Raymond Britton-Ramirez

Red Mad People yelling, Bullying, People who talk too much, I am red mad

Being told what to do, Disrespectful people, People hitting their dogs, I am red mad Can't beat my video game, Crying all the time, People talking crap, I am red mad Technology not working, Computer crashes, Lost homework assignments, I am red mad

Tom McLaren

I was that Nerdy Bookman

In these days of so-called young intellectuals sorely lacking critical acumen

Obsessed with pronouns & victimhood over essence Oppression Olympians, I think to myself, I was that nerdy bookman My fragile self-esteem and knowledge of the avant-garde and the history of rhetoric really helped with that flat or leak

An overweight feminist graduate student sitting with friends outside the Marquee in the Cosmopolitan, eating Hidden Pizza

Argued atheism to the phrase God is a dj

I told her grad school is a relationship for people who can’t acquire one otherwise that’s why the classes take place evenings

All I ever did was work my ass off for nothing: a few trips around the world, an Asian Old Lady to keep things straight No health insurance

I knew I was fucked when I paid my whole GA paycheck to a 20 year-old plumber who planned to use the money to buy a second snowmobile

I was that nerdy bookman

Before life kicked me around For the better tempered me

Made me tough

Chiseled my mug like Stallone or Chuck Wepner

Taught me to keep my words & arguments concise & tight

Economically stycomythologizing

Like a fencer, Mushashi, or an eskrimator And follow up with fists, if necessary

I was that nerdy bookman who hated old fucks like me barbarians freethinkers

Spidersensing bullshit a mile away

Huffing & puffing & blowing down those carefully structured worldviews

I just rub them the wrong way

I can shatter that glass house, Millennial, in 6 notes errr, words I have a tattoo of a hammer

Tom McLaren

I did what Poe should have fucking done, in this Desert Land, Enchanted

Once upon an early morning dreary in the bleak December of a Duke City Ghetto

A crow, shorn and shaven, surely stately, and of the saintly days of yore appeared outside my sliding glass door, cawing continuously

I knew he wanted to come in and perch himself upon my bust of a Qing Dynasty Emperor or my Long-Bearded Chinese Opera Puppet and in doing so, bring me a lifetime of doom and groom

So . . .

I ran down to the parking lot which had been colonized by the homeless since the pandemic they set up a tent city and cut through the fence, picked up a discarded Air Jordan off the dilapidated stairs, and threw it at the craven, screaming, Get the fuck out!

And he retreated back to the night's Plutonian shore leaving no black plumes

It was no contest

I had just finished the last days of my uchideshi Human agency broke the cycle

Nevermore, Nevermore

Tom McLaren

Tao

I'm the type that sees the YouTube video of the Centenarian in front of the icy temple on the mountaintop in the clouds agilely & dexterously reeling silk spinning spiral energy with a Bagua dao

The big knife weighs over 20 kilos

Yet he plays so freely Handling it, fragile as a teacup drill

And says to myself

You fucking have one just like that Go for it

If you win, you become immortal

If you fail, you lose nothing

I was a Taoist before I met Emilio & Chuck A structured academic Daily researching practicing Neigong, Circle Walking

Falun Gong

Not some Wuwei Psychedelic Zen Surf Guitar Samurai hitting dmitri with hot Asian Americans & Kendall Jenner lookalikes on the Marquee floor while Nora En Pure plays on a hot Labor Day weekend your wife waiting to pick you up on the strip

I’m old school, requiring a martial side to my energy cultivation

I’m such a Taoist hermit, I literally walk around with a damned dragon stick

Andrew McFeaters

Endgame

We begin like chess pieces lining up for what's to come.

Then the first move, which is all that it takes for an unravelling to happen. It's the strangest thing that we can name deserts, or even mountains, which, over eons, rise and fall like waves in wind.

I've taken your pawn, moving it off the board, beyond history. Cultures vanish.

You take my knight, asking where the polar bears have gone.

Under the blankets we fumble, two rogue planets rearranging space.

A body against a body is an equation of force.

I remove your rook, like so many cathedrals consumed by fire and revolution, and we weep like there's water to spare. This is the way that it's always been, dissolving into the music of entropy.

We can go through the motions as if an endgame is a sentence leading to another sentence, but now that we've seen the black hole of M87, there's no going back.

Let's hold hands and listen to each other's voices issue soft stories in the dark like a king and queen bound in passionate stalemate.

Andrew McFeaters

Profit Margins

A man pinches the soil in his fingers and inhales the fruits of his labor in Texas.

His land spreads as far as his gray eyes see.

He samples the dirt on his tongue and winces at the peculiar taste: the iron blood of immigrants, bodies folded over fields, drowned in oil wells, shot in Walmarts on imagined borders, making America into broken dreams.

He surveys his farmland again, thinking, Crops will yield good returns this year.

Andrew McFeaters

Nuestros Hijos

In the shadow of a wall by Rio Grande a striped bark scorpion stares frozen at a button left behind by a doll.

DeLyssa Begay

The Beginning - Dawn

My cheii, my grandfather, said that the world tells you about itself. One must carefully listen and watch –

Morning puts night to sleep the silence is like a quilted blanket gently placed on a tired loved one

The quiet heft of silence wakes crow and then it caws to welcome the early light

Birds take flight, horses neigh, and mountain lions return to secret places that hide their shadows

DeLyssa Begay

In Navajo, Tse means Rock

Sandstone

Soft , colorful

Dependent on sand, on pressure, And then wind to break it down Red sandstone with layers of white ribbons And great mounds of fine sand nearby

My earliest introduction to rock were warnings:

Be careful, you could hurt someone. You could break something with it.

I remember staring at massive sandstone formations - many times carved delicately like a woman's armpit and rounded breasts. They towered over my small self as I rolled in fine sand that had become unglued. Like water, it changed shape and form.

Later, I read the names of first loves and graduated classes from different years engraved in rock.

How did the sandstone feel as someone used another rock to scratch in a year or a name into its skin?

Did it feel betrayed, or like an itch had been relieved?

Walking among the rocks, tse t’a, patch-works of flowers grow along the sandstone, Sounds from memory – laughter, questions, and bare feet on rock.

Hollowed alcoves and sculpted cave-like openings encouraged our imaginations.

– “Pretend there are elephants, camels, and giraffes walking along here. That they are thirsty and come to the water that comes from the rock. And those white horses that walk in a line. Those too.”

To children, a rock only aids the imagination – “these gray rocks are horses, and the red ones are cattle, and the white ones sheep.”

A pebble landed on the ground (I am back to now), and in my line of vision I saw lightning slap the sandstone formation. It collapsed in one moment.

The drought arrived soon after, and the water vaporized into a whisper.

DeLyssa Begay

Buffalo Calf Dream

Last night I dreamed about buffalo

One herd

Dust all around

Tangled, matted hair

Dark brown eyes and me awkward in step drenched in human smell heart racing with legs that wanted to run

I don’t know where to go amid the heavy breathing and coarse fur so I stand still muscles already sore

Finally, I admit that I am afraid I feel alone and abandoned in a herd of buffalo

Pity. They take pity on me a calf timidly walks close to me Its nose, moist and soft, touches my hand

I woke up and my hand still tingled.

Carmela Lanza

Dark Mystery

Sancte Michael, defendes nos in proelis

Latin Prayer

He played the violin, carried it with him, an amulet from San Michele, through the fires and the sand blasts, the near starvation and no water, no water, no water the blue light surrounded him always.

The ranchers believe they are bringing him into the real world of work: animal smells, heavy tools, breathing in dust and heat, the small Italian holds on for a few seconds before he has to let go; the ranchers laugh and wonder how he made it through this world, such delicate fingers, small eyes that look around too fast, they don’t trust him, but it’s time for the photographer, and the ranchers point and shout nothing becomes easier to understand at this point.

When he placed the violin under his bed in the barrack that night, it returned to its cave, to its burial mound, the mother and her sisters will weave a shroud for it,

San Michele will not abandon it, he prays, but he will not speak of it again, not even to his children when this is all some kind of dream as he turns to the wall, after all the family photos are taken out of the room.

That day, with the sun blasting down on them, no one asks him questions, the ranchers have never seen the ocean he crossed, no one asks him about the taste of it on his tongue, bitter dandelion leaves, garlic burning into his breast-bone. falling in the deep dark mouth of it, whales every night, singing of death, blue light following him, he walked into an abyss and it smelled like the cave of San Michele.

The ranchers float above him in that dry, brittle New Mexico light, and they laugh and laugh, baptizing him in the few drops of desert rain and sweat, Get your ass up, Commando Cowboy, you have work to do

Betty Woods, “Commmando Cowboys.” New Mexico Magazine. March 1944, Vol.22 (1944). Article on Italian WW II POWs in Lordsburg, New Mexico who worked as ranch hands.

Carmela Lanza La Fata di Abramo

In some instances, it is the parents themselves who commit their child to the protection of a fairy . . .”Italian Fairies: Fate, Folletti, and Other Creatures, Raffaela Benvenuto

I am standing in the desert marigold, talking, but you are not listening.

You are another sword for me to carry.

I speak from the tongue of your mother and I kneel in the hard ground, how does this flower grow near your shack?

Do you wonder?

So near your prison?

So near the scar on your back?

With a breath, I could disappear, so Abramo, my child, hold your breath and watch me, close your eyes and see!

The sound of ashes falling like snow, that is the burial ground for all, I am the lady in the desert marigold, speaking for the dead to you, I carry the bones of the nameless, and will your tear stop it?

Io sono la fata dei morti, the fairy of the dead, no wings, only teeth to carry me here to this place. You were buried alive and all you could see were the stars in that desert, and now you are here watching another sky, frozen and on fire, I will stay until you see me.

Aretha Matt

These Feasts Were Rare

I awoke to the soft sounds of the butcher’s blade scraping against the grey stone just after dawn.

I could smell the warm coffee, tortillas, and farina that was already set on the kitchen table.

The sun peeked through the eastern facing windows and warmed the living room.

Mom was already busy with her knives.

She always worked quietly and diligently, especially when she wove her rugs in the daytime, or cooked large meals to feed her tribe.

I sat next to her and watched her work.

She swiped the knives until they were razor-sharp.

My dad and brothers ate quickly and prepared themselves to catch the fattest sheep.

These feasts were rare, but a great delight for everyone in the family.

There was always excitement and a great sense of appreciation. My mom was a Master butcher with no formal training; a highly skilled woman who watched and learned from her mother and grandmother. We all watched and listened to her as she worked through this task. Even the men were impressed; my dad stood quietly by, content with his talented life companion. I watched with wonderment as I held the sheep’s hoof and could feel slight tugs when the wool was removed.

My older sisters prepared the fresh cut meat, and my brothers made a fire for grilling.

Aunties, uncles, and cousins arrived promptly and told funny stories and talked about old times as they grilled tortillas and green chili on a large homemade grill.

They always lifted the soft, cooked bread from the grill using just their fingertips.

When the meat was ready, the men removed their hats and everyone bowed their heads in thankful prayer.

These feasts were rare, but a great delight for everyone in the family.

There was always excitement and a great sense of appreciation.

When the prayer ended, my father said, “Amen.”

We all agreed, “Amen!”

The conversations started up again as we lined up to fill our plates.

We filled our mouths with the first bite of mutton sandwiches, mutton stews, and warm tortillas.

I heard many of them say, “Mmmm, this is so good!”

These feasts were rare, but a great delight for everyone in the family. There was always excitement and a great sense of appreciation.

Aretha Matt

Disharmony

The sounds of dispute send shivers up and down my spine; I can feel something slowly crawl up and down my arms, my heartbeat quickens, and my intestines tighten as my breathing becomes shallow. The shouting and screaming smashes through solid brick walls of an apartment building, leaving me shaken and mystified. I listen momentarily to the switch of impassioned and embittered words spoken by feminine and masculine voices.

The muffled dispute summons memories of turbulent times. He was only a teenager, but already drinking and drugging. He brandished a loaded weapon, and he staggered, slurred, and screamed.

He was angry, sad, and broken.

My small eight-year-old body shivered on the cold, uncarpeted floor; My eyes were drenched in salty tears and strained to decipher the signs of movement in the darkness. I detected sounds of whispers and shuffling by other frightened family members. These sounds were overwhelmed by my racing heartbeat which seemed to beat intensely on my ear drums. I was safely isolated from the blazing bullets that pierced the night air, but I could sense the monsters that tormented him and I feared they would eventually stumble upon my shivering body.

Disharmony came to our home that night. The tiles beneath me rejected my trembling, warm body. Yet, I found solace in the serrated iciness of a hard, un-swept floor.

I fell asleep there, accustomed to the anxiety.

I hear the voices next door grow quiet; I close my eyes for a moment and imagine Disharmony leaving.

Author’s Note

Aretha Matt

I included two poems that represent my childhood on the Navajo Nation. As a Navajo woman, I feel compelled to tell stories about the hardships, the realities, and the blessings of reservation life. Some stories are difficult to tell, but I hope that they will inspire other writers to share their stories of triumph and survival.

Timmia Johnson

The rain pounded on the roof, and the hospital’s walls were battered by the wind. Yet. There was no weather that could compare to the monster I was up against. The wind howled like the beast's terrible chuckle. I drew my sword and clutched my shield to my chest. I didn't blink, move, or flinch, and my stare never strayed from the beast that had taken over my body. It swung a claw at my chest, and the coughing became more intense. No one could face this without surrendering. I groaned and threw down my weapons, admitting defeat. I'm giving up, monster. Corona, you have the upper hand.

Author’s Note

Timmia Johnson

I wrote about me having Covid, I got it last year, and it was terrible.

Langham Bitsoi

Chinese Food with a Side of Reconnection

Ben found himself digging in his fridge for anything to satisfy his hunger during another night of being alone and wallowing in self-pity. Looking through the shelves, he found nothing particularly appetizing at the moment. Maybe another half-hour, and I'll be desperate enough, Ben thought as he closed the fridge door, shutting off the kitchen's current light source.

Moving from the kitchen back to the living room, Ben saw that the end credits of the episode he was watching already transitioned into the beginning of the next episode. It was evident to Ben that he had missed some sort of set-up during that would perhaps be important to the episode later on. The show characters reached the end of a conversation that Ben hadn't heard the beginning of before the cold open ended and the episode's into began. While the cheery music played and the cast member's names flashed on the screen, Ben looked for the remote. A few moments of pacing around the couch and scratching his head (along with the occasional look under the couch), led to the discovery that the remote was on the recliner across from where he had been looking.

The memory of curling up on the recliner to watch TV just a few hours earlier then hit Ben in the head. He could see the sight of him placing the remote on the arm of the recliner before moving to the other couch as clear as glass. He slapped his forehead and picked the remote, rewinding the episode. “Looks like I'm losing my mind,” he chuckled aloud in the empty house. With only an obvious silence as a response, Ben bit his lip and made sure that the episode continued to rewind.

Once the episode reached its very beginnings, Ben allowed it to resume. He plopped onto the couch, placing the remote next to him, making sure to make a mental note of where he had placed it so he wouldn’t have to face anymore unnecessary searching in the future.

As the episode continued on, Ben found out that the cold open wasn't really needed to understand the rest of the episode and that it served more as throwaway joke. That wasn't the only thing that Ben found out, though. By the halfway point of the episode, Ben's stomach started growling. Ben sighed and tried to ignore it, but the growling persisted. It came to the point where Ben eventually paused the episode, only a few minutes before it ended, and headed back to the fridge.

The fridge once again opened, coating the area behind Ben in a hazy, white light as he searched for an acceptable meal. He scanned the shelves, finding nothing but days-old leftovers and ingredients to foods that would unfortunately require time and effort to prepare them.

Ben made a face as he pulled out a carton from a Chinese restaurant out from behind a half-eaten cake that he had bought himself for his birthday a few days ago. It contained several strands of noodles and was definitely past the point of being edible without eliciting some sort of reaction. The issue of how it managed to reside in Ben's fridge for so long was up to question, but it wasn't something that would be an issue much longer as Ben threw the carton away. Now the fridge was free of one less food option, even if the food wouldn't be consumed by any rational person anyways.

The fridge closed shut with a frustrated groan from Ben. He headed back into the living room, already hearing the onset moaning of his empty stomach before he could sit back down. With the sounds of his stomach in the background, Ben tried to think of what he had last eaten in the day. The only memory of eating that Ben could conjure up from earlier in the day came from in the afternoon when he had, what he membered to be, an unsatisfying sandwich.

Maybe I could stand to whip up something really quick, Ben meekly thought while looking back to the kitchen. The thought of the Chinese restaurant carton then flashed back into Ben's head, and as disgusting as that was, it gave Ben a craving. Or I can just order something, Ben thought. The thought of fresh, hot noodles with some fried rice came up, and became appealing more and more by the second.

Wiping away his drool, Ben looked up the closest Chinese restaurant, which happened to be the same place he got the noodles from, but this time would be different. Now he would be able to consume it hot and ready. Confirming that it was still open, Ben checked for any delivery options so that he wouldn’t have to make his way there himself.

When he found that there was delivery, Ben felt ecstatic. Then, only a few minutes later, he felt miserable. With everything added up, the price made the food seem less appealing. Of course, Ben wasn't expecting the delivery costs to be low, as the closest Chinese restaurant happened to be still quite a way from his house (twenty miles to be approximate). Yet, with the delivery cost being almost double the price of the food itself, Ben began sinking into his seat.

If it's this much, I might as well drive there myself, Ben glumly thought, Or I could just not get it and stay here and eat leftovers. A shiver went through Ben at that thought. Microwaved leftovers didn't seem that appealing now with the thought of the noodles he had discovered earlier. It also didn't help, even if the price put him off, once Ben started thinking about the food, he would be haunted by it for the rest of the night.

Still slouched over, Ben looked over towards the door. There his car keys hung, seemingly jiggling on their own, as if tempting him to use them to take a drive.

Or I could drive there myself.

The idea repeated itself over and over inside Ben's head. It banged around his brain, trying to find a way to stick so as not to be swept away the same as any other throwaway idea. Once the idea embedded itself into his brain, Ben found himself standing up and making his way over to the key hanger. He grabbed the key, grand music playing in his head while the keys jiggled in his hand and somehow shined in the dark.

Ben then turned back towards the music, noticing through his self-made flare hat the TV was still on. He glanced towards the door, then to the keys still held high. He also remembered that there were only a few minutes left in the episode.

I'll go after I finish this episode.

A few joke-filled minutes leading up to a resolution of Friends later, (which reminded Ben that he was by himself in his house), Ben made his way out the door. He turned on his car and took off from his driveway, going as fast as he could in a suburban area before he made it onto freeway into the city. The radio played his playlist, providing the soundtrack to his journey and some tunes to sing alone to alone.

Thirty minutes later, Ben stepped out into the parking lot of the Chinese restaurant. The light inside provided a glow for the outside and the neon sign standing above the door displayed the name of the restaurant: Bamboo Express. Ben breathed in, catching a scent of the food being prepared inside. Exactly what he came for.

The doorbell rung as Ben stepped inside almost becoming blinded by the bright lights used to illuminate the restaurant, in contrast to the darkness at home that Ben was more used to. After blinking a few times, his eyes became more adjusted, and he went to stand by a lectern to wait for his chance to be seated. Shouldn't be take too long, Ben thought, surveying the small number of customers that had also decided to venture out late in the evening for some food. After I'm seated, I can eat, then get out of here. Back to TV.

The small number of customers soon quickly came handy as a second later an employee came up to the lectern and instructed Ben to follow him. The two weaved through the restaurants, passing by other customers that Ben noted consisted of friend groups or couples. The two then stopped at the far corner of the restaurant next to a table with two chairs seated across from each other.

“Will it only be you tonight?” the waiter asked. Ben bit his lip and slowly nodded, taking his seat which sat by the window. When asked about his drink, Ben simply ordered a water and watched as the employee swiftly got his drink before instructing him to grab a plate and help himself to the buffet. Ben nodded and he was then left by himself.

After taking a few moments to stare out the window to watch the vehicles race by and checking out the other open establishments, Ben headed towards the plates and utensils then the buffets. There Ben zeroed in on the noodles and fried rice that he traveled here for. Along the way, Ben also helped himself to some orange chicken and egg rolls, which required the use of an additional plates. With his selected delicacies, Ben made his way back to his table. There, taking advantage of his status as a single diner, he laid out his plates, utensils, and drink all over the table.

As he began to dig in, Ben noticed the waiter coming up besides, with another person in tow. “You said that we were dining alone, correct?” the waiter asked.

Ben nodded in response, his mouth full. The waiter slightly nodded and stepped aside to reveal who he had in tow. “Well Miss. Moore here has requested to be seated with you, if that's alright you.”

Moore. The name seemed familiar to Ben, but he couldn’t quite place it. Maybe they were someone that Ben had done business with sometime ago? Or maybe Ben had unknowingly gone into debt with some loan shark, and they wanted their money back, so they came to see Ben personally? Both options seemed unlikely, leading Ben to think that this person had gotten Ben confused with someone else, and the familiarity with the Moore name came from the name belonging to one of the actors in the show he was watching earlier.

I'm pretty sure that's alright with him,” the person said. After all, we're old friends so I'm sure he wouldn't mind hanging out together.”

We're old friends. That definitely grabbed Ben's attention, and before he knew it, the person was seated across from him. Great, Ben thought. Now I'm dining with some stranger who thinks they know me.

Deciding to take a look at who was seated, Ben was met with the sight of woman who gave a simple smile. “I was fifty-fifty on whether I recognized you from somewhere, but sitting here now, I know I'm not going to have to leave this table embarrassed.” she proclaimed.

Ben raised a brow. Clearly there was something in the woman's head that had cause her to think Ben was someone else. Perhaps I have a mystery doppelgänger out there.

“So, how's life been for you?” the woman asked.

“Uh, pretty alright,” Ben responded, placing his fork down. His meal was going to have to wait for this situation to be resolved first. “How about, you?”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “You don't remember me, do you?” she asked, leaning forward.

“Wow. Uh… straight to the point, ” Ben chuckled. The woman stared at him. Ben stated, “Not particularly. Did you get me mixed up with someone else?”

“Steal making subpar jokes huh?” the woman said under her breath, “It's me. Kleo. From high school. We took some of the same classes in senior year. And we were friends too.”

Ben leaned forward over the table, slurping up some of his noodles. The more that he looked at “Kleo,” the more familiar the details became. He began to remember the dirty blonde hair that hung loose in the seat in front of him in biology class, the joyous smile that greeted him in the mornings, and the lively personality that radiated off of her.

To be honest, Ben hadn’t thought of high school, or anyone he had gone there with, since he received his diploma and began the next chapter of his life. And if wasn't for Kleo showing up, he would've most likely continued to not think of it at all.

“Oh yeah. I …remember now,” Ben said. He rubbed the back of his neck while also playing around with his food. He could now tell why the Moore surname seemed familiar to him. Kleo Moore. There were other things he remembered about her once decided to take a closer look at Kleo, yet, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what to say. Though, that wasn't really a surprise. Ben hadn't been expecting to talk to old classmates from high school. Or talk to anyone in general. After all, Ben had only dragged himself out to Bamboo Express so he could satisfy his craving without having to pay abysmal delivery costs. Besides, Ben wasn't too well-versed in having conversations with other people either as he spent most of his time holed up inside his house alone.

“So, I see that you also decided to come here at…” Kleo checked her phone, “8:25.”

Ben eyes widened “It's already that late? I thought it was at least 7:30 at the latest.”

“Still got your head in the clouds, even after leaving school?” Kleo said with a smile.

Once Ben came to terms with the fact that he probably wouldn't eat alone, he decided to get started on his egg roll. “Uh yeah, I guess you could say that, but I wouldn’t say I have my heads in the clouds. More like I wasn't really keeping track of time when I left my house.”

“Well, let me get some food first, which should give you some time to think of what to say. I know that I wasn't exactly expecting to meet someone from high school too,” Kleo said, drumming the edge of the table. She gave out another smile then made a beeline to the buffet table.

Ben swallowed hard while staring at the empty spot across from him. He found himself unable to look anywhere else. The plan had been to show up to Bamboo Express to have food, then head home and perhaps watch more episodes of his show. But now, he was stuck talking with someone who he hadn't had contact with since high school. Which led to Ben realizing how much time had passed from the end of high school to and also made Ben wonder how Kleo had managed to recognize him. Was there something about him that had remained unchanged since high school? Maybe he could ask her about that when she got back from the buffet table.

For the remainder of the time that Ben spent waiting for Kleo to get back, he rolled and unrolled his noodles with his fork. After the thirtieth-something roll and unroll of his noodles, the sound of a chair being pulled back snapped Ben out of his trance. He looked back across the table and saw that Kleo returned with her own plate of noodles, kung-pao chicken, and white rice.

“So, what do you wanna talk about?” Kleo asked, taking a bite of her chicken.

“Uh, what's been up with you?” Ben said, “And how are you sure that you even have the right person?”

Kleo swallowed her food. “You're Ben Jameson. Correct?”

Once Ben nodded, Kleo's eyes light up. “So, I haven't gotten the wrong person. Plus, you still have the same clothing style and haircut.”

Ben looked down at his purple polo and jeans while his hand moved up to his hair. “You remember my clothing style and haircut?”

“Of course. We were around each other almost every day, so I managed to pick up a few things about you. By the way, happy late birthday.”

Ben stiffened, thinking back on how his parents were the only ones to give birthday wishes when the day came. Not even his coworkers said anything, but Ben expected that. After all, he wasn't buddy-buddy with them either.

“You remembered? Ben said softly, under his breath, but Kleo caught it.

“Well, yeah,” Kleo said. “I mean, I would think that it's expected to remember a friend's birthday. Even if it was during summer break and I never got to say it before. By the way, you virtually don't exist online.”

“I know,” Ben said, still in slight shock, “I don't really have a use for social media. I don't have any friends to follow, and it just serves as a reminder that I don't do much.”

When the words left Ben's mouth, Kleo winced. “Ouch,” she said. “You have no friends to follow huh?”

Ben then realized what he said. “Oh, sorry about that. By that, I mean that I… haven't really gone out much and made friends after high school. And in fact, I haven’t thought about high school until tonight. So, right now, talking with you, is sort of out of the norm for me.”

Kleo furrowed her brow nodded. “Well, from that sound of that, I can understand, but unlike you, I have thought about high school before, and because of that, I thought it was neat running into you here to have a little reconnection session.”

“Well, sorry about that,” Ben said.

With that, the two took time to indulge in their food, letting the sounds of other conversations fill the air with the occasional sound of some speedster driving by on the road. During the time, Ben managed to finish off his egg roll and started to focus more on his orange chicken and fried rice. Not how I thought the evening would go, he thought with a mouthful of fried rice.

Looking back to Kleo, Ben noticed that, like him, she was absent-mindedly eating her food. He also saw that her plate was now half-full, which prompted him to look at his own plate. About a third of the food was now left. So, Ben had confirmation that the silence had definitely gone on longer than a few moments. He wasn't sure if that was a good or bad based on their earlier conversation. Which led him to think about how throughout the conversation, Kleo referred to him as a friend.

Thinking back on the times they spent together in school, whether that be sitting next to each other in class or talking out in the halls, Ben supposed that the two were closer than the average classmates. But, Kleo had said that she thought of them as friends, so Ben supposed that he was missing some aspect of their high school relationship. Thinking deeper into it, Ben began to remember other parts of their “status in high school.” The various inside joke they had, the nights they stayed up late to help each other with schoolwork, and the times they spent outside of school (though that was more uncommon, and they did it along with the rest of their friend groups).

“You know,” Ben began, “I might've referred that I didn't have any friends”

“You did say that you didn't have any friends,” Kleo corrected.

Ben smiled slightly and continued. “Well, I did say that. But now, thinking back on it, I would agree with you in saying that we were friends.”

Kleo nodded her head. She took a drink from her cup and made a “continue on"”gesture with her hand.

“Well, like I said, I would now agree in us being friends in school, and with us talking today, I would like to be friends again. If that's all good with you,” Ben finished. “I can even download a social media app and you can be the first person I follow.”

Kleo swallowed her drink and set her cup back down. She then returned Ben's smile from earlier. “Yeah. That's sounds good with me.”

Ben nodded and took a bite of his orange chicken. Looks like more than just food came out of this, he thought as the two continued with their meal. Then just as the two finished their meal, Kleo spoke up.

“I remember how you said that you haven't gone out much, so how about after this we catch a movie or something,” she asked. Thinking on it for a few seconds, Ben smiled. “Yeah,” he said, “that sounds good to me.”

Mars Glazner

HOLLYWOOD: THE SLOW ZOOM OF GRIEF

CHARACTERS:

THEO: A schoolboy of subjective age (Ideally late middle school or early high school). The quite clever type who is adored by his classmate and teachers alike.

ARIS: THEO’s homeroom teacher at boarding school. He is reserved but caring, respected by teachers, and a father figure to students. Perhaps he is who THEO could grow up to be with a bit of confidence.

MICHEAL(MIKEY): A brief voice off stage. He is ARIS’s other half and another teacher at the school. MIKEY and ARIS are in love yet have not admitted their feelings to each other. They behave like an old married couple anyway. MIKEY is a fun-loving character and encourages the kids to call him his nickname.

CLASSMATES MENTIONED: DAMION, SIMON, KADEN, TOBIAS, TANYA. TEACHERS/PRINCIPAL MENTIONED: MS. HEMSWORTH, OLD MAN JENKINS.

SETTING:

See description below.

[Dim LIGHTS UP on a stage in static chaos. There has been a collapse and buried under the building is a pocket of rubble. Our characters, ARIS and THEO, huddle in the small space. THEO is pinned beneath a slab of concrete, blood pooling out over the edges. Next to him is his teacher, ARIS, who crouches low.]

ARIS: Kid, you there?

THEO: I’m here.

[A flashlight flickers on. THEO has retrieved it from the keychain in his bag and holds it propped on his chest. ARIS looks up towards the light and then away when he sees the state his student is in. He moves towards THEO and sits next to him one leg out, casually leaning against the remnants of a wall.]

ARIS: Just gotta sit tight. Help will be here soon.

THEO: [Smiles indulgently.] Liar. It’s okay. I know. We weren’t anywhere near clear when the building fell. They’ll have to dig down at least ten stories. That’s days. I don’t have days. You don’t have to pretend.

[ARIS turns to face him. They share a moment of respect. THEO and ARIS are very alike. ARIS should have known better than to offer hollow platitudes.]

THEO: [Earnestly.] Don’t worry. I promise I’m not scared. [ARIS bows his head.]

THEO: Will you do something for me?

ARIS: [Voice choked with emotion.] Anything.

THEO: After this I want you to call Mikey. Okay? Can you promise me? [Getting more urgent.] I don’t want you to be alone. You shouldn’t have to be alone. Promise me okay? Promise.

ARIS: Theo, I’m supposed to be taking care of you buddy. You don’t have to worry about me.

I’ll be okay so-

THEO: [Interrupting.] Because I know how you get. We all know how you get. You like to pretend that you don’t care, like it doesn’t bother you, and then it eats you up inside. It eats you up inside and no one can get to you after you’ve decided it doesn’t matter. He worries himself sick when you do that. Mikey does. And in the end, it doesn’t even make a difference because everyone can tell, you know. We all know how big you feel. We can see it. So you have to promise me.

[A brief silence as ARIS attempts to get his emotions under control and respond.]

ARIS: I promise.

THEO: You’re a good teacher. The best I’ve ever had.

ARIS: Liar. [Raw and rueful, as though ripped out of him. Echoing THEO’s words from before.] I’m not a good teacher. I’m not. Because if I was good, if I was good, I’d be able to save you and I can’t, I can’t.

THEO: [Seeming to ignore this outburst.] Did you know that Simon offered to help me with my homework the other day? He must have noticed I was struggling with math. To be fair I think everyone and their mother knows I’m struggling with math but he decided to do something about it. And he even laughed at me when I cussed him out over quadratics.

He’s starting to believe it I think, that he has a place with us. You must have seen it, he smiles so wide now. He looks just like you when he does that. And did you know that Damien has a special studying pencil? You gave it to him when he was freaking out about our history exam. It means a lot to him. The proof that you believe in him. Kaden recommended flashcards and those are helping a lot. He’s planning to show you, next class. You can’t tell him I told you, though. It’s supposed to be a secret.

And Tobias, did you know Tanya is teaching him to make pancakes? I didn’t think it was all that complicated but they’re on their third week of trying and have yet to make anything edible. They’re having a lot of fun. We all know you were the one who installed that nightlight in the dorm hall. It really makes a difference. He’s sleeping through the night now. Him and Kaden.

And Kaden, Kaden looks like he respects himself again. When you’re not around he talks about you like you hung the moon. You’ll never know how much it means to him. The way you hold him to the same standard as everyone else. You make us feel safe. No one’s ever done that for us before.

[Beat. THEO’s breathing has become increasingly shallow and forced. He is fading. There is silence. ARIS reaches over and smoothes his hair out of his face.]

ARIS: How are you feeling?

THEO: Cold.

[ARIS takes off his jacket and places it over THEO’s torso.]

THEO: [Smiles blearily.] It smells like you.

ARIS: Yeah?

THEO: Yeah. Like coffee and toothpaste and stubbornness. It’s nice.

ARIS: [Snorts.] Does stubbornness have a smell?

THEO: [Playfully indignant.] Of course, it does. I just said so, didn’t I? Are you questioning my expertise?

ARIS: Certainly not. If anyone knows what that smells like, it’s you.

THEO: And what’s that supposed to mean?

ARIS: [Affectionatly.] It means that you’re a terrible little brat who doesn’t take no for an answer.

THEO: [Fake offended.] How dare you! I’ll have you know I am a model student.

ARIS: Except for the time that you tried to fight the whole baseball team by yourself.

THEO: They called Simon a slur!

ARIS: [Drolly.] You’re 4’11.”

THEO: So?

ARIS: Or that time you lectured Ms. Hemsworth about different learning styles in front of the whole class.

THEO: She insinuated Damion wasn’t trying because he couldn’t memorize some stupid grammar rule. If she can’t find alternative ways to give information to a student she’s an idiot and doesn’t deserve her license. Her lesson plans have hardly changed from the 1800s. You tell me who the lazy one is.

ARIS: And that time you started a petition against the dress code?

THEO: It’s not my fault the school enforced outdated and unequal standards. Obviously, I had to do something.

ARIS: The school mandates uniforms. How could that possibly be unequal? [He already knows the answer.]

THEO: Well it’s equal now since anyone can wear a skirt or pants as they please.

ARIS: I thought you were going to give Old Man Jenkins a heart attack with that one. You’re lucky a newspaper picked up the story and forced his hand. He’d rather chew off his own foot than utter the word gender-neutral.

THEO: Yes. Lucky. That’s what that was.

ARIS: [Warningly.] Theo…

THEO: All I’m saying is Tanya might have a cousin in the area who just so happened to visit her during the protests. [Inoccently.] How were we supposed to know that he was a reporter?

ARIS: [Sighs and attempts to hide a smile.] I am not paid enough.

THEO: And anyways, you’re one to talk Mr. ‘Touch my student again and you won’t have any fingers left.’

ARIS: [Faintly blushing.] Yes well.

THEO: And what about that time you dove into the lake with all your clothes on because you thought Kaden was drowning.

ARIS: That one is entirely you fiendish children’s fault. You could have told me you were having a breath-holding competition.

THEO: [Raises a skeptical eyebrow.] We let Mikey know. Twice. He was trying to tell you even as you sprinted towards the edge. That is in no way on us.

ARIS: [Clears his throat, embarrassed.] I suppose I was distracted. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Just the horror of all the paperwork I would have to do if one of you died is enough to…

[Both characters are reminded of the situation at hand.]

THEO: Can I ask you something?

ARIS: Anything.

THEO: Do you think, I mean if things were different. Do you think I could have been a teacher?

Like you?

[Brief pause as ARIS breathes through his grief.]

ARIS: Of course. Of course, you could. I haven’t always understood you. I’ve made a lot of wrong calls because I didn’t know where your head was at, where you were coming from. But the moment I met you I could have told you that.

There is nothing on this earth that could stop you. Not a thing. You are so strong and so brave. And so Kind. You are already a teacher in all the ways that matter. You don’t need a piece of paper to tell you that. That’s the fluff, the topping. What makes a teacher is not their ability to draw a graph on a chalkboard but their ability to connect with the people around them and help them grow. You do that when you pretend to be interested in Tanya’s war memoirs, and when you call Kaden out and he respects you enough to apologize. You do that when you come back with Simon’s favorite snack even though we all know it’s not sold anywhere on campus. You do that when you talk Damien down from a panic attack and when you encourage Tobias to finally ask that fool out. You do it when you make jokes with Mikey to put others at ease and when you offer your opinion on his eccentric lesson plans. You do that when you give me an example of how to open up to people and show that I care. It’s incredible. You’re incredible. And I am so proud of you. We all are. I’m so proud I could burst with it sometimes. So proud.

[There is silence. THEO is dead. He is smiling slightly. ARIS does not scream out or beg THEO to answer. Instead, he carefully closes THEO’s eyes and smooths back his hair again. Then he takes the flashlight, pulls the jacket over THEO’s face, and sits head bowed. He takes a deep breath as though gathering his strength. He has one more goodbye to make, and he is not one to break his promises. He pulls out his phone and thumbs through the contacts. Miraculously it connects to a signal and ringing can be heard.]

MIKEY: [Upset and panicked.] Aris, thank god. I didn’t even think to call you. I’ve been worried sick. Where are you, are you okay? Is Theo with you?

ARIS: I lost him.

MIKEY: That’s okay. I’m sure he’ll turn up. He’s resilient as anything. He’ll be just fine. Do you think, I wonder if his phone has any signal. I could try-

ARIS: [Interupting.] No Mike. I…

[Long pause. ARIS makes a decision.]

ARIS: Yeah, of course. I’m sure you’re right. But I had his bag when everything went to hell so I don’t think you’ll reach him. In fact- [Roots around in THEO’s bag for the phone as a pretense, is mildly surprised when he actually finds it.] Yup looks like his phone is here. But you’re right, he’s stubborn as anything, I’m sure he’ll be okay.

MIKEY: [Shaky but reassured.] Right. Right. Of course. If you made it then of course he did. He’s like your mini-me. Of course he made it.

ARIS: … He made it, no question.

MIKEY: Where are you? Did you get clear?

ARIS: No, I’m, I’m trapped pretty good. I’d say I’m quite far down. But I’m not hurt.

MIKEY: Goddamn it. [Quiter to himself.] Okay, okay. That’s okay, I can do this. [Louder.] Sit tight. Help is on the way.

ARIS: [Rueful smile.] Right, help is on the way.

[Awkward silence.]

MIKEY: … You wanna play Twenty-One Questions while you wait or?

ARIS: [Laughs bitterly.] You’re ridiculous. I’m going to miss you so much.

MIKEY: Whoa hey, no, none of that. You’re gonna see me again real soon and then I’m never gonna leave you alone. I’m even gonna follow you to the bathroom. I’ll get real weird with it. You’ll get sick of me.

ARIS: [Teasing.] You say that like I’m not already sick of you.

MIKEY: Hey! We are having a tender moment here, you heathen.

ARIS: You’re right of course, carry on. Please don’t let me get in the way of your one-man show.

MIKEY: [Watery chuckle.] You jerk. See if I ever try and comfort you again.

[Pause.]

MIKEY: No, but really, we’re gonna get you out of this, okay?

ARIS: Course. Heaven help whoever gets in your way. If you’re not pleased with the progress, I’m sure you’ll start sorting the rubble yourself with your bare hands.

MIKEY: …

ARIS: [Warningly.] Mike…

MIKEY: It’s okay really! They said I could help and they’re keeping me away from anything dangerous. I just can’t I can’t sit still and wait.

ARIS: [Sighs.] At least get some gloves.

MIKEY: …right.

[Pause.]

ARIS: Just in case I don’t make it-

MIKEY: [Agitated.] Don’t.

ARIS: You’re right, that was entirely to Hollywood and dramatic of me. It’s like you’re infectious. Let me try again. In the increasingly likely event that I kick it, I want you to know that I respect you. I care about you and I have, I have valued our time together. I know I am not the easiest person to get along with [Mikey snorts.] But I have appreciated your efforts greatly and I’m am so glad you are a part of my life.

MIKEY: [Desperately trying to lighten the mood.] Why are you talking like you’re giving a speech to my grandma?

ARIS: I am not the best at expressing my emotions so I know it’s not healthy to bottle it up inside. Don’t let the kids stew too much, okay? If they’re with you I know they’ll be alright.

You’re good at that. Except, what was that pun you were telling Theo the other day?

MIKEY: [Once more crying.] The one about the tax collector?

ARIS: That’s one. I have never heard a worse joke. It caused me physical pain. So don’t tell that one to them whatever you do, it’d be disrespectful to my memory.

[Mikey laughs incredulously. Beat.]

ARIS: It’s not as quiet as I thought it would be.

MIKEY: What?

ARIS: Being buried alive. It’s not as quiet as I thought. In disaster movies, it looks like this bubble of pressure. Like the air is pushing in on you. They can always hear their own heartbeat and breath in films like that. In reality, well it’s not loud but it’s not that quiet either. I thought it would be more dramatic. But it’s not. It’s dusty and hot and cold and dark. It’s like hiding in an old closet as a kid only we can’t get out. We can’t get out Mike.

MIKEY: We? Is there someone there with you?

ARIS: And I’m just thinking, I’m thinking about your Writing class. Do you remember that time I broke my ankle and you insisted I sit in on your class so you could keep an eye on me?

MIKEY: Yes, what?

ARIS: It was a good class. I know I give you a hard time but you really are a gifted teacher. I admire you so much, he- But I remember, you were talking about dramatic devices. You said if you want to write a tragedy you don’t focus on the big picture. Your reader gets overwhelmed that way and they shut down. They can’t empathize anymore. You said that if you really want to make an impact you don’t focus on the town being massacred. You focus on the socks left scattered in the street. You said that specificity is important. And I’m just thinking in this scenario, the socks would be children’s socks. A little boy’s socks.

[ARIS looks over to where THEO’s feet protrude from the concrete and begins to describe them.]

They’d be blue and white and have little bears on them. They’re real worn down because maybe the boy doesn’t like to buy new things. And maybe, maybe the boy isn’t the type to buy cute socks for himself either. Maybe they were a gift from a girl in his class. Maybe he kept them for so long because he’s not used to receiving gifts even though he should be because he’s so good and he deserves-

MIKEY: Aris.

ARIS: And it’s so frustrating because that’s not how it’s supposed to go. That’s not how it was supposed to be. Really it should have been adult socks. A man’s socks. They’d be black and boring and threadbare. They wouldn’t be anything remarkable, just bulk socks bought from a drug store. That’s more fitting, don’t you think?

Because the man who bought them is a boring idiot who can’t even do this one thing right. If he had just stepped to the side. If he had just taken one step to the side. If he had just done that then maybe he wouldn’t have to watch the little boy’s socks turn red. They used to be blue. Blue on the top with a white body. There were little bears with different expressions. Now you can hardly tell what they are anymore, just blobs, blobs that look like they’re screaming. And it’s not, it’s not as quiet as they make it seem in the movies, because rubble is shifting and the people, I can hear the people around me. I can hear it. If only I had just moved to the side.

MIKEY: [Quietly.] Theo didn’t make it, did he?

[ARIS goes to answer, the call drops and the phone dies. ARIS has a venting of emotion (up to the actor’s discretion.) The rubble shifts ominously and ARIS moves towards THEO again. He curls around THEO’s head as if protecting him from falling debris. In THEO’s bag the other phone rings. ARIS does not go to pick it up. Moment of stillness. BLACKOUT. End scene.]

Author’s Note

I wrote these pieces to grapple with the ideas of death and grief. I find that too often grief has been commodified in the media and on film, making the impact of suffering significantly less. Just as one can become desensitized to violence, I believe we as a country have also become desensitized to others suffering. I wrote these works in an attempt to reconnect with these feelings and share them with my audience.

Mars Glazner

The Way Home Is A Dead End

You think about cliches. The Hollywood slow zoom of grief. The single tear. The prolonged scream of denial. You think about reality. The bugged-eyed fish stare. The silent shock. The surprise of looking up and seeing the world moving on without you. Perhaps another cliche, but a truthful one. You refuse both. Instead, you are dazzling, grinning sharp and feral, and sprinting through life in high heels with a tasteful clutch. You are a personality and loss does not touch you because you are untouchable. You burn defiantly and give everyone a good show on the way out. They clap and do not realize the fuel for your brilliance is skin. You do not warm anyone but your ghosts. The fire is reserved for mourning. There is no intervention, courtesy of an excellent poker face and distant acquaintances.

In dark rooms and back alleys, in salons and bars, on the bus, and inside the Gas Station, everywhere, you are God. Just as he has taught you. And you are benevolent. A testament to the space he held for you. And you are dangerous.

Sniffing out those who reverberate in your bones like a bloodhound. Seeking a truth half-buried. A lesson well learned. You do not remember your childhood but you KNOW with absolute certainty. Every cruel tilt of the head sends your heart spasming in your chest, clues you in to the service that needs to be done. You find joy in the crumbling of an ego and the savage rip of satisfaction. You learned how to protect for him. And you do so now with the ferocity of someone with nothing to lose. Perhaps another cliche, but a truthful one.

On a side street, three blocks from his grave, it happens. You spot a plastic bag leaning against a dumpster and go to investigate. A mistake. Inside are clothes, worn-out past use. Not even worth a trip to the charity shop. Among them is a suede jacket. It has holes in the arms, its texture rough-smooth with time, and just like his. It’s funny the things that will get you in the end. You are unprepared and in that quiet moment of recognition, the fight is knocked out of you. The fire dies. But you are not saved. You think about him. You think about Dave and the funeral you were not allowed to attend. The scornful gazes of his relatives you could not bring yourself to contest.

‘Relatives of no relationship,’ Dave used to call them. Together you would look them up on Facebook. Just to laugh. They looked so unhappy in pictures. Amongst suffering they were gleeful. You are reminded of the brother gone too soon. Of the mother with early-onset dementia. The man who was supposed to be a father. Your Dave’s death.

You are tired. You slip the jacket on and go to throw the rest of the bag in the dumpster. You stand there for a long time. You cannot bring yourself to drop the bag even though your prize is safely wrapped around your shoulders. You climb into the dumpster. Just for a little while. Just until you can convince your fingers to let go. It feels very important that the bag be thrown out. It feels just as important that the bag be held. The solution is obvious. It takes some doing. The dumpster is not made for getting into. In the end, you simply pitch yourself forward and deal with the fallout. It is painful and you do not feel a thing. You clutch the bag like the Teddy Bear you were not allowed to have as a child and scoot to the very back. It is dark with the lid closed. You do not mind.

It was dark when you first met him as well. It’s a nice memory. He had been drunk and so, so sweet. Bumbling about on the road and apologetic that his friends had abandoned him. He bumped into you and when you went to help he tried to refuse.

‘That’s alright,’ he had said, ‘I’m sorry to bother you. I know I’m a handful.’

‘That’s alright,’ you echoed him, ‘I have two hands.’

It was then that he had gotten a good look at you. At your short dress and flat chest, at the makeup and stubble. You had straightened up. Ready to deflect, to shield. You did not know yet how to protect. That was one of the many things he taught you. A fake smile already forming on your lips when-

‘Wow,’ he slurred, ‘You’re beautiful.’

Another type of deflection was needed then. He was far too drunk for any of that.

‘You flatter, maybe we can have a bit of fun when you’ve sobered up. I’ll give you my number. For now-’

‘No!’ Interrupted again. ‘I mean, I mean I wouldn’t say no to the number but I’m not. I’m not saying that just to say it. I don’t want anything for it. I just thought you should know.

You’re stunning and it kinda makes me want to cry.’

By the end, his speech had turned wobbly, his eyes tearing up just as he said. Alarmed and unsure what to do with a very attractive and weepy drunk you had gone through his wallet to find his address. Upon knocking on the door to be greeted by his father, whose lips were already curling with disdain, you had turned right back around and let Dave sleep on your sofa.

In the morning his eyes had been filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. On the third date, you had a hunch. The bartender’s gaze had slid over you and landed on Dave with a contemptuous glance. He had started to loudly complain about people who ought to know better than to get wrapped up in unnaturalness.

Small-town Dave had shrunk in on himself, hesitant and unsure, canting his body to shield you from view even as his shoulders curled inwards. This is when you first learned to protect, tearing into the bartender with eyes that saw things. And out back, when you turned away from the fight with bloody teeth and victory on your tongue, he was giving you that same look and you thought to yourself ‘Where have I seen this before?’

You knew when you secreted him away from his father’s house. He was twentyfour and deathly afraid of change and desperate to get out and become anything else. You were twenty-six and feeling ancient. You helped him pack in the middle of the night, giggling at the danger and shushing each other all the way. He had tripped out the window with the last load and a light had turned on. You took off running after him. The old man came out cursing. Safe in the cab of the vehicle you did donuts on his front lawn. Dave had gazed at you then with that same look.

Worship.

You decide you could be God in a religion where the highest crime is installing a pedestal. Where God and Worshiper are just labels for the roles you occupied, the dynamic you held. Where God loved back just as fiercely and indifference was a distant word. You continued to be God after he passed. A vengeful force full of righteous anger. Now, in the dumpster in the dark, you breathe and you remember. And you are not God. Maybe you never were.

There was a time where you answered a panicked call too late. Where you found him still and quiet. His steady hands turned stiff. There had been a truck that followed him down the street after the night shift. Full of drunk men. The story is predictable. Perhaps another cliche, but a truthful one.

They had cornered him in full view and nobody had done a thing. His father had arranged the funeral, and you had not been allowed to attend. A light shines down on you from on high. A flashlight. The lid is open. It must be night.

‘Get out,’ says a gruff voice, ‘you’re loitering.’ The police. You must have been down here for longer than you thought. You check your bag. It does not appear you will be letting go anytime soon. The jacket smells like mothballs. You look up at him and do not get out. He comes and gets you with a ladder and rough hands. With your arms behind your back, it is suddenly much easier to let go of the bag. You thank him.

‘Don’t thank me,’ he says, ‘you are not about to have a good time.’

You assure him that is alright. You are not having a good time right now either: you are just along for the ride.

You wonder if the cliche is true, about cops and donuts.