School records can be wrong. So while I considered the "F" next to "Gender" in my gradebook and attendance app, I also considered the vests, the close-cut hair, the chosen nickname, and last year's work founding our rural school's first Gay-Straight Alliance.

I had never asked anyone before (never had call to, really), but I felt like I should, and after wrapping up a one-on-one discussion of writing process, I did.

"By the way, I certainly don't want to pry, and I hope you don't mind my asking. What are your preferred pronouns?"

A quiet moment. A blink or so.

"You know, no one's ever asked me that before. Thank you... I prefer 'he,'" he said.

My wife works in admissions, and almost exactly a month ago, she came home from working a grad fair with a flyer for a low-res creative writing MFA program. I laughed, for several reasons.

The idea is incredibly impractical because money time children life. I also don’t need it; I’ve got my job, and I’m fortunate enough that it’s not going anywhere. Adjuncting someday could be fun, but financially speaking, I’d be better off doing quite literally anything else. An MFA is a lazy “maybe someday” daydream for me very similar to a monthlong European vacation. Hypothetically, if I bent my will and wallet toward it I could eventually make it happen, but am I? really?

Mostly though, I laughed because as I told my wife, “It’s been two years since I’ve written literally anything.”

Those anythings were one-act plays that I sent around to a few competitions in the hopes of seeing one staged. (One finalist status and a lot of radio silence.) Three years before that was the personal essay I actually worked on for real and sent around to a few literary magazines whose niche it seemed to fit. (It didn’t.) And before that was sixteen chapters of a novel I abandoned. Total readership: around 7 for the essay (people who I named in it and wanted an OK from, but who did say they liked it), X anonymous judges for the plays, and 1 for the novel (wife, though I don’t think I ever showed her anything past chapter 10).

That all did feel a little discouraging, but mostly, I hadn’t written anything in two years because I couldn’t think of a damn thing to say. So I laughed, but even while I scoffed at myself, I realized I missed having something to say.

The well still felt very dry, so I turned to the ol’ algorithmic witching rod to hunt for a contest that could give me a topic. Google brought back a bunch of uninteresting stuff, including a contest about the end of the world, and I dropped the matter until I decided that I was going to do this, I was going to write something. So I created a Prose account and wrote about toast.

And then somebody Liked it. And somebody else. And eventually 15 people liked “Little Things,” which means that with the work of a couple hours, I had gotten roughly double the readership I had in the preceding decade.

There’s that bromide about “if you reach one person” that people trot out to cheer up artists who fail to find an audience, and usually, I think the cliché just pisses said artist off more. I have to say, though, Jesus did 15 feel nice.

I’ve been trying to give as much back to Prose people as I’m receiving, reading liking and commenting both on random new posts and posts of people who do the same with my stuff. I’ve probably missed some people. And I’m going to have to slow down my Prose pace some, both writing and reading, because I have this bad habit of feeling most creative when I have a stack of dishes or grading that I’m supposed to be dealing with. But I wanted to write a post to express my appreciation.

I will now (and for the only time, I promise) obnoxiously tag the people who have liked something I’ve posted. Thank you. The reads and likes and comments and reposts and follows mean a lot. Keep on doing your respective things.

I can say my first honest heartbreak was when I realized my little brother was an adult, but I discovered it in the worst way possible. My little brother had always been my best friend, confidant, and there was no one I trusted more in the world. I remember playing super heroes, video games, action figures, and strapping our sister's barbie dolls to the ceiling fan. I know his laugh in a crowded room. I know his stance from a mile away. We have a trick we play where we can get one another's attention by staring very focused on the other one. And then I got a call at 2 AM that he was in prison.

Within the span of one phone call, I learned that my little brother's marriage had been on the ropes for a long time. I had learned that he had been battling an addiction for years. I had learned that the little boy whose hand I would hold when I crossed the street and to this day still panic when I look behind me and don't see him, was an encarcerated criminal. At first, I blamed myself. Why didn't I ask if he had been having problems? Why didn't I see that he was struggling? Why didn't I, of all people, not see that he was going down the wrong path? When did I let go of his hand? When did he stop being my responsibility?

I watched as the world turned against him, spat on him, and he lost so many friends and family. And he just sat there and took it, knowing that he deserved every bit of their hate. I couldn't stop it! I couldn't stand in the way of the bullets being shot at him! I couldn't protect him from what these hateful people were saying! I had let go of my little brother's hand while crossing the street, and the cars were barrelling at him, but I wasn't able to reach him in time. I remember once when he tripped fell, breaking his nose. My heart had stopped and I screamed for help as I tried to stop the blood.

The little boy I held when he was so small was bleeding out now, and no matter how much I screamed for help or tried to defend him, I failed to save him. I wasn't and never will be angry at him for what he did. Hate can't live where love is the driving force. When I visited him, he didn't want to look at me, but I reached out to hold his hand like I used to. I told him, "I'm glad you're being so strong. I can see how much this is hurting you. I'm so proud of you, little bro, for being a man and taking responsibility." And we cried and held one another.

I little boy crying with a broken nose.

I man crying with a broken life.

But he is still my brother, my best friend, and my confidant. He's pulled his life together with the help of his wife, true friends and the family that helped him to heal. But he can stand tall now, because he decided to do the right thing. I'm so proud of him, and he will never know how much. My little brother became a man in the short span that I accidently let go of his hand then turned to look for him.

these days I am more mouse-caught-in-mousetrap than anything else.

what is a girl if not a collection of:

                                                    half-forgotten memories

                                                    misplaced emotions

                                                    bruised knees and weeping eyes

                                                    iron nails hammered into ribs

                                            and  something hollow in the wrists

in this colorful mosaic of regrets, I learned how to be consumed and

               how to become something that knew the price of survival.

there: an old friend my words stopped reaching.

there: a distant family member in a coffin.

there: a missed opportunity, filled with laughter that doesn't come from me.

who would have thought I'd hang on this long?

I have never been able to envision a future, too enraptured in the past.

the present is a gift I returned three birthdays ago, receipt in hand

and mouth empty.

my nails are torn off;

                                I imagine claws in the empty space they leave behind.

become a wolf, a mountain lion, a coyote--

something with a chance of survival.

did I mention the maze yet?

always twisting and turning, lost no matter what path I take.

hand against the wall, I walk

                                            endless

                                                                                            to another dead end.

I am stuck, possessed by a banshee wailing her regrets;

the only one I can name

is my name.

mouse-caught-in-mousetrap, soon to meet a hawk-hungry-in-the-fields.

tell me, is a maze without an exit a challenge or a death sentence?

either way, I trudge on, bleeding, bruised, lost and losing

                                                                                                        everything.

Death needed a secretary, but it sure as hell didn't pay enough for one.

Standing at the crossroads, wearing a bleak uniform of pale grey robes - slightly singed by the former employee of the same station - Amalia waited impatiently for the next soul to pass. Time positively crawled when you worked nine to eternity. Her next break wasn't for another three hours...or was it eons...

She sighed.

A sudden FLASH brought a bewildered soldier to her feet, legs sprawled out as if he'd been dropped from a box of toys. He stared, blinking more than typical. "Um, what happened?"

Leaning over, Amalia propped her arm over her company-provided scythe. "You died. Pay the silver and we'll get you back on your feet." She held out her hand and yawned.

"Pay what?"

"Silver. Currency. Coin." Her tone grew snappish. How was this idiot not with the program?

Patting his pockets, the soldier looked sheepish. "Uh, I seem to have spent it?"

"Well, sucks to be you then. Revives cost ten silver, no exceptions." Death always played by the rules. Otherwise it would seem unfair.

The soldier frowned. "So...I'm stuck here?"

"Absolutely not. You're dying for reals now, move along towards the light." She pointed at a beam just behind him. "Next time spend your money more wisely and don't waste it on useless starter gear. Weapons can't make up for experience."

With a sad and sorry face, the soldier stood up and sulked his way over to the glow of eternity, which embraced him in a poof of ending existence. Amalia cracked her neck and leaned back again.

Moments later a fierce-looking warrior covered in furs crackled into the space before her, axes aloft. Vexed, she spoke not a word but threw a sack filled with money towards Amalia. Catching it, death's agent waved her along and she blinked back to life with a roar.

A wizard appeared, his robes charred and slightly oozy along the hem. With a heavy sigh, he looked up. "Hello, Amalia."

She waved. "Pierce."

"Can I just pay up through the next five spawns?"

"There's no discount."

"Fine." Tossing a heavy purse to her, he grunted and adjusted his spectacles before poof life took him once more.

A few moments passed in silence. Amalia examined her black nail polish and fussed over a chip.

Another ZAP and this time her boss arrived, a skeletal figure of indeterminate race or sex, clothed only in black. "Cash out time. Hand over the silver." He held up a large satchel, which Amalia filled with her cache.

"Is it break yet?"

"Not yet. Zeke called in late."

Groaning, Amalia protested, "That's the third time this cycle! When are performance reviews?"

Death blinked. "I don't believe we've ever had them?"

"Well, I move to start! We need to get new faces in here."

Eyeless sockets stared at her. "New...faces?"

"You know what I mean!"

Contemplating, Death replied, "We'll consider it. In the meantime, you had one failed respawn?"

"Broke newb. No silver."

Death nodded. "Any other issues?"

"None. Just waiting for Pierce to come by four more times."

"Shouldn't be long. I'll be back when Zeke checks in." Turning, Death walked off into nothingness.

Amalia stretched. As jobs went, it could be worse.

She could be an adventurer.

Another poof and a scantily clad dancer waving daggers the size of chopsticks appeared with a cry.

Shaking her head, Amalia just held up her hand. "Lady, you need a bigger sugar daddy 'cause that armor's getting you nowhere."

Joseph Conrad wrote, “We live, as we dream—alone.” We can’t really explain the feeling of a dream to anyone. We can describe the events and the images, but the incommunicable whole always remains more than the sum of the parts. That missing element of the dream, the me of it, will also be absent from an account I give of my own life. Writing is a struggle against the ineffability of consciousness. I attempt to articulate my lived experience as best I can. I may not have words for my singular experience, but I feel what it is and can sense what is missing from my writing, and I strive to bridge the gap between my mind and yours.

I long ago chose to live in my corner of the world, the part of New York State in which a three-story building is a behemoth. I type this…essay? missive? journal entry?—as I wear a brown sweater in my high school classroom, a few hours before a handful of part-time thespians come to perform the comic one-act we’ve been rehearsing. Two different colleagues have stopped by to apologize for their non-attendance, but have thanked me for what I do for the kids.

I like my job, and I like doing what I do for the kids. I like that this odd little group that might never set foot on a stage otherwise is going to take on roles like Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty and delight in making fools of themselves. There is value in the life of a teacher.

But I also know what I gave up to be a teacher. I began college as a business major and an officer in the student-managed investment fund, pursuing a lucrative career in finance. I later declared my English major and received plaudits within that department, too. My decision to become a secondary educator split the faculty who knew me. Half praised me for my idealism. My supervisor at the university writing center, for one, told me she liked to “think of me out there in a school somewhere,” fighting the good fight. The other half told me to aim higher and urged me to pursue my doctorate and rise to the top of my field. I thanked them and ignored their urgings toward ambition. It was the simple life for me. Married with children in a country town, teaching high school English. That life was my greatest desire. I’ve lived that life for several years now, which means I am very fortunate. I still desire that life as much as I did at 22, which means I am very blessed.

A few minutes ago when that colleague thanked me for working with the kids, and I had wished him a happy birthday, I turned back to the football field and autumn leaves outside my window, snug in that sweater I received last Christmas. It’s one more warm little moment in a career that has stretched 15 years and will stretch 25 more. Sometimes, at these moments of satisfaction, I also feel a pang.

My smaller desire, the one I would confess to few outside of Prose, is for something I wrote to be selected for publication. That would take me beyond this little world. It would mean that I could have my provincial cake and eat it too. I could live a small life but know that my thoughts and passions had been shared, been communicated to people beyond the boundaries of my county. There is a sense in which I am a writer. I would like to feel like a real writer. I would like something I have written to be chosen.

And then, after some hugs from close friends and a celebratory bottle of local wine with my wife, I’d be back to my classroom again, a man wearing a sweater and doing what he can for the kids.