Cocooned

Sometimes you feel like you’re not going anywhere in life. It could take you a very long time to get out of this slump. You could be tucked away in your problem, idling. You’re certain that escaping now isn’t the best answer, but you know you’ll have to leave sometime. You can’t just stay cooped up like this.

You’re in a cocoon.

Waiting for that perfect moment to come, waiting to be ready. You’re cocooned all alone inside this problem that you most likely built and fell into on your own accord, but without it – this problem – you would never be ready for what comes next. If you left now you would be shriveled and deformed, but if you wait you will emerge strong and beautiful with the confidence and self-infused power that will allow you to fly to the next branch, and the next, and the next after that.

The Case of Jacob Biederman

Jacob Beiderman died from a shotgun wound to the head. He planned to commit suicide by jumping off a twenty story building. He had left a note pinned to his bag on the top of the building. As he fell past the 19th floor, however, his fall was interrupted by a shotgun blast passing through a window – which killed him instantly.

Jacob Biederman, nor the shooter, was aware that a safety net had been installed just below the 18th floor to protect the building workers from falling to their death. Jacob Biederman would not have been able to commit suicide as he had planned, as the net would have saved him.

The medical examiner during the autopsy said that although Mr. Biederman died during his suicide he felt that he was dealing with a homicide due to the presence of the shotgun – and since Biederman would have lived through the attempt had he not been shot.

The room on the 19th floor – where the shotgun blast came from – was occupied by an elderly couple, William and Maude. They stated to police that they had been in the middle of an exasperating argument and William was wielding his shotgun at his wife threateningly. William was so angry that when he pulled the trigger, it completely missed his wife and went out the window, striking Mr. Biederman.

William and Maude were both charged with murder, but the couple was adamant that they were under the impression that the shotgun was unloaded. William said that it was his long-standing habit to threaten his wife with the unloaded shotgun when they argued. He never had any intention of actually killing her and therefore Mr. Biederman’s murder was an accident because the gun was accidentally loaded.

The investigation continued; the neighbor across the hall, Mrs. Lovington, said that she had seen the couple’s son in the apartment a month earlier loading the shotgun. They had even had a conversation over tea after he finished.

As it turns out, Maude had cut off her son’s financial support and since her son knew how angry his father could get and how he loved to use the shotgun threateningly, he loaded the gun with the expectation that his mother would get shot during their next argument. This means that the son will be charged with the murder of Jacob Biederman.

Further investigation revealed that their son was, in fact, Jacob Biederman. He had become increasingly depressed over his failure to kill his mother and his diminishing financial situation which led him to attempt suicide off the twenty story building – only to be killed by the shotgun blast through the 19th floor window from the shotgun that he had loaded himself. His suicide had, after all, been successful.

The Rich Guy

The Prompt: Write a first person story in which you use the first-person pronoun (I, me, my) only two times – but keep the “I” somehow important to the narrative you’re constructing. The point of this exercise is to imagine a narrator who is less interested in himself than in what he is observing. You can make your narrator someone who sees an interesting event in which he is not necessarily a participant. Or you can make him self-effacing, yet a major participant in the events related. It is very important in this exercise to make sure your reader is not surprised to realize it’s a first-person narration. Show quickly who is observing the scene. 600 words.

I was being bludgeoned to death by Ricky Moriarty, Gavin Braxton, and Kevin Pollard, some of the most belligerent criminals this town has seen in well over twenty years.

They were under the impression that someone had stolen a large bag of cash from them at a drop off point in Saint Louis about three days ago. It was well over a million dollars, apparently.

Ricky swung back, he was going for the face – it was most personal for him. He was heading this scam, after all. Their plan was to take the money and run from the very beginning without holding up their end of the deal. Ricky was a skinny little shit, with a long nose and rat like features. Back when he was younger he would spit shine shoes and serve as a human coffee table for the boss – anything to prove himself to his ol’ step-father. The boss was hardest on him for that same reason. This was his first scam. He promised the boss a million clams for the return of some kid that was abducted from this rich bastard nearly thirty years ago. Ricky raised his fist, shimmering with silver jeweled rings, all fake presumably, and he smiled down – his golden tooth shimmered before he gobbed up a ball of spit that missed and hit the pavement.

Gavin, meanwhile, was the worst henchman ever seen. About ten years ago he was a little shit that stole purses off of old ladies that couldn’t run to save their hip. He was raised by his oldest brother and sister after their mother ran off and their father died in a boating accident, or so the story goes. No one is sure how he got to the position he did so quickly, that’s between him and the boss. Gavin was getting older; he had peppered hair just over his ears and wrinkles forming under his eyes, so he didn’t get on his knees like the other two. Instead he took the midsection and kicked it with his square-toe snakeskin boots until it was raw and bleeding.

Kevin was abducted himself as a kid; he’s got a wicked split personality that no one wants to get in the middle of. He never met his real parents; instead he was raised by some old, tasteless fogey that didn’t know how to raise a kid anyway and probably should never have done any abducting in the first place, but he got scared that Kevin would tattle so he took him. So this mission was pretty personal to him, but he had a job to do and he’d pry get whacked if he didn’t perform for the boss. Kevin was wearing a suit that he obviously didn’t want to get street tar on, so he kneeled and held on tight to the ol’ knees and let the others wail around.

So here are these three idiots, assuming that someone came and stole the million bucks out of the suitcase in the trash can on an old road just a mile outside the city. Gavin is so thick he wouldn’t realize that his father that “died” in a boating accident was the same rich fuck that got his kid abducted. And the kid that got abducted was Kevin himself. And the reason that skinny fuck Ricky chose to go after this specific rich guy was because the boss said to bait him. What the ol’ step-daddy boss didn’t tell him was that he didn’t want this rich fuck parading around with the living anymore and that the same rich bastard was Ricky’s real father. And that person they assume stole their million clams was the same rich fuck that put it there in the first place: me.

Everyman

So you sit down to a nice little breakfast. Some days you have Fruit Loops with Fruity Pebbles on top. Some days it’s Special K. Then you’ll have Cheerios because your cholesterol has skyrocketed. Then you’ll feel bad about eating the Fruit Loops a couple days ago and think you should just eat Cheerios every day. But the problem here isn’t your cholesterol. It’s the fact that you eat this damned cereal every day. And you never run out of milk because your wife keeps buying it since she thinks you like cereal. So unless you take a stand for yourself, you’re fucked.

The Retired Man

I’d been watching him for months. I’m dedicated to my cause so I’m always there, holding the signs I had painted myself with the glitter glue my little girl gave me. Over the last few months everyone protesting had come and gone. They would be entitled and opinionated and always have bad attitudes, which isn’t what I think this is all about. But that’s far from my current point. While I walked circles at the front gates chanting and getting major deltoid workouts this little old man would come by. He never looked at us or anyone else for that matter. He would come and stand at the gates and cry for about two hours, then he would leave. He seemed to be mourning something. Finally, giving my arms a rest, I put down my sign and went to stand next to him. Maybe I could console him. He stood tall and didn’t bother wiping his tears when I walked over to him. He didn’t hide away. Instead he said, “I used to work for those bastards.” There was a long pause while I nodded and considered telling him about why we were protesting. Then he looked at me and said, “You know, I’m sure there used to be a very nice garden there.” And then he left. I went back to my sign-holding as usual, but the thought of him and his words stuck for some reason. Over the next week I didn’t see him again. Finally I put down my sign and walked to the fence. I wanted to scream and yell. But instead, I started to cry. What else could I really do? There probably was a nice garden there. But now there were diplomats.

January Sketch

Cleaning Out the Human Tank

Let’s consider fish. If we want to clean their tanks or move them, we have to take out all their decorations first, then catch them and put them in a small separate tank, drain the water and do what needs to be done before they return to their home.

Let’s consider humans as fish. Let’s say you’re there reading this passage when you look up and through the doors and windows enormous hands were reaching in and pulling furniture out of the room. Assuming there are people around you, they would be running around, screaming, hiding, trying to fight back. You don’t know what these hands want, they’re frightening. Then maybe they pull the entire top of the building off revealing the ugly faces of a creature a thousand times bigger than you and that looks nothing like you. This creature reaches its enormous hands, that look nothing like your hands, inside the building and grabs you and your friends, neighbors, and people you don’t really know but happen to like their color choice in clothing. The monster pulls you up and out of the building, or through the windows or doors. Then the monster drops you into a tiny glass room, miles away. You’re trapped in this tiny room with at least a handful of scared, angry, and confused people. People are snapping at each other, chasing each other, yelling, and trying to hide in the empty corners. Everyone is miserable. And you feel like you’re stuck there for hours. Then, finally, the monster returns and drops you all back into the same room you were in before, the decorations – the desks, lamps, chairs, etc. are all in different places. The paint is a different color. You’re standing in the opposite corner of the room as you were originally; you’ve completely forgotten what you had been doing. And then you go about your daily life, still a bit startled until you decide the monster is gone and things are normal….until it happens again a week later.

The Little Dentist's Favorite Patient

Little Kimi Cho had always wanted to be a dentist. She knew it was strange, everyone around her wanted to be veterinarians, soccer players, astronauts, and firemen. Yet, she found teeth intriguing. She liked to study them, learn about them, and learn how to take care of them. She liked all teeth – incisors, molars, wisdoms. She dug around in her parent’s mouth whenever she could. She examined the teeth of her cat Ranna and her dog Benevere. She even fished around in her little brother’s mouth until he bit her. However, she didn’t ever expect to be cleaning a monster’s teeth. The monster’s name was Glugovich Ganterion and he had rather bad teeth. He came to Kimi Cho needing a dentist that was youthful and ready for challenges, but someone who wouldn’t judge him for being a monster or for having yellow fangs. She accepted. He was, after all, a perfect specimen to practice on. She had to build a levy system to reach his mouth. He would pull on the rope and her little bench, with a neat little attached table, would rise up to Glugovich Ganterion’s great face. She had to make extra large tools for him too – the brush head was as big as her own! She had to use a big broom for the brush, a javelin for the pick, and an old garden hose for the water. She ended up using a vacuum for the suction, but she still didn’t think it was big enough. Together little Kimi Cho and Glugovich Ganterion made their way closer to limited halitosis and shiny white teeth.

A Little Perfect in All This Imperfection

Tomorrow’s rendition of today’s Petri dish is an incredible chemical imbalance. Whether it’s because today we simply can’t do anything right and tomorrow will be better or because today we’re doing things much better than the people of yesterday. It could be that all of our tests are technically chemically imperfect as is. Or it could be that, as people, our thoughts, these thoughts, are actually the chemical imbalance taking place – today, tomorrow, and yesterday. It’s the fact that this thought is so widely renowned that makes the imperfect considerations a perfect example of us and our thoughts as a whole.

Poecilia reticulate Adventure

“There I was just minding my own business, swimming around with my parents, my aunts and uncles, my brothers, sisters, and cousins. We were a happy grouping, enjoying the day. The water was a little mucky, but definitely not enough to make us not want to swim in it. Something changed though, the world grew shadowed and what lighting we had shifted. The water level began to decrease, slowly the distance between surface and the sand below got closer. Everyone grew frantic! Then I could feel it. There was a huge current coming from somewhere, chasing us. There was a tube in the water! It was sucking up all the water! My parents and a few cousins and I, after being chased everywhere found a safe corner to hide in just behind this big green box. We thought we were safe there. But we weren’t, the big tube emerged from the murky depths straight toward us! We all scattered, but it was too late for me. I was too slow. There were too many others in my way. I couldn’t escape. And I was so young; I couldn’t swim hard enough to get out of the strong current. It sucked me right up,” he paused for dramatic effect.

“The trip was fast; my heart was going a mile a minute! I was sucked through the tube at top speed. I went up and out of the water and down, down, down a huge cliff then I swerved and looped around the ground and the bottom of the cliff. I barely had time to think when I was spat out the other end of the tube into another small, shallow body of water. It was perfectly clear. The sand was different though, darker and rockier with a lot of big leaves. Above me were theses enormous plants, trees I believe, where the leaves came from. And I could see sky! Yes, real sky! We’ve only ever heard about it. And the sun that you see here? It’s nothing compared to the real sun that’s so far away and looks so small but makes everything light and beautiful. I swam around in this outside world for a while, only a little scared that I was alone and didn’t know what had happened. After a little while the tube stopped spitting out water and everything was very calm and quiet. Suddenly this huge face appeared over me. And I was being scooped up, lying wet and naked on the leaves, I rose into the air. And moments later I was plopped back down inside my home with my family. It was an adventure I’ll never forget,” he finished.

Mars One, 2025 - Journal Entry

It’s been nearly two years since we landed. The engines gave out as we approached, but the pilot, David Carlyle, was able to even us out and come in fairly soft.

We had already spent the last ten years getting to know each other in close confinement. There were just four of us. David used to be a physician, Jennie who came from an Indian university after just graduating with a master in computer science, and Raphael who was an incredibly charming psychologist.

During the first year after the landing we set up camp, it took us forever. I can’t figure out why they didn’t send a construction worker up the first time. Since then we’ve been maintaining the space stay, and building some new hallways. I’ve started the garden in the kitchen with the help of Raphael; Jennie and David have started pumping for water in three spots a few miles in each direction while also collecting soil specimens and doing some shallow drilling for research.

After we arrived we played all kinds of Earth games out in the limited gravity, my favorite was when Jennie and I build a propellant and attached it to our brooms – Quidditch in Space! Sounds like a bad sci-fi spin off. Meanwhile, we’ve just been hanging out. We get to read, go on the internet (although every click takes nearly 45 minutes! You can’t be too quick with the fingers because the back button has become an enemy), and watch television (although we get everything three minutes later and have to request the shows we want to watch). My preference is just watching an old TV series from the first episode – no requesting needed. We have to update our journals and talk to people from Earth in these little cameras that are all over the house, which is bizarre and makes me feel like I’m always being watched – which I guess technically I am. A few months ago I requested some security camera footage from people on Earth – just in stores or parking lots – so that I can watch them back. I must say, between you and me, sometimes I am skeptical that I’m even here. What if this was just an elaborate prank for a reality show? But then I walk outside in my space suit, the air isn’t breathable and I can’t keep myself on the ground. How could they possibly establish something that momentous? This can’t be The Truman Show. Could it be Ender’s Game?

Either way, we’re expecting our first batch of new arrivals to our new city in a month. One of them used to do visual effects for movies and apparently James Cameron wants to send him a few shots here so he can say a part of his movie was created on Mars.

Long Lost Roommate

He had left four months ago, no calls, no texts, not even a letter. He’d left a half-eaten sandwich and still steaming cup of tea. His television was still lit, his clothes still in the washing machine, his phone still connected to a charger. Even his car was left behind, parked on the driveway, the hood cold to the touch. He was just gone. I thought I’d heard the back door close, but it could have been the wind. We boxed his belongings and re-rented his room, so certain that he would never come back. And yet there he was, traipsing back up the drive, a changed man. His eyes were vacant and wild. He was bearded and dirty. And yet, after numerous double-takes I was certain, that he was wearing a fine Armani suit. 

Numbers and Words

Math is easy to escape. If you hate math, then you simply don’t allow it into your life. You find a career that doesn’t involve much of it, take the bare necessity in college and high school, marry someone that knows how to calculate a restaurant tip and do taxes and bills. Refuse to do math. Refuse it and eventually it will refuse you too. You and math will go separate ways. It will find other people to solve for x. Math doesn’t need you. And hell, you don’t need it either. Screw math.

But words… words are impossible to escape. If you find yourself loathing words, you’re the one that’s screwed. You might spend high school and college writing essays, doing the three written questions on tests, writing speeches, stories, reports, and oratories. No matter your chosen profession, you’ll write. Even at art school, you’ll write. You have to write what your art is about. Scientist? You have to write titles for science projects. Accountant? Think you’ve escaped words and found comfort in your numbers? Nope, you still have to write your name down. No matter how hard you try, words are always there. You talk in words, you think in words. It doesn’t matter what language you speak, what dialect you use, or even if you hate words so much that you spell them all wrong and talk like Lil’ Wayne. They’re still words. And if you hate words and try to escape them, they will haunt you.

Come Out and Play

Friday and Saturday nights are always the craziest. You tell yourself you’re going to slow down, but you can’t. There’s a bittersweet victory to it. An apprehensive exaltation. Every night is crazy. Every night you’re on drugs and drinking cheap beer and cheap wine. Because, really, cheap wine is the best. Three bucks for a jug of Sutter Home? I’m in. But Friday and Saturday night can’t be beat. Those are the nights with shows and house parties. None of this “I’ll go hang out at my dealer’s house for a few hours and get stoned” shit. Friday and Saturday is when everyone comes out to play.

You’ve got a Lower Class Brats show to get to on Friday, they come on at 11. So you’re thinking what the hell do I do before that? So you meet up at the Rocket House and get your fix from Transit, the four foot bong, and watch your pal do a line before you head out to 7-11 for a case of Bud. Because Bud is cheap and there’s a lot of thirsty fucks in your group. Then maybe you can hit up your dealer’s pad anyway and see what he’s doing. Of course he’s in the back room fucking his girl but there are a grip of kids in the living room with a bag of shrooms. You figure why not? The show is crazy, tons of punk ass teenagers and old guys with Mohawks. You hang back a while but you can’t pass up a Circle Jerk. There’s a skinny little kid jerking in the middle who gets kicked in the face by a flying Doc Martin and hits down hard. But this eyeliner chick helps him up so it’s all good. Then the skinheads jump in and it’s time to jump out. You get some shwag and take a piss where you’re convinced there’s some guy giving himself an enema next door to get the coke out. After the show you hit up Denny’s for a Hammy sandwich then go rummaging through town late at night. People think you’re a fuckhead and probably wreaking havoc but really you’re just walking down the street laughing at the idiots who cross to the other side just to stay away from you, but you feel sort of bad about it too and you and your buds get in a deep philosophical conversation about societies view on culture and scare tactics. Then you’re all depressed so you shortcut through the park and smoke another fat one. Once you’re back to numb and passed the park you see this cop car coming straight for you lights blaring. You freak out, but try to look calm, you know it’s nothing. But everyone else freaks out anyway, especially little Nina, Jack’s girl ‘cause this is her first time out with your pack so everyone starts running. Now you’re suspicious, so you take the fuck off too and climb a tree, because really, why not? And the cop just goes by, probably didn’t even see you. Everyone gets back together laughing over it and calling the cop names. You lost Jack and Nina, but figure they’re pry in the alley making out by now and leave them. You figure most bars are closing now and hit up 7-11 again for more Bud, or maybe you’ll switch it up to Miller cause you’ve got an extra couple bucks in your pocket. Sammy gets some Jack too and you know he’ll share it. You guys all go back to the Rocket House for drinks and pot and maybe more lines before you all pass out.

And that’s just Friday night.

Appearances are Everything

“Hello Papa, you wanted to see me?”

           “Yes Butternut, sit down,” he beckoned to a white metal garden chair before setting his tea on the matching table and closing his book.

            She fluffed her dress and sat down.

            “Can you tell me what today is?” he inquired looking over his reading spectacles at her with bright blue eyes.

            She pondered a moment, “yes papa, it’s the twelfth of March in the year 1946.”

            He laughed heartily, his grey moustache bounced on his lip, “yes, darling, you speak the truth, but what is today?”

            “Sunday papa, we went to church this morning. Otherwise I would be at school of course!” she laughed gaily.

            He gave her a sideways look of pure amusement and love before looking out among the garden. The Lisianthus and Agapanthus were in full bloom; the hedges around them were bright green and neatly trimmed. There were small blue Diana Fritillaries dancing between petals.

            “Today is your mama’s birthday.”

            “Miss Carol’s birthday isn’t until August, papa, I know because we always visit right before school starts.”

            “Not Miss Carol, Nancy, your real mother,” he snapped, “It’s her birthday and I think we need to visit her.”

            “Oh Papa, please, I don’t - ”

            “Don’t you argue with me, go pick some of those damn flowers out there,” he said angrily, grabbed her arm and tossed her off the seat. He picked up a silver bell from the table and rang it hard.

            Nancy ran off, shaken, to pick the Narcissus.

            “Yes, Mister Williams,” said the black bearded man that had just entered through the white picket gate.

            “Thomas, bring the car around, the Bentley please,” he said restraining his anger, “I want to look damn good when we pull up to the Institution.”

Filler

What if someone remembered everything you didn’t and nothing more? Let’s say you’re walking down the street on your way to your car, parked not too far away. You’re leaving the store and heading home. Nothing important is really going on, nothing happened in the store and you’re thinking about what you want or need to do once you’re home. You see a couple kids playing with some toys while their mother stands aside talking on the phone. They’re cute kids. The moment is fleeting; it means nothing to you or your day and will provide nothing good or bad in your life. It’s filler. What if the filler, though, was the only part of your day you ever remembered? A week later you remember those kids, that little old man hobbling around, that woman carrying too many shopping bags, the guy yelling into the cell phone, the group of teenagers smoking outside the mall, the dogs sticking their heads out a car on the freeway, but nothing else. You don’t remember the important moments, holidays, weekends, movies with your significant other, dinner with your family, playing with your own animals. Your family might surround you and take care of you and you remember them vaguely, but that’s nothing compared that little boy’s cute pumpkin shirt you saw at the bookstore. That memory is crisp and clear and perfect.           

Average Joe

He was wearing a money suit – grey-black pants and a blood red shirt, both of which were stained with what looked like candle wax or hot glue. He was the person you’d imagine when reading about the classic business man. “Average Joe”. An exact replica. He had bloodshot eyes and gray stubble. A receding hairline followed his brown combed-over hair. He had a cell phone on his hip and no time to spare during checkout at the local drugstore. He would go home to a wife, kids, and a happy dog and continue his miserable life at dinner, in the shower, in bed, at work the next day…until his wife did the laundry and saw the stain on his pants. And “Average Joe” would end his miserable life and become another number in the obituary column. Co-workers would move up the ladder of success in bittersweet rivalry at their dead supervisor. And then life would move on. At the local drugstore the cashier would hear nothing of this reverie, the description of “Average Joe” just another ever-fading memory.

Escaping the Flames

She’d chosen to be in Photography in her junior year because she heard that fun things always happened in the dark room when the lights went out. The rumors were never wrong as long as she managed to sneak in her boyfriend. Otherwise she would be stuck in the darkroom trying to unwind the negatives while the other kids made out next to her. There was always a lot of bumping around and there was enough laughter to break through the darkness.

It was for one of her black and white assignments that she chose to capture the organic beauty she could find at a little place called Bates Nut Farm. It was up in the mountains, away from the rush of the city and suburbs. Her grandmother had always taken her there when she was little and she still loved to return. There was a large, gentle tree and an outcrop of boulders at the top of a hill that overlooked the pumpkin patch and Christmas tree acres. Far off you could see other farms and horses crazing. Once her grandmother took her to the fence and found a beige and white spotted horse that she nicknamed Pepper and fed apple and carrot pieces. The farm had a small gift store with toys, dolls, and books; a general store with big barrels of candy and nuts and delicious dates and honey for sale; a small boxy grill in between the stores for fresh made burgers with pastel picnic tables full of sticky crumbs that always attracted bees. There was an outdoor stage and a large grassy area slung with maple trees where gophers would bury around more picnic tables. And there was a large L-shaped set of chain link homes set up for geese, chicken, a pig, a couple emu, sheep, goats, and a miniature horse. On special holiday occasions, only a few times a year, the farm would bustle with tents and the mountain folk would come from the woodwork to sell their handmade dream catchers, puppets, pottery, and paintings. There was always a booth where children could paint little resin statues. And there was always food: cotton candy, kettle corn, corn dogs, shaved ice in flavors of lemons and cherries, hot dogs, beef jerky. Oh the smells that rose through the air! And teenagers could run free through the corn stalks while a tractor-pulled hay ride rumbled through the dirt paths.

It was one of her favorite places.

This time she came with her mother.

They had only just arrived. It was a Saturday, late morning. They had parked the SUV off in the dirt field with all the other trucks and cars. They had unanimously decided to walk around and enjoy the farm before she pulled out her camera. They always started with the duck and goose enclosure. It was the closest enclosure to the parking area. From the car they jaunted across the main dirt road and past a few tables and trash cans, which were already sticky, yet oddly, no bees were hovering. They watched the geese for a while, honking obnoxiously.

Once when she was little - the same height as the beady eyed goose – and had purchased a bag of corn to feed them, one of those same geese had snatched her finger instead. 

She moved on to the chickens, big heavy ones, ones with bright large feather crowns and anklets, and the rude little banti roosters all crowded around cluck-cluck-clucking for corn.

Next she looked for the pig that slept deep in his sty.

The emus were on the far side of the enclosure, only viewable after a long walk around.

The sheep were next. They were big, fluffy things with crazy eyes that would gobble up your corn feed leaving your hand sopping with spit.

The goats were always busy playing King of the Mountain on a pile of wood and boulders. The tiny horse would be next, but something felt strange. There was a lot more baying and bleating than usual. The skies were overcast, but in a grey uncomfortable way that didn’t seem to be cloud cover.

They looked up the small mountain just behind the general store and noticed that somewhere, in the slopes and crags, a great black smoke was billowing to the sky.

“There must be a fire up there somewhere.”

The cloud of ash was enormous. Workers and chefs stepped from their shifts to look up at the smoke just behind them. Then fast, so fast, the flames erupted over the side of the mountain. The fire raged over the peak and down the hill, a hundred feet high, eating every tree in its wake. It was coming straight for them.

She snapped a photo. One of only two she would take that day.

People in the stores rushed to get their keys. The lines to the propane grills were cut. Car doors slammed. Her mother asked one of the panicked workers about the animals. What could they do?

“They’ll be fine; they’re in the middle of a grass field with fresh living trees surrounding them. They’ll be fine,” the worker had yelled against the engines starting.

There was no true assuredness.

There was no more time to wait, though. The fire was ravaging the mountain, in minutes it would be upon them.

They jumped into the SUV and pulled out, their hearts high in their throats. Her mother quickly changed radio stations finding the news: widespread panic. The fire was all over the mountain: miles long. People had been evacuated.

They pulled onto the main road; the beautiful trees arcing over the road would soon all be up in smoke.

The fruit stands on the corners of the roads had been shut down. People were pulling out onto the road, suitcases strapped to their car roofs. Through the trees, panicked faces were rushing to get children into car seats, dogs and cats in carriers, fish into Ziploc bags. They all pulled onto the crowded road, not knowing if they would ever see their beautiful homes again.

Once out of the tree lined roads, the two lane passage that would take you off the mountain was completely backed up. Huddled against the barricade hundreds of ashen people and animals and caged birds sat on their suitcases, praying the fire wouldn't reach them. Their soot-covered pleading faces and hands held signs asking for water. Some were making a mecca down the small highway on foot; old, young, people without cars or people whose husbands or wives had the family car at work. The chosen horses were trotting down the road on leads. Hundreds of birds flitted across the streets, eggs left behind in nests that had already perished.

They made it to the bottom of the mountain. Another lane was added to the highway, but the cars pulled to a standstill. The freeway had been closed. There was a detour that led back into the mountains, but there was no way home.

They pulled off into a convenience store parking lot. Her mother asked the clerk for cigarettes and a clear passage home, avoiding the freeway. The clerk didn’t know of any other freeway.

There was a moment of panic.

A great, roaring fire, miles long up in the mountains, hundreds of houses were being destroyed, and they were in the middle, stuck.

A leather-clad, blonde beast of a woman got in line behind them, overhearing the predicament. Her rumbling bike sat outside adorned with leather tassels and silver studs next to about ten others.

“There’s a way out,” she growled with a serious but friendly smile, “take Bear Mountain Pass.”

She told them of two or three turns that would lead them down onto a different freeway.

“But you’ll have to be fast, they’re likely to close that down too. Good luck to yeh.”

They wished her good luck back. She was picking up water to take back to the abandoned people on the freeway.

Bear Mountain Pass did see them down to another freeway. The roads were dead. The freeway must have been closed somewhere behind them already. They took the chance and jumped on to the empty road. For the next few miles the lush mountain side on the right was a stark contrast to what was on the left. Fire sprang up, twenty feet tall at the edge of the asphalt, daring the cars to get closer. The flames looked as though they were plotting their route across the six lanes. The black, barren lands of dead trees and collapsed houses behind them.

The radio spat warnings at them, panic in the announcer’s voice, that the freeways had been closed. And if the fire could jump the highway, then the firefighters would have no chance at containment.

The girl looked off over the miles of fire. Their road home was open. They were one of the lucky ones. People would die today. Houses, animals, trees, and Bates Nut Farm would all fall.

But something caught her eye. She pulled out her camera.

There, above the fire, in the wind thick with ash, on a pole rising from the Earth, the American Flag stood tall.

And she knew then, between her concern and her hope, that the people would rebuild. 

A Note on the Weather II

Today, the snow is billowing wildly as if someone has shaken our snow globe of a world and is refusing to let it settle. The flurries are rushing about upward, downward, and in great horizontal gusts down the road. There’s panic amongst the snow, but it’s the type of illusory panic and excitement that one might find as an ancient wooden rollercoaster knocks your head about.

Mr. Flaggerbottom

Mr. Flaggerbottom was a fine cat, a fine cat indeed. He listened to classical and drank nothing but Mead. He wore a long tuxedo and a top hat so high and had a small golden monocle adorned on his eye. Mr. Flaggerbottom perched himself in an oak tree twelve feet toward the sky; he sat pleasantly waving at all the passerby. Never did Flaggerbottom ever think that before his climb he should, perhaps, check his sink. His sink was adorned with marble and gold, an odd sort of thing in a house so old. His house was in shambles falling apart at the seams; you see Mr. Flaggerbottom’s favorite place was his tree. His poor little wife died just last year of purple muck found in her ear. He cried very hard and then his life changed; this fine little man became a little deranged. He taped his ties to the radio and tied his socks to the car; he’d bathed all his plants in feathers and tar. He plunged the holes where the gophers dug and painted bleach spots on his Persian rug. One day at the market he bought a fine gallon of blue ink and funny little Flaggerbottom poured it all down the sink. He turned on the faucet before going to change, his tux, hat and monocle he’d vigilantly arrange. Then he’d climb high up in his oak and would wave merrily at all the neighborhood folk.

“Hello children! Hello woman! Hello yellow dog!

"Hello tiny sparrow sitting on my log!”

“Hello Mr. Flaggerbottom!” They all would reply, waving their hands happily to the man up so high.

Feeling whimsical as pretty Miss Muller passed, he kicked off his shoes incredibly fast.

“My dear Miss Muller, would you be so kind? As to relinquish my shoes, I’m in quite a bind. I’d like to jump down and kiss your knees, but my feet are as cold as strawberry cheese.”

“Mr. Flaggerbottom, hello,” she said as she picked up a shoe, “my, oh my! Mr. Flaggerbottom, your whole patio is blue!”

“Why that’s a simple explanation Miss Muller, I simply thought I’d try a new color.”