.

~ ~

one ~ tiny

flower picked

just for you

to let you

know

that

i am

t ha n

k f u

l

~

f

o

r

~

y

o

u

~

to all

of you

who take

the

time

to read,

repost

and

like

my

rhyme,

i

thank

you

most

sincerely,

with

a

piece

of

artful

poetry

Dear Candidate,

Thank you for your interest in our school. We have reviewed your resume but regret to inform you that yours did not join the shortlist of candidates to be interviewed. We wish you luck in your recruitment journey.

Sincerely,

Administration

To: Interested Teacher

We have viewed your applicant files and would like to invite you to our table tomorrow to sign up for an interview with our administration.

Also, are you perhaps interested in middle school positions? Have you a Social Studies certification?

We look forward to seeing you tomorrow.

Attention Educator:

Thank you for your interest. However, we wish to let you know that the position has been filled. We plan to keep your resume on file and will inform you of any upcoming positions available at our institution.

Best Wishes,

Principal

Strategy. Strategy. Rome’s line is 30-people deep. They’ll stay that way all morning. Later.

Smile and nod but don’t linger. Remember you’re not interested in Kuwait. Two to three reps talk with other candidates, but one suit is available and looks over as I walk by. I don’t ignore, but I keep walking. I can’t waste time. They didn’t have anything viable posted anyway.

I see the Zimbabwe display to my right and catch a glimpse of their promotional slideshow on the laptop. I pause at a picture of staff members playing with a lion cub. I keep walking. My family would not approve of the distance. Not that they like any of this. I glide past several schools and approach my first table to wait.

The plan was to trade white sand and scuba diving for Spanish conversation and mountain hiking. I love my job and Caribbean life. I also loved my life and job back in Houston. It was again time for change. Confidence is key. A borrowed blazer and hand-me-down heels present a veteran hire today.

Boston snowstorm Super Bowl weekend 2015. I was out of my element in so many ways. I had seen a dusting of snowflakes sparsely growing up in Southeast Texas and one New Years in Vail. Now five years in the Caribbean later, I was a beach bum out of her warm water. It had been dark when I landed so it took until the first morning to see the snow banks piled taller than me lining the two blocks to the convention center. I looked down at myself that first morning and ran right back upstairs to the rented apartment. I changed into jeans and tennis shoes and waded through the icy muck to change back into slacks and heels in the hotel lobby bathroom. This became my morning routine that week.

The snow had been so thick that many administrative teams were stuck and delayed coming from the Iowa Job Fair the previous week. Just my luck. Never mind. I’d keep an open mind as coached and meet as many people as possible. I had two hours.

I waited behind 15-20 teachers to speak with the Chilean school. When I reached the front of the line, the High School English position had been filled. My own principal and our Elementary principal were camped at the next table over interviewing for many available jobs, including mine. “Good for you,” my boss mouthed. We had an unspoken agreement that he would speak on my behalf when needed and I would speak with candidates interested in my job and in Cayman when requested. The mutual support added to my confidence.

Further down the tables, I had compromised beach and mountains for Latin America by stopping at the Dominican Republic. Nothing. Damn.

Energy level rose with each lengthened line. Longer discussions shortened as the noise level rose and time ran out. Teachers wanted to talk to those who invited them to stop by and to schools they wanted to interview with. They were not always the same places. Keep an open mind is the firm mantra taught in orientation and can prove life-altering.

Only the director from Lima was present, minus the entourage. He stood out. His bags didn’t make it so instead of a suit and tie, he sported a turtleneck sweater and jeans. I liked him already. I was thrilled when he offered to pre-interview me.The high school principal had not arrived.

Time was up. Schools presenting in break out sessions before interviews left some time ago to prepare videos and arrange handouts on the conference room tables.

Turn, Italy. I fell in love. A female school head. An English teacher turned Director in just three years at my age lead the presentation. With 300 students, that meant a small school and small staff. I was in awe and had to shake her hand after it was over. “You are an inspiration, and I’d love to spend some time talking with you.” I didn’t see any positions for me available at her school, but she could be an excellent mentor.

“Let’s talk. There may be some changes coming.” Almost the exact words from the director in Cayman those five years ago in Philadelphia.

I had an interesting note from a school in China left in my file divider. Human Resources position, it advertised. I accepted the interview and slid the note into their file. I went to their hotel room at the designated time. It was my first interview of many. I walked in to find a Chinese National and a Business Director who was from, of all places, Port Arthur, Texas. They pulled at my heartstrings. He talked of home and an opportunity at their school they just knew was meant for me. They needed someone to obtain Chinese work visas, housing, and manage shipping and relocation allowances or new hires. The academy was connected to a government school, however, and that meant following a Chinese calendar. I’d be half a day ahead in time. I’d miss Christmas. I knew early I wasn’t ready for such a huge leap, but I wanted to keep an open mind and had never considered Human Resources an option.

At the Social Hour that evening, they approached me and wanted to talk to me privately as a follow up to the interview. For the first time, I felt pursued professionally. Dad always advised ”never be the one to say no,” that I let them make the decision. “Give them your bottom line, then leave it in their hands.”

I didn’t want to stop meeting with them. I felt professionally desired for the first time in a long time. It sparked a different confidence than a blazer and heels could not ignite. But it wasn’t enough to change my mind. Two days and multiple meetings later, I walked into the hotel room to face a panel of six administrators, including my new Port Arthur friend, to decline their offer. “I’m just not interested at this time, but thank you.” No more. No less.I didn’t want to waste any more of their time knowing I wouldn’t be happy in the end.

Lima. It was a most unusual interview. I was so eager to share my prepared speech on leadership experience and best practices. He redirected the conversation away from all things education. Instead, he wanted to know where I grew up, where my family lived, and what I did for fun in my spare time. School culture and “right fits” meant a lot to this guy. When we finally transitioned into teaching questions, he simply asked me, "What is your go-to lesson? When the day goes horribly, you can lean on this particular lesson and you do it well.” My reply was simple, “I know how to make kids talk.” He didn’t respond but seemed satisfied.

Another oddity, his wife joined us, an eccentric but pleasant woman. “So if you’re an English teacher, who is your favorite author?”

“Ernest Hemingway.”

“Why?”

“He lets you figure it out for yourself.”

She didn’t respond but seemed satisfied.

There was a Curriculum Coordinator position available at a remote boarding school in the Swiss Alps. I was a little surprised to be invited to interview. When the hotel room door opened, I was surprised to see a man about my age welcome me in. I hadn’t really recruited in about five years, and I felt time had stood still. I was terrifying and encouraging to see my age group represented on the other side.

He was filling his own position. I would design and implement curriculum but also teach and be expected to live in the boarding area. “Life happens on that mountain” he said. I knew this also wasn’t a fit for me. I learned about his family while we watched Boston celebrate the Patriots’ SuperBowl win parade through his window from eight floors above.

That evening, I also finally met the High School Principal from Lima. He had worked with my current principal at the school in Lima back when I was just finishing high school. Years and moves later, they were together again, discussing me. He reached out, shook my hand, and said, “Let’s make an appointment.”

The last day of interviews, he was one of my final appointments. “If you had more experience, I’d feel more comfortable.” “I just don’t know if you’ll be happy with us.” Once again, I had to sell my worth. That’s why I was there, after all.

On the final day, with no more interviews left, I enjoyed a coffee with the young female director from Turin.She offered to explore an opportunity in middle school elective courses for me. I grappled with few options. Go home? Choose the European wild card? Keep searching back on island?

Just in the middle of our conversation, Lima tapped me on the shoulder. “Can we speak when you get a second?”

I finished my conversation with a “Let’s keep in touch. Ciao.” I moved toward my last conversation before leaving for the airport.

He held out a small llama figurine and handed it across the high top table. “I give these to people I offer jobs to.”

I sighed and placed my forehead on the table. “We had to make sure.”

But I didn’t. And it didn’t really matter. I had earned the change of scenery. I had earned a new experience. All while keeping an open mind.

“Today I will be happy.”

That’s how each page starts. That’s how each day starts.

“Today I will be happy.”

It’s perfect. Hanni never has to think. She could. If she wanted, she could think. But why? It’s all written so well. When you’re born you’re given your book. The story of your life. What you will decide to eat every day. How many errands you’ll run. The people you’ll meet. Who you like. Who you hate. All of it foretold for you. Your first day of school. Your wedding day. The day you get your wisdom teeth pulled. The birthdays. The sick days. The lazy days. The memorable moments. All written down. Black and white. Clean page after neat, clean page.

And, “Today I will be happy,” atop every one of them.

“Today I will be happy.”

Hanni stretches. Because that’s what her book says.

“Today I will be happy. And to start today I stretch.”

She scratches her cat, Jax, behind the ears. She showers. Eats eggs. Makes her bed. Hanni dresses for work. She grabs a bottle of water and an apple and is out the door. Because that’s what her book says. And each day is just like this.

“Today I will be happy.”

Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Work. Stretch. Run. Relax. Read. Bed. Sleep. Happy. Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Work. Stretch. Run. Relax. Read. Bed. Sleep. Happy. Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Work. Stretch. Run. Relax. Read. Bed. Sleep. Happy. Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Trip.

Wait. Trip?

Hanni trips. She glides down her front steps like every other day. Her office is 8 blocks from home. And at the third block, Hanni trips. Her arms reach out in a quick attempt to save herself, but it’s too late. She had never planned on tripping. The apple rolls to her right and her water bottle and book fly into the street. A car passes over the bottle and water explodes in every direction. And Hanni’s heart breaks. The book is drenched. She can’t remember seeing this in the book ever. She can’t remember anyone ever ruining their book. Hanni snatches up her book and returns home. No one calls to see why she’s not at work. No one has a book that says she will not be at work. Her life was simple. She had skipped ahead several times and she knew that she was happy. Her life, happy and unremarkable. She would stay happy and healthy until retirement. At which time Jax would pass. She would be happy though because he lived a long, happy life with her. And she would take her retirement money and travel. A new city to be happy and stretch and make the bed in every year until she died herself.

Unremarkable but happy. She could keep going on. She mostly knew the plan. After all, it was unremarkable...

Tomorrow Hanni would wake up and continue the way she had been.

Today I will be happy.

And Hanni’s doorbell rings. Before her eyes are even open, her doorbell rings. That has never happened before. She opens the door and finds a new book on her steps. A red ribbon tied around its leather bound pages.

This book does not say she will be happy.

This book is empty but for one page.

The words are scrawled in her own writing.

They are not neat. They are not even straight or centered. There are splotches where it looks like someone may have not only spilt coffee but also cried. And along the edges someone has inked in little roses and vines. And somewhere in the mess, in Hanni’s own script is just one message.

“Today I will live.”

Jenna Woodlan’s stories always made me smile... even when her passion made her cry.

I read every word she gave me, delighted or impassioned line by line, praising and cherishing these products of her mind. She and I talked often, but I knew her truly by reading her words. I knew her brightest joys and deepest despairs by the things she poured onto page that she would not normally articulate.

“This one’s fine,” Jenna said, sliding one of her papers across the coffee table, “and this one. Mm, don’t touch that one yet.”

I sat back on the couch as she sifted through her pile of hand-written short stories and poems. Her almond brown hair was unpinned, tucked behind her ear, and she had dressed simply, black longsleeves and leggings, her feet bare. The longer I watched, the more I fell for her.

“Here,” she said finally, and slipped back onto the couch. She pulled her feet up and settled into my shoulder, holding the page she’d chosen. “What do you think of this one?”

I took the page and shifted, holding her gently. It was a poem, written in her half-cursive hand in the very middle of the page. She rested her head, intent, so I began to read aloud.

Soft her steps on wooded floor

Soft her voice above

Dry her eyes at every door

Cry her little dove

Wilting flower upon the sill

Wilting whisper of

Mild and melancholic ill

Child she couldn’t love

I read it a time or two over to make sure... it was about her grandmother.

Jenna was watching me, her eyes searching. “What?”

I brushed my fingers through her hair, lost in her. Her eyes drew mine in, and I could do nothing but comply. My chest falling slow but deep, I breathed in her rose-petal-salt smell. Where... where did you come from?

“I love you,” I said simply, the words drifting out, a feather on the wind.

Her eyes lined with involutary tears and her breath pulled in deep. She slipped her arms around me and clung harder, burying her head in my chest. “I love you,” she cried, her breath rising and falling with mine.

“Jenna Woodlan,” I said. “From whence did she come?”

“Stop it!” she laughed, slapping my shoulder. “That’s mocking me.”

“Yes, madame. I’ll keep my Shakespeare out of my next compliment.”

She laughed and hugged me tighter. “You’re so pathetically clueless.”

“I know,” I said, reading through Jenna’s poem again.

Wilting flower upon the sill...

I sighed and set the paper down, then held her tight. I held her as she bundled in my arms. Even with tears she could smile.

Her dandelion smile.

The wind whistles in each of our ears as we fly. Higher and faster than any of us alive, we soar through weathers unspeakable to our kind. Gliding through clouds then skimming through waters. Our strength  grows together as our efficiency keeps us alive. With the same burdened responsibilities we fly. We are brothers in the air. 

When strong we lead, when weak we follow.  Our potent leaders tire and step down for the next mighty forces to charge our flight. The formation never breaks. With vigorous commitment we are unshaken by the miles we fly. Our common goal keeps us disciplined because only together can we reach our mark. That has been our most natural law.

And yet, there is nothing natural like an anchor in a race. A debilitated soldier. A rusty cog in the machine. A weak link spotted from the corner of my eye.  A weakened joint across from where I glide. We both having just stepped down, I rejoin one end of the formation and count the seconds for my commrade to reach the other. Each second more eternal than the next. He flaps his weakened wings with invalidity. Frail and almost incapacitated he eventually reaches the other end. Even when he’s making the least effort out of the rest, he is still flying with strain. I watched the tumor in our system as his breakable resistance dooms us. I turn forward in disgust. The exact same labor was done by each of us yet all showed composure, but my friend on the other end. But, I cast away my concerns and give into my own resolve. We were nearing our destination.

It was time to land. Our Powerful leaders landed first followed by the recovering champions. Me and the susceptible degenerate across from me would land last. It was finally our turn to reach the ground. I let him get below me so that without hesitation I could eliminate the thing that threatened our order. With surging emotion, I rushed to attack . I sunk my talons deep into his feathers. His blood had drenched over my talons as we whirled through the sky, neither giving in. But as expected, he wavered and I positioned him towards the ground. My wings, never exhausted after flight, pounded the air as I aimed for the ground. We crashed on soil with him underneath me. My wings spread in victory and I basked in ending the imperfection that resided in the flock. The others only observed what needed to be done. Without warning,  the disgrace pecked a chunk of my eye and rendered me half blind. With one swoop he released himself from my grip. His talons now wrapped around my neck.

The swift and harsh movement of his talons was enough for the snap to be heard. The others only observed what needed to be done.

Charlie Moss starved to death. I carried Charlie up to the Greenville Sanitarium myself. There was no money. The doctor looked at him despite it, but it was too late. Charlie died all the same. Doc said it was pneumonia, but I knew better. Good Ol’ Charlie starved and froze.

The work ran out a good while back. Most everyone we knew had hopped the cars for Nashville, or Birmingham, but when Charlie got sick I stayed there with him. That shanty was cold, what with the wind blowing in through the chinks, and Charlie was real thin. Hell, so was I. It wouldn’t be long until I was too weak to chop the wood, and then we would both freeze, if'n we didn’t starve first. I couldn’t cut wood fast enough now to heat the plywood walls of that shack, but I did my best to keep Charlie warm. With all of that though, there wasn’t much to do about feeding him. It was nothing but a damned shame for Ol’ Charlie, is what it was, that he picked the very worst time to go and get sick.

I knew Charlie Moss my whole life, going all the way back to grade school in Bristol, and then we did our service time in France together afterward. Once back home I courted Charlie’s sister until she ran off with a medicine show drummer. She never did come back home. I always wondered if she ran away from that town, or if'n it was me she ran from?

It hurt some when Charlie died. I cried a bit when I got back to the shanty alone, and I kicked that dog for watching me do it.

But for me the car was empty. Those able had already gone to where the work was, leaving the shanty-town long before cold struck the mountains. I jumped the train on the eastern slope when her speed was down, the wind shivering me in my shirtsleeves. I looked back once through the boxcar door and that dog was running alongside, but she couldn’t hang with it for long, could she? I mean, I would have brought her along, but how could I hold that dog, run with the train, and jump the car, too?

It was good that I was alone, my mood being sure enough sour. The rough plank floor of that car gravelled my ass with every clickety-clack, so that I was fairly miserable when we passed through the gap. I tipped my slouch hat down for a nap, but couldn’t sleep for thinking of Charlie Moss. They buried my friend with everything he owned, excepting that dog, of course. Charlie sure thought highly of that bitch. I expect he starved himself while slipping his slivers to it. That was the kind of friend Ol’ Charlie was. I had watched that dog lick Charlie’s face right before I toted him into Greenville. Charlie had smiled as he wrapped her head in his arms. I reckon that was the last time Charlie Moss ever smiled on this Earth.

Charlie would have been plumb disappointed to hear of it, of me leaving his dog to chase after the train. But damn it, if I didn’t find work I would like as not starve too, then what would that dog do? Hell-fire! She was better off than any of us! She’d go right on catching rabbits, I reckoned.

I left the train as it was sailing down off the Cumberland Plateau. It was a fast stretch, but distance was mounting. If I was going to ditch, it would need be soon. I hit gravel feet first, but from there it was ass-over-tea kettle, so that it hurt pretty good when I stopped rolling. It would be a long, hungry walk back to that shanty, and cold over every bit of this mountain, but I knew that dog would be there waiting, lying across Charlie’s olive-drab army blanket, never understanding why she was left there alone.

I knocked the dust and gravel from my duds the best I could, and started walking. I reckon I’m not the man to betray a friend, not even a dead one, nor his damned cur dog, neither.

She wore a halo forged by the nails of Christ.

She was beautifully divine with eyes of fire and a voice that sung seraphs to sleep.

With her fingertips she wrote love letters in the sky with lightning.

Even God looked upon her with envy.

He was Lucifer's nightmare harboring dreams murder could not hold a candle to.

He was the father of snakes, with a serpent's tongue that cursed holiness and lived in depravity.

Even God would suffer the crucifixtion than a moment in his presence.

Knots and aches torments the young Justin Gleer. He knows hard work too well and suffers after his late night shifts in near agony. After weeks of pain, his pregnant wife speaks up. “You should look into a chiropractor. You remember Charlie from high school? He might be able to help.” Justin remembers and frowns, but the pain is unbearable and he makes the call.

Dr. Charles Hamilton welcomes Justin with a firm handshake. After a brief, yet detailed explanation, Dr. Hamilton describes his practice. Justin, overwhelmed with relief, lays down on the table and Dr. Hamilton gets to work.

The doctor says, nonchalantly, “I bet Becca had to do some convincing to get you to come see me.”

There is a pop.

“Uh,” Justin says. “Yeah, actually. How did you know Becca and I-”

“We were all so close in high school,” Dr. Hamilton went on. “It’s a shame we…lost contact…with each other.”

There is a pull.

Justin says nothing. He begins to sweat, knowing at that very moment, Dr. Charles Hamilton remembered everything from senior year.

“Becca has been seeing me for a while now,” Dr. Hamilton says as he rounds the table. “Been having these…migraines for a few months.”

There is a jerk.

Justin clears his throat. “She hasn’t mentioned that.” Dr. Hamilton just nods a reply.

“Look,” Justin says as he sits up. “I’m really sorry about what happened in high school. We were just kids, you know? If I knew you two were that serious, I wouldn’t have butted in.”

There is a pause.

“Just one more adjustment,” the doctor grins. He places his hands at the base of Justin’s neck. “You always thought you were so much better than me,” he hisses, “I bet you think you’re the father too.”

There is a twist.

I should be ashamed. It’s only been a week since my last impulse, yet here I am once again. Guilt pulses within me and my brain is foretelling how repulsive the subsequent hours, possibly days, will be. I’ll regret this, but I know I won’t stop. With each plunge of my hand I’m only making matters worse. Sometimes it’ll drag out for hours. Other times it only takes a couple hasty minutes. Tonight, is not one of those nights. My commitment will remain till I’m physically ill or too tired to continue.

For a brief second, my stomach turns. "Push through it." I’m thinking too much. I can end it at any moment. There’s hardly anything of real substance left. I decide to feign disinterest to prolong the experience, miserable as it is. I begin licking my fingers clean of the residue, vowing not to dirty them again. My tongue is now numb.

I try to imagine what kind of scene this would be to walk on to. How would I explain this? Repulsive. Just Pathetic.

My urges would surely be stifled if it weren’t for the damn Holidays. The whole atmosphere is practically screaming with implications to take... to consume. Even without permission. It’s only human nature to have urges like mine. Who could blame me?

The semi-sweet irony beneath it is that my eventual demise may just come from the very decimation I partake in. Since I’m young there still may be time to reverse the damage I have caused. Though I must not make this carnage into a habit that will follow me into old age. Without the proper impulse control my indiscretions will never be forgiven.

As I sink into the night, eyes closed, the moonlight shines softly upon the cold, lifeless cookie dough container.

Why did he split away from the rest of the troops? Why didn’t he do what he was told for once? Damn him!

Damn me.

This isn’t the first time I rode into battle with him.

Got three more.

Oh, God, it hurts! I can’t reach back to pull the arrow out and concentrate on the Indians at the same time. Got another one.

Almost out of bullets. It’s hopeless. I can barely see six, maybe seven more soldiers fighting. Custer fell a few minutes after we were surprised with their plan of attack.

I want to scream out loud, the pain is so bad! Two more arrows have punctured my left leg and my back.

Now I can see two other men still standing, no, make that one. I got one more. Two bullets left. Now, I’m the last one left.

Three Indians dismount and are coming my way! I fire. One falls. I cock the hammer back again, and use what strength I have left to stand, bad leg and all, and laugh loudly. The laugh of the insane.

The Indians stop for a moment, stare at me and speak to each other in their native tongue, then come rushing at me. Both have their tomahawks raised high preparing to kill me and then take my hair.

Screw that.

I raise the gun to my head.

Inhale.

Squeeze the trigger.

End of story.