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The Biggest Small Town in America

He heard that people who move to Philly either love it or hate it, no in-betweens. Nearly two years have passed since his arrival and, decidedly, he counts as one of the lovers. After a period of shyness, he met Rose the same way he met most of the people he knows in the city – by being himself and having the balls to do what he felt was the right thing at the time. In the case of meeting Rose, having balls and doing what felt right just meant pushing his way through a crowd of people to get her a drink at a party where he'd caught a look in her eye of hopeless frustration.

When his dinner guests begin to arrive, he's preparing a salad. He expects nine people, five of whom he knows. The other four are Rose's friends Suki and Annabeth plus their boyfriends, and this little group arrives last, knocking on his rented row home door just as he removes a roast from the oven. Suki and Annabeth hug Rose and wish her a happy birthday while the others all introduce themselves. He places the roast on top of the stove and joins them in his living / dining room, where he immediately recognizes Suki and Annabeth's boyfriends. A sudden feeling of having come full circle in Philadelphia overtakes him.

"Linc, hey," says Rose, "come meet Suki and Anna and their boyfriends, Garret and Joe."

"Hey, I'm Garret, thanks for having us." A hand extends and he shakes it.

"Yeah, thank you. I'm Joe." Another handshake.

"Nice to meet you guys, I'm Lincoln, everyone calls me Linc. Welcome. I hope you eat meat?"

Both men nod.

"Well alright. You guys look familiar, by the way." He considers mentioning the day when he spoke with them briefly at 700, but decides against it.

Garret and Joseph shrug, and Garret says, "We're around."

They eat dinner and talk about their lives and the city and how the ones who know each other know each other, and he's so happy he can hardly contain himself. The beers go down too easily and he worries that he talks too much and that he overcompensates for talking too much by seeming too interested in everyone else. Did he come off like a zealot for land bank legislation? Did he ask Suki too many questions about the pet rabbit her friend lets roam freely around her finished basement?

Everyone seems to have enjoyed the meal, or at least they tell him so when they leave. It never feels right for him to ask men for their phone numbers, so he doesn't ask Garret and Joseph for theirs, but he thinks next time he sees them around the neighborhood, they'll remember tonight's dinner.

The Coffee Shop

At times he turned to the bottle, but the bottle wasn't always a friend. He was good at lots of things, but not the things he really wanted to do. A battle between 'hell is other people' and a deep, maddening loneliness drove him to wild thoughts, and often to drink. He wanted a wife, but where could he meet one? He usually had a job, but couldn't always keep one. He valued good results at anything he did, but his work never felt important, always meaningless somehow.

Wintertime was more difficult than the rest of the year. Shorter, grey days. Snowfall. But he spent more time at the coffee shop in the winter months and that's where he met her.

She just wanted to get out of the house for a bit that day, otherwise she would've made her own coffee. She saw him reading with such a serious face and it made her smile and ask if he were in pain. She wanted to know why he read books that made him cringe and look so depressed, and he became defensive until he realized how ridiculous he sounded and they both started to laugh. She'd just moved to the neighborhood and was killing time before her roommate came home and his shyness made her curious. She loved her family and her career and had a positive attitude about everything.

They dated casually and then became more serious. One night she saw his ugly side, his black-out-drunken side, and she told him he'd have to stop doing that or there'd be no way she could date him, no chance of him meeting her family. He gave up the bottle for her and they lived long lives and they went to their coffee shop often, even though they could make their own coffee at home.

Marissa (by Yasmin Khan)

Cradling his warm scrawny softness between her knees, Marissa’s heart left her body and entered that of her newborn son. Watching his fists and face fight the weightlessness of the air, she was terrified of hurting him. “Hold it” said the woman known as The Chinese, reaching into a flowery washbag. Marissa wondered where it had come from. It wasn’t kept with the tampons, first aid kit, painkillers and dust covered condoms needed for running a brothel.

The baby let out a hiccup, a gasp and a long thin wail that ricocheted off Marissa’s breasts, making them ache; instantly filling with milk. “HOLD IT!” ordered The Chinese, selecting some scissors from her bag. With a muscly crunch, the cord was cut and Marissa lay the baby down, then screamed out in pretend pain and folded forward.

Lying within reach, the scissors were small and sharp and smiling. Marissa had been a brilliant pick pocket as a child – deft and quick. As a teenager, she’d dealt drugs and fallen in love with a gang boss who chose her to take a shipment to London. After bringing the heroin to this ever-curtained house she had never left.

“Placenta coming now” The Chinese said. Shielding her son with a tent made only of her knees, Marissa curled her fingers around the scissors, brought up her hand and punched the pointed blades into The Chinese’s neck. The side of her fingers and fist slid sank against soft flesh.

Marissa was already floating as she heard the panicked, urgent gurgle and scream. She dragged the metal sideways, opening the wound before digging the point in again. Marissa’s hands were filthy with thick blood – she needed them clean to tend to her son. She needed the stupid kneeling pile of flesh to topple and still. Again, she jabbed – this time taking care, leaning in low like a lover before ripping the ugly flesh a final time. Then all she could hear was the pure single noted cry of her son and she could wash them both clean.

(Yasmin Khan is a writer who is half Pakistani and half Irish. Having worked as a TV and Radio Journalist for 17 years, she is now exploring her love of writing fiction. She has an MA in Anthropology and is fascinated by stories and how they transcend physical settings.)

As the Ivy Grows

They were in their mid-twenties when they moved into a one hundred year old row home. The cinder block back wall of their backyard, backing up to a school parking lot on its other side, wasn't nearly as old as the house itself – a thirty foot tall blank slate. They thought of adding a layer of stucco to it, considered painting it with a scene or a solid color, but eventually they just planted ivy at its base.

In their late twenties, she gave birth. They'd prayed every night for nine months for a healthy baby, and a healthy baby they had. They named him after her late grandfather. When they watched him take his first steps in their backyard, the ivy had crept just a few feet up the back wall.

They had a second child a few years later, a healthy baby girl. Their house was a small one in which to raise two kids, so the backyard served as an extra room. The kids played outside in a sandbox as toddlers, played music on a boombox as teens. They did their share of fighting but had a lot of fun too. When the son went away to college, ivy covered more than half the back wall.

The kids grew up. The son married after his younger sister, who lived a couple of hours away by car, and he and his new wife arranged with his parents to move into the old house. The parents were ready for a move anyway, and they found a place equidistant from their son and daughter. The family gathered a few times a year at the house, always spending some time outside silhouetted by an ivy wall.

The Neighborhood School

Watching him shoot a basketball was like watching a ballerina twirl. I hadn't seen him in person for twenty two years. He won our high school a city title his senior year, 1991. Well, there were other players on the court with him, of course, but they wouldn't have gotten very far without him. We were up all night the night of the championship game – I was a skinny little sophomore and a fan of the game – and that triumphant night is one of my favorite memories.

I followed his college career as a two guard at St. Joe's, spotting up beyond the arc time and time again. Thought maybe he'd make it as a pro, but it wasn't to be, and I hadn't heard a peep about him since.

"Ricky Reynolds." I stuck out my hand. "You probably don't remember me. Arnie Thompson. I was two years behind you at North."

"Sure, Arnie, how are you?" I knew he didn't actually remember me, but he pretended without any sign of pretension.

"I'm okay, thanks." I noticed for the first time a little girl by his side, presumably his daughter. "And who is this?"

"I'm Chrissy. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too. I used to go to your dad's basketball games in high school. He was the best player in the city."

She smiled at me, as did her father.

"Shame about North getting shut down," he said.

"Yeah, sure is."

"Lot of good memories in those halls."

"For me too."

"I guess it'll be all charter schools now. The city just can't seem to fund its public schools." He motioned toward Chrissy. "Her mom and I wanna stay in the city, though, whatever it takes."

"Glad to hear it."

"Well, it was nice to see you, Arnie, take care man."

He shook my hand and we went our separate ways. As I walked away, I thought about these new charter schools. Seemed like they, with their lotteries and sibling preference and long hours and strict rules, were the city's answer to a bankrupt district. The charters' programs were by most accounts effective, but there was something about a neighborhood public school they couldn't replicate, like watching the kid you grew up with hit five straight fifteen footers to defeat the school team from the next neighborhood over.

Sick Girl

The cable box told him three hours had passed. Three hours of crying and coughing fits and that whimpering call of “daddeeeee.”

“It’s okay, sweety. You’re okay.”

“I gotta go potty,” she squeaked out between sobs.

“Angie you just went potty five minutes ago, remember?”

She repeated herself, louder.

“Okay, let’s go.” He lifted her from the toddler bed and carried her to the bathroom, started pulling down her pajama bottoms and diaper.

“No!” She shrieked. “I do it!”

“Okay, okay, you do it.” He pulled the diaper back up into place so that his two year old daughter could pull it down herself.

As Angela sat on the toilet, half asleep, coughing on and off, Vince sat across from her on the edge of the tub, ready to jump if she were to lose her balance. A few weeks ago she fell off the can and hit her head on the wall and he nearly had a heart attack.

After she finished peeing and wiping and standing on a stool to wash her hands, he carried her back to bed and sat at her side. She curled up in a ball, hacking and whining and saying “Stop” whenever he tried to hand her a glass of water. Eventually Vince just stared, loving her and hating himself all at once. He hated himself for the relief he felt every morning when he finally got her to daycare, for the tasks he wished would’ve by now become more routine: packing her lunch, washing her clothes, doing the dishes every night after she went to bed. But most of all, at this moment, he hated himself because he'd had the bug earlier that week and she'd gotten it from him. He felt like crying along with her as she wailed her way to sleep.

It occurred to him that his current self-hatred was creeping toward self-pity, a state of mind he promised himself he'd avoid. He laughed at the ridiculousness of his emotions and stood to leave her room and tried to look on the bright side. At least the sickness hit Angela on the weekend, so he wouldn’t have to call out of work. At least, since he'd already had the virus, he knew what to expect. The pediatrician's office told him they’d received the same phone call from countless other parents – something nasty was going around. Maybe she would’ve gotten it at daycare anyway. Heck, every germ on the planet found its way into the daycare sooner or later.

Angela coughed some more as he leaned against her doorway. He looked at her and thought that they’d get through this, one day at a time.

The Neighborhood Association

Fifteen local residents, serving as the neighborhood association's board of directors, sat on brown metal folding chairs on the basketball court of a community recreation center, poised with the task of approving 2014's calendar of events. Eleven of them made carefree small talk, chatting about friends and family, occasionally trying to engage the other four people, whose statements were typically curt and disinterested. The meeting began on time.

"Alright folks, we're all busy, so let's get started and just get through this. Only one change from last year's events schedule, so not a lot to discuss. Did everyone review the calendar I emailed out this week?"

"Mr. Chairman, sir."

"Yes, John?"

"Before we vote on 2014, a few of us would like to reexamine the flat rate."

The Chairman rolled his eyes. The new, annual, flat membership rate for the community center had been heavily debated and finally approved at their last meeting. He shook his head. "No, John. Sorry, but we've been through that and it's done. We're here tonight for one reason only, and that's to finalize this year's events calendar."

"Well, I'm afraid we can't do that. We," he held out his hand and motioned toward three friends in attendance, "don't wanna vote on anything without either repealing that new policy altogether, or at least adding some new stipulations. For example-"

"John I said no to you already," the Chairman interrupted, "that's old business and it's done and it's not why we're here. We can't go backwards. Let's just stick to tonight's agenda." The Chairman's ten supporters spoke up in agreement, and the room's volume rose momentarily.

"Well if that's how you feel, then fine, but I can tell you that the four of us are all going to abstain, and you won't get the eighty percent minimum mandate to approve the calendar."

The Chairman frowned. The others looked at him, confused, and wondered what exactly John meant. "What's he talking about?" asked Bob.

"Come on, John, you can't be serious. Ha, good one! You wouldn't actually hold our community calendar hostage because you don't like our new membership fee structure, would you? Especially now that we've already notified everyone of the new system and sent out 2014 dues collection forms?"

"Not a joke, Mr. Chairman. We're serious. Reopen the dues discussion or no calendar approval. The rec center will be shut down indefinitely."

"But John, families rely on this place for after school care, music and art classes, youth sports, Saturday evening socials, fundraisers, heck we already have two weddings tentatively scheduled for next year! Would you really shut all of that down just because you didn't win your fight against flat rate open enrollment?"

"Sure we would. The four of us are members of this community and members of this board just like you, and we don't want everyone having access to every event in this place like we're some kind of soup kitchen."

The Chairman felt his anger rising and thought of Master Yoda, trying unsuccessfully to calm himself. "You elitist bastard. I don't know how you and your cronies ever got on this board to begin with. All you do is sit around at your high priced coffee shop and play your big money card games all day, you sons of bitches-"

"Mr. Chairman, please," said Bob, "that's unproductive. Let's try to figure this out."

John was all smiles at this point, pleased to have rattled the board leader's nerves.

The Chairman took a deep breath. "You know what, I don't see us getting anywhere tonight. Let's table this vote and have a meeting same time next week. Between now and then, I hope at least one of you will change your mind and come off this silliness. It's not silly, in fact, it's mean-spirited."

"Fine, Mr. Chairman, have it your way. But don't expect anything different to happen next week." John and his three coffee shop buddies left the room all at once, leaving the Chairman, Bob, and the others still seated and somewhat shocked.

"Can he really do this, Alvin?" one of the others asked the Chairman.

"Our bylaws state we need 80% board approval for the annual calendar, but this vote's always just been a formality. It's never been an issue. A motion to amend the bylaws would open a big can of worms. Between now and next week, let's just see if we can get one of them to come over to our side. Joey, you're friendly with Alan's partner in that new restaurant, right?" Alan was one of the three board members on John's side. "See if you can put on some pressure through your friend – if we get Alan's vote, that's all we need."

They sat around a while longer and cursed the coffee shop gang, plotted other ways to exert some influence, then went home to their families and told their wives all about the evening's drama. Within a few days, the entire neighborhood would know that the community center might close down for a year. Most adults pointed fingers, while most kids just tried to understand why their parents couldn't get it right.

A Philadelphian Conversation - Number Two

"My boss thinks the cleaning lady takes the money, so I'm just gonna go with that for now. He came up to me and told me it's missing and said he figures it must be the cleaning lady and I just didn't say nothin'. So I'm gonna roll with that for now and see how long I can make it go."

"Honey, you got to do what you got to do."

"I can't ask my husband no more now he cleaned up. It's just twenty I need, nothin' crazy like what he'd burn through, but I still can't ask him."

"What's that like, him being clean?"

"He been with me eleven years and I been there through all of it with him, so he knows whasup. He knows he can't ask me to quit just 'cause he can't hang no more. I mean, I never done it on his level and I can go a few days between, but then I get to a certain point and it's like, yeah, I just gotta get up to the spot and get on that level."

"Yeah."

"It's just been so hard to keep up on everything. Rent, groceries, shit," she looks around, "a SEPTA pass."

"Yeah."

"But my husband's cool, he knows the game. If he could just give me the twenty, he probably would, but it wouldn't be like that for him and anyway he don't make shit just like I don't make shit."

"I got you."

"But damn, I been talking the whole time. How you? Whasup?"

"You know, same old."

She looks around again. "This our stop. Let's do this. And remember, it gets pretty real, so stay together. Get my back and I'll get yours. If we split up, remember we both gonna come down, one way or another. May as well do it our way."

When the Lights Stop Crying

Looking up at the two spherical lights hanging above our dining room table, seeing rain drip from tree leaves through the window behind the lights, it looks like the raindrops fall from the lights themselves. Like tears from a giant, fluorescent doll.

I'm lying on the couch across the room wondering when the rain will stop, knowing I need it to stop before I can get out and complete today's tasks, hoping it won't so that I can't. Content to do nothing.

The city's on hold today. Streets may as well be shut down. Everyone inside their houses and their heads, dealing with issues of the day or of a lifetime. At least that's how I imagine everyone from my couch.

When the rain stops and the sun comes out, I shut the lights over the dining room table. They've cried enough for one day, those lights. They need to sleep for a while and cool down, whether people remain indoors or go out.

A Philadelphian Conversation - Number One

Standing outside the little Comcast customer service center on Columbus Boulevard in a nook beside its entrance, staying out of the rain. Internet says the place opens 7:00 a.m. weekdays, but the schedule printed on the door says otherwise. 9:00 a.m. Having arrived too early, I'm second in the growing line, and the first four of us fit comfortably in the nook. Nobody speaks until around five of nine when we're all getting a little antsy to get inside and get our business done with Comcast and get on with our lives.

"I see her in there," the guy in front of me says. He's white and looks around mid-sixties. A white goatee and close cut grayish white hair hover above his sleeveless black tee and cut-off shorts, tattoos covering his arms and legs. "Be nice if she'd open a little early."

"Don't bet on it," says the guy behind me. He looks exactly how I'd imagine the other guy to have looked twenty years ago. "I wouldn't expect any extra effort out of these people."

I think: "if you dudes worked an hourly job for Comcast, you probably wouldn't open up early if you could either, and Comcast probably doesn't even allow it," but find myself saying, "Hard to believe how much cable costs nowadays. If it weren't for the Phillies, Flyers, and Sixers, I might cancel."

"Yeah, tell me about it, I pay $208 a month now."

"Me too, I'm about $200 now too."

I nod in acknowledgement of their monthly rates and pull out my phone and start scrolling through some emails.

"Which city you think'll go bankrupt next?" asks the guy behind me.

"Probably Philly," the other guy answers.

I realize I'll likely be on the sidelines for the remainder of their conversation, wherever it leads.

"Probably. There's no good jobs. I applied for food stamps the other day and you know what they gave me? Sixty bucks a month. You believe that?"

"My wife went in and she only gets $18 a month, they said I make too much."

"Sixty bucks a month! Who can live off that? And then you got these blacks," he tilts his head toward the woman working inside the service center, who we can see through a window in the nook, "and they get like $600 a month food stamps while they drive around in their Cadillac SUVs."

By now I can't wait for the doors to open so that, I hope, these guys will stop talking.

The guy in front of me sees me scrolling down the screen on my phone, trying to mind my own business. He says, "And I tell you what, they know everything you do on those phones. Even in your house they know. A buddy of mine was just indicted and they were watching him inside his own house, through his tv! They have some way they can do that shit – they hook up some device to your tv and watch you through your own tv. You believe that?"

Mercifully, as he asks that last question, the woman inside the service center opens the doors. I put my phone back in my pocket and see its clock change from 8:59 to 9:00 a.m. We all enter the service center and the two guys start talking about how they're both there to pay their bills. I return my friend's cable box for him and go to work, and later wonder whether the $60-per-month-food-stamps-guy is out looking for a job. Place where I work has some openings. I mighta mentioned it, but I knew he wouldn't have been a good fit.

The Frame

The frame held a screen flat and clear, thousands of little lights burning beneath it. People need not even push a button to change its display, just touch the face of their tiny, personal digital assistants. In an instant the frame housed a different image, anything ever created or recorded, ancient to postmodern.

When people weren’t around, the frame faded into sleep. The files of paintings for which it was initially marketed rested in waiting, all of them derived from real works locked away, never to be seen in person again.

But the frame was always there and everything was accessible: art from any culture, any year, ever. The frame had everything but in itself was worth practically nothing – a dispensable, replaceable item updated every few years.

Eventually the frame began selling with an adapter that allowed it to be used as a television. Most people used it more often as a television than for its comprehensive library of files. And when they used it as a television, they typically spent more time flipping channels than actually watching anything in particular.

Those who didn’t like to watch television, who used the frame for its primary purpose, often changed the image they kept on display. After all, with all of the world’s art pre-loaded, who would choose only one permanent piece?

Jokes (by Lee Porter)

Just because I knew the guy from way back when didn’t mean I wanted the conversation to proceed, but he continued to stand in front of me, blocking my way. “Excuse me,” I said.

“Jeff Bridges died.” He spoke fast. “Order a White Russian.”

Towering over me, I had to look up at him to meet his stare. He took a large, slow sip of his American Double Stout, the liquid like chewing tobacco spit, and smiled. I expected the thick, dark brew to be clumped up in his mouth, sticking to his teeth. It wasn’t. Even his beer projected disingenuousness. I didn’t smile back.

“Did you hear me? I said Jeff Bridges died. Go order a White Russian.”

“I heard you.”

“So. . . .”

“So okay.”

“Okay then.”

I joined Giovanni at the bar.

“Did he try that one on you, too?”

“Jeff Bridges?”

“Yeah.”

I took a sip from my beer and glanced at the televisions around the bar – all tuned to the Phillies game – nothing out of the ordinary. “I don’t believe him.”

So we played with our smartphones for a second and then placed them on coasters, not surprised that there was no news about Jeff Bridges – good or bad – online.

“I should have said ‘Yeah, well, you know, that’s just, like, your opinion, man,’” I mumbled. Giovanni laughed, flagged down the bartender and ordered sweet potato fries.

We finished our beers, ordered another round, talked about our women – or lack thereof – and comics.

I let the door swing closed behind me on our way out. He was standing outside, as if waiting for us, leaning against the wooden facade, smoking a cigarette.

“You guys leaving?”

I had to ask. “What do you have against Jeff Bridges, man?”

He explained that he and his friends would do this frequently when out late. “Do you know how little milk a bar normally stocks? They have to send a guy out just to get more. The more people we get ordering White Russians, the more they send some sad sack out for milk. You know how hard it is to buy a gallon of milk at one a.m. in this town?”

He laughed and spat on the sidewalk.

I shrugged. Giovanni and I walked away, down 15th Street.

“Why doesn’t he just say it’s his birthday? Why’s the joke have to be about death?”

(Lee Porter is the writer/producer of the award-winning comedy Web series My Ruined Life and the founder/editor of the food/drink site Chocolate Covered Memories. Lee’s work has been featured on Zoo With Roy, The Gaggle, Philly.com, Comcast SportsNet, Shmitten Kitten, and even tweeted by Questlove. Lee lives in Philadelphia.)

Queen of Spades

Jimmy had been playing poker for fifty eight straight hours prior to boarding the 3:30 am bus back from Atlantic City to Philadelphia, aside from a few breaks to scarf down a bowl of udon noodles or a sandwich. No sleep. He plopped himself into a window seat and rested his head on its poor excuse for a cushion, and closed his eyes. Exhausted as he felt, he was wired, and found himself rethinking a hand he'd lost a few hours earlier, defeated by the Queen of Spades on the river....

"Anyone sitting here?" She had bluish black hair tied neatly in a bun, and she stood in the aisle looking down at him from above, motioning toward the seat beside his.

"No, feel free."

"Thank you."

She sat and removed a blue and white notebook from the pocket of a gown-like jacket she wore well. Jimmy thought she looked very comfortable. She opened the notebook on her lap, pulled a fancy gold pen from another pocket, and started writing. The pen caught Jimmy's eye: its cap was shaped like a gold and red petalled flower, its alternately circular and pointed design seeming vaguely familiar to him. He thought of asking her about the pen, but instead just closed his eyes in the hopes of falling asleep.

"What's your purpose?" he heard her ask. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since she'd sat down or whether he'd slept.

"Excuse me?"

"What's your purpose?"

Jimmy thought of commenting on the strangeness of her question, but found his mouth moving to answer her.

"I don't know. I like playing poker."

"Hmm, okay." She paused. "So your purpose is to play poker?"

Jimmy shrugged. "Sure, just livin' life, getting by. What about you?"

"I'm a facilitator."

"A what?"

"A facilitator."

"What's that mean?"

"It means I help people make things happen."

In spite of his curiosity, Jimmy was too tired to ask any further questions, and he let his eyes start to close anew.

"Sorry to bother you," she said, "I'll let you sleep."

Her tone of voice had a hint of wanting, as if she'd hoped to engage in meaningful conversation with a random person like Jimmy on a 3:30 am bus ride. Perhaps Jimmy would've filled this need if he weren't so tired – she was cute and had a mysteriousness about her that intrigued him. But he just didn't have the energy.

When Jimmy awoke, the bus had parked at its Philadelphia destination. The seat beside him was empty. He scratched his head and rubbed his eyes and looked around for the girl, but she was nowhere to be found.

Googling Parenthood

"How was school today, son?" The father asked the question, but did not expect to receive much of an answer. Usually his boy responded with 'good' or 'okay' or nothing at all.

"Something strange happened, dad."

So accustomed to his son's shyness was the father that the boy's words startled him. They sat across from each other in the family room of their two bedroom apartment while the boy's mother fixed dinner in the adjacent kitchen. The steady hum of the kitchen exhaust and crackling of fish in a frying pan drowned out any chance she had of overhearing their conversation.

"What happened?"

"You know John, my friend who is always so quiet?"

"Yes, I know him."

"He's the smart one who gets good grades but he never speaks much in class."

"Yes son, I know him."

"The one who shared his pbj with me that time I forgot my lunch and—"

"Yes, son, I know which boy you mean. Please, continue with the story."

"You know my friend Kayla who I've known since we were babies?"

"Yes."

"The one who's a little bigger than the other girls?"

The father sighed. "Yes, I know her."

"Well this other kid Ricky who's kinda a bully, he's always picking on John but John never does anything, well Ricky was really mean to Kayla and all of a sudden John just snapped and tried to fight him. He ran straight into him and they both fell over."

The father took this in and mulled it. A lot of questions came to mind, but he knew that his son could shut down any moment if he asked the wrong thing.

He decided to ask, "What happened next?"

"The teachers pulled them apart so nothing really."

"Dinner's ready!" Father and son heard mother's voice from the kitchen. They looked at each other and father waited to see if his son had anything else to say.

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"If John were your kid instead of me, if you were his dad, would you be mad at him?"

The father considered, then said, "I'd be proud of him for standing up to a bully, but I'd tell him to always try to find a solution other than fighting."

The boy scrunched his face and looked down, then asked, "Like what, dad? How do you stop a bully without fighting?"

The father put his arm around his son. "Let's talk about it after dinner. Come on, go help mom set the table."

The boy nodded and walked off toward the kitchen. His father knew that by the time dinner was over, he'd have to come up with some nonviolent ways to handle a bully. Perhaps he'd have a chance to google "nonviolent ways of handling a bully" after dinner, before resuming their conversation?

It Didn't Matter (performed by Brian Kremer)

(I wrote this flash fiction in the form of a lyrical poem, and asked my friend Brian Kremer to set it to music and sing the words. The audio link below plays Brian's resulting work: a 2 minute, 18 second song! In addition to teaching the unique Kremer Voice Design curriculum he developed, Brian is a member of the Voice Faculty at University of the Arts in Philadelphia. Click here for his web site, here for his facebook page, and here for his twitter account. This flash fiction is better on the ears than the eyes, so be sure to use the audio link below and enjoy Brian's piano playing and voice.)



It didn't matter at all
But it mattered to me

It was September that Fall
We were just watchin' tv

You didn't wanna be poor
Wanted the world and for free

Your tone of voice made me sore
Alone in my mentality

It didn't matter at all
But it mattered to me

I stopped by at your house
After working all day

You didn't wanna go out
I told you I couldn't stay

I quit my job the next week
'cause you only wanted to play

It didn't matter at all
[No it didn't]
But it mattered to me

It didn't matter at all
But it mattered to me

We were each part of a team
I just had to stay in line

You didn't wanna be seen
Together we were something divine

It fell apart at the seam
Crossed over that borderline

It didn't matter at all
[No it didn't now]
But it mattered to me

It didn't matter at all
[No no no no]
But it mattered to me

It didn't matter at all
But it mattered to me

The Bump Snob

The hot summer sun's rays bounced off the pavement, creating a sauna-like effect as Garret and Suki sauntered down 3rd Street, toward Market. Garret spaced out as Suki reminded him which of her friends they'd be meeting later that evening, and their conversation was about the same as any other they might've had when all of a sudden Suki startled him with a loud shriek.

"Woah, what?" Garret turned and saw Suki picking herself up off the ground, a small wheeled, high seated, uniformly sky blue painted bicycle on its side beside her. A youngish, unshaven man with long, wavy brown hair stood above her, apologizing profusely.

"What just happened?" Garret asked.

"Are you blind?" Suki barked at Garret. "Did you not just see this guy barrel into me on his bike?"

Garret looked at the apologizer, who stood with his hands up, palms out, shaking his head, now turning toward Garret, saying, "Bro, I'm so sorry, didn't even see you guys coming, the sun's so bright and I looked away for a moment-"

"Listen man," Garret said, cutting him short, "first of all, don't call me 'bro.' I don't even know you. Second of all, what's the matter with you?"

"Oh, man, nothing. I mean, I'm just really sorry."

Garret helped Suki to her feet. "You okay?" he asked.

"Sure, yes, I'm fine."

The biker emitted an audible sigh of relief, prompting Suki to turn toward him and glare. His look changed instantly to one of fear, clearly afraid of what she might say next.

She looked like she might explode. "What I want to know from you, Mr. Blind Biker Dude, is why in the world are you riding on the sidewalk? Especially up a small street like Church without a single car on it?"

Biker Dude shrugged. "Well, you know…."

Garret and Suki waited for him to continue, but he just stood there.

"No, we don't know!" Suki shouted. "Know what? Answer the question!"

"Well, the street's just so … bumpy." The guy looked down at Church Street's old stone and mortar surface.


"Bumpy? Are you kidding me? Dude, come on! Deal with it! It's a quiet street and a small one at that. Are you telling me you ride on the sidewalk right here because you don't like the uneven surface? What are you, some kind of bump snob or something?"

He shrugged again.

Garret shook his head, part of him wanting to berate the guy and part of him wanting to laugh. He decided to just get his girlfriend out of there. "Suki, forget this guy. The main thing is you're alright. Let's just go."

She shot Garret a disapproving look, but then began walking again toward Market, leaving the two men behind.

"Be more careful, man," Garret said as he went off to catch up with Suki.

"Sorry again, bro."

Garret looked back at the guy, over his shoulder. "Don't call me bro, bump snob!"

Pacing Inside the Milwaukee Airport

Pacing - it's all I can do right now. Luckily, I had a filling lunch, so I won't need to eat here.

A baby crawls in the opposite direction of my pacing, past a cute girl seated at my gate. The baby laughs as her father tries to keep up. It must make him sick that his not-yet-walking daughter's little hands are mopping up the heavily trodden, matted airport carpet, but he's laughing too. Maybe he's just happy because his baby's happy.

I used to enjoy pacing by people on payphones, wondering about the content of their conversations. Now everyone's on cell phones and I could care less what any of them are saying. On payphones, people always seemed to speak in muffled tones, not wanting others to overhear. But on cell phones everyone talks too loud.

I'm getting hungry in spite of myself. Since I had that big lunch, I should seek out something light, something healthy, like fruit salad or one of those little yogurts with the crunchy stuff in a plastic container on top - is it granola?

I order a Polish sausage on a pretzel roll from Usinger's. With potato chips. No sooner than I finish the last delicious bite do I see the cute girl from my gate buy a fruit salad cup from the coffee shop. That's what I should've done.

The tv at the gate shows President Obama complaining that Congress voted down his bill without anyone making any coherent arguments against it. I suppose nobody told him that people don't have to make coherent arguments anymore to get what they want.

Aha! The cute girl didn't get just a fruit salad after all - I see her eating a wrap at the gate. No idea what kind of wrap it is, but watching her eat it makes me feel better about myself. Besides, I think I worked off at least a couple bites of that Polish sausage doing all of this pacing. Flight's about to board, but I think I have time for one more lap.

Johnson

The hotel barroom sang a muffled song of jilts and laughs and confident exertions. A bandbox of a space with a lone billiards table and an L shaped bar, a few worn leather chairs and sofas rounding it out, businessmen and a country club crowd filled its seats and standing room.

"Come on now, Johnson, you can't possibly have bet against the Phillies last night. And who bets on baseball, anyway?" asked Robeson.

"I only bet it when I get the urge," replied Johnson, "and last night I had precisely that."

A third man sat and listened to this exchange, unamused. A business associate of Johnson's, visiting unexpectedly from China, Johnson felt his disapproval and knew its root.

"Oh, Wang, don't be such a curmudgeon. You've traveled all this way, may as well relax and let yourself go a little."

Wang boiled. "Mr. Johnson, you are correct. I've come a long way indeed. And all day today you avoid discuss with me the reason I am here. We go to ballgame, get massage, have long dinner with your friend-" Robeson nodded "-but not once we discuss business. You know why I am here."

Johnson, slightly drunk, laughed. "Sure, of course, you're here to bust my balls."

Now Robeson laughed too. "Mr. Johnson you owe my company hundreds of thousands of dollars! We are reaching the high credit limit we can extend to you. If this balance not cleared up soon, we will stop the relationship."

Robeson cringed as he listened to Wang threaten his friend. "Excuse me," he said, and walked to the other side of the bar, where he seamlessly fell into conversation with a well coiffed acquaintance.

"You can't cut us off, Wang! Don't be ridiculous, we own the market here, your customer base. We'll work something out tomorrow. Have another drink, wouldja?" Johnson slurred a little bit. He finished his Scotch and signaled for the bartender. "Wang, whaddaya wanna drink?"

"Nothing, Mr. Johnson. I'll retire now to my room. We talk first thing in the morning. 8:00. See you then in the lobby." He bowed to Johnson and left in a brisk strut.

"Darn Chinese," muttered Johnson to himself. He hid his stress level with a forced smile – a frequent, false expression of self-satisfaction. He thought of everyone to whom he owed money: Wang's company, various other enterprises in China and some in Europe, and multiple individuals, some more demanding than others. Lacking for a solution, he ordered another Scotch and resigned that he'd find a way to appease Wang the next day. He'd come up with something, he thought, he'd always come up with something.

The Traveler

It's usually all so easy. There's unlimited money, so there's no money. Time allows for him and prevents others.

He sleeps the minimum required hours and awakes precisely when he should, no alarm clock necessary. Dressing as comfortably as possible, still looking the part, provides a fluidity he seeks for all situations, all possibilities. He drives to the airport when he knows the roads are clear, and his status with the airlines lets him breeze past everyone else in the security line. The plane lands and his rental car awaits with the key in the ignition.

Nobody notices anything different about him unless they look very closely, and over a prolonged period. It's important that he blend in with everyone else, even as he receives special treatment everywhere he goes.

The difficulty arrives when something unexpected happens. It could be simple as a comment from the wrong man or woman at the right moment, or monumental as a sinkhole swallowing the street beneath his feet. When unprepared, he disappears. Don't look for him, but you may recognize him somewhere, someday, if you can see his face.

Freeway Welcome

The red, white, and blue lights shone through Jimmy's rear windshield, flashing along the car dashboard. He knew he hadn't been speeding, so wondered what aggravation approached to his left in the form of a burly local cop. The orange Southern California sun had begun its nightly descent.

"Good evening, Officer, what can I—"

"License and registration."

"Okay, what's the—"

"License and registration."

"Okay." Jimmy reached for his wallet and then into the glove compartment, and handed over his stuff. The Officer, whose name Jimmy could see to be Jones on the bronze tag pinned to his light blue uniform, took a long look over the identification cards, then walked in a full circle around the car and returned to its driver's side.

"You're registered in Pennsylvania, but you don't have a plate up front. I've seen Pennsylvania cars before and they have plates in the front and back, why don't you?"

"Sir, I've lived in Philadelphia my entire life, and I can assure you that Pennsylvania only issues a license plate for the back of a car, not the front and back." Jimmy wondered whether Officer Jones was ignorant or what else might be at play here. The answer came when Jones accepted Jimmy's explanation without further inquiry.

"Alright. What are you doing in California?"

"I'm living here for a few months, staying with friends."

"You'll have to get Cali plates, otherwise you're looking at steep fines."

This gave Jimmy pause. "But Officer, I just told you, I'll only be here a few months, then I'm going back to Philly."

"That's what they all say. Better register your car."

"Yes sir, I won't be staying more than a few months, but if that changes, I'll do it."

Jones glanced at a shiny steel case sitting on the back seat, one that looked as if it might be handcuffed to a high roller on his way into a casino. He asked, "What's in the case?"

"Do I really have to answer that question?" Jimmy asked, agitation getting the better of his senses.

The look on Jones' face told of disapproval. "Stay right where you are," he needlessly ordered Jimmy as he turned and marched back toward his squad car.

"Wait!" shouted Jimmy. "I was just kidding! I'll tell you what's in there, it's not even a big deal!" But Jones either ignored him or didn't hear him as cars and trucks flew past them on the freeway.

Twenty minutes later a second patrol car pulled up as the sun faded out of sight. Jones returned to Jimmy's car door, another Officer – Smith – by his side.

"Officer Jones, the case is just—"

"Silence! We'll see for ourselves."

Smith opened the back door and gently, slowly, carefully removed the case from the seat. He set it down on the car's trunk and opened it.

"Jonesy, come here and have a look."

As Jones obeyed, Jimmy sat and tapped his foot up and down in place. Minutes passed and he wondered what the policemen could possibly be discussing. Finally, they approached the driver's side window together. Smith spoke first. "Say, why didn't you tell Jonesy you're a poker player?"

"Huh? Oh, I wanted to tell him it's just a set of poker chips, but—"

"But you had to be a smartass instead, didn't you?" said Jones.

This time Jimmy kept his mouth shut. Smith said, "Anyhow, listen, Jonesy and I do security for some underground poker games on the side – everything from a few hundred dollar buy in to some big money." Baffled Jimmy accepted a business card from Officer Smith. "Give a call to that number on there," Smith continued, "and someone will give you the weekly schedule of games."

Jones handed Jimmy back his license and registration. "Have a nice night," he said, "you're free to go."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Jimmy drove away. When he arrived home without his set of poker chips, he assumed the cops had stolen it. But he just hadn't heard the thud his shiny silver case made when it fell from the trunk of his car as he sped off, splashing the freeway's shoulder with plastic chips and playing cards.

Robert Aches

The fire burns and Robert sits beside it. He looks at the skinny wooden lamp in the corner of the room and, for no reason at all, considers breaking it over his knee.

There are calls he should return. People with whom he should break bread. He sees himself leaning against a long, white marble bar speaking with Johnson then throwing his Scotch into Johnson's face. The damage he could cause himself and others is staggering, he thinks.

Perhaps best to get away. He's saved some money without assigning it a purpose. Maybe he'll fly somewhere warm and stay there a while, or forever. Goodbyes won't be necessary.

Above the fireplace there's a painting he made years ago. Two boys in overalls holding fish caught in the nameless lake behind them. The shorter boy looks up at the taller one with admiration, seeking approval, but the taller boy looks off in the distance. Robert used an old photo he found in his parents' house as the model for the painting. He never knew who the boys were or where the photo was taken. The trees along the lake are the colors of Fall.

Unsure how long he's been sitting there, in his study, he thinks it a good time to make tea. The tea soothes him. When he puts out the fire, his back aches, and he hopes he'll be able to sleep.

Guilt (by Katrina Byrd)

I stood in my friend’s lavish living room. I tried to hold it all together. It was as if a dam was about to burst inside me. I wanted to get everything out in the open between me and Sarah but now wasn’t the time.

Sarah and I had been friends for nearly twenty years. We met right out of college. Sarah was everything I wanted to be – smart, beautiful, and  neat. She wasn’t a show off or mean spirited, just perfect at everything.  Well not everything. Her one imperfect thing was Ron, her cheating husband.

I’d been invited to the Lawson home on that cool January morning because Ron was gone and Sarah was broke.

"Look at me," she said from behind me. That was the one thing I wanted to avoid. Looking at her now was like looking at half of a photo. "Look at me," she said again and I did.

Sarah stood in the center of the room surrounded by long tables piled with her belongings. Hot pink price tags illuminated by the bright sunlight. Damn, she could turn a garage sale into a high class event. I felt like I was at an exclusive boutique and caviar would be served any minute.

"He left me with nothing. I’ve got bills and … and I could lose the house."

I wasn’t accustomed to seeing her frazzled. It was a major shock. I thought she had everything together or at least that’s what I told myself to justify what I had done.

Several loud knocks prompted Sarah to turn quickly and rush toward the front door. When she opened it a crowd of people rushed past her. Mrs. Pritchard, Sarah’s next door neighbor, was the first one inside. Mrs. Pritchard was a gossip who sat around in a house dress everyday poking her nose into her neighbors’ business. She hovered over the table like a vulture. She picked up one of Sarah’s beautiful plates. It was hand made by J. Johnston, a famous potter who fashioned it for Sarah and Ron’s wedding.

"How much?" Mrs. Pritchard asked.

"I can’t do this." Sarah was beside me. "Selling off his stuff – our stuff."

Looking at her was like seeing a beauty queen stripped of her title. It was like seeing her, the real her, for the first time. She was a woman who’d had her heart broken.

"Twenty five dollars," Sarah said to Mrs. Pritchard, who continued to hold the plate. Sarah’s face was stained with tears, her eyes red and puffy. Her shoulders slumped.

"You’ll get through this," I said.

"I want to buy it." Mrs. Pritchard reached into her ample bosom and took out a wad of money. She peeled off a twenty and a five. "Be careful when you’re bagging it," she said to Sarah, whose face was a mixture of shock and embarrassment.

"It’ll be okay," I said and snatched the bills from the giant woman. I took the plate, wrapped it in tissue and handed it to Mrs. Pritchard.

"It sure is ashamed about your husband, honey," Mrs. Pritchard said.

Sarah rushed past her and headed for the kitchen. I followed close behind her as fast as I could without breaking into a run. When I entered the kitchen she was sobbing near the sink.  

"Selling his things seems so cold." Her words mingled with the soft meows of Tiger, her lynx point kitty who moved about rubbing her sleek body on our legs.

"You have no choice. The insurance doesn’t pay in cases of su-" I stopped abruptly, searching for a better word. "In these cases."

"I know but it still feels wrong."

"It’s not." I spoke more sharply than I intended. Sarah cried on my shoulders for years. She told me everything. He was lazy, didn’t like her mother, ran around with other women and he liked to do freaky things in the bedroom.

"I know things have been rough since he was laid off but this? Why?"

How could I tell her? It wasn’t her. It wasn’t his job. How could I tell Sarah that I had enjoyed two years of raw, forbidden, adulterous passion with her husband? Long lunches that started with salads and ended with loud, ravenous love making while she was at work. How could I tell her that I had succumbed to Ron’s freakish desires? Occasionally barking like a dog and reciting the Gettysburg address during our love making sessions. It was just sex. I didn’t love him. I declined his offer to run away with him. I knew he was upset. How could I tell her? I couldn’t. Mrs. Pritchard was in the doorway.

"How much?" she said. In her fat hand she held a bowl. My bowl. A crystal bowl that had been handed down to me from my mother. A bowl that had been in my family for generations.

"It isn’t for sale." I wrapped my fingers around the rim and pulled. Mrs. Pritchard clung to it. "Sarah, how could you sell my bowl?"

"I didn’t remember that it was yours."

"Didn’t remember?" My voice rose an octave. "It was December 2nd,  the night of the Christmas gathering. You invited the entire neighborhood. You specifically asked me to bring my famous banana pudding  in this bowl."

"I remember that pudding," Mrs. Pritchard said. "The worst use of bananas I’ve ever seen."

"It was delicious!"

"Nasty," she said in a tone that sounded like a final verdict. "Nobody liked it."

"Ron liked it."

"Banana pudding wasn’t all Ron liked," Mrs. Pritchard said, adding a satisfied "ARF!"

The bowl was snatched. My body went forward then back. I stood frozen in horror. I glanced at the large woman beside me. Her mouth hung open.

"No!" Mrs. Pritchard said when Sarah moved near the counter where her fine cutlery lay.

"Sarah," I said. "Don’t do anything stupid."

Sarah didn’t say a word. She lifted my beautiful bowl high above her head.

(Katrina Byrd is a writer and playwright who graduated from Millsaps College with a B.A. in History. Katrina has published three books and received four Artist Minigrants from the Mississippi Arts Commission. Katrina has also designed and presented several writing workshops for all ages. Click here for her facebook fan page and here to check out her book, Byrds of a Feather.)

The Expert Expert

"I've got it, Joseph. This time I've got it."

"Got what?"

"Fishtown Mews was a good idea, sure, in theory. But in practice it was just too complicated – between the financing, the zoning, haggling with contractors – there were too many moving parts."

"Okay." Joseph looked away from Garret, but knew his friend had only just begun.

"I have a much simpler plan now and it's fool proof. I can't lose!" Garret let this hang.

"Well?"

"Let me ask you this, J, what are the characteristics of an ideal business model?"

"I don't know … good product, friendly service?"

"No! Wrong! That stuff means nothing."

Joseph rolled his eyes. "Alright, then you tell me."

"Low overhead, high margins."

"And I suppose you have the perfect low overhead, high margin idea."

"Don't patronize me! But yes, I do."

"And?"

"I read about it in a book. It's the new thing: become an expert."

"An expert?"

"Yes."

"How are you going to become an expert?"

"Well, that's the beauty of it. You don't actually have to be an expert, people just have to think you're an expert. It's all about perception."

"Sounds sleazy."

"The thing is," Garret ignored Joseph's 'sleazy' comment, "when people think you're an expert, then they'll pay for your advice. No business has lower overhead, higher margins than the advice business."

"There's no business like know business."

"Very funny."

"And in what field, may I ask, will you purport to be an expert?"

"Well, that's where the true stroke of genius comes into play, my mortal friend," Garret paused for effect. "With the expert business taking off the way it is, I'm going to become an expert on becoming an expert."

"Ah, yes! Brilliant," Joseph chided, "they'll call you 'The Expert Expert.'"

Garret took Joseph literally. "Yes, they shall. I'll be invited onto all the business networks: CNBC, MSNBC, BlahBlahBlahNBC."

The doorbell rang.

"Nice, food's here. Hey Expert Expert, you got ten bucks?"

"Business is a little slow right now, can you spot me?"

"Tell you what, Garret, you should sell people on how to borrow money from friends without ever paying it back. That's low overhead and high margin, and you're already an expert at it."

"Asshole."

"Perhaps, but I'm the asshole who's buying you dinner."

"Fair enough."

Exact Copy Data Set (by Simon Kearns)

Once past the first set of proxy servers, Carlton knew the real challenge was just beginning. The initial circuit of detours was a filter, a qualification round to weed out amateurs and cyber cops. The next level kicked off with a rather pretty anonymizer based in Calcutta. This was daisy-chained via the Sunray Network, flipped by the Indonesian Hub and doubled back three times. It took seventeen hours to navigate.

He worked, as ever, wired on speed and speed metal, and as he worked, Carlton became aware of a rising thrill that had nothing to do with the long-ago-plateaued amphetamine. He was starting to suspect the identity of the author. The procedure was familiar: exquisitely arranged symmetries, complexity of repetitions, subtly signposted pitfalls. Another week of work and no doubt remained; he was on the trail of his nemesis.

The onion routing continued: Sao Paulo, Singapore, Wisconsin, Minsk, Shenzhen. On and on, back and forth, as piece by piece the orb-like encryption was delicately peeled. He had never come this far, this close to his quarry, it seemed he could simply foresee the path to take, all traps and decoys fell away on his approach. The relativity of time became pronounced, moments melted into hours, weeks flew by, no night, no day, he lived a perpetual dawn of revelatory hyperlinks and ever-evolving message targets.

Near the end, following a particularly deviant decoy cipher, one he realised, almost too late, to be authentic, Carlton found himself at the gates of the final destination. Incredulous, fingers trembling, he tapped out the concluding code.

Upon return, he entered the hall of mirrors.

(Simon Kearns grew up in the North of Ireland and currently lives in the South of France. His debut novel, Virtual Assassin, was published by Revenge Ink in 2010. His next book, The Hyper-Reality Show, will be coming out in 2013. He enjoys experimenting with prose in the form of flash fiction, examples of which can be found on his site: simonkearns.com.)

A Divisive Declaration, via Email

From: Mark G
Sent: Mon 1/28/2013 8:48 AM
To: Mikey Mike
Subject: FW: are you my TRUE friend?

Mike, any idea what sent our old buddy off the deep end?  See below … did you receive this too?

Mark

-----Original Message-----

From: Roderick P
Sent: Mon 1/28/2013 5:55 AM
To: undisclosed-recipients
Subject: are you my TRUE friend?

Dear Friends,

It's come to my attention that certain people comprising a growing minority (or perhaps, by now, a majority) have been swayed by some nebulous, evil force(s) to take away what's rightfully mine and yours, and that while I've fought and will continue to fight with all of my power against this egregious infringement upon my and your unalienable rights, some of you either do not see what's happening as a threat (in other words, you're stupid) or have conceded and joined the movement against me and also, in fact, against (though if you fall into this category, you wouldn't realize it) yourself (in other words, you're even more stupid than the first group I labeled as stupid earlier in this sentence, and you're dangerous too) or, perhaps worst of all, you do not even realize that what's happening is even happening (in other words, you're ignorant).

If you are receiving this email and you fall into any of the categories outlined above, then, kindly allow me to be clear: you are no longer my friend.

That's right, you read that last sentence right, those of you who fall into those categories outlined in the first paragraph above, you traitors.

I'm drawing a line in the sand. You're either with me or against me. If you're not my friend, you're my enemy. If you disagree with me, you're wrong. If you speak out against me, then the joke's on you (ha ha!) because, guess what? I'm not listening!

For all those receiving this email who do not fall into any of the categories outlined in the first paragraph above (which I believe are inclusive of all people with whom I vehemently disagree in this most important of matters, thereby leaving only those with whom I share an outlook and vision), then, kindly allow me to be clear: you are my brothers and sisters, and I love you all.

I'm pretty sure that through my own intuition, I already know where most of you stand, but just to be sure, if you have a free moment in the next couple of days (if you're on vacation or otherwise occupied for the next couple of days, then please reply at least within the next week (take up two weeks if you really, really need that much time)), please reply to this email and make your position known.

Sorry for the mass email, by the way.

Sincerely,

Roderick

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This email message is intended only for the personal use of the recipient(s) named above. All content contained herein is the property of the sender and his or her intended recipients. If you are not an intended recipient, you may not review, copy or distribute this message. If you have received this communication in error, please notify us immediately by email and delete the original message. Anyone who attempts to unlawfully copy or distribute this message will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

Summer Music

Longing for the summer on these cold winter days. Warm, moist air stagnant in the sun. Shorts, a tee, sandals. Music all around – kicking through cracks in car windows, blasting out of bars, jamming on a street corner....

Her head nodded and her body shook, rings on her fingers and bells on her shoes. Our eyes met and we didn't say much until later over a late night, illogical cup of coffee. She laughed and I thought I'd hardly notice the humidity that July.

Unscheduled days, waking up and playing it by ear, barefoot on grass eating brie on bread, drinking red wine in the heat. Walking miles around the city, hydrating, stopping into record stores. Sometimes she bought and sometimes she stole.

But

we knew from the start 
that things fall apart,

intentions don't exist when people are unattached, possessionless, roaming a city in the summer without regard to wherever, whoever's next.

She never cared about labels and neither did I. I used to speculate about her whereabouts – San Francisco, Rotterdam, Perth – I knew I'd never know....

Breathing in that cold, dry air on a frigid neighborhood walk. Winterized houses, sealed shut, don't allow sound to escape.

(Click here for a song not quoted in the above story.)