tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20983744333954652202024-03-13T04:05:50.741-07:00micro stories by Richard Bon and guestsliminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.comBlogger134125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-22175330588255808502017-11-06T03:10:00.000-08:002017-11-06T06:20:24.440-08:00Man in False LightBright, white light shone behind the golden haired, blue eyed, middle aged man who stood before five hundred plus people. They had waited in line for hours to hear him speak.<br />
<br />
Most of his words were about himself, his accomplishments. He spoke as if he had sacrificed to arrive at his position in life. He spoke as if he had done it all by himself, as if he had been born with nothing. As if his ingenuity, cunning, and work ethic had taken him from that nothing to a state of material wealth he flaunted with every breath.<br />
<br />
But he occasionally spoke of the people in front of him: told them they had been forgotten by others, but never by him.<br />
<br />
They looked on at him in awe. They imagined they could do what he had done – not at his level, but within the confines of what they perceived would be success. They believed this man spoke to them because he cared for them. He had climbed the mountain and now, out of a true love for the people of his country, would open the doors of opportunity to them all.<br />
<br />
He spoke loudly. Angry at times, kidding at others. He spoke of disasters only he could quell, crimes only he could prevent. Of people who considered him the enemy of all that is good and right in this world, and of why those people, in turn, were the true enemies to be feared and targeted by everyone supportive of his cause.<br />
<br />
When he finished for the night, he thought of how handsome and strong he surely looked to the crowd.<br />
<br />
They returned to their homes and ate late dinners, content to have been included.liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-29942042297733990842015-09-07T03:10:00.000-07:002015-09-07T03:10:00.477-07:00No SweatThe high sun's heat hit the pavement then floated slowly upward, stagnating in the still air, not even the slightest hint of a breeze.<br />
<br />
Garret and Joseph walked across Girard Avenue.<br />
<br />
"Joe," Garret said, shocked, "how are you not sweating? I'm drenched."<br />
<br />
Joseph, thoughts adrift, hadn't realized it. He looked at Garret and saw drops dripping down his friend's face, a soaked shirt, hair glistening where it met his hat. He felt his own armpits and forehead, dry as a bone.<br />
<br />
"You're right, maybe I'm dehydrated. Nothing to sweat out." His mind returned to its previous, typical fodder: potential weekend plans, the week's upcoming televised sports, whether he'd see Annabeth later that evening.<br />
<br />
Garret shook his head, puzzled.<br />
<br />
Three days passed with an average daily temperature of one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Joseph drank more water than usual. He walked to work like always. Dry. He jogged from York and Frankford to Third and Fairmount. Dry. He played pick up three on three basketball at midday for two straight hours and the other players said he must be an alien, born on Mercury or Venus so Earth could only be cool. Joseph's attitude toward his lack of sweat morphed from curious to concerned to paranoid. He longed to taste a salty drop as it fell across his lips, wanted so badly to remove wet socks, feel his feet sigh with relief. He went home after the basketball game and didn't need to shower, just crawled into bed, afraid.<br />
<br />
He was half asleep when the evening news came on.<br />
<br />
'Good news for Philadelphians as the weather should finally break tomorrow, temperatures will drop from the record breaking levels we've all suffered through for the last week….'<br />
<br />
Joseph wondered what doctors might think of his sudden inability to sweat, pictured himself as a carnival side show character in a booth with a portable sauna. 'Step right up and adjust the dial to a hundred and ten, one twenty, one thirty and look! No sweat.' <br />
<br />
He changed channels to a special on global warming, imagined himself a scientist instead of a bartender. Listening to experts on climate change, he considered their ongoing argument with doubters who dismissed their ideas and reports, usually because of religious faith or, Joseph thought, a profound feeling of smallness.<br />
<br />
He fell into a fitful sleep. He dreamt of riding a camel, alone in the desert, surrounded by open space and cacti bright under a giant yellow sun. He didn't sweat but he didn't care. The camel joined him in laughter when he jumped off its hump and made snow angels in the sand. He'd accomplished something unknown.<br />
<br />
He awoke in the middle of the night wondering what he'd done, what made him happy in his sleep. A new yearning replaced his passivity, a feeling of incompleteness he knew he'd have to resolve in life. A few minutes passed before he realized he lay in a sodden bed, his hair damp and his brow beaded with sweat, even as the cool night air blew in through an open window.liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-60617911280096814952015-08-24T03:10:00.000-07:002015-08-24T03:10:00.046-07:00Chess MatchJimmy hadn't played chess since he'd taken up poker, but when the boss at his new day job challenged him to a match, he felt compelled to accept. They met at a table top board in a park in South Philly on a Saturday afternoon.<br />
<br />
The boss came out aggressive, marching his white pawns two spaces at a time straight at Jimmy's black ones, creating a gap in front of his power pieces. Jimmy moved a couple of black pawns one space forward setting up a zig zag sort of a front, opening up a lane for his bishop and one for his queen. After his boss continued to push pawns at him, the first piece Jimmy brought off the back line was a knight.<br />
<br />
Jimmy knew why the boss really asked him to play that day: to see what Jimmy was made of, see if he was someone who could be pushed up the company ladder. Though Jimmy wasn't sure what he wanted out of the job, he enjoyed just about any game of skill, and he didn't mind an opportunity to see what made the boss tick, get a read on him.<br />
<br />
Once his pawns were positioned to halt the boss's, Jimmy attacked the board's gaps with a bishop and both knights. Boss went into defensive mode and started talking about work. "Ever think about management, Jimmy?"<br />
<br />
Jimmy nodded. "Sure boss, I've given it some thought."<br />
<br />
The boss launched an offensive with his queen, and now Jimmy had to play defense. He shifted a knight and moved his other bishop and slid his rook along the back line. A counter attack presented itself and Jimmy saw an opportunity that would lead to check mate. When he looked into his boss's eyes, though, he saw something that made him hesitate, like the match somehow meant a lot more to the older man than Jimmy assumed it would. Normally Jimmy would never back off when he sensed an opportunity, certainly not at the poker table where his hard earned money was always on the line, but here in the park as the trees shook with a slight breeze, he decided he didn't care whether he won or lost.<br />
<br />
"Check mate," the boss announced twenty three moves later, smiling broadly. "Thought for sure you had me a while back."<br />
<br />
Jimmy shrugged. "Win some, lose some."liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-42296715301593065682015-08-10T03:10:00.000-07:002015-08-10T03:10:00.327-07:00A Place to Make MistakesWe all need a place to make mistakes.<br />
<br />
We all need a chance to get it wrong.<br />
<br />
The weight of the world can pull us down.<br />
<br />
Guilt we feel or forget from breath to breath.<br />
<br />
Reactions of others affect us in some way.<br />
<br />
Internal systems function or fall apart.<br />
<br />
Settings determine levels of impact.<br />
<br />
Casualties yield consequences.<br />
<br />
Survival of some seems arbitrary,<br />
<br />
But it's never that simple.<br />
<br />
Practicing for life wherever we can,<br />
<br />
Trying to do something well,<br />
<br />
We can grow beyond those difficult moments<br />
<br />
When we have a place to make mistakes.liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-74095960239791646912015-07-27T03:10:00.000-07:002015-07-27T03:10:00.621-07:00Walking the LineIt's the line we walk in every situation we encounter.<br />
<br />
It's the guy on the park bench staring at your five year old daughter and smiling. You watch her play and you watch him. Just an old man who sees innocence and can't stop looking, or that lowest of humans against whom every decent adult must defend every child?<br />
<br />
It's the guy standing on the corner of your street, ten feet from your house, with his hands in his pockets after midnight. You keep tabs on him out the corner of your eye as you unlock your front door. A young man out for a late stroll, or the lookout while his friends lurk in the alleyway two terraces down, waiting for the right opportunity to assault and rob?<br />
<br />
We hope for the best, but prepare for the worst, working to leave the world a better place than we found it, trying not to run out of time.liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-12330324101043818742015-07-13T03:10:00.000-07:002015-07-13T05:49:59.752-07:00A Philadelphian Conversation - Number FourThe 10:42 pm train out of Atlantic City leaves on time, and I'm happy not to be driving back to Philly, for a change, so I can read. Reading is what I'm doing when a man perhaps fifty years breathing stumbles on at Hammonton and stops in the aisle beside my seat. I can smell the booze sweating out of him as I feel his look. My eyes remain fixed on the pages in front of them. The guy sits down and talks to himself. "You ain't gonna rob this train. You ain't gonna start a fight. Gonna get home. Finally gonna get home."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCY7HUTuocRzfVzs1t_SasfUNnda8WLS3o3Ere797YivSDGh9OxdZIerDQt5Sy5HkJgkhFz4GKdJXh2eabI_AJOoihJ6lD_qYhcuLGM_tyuv51h5ZiSB_q9cYYh64l5hP5d3iyrYgzyq4/s1600/New_Jersey_Transit_train_1165.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCY7HUTuocRzfVzs1t_SasfUNnda8WLS3o3Ere797YivSDGh9OxdZIerDQt5Sy5HkJgkhFz4GKdJXh2eabI_AJOoihJ6lD_qYhcuLGM_tyuv51h5ZiSB_q9cYYh64l5hP5d3iyrYgzyq4/s320/New_Jersey_Transit_train_1165.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
"Ticket." commands the ticket checker.<br />
<br />
The man produces a crumpled up, skinny piece of paper anyone would know is not a ticket for this train. "Bus driver told me I could use this to transfer."<br />
<br />
The ticket checker hands the man back the wrinkled slip of paper. "This isn't a ticket for this train. You—"<br />
<br />
"But the bus driver—"<br />
<br />
"I'm trying to tell you—"<br />
<br />
"But he said—"<br />
<br />
"Doesn't matter what he said and if you'll stop interrupting—"<br />
<br />
"Okay."<br />
<br />
"—I'll tell you how it is. You need to get off at the next stop."<br />
<br />
"You ain't throwing me off now?"<br />
<br />
"I can't stop the train now that it's moving again."<br />
<br />
The man nods and looks down toward his feet, presumably in acceptance of his fate. "What's the next stop?"<br />
<br />
"Atco," answers the ticket checker, and walks on.<br />
<br />
A few minutes pass and I read on without looking around. I hear the man say "What you readin'?"<br />
<br />
I look up at him and hold the book out so he can see its title, which I'm sure he doesn't compute. He has close cropped whitish grey hair, a gold stud earring in his left ear, and the most crooked nose I've ever seen. He wears a black Harley shirt with orange writing and sleeves cut off, revealing faded, dark green tattoos set on thin, muscular arms.<br />
<br />
"Any good?" he asks.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," I say, "pretty good."<br />
<br />
I go back to reading and hear him start up talking to himself again. His head is lowered toward his lap, shaking back and forth, mumbling. "Not gonna fight. Gotta get home."<br />
<br />
I peek over at his hands to see what they're doing. They're by his sides, but in constant motion.<br />
<br />
"Hey," he says.<br />
<br />
I look up at him again, but this time I think to myself<i> if you fuck with me, I'll kill you</i> and do my best to make him feel that vibe from me, make him hear my thoughts.<br />
<br />
"You know if there's a Wawa near the Atco stop?"<br />
<br />
I shake my head, still giving him my best <i>don't-fuck-with-me</i> look. "No, dunno."<br />
<br />
When the train pulls up to the Atco stop, the man slowly stands and stumbles off the same way he stumbled on. He mutters something like "Gonna get home. Little closer now."<br />
<br />
I feel sorry for him, but whatever sequence of events landed him where he is on this Thursday evening, I have a feeling he's no victim.<br />
<br />
When the train starts moving, as we pull away from Atco, the ticket checker passes by again.liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-30486320032465923382015-06-29T03:10:00.000-07:002015-06-29T03:10:00.257-07:00Children in the RainThree happy children walk over fallen leaves. When the rain pours down, they seek shelter. But shelter cannot always be found, so they do not always smile.<br />
<br />
They grow into adults with different attitudes about the rain. One stands in a puddle, arms to the sky, and lets her hair and clothes get soaked. Another carries an umbrella and dodges gathering streams. The third stays inside, waiting out the storm.<br />
<br />
When they see each other they embrace. They talk about old times and new, other people in their lives. But they do not discuss the rain because it has always fallen, and they suspect it always will.liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-84079939942332389792015-06-15T03:10:00.000-07:002015-06-15T03:10:00.405-07:00The Lemonade StandOn such a blistering hot day, the little girls' sidewalk lemonade stand was a welcome site to Sheila, sweating through her shirt. She approached the small table, eager for a cool drink. A small sign read:<br />
<br />
COLD LEMONADE $0.25<br />
<br />
"Hello girls, what are your names?" asked Sheila.<br />
<br />
"Lemonade!" the older of the young entrepreneurs shouted. "Like to buy a cup?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, please." She reached into her purse for a quarter and handed it over. "Here you go."<br />
<br />
The girls frowned. "It's fifty cents a cup, Miss."<br />
<br />
Sheila frowned too. "But your sign—"<br />
<br />
COLD LEMONADE $0.50<br />
<br />
"That's odd," said Sheila, "I could've sworn that sign said twenty five cents a moment ago." She laughed and searched her purse for additional change. "Here."<br />
<br />
The older girl accepted the payment and placed it on the table, counted it out. One quarter, two dimes, and a nickel.<br />
<br />
"Miss, I'm sorry, but this is only fifty cents. Our lemonade is one dollar."<br />
<br />
Sheila, confused and getting annoyed, still sweating and growing thirstier, said, "Wait a minute, not only does your sign say fifty cents—"<br />
<br />
COLD LEMONADE $1.00<br />
<br />
"Well, now that's really weird." Sheila stopped, wondering if the heat was making her lose her mind. "Okay, I don't know what's happening with your sign, some sort of trick you're playing somehow, but you just told me with your own mouth that the lemonade costs fifty cents. Now you say a dollar."<br />
<br />
The younger girl started to cry.<br />
<br />
"Oh, please don't cry, I'm not sure—"<br />
<br />
"Hold on, please," said the older girl, "I'll get my mom."<br />
<br />
"Fine, get her."<br />
<br />
The girls turned and stepped inside their house. Four minutes and forty seven seconds later, they returned with a forty year old woman built like a professional weight lifter. "What did you say to make my little girl cry?"<br />
<br />
"Ma'am, I beg your pardon, but I think there's been a misunderstanding."<br />
<br />
"Look, Miss, I don't know what your problem is, but just because you don't wanna pay two dollars for a cup of lemonade—"<br />
<br />
"Two dollars?!" Sheila looked at the sign.<br />
<br />
COLD LEMONADE $2.00<br />
<br />
"Yeah, two dollars. The money will help fund my girls' education."<br />
<br />
Sheila couldn't take it anymore.<br />
<br />
"Nevermind, thanks anyway, I've got to get home."<br />
<br />
Walking away, Sheila could hear the mom shouting, "Hey you, get back here! Since you'd be a new customer, we'll give you a cup for a buck fifty!"liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-78939410737396349762015-06-01T03:10:00.000-07:002015-06-01T03:10:00.065-07:00Like GoldWe are alive. It's all we know. We don't think about it as we breathe in and out. We don't think about it as we walk down the street in the sunshine or hustle to get out of the rain. But we are alive and making decisions: who to defend, which initiatives to support, what's best for our families and our planet. We argue about what matters. We divide our limited time. We work for love or money or both, we join clubs, we volunteer, we attend weddings and funerals and baby showers. We party. We entertain ourselves in many ways, some free and others costly. We wake up and go back to sleep. We alternately stimulate our minds or kill brain cells. Our decisions are our own as we inhale and exhale. We live moment to moment.liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-3357295995575677972015-05-18T03:10:00.000-07:002015-05-18T06:43:43.366-07:00Old FriendsChiang got his start in the industry when Johnson hired him. They shared an office for five years, sitting directly across from one another, each hardly able to avoid the other's gaze.<br />
<br />
The two were perfect opposites in nearly every way. Chiang stood a skinny five foot five, his ankles and wrists famously small. One could easily lose sight of him in a crowded room. Johnson's bulky six foot four frame towered over him as did his overbearing, often condescending presence. They worked together seamlessly. Johnson the face and voice of the enterprise, always on the phone and animated in their shared office, his temperament jumping from jovial to bellicose at a moment's notice. Chiang the quiet guy behind the scenes researching their next moves, analyzing data, uncovering new leads and passing them on to Johnson. Johnson at the bar having a few too many with their suppliers and customers. Chiang at home awake into the wee hours taking notes. Everything was peaches until Chiang got a little too comfortable for Johnson's liking. It didn't have a chance of lasting long thereafter, and when Chiang told Johnson he'd be moving to Hong Kong and taking over his uncle's trading company, Johnson felt relief that he wouldn't have to fire his daytime roommate.<br />
<br />
Ten years removed from Chiang's decision to leave Johnson, as <a href="http://liminalfiction.com/2013/05/johnson.html" target="_blank">Johnson's business relationships teetered on the edge of dissolution</a>, the two encountered each other at a tradeshow in Shanghai. Johnson didn't recognize Chiang at first – he'd gained significant weight. They spoke briefly and went their separate ways. Chiang displayed a confidence Johnson had never observed in him before, but Johnson sensed a falseness about his old friend, a deep insecurity beneath the surface. Johnson smiled when he thought of Chiang's rotund figure, his bulging belly hanging over a hidden belt. He laughed before suddenly feeling angry, equating Chiang's obesity with success he must've experienced since their split.<br />
<br />
The industry had room for the both of them: their cunning, their rationalizations, their whispered conversations with others like them around the globe. But whether the world would have room for the industry, that was another question entirely, one it would answer in time.liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-19149239177086075772015-05-04T03:10:00.000-07:002015-05-04T03:10:00.270-07:00The People's OfficeMid-morning sunlight poured into Joseph's living room. After a long winter, Joseph and Garret, sitting around sipping hot coffee, welcomed the mild spring weather – a cloudless, breezy Philadelphia day. They sat back and stared out the windows at blue sky.<br />
<br />
"I figured out my next career move," said Garret.<br />
<br />
"Just now?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah. Just now. Sitting here drinking coffee on this fine morning."<br />
<br />
"I suppose I'm supposed to ask what you're going to do."<br />
<br />
"Up to you."<br />
<br />
Joseph sighed, feeling obliged to humor his friend. "Okay, what is it?"<br />
<br />
"I'm going to open an office."<br />
<br />
Joseph waited for details. Minutes passed before he asked "What kind of office?"<br />
<br />
"A small one – basic. Reception area and a separate room for me. Modestly sized desk—"<br />
<br />
"Gotcha, yeah, but I meant what kind of services will you provide? You're not a doctor or a lawyer or a professional of any kind, last I checked."<br />
<br />
Garret shot Joseph a disapproving look. "Who says only doctors and lawyers and professionals can have their own offices? I wanna help people, Joe. I'll be there for our community. I think I'll be happier than I would've been if <a href="http://liminalfiction.com/2011/07/fishtown-mews.html" target="_blank">Fishtown Mews</a> had come together as it should've."<br />
<br />
"Okay man, that's noble and all, but how are you qualified to help people? What will you do for them?"<br />
<br />
"It's simple. People will find me when they have no place else to go. They'll come to me with their situations, whatever those situations may be, and I'll advise them, do field work, help them solve their problems."<br />
<br />
"Field work?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah. You know, research. Like in those p.i. books when people bring their cases to the dick and he goes out there and sees what's up. It starts with one person, the client, and then once I get out there to do the seeing of what's up, I put myself in the right place at the right time and other people start coming out of the woodwork to reveal whatever pertinent information they can offer. I connect some dots, drink whiskey, and everyone wins."<br />
<br />
"So you'll be a p.i., that's what you're saying."<br />
<br />
"No. I won't actually be a p.i. – that was just an analogy to help you understand. I'll be more of a floater looking for the right set of circumstances. I'm sure it'll be slow going in the beginning but once I help those first few clients, word will get out."<br />
<br />
Joseph shrugged, tiring of the conversation.<br />
<br />
"You see, Joe," Garret continued, "it's not about a product or service – that's small minded thinking. It's not about a fancy title. It's about people helping people, and hopefully more people doing good things for the world than bad…."<br />
<br />
Garret rambled on, but Joseph tuned him out, closed his eyes. He thought of how he might spend the rest of his day off from work, perhaps a walk to Palmer Park to sit around there for a while in the beautiful weather, rather than just sitting around his apartment.liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-72391789995926325482015-04-20T03:10:00.000-07:002015-04-20T06:37:04.135-07:00Take the Blue LineYou must take the blue line<br />
From Berks and Front Street to City Hall Station<br />
<br />
You will need to transfer<br />
To the orange line at City Hall Station<br />
<br />
Hurry, get on, beers are flowin'<br />
Phillies may stink, we're still goin'<br />
<br />
All aboard, get on the blue line<br />
Soon you will be at the ballpark for a gameliminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-66652725174661070122015-04-06T03:10:00.000-07:002015-04-06T03:10:00.469-07:00Checking the Weather in PeaceWhat happens when fear dominates hope? Does fear attract more attention than love?<br />
<br />
People open The Weather Channel web site to check the weather, but the weather's not all we'll get. Headlines like "Widespread Severe Outbreak" or "Elevated Tornado Risk" pop up before we even enter our zip codes. Perhaps here fear has value, perhaps it helps people prepare. Or maybe headlines like these keep us on the site long enough that we may notice the Amazon ad to the right of the screen?<br />
<br />
People turn to the news to learn about what's happening in the world. And we have myriad outlets from which to choose: television, internet, newspapers reporting on war, crime, suicidal killers … story after story there to scare us every day. How many times do we need to hear the same story, see the same images, read the same headline written with a different twist? We don't need to seek out the news; it finds us at the gym, the airport, a cafeteria, or when we open a web browser.<br />
<br />
Why sensationalize the evil in the world instead of reporting on the good people out there doing good things? The media wants our eyeballs, and our eyeballs stick with the negative longer than the positive. Do stories of evil acts make us feel better about ourselves by comparison? Do we change the channel away from <i>feel good</i> stories because they make us <i>feel worse</i> by comparison? What does that say about us?<br />
<br />
What can we do to tip these scales? Can we draw attention to positivity? Can we check the weather in peace?liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-6056807779176722882015-03-23T03:10:00.000-07:002015-03-23T03:10:00.584-07:00No SleepEventually, Freddy had to find a job. He got into a nine to five routine that really began at 6:30 am and ended around 6:00 pm. His job was okay by him. It paid the bills.<br />
<br />
By the time Freddy ate dinner, did the dishes, folded his laundry or handled whatever other chore required his attention, he was tired enough for bed. But Freddy could never just go to bed.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://liminalfiction.com/2011/11/freddy-fiddler.html" target="_blank">At first it was a fiddle that kept him up late</a>. For a while after that it was a drum set. Most recently his obsession became an electric piano he bought as soon as he'd saved enough cash. He found himself losing hours on a wooden bench, fingers sliding down white and black keys, practicing scales and feeling his way through songs. Some nights it was one or two or three in the morning before he fell off the bench onto his futon and passed out.<br />
<br />
One night he played all three instruments, alternating every hour or so. Before he knew it, the sun shone through his apartment window and, feeling more wired than tired, he took a shower and went to work.<br />
<br />
He expected to come home from work that day and go straight to bed, but a rhythm stuck in his head wouldn't quit. Down he sat to play some chords and up he rose with fiddle in hand and once again the hours disappeared.<br />
<br />
Three days and three nights passed and Freddy didn't sleep a wink. At work he drank coffee, at home he just jammed.<br />
<br />
Eventually, Freddy went to sleep on a Friday night. When he woke midday Saturday, reentering the world from a dream, a voice sang softly inside his head. The melody flowed to his finger tips and down he sat once again, lost in a world all his own.liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-2647297822896127522015-03-09T03:10:00.000-07:002015-03-09T03:10:00.252-07:00Just Imagine"Dear friends, do you know the secret to eternal happiness? Our team found it and we're willing to share. Imagine yourself imagining a life without borders, a life unrestrained, a life of true freedom. Now imagine imagining that life every day for the rest of your life. Get there mentally. We will show you how to get there in the real world.<br />
<br />
Life can be so simple, and yet so many of us complicate our lives. We fixate on the day to day minutiae instead of focusing on what really matters. Sure, we all have to eat. But do we have to torture ourselves every day, work our fingers to the bone, cause ourselves insufferable amounts of stress just to get by? The answers to these questions and many others you may have is: 'no.'<br />
<br />
Is there a way to live your life the way you want, every day, do the things you want to do, every day, and be able to support yourself financially? The answer to these questions and many others like them is: 'yes.'<br />
<br />
So, how do we do it? There are a variety of ways. You will have to make some decisions that at first may seem difficult: change the way you eat, use different products than you use today or use some of the same products you use today in different ways, move to a different part of the country or perhaps to a different country (what a great opportunity to explore the world!), spend a lot of time meeting in person or speaking on the phone or tweeting / facebooking / instagrammingtoning with a lot of people you haven't met yet (but you'll have an opportunity to meet them soon!) and also with a lot of people you already know, and a bunch of other stuff we'll need you to do that we can talk about later. But then, once we get through all of that hulabahoo, then you'll be part of our team and you'll be truly free.<br />
<br />
If you've read this far and you're thinking, <i>where do I sign up?</i>, send me a private message and we can get started today. If this note hasn't convinced you that you need to join us today (though I can't imagine how that's possible), think about the opportunity we're offering you and imagine what you'll be missing if you don't join us. Five years from now, ten years from now, twenty years from now – you don't want to have any regrets. Don't be that regretful, mentally incarcerated person who could've been free. Seriously, don't do it. Join us today."liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-21307550306576859362015-02-23T03:10:00.000-08:002015-02-23T19:40:51.654-08:00A Philadelphian Conversation - Number ThreeThe doorbell rang and I assumed, because it had been snowing all day, that it would be Scott with a shovel. I set a little bowl of spaghetti down on the table and looked out the window to see who it was. Scott had already started shoveling, so I opened the door and told him I'd pay five dollars when he finished.<br />
<br />
When he knocked on the door again, he said "You know they stole my bike" and I said "Really?" and he said "You don't seen me on it, do you?"<br />
<br />
I shook my head to indicate that indeed, I had not seen him on it.<br />
<br />
He said "My own people took it from me! My own people took my bike."<br />
<br />
"How do you know that?"<br />
<br />
"'Cause I couldn't catch 'em. They was too fast. I had it locked up and everything and they came up with one of them clippers and cut it loose." He sighed. "I had that bike fourteen years."<br />
<br />
I told him about what happened to me a few months back when I was assaulted by a random person walking down the street, and how I got away before the guy and some other guy he was with were able to rob me, which, I told Scott, was certainly their intention. He said "You lucky man" and I gave him the five dollars and he turned to leave.<br />
<br />
As he walked away, he shouted back to me "I'll get me another bike! You'll see! I'll get me another one!" The snow came down on him beneath the streetlights, and I realized it was coming down on me too.liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-16297246481439404812015-02-09T03:10:00.000-08:002015-02-09T03:10:00.210-08:00James' DilemmaJames leans back against the hard plastic of his seat on the train. He thinks about the man he had to let go today, envisions him telling his wife he's out of a job. He thinks of how a few years ago, before he became a supervisor, it could have been him getting his pink slip. Imagining the look on his own wife's face if he were the one breaking this sort of news makes him cringe.<br />
<br />
James likes the house he and his wife bought shortly after his promotion, but the property taxes rose by an astonishing forty percent last year, an abnormal raise not likely to occur again but a painful one nonetheless. Between that and their mortgage, healthcare, pre-school for the youngest of their three kids, and a laundry list of other expenses, he can barely keep up.<br />
<br />
It's okay, he thinks, as long as my kids get a chance. It's okay as long as they get an education and a clean slate. It's all okay if they can do something with this world.liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-84993731040328682712015-01-26T03:10:00.000-08:002015-01-26T03:10:00.210-08:00Desire and NothingDesire originating within, influenced by outside forces, aiming in various directions. Survival instinct can go too far. Self awareness fights insecurities revealed around others.<br />
<br />
The desire of the moment or of a lifetime: to create something positive. Driving oneself beyond basic needs can lead to threatening levels of excess. Power seduces and the true self fades away, hides away, sometimes too far gone to be found.<br />
<br />
To just <i>be </i>can get lost. The privilege of survival and self awareness are often lost with it, but those who hold onto that basic knowledge are rewarded by the knowledge itself.liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-48753493443731763652015-01-12T03:10:00.000-08:002015-01-12T03:10:00.151-08:00Between the Cemetery and the RiverMausoleums on the hill overlook the river and its parallel path, watching every boat race, jogger, biker. The cemetery's west end comes to an abrupt halt like a cliff over the road below: a narrow, busy road on which cars are known to double the speed limit. A high stone wall stands on the side of the road below the cemetery hill, holding the ground in place far beneath buried bones. A much lower stone wall runs along the other side, separating the river path from the busy road.<br />
<br />
Large, old walk in tombs and gravestones like these are mostly a bygone tradition. But the winds of chance still blow through them as they ever would. On a sunny weekend morning, the mausoleums witness a car veer off the road below, straight through the low stone wall, across the jogging path and straight into the river.<br />
<br />
Nobody jogged or biked past at that particular moment. No coxswains led oarsmen in the place where the car dove headlights first into the water. Hours before the accident, a young family had a picnic on the river bank. A six month old baby lay on a blanket while her two year old brother ran circles around their parents. They're alive and well. Like the rest of us who breathe, they're surrounded by ghosts.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.uwishunu.com/2009/03/philadelphias-historic-laurel-hill-cemetery/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnl1yq_LTmQrq-eDJ006nW5t-NmqN3l5BOb-HawLimmzvWtzOX5IcIUtTNjcoIw0sO0ObovmJHYUszYkAtyIQ181anzqxrLPRPaTWCO5dCj88b4-YdGXQjG7DEl0KOtk21WxNUdfRgCCE/s1600/laurel-hill-photo-by-ea-smith.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.uwishunu.com/2009/03/philadelphias-historic-laurel-hill-cemetery/" target="_blank">Photo by Erica Smith for uwishunu.com</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-63791543660959995002014-12-29T03:10:00.000-08:002014-12-29T03:10:00.493-08:00A Beating in Suburbia - Part Two: A Hoax Unquestioned<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>By Dick Radley | Freelance Editor and Journalist</b></span><br />
<br />
In the weeks since <a href="http://liminalfiction.com/2014/12/a-beating-in-suburbia-part-one-jacks.html" target="_blank">Katrina Dubin Ardely's story of police brutality in Cajoling Tone magazine</a> exploded onto the internet, as most readers know by now, evidence has emerged proving the article entirely false. Here's a brief summary of what we've all learned:<br />
<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jack was never beaten by police<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jack gave friends mixed accounts of being beaten, sometimes blaming the police and other times blaming a group of random men<br />
•<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Jack, in fact, was not beaten at the hands of another, but rather <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZBpj7Ny88HE" target="_blank">beat himself up</a> and subsequently invented a crime<br />
<br />
Whatever happened or didn't happen to Jack, and whatever motive he had to create a false narrative, all of that is, of course, a big part of the story. But what I'd like to know is how Ms. Dubin Ardely managed to hear Jack's description of events without questioning it, and what, if any, fact checking and due diligence she conducted prior to reporting it all as if it were truth?<br />
<br />
I spoke with the man in her article called Joe, who said, "She quoted me directly in her story, but I never talked to her once. I have no idea where that quote came from. I don't know anything about any kind of ritualized police brutality in this town."<br />
<br />
I also spoke with Suburbia chief of police Ben Modano, who Ms. Dubin Ardely claims "declined to comment" for her story. "She never reached out to me or to anyone at the department," said Chief Modano. "Had she contacted me, I would've been able to clear this up for her quite easily." Regarding the song Ms. Dubin Ardely quotes throughout the article, "Fraternally Yours," Chief Modano specifically asked me to mention that neither he nor any of Suburbia's other police officers have ever heard it or heard of it, let alone ever sung it.<br />
<br />
Finally, I spoke with Earl White, the only person whose real name appears in Ms. Dubin Ardely's article. "She bought a story about Jack getting beaten by cops because that's what she wanted to hear. She wanted to do a story on police brutality in an upscale, quiet town, and Jack gave her what she wanted." Mr. White went on to note, "Look how she quoted me! I told her my real name and told her Jack wasn't beaten by cops, so she put my quote in, but twisted the way she did it to make it seem like I was denying the truth. But she was the one in denial. She was the one who couldn't see the truth even though it was right there in front of her, because she either didn't want to see the truth or didn't care about the truth. Maybe she cared about victims like Jack and helping to prevent future crimes, but mostly she cared about advancing her career. From what I've read lately, now that her article turned out to be a hoax, all she did for her career was ruin it."<br />
<br />
(Click <a href="http://www.richardbradley.net/shotsinthedark/2014/11/24/is-the-rolling-stone-story-true/" target="_blank">here</a> to read the inspiration for this two part series. Thank you, Richard Bradley.)liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-80216162946174747052014-12-15T03:10:00.000-08:002014-12-15T03:10:00.039-08:00A Beating in Suburbia - Part One: Jack's Story<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Jack had just moved to Suburbia when he was severely beaten by local police for no reason at all, paralyzing him from the waist down. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">By Katrina Dubin Ardely </span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>| Contributing Editor for Cajoling Tone Magazine</b></span><br />
<br />
<i>We, the fraternal order of police</i><br />
<i>Sometimes must go to war to keep the peace.</i><br />
<b>–"Fraternally Yours," traditional Suburbia, USA police force theme song</b><br />
<br />
Sipping from a plastic cup, standing on the sidewalk minding his own business, Jack was surprised to see the police officer walking toward him. Like so many others, he had moved to Suburbia to settle into a quieter life, to be surrounded by its idyllic mountains and preserved forests, to live as one small cog in a safe and essentially self-governed community. His surprise turned to anguish when the officer, whom we’ll call Sergeant Drewer, proceeded to beat him within an inch of his life. Jack will never walk again.<br />
<br />
<i>Better think twice before you break a law</i><br />
<i>‘Cause we’re not nice and we like to guffaw.</i><br />
<b>"Fraternally Yours"</b><br />
<br />
Most of Jack’s friends were devastated when they learned of the tragic beating he suffered at the hands of Officer Drewer. "I don’t know exactly what happened that night, but it could have been avoided," said one friend whom we’ll call Joe. He went on to say, "Police brutality in this town is ritualized. New cops have to bludgeon a random person as part of their initiation to the force." Another friend, previously unaware that Jack can no longer walk or that the police had anything to do with it, spoke under the condition of anonymity, citing fear of retaliation. He said, "Are you sure Jack is paralyzed? Because I saw him last night at our weekly pick up basketball game. I think he had like fifteen points and eight to ten rebounds."<br />
<br />
<i>We don’t care what you think you might’ve done</i><br />
<i>Because each one of us always carries a gun.</i><br />
<b>"Fraternally Yours"</b><br />
<br />
In a seemingly peaceful, bucolic town like Suburbia, it’s sad to discover that people secretly live in fear of those sworn to protect and serve. Speaking with another of Jack’s friends, longtime resident Earl White, this fear was evident. "I don’t think the police beat up Jack at all. I heard a couple of random guys jumped him that night – they broke his nose and he had a few bumps and bruises, but he survived and is doing fine." When pressed, Earl stuck with his story, his certainty perhaps scariest of all. The omnipresent, silent pressure exerted by Suburbia police pushes people to deny truths, twist reality to quell their fears, reinforce a false feeling of safety.<br />
<br />
At Jack's request, because of his own understandable fears, we have not attempted to contact Sergeant Drewer. When we spoke with the chief of police, he declined to comment.<br />
<br />
"I’ll never stop having nightmares and never feel safe," said Jack. "All because of that one night when I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-28512091463562625402014-12-01T03:10:00.000-08:002014-12-01T03:10:00.784-08:00Come Back (by Cara Long)He asks you who your father is and you look at him, but say nothing. You do this because although you recognize his words, you do not know who he is, you do not know what “father” is or is not, you do not know where you are.<br />
<br />
You turn on your internal controls and try not to panic (which you are very close to doing). You clear your throat and cross one leg over the other. He – the man, this man – is now looking at you very intently. Finally, you say, “Does it matter?”<br />
<br />
The man sighs. He says, “Look, I know you’re probably scared.” You look away from him. He knows nothing, but you will not tell him that he knows nothing because you have a sense that saying this will make him talk more. You have to get away. That is what you know for certain. You ask him if you can talk later, you say that you are tired. The man nods and stands up. He says, “I want you to think about things so you can talk about them.” Then he leaves.<br />
<br />
You look out the window, the one he had been blocking when he sat across from you.<br />
<br />
You see things you have seen before and they tell you nothing. You are awash in panic - you know now that you have most likely always been here, in this place, and that the man, he will come back for you.<br />
<br />
(<a href="https://twitter.com/Very_very_red" target="_blank">Cara Long</a> lives and works in New York State. Her first collection of short stories, <i><a href="http://www.unsolicitedpress.com/store/p14/Partly_Gone_by_Cara_Long.html" target="_blank">Partly Gone</a></i>, was published in June 2014 through Unsolicited Press. A Greek translation was published by Strange Days Books.)liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-51743124884737549872014-11-17T03:10:00.000-08:002014-11-17T06:08:07.918-08:00A Place to SpillThis is the last stop. This is where the spill will happen, and its shell will go to the dark place.<br />
<br />
It shuffles slightly forward and backward, side to side, from time to time. It travels from box to bin, cardboard to plastic. Sometimes it gets thrown onto the floor. It anticipates that moment of true movement when it rises above the others just before the spill, but things do not always go as expected. Pockets lock it in and transport it to a new bin, another place to spill, and it just waits to see what happens next.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.sugarpacketchad.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0aJ8MqcXZ4N7p398EXkWwxxZ8YbmarQRrnBXP42uVmpaGbZSaLnD0yHQdcCxJcOz7GltkV1iZTFGSCJr62FL_eAuXlVK1rFKimNau2fL3Ms4zM-zEzNgl5kyf7oTfpt48lIfyvW1_U5w/s1600/United+Nations+Sugar+Packet.jpg" height="200" width="132" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.sugarpacketchad.com/" target="_blank">photo by sugarpacketchad</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-91078184691573518592014-11-03T03:10:00.000-08:002014-11-12T19:22:45.425-08:00Anderson and the ActionThe first night I saw Anderson, he traipsed up to the roulette table where my three hundred bucks had whittled its way down to fifty over the course of a couple hours, and bet two large on black. When it came up red, he turned to me with a tired, raised brow, and said, "It was a fun weekend anyhow." I caught his name on his black Borgata card when the pit boss handed it back to him. He walked away at the same sluggish pace with which he'd approached, and I eyed him up and down – he looked perhaps seventy, his white hair perfectly combed in place from right to left, short on the sides above a clean shaven, pale face. He wore a tan blazer with subtle, sky blue checkered lines over a white collared shirt and a Rolex I imagined he'd purchased forty years prior on a trip to Haiti. I never expected to see him again.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQNicWSWuKXUUOMWl-9f19LmqWRhhPgu0AoUw5L4y0_fLNZUoXtCO0dyZb87JmAq62SN2v3wxSCkAra18HQYt69Z2CbQjQn0iCMxJCLnlEBHUCXnAiQ5Q5rH8yMoWvUtOgxykoJ7Heb2s/s1600/Roulette+Wheel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQNicWSWuKXUUOMWl-9f19LmqWRhhPgu0AoUw5L4y0_fLNZUoXtCO0dyZb87JmAq62SN2v3wxSCkAra18HQYt69Z2CbQjQn0iCMxJCLnlEBHUCXnAiQ5Q5rH8yMoWvUtOgxykoJ7Heb2s/s1600/Roulette+Wheel.jpg" height="131" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
Three weeks later I sat in an underground poker room at Angelo's place, a walk up apartment only accessible from an alleyway you didn't just happen to saunter along and find. My table was No Limit Hold 'em and Angelo didn't have any formal rules about buy in amounts, but these things usually worked themselves out okay. It was midnight and I was doing alright for me, up about a grand, when the only door to the place inched open and Anderson stepped into the room. He wore a different blazer, this one a dark green, and a white collared shirt that could've been the same one he'd worn when I saw him play one spin of roulette. He looked like he hadn't slept for a week. Angelo spoke with him briefly and directed him to the seat beside mine, where he settled in and placed twenty thousand on the table like it was a pack of cigarettes. The other five guys' eyes lit up, but I wasn't surprised – any guy who'd bet two thousand on a single spin of the roulette wheel, all of it on a color, wasn't likely to care or even notice that his starting stack was four times bigger than the next biggest where he sat down.<br />
<br />
Three hours in, he was up to over twenty four k. He played an aggressive style, a little too aggressive for my taste, but it was clear that he had some skill and wasn't all bravado. The biggest pot of the night started out innocently enough: someone raised the ten / twenty blinds to a hundred, and Anderson and I both called.<br />
<br />
After the flop, the pre-flop raiser bet a thousand. Anderson called. I had nothing and I imagined at least one of them had better than that, so I mucked.<br />
<br />
After the turn card, this time the bettor put out two thousand. Anderson called without hesitation. The river card came and the bettor only had around two thousand left in his stack. He was a regular here named John something or other, and he called Angelo over to the table. "Ange, I only got two k here but you know I'm good for another three. I'd like to bet five thousand."<br />
<br />
Angelo gave John a strong look and John held his gaze. When Angelo finally nodded his approval, John said to Anderson, "Well Whitey, you can guess the bet. Five thousand. Your move."<br />
<br />
Anderson smiled. He seemed to be thinking things through. After a couple minutes he spoke up. "Mr. Angelo, sir, you've allowed this man to bet on a marker." Angelo nodded again. "I wonder if you'd let him go any deeper? Because I'd like to raise him another sixteen thousand."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaeu4Ty4paeD-d2AjnDhMlcunueaajI_QFK48zCW9bY5AM_LlAkLX5D0rdUwV-QHP_v77ywXqnN7mNvYmyxZXXvfie3-BxCaLRel9AEFyMKhy1c27JPSYy6p5qERm8FbZxFzwtP-HtMKU/s1600/Poker+Chips.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaeu4Ty4paeD-d2AjnDhMlcunueaajI_QFK48zCW9bY5AM_LlAkLX5D0rdUwV-QHP_v77ywXqnN7mNvYmyxZXXvfie3-BxCaLRel9AEFyMKhy1c27JPSYy6p5qERm8FbZxFzwtP-HtMKU/s1600/Poker+Chips.jpg" height="120" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<span id="goog_1324183768"></span>
The table froze. It wasn't just the amount of money, it was the fact he'd asked for permission to raise a bettor beyond an amount the bettor had to borrow just to make the bet.<br />
<br />
"You that strong, chief?" John something or other asked Anderson.<br />
<br />
Anderson stared him down with tired eyes. "Only one way to find out, son."<br />
<br />
John looked up at Angelo. "How 'bout it, Ange? You float me another sixteen k?"<br />
<br />
"That's a lotta do-re-mi, Johnny. Gonna need collateral."<br />
<br />
Anderson sat in silence during the back and forth between his opponent and the room's proprietor. If not for his eyes being half open, I'd have thought he were asleep.<br />
<br />
At last Angelo said he couldn't carry John any further on account of his only collateral being a beat up old Ford Ranger. At this point, having been denied his request to make a raise, Anderson had the choice of whether he wanted to call the five thousand.<br />
<br />
The shock around the table was the most audible I'd ever seen it and have ever seen it since when Anderson mucked his cards. He turned to me and said, "It's just no fun for me when I can't raise the stakes." At that, he stood and pushed in his chair, cashed in his remaining chips, and left us all in wonderment as he walked out the door, back to wherever it was he went when he wasn't gambling.liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2098374433395465220.post-65561951302561367092014-10-20T03:10:00.000-07:002015-03-01T20:35:57.305-08:00Numbers, Emotion, and EnergyTo be just a number. A statistic. Perhaps it's all we can ever be, if that.<br />
<br />
Some show less emotion than others, but emotion is always there somewhere. Some bury it deeper than others, but it's always there.<br />
<br />
There's energy around us and energy within. Some have more than others and it's not necessarily consistent. It ebbs and flows.<br />
<br />
Being that number each of us is, pushing against the glass ceiling of our world, we can channel that emotion, seek places to put that energy. None of it may ever make us anything more than a number, a statistic, but we'll feel that emotion and we'll use that energy until that day when we close our eyes for the last time.liminalfictionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08762010680878316253noreply@blogger.com7