Fireworks

I stood at the port in Izuhara under a sweating sun. The back of my shirt had long since become married to my skin, and I kept my eyes peeled for a spot of shade where I could watch the summer festival performances from.

I stood at the back by the sound booth, believing I’d be out of the way. But that’s a cute thought when you’re one of two people that doesn’t look like everyone else on a thirty-thousand-person island. I had small kids come up to stand at my elbow and take covert peeks at me as we watched the schools perform a hula dance. After the boys left, a group of young girls took a lap around me to get a three sixty view of the new English teacher. I had my mask on, so no one could see the jovial smile I had. But I think the creased corners of my eyes would give it away if my glasses didn’t cover them.

It’s one thing to know that you’ll be moving away from all your friends and family. And that in this new place you’ll be living, you’ll stand out like a sore thumb. But there’s something inherently pleasant (to me) about seeing the curious faces because mine, too, must have the same look. Everywhere I go, there is something bright and new— some aspect of this culture that I have yet to learn about or experience. And for that, I am grateful and filled with vivacious joy.

To end the night, I returned to the apartment complex with the small cadre of fellow teachers, and we stood upon a small balcony to watch one of the most magnificent displays of fireworks I’ve ever seen. The resplendent lights were married to earth-shattering explosions as each performance progression brought the angles of their powdered rockets closer to our building.

A veritable sundry of reds, yellows, oranges, blues, and greens dappled the blue-black canvas of the sky. I saw the formation of brief choreographed images— like the Tsushima crest and a cheeky smile. The ghost of the colors hung in the air— a countenance to the shocking colors that had been there only moments before.

For twenty-five minutes, I stood frozen by beauty. In those twenty-five minutes, as a pale moon radiated in defiance against the flickering changes above the bay, I felt I had arrived on the island.

Iku

I had a dream last night as I laid on my futon and adjusted to the idea that I never lived in Japan. It was similar to the Kubly Khan in which a deep personal truth shined brightly, but by the time of waking it’s light dimmed and left me disoriented.

I’m not sure what I saw or heard or felt within the dream state but I know that for a split second I was whole.

And the arc of my ambitions that stretches beyond the horizon fit in that moment, within the palm of my hand.

Shinjuku

The people cycled through Shinjuku station like a music video on fast forward. The ebb and flow swirled with the bright colors and elegant cuts of swift walking fashionista’s. The newly minted August heat clawed at my body as I tried not to keel over in light of minimal sleep and food.

A mad hatter’s smile split my face beneath my mask as I watched it in a dazed wonder. For the past ten years I had thought of returning to Japan, but never considered I’d actually have solid feet upon the ground at some point. My wishes had resembled idle day dreams rather than any concrete plans. And yet, there I was in the middle of one of the busiest stations in Tokyo, viscerally locked into the environment around me.

The water that hangs in the air makes walking akin to swimming. The bright heat is matched with scattershot sounds from street performers, restaurant hawkers, frenzied conversations outside of small bars, and the zooming cars. The lights pulse from thousand stores and video displays. The powers of New York’s Time Square would squirm under the megawatt stare that Tokyo possesses.

Infinite Eight

A gentle, but insistent shake of the Magic Eight ball reveals a slow appearance of “Signs point to Yes“ which draws a smile across Logan’s face. He knew he’d make it into Wimbledon. The wall of racquets behind him echoed their non-sentient agreement.

Far away, nestled deep within a distant nebula lays a cosmic horror too vast to comprehend. It feels the vibrations of the request from mere mortals and responds with insight. A dull thud pervades the weight of the stars that hover among it.

Frenzy

You sparked with the frenzy of a single firefly trying to set the world alight. You vibrated are a frequency that made me slip through conscious thought.

Even your name brought the excitement of a freshly unveiled conspiracy— as if you were a secret that each person believed was their own.

Eternity

“How do you feel about eternity?” A jackal howled in the distance. The man kept his milky white, dead eyes on the boy. “Don’t scream. You’ll disturb the hounds.” A rheumy, black ichor dripped down the man’s face. Each drop traveling along the lines of a hard life and harsher death.

The boy sniffled “Why am I here? I didn’t do anything!”

“You didn’t, but your father did. Every debt has a deadline— and unfortunately for you, his just arrived.” A swell of crisp autumn wind fell over the pair. A low growl came from a shaggy hound that padded past them. The man fixed it with a stare before it took off. “There’s nothing fair in this world. Not in the station you’re born into or the rights or lack thereof that encompass it. Ease your mind and know you are not guilty— but you are the unfortunate soul held responsible.”

The boy began to buck against the restraints as the man placed a claw tipped hand over his face. With the other hand, he pressed two coppers into the boy’s palm. “May you haunt your father’s days for his sins from this one.”

Kicks

Your foot kicked against mine under the table. You pointedly looked in the other direction as a smile stole across your face. I wanted to grab your hand, but you kept it on the water glass you swirled. The ice cubes clinked together as the summer heat wore them into a slurry.

That was the last time a crush felt emphatic. The last time were my breath caught in my chest— my fingers numb & stupid, just like my tongue. I couldn’t find the words to express how I felt— every sentence was punctuated by long pauses and sheepish smiles.

I hadn’t yet filled the outline of the person I hoped to become. The draw of your own lines called to me— as if I could find my own boundaries by peering inside yours. As if stardust and turquoise rocks comprised your insides instead of honest fears and shy hopes.

I’d finally grab your hand during a long walk— one extended by a meandering heart & similar mind.

The concrete was eschewed in favor of the abstract. Potential over ability— fantasy over reality. That’s how crushes work. Your heart temporarily becomes affiliated with another more strongly than with yourself. As if it could somehow beat independently of your body.

And still, I wouldn’t give up the memory of your stained black and white converse knocking against my faded adidas as we ate Thai food. Or the long walks where the future seemed implausible as the present stretched forever.

Fools Aplenty

“It’s always the same. ‘Galbraith, don’t summon the demon king. Galbraith, don’t mix destructive elements. Galbraith, don’t assist the warlock with the key stone.”

The young man sputtered. His red face told Lucien everything he needed to know.

“The key stone? What warlock might have that been, young Galbraith?”

The young man froze. He looked up at the head of the inquisition and began to shake his head. “I didn’t say that. There’s no key stone. No warlock!“

“There’s always been the key stone. Now who was this warlock? Don’t make me fetch the salamanders.”

Snake

An orange and black cyclops snake emerged from my hand as I stared at the sheared off callus. It stretched to four or five inches— and had somehow been hidden to me as it nested within me.

Memories of the occasional itch came under scrutiny as I wondered if the snake had been inching through my body like a nascent explorer. The untrodden terrain of my innards representing the holy grail of exploration for a crawling nightmare.

Long Road

Balance is lost from me. I’ve been sleeping under a trampoline during these summer nights. I point out the constellations to you through the mesh. The Little Dipper became the Big Slide and so on.

We told each other stories that haunt the night. The crinkle of distant bushes brought us together— sweaty palms stayed locked through the night. In the morning we went and got curly fries and told ourselves the future was far off— that the road beneath us would never run out.

Echo

I sat at the edge of an echo. The thrum of a staticky bass flowed across the street as I watched the pale, amber liquid in my glass periodically drop. The floral print shirt I permanently borrowed from a former friend stuck to my back as the last lingering rays of the summer sun reminded me I wasn’t invincible without sunscreen.

In the morning I’d wake up to the sound of crows cawing. The two outside my window were fighting or fucking, and I couldn’t tell or care beyond my own annoyance. The avian alarm clock had fewer features and greater noise than my phone— but it was twice as effective. For one, the snooze button was an out of reach slingshot in the kitchen that my dad used to wage war on the garden squirrels. The culprits behind the missing bird feeder seed and now infamous members of dinner time discussion.

Within thirty minutes I’ll be sitting in the drivers seat of a Subaru Outback that’s traversed the country more times than I’ve said no to visiting Disneyland. The smell of old cloth, oil, and burning coolant combines into a melancholic, yet nostalgic blend. I’ll start my seven thousand song playlist and hit shuffle before I pull away from the garage.

In that split second before the car enters the road and I’m fully invested— I replay the barrage of entrances and exits. The time spent sitting inside that Subaru or another— and contemplating my life in intermittent silence as the engine would cool. It’s back at the edge of the echo— smaller, deeper, but no less vital.

United

My last tournament with my teams in Oregon ended with a loss. It marked the fourth successive loss of the weekend and tournament as a whole.

But what the boys got out of the weekend far surpassed the expectation that you’d have for a competitive level soccer tournament. It was the first time for many of these middle school aged boys to realize that sports are a conduit to predicting success in life. The caveat is that it’s not the inherently talented players that achieve success (although that’s common) but the players that are able to provide a full effort and give everything they have for a performance.

There are many moments in life where potential and perceived ability don’t coincide in the manner people expect it to. My goal for the boys wasn’t to win the tournament or even win the final game. It was to put forth an effort that they would be proud of. That would allow them to understand that sustained effort takes precedence over occasional flashes of heightened ability.

Adverse conditions can be instrumental to unveiling the core nature of someone’s personality. There’s significant evidence in post-traumatic growth— that signals the human ability to overcome, adapt, and ultimately thrive. While significant trauma and sports events are often not coupled with each other (thankfully). There are moments in sporting events where players are awakened to the possibility that they possess more ability, drive, or grit than they previously believed.

These moments are instrumental in the positive growth of these players as individuals. If you aren’t pushed to your limits or placed in adverse conditions and forced to adapt, you aren’t aware of what your capabilities are.

Soccer, for me, has been an incredible outlet for the exploration of character. I have always loved the game. I’ve followed multiple leagues such as the Premier league, Serie A, La Liga, MLS,NWSL, etc my entire life. I’ve played too many hours of FIFA & Football manager combined to be ultimately proud of. And I can’t count the hours I spent kicking the ball against the brick wall at my childhood elementary school. But all of it has led to continual moments of growth and understanding.

I’ll finish my career (for the time being) as a soccer coach in Oregon having coached five different teams— while spot lighting on a couple more. I love being at the field and seeing players grow. I receive the same thrill watching one of my youth development teams score that I do when my high school players do. I’ve jumped into the air and pumped my fists for both (with little shame).

Ultimately, I’m writing this to express my gratitude. I’ve been surrounded by incredible people. Both coaches and players. And I’m leaving with a happy, but heavy heart. I never would have expected that this is where I’d be at eighteen years old when I first received my national license for coaching. But I’m very grateful it is.

Parched Pt.2

“Seems odd for a sheriff to serve a warrant solo for a federal fugitive. Not to mention that Ford out there isn’t a squad car. Why don’t we settle up …?” Tim rolled his hand in expectation.

“Templeton. It’s Sheriff Templeton.”

“And?”

“Falcone wants you back in Vegas. This is the only warning you’ll receive.”

“He doesn’t want me back in Vegas. He wants me off this land. If you’re gonna fuck me, at least look me in the eyes while you do it.”

“I’m too old to be pulling my cock out for a wily thing like you. I’ll let the city suits dirty up your good looks.”

Parched

There was magic in the way Tim O’Leary tended the field out past Clatsop. You would have thought the rugged, thousand yard stare dirt smudged farmer was an old hand at it. Especially as he entered his forty fifth year happy & hale.

And that’s where you’d be wrong.

Tim O’Leary went by another name once upon a time. Back when the initials C.R. applied to him, Tim was a notorious bank robber. Not only could he crack a safe in twenty minutes flat, but he was an acrobatic phenom during the rare escape attempts.

The distant dust clouds signaled long awaited trouble. A Ford Ranger fresh off the lot bounced it’s way across the parched dirt road towards the ranch house.

“Charles Remus, I’ve got a warrant from Judge Pritchard to search the premises.” A grizzled sheriff said after stepping out of the Ford.

“My name isn’t Charles Remus. It’s Tim O’Leary. I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong address. You can flip around on the lawn and find your way out.” The sheriff gave a small smile at that.

“Afraid I can’t do that. I’ve got a file here that says you match the description of an awfully slippery man. I’d hate to turn my back and find you’ve disappeared down another gopher hole.” The two men stared each other down. Tim looked at the empty land around him. Not much cover to run to.

“Best you come inside and we get this sorted. Don’t need the neighbors catching a scene.”

The sheriff looked around the property. It was too big to see the boundary fences. He checked the pistol in his holster and chuckled as he walked towards the worn, but well maintained ranch house.

Sparks

I stood at the edge of Rockaway beach trying to light my cigarette against the wind. There were three syllables in your name, but my tongue kept stumbling over the first one. I wondered if that was a sign I should leave things be.

I waded through high tide to get to the pools on the far side of the beach. I had a weird fixation on finding a giant starfish. I wanted it to be that mottled pink color— the one that says “I’m having a good time!” in summer photos.

I didn’t find one.

You told me you thought it was odd that people made fun of your name. I told you it was odd your name was Xanadu Sparks. You laughed it off— and we walked towards the old ice cream shop. An old shop bell rang as we walked in. The old woman at the counter smiled at you and asked if you wanted to try their new Marionberry flavor.

I knew all you wanted was a double scoop split of chocolate and peppermint, but I wanted to see how nice you’d be.

We both walked out with scoops of Marionberry and I had more questions about the old woman’s charisma than answers about Xanadu.

Crumbly

“You can’t lament fools for making foolish choices. That would burden them with the expectation of being better. Something I would wish upon no on,” Clint said. He spat a noxious black stream of tobacco onto the trail. “Don’t go looking to right their wrongs, boyo. They’ll just drag you into the deep with them.”

The young man squinted from under his hat and gave a small nod. “I’ll do that, old man.”

“Heh, sure you will. Now giddy up, we gotta make Albee by sundown,” Clint said kicking his horse to life.

Jump

There’s a fine line between courage and stupidity and Wendell Holmes rode that line like nobody’s business.

The third son of a famous smokejumper, Wendell found himself chasing danger on a daily basis. He felt that if he didn’t push himself the same way his father and two older brothers that followed in his footsteps did, he wouldn’t be enough.

Fuck, Marry, Kill

“There he is looking like the dark god of ‘Fuck, Marry, Kill,’” Andrea said as she took a sip of cherry coke. “He looks like he’d bite your collarbone during the night and forget your name by morning.”

“You think he’d even ask your name? I think he looks like he’d just grab your hand and pull you off the dance floor without saying anything,” Luna said.

“Would you go with him?”

“It’s a 50/50 you get murdered with guys you know anyway, so why not?” Andrea shrugged and went back to staring at the dark haired boy sitting across the library.

“I heard he’s actually nicer than people say. Marnie said he helped her pick up flyers on the quad after she accidentally dropped them.”

“I don’t think picking up flyers gives someone an automatic good person pass— but it’s better than nothing.”

“Good enough for me. You sure you want to do this?”

“I’ve spent enough time as a virgin. Might as well try it with someone who looks like they know where the clit is.”

Andrea pointed her index and middle finger downward “Little man at the top of the boat. Shouldn’t be that hard.”