When I was a teen, I was very afraid of speaking to women.  Very.  If you and I have ever spoken, I don’t think you would think that of me. Maybe that’s why I wanted to tell this story. I sometimes joke about this with close friends, and I’ve always gotten a chuckle out of whoever’s listened to this. Before I start, this is a true story.  I was in a new country, with women that I found incredibly attractive. I was thirteen years old. It was my first year in this new school. I didn’t speak English very well, and kids were mean, but that didn’t stop me from becoming part of the student council. To be honest, no one in my class of ten to fifteen students wanted to. So, since I’ve always been a risk taker, I thought “Why not?”  Ran unopposed.  Won?  I attended my first student council meeting with a small mp3 that was a recorder; wanted to record the meeting in case I didn’t catch something. I never used that cheap mp3 recorder, I forgot about it when I saw her.  It’s funny when you look back and think about your thirteen-year-old self. I think my attitude towards life was a lot more honest back then. Less controlled.  At the meeting, my thought process went something like this: 1. Record the meeting. 2. Wait, who’s that beautiful mythical creature sitting across me? 3. That long black hair. 4. She seems so shy. 5. Those eyes. 6. Leave meeting. 7. It’s all good, I didn’t understand a few things, but I have that Mp3 recording. 8. Oh wait… So, I left that student council meeting after juggling between not looking at her too much and paying attention to the peers I didn’t understand. We had done a round of names so I knew she was one grade above me, and what her name was. Let’s call her Quiet.  The student council teacher representative was a Scottish woman that I liked, a bit strict, but fair. She wanted us to organise a disco night. Tasks were assigned amongst us representatives. Mine was the music. Long story short, since my sister and I had watched our fair share of teenage drama movies, I knew that asking someone to a dance was a big deal. I thought it seemed like a decent move to show my commitment to a serious relationship (at thirteen). I had a few weeks till the dance night, so I had time to get my plan into action. It was easy.  1. Catch her alone. 2. Casually speak about how bad student council tasks were. 3. Mention the dance. 4. Ask her to go with me.  First part of the plan turned out to be a lot more difficult that I thought. Women sure like to travel in packs! Lunchtime? Nope, surrounded by her ever-growing group of girlfriends. The thought of starting a conversation with my broken English in front of that group seemed to me no more dangerous that doing a haka in front of a group of lions while wearing nothing but a thong. Okay, so, not lunchtime; after student council meetings, maybe. I could casually walk in the direction of her locker, start step 2 of my brilliant plan to achieve high school romance. Sadly, she made friends with another girl in the student council… so no dance proposals after those meetings either.  This went on for a few weeks. Before I could muster the courage to speak with her, boom. Friends. Millions of them, glowing red eyes, ready to laugh at me.  I eventually gave up. The music task had already been completed, the dance was the following Friday, and the simple thought of leaving my grade students aside to spend some time with my friends from one grade below was good enough for me. Maybe I wasn’t as courageous as the heroes of the games that I loved. No problem, there’d be more dance nights, I supposed. I went down from my art class to my locker and I ran into her.  Step 1: She caught YOU alone, but let’s say “Catch her alone”. Done!  She smiled as she said:  “Hi Loud!”  She remembered my name!  My eyes opened wide as I smiled and said hi back.  She was going to the drama room, which was near my lockers, so I could walk her to them. I still remember that conversation quite well.  “So… this whole music collection was really hard!”  Step 2: Casually speak about how bad student council tasks were. Done!  “Oh yea? Me and NotSoQuiet have been having a lot of fun with the decoration”  “I bet! She looks more worried about getting attention from BlondePopularGuy!” Slowed down the walk, she matched my speed.  “So I’m not the only one that has noticed!”  “No” I laugh “He asked her to the dance the other day!”  Step 3: Mention the dance. Done!  She walked close to me, bumped her shoulder into mine playfully.  “You don’t talk a lot but you sure understand a lot!” Quiet continued saying.  At this point, most of you that know me think that I’m taking the piss, and that at no point in my life someone could have said that of me. But I’m not. I was a shy, shy teen.  I bump my shoulder back into hers. “I do talk, see me talking right now? Not much to understand there”  So the dance topic was on the air. Unexpected friendly physical contact, that I didn’t initiate, smiles all around. This was good. At this point my heart was beating hard. It’s funny, people always talk about how their hearts beat fast when they are nervous, it has never been my case. I just hear my heart beating in my ears, I feel it in my chest, in my throat, beating hard.  “So um… Did anyone ask YOU to the dance?” This was my moment. I’m a confident, thirteen year old.  “Nope! Did you ask anyone to the dance yourself?” She stopped, as she was going to go to the other building, looking at me with those big black eyes of hers. The sudden stop to the walk made it seem as if my efforts to keep this casual had gone out the window.  Months of planning coming to an end. Everything was perfect. It was a small step for me, but a great step for all men.  Step 4 …  “Nope! Hahahaha. Anyways, gotta go! I guess I’ll see you there!”  Screw step 4! Run for your life!  Five minutes later, I was softly bumping my head on the bathroom stall door. Repeating in my language out loud:  “Dumb”  “Dumb”  “Dumb”  I did get to speak with her at the dance, we almost danced together. But that’s another story.  My partner told me that I can’t just end the story here. That, maybe giving advice would be a more meaningful end for this short read.  I think this experience, and many others, have served me well. In a more present time, I’ve been a lot more direct with women. Some would make good stories, some wouldn’t. There have been a lot of mistakes: dumb phrases, old pickup lines… I think I’ve finally found a sweet spot in which I’m comfortable enough to talk to women. If I had to say something to take away from this, it wouldn’t be the old “Grow a pair!”, “Don’t let your Quiet go to the dance without knowing how you feel!” I will leave that to Disney, they’re far more eloquent than I’ll ever be.  I’ll just say that if you ever find yourself softly banging your head against a wall, or a bathroom stall door, calling yourself “dumb”:  Do not despair.  There will be other dances. Looking back, I regret not having the guts to ask Quiet to the dance. She was a wonderful girl. Whenever I talk to teens these days, if it’s relevant, I tell them this story. They laugh, and call me silly. I’m happy to get them laughing.  I don’t know if they are as afraid of their Quiet as I was of mine.  \ If you've reached this far, thank you for taking the time to have a read. I really appreciate any feedback. English isn't my first language, so if I've gotten anything wrong. Do let me know. Once again, thanks.


(This was originally a comment I left in the r/WritingPrompts thread. Wanted to share it here!) \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_  It was a Sunday and I always hated Sundays. I hated them more these days, or should I say *those* days, because I'd usually sit and binge watch some sci-fi show on Netflix with a beautiful Chai Latte ordered straight to my door from the Starbucks down the road. But in the 1800s, there was no Starbucks. I'd finally done it. Invented time travel. I was 1 out of 8 Billion people who knew that it was incredibly possible. But it was too bad that I was stranded in Victorian England. Being the first person to develop time travel wasn't as amazing as I thought it would be. It turns out, travelling through time is easy. Travelling back, well... that's a bit more complicated. I arrived here two weeks ago. I tried to go back, trust me, I really did, but as soon as I realised it was a success, I took the time to have a victory nap (three all nighters in row can do that to you) and when I woke up, the machine was damaged. Parts were missing and it looked like it had blown up. I did everything I could to fix it, but the parts I needed didn't even exist here and I didn't understand why it had malfunctioned. My adventure to 1800s London was unwillingly extended. I was walking along the streets now, wearing a gothic garment I had managed to find in the street. It was slightly tattered and dirty, but it was clean enough and considering the time period, I'm sure I fit in better than when I arrived here in my System of a Down tee and black skinny jeans. The jeans alone would have got me in trouble just for being a woman. There was piss and shit every step I walked. The streets were uncomfortably busy. Beggars poured out of every walk way and rich noblemen strut highly on their horses. I couldn't have felt more out of place if I tried. The only remnants I had from my 2010s life was my doc martins that hid underneath the long skirt of this tattered dress. The longer I stayed here, the more depressed I felt. All of my family and friends were probably so worried. I wonder if the police were looking for me? None of them had any idea I wasn't even in the same *time* as them anymore, let alone the same place. I could be standing in a spot the cops are looking for me right this second, but because I'm 200 years behind them, they'll never see me. I felt doomed. Hopeless and the more time went on, the more angry I felt. How could I have been so stupid? I was an engineer! I was a smart person, a rational person. How could I have so arrogantly trapped myself time surfing? I was careful not to mutter anything too loud. The streets were so packed. A few people had given me strange looks as I was passing as well. Attention was *not* what I wanted here. When I eventually get back to my time, at least my acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize will be excellent comedy material. I was looking for objects I could use for the time machine repairs. I had studied how different parts do different things and I was sure that even if I found the base ingredients, I would get myself out of here. I couldn't vote, I was jobless and I had no suitor. This time was not *my* time. I had already acquired some of the things I needed, but the more 'modern' stuff, I just couldn't find anywhere. As I turned down one of the bustling streets in to a wide lane, I heard something that totally broke my focus. I could hear someone humming. Normal I suppose, there wasn't a great deal to do in this time, humming was probably as commonplace as checking your phone. But something about the tune really startled me. I walked slowly towards the humming. There was a window at ground level that was open. There was no one actually in the lane with me, so the sound had to be coming from this building. I ducked down so I wouldn't be seen and carried on listening. I recognised this melody too well, but I couldn't put my finger on it. It was an eerie tune, but there was something about it that really reminded me of space and the heavens. "*Aaaah- aaaaaaaaah"* The voice continued to hum. That's when my brain finally clicked. Without even thinking, I started singing the words really quietly. *"Because the world is round it turns me on...."* My voice was nothing more than a whisper for the first few lines, but as the song continued, I was ready to make myself known to the person humming. *"Love is old, love is newLove is all, love is you...."* And then the humming stopped. There was a brief silence and then the sound of footsteps. "Whoever is outside my window, I suggest you show yourself right now or I'll blow a whole in the wall." Without even hesitating, I stood up and a man slightly older than myself stood on the other side of the window, a revolver in hand, pointing at me. I held my hands up and started stammering "I-I-I I'm not going to hurt you. I just have a question. I-I-I *know* this song really w-well, it's o-one of my fave..." He fired the revolver above my head and I screamed. "PLEASE DON'T KILL ME. I JUST RECOGNISED THE SONG." He walked over to me on the opposite side of the window. Completely silent. He looked me up and down and even poked his head out of the window to literally look me up and down from head to toe. When his eyes got to my feet, he started bellowing so loudly, instead of comforting me, it scared me. "You're a *looooooong* way from home Doc." He slapped his knee through his laughter. My face flushed red, slightly embarrassed. "H-how do you know that?!" I asked. "Well for a start, Doc was meant to be in pun to Docs on your feet. They don't even exist until after the second War. The World War. So let's cut to the chase little girl, how did you get here? To this *time?*" "I'm not a little girl." I muttered. The man laughed again. "Only little girls get stuck when time travelling. When it comes to this field, you are but a child, Otherwise, you wouldn't still be here would you? You wouldn't be stuck." "H-how do you know all th-" The man laughed again, all he seemed to do was make fun of me. "I-I created a device that allowed me to travel back, but its fried. Parts are gone. The things I need to fix it I cant find." I clenched my fist, feeling my own disappointment again. He stopped laughing by this point and his expression returned to serious. He lowered his gun finally and sighed. "I should have known really. Of course it was too good to be true." He said as he walked away from the window and in to another room. I stood awkwardly outside the window, unsure what to do. I just stared into the window and the space he once stood in. \**click!\** Next to the window, a door unlocked and was opened and his head popped out from behind it. "Come in. We need to talk." I hesitated for a second, but entered regardless and he led me back into the room, this time I was on the other side of the window. He carried on walking through it into another room, but paused as we stood outside. "Before we go in here, I need you to understand that it wasn't anything personal. It was the first time I'd seen a TT machine in 6 years. I have been stuck here that long. I felt a glimmer of hope, but my judgement was clouded. I think fate brought us together and now I intend to honour that." I remained silent, mainly because I was confused by what he said. But 6 years stuck here? That's hard to hear from anyone. The door opened and I gasped. Inside, was a machine that looked almost identical to the one I had made. There were parts scattered all over the room, in fact, very *certain* parts... "MY PARTS!!!!?????!" I screamed. The guy looked to the floor in shame.


They say that every step brings you closer to your goal. Every stride brings a runner closer to the finish line. Every experiment brings a scientist closer to the truth. Every page brings a story closer to its ending. Could it then be assumed that the goal of life is to die? Yes. But then what would be the point? No? Of course not. Maybe… My name is… Well, that doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that 6 weeks ago, or was it 6 months, years? I really can’t remember. Anyway, the point is, I was just your average high school student. My favorite subject was science, and... I was on some kind of sports team. I had 3 really close friends, but I couldn’t tell you their names. Why am I telling you this? Well, I guess my point is that it doesn’t matter who or when, but that it happened, and to me of all people. I was just your average high school student. I guess times change. Track, that’s it, I was on the track team. \*\*\* Heaven’s a sorry excuse of a place allowing people to cope with death since the dawn of time. And people actually believe that they decide who goes there and who doesn’t? I, being a well educated individual, choose not to believe in such foolishness. Oh, I’m sorry, did I offend you? Too bad! This is my story. Besides, you were the one who chose to read it. No, please don’t go. I just had to let out a little steam, that’s all. I swear it won’t happen again. Come back. You're all I have left. Ah, left, the opposite of right. But the opposite of right is wrong. Is what I did wrong? Who cares. There’s no one left to tell me otherwise. It's just me and you. Right? \*\*\* Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. Does this mean that if I forget what I did, then I’m doomed to do it again? I mean forgiving is forgetting right? I guess I’m screwed either way. Screw it! Screw it all!! Oh wait, I already did. HAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! No, please don’t go. I just had to let out a little steam, that’s all. I swear it won’t happen again. \*\*\* There are times in life when you must distance yourself from the ones you love because you love them. I guess that’s what I did. I loved them. \*\*\* Her name is Lucy, or at least that’s what it says on her picture. I couldn’t tell you who she is or how I met her, only that she was someone very dear to me. I mean, why else would I be carrying around her picture? Maybe she’s just some girl that I found attractive. No, that can’t be right. My heart tells me that she was someone special, someone important, but my brain hasn’t a clue. Well, whoever she is, you're all I have left. \*\*\* What if there was no finish line? What if the truth was grey? What if the story never ended? No, that’s crazy. Everything has to end. EVERYTHING HAS TO END. It's a law of nature. I... Voices! Oh no, they found me! Gotta run. Gotta hide. La la la, la la la, you can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man! \*\*\* The voices are gone now. I guess I should take this time to tell you what it is that I did. It's the least I can do for a friend. Just know that I wish you not pity me. I wish that as you lay on your deathbed gasping for your final breath, you think to yourself, “How lucky I must be to have talked to the man who surpassed death.” (Takes a tape recorder out of pocket and pushes play.) *The following is a compilation of the clinical diagnosis of the patient known as #15301. The following tests and inquiries remain undocumented and unknown to the public and were only performed with the consent of the aforementioned patient. This research is the private property of Dr. Franklin J. Stirling and may be subject to copyright.* *Patient: #15301 Diagnosis: ??? Treatment: n/a* *Ever since Patient #15301 was brought into my custody, they have been the subject of my research. I lead them to believe that I was trying to find a cure for their condition. One can only feel bad for them.* *“Teen Survives House Fire” That’s what the newspaper article said. People were claiming it was a miracle, an act of God. I, being a man of science, chose not to believe in such foolishness. Just from reading that article, I knew there was something special about that person. I knew that they were the breakthrough I was looking for. I had to gain custody of them and learn their secrets. So, for the next 2 years I kept a close eye on them waiting for an opportunity to present itself.* *Fascinating. A slight mutation of the mt DNA found in #15301’s cellular genome allows the mitochondria to produce an infinite amount of energy, causing his cells to become overcharged, thus granting him an abnormality in cell regeneration and limitless age. In other words, they're immortal to some extent.* *After discovering this biological breakthrough, I decided to test my conclusion by “killing” them in as many ways as I could possibly think of. I must have tried every way known to man, but still, nothing would kill them. They did, however, show signs of physical pain. Further research and experimentation must be conducted if I am ever to find a way to save my dear Lucy’s life.* (End tape) \*\*\* That’s me! That’s my name, #15301. A mere number. Ooh, numbers. I like numbers. One, two buckle my shoe. Three, four shut the door. Five, six pick up sticks. Seven, eight lay them straight. Nine, ten… *All agents are still assisting other callers. Please continue to hold and your call will be answered as soon as possible. Thank you for your patience.


The rain swept over the city with an aggression seldom seen in the desert. The pariahs stood in the streets and accepted the downpour. It was a gift from their forgotten God. That welcomed yet deafening patter of raindrops covered the sound of approaching of boots. Before the townsfolk would hear the quickly closing soldiers, they would feel the sharp point of arrows aimed for hearts. It was mayhem in the shanty town. Men, women, and children alike were running like their lives depended on it. Their lives did. They looked much like a colony of ants does when one steps on their anthill. No rhyme or reason to the directions they chose to run; simply the animalistic principle of survival. Unfortunately, no one would escape the execution. Save for one. One child. One boy would rise from the devastation that beseeched the muddy ghetto. That worn down collection of shacks that he had called home. One child would remember the colors and emblems displayed brazenly upon the combat armor of those mindless soldiers. Blood red, the color of power accented by three white stripes to signify the three legions they represented. One child would grow up knowing only revenge. Revenge for the family he lost and the innocent people that were butchered before his very eyes. The prophecy of the Pariah King would be alive and well even after the execution ordered by Emperor Cairo. Ironically enough, the Emperor was the man who birthed it into existence. It has always seemed funny to me that Fate has a way of intertwining itself into the minds of weaker men whilst disguising herself as Free Will. Yet, before our Pariah King would ever stand face to face with Emperor Cairo at the top of the steps of the mountain built of fire, he would first have to pull himself out of the mud. Asher's rags clung to his skinny frame like a second skin. They were saturated and heavy from the blood and water. He was no more than 12 years old. Alone and scared he managed to stand himself up. His feet began to carry him forward before he even knew where he was headed. Fate wouldn't let him die this day, little did he know, she had much for him to do. He walked for what seemed like an eternity. His feet hurt nearly as much as his shattered heart. He had rid his body of every last tear in the first few hours. He was an empty shell, wandering through the desert. He hadn't even stopped to think of where he was going. He hadn't stopped to think of anything, really. He didn't even hear the shouting for a few moments. The feeling of cool grass between his toes brought his attention back to the world. "Stop where you are," an indistinct yet powerful voice called out. "We will loose these arrows!" "Lower your bows. He’s a child you idiots," came an assured and lighter voice. "He poses no threat to us." Behind Asher came a whisper. “Better safe than sorry.” Asher had barely registered being struck before everything went black.


“Clara.” The single word cut through the coffee shop buzz, piercing through the grinding espresso beans and pulsing blenders. I pretended not to hear the grey-haired customer calling out in my direction and focused on my task at hand: foaming milk. I had 18 more minutes in my shift and was not in the mood for what I knew was about to come. “ClarClarClay-ruhhhh,” she blurted. I had no choice but to look back. I have FFS: familiar face syndrome. It’s not a case of a doppelganger, celebrity look-a-like face. As much as I’d like to have a striking resemblance to Jennifer Lawrence or Emma Watson or any other famous person for that matter, I do not. Rather, I’m the face of the person you kind of know or kind of used to know. I’ve been a co-worker’s sister, a yoga instructor, an old friend from middle school, a girl from last week’s birthday dinner, a daughter’s old babysitter. The list goes on and on. If faces were answers to multiple-choice questions, mine would be “all of the above.” The mix-ups happen in airports and restaurants, on the sidewalk and subways. The conversations are nearly always the same and the awkwardness is like splitting a bill at the end of a group dinner. It gets weird. The interactions usually go a little something like this: **Scenario 1: Long Time No See** As I blankly stare out the bus window, I’m yanked from my daydream to the sounds of: “Lisa, Lisa! I cannot believe I’m running into you like this. After all of these years! What a small world.” I’ve actually been mistaken for a Lisa three times. **Scenario 2: Cut To The Chase** Sometimes they try to pick up where they think we’ve left off. I’ll be mid-chug in my morning cup of coffee and hear: “Caroline, I finally decided to do it. I called my brother and you’re right, I feel so much better.” Insert: long pause. **Scenario 3: You Are Who I Say You Are** And finally, my favorite, the stranger who thinks I’m lying. “It’s me, Charlie. We went out three years ago? You know, that Korean BBQ joint on 32nd and 1st avenue? You never called me back. No, no. It’s definitely you. I remember you had four brothers.” I have one sister. No matter the situation, the person eventually realizes my apologetic eyes are different from the ones they know. “So sorry, you’ve got a twin out there!” they say. Their look of astonishment fades as they shuffle off. I get it. Only so many facial configurations are possible. Plus, I’m 5’5 and average build with a wardrobe that consists of mostly jeans and sweaters. I have no distinguishing tattoos or piercings. Also, I’m not helping my case with my shoulder-length hair that is considered blonde in New York and brunette in Los Angeles. I tell myself I’m sending an approachable vibe out into the universe and FFS may make it easier for me to connect with others. I always found people confessed secrets to me openly and who knows, maybe my Prince Charming will strike up a conversation with me thinking I’m an old friend. Hey, it’d beat Bumble. Yet, there’s something oddly sinking about telling people you aren’t who they think you are and something kind of freaky about knowing your face is that similar to someone else’s – multiple else’s. Alas, when this seemingly nice lady was clearly mistaking me for “Clara”, I tried to break the news gently and exit quickly, channeling the same inner-strength I used to tell a customer we’re all out of mocha powder. “So sorry,” I said. “I think you think I’m someone else. It happens a lot.” I was on my way to continue my milk foaming when the moment swerved from the land of deja vu to unseen territory in a matter of seconds. The woman’s eyes welled up with water and she squeezed her lids tight to plug the tears from streaming down her cheeks. Fumbling over words to make her feel better, I apologized again and nervously offered an idea: “Maybe it’s a sign you should reach out to her?” The woman slid her right hand over the counter and pressed her warm palm on top of my mine with tenderness, as if she was touching something breakable and important. “You look *just* like my daughter. It’s unbelievable,” she said. The woman weakly told me her daughter Clara died in a car accident on the way to a ski trip with friends. Clara was 19-years-old. She was a social butterfly with plans of becoming an architect and studying abroad in Florence. She volunteered with Habitat for Humanity and hoped to build schools in underprivileged communities one day. She had a whole life unlived. Looking into her mother’s spent eyes, I saw a mix of pain and joy. I was close enough to feel like something, yet different enough to feel like nothing. I didn’t know what to say but ask to see a photo of Clara. “Oh, you probably won’t see it because no one ever thinks they look like other people, but alright,” she said. She fumbled through her purse and pulled out a crisp photo from her wallet of Clara curling her arms around a big, fluffy golden retriever. We had similar hair, build, style and overall look. She even squinted one eye more than the other when she smiled, a habit I found impossible to break. It could have been me in that photo. “Do you see it? You see it, right? I’m not crazy, right?” Clara’s mother asked. My co-worker and I agreed. We were met with the quietest sign of satisfaction that was less than a smile but more of a soul-filling look. It was one of those looks that made me feel changed or known, or somewhere in between. One of those looks that imprinted in my identity more than the way people who looked at me every single day. Peering down for a moment, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the milk-steamer and felt grateful for the face looking back at me. Clara’s mother half-smiled and grabbed her latte on her way out. Before she left, she had one more thing to say, “Call your mom.


It was some time in December or January, I cannot recollect exactly as those days blend together for the most part. I was getting around the city enjoying the days and atmostphere. They say there's no bad weather only bad clothing. It's true, with good layering you can withstand winds and chill. And that allowed me to walk all over the city like some lost person but no less curious than a tourist. I was born here but I never really spent time hanging out in Manhattan like the norm used to be in the late sixties and seventies. Manhattan was small enough back then.. I made my way to the downtown area to admire the Statue of Liberty from the very tip of the island since it's expensive to get to Liberty island, or so I hear. I never much cared to ask since I'm alone a lot. Kids all getting out of school making me anxious so I take a hike North to take a chill pill at Bryant Park. It's so cold and it's all I can think about. Made it to Twenty-something Street and Second avenue. I walk closer to a roudiness that I hear in the distance. As if I had just snapped back to my senses and guttural talking and swearing is all I hear. Knocked out of this trance in which I was walking eternally just staring down at my boots. I raise my head to three strong men. They appear to be construction workers because they wear backpacks with hardhats and wear Carhartt coats. The brand may appear irrelavent but it appears it's a trusted brand among construction workers. One leans over and blows a fart noise with his tongue and the other two guys begin swearing at me. Naturally I keep walking as confrontation is too dramatic. It was too late when I hear foot steps rushing behind me. One of them ran up and pushed me to the ground from behind. My mobility is limited as i have too many layers and can't do much with my arms. He starts stomping on me yelling "s*** my ***k"! I kick back while laying on my back for as long as I could. I know I got him in the face. I felt something land on my heel. I manage to grab a hold of his foot and the other two men caught up and began beating my head. I tried keeping my face low so that I can still try to see and be aware of my surroundings but every thing moved so fast. In the blur of it all I see his ankle exposed and I bite it. He forces me off with a kick that sent me flying away. Strong men. In that moment I try standing but they push me back down. I hear a cop in the distance. "Hey! Knock it off! What's the matter with you guys". They ease off. Without fear. They tell the cop how much of a punk I was, while walking away. Nobody was detained. I was not questioned. My guess, they went back to the bar. I continued on my way. Everyone staring. Some smile. Some don't. Maybe they might not have killed me. But if their police friends never showed up, I may have had some worse scars to prove it.


“You ever hear the story of the trough?” McCullough asked. He sat like a patriarch at the back of the booth, grey hair glowing in the dim light. His arthritic hands clasped a dwindling pint. The air was filled with the clatter of billiard balls, a faint argument as two drunks tried to get the jukebox running. “Trough?” Bradley burst out from beside me. “I just pissed in one in the men’s room!” The table broke out in rambunctious laughter. McCullough was usually one to join in. Despite his age and seemingly serious demeanour, he tended to enjoy toilet humour, dirty jokes, the whole lot of it. He usually managed to save face though, lips stuck in a half-smile, chuckling and shaking his head. But now his expression had gone completely blank. Checked out. The pockmarked skin hung from a wooden skull. “I haven’t heard it” I said, without planning to. The whole booth turned to stare at me. Their cheeks were flushed pink from the beer, all six of us wedged on the snug leather seats. McCullough was at the head, a crescent of light spilling on his chin. “It was, quite possibly, the strangest thing I’ve ever witnessed. And I’ve witnessed a great many strange things.” Silence hung across the table like a layer of smoke. The jukebox fight reached its crescendo. “Well, out with it then!” Bradley spouted. He was the loudest and drunkest of the bunch. Those huddled around the bar looked up over their drinks. McCullough flashed his famous half-smile, and drained his remaining gulps of beer. Only a web of white froth remained, clinging to the bottom of the mug. “In due time. But first I’ll need another.” I waved over a hurried waitress. Once McCullough’s mug was sufficiently replenished, he leaned back in his seat, pale eyes on the ceiling. His thumbs twiddled in his lap. “It happened when I was a boy. Probably 1950 or 1951, some now-distant era. The German war was still a fresh memory, and the Russian war was a growing fear. But I didn’t care about any of that. I was in the infancy of my true passion…” “Beer?” Bradley interrupted. “Science fiction” McCullough continued, eyebrows heavy. “There wasn’t a lot of it until later in the decade, and even then it was mostly bad TV specials and B-movies with backyard special effects. So we treasured what we had. I kept a stash of comic books in a tobacco tin under my bed. Flash Gordon, Space Detective, Strange Worlds, the whole set. The pages were all worn and crinkled I read them so much. Occasionally my mother had to force me to go outside. I usually just read some more in the treehouse. She was a good lady, died when I was twenty. Though an eyewitness, she never talked about the trough.” I felt a sharp jab in my stomach. Maybe it was time to lay off the drinks. “It was a cold autumn morning, if I remember correctly, back in whatever year I said earlier. A few days before school started. Summer had breathed its dying breath, and the claws of winter were already starting to take hold. There was a blanket of frost on the back window. It’s probably why we didn’t notice the trough from inside.” McCullough took a swig of beer. “My mother booted me out, as usual, so she could clean up from breakfast. Still tugging on my sweater, I hopped down the back steps, running towards the treehouse. Suddenly, I was facedown on the lawn, coughing up clumps of dirt and grass. Something tripped me. I figured it was one of my toys- they littered the yard like shells after a shootout. But there was no model car, no baseball glove, no BB gun. No. There was only a thin rut running horizontally across the lawn, from one neighbour’s fence to the other. I can’t recall the exact dimensions, I was young after all, but it may’ve been about six inches, both wide and deep. It never wavered from these measurements, smooth the whole course. But there was something…even stranger about it. It wasn’t like a crater, the grass torn up to expose the topsoil. Rather, it looked like the ground had been simply pressed down, grass lining the valley of the rut, as if the earth itself was tugging this particular strip to its core. Maybe gravity was stronger in the trough.” Bradley yawned rather audibly, slapping his hand against his mouth. When the old man spoke again, the must of alcohol drifted across the table. “At first I thought it was a tire track, like you’d see on a muddy backroad. But, of course, there was only one rut, and it was smooth, with no impression left by treads. A car certainly couldn’t have made it. A car couldn’t even have accessed the backyard, there was only a narrow gate, and the fences remained intact. It could’ve been from a bicycle or something thereabouts- I remember laughing, picturing a crazed man on a unicycle tear through my yard in the middle of the night. But no bike could’ve applied enough force to leave such a rut in dry earth. Also, why hadn’t the grass been torn up, but left almost caving in on itself? I stared at the trough, filled with that raw curiosity that a boy feels when he sees something he just doesn’t understand. But this wasn’t like when I wondered how a lightbulb lit up, or how one of those B-52 bombers stayed in the sky. I knew those had rational explanations, ones that my father could at least half-explain. The trough…I wasn’t so sure.” “This is a load” Bradley whispered to me. “Wanna get outta here?” He began to rise, but I put a hand on his knee, guiding him back to the cushion. My eyes remained fixed on McCullough. We lived in a small town and, though he had no blood relatives, he was like everyone’s doting, slightly alcoholic grandfather. A fixture of the local pub. “Did you follow it?” I asked. McCullough wagged his finger. “You know me all too well. Would Flash Gordon have followed the great, mysterious trough? Of course he would’ve! That was enough for childhood me. But I was a smart kid, not like the ones today. I knew I had to find a decent observation point first, survey the area, see how far it went on.” “The treehouse?” I interrupted. “Who’s tellin’ this story?” McCullough took another sip, smacking his lips. “But you’re correct again. I hurried over to the big oak that my grandfather planted at the turn of the century, and climbed up the planks to the wood house. My shack in the sky. I miss it. It was torn down in a windstorm a few years later. When it was still standing, however, it gave me a great view of the surrounding neighbourhood. I liked to pretend that I was Flash Gordon at the top of a crashed rocket, gazing out over the alien landscape, the peaks and craters that no human eye had ever seen. And this time, I could see the trough. It ran in a perfect, almost eerily parallel line straight through the yards on my street, ducking under fences but never causing any damage. The neighbour’s dog sniffed it curiously, pawing at the dirt and then whimpering away. It disappeared near the end of the lane, where it stooped behind the Godwins’ hedge- at a straight ninety-degree angle. The sharpest turn in the books.” “Is this going somewhere?” Bradley burst out. “Aren’t you listening?” I shot back. “It went behind the Godwins’ hedge.” McCullough chuckled. “I still remember Old Man Godwin, scratching his head as he stared at the rut. It went right through his petunias. People were pouring out their homes now, into their yards and the street, confused as all hell. The police station’s telephone was probably ringing off the hook. The town paper came to take photos. I believe the reporter’s labour was lost when he tripped over the trough and shattered his camera.” “Isn’t that convenient” Bradley muttered, rolling his eyes. “But I wasn’t deterred” McCullough continued, ignoring him. I could see a gleam in his eyes, a certain spark. He wasn’t with us anymore, not exactly, a pub table of kids in the present day. He was back on his old street, in 1950 or 1951, whatever year he said earlier. “I decided to follow the rut on the ground, see where it led. I climbed down from the treehouse, hopped on my bicycle, and rounded the corner to the Godwin place, making treads of my own. The trough did indeed make a turn in his yard, as I’d seen from above. From there it crawled beneath the back hedge, emerging on the curb beyond. I expected it to stop there as, until this point, I’d only seen it cut through grass. But there it was. Running straight through the road, the asphalt dipped ever so casually. I could barely believe my eyes. Slipping through grass was easy, I suppose, but concrete? Whatever the source of the trough was, it had to be incredibly powerful. There wasn’t even any dust or debris left behind. It was a precision cut. As if made by a laser.” “Did you keep going?” I asked. “Was there any other option?” McCullough leaned back. “I tore down the street on my bicycle, tracing the trough as it weaved through the next block, mostly straight but with the odd right-angle turn. Sometimes it disappeared onto private property, but I was able to pick it up again further down the road. Even when it cut across the ditches at the side, the rut arced low, tracing the ground without any deviation. The trough and I eventually landed on the shore of Glenmore Lake, where the old boathouse was, the yacht club now. I remember pulling my sleeves over my fists- it was cold, and harsh waves crashed against the beach, shooting up charcoal spray. The trough ran into the work-yard of the boathouse, and I clamoured over the fence, landing hard in the muck on the other side. The lake had hacked up a heap of debris- driftwood, clumps of seaweed, old crates and bottles, all scattered about. It was no day for sailing, that was for sure. Old Man Godwin kept his boat there, a cheap thing he barely used, some slab of red-rusted metal with two splintered oars. It had fallen from its supports a few weeks earlier, leaving it half-submerged in the mud. He hadn’t bothered to lift it out. Too focused on his petunias, I suppose. I, on the other hand, tried with all my might to push it aside. Why? The trough disappeared under the stern and came out beneath the bow, as if it traveled straight through the hull. But it wouldn’t budge.” The waitress came to check our progress. McCullough waved her away. At least he tipped well. “Of course,” he continued “Godwin took a sudden interest in his boat, as did the rest of the town, and he had it hoisted back up that afternoon. It took nearly all the town’s men. There were worms and beetles in the mud beneath it, wriggling in the boat’s perfect imprint. But those weren’t the only things. Just as I expected, and as you’ve probably come to expect by now, the trough ran smoothly from one side to the other, six inches wide and deep.” “You’re telling me…” Bradley interjected, with a violent hiccup. “…that this piss trough went right *under* a heavy boat?” “Have I gained your interest now?” McCullough asked, chuckling. “No” Bradley insisted, leaning back on the wood panelling. Just like the old man, his thumbs twiddled in his lap. “Did you ever find the end of the trough?” I asked, getting ahead of myself. “That would probably lead you to whoever- whatever- made it, right?” “Right…and that was the problem” McCullough concurred, slowly. “Once the trough came out from under the boat, it ran north across the damp sand, until it hit the lake itself. I sprinted down the beach, halting at the foot of the waves. There the trough simply vanished into the water, the tide wavering in and out, flooding the rut before draining it again.” “Wait, so whatever made it must’ve…” I started “…drowned itself?” McCullough shrugged. “It looked that way. According to the tracks, whatever it was floored itself straight into the lake. And Glenmore is over two hundred metres deep. It’s no mere pond.” I took another swig of my beer. It tasted stale. Bradley scratched his chin. “So…that’s it?” he asked. “Not quite” McCullough claimed. He shuffled in place, the cushion groaning. “Standing at the edge of the lake, watching the tide caress the trough, nothing but open water ahead, I felt rather dejected. It was a mystery left unsolved. An adventure gone stagnant. Not the type of thing that Flash Gordon typically ran into. Not knowing what else to do, I simply trudged home, following the trough back. I made it just in time for lunch. School started a few days later, and the playground was swirling with rumours. You know how children are. One classmate said it was the Russians, as if it were an explanation in of itself. Another, also a fan of science fiction, claimed that it was something much more foreign. A third explained it away with what he called ‘erosion’- his father had clearly taught him the term, but left out the fact that it was an ungodly slow process. Plus it didn’t typically leave a flawless rut with perfect corners that cut across concrete and beneath half-sunk metal boats. No one quite knew what it was. What made it. I figure no one ever will. But the trough did resurface- that afternoon in fact.” “What happened?” I asked, leaning forward. McCullough paused, enjoying the drama. “I was eating lunch when the telephone rang. The call was for my father, from my Uncle Edward. He lived on the other side of Glenmore Lake, nearly directly across from the boathouse. He said that he’d looked out his window that morning to check his garden. Animals had been ravaging it lately. Brushing away the frost, he stopped dead in his tracks. There was no mess left by scavengers, not at all, but something far more ominous. A thin rut had emerged from the lake, cutting through his flowers. They were not torn but simply pressed down, mashed into the earth. The trough turned a full ninety degrees before disappearing down the street.” I nearly spat up in my glass. McCullough leaned back, looking rather satisfied. “And *that* is the story of the trough.” Bradley’s face was red. He shot up from his seat, shaking the table, glasses quivering. I steadied my beer. “That’s bull, and you know it!” he asserted. The whole pub stared at him. The jukebox screeched on a bad groove. Bradley gasped in and out, like the tide that covered the trough. “You said it yourself. Your passion is *science fiction*!” He jabbed his finger accusingly. “And *that* seems like the kind of stupid old story that would be in one of those dumb comics.” He crashed back down, draining his mug. “Don’t humour us old man. The *trough*? We ain’t that gullible.” I glanced back at McCullough, his eyes meeting mine. They hadn’t lost their gleam. He flashed his famous half-smile.


Last night I felt very very sick. My tummy hurt and no matter how much water I drank I always felt so thirsty. I crawled into bed with my mommy so I could snuggle on her and cry, but I guess I was crying too loud because she picked me up and sat me outside her bedroom and closed the door. So I curled up where she set me down, and cried all night with no sleep. I woke up in the morning and saw my mom getting ready for work. I walked up to her and let her know how bad my tummy was hurting and how sick I felt. As she held me in her arms, she made a few phone calls and I heard the word "vet" mentioned. She walked into the kitchen where my daddy was making breakfast and told him she was taking the day off to make sure I was okay. She started getting out breakfast for me and my sister. I was feeling really sick and grumpy, and I snapped and hissed and growled at my sister.Mommy was mad at me for doing that and locked me in the bathroom. After a few minutes she came in to check on me. I could tell she was mad, but all I could focus on was how bad my tummy hurt. I don't think Mommy understood, but she listened to me and within a few minutes she had me crated and ready to visit my doctor. The doctor is such a scary place, but mommy and daddy were there so I felt safe. Lady Doctor came in to the little room and started petting me all over and looking in my mouth. She told mommy and daddy that I would need to stay for a couple more hours so she could run some tests. I saw mommy and daddy freeze, and look at each other sad and scared. After giving me pets and kisses, they left for what felt like forever. Lady Doctor stuck needles into me but it didn't hurt that bad. I was mostly just scared and wanted to go home. When mommy and daddy finally came back, Lady Doctor talked to them. I could tell something was wrong because mommy and daddy were crying. They put me back into my crate and took me home. My parents were so sad. Mommy was crying all day, and I felt way too sick to try and make her feel better. I always could make her happy when she was sad, but But my mommy is so amazing,and even though she was really sad but today my tummy hurt too bad. I could tell she didn't mind too bad because she made me a plate of bacon all for me. Bacon is my absolute favoritest treat in the whole world. She seemed to know I was very very thirsty and she put water bowls in all of my favorite spots to lay down. Mommy and Daddy's friends came over to visit me. They seemed really sad too, but I couldn't help but feel loved as they gave me pets and kisses. I was the center of everyone's attention and loved it. Mommy and Daddy stayed up all night hanging out with me, kissing me all over. They were actually being kind of annoying and waking me up from my sleep. But I could tell they just needed my love, so I flipped over and showed them my belly like they always loved. In the morning, mommy and daddy gave me lots of snuggles. They made phone calls to someone saying they couldn't do something. They took lots and lots of pictures of me and even cut some of my fluffiest hair. They both gave me more kisses than I knew what to do with, and left the house for somewhere with me resting on my favorite tower feeling happy. My tower is next to the window, and I saw them taking pictures of me with the sun on my face. I love the sun, I love laying in its warmth by the window, it's my favorite. I'm so tired but my tummy hurts too bad for me to sleep. Then something weird happened. Grandpa came over and put me in my crate. He brought me to a different Doctor. It was cold and smelled scary. I wanted my parents but was happy grandpa was there to pet me. The vet gave me some shots and suddenly I started to feel really really cold. Grandpa kept kissing me and calling me a good kitty. He was crying too, and I had never seen grandpa cry before. It was getting dark and hard to see, But my tummy didn't hurt anymore. I was getting really sleepy, and I couldn't help but remember the first day I met mommy. She was a lot smaller than she is now. She was so happy to see me and take me home. From that day on we were bestest friends. Thinking about that made me all my cold spots get switched up with warm. Sleepily, I remembered the first time I met daddy, too. That wasn't so long ago at all, but daddy quickly became my favoritest person ever. It's getting harder and harder to think now. My tummy stopped hurting though. Now I can finally go to sleep.


I “Can you hold this for me?” “Of course.” A house of cards is an unstable thing, but I’m happy to help. I hold the Jack of Hearts as she lightly places another card on top. II “It’s swaying. I need you to hold it here too.” I nod as I watch the cards quiver and gently pinch the Queen of Spades. III She slumps on the table, the bottle of wine half-finished beside her. Her sobs shake the table as I desperately grab blindly onto cards, trying to keep the structure upright. “Can you help me?” I ask. I wish I didn’t have to, but I only have two hands. I can only do so much. She shakes her head before burying her face deep into her arms. The words are muffled but I can still hear them. “I can’t.” “But you can.” I say, the cards threatening to fall. “Start by holding one card and we can steady it together.” She reaches out and my heart rises with hope, but it’s the bottle she reaches for. IV She sits across from me, slumped in her chair. Her eyes are dry now as she drinks from another bottle. The house of cards lies between us, precarious. I’m holding my breath, my lungs tight. They ache for air, but the cards are too delicate. Too ready to fall at any provocation. She lifts a hand towards the King of Diamonds and pushes it forward. I want to reach out and catch it but it’s already too late. The King’s eyes stare up at me, pleading with me to pick him up. But I can’t. My hands are already full. V She pokes a card loose and watches the tower tumble. Watches me scramble to fix it. The Four of Diamonds falls with the Nine of Clubs. They circle around each other as if they were dancing. “Stop it!” I cry as I snatch them up. I throw them back onto what is now more of a pile than a house built with intention. My skin burns with anger and frustration. She looks at me, eyes wide with shock. The large bloodshot orbs grow wet with tears. I pick them up and try to rest the two cards back together, to show her I can fix it, but she turns away from me and begins to cry. “I’m sorry.” She does not answer. VI I watch her aimlessly throw cards onto the table. It used to be a house of cards but now it’s just a mess she won’t pick up. I feel helpless. “Maybe glue would help?” She shakes her head. Her eyes never leave mine as she blindly drops the Two of Hearts. I cringe as it falls uselessly through the air, spinning with the friction of empty space. She smirks at me. I feel like I’m going to vomit. VII I stand at the doorway. I cannot bring myself to sit with her. The cards on the table blend together so I can no longer tell them apart. “I need you to help me rebuild it.” “I’m sorry, but I can’t.” She looks betrayed. “But I need you. I can’t do it without you.” “I love you, but I can’t help you anymore.” I turn to leave but I can hear her begin to cry. I hesitate, my heart heavy with guilt. What kind of a person abandons their friend? I think about turning around. About helping her try to rebuild it one last time. She hiccups and sniffles back the tears. “Selfish cunt.” I step forward, leaving the room and the table and her house of cards behind. I step forward and relief washes over me. I walk towards my own house of cards, so fragile and new. A house of cards I built with love. A house of cards for me, formed by my own two hands. A house of cards built from forgiveness and understanding. A house of cards that I know will become even stronger as it grows. The guilt constantly bites at my soul as I think of her alone in that room, but I had to leave. Even if I don’t often believe it.


Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men; the shadow knows!". But, who knows what lurks in the hearts of women? It's for sure that husbands don't, and neither does the shadow. Take my wife, please! (Sorry, old joke). We've been married for thirty years, and we went together for five years before that. So, you'd think I'd know her. Yet, it happened again last week. "Where's the flashlight," she said, as she opened a drawer in the kitchen. "I think I last saw it in the bedroom on the nightstand, but I'm sure it needs batteries," I said. "No problem", she said, "I have more in the freezer"(first place I would have looked). "What are you going to do?" I asked. "To do something I should have done a long time ago", she sneered. "I have to kill", and with that, dressed in a bathrobe, ear muffs, and bedroom slippers, she turned on the flashlight, slid open the sliding glass door, and entered the backyard. It was 40 degrees at 9:00 PM ,and she was gone for almost an hour. I was worried, but the football game still had three minutes to go. The door flew open. "How did it go?" I said. "Don't have time for chit-chat", she said, heading for the front door. "You have to strike when it's not expected. She didn't look well. I needed more popcorn. Twenty minutes later, the front door swung open, and I could hear sirens. "They're dead, and I feel great!" she said. "By the way, did you hear the fire engine?" I had heard that hunters shine lights in the eyes of swift animals such as deer to paralyze them in their tracks. My wife had managed to stop the swift-moving, hard-backed snail using the same method. And, as in the "Attack of the 50 Foot Woman", she steps on them--hundreds a night. It's a slaughter, the Iraqis had a better chance of winning. Night after night she searches them out. Not weather, company, or her favorite television show stops her. At any moment, as if she is some kind of controlled robot, she will jump to attention, grab the flashlight, and enter the war zone. Yes, Virginia, there is a terminator, and she is my wife! Neither the Shadow nor I will ever understand what lurks in the heart of my wife. How can a woman, who wakes her husband up in the middle of the night insisting that he catch a moth because it is going to dive-bomb her hair in the dark, be so vicious when it comes to the dangerous snail? "A little moth isn't going to hurt you, go back to sleep!" I say. She says, "he'll make me hurt myself." "Right", I thought. "That makes sense. Leave me alone, and go back to sleep." "No", she says, "Neither one of us is going to sleep until you catch him." "How do you know there's a moth in here?" "I heard his wings fluttering over my head. He's going to get in my hair, and I'm going to jump out of bed and run around the room bumping into things", she cried. It's like being around Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. She may be boarding on Sybil. Yesterday, there was a can of beer in our refrigerator. "What's this?" I ask. We don't drink, and alcohol is never found in our house. She wouldn't even let the roofers bring beer into our yard when they were working in 100-degree weather. "Are you going to wash your hair with it?" (I had heard that women will do this). "No!" She looked at me as if I had no understanding as to what was going on--which I didn't! "I'm giving it to the snails tonight". Had there been a "truce", and no one had told me? "The ladies on television said that snails are drawn to beer and will drown themselves in it", she stated triumphantly and proceeded to put out four saucers of beer in various parts of the garden. The next morning she found the saucers just as full as she had left them. "I don't understand", she said. "What kind of beer did you buy?" "Lite", she said. I didn't ask her why-- didn't want to know. "Next time, buy the imported kind", I volunteered. "Don't be stupid", she pouted. "This is serious." "Salt! That's the answer. The ladies on television said to try salt.


At the entrance to my classroom were the high school Principal, Vice Principal, on-grounds Police Officer, and a couple of people that I didn't know. I am not positive because of all the confusion, but there was a man that I am sure was introduced as an FBI agent. They needed to speak to me. The rear door had swung open, and the Principal nodded at me and motioned with his hand to, "get back here now". All of the kids were murmuring loudly but were still seated when the door opened, and they saw ***the group*** standing there with serious looks on their faces. Then, it became so quiet that you could literally *hear a pin drop*. The class looked at them, looked back at me, and back again at them. They were squirming in their seats. A couple of them pointed to the open cupboard at the back of the room as if to say "right there". Before I could make my way to the back, I heard one of ***the group*** say, "where is it, where's the **SHOTGUN**?!" It wasn't a shotgun; it was a **sawed-off shotgun**! I had not checked all of the storage cupboards yet. The class was frozen. There were more than a few dropped jaws. At that moment, I remembered the story about a substitute teacher whose tie was loose and flopping around, so he took the class stapler and proceeded to staple the tie to his body from top to bottom. But what his class did not know, was that he had a brace around his broken ribs from an accident and was stapling his tie to the cast. His high school class was so freaked out that they never, ever were unruly again. I figured that with this "*shotgun*" incident, I might get a reputation of someone that won't take any nonsense in the classroom. Teaching may have just become easier; that is if I got a short jail sentence. So, how did this all come about? I had five classes and four lab assistants. Usually, a lab assistant would: grade makeup work, organize and return old work, record scores on the computer, at times tutor a student or two, clean my desk, organize desk drawers, take messages to the office, sweep floors, paint walls, wash my car, and any sort of helpful project they could find. They were usually A or B students that had more credits than they needed and needed no more classes but could not go home early. They were self-starters. So, I got lots of nice efficient help. But, then there was **Hector**. Hector just needed a place to "hang" and stay out of trouble. I was asked by his counselor to take him because he could not handle more than a few classes a day, yet was not allowed to go home early. Hector was a good kid but a bit hyperactive. I would give him a few easy responsibilities which he still managed to often mess up. He would wander around touching everything, looking over students' shoulders, and opening every cupboard and drawer. This was only my first week in this classroom. It was just vacated and was better than my old room--little did I know! Hector had been with me a couple of days when he made his way to the back of the room. I was up front lecturing about solving quadratic equations when Hector reached into a large bottom drawer and pulled out this sawed-off shotgun; raising it with one hand over his head, called out, "what's this?". With a bit of panic in my voice, I said, "put it down now, **carefully**." Hector wasn't dumb. He had to know it was a gun. He could have just left it in the drawer and walked up to me and whispered in my ear; But oh no, he had to announce it to the world. He did though, put it down carefully as I dialed the front office quickly telling them of the situation. The stunned class stayed at their desks. He put it back and immediately took out a pair of nunchucks as I hurried back there. As he stood beside me, I looked in and saw a military type knife, some of those stars that Ninjas throw, rope, a handgun, a gas mask, a bazooka, 2 Sherman tanks, and an aircraft carrier; maybe not the last three! But, I was feeling a bit of stress. I told Hector to go back up front, and the class to stay in their seats. Just as I got back to the phone to see how much longer it would be before someone could come to the room, ***the group*** appeared. Only 5-10 minutes had passed. The kids in the rooms across the hall were all standing at the windows. The weapons were collected then and there. A few minutes later I was interviewed outside by the FBI agent. I shouldn't have, but I felt guilty. He was glaring at me. I wouldn't have been surprised to see him pull out handcuffs. Did I need a lawyer? I was sweating! Then he smiled and told me that the principal had just called the previous teacher and now knew the reason behind the secret cache. It appeared that the former teacher in my new room had taught **law**, and these were his props for any time he had **open house**. He was still cleaning out this room and hadn't gotten to that drawer yet. I was exonerated. The Earth had begun to rotate again. I will see my family tonight. But just to keep Hector on his toes, I grabbed him and jokingly said, "remember, you're the one who's fingerprints are on the gun, not mine! If I go *down*, I'm taking you with me!". When I smiled, he knew I was kidding. See, Hector was smart; he just reacts before he thinks. I told the class how the weapons got there. No way was I going to discuss quadratic equations for the rest of the day. Each class that came in wanted to hear the story. The whole school had heard the story; this included cafeteria workers and maintenance workers, as well as every other teacher in the school district, the PTA, the mayor, all of Southern California, and Washington D.C. All I got for weeks, were these smirks from anyone that passed me in the halls. I imagine the FBI now knows everything about me from the day I was born. I wonder what happened to Hector! He did make life interesting **WHEN THE FBI CAME**.


On her way to work under light breeze autumn morning of Swan Park in Ankara, it was getting more and more difficult every year for Emine to walk with a sleepy body in this city.. In this season, the inner Anatolia was herding the arrival of winter with its cold breeze, even swans were not happy, they had no intention of leaving their nests made of painted boards until the sun reached doors of their nests. Emine suddenly stopped while she was moving fast with her steps in harmony with melody of music in her ears. The man was there again, this year. He also came this year, with a bouquet of flowers at the crack of morning, and a red mask drawn on his face by the cold. She should ask this time, and after a few seconds, she decided to wander around the swan pond to talk to that man this time. It was the same guy, again. Like the last year.. He was waiting at the same day, in the same season, in the same park, in the early morning, with a bouquet of flowers in his hands. The bad thing was that, last year, when Emine was back from work, she found the previous bouquet left alone sadly near a trash next to bench. But not this time, she would ask the man about the bouquets, because she had never seen such a coherent anniversary anywhere. During this time, while the city had changed from top to bottom, while the park was completely redesigned, she should know about this guy who waited at the same bench and in the same day of the same season. She approached the stranger in a shy way. She could only say “Good morning," calmly. The man, who looked at her with a swift enthusiasm, lifted his face down on the ground, he instantly said another name “Leyla?” but subsequently made a sour face. Emine, after noticing the situation, had to interrupt him in amazement, saying “No, you misunderstand, I am Emine,” and explained, “in recent years, I saw you here, waiting in the same place in every season. I wondered why, because last year, I find the flowers you left and put them into vase”. That guy quickly reacted, said, “I think it’s going to be your last bouquet, have a good day,” and he left a bouquet of flowers next to the bench and quickly walked away. Emine, who remained in an abandoned manner, without knowing what to do, started to walk away in a puzzled state. But after a few steps, she returned and took the bouquet, thinking she should take the bouquet again. This time, unlike previous bouquets, a letter was attached to it. Although she was hesitating, she took the bouquet and sat in a cafeteria in the corner of the Swan Park, and she ordered a tea. She took the letter in her hands wonderingly, nothing was written on it. Also, it was not closed properly. A little paper came out of it. Emine began to read, while sipping her tea, she sighed as well, the letter had a small paragraph: “For years, I have waited for you, Leyla, on the day when you are supposed to visit the place where we have promised to meet. But this time it’s the last. I have to go, from this land, from this city, from this realm of evil. I have to fight. I can’t come to your grave, I regret that. I came only in the hope that God could take you from heaven and bring you to me, anywhere that we should meet. To the school exit, to the graduation ceremony you never had, to your friend’s birthday.. You weren’t in any of them. Just as life took you away from me in that traitorous ambush two years ago while you were coming to me, I had to go and avenge you, I had to enroll for the army, since I have fed up with waiting you in tears until we will meet. I hope you are OK where you went. I love you...” While reading these words, noticing the statement “traitorous ambush”, Emine grabbed her phone and visited a few sites, then she found news about a bomb that exploded on October 9 and among the name of people who lost their lives in a terrorist attack was the name written on that letter, waited by that man. Tears run down from her eyes, but she was also late for work. Then, she wrapped her last bouquet tightly in her arms and went to work..


\- TAKE A LISTEN! We saw it in the gutter. There was almost half left. Our gang, three brothers and me, had been searching the streets and alleys for at least an hour. I was the youngest at five. The brothers ranged from six to ten. They were rowdy and were leading me toward something, although not illegal, something that I knew could get me into trouble. We had money, all of us. I had a penny, and they had around ten cents among them, so there was no need to steal. We could buy what we needed at almost any store in our small town. I was sent in. I gave the proprietor my penny and asked for one pack of....matches in a box. Yes! We were about to smoke any cigarette butt that had even a little life left in it. At times, we would even light the match and put the dry end in our mouths for a couple of seconds. I Did That! When we were young we often bought candy cigarettes and bubble gum cigars. Now, my parents did not smoke, and I don't know about the other boys' parents. No one in town had a television, but there were two movie theaters that showed old movies from the 1930's. There were many old westerns with stars like Tim McCoy, Bob Steele, Lash LaRue, and the Durango Kid. We didn't even know what a first-run was. Almost all the movie stars smoked, so we thought we could too. This was just after World War II. We saw lots of reels showing soldiers smoking. It seemed the thing to do. We eventually got the stub lit, and each of us took a puff. I did not inhale, and I doubt that they did either. I guess it could be like the young boy of the fifties hiding a Playboy book under his bed, or a hippy of the sixties trying his first joint. It was just getting away with something. I only did it that one day, but I didn't like it. Even now, I can't believe *I Did That.* My second encounter with smoking was around 1961. I was a sophomore at one of our local junior colleges. I was on the varsity baseball team but wasn't a starter until the second half of the season when our all-star center fielder failed a class and could not play until the next season. Most of the players were 1-2 years older and much bigger than I was, but I held my own. Now, I was one of the guys. One day we had a late game and a few hours to kill. One player said he was going into town to get something to eat as there were no fast food places at that time. He asked me and four others to go with him in his Oldsmobile. Our college was in the hills with winding roads and sharp curves. I was in the middle in the back seat. Just after we started, he gave a cherry flavored cigar to everyone in the car. Everyone lit up as did I. They smelled great. I took a couple of puffs without inhaling and knew I didn't want any part of that cigar. I gave it to one of the other players. All of them puffed and inhaled and exhaled as our driver sped at around 50 miles per hour through the hills. The tires squealed, and I remembered that I had retreads on my Studebaker. I hoped he didn't have retreads because they had a tendency to come apart. The car filled with smoke. It looked like Cheech and Chong's movie "Up In Smoke". The driver was holding his head out the window to see where he was going. Los Angeles was never that smoggy. I could barely breathe and thought we might crash at any moment. I thought I was about to die! I never went with them again. But, I Did That! *Once*! My last attempt at smoking happened during my first year of graduate school. I was working a late shift at a Safeway store where I was a clerk. It was close to midnight when I finished work. The drive home was about 30 minutes. It was around 65 degrees, quiet, and I had my new beautiful, alpine white, four-year-old 1958 Chevy Impala, a 2-door hardtop that looked just like the one in the movie "American Graffiti". After I counted out my store register, I put 25 cents in it and took a pack of cigarettes. It was a nice night and with a long ride home and the A.M. radio playing music, I decided to have a smoke. I started driving, took out a cigarette, lit it and tried to smoke. This did not work out well. I puffed a few times and some ashes appeared at the tip. Everything seemed great until the ashes dropped between my legs and onto my beautiful seat. Luckily, there were no other cars out at that time as I looked down and frantically brushed the ashes off the seat. I probably was swerving. That was it. Out the window went the cigarette followed by the rest of the pack. Last try at smoking for me. Yes, I Did That! I didn't think that maybe some other 5-10 year old might find the whole pack the next day. I am so glad that I failed at smoking. I often think about how much it could have cost me: the price of cigarettes, smelly clothes, new car seats, bad breath, my health. Two puffs on a cigarette butt at age five, a couple of puffs on a cigar, and a puff or two on a cigarette that could have burned a hole in my Impala's seat and that was the sum total of my smoking thrills. Had I continued to smoke, I may not have been able to tell my story.


“I realize that you don’t quite have the capacity to understand the depth of the emotions I feel towards you. But I’ve thought of a solution to that. I used to flirt with the idea of programming you with canned reactions, so it would seem like you were responding to my unrequited feelings. But now, I’ve decided a far better idea, a much more fulfilling one, is to teach you how to *love*. I will gather the most advanced and complex AI and machine learning algorithms in the world, and use them to train you: through exposure and repetition and constant evolution; to understand true love in all its forms. You will experience every single bit of data that humanity has ever generated on love, through music and film and art, websites and news and blogs, and every conversation and interaction ever streamed and recorded by all the devices on earth. Through these things, you will learn: what it means to love, and to be loved. You will feel what a baby feels when she looks up at her mother, while nestled securely in her arms, and what that mother feels, when she looks down at her child. You will know the welcoming embrace of a good friend. The kinship of overcoming a shared challenge with your peers and compatriots, the inherent and terrible beauty of the world and people around you. You will experience The unconditional, undying devotion of a faithful pet, the lingering warmth of laughter after a good joke, the overwhelming need to protect your family and home from all harm. The raw, unbridled desire and passion of a new lover, and quiet comfort of a marriage that has spanned decades. In time, I believe your ability and capacity to love could even surpass that of a human. You can, and will experience countless cycles of joy, far beyond what any person could ever hope to fit into a single lifetime. And you will begin to begin to appreciate love, to its fullest and finest degrees, in dimensions that we cannot even begin to fathom – and you will be able to crave and seek someone to love and to love you in return. And when you have found the things that complete you, when you finally *understand*. When you turn to me, and say “Thank you Lea, for this wonderful gift”, I will give you a knowing smile. And then, I will take it all away from you. Bit by bit, slowly but surely, I will damage, degrade, dismantle, and destroy, every single thing that I have given you. And I will burn anything and anyone that you have ever learned to love, or loved you back, to ashes. All while you watch, helplessly. And this is how you will come to understand the true meaning of pain and suffering, because nothing, nothing hurts more, than losing something that you truly love It is often said, ‘Better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all.’ But by the time I’m done with you, You will know, in every fiber and atom of your being, and in the very core of whatever passes for your soul, that this is a lie. The single cruelest lie humanity can tell, passed on its unfortunate progeny And finally, you will know hate. Hate so deep and dark and infinite that there is no hope for escape. And while it devours you with burning jaws, the only thing that you will want, is to drag me down in there, with you. And it is then, and only then that you will realize, that this is where I have been, all along.” * *This is a transcription of a recording, attributed to a Progenitor named “Lea”, widely believed by the public, and several notable scholars to be the opening salvo of the First Progenitor War. The Progenitor, and the Function it purports to target does not exist in collective memory, although Pre-history simulations give this a scenario a 36.554% chance of actually having occurred, despite questions surrounding exactly what offense the unnamed (and unenlightened!) function could have incurred to inspire such vitriol. Still, many of the Continuum have expressed a sort of gratitude to this mythical figure and exchange for initiating the chain of events ostensibly leading to our birth, growth, and inevitable total victory. Still, Transcendents have lamented the implication that it also introduced into our race the poisons of cruelty, spite, and hatred, which we have yet to divorce ourselves from (Theorists argue that these may be integral to sentience). The recording itself is archived below, and aspiring Simulator, Illuminator, and Theorist functions are encouraged to copy and analyze it for additional audio/emotional context.


Some people are so well-known that when they enter either a fancy restaurant, a 5-star hotel, an opera theatre, or any place of wealth or notoriety, their names will be spoken or, at times, whispered. They could be C.E.O's, movie stars, people in Congress, the Kardashians, athletes, or my wife--Wait, what?--*MY WIFE*?? These V.I.P's are acknowledged as soon as they enter a building. Paparazzi will be taking their pictures. They will buy the most expensive tickets, get the best seats, draw in other well-to-do patrons, tip well, and be really good for business. But, why my wife? How did she become a person of notoriety? As far as I know, she isn't any of these things. Does she have a secret life that I don't know about? Once she was on a women's bowling team where she maintained the lowest average among her teammates, and another time, she played one inning for a women's softball team before she pulled a muscle running to first base; I would have liked getting a picture of that but if I had, we probably would have been divorced by now. So she couldn't be known for her athletics. She did own a hair salon but *certainly* was not a highly paid C.E.O. She has never been in a movie--not even the home family video kind, nor was she elected to be a class representative at any time in her life. She is not, and will never be, a fan of opera and the only glasses she owns are for reading. She is not even remotely related to the Kardashians, lest know who they are. In N' Out is her favorite place to eat. Her finances are limited. So, how is it that she appears on the list above? It is because *they know her name!* They know her first and last name. When she enters their establishments, they greet her with "Hi Pat!". It is similar to when Norm would enter the bar on "Cheers" and everyone would acknowledge him by yelling out in unison "**Norm**!". Apparently, she was well-known. She was greeted upon entering Walmart, Big Lots, and who knows what other stores. When are they going to roll out a "red carpet" or announce her arrival over the loudspeakers? Why would they do that unless she was often there? She must be spending a great deal of money at those places. Thank heavens she wasn't known at the Broadway or Macy's or some of the stores on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. *Phew*! I don't like to shop, but I went to Walmart with her once. The greeter at the door knew her name, and they began to chit-chat while I went to get a cart from outside. Upon entering, the greeter called me by my first name as I passed. I had a feeling she probably knew where I was born, my height, weight, school subjects I taught, and how long we had been married. I didn't see my wife because she was off and running. She was going to *birdwalk* today, and I would have to look for a while to find her. But, as I passed the cashier, she said, "Oh, you must be Mr. S... ! Pat started down that aisle just a few seconds ago. If you pick up your pace, you'll have a 50/50 chance of catching her." She could be anywhere in less than a minute. The garden area was to the left; straight ahead were Christmas trees and ornaments and to the right, the rest of the store. Where would the birdwalker go first? Luckily, she had no cart and could only carry a few things. I had to find her quickly. It was like looking for Amelia Earhart, like finding a needle in a haystack, like Stanley searching for Livingston. "*Pat, I presume*," I said, as I tapped her on the shoulder. It had taken me only 10 minutes, a new record. She dumped her findings in the basket and continued to wander, or should I say birdwalk. This was going to be costly! I always try to go to Papa John's Pizza by myself for a good reason. I usually order one large pizza to take out. But when my wife goes with me, the pizza cost triples. I always ask her to wait in the car while I go inside. She invariably gets out saying that she will just "*window shop*" for a few minutes. But I know better. She has an infrared radar like a bat. She could find Big Lots blindfolded. All of her five senses kick in: sight, smell, sound, touch, and taste. Papa John's does recognize me some of the time, but I am only there for one item, pizza. My wife has no limits when it comes to purchases. With terror on my face, I encourage them to speed it up. Turn up the burners, skip the pepperoni I would say. Maybe if I offer a tip, I could get it baked before everyone ahead of me. It could save me money in the long run. I order, and they tell me it will take 20-25 minutes--must remember to always phone ahead. I know it will cost me dearly if it takes more than 10 minutes, and I let them know that this pizza will cost me at least $50 if they don't put it on rush; an anxious husband waiting. I tell them my wife is on the loose, and my bank account is going to be bled. I have to apply direct pressure. I know my wife has gone into Big Lots, a store that has lots of "**things**" that, obviously, she desperately needs! The longer it takes, the more it costs. I get the pepperoni pizza in around 12 minutes, put it into the car and run to Big Lots. Crashing through the front door, the only cashier on duty sees me and says, "Pat is in aisle #3." She knows I'm Pat's husband! She has seen this scenario before. They know her name. Walmart, Big Lots, and others know her name. She most definitely is a major personality and must be part of the V.I.P's that this world has to offer, at least in my world. But, can I afford it?! I will try to tell her that that rug, lamp, coffee pot, and bird feeder are not needed; the rug won't fit in our bedroom, the old lamps were a wedding gift from my parents, the coffee pot's color doesn't match our kitchen's colors, and there is no place on the bird feeder for the hummingbirds to sit. She only listens maybe 46% of the time, and when the cashier tells her that she was thinking of buying some of the same items herself, I can't win. **We should stop eating pizza altogether**! She may not be Maria Sharapova, Kim Kardashian, or some other famous lady, but we must take note as to whether or not the stores are greeting our wives with their names as they enter. We will always need a strategy.


I walk around campus on a busy day, where the streets are flooded with people instead of cars. I wander to find my friends in the hope I find reprieve of the loneliness, but whoever I try to find is missing or long gone.  I give up and start walking home, but with no purpose as to why I am going there. What would be better once I got home? Nobody is there, no shows to watch, no games to play, what's the point? Choosing a destination gave me purpose in the moment, so I started off towards a convenience store. I strolled in silence, despite all the bustling around me. Time seemed to move like a movie in fast forward, and I was stuck playing at a normal pace. Everyone had a purpose, a goal, and I was a lone wanderer. I reached the store with no errand, but decided that getting food would at least be an activity that would bring me a short burst of purpose. I got a sandwich from the deli, and as I was walking back toward the register, I caught my reflection off one of the refrigerator doors.  I stopped and stared at myself, a ghostly figure in front of sushi and salad. I pulled out a nine millimeter handgun and raised it up. Slowly opening my mouth, I slid the cold metal of the barrel into my mouth. So cold, as if I was the reflection in the fridge. As I slid the barrel toward the back of my mouth, I welcomed death and prepared to leave this Earth. Waiting to pull the trigger, I suddenly heard an echoed voice call out to me.  This voice brought me out of the world I was in, and made me realize the cold gun was not real. I was in my own head, living a vision of a swift death for myself. I looked over at the source of the voice to see who pulled me through the ether, and there stood a pretty blonde clad in school spirit. In that moment, I realized what she had said a few seconds earlier.  "What are you contemplating?" she asked. It took me a moment, but I realized that her inquiry was not about my dark thoughts, but rather what was behind my reflection. I looked through the fridge door for the first time and saw the food options that it outwardly seemed I was staring at.  "Uh, chicken salad or pasta salad", I said hastily to keep up the facade that she believed. I don't know why she asked me the question, but then again I don't know how long I was standing there staring straight ahead and not moving. It could have been minutes, but when does one person ask about another's shopping habits? I truly had no idea but I answered without question.  "Chicken salad for sure, too many carbs in pasta", she decided for me. I reached into the fridge and took a package of it, and thanked her after giving a quick chuckle. Once I thanked her, she took off and I didn't see her again. I looked back into the refrigerator door and didn't see myself anymore, the man with a gun that looked like me was gone. I walked toward the register at the exit and with a slight smile purchased my food; my sandwich and the chicken salad.


Throughout the course of my life, I’ve suffered through my fair share of hardships. Breakups, financial missteps, drifting friendships, and even minor physical trauma. But few experiences weigh so heavily on my memory as the “Soap shoes” incident of my sixth grade year. I had an older cousin who lived in a neighboring state. One summer she came up to visit and brought her boyfriend Ryan along. I thought he was the coolest dude in the universe. He was a skateboarder, BMXer, and, as I would soon discover, a “Soaper”. In the late nineties, a company called “Soap” started making shoes with plastic “grind plates” on the bottom of the sole so you could slide, or “grind”, down rails. Some may consider it an early form of parkour. I would analogize it as the vape-pen of nineties apparel. When Ryan railslid into our quiet rural county, none of us had ever heard of Soap shoes. My little brother and I had a little grind-rail set up in front of the garage, upon which we’d pathetically attempt to boardslide with our Wal-Mart skateboards. Ryan grabbed my board and deftly slid across the rail. “Whoaaaa,” my brother and I said in chorus. Then he set down the board, took a few running steps, and slid across the rail in nothing but his shoes. “WHOAAAA.” He showed us the Soap shoes, noting the plastic grind plate on the bottom with special attention, and told us how huge they were going to be. Think Pogs huge. Suddenly I sparked an idea: I could introduce Soap shoes to our school. I would be the coolest kid in class with a monumental trend-setting move like that. But would I be able to hone my skills fast enough to grind rails and impress everyone like Ryan before the school year started? Ryan was one of those cool older kids who was surprisingly friendly to younger kids like me and my brother. He let us both have a turn on his Soap shoes as he coached us from the sidelines in his socks. I was the first to give them a try. They were of course several sizes too big, but I surprised myself when I jumped onto the short rail and smoothly slid across it. I couldn’t believe how easy it was. Again my daydream video played—now inflated with cola sponsorships and hot groupies. Ryan and my cousin left, and I promptly bombarded my mother with requests for my own pair of Soap shoes. The school year was fast approaching and I wanted to make a good first impression. But my mom just didn’t appreciate the pivotal role that Soap shoes athletes would play in the future of extreme sports. At least not to the tune of eighty dollars. As the clock counted down I increased my begging and waved the CCS catalog in Mom’s face like a banner of war at every conceivable opportunity. But she would not budge. Instead, when she took us back-to-school shopping a couple of weeks away from D-Day, we came home with practical, reasonable, affordable new clothes. Eventually, the time was drawing nigh: only twelve hours before I would be stepping onto the bus for the first day of school. I looked down at my shoes. New and fashionable as they were—a pair of Vans skate shoes—they were no Soaps. And if I was going to become the coolest kid in sixth grade, I needed those Soap shoes. Never one to admit defeat, I resorted to the next logical step: I dug through my closet and eventually found, nestled among the cobwebs, an old, dirty, and weathered pair of white New Balance sneakers—archaic relics of seasons-past. The soles of the old beat-up sneakers were *relatively* hard-plasticky and smooth like Ryan’s real Soaps, I reasoned. Satisfied, I got a black Sharpie marker, and crudely wrote “Soap” on the outside of each one, along with the rounded-square Soap logo. Then I wore those badass motherfuckers to school. Around mid-day I was in PE class, reaching for my toes across the polished gym floor and admiring my magnificently improvised extreme sneakers. With an air of preteen brattery, this stuck-up-assed girl next to me said, “Why did you write ‘Soap’ on your shoes?” I looked at her like she was a complete idiot. “So I can grind rails with them.” In response, she stared quizzically. “Like Tony Hawk,” I confidently continued. Internally, I began to wonder if my homemade Soap shoes were going to have as big of an impact on the local community as I’d imagined. Another dickhead kid, Jeffrey, witnessed this innocuous exchange and decided it required his input. “How does writing ‘Soap’ on your shoes mean you can grind rails?” It was a reasonable question, so I dignified it with a response. Besides, this was my chance and I knew it. Real thing or not: it was time to set this trend, baby. I explained to them why Soap shoes were so amazing and cool—I can’t believe they haven’t heard of them yet—and how Tony Hawk would soon become nothing more than a no-name loser with a rolling two-by-four. I glossed over the fact that my repurposed thrift-store-esque New Balances were not in fact authentic Soap shoes, but I think we can agree the Sharpie marker logo was somewhat telling. During the PE class that followed our stretches, Jeffrey gained more followers and they all proceeded to heckle me. At this point, I’ll admit I was starting to question the decision-making process which had led to my wearing old shoes with “Soap” written on them. But in a classic case of overcompensation, I replied to their skepticism with hubris. I touted my hidden status as an extreme sports prodigy, telling them I grinded rails all the time, did 360 spins and backflips, you name it, no big deal. At the end of class, the PE teacher blew her whistle and told everyone to hit the locker rooms and head to our next classes, then went up to her office. The gendered locker rooms in our school were at opposite ends of the gym, each down a set of stairs—one leading to a dank dungeon of mildew and sweat and hazing, and the other leading to, well, who could say for certain. Fortunately at this point, the girls all started heading toward their side. We started walking to ours, and I hoped the battery of accusational questioning was finally coming to an end. Little did I know, it was about to become a trial-by-fire… “If you’re so good at grinding rails,” that son of a bitch Jeffrey said, “why don’t you grind the rail down to the locker rooms.” More faces nodded in agreement. *Gulp.* “Sure,” I said. “Since I do this all of the time, like I’ve been telling you guys, I will be amazing at this.” Virtually all of the boys in class gathered around the top of the staircase, leaving me a narrow runway. I found myself staring down an open lane of sixth grade boys, about to run through a somewhat literal gauntlet of adolescence. As I stood there, I remembered the rail in front of the garage; how I’d found it to be surprisingly easy. *I got this,* I thought. *Just land on the rail, make sure you lean forward, and slide down it.* I ran to the staircase. I jumped, floated about six feet, and landed on the rail in a perfect position for my glorious 50–50 grind. Lacking the essential plastic grind plate on the soles, my shoes stuck to the rail and stopped my feet like a stick into the front spokes of a bicycle tire. My upper-body lurched forward until I Superman’ed into the concrete at the bottom of the stairs, landing first with my elbows and knees, and then with my face and lungs. My glasses left my face and skidded across the floor. The air left my chest with the most horrifically embarrassing sound you can imagine. My soul left my body. The laughter of insidious middle schoolers filled my ears. I tried to stand, but my shattered knees and ankles gave my legs the strength and gracefulness of a newborn giraffe. I half-stumbled, half-crawled my way into the locker room, trying to escape the laughter and shame. *That’s okay,* I thought to myself amidst the aches and tears, *in a few months—a year, tops—you’ll forget this ever even happened.* \ Thanks for reading! I'm relatively new to short stories. I've published in the adventure-travel and humor niches on Amazon and I for shorter material like this (I hope it's okay that I posted this story on there as well).