Patch of Paradise

The rickety wooden sign swayed in the evening breeze. A curling hand cupped a chalice on the flaking wood and underneath it read “Ambrosia Blues”. Colton had never traveled outside of Texas before. His parents had kept him tied to the farm with the promise that “one day” he’d get to saddle up and have a grand adventure.

After they brought the Jenkins’ over to discuss a marriage proposal between Colton and the Jenkins’ daughter, Henrietta, he knew he had to go. The moon didn’t catch his ride until he made it halfway past Galveston. Too far for anyone from his cowpatch to track him down. He stepped inside the bar— he wanted to know what the sign meant.

Wretched Guts

His name in our regiment was Guts. Cut down from “Wretched Guts” which proved an apt descriptor for his near-constant gaseaous state. Problem was— we couldn’t just pack him and his smelly offal up. Not only was Guts slyer than a hen-house fox, but he was the son of the colonel. Which meant the fifth artillery were stuck with him.

I hadn’t started out as a provocateur. I’m sure my mother would have agreed that I was a quiet child. But I also hadn’t started out as a military man— so it goes to show it’s nurture, not nature that’s defining. Albeit nature had a way with Gut’s intestines that proved mighty defining in itself.

Forgive me, but you have to imagine rancid milk that’s been mixed with rotten beef chip. When he let loose the barometric pressure of a room would change. You’d get gooseflesh a second before the smell hit you and a yellow streak would slide up your spine like predictor of damnation. Instead- it was defecatorial terrorism. If I could— I would have slapped the boy seven ways to Sunday. Not that I’m religious or particularly convinced physical punishment alters behavior. But corporal and colonel punishment stayed my hand, if not misery.

Still, if they had to stick him somewhere, artillery made sense. A bomb-maker at home with bombs. Plus, the front-line couldn’t handle that morale drop— it would have been the fart that broke the camel’s back. Recon was out of the picture— no spy-work for our deadly trumpeter. Nor could the navy spare a bed for someone capable of organically fumigating a submarine.

We wore WWI-era gas masks as a joke to start— but the ease of terror proved too enticing. We became known as the “Gas Lads” Not the worst nickname to be saddled with. The last cavalry unit was affectionately called “The Pony Fuckers” so, it could always be worse.

Our distinctive appearance began a rumor amongst the enemy that we were a phantom legion from the Great War— and that we stood as the last defense between the Heavens and Hells. A bit overblown if you ask me, but myths are created by all sorts. Just happened that our enemy leader had been caught in a barrow as a child. Memories of dark places like that don’t leave you. They temporarily recede.

The higher-ups had us march at night to perpetuate the legend. The colonel insisted they were parade marches— but mid-war provided a scant reason for “parade” to be any part of a march. If we hadn’t run across a P.O.W. camp— the legend would have blown away like the last scraps of honor during a week in the trench. We heard them before anything else. The dull thud of heavy, barefoot steps. Soft moans of broken humans alongside the occasional indignant shout. Guts marched at the end of the line— his low-tone stomach grumbles tensed the patrol. We had all learned to listen to the first signs of danger. Everyone prayed that the wind wouldn’t shift direction.

But what’s that quote about men’s plans and God laughing? You know enough that the wind didn’t stay blowing in the same direction after a midnight special rolled forth from our trusty comrade. It— changed the course of the war. Turns out the camp housed our best spy— a man by the name of— well, I don’t know if that was ever released. So, we’ll call him “REDACTED”. A great man, that “REDACTED” he led the prisoners in an escape effort after the enemy began engaging us in a firefight. They were able to secure some munitions from fallen soldiers and tear into the enemy’s backline before they knew the fight was over.

To think— the quasi-mustard gas our Guts churned out daily and the levers of fate landing us in the forest turned the tide of the war. The boys were almost proud to have him in the fifth artillery. However, none of us went so far as removing our gas masks to say so.

Joker of the Void

There are beings that aren’t quite gods that exist between worlds. Powerful and forgotten, they do not rise graciously when their names are called. Better yet to not think of them at all.

To dive into your dreams hoping to find a fissure between worlds is a fools errand. Which is why you were chosen, the greatest fool of us all.

They have heard your footsteps before— know that they will track you from the beginning.

How do you disappear from a god? What deal must you make for that? How hungry is the dark that it will accept you whole?

Wavy Wavy

My hair has never been so long. It makes sense— as I’ve never done many of the things I’m doing now. I had never gut a fish or filleted a squid before coming here. I’d never seen dolphins or arm wrestled coast guards on the linoleum floor of a billiards bars.

Before coming here I’d never driven on the left side of the road, waited for the taxi to open the door, bowed in a supermarket, or received red bean pastries.

I look similar to how I did when I left— except I might be a little bigger. All the carbs loaded in school lunchs fight against the free weights and pick-up soccer games. I think I talk slower here— not just because most of the time it’s in Japanese. But because time is a warm piece of mochi that’s stretching in my hands. Days seem to run different on the island— even if they profess to contain the same amount of hours they did in Portland.

Once every three weeks I look at my hair and hate it. I want to grab an electric razor and shave it all off. But this isn’t like home— so I don’t have a barber’s kit on hand. Nor do I have the triple set of mirrors or compost to toss the hair in (to frighten the rats) at the end. So, it continues on— like a beleaguered pilgrim in search of an undefined sanctuary.

I speak in hand gestures, clicks, whistles, and an odd assortment of other verbal paté. I’d known about some of it— but when you have 250 odd students parroting you in a week, even the densest could pick up some mirroring theory. I had forgotten how much I love a conspiratorial wink— how often my eyebrows raise in question— and the mock pursing of my lips when I’m confronted with goofy behavior before breaking into a grin.

Certain days I get paid to read as I sit at my desk. I thought I’d be constantly rotated through classes— but half a school day sees me sitting in the staff room. I listen in to the gossip and going ons as I figure out the social dynamics in the schools. Most places seem relaxed— occasionally I’ll be prompted by a question or a snack. I’m not used to constantly being plied with chocolate— but it seems like an effective strategy for whatever they’re planning.

The first month I felt foolish as I’d pull my hair into a ponytail or bun. There was something that seemed off about it as I sat in the schools as the only guy with hair this long. Part of me felt like I was overstepping on a possible cultural thing. Not white guy dreads— but it felt in a weird nebulous area considering I grew up learning enough Japanese history. But these fears were dismissed with a casual “no one cares” by a fellow teacher. He gave me a thumbs up and said— you’ve got “cool guy hair- nice!” In a very Ferris Buehler’s Day Off style— it completely different by being on this rural Japanese island.

I’ve thought the same things about my tattoos or outfits— but it always boils back down to— you massively stand out anyway, why would those things make a difference? Which is pretty in line with their Shouganai “eh, can’t be helped” attitude that I think is hilariously endearing most of the time.

I wonder what other new things will happen by the time my hair finally gets cut. Where will the pilgrim find their sanctuary? Is it the fabled Supercuts of Osaka? More likely to be a random side street shop with the rotating red, white, and blue barber pole that advertises all the barbershops without signs. Can’t find the business sign out front? “Shouganai.”

Fozzy

“Alexander wept, for there were for worlds left to conquer,” I chuckled under my breath as I watched my son wreck his foam block fort like the Macedonian Godzilla. “Alright, bud. Time to get your stuff. We need to go grab your sister before the pizzeria closes,” I said before swooping him up and delivering a raspberry on his tiny belly. He squealed with joy like only three-year-olds can and squirmed out of my grasp to grab his favorite jacket. The duster had originally belonged to an oversized doll at a tacky gift shop outside tombstone, but once Leo set his little blue piercers on it, it was settled.

We looked like a time-skip super duo with my aged skater look playing against his wee demon of the West style. I hoped he’d find time to don a legionary costume at some point— then I’d know my influence worked.

Leo’s sister, Lyra just finished her first soccer season, and the team had been rewarded with a dinner at the last local pizzeria in town. It had classic plastic red glasses with air bubbles in them. Every time I held one, I could remember my first taste of Dr. Pepper and the anticipation for team awards. I had money on Lyra receiving most tenacious. Even at five years old, there wasn’t a damn thing that scared her— she had to have picked that up from her mother. I can’t remember many moments of fearlessness.

Whorl

There are days when you forget that you have the closest reach to your own heart.

That only you know how you peel your oranges and balance on the balls of your feet during your first morning stretch. Where you haven’t yet brushed teeth or hair— and the first thoughts swim soft like eels through deep currents.

You forget your stories and poems and memos have all been seen by the same person— the vast configuration condensed into a rough outline of a man. The quick sketch marks that compress the paper and leave stenciled grooves underneath— as if your excitement to write everything down makes you hammer out the words when they can be released.

You smell the scent of cedar and remember sitting at a small kitchen table with a chipped ceramic mug of coffee. You studied French and thought you’d live across the sea. You didn’t know you were headed in a different direction.

You forget what you forget— and find the small, impish delights in scraps of your mind you’ve hidden about your life.

The crosscut of adventure and commitment is a tangled whorl in a growing forest— one you’ve brought a sharp ax to.

You remember soft moments— the warm spring scent of lilacs. The tender hands at your back, neck, hands, and hair. You remember it wasn’t because of doing— but because of being— that you have been loved. Like a pillar of lightning it is crushing.

The weight of not being alone— but bonded by ties that will loosen or cut. We ask ourselves these questions quietly— a dormouse whisper. We ask why we lose those we love. It’s hard to see through the oblique glass that shapes the love that spreads through our lives— you can know that it’s shifting form— but it escapes description like first day jitters. Like the weight and wait over the pool atop a diving board— slowly bending as you steady the fear.

It doesn’t go away— the fear. Neither does the love— they flicker about like the last fireflies of summer. Brief radiance in muggy darkness. Overseen by stars and outstretched cosmos. We forget we are forever— like we forget that at the end of down begins up. We exist in space and space and space. No wonder finding room is hard— within ourselves— when the universe is peeking at us from right outside.

Warwick

Her name was Warwick. That should have been my first sign that I was in too deep. Regular nuns don’t have names like that. Nor do they have kill count tattoos.

There are few people in this world you should implicitly trust. The nun in my company did not happen to be one of them. We wouldn’t have hired her for the mission if we had known what the marks meant. But it’s easier to state your case with the Drowned God than to wriggle out of a guild contract.

Currents

Sliding around the back of a small Toyota pick up truck with the lush floral taste of Bombay Sapphire mixed with cheap gas station orange juice. Seventeen saw blurred street lights and beer pong games in strangers yards. 

I asked plenty of questions that red solo cups didn’t have the answers to. But I kept trying— as if the cheap plastic would transform into a wishing well. I don’t think I was alone in that. 

Friday nights would invite hooligan activity as my friends and I would bike around the city in the dead of night. I wonder how many streets I coasted down as I let my feet rest on the pedals— the night air carrying us along. 

Those nights were preceded by days of nausea or hunger pangs. I hadn’t yet unraveled the mystery of my stomach ailments— and most of my waking hours were spent in a fog. On the rare days I experience it now— I wonder how I managed for seven years. 

The heady rush of first romances and exquisite nights. The awkward pauses and expeditions for deeper meaning when experience is what mattered most. 

The external pursuit of identity that would circle back to quiet, internal realizations. 

A normalized calm where they had been choppy seas. We can forget as time smooths away the rough edges like pebbles on the beach. 

We forget— even when we don’t mean to. Memory is tricky that way. It’s an amorphous cloud we imagine to be an unchanging solid. A statue instead of a river. 

We ride along the currents of a story we actively tell ourselves. 

Cat Paws

I sometimes forget in the midst of daily life— that I’m halfway across the world from my home. The realization will catch me unaware like a toddler jumping down steps to frighten a sun sprawled cat. I forget that everything I’m doing has an added layer of difficulty to it. There’s a completely different language and culture I’m operating in— and even mundane tasks can feel immense at times.

A week ago homesickness caught me like a sledgehammer to the guts. Knocked off my feet like a cartoon character slammed by a rubber mallet.

I’ve spent a decent amount of time considering what I want out of this experience— as well challenging myself to consider I’m keeping my scope too narrow.

This is not a realm where perfect answers exist. All you can do is reflect on what brings you joy— and where you add the most positive contributions to society.

One of the reasons I came to Japan was to close this nebulous gap inside me. I had a deep rooted belief that I had to push myself so immensely far out of my comfort zone, that by the time I’d return, I’d have a solid lock on what I want to focus my energies on. Easier said than done.

I live on a breathtakingly gorgeous island where there are historical sites that stretch back before A.D. was a thing. There are shrines that stake their claim as some of the oldest in Japan. Spots where humans have been going for a couple thousand years. That’s an incredible thing to get to experience.

As I navigate over here I ask myself “what do you find yourself thinking of most?” and it’s an easy answer. I think about spending time with my friends the most. Out of all the things that have come from moving across the world— not being able to spend time with my friends in person is easily the worst part. But it makes me grateful for all the time I’ve had— and the time I hope to have again in the future.

In many ways I came to this island to experience the transition from loneliness to solitude. To find my center and feel settled for the next steps that life will bring. It’s therapeutic to sit on a tatami mat and consider the path that’s taken you to this moment. There’s not much room to hide on an island where you stick out like a neon pony.

While you’re on a grand adventure— you realize that you had forgotten you were already on one. I know that sounds like some two A.M. stoner guidance— but we often forget our mortality— taking things for granted and assuming we have more time than we do. We do it because facing our mortality is fucking terrifying. Sitting with death is not an encouraged practice in our society— and there aren’t many tools for the average person to handle it with. One of the biggest parts is that it’s natural. It is an intrinsic part of life that we will eventually die. It is what makes everything sparkle— because by nature— it’s finite. That’s what makes it special.

The fear— the fear is us forgetting that we are not separate from nature. We are not separate from the rest of the universe. What we are composed of is the same material as the sun and the stars. We will change shape— but we will not be destroyed. Death is simply a transition we don’t understand. But that’s okay— it’s not the job of the living to understand it. That’s the vaulted task of the dead.

This mortal clock plays heavy on the theme of homesickness. It coincides with feelings of gratitude— and the irrepressible joy that we get to exist (if just for a little bit).

House Keys

Years ago, while my grandfather was still alive there was a golden brown upright piano that sat in his living room. I’d sit on the bench and listen to the sound of the keys as I’d cycle through them one at a time. I wanted to hear the notes— to feel the music in my bones. I’d close my eyes and hum the note. New stories sparking to life before my mind.

I stopped sitting at the piano after more than one key began to play. It started with the treble keys. I’d be pressing on a key on the middle and I’d hear the light twinkle of treble— turning to my right I could see the key pressed flat. It lifted and as I played my next key the bass section sounded. The key there also pressed flat and released after.

The room held more than just myself as I sat at the bench. The musty drapes and old magazines had a smell of long years to them. National Geographic littered the house and multiple rooms were packed full— having not been used in years.

I look back and wonder if the keys were the embodied loneliness of a man that had more family than most, but an empty house to live in.

I’d wander through the basement— under view of the jars of preserved fruit on the walls that lined the rooms. My grandparents had lived through the great depression and they had prepared for the next one. After he passed, my middle sibling and I had to dispose of the botulism tainted beans— garbanzo in particular— that still held residence on the shelves. We dug a shallow hole and poured the beans inside— trying to cover them up before the noxious fumes proved stronger than our constitutions. But like a scene out of an old zombie film, they began gurgling to the surface like a slow-acting volcano at a science fair.

That house had an overgrown backyard that had a playset with broken swings that still took you to touching distance with the sky. I remember the stubborn splinters I’d have after riding on the disintegrating wooden seat after pretending I could fly. I’d keep my eye peeled for roaming animals that might stop at the crowded waiting pool that vines and shrubbery threatened to completely hide.

My first crush lived two doors down from my grandfather’s house. Her name was Sadie (I assume it still is). I remember the electric thrill of talking with her and playing whatever child games you have during the empty summer months. Her face doesn’t exist to me now— just a cloud of half-remembered emotions. Her parents were split— and her father once rode a mini-bike down the street. I remember her admonishing me for my family making comments about her father being a dumb ass. I tried arguing they couldn’t have been arguing about that— not wanting to be on the bad side of my first romantic interest— but the dye had been cast.

At some point I forgot the ghost and the girl— I didn’t forget my grandfather though. There’s a starfish tattooed over my heart for him. It’s from a belt buckle I received after his death. One of my aunt figured that I was the only one who was going to use any of his belt buckles, so I received the whole collection. I hadn’t wanted to forget him— not that you forget family like that— but I look back and realize I was fighting the fear I felt after the last time I saw him in the hospital. The man that taught me the intricacies of humor, eating pie, and playing chess saw me awkwardly stand in the doorway and asked who I was. He was so far gone on medication that my name and face slid from his mind like a car on an icy road. I was crushed— unable to breathe out the pain of being unrecognizable to a dear loved one.

I didn’t let out that long held breath until a long night on the island where I realized why I had gotten my tattoo. Over the heart and everything— no surer sign you don’t want to forget. What I was asking was for myself to not be forgotten— and to not forget loved ones in turn.

The ghosts of the past are there for a reason— and some just want to sit beside us and play a couple keys as we figure out what the music of the universe is.

Backroads

I spent the day roaming the island. There was a red metal bridge across an empty river. Each step across the bridge gave a concerning bounce as I made my way to a roadside shrine. I left my coins in the cup before the gate and made my prayers. I entered the shrine alone— no one around for miles.

I’ve signed my contract for another year. That’ll take me to two years on the island. As I drive along the winding backroads with the crisp autumn air. The first mikans of winter started to blossom on the limbs of the roadside trees. They doted the landscape with spots of orange.

I’ve settled into my classes. I’ve got five different schools that I go to. There are about 105 different teachers and 250 students I have in my schools. The names are slowly in remembering— especially when they’re offered once and quickly.

I went into this program with an open mind. My future plans had no obvious form— the options seemed endless. But as time has gone on— I’ve felt more assured that two years will be all I need over here.

Rotten Hope

Sometimes clever men forget the cost of being clever at the expense of the powerful. When might makes right— jokes don’t block hammers. Watching the lesson proved memorable for the second son of the legion’s formerly cleverest man, Tyr.

***

He stared off the edge of his cot with lagging eyes. She clung into him like rotten hair. Her hands wrapped around his waist moments after he’d push them away. Should have never opened that third bottle of wine. Nothing good happens after the third bottle, he thought. For a second he heard it— the instaneous wind of energy and then a silent, omnipotent explosion— his eyes snapped back open, not realizing he’d fallen back asleep. The titans were calling once more.

“The dead space between the stars,” he whispered.

“What was that?” She said stirring next to him. Her voice scratchy from the afternoon heat. She squeezed his waist and snuggled closer. Cairn had made his mercenary band stop at the top of the hill. It wasn’t wise to to walk through the open fields during high sun. But stopping to fuck his lieutenant had needed a better excuse than that. So he (falsely) celebrated the birthday of his fallen father to pause the March and break open the barrels of mead.

Peanuts

The clock hand stuck to twelve like peanut butter on the roof of a dog’s mouth. The day dragged on like a reluctant marathoner. The stack of files next to my computer rivaled the tower of Babel, only with a less exciting backstory and more comments on discretionary spending expenses rising whenever the VP of Sales stopped in town. Devin fidgeted at his desk across the room from me. Band camp callused fingers drumming little war tunes onto the cheap plywood desk.

“Can you stop doing that?” I asked before he hit his extended solo. His eyebrows shot up.

“Oh! I didn’t realize I was doing it. Sorry about that, Mark.” The cheer rolled off Devin like morning fog off the bay—thick and vaguely magical.

“Don’t worry about it. Just need to finish up these reports before Angela gets back.” Devin looked both ways before scooting closer and whispering.

“Do you think she’s still upset you told her she shouldn’t wear turtlenecks?”

“Please just stop drumming. Everything’s fine. Don’t worry about Angela.” The coffee swirled around clockwise in my Tortuga Bay mug before I reversed and went counter-clockwise. The see-through mug let me see the dapple of cream shoot through the black coffee and bloom like an eager flower. Couldn’t think what type of flower it would be. What kind of flowers do coffee beans have? Do they have flowers, or is it just the beans?

“I said— do you think you could tell me where you get your hair cut? I can never find a good place to go. Always end up going to Supercuts,” Devin said, pulling at a greasy strand of brown hair. “How do you keep your hair so nice and neat? It would take me forever to do that I think. Do you think forever is a real thing? Or should it just be ‘for a really, really, really long time.’ I feel like that would make more sense. Do you think that?” I started swirling the coffee clockwise again.

“I think you should go back to your desk,” I said to Devin as he lightly bounced on his heels. Any time I looked up he’d wander over to my desk like a wayward Roomba. He looked down and mumbled a goodbye before dragging himself back to his own desk. He sat with a thump and stared at his monitor. My coffee switched directions again.

Most days went on like this. Occasionally Angela would storm into the office with a new directive and three too many shots of espresso in her system. You could tell how much caffeine she’d had by how tight she clutched her files. If her knuckles were chalk white it was a new assignment day. If her knuckles were pale, it meant revisions to current projects. And if her knuckles were the faded grapefruit tone the rest of her body had— it meant Devin and I got to go to lunch early. I missed the grapefruit tone.

“It’s okay if you don’t like me,” Devin said softly. He slowly swung back and forth in his chair. “I get it. My mom told me I can talk too much. I don’t want to annoy people. But I know I do. So… I’m sorry.”

“Just focus on finishing up your reports. We don’t need Angela here more than she already is.” Devin gave a small nod and turned back to his desk. My stomach flushed with heat— I don’t come to work to deal with other people’s issues. I clicked through the folders in the USB Angela had dropped off earlier this morning. A file named "Chronous” was locked. The name sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it. I snuck a glance over at Devin, who discreetly wiped his eyes before looking at me. Don’t need to ask him either. I’m sure Angela will explain the file once she gets back into the office.

I kept chewing on the “Chronous” name as the day dragged on, but couldn’t find anything in my memory. I bounced my leg as I waited for the afternoon to finish up. I knew I’d have a note somewhere at home that explained “Chronous” I had to.

Devin got up and left the room without saying anything. That’s a first for Captain Pep. Wonder if he’ll finally quiet down for good now. The door slammed open and Devin rushed back in and came straight to my desk. His tears were openly falling from his eyes and he balled up his hands like a toddler.

“It’s not my fault that Angela hired me. I know I’m not Andreas, but you don’t have to be so mean to me. I’m just trying to be friendly. Why is that a bad thing?” I stared at Devin in disbelief. This was exactly why I didn’t want Angela to hire another person. I can do the work of two people if one of those people is always bugging the shit out of the other.

“Either go home or sit down at your desk. I have shit to do. I don’t come to work to babysit your middle school emotions.” His face crumpled like bad origami and he ran back outside. Thank god. I didn’t want to listen to the sniffles soundtrack for the last part of the day.

***

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Mark. I’m giving you one last chance or you’re out of here.”

“You can’t be serious, Angela. All I did was tell Devin the truth. It’s not my fault he got so into his feelings about it.” Her knuckles frosted white.

“With the upcoming merger I can’t afford to hold onto people who are going to lash out at others. We need bright minds and big smiles like Devin’s.”

“That’s a fucking joke. I don’t want to hear about hearts and minds. I do my work to the highest standard and this is how you’re treating me?” Angela’s eyes narrowed like a hawk.

“Excuse me?” Her knuckle bones showed through the thin filament of skin. “Say that again.”

I stood up and looked across the desk, “I’m good.” I walked out of the building before she could call me back in. I didn’t have the patience to deal with babies today.

Takuzutama

There’s a cedar grove in the south of the island. Inside the grove is a shrine that’s been there for two thousand and three hundred years. The sweet smell of cedar filled the darkened woods. The ocean bright sun couldn’t break through the tree cover.

I saw over ten shrines within the complex— each filled with their own god. The best shrine was a giant, gnarled tree— something you could understand how people came to worship it. Anything that makes you feel small, but filled with wonder is worth paying singular attention to.

Short Scales

She reminded me of a surprise kiss with pop rocks. All crackling energy and sweet delight— a fully realized execution of a half-conjured dream.

But this story isn’t about her. It’s really not a story at all. It’s the beginning of an obituary.

Francis St. James passed away at 4:37 a.m. and the world was poorer for it. Literally— the world had lost an expert currency crafter. Francis make money like Michelangelo made art. Some would argue that what Francis made was art.

The bills he’d craft had a certain ingénue— a subtle scent of clove in a pastry or the whisper of an intoxicating perfume. They were not bills to be crinkled or stuffed inside a chain wallet. These were bills for birthday presents and graduations— they had an aura of grandeur all to themselves.

Francis stood at an optimal head patting height. Which was a shame considering he would look at you with his slate grey stare and wordlessly communicate a long and painful death if you were to pat said head. Height proves to be an issue for many short men in the United States— but for Francis it proved an afterthought— if ever a thought at all. He focused on his art and the occasional high stakes game of croquet. Former presidents and lifelong senators were said to have queued to join his annual tournament. As it’s constantly reminded— power and wealth are often married together. With Francis— they were inseparable.

Francis took the hallowed words of Dylan Thomas to heart— because he did not go gentle into that good night.” The police found Francis staked to his wall. His intestines had been pulled out like ticker tape and the white shag rug that belonged to the eighties would soon belong to a dumpster fire. There are no suspects at this time— but authorities believe the cause of death to be self-inflicted.

In a completely unrelated incident, newly forged hundred dollar bills have been tracked to a American extremists camp outside of Caracas. No word on whether the designs had been missing from St. James residence.

Parkside

I fell asleep in the reclined driver’s seat of my mint green Mazda after parking at an overlook past Kamazaka park. I don’t know how long I slept for as the sun slowly crept towards the horizon. The mountains were quick to lose the first of the light— dusk became an intimate stranger as I dreamed shapeless dreams.

The park had felt peaceful— but flavored with anticipation like the orcs finally catching up to the fellowship as they made their way into Gondor. I did not wait to hear the horn of Boromir sound out from the depths of dark woods. I kept my distance in the open grass and looked over the split of the island.

Island Times

“You don’t understand! We have to break the curse of Sherbet island!”

“I’m telling you— that Zoltar machine did not create a curse of a made up island called “Sherbet island.”

“How could you know that? Are you the ice cream king? An all knowing deity of delicious frozen treats? The colonel of custard? Huh? Huh!”

“I think you need to scale back your sugar intake. I saw you spoon sugar onto your sundae earlier. That’s what’s gonna kill you.”

“It won’t be the sugar— it’ll be the curse. I’m telling you.”