiss goodbye to my boredom. I am now a superhero and a superhero for life! Thank Jesus and Mr. Narrator!


         Junior philatelist Davy Santos placed his rare, three-cent George Washington special into a windowed display card in the center of his table. Booth after booth, lined up side by side, filled the Sarasota Municipal Auditorium, home to the annual Sarasota National Stamp Exhibition. Some dealers displayed their wares on folding display boards, some on fancy swiveling racks, many in albums, a few in locked, glass-covered collectors’ boxes. Except for the George Washington special, Davy had a modest display of stamps in neat transparent envelopes organized in alphabetical order by country. These he’d collected in plastic shoe boxes he’d bought in a dollar store. His sheets of colorful tropical stamps from Venezuela were arranged all around the boxes to attract the customers.          When doors opened, a swarm of people flowed in and began circulating up and down the rows of vendors. The buzz of fans talking and joking and bargaining soon filled the auditorium.          A bald man in a brown leather jacket stopped and asked, “Hey, kid. How much for the George Washington?”          “Nine hundred,” Davy replied. “Just for today.”          “Fair price,” said the man, who sauntered away.           Another guy, older and more hunched over, strolled on by. Davy called out, “No fee for looking. Help a soon-to-be-college student get to college, please?” He held out a business card with his name, email address, and phone number and with a photocopy of his three-cent prized possession glued on the back.

         An hour or so passed, but no one was buying yet. Davy stood when lookers approached; sat when no one was there. He took sips from his can of Coke hidden at his feet under the table beside his now- empty wheel-around cart.          “Hey, kid! How much for the butterfly?” It was the same bald guy in the brown coat, who’d stopped before. He pointed to one in Davy’s Venezuelan pile.

         “Five bucks,” said Davy.          “Humph,” the man said. “All these flowered jobs? Must be truly old. Nothing like the Simon Bolivars you usually see from there.”          “They’re from the 1950s. My great-grandfather’s.  I inherited his collection when he died.”          “Humph,” he said again. “Will you take $4.50, kid?”          “Okay.” After collecting the money and placing the stamp and its transparent envelope into a paper bag, the boy said, “I’ve got some collectibles from Great Britain and a few from Liechtenstein?”          “Nah. Thanks.”          Davy had never told a single person at school that he collected stamps even though it was something he’d obsessed over ever since he’d gotten that first envelope full of them from The Mystic Stamp Company for his sixth birthday. He’d been hooked ever since. But guys at school wouldn’t get it. They’d call him weird or nerd or worse. So, he kept his true hobby a guarded secret and only attended conventions in Melbourne or Kissimmee when he was sure no one he knew would be there. Today he was taking a risk. The convention was in his hometown of Sarasota. Hopefully, no one from his circles would ever be caught dead in here.          With no other sales in sight, Davy abandoned his booth and headed out for a walk. “Watch my stuff for a sec?” he asked the vendor next to him.          When the lady nodded affirmatively, Davy took off to explore the other dealers’ tables and maybe spot a rarity or two. Two vendors had shops in nearby Bradenton; some came from as far away as Connecticut, Missouri, and Canada. He decided to take a look at the exhibit sponsored by the ABC Stamp Company, which, a sign said, specialized in 19th century U.S. postal history.          He was admiring an 1894 one-cent stamp when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and faced a girl. Long ponytail, blinky eyes, his age.          “Hey.”          “Back at you.”          “Someone in your family a dealer?” she asked.          “Nope. Just me.”          “I’m here with my dad. Boring.”

         “Nothing boring about philately. Its geography, topography, currency, sports, famous people, even foreign languages.”          “I guess.”          “Bet you don’t know the word Germany in German is Deutschland? I learned that from a stamp. I bet I’m the only guy who knows where the island of Mauritius is.”          She leaned close to him and said, “So where is it?”          “It’s an island in the Indian Ocean, off Madagascar.”          “Oh, I know Madagascar. That’s a movie.”          “No, it’s a place. Once a British colony.”          “Well, you sure know a lot.” Blinky-eyed Girl held an extra-large paper boat full of french fries in her left hand.          “No food or drink in the exhibit area. You know that, right?”          “I know, but fries taste awful when they get cold so I better eat ‘em up.” She swirled a fry in a glob of ketchup then stuck the whole thing in her mouth.          Just then something on the ABC man’s table caught Davy’s eye. “A twenty-four-cent inverted Jenny?” he exclaimed. “You’re kidding me! It’s a fake, isn’t it?”          “That’s no album weed , kid!” the vendor said. “It’s the real deal.”          “You mean a reissue?” the girl asked.          “Nope. Cost me $510,000 to be exact. The asking price is $600k.”          “Not a forgery?” Davy said. “Aren’t you afraid of losing it?”          “It’s insured. Wanna hold it, kid?”          “Yeah.” Half a million dollars in the palm of his hand and Davy’s knees trembled. “Big yikes!” He felt like he was in the company of royalty. In a way, he was. “You actually gonna sell this thing? Why don’t you hold on to it?” He handed it back to the vendor, who placed it on the table in front of him.          “Got some bills to pay and at my age, if I don’t travel the world soon, I’ll never make it. Here’s my business card.”          Davy read, “Sam Houston, ABC Stamp Company, Cleveland, Ohio.”  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the girl was flipping through an ABC catalog.          “Attention dealers, collectors, and visitors. Attention, please.” Davy and Sam turned their heads toward the front doors, where the loudspeakers were located.           “Our noon auction will be starting shortly in the theater area at the entrance of the convention hall. Don’t miss it!” The announcement was repeated twice.          Davy shrugged. He never entered into any auction. He was too afraid his stamp would be undersold. He turned on his heel about to head back to his booth when a hand grabbed his shoulder.          “You little thief. Nice try. Hand it over.”          “What?”          “You know what?”          “I don’t.” Davy winced from the squeeze on his shoulder bone.          “The inverted Jenny. My inverted Jenny. Give it. Right now.”          “I don’t have it. I gave it to you.”          “You took it. During the announcement.”          “No, I’d never. I didn’t, I swear.”          “Hand it over. This second, you little punk.” Now Sam was shaking Davy, who heard his teeth rattle in his head.

         Someone walking by said, “They teach them young to steal!”          “I didn’t steal anything!”          His shouting and Sam’s fury attracted a throng gathering around the booth. The crowd parted to let a man come on through. It was the bald guy in the brown leather jacket.          “What’s going on, Sam?”          “This here punk stole the Jenny. The Jenny!” Sam yelled.          “Let him go, Sam. He’s just a kid. Wouldn’t know value if it bit him.”          “Oh yeah? He stole it, clear as day.”          Davy wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and took a couple of deep breaths. His knees wobbled and his stomach wanted to heave. “I didn’t, no!”          The bald guy said, “Better get back to your table, kid.”          Davy’s legs moved but he lost his bearings and traipsed up and down the rows hopelessly before he found his way to his meager wares. A few minutes later Sam, accompanied by a six-foot-tall, paunchy security guard, showed up.          “Search him, Hal.”          Davy felt the tears well up.          “Empty your pockets. The other one. Now the shirt pocket. Take off your belt. Remove your shoes.”          Davy did as he was told, moving through this bad dream as if he’d been cast in a movie of his deepest fears. Except he was the accused instead of the accuser, and the stolen item was an inverted Jenny instead of a George Washington.

         Sam stepped behind Davy’s table and rifled through his cart. The guard whipped envelopes out of the shoeboxes and tossed them on the floor. One by one every aerogram and piece of postal stationery lay haphazardly on the floor.

         “I don’t have it. I told you.”          “We’ll find it,” the guard said. “I know how.” Sam and the guard disappeared down a row of tables. The lady vendor who had watched Davy’s items during his absence stared.          The boy began picking up loose stamps that had fallen out of their protective coverings. Some had come off of their paper hinges. One sheet of Venezuelan tropicals was torn down the middle. His fist pounded the tablecloth. Those wonders that had belonged to Great-grandpa Jake could never be replaced. He took another sip of Coke to steady his nerves, he hoped.          Suddenly, a stern voice rang through the hall. “You’re under arrest!” It was a cop. A female. With a nightstick in hand and a holstered gun. Sam was by her side.           What? Why? I didn’t do anything. “I don’t have it.”          “You had it. Where’d you stash it? You little hoodlum!” Sam grabbed Davy’s shirt in his fists and yanked him forward. “I want my stamp. Now!”          “I’ll handle this,” the policewoman said. “Hands behind your back.”

         As she read him his rights, Davy’s mind was a blur. All of it was a blur—where they exited, how he got to the patrol car, how he got seated in its back seat cage. “What about my things? My money box? My credit card reader?”          “You should have thought of that before you stole a million-dollar stamp.”          “Half a million,” Davy corrected.          Officer Hastings adjusted the mirror then shoved her ponytail into her cap.          Ponytail! “Wait! I know who took it. I can get it back.”          “Too late.” She inserted the key into the ignition; the engine roared to life.          “But I know who has it. Listen to me. Take me back inside. I promise I won’t try anything. I’ll get the stamp back. That’s all anybody wants, right? Please, give me a chance. I know who has it. I know.”          “Try anything and I’ll Tase you.”          It took all of Davy’s courage not to bawl in front of the other vendors as the female officer led him, handcuffed, up one row and down another. Finally, he spotted the cute girl with the blinky eyes and ponytail. He recognized her orange T-shirt and her skin-tight skinny jeans. “Her!” Davy said as he pointed. “Look in her basket of fries.”          “What? I will not.”          “Look in it. She was right beside me. She walked around with that basket of fries like it was filet mignon and I only saw her take a single bite.”          “Excuse me, but I need to see your fries?” Officer Hastings’ face turned a crimson red.          “The food court is over there.” Blinky-eyed Girl hugged the paper basket to her chest like her life depended on it.          “Milly, what’s going on?” A blinky eyed man with her identical features pushed his display aside and spilled her fries onto his tablecloth.          “Nothing, Daddy.”          But there, among the greasy mess, was the inverted Jenny, still in its acrylic protective case. “Milly? Where did you get this?”          “I don’t know.”          “What do you mean, you don’t know? It just jumped into your food? Do you have any idea how much prison time you could get for something like this?”          The girl’s faced paled, and her chin began to quiver. “I don’t know, Daddy. I don’t.”          “Sir, don’t worry. It’s just a cheap forgery,” Davy lied. “So she isn’t in any trouble. But this officer is gonna return it to its rightful owner, just so it doesn’t get mistaken for the real thing.”          When Davy slipped by the girl, she taunted, “Don’t need your help, you little turd!”          The female officer paraded a handcuffed Davy back to Sam’s table, where she handed over the priceless beauty.          “That’s my Jenny. My Jenny! Officer, you’re a lifesaver! Wait, why are you removing the handcuffs? This kid is a thug. He stole a stamp worth thousands of dollars then took us on a wild goose--”          “--No, sir, he didn’t. And he saved the reputation of the girl who did.”          Davy rubbed one wrist then the other. Head down, he trudged along the rows of vendors till he reached his booth. Bending down, he scooped up the loose stamps, the empty shoe boxes, the broken lids.          Soon a voice at his side said, “Need a hand, kid?”          Davy looked up into the eyes of Sam Houston, who was handing him a brand-new Tupperware container in one hand, his three-cent George Washington in the other.

         “I do. I do need a hand. Just don’t call me kid.”          Davy accepted the man’s apology. Glad the convention was winding down, glad a female cop had believed him, glad he hadn’t had to call his mom from a police station for the very first time in his life. Happy to be just a weird, stamp- collecting kid. But still, it might help if he didn’t look the part. Thus, he made a pledge: Tomorrow he’d stop shaving and start growing a beard and hopefully some respect.

words: 2,251


Excerpt from the Watchman’s Review. Translated and reviewed by Adolf Huffenslafenmaker: Circa 1936, Berlin Germany. “Because I said so. That is what I told her.” “Is that what you really said? Do you believe that works?” It is the implied power that troubles me. Not that I am influenced by power, no more than anyone else I believe. I believe that there are those who command attention, allegiance, anything, and everything it takes, to remind us that without their superior abilities, we would be nothing. Then there is that age old lesson about being under their roof, protection, security, that gives them the authority to tell you how to live. Because they are providing for your wellbeing, you are indebted to them for their generosity. Which I might add, is not a gesture of kindness, but an inherited obligation. A duty, if you will, that is mandated by law. So, if you believe that being in the care of parents or guardians is essential to meeting their responsibility, and in return requires your obedience, you would be wrong. Being under the care of someone does not give them the right to demand anything.  Acceptance of the rules introduced, is a choice. Demanding adherence to laws is necessary, for the systems of our society, country, and the world to operate in a manner that is beneficial to all. But, because you see the value in rules, laws, does not mean you have abandoned your right to self-determination. The right to say no. If progress is to be made amongst ourselves, we must learn to accept the fact that there is more than one way to do something., more than one belief system to adhere too.

The sheer number of possibilities is daunting. There are no two snowflakes claimed to be alike, or I believe, a situation that could encompass every possibility in a person’s life. When I hear that someone has the one and only right answer, I find myself examining the declaration, not the person delivering it. I’ve seen the discrepancies in their judgement.  I realize they have convinced themselves and others, that theirs is the only correct way to proceed despite evidence to the contrary. Perhaps the need to exert a form of control is inherent in us all. When we order a meal we are often asked how we would like it cooked, what seasonings we prefer. The intent is to give us what we pay for. But that is entirely different from imposing rules on others because we can, because we have the leverage. In most instances we do not consider how or why someone did something we found objectionable. We are disturbed by the fact they did not adhere to our rules. When challenged, the notion of consideration is discarded, as it interferes with their ability to rule definitively. Charles Wagon was just such a person. He was unapproachable, obstinate in his beliefs, and yet showed no interest in becoming someone other than the person he was. When questioned, he would maintain the composure of a pit bull, snarling inwardly, waiting for his chance to attack. Being in charge gives one the financial armlock on a person’s contributions to duty, as it leverages the dichotomy between financial security and sanity, or minimally going along, so as not to upset the proverbial apple cart. Agnew, a one-time former Vice President of these United States, operated from his earliest years in politics, what I believed to be a reverse Ponzi scheme.  Rather than the pyramids peak being the goal and obvious conclusion of trickledown economics, Agnew inverted the scheme to incorporate persuasive contributions to his political needs by using his position to line his own pockets. He was caught, forced to resign, and eventually ended up in prison. But did this nationally televised embarrassment deter further scurrilous activity? No! It seemed to only heighten its use. Chuck, as his associates were asked to call him, believed not only in adhering to the eleventh commandment, “thou shalt do what I say,” but also, “pretend that I never said it.” Chuck is just one example of many I have met over the years of attempting to survive, that have invigorated my need to question authority. Not because of its purpose. If we all led, we would go in so many different directions we would become redundant before we began.  Our inability to incorporate ideas to achieve a specific goal, with the least amount of obstinacy, and an increased amount of productivity and creativity, is only possible when we infuse co-operation into our systems.

“Because I said so,” has become the rallying cry of those who have a vision that is inclusive, only in that it refuses to listen to amendments to their vision, because it poses a threat to the ego and arrogance of the one proposing the path to a satisfactory conclusion. We are, and have been trained, as individuals, communities, societies, to go along, to get along. I must admit it is the easiest way to survive, if you can allow yourself to be content with the person you’ve become. When you allow others to become your guiding example of morality, ethics, civility, even faith, you have given up the very thing that makes progress inclusive, available to everyone. To seal yourself away from various ideas because of who proposed them, is to limit your ability to express your own idealism, which often becomes the basis for fabricated fact. The definitiveness of the words, “Because I said so,” should leave us questioning what and by whose authority they have been proclaimed, “God like.” When we consider the mistakes humankind has made in the name of progress or defense, we must realize we continue to deny the basic truths that stem from our decisions. Most of the time they have proven to be flawed, resulting in chaos and death, the result of power imposed on those with little or none of it. Wars are not fought on humanitarian grounds, as that is an oxymoron of unprincipled design. We fight wars to flaunt power. It is rare the powerful suffer anything but exaggerated bank accounts despite the fact they are the willful instigators. I would suggest that the next time someone proclaims that you do something because, they said so, you ask the question, “And you are? And I’m supposed to do what, and why?” If the answer is not, “God or your mother,” I suggest you ignore their insistence and think logically. It tends to heal all wounds inflicted by the arrogant.


Completely change life. Completely change attitude to life. Completely change outlook and way of thinking. Ignore everyone who is negative don’t get drawn into any negative situations. Those people can all take a running jump this year. You have had enough. Be strong. Listen to and learn from everyone. Especially listen to Harry and appreciate that while I don’t understand why he does what he does, that he has good intentions but just can’t express himself without being the most annoying person on the planet. But listen to him anyway and try to learn something, difficult as it might be. Study more. Sleep more. Go to the gym. Relax more. Take time to be good to myself because if I don’t then nobody else will. Take long walks in the countryside. Pick up litter. Find woman from car park and put litter in her car. Make food plan and stick to it. Keep bottle tops and make a craft out of them when I have enough. Get revenge on Sally. Don’t let it get to the stage where I forget what she has done and start being all nice to her again because she will only do the same thing again. Stand up for myself. Get even with the woman with the eyebrows at the shop. Maybe buy something without paying for it and return it and say that it wasn’t what I bought even though I didn’t pay for it and then watch her face when I ask her well how does it feel now eyebrow woman? Look for the good in everyone. Call customer service and block Sally. Invite Sally to my birthday party and then cancel her on the same day. Make sure to invite Brenda from inbound. Find a way to guarantee that she will come and Sally will know she came but Sally didn’t. Buy myself flowers and post them to myself because if I don’t then nobody else will. Introduce Harry to family. Prepare everyone beforehand, especially mom. Explain to mom that Harry is affected or has memory loss; think of a good one. Make sure Harry doesn’t swear. Practice conversations with him beforehand where he doesn’t swear in the conversations. Reward him with beer. Do something nice for mom because if I don’t nobody else will, especially not dad because he just sits on his behind all day watching TV. Stop drinking coffee and start drinking rose hip tea. Wait to see if Harry books somewhere to go out for 21 st February or Valentine’s Day and if he doesn’t, book somewhere myself and go alone and take photos and shame him completely. Get in touch with inner self. Plan and execute astounding birthday party for myself because if I don’t then nobody else will. Order cake, organize music. Make birthday party list. Make invitations. Give invitation to Brenda and Will but make sure Will doesn’t come but he won’t come anyway because he won’t want to be there just as much as I don’t want him to be there. Be honest with myself. Make lunch with salt sandwiches and leave in fridge at work so that Mandy will eat it. Meditate. Practice Temperance. Learn Spanish but don’t tell anyone and then I will understand everything the Spanish girls are saying but they won’t know. Don’t get new job because let’s face it I am not going to do it so why put it on the list. Just do another year of mindless, robotic labor without thanks or satisfaction and in the company of coworkers who are all backstabbing liars, for hardly any money because that’s my life so just get used to it and stop complaining or else do something which I am not going to do so shut up. Update C.V. Buy lots of flowers and plants. Stop being so nice to everyone. Develop thick skin. Look for the beauty in everyday things. Take up photography. Take pictures of everything I see that is yellow. Then red. Then blue and so on. Remember that I am not what other people perceive me to be. I am not defined by what other people think of me. I am a good person. I want to do good things. I try to live my life in the most honest way and I am a generous and loyal friend and partner. Do not give what I do not get. Stop being so damn nice to everyone and being a doormat. Do not share with people who will not give me a single thing in return. Smile at strangers. Help people in need. Be more difficult to read. Maybe take up poker. Ask Harry to teach me. Do my own thing and stop following the crowd like a human sheep. Buy a hat and start being the kind of person who always wears a different hat but nobody thinks it’s weird because that’s just my ‘thing’. Get some kind of ‘thing’ even if it is not hats so people will say ‘what are you doing at the weekend?’ and I will say ‘oh I’m doing such and such a thing, you know’ and they’ll think of course you are because that’s your ‘thing’. And people will automatically think of whatever ‘thing’ that is when they think of me because that’s what I do. Don’t turn down opportunity. If I get asked somewhere, go. If I meet new people, be proactive and ask them to join me on my ‘thing’. Be a magnet person who attracts people to them but in a positive way, not like Sally who has her coven of witches and only spreads nasty gossip and negativity. Don’t wait for life to go speeding by. Jump on the passing train. Find out about events and go to them. Go alone because Harry won’t go anyway and don’t wait for him to do anything because he won’t do anything except sit on his behind and play computer games. Emancipate myself from the living room. Even if it is only to walk into town in the evening, do it. Speak my mind. Don’t be afraid to tell the truth. Don’t bite my tongue when people say bad things. Be the kind of person who is not afraid to say what they think even if it is not the so-called ‘right time’ because if I don’t then nobody else will. Be more like Brenda. But not in the way that she talks over everyone and doesn’t respect what people say and that everyone has their own opinion and who’s to say who is right and who is wrong because I have my truth and someone else has their truth and neither of us knows the full background of the other and the nuances of what is not said because everyone has a different life history and experience and we can learn a lot just by listening instead of talking over people all the time, like Brenda. Confront Sally. Tell her that I am not going to be walked over and a true friend is not someone who disrespects someone else by spreading gossip and telling them one thing and doing another thing, but instead is someone who is loyal and generous. Tell Sally that she can take a running jump off the end of the pier and I won’t be going in after her until she apologizes and tells everyone the truth which is that I am a good person who would never do what she said I did and why is nobody talking about Will anyway and only me? Alternative plan: Start nasty rumor about Sally. Make sure it’s a good one. Somehow make it untraceable to me. Don’t tell anyone, especially Harry and Brenda. Wait for rumor to do the rounds. Then defend Sally in front of everyone so everyone for sure knows it wasn’t me and Sally thinks I am great and feels really bad and apologizes to me in front of everyone and they all know I would never do what Sally said because I am not like that. Get promoted. Work really hard. Throw myself into work and be dedicated and learn the ‘system’ because if I am not going to get a new job then at least I can try to get more money in the job I am in and I could even become the boss of Sally and Mandy and Brenda and all those hateful minions and then when I get promoted I will be really nice to everyone so they will say ‘oh yeah you are actually a very nice person, we were so wrong about you, we are so sorry’ and I will say ‘that’s no problem, everyone makes mistakes. we never know the nuances of someone’s life history, don’t worry’, but secretly I will keep an eye on them and when the chance comes I will be ready. I will play a long game, like a world champion poker player because I will be difficult to read and they won’t know what I really think. Be a force for positivity in the world. Be the kind of person I would like to be friends with myself. Be good.


 “We meet back here in thirty minutes, understand?” Mom says. We all nod. This happens everytime we come here. “Everyone has their watches?” She asks.

We hold up our wrists so she can see the identical glowing watches. “What happens if Bluecoat stops you?” She asks. We all groan. We’re wasting time. "Tell them we're looking for our parents." Lily says. Royal leans over to me. "Are we gonna go, or not?" "In a minute. She'll run out of things to worry about soon." I tell him. Sure enough, she sighs in defeat. "You can go." We cheer, and run to the door of the spaceship. It opens slowly, and we clamber down the ramp. My name is Freedi. I have eight brothers. I'm the only girl. We're all from the planet Depbvor. Once a year, we get to go on a trip to different planets. We all get to bring along a friend. So, there are sixteen of us. This year, we're on the planet Sevveris. Royal, or Roy, is my best friend. I've known them since I was little, and invited them with us every year. They have short blue hair and bright green eyes. We're the same height, but they're stronger by a lot. I have long black hair, and brown eyes. I literally look like the most boring person ever, but according to Roy, I'm the opposite. We all go different directions, and Roy and I go straight to our favorite place. Every planet has a market. We weave through the crowd, until we find the Whitecoats. "Hey!" Roy says cheerfully. They are good with people. One of them look up. "Hello. How can we help you?" "We wanted to know about one of the planets." They say. The man nods, and picks up a binder. "Which one?" "That one called...what was it?" "Erath?" I guess. I can never remember. The man chuckles. "I think you mean Earth. " "Oh, yes, that." Roy says. He hands us some papers, and I hand him some money. We walk off looking through them. We think Earth is the weirdest planet ever. They're the only ones who aren't a part of the milky way government. I'm sure they know we exist, but it's not like they're trying to find us. If they are, they're doing a really bad job. They don't know that there are different planets, even though we're right here. I think that they're looking the wrong way, or something. I'm not sure what happened, but centuries ago, they had a huge disagreement with our government, and went off by themselves. Apparently, they have something called covid. I'm not sure what it is, since I get bored reading, so I ask Roy to summarize it for me. "They've got some planet wide deadly disease." They tell me as we walk to the food stands. My favorite thing about the markets is the food. All the planets have different foods that they make that no one else can perfect but them. Sevveris makes these little things that are like a small cup with a little dome on top. It has this really sweet creamy thing on top. They call them sweetdomes, and they are delicious. "C'mon." Roy says, their mouth full of sweetdome. They pull me through the crowd, and towards their favorite part, the art. Same as with the food, every planet has different model types. Sevveris is a planet mostly filled with plants, so that's what's on their art. There are trees and grass, and something called a flower. There are painted pictures, drawings, and sketches. I can't draw to save my life, but Roy is amazing. They ask for lots of the drawings, and tuck them in their bag. "Okay, we can go to one more place before we've got to go back." They tell me. I look at the map we're standing in front of. There are lots of different things, but I promised my grandfather I would bring him something back. "There." I say, pointing to the plant shop. I fill my bag with different seeds, and flowers. "C'mon, race you to the ship." I say to Roy. We run through the crowd, but when I lose sight of them, I stop. "Roy?" I say, turning around. I gasp. They are on the ground, a Bluecoat standing over them. The Bluecoats are really advanced robots. This one is wearing the usual dark blue coat, and a huge hat that covers most of their face. It leans down, and scans Roy's face. They wince at the bright light, and I can see their shaking. It jerks up, then an alarm starts blaring. "You. You're the one we've been looking for." It says. Roy suddenly kicks the robot in the chest, sending it flying in the other direction. They jump up, and run.

Why does this happen every year? "Ten minutes, Roy!" I yell. They nod, jumping over a table, and onto a wall. I don't know how I became friends with one of the most wanted criminals in the galaxy, but I am. I walk through the crowd, and back to the ship. I walk with my siblings, though they probably don't even notice me. "Hurry." Roy whispers behind me. I sigh. "You can't keep coming with us if this is going to happen." "Yeah, well, I'll never get out otherwise. Depbvor is the most boring planet there is." They tell me. I roll my eyes. "Then why don't you just stay somewhere else?" "Then who will you talk to?" They point out. They have a point. I'm not great at making friends. It was luck that I met Roy, and I don't know how great it is to have a wanted criminal as your best friend. My mom counts our heads as we walk up the ramp into the ship. "Thirteen, fourteen - where are the twins?" She says. Mike and Micheal run up the ramp, and it closes behind us. Roy and I look out the window, to watch the planet grow smaller and smaller.


I didn’t want to go. June was long and busy and tiring with lots of lacrosse and school and other things I don’t enjoy.  I didn’t want to add another activity to the ever-growing roster of things required to be a better parent that I am. I wanted the beach, books and a bar cart. So, I pawned it off on my mensch husband, who agreed to take our three monsters and my nephews. I think we threw the last two boys in for sport – the event being “how much could I pile on before my husband had a second heart attack?” I flee to a rainbow-colored chair with an ocean view and a cooler. I’m not even sure there was ice or a cup, but with prosecco and Juice Bombs, I am sure nothing required a cork screw or bottle opener. I sit with the sun on my face, ignoring my brother and sister-in-law. Meanwhile, the whack crew of seven made its way down the beach.

The seventh was John Schmidt. John was responsible for this whole adventure. It started when he asked my mom, “if the kids would like to go jet skiing”. I obviously said no. My kids may have loved it, but school was over and it was time to be rid of all commitments that included my involvement. My mom asked me about the jet skiing no less than 19 times in the days that followed. Classic Janet. She had clearly said, yes, long before I answered in the negative. She knew I’d cave, because she knew I always caved, because she had a way of always getting me to cave. She would never have to go back on her word to John – due to her ninja like abilities to always get what she wanted, without ever raising her voice. Everyone thought she was laid back and flexible, never quite realizing her stealth skills. Not quite passive aggressive…more like quiet-aggressive.

Jesse, disrupts the silence by announcing, “I feel bad for Aaron” (the mensch). Jen, his wife, who I can usually count on to be my partner in crime, sides with my brother. I don’t feel bad at all. I am finally sitting, in the fresh, salty air; bottle in hand instead of the steering wheel of my minivan driving, always driving. But, I know I will look like an asshole if I don’t go on the kid-Aaron-John-wave runner-check. So, in an effort to look like I have a heart, I join them on the journey down the beach.

We find the kids – all with loopy jet ski smiles. My other brother has also joined in the joy. Aaron hops off and exchanges his life jacket with Jesse in return for the promise of another happy face racing by at 30 mph.  Jesse pulls my twins around the ocean on a tube and then passes the torch to his wife. I want none of this. But peer pressure works even when you are 50 years old. I hop aboard the car in the ocean, now pulling my daughter and nephew on a tube. I figure if I can get this fun out of the way, I can finally return to my beach chair.

John steps on the gas. We take off and it feels fun and free. The wind, the sun, and the speed. We are out to sea. The tubing rope loosens. The two kids go flying off the back as the tube sheds its cover and pops like a birthday balloon. Before I know it, the rope is wrapped around the motor and nearly snaps my leg in half, which now resembles raw chicken. The jet ski is upside down. We are all in the water and the rope is so twisted underneath, that even I - an expert rainbow loom rubber band separator – know there is no hope of us salvaging this ride and getting back to shore. It’s all fun and games for about 12 seconds. I should have known there was a deeper reason I didn’t want to go jet skiing. It’s taken me until now to put my finger, or bloody leg on it. It’s because, with my family, there is always a story. I have never answered the question “how was ____ [insert family fun]”, simply “fun” or “good". There is always a long convoluted story – a rental house on Fire Island that has bugs and leaks and used wet towels that for some reason we don’t leave, my mom trapped in an elevator while in a wheelchair well into her hospice stay, my brother lost on the ski mountain, another brother skiing into a tree losing both his teeth only to have them shoved back in by the ski patrol, a house we are trying to buy where the owner won’t leave until we smoke them out with a lien on the house, my daughter’s front teeth knocked out on the ice – the gymnast, not my hockey player, or at very least the promise of a minor concussion just before a trip for any of them, be it at sport or on hoverboard.

Our family activities always have an apex that is more like a mudslide near the top of the mountain, rather than a victorious ascent. They end with me being stuck in the ocean for three hours waiting for marine coast patrol and praying that Jaws is just a movie. John tells my daughter and nephew to – no joke – swim across the channel back to shore. They are 12 and 13.  The tide is on its way out. But I am too shell-shocked to think straight. I also feel like I can’t leave John stranded in the ocean. I am not sure why he leapfrogged my family as my priority, but losing half a pint of blood makes you do funny things. I have no phone but at least John does and has enough battery to call the sea rescue.

We wait on hold for what feels like days but is probably more like 53 minutes (but who’s checking?) North Carolinians are on island time. After waiting on hold, we wait some more, and are then told they will get there – with no time estimate other than before dark. I tread water and see some movement out of the corner of my eye. It is my daughter and nephew and not a shark. I thank the shark gods first and then the width of the channel for keeping the kids from attempting to swim across it. I hobble into mom mode and find someone willing to take them back to shore. I pray for the second time in 20 years. This time that the stranger is not a secret human trafficker.

As the sun starts to go down, I realize it’s “eat what you kill out here” – literally, well, actually I hope not. I have put in enough time with John to feel like he can’t possibly tell my mom I am a terrible person. I flag down several boats. But, with my scary raw chicken leg-leg  – which at this point actually looks a million times better from the hours of salt water – and frantic arm waving, I don’t get a lot of takers. Eventually a group of four men agree to take me back to shore. I pray for the third time today, hoping they are not serial killers or criminals or human traffickers. I am pretty sure I am okay, they are probably just New York state-tax evaders, since they look more like investment bankers. But, all of a sudden I am very religious. I get back to shore. I have never been so happy to be on land. I see my daughter and nephew and wonder if I should have left them to swim the channel, when my daughter starts making fun of how crazy I look - sunburned, bloody and shivering.  I see my husband, brother, sister-in-law, some of the kids, all waiting for me. A few of them have smartly returned home to escape another story. But, a whole bunch of them sat at the end of the island waiting for me, trying to bring me back. They asked the boaters that took Layla and Cole to the island if they would return to pick me up. The guys said no, in the true spirit of friendly southerners. My family flagged down beach patrol – who apparently see no need to think outside the box. People stranded in the ocean are outside their jurisdiction. They prefer to just drive back and forth on the beach in their cool jeeps. My brothers had it out with some old ladies who said John was too close to shore and felt like we deserved what we got – the women wanted beach patrol to take away John’s license – luckily that is also out of beach patrol’s job description. My crazy family, with our crazy stories and crazy dysfunctional set up, all waited for me, and tried to get me home. Somehow, they are love me despite my being a giant pain 95% of the time.

I guess it turns out I like it all – the stories, the crazy, the gaggle of kids. It sure keeps life interesting. Mostly, the stories are memories, happy and funny and ridiculous. And when I miss my mom so much it hurts, a funny story about her making me save egg cartons for “Steve the Greek” – their neighbor with a chicken farm behind an old strip mall, the absurdity of her ability to make me save them while hospice is fixing her morphine pump, they make me laugh. I would go on any jet ski in the world if it would bring her back. I’d even wait out the rest of the time in the water with John Schmidt. It’s all fun and games until you go to a wonderfully, long storied, Fa-go-po-pi family gathering. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Well, I guess I would like my leg to look like it used to…but upon seeing it, it does give many chances to tell this long, convoluted story, and remind me of that time my mom got me to do just one more thing using her secret spell.


From his kitchen window Jack watched clouds collide with the mountain, their shadow robbing the town of color. For the first time in his life he looked to the sky for entertainment.  He grew up in Hell's Kitchen where there was no sky. It was buried, painted over with valleys of concrete and steel. Now, from his new cabin home he watched clouds dance with mountains. He'd only been there two weeks but he was already known around town. The retired cop from New York. He went to Ginger's Diner every day for breakfast. He looked forward to another day on his front porch reading a book about the Cold War.

The collision of clouds and mountain was so dramatic it seemed odd there no sound. It was quiet. So quiet that small sounds traveled far. A car door slam could be heard a mile away. He stared at the neighbor’s home down the hill. It had been still for weeks. They’d moved to Austin, Texas where everyone was moving. He’d noticed a Suburban SUV with New Jersey plates parked in the driveway. This raised an eyebrow. “People from New Jersey don’t understand quiet,” He said to himself.

At 1pm a moving truck arrived. There were now 2 SUVs one with two kids and a poodle. “Fuck,” he whispered to himself. On the second SUV he could see a small sticker but couldn’t make it out. He got his binoculars. After some adjustments to focus it was clear. It was an Italian flag. His new neighbors in this oasis of quiet contemplation were Italian Americans from New Jersey, perhaps the most unquiet people on earth. This he knew because his ex-wife was an Italian from New Jersey. The barking began at 7pm and did not stop. It was constant. The dog barked at everything and at times barked at nothing. “Can a dog lose it’s voice?” he wondered/hoped. He looked up “dog laryngitis” on Google. He had bigger problems. They had some workers come out to set up a trampoline. Kids, a dog and a trampoline. “Have kids ever quietly enjoyed a trampoline? Of course not,” He figured. It would be louder than Manhattan. He had that feeling he’d get when he wanted to hide but knew he should charge forward, to confront these obstacles to peace. So, he drove down to meet his neighbors to assess the situation.

Mrs. Cielo answered the door and invited him into the house where kids and a poodle ran around moving boxes and shot each other with Nerf guns. They sat down for a glass of lemonade. She was a music history teacher who had taken a job at the community College. Her name was Flora and she was beautiful. She said her husband was taking a nap. They talked about New York and this new town that was near to perfect in her mind. She was done with suburbia and her husband’s work allowed them a new start in the desert. In their chat he noticed some walls. Some fortified areas of vagueness. She was hiding something but he couldn’t figure out what. Her napping husband sounded like a mystery person, maybe even a mystery to her. Her description of him was like the often cloud covered town…without color. The desert quiet he grew to know and love was all over now but he supposed he’d get used to it. But who were these people…something was familiar? They probably reminded him of home, the personalities, the affect. “No.” a voice said. A voice he hadn’t heard since he was walking by a bank closed in the middle of the day in Brooklyn a year before. Something was off the voice told him. As he was walking out the front door of the Cielo home he saw something…someone. Among the pile of unopened boxes, one was open. Framed family pictures from trips and home. He got a look at the husband.  It was a face familiar. A face from the world of La Cosa Nostra, he was sure of it. It took twenty minutes of browsing mafia family case files online when it hit him. He’s “The sheep.” Giancarlo de Roccia, famous in Brooklyn. Known as the “white sheep” of the de Roccia crime family. No one really believed it but he was the only male member of the de Roccia family, who was legit. The Feds had followed him for years, convinced his appearance of legitimacy was a disguise that concealed a bigger and wider criminal enterprise. They found nothing. He owned 3 dry cleaners in Brooklyn and 1 in Manhattan. No ties to drugs, racketeering or money laundering. Jack wondered what he was doing there in the desert. A dry cleaners in Taos? Maybe. He didn’t really care. Maybe Flora became elusive in their chat because he mentioned he was a former New York cop. Maybe she was embarrassed about marrying into a family that had been in gang wars since the 60s. He didn’t think she should be embarrassed, it could happen to anybody. They changed their name and moved west, an American thing to do. That night and for every night following the barking poodle was brought in to the house at 6. The yelling kids also disappeared at the same time. Under the moon and stars the desert looked blue. Jack listened to the night from his porch. “I wonder if the Cielos hear the coyotes yelping and wailing in the blue desert. They were a long way from the Jersey Turnpike.” Breakfast at Ginger’s was always a treat. There were regulars. Ranchers, some police, the owners of some shops in town and a collection of artists and academics from the college. From his usual booth he saw de Roccia walk in. de Roccia scanned the restaurant like he was looking for someone. He walked towards Jack. “I think I’m your neighbor.” He said with a smile. He put out his hand, “I’m Mike Cielo.” After a handshake Jack asked Cielo to join him. Surprisingly he obliged and sat down. He may not be a gangster, Jack thought but he wore the same look. A smile that looked warm but leaves you cold like there’s no one really there, behind the smile. His presence made the temperature drop in the room a couple degrees. They were getting some looks, mainly because Cielo/de Roccia was dressed like a mobster, an Adidas track suit and gold chain. “I had a great chat with your wife yesterday, while you were napping. Great to have a young family in the neighborhood.” He lied as best he could. Cielo grinned but seemed to be waiting for more. He was using silence to get more from Jack. This was something Jack would do when interrogating a suspect. He decided to play along instead of unwittingly entering into a staring contest. “So, Flora said you moved here for work. What kind of work?” “I don’t know…probably open a dry cleaners. It’s all I know how to do. More professional people are moving to the area and I think coyotes ate my fucking dog last night.” Jack felt like he had been pistol whipped. “Jesus, the poodle?” “Yeah,” Cielo said in a cold whisper. “People must drive twenty minutes to Taos to get their dry cleaning. If I can get the apparatus and equipment installed at a reasonable price I’ll definitely do it.” Jack hadn’t talked with someone this nuts in awhile, he was trying to get his footing. The only people who were this particular type of crazy were contract killers and members of the NYPD Bomb Squad. “What do you think?” Cielo asked. Jack thought for a second, “Well, you wouldn’t have any competition-“ “No, about the coyotes. You think there’s a lot of them?” “Well, yeah they’re out there. Maybe get a full grown German Shepherd. And see if you can get used dry cleaning equipment from a place that shut down around here.” Cielo looked Jack in the eyes. There was a long pause followed by a glance around the restaurant. “Flora said you’re NYPD. I want you to know that world isn’t me. My family back east aren’t here. Not at all.” Jack looked confused but wasn’t. “Ok,” he said with a slight smile. To Jack, Cielo seemed as sincere as a sociopath could be. Cielo seemed to relax a little.

Jack decided Cielo was okay, nuts, but okay. He dressed, talked and walked like a Soprano but all he talked about was the dry cleaning industry. He was kind of a nerd in that way. “The killer is in there,” Jack imagined. “It’s dormant but there, in the DNA, the hundreds of years of Sicilians killing each other over vendettas and goats.” But, so far as he could tell this guy just wanted to make a killing cleaning and starching dress shirts with some suit alterations offered as well. There was a house down the street from Jack that was used as an airbnb. Most of the time it was empty but occasionally some people would stay for a week. Over Christmas time there were 12 college aged guys that stayed there. They were loud. Shooting guns, blasting music and being complete assholes in general. Jack walked over to tell them to shut up but they wouldn’t answer the door. Now, in March for their Spring Break they had returned. This time they had dirt bikes and golf carts that increased the scope of their awfulness. They were skeet shooting off of the back deck, shots too close to the Cielo home. “Those fucking bastards.” Thought Jack. Flora Cielo called. She told Jack that she was going to bring the boys some snacks and tell them that they were shooting at her home and must please stop.

It didn’t go well. Jack was standing in his driveway when Flora was walking back home. She was visibly shaken. “Flora…what did they do?” Flora could barely speak, she managed to say, “Those boys are not gentlemen.” She kept walking down the hill to her home. Jack decided he might have to kill a bunch of college kids. An hour later, a text from Cielo. Jack, those college shitheads said some things to my wife. Not good things. I’ll go see them tomorrow.” “Do you want me to go with you?” Jack asked. “No.” Cielo replied.

At approximately 3pm the day after the college boys verbally harassed Flora Cielo, Mike Cielo paid the home a visit. He had with him a small box. The box was a New York Yankees baseball box.  A present for them. After ringing the doorbell and waiting, the boys inside did not answer. So, he left the box with a note attached. Within a half hour all 5 carloads of young men left speedily out of the desert community. The Cielo family left for Breckenridge for the week that night. Jack called Mike Cielo that night, “I gotta know. What did you say to them?” Cielo told Jack that he didn’t say anything to them. “When the coyote ate our poodle Genie I found her head just outside the fence, so I saved it and put it in the freezer.” “Sweet Christ,” thought Jack. Cielo said he simply left a small box containing the severed head of Genie with a note that said, “The desert is big and you are a long way from home.” Hearing this, Jack was delighted, amused and horrified. “What’s the matter you, you damn psycho, you couldn’t get a horse head to put in their bed?” He asked. A reference to The Godfather. After a long pause Cielo replied, “No…that would be crazy. Genie did good…she made them disappear,” said Cielo with no hint of a laugh. “Jack, can you do me a favor?” asked Cielo. “Sure, Mike. What you need?” “Jack…I need you to get the head for me. It’s in that house somewhere, I doubt those idiots took it and I don’t want the owner to find it.” Jack stared at the phone. “Uhh, you want me to get the dog head?” Jack asked. He looked out the window at the airbnb house and tried to calculate how long it would take to recover the tiny head of a poodle. “Jack…I’m just kidding, I’ve got the head, I’ll see you next week.”

With the college kids gone for good and the Cielos in Colorado, the quiet returned. Jack imagined it always does. When the party ends, the thunderstorm moves on, or a coyote’s howls grow more feint and disappear into the blue of night, the desert is quiet and still.