Summertime Sequence

The board of education lives above a cut-rate shopping mall. The back hallway off the loading dock towards the elevator smells of cigarette smoke and conjures hazy memories of snack bars.

The elevator lifts you to an unusual greeting once you reach the third floor— it smells of hay. My mind always travels to horses and other farmyard animals as I step into a sterile environment. Occasionally, the murmurs of extra-curricular classes fills the halls.

Further on— you reach the open room with all the board of education staff. A mess of desks, dominated by various wires and printers, folders, and lock boxes creates a chaotic picture. There’s an order enforced to it all— but you have the feeling it’s one foul step from disaster.

I sit at my meager portion of a desk— the rest dominated by a laptop, folders, printer, and myriad of cables— and sip an coffee as I wait out the hours before I slip back out the building.

Today is my mother’s birthday— but I’m a day ahead of home, so I won’t call with my well-wishes until tomorrow. Instead, I’ll practice Italian and watch the Women’s World Cup as I stretch out my it band in a embarrassingly long quest to sit with my legs crossed (without tension). A master of yoga or flexibility, I am not.

I’ve got a little over a month until I visit the west coast. A month in which my international drivers license will expire and I’ll be walking-bound. The snorkeling forays will see a steep decline— and I wonder what other queries my curiosity will lead me to.

I spent a healthy amount of time over here not understanding how to process a lifetime requirement I had set for myself, but did no favors in providing a through path for.

I had this almost inevitable pull to leave the states. Feeling I had to prove myself by living abroad. Compelled by a notion that I’d be unsatisfied— untested if I didn’t. But as with everything in life— it wasn’t clean cut when I got over here. Hell, half the time in preparation I was making my peace that I was going in with a near blank slate in terms of expectations for what this would lead to. No goals, I told myself. Better to let them show themselves naturally.

Not great advice I’m going to admit, if you’re stuck on a rural island in the middle of fuck all. Then it’s a decent time to have a rough outline of where you’d like to go next or how much gas you’ve got in the tank for this particular adventure.

All the while, life unfolded in a spectacular way. Not uniformly bad or good— but spectacular in the range and depth of unexpected events. Without a goal, it felt like subbing in last minute for a punching bag without the proper warning. As the venerable Mike Tyson said, with his soft lisp and hard hands, “everyone’s got a plan until they get punched in the mouth,” and by god, any half-formed plan went out the window.

Until the blows stopped landing— or rather— until I started bobbing and weaving. Getting the hands warm to send my own set of strikes back. I kept asking without success, “what’s your ideal life?” Something I had a block on. I couldn’t see the path out of the island, but I knew I didn’t want to stay here.

It wasn’t until I asked what I always saw in my wildest dreams— my lottery answers. The over the moon, best case scenario answers. As always, for me, it was a soccer field.

I love many, many things in this life. I love curiosity, learning, friends, family. I love spending the wee hours of the night reading. I love writing in my cribbed scrawl as I think of ridiculous stories of my own. And I love— and have always loved— soccer.

I always thought excessive wealth would see me have my own field at a house. Indoor or outdoor, that specific didn’t matter. But it was always a field.

The more I thought about it— the more it seemed that I wanted easy access to a field in which others could also play. No reason to horde a resource like that— I just wanted first dibs.

As a kid, I’d go to all of my parents indoor soccer games. I’d sit on the old wooden bleachers painted a dark green— and watch them play on the turf that sat over an ancient roller rink. The place smelled of sweat and leather. It carried the sound of footsteps across the buoyant wood underneath the carpet outside the rink.

I wanted to play— but couldn’t until I was twenty-one years old due to the co-ed league rules.

First time was my twenty-first birthday. No goals, no assists. But I did vault the side wall to run to the ballroom to throw up. The pizza I had earlier in the day wanted a surprise appearance. I got a yellow card for the field exit and a shellacking by my dad before he realized I’d been sick.

I had my tenth birthday at that field as well— so I guess that would have been my real first time, but it didn’t have the drama of an unnecessary admonishment and throwing up.

But it does underline that I’ve gravitated towards that place at all hours in my soul. More that I wanted my own version of it.

That became the through line— the goal that realized itself in a simple manner. The soccer coach that always wanted their own field? Hilariously straightforward. Proving again that it’s less about searching than it is about listening. Seeking the quiet moments to see what cycles through your heart and mind.

2nd Rodeo

In one week, I’ll be turning twenty-nine years old. It’ll mark one whole year in Japan and my second birthday over here.

I came over to Japan with minimal expectations. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

I think it’s impossible to not have expectations.

But moving to a rural island that’s a fair clip away from the main islands of Japan itself? I knew I’d be bound for a different sort of experience than many in the program.

Twenty-nine years old arrives with the year of twenty-eight delivering more harrowing moments than the last five years combined— at least that’s how it’s felt.

There was a comedic routine of knockdown blow, stand up, rinse and repeat. All without the support you’d expect if you were back at home.

There’s a wry nod I’ll give to this past year. I know much of the lessons I’ve learned will stick with me. The raw ache of loneliness in winter. The doubt. The confusion. And of course, the mountain of grief from a stream of events that felt like the universe checking off a list of back loans I was due to pay off all at once.

Harder still, to recognize a bitterness that was born out of a simple, yet profoundly powerful hurt. And that only through gratitude and interaction would it disparate.

I can’t pretend to have an ongoing handle of any sort of accumulated wisdom. I think the lessons we learn ebb and flow as we make our way through life. What poignant teachings in one season, may prove dull rehearsals in the next.

I don’t know what twenty-nine has in store for me. But certainly, it won’t be lacking in adventure if history has anything to show me.

All the World

“Nothing but everything,” sang the Spider King as he slowly lowered himself to the floor of the cave. A thousand eyes locked onto him. Each a group of eight to his own two. The last of the line in the Arachnai— Bel stood by himself.

In another age, Bel would be known by his family title, Baal. But Bel Aracha didn’t live in another age. Nor did he live in the land of his ancestors. Instead, he stood in the vast network of caves in the southern states.

The air hung heavy in the cave. A damp, fetid mess. All the glossy eyes staring back at him. They waited for his pronouncement. They hadn’t waited for nothing.

Selte

“I’ve got no place left to leave,” the wicker man said staring out into a sea of flames. The field burned with a wicked roar as the last guardian of the Selte fields watched on.

The harvest moon hung overhead like a bulging eye— the embers glowed red as wisps of smoke traced the air. The wicker man waited. The townspeople would be here soon enough.

Crowd Control

“You’re buying time on credit cards and trying to report it stolen,” the man said looking out at the group of retirees. “But that damnable practice is over! You will learn to live in the moment. To breathe in the golden presence of Krenzalla and open your eyes to the wonder of the universe!” The crowd lost their minds in a euphoric cheer as pandemonium broke out. Fights and fucking. Grudges buried and born anew as the silver haired crowd writhed with a vicious energy.

Night Corps

Acquisition is a murky business. Even more within the walls of war.

The clean up crew. The Stomach Spliters. The Magpie Men. All nicknames for the Night Corps. The little known branch of the military devoted to acquiring lost valuables squirreled away by the fallen— both soldiers and civilians alike. Many are made wealthy by war. More so when nothing is let to be lost.

It’s not uncommon for dying men to swallow watches or medallions. The desperate to consume the sharp edges of gem rings and necklaces. The changes to reacquire the lost valuables came from the devious mind of a former grave robber. Nicknamed “The Beetle” Adlai Constance was a small, wiry man with distinctive oval aviation sunglasses. The last of a long line of enterprising jackals, Adlai followed his family’s tradition of grave robbing. Only back when they were landed gentry, it was called antiquities.

Isolated from the rest of the army, the “Nightcrawlers” as they were often called, kept to their own barracks and mess hall. Their customs were kept secret— save for the infamous corpse gloves of Irina Petravka. A lean, falcon of a woman wore sealed leather gloves during her field duty. Unlike the rest of the Corps who operated with disposables, Irina used her continually stained pair— telling anyone dumb enough to ask why— that it was “none of their fucking business.”

Irina wasn’t the only character to be found amongst the Corps. Aside from Adlai and Irina, you could find Luther Cravelli constantly tinkering with some indiscernible gadget— often apt to smoke or on rather occasions explode. He said he came from a line of Venetian inventors, but the truth of that was anyone’s guess.

The main reason the Night Corps stayed isolated from the masses is the obvious one. Death makes people uncomfortable. Dealing with people whose daily business was intimate with it? The pale specter didn’t stray far from the imagination for average service members when interacting with a Nightcrawler.

Weasel

“That’s not my name, you weasel-faced fuck. There’s a reason the old gods couldn’t kill me. You just bought a premium pass to find out.”

Shochu & Golems

The buzz of the cicadas filled the air in a way Rabbi Feinstein had never heard. The rice paddies were a cacophony of frogs croaking, cicadas humming, and the distant thrum of diesel engines sitting in the heart of worn tractors.

No one would look for him here— let alone golems.

His gnarled hand rested on the smooth dome of his latest and only (intact) creation. He’d name him Malachi. His brother would have liked that. If not the dimensions he was giving to his namesake.

This new Malachi would be a guardian golem. While a fugitive from the order, Feinstein no longer had to run. Not if anyone couldn’t find him.

Who would look in the wilds of Kyushu? He stayed away from Nagasaki, knowing the port to be alive with Portuguese and Dutch traders. The kind of men that didn’t hesitate to add to a trips profit by passing along his likeness on a handbill.

No need to worry now— Feinstein would soon have Malachi at his disposal. Even if it did mean relinquishing his attendance to the world at large.

But in truth, that had been done years ago.

His brother made sure of it.

The Circle hadn’t approved of his brothers work. Their family had been a tolerated presence, but the rest of the keballists were worried about the power and influence the Feinstein family could wield if they became more politically and financially discerning. Gregor hadn’t taught Aaron how to just build golems, but how to build alliances. Gregor proved to be the justification the Circle had been looking for. The Feinstein house lay in ruins. The people of Vienna looked on without much interest. Fires were common enough. At least in this corner of the city.

Gregor took his brother Aaron into hiding. The rest of the family had fled to the America’s. A choice Gregor was reluctant to make for himself or his brother, knowing that the power still resided on the continent. Aaron would later realize his brother’s mistake in this. But by then he’d be stowed away in a cargo ship for the port of Nagasaki. Thousands of miles away from Vienna— thousands of miles away from his brother’s final resting place.

“You know there are six different types of Jewish sorcerers? We’re only one of them. Isn’t that incredible?” The echo of his brother’s marvel kept Aaron awake at night. Lost in the humid hours of a long night and resistant morning, he would reimagine all the conversations he had with Gregor that led them both to ruin.

Expectations

“I know you think I’m some big Mack-Daddy,” he said letting out a sigh as he took a puff of a weathered cigar, “but I’m not the Grandmaster of Fuck you believe me to be.” Carlos looked across at Devin who had a eager sheen to his eyes.

“That’s not true! I know you get all sorts of babes,” Devin stuttered as he tried to inject life into a beaten dog of a conversation. “Just last week I saw you at the farmers market with an absolute ten! That girl had to be some sort of crazy sex pot.”

Carlos put down his dewy bottle of beer. A slim, crushed like bounced at the surface. “Devin, that’s was my daughter, Rosalia.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.” Devin bounced his leg.

“Is she?”

“Tread not unto the path of lions— for their bite shall deliver a world larger than their roar.”

Devin’s goofy face widened in hero worship again. This was the Don Juan shit he knew Carlos had been holding out on him. “What does that even mean?”

“It means stay the hell away from my daughter, Devin. If not for the sake of our,” he twirled his hand, “friendship? Then for your own safety. I’m not the lion in this allegory.”

“Who’s the what?”

“She will eat you alive and I’ll be left with a longer bar tab than I’d like. Which reminds me, you’ve got this, right?”

Crumby

He kept doing finger flips with the toy revolver. A silver strand of tinsel lay in a puddle of lukewarm coffee on the table. The air smelt of cedar and spring. A crinkled handbill curled into itself on the wall behind him— the paper turned yellow and the desert air leeched any moisture— a dead man’s will.

He hummed a jaunty tune and tapped his foot offbeat as a fly flew around a corona of light from the window.

Brennan Cashel hid from the law— not that it tried too hard to find him.

Lawmen in the western reaches knew the price of tracking down a fast trigger hand. Glory or the sight of their own guts. Not many like to play those odds— save for the brave, foolish, or mad.

Miles away trekking over the Colorado Rockies, a man combined of all three remained in pursuit of Cashel. Not that Brennan knew or cared.

A long, angry swath of blistered skin proved constant reminder of his own last quest for glory.

Now he sat in empty land with nothing to show for it but a scarred face and scant crumbs.