The Potato Wager

When I was a young boy, I stood at the window of my upstairs bathroom and stared out into the backyard like a forlorn, war time bride. I had just returned from a little league baseball game— where I had stood in the outfield and practiced swearing with my friend, Sam. It was a good way to spend a Saturday morning for an eight year old.

I stood at that window and felt compelled to outwardly address God. I said “If there was only one food I could eat for the rest of my life, it would be potatoes.” That was it. No sudden proclamation from the heavens or thunder and lightning. No indication of anything at all. Life kept going.

Until years later, when I was fifteen years old. There must be lag time on prayers, because it felt like God had decided to clean up the overflowing voicemail and found that specific one. In the fashion of a dad who can’t safely supervise children even though they’re fifty percent of their genetic make up, this unseen deity thought it’d be a smart move to grant that forgotten, childhood request.

I developed a serious amount of debilitating food allergies. Gluten, corn, dairy, pit fruits, walnuts, pecans, cilantro, avocado, etc. I was already a slight figure— but the new restrictions saw me resemble a ghast within months. It didn’t help that I still had the metabolism of a cranked up racehorse. I oscillated between hunger and low, throbbing pain. My friend Joseph remembers our time in French class together by my intermittent groans as I slumped over my desk.

But you know what I could eat? Motherfucking potatoes.

“Boil ‘em, mash ‘em, stick them in a stew! It’s tater’s, precious!” Yes, my life had copied the artistic styling of Andy Serkis and Sean Astin as Gollum and Sam. Potatoes in all their blessed forms were a refuge for the gaunt mess of a human I had become.

Life eventually brought me back to a fuller menu via the drunk insistence of a Montanan cowboy and Missoula’s finest late night pizzeria, Pie Hoe. I learned a valuable lesson during my time tiptoeing after the dinner plate. Don’t wager with Gods and always be thankful for the mighty potato.

Achy Breaky Heart

Two swole bros decked out in neon tank tops and garish snap backs were finishing up reps at the local Planet Hotness gym.

“She stole his heart,” Rylan said

“Yeah, that’s no surprise he really liked her,” Hayden agreed.

“No, man. I mean she Kali Ma-ed him. Ripped it right out of his chest. Super fucked up.” Hayden’s eyes became the size of saucers. He stopped mid-curl.

“Holy shit... what type of work outs does she do? CrossFit?”

”Dude, I don’t think you’re grasping that our bro got turned into ground turkey by some tacky rave bae with Amazon strength.”

”Those delivery people are strong enough to tear peoples hearts out? I don’t know if I want them delivering packages to my place…”

”Nah, that should be chill. Those people just deliver packages. But, I’m talking about those Wonder Woman island women. You know the cool armor and sick gains? I bet Tanner’s girl was from that island.”

”I don’t know, man. She didn’t have an accent or anything. But I guess like, anything is possible?”

”I guess. Sucks that we lost our leg day partner though. Tanner had some sick calves.”

”No doubt, my man. Let’s pour one out for him.” Hayden grabbed his pre workout and poured it on the floor by the leg press machine. Rylan did the same as the heavy bass from their earbuds pulsed in the background.

Nailed

I could taste the lacquer of her nails on my tongue. I don’t know even know if God had seen her without a fresh pair of painted nails. I assumed she was born with them. As if her character would wither without a glossy coat applied to the small, but significant features. But none of that matter as she straddled me on her red leather couch. I didn’t care that she pronounced bagel like bag instead of bay. Or that I was pretty sure her name wasn’t actually Cinnamon. All that mattered was the heavenly thirty seven seconds I disconnected from reality while she jolted like a malfunctioning bull.

Windy City

A rotten cabal ran the city of Chicago. The criminal underworld had become a swollen colossus— one that Darnell Harewood was devoted to taking down. 

Only problem was that Darnell locked away on the Setley prison complex hidden on an unmapped island in Lake Michigan. One that changed the day the new warden arrived.

Warden Cassius Arnold was a slight man. He stood no taller than the average American and possessed no physical trait to inspire the type of dread that emanated from his subordinates when he drew near. He was a man as stiff as his iron grey crew cut and spoke with a voice that could have heralded the apocalypse. Even in those that towered over him in height, he could look down upon. Darnell was the only person on the island happy to see him. But then again, family reunions can be like that.

Eons

The beast crooned and the ocean rose like a dream. A pillar of dark water was the last sight the city of Atlantis saw before it disappeared from view.

Ages passed and the city lingered in the minds of many. But the beast was forgotten like letters written in the sand worn away by the waves that crashed upon the shore.

Save but the creature itself remember the weight the city bore upon its back— and how fate brought it crashing down. The city cried its name— “Zaratan!” the sea turtle that carried a world.

Satanic Panic

Following the heated exchange between Tipper Gore and the Twisted Sisters, the GOP doubled down on the belief that the depravities of creative expression were destroying the moral framework of the American populace. Spearheaded by the evangelical caucus that placed Reagan in office, a morally conservative faction reeling from their loss in court against the heavy metal rockers, set their sights on a smaller fish— Julian Zaffarado, critically acclaimed short story writer and aspiring screenwriter.

His incendiary work condemned the stratospheric disparities between the average American and the budding oligarchy. He renounced the two-party political system and urged his fellow citizens to see that their culture war was a grand diversion by the elite to avoid the gross excesses of the hyper-wealthy. The satirical nature of his work paired with a descriptive opulence that would have made Tom Robbins proud. The peculiarities of his subjects— ranging from the crocheting habits of a mortician to the money laundering scheme of a coin wash operating youth pastor, enthralled his readers. Zaffarado was fearless— as all great artists should be. Until he wasn’t.

It’s one thing to snipe at the rotten behemoths of the political landscape when you’re a dust mite. It’s another when those behemoths deign to line you up in their own crosshairs. Zaffarado, invoking the entropy of the universe, found himself the personal enemy of South Carolina congressional member, Carlton Huston III. A particularly pernicious, wine sack-colored human that counted more similarities with a bloodhound than his fellow man. Still, Huston relished in the dissection of political enemies— of which Zaffardo counted himself as one after mocking Huston in a thinly veiled story about a committee member that soiled themselves during a budget meeting on the hill. Impossible to confirm the veracity of the tale— but folks in DC bathed in purell after meeting with Huston.

Huston denounced the writings of Zaffarado as profane and morally corrupting. Zaffarado’s sales skyrocketed on the liberal west, but at the cost of middle America hammering him into the ground. A dedicated smear campaign succeeded in blackballing him from Hollywood— right on the verge of his agent closing a deal with Warner Brothers to direct a follow-up to Animal House. He fought against the exclusion, but in vain industry, money wins.

The once bright star faded from public view. The world forgot Julian Zaffarado and the brilliance of his biting wit and the tenacious quest for the truth. His collected anthologies were alternately burned and collected by followers and enemies alike. A stint in Prague cemented his status as a cult classic writer after a wine-drenched screenplay surfaced on a fan Livejournal. The photocopied pages made showcased Zaffarardo’s aged brilliance and dedication to his craft— as well as the dejected signs from the wine drops and animal grease that dotted the manuscript. Periodically, more projects would appear on other backwater blogs— creating an easter egg hunt for aspiring authors and devoted fans. The American public and Hollywood may have forgotten about his skills, but his name was whispered with reverence among the most talented of writers.

It wasn’t until the unlikely coupling of a film school dropout turned Onlyfans creator that Zaffardo’s work was brought back to the mainstream. Fayesvalue, a social and alternative media darling blew up on Twitter after her sexually explicit adaptation of Zaffarado’s most elusive story, Tiber’s Remorse, headlined both the regular and sexual areas of Twitter and Reddit for weeks. Her camerawork, attention to detail, and undeniable sex appeal led to rumblings that pornography could be heightened to an art form.

Zaffarado was furious. He didn’t see the positive reception of his work for what it was. Rather, he felt his magnum opus was perverted. He feared another social and creative ostracisation— from which he had never fully recovered the first time. A furious call to his lawyer led to a drafted cease and desist for Fayesvalue. It wasn’t until he took time to watch the video fully that he understood why it had become so popular. The young woman, while exquisite in performing her solo acts, was an artistic genius with the camera. She was the budding talent that Zaffarado had been denied the chance to work with years ago.

He sent her an email— How do you feel about working on a project together?

Braids

You read my scribbled lines that spill across stained notebooks. I have forgotten the dull fear I had before you. Before sharing the pocket worlds that live within the galaxy of my mind.

There is no resplendent mirage of my art for your eyes. You see the fragments that require varnish for the public. You’ve heard a thousand rants of twisted heroes and wayward lives. Of curious fears and the quietest dreams.

There is a wild heart racing— each beat a stallion hoof upon the open plains. There is freedom in the finite. Hope within the falling leafs of autumn.

I sit at a dark, wooden desk. My hands trailing over the braided edges. A robin’s egg sky lays beyond it. The vast of night further still.

Crimson Crown

She kissed his crown as he knelt at her feet. Her hands grasped his head—

“I will bring you such pain that you will wish madness may obscure it. That death might pardon it. And you will love every moment.” Her lips left a crimson mark. The lipstick was a promise of the future.

“I will tear your mind asunder.”

***

The hero of Kyiv slipped into the forests. A bow at his back and enemies close behind. Vitaly had rescued Countess Terez, only to face accusations from her father that he sullied her honor during the extraction from the besieged fortress. Not even Terez’s protests were enough to stop the Count from loosing his dogs on Vitaly. He killed two of the monstrous Kavkazskaya Ovcharka dogs before a third shredded his shooting arm. Vitaly cut the last one and scrambled away into the night. Men at arms rallied behind him at the Count’s call and followed the bloody trail. They were eager to claim the bragging rights and gold prize. It’s not often you get to dangle a hero over the coals.

Unfortunately for the Count’s men, they followed the descendant of Ilya Muromets. You can’t catch monster hunters in the forests their legends were born in. Vitaly’s ancestor killed the Nightingale. A chimera-like creature— with its blend of human and avian features. Its deadly whistle once leveled the palace of Prince Vladimir. Not that the Count cared for legends or heroes. If he did, he would have recognized the Muromets emblem on Vitaly’s chest and bowed. The men at arms lost Vitaly’s tracks as he wove his way amongst the thick brush. The cover of night erased any hope the men might have had before Vitaly crippled the dogs. Don’t chase a Muromets into the woods. These things are known.

The young hero holed up in a hidden cave some miles beyond the city. His grandfather, Oleksander, taught him about the secret places within the woods. He taught him the bow, the hunt, and the last vestiges of the Nightingale whistle. Forbidden magic to anyone without Muromets blood. Even Baba Yaga did not practice it. The forest mother did not need a sonic whistle to split the bodies of men. Vitaly made sure he did not venture near her hollow. He prayed to Chernobog that her house did not feel restless and relocate. He shuddered at the thought of its giant, yellowed legs.

The cool air in the cave let Vitaly slip into a deep slumber. The fear and adrenaline from his escape finally wore off. A women’s voice sang a haunting melody. A dark cloud released a torrent of water and black snakes writhed within it. Vitaly woke with a gasp. Signs from Chernobog. Ill tidings come closer. The young man was not as steeped in dream lore as his grandmother, Alina, but he remembered her warnings of prophecies from the Black God. Chernobog protected his own, but the God of evil was a fickle deity. Vitaly knew he served to appease, not to trust.

The shrill cry of morning birds met Vitaly’s ears. He rolled off the damp ground and got ready for a long trek back to Lukomorye. He had sacrifices to make if he was to slip the yolk of the Black God. His forehead pulsed with warmth where he had been kissed. Vitaly shuddered at the thought of her lips leaving their mark. His grandfather would have been ashamed— A Muromets under the spell of another? It would have been better to die.

Flower

It was odd, he thought. No one had waited for him on the trail before. Always too fast as they ascended the mountainside. Too worried they wouldn’t make it in time for prayer. Rolf didn’t worry that God would miss him. He was the only one left on the mountain most days— he felt that made him easier to find. That he got to speak directly to the spirit as the wind lifted through the verdant hills.
But there she was. Standing with a hand on her hip, as if already annoyed at a man she hadn’t yet met.
“It took you long enough. What were you doing? Drinking from all the streams?”

”Picking the flowers, actually.” He extended the loosely clenched bouquet towards her. “Do you want them?”

”I didn’t think anyone picked the little orange ones. Aren’t they weeds?”

“It’s a flower if you find it beautiful.” He gave a small smile. He studied her face— she had crinkled lines by her eyes. He hoped he’d get to hear the laugh that created them.

”Is this how you charm all the women on the mountain?”

”Usually by this time it’s just the cows. They don’t mind the flowers, but they’d prefer more sweet grass.”

”And you didn’t think to give that to me instead?” She gave a wry grin.

“Didn’t know anyone would be waiting. Shouldn’t you be at the church?”

”Shouldn't you?”

”Don’t think I need to rush for the omniscient. They’ll know where I am.”

Runway

“Fashion has a price,” the Armani clad assassin said as he pulled the trigger.
The world of high fashion had gone to the wolves after the murder of Versace.
Ever since then— fashion season became open season— with many former runway models turning to wetworks to pay the bills.
Dangerous? Of course it is, but that’s Prada, bitch.

New York may be the fashion hub now, but the men from Milan are the worst enemies to have. A double stiletto death is their customary kill and it’s far from quick. Luxury takes time. A quality kill is languid— like the pour of amaro.

Chanel is sneaky— and Dior convoluted. Mostly, the murders were showcases of skill.
The tact of silence and the beauty of dispatchment. The more seamless the hit, the more acclaim it received.

The arsenic powder delivered via a show fab was an unmitigated disaster— as it involved civilians and thus police. Which of course prevented any more shows being held in Seville.
However— the air injection via syringe between the toes at a pool in Monaco? Simple, but effective.
The real show stopper had to be the insulin overdose in Brussels. Death by chocolate? The irony was exquisite.

Now, many of the younger generations detest the bloodshed. And yet, they fiend for the stories and status.
Which brings to mind the quote by a mustachioed man, — “Blessed are the weak who think they are merciful, because they have no claws.”

Once these young upstarts gain a fresh set of nails— they’ll get to work.
But now with the web— with Instagram and Tik Tok— fashion has been turned over to the masses and the results are messy.

No more style in the hits— no honor to be had. Only carnage.
With each viral video— a new target arose. Even without the hits— most would fade to obscurity.
But that’s not the point. The point is that the industry had rules. A code.
And now? Call the cowboys, because it is the Wild West.

Out of Order

The last place you wanted to see an out of order sign is on a parachute rip cord while midair.
Thankfully Jenna Sotherby had wingsuit experience. She glided the final three thousand feet with an icy calm before slamming into the mountainside.
Her obituary stated her love of adrenaline and Moscow mules (with her cardamom syrup addition). The world lost her signature macadamia nut banana bread and her terrible iguana themed dad jokes.

Snippet

In time— no one remembered the name Alomair Ginsley or the exploits of the 1947 Cladenhall Express robbery.

But those that knew what happened upon that train— between Glasgow and Edinburgh never stepped foot upon a train again. Darkness envelopes the soul after a night like that.

A stain that not even a new name or country could remove.

Windmill

The crowd spoke of the brouhaha as they watched the firefighters swing at the cops. It all started with the introduction of the donuts. Crispy, freshly fried, and topped with powdered sugar, the infamous Windmill donuts sent the service workers into a frenzy.

Both sides had been working together to stem a fire outside of Browning, but once a cop tried to jump the queue all hell broke loose. Apparently the young lieutenant tried to argue that since cops are stereotyped for loving donuts, they should embrace it and receive the first portions. The firefighters, especially Captain Rolownsky took exception to that.

“All you did was watch! If anyone needs the calories, it’s the men who were putting in the real work.”

“Real men? You ride around in a red toy truck! You’re no more of a man than my five year old son.”

“Your son’s hero is a firefighter, Dan. How about you sit and think about that?”

”We’ll settle this in the ring.”

The men came together in an interlocking ring of flesh and civil service. The two men brought their padded batons to bear. Rolownsky struck first with a snapped kick. Daniel tried to slap it away, but caught a service boot to the jaw. He wobbled before straightening back up. Bloodied spittle dripped from his mouth. Rolownsky gave a harsh smile and kept his fists up. Daniel bull rushed Rolownsky, but he caught two fists hammered down onto his back. Daniel’s fellow cops looked on as Rolownsky dispatched their colleague with ease.

“I told you, no cuts. Not even for donut munchers.”

One Night

The inside of the car filled with the heavy synth of dark wave darling “Boy Harsher” as it sped down I-5. The little mini cooper bounced along the road like an automotive bouncy ball, and the young man inside thought of gritty sci-fi and other cinematic masterpieces. The boy smelled like allspice and spearmint. His hands that gripped the wheel were stained yellow from turmeric. He bobbed his head to the throb of the music.

He wanted to know if the universe was serendipitous or if he was just blessed with more kismet than the average schmuck. Every time he thought of a far flung person from his past— they appeared within a week. Not in a grand, flashy way. No neon signs or carnival hollers. Often they would quietly pass him. Not recognizing him from their own past. He’d wonder if his memory of people was normal. If others could recall the fervor of an argumentative week from seven years prior. Did anyone else trace the lines of destiny others walked upon?

His mind whirled as he took his freeway exit. At the end of it— a vagrant dismantling their tent took a step backwards onto the street. The young man misses him by inches. The other man doesn’t even notice the light caress of death linger on his neck. The young man keeps driving— slower now. He turns off the music and lets silence fill the air. He thinks about the millionaire who just won the lottery. And the man that absently stepped backwards onto a freeway exit. He thinks about the ruts in the road and how the car needs to skirt around them. The buildings surround him— concrete trees with bright lights in what used to be dark woods.

The mews of a needy cat greet him once he returns home. It winds itself through his legs and rubs its paws against him to signal that it wants to be picked up. He obliges. Walking around the apartment with a cat in his arms— reflects on the frivolous quest for singular meaning. The cat purrs. He doesn’t want to fall into the trap of romanticism. And he fears the hungry hearts of the righteous. “You could be wrong about everything,” He reminds himself as he gently rocks the cat. The area around him is sparse and luxurious. There’s a certain coldness to it— one that has to be dispelled by the comfort of the many seats to lounge upon. He picks the old, tan, suede chair in the corner. It reminds him of another chair— a ratty, swivel lounge chair that lived in a mountain cabin. One that filled with the scent of wood smoke and bracing cold. The young man feels far removed from that nature. He feels far removed from the boy that tiptoed across river rocks to hunt through foliage on a small island for four leaf clovers.

The young man forgets that he doesn’t share these memories with many people. That he hasn’t explained that much of his childhood freedom was spent tramping through the forest. Along small creeks and mossy beds— surrounded by old growth trees and the remnants of a wilder past. Of how he filled up canteens with rare bottles of Coke that he’d plunder from his aunt and uncle’s cooler. How he would sleep on the floor with the dogs instead of the many beds or couches. He forgets the slam of the heavy iron door or the light creak of the wooden one. How the ceiling planks were installed incorrectly so that the smooth side was faced up instead of down. And how the rough side caught all the dust and cobwebs. Of how his mother would tell him that if his grandmother had been around while it was constructed, that would have never happened.

He forgets many things. His fear of the dark. Of closets. Of goblins and ghouls.

He does not forget the nights spent around the fire with his uncle. The stories he’d hear with his back to the shadows of the night. He remembers the heat from the dark embers and how he wondered what he’d be like when he was older. He does not forget the beauty of the tales his uncle wove together— their lines draped in the air like celestial strings— begging to be played.

The young man stares out at the street below. At the flashing red and blue lights of the police being called to another incident. He stares at the microcosms of life across the street in the hotel windows— how vignettes play out before his eyes. A young family on holiday, an older couple reigniting the romantic spark. All happening at the same time. All happening in the same world.

Prosper

It only took Evan pouring milk on his school lunch peaches for the popular kids to ostracize him. You’d think there would be more love for the classic combo of peaches and cream. But any wayward movement was enough to draw the ire of bullies at Rathmore Elementary. Evan, all sharp knees and elbows, didn’t have the social or physical grace to fend off the accusations of social noncompliance.

If only those fools knew they planted the seed for the deadliest murderer the world never caught. A poison milk epidemic swept the nation— with nary a glance at the peach eating milkman. A jaunty whistle and swing in his step, he resembled a manic scarecrow that found a dairy uniform. The good citizens of the suburbs were loathe to see heroes dressed in white.

Painted Hills

The town of Vernon burned an effigy when my mother returned from the war. The townspeople said they were inspired by the spirit of Boudicca. My mother told me that was horseshit. She didn’t live because of a warrior’s protection— she said it was just luck.

No one had expected a war. At most a battle. Maybe even a light scuffle if blood sugar levels were elevated. But they were wrong about that too. The town across the valley, Bernon, wanted a war. They claimed our town was a cheap approximation of their own— and they demanded restitution. Our city council told them to sit on it and spin. Not very effective politics, but lively.

You’d be forgiven for thinking this is a story of bloodshed and woe. It is not. Except for when Lonny Masters skinned his knee while running into the first skirmish. He had to have iodine poured on it and yelped like a kicked dog.
See, violence in this valley isn’t dictated by the gun. But by the ammo. And our ammo was paintballs.

A reverent crowd watched on from specially constructed forest leans— where they could watch the “warriors” scurry past as they tried to avoid corpulent splats of wet paint. My mother made sure they didn’t. Janice Halthen, my mom, was the single best shot with a paintball gun since Bobby Carmichael. But that makes sense, since he was her older brother’s best friend. After she surpassed Bobby in skill, he started calling her “Dirty J” as a joke. The name stuck like the fools she plastered and I’ve grown up in the canvassed shadow of my mother’s fame and her enemies shame.

Watching the paint dry might be the most exciting thing this valley has to offer.

Boardwalk

She looked like a Rosario Dawson imposter as she beat her fist against the vending machine. Her black combat boots pushed her eye level with a fake gold medallion necklace she wanted. 

After three more knocks, the medallion fell into the slot and the machine erupted in alarm. She snagged her prize as a diamond bright smile tore across her face. 
I knew from that moment on I was doomed.

After three weeks I managed to see her again. She was skating down the boardwalk in a pair of neon purple skates. The sun glinted against the medallion on her chest. It bounced as she twirled across the hot cement. I psyched myself up to say something. Anything. I didn’t want to be some lonesome Spector watching her life like a Planet Earth documentary.

”I like your skates!” I called out as she zoomed past. I dropped my hand I had unintentionally raised in a wave. “Fuck.” She kept skating down the pier. I wanted to follow, but I didn’t want to be creepy. Besides, she probably just wanted to skate by herself and not be bothered. I turned around and walked towards Del Rey’s tacos on the corner of Broadway & Pier Place.

I sat on a pier side table eating tacos while I tried to read my newest sci-fi book from the library.
“What are you reading?” I look up to see her. The her. Looking down at me with her own tray of tacos. She waited for an answer.

”I just started, so I’m not sure yet.”

”Who’s the author?”

”Lois McMaster Bujold. It’s part of the Miles Vorkosigan series. It’s sci-fi. Don’t know if you’d like it.”

”Because I’m a girl?”

”Because everyone at my school laughs about sci-fi. And that wouldn’t make sense anyway. Bujold wrote this and she obviously loves sci-fi.” My hands are sweating onto the last taco I’m holding.

“I’m Rivera.” She says taking a seat.
“I’m Hudson. I like your skates.” She laughs.
“I know. I heard the first time.”

Campfire

“Death can’t find me if I don’t know where I’m going,” Zach said as the fire crackled.
The other boys looked at their scout leader with admiration. They had all heard Eagle Scouts were wise, but now they could confirm it.
“That sounds like horseshit.” The circle went silent.
“Who said that?” Zach looked for the guilty party. The eight boys looked between each other. A small hand raised.
“I did,” Eli said. His uniform sloughed off his shoulders. It was at least two times too big for his knobby arms and legs.
“Why?” The rest of the boys looked between their scout leader and little Eli in fascination.
“Because death is everywhere. It’s in everything. There’s no singular entity that represents it. You’re not running from some expert tracker. It’s a force of nature. It is nature.”

Zach’s face creased with annoyance. He didn’t like being challenged by impudent little imps. He was an Eagle Scout for God’s sake!
“I don’t think you understand my point then. But it’s alright, you’re young. You still have so much to learn.”

”There’s no mortality recognition badge. You can’t bullshit me on this. Death is everything.”
“I’m going to let you apologize and then you need to go turn in for the night and think about respecting your elders.”

”And I think you shouldn’t lie to the rest of our troop and pretend you know something you couldn’t.”

”Last chance, Eli. Get up and go. I don’t want to tell Pack leader Daniels that you disobeyed me.”

The fire gave a loud pop and the boys jumped, save for Eli. The shadows seemed to dance across his slight frame. His face hidden from the fires light.
“You shouldn’t have been boasting, Zachary. Death detests the arrogant. It makes sure they’re punished for it.”

”… what?” Zach’s voice cracked as he looked at the living shadow that used to be Eli Zimmerman.
In a snap the shadow flowed across the flames and cloaked the frozen form of scout leader Zach Heiden. The world crystallized in a horrific silence for the troop before a strong gust blew the shadow away. Leaving the boys alone in the woods next to a dying fire and two less souls than before.

Trail

Two titans fell on the day I earned my name. 

Blooded sand pooled beneath our feet as we crept around their cooling bodies. 

The Painted Kid & Billy struck each other down. No symphony of victory played— as our town was left without a winner. 
A gnawing started in the pit of my stomach— I reached for the plated chrome before my hand was slapped away. 

Fear lived in my mother’s eyes. She had seen what lived in mine— and knew there would be a tale about me one day. Bigger than either of these corpses could ever dreamed of. 

***

“Ain’t called crumbs because of a half eaten muffin spilled in the dirt.”

“Then why?”

“Because bread trails are made of crumbs. And I’m gonna follow mine towards my destiny.”

***

“You should slow up on the sarsaparilla. You don’t want rotgut or the shakes.” 

“Better rotgut than two punched holes and a swift exit. And the shakes? Look at this hand. Steadiest shooting hand west of St. Louis.”

Brockman

I sat on the riverbank eating a ham sandwich as I came to terms with the likelihood that I’d never don a superhero cape. It wasn’t the lack of powers that stood in my way. It was the system in place that dictated who could become an action hero or not. I had been told before that Hollywood was exclusive. The comic con gigs for major action stars was even more so.

I didn’t have much time to process whether I should make the cut. Because an aggressive goose was stalking the beach below me. It didn’t have to do with my ideal plan being a hero, but it would infringe upon my ideal plan for those next five minutes if it charged me.

That’s how I met Brockman. The son of a bitch that charged me. Wings up and mouth wide, that cobra chicken went after me like I owed him money. I should have remembered the Minneapolis accord of 1994 that brokered the rights of citizenship for geese after it was discovered they were sentient beings. They were also little rat bastards.

Brockman Goose stood two feet tall and had a wingspan of six feet long. He was a bigger goose than most. While he was technically a Canada Goose, he was an American citizen. Something that didn’t sit well with the good people of Minneapolis for a long time. Foreigners taking over their airspace? The audacity. That was thought to be an exclusively American practice.

After I swung a right hook at Brockman and he snapped me in the face with his wings, we settled down. He told me I was imposing on his mating grounds. I hadn’t consciously cock blocked a goose before, but I had enough decency to apologize. He had almost enough to do the same. Brockman was the youngest son of Richman Goose, the first avian attorney in the city of Minneapolis. Where Brockman’s brothers followed in their father’s wingflaps, he decided to strike out on his own as a private investigator. He told me living life on the edge was the only way he felt alive. I told him he should talk to a therapist about that.