RIP SWC :*-(

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Now playing: Pink Floyd - Us And Them
via FoxyTunes

Resignation

As you may have noticed, I have not been writing stories lately. This stems from two facts: 1) I lead a busy and full life, traveling often, and 2) when I have time, I prefer to read rather than write. Therefore, I am resigning my membership in the Story-a-Week Club. I will remain a guest author, but I'm not promising any regularity. Happy writing to you all!

Pet Peeves

Top 10 Grammatical Pet Peeves (in no particular order):

1. Expresso

Now, for you non-coffee drinkers out there (so basically everyone reading this except maybe Mom), this is actually spelled espresso. Notice that there is no “x” in this word. If anyone asks me for an “expresso truffle” at work again, I think I might kill them. If any of you EVER say expresso around me, you won’t live long. You’ve been warned.

2. Adverb problems (no ly)

This is a favorite of Andrea’s. “He doesn’t take me serious.” Hello! There is an ly on the end of that! “He doesn’t take me seriously.” Please add the ly on the word seriously! Serious.

3. Snuck-vs-Sneaked, the perpetual war

Now, when you search for “snuck” on www.dictionary.reference.com, you get, “verb, sneaked or snuck.” However, either dictionary.com is wrong or snuck is a newly added word to the English vocabulary. It has always been sneaked, but snuck has been used so many times, no one even notices anymore. Sneaked sounds wrong now! Snuck is a misspelled word in Microsoft Word as well. Either way, I don’t like it so it shouldn’t exist. So there.

4. Anyways
This is one that I fell prey to for years. Tom pointed this out to me - “anyways” is not actually a word. The correct word is “anyway.” No “s” on that word. This is something that everyone does, but they’re wrong. And I’m right. Boo yah!

5. Boo yah!
I hate it when people say boo yah.

6. Chat Jargon (especially smileys)
This I can thank Betsy for. As I was chatting with her last night, she threw a smiley my way, thinking it would be cute, or perhaps funny, or maybe just entertaining somehow. What is actually was, was what made me cry myself to sleep, particularly when she added a “ttyl” at the end of the conversation. I hate you so much, Betsy, I hate you so much.

7. Sherbet
Notice that there is one “r” in this word. Good, now pronounce it like there’s one “r” in this word.

8. Whole ‘nother
This one really shouldn’t be here because I use it all the time. Actually, never mind, it should be, because I get mad every time I say it. And I say it a lot. Where did this come from? Whole another isn’t even right, let alone making it a contraction. But what else communicates the same thing? Whole other has a completely different meaning. Help me with this one, what can I say to replace it from my vocabulary?

9. Change Slang
Fitty cent. Why, why, why? Why would you ever say fitty cent? Where did this ridiculous slang come from and why has it been allowed to continue to exist? Why hasn’t the government done something about this? I think this will be one of the major issues in the next presidential election.

10. Good-vs-well
Ok, ok, ok. I know I do this one all the time. So it really shouldn’t be on this list on my personal pet peeves, especially cause I don’t get mad when I say it. However, in my defense, I only use it in one situation. When I am asked, “How are you doing,” I often say, “I’m good.” Now, I’ve never told anyone this, but I don’t mean, “I am doing well.” What I’m saying is, “Damn, I’m good!” I’m just making sure everyone knows how awesome I am every time they ask. You know how it is – Oh Lord it’s hard to be humble when you’re perfect in every way.

The Box (#2)

Read #1 First!

The walls surround me. Here, I am by myself, I am alone in my own head. I am in the world, but not of it. I’m not aware of my surroundings, but can never escape from them. Here, nothing touches me. Here, everything touches me.

I run across the room in a frantic rush. I hit one of the walls, rebound and sprint toward another wall with no thought but speed. Nothing can stop me and nothing tries. My heart pumps and my pulse races to match my legs. My frenzied running leads across the entire room as I throw myself around this box. I catch a glimpse of green and my back aches from the tree its up against. I adjust, and move a little to ease the little pain. My thoughts slip through my fingers as if they had been oiled and greased. I run.

I stop. I breathe. My heart tries to slow down. My breathing is still coming in short bursts and I am having trouble focusing. Again, I adjust so my back will stop hurting. I slowly stumble to the center on my box, not really noticing the walls but always knowing they are there. I stop and look towards the middle. Fear slowly fills me, infiltrates my lungs, speeds up my heart. Why have I stopped!? I can’t ever stop!

I’m off again! I sprint 5 steps to the left, 5 back to the right. I pause for a split second, then dash forwards and to the right. Wait, sprint, wait, sprint. I pray that nothing can stop me, but my fear promises me that it will, that I can never escape. I run faster, even more frantically. I can’t think from the fear. I can’t stop from the fear.

But I stop again. My eyes dart from trees to grass to flowers, unseeing. I try to think, try to clear my mind. My hands rest against one of the walls as I shake my head. I try not to think, knowing it will only bring the fear back in strength. I feebly try to force my way out my box, but know that it is useless. I stand there as if in shock, leaning against the wall. Sweat drips down my face, off the tip of my nose and the edges of my glasses.

A splash of color slowly floats past my vision and I slowly bring my blurred eyes towards the center again. I sprint at one of the walls and fling myself against it, pounding against it. I realize it isn’t sweat dripping from my glasses, but my own tears. They fill my eyes, clouding my vision as I look at the park through my sunglasses. It’s so bright out today, even in the shade. The butterfly that just floated by my face lands on my knee as I continue to punch the wall, desperate for release. But there is no weakness here, only the impossibly strong walls of my own desperation and fear.

The butterfly still rests on my knee, slowly raising and lowering its wings. I adjust my glasses, hoping no one nearby can see my tears. My mind is aware of my true surroundings, telling me there is no box, no cursed walls, but I feel the walls close in, ever tighter. I absent-mindedly brush away the magnificent colors on my knee and try to think of a way to get out of the room. My body sits in the park, only plants and grass and small animals surround me. My mind rushes from corner to corner, unable to break free of its own confines. I struggle to escape from the walls of my own brain, even as I sit in peaceful solitude.

But I can’t. The beauty and calm of the park around me have no effect. The peace of the world around me can never change the fear and anger that war within me. I just can’t escape, no matter how fast I go, no matter how hard I hit. I hate this. I hate this room, I hate these walls more than anything.

The Box (#1)

The walls surround me. Here, I am by myself, I am alone in my own head. I am in the world, but not of it. I’m not aware of my surroundings, but can never escape from them. Here, nothing touches me. Here, everything touches me.

I run to the across the room in a frantic rush. I hit one of the walls, rebound and sprint toward another wall with no thought but speed. Nothing can stop me and nothing tries. My heart pumps and my pulse races to match my legs. My frenzied running leads across the entire room as I throw myself around this box. My arm tingles, and my back hurts where I hit it against one of the white walls.

I stop. I breathe. My heart slows down. My arm stops tingling and hangs loosely from the slight weight in it. I slowly walk to the center on my box, not really noticing the walls but always knowing they are there. I stop and look towards the middle.

I’m off again! I sprint 5 steps to the left, 5 back to the right. I pause for a split second, then dash forwards and to the right. Wait, sprint, wait, sprint. Again, nothing can stop me.

But I stop anyway. I shake my head in disappointment and walk towards one of the narrower walls. I stand close to the back wall, about in the middle of it, waiting patiently for it to begin again. Sweat drips down my face, off the tip of my nose and off the edges of my glasses.

A blur of blue streaks past my face and I head after it. I must catch it, I must! I do but crash into the corner of two walls. No time to hesitate, run, run! My goggles slip a little as I race back to the middle of the room, blocking my vision for a second. A few short steps and then a stretch with my right hand. The single glove I wear on my hand holds tight as I swing my arm. Hop back up into position again. There’s an opening, there, there! A mistake! I see the momentary weakness and exploit it.

A rest again. I adjust the racquet in my hand, and check my goggles. I take the blue ball, bounce it a few times on the ground. I tap up a beautiful serve into the corner and ready myself for the running.

But it was an ace. So I prepare myself again. Check the racquet, my glove, the goggles, bounce the ball a few times again. I drop the ball and smash it this time. This time it’s a good thing I was ready, a good return and I have to hurry. Speed is once again my only thought, my eyes never leaving that lovely little blue ball that, for the moment, is my entire life. I love this. I love this room, I love these walls more than anything.

Hey Mike

The fact that you are deathly ill doesn't excuse you from posting. If your keyboard sticks because you barfed on it, cowboy up and post anyway! Just kidding. Get well soon.

Karla's Crazy Idea

The bear had backed her into a corner formed by enormous boulders, there were no cracks or holes in which to scurry. Confident in securing its quarry, the bear advanced slowly sniffing at the fear which hung in the air.

"This is a crazy idea," thought Karla, "but what else am I going to do?"

She extended her arm towards the bear, her quivering thumb and index finger curled and tense.

Bink. She had done the improbable. She had flicked the bear right in the tender flesh of its black wet nose.

The bear paused, blinking in surprise and then reared back as if it were going to let out a mighty roar. Instead it released a powerful sneeze, covering Karla with thick mucus. Immediately, it reared back again and paused, its eyes closed, its nose towards heaven. The sneeze was clearly stalling.

Karla took her chance, slipping past the distracted bear and running into the forest.

Dr McNinja is Sweet

Just go to here. There's like, 10 different stories. And they're hilarious and awesome.
http://www.drmcninja.com/archive.html

Super Secret HLS 2/5

Major Danny Boom still didn’t know what to make of his new transfer. Two day’s before, he still hadn’t heard of the Hot Librarians Squad or anything about their mission. He truly expected something else when his former commanding officer notified him of “an important transfer straight from the desk of the Secretary of the Joint Chiefs.”

Now, Major Boom found himself standing in the middle of a large situation room, complete all manner of computerized information and communications devises. Gazing at one of the large computer screens, he recognized his own military record detailing his skills as a crack cargo-helicopter pilot.

As he reviewed his record, he heard a whirring behind him and turned to see a stocky man with a grey crew cut whirring towards him in some kind of motorized captain’s chair. Major Boom snapped to attention, saluted smartly and barked “Major Daniel Boom reporting for duty, sir.” “There’s no need for that Mr. Boom, we find little use for such formalities here.” Major Boom relaxed slightly, waiting for the man in the chair to make the next move. “I see that you found your way down here all right” said the man in the chair. “My instructions were very specific, sir” replied Major Boom. “Very well,” said the man, “follow me.”

With that, the man in the chair whipped it around and started whirring off to a large door and the far end of the room. “My name is Commander Pace Harrington, and I’m responsible for the Squad and its operations.” Though he was likely in his sixty’s, Major Boom noticed that the man was in excellent physical condition. His sinewy build denoted a lifetime of physical training. Major Boom concluded that the man did not need to be riding in the chair. Major Boom also noticed the man’s glasses.

“Right now,” said the commander “the Squad is in a training session: close proximity combat and defense, you’ll get to meet them shortly.” Major Boom followed Pace into a wide metal walled corridor. “You’ll find that they are different than most of the people with which you have worked in the past. Our operatives, though highly trained in special operations, are primarily librarians. Their commitment is to the mission of the HLS: to preserve America’s knowledge base through the protection of its libraries. You will be one of the few non-librarians on our team, you were chosen because we needed your skills as a pilot. Our last pilot was killed in action.” Though Major Boom was no stranger to risk, the thought of filling a dead man’s shoes discomforted him. “Oh,” said the commander, “I see the training session is over.

Three men and two women emerged from a door on Major Boom’s left. They were all dressed in black combat gear complete with body armor. Two of the men bore large black backpacks that seemed to be filled with books. They all appeared to be in their late twenties and most were wearing glasses.

“You must be the new pilot,” said the woman closest to Major Boom, “Welcome to the team.” “Shooter isn’t going to be very pleased with this development,” said one of the men eliciting a chuckle from one of the other men. “Shooter is just going to have to cowboy up,” said the commander, “Sara, will you show Mr. Boom to his habitation.” “Sure,” said one of the two women, “right this way Mr. Boom.” Major Boom followed Sara further down the corridor.

“You sure are talkative,” said Sara, “Cat got your tongue?” “I’m sorry” said Major Boom, “I am just a little confused. I mean, I am in a secret base located beneath a university with the mission of flying helicopters for commando librarians . . . ?” “I see,” said Sara understandingly, “you’ll catch on soon enough.”

As they walked further down the corridor, Major Boom noticed more about Sara. She was tall and athletic with a blond bun of hair that poked out under the black hockey helmet that all of the squad apparently wore to training. Major Boom had never seen body armor look so good on anyone before.

As they rounded a corner, Major Boom came face to face with a muscular man with sharp features. Before Major Boom could say “excuse me,” the man growled, “you must be Boom. I just want to get one thing straight, you’re not a librarian, and I don’t like you.” “Grow up Shooter,” scolded Sara. “He’s the best of the best and you know it.” “Okay,” said Shooter, “but I’ll be watching you and if you screw things up even one little bit, I’ll kick you to pieces.” With that, shooter turned and walked swiftly down the corridor.

“Is everybody so intense around here?” asked Major Boom. “No,” said Sara “We’ve all been a little on edge since the crash.” “What crash,” asked Major Boom “I don’t really want to talk about right now,” said Sara. Major Boom thought it best not to press the issue.

“If you want to see your ride, they main hangar is in here,” said Sara, opening pushing open a door. To Major Boom, it was a grand site. He didn’t recognize the make of the immense helicopter but its aerodynamic body seemed to fill the hangar. His heart pounded. Leaving Sara standing at the door, he walked to the vehicle’s side, climbed the moveable tarmac stairs and slid into the chopper’s pilot seat. Surveying its modern flight controls Major Boom surmised that the vehicle was one of a kind, designed and made for one application: to schlep around commando librarians and their books. Caught up in the glory of the moment Major Boom’s thought to himself, “And, who . . . who is the only pilot good enough to handle this magnificent beast? Danny frickin’ Boom, that’s who.” At that moment he knew that this was going to be a good transfer.

A Fairy Is Born

By Michael Hopkins

One clear evening over the enchanted forest, all was calm and quite. There was no wind and unlike usual there was no stirring of magical creatures in the darkness. The moon was full and its light glimmered through the trees into a round clearing.

To an untrained eye this clearing, in the middle of a very dense magical forest, seemed somewhat normal. One might wonder how this spot was so void of tree or maybe you would wonder who had cleared this spot and why, but the secret of the clearing would go on hidden away. The clearing in fact had great significance in the battle that raged on in the quite and darkness of the nights in the forest. The biggest players in the war were fairies. Yep, Fairies, are the most powerful in terms of doing good or evil. They are the leaders of all good and bad around the world.

Some may say that this is not true that it is the devil. The devil does play his part but it is the fairies the really entice things to do good or bad. For centuries artists have portrays little winged red devils attemting to tempt some poor soul into doing something evil. Well those are actually evil fairies. Evil fairies are red and good fairies or white. It makes sense when you think about it.

The sky grows brighter and brighter and for a while it is like all of the ground and trees and bushes around the perfect circle where lit up like a clear night after a long day of snow. This circle is the birthplace of fairies. All fairies were born here, all fairies were born in the same season on the same full moon of each tenure. Tonight there will be another, new fairy will be sent, or become into existence to never die lest it be killed by another fairy in one of the seven ways.

The bright night then diminishes and everything becomes dark as the darkest night. It is as if the moon decided to take a break from shining and just stopped shining for a while. But the stars, the stars glistened and became brighter and brighter. They burned the sky with their brilliance.

Two stars, shooting stars, one traveling directly south and the other directly west, came closer and closer to one another as if they would hit. They do hit and the stars keep moving in their respective paths. Another line starts on impact and travels directly toward the circle, to the exact center.

On impact, the light grows into a ball and brightens everything until the whole circle is burned with the light from the star. This phenomenon would explain why no trees grow in the circle and why the it is an exact circle where nothing but a little grass grows. Now there is no grass. The light recedes except for a little white spec of light where now lies the youngest fairy that now exists.

To Be Continued.

The Birth of a Suburban Revolutionary

"40,000 people . . . 40,000 people!" The concept twisted and turned in Nate's head like a fitful sleeper. He was still tense and emotional though it had been a day since his Geography 1010 teacher shared the grim statistic. "40,000 people!"

The professor had been addressing 3rd world development before a sea of lethargic college freshman when he casually dropped the statistic: "40,000 people die every day from starvation and preventable water-born diseases."

"40,000 people . . . starve . . . every day!" The concepts slashed into Nate's conscience and lit a fire under his chest.

Having grown up in American suburbia, Nate had been insulated from the monumental inequities that face the majority of the world population. In Nate's childhood there had been neither hunger nor death. Indeed, Nate had lived a sheltered life, and like the life lived by Guatama, it all came crashing down in a moment.


"85% of these deaths are children under 18" Remarked the professor.

"Children!" thought Nate as the burning in his chest cooled to a hollow astonishment. He glanced around. To his right was a young woman who stared blankly towards the professor. Her chin rhythmically popped up and down as she chewed gum. Nate could smell the mint. To his left, a young man punched buttons on a cell phone with his thumb, peering at its blue luminescence from beneath a new-looking white baseball cap.

"40,000 people!" The thought filled Nate with a sense of urgency. His mind questioned, "If so many are dying, why aren't we doing anything about it?" Feverishly, his mind further queried, "why does high school close so students can comb the mountainsides for a single lost child and yet it is business as usual every other day though 40,000 humans starve . . . every . . . day?"

Nate's thought of his church and its touted welfare and humanitarian system. Images of gleaming white grain silos and pallets of canned peaches filled his mind. These gleaming images faded next to the grim reality of the 40,000 people a day that the system was failing. The image of the towering white silos naturally led Nate's mind the towering white spires of the temple that his church had just finished building in his town. The bright marble spires crowned with a triumphant golden statute of an angel . Nate imagined how the temple would look if it had been built out of sacks of flour.

Walking home from the university the next day, Nate's mind still seethed. It was as if the souls of that day's 40,000 followed him through the streets. He looked down at his clean white healthy hands. "ten fingers" he thought, "it would take 8,000 hands to count up all of the dead." Nate imagined a pile of 8,000 severed hands.

In the future years, the fire under Nate's chest continued to burn. Though it sometimes flickered and smoldered under the burden of pop-culture, pop-consumerism, and pop-religion, the fire never went out.

Choice>Chance>Choice

This was a writing exercise I did for class.
by steven hopkins

Billy and Teddy decided that the house was too quiet. Their mother was asleep upstairs and they wanted to scare her.
They remembered that they had seen a rat in the backyard, and they figured they could catch it and put it down her shirt. They went out to the garden and poked around under the shed. Billy laid down on the ground and the heat of the grass instantly warmed his shirt. Teddy laid next to him.
“Do you see’im?” Teddy asked, squinting one eye.
“I think so, but I think he’s cooked.”
Sure enough, a long stick extracted the rat, hard and matted like a barbie doll.
“Well, so much for that idea.” Billy kicked at the dirt.
Teddy started and grabbed Billy’s shirt. He looked his brother dead in the eye. “Goldfish,” he said and the two bolted toward the house.

Cop Out

By Michael Hopkins

One soft lonely evening, as he stood in the doorway looking out over the city, he hoped that the night would not be eventful. "Too many things happen in this big ol' city" He thought. He had been on the police force for 20 years and had seen way too many crazy things. Way too many.

He took one last sip of his coffee. Put some change down for the tip and went out.

Three months after gravity changed direction

by steven hopkins

Dear Rachel and Eric,

I don’t know about you guys, but windows are still the scariest parts of the house. The nearest thing to stop a fall from our front window is the neighbor across the street’s house 200 yards down. I admit it was hard to adjust to at first. I screwed pieces of 2x4 into the wall to make a ladder up into our bedroom. But the fifth one up is kind of loose and wiggles a little. It scares Jenny so she just sleeps on the living room wall.
We all just wear our harnesses all the time now. I’m starting to get a little raw on the back of my right thigh. Too much information I know. Anyway, Jenny was upset last Sunday because she couldn’t wear her dress to church.
“It’s either the dress or the harness,” my wife Susan told her. “Unless you think you can hold onto the rope by yourself until we lower you across the street.”
Jenny considered it for a second but looked down out of the front windows and decided to just go in pants, but she still pouted all during Sunday school.
Getting to and from work is still just as bad. The lines at the pulleys seem to get longer everyday, and it seems like I always get stuck behind someone who smokes. I heard they’ve almost got the hydraulic lifts finished. I’m excited for that, it’ll cut down a half hour of so off the commute.
We finally got all our furniture rearranged to fit. We had to put the two recliners so close to the coffee table that we can’t put out the leg rests anymore. Susan gets mad at us for putting our feet on the coffee table, but I still do when she’s not in the room. Susan also bought a bunch of velcro and glued it on the back of all the pictures so we can just stick them to the carpet, you might want to try it.
Last night I think I heard the foundation of the house coming out of the ground a little bit. Kind of like a big sucking sound. I don’t know how long we should trust it to hold. I’ve heard horror stories at work of people’s houses just falling right out of the ground, foundation and all, and slamming into their neighbors house and then then that house dislodges like gigantic dominoes or something. I’m just glad we’re the corner house.
Well, hope everything’s OK with you guys. I’m glad they got the mail system figured out. Write back soon.

Sincerely,

Jim and Susan and Jenny

Sad, And Yet So Funny

Ok, so this is a true story. I sometimes can't believe it myself, but I swear to God this really happened to me. I was working in my chocolate shop and it was near the end of the day. There were a couple of customers on the other side of the store and I wasn’t paying them any attention at the moment. I had begun to stock the Maggie Lyon truffles.

As I was putting chocolates from the boxes to the case, I hear J.P. ask “Do you need any help with anything?” For an answer I hear a woman say back, “What, you think I’m stealing?” I thought it was somebody J.P. knew or something, just somebody joking around. The woman continues,

“What you think ‘cause of the color of my skin, I’m stealing? Is that what you think!?” By now, of course, the volume of the voice had risen, but I still thought it was maybe somebody he knew.

J.P. tries to answer back, saying that he was just trying to help, but can’t get a sentence out. The woman overrides him, shouting, “You a racist! You think I’m trying to steal chocolate because I’m black. Racist!” At this point, I’m pretty sure the woman is not somebody anybody knows. She continues to yell at J.P. calling him a racist and accusing him of saying she was stealing.

Now, if I was in J.P.’s place at this point, I would have run away as soon as the woman called me a racist, despite the fact that I have some proof that I have nothing against black people. (By the way, I know Andrea, at least, hates the term African American, saying that she has nothing to do with Africa). J.P., however is not somebody that’s gonna back down very easily. Not that he’s a mean guy or anything, in fact I like him a lot. He’s just the kind of guy that doesn’t mind speaking his mind and does mind backing down.

So he, beginning to get angry himself, begins to talk back to the crazy woman yelling at him. “Whoa! I never said you were stealing! I was just asking if you needed help with anything.”

Writing this conversation won’t quite give you the idea, but while J.P. was trying to explain himself, the woman just continued to call him a racist. As she continued, J.P. said, “well, I guess you don’t need any help, maybe I can ask him (indicating the woman’s 14-15 year old son). Can I help you get anything?” Here, I looked at my co-worker Scott, and we both had to try to not laugh out loud. The whole situation was just completely ridiculous.

“Hey, don’t you talk to him that way! You don’t need to be talking to my son, you racist! He’s fine, he doesn’t need any help from racists.”

“Ok, fine then, is there anything else I can do for you?”

“You better shut your mouth, you fucking racist!”

During this display, all of my co-workers had been doing our best to both keep in our laughter, particularly at J.P.’s remarks, and to ignore the entire thing. I was still just going through those boxes of Maggie’s. Again, writing this surreal experience down doesn’t really do it justice. The two continued to yell for a while, just trading “racist,” and “what are you talking about,” back and forth. Eventually, the woman took it another step,

“Ok then, you damn racist, you gay queer! You faggot…”

“Whaaat?!?”

“You gay! Why don’t you go wash you’re jeans, you queer!”

Now, the owner of For the Love of Chocolate is gay, and at least half of my co-workers are gay. The ironic thing is that J.P. is one of the few straight ones. So nobody’s really sure where she got the idea he was gay. Maybe she just assumed we are all gay-not really sure. We also have pondered and pondered what she meant by “Go wash your jeans.” We came to no conclusions. Anybody else got any ideas dirty jeans have to do with being homosexual?

In any case, J.P. continued to express his confusion, while the woman continued to call him a racist homosexual. Up until then, there had been no name-calling (except racist of course), so J.P. decided to try and slowly extract himself from the situation – though he was still mad, so he didn’t try that hard. Basically, he said,

“I don’t know where you got that…

“Shut up, you racist…

“When did we get to name calling?”

“Fucking queer”

“Look, I’m not about to ring you up so…”

“That’s right you ‘ain’t ringing me up! Get out my face! Get out my face!” (At this shout, the woman made a hilarious gesture which I can’t really explain. She acted like she was grabbing something from in front of her face and throwing towards J.P. We still do it to each other every day at work)

J.P. started to walk back behind the counter, still arguing away. The woman, however, had moved on from the homosexual accusations and had moved back to the “I’m not stealing” thing.

“Man, we ‘ain’t gotta steal shit! My son (indicating the young guy again) don’t need to steal! He’s gonna be in the NFL! He’s gonna be making millions of dollars, he doesn’t need to steal from you!”

“Oh, good, good.”

“He’s gonna be in the NFL, he’s gonna be on TV! You’re gonna be watching him on TV! He’s…

“Good, I got Comcast.”

“… gonna be in the NFL! He’s gonna be rich. He doesn’t…”

“I got HD TV.”

“need to steal ! You racist queer!”

Ok, this story is pretty funny, but it’s pretty sad too. It’s pitiful that the woman is going to assume somebody is a racist because they ask if they can help her. But the really sad part was her son. You could tell he was really embarrassed and ashamed. He kept his head down and didn’t look up the whole time. He couldn’t wait for the whole thing to be over. By this time, the argument had stretched for about 10 minutes.

One other funny little tidbit is that the little shopping strip the store is in has a security guard. Somewhere around this time in the match between J.P. and the customer, the security guard looked in the window, then walked right on by. Now I think the guy probably just didn’t see anything to rouse his suspicions, but my other co-workers think he just didn’t want to deal with it. They also think the security guard is kinda slow anyway – nobody thinks very highly of him. In any case, back to the fun.

Now is the worst part of the dispute, because neither of them was ready to back down. I’m not quite sure how it happened, but sometime, the woman shouted,

“If you don’t shut the hell up, you’re gonna get some spit in your face! You better shut up.” J.P. didn’t shut up. “I’m gonna spit all over you, you asshole, you damn…”

As she threatened to spit on J.P. our manager, E.J. (I know, another initial name, sorry if its confusing), began to ring the woman up. Now, as I think about it afterward, of course I’d say he shouldn’t have rung her up at all, just kicked her out – especially as E.J. is gay and probably didn’t like hearing the woman call anyone a faggot or a gay queer. However, if it had been me, I probably would have just done the same thing – the quicker we could get her out the door the better. Anyway, she continued to threaten and J.P. continued to goad her.

“I’ll spit all over you, you…”

“Ok, whatever, I was just asking if you needed any help…”

“Shut the hell up you racist! You blue-eyed devil! You must want some spit right in your face, you blue-eyed devil racist!”

“Sure, I’m a racist, sorry for just trying to help…”

Again, I’m not quite sure what a blue-eyed devil is. Something about slavery and white people being slave owners I assume. And again, the ironic thing about this insult is that J.P. is actually Puerto Rican. He may not look as Latino as some, but he definitely not white, let alone having blue eyes. He might be a devil – I can’t argue against that one I guess. So anyway, the woman called J.P. gay and white, both of which he is not, both of which he is in the minority at our store. Kinda funny. Ok, faithful readers, we almost done now, this dispute does have an end.

“You blue-eyed devil, I’ll spit right in your face…”

“Ok, whatever…”

Here, the lady actually made a lunge, as if she meant to jump over the counter and do as she threatened, but her son held her back. That’s right, her 14-15 year old son held back his own mom to keep her from spitting in a strangers face.

Ok, and we’re done, she yelled and complained and even said she’d “shop here as often as she feels like it” (though we’ve never seen her back, thankfully). Finally she walked out the door. As soon as she left, a roar of laughter and a final release of tension filled the store.

What a crazy lady. I don’t believe we talked about anything else for two days in FLC. What a crazy lady. The whole thing was like something out of a movie. I still can’t believe it really happened. To me, J.P. will always be the Blue-eyed Devil. Or perhaps the gay queer. And I tell him to wash his jeans every day.

Parent Blackmail

I was four years old, and it was my grandmother's funeral. I was getting bored and restless and then thirsty. My mom sent me off with my brother and a cousin to the funeral home to search for a drinking fountain. The building wasn't close to the grave site, so by the time we walked there, found a drinking fountain and I quenched my thirst, it was time to leave. So that's what everyone did. . .without us. I remember seeing the familiar cars pass by the building we were in. I think it took awhile for us to realize that we had been completely left behind, that no one was waiting by the grave site and no one was trying to tease us.

Meanwhile, someone asks where we are, and someone else says they saw us last with uncle Chuck, who says he thought we had gone with Uncle Don, who thought we were with Aunt Cheryl, and so on. Finally my mom remembers that she sent us off in search of water and realizes that we must have been left there.

It was about this time that the mean ladies at the funeral home let us use the telephone, (For some reason they didn't want us to use the phone, but they finally let us use it when they realized we weren't going anywhere until we made a phone call) and my brother called home to have someone pick us up.

So whenever my parents get tough, I remind them that they once left me at a cemetery.

The Super Secret HLS (1 of 5)

According to the building's floor map, most of the first floor of the Harold B. Lee library's subterranean wing is devoted to "Special Collections". Most of the Students at Brigham Young University accept this this as a reality. Those more familiar with the operations of university libraries note the exceptionally large area occupied by the HBLL's Special Collections and erroneously conclude that they are ten to fifteen times the size of the special collections at comparable schools.

The truth is a closely guarded secret whose roots stem back to the darkest days of the Cold War. In the weeks before his assassination, President Kennedy became more and more concerned with the nation's knowledge base: primarily the wealth of knowledge located in university libraries across the country. In his last Executive Order, he authorized the creation of a crack commando unit to be based out of a secret location on one of America's University campuses. The purpose of this unit was to provide quick response and protection for the academic libraries across the nation. This unit was to be ultra mobile and highly trained in special operations. Furthermore, the commando's were to be selected from the brightest of nation's young librarians. The first floor of the subterranean wing of the Howard B. Lee Library at Brigham Young University was chosen to be their principal base of operations.

Though under the direct control of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the unit was cryptically named the Office of Information Services. However, because of the youthful and coeducational composition of the unit, it became known among inner military circles as as the Hot Librarian Squad.

Retirement

By Michael Hopkins,

For years he had prepared for this moment. The race was about to start. His whole life was dedicated and amounted to this one moment. This would be his last chance. He really didn't want another. He was tired. Ever since he could stand he was training for this race. This one race. He was fully dedicated. He did this every day for years and years. There was nothing left. The referee called them to mount their stands and he did. He put on his goggles and looked down at the water like he had so many times before.

Every thing that he needed to remember went through his head. Don't pay attention to the competition. Don't breath on the first 5th stroke, stretch the stroke, and kick hard. He had been doing this for so long he knew what his weaknesses were. He just had to remember to not drop back from his perfected form. Be aware that what his body naturally wanted to do was wrong and to make it do what was best. “Be sure to hit the wall hard. The pads don't always record the scores right if you don't.” his coach had just told him. “I have to remember that.” he thought to himself.

The pool was foreign to him and they had pads mounted to the walls. They were connected to computers that kept the score. When the swimmer came in and touched the wall, the timer automatically stopped. This was suppose to be more accurate than a official doing it with a stop watch. The idea was to stop the mistakes and scandals. People stopping the time short or late to make sure someone didn't make a time or didn't beat someone in another heat. The problem was that you had to hit the pads pretty hard for them to work. So now it was up to the swimmer to ensure that his time was correct.

He did a few more stretches as he waited for the official to call the mark. He could feel the anxiety build in his heart. He didn't mind though because it just made him swim faster. He had wondered many times if it was actually adrenalin but never actually did anything to find out. He looked at the water again and thought about how many hours he has spent doing laps. Too many to count. Most of his life he had spent 5 or 6 hours a day in a pool. And 2 to 3 after that in the gym. People don't realize that weight training is a huge part of all athletics.

That's why he wanted to retire. It just wasn't worth it anymore. This was his last chance to meet the ultimate goal – he had to do it.

The official called mark and he instinctively grabbed the stand and readied for the shot. It fired and he and the swimmers flew off their marks into the water with a crash. He was brilliant. He was keeping his body in check and swimming faster than ever before. He didn't let this go to his head though. He kept on because he had to not only beat himself but also the competition. This thought made him want to look and see where there were. This would ruin him. You are slowed when you turn your head to see so he maintained and lengthened his stride.

His first turn was beautiful. He landed and jumped off the wall like a torpedo firing from a submarine. He held his breath longer so that he didn't slow on completion of the turn. “Three strokes and breath” he told himself. He did so and soon came in for the second turn. He did so and it was perfect. He could feel the padding on wall and it reminded him that he has to hit it hard when he comes in.

Half way done and he was still feeling strong. He felt like he could up his pace and did so. The last turn was good also but not as good as the first two. He could tell the race was taking its toll and that he was slowing a bit. He remembered all those long hours again, the retirement and his dream. He took a breath and sprinted the rest of the way in. He could see the wall and he wondered where the competition was. He took his last stroke and turned to see where the other swimmers were. He hit the wall and watched the rest of the heat take their last strokes and finish.

He had won his heat by a long way.

Happily he tore off his cap and dropped back underwater to rest, feel the nice cool water on his head, and smile. He came up and looked at the pad. Had he hit it hard enough? He punched it hard for good measure and got out of the pool.

10 minutes later, they published the results of the heat. He and the runner up in the heat stood together at the piece of paper and looked for their names. The runner up looked and saw his name first. “Third place, not bad, though a few 10ths of a second faster and I would have had first.” the swimmer mused. “How did you do?” he looked and found himself at the bottom of the list. He was 10 seconds slower than the swimmer standing next to him. The one he had clearly beat by a second or two. He looked at the swimmer in disbelief, then at the paper again, and then at the swimmer. When it sank in that he had lost, probably because he didn't hit the pad hard enough, he punched the wall. He walked out to his car and for the first time since he was a boy, cried.

Day of Rejoicing

by Betsy Spackman Hopkins

It was a bright and sunny morning in Seattle. The unusual light streaming in through the bathroom window, though, could not shift the gloom that surrounded Sarah. She put the last touch on her eye makeup and grabbed her purse from the guest room before heading out into the living room. Her dad was there, looking gray and forlorn and lost as he sat on the couch, waiting for Sarah to get him in the car and drive him to the funeral home. The house was quiet, because Henry and the kids were over at her brother’s house. The boys had wanted to play with their cousins, and Henry needed a break from dealing with his grieving wife and father-in-law.

“Time to go, Dad.” Sarah teared up yet again as she looked at her father’s face. What was he going to do, she wondered. What on earth was he going to do without her mother?

The last few whirlwind months had exhausted the entire family. Her mother’s leukemia had been in remission for a number of years, but when she started getting tired more easily and dark bruises showed up regularly on her legs, they had all begun to worry. Her mother had taken months and months to die, shrinking into almost a skeleton before finally giving up. Sarah had flown up several times over the last few months, and knew Southwest’s flight schedule between Phoenix and Seattle by heart.

Sarah pulled the car into the parking lot of the funeral home, and pulled into a spot near the doors. She helped her dad out of the car, and held his arm as they walked into the building. They were early, but there were a few well wishers already there in the lobby. Sarah smiled wanly at people she recognized as her parents’ neighbors, then headed into the viewing room. Marci, their assigned bereavement coordinator, was there, arranging the last few details. Marci, Sarah thought. That name’s too perky for someone who works at a funeral home.

“Morning, Sarah. Everything’s just about ready.” Marci was always cheerful, which was starting to grate on Sarah’s nerves.

She gathered her dad from the lobby, where he had been detained by Henry and Sarah’s brothers, who had arrived just after Sarah and her father. She guided her father over to the open casket and set him up as the last one in line everyone would talk to. Other family members joined the group in the viewing room, and soon there was a line of visitors extending out the front door.

Over and over, they said the same things. “We’re so sorry.” “How are you doing?” “You must be glad she’s in a happy place.” “Isn’t it wonderful that her suffering is over?” Sarah’s mind began to numb as she received hugs from and shook hands with people who had known and loved her mother.

About an hour into the viewing, she was brought back into the present by the approaching figure of her second cousin, Mark. He waved as she glanced at the line to see who was next. Ugh, she inwardly groaned. She looked for Henry, who was entertaining the boys across the room, and their eyes met, his giving her a warning about Mark.

“Well, hello, Sarah! It’s lovely to see you on this fine morning. Isn’t the sunlight gorgeous?” Mark gushed.

“Yes, it’s lovely.” Mark missed the sarcasm in Sarah’s voice.

“I don’t want to take too long, since I know there’s a long line, and besides we can catch up at the lunch here in a couple of hours. How are you and Henry enjoying Mesa? Is Henry still in the construction business? And how are those two young strapping boys of yours? How’s your master’s degree coming?”

Sarah answered as briefly as she could, anxious to get rid of Mark and be one person closer to the end of the viewing. Mark kept talking, though, rattling on about his sales business, and Sarah could feel the irritation begin to build.

“Well, like I said, let’s talk more at the lunch. Maybe I could sit with the boys and show them my new magic tricks! I’m glad I could be here to join you on this day of rejoicing. Your mother’s in a better place now!”

Day of rejoicing, thought Sarah. Huh. Suddenly something inside her snapped. In seeming slow motion, her fingers slowly formed a fist, and her arm cocked back. Her fist cracked as it connected with Mark’s surprised face, and the crack was followed by a thump as Mark passed out and hit the ground.

In the quiet seconds after Mark hit the ground, her father turned to Sarah with a sly grin and whispered “Way to go! That pompous jerk was getting on my nerves. Day of rejoicing, my foot!” He muttered something about standing in a real punch line before winking at her and helping Henry move Mark out of the way. The brightness had returned to her father’s eyes, at least for the moment, and that made knocking out her second cousin at her mother’s viewing worth it.

Too Much of a Hurry

By Diane Hopkins

I knew it was going to be a special day for Owen. Not only was it his fifth birthday party, which he could hardly stand the wait any longer since his birthday was on Wednesday and he had yet to get any of his really special presents, but it was also the day before Easter. We had been seeing the sign everyday for a few weeks about the Easter Egg Hunt that was going on at our neighborhood park. The Easter Egg hunt was to start at 10:00 and the birthday party was at 12:00 so while his mother was home preparing for the party it was up to me, his "Nonnie" to take him to the Easter egg hunt, if he was going to attend. Along with several of the neighbors and Owen's best playmates, we went to the hunt. When we got there we found it wasn't a simple hunt at all, but more like a mini-carnival with games such as a bean bag toss, face painting, balloons games, and many more. It was a very festive atmosphere and it was going to be lots of fun. I was a little worried however, when I heard that the hunt wasn't going to start till almost 11:00.since as we were walking out the door I hear my husband saying, Yea. We'll go to Costco and pick up the cake and pizzas. I figured it was worth the trouble so we waited for the hunt to begin.


The children were divided up into age groups and the organizers had announced that there was 5000 eggs so there should be lots for everyone. The big thing about the eggs though is, on a special table there were eight huge baskets full of toys and goodies, made up for the lucky ones that found the eight eggs with a silly face drawn on them. The children lined up waiting for signal to go. It was a mad dash, but Owen came running back with several of the eggs and proudly displayed his catch. I briefly looked in his basket, gave his the "great job" , pat on the back, and away we went.

As were talking to the neighbors and hurrying along our way, I hear the announcement that we are still looking for one more "special" egg, that only seven have been claimed, but it still didn't motivate me to look any closer, after all what are the odds.

Well, come Monday morning after the excitement of the party, Easter bunny, and all the fun packed into the week-end. Owen keeps mentioning to me, that he had a egg with a funny face drawn on it. Me, still doubting, brush it off to "wishful thinking" since all the children there would have loved to taken home one of those special baskets. You can only imagine how I felt several days later when I think to ask his mother, "so did Owen have a egg with a face drawn on it?" , and her reply was "Yea, why?"

Elegy

by steven hopkins

Anthony could hear the coffin from across the room. Silk covered padding, shining wood, brass fixtures. His hands pressed on the pulpit and left patterns in his palms.
He eyed the microphone like a fly on his nose, wings beating like a polygraph. He felt the coffin in his back, leaning on him, making his kidneys ache, pressing him to his knees.
“I didn’t know my brother,” came out.
An audience of three stared at green wallpaper, trying to find the beginning and end of the pattern, noticing that the kid in the coffin’s tie was the same color, trying to remember where they bought their own ties, hoping the potatoes were better this time.
The microphone fluttered. The shoulders of Anthony’s suit puffed like sandbags as he shrugged, and he felt his sleeves run across the scars on his wrists.
“My brother...,” he closed his eyes and shook his head.
The man in the front row held his tie between his fat fingers and hoped Anthony would get done soon.
The funeral director stood up next to Anthony and put his arm on his shoulder as if to say, “Give up young man, you can’t say it, because it isn’t there,” and pulled him away.
But Anthony’s hands gripped tighter like a condemned man refusing to go politely to the chair.
“Look,” he said, and a shriek of feedback struck the air. “He was slow. My brother. Retarded.”
The fat, green man sat blank like a duffle bag.
“But the truth is he was smarter than everybody in this room put together. He stayed next to mom and helped her clean and cook. And the day that she died, you know what he did?”
The two other audience members pulled their eyes from the wallpaper to hear.
“He laid his head on her shoulder and kissed her good-bye. Now, do you all want to know what I did? You want to know? I left. I left my mother dead and my retarded brother crying in her bed. There’s your eulogy. That’s what kind of person my brother was. And now he’s dead and I’m the only one left to tell you three about him.”
Anthony put his hand over the microphone and lowered it, and left the hall rubbing his palms.

As the funeral director closed the coffin, he looked at the young man’s face, and for the first time wondered why he hadn’t kissed his own mother good-bye.

My body's an army

"Get them troops down here the colonel!", the general cried.
The war had been long, many blood cells had died.
"There's a transport that's coming down from the north,
enough arms for three battalions, and maybe a fourth!"
The troops were exhausted and came trudging down south
to dump the dead cells that had died in the mouth.
A half-starved informant came riding up slow
and somberly said "sir it's starting to grow".
The general’s eyes closed as he said "curse that root."
and just at that moment there fell from the shoot
a hearty transport filled with protein and arms
"Thank goodness it's here, quick boys sound the alarms!"
The stomach was filled with commotion and shouting
their hope was renewed, there would be no more doubting.
Up now they went each one loaded with power
they would stop the insurgents in this very hour.
Surrounding the villains just inches from their source
the cells now charged in with an impregnable force
and with God as their helper they destroyed the infection.
So let that be warning to the next insurrection.

Parker

I live in L.A., which means, in addition to dealing with traffic (a.k.a purgatory--the place between where you were and where you want to be), I also have to deal with the issue of finding a parking spot. The parking issue can add anywhere from ten to fifteen mintues to any trip and subtract anywhere from five to twenty-five dollars from your wallet. I, however, always manage to find "rock star parking." My friends jokingly, and with a little bit of awe and envy, call me Parker. It's a joke. . .but it's also my biggest secret.

I used to get so irritated at those people who wasted valuable parking space by leaving so much room between their car and the next--enough space to fit half a car. You add up all of that wasted space and you have a few more parking spots. I always wished that if I could have any super power, it would be super human strength, so I could push all those stupid cars together and make enough room for mine. This probably all seems obsessive and crazy, but strange things happen when you spend an hour to go ten miles and another half hour, just to park your car. This was one of those days when traffic had been later than usual, I was ten minutes away from being late for court and there was no parking to be found within six blocks. I wa going to be late and be sanctioned and possibly lose this motion. This was going to be a huge day for me, and I wasn't going to let anything ruin it. I spotted a row of cars that were irresponsibly spaced apart. I stopped my car in the middle of the road, and while cars honked at me and drivers flipped me off, I started to push one of the cars. I'll admit it, I snapped. I really don't know what I expected to happen, but the car started to move. I was scared at first thinking that some idiot didn't have his parking break on and I had just been responsible for a domino effect of parked cars smashing into each other. But no, it had only moved a foot, so I pushed on it again until it was a foot from the car in front of it. I did the same thing with the next two cars and then parked my own. I made it to court just in time and won my motion.

It wasn't until later that night, when I had to ask myself, "What the hell happened this morning?" It was all such a haze. I tried to lift my couch, and it was then that I realized, I really needed to start working out. My couch isn't that heavy and I could barely budge it. It must have been a combination of my nerves and adrenalin and my imagination. There is no way I moved three cars. In my current state, I couldn't budge three golf carts, let alone three cars. Oh well, crazy imagination, high on adrenalin, whatever. It obviously didn't happen the way I remember it.

What Now?

The children were obnoxious. What am I gonna do?

The children smirk as the man heaves himself out of the chair. A few make a quiet joke, inspiring laughter and evil chuckles out of even the best behaved kids.

What am I gonna do?

He slowly waddles over to the front of the class, his muscles straining with the weight. I should go on a diet. My doctor has warned me. I’ll start today…but Sally packed the beef for me today…fine, I’ll start tonight then. Really, I will. This time, I mean it.

What am I gonna do?

The class still whispers and laughs, just enough to show their unconscious contempt for the man in front of them. “I still can’t control them,” the large man’s subconscious whispers, “I don’t demand enough of them.” He doesn't really hear the whisper. His conscious mind shouts, easily overpowering the whisper. “Why can’t they do what they’re told, why are they such bad children?” He gathers himself to yell and berate his students, vainly trying to attract their attention. His subconscious knows he needs their respect, not just attention, but his conscious mind won’t allow that through either.

What am I gonna do?

As the enormous man begins to shout, the class slowly shows some sing of getting quiet. Though far from respecting the large man, the children know that when a teacher, even this one, is yelling, they should probably not make it too obvious that it doesn’t really matter to them. As the huge man continues to go on and on with his shouting, however, the class grows restless. They begin to snicker once again. The man hears them.

What am I gonna do?

“Am I too fat to demand they’re attention?" His subconscious again. "Am I too fat to do anything?” The man feels the whisper even if he will never acknowledge it. He always feels the doubts within himself, particularly when they concerned his weight. The man starts to sweat as he continues to yell, fighting for the children’s attention. His body can tell he’s fighting. He begins to feel the toll his exertions are taking on his already struggling body.

What am I gonna do?

The class has always felt this unasked question. They sense the fat man’s weakness, and go for his jugular every time. They don’t mean to kill the man, but they do it as surely as any knife. The fat man feels the threat of the children, but doesn’t know how to fight back, so he only raises his voice even farther, taxing his body even more. The class gives no reaction but to laugh all the louder to themselves. The body tires suddenly, the stress too much. Abruptly, he stops, mid-word. His breathing is labored, his heart pounding. There’s a strange pain in his shoulder, spreading across his arm. He knows what it is, he knows for a certainty. But as with the class, his conscious mind cannot grasp it, cannot deal with it. The man stands still for a second, in shock. He totters and then falls with a crash. He finally gets the attention of his students. There’s no laughter now.

What are they gonna do?

Life and Death Under the Hood of a Car

Click, click. It was the sound of her car not starting again. For some reason one of the cables on the battery didn't fit quite right and would jiggle itself loose. It wasn't a big deal. All she had to do was pop the hood, push the connector down, so it was snug around the round battery thingy and the car was ready to start again. But she didn't like doing it--she didn't like electricity. Well, it isn't that she didn't like electricity. She was just afraid of what electricity could do to her. It was a scary, dangerous thing. And even though every day she had to shove the connector onto the battery and she had never gotten hurt, she was still afraid. She hesitantly lifted the hood, surveyed the state of her engine and the battery to make sure everything was OK, though short of sparks flying she wouldn't know if anything was wrong. She wrapped her fist in her jacket sleeve. All of her good and bad deeds flashed through her mind as she pounded down on the obstinate connection.
Victorious once again, she escaped from under the hood of her car unscathed. She marched proudly back to the drivers seat knowing she had cheated death to live another day.

Riff riff riff raff. Bling bling bling blang.

By Michael Hopkins

Riff riff riff raff. Bling bling bling blang. Pause. Whispered lyric. Anticipation builds. One two three. BANG!!! Jump up throw my head down. Push the guy next to me. Start again. Pound the fist in the air like I am mad at the lead guitar. High hat hits and I keep the beat with my head. I YELL LYRICS!!! The crowd goes wild. It is hot.

Next song. Find the pit. Round, round the people go. I dodge. I jump. I dance around the circle. I bang my head to the beat. I trip the guy running past and push the other fleeing away from me. I get pushed and shoved and pushed again. It is hot. The lights move as fast as the pit does. I trip. Up again and I get out. Pits are dangerous. I'll be back in a little while.

Riff riff riff raff. Bling bling bling blang.One two three. BANG!!! Jump up. Throw my head down. Push the guy next to me. Start again. Pound the fist in the air like I am mad at the lead guitar. High hat hits and I keep the beat with my head. I YELL LYRICS!!! The crowd goes wild.

Tap, tap, tap on my shoulder. I turn and a stranger points two fingers up. I lock my fingers and brace. He sets his foot in my entwined fingers and I launch him over my shoulder on top of the crowd behind me. The crowd sways, struggles, and breaths. It is hot. I can feel bruises while I watch the band. Riff riff riff raff. Bling bling bling blang. Lyrics lyrics lyrics.

I tap a stranger and do the international sign for “I want to float” and the guy locks his fingers. I put my foot in. I fly backwards.

AAAAAAA. The fresh cold air. It is just a few feet from the crowed but it is no longer heated by the breath of the crowd beast. It is so refreshing. Hands hold me up and I look at all of the fans worshiping the band. I understand again why they call it floating.

Riff riff riff raff. Bling bling bling blang. Pound the fist in the air like I am mad at the lead guitar. High hat hits and I keep the beat with my head. I yell lyrics! PLOP, I hit the ground but the beast quickly lifts me to my feet again.

Recovered. Riff riff riff raff. Bling bling bling blang. Pause. Whispered lyric. Anticipation builds. One two three. BANG!!! Jump up throw my head down. Push the guy next to me. Start again. Pound the fist in the air like I am mad at the lead guitar. High hat hits and I keep the beat with my head. I YELL LYRICS!!! The crowd goes wild. It is hot.

I hope I never grow too old for this. I love it too much. Riff riff riff raff. Bling bling bling blang.

An Unfortunate Tale

It was a dark and stormy night. Thunder cracked loudly overhead. Heavy rain pounded the rooftop and walls, echoing the clacking of the keyboard inside the basement. Suddenly lightning forked down out of the sky, hitting the house, and the power went ou

Vonnegut's Reward

By Horatio Algae

"V, v, v, v ... Vonnegut," said the clerk as he thumbed through the files in a gray metal cabinet. "Here it is," said the clerk producing a fairly full file, dropping it on the desk and leafing though some of the loose sheets.

With plain white walls and basic office furniture and appliances, the windowless office seemed too spartan for heaven. And though the fluorescent white lights cast the room in a slightly annoying pallor, the cool air and the pleasant young clerk were not things typically associated with hell. The dead author was especially attune to these issues for reasons that he thought would soon be manifest by the contents of the manila folder.

"Mr. Vonnegut," said the clerk, "it is not every day that my office receives a person of your, shall we say, literary caliber." The clerk's tone made the dead author slightly uncomfortable, an unusual feeling for him. Noticing the reaction, the clerk assured "Oh...oh, don't worry. This isn't about getting into heaven or not." The clerk squinted and smiled and said "I forget that new arrivals are often very disoriented and need some guidance as to what exactly is happening to them." The dead author just stared. "In case you haven't figured it out, you died." "Well, I knew that!" exclaimed the author, speaking for the first time since he found himself in the office. "I see" said the clerk, slightly abashed. An uncomfortable silence ensued. "So, where do we go from here," said the author contritely. "Well," said the clerk, "though, as you have undoubtedly surmised, your life philosophies were incorrect in one fundamental aspect. However, the Boss likes your writings, He thinks they're funny." The dead author did not expect that. The clerk continued, "Furthermore, many of your brothers and sisters didn't learn as much from life as you did. Their mistakes and strivings continue to cause misery in this existence. For this reason, the Boss has arranged for something special."

The dead author's eyes widened as the clerk reached into a paper bag, removed a gleaming white laptop computer and pushed it across the desk towards the author. "Its an Apple," proclaimed the clerk," Or as we like to say, a Fruit of the knowledge of good and evil." The dead author didn't quite understand the clerk's joke, but was happy to see that his role in the afterlife was not going to be that different from his role in life.

"You're free to go," said the clerk, nodding toward the exit. The dead author collected his laptop, stood and turned towards the door. Effulgent rays of glory and light flooded the office as it opened. In one instant, the dead author perceived all eternity as well as billions and billions of his brothers and sisters in various stages of contentment or misery. Before he stepped out, the clerk chimed, "Remember, Mr. Vonnegut, this is eternity and time is irrelevant. I hope you won't forget to fart around some."

Joe

by steven hopkins

Cars glide. People wait. Dust settles. Planets orbit. An alarm sounds. Joe rises. The sun hangs. Coffee brews. Breakfast cooks. The car starts. Joe eats. Cars stop. Joe goes. Joe reads. Boredom comes. Cars stop. Joe goes. The radio tunes. Joe dances. Cars stop. Joe goes. Joe thinks. Mother knits. Cars go. Joe goes. Joe bleeds. Sirens sound. Doctors work. Passers watch. Gurneys roll. Machines beep. Work waits. Eyes blink. Lights sooth. A telephone rings. A mother cries. Paperwork fills. Hours pass. Organs trade. Machines beep. Sweat drips. Wounds close. Life renews. Cars glide. People wait. Dust settles. Planets orbit.

Taco Heaven

By Michael Hopkins

Miguelito was born to eat tacos. From the first time his mother made him tacos he never ate anything else. His mother tried to get him to eat other types of food. Beans and rice and other wonderful food. But Miguelito wouldn’t eat it. Only tacos, nothing else was good enough.

As he grew, his mother noticed that he ate more and more tacos. Miguelito’s family sat down to dinner and he would eat tacos until there weren’t any tacos left. His mother thought it was strange that he never seemed to get full. He only knew that there were no more tacos and that’s when he would quit eating.

One day his mother decided to try and cook enough tacos to make Miguelito say he was full. She cooked all day and made more pico de gallo than she had ever seen. When he sat down, he was amazed at the huge amount of tacos that were laid before him. He asked his mother if they were all for him and she said they were. He was instantly transported into taco heaven. He always wondered how he could eat so many tacos—he seemed to be able to continue to eat as many tacos as he could get his hands on without getting full. His mother couldn’t believe her eyes as Miguelito sat there contently and ate and ate and ate and ate. She quickly noticed that she was not going to reach her goal and started cooking the rest of the meat and cutting the rest of the ingredients.

After his mother’s resources were exhausted, Miguelito was still willing and ready to eat more tacos. His mother was amazed. She had been serving tacos for 3 hours of constant eating and lost count of the tacos at around 30. After Miguelito had finished his last taco he politely asked his mother if there were any more. When she said no he got up and went out to play.

When he was in his twenties, nothing changed as far as eating habits. He still didn’t know how many tacos he could really eat because there was never enough money nor resources to try it out. As he sat in his favorite taco shop, eating his last taco, he pondered what was in store for him or if this is all he could expect from life. He had been through this before and found that there was never an answer to this question. It sometimes made him depressed to think about it so he shook the thought away, and then focused on a poster that was on the wall. It read:

“Taco eating contest. 10 dollars to enter and winner will take home $200. Come and see if you can out eat the top eaters from the tricounty area. "

It then seemed to him that maybe this is an answer to the question he had just been pondering. He would absolutely enter and maybe find out how many tacos he could eat. He took down the phone number. Later that night he called and pre-registered. He had 2 weeks to prepare. Of course, he didn’t have much to prepare for. He knew he would able to compete without doing anything. So he didn’t do anything. He just went about his daily life without changing one thing.

One thing about his daily life was the relationship with his girlfriend Marta. It wasn’t going very well. It never had really, he just liked the fact that she didn’t leave him because he only ate tacos. He had dated a lot of girls and when they realized that he literally didn’t eat anything but tacos they quickly lost interest. Miguelito couldn’t figure out why it was such a big deal. They usually agreed that tacos were quite tasty and they enjoyed eating them. So why not eat them all the time? Marta didn’t mind that he ate tacos but she also wasn’t the best or brightest fish in the sea. She was mean sometimes and fun sometimes. Most the time she was just a nag. Miguelito hadn’t talked to her for a few days and decided that he would go visit and tell her the news of the taco eating contest. He went over and she was in an especially bad mood. After she scolded him for not having seen her for the last few days, he told her about the contest. “You are obsessed,” she said and added “That is the dumbest thing I have ever heard of. Why would you want to do an eating contest. I know you like tacos but that’s just stupid.” He decided at that moment that he would never see her again.

He had stayed with her long after he had wanted to leave just because she didn’t mind if he came by. Sometimes she was nice and sweet, but most of the time she was less than desirable. Miguelito thought about the contest and could feel that something amazing was going to happen. He thought that since his life was taking a new turn, it was a good opportunity to leave Marta behind.

Two weeks came and went and he traveled to the festival where the taco eating contest was to be held. After he checked in he perused the activities. He was just burning time. He didn’t feel nervous at all until he went and planted himself in the chair assigned to him with the contest. He hadn’t eaten that day and could smell the carne asada cooking on the nearby charcoal grills. Sitting next to him was the 5 year festival champion who was the biggest man that Miguelito had ever seen. He wore all the medals that he had won over the years in eating contests including the reign he had at this one. The medals were obviously trying to intimidate the competition and they had done their job with Miguelito.

On Miguelito’s other side sat a woman. He looked at her and saw that she was beautiful. He was surprised that someone so pretty would be participating in a taco eating contest. She noticed his puzzled look and decided to break the ice. “Hello, my name is Anna, but my friends call me Anita.” Miguel said hi and asked her if she had ever done one of these contests before. She said that it was her first time and that she only decided to do it because she really loves tacos. “I eat them most every day,” she mentioned. It seemed funny to Miguelito that he had become so entranced with a girl in such a short period of time. He really couldn’t put his finger on what is was about her that he liked.

The announcer started and people began to gather around. Miguelito saw his mom in the crowd and waved. They brought out the tacos on a big tray. Miguel tried to estimate how many were before him but there were too many to get an accurate guess. The buzzer sounded and they began to eat. Once again Miguelito found himself in taco heaven. All of the participants began stuffing themselves. The big guy was laughing and popping tacos in his mouth as if there was nothing to it. After about 20 minutes, people began to drop out. They either ran off to puke or declared that they couldn’t eat anymore and that even if they could they weren’t going to beat the leaders. By this time the big guy had began to get worried. Anita and Miguel were just a few tacos behind and were still enjoying each other’s company. To him they didn’t seem phased at all and that bothered him. He wasn’t used to this type of competition.

After 40 minutes the big guy started to sway. Every bite caused his face to turn a darker shade of red. Miguelito was in heaven—he had never been able to eat as many tacos as he had eaten tonight and despite the slight full feeling he had in his stomach, which he had never felt before, he enjoyed the taste so much that he wasn’t even close to quitting. Anita had long since slowed down and was now only nibbling here and there on the pico. She found Miguelito intriguing and didn’t want to leave him just yet. They had been casually chatting during the contest, which drove the big man crazy. “Did they not care if they won or not? Why is this so trivial to them?” he asked himself.

Finally the judges ended Anita’s turn and made her go down into the crowd. It was Miguelito and the big man. By this time the big man clearly didn’t want to eat anymore. Every bite produced a dry heave but somehow he could keep everything down. The big man was ahead but had since slowed and Miguelito was gaining. They had to take a short break because they ran out of tacos. They had cooked over 500 tacos for the contest but that just wasn’t enough. Since it was such a close race, and since people were starting to get anxious to see a winner, the judges decided that they wanted to make things even more interesting. They declared that the next batch of tacos would be made with a grilled jalapeno in it.

The crowd gasped and the big man slumped in his chair. He was already on the verge of puking and jalapeños were not going to help. Miguelito just sat and smirked. Jalapeños were his favorite. They just added what he considered the only improvement to these already delicious tacos.

They brought them out and the crowd waited to see who was going to make the first move. Miguelito grabbed a couple and put them down quickly. He had started his third when the big man took his first and took half the bite. The big man could taste the hotness of the jalapeño but it wasn’t that bad. Of course the first one is never that bad. He took courage and downed the first one and began the second. Then the heat got worse, then unbearable. His stomach crunched and moaned. The crowed heard it. All of the sudden he belched and puked a constant stream of half digested tacos out into the crowd. The poor little boys that were watching from the very front of the stage got covered in goo.

Miguelito mused as he finished the tacos on his platter and wondered if they would still give him more. The judges disqualified the big man for puking as they had done some of the others and declared Miguelito the winner.

After the rush of people and the local paper snapping some pictures of Miguelito eating one last taco, he saw Anita waiting for him. She approached him slowly and said congratulations.

“What are you up to now?” she asked. “No plans for the rest of the night,” Miguelito responded. “You want to go get some tacos?”

An Ode to Librarians

You know the stereotypes about librarians. Older women, hair pulled back into a bun, glasses. Mean to patrons who ask questions. I am a librarian, and I resent the stereotypes. I am young, have short, curly hair, and love to help people, but I do wear glasses. While I was in library school and making new acquaintances, I dreaded the inevitable comments about shushing people, the Dewey Decimal system, and getting to read books all day long. I would always think that if only these people understood the Dewey Decimal system they wouldn’t joke about it—it’s much harder than it looks. The current version of Dewey is laid out in four big volumes. You start with the major subject of the book, like science or philosophy, and then work through many smaller subject divisions. Then you have the option to apply multiple qualifiers, like geographic location or format, to assign the number. And no, I don’t get to read all day, because I have work to do!

I recently traveled to Baltimore for a library conference. I was at dinner with some friends, who like me, defied many of the librarian stereotypes. We were young, well traveled, and comfortable in big cities. Over dinner at the Capitol City Brewery, we began poking fun at our fellow librarians, a pack of whom had just sat down at a nearby table, sporting their conference bags and nametags. “Pretty soon they’ll be giggling over metadata,” one friend said. (Metadata is a big thing in the library world these days.) We joked about how easy it is to pick out librarians in the airport and around the conference city. A Mary Kay conference was going on at the same time in Baltimore as our meeting, and you could tell easily who was a Mary Kay consultant and who was a librarian just by looking at the shoes.

Our dinner conversation moved on to other topics. We left the restaurant to return to our various hotels, and we walked into a mall because one of my friends wanted to find a bookstore. We went to look at the map of mall stores, and the first thing one of them said was “This map is horrible! It needs to be organized by type of store.” The directory had a listing of the stores by their location in the mall. We stood around the map and continued our tirade. “The whole point is to find a specific store by name, not to see a list of stores as they are laid out in the mall.” “Who designed this useless thing?!?” “Maybe it should be alphabetized.” All of sudden we looked at each other and realized how much like librarians we were acting—recommending a new organization scheme for the mall directory.

Even if we don’t fit the other stereotypes, we can’t completely escape our profession.

Catch

By Steven Hopkins

Daniel Coombs’ truck was eight years old now, and had 200,000 miles on it. The silver paint was bare on the hood and doors. Once Daniel bought a can of touch-up paint and carefully tried it out on a small patch on the passenger side. When it didn’t match up just right, he threw the paint away. Three years later, as Daniel got out of his truck to go in the house, he examined the little patch of mismatched paint and the rim of flakes around it and then kicked a dent into it with his steel-toed boot.
He entered his house and made his way to the living room, stripping his uniform shirt off and dropping it on the floor in the path through the kitchen. He sat down on the couch in his dirty tank top undershirt and flipped on the TV, letting out the last bit of air in his lungs that still remained from the lumberyard.
From his truck to the couch, Daniel had passed his wife Sharon and their nine-year-old son Michael. The two of them sat in the living room, his wife mending one of Daniel’s uniform shirts and his son rolling a new baseball between his legs.
Daniel leaned his head back so his Adam’s apple bulged from his throat and he closed his eyes. Two rooms away, Daniel heard his son’s small voice. Daniel squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples.
His wife entered the room, holding the shirt she had been mending like a shield.
“Honey?” she said.
“Yeah baby?” He ran his fingers through his hair with his eyes still clenched shut.
“Hi,” she said, and then sat down on the corner of the couch. “How was your day?”
Daniel rubbed his face as he sat up, blinking until he could focus on his wife. He cleared his throat. “It was long, and hard,” he said, rubbing his stubbly cheek. “And I only made 135 dollars minus tax, which puts me at about a hundred.”
Sharon tightened her lips into a sort of smile and blinked long and hard. “Are we going to have enough for rent?”
Daniel ground his teeth and shut his eyes again, like he was squeezing her question back out of his brain. He dropped his head into his hands again.
She grabbed the remote from Daniel’s side and turned off the television.
“What’d you do that for?” Daniel said, opening his eyes and raising his head.
Sharon laid down the remote, sat upright and held the uniform shirt in fists on her lap. “Our son just asked me to ask you to take him to the park and play catch with him. And I think you should do it.”
Daniel ran his fingers through his hair and turned his head enough that his neck bones cracked. He started to say something, but it came out like the sound someone makes after they get the wind knocked out of them. He cleared his throat and rocked back and forth.
Sharon felt her fingernails pressing into her palms through the shirt.
“Fine,” Daniel said. “But, we’re coming back before five o’clock.”
“Well good, because dinner’s at five.”
“But, I have a show I want to watch at five.”
Sharon didn’t answer. She tightened her lips again.
Daniel snatched the shirt from her and put it on as he went out to the garage to find his baseball mitt.
Sharon rushed over to Michael her son in the front room, which was filled with sunlight. “He said yes,” she said half-whispering to her son. “He’s finding his mitt right now.”
Michael’s eye’s opened wide and he ran to his bedroom to put on his shoes.
Daniel emerged from the garage with an old leather mitt, flattened and worn, and Michael came running from the bedroom, laces flailing everywhere.
“Come here,” his mother pulled him close for a hug. “Tie your shoes.”
He bent down to tie his shoes and looked up at his father. “You ready?” his dad asked.
“Yes, sir.” Michael said as he stood.
“Well lets get going.”
They walked through the garage to his truck. The park was a block away and Daniel would rather drive than walk. They stepped outside and the sun was warm and a light breeze was blowing, rustling the braches of the trees. They rode the first half in silence, Michael comparing his own mitt with his father’s that sat on the seat next to him.
“Daddy?” Michael said, watching his father shifting gears.
Daniel looked down at Michael.
“Did you ever play baseball?”
Daniel huffed a breath and continued after a moment, “Yeah. Yeah I did.”
“Really, Wow!” the boy pounded the ball in his glove as he saw them do on television.
“Yeah, we were uh… we were the state champions my senior year in high school.” Daniel said, wondering if his son knew what state champions meant.
“Oh, wow.” Michael said, trying to imagine his dad in a baseball uniform, taking off his hat and waving to thousands of fans in the stands.
“But that was before your mother and I got married and you came along. Before I started at the lumberyard. Before I had to start at the lumberyard to pay for the bills you made for us.” His father looked at the dashboard and picked at a place where the plastic was coming off and then made a sound through his teeth. He licked his fingers and tried to get the plastic to stick back down, but couldn’t. Little Michael rolled the ball in his hand.
After two more minutes they came to the park. Daniel parked the truck on the road that ran along the far side. The park was the size of a small city block, with a big, covered dining area for family reunions. The grass was green and alive for the most part. There were tables scattered throughout, and a sand volleyball court to one side. On the far side of the dining area there was a wall, and Daniel figured they’d start with Michael’s back to it so he didn’t have to wait for him to chase the ball so much.
“Ok, you go stand over there by that wall.”
Michael silently agreed and ran over to it, his shoelaces again flopping with each step.
Daniel put on his glove. The old familiar feel of the inside hugged his hand and the glove still smelled like that last game ten years ago.
“All right, give me the ball.”
Michael reached back, closed his eyes, and threw the ball as hard as he could, sailing it over his father’s head. Daniel stood flat-footed and watched it soar. He puffed his cheeks as he turned around and started toward the ball. But as soon as he had taken a few slow steps, Michael ran by him to retrieve the ball. He picked it up and held it high. “I got it Dad.”
“All right, good. Now just bring it back here.”
Michael thought for a second, then stopped, stepped with his left foot, reached back and wrenched his elbow to throw the ball. This time, instead of flying over his father’s head, it flew far to the left. Daniel tried to jump for it, but it was out of his reach. He turned around to find the ball and heard running footsteps in the dry grass. He wheeled around. “Just…” he half-shouted, and Michael stopped. “Just go back and stand where I told you. I’ll get the ball.”
“Ok.” Michael said, and then turned and flopped his shoelaces back to his place.
Daniel shook his head as he walked back toward the ball. He picked it up and turned around to see his son with his legs spread apart, pounding his mitt like an outfielder. He laughed. At least he’s got spirit, he said to himself. “Okay, are you ready?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay, I’m going to throw it.”
“Ok, Dad.”
Daniel reached back gently to throw to his son. He tossed it right at his son’s glove and watched it disappear in the folds. “Hey! You caught it. Good work little man.”
Michael smiled and felt a rush go through his body. He pulled the ball from his glove, reached back, closed his eyes and threw it again. The ball flew toward the road where the truck was parked. He opened his eyes and watched as the ball hit the door and left a dent. Michael shrunk at the thud and watched for his father’s reaction.
Daniel stopped at the sound. He slowly walked closer to the truck.
“Sorry dad,” Michael said, holding his glove in front of his face.
Daniel rubbed his neck. He leaned over and grabbed the ball that had fallen in the ditch next to the truck. He put the ball in his mitt, and rubbed the dent with his fingers, examining it closely. It was an exact copy of the dent he had just made in the other door. He spat on the ground and stood up. He rolled the ball around in his fingers and licked his teeth. He looked back at the dent in the truck and the patches of missing paint. He thought of the stack of bills on the table. He thought of his never ending job where he’ll never get any farther ahead unless he owns the company.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember that last championship game. He tried to imagine Sharon, so young and beautiful, running from the stands to be the first to hug him as the new state champion, and the rush of his love in his arms and the swirling thrill of winning, of taking off his hat and waving to the fans.
But all he could envision was that new dent in his old truck.
He reached back and threw the ball hard. Michael put up his glove with enough time to deflect it, but the ball hit him hard in the chin, slamming his teeth together so that he chomped down on his tongue. His eyes went wide and he dropped back on his rear. He shook off his glove, put his hands to his mouth and tasted the blood from his tongue.
Daniel dropped his mitt and walked to his son. “Move your hands. Let me see,” he said. Michael shook his head in a wide, slow sweep, holding his mouth tight and avoiding his father’s touch. Daniel rubbed his eyebrow and sat next to his son, who looked back up at him, his face now just two hands, two big eyes and rumpled hair. They both sat in silence for a long time. The breeze blew and rustled the leaves in the trees. Eventually, Michael pulled his hands away from his mouth and spit out a string of pink blood.
“Does it hurt?” Daniel asked his son.
“Um-hum,” Michael said, nodding his head. Michael stuck out his tongue and rubbed it with his fingers.
“Let me see,” his father said.
Michael leaned so and his father could look at it. There were two small pink dents in the top and bottom of his tongue.
“It’s not that bad,” his father said. “It’ll be healed before you’re married.”
Daniel leaned back and watched his son sniffle and lick up a tear as it fell past his mouth. He pulled up a few blades of grass and broke them in his hands. The sun shone through the branches to where they sat. He looked at the dent in his truck door, then looked at his sons little mitt.
“I’m sorry, son,” he said. “I’m real sorry.”