Two nights later, Frank was gearing up to ask the question again. I’m honestly surprised he had let it lie as long as he had. There aren’t many distractions in prison, and I was something new to break the monotony for my overly social cellmate.

About an hour after lights out, the sheets rustled as Frank turned toward me.

“Will! You still up, man?” he asked.

I contemplated not answering but knew I’d held off the conversation long enough already.

“Yeah, I’m still up. Why?” I replied.

“I was hoping we could pick up that conversation again.  The one you just had to 'put a raincheck on.'”

“What conversation?” Sarcasm has always been my favorite method of communication. I knew what he was talking about. I just didn’t want to participate.

Frank sat up and threw his excuse for a pillow at me before answering. “You know what conversation! What you in here for? Only fair ’cause I told you mine!”

Ah, yes, the reason why Frank was here. He had drunk a few too many one night and driven his car through the living room wall of a sweet, old lady’s house. She had been sitting in her favorite arm chair knitting little hats for her grandkids when he crashed into her.  Every prisoner on this wing was a killer.

“It’s a long story, Frank.”

“We’re in prison, not like I have anywhere else to be.”

Frank had settled in for a long conversation. His back was to the wall, and he was fully turned, facing me. Sighing, I sat up and copied him. Looks like Frank and I were going to have a grand, old slumber party style talk.

“Alright, but I'm keeping this pillow for the trouble."

"Yeah, right.  Give it here!"  

I threw the pillow back before starting.  "I was a first responder on the outside, a paramedic.”

For a relatively small man, Frank had a startlingly loud laugh.  “Really, man? I thought you boys were supposed to save lives, not take them.”

“Normally, we do. Or at least try to. Sometimes we get in trouble because people think we didn’t try hard enough or were negligent with care. Other times, we are still human with vices just like everyone else.”  My wife had struggled with that fact.  She acted like I was supposed to be this perfect man who could do no wrong just because I donned a special uniform three shifts a week.

Frank nodded. “I can understand that. Which kind of time landed you in here?”

“It was a little of both actually. Family was involved. My wife, Sarah.”

“Shit, your wife?! What happened?”

Frank was excited. I had never mentioned any relationships I had on the outside before.  I hadn't wanted to talk about anything having to do with myself before coming to the prison.  That part of my life was over.  It might as well have happened to someone else.  I wasn't going to be seeing the outside again for a while, if ever.  For someone as talkative as my cellmate, it was a hard concept to grasp.

“Last fall, I picked up a call late one Saturday night. It was a single-car crash. The driver had made the wrong kind of friends with a tree. When I pulled up to the scene, I recognized the car.  It was my wife’s." It had been so dark that night, I didn’t realize at first.  Normally, first responders are not allowed to treat family.  But, I'd already been out of my vehicle and geared up before I looked at the license plate.  Judging by the state of the car, there was no time to wait for other help.  

“So your wife basically ran into a tree?”  He asked skeptically.

“My wife wasn’t the one driving.”  That had been a shock, worrying my wife was dead but seeing another person in her place entirely.

Frank leaned forward off the wall, intrigued by my answer. “Then who was?”

“My best friend, Tom. My wife was in the passenger seat.”

“What was your best friend doing with your wife out late on a Saturday night?”

“Apparently, cheating on me.”

Frank was leaning so far forward at this point, I wondered if he might fall off his bunk. 

“Had you known before that night?”

“No. No, I hadn’t. I had always thought he was like a brother to me.”  Twenty years.  We had been friends for more than twenty fucking years.

“How did you know they were cheating then.”

I could hear one of the guards start walking down our hallway on his patrol with echoing footfalls we were expected to be sleeping through right now. I waited until they faded away on the opposite end before answering.

“I knew they were cheating because when I walked up to get a look at what I was dealing with inside the car, I didn’t just see Tom instead of my wife in the driver’s seat."

"What else did you see?"

"I saw my best friend’s dick stained with Sarah’s favorite shade of lipstick and Sarah herself lying topless across the middle console.”

Frank slapped his knee, chuckling.  “Well, fuck! That’s rough, man. What did you do?”

“I began doing my job is what I did. I wanted to hit something, but I would deal with all the emotions later. They were both pretty messed up and both unconscious. I used START--”

“Start?”

“No, S.T.A.R.T. Or simple triage and rapid treatment. It is a system used to gauge and prioritize which patients need care most urgently when care or personnel is limited on a scene with multiple casualties.  Almost every first responder trained in the United States uses it.”

“Ah, so who had the worst injuries?”

“Tom had a severe laceration on the left side of his neck, probably from the glass of the busted window. It was bleeding heavily but contained enough to still treat if I put him first. My wife, on the other hand, had not been wearing a seat belt. Her right side had massive bruising and multiple broken ribs that I could feel, from where she must have crashed into the dash. Her breathing was noticeably labored along with numerous lacerations.” She had been lying face down. I completed my assessment without turning her over. I wouldn’t have been able to complete my job if she’d been staring at me.  She was already unresponsive at that point.

“How did you treat them then?”

“According to START, my wife was what is considered a code black."

"Code Black?"

"START uses a color system to designate the priority of a patient based on the injuries threat to a patient's life and ability to move out of toxic situation, like a bombing or a fire.  Green means the patient can move on their own and has relatively minor injuries.  Yellow is used for patients that need assistance to move or injuries that need to be taken care of pretty soon.  Red are patients that might not be able to move or need immediate attention for life-threatening injuries.  Black is used for the dead or dying, those patients that would almost certainly die even if given immediate treatment."

"I'm sorry man, it must have been hard realizing she was not going to make it."  Frank said sincerely.

"Yes, with massive internal bleeding and restricted breathing, she was very unlikely to survive even with immediate treatment. Tom, however, was a decidedly a code red. He would almost certainly survive, but only with immediate care. If I gave him that care, I would definitely lose Sarah then.”

“Who did you choose to try to save then? Your best friend or your wife?”

I couldn't answer him right away.  I had loved the both of them in different ways, but they had both betrayed me.  “I did my duty. I worked on the one most likely to be salvageable. I saved Tom’s life as my wife’s slipped away.  It was the technically right thing to do.  Emotionally or morally for that matter?  Jury's still out.”

Frank looked at me with a puzzled look on his face. “If that’s what you were supposed to do, then why are you in here? Did they throw the book at you for doing your job?  It's not your fault your wife wasn't treatable.”

“No, I’m here because I went to Tom’s house two days after he was let out of the hospital.  I shot him five times in the chest. One for every minute that it took for my wife to die after I started treating him instead of her.”

**Written for an offsite moral dilemna contest: 'You are an emergency worker who has just been called to the scene of an accident. When you arrive you see that the car belongs to your wife. Fearing the worst you rush over, only to see she is trapped in her car with another man. He is obviously her lover, with whom she’s been having an affair.

You reel back in shock, devastated by what you have just found out. As you step back, the wreck in front of you comes into focus. You see your wife is seriously hurt and she needs attention straight away. Even if she gets immediate attention there’s a very high chance she’ll die. You look at the seat next to her and see her lover. He’s bleeding heavily from a wound to the neck and you need to stem the flow of blood immediately.

If you attend to your wife, her lover will bleed to death, and you may not be able to save her anyway. If you work on the lover, you can save his life, but your wife will definitely die.

Who should you choose to work on?'

Behind the mask we show the world, we lose ourselves.

Laurie had always been a perceptive child. Her first word had been "hi" followed quickly by "why?" She wanted to know what made the wonderful world around her tick. Strangers then family and friends eventually became annoyed by the questions.

So, the little girl curbed her curiosity, lost her inquisitive nature. She learned how to close her mouth and observe rather than ask so many questions.

Laurie's mother taught her to read before she ever went to school. While other kids were learning to write their name, reciting their alphabets, and counting to 20 that first year, Laurie was reading Goosebumps and doing arithmetic.

The teachers would ask, "Alright class, who can help me answer this question?". Laurie always raised her hand. She loved learning new things and loved the validation of being right.

The other students grew to resent her though. They called her names like "know-it-all" and ostracized her for being "too weird". No one wanted to play with her at recess so she would climb to the highest point of the playground.

Up there, she could watch and listen, find out what drove the children around her. Maybe if she acted more like them, they would like her more. It scared her teachers who would yell at her to come down, but she wouldn't. It was one of the only acts of disobedience she would commit in school.

Laurie stopped raising her hand in class. She couldn't bring herself to deliberately do bad on classwork, but she asked her teachers not to display her work. She lost the pride she had felt in what she was able to do.

Bit by bit, year by year, Laurie built a mask. She learned to smile even when she felt like crying. She learned to lie with believability. She realized she could never be in a deep relationship this way but experience had shown that no one wanted a relationship with the real her...and something was better nothing.

She smoothed over rough edges, the parts of herself that she thought people wouldn't like. But as Laurie molded herself into what she thought others wanted her to be, she lost the things that made her unique little Laurie.

Then came The Man. Like her, he was incredibly smart and just as weird. Unlike her, he was unapologetic about it, refused to hide as she did. He didn't fit in, but he didn't care. She tried to drop the mask for at last, she had found someone who might just love her for her. She couldn't. After years of burying and hiding herself away, there was no Laurie to be found.

"I am lost," she whispers, looking into the mirror. She does not recognize who stares back.

*Written for an offsite challenge: flash fiction about being lost.

Hell found me. It wasn't in the dead of night like you might expect or on a dark and stormy day. No, hell finally came for me at sunrise while the sun still hung low, reflecting off the ocean beside us, and the world was awash in the colors of fire. Maybe this had been more fitting after all, considering where I was headed if this thing had its way.

If the exact timing had been unexpected, the form this messenger of hell had taken was even more jarring. A year ago, give or take a few hours, I had made a sacrifice to save my niece. My life, both here and eternal, forfeited for her to live. For a year, I'd known this was coming. I had tried to prepare, to guess how exactly my end would come. I had spoken with leaders of many different religions, collected any paraphernalia even remotely suggested to drive off evil, and wrapped up all affairs just in case I failed. I didn't plan to fail. I planned to fight. I had said goodbye to a happy, cancer-free little girl a few days ago to prepare, and that is who I stood before now. Only, I could tell this...thing. It couldn't really be Sarah.

"Hello, uncle. I've been waiting for you. Do you like my dress? Doesn't it make me look so pretty?" exclaimed Not-Sarah. It was Sarah's voice too. Black eyes, not her normal blue, piercing above a grin wide enough her lips looked like they might crack. I had given my niece that dress to wear the day she was finally discharged from the hospital. It wasn't going to get away with this.

"How dare you-", I started. I tried to keep going, but I couldn't. We were alone on this beach, but it felt like a hand covering my mouth.

"How dare I? How dare I? Do you not remember who you are talking to? I saved this little girl. Not you, me." I tried to scream in protest, but only a whimper escaped. Not-Sarah grinned at me and kept going. "I kept my end of the bargain, and I have the nagging suspicion you don't intend to keep yours. Don't think that I didn't notice your 'holy' weapons and our location. Salt water, how quaint."

I tried to reach for one of the mentioned holy weapons, a blessed gun capable of shooting silver bullets doused in holy water. I couldn't get it out of its holster. The creature chuckled. I tried my dagger only to find it wouldn't leave its sheath. One by one, I tried my whole arsenal. With each failure, the creature's laughter grew until it was near howling. I still couldn't speak.

"You are damned my dear, devoted uncle. You have been damned since the moment you signed my contract. Why would you possibly think you could wield His weapons? He forsook you when you forsook Him. You are hell bound. There is nothing you can do to stop it." it proclaimed, stepping forward with arms outstretched. For a moment, it reminded me of my niece begging for a hug. But, this wasn't Sarah. My weapons may not have worked, my mouth may have been unable to produce words, but my limbs were still working. There was still fight left in me, and I had a family to get back to.

The creature stopped a few feet away, arms still outstretched, waiting for me. There was a different smile this time, sweet like one of my real Sarah's smiles. The audacity of this thing. I lunged forward, tackling it to the ground. We fought for dominance. It bit me in the meat of my left forearm, and I backhanded it in the face. It scratched my right cheek leaving deep gouges, and I put a knee in its stomach. Eventually, it didn't seem so high and mighty anymore struggling there on the ground, my knee pressed into its back. While I held Not-Sarah down, I took my useless items off my belt and slipped it from its loops. I bound the creature's hands behind its back, flipped it over and stood up. Even though I knew it couldn't be my real niece, it was heartbreaking to see her face this way, cut up with bruises already forming.

It spit out blood and looked up at me. "I love it when they fight. It makes it that much sweeter when they break. You will regret what you do here."

Frustrated, I backhanded the creature again then grabbed handfuls of Sarah's red hair. Whatever power this creature had over my ability to speak seemed to have been lost in the fight, but I had nothing to say. I dragged it out to sea by its hair. It did not plead for its life, just let it happen. When we hit the surf, I heard a sob and looked down. This time, I saw Sarah's eyes, not the black of the creature. It was trying to play on my relationship with my niece, trying to get me to give in. But, I would not be tricked!

I dragged us deeper into the water until the waves crashed just under my shoulders. Letting go of the creature's hair, I looked into the eyes of this thing wearing my niece's face. There was no maniacal grin, just bruises, cuts, and scrapes. I couldn't tell the difference between the tears and drops of water from the spray. I close my hand over the top of its head, a mockery of a gesture I would often give Sarah, gentle pats on the head to convey my pride. I pushed. It tried to resist so I pushed harder. Whatever strength this thing had possessed, it was gone. Maybe the devil had forsaken it just as He had forsaken me. I pushed until it was completely submerged under the water, red hair only just barely floating up to the surface. One minute in, and all struggling had stopped. We were still the only ones on the beach, but I could swear I heard laughter. I waited five minutes then finally let up. The undertow was strong. I could not bear to look at the body as I let the current take it away. Only the thought of the real Sarah and her father, my brother, waiting for me at home prevented me from letting it take my body away too.

I trudged back through the water and collected the failed weapons I had left on the ground. I threw them into the ocean, hoping the current would take care of them too. I walked up the beach toward my hotel, thinking of the cellphone I had left in the room. I would be able to tell them I was coming home, for good this time. By the time I walked into the lobby, I was smiling. A sight I must have made, wet from the neck down with sand in my hair, scratches on my cheek and no belt around my waist. But, I didn't care. I was finally free! I left a puddle in the elevator before getting out on my floor. I whistled as I walked down the hall. I couldn't wait to be home.

My brother was sitting in front of my hotel room. His head was down, a note dangling from one hand. He looked up as I approached, and I could tell he had been crying. He asked me: "Have you seen Sarah? She ran away from home yesterday.  She left a note saying she had to meet you on the beach so I tracked you here. Please tell me you have seen her?"

He kept talking, but I couldn't hear him. Had that been the real Sarah after all? Is this what the creature meant when it said I would regret my choice and why it had stopped fighting? Did I trade my life for hers then trade it back? I couldn't have killed my niece. I would never have if I'd known. What had I done?

Hell had found me. It did not take me; I didn't let it. But, in the end...it still won.

*Written for an offsite challenge.  Must start with the sentence "Hell found me."

**Picture from HDWallpaperPictures.com

We are a world of labels written into our skin.  We feel the overwhelming need to put a name to the things around us to understand, empower and control.  We put labels on ourselves and the people around us, and we rely on those labels to build opinions of ourselves, our family our friends, and even our strangers.  We often dangerously make judgments based solely on these labels.  

We even force these labels on our children, both in meaning and in physical marks.  Required by law for the much of the last century, three labels must be tattooed on each child's left wrist before they reach one month old.  The top label delineates race. A line for biological gender at birth follows. Lastly, a single number to represent the socioeconomic status of the family you are born into.  If the numbers fade over time or stretch to the point they are unreadable as the child grows, the tattoo must be restored.  If a person's socioeconomic status changes, the tattoo must be changed as well.  It is forbidden to remove these tattoos or cover them in any way.

I was born with labels of my own: w, f, two.  Indelible marks that reduce all that makes me a person into three lines of ink.  I wouldn't learn what my labels meant until I was older or how they would bind me.  

Before I reached school age, there wasn't much of a reason to care about what the words etched into my wrist meant.  I made friends regardless of labels because words don't incredibly matter to children who can't read.  Those were the best years of my life.  People liked you or disliked you solely based on you as a person, not the three words on your wrist.  You were judged for your actions, thoughts, and feelings, not for your labels.

After I started school, I learned how powerful three words could be.  I attended a private, theocratic school from the age of 4 until the age of 12.  I never had many friends during my years there.  A two, I was surrounded mostly by ones.  The only reason my family was able to afford tuition was because we received a discount due to my mother working as a teacher there.  Other little girls would often be forced by their mothers to invite me to their parties.  After all, what socialite would not want to be able to gossip to their peers:  "Look at how nice and generous my daughter is.  She even has friends beneath her!"

My parents knew I did not have very many friends, but I never had the heart to tell them why.  They tried to put me in as many extracurricular activities as they could afford.  I stuck with basketball and soccer but gave up softball as early as possible.  I also loved dance until I was told that I was built too 'manly' to be a ballerina.  Sports gave me an outlet from the empty judgment at school.  No one on my team cared about my labels, just how good I was with a ball.

Years passed.  My brother, recovering from two ear surgeries, was accused over and over by his teachers of refusing to obey orders he could not hear.  We changed schools.  There was much more of a mix at the new school.  People did not care about the two on my wrist anymore.  But years of being a social outcast had taken its toll.  I was awkward and not at all confident.  I still did not make many friends.  At least this time, it was on my own merit and not because of the labels.  

During our teen years, the three words gained strength.  Everyone around me started pairing off or getting part time jobs.  We were becoming adult-shaped.  There was new pressure to look and act female, something that was hard to achieve for someone who loved sports and video games while having no desire to wear makeup or get their nails done.  

Like those around me, I started looking for a job.  I soon learned to list my labels on my resumes after more than one interviewer dismissed me.  One hiring manager even had the audacity to tap my wrist as she told me that I did not have the qualifications they were looking for.  

I was born with labels.  I must live with labels.  I will most likely die with labels. 

And I hate them.  I hate them.

From larger project: Labels of Separation

We know not where we go, only that we were told to do so. We do not speak, just listen. There are no birds singing in this forest. Even the wind is silent. Maybe it is listening also, to the steady thump of a thousand boots hitting the earth in tandem and the intermittent clang of steel hitting steel. Three by three we march, drumming a beat moving ever forward. I cannot see the front of our procession, and I dare not turn to see the back. Above is a canopy of trees bearing leaves nor fruit, stark against a grey sky. Below, the ones before us had turned the snow to slush and mud, sticking to the soles of our shoes as if to beg us not to continue. But still, we march on.

This is no epic journey. We are not here to save a damsel in distress or slay a fearsome foe. This is no victory march for we have won nothing today. We are tired men attached to tired feet. We know not where we go, only what is behind us. We dare not stop to eat. We dare not stop to rest. There is something chasing us, something big. Thus, we must march on.

There is an unearthly scream from behind us. Tired men become desperate men. Our beat becomes erratic as we scatter. Boots pound against earth and slide in the slush as we dredge up the last of our strength to run. Men fall to the ground all around me, not to what is behind us, but to the uneven terrain. There is no one directing us.  Frantic, we have only one goal. We must get away. A second scream, closer this time. In my panic, I do not see the tree root that brings me down. Desperate eyes focus forward from straining faces. They do not see me on the ground. A boot comes down on one hand, another hits my side. I cry out in pain and roll to my side to protect the injury. I must get up. I will not die here. I do not see the boot coming for my head. Everything fades to black…

I wake up alone. I do not see any of my fellows, even fallen ones. I stand and pick a direction. The only drum of boots I hear are my own in this empty forest. I do not know where I go, only that I must march on.

Fear is not a bad thing. It helps keep our species alive. Fear of pain reminds you not to stick your hand on that hot stove or stick something metal into an electrical socket. But some fear prevents you from going about your daily life. You fear rejection so you don't pursue that relationship or try for that promotion. The number one fear in most "civilized" countries is not a fear of death, but a fear of public speaking. More than a quarter of Americans would rather face dying than speak in front of a crowd. Up until a few years ago, I was one of them. Now, I talk for a living.

In high school, I passed speech without ever saying a word in front of the class. We had only done group projects, and I always made the power point and conducted that during a presentation instead of speaking. I slipped through the cracks in every class every year never needing to say a word at the dreaded front of the room. I was perfectly fine with that arrangement, but it came crashing down when class rankings were announced. I am not joking when I say that I honestly considered failing a class or two so I could get out of making a speech at graduation. I wish I could say I truly faced my fears then, in a great coming of age story. No, I hid behind the podium, read straight from a prepared document and delivered the shortest valedictorian speech in the history of my high school, roughly 150 words in all. Any longer, and I would have been crying.

In college, I passed a few years similar to how I spent high school. I dealt with my problem with public speaking by avoiding it altogether. I even pushed back whole classes that involved speaking semester after semester. At the end of my first semester of my senior year in college, my greatest fear had come to fruition. It wasn't just one speech or even two speeches. I had to give four presentations in four different classes, two solo and two group, back to back, and all before lunch time.

I was an absolute nervous wreck that morning. I knew better than to eat anything for breakfast. The first speech was going to be the worst. Eight minutes long as a minimum, all on my own and to make matters worse: we would be taped! I was the last of five scheduled to speak that day. I sweated through the four speeches before mine all dressed up and trying to seem ready even if I was anything but. Finally, it was my turn.

I strode to the front of the room, planted myself behind the podium, and started my presentation. Within even the first minute, I thought I was going to pass out. The blood was pounding in my ears so hard I could not hear myself except for a few snippets of shaky, thready voice. My eyes teared up, and my vision was blurry. I felt so flushed I was sure everyone could see. The next seven minutes felt like hours, but finally, I was done. The class clapped, but I was sure it was just because they felt sorry for me. The teacher handed me the recording of my speech so I could conduct a self-evaluation. I did not have the voice to thank her so I simply nodded and the left class to head to presentation two.

I never had time to recover from the first presentation. Within twenty minutes from the end of the first one, I was in front of over two hundred students and faculty with my group presenting the next. Although I was not speaking the whole time, I was in front of that crowd for over fifteen minutes. Complete with sweaty palms, pounding heart, the whole nine yards, just like the first go round. I was so happy to go back to my seat when it was over. The rest of my group was excited and happy. I was a shivering mess. I honestly don't remember the rest of that class or the walk to the next. I do remember getting there a few minutes early, and all I could think about was my third presentation, the second solo one. I threw up in the bathroom, sobbed for a good minute, and pulled myself together for round three.

I don't remember the other students' talks. I do remember my name being called and dragging myself up to yet another podium at the front of yet another lecture hall. I had a terrible taste in my mouth as I spoke. The blood was pounding again, and this time, I was even seeing spots. Somewhere during the six minutes of that third speech, something broke inside of me. I had reached the pinnacle of fear, so afraid I couldn't feel anything anymore. I was numb. The spots receded, the pounding stopped, and there was a blessed calm during the last part of that presentation.

That calm carried me through the rest of that class and into the fourth and final presentation. That calm has carried me through every public speaking engagement over the last six years. I am not sure exactly what happened that day, but my best guess is that I'd been so afraid and nervous that I forgot to be afraid and nervous. It also helped that the tape I'd dreaded watching from that very first speech ended up being a gift. All those fear responses that I was sure everyone could see, the flushed face, the thin and reedy voice, the scared and darting eyes, not a single one was shown on video.  

New believers of global warming, big business politicians have been on the warpath looking for someone else to blame.  A group of house representatives funded by the oil and gas industry led the charge employing private investigators to find the parties responsible for the reported increase in temperatures across the globe.  One of the representatives, requesting their name be withheld,  stated that "recent studies by very knowledgeable environmental scientists have made it harder to call global warming a hoax."  Another representative, whose biggest campaign contributor was Exxon Mobile, said: "our next big step is not to find ways to prevent or to reverse the effects of global warming but to find the people responsible!"

After five long days of extensive investigation, the architects of global warming were finally found to be real estate agents.  An investigator on the successful team, Findita Nowl, explained their reasoning for the conclusion.  "The latest projections for Earth after 20 years show massive new beaches, and we all know who stands to profit from new beach front property!"  Although the fingers have been pointed, no arrests of real estate agents have been made.  

In another related story, news outlets are being accused of the rise in scandalous behavior among politicians.

To be a good teacher, you need to be willing to learn as well as teach.  After three years teaching at the elementary level, I learned more than I signed up for!  As it pertains to the particular incident described further below, I will narrow those down to three.  

Lesson #1: Recess is a necessity for both you and the students.  You will need the break just as much if not more than them.

Lesson #2: There will be times that you have to laugh so you don't end up crying.

Lesson #3: You will experience (with multiple senses) more poop, pee, vomit or combination of the three at an elementary school than anywhere else except a hospital...possibly.

As a teacher, I strongly believe in Lesson 1.  I had recess every single day of the year.  If the weather was too bad to go out, we pushed the tables to the edges of the room and had a dance party inside. I loved recess with a passion!  I hated recess right after lunch, especially at the beginning of and end of the school year.  Texas heat, full stomachs, and strenuous physical activity do not make a very good mix.  I think you can see where this is going so if you don't have a strong stomach, you should probably stop reading right now.

Two weeks were left before the summer holiday.  The students were done.  The teachers were done.  The normal half hour recess was mysteriously extending to forty-five minutes.  The lunch menu that day had consisted of beef or chicken quesadillas, beans, rice, and, as always, a choice of white, chocolate, or strawberry milk.  There was not a cloud in the sky, the temperature was pushing 100 and the humidity was so high you'd think you were in a sauna.  The children were running, playing, and tumbling in the grass or on the playground sets.  When our time was up, no one wanted to go in, but go in we must. There were always two classes out at recess together so the other teacher and I called our classes to line up so we could trek back inside.  Before starting the last two hours of the day, we would always go to the bathroom, wash hands, and get some water.  Everything seemed like a perfectly normal day until some of the first students started finishing up and getting in line.  Then, the screaming started.

The bathrooms were designed with a slight blind spot to the left and right of the sinks, a little alcove where students dried their hands. I could tell the noise was coming from the left one and quickly moved to investigate.  I can honestly tell you that the next few minutes felt like something out of a slapstick comedy montage.  All it needed was an epic orchestral soundtrack and a major crescendo.  One of my smallest boys, we'll call him Billy, had thrown up partially on the floor and partially on the foot of another student, Bob.  I called his name, and as he looked up at me, he had another episode all over himself.  If I had not seen it coming from his mouth, I would have sworn it was from a different part of the body.  It smelled like it too.  Bob looks down at his foot, up at me, then back down at his foot, and finally up to the student who had just thrown up on him and is still throwing up.  Bob then threw up on Billy as well as the wall behind Billy.  Students are still coming out of the bathrooms.  Some are yelling, some are trying to get away, and some are starting to look a little green themselves.  I tell the students to avoid the mess, wash their hands and get in line as fast as possible.  It wasn't fast enough for Jill who promptly threw up into the girl's sink. Billy has finally stopped throwing up but is now crying. Bob is now puking in the corner.  Jill is still hunched over her sink. I guide Billy over to the clean sink to try to help him wash up as much as I can then go check on Bob. 

As all this was going on, my partner teacher had sent a student, Kelly, down to our classrooms to grab a trash can and another to the nurse's office and was watching the rest of our thirty odd students.  She was notorious around school for having a very weak stomach so anytime we had a code brown, code yellow or code green, I usually handled the students involved while she took care of the rest of our classes.  By the time our student was finally returning down the hall with the trash can, all of the yelling had stopped, all of our students except Billy, Bob and Jill were out and away from the line of fire, and all of the puking had finally stopped.  Or so I thought.  

My partner teacher had known we had a code green, but she had not seen any of it nor realized how many students were involved.  I can only imagine what it looked like.  There was vomit on the floor, on one one wall, covering two students and floating in one of the sinks.  Vomit that looked and smelled more like poop than vomit.  Kelly and the teacher just stopped and stared at myself and three students.  My fellow teacher starts gagging, and I could already tell what was going to happen. Kelly had been holding the trash can to her side, right in front of my team teacher.  Just as the teacher bends down to make use of the trash can, Kelly whips it from her side to the front to make use of it herself.  That grown woman, my coworker, ends up throwing up on the floor in the middle of the hallway in front of all our students just as the principal and school nurse finally arrive on the scene.  To make matters worse, the whole thing had been caught on camera. In all, it ended up being the worst code green in the history of the school involving four students, a teacher, and an unfortunate bathroom area.

Once upon a time, there was a young woman named Ruby who lived under some rather average circumstances.  She was not a princess, and she did not have the ability to speak to animals or call them to do her cleaning. Her family lived in the suburbs, not a castle, and she hated her stepmom with a passion.  To be fair, her stepmom hated Ruby as well.  Even though Ruby did not possess any unique skills, boast above average intelligence, or act very kindly, she was beautiful with long hair the color of a flickering flame and wicked green eyes.  And in the realm of fairy tales, where love happens at first sight, looks are everything.

I wish that I could say that what happens to Ruby after she turns eighteen is a happy tale, but I would never want to be branded a liar.  Her stepmom did not try to kill her with a poisoned apple, but she did insist (with her husband's consent) that her stepdaughter go to college, start paying rent or get the hell out.  Suffering under the delusion that there would be a prince charming to sweep her off her feet and save her from her stepmother's evil agenda, Ruby left her childhood home to find her royal love.  She did not have a job nor savings nor even a car, but she did have a high school diploma and her looks.

Ruby traveled on foot from the suburbs into the heart of the city, carrying a single suitcase full of clothes and her favorite book, stories of princes and their damsels in distress turned princesses.  As nightfall approached, she started to wonder where she would lay her head that night.  A kind, elderly couple sitting on their porch called out to her as she passed offering her a place to stay.  Looking at their humble little house, Ruby's pride swelled in her chest, and she shot their offer down, continuing on.  Her prince was still coming, she could feel it!  And like a sign, there it was...the Court, a hotel slash club deep in one of the most notorious parts of the city.

Entering the lobby, Ruby was amazed by the splendor of both hotel and patrons.  Everything shimmered from the chandeliers overhead to the diamonds glittering on many an ear, like it was straight from a royal ball.  Deep in her heart, she envied these people for what they had, not seeing it for what it really was.  These were not kind people, and they loved to prey on the naive, especially the pretty ones.  

A man as wide as he was tall offered Ruby a place at his table in the lobby's cafe.  She could glut herself on anything she desired if she just took a seat and stayed a while.  She sat down and was ravenous in her appetite.  He offered her a job and a room at his hotel, and she took those too.  She grew as lazy and frivolous as the others in the Court, giving into sloth and shirking duty.

Months passed and Ruby thought she had finally met her prince.  He was gorgeous and strong with a great singing voice that made ladies swoon off their feet.  What she thought was love at first sight was in fact just lust.  Our naive little Ruby welcomed him into heart, home and bed.  She honestly thought she had her happy ever after.  Little did she know. 

Ruby's fairy tale lover was not a faithful man as soon she found out.  Filled with wrath, she attacked the man she thought had been her prince that night.  She toppled onto him, forcing him down onto the bed he had cheated on her in.  Oh, how Ruby wanted to hit him, wanted to make him pay for the pain she was in.  She grabbed the closest heavy object, her beloved book of fairy tales, off of the night stand and brought it down on her fake prince's head.  Again and again, she struck him with her heavy and bound childhood dreams.  Finally, Ruby's anger lessened, and her hands lowered to her sides.  Everything in the room was still, as if waiting with baited breath.  Even he was still, too still.

Ruby finally opened her eyes and saw the world without her fairy tale glasses.  There was no prince charming coming to give her true love's kiss and wake her from this nightmare.  She had given in to the seven deadly sins and committed a grievous act.  Pride, envy, gluttony, greed, sloth, lust and wrath had each taken their toll.  For the next forty years, Ruby would be wearing prison garb as orange as her hair.