text: Somewhere in the backwoods of Arkansas, thirty miles southwest of Hot Springs rests a quiet little town called Glenwood. Not much happens here, according to most peoples knowledge. However, this collection of short stories is not about your run of the mill common folk, and believe me they are just as real as they are surrealistically absurd. Most of these tales are the sum of highly intelligent and morally ambiguous individuals fueled by drugs, alcohol, and a strange sense of chaotic pack mentality, and I being fortunate and sober enough to bear testimony to these bizarre events. But don’t get me wrong, I am no innocent bystander amidst the chaos. Often times if you were brave enough you could find me somewhere in the fray, adding my own unique color to the sea of ambiguity. Due to some disconnect with the ways of the world, and their unwillingness to bend in the wake of society’s ever changing whims, they often found themselves in too deep and over their heads, but managing by some miracle to come out on top smelling like a rose. EARLY LESSONS. It is my belief there are three major events in a young boy’s life that let him know he is coming into his own as a man. 1 Losing your virginity. As a man the loss of your innocence marks you as an accomplished individual in the eyes of your peers. To the naive late bloomers you appear as a caterpillar that has emerged from a cocoon of wisdom with some other-worldly knowledge that you can’t acquire without firsthand experience. 2 Getting behind the wheel of a car alone. Nothing is more thrilling than the first few inches of pavement passing precariously between you and the barely functioning, half ton metal death machine, and the realization of the power you wield while careening down the black top. 3 The ultimate lesson. The third and probably most important, albeit least recognized event, is the epiphany that the people responsible for bringing you into this world do not have the infallible wisdom they believe themselves to possess. This tale being the nature of the third This story fell into my lap one mild fall evening after the whiskey had once again dampened our lips and freed our tongues from the chains of modesty. Cigarette smoke hung in the still night air like a looming fog, and the porch lights soft ambiance provided a contrast to the grating uproar that had begun around the small plastic table rattling dangerously around the wooden porch, threatening to spill the last of the ever dwindling manna that kept us in good spirits. Then suddenly a victor rose above the noise to claim his rightful crown as the evening’s story teller, and sole witness to the epic stupidity that befell him as a child. D. See, was a young boy around the age of five during this event. His father began a short drive home from a gentleman’s softball game. The 1973 Pontiac Ventura II had its wing vent open while the engine rumbled out in a low loping tone, barely minding the speed limit.Then out of nowhere, a thud emanated from the driver side wing vent, causing a generous application of the brakes. D. Sees’ father flipped on the cab lights to investigate the back seat before the vehicle managed to come to a complete stop. To his surprise a moderately sized screech owl had the misfortune of being sucked into the cars’ wing vents, and hurled into the back seat, where it lay dazed from the impact. Now any rational man would simply toss the creature out and keep driving, but that was far from what happened. For reasons known only to Mr. See, he captured the creature in his softball mitt and spent the rest of the drive home trying to figure out a way to profit from his new found avian friend. It wasn't until he had placed the poor feathery bastard in a cage and achieved a full night sleep did his long unforeseen dreams of being a falconer come to full fruition. Nearly by reflex I interjected in the face of the blatant ignorance that would soon come to pass. “You can’t be serious?” My glassy eyed cohort turned to me in his stupor, but the gleam in the back of his vision revealed the utmost sincerity with his reply. “I’m serious as cancer buddy.” A roar of laughter ensued from the crowd. “So what happened next?” Came an impatient slur from another intoxicated crew member on the edge of his seat. “I’m getting to that.” D. See said with some unusual clarity as he poured another shot to build dramatic tension. D. See kicked back the whiskey with ease, and then released a refreshing sigh, slapping the shot glass onto the table. “Roll me a fat one while I talk.” The group obliged, bringing forth the tribes designated joint crafter to work his dexterous magic into the item their temporary chieftain coveted so dearly. “Now where was I again?” D. See leaned back in his chair with a finger over pursed lips as his eyes fell back to that distant haze of nostalgia. Mr. See awoke that morning with a gleam in his eyes as radiant as the dawning sun. With the glee of a child on Christmas morning he hurried off to his work shed to prepare his “falconing attire.” This included the following: Bailing twine, an apron, and elbow length welding gloves that looked more like gauntlets. After securing the gauntlets with bailing twine Mr. See, was ready to begin training. The owl was ready too. It had spent the entire night stewing on the fact it had been flung into a cage that sat in the back of a rundown school bus, for reasons it could only begin to guess at. The owl heard the approach of Mr. See, and knew the plan it had concocted to make its daring escape were moments from inception. Mr. See opened the back door to the school bus and gingerly flipped the latch to the owls’ cage. The thing made no attempt to resist but kept a keen eye on Mr. See as it was lifted out of the wired prison. The owl made a quick assessment of the surroundings looking left, then right, then back to Mr. See, who was beside himself at this point. Then the creature unleashed its wild rage upon its captor all at once. It craned its neck around and bit through the welding glove with the force of a sledgehammer, latching itself to Mr. Sees’ thumb. The man howled in pain and tried to release the offending critter, wanting nothing more to do with it, but the thing refused to let go. Mr. See bolted through his front yard, arms flailing wildly, with the screeching bird in tow. At that point Mr. See found himself next to a large oak tree, and proceeded to beat the little bastard senseless against it until the enraged animal released his thumb. Finally, the owl unhinged its vice like grip and flopped to the ground where it shook off the daze. The owl ruffled its feathers as a last act of defiance before it flew off into the morning sunrise, leaving D. Sees father to lick his wounds.