The story that follows is a short depiction of moments in the life of my father, Raymond Joseph Riling Sr, self-authored in his 84th year. It does not begin to define the man, nor suggest the influence that he exerted upon the family and friends that he gathered and nurtured in the course of his life. Dad is content to recall the times of his youth, and to mostly consider those events that shaped his formation and helped to chart the course that he followed. Dad’s service in the Second World War is something for which he has been particularly proud, and a personal reference for his life accomplishments. There is nothing that Dad held more dearly than his American citizenship.

Ray Riling Jr.

September 2024

Youth

My brother and I were born on March 25th, 1924, to our mother Ada (whose maiden name was Wilkinson), at the Good Samaritan Hospital in Philadelphia. My mother died from peritonitis seventeen days after giving birth to us; she was twenty-one years old.

My brother Joseph and I were raised by two aunts: Lillian and Frances. We grew up at 1425 West Venango Street in a three-story brownstone row home. My grandmother Anna lived with us. We grew up in a great environment. My folks owned a summer home at 850 Stenton Place in Ocean City, New Jersey, where we spent our school vacation each year. Frances taught school, and Lily was mom to us. Growing up in a family with no father present required us to take over the male counterpart once we were teenagers. We did the heavy work; shovel coal for the furnace, take out the ashes. Grandmom had broken her hip and was living on the third floor, and it was our job to empty the commode, deliver her meals etc; anything that was asked for us to do we did with no fuss.

We went to St. Steven’s Catholic School through third grade; then, because Frances was a public school teacher, changed over to Kenderton Public School, two blocks away, at 1500 West Ontario Street. We graduated from there and went to Gillespie Junior high school for one year. Our grandmother had died, and at that time our parents sold both houses and we moved to Mount Airy, to a row home at 7029 Mower Street. As I remember, we were eleven years old. We attended Roosevelt Junior High on Washington Lane. I went there until eleventh grade, at which time I quit and got a job at Bendix Aviation.

I started out as a shop boy in the Precision grinding department, but between jobs I watched and learned how to run the various grinding machines. There were a number of types of machines in the shop; one was a Centerless Grinder, of which there was only one unit in the shop. I was very friendly with the guy that operated it and he showed me how to set it up and run it. He was running a special job making vanes that were part of air valves for Submarines. One night the guy didn't show up and they found that he had passed away, and no one knew how to how to run the machine. I told the Boss that I could, and he immediately promoted me from shop boy to Machine Operator. Six more units arrived at the shop, and I was promoted to Setup Man, plus I had to teach the new operators how to run them.

My brother had left school shortly after me and was working at Midvale Steel Company (a couple of blocks away from Bendix), making more money on the Repair gang there. War jobs were frozen at that time, so I had to say that I was going to enlist in the service to get released from Bendix. I lied, and got a job at Midvale in their grinding shop. While there, we finished ground rolls in pairs, and 16-inch naval cannons for the battleships; the tolerance was one ten-thousandths of an inch. The unit that we used was made by Mesta and was the biggest machine that I saw. One night, one of the operators didn’t properly grease the centers, and the cannon came out of the machine and rolled over him like he was a pancake. We also had rolls explode if the outer surface was ground too much. I figured I had a better chance of not getting killed in the Army, so I quit after two months and enlisted in the service.

I had just turned seventeen. My brother was drafted into the Navy, where he became the chief Radio Man on an LST [853]; he was in the invasion force at Okinawa. I served four years in the Army and was discharged in 1946. I had a lot of time coming to me on the G.I. Bill of Rights, so I went back to school. My brother also went back and finished his High School education. I went to the Radio Electronics Institute at 13th and Arch Streets. The first course was Basic Radio, and after that I took a course in advanced electronics. Television was in its infancy, so I took a course in that, and then a course in Color TV. At that time there were no sets on the market. At the same time, I got a job repairing Radios at a local record store that did radio repair. RCA just brought out their first TV [Model 630]. The other guy in the shop didn’t know anything about TV, so I talked the boss into taking in televisions for repair.

One day we got news that my Boss dropped dead. They closed the store, and I was out of work. I did both shop work and outside repair calls for twenty-five years with that company.

Army Life

On December 12th 1942, I enlisted in the Reserve Corp of the Army. I was only 17 years old and had to get my father’s permission to enlist. I had some Military training as I had spent six months in the Pennsylvania State Guards, training nights and weekends at the Armory at Broad and Callowhill, which was also known as the 103rd Engineers Armory.

I was sent to “Chamberlain Aircraft School”, located at Broad and Spring Garden Streets in Philadelphia, where I had training for Morse code. My cousin Barry Fisher was a ham radio operator and made me familiar with the code because I would use his set to listen to Ship to Shore Stations.

I was then inducted into active service and sent to Fort Meade, MD. The first night there I pulled KP duty. I never saw such a large Mixmaster in my life; you had to put eggs in by the crate. Every hour a new group of personnel would show up to eat.

After being there for about a week, I shipped out to Camp Crowder, MO, for eight weeks of basic training. The training included the usual combat stuff; rifle range, crawling under barb wire (while they fired live ammo overhead), pole climbing, wire laying, obstacle course, etc. The Drill instructors also would surprise us with mock gas attacks (Tear Gas) while marching from one location to another.

There was one guy in our squad that no one cared for, a real F_ _ K UP who would constantly get the squad in trouble that would lead to our weekend pass to town being pulled. The way the Army gas mask worked was by a very flexible rubber “flutter valve” that allowed you to expel breathed air which was obtained from a filter canister through a hose to the mask, but stopped one from inhaling outside air. This gave the guys (I’m not confessing) the perfect answer to retaliate for all the “lost weekends”. We had two options; one was to stuff a sock down the hose therefore blocking safe air altogether or removing the “flutter valve” completely. In the service you “always want to have a backup so we chose both”. The next gas attack proved the most interesting and satisfying one that the squad had ever witnessed. The Platoon Sergeant hit the gas alarm and everyone put on their masks. The guy got three days of KP for trying to remove his mask to get air. Needless to say we never lost a weekend pass again.

At completion of this training, I was assigned to attend Radio School, which was the general training in code (15wpm) and procedure, upon which time you would be assigned to a unit as a field radio operator in the Infantry or some other branch of the service. My grading with the course lead to me to assigned to High Speed School (25wpm), which generally leads to an assignment in a higher echelon station. I finished HSS and was ready to ship out, when I was approached by the Captain with the news that I was to be assigned to Radio Intelligence School.

At this school I was taught the same procedures as if I were a German Radio Operator, and had to show that I could copy German code at 35 wpm to qualify. The course lasted about eight weeks and I breezed through it. I was then sent to “Camp Miles Standish” near Boston, which was the port of embarkation and boarded the British Cruise ship the “Mauritania” that was the sister ship of the “Queen Mary”, which had been converted into a troop ship.

We sailed escorted by a Navy Destroyer and a Navy Blimp for about two hours then our escorts left and we were on our own. The ship did a zigzag course for the next six days as she was very fast and could outrun enemy submarines. About the night of the third day, a submarine was detected and the engines were stopped and we sat silently there for the rest of the night with all water-tight doors closed, ready for the worst. Every day on the trip the British Gun crews would have target practice. The ship was armed with four Twin Bofors cannons, two multi- tube rocket launchers and at the stern a five-inch cannon. They would launch a parachute target from one of the rocket tubes and fire at it. I never saw them hit any, which was very reassuring.

On the sixth day we arrived at the Port of Liverpool, England and disembarked. From there I was sent to a replacement depot called “Fresbie Farm”. The next day I was on a train headed for East Bourne on the coast to join my outfit that originally formed in Texas, the “129th Signal Radio Intelligence Co”. Our company originally was designated the 114th, but I had wondered why it was changed to the 129th. I was not sure if another outfit had been formed using that designation, but later found out it had been assigned to the 3rd Army. As the train pulled into the station, which was the end of the line, and I opened the door I heard this putt-putt sound and looked up to see my first V1 “Buzz Bomb” being chased by a Spitfire with machine guns blazing. He did the job as the bomb was hit and exploded. The British sailor that I had been with in the railroad car told me that I would see plenty of them and he was right. They were designed to run out of fuel about the time they were over London. The British had made up their minds that this would never happen; sorry to say it did very often.

I reported into Headquarters which was located in a Boys Military Academy, and was told to go to one of the cottages. Each billet housed a squad of eight men and I met my new buddies and was issued a Thompson sub-machine gun as my weapon. I went down to the Channel, which was only a couple blocks away to take a look. It reminded me of being at the beach at Ocean City, NJ, except the whole beach was nothing but barbed wire and tank obstacles placed there to ward off German invasion troops. The British has also placed a pipeline under water along the coast so they could pump fuel oil into the water and ignite it setting the surf on fire. Right\off the coast the British had “Flak Barges” that were armed with anti-aircraft guns. V1s (Buzz Bombs) came over constantly, and some were destroyed, but many hit the London area. Some would run out of fuel early, and as long as you could hear the putt-putt sound you knew you were ok.

One day I was getting ready to leave the house when I heard one overhead, then the silence. I dove under a big heavy oak table that was nearby just before it hit. The ceiling fell down on top of me, but the table saved me. Unfortunately the British searchlight crew of six got hit directly and were all killed. The crew was made up of “Wrens” the Brits name for the Army “Wacs”, so war has no gender.

Always being a souvenir hunter I went out to the tree in front of the house and picked out chunks of shrapnel to send home to my Dad. Nighttime was Air Raid time. The Germans would come over nearly every night. I used to go out on the roof of the headquarters and watch the planes come over, headed for London. It was like the 4th of July, with searchlights and tracer bullets, and now and then a plane would go down in flames.

In the daytime, raids were fewer, but I would see B-17’s on their bombing runs or coming home, some ditching in the channel, others with part of the plane missing. The British Spitfire and Hurricane Fighter pilots were unbelievable. I actually saw one Hurricane pilot catch up to a Buzz Bomb, get his wing under the bomb and flip it so the gyro sent it back over the channel.

Then came an even more terrifying weapon the “V2” rocket. This weapon gave no warning before hitting its target and its destruction was even greater. When one hit it made a thirty-foot deep crater. This was a much more accurate missile, and they really rained terror on the civilian population. Again, the good Lord was looking after me: I had been on a two day leave in London and had just left “Charring Cross Station” and was about two blocks away, when a “V2” hit, causing great devastation and death. I can’t begin to tell you how courageous the British people were during the Battle of Britain”. They had a 9/11 every day.

I was stationed at Eastbourne for about a month before D-day. Our outfit was made combat ready and went by convoy to the port of Plymouth, and there we boarded an old Victory ship for the Channel crossing to France. It was a rough crossing and most of the guys got seasick. Our ship stopped off the beach and we were transferred by cargo net over the side into a Higgins boat which took us onto Omaha beach. The beachhead already had been taken by units of the 29th and 1st infantry divisions. The Germans had put up a heavy resistance, and the Infantry really had a tough time fighting as the land was made up divisions called Hedgerows, but finally the Germans were on the run. We stopped on the outskirts of Paris at a small farming town called " La Ferté-sous-Jouarre”, where I went to one small house and presented the billeting paper I had been given and was granted permission to stay there. The family consisted of the Mom and Pop, a young daughter and young son, and a little lamb that was the kids’ pet. They showed me my room, which was small but had a large goose-down bed in it, and needless to say I had a good night’s sleep. The next day I was told it was the little girl’s birthday, so I went out and shot a large rabbit for dinner. I have to confess that I also stole from the mess tent a gallon size can of carrots. That night we really had a feast, and the old man brought out a bottle of his homemade booze. I must mention that (as I had provided the meal) they gave me the choicest part (in their mind): the Rabbits HEAD.

The next day we were back online. Our outfit went through towns such as Empery-Chateau Thierry-and other WW1 battlefield locations. We entered Germany at Saarbrucken and went thru the Dragon’s Teeth fortification of the Siegfried line. I had taken the grips off my .45 auto pistol, which I carried for four years and still have today, and pasted papers inside them to keep track of the various towns we entered but unfortunately they got lost after the war. Some of the towns - Saarbrucken; Bitche; Manheim; Worms; Strassberg; Colmar; Luniville; Saverne; Nancy; Saarburg; Bensheim; Fulda; and Kaiserlauters, I can remember. Our Company was awarded a unit citation (we called it the toilet seat). The French gave us an award also. We were in the 6th Army Group, commanded by General Divers, consisting of the American 7th Army (13 Steps to Hell, as it was known) commanded by General Patch, and for a short period with the 1st French commanded by General de Tassigny. The last Division we operated with was the 3rd (Rock of the Marne) and, incidentally Audie Murphy’s unit and also my father’s in WWI. He was in Company F, 4th Infantry and was a 2nd Lieutenant. I still have the sidearm he carried in the war. Our outfit swung south down the autobahn past Munich, whose center strip was painted to look like it was divided from the air. We encountered Germans planes and destroyed them with machine gun fire from our ring mounted .50’s.

My Army organization number was 738, which translates to (Radio Intercept German). Our company was comprised of about 250 men, consisting of Intercept Operators 3-Direction finding units (portable and mobile). We had about 47 vehicles: 21 1/2 ton GMC trucks, a ¾ ton weapon carrier, jeeps, a decipher team, and a mobile transmitting station (SCR299) that contained a 500 watt transmitter used for long distance communication, plus teletype equipment. Our outfit was mobile so we were able to be assigned to any division or group that needed us. We also had a team that spoke German fluently, so we could copy Handy-Talky intercept. Our job was to locate, identify and determine the next move of the enemy.

We had what was known as the “Q Book”, which contained information: outfit, number of men, armament - the works. These messages were encoded in the German field code known as HST. The German operator would set his encoding machine (“Enigma”, developed incidentally as a commercial cipher machine in the early 1920’s then adopted by the Germans and modified for military use) each day with a three letter setup. The machine looked like a typewriter. When the operator pressed a key it sent an electrical signal from the keyboard to a set of rotors and plug board that lit up a code alphabet. These rotors were changed at least once a day plus the plugs were rearranged. In order for the receiving station to read the coded message the other operator had to know the exact placement of the rotors plus the three letter setting code that told him how to reset the rotors and the plug board.

The first three letters of the message therefore contained the machine setting. For example, a sequence entered on only one of the keys would repeat itself only after 17,000 entries. By changing the starting position of the keys and further complicated by a built-in 26 socket electric plug board, up to 159 million starting positions were possible. The coded messages were then transmitted in five letter code groups. Our allies the Poles and Brits had broken the German code early in the war and we also had captured a German “Enigma” machine. The last code to be broken and the toughest was the Naval code as they used up to five rotors on their machines. One was finally grabbed off a sinking German submarine by a boarding crew from a British destroyer.

Once the enemy broke radio silence their goose was cooked. We tri-angulated their signal, and if they were to our immediate front we either captured or killed them with ground troops or called in air support and knocked them out. German transmitters had a very distinct clean sound, and Americans were very chirpy, and after a bit you could even recognize the German operator by the way he keyed his transmitter. We were taught to send with what was called a “Mechanical Fist” to avoid this. At one point one of the outfits similar to ours had been captured and the Germans changed their code, and for a number of months our intelligence was nil until we broke the new code.

The Polish (before their country’s invasion by Germans) and British were the real Code Breakers, and they are the ones that deserve most of the credit. It was their work done at Bletchley Park, their headquarters in England (about 50 miles north of London) code-named “Ultra”, where Postal Engineers developed a decoding machine that would read paper tapes at excess of five thousand letters per second. They called the unit “Colossus” (used to crack the Lorenz Cipher) because of its large size. The computing power of the machine could now be put into a microprocessor the size of your thumb today. Actually, it was the first programmable computer.

Our notable intercepts: One was when we were in the woods just outside of the town of Saverne. The Germans had a large Railway gun that had been bombarding the town fiercely. The Germans made the mistake of sending a message that was intercepted by us. The gun position was located, and was destroyed by British bombers that we called in. The other instance didn’t have such a happy ending as we followed the armored buildup for nearly a month in the Ardennes and reported it to a higher headquarters. They claimed the Germans were simply playing transcriptions of tank movements and didn’t act on it. The result was the “Battle of the Bulge”, and a lot of dead GI’s would still be alive had they listened to us.

I passed through the town of Baden-Baden in Bavaria, where my Great-Grandfather was born. I was in Austria when news came of the passing of our Commander-in-Chief (FDR). It was really a morale buster, as just about then the War was over. We had reached the Brenner Pass in Italy.

Then the war was over, and VE Day had arrived. The company was sent north to a town just outside of Kassel, Germany. Our job was finished. We had about fifty men left in the company for various reasons, plus some German prisoners that did all the work. I had been promoted twice and was put in charge of the Motor Pool. So my time was spent riding around in a jeep and hunting with my buddy at Herman Goering’s private estate, which encompassed quite a few hundred acres of ground and provided the company with fresh meat and a lot of fun for us. My buddy and I shot Rey (a small deer much like a chamois), Hirsch (similar to our Elk) and Wild Boar. He was crack shot and used a captured Mousers 98K to hunt with, while I used an MI Garand. We would always drop off some game when returning from a hunt at this small farming town that had a center square with a watering hole in the center for their oxen to drink. The people would wait for us, ready to divide the meat amongst the townspeople. Thank God when VE Day arrived.

I organized a dance band (I played trumpet), and used to play Bob Hope shows and various dances at different outfits: it was a bum’s life. We played one job at an officer club and the tenor sax guy in the band swiped five bottles of American Whiskey, put them in his Sax case, and started to walk across the dance hall floor. It didn’t go too well for him needless to say. My Buddy and I took a trip to visit Hitler’s summer retreat the Berghof where I stood on the same ground where that maniac stood. We also took pictures looking out the large picture windows that are always shown in a newsreel or movie. The house itself had been heavily bombed, so it was just a shell. A couple of months later, replacements came into the company as members of the Army of Occupation. I had plenty of points to come home so I figured it was time to go. I was asked to stay as a sergeant if I re-enlisted for another hitch, but I had had enough and besides, my mother was home and waiting. I knew my brother was back home from the Navy and was with her or I wouldn’t have stayed as long overseas. My hunting buddy did stay in the service, and our Company became part of the National Security Agency. He stayed in the service for 35 years before retiring. I still hear from him today.

One experience that I would like to tell about. When the Company was at rest in the German town of Bensheim, I got to know an old man by talking to him a number of times while I was on Guard duty. He was a Butcher, and he invited me to dinner a couple of times, even with the scarcity of food they had. His son was a German soldier and had been killed in action. He told me that I reminded him of his son. Then our company was sent back online, but I never forget how kind he was to me.

On Christmas Eve the war was over. It was snowing, and I went to the supply tent and grabbed a 10-in-one ration box (containing 3 meals for 10 men). The Army issued three types of meals: K ration, which were individual one meal packs that contained a small can about the size of a can of tuna fish, a small pack of drink or bouillon powder, four cigarettes and a piece of hard candy and some hardtack known as K-1 biscuit (this was the usual ration issued on the line and we were issued three a day). The “C” ration was in a can similar to a can of beans that you could either eat cold or put in hot water to heat. Then came the10-in-1, and then finally a hot meal supplied from a cook tent when you weren’t on the move. I jumped in my jeep and drove about forty miles to Blenheim and presented the Family with “Christmas Dinner”. We really had a party: he had his son’s accordion, and I played a bunch of German traditional songs and some of the popular American dance music.

I will never forget that old man. He must have been about eighty years old.

Another time I had driven a 2 1/2 ton truck to Paris to pick up some motors for our weapon carriers. I had taken a bunch of clothing that I talked the supply Sergeant out of (he wanted to trade for a trip ticket for a jeep that could only be issued by me so he could visit his girl in the next town). I swapped the duds for cases of Wine and Champaign. The weather was horrible; cold as a bitch, and snowing so bad you could hardly see the road. My gas was really running very low when I spotted a sign that pointed to an armored outfit, so I drove there figuring if anybody had gas, they would. They were giving a party for a guy who had just been awarded the Medal of Honor, a little short guy that you would never take to be a hero, proof that what you see may not be what you get. I gassed up and started back down the road and I spotted a woman with a baby struggling her way in the storm. I stopped the truck and talked to her with the sparse German I knew and she told me she was going home to a town that was a bit out of our way. My buddy and I helped her in the truck and took her to the town and dropped her off.

The day finally arrived in 1946 when it was time to bid goodbye to Europe. I left for home from the Port of Cherbourg in France aboard the troop ship General Brooks along with hundreds of other guys retuning home. As I remember, the trip took seven days and I can still picture passing the “Grand Old Lady” in New York harbor. I could hardly believe it, but there waving to me from the dock, was my father. What a nice meeting after four years. Pop had a way of getting where others couldn’t go, as he had a Government Pass because he was employed at that time by the Army Signal Corp. I got permission to visit with him for a bit, then took a bus to Fort Dix, NJ, where I was mustered out and took a bus back to Philly and a taxi home. I gave my Mom a big hug and kiss and took off my uniform for the last time.

P.S.- I am not sure as to the spelling of the towns, nor will you find anything in the above about the devastation and gory parts (the German atrocities at Dachau that to this day give me flash-backs, yet some deny they ever happened). I can tell you that if it wasn’t for the 129th SRI Company and similar outfits (eight in the European Theater) and the guys in them that made the sacrifice, the American body count at the end of the war would have been much greater. I salute all those that served, including my sons Ray and Richard, his son Dennis, and my brother Joe. Our family spans three wars, Theatres and services. God Bless America and the Polish and British, for their skills in Code Breaking.

RAY RILING

UNITED STATES ARMY

13179267

by

William Riling

Reedsy Prompt: Write a story named after, and inspired by, one of

Shakespeare’s plays. Think modern retellings, Meta-narratives, subversions, etc.

Newsflash – June 16th, 2024, Dateline: Verona, Wisconsin—

16-year-old Romeo Montague and 14-year-old Juliet Capulet were found dead today in the parking lot of Verona High School, the result of an apparent suicide pact. Texts of their final moments were found on the star-crossed lover’s iPhones but not released to the public. Funeral services are pending. In lieu of flowers the families are asking donations to be made to Suicide Prevention Hotline of Verona.

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(Transcript from Juliet Capulet’s iPhone. Property of Verona Homicide Dept.)

Romeo: FTT?

Juliet: No. PAW.

Romeo: IDC. Your parents don’t scare me.

Juliet: FYI My dad would see me unalive if he knew we were texting.

Romeo: PLS?

Juliet: W8. BBIAS.

Romeo: Don’t be long.

Juliet: Dad’s GFN. WAG1?

Romeo: Just want to say URA QTPI.

Juliet: U think URA rizzler? AI.

Romeo: BLATES. JSYK, UR Verona High’s hottest cheerleader.

Juliet: LOL! YGTR.

Romeo: I wanted to ask U to the prom BAE.

Juliet: SRSLY?

Romeo: For reals.

Juliet: ICYMI, URA Montague.

Romeo: IK. N URA Capulet.

Juliet: I guess a rose by any other name would still smell, but not like Axe Body Wash.

Romeo: ROFL! Now, that’s DISS.

Juliet: LOL.

Romeo: I dunno why our parents hate each other so much.

Juliet: URZ are MAGA.

Romeo: So, URZ are WOKE.

Juliet: Totally PEAK.

Romeo: ADIH. SUX.

Juliet: Hell? YGTR.

Romeo: So YAV?

Juliet: SRY, not available. Paris already asked me 2 prom.

Romeo: WTF? NO CAP? Paris? He’s like totally G.

Juliet: My parents insist. They see it as a LTR.

Romeo: IDGAF. UR going with me. ILY. I’m climbing up your balcony to get you.

Juliet: LMAO. UR Kray-Kray!

Romeo: SRSBSNS. I’m looking at you now, “WTF's that bright light in that window? OMG! It’s Juliet, like the sun, making the moon jealous 'cause she’s way more lit."

Juliet: ROFL! Now UR just SIMPING.

Romeo: HELLA. ILY.

Juliet: OMG! I don’t believe it.

Romeo: FR.

Juliet: Not U! Paris just sent me a SC.

Romeo: Snap Chat?

Juliet: FR! A dic-pic!

Romeo: SOB! DO U mean (Cucumber emoji)? (IYKYK.)

Juliet: IK! DAFUQ. That’s total DISS.

Romeo: I’m going to kick his A.

Juliet: Not B4 me! W8 until I tell Tybalt!

Romeo: GMAB. I don’t need UR cousin’s help.

Juliet: EZ. He wants to kick UR ass 2.

Romeo: Let him try. I got SWAG to take them both on.

Juliette: PROLLY. I'm you're number 1 STAN.

Romeo: It HITS DIFFERENT when it comes 2 U.

Juliet: IK. I'm you're GF. LET THEM COOK. U N Me R going to prom.

Romeo: KEWL! UR FIRE!

Juliet: N UR the GOAT.

Romeo: I’m going to score some Molly from Mercutio for the after party. YOLO!

Juliet: UR just hoping we be FWB. Remember, UR the LOML(Heart emoji)! MWAH!(Kiss emoji)

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(Transcript from Romeo Montague’s iPhone. Property of Verona Homicide Dept.)

Romeo: Mercutio, trying 2 get X or MOLLY ASAP. 4 prom.

Mercutio: I heard the stuff Tybalt has is SUS. Let me check with Benvolio.

Romeo: LMK. I’m FINNA look around.

Mercutio: Benvolio’s got X or GHB if U want 2 make a night of it.

Romeo: NLT. X.

Mercutio: JK. Go EZ on the stuff, OK?

Romeo: BLATES! Let’s M.I.R.L. at the SKL parking lot. THX, TTYL.

Mercutio: YW, OMW.

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(Transcript from Juliette Capulet’s iPhone. Property of Verona Homicide Dept.)

Juliette: RRWFATR?

Romeo: OMW. ETA 7pm.

Juliette: Wait until U see the dress Nurse made me. EPIC!

Romeo: CW 2 CU in it, CW 2 CU out of it 2!

Juliette: SMH. U expecting SEGGS? DYOR.

Romeo: U R my dream.

Juliette: N UR my BFF.

Romeo: OK, GF. CUINAMIN.

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(Transcript from Romeo Montague’s iPhone. Property of Verona Homicide Dept.)

Romeo: Mercutio, ANSWR UR phone! WTFRU?

Mercutio: WAZZUP?

Romeo: WTFU give me, man!? U said it was MOLLY! Juliette took 2! She ain’t breathing, man!

Mercutio: FU! I didn’t do nothing, GYAT! Benvolio sold me ’em!

Romeo: A curse on both your houses!

Mercutio: IDK! Maybe they’re laced with Fentanyl! Get her to the hospital man, STAT!

Romeo: I can’t hear her heartbeat. I can only hear mine and it’s breaking.

Mercutio: Dude, get ahold of URSELF. Call 911!

Romeo: It’s too late she’s dead! I can’t go on living without her.

Mercutio: DBS. Think!

Romeo: 2L8. I washed the rest of the pills down with a 20 OZ. Yeungling. Here's to my love! O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus, with a kiss I die. CYA.

Mercutio: W8 a SEC. Delete these messages first! Romeo?

Mercutio: Romeo?

Mercutio: Romeo?

Mercutio: FML.

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(Transcript from Juliette Capulet’s iPhone. Property of Verona Homicide Dept.)

Juliette: OMG! Nurse!

Nurse: What’s wrong Juliette?

Juliette: I must’ve been asleep. I woke up in Romeo’s car to find he OD’d.

Nurse: Are you sure he’s dead? What do you see?

Juliette: What's here? A pill bottle, closed in my true love's hand. An empty can of Yeungling.

Nurse: Call 911.

Juliette: It’s too late for that. He's gone. FML. I found a garden hose in his trunk. O happy tailpipe! This is thy hose; there is exhaust and let me die.

Nurse: Juliette! Stop! You have everything to live for! Don’t do this!

Juliette: I already told Romeo my bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite. GTG.

Nurse: Juliette! No!

Juliette: Me…thinks… me feeling very drowsy indeed.

Nurse: I’m calling 911! Juliette!

Nurse: Juliette, answer me!

----------------------------------------------------------------

(Transcript from Nurse's iPhone. Property of Verona Homicide Dept.)

Nurse: Tybalt, I have terrible news.

Tybalt: I heard. I just left the Capulets, and I am on my way over to inform the Montagues.

Nurse: They were so young.

Tybalt: IK. I shouldn't have been so hard on the kid.

Nurse: Don't blame yourself. It's not your fault.

Tybalt: OK. THX. TTYL.

Nurse: It's just a tragedy, for never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

----------------------------------------------------------------

by

Wilkinson Riling

Every game felt like a symphony to eighteen-year-old Kelvin White. The chirp of athletic shoes braking on the parquet floor. The rhythmic drumming of a dribbled basketball pounding on wood, building tension as he planned his approach to the hoop. All the while surrounded by a cacophony of whistles and whoops and thunderous applause inside the Lower Merion High School Gymnasium just outside Philadelphia where, in this orchestration, Kelvin was the conductor, leading the players down the court, directing the drive with a pass here, a pick there, finishing off with a cymbal-like crash on the basket.

The young black man's concert hall this evening was the Kobe Bryant Gymnasium named after the famous alumni. Bryant’s high school jersey banner, number thirty-three, hung from the very rafters under which Kelvin performed. Kelvin White had dreams of living to see his own number sixty-four hanging right next to it. This night’s quarter final game against Chester would see that dream realized sooner than expected, not because of his Bryant-breaking record with 2,897 points, but of something totally unforeseen.

This playoff game against Chester High School was as dramatic as any Beethoven opus. The rivalry between the two teams went back years and many passions stirred. The gym was packed to spill over with fans from both schools. In the stands things got heated as the game clock wound down on a tight score. A fight broke out in the bleachers between a group of students and a rowdy bunch of Chester supporters who had no affiliation to either school. In the melee, one of the fans, a gang banger from across town pulled a gun from his waist band. How he got past the metal detectors was a question for later; no acceptable answer was ever given.

Shots rang out followed by bedlam. A tsunami of fear caused a stampede for the exits. More people were injured by falls and being trampled than from gun fire. Still, three bullets found targets before the gun was wrestled away and the perpetrator beaten to within an inch of his life. A middle-aged woman near the top of the bleachers on the far side of the gym was struck in the arm. On the floor, a referee caught a slug in his hip. Only by the grace of God, it was said, no one died. Yet, what were the odds that in the middle of a possible game winning lay-up, the final round fired from the .45 caliber weapon would strike a young team captain down?

Kelvin White lay wounded beneath the basket unable to move, surrounded by teammates forming a protective barrier. An opposing player removed his jersey trying to stop the blood loss from the gunshot wound in Kelvin’s spine. For his part, Kelvin felt no pain. His face lay sideways on the parquet floor with Kelvin paralyzed, trying to look back at what was happening behind him, trying to remain calm. His eye locked onto the single jersey banner hanging from the rafter above. A tear slipped down his cheek onto the floor.

“I ain’t going! You can’t make me!” Kelvin shouted. Nine months had passed since the Lower Merion Mass Shooting as it was called in the media. Kelvin White, the once promising athlete with scholarships and endorsement contracts in his future, found himself a paraplegic living with his uncle in a West Philly row home. Thanks to an incredibly successful GoFundMe page they were able to remodel the house for handicapped access with an access ramp, safety bars in the bathroom and throughout, plus a pulley system to assist in transferring from bed to wheelchair. The living room was now converted into Kelvin’s bedroom. The wheelchair, too, was purchased from the donated funds. That’s not to say maneuvering within the home was easy. The two-story structure was narrow as was its entrance. That fact made it easier for Kelvin to brace himself and keep his wheelchair from moving forward as his Uncle Nate futilely pushed from behind.

“Please, Kelvin, this is your night.” Nate Gorman, his maternal uncle cajoled. Nate stepped into a parental role after his sister Rhonda, Kelvin’s mother, was incarcerated for larceny. She had written bad checks on her employer’s account to the tune of a five-figure amount. She was sentenced to five years at a Lehigh Valley Woman’s Prison. That happened two years before the tragedy. Part of Kelvin’s drive to succeed was to make sure his mother never had to steal again. Kelvin never knew his father. Nate never tried to fill that role, but a more dedicated uncle and brother you couldn’t find. “The school is honoring you.” Nate reminded him.

“You mean they’re pitying me.” Kelvin shot back. “I don’t need their pity.”

“Yes you do! You need their pity! And you need their charity! We’re barely staying afloat now with all the medical bills and lawyer fees!” Nate pulled Kelvin back into the house and spoke into his ear. “How long do you think I’d keep this house if I missed a mortgage payment? My postal salary alone won’t cut this. We need that GoFundMe money to provide you with care until the lawsuit is final. Now I’ll clean your ass everyday until hell freezes over without bitching. The least you can do is help see we both don’t end up homeless.”

Kelvin let go of the doorway lowering his head with a sigh.

N offered a simple, “Thank you.” He pushed Kelvin out toward the awaiting van and chair lift.

The crowd at the gymnasium couldn’t have been more enthusiastic. Kelvin and Nate entered from a side door. “All I Do is Win” by DJ Khaled blasted from the speakers. Applause rolled like a wave through the gym as people recognized Kelvin. Reporters from three local channels with camera crews were present. Nate had already vetoed any interviews. Principal Harold Stark guided the pair to center court where two dozen folding chairs set on a black carpet were aligned in rows. They contained Kelvin’s coaches, teammates and teachers from last season. A rectangular black drape about three feet wide hung inches off the floor lit by a single spot. A video they were to show of Kelvin’s basketball play had been nixed at the last minute and replaced with a sole high school photo, Kelvin, waist up with an ear-to-ear grin wearing his letterman jacket.

Coach Martin Devers stood at the podium to speak on the occasion. He spoke of meeting Kelvin as a freshman recruited from Our Mother of Sorrows Catholic Grade School where Kelvin was a star athlete in several sports and about how he was blown away by Kelvin’s determination and drive. He told how Kelvin’s mother explained that she named him after the temperature measuring Kelvin scale because of his inner fire—his ability to go from absolute zero bringing energy and intensity to whatever he does. The coach spent the next several minutes highlighting Kelvin’s statistical accomplishments, ending with, “…Kelvin White, number sixty-four is only the second number here at Lower Merion to be retired, thank you for honoring our school with that privilege.”

With that, the black drape was pulled aside revealing a large maroon and white banner with the block numbers “sixty-four” five feet high and crowned with the name “WHITE.” The DJ set up by the bleachers played Boys to Men’s slow torch song “The End of the Road.” The crowd listened solemnly. Kelvin watched his jersey, followed by a spotlight, ascend like a ghost. Tears began to fill his eyes. His teammate, assistant captain Earnest Stitt, could see the vibe was all wrong. He jumped from his chair toward the DJ, accidentally tilting the folding chair which smacked the floor with a crack as loud as a gunshot. Kelvin’s head shook at the sudden noise. Stitt admonished the DJ. The song quickly changed to “Motown Philly” and the crowd began to applaud as Kelvin’s number took its spot next to Kobe Bryant’s jersey banner. Still startled by the noise, Kelvin’s mind was somewhere else, he reached over to Nate. “Take me home.”

Nate leaned in. “What’s wrong?”

Kelvin shielded his face with a hand to his brow. “Get me out of here. Take me home, now. Don’t you ever bring me back here.” For Kelvin it was a bitter reminder of what he once was and believed he would never be again, a champion.

Nate could see Kelvin’s urine bag on the side of the wheelchair beginning to fill. He leapt up, pulled a 360 with Kelvin’s chair while at the same time apologizing to Principal Stark and Coach Devers for their hasty exit. The crowd watched in confusion wondering if the ceremony was over. Nate and Kelvin made for the exit. The gym doors closed behind them to a smattering of perplexed applause.

Another three months had passed. Nate, when not at work, had a neighbor check in on Kelvin. He was concerned Kelvin was showing the signs of an agoraphobic. He refused to leave the house, had to be coerced to bathe and spent his days watching television shows from the 70’s, reruns of reruns, which is how his days were beginning to feel. But the house was beginning to smell like a nursing home, and Nate was going to change that on this Saturday.

“Wake up, your going out today.” His uncle opened the living room blinds letting the sun in for the first time in months.

Kelvin shielded his eyes with both arms. “I ain’t going nowhere. There’s a Sanford and Son marathon today.”

“Either you’re going outside, or the TV is going out in the trash and Lamont can come and get it. You don’t want to test me on this.”

Kelvin peeked out from under his arms to see his uncle’s angry face. Kelvin shook his head in surrender.

An hour and a half later Uncle Nate pulled the van into a handicap space at Clark Park in West Philly. After parking, he lowered Kelvin and his wheelchair down on the lift. They entered the park and stopped. “Now what?” Kelvin grumbled.

“Now you can get yourself some exercise. I’m gonna go play some bocce ball with my friends over there.” A group of men Nate’s age were rolling colored balls across the grass in a game of bocce. Kelvin watched the group greet Nate with smiles, hugs and laughter.

“Looks like fun, why don’t you play?” The voice came from behind Kelvin. It sounded like Morgan Freeman had just eaten a stick of butter; it was deep and smooth and gentle. Kelvin spun around in his wheelchair. A black man, in his seventies, thin and lanky wearing a fedora was sitting on a green checkered folding chair by a table-high block of stone. Kelvin saw several other stone blocks with men seated apart, all playing chess. “Unless you prefer a bigger challenge.” His large hand gestured to chess pieces lined up ready for battle. “My opponent quit. He tired of losing. You ever get tired of losing?”

“No.” Kelvin spun his back to the man.

“I guess it’s hard to tire of losing if you’re too scared to get in the game in the first place.” The velvet voice mocked.

Kelvin retorted. “I never played chess before. Make it checkers and I’ll whip your skinny ass.”

“I can teach you in no time.” The man replied with confidence.

Kelvin turned and wheeled over; the man removed a chair to make space. “Samuel Simutowe. Pleased to meet you…?”

“White. Kelvin White.”

“Okay, Mr. White. Let’s start you off with the white pieces then, shall we? White gets first move.” He turned the board placing the white pieces in front of Kelvin. “Now the first thing you need to know is there are sixty-four squares on the chessboard. Thirty-two light, Thirty-two dark.”

“Sixty-four?”

“Yes, why do you have a problem with that?” Sam asked.

Kelvin thought it odd it matched his jersey number. “No.”

“Good. Now, we each have sixteen chessmen lined up for battle. Your goal is to capture my King while preventing me from capturing yours. Think you can do that?”

Kelvin pointed to the chess pieces. “Just tell me how these things move, Grady.”

Sam leaned back. “Grady? Who’s Grady?”

The man reminded Kelvin of the character in Sanford and Son. “I meant, Sam. Now show me.”

In under an hour, Kelvin had learned the rudimentary aspects of the game enough to put a smile on his face when he moved a bishop into place and firmly said, “Check.”

Sam looked at the board, indeed he was in check, and he was in trouble. His hand went to his chin as he surveyed the battle field.

Kelvin pushed. “C’mon, move.”

Sam lowered his hand to his king holding a finger on it deciding where to move.

Kelvin grew impatient. “C’mon.”

Sam took his finger off the king and pinched his black knight. He lifted it and toppled Kelvin’s white bishop. He took the piece. “Checkmate.”

With a swing of his arm Kelvin cleared the table scattering the pieces to the ground.

“Son, you’ve got to learn to lose better than that.”

“Don’t tell me about losing. I lost everything, old man.”

Sam pointed to his own head. “You didn’t lose this. I can see you lost use of your legs, for that I’m sorry.”

Kelvin snapped. “I don’t need your pity, Grady.”

“But if you lost this.” Sam pointed to his own heart. “That’s completely on you.” There was silence. “So, what do you say? Rematch?”

Kelvin tilted his head with a look of disdain. “Fine.”

Sam stood up. “Okay, then. You sit there, leave me to pick up the pieces.”

Two hours later, Nate approached a small crowd gathered around his nephew who was talking with a stranger and playing chess. Behind the spectators Nate peeked over a shoulder just in time to see Kelvin declare, “Checkmate.” Murmurs of surprised approval ricocheted within the group; money exchanged hands.

Nate stepped in. “Kelvin, what’s going on here?”

“This your son?” Sam asked Nate.

“My nephew.” He extended a hand. “Nate Gorman.”

“Pleased to meet you. I guess you can call me Grady.” He looked at Kelvin. “That was the bet, wasn’t it? You get to call me Grady if you win?”

Kelvin smiled and nodded. Nate double blinked. He hadn’t seen a smile on Kelvin in about a year.

“Nate, your nephew here is a natural born chess player. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could achieve an Elo rating of 2000. He sees the board three moves ahead. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Yeah. He was like that on the basketball cour…” Nate cut his sentence short letting it drift into the ether. But it was too late, it still made Kelvin wince. Wishing he could take it back; Nate cleared his throat, changing the subject. “What do you mean Elo rating?”

Sam began to pack his chess pieces away. “It’s a rating system named after a Hungarian physics professor Arpad Elo, a chess master. A 2000 Elo would qualify Kelvin to join The Philadelphia Chess Club one of the most prestigious in the country. This could open him up to timed tournament play and monetary awards.” On that he folded the board and stood and shook hands with Kelvin. “Mr. White, it was a privilege.”

Kelvin backed up. “Thanks, Mr. Simutowe, but I think we’ll pass on tournaments. Unk, I want to go home now.”

Their familiar silence followed them on the way to the van. Nate spoke first, “Kelvin I didn’t mean to dredge up…”

“It’s okay, Unk. I’m just tired. Let’s come back tomorrow and hear more of what Sam has to say. At best, it’ll give me something to do.”

In the coming weeks, Sam helped Kelvin prepare to qualify for acceptance into the Philadelphia Chess Club. It required him to win club sanctioned tournaments. This included local, regional, national and invitational tourneys with an added wrinkle of needing to learn how to play timed games and how to manage the clock. Kelvin would be pitted against opponents the with highest Elo ratings in order to advance his rank quickly to gain acceptance into the prestigious club.

For the next nine months Kelvin played in seven local tournaments, five regional, traversing three states, against a total of thirty-five high ranking players each with an Elo above 1900 resulting in Kelvin achieving an Elo score of 1800, 200 shy of the required ranking of 2000. His ranking was still good enough to rate him a Class A player and procure a seat at the Invitational Chess Tournament in Atlantic City.

Nate, Kelvin and Sam loaded into the van to make the hour-long ride to the beach side resort. Their first stop was the tournament pairings board. The pairings were chosen randomly from the pool of qualifying players. At the board Sam ran a finger down the list then groaned. “Fuck. Sinclair Beaumont. What are the odds?”

Nate asked. “Who is he?”

“Just a chess master with an Elo rating of 2100.” He turned to Kelvin. “Who happens to be president of The Philadelphia Chess Club.”

“Fine. Let’s kick some ass!” Kelvin smiled but got no reaction from Sam, who understood just how badly the odds were stacked against Kelvin.

Kelvin took his place at the tournament table awaiting his opponent. Heads turned as a man entered the room and crossed the playing floor toward Kelvin. Sinclair Beaumont was a balding thirty-year-old, tall and thin with a hawkish nose tilted as if sniffing the air before him following a noxious scent. He seemed to walk on his heels while his arms had little sway to them. He sat down across from Kelvin like a marionette lowering into a chair. His accent was old money Philadelphian as if Katherine Hepburn’s voice were male. Without looking at him, he addressed Kelvin. “I understand you’re the West Philadelphian wunderkind.”

Kelvin reached a hand out to greet him that was ignored with a wave from Sinclair who had one eyebrow raised in disgust. “Yes, let’s acknowledge we’re both gentleman, but let’s not forget this is more or less a duel to the death, for I am going to kill any chance that a flash in the pan, street bred amateur, and son of a felon, like you, has of joining our prestigious club.”

"Well, fuck you too." Kelvin thought in silence.

Sinclair gestured to the official holding the lots that determine who goes first. “After you, Mr. White.” Kelvin reached into the box and pulled out a black chess piece.

Sinclair removed the white. “Looks like I shoot first.”

The game was a best of five timed match with each player under a clock and their color designation selected after each game. They were at a main table and drew a small crowd around them. Kelvin lost the first match in what seemed to be a blink of an eye. They drew for color again and once more Kelvin selected black. Game two was longer if not closer. Kelvin lasted for a time even after losing his queen. But the clock added a pressure he wasn’t used to. He was now down two games to nothing and was looking like their trip would soon come to an end. In the back of the room a gust of ocean wind pushed open a door slamming it against the wall with a bang. Kelvin shuddered. The noise was the gunshot sound all over again in his mind. Kelvin froze, now mentally paralyzed in fear.

Sinclair Beaumont leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps you’d like to resign? A forfeit at this stage is quite understandable.”

Kelvin could only mouth the question. “What?”

Nate could see Kelvin's urine bag filling. He leaned down, “You okay, Kelvin? You want me to take you home?”

Sam leaned down on the other side. “It’s okay, son. There’s no shame in a withdrawal at this point. It happens all the time.”

Kelvin gathered himself, steadied his breathing. He turned to Sam, "Grady, I got this."

He reached over to the lot box. For a third time Kelvin randomly selected the black chess pieces. This gave the advantage of first move, once again, to Beaumont.

The next two games, Kelvin, playing black and despite the disadvantage of moving second, eked out both wins, stunning Beaumont and changing the momentum. Sinclair Beaumont turned to the arbiter and requested a break to use the restroom. An unusual request but not unheard of.

When Sinclair returned Kelvin noticed white flecks of powder in the corner of his flared avian nostril. The next several games were played with Sinclair making his moves in rapid succession while Kelvin tried to slow the clock to control the pace, much like he had done when playing basketball. Each one of the tie breaking games ended in stalemate. Both players were beginning to tire the frustration of tie after tie affecting them both.

After a third stalemate and before the next lot draw Sinclair spoke ominously. “Armageddon Game.”

Sam explained to Kelvin what it was. “In an Armageddon Game the “white” player or player with the white pieces, has the privilege of a full extra minute of time to make his move. In return, should the game end in yet another stalemate, the “black” player is automatically declared the winner.”

Kelvin accepted the terms. He drew the white chess piece. Sinclair smiled still confident, “It appears the privilege is yours.”

If Beaumont was expecting Kelvin to use the extra time allotted to him to slow the game, he was mistaken. Kelvin reversed strategy. Kelvin’s moves were quick, precise and ruthless. It was Sinclair Beaumont who was stumbling trying to keep pace and control his clock at the same time.

Kelvin hadn’t needed the extra time, he attacked with a blitz mentality. Once again, Beaumont took his queen, a crippling blow by all appearances. Only the queen wasn’t so much “lost” as it was sacrificed. The play matched one of the most beautiful and daring moves in chess history known as “The Immortal Game.” In 1851 Adolf Anderssen playing against Lionel Kieseritzky sacrificed his queen to deliver a decisive checkmate a few moves later. Which is just what Kelvin did.

Two moves later Kelvin stated, “Checkmate. Guess I’ll be seeing you at the club.” Backed by a confident smile.

Sinclair’s arm swept his pieces off the table and stood. “Send in your application I’ll get to it when I get to it.” His chair scraped the floor as he turned in a huff and left.

Kelvin smiled at Sam. “Grady, he’s got to learn to lose better than that.”

The ride home took forty-five minutes and was filled with tales of the day’s events and laughter. They dropped Sam off at the park. Kelvin handed him the trophy, “Sam, I want you to have this. It’s as much yours as it is mine.”

Sam refused at first until he told Sam it be easier if he brought it to the park to show off. He could use it to recruit more kids into the game of chess. Sam agreed and thanked Kelvin.

Nate and Kelvin headed for home. Nate asked Kelvin why he gave the trophy away.

“I dunno. It was never really the trophy I was chasing, now was it?” With that he leaned his head against the window and let his mind drift as they rolled through the West Philly neighborhoods.

The van made its way along Girard Avenue, the trolley track catching its wheels a few times shaking the van. Kelvin shook from his deep thoughts noticing they were heading out of West Philly. “Hey, where we going?”

“I want to watch a basketball game with my nephew. Is that too much to ask?” The van headed towards Lower Merion. Kelvin protested the whole ride there.

The wheelchair lift lowered; Kelvin felt as if he were descending into a mind shaft. “Stop.” The electric whine halted, Kelvin's whine continued. “I don’t want to do this. Let’s go home.”

Nate held the lift button. “You just won your way into the Philadelphia Chess Club on a move no one had seen in a hundred years. Inside that gymnasium where your name and your number hang from the rafter. Next to Kobe Bryant’s for Chrisesakes!”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, you can do anything you want if you put your mind to it and do the work! You can be great. You can be great at chess, you can be great at…”

Kelvin answered sarcastically, “…at basketball?”

“Within reason, Kelvin. I was going to say, ‘At life’. Now c’mon.” The lift reengaged.

Kelvin disembarked, moving slow, he wheeled himself up the pavement toward the building where he left his dreams. Nate closed up the van and caught up to Kelvin at the gym door. “Let me get that for you.” Nate opened the door and Kelvin started forward, stopping instantly.

Inside on the parquet floor a game was in progress. There was no chirp of sneakers against the smooth floor. This was a different sound. The dull skidding of rubber, the banging of metal, the drum like dribble of a ball and a group of players calling for the ball. A small crowd cheered and clapped.

Kelvin White watched ten men in wheelchairs scrambling like a boardwalk bumper car attraction back and forth, up and down the court at surprising speed, starting and stopping, passing the b-ball back and forth and shooting for the basket. A sign read “Wheelchair Basketball, Saturday Nite.”

Kelvin watched a player around his age loop under the net and toss the ball one handed behind him for a score. Family and friends in the stands cheered. It wasn't the orchestrated elegance of his high school days; now, it looked more like navigating a heavy metal mosh pit. Yet, within its chaotic rhythm, Kelvin found a familiar beat. He looked up to the roof at his jersey banner hanging next to Kobe’s, then back to the game.

Nate stepped up next to Kelvin. “I hear they have a national league, as well.”

Kelvin looked at Nate, then back once more back to the game. He was speechless.

“What is it they say in chess?” Nate paused, pretending to think, then grinned. “Your move.”

by Wilkinson Riling

I was eight years old when an event took place that haunts me to this day like a ghost story from childhood or a bad dream long faded but not forgotten. At times the memory of it comes back to me in a mix of sensations; visual, audible, taste and smell, but most of all, devoid of fear.

It was a sluggish summer day. Humidity kept us indoors. Mother gave my older brother and I a cookie each, sending us outside and out from underfoot. It was a chewy oatmeal cookie half the size of your face. Mother understood the art of bribery, instead of the threat of a kick in the pants, which was Dad's go to; she hit us in our weak spot, our sweet tooth.

Out we went to sit on our front porch steps and enjoy our snack, surrendering to the wet warmth of a sultry August midday filled with the sound of chittering cicadas. I was a slow eater, a nibbler, whereas my brother finished his treat in three voracious bites.

He was dusting his hands getting ready to decide what we should do next when an ear piercing screech of a noise, followed by what I can only describe as a sonic thunderclap, broke the calm, silencing the cicadas. The sound itself felt as if it warped the very air where we sat. I felt the shockwave in my stomach.

It originated one street over. My brother shot to his feet. "Accident! C'mon!" A sound like that wasn't common, certainly not one that loud, but every suburban Philly neighborhood had it's share of fender benders. This was a big one. We were off running towards the sound's origin, joining a dozen other kids and neighbors coming out from their houses to investigate. I held my cookie tight while trying to keep up with my brother.

We scampered through well traveled shortcuts, over lawns and fences, through hedges, to reach the corner at the top of the street two blocks away from our house. There, we saw a large car stalled in the middle of the street. A growing crowd beginning to obscure it. My brother and I had a gift for squeezing through any crowd to get to the front for the best views. It included shoulder taps, side turns and mastering tight spaces to arrive at the head of the pack of gawkers.

What greeted me, quite frankly, was a sight too confusing for my eight year old brain to completely absorb. Two cars had plowed into each other. The bigger car, stopped dead in the center of the intersection, I learned was a Cadillac. A black man on the chunky side, with graying top and facial hair, was being assisted out of his driver's side with the help of two people from the crowd checking to see if he was alright. He looked stunned and confused. The front end of his car had a deep dent, the hood was crunched and raised just enough to allow the release of steam from the radiator. Oil pooled on the ground.

Most of the people had their attention focused on the much smaller vehicle and seemed afraid to move. The car itself was a bright yellow Volkswagen bug, I didn't know the year. Its whole front was accordioned flat against the Cadillac. The front tires raised an inch off the ground.

I can still see the driver in my mind's eye as if it were yesterday and I will never forget her. The driver side door was open. A young woman hung out of the car sideways and upside down with her legs hooked beneath the steering column, the rest of her stretched out on the asphalt. She was dressed all in white. The kind of white I'd see on the shirts Mother picks up at the dry cleaners. It was even brighter in the summer sun. The side of the lady's head was split open, part of her blonde hair soaked dark in a puddle of blood. A nurse's hat lay a few feet away. If you took away the blood, she looked like she was asleep dreaming. She was beautiful. Her face was as calm as a sleeping angel.

This was my first experience smelling blood. I remember the copper-like tinge to it and an underlying strange sweetness. Like the sweet smell that comes from dying flowers. Much different than my cookie, for sure, which bizarrely, I was still eating staring numbly at the grotesque scene. My brother tried to pull me behind him but I shrugged him off. I was trying to understand what was happening. I was completely intrigued by this angelic nurse lying unconscious before me. I heard whispers of adults saying she was dead. I didn't know what that meant exactly. I had just a rudimentary understanding of the concept "people die." I had never been this close to a dead person. In fact, other than playing dead in games of army, my experience with death up to that point was a couple of us kids poking a dead squirrel with a stick to see if it would move.

The EMT and cops arrived and the crowd was pushed back to the sidewalk. They gently wrapped her head with a bandage, carefully lifted her to a gurney and quickly wheeled her past me to the awaiting ambulance. I heard the men discuss what hospital they should take her to, Chestnut Hill being the closest, but because of her head trauma, they decided on Jefferson in Center City. I took that as a good sign she was still alive. I wanted the angel to live. I continued to stare mesmerized with a mouthful of oatmeal cookie as they loaded her in the ambulance wondering how would I ever know what would become of her?

My brother knocked the remainder of the cookie from my hand and ordered me home. The other kids waited around to watch the tow trucks go to work. but my brother had seen enough. We took the long way, not speaking much. As we got to our front stairs I asked him if he thought she'd be okay. He shrugged, "I guess so." was all he said.

That answer wasn't enough for me. That night I added the nurse to my bedtime prayers. The next day I woke early and ran to get the morning paper from the porch. I had learned to read by the time I was six thanks to the daily and Sunday Funnies but now I was searching for something more important than Steve Canyon. I turned the pages scanning for accident reports. Deep in the paper, halfway down the first column, there was a small headline. "Mt. Airy - Car Accident - Two Injured." It went on to describe the head-on accident in which both drivers were hospitalized. A man in his fifties was sent to Chestnut Hill for a heart attack suffered after the collision. A young woman of 24 suffered a brain injury. She was a nurse, at Jefferson of all places! They said she was in something called a coma.

Yes, I knew how to read, but I didn't know what that word meant. Mother would explain it to me later. She said a coma was like a deep sleep, like Sleeping Beauty. Mother was always honest with me. She told me sometimes they wake up, sometimes they don't. She said that's why we need to be thankful for everyday we do wake up. Mother then asked me who was I talking about. I said the newspaper didn't give her name, but I could've told them it was "Angel."

I scoured the morning paper for weeks after that article, but was never to learn what became of her. Throughout my life I fantasized that if she had passed on maybe she became my guardian angel. I don't know why? She didn't know me, I didn't know her, and despite the traumatic visual burned into my memory, she left a lasting impression on me about the fragility of life. One that you never get from poking a dead squirrel with a stick.

by Wilkinson Riling

“Twenty-three years of wedded bliss, things couldn’t be better if we had won the lottery.” That’s how Dierdre Efram would describe the current state of her marriage to the clutch of housewives and recently divorced lady friends gathered for their quarterly Girl’s Nite Out at the patio bar of Westlake’s Four Season’s Hotel. This was before her third Appletini. By her fourth and fifth, you’d have thought she was Donna Reed married to David Beckham.

But who could blame her? Her best friend Freda Dinkins had recently regaled the table with tales of her own anniversary trip to St. Barts with her Michael. Freda always refers to her husband as “My Michael.” She confided how they rekindled the romance in their marriage during a parasailing excursion where, as she put it, floating through a summer sky as blue as Viagra, they kissed, held hands and took it one step further. That description earned some wide-eyed oohs and ahhs from the small gathering. To be certain the women understood that she didn’t quite join the mile high club, leaning in with her drink Freda giggled, “My Michael called it the smile high club.” That garnered the requisite titters from the group and an order for another round of drinks.

Freda’s story was followed by recently divorced and recently augmented, Ivy Jean Gilbert, who told with faux reluctance, of her dalliance with a tennis pro at the lakeside club. She ended her tale by saying the final score was love to love bringing on an appropriate groan from the women.

Deirdre wasn’t ready to offer up her salacious update at this point of the conversation, but she was preparing it in her mind, letting the other ladies continue to share their extraordinary lives living in this extraordinary community of wealth and privilege. Humorously, they referred to themselves as The Real Housewives of Westlake Village. There was enough Botox, Ozempic and silicone among them to earn the moniker.

However, not all the intimate accounts shared between the girls were sexual in nature. Crystal Tanowitz, also divorced, was the youngest of the group at thirty-nine, shared how she had been healing her Chakras with her latest new age discovery, alchemy bowls or crystal singing bowls. She swore how her harmonics were now aligned, and she finally felt at peace with her own divorce. She was met with equal amounts of skepticism and support from her near-inebriated friends.

It was around this time, 8pm, Deirdre received her first text. It was from her husband, Quentin. He said he’d be working late and for her not to worry he’d grab a late dinner. It was followed by a parade of emojis of hearts, hugs and happy faces. Deirdre couldn’t believe it. Not because this was the third night in a week that Quentin had to work late, but the fact that he forgot that she had told him tonight was her GNO, her Girl’s Nite Out evening. Deirdre texted back a one-word answer. “Fine.” There wasn’t an emoji available to express how she was feeling, simultaneously hurt and angry.

Crystal leaned in with a whisper asking if she was okay. Deirdre held up her drink like a shield. “Never been better, thank you.” She swallowed most of the cocktail in a gulp leaving a bit of liquid still in the glass. Raising it to Crystal, Deirdre wet her finger and ran it around the lip of the glass. An ethereal harmonic sound emanated from the glass. “In fact, I’m aligning my chakra now.” Crystal wasn’t sure if she was joking with or mocking her. Deirdre leaned forward for a hug and with a kiss on her cheek reassuring Crystal. “Baby, it was a joke. You know I love you.”

Deirdre stood, interrupting Shannon Clarke who was in the middle of boasting about her daughter Skyler graduating from Harvard. “Excuse me, bitches. Who is up for a pit stop?” She was asking for volunteers to escort her to the bathroom. A tradition tracing its roots back to caveman days where if one cavewomen goes behind a rock to relieve themselves, the other stands guard. Freda and Cassidy Jacobsen were the first to stand, anymore volunteers and things would get complicated and possibly cause a traffic jam in the ladies’ room. This knowledge, too, was innate.

The trio crossed the lobby towards the rest room when Freda grabbed Deirdre by the elbow and pointed to the hotel entrance. A black Prius had pulled up met by the valet. Stepping out was a comely blonde in her early twenties dressed like a high-end escort. “Isn’t that Kirsten Welsh?” Freda asked.

Deidre looked. She stared intently watching the young woman cross the lobby to a bank of elevators. The vixen’s back was to them, so Deirdre couldn’t be sure. She hoped to get a better look when the woman boarded the lift and turned around, but a bellhop passed in front with a cart of luggage obscuring the view. By the time he had passed the doors had closed. “No. That wasn’t her.” Deirdre’s answer had enough finality to it Freda didn’t press the issue. Besides, Deirdre puzzled to herself, why would Quentin’s executive secretary be out on a work night?

Cassidy derailed Deirdre’s train of thought. “So, Dee. How are your kids?”

Returning to the present Deirdre rolled her eyes. “You know how kids can be these days.” She followed up with a playful elbow. “And I thank God everyday mine are nothing like that.” With that, the ladies entered the restroom in a shared chuckle.

By the time the women returned from powdering their nose, most all of the group had a nice buzz going. Beverly Beekman and Amy Madigan were comparing Botox results. Shannon Clarke called out to Deirdre. “Tell us Dee, how are things with Quentin? Isn’t it your anniversary soon?”

It was now time for Deirdre’s to hold court, a position for which she prepared. She signaled the waiter for another drink and began. “It was last Tuesday. Twenty-three years of wedded bliss, things couldn’t be better if we had won the lottery.” She said with a smile. Deirdre had no intention of wowing them with sexual exploits on some second honeymoon or sentimental stories of realizations discovered in couple’s therapy. She started off small. “For our anniversary, Quentin volunteered to do all the laundry this week.” Two of the women fell back in their seats. She continued. “He insisted I wasn’t to go near the dishwasher.” For that, the gasps were audible. “He does them all. Pots, pans, everything.” Looks of surprise near disbelief were exchanged. “Last night, he took the garbage out without being reminded.” Now the skeptics came to life. Deirdre was met with a chorus of “No way!” or “You lucky bitch!” and similar statements. She continued, “By the time I’m out of the shower, the bed is made, and breakfast is ready.” She held out her hands requesting quiet. She paused and followed with, “I have the remote control. We only watch two channels. Hallmark and Lifetime.” Some of the women feigned the renting of their clothes in jealous anguish, enjoying the moment. “I wasn’t going to mention anything about our intimate moments but if you must know, I scored a hat trick.” That garnered applause followed by a group toast of happy anniversary wishes as Deirdre’s drink arrived. Crystal had to ask what a hat trick was, thinking it might be something from the Kama Sutra.

Deirdre wasn’t done, it was time for her denouement. She cleared her throat loudly. With dramatic flair, she reached into her purse. In a move like a magician extracting a rabbit from a hat, she lifted a set of car keys from her clutch. She proudly announced, “2024 GMC Yukon Denali Ultimate, black pearl.” The other women shook their heads in envious disbelief. Dierdre smiled, thinking, “Let them have their BMW and Lexus SUV’s, this is a Panzer Tank next to their pathetic Sherman’s.” Deirdre knew she had just won the night. Somewhere deep down she also knew it was all a lie. Quentin had no knowledge of the purchase.

Deirdre’s iPhone vibrated and she took the call. “Excuse me, guys. I have to take this.” It was Andrea, her daughter. She was calling from Serenity in Malibu. Serenity in Malibu isn’t something you attain riding a wave at the beach on a surfboard. It’s the drug treatment facility Andrea was placed in after a Fentanyl overdose from which she was lucky, didn’t take her life. She wanted to come home.

Needing privacy, Deirdre stepped away from her moment of shine and stepped into the lobby while trying to console her eighteen-year-old daughter. Standing by a bay window that looked out past a garden to the parking lot, Deirdre reassured her little girl that she could come home soon enough. She promised her that plans were being made to do just that, pleading for her to hang in there for just awhile longer. Deirdre could see her own reflection in the glass, and she could tell the reflection was also lying. Looking past her own reflected image, beyond low-cut hydrangea bushes, Deirdre noticed a dark green ’23 Jaguar F-TYPE-R in the parking lot that, to her, appeared to be grinning, crouched beneath a lamp post.

Deirdre returned to the table that now had an entirely different vibe to it. Gone was the laughter, replaced by a monotone murmuring of conspiratorial whispers. As she approached, the women, huddle only a second ago, all sat up straight when Freda noticed her returning.

“Is everything alright, Dee? You seemed upset.” Freda said in a voice of forced concern.

“It was Andrea, I told you she was on a European excursion. She called to tell me she just arrived in Vienna. She’s having the time of her life.” That earned her a sip from her drink. “Oh, to be young again.”

Freda needled. “She’s an early riser, it’s like 7 AM over there, yes?”

Staring back at Freda, Deirdre forced a smile. “Yes. Yes she is.”

The women sat silent. Some sipped their drinks; Cassidy checked her make up. The silence was broken by Deirdre’s phone vibrating again.

Freda posited, “Perhaps she needs more Euros.”

Deirdre wanted to toss her drink at Freda, the phone’s vibration stopped her. It wasn’t Andrea. This was a text from Douglas, her son. The texts read:

“Mother, I need you to Venmo

me 5,000 dollars right now.”

“Your father and I warned you.

No more money!”

“It’s an emergency!”

“Dougie, no! Come home.”

“This is serious!”

“What have you done now?”

“I’ll tell you later!

Venmo me NOW!!!”

“Tell me first or this conversation ends.”

“I'm in Santa Barbara”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“DUI.”

After a beat another text appeared.

“Bail.”

“Douglas, this is the last time. You can find

your own way home. Check your Venmo.”

Deirdre’s thumbs drummed her screen and in under thirty seconds she had sent the funds to her son. She needed another drink.

Freda Dinkins noticed a hint of frustration just below the surface on Deirdre’s face. “Andrea, okay?”

Deirdre held up her cocktail. “That was Douglas, he was just saying goodnight. Tomorrow he’s rock climbing El Capitain.”

Cassidy lowered her compact impressed, “Wow.”

Freda leaned forward, “Deirdre, we’re your friends. If there’s something you need to talk about we’re all here for you.”

Deirdre found herself staring down a gauntlet of smiling, concerned faces. “Okay, will somebody tell me what the fuck is going on here?”

Freda spoke. “Shannon?” Everyone one turned to Shannon Clarke who appeared to get smaller in her seat.

“Dee… Dee, my daughter-in-law works at Serenity. She told me all about Andrea.”

So much for doctor patient confidentiality was Deirdre’s first thought but another one took precedence. “So, Shannon, you felt it was okay to share that information with… everyone.”

Freda came to Shannon’s defense. “It’s because she cares. We all care. It’s a close community. Beverly’s mechanic told her about the Dougie’s accident so now we all know about him totaling his car last month. The car wasn’t really stolen. We want you to know you don’t have to keep a brave face. You can talk to us about anything, you can lean on us.”

Deirdre arched an eyebrow. “Lean? On you?”

Freda set her drink down, her head motioned to the lobby. “Even the vile rumors going around. You don’t have to remain in denial, you’re not alone.”

Deirdre looked toward the lobby. She knew in an instant Freda was referring to Kristen Welsh, Quentin’s secretary. She swallowed her drink in a gulp. Setting her glass down with eyes that could kill, she spoke. “Denial? Moi? What exactly do you mean by denial? Was it denial when I pretended not to notice last Christmas when you and Quentin slipped away from the party for twenty minutes only to return with your hair looking like a troll doll and Quentin wearing his holiday sweater on backwards? Is that the denial of which you speak?”

Deirdre was just getting started. “Or you, Shannon. Does Freda know about you and HER Michael? Hmmm?”

Freda turned to Shannon Clarke who could get no smaller in the chair. “You bitch!”

Deirdre was on a roll. “And you, Ivy Jean, talk about denial, your boob job looks ridiculous. One is bigger than the other. Plus, you’re showing the early signs of scoliosis lugging those bowling balls around.”

The other women began to gather their purses and effects.

“That’s right Cassidy, run away. Just like you did from your first marriage. When’s the last time you saw your kids?”

The verbal carnage continued. “Bev. Bev honey, they should’ve put a hook in your mouth along with the collagen injections.”

“Amy, can’t Botox do anything about that neck waddle? Because what ever your doing, you’re not looking any younger.”

“And Crystal…” Deirdre looked at the doe eyed Crystal. “Oh, never mind.”

It wasn’t long after her tirade that the party was over, and the women departed. Alone at the table, without a drink, Deirdre was left with the check. She set her debit card on the table and left, unsure if it would work having recently drained her account of five thousand dollars. She exited the hotel and handed her ticket to the valet. She smiled thinking her evening hadn’t quite gone the way she planned. She was alone when the valet pulled up with her Yukon Denali Ultimate, giving her an idea.

Deirdre sat alone enjoying the new car smell of her Denali still idling in a handicapped parking space yards away from the hotel’s main entrance. She played Adele’s song “Make You Feel My Love” on a loop. The computer heads up display above the steering wheel on her windshield indicated zero mph. She was lit only by the instrument panel. The digital clock backlit white on the dashboard screen read 12 am. “The witching hour.” Deirdre said as she brought her flask to her lips.

It had been forty minutes since the GNO party had broken up with each of the ladies having pulled away from the hotel entrance in their high-end SUVs, off to their dream homes in gated communities. As far as dreams go, Dierdre was no longer in denial, her anger melted those walls away. She was determined to wait and see the truth for herself. Deirdre had recognized her husband’s secretary earlier. She had also caught a glimpse of the valet parking a car she recognized all too well and verified when she saw it for herself in the parking lot, Quentin’s Jaguar.

Quentin Efram exited the Four Season’s Hotel, he wasn’t alone. His arm snug tight around the waist of Kristen Welsh, his twenty-year-old executive secretary, eighteen years his junior. Kristen handed Quentin a ticket, he in turn gave it to the valet who was off in a dash. The amorous couple held each other like prom dates on a dance floor exchanging kisses.

Deirdre set down her flask. Her grip on the steering wheel made her knuckles white. She watched the valet return with Kristen’s Prius. Quentin walked his mistress around to the driver side door. They shared a final kiss goodnight. He watched her pull away, her arm waving goodbye as the car looped around the porte cochere. Banking towards the exit, the Prius headlights bathed Deirdre who instinctively ducked. When she peered out again, she saw Quentin hand his ticket to the valet and then check his phone.

The computer screen on the Denali dashboard lit up with a prompt asking whether or not to accept an incoming text message. Deirdre pressed “ACCEPT.” A computerized voice read the message aloud. “Honey, hope you didn’t wait up. Be home soon.” Deirdre knew the text to speech words would sound just as cold even if Quentin was saying them himself.

Quentin seemed to wait a minute for a response, after a beat he pocketed his phone as the valet returned with his 2023 dark green Jaguar. The valet opened the car door waiting as Quentin circled his vehicle. A tip was handed off. A noise distracted them both before he could climb in.

With effort Deirdre had pulled her hand off the steering wheel and plunged it on the automatic stick shift. The legend letters for Park through Neutral to Drive glowed a burning white. She shifted the car into drive. Her right foot, wearing the knock off Jimmy Choo’s she received for Christmas, stepped hard onto the gas pedal. Her hand returned to the wheel as her thumb pressed the four-wheel drive button. The rear tires spun in place tearing up black top and screeching like a war cry until Deirdre released her other foot from the brake.

That was the sound that gained the attention of both the valet and Quentin. The disparity in their ages left quite a difference in terms of their reaction time. The heads-up on Deirdre’s windshield display raced from zero to sixty in six point one seconds. The fraction of a second favored the valet as he leapt out of the way leaving Quentin cornered by his driver side door. Deirdre felt nothing physical as the mammoth vehicle plowed into Quentin sheering the door from the car which was knocked aside. The latter was sent sailing off into hydrangea bushes. As for Quentin, he was dragged under the large wheels and made to roll about twenty feet. As far as emotions went, there was no feeling other than anger as Deirdre looped around the cul de sac for another pass over her husband’s broken body. Any feeling of relief, if she expected it, never came. Just red-hot anger forged over years of frustration and betrayal.

The hotel’s CCTV footage would show a total of three passes including a valiant attempt by the valet to pull Quentin’s body to safety. At trial Deirdre was asked if she was pleading Guilty or Not Guilty. She answered, “Not guilty.” She understood denial is the glue that holds everything in the world together. Deirdre also understood as far as retribution went; she would not be surpassed; she would not be denied.

by Wilkinson Riling

Garret Lipman was thinking he must know how Adam felt in the Garden of Eden when Eve tempted him with the apple. After all, the fruit was plucked from the tree of knowledge and insider knowledge meant everything to a young day trader at Goldman Sachs. It wasn’t just the attempt at insider trading that had placed Garret in his current predicament. As with most things in his life, it was poor decision making that put him in a situation where he had no idea how to extract himself in this singular moment of time where he finds himself staring into a shock of blinding light. All Garret could think about were the events leading up to this very pulse pounding second.

Garret lived in a Mid-Town apartment that could just as well have been called a walk in closet with futon and hot plate. With a rent of $2,200 a month for the 13th floor walk up, and his $100,000 dollar a year income as a junior trader, Garret didn't feel he was exactly crushing it. To make matters worse, his alarm clock failed. He awoke already late for his job in the financial market thirty minutes away by subway train.

Garret owned one used Armani suit, charcoal gray, with two ties of similar gray tones, two Van Huesen white dress shirts and a pair of boot-black Velasca shoes with complimenting socks. His current wardrobe hung from the frame of his ten speed bike mounted to the wall, a relic from his days as a bike messenger. Garret could not remember the last time he trucked the bicycle down the long flight of stairs to take it out for a spin.

With no time to shower, several articles of said clothing were already on him as he bounded down the stairwell rushing to get to work. The suit jacket was the last to join the rest of his ensemble as he powered out the front door of his building and raced toward the subway. Today was supposed to be a very big day.

At work that day, Garret was going to manage the Sunshine Index Fund while his boss was conferencing out of town. It was called the Sunshine Index, as it was made up from the portfolio’s of residents from the state of Florida. The fund represented government workers, teachers, nuns and retirees, even law enforcement pensions. His job for the day was to do nothing, simply watch the fund. Again, do nothing, unless he saw any wild or even subtle fluctuations that needed to be brought to his boss’s attention, then he was to contact his boss immediately.

On any given day Garret was useless without his coffee. He would have to buy it now and drink it on the train. Luckily, the fact he was already thirty minutes into rush hour meant there was no line. He snagged his Venti ignoring that they wrote “Gary” on the cup. If there was a Gary back there, he was shit out of luck as far as Garret was concerned. He was already through the turn-style high stepping for the waiting subway car.

The activity by the subway car was like a frenetic beehive as commuters were disembarking or piling in with a simultaneous herd mentality. By the time Garret arrived, the doors started to close. He yelled for someone to hold them open, but the office workers just stared at him, a zombie look upon their faces. They were off to the type of jobs spent in cubicles of monotony that give one the feeling of being among the living dead. The train pulled away as Garret skidded to a stop. The lid to his coffee flew off spilling hot coffee on his wrist. Garret moved the dripping coffee from hand to hand like a hot potato. In his balancing act, some coffee spilled onto his dress shirt leaving a stain.

“Dammit!” Garret was about to unleash a tirade of swear words one might hear from a sea captain with Tourettes.

“Late for work?” The voice was sultry with the hint of a teasing tone.

Garret spun on his heels, spilling more coffee. On the platform, against the wall, stood a small old-fashioned wooden kiosk painted blood red, almost like a phone booth from hell but slightly larger. On the display, several electronic gizmos were offered for sale. Everything from burner phones to smart ones, including tablets and watches. Garret was sure this booth wasn’t here yesterday. He was surprised he was able to take in all of his minute observations at a glance especially since the booth was manned by a woman. Not just any woman.

This young woman was absolutely stunning. Relaxed, she posed on her chair by the kiosk like Mrs. Robinson in the Graduate. Garret guessed, standing, she’d be about 5’9 with sensual curves lacking any sharp tangents. Her breasts were easy to describe; perfect. Her body seemed to be in motion even though she was sitting still. Her hair, wine red, hung past her shoulders. Garret stared into her eyes unsure if he was detecting a yellow ring within the reptilian green of the irides that orbited her pupils. When she smiled, her ivory white teeth shone, two canines peaked out from inside her cherry red smile.

“Perhaps I can help you with that, Garret.” It wasn’t a whisper, but felt like one.

Garret almost dropped his coffee. “How do you know my name?

She placed an elbow on a knee and her head into her hand while the other waved him off. “Oh, I know a lot about you, Garret Lipman. For instance; I know you work at Goldman Sachs.”

“Who are you and how do you know me?” he said with a mix of intrigue and growing unease.

She smiled, tilting her back for a laugh. “Your access card, silly. It’s hanging around your neck.”

Garret looked down, snapping up his access card that hung from a lanyard. With it, he gained access to the elevator that took him to the seventieth floor and Goldman Sachs trading center. Feeling silly, Garret shook his head. “Just the same, you’ve got pretty damn good eyesight.”

“I do, and I can see that you are late. I have just the thing for you.” The woman turned to some items hanging from peg holes and removed a smart watch. She spun back to Garret with a smile the Chesire Cat would envy. She continued, “A special watch, for a special man.”

It was a golden AppleWatch with a honeycomb band and bejeweled frame. Garret thought it must easily be a thousand dollar watch. It looked even more stylish than his boss’s $10,000 Rolex, definitely an eye catcher.

Garret stuttered. “I can’t… I’m sorry, you know my name, what’s yours?”

“Eve.” Eve gently took a hold of Garret’s wrist and lay the watch across. “It’s perfect.”

“I’m sorry, Eve. I can’t afford that.”

“Of course you can, we have a very generous payment plan.” She started to attach the watch.

Garret pulled his wrist away. “No, I’m sorry, I can’t. I have to get going. Like you said, I’m late.”

She cooed. “You’ve got ten minutes before the next subway train arrives. Let me show the watch’s amazing features.”

“I can’t…”

“Relax, Garret.” Her voice gentle as a mother’s kiss. Garret felt all the anxiety escape his body via his shoulders. Eve set his coffee down and took hold of his wrist once again.

Garret never felt her slip the smart watch on, he only realized it was in place when he looked from her eyes back to his wrist. His mouth formed to whistle as he took in the beauty of the device. The gold band sparkled and the jeweled framed screen was a rich obsidian color. With her thumb, Eve pressed a button turning the watch on. Garret was already well ahead of the watch in that department. A half dozen electronic icons took their place on the watch screen like soldiers awaiting orders.

“This watch can measure your heart rate.” Eve pressed the heart icon. A diagnostic graph appeared showing his pulse rate and O2 level. “Right now it’s pretty high, wouldn’t you say?"

Garret’s cheeks flushed red. He was lost in her eyes. He gathered himself. “I did just run for the train, y’know.” He continued to search for an explanation. “…and I am late for work.”

“Ah yes. About that. Check this out.” Eve’s thumb dialed the digital crown of the watch. One app closed, a second app, showing a quarter moon graphic, opened. “This app measures your sleeping patterns, You can get an idea if you’re getting the right amount of sleep. Plus, check this out…” She tapped the screen. “You can set an alarm and the phone actually taps you awake.”

Garret felt a tapping vibration on his wrist from the watch. “I’ll admit that’s cool, but this is way out of my budget.”

“You work in finance right? This app gives you up to the minute stock readouts. It connects to the same high speed frequency trading systems companies like your Goldman Sachs are connected to. It’s state of the art.”

This tidbit got Garret’s interest. He took a closer look with Eve encouraging him. ”Go ahead, ask it about a stock. Just speak into the watch.”

Garret raised the watch to his mouth. “Okay… Apple Inc.?” Instantly, a stock readout appeared giving a real time animated trading price. Garret noticed a graph in the corner of the screen. “What’s that?”

Eve grinned. “I told you it uses the same HFT that the big financial hedge funds use. It taps into their AI infused algorithm and predicts a future price in nanoseconds.”

Garret was impressed. “I can do that from my desk because we’re tapped into huge proximity server farms. Seeing that ability on this watch is incredible.” Garret noticed another icon. It was the image of a clock face circled in red with a slash cutting through the center. “What’s this?”

“Don’t touch that...” Eve warned. Garret looked at her confused. Her smile morphed into the kind of look a person gives when sharing a secret they only know. “…Until I show you just how special this watch is.”

She stood and sidled up closer to Garret. He could feel the warmth of her body. “This button allows you to pause time. For seven seconds to be exact.”

A bell went off in his head. Garret’s skepticism leapt forward. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I see I’m going to have to demonstrate. May I?” Eve held her hand out for the watch.

Garret gave it over. She slid it on. “It really is sharp looking, isn’t it?” Eve took a step back and placed a finger to the watch. “Okay, ready?” Garret nodded. From his point of view, Eve disappeared. He looked left and right, where had she gone?

“Right behind you.” Her sultry voice said invitingly.

Garret turned to see she was smiling like a kitten who just caught a mouse. But he wasn’t buying it. “It’s a trick of some kind. You… you hypnotized me.”

“What about your coffee?” She pointed to his coffee cup on the kiosk counter. He turned to look. One second it was there, the very next, it vanished. He spun back around to Eve. She was taking a sip. “Mmmm. Espresso macchiato. Nice.”

Eve stepped forward handed Garret his coffee and placed the watch back on his wrist. “Why don’t you give it a try?” She said, taking the drink back.

Garret held up the watch and readied to press the icon. He was nervous and confused.

“Go ahead.” Eve encouraged. “It can’t hurt you.”

“What do I do with seven seconds?”

“You’ll figure something out, I’m sure.”

With that, Garret pressed the app. He watched the smartwatch countdown in large red numerals go from seven to one.” He hadn’t moved. The countdown ended.

Eve sighed. “Try again, Garret. This time make use of that time.” She pointed to the watch. “Remember, time is money.”

Garret pressed again. He looked around the station. People were frozen mid walk. Papers floated in space. Everything was still and quiet. Then, looking at Eve, he could only think of one thing to do. Garret stepped up to Eve and stole a kiss. He stepped back as the clock ran out without a second to spare.

Eve noticing no change other than an eye blink seemed exasperated. “Garret, this isn’t going to work unless you do something with your time.”

Garret smiled and held up his coffee cup. Before the last few seconds of his time traveling expired, he had thought to take it back. He took a sip.

Eve was pleased. “Do you believe me now?”

Garret did believe her and his mind was already racing ahead. What he could do with an extra seven seconds on the trading floor could make him a billionaire and a Wall Street legend in a very short amount of time. These thoughts were interrupted as the next train arrived at the station.

“So would you like the watch?” she asked.

“Very much so.”

“Take it. It’s yours. Go. You’ll miss your train.”

Garret was lost in a cascade of dopamine enriched thoughts. In his brain he was already filthy rich with the sensual Eve as his girlfriend, or one of many, he couldn’t wait to get to work.

The doors to the car were closing. Garret pressed his smartwatch. Time froze. In five seconds he was aboard the train. Another two and the doors closed. He looked back. Eve was gone. The kiosk was gone. He checked to make sure the watch was still there and he hadn’t been hallucinating. Then he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Eve.

She was frowning. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

He figured she must have followed him on board. “What?”

Her frown reversed. Eve held up a red pen and and a sales receipt. “You forgot to sign the sales contract.”

“What? How much is the watch?”

“Why don’t you worry about that after you make your first million?” She handed him the pen and paper and offered him her back to use for him to sign the contract. “Oh, and Garret? We offer no warranty.”

Garret signed the form. Eve used his back to stamp it with a notary stamp. The train arrived at the next station. Eve folded the contract and placed it safely between her ample breasts. “This is my stop. Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Lipman.” She stepped off the train. “And remember what I said, time is money.”

With that the doors closed and Garret Lipman was off to a future that, at times, would feel like it was coming seven seconds at a time.

Garret arrived at work a full hour and fifteen minutes late. The stock market had been going through a flurry of activity. since early morning. The dow was climbing, expecting to reach 40,000. Garret’s computer was already on thanks to Simone, his boss’s secretary. Garret thanked her for not reporting him late and in his mind added her to his list of conquests to be made once he struck it rich.

He dropped into his chair and and immediately began to analyze the funds attracting the most activity. He set the Sunshine Index Fund off onto a side monitor.

There was a frenzy of activity in the commodities fund. A new pipeline was being voted on. Garret checked the algorithm and it seemed to be hedging upwards. He watched it tick up, then down a point, then up again. He waited for the next uptick and hit the time pause button on his smart watch.

Everything on the seventieth floor came to a halt. Garret’s mouse circling his pad was the only thing moving. It took him five seconds to move the Sunshine Fund into the commodities index fund. Time started again. Garret watched as the next uptick doubled the value of the Sunshine portfolio. Based on the size of the transaction, he had just made a ten million dollar commission. He hit the time pause button again and quickly sent the fund back to it’s original setting in its conservatively managed index.

At the end of seven seconds, Garret leapt from his chair and shouted out in joy. Everyone on the floor turned, then froze. Garret had pressed his watch again, taking his seat hoping no one saw his display of euphoria.

Garret then noticed volatile activity in the real estate index fund. The arrow was snaking up high then dropping low then back to high. Similar to the commodities fund but bigger dips. The algorithm on his watch predicted a spike upwards. Garret was ready to blow things sky high. He hit pause and shifted the Sunshine Fund over. Seven seconds later the graph began to trend south. It dropped lower and lower. Garret watched in horror, on both his computer screen and watch face, the value of the Sunshine Fund plummeting in free fall. Someone was shorting the real estate market.

Garret needed to stop the bleeding. The seven seconds were up and the losses continued. Garret went into a panic. Then realized, he still controlled time. He would just shift the fund to other hedge indexes and play it the same way as his first attempt. Garret looked at his watch. His jaw dropped. The power died. The watch face went blank. Garret was out of his chair leaving it spinning. He needed to find Eve.

The rest of the afternoon Garret searched the entire subway system riding train after train in the oppressive heat of the summer New York City transit system. After three hours, Garret found Eve at her kiosk in the Hell’s Kitchen part of town. Garret ran up waving the watch. “Eve! The watch! It’s got no power. I think it’s broken! You have to fix it!"

Eve held up the contract. “I told you, no warranty.”

Garret snarled, “You bitch! Do you know what you did to me?”

She sneered. “But what I can do is sell you a new battery, but this will cost you more. Your first purchase cost you your character, this will cost you your soul.” She held up the battery.

Garret had no time to argue. “Give me the damn thing.” Garret signed the new contract.

Eve placed it with the other contract between her breasts. “I love it when I get a repeat customer.” She inserted the battery and powered the watch up handing it back to Garret. “Time is money.”

Garret checked the stock readout. The Sunshine Index Fund had lost 3/4 of it’s original morning value. It was only 3pm. There was still enough time to fix this by 4pm when the trading day closed. Garret had one more thing he needed to take care of. He pressed the seven second pause.

Garret kissed Eve for a final time then crossed to the platform to wait for his train. The train was coming. Garret turned back and called out to Eve. She looked up. He held up the two contracts. Eve looked down between her breasts to see they were gone. Garret smiled. He had lifted them during his seven second farewell kiss. He tore them up scattering them to the hot tunnel wind.

The train was almost at the station when Garret heard Eve’s sultry voice in his ear. “Sorry Garret, all sales final.” She was right behind him.

Garret wondered how did she get there so fast? Eve held up her own AppleWatch and smiled an evil smile. With a mighty shove, Eve pushed Garret onto the tracks, the train mere seconds away from hitting him. He hit the pause button one last time. Garret Lipman spent the last seven seconds of his life with his most recent moments flashing before his eyes, wishing he had more time.

by Wilkinson Riling

Every fisherman worldwide has a story of the one that got away, but in his seventy years, as one of his village’s most reliable providers of fresh fish, Pi Leung knew no one would ever believe the tale he could tell of today’s encounter. It’s a story that begins before dawn on a rainy day by a Pearl River tributary along its shanty stacked embankment where neighbor pressed against neighbor leaving little room to even turn to safely sneeze, or at least that’s how tight it felt to Pi.

Each home sat fronted by a fishing skiff docked in silent patience awaiting the rising tide. The scalloped gondola’s, with their wooden roofs and single oars locked in place, were alined stern to bow floating up and down rhythmically while the mild current passed as if a large snake swam beneath them heading downstream.

Rain usually meant a bad day for fishing, but Pi, a man of stubborn habit and faith was compelled to venture out. Habits learned from his father, plus a faith he had in himself because of those learned traits, had served him well. They helped him provide for a family which once included a wife, now made up of a son and a daughter-in-law and a grandchild.

The fishing yields of late had tapered off. To make money, the child’s father, his son, had taken a job at a textile mill fifteen kilometers inland. His son would be gone for days, returning on at month’s end usually bringing back a treat for the boy and linens for his wife and metal for Pi to fashion more hooks for fishing. Pi’s own wife had passed several years ago from pneumonia. A day didn’t go by where he didn’t long for her to be in bed beside him keeping him warm, sharing a comfort that comes from years of trust and love.

Today was different. There was an added pressure that threatened Pi’s very abilty to think straight. It took a focused concentration for him to fight away tears threatening to break the emotion controlled levy that held his normal stoicism. His grandson had taken ill and feverish in the night. The boy had attended his first day at school only the day before. Pi and the boy's mother worried another measles outbreak was on the horizon. His grandson’s eyes indeed were red, but there was yet to be any signs inside his cheeks of the Koplik spots that accompany the illness. This kept a spark of hope in the grandfather’s heart that it was nothing more than reaction to an infection yet to be determined. One in which there’d be a simple medicine for. Yet, in order to afford that medicine, Pi knew he needed to bring home some fresh fish to barter with.

In the cold drizzle of the dawn Pi held a lantern to lead him to his boat where he checked his equipment; hooks, line, netting, and bait. For bait he used the larvae of the Chinese Moon Moth. Pi learned from his father it was most effective as bait when it changed from it’s early orange/brown hue to it’s bright green and white pattern. The brighter colors seem to attract the bigger fish. Over many years, Pi Leung has had much success with this insect on the end of his line.

With gear ready and stowed, Pi took the single long handled oar from the forcola, slid it into the rear oar lock, and pushed off silently into the cold gray drizzled river.

The oar, acting like a giant fishtail, hung from the rear as Pi Leung stood tall at the stern paddling and leaving a gentle wake behind that would absorb the circles of raindrops with each stroke. Pi guided his fishing boat lit by the lone lantern along the tributary of the silt laden Pearl, past the leaning shanty’s with its fishermen still asleep in hammock and bed. Pi kept his strokes small and silent. He wanted to be sure no one was following him as he made for the secret fishing spot his father had shown him all those many years ago, and if the fates would cooperate, he’s be able to one day show his grandson.

Three miles down river there was a snaking canal off to the side that drifted beneath the umbrella of a banyan tree. The superstitious avoided this waterway that meandered through the thick foliage of bamboo, cattails and greenery, finally emptying out into a reservoir. In this man made lake, two boulders of varying size rested in the center. Together they resembled a large turtle, head and shell respectively. It was a place believed to be haunted.

The two mile wide reservoir had been built at the turn of the century to provide fresh water for the lower provinces in the valley below. In order to build it, an entire population of a small village was relocated, then the hamlet flooded over. There was rumor, the injured, elderly or infirmed who could not make the trip, were left behind to drown in the coming headwaters. The reservoir was said to contain evil spirits and was avoided by the fearful.

The rain was letting up when Pi Leung stowed the oar and set to drift just off the rock formation. Climbing through the boat he went to work preparing his bamboo rod and line. Fishing suited Pi Leung well. There was meditative state he achieved, spooling the line onto the wooden reel, threading it along the pole and eventually eye balling it through a hook and tying it off. Pi’s weathered fingers worked like a skilled guitarist plucking or strumming a single string.

Today's target fish was the wild yellow croaker, so beloved by gourmets and guaranteed to bring in the best price. Ordinarily, Pi would be joined by his son and along with other boats. They would trawl the outer shoals of the Pearl for the once plentiful fish. They would actually listen for the fish. The yellow croaker has a sonic muscle for bouyancy control. When a school passed by, the fishermen by listening carefully, could hear the fish even be able to tell which direction they were heading and where to cast their nets. No one knew why fish yields have not been as plentiful of late, and with his son away, Pi knew he needed other places to make his catch.

Usually worn to protect from the sun, the brim of Pi’s triagular dǒulì dripped with the last few raindrops of the day landing in the bit of water that had gathered on the floor of the skiff. The cold puddle chilled his sandaled feet providing him an alertness to complete his preparation despite an underlying weariness. Pi Leung made his way to the bow of the boat. In wide whipping arcs the bamboo pole whistled in the air, creating the only noise in the immediate area. A final whip sent the bait and hook sailing thirty yards out from the boat dropping it straight down to land on the water’s veneer, sending concentric circles rippling out like a flower rapidly blossoming. The line itself lay gently down on the surface until the weight of the hook submerged it beneath the dark waters.

Pi barely had time to sit when the tip of his rod vibrated and he felt a bump on his pole. He held his breath awaiting another bump. It came, slightly smaller than the last. Pi sensed a fish was inspecting the delicious larvae trying to make a decision. There was a third pull on the line and instinct took over as Pi locked the bail by yanking the pole up and back while setting a foot to the bow’s front seat.

What happened next caught Pi completely off guard. The line went rigid, the pole bent in a bow-like arch. The whole rig was thrust from his hands. The pole was in danger of going straight overboard when the reel itself caught the edge of the wooden seat. The seventy year old man’s hat fell off as he lunged forward and grabbed the pole, his frail body splayed across the boat. The line was taut and now the boat started to move. Whatever fish Pi had on the end of the line, it was large. It was now pulling him and his boat around the turtle shaped boulder in circle after circle leaving a much bigger wake than the one he arrived with.

Pi’s years of experience kicked in. He managed to pull back on the pole and use that tension to lift himself to his feet. He took a step forward and then lowered himself into the wooden slat of a seat. He pressed his cold, numb, sandaled feet against the bow and leaned back as he started to reel in line. The boat no longer encircled the rocks. It was heading across the reservoir for the opening of the canal. Pi sensed if it eventually got to open water he might lose the fish. In a series of rocking and reeling motions, Pi pulled the fish closer and closer to his skiff.

The smooth waters ahead exploded as a fish, three meters long and bright as gold, broke the surface and flayed trying to shake loose the hook from its mouth. The spray from the splashdown wet Pi’s face. Fifty yards from the canal entrance the boat drifted almost slowing to a stop. The fishing line hung straight dow. Pi knew he had exhausted the fish. By the soreness of his own muscles he knew he wasn’t in much better condition.

Now it was just about hauling up the dead weight. Maybe it was only 50 pounds but at this part of the fight it felt like one hundred and fifty. Pi looked down into the inky depths and he saw it coming to the surface like a golden treasure.

It was the largest croaker he had ever seen in his life, only this one wasn’t yellow, it was gold. And not the gold of some carp or goldfish, this was a glittering gold, like a temple idol. Pi wasn’t sure if his net was big enough to bring it aboard. He reached for his gaff and hooking it by the mouth raised it and dumped it onto the floor of the boat.

“Ow! That hurt!” A voice protested.

Startled, Pi stumbled backwards dropping the gaff and fell into the well of the boat. Pi popped his head up and scanned the lake looking for the source of the voice. It was empty.

The fish flopped and spun in a circle. “What did I ever do to you?”

Pi’s sense of reality was rocked by waves of confusion. “Y-You can talk?”

“Several dialects of Mandarin if necessary. Now do me a favor, remove this hook and let me go back into the water.”

Pi looked at the talking fish, at the water, and back to the fish. “No way. I cannot do that.”

“Why is it you cannot let me go? Simply remove the hook and toss me overboard.”

“I need the money. A fish your size will bring me more than enough.”

“I am not just any fish, can you not see this?”

“True. I have never met a fish that speaks. Also, your Golden hue is much more impressive than the pale yellow croakers I normally catch, plus your size is incredible.”

“That is because I am a magic fish! My magic comes from the unrequited hopes and dreams of the villagers of Turtle Rock lost in the flood.”

Pi had heard the legends of haunted, magical fish who took on the spirits of the lost souls when the reservoir was formed.

“What kind of magic is it of which you speak?”

“I can grant thee a wish! Any wish your heart desires. You say you need money? Release me and I shall fill your boat with gold from stem to stern.”

Pi Leung was no one's fool. He had heard, even told, his share of fairy tales and legends to know one thing; every story comes with a price.

“You think me a fool, Golden Fish? I no sooner release you and have my wish granted that the weight of the gold you give me sinks both me and my boat. I have no desire to join the other ghosts at the bottom of this reservoir. You’ll have to do better than that! My grandson is sick with fever.”

“There you go! What does your grandson suffer from? Wish for a cure and I shall grant it. Once you return me to the water, of course.”

“I’m not sure, it could be measles. Couldn’t you just give a blanket cure?”

“I prefer to be specific.”

“I know why. You will magically cure him of measles while being sure he catches malaria at some point. I’ve learned many years ago, careful what you wish for.”

“Okay, how’s this? Wish for your grandson to be cured and live a long healthy life. No strings attached there.”

“That sounds fair.”

“But you must toss me back first. You must trust me. And you must hurry.”

Pi Lung looked the magical fish in the eyes. It’s gills sucking in air waiting for it’s arches to collapse. He bent over and pried the hook from its jaw. “Better?”

“Much.” The fish answered.

Pi Leung cradled the fish and lifted it and stepped to the side of the boat readying to toss the fish back.

“It’s my dream to teach my grandson to fish. I can’t wait to bring him back here and tell him the story of how his life was saved.”

The fish looked up at Pi. “Wait a minute. I never said anything about you and him ever fishing together.”

Pi frowned.

It was late afternoon and the Leung family shanty was alive with the sound of a child playing. The smell of shrimp sauce made from milkfish filled the house. Eight-year-old Yung Leung, played with a spinning top on the floor setting it to bowl over wooden carvings of Chinese soldiers his grandfather had made for him. His mother, Lee, sewed quietly near a futon. The door opened and Pi’s son, Wong, home for a few days, entered bearing gifts. They ran to the young father and hugged in a ball of warmth and the joy being reunited brought. Wong looked up. “Where’s father?”

Lee looked to the ground. “Yung had a terrible fever last night. It broke in the morning but not before your father insisted on fishing despite the rains.”

Wong looked anxious. “And?”

Yung smiled and said, “When he got back he kicked us all out of the kitchen insisting he was going to make us the best dinner we ever had.”

With that, the door to the kitchen swung open, Pi Leung gestured for them to come. “Welcome home son! You’re just in time for the feast! Let’s eat.”

On the kitchen table on a wooded platter lay the largest fish any of them had ever seen, surrounded by vegetable garnish and drizzled with shrimp sauce, the golden color of the magical fish hadn’t lost it’s hue in the baking process. It's eyes, dead, stared up with a look of surprise. Lee spoke up. “That is too much for us to eat alone! We should invite the relatives over.”

In these Chinese fishing villages where each shack balanced on pylons lean and are pressed up against each other, everyone knows everyone and everyone is considered a relative.

"Relatives?" Pi Leung sighed, “Next time I’ll be more careful what I fish for.”

by

Wilkinson Riling

The Texas morning sun filled the living room of the late Carl Smith. The house was empty save for a few end tables, chairs, plants, and a large TV. An animated commercial for dog food played on screen. Two figures carrying boxes moved back and forth in the foreground past the television. The ad ended, cutting to a news flash report.

A grim looking anchor read from his teleprompter. A graphic showed over his shoulder. It was the image of a smiling, grandfatherly old man. The dates 1930 - 2023 appeared beneath. The announcer’s baritone voice was only background noise in the room. The volume low, but audible.

“Yesterday, Houston said it’s final goodbye to ninety-three year old millionaire Carl Smith, founder and CEO of Pet Emporium. In a funeral procession five miles long, attended by local dignitaries, including the mayor, and members of City Council, Smith was laid to rest at Peaceful Valley cemetery.

Mr. Smith was preceded in death by his two children Heinrich and Wilma, and survived by three grandchildren and twelve great grandchildren, his dog, Baron, and a legacy of philanthropy the city of Houston and PETA are eternally grateful for. He will be missed.”

As the report ended, an arm reached in and unplugged the television. “Looks like your grandfather will be making the news for weeks.” The husband and wife team of Leonard and Elsa Finkleman lifted the flat screen and carried it off. Straining, Elsa replied, “I should hope so, Pop-Pop deserves the recognition.” They both struggled as they hauled the set out the door. The forty-something pair were clearing out her grandfather’s house as they prepared to settle his estate.

Leonard muttered, “It be nice if someone from your family could help.”

“They agreed to take in the dog, that was the deal.” She reminded. “After this, we do the basement, then we put the house up for sale and put this all behind us.”

Leonard slowed. “Watch your step. Baron left behind a little gift.” Leonard stepped over a huge pile of dog droppings. They avoided the larger than normal stack of poo on the walkway and headed for the U-Haul parked out front. “I’d swear that dog is part horse.”

In the dimly lit cellar, the basement door swings open revealing a set of wooden stairs leading down into the dark. Switching on the light, Leonard and Elsa enter. A single bulb hangs down in the center of the crowded and cramped room. They descend the creaking stairs stopping at the bottom to assess their surroundings. Leonard takes in the massive clutter. “Geez, Elsie, your grandfather was a hoarder. Didn’t he ever throw anything out?”

“He was raised during the Depression; I imagine that had a huge impact. Now quit complaining. The sooner we clear out this basement, the sooner we can sell this place and leave this bastion of bias and bigotry.”

“Honey, Houston is fairly progressive.”

Elsa wagged a finger. “Not these suburbs, Leonard. I counted six houses on this street alone with MAGA flags, two with Confederate, and one with an inverted American Flag. We have to sell this place quick and get back to Connecticut.”

“Don’t forget your Grandfather’s. That makes seven MAGA flags.”

Elsa snapped back. “I threw that out last night. Now let’s get busy.”

Elsa passed Leonard on the stairs wading into the ocean of boxes. Leonard followed.

"Wonder what they'd think about our Bernie Sanders garden Gnome?"

Leonard approached some wooden shelves bracing a series of cardboard storage boxes lined in neat rows. The only indication of any organization in the disheveled room. “Elsie, what about these boxes? They say, “Zeitschriften?”

“That’s ‘Magazines.’ It’s in German. My grandmother was from the old country.”

Leonard’s eyebrows raised. “Elsie, I didn’t know you spoke German.”

“Gran taught me as a child, I told you, she’s from the old country. I only used it to speak to her.”

Leonard absorbed her answer then accepted it with a nod. He pointed to the boxes. “So, toss ’em, too?”

“No! My grandparents loved to travel. They could be National Geographics. We can sell those on EBay.”

Leonard reached up for a box and pulled. With a sudden tilt it slid open and a waterfall of magazines splashed to the floor. Leonard stared in disbelief.

“Elsa, these aren’t National Geographics, unless there’s a lost tribe in Scandinavia with blonde haired, well-proportioned, naked men”

“What the hell are you talking about, Leonard?” Elsa maneuvered though the cramped basement over to the heap of magazines, one laying upon the other in a jumble.

She gasped. “Oh, my God!” Piled before her was a collection of gay magazines that could fill a San Francisco street corner newsstand. Hundreds of tall blonde haired, athletic men, all in different states of erotic play.

Numb from what he was seeing, Leonard spoke slowly. “Sweetheart, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I think your Granddad kept a huge, huge secret from us.”

Elsa shook her head. “This can’t be! My grandfather was a family man! A married man! He raised six kids! He drank beer! He owned guns! He voted for Nixon! He watched FOX News! He loved WrestleMania for Crissakes!”

Still numb, Leonard nodded. “I'm beginning to understand why.”

Elsa glared at Leonard. “He was a Texan!”

The single lightbulb illuminating the basement blinked as if sending a frenzy of morse code, then all went dark. A lone cellar window now provided the only source of light.

“Great. What else could go wrong?” Elsa snapped her fingers and pointed at a tall wooden bookcase filled with paint cans and miscellaneous objects and tools opposite the window. “Hand me that lantern.”

Leonard reached for a lantern near the top. The moment it left the shelf, the whole unit shook and began to move to the right. The bookcase was on coasters. The coasters were on tracks.

When the unit stopped rolling, Leonard and Elsa were staring at a formerly hidden doorway. The door creaked open. In a deep recess, more darkness awaited them.

Elsa hissed. “Leonard. The light!”

Leonard stood stunned. “W-What?”

“The lantern!” She barked.

Leonard gave a defensive shrug.“I don’t have a match. Give me a match.”

“It’s battery operated! Press the button.”

Holding up the 1990’s Coleman lantern lamp, Leonard could see Elsa was right. A large black button along with embossed lettering on its side that read “PRESS HERE,” with a convenient arrow pointing to said button, was located on the side. Leonard pressed it. A circle of light enveloped the pair.

“Go ahead. Go in. I’m right behind you.” Elsa ordered.

The entrance was about five feet in length and narrow. It emptied into a small room, the hand-held light revealed it to be about 12’ by 10’. What greeted them hanging down on the opposite wall was a series of dog leashes, muzzles, vests and canine gear from another age.

Leonard couldn’t help himself, he lifted a leash with a studded collar and turned to Elsa, “Exactly how kinky was Gramps?”

She was about to scold him but stopped as he let loose the chain while his expression changed from one of sarcastic wit to one of total astonishment. Leonard was looking past her, holding the lantern higher.

Elsa turned, not knowing what to expect, but soon began a pretty damn good imitation of Leonard’s own gaping pie hole. She could see her shadow laying across a huge scarlet flag draped on the wall by the doorway. The deep blood red sheet was centered by a black, angled geometric design, a swastika printed dead center in a spotlight of bright white fabric.

Together, they found themselves staring at a humungous Nazi flag, the couple instinctually clung to one another. Below the Nazi banner, a glass case contained a mannequin.

Adorning it, a uniform that at one time must have once been worn by a very, very short person.

“Don’t tell me your Grandfather was in the S.S.!” Leonard exclaimed.

Elsa took the lantern from Leonard, shining it at a light switch on the wall. She reached over flipping it on. The room was instantly basked in a harsh florescence that made the red of the flag pop even more.

She stepped closer to the case. A curved patch on the shirt's left sleeve read “Hitlerjugend” A triangular patch on the right sleeve read “Ost Berlin.” Elsa transfixed, translated. “Hitler Youth. East Berlin.” Elsa closed her eyes shaking her head in rapid centimeters. “No. No. No. No. No! Pop-Pop was in the Hitler Youth?” Her eyes popped opened. “M-My grandfather was in the Hitler Youth?!”

“I knew he never liked me.” Leonard looked around the room. “I’m starting to feel uncomfortable here.”

Elsa imagined the stories that the mannequin could tell if only it had a mouth. Even without eyes, it seemed to be staring at her with contempt. The woolen soldier's cap perched on its head held the Hitler Youth pin; four small red and white diamond shapes formed into a larger one, with a swastika placed in the center. A black tie lay against a brown shirt along with a swastika arm band. It all complemented a cute pair of black shorts held up by a belt with an embossed eagle buckle featuring the motto “Blut und Ehre.”

Elsa wanted to cry. “Blood and Honor? They were just kids. Whatever happened to marbles and jacks?”

“Elsa, they were Nazis.” Leonard corrected.

“My God, Leonard! Do you have any idea what happens if this ever gets out?”

Leonard thought for a moment. “The merger of Pet Emporium and Pet Smart falls through and our stock price tanks just before we’re getting ready to unload it?”

“That’s right! We’re close to Chapter 11 as it is! When people find out that a seventy-year-old pet company was started by a Nazi, we are… kaput!”

“The idea doesn’t thrill me, but plenty of companies were entangled with Nazis. Volkswagen, Bayer, IBM, BMW, hell, even Coca Cola.”

“Yes, and you boycott them all!”

“Yeah, but most people don’t.”

“Then think of our family name!”

“Finkleman is a perfectly good name.”

“Not your family name. My family’s name!”

“Smith? Big deal. There are millions of Smiths out there. How many Finkleman’s do you know?”

Elsa shot back. “Right now I’m concerned about Carl Smith, my grandfather!”

Leonard pointed to a steamer trunk at the base of the cabinet with the initials F.S.. “What do you think is in there?”

“It can’t be good. Hold this.” She handed him the lantern and knelt to open the trunk. Elsa lifted the storage locker lid with little effort and reached in. “It’s just a chew toy.”

Leonard exploded. “What kind of sick Nazi was he?”

“I said ‘chew’ toy. For a dog.” Elsa pulled out an doggie chew toy made from rope and rawhide with a swastika embossed on the leather.

Embarrassed, Leonard looked at the other stuff in the trunk. “Oh. So, what else is in there?”

“Looks like books. Dog training manuals in German, text books.” Elsa answered.

Leonard knelt down beside her. “Is that a copy of Mein Kampf? Ohmagosh, it is.” Leonard pulled out the hard cover and flipped it open and read an inscription. “Zo Fritz, Immer treu.. It’s signed!” Leonard handed it to Elsa to translate.

“To Fritz, Ever loyal. Adolph Hitler.” She looked at Leonard astonished. “What the- -? Hitler!? Who the hell is Fritz?”

Leonard pointed into the bin. “What’s that one?”

Elsa lifted out a leather bound book the size of an Ipad but much thicker. She read the title. “Wags, der Mutige Kleine Welpe. Ein Kinderbook von Alois Rithel.” She looks stupified and repeated it in English. “Wags, the Brave Little Puppy by Alois Rithel.” She handed it to Leonard. “It’s a children’s book.”

Leonard turned the pages. “It’s illustrated! Who the hell is Alois Rithel?”

Elsa snaps her fingers. “Give me your Iphone.”

“What?”

Another finger snap. “Your Iphone. We’re going to find out.”

Leonard handed over his phone. Elsa started tapping her thumbs on the keys. “Google search. Alois…Rithel.”

Leonard fanned through the pages of the book. “These drawings are pretty bleak. If this is the main character, that’s a pretty sad looking puppy. Hey, look, it’s signed too. I can’t read this.”

Elsa stole a glance. “An Franz, denk dran, die Kinder sind unsere Zukunft. Liebe, Eva.” She translated. “To Franz, remember the children are our future. Love, Eva.” Elsa looks at Leonard. “Eva Braun?”

Leonard shrugs. “Who the fuck is Franz?”

I don’t know. Let me check Wikipedia. I have a hunch.” A second later, “I’ve got something.” Elsa turned to Leonard and began to explain as if she was giving directions to a tourist lost in a foreign country. “When he was young, Hitler was an artist in Vienna, barely scraping by.”

“Okay.”

“It’s a well known fact Hitler loved, Mutt and Jeff, the Katzenjammer Kids and Mickey Mouse, and at one time he even wanted to be a cartoonist.”

“I did not know that.”

Elsa ignored him and continued, “Get this, Hitler’s father’s name was Alois.”

Leonard nodded waiting for more.

“I believe Rithel is an anagram for his last name, Hitler. She smacked Leonard’s shoulder saying it as if she just discovered electricity. "Alois Rithel is Adolph Hitler’s pen name!”

“Are you saying this children’s book was written and illustrated by Adolph Hitler himself?”

“I ain’t saying Dr. Seuss!”

“But when? How? I never heard of Hitler doing this! Most of his art was of buildings and a few landscapes, not cute animals, or almost cute. And who is Fritz? Who is Franz?”

“I found a Fritz Tornow that was on Hitler’s staff and in the bunker during those last days of the fall of Berlin. He served as Hitler’s personal dog handler. Hitler was planning on suicide but didn’t trust the cyanide capsule. He ordered it tested on his dog Blondi. Fritz personally gave the cyanide to Blondi. He was then ordered to shoot her four puppies and his own dachshund named “Schnitzel.”

“Holy Schnitzel!” Leonard shook his head in bewilderment. “Those people were monsters!”

Elsa continued, “Fritz Tornow was captured by the Russians and sent to Siberia.”

“So much for Fritz. Who was Franz?”

“I have a feeling that will tell us.” Elsa reached back inside the steamer trunk and pulled out a little black book embossed with a swastika. The name Franz Shillinburg was printed in gold letters. She opened the daybook and read the inscription in English, “If found, please return to Franz Schillenberg, age 15, Wilhelmstrasse 77.”

“What is that? A Franklin Day Planner?” Leonard asked.

Elsa nodded. “Yes, and unless I miss my guess, today, Franz is better known as the former CEO of Pet Emporium and my grandfather, the late Carl Smith!”

Elsa continued reading in German. “15. April, Futterhund, sechs Uhr morgens. 10 Uhr. GehenSie mit dem Hund spazieren. 11:00 Uhr. Hundesscheibe vor dem Bunker des Anfuhrers einsammeln.”

The German was all lost on Leonard. “What’s he saying?”

Elsa shrugged. “Basically, feed dog. Walk dog. Clean up dog shit outside the bunker.” Elsa continued in English. “‘April 16th. Six am. Feed dog. Ten am. Walk dog. Eleven am. Pick up dog shit around bunker. Four pm. Blondi bit me. Six pm. Feed dog. Six thirty, clean up dog shit around the bunker.’ Leonard, I have a feeling Franz Schillenburg was a young assistant to Fritz Tornow, Hitler’s dog trainer.”

“Wow. This is crazy.” Leonard needed to sit.

Elsa wet a finger as she turned the pages. “It goes on like this page after page. ‘Feed Blondi, clean up shit, walk dog, dog runs off. Found Blondi in Russian sector. Bit by dog again. Returned dog to bunker. Fed dog, cleaned up shit. Bombs getting close.’ Wow, this kid had it rough.”

Leonard snarled. “I don’t care how “rough” any Nazi had it. They’re all bastards.”

Elsa cut him off. “Wait, this entry is a full page long!... ’April 30th. I washed and cleaned Miss Braun’s… correction, Mrs. Adolph Hitler’s Pomeranian, ‘Fluffy’. As a gift she handed me a Children’s Book, Wags, the Brave Little Puppy.”

Leonard held the book up. “He means this!”

Elsa continued. “She told me the fuhrer himself wrote the story and illustrated it using his pen name. Only one proof copy was ever printed. Mrs. Hitler told me she always dreamed of having children with the fuhrer, but his having only one testicle reduced his fertility greatly. As she spoke, she wiped away a tear. She always wanted children. She made me promise to read this story to my children one day. She believed the children are our future, she said teach them well and let them lead the Reich."

Elsa finished reading the entry. "She then ordered me, that on my first chance, I was to try to escape to the allies and avoid the Ruskies at all costs.”

“Apparently he did.” Leonard said handing the children’s book to Elsa.

Elsa opened the dusty book. Her slender fingers moved over the colored illustrations. “I don’t remember Pop-Pop or my father reading this to us.” Elsa began to read in English, “Once upon a time there was a German Shepherd puppy named Wagner, named after Germany’s great composer. Everyone called him “Wags” for short. Wag’s job was to lead the sheep to pasture and guard them from the wolves while keeping the farm free of vermin.”

Leonard scoffed. “Vermin. That little prick loved that word, didn’t he?”

She kept reading, “One day a sheep went missing. The old shepherd got angry and beat Wags with a stick. He told Wags he’d better do his job or he’d place him in a sack and drown him in a river.” Elsa held up the page with the picture of the old shepherd. “This illustration looks a lot like Hitler’s father, Alois.”

She continued reading, “Wags was afraid of Alois, the shepherd.” Leonard and Elsa exchanged a glance. Leonard snarked, “Talk about someone working through some shit.”

Elsa continued turning pages while giving the gist of the story. “Apparently Wags suspected a Russian Wolfhound of harming the sheep. Wags chased a wiener dog named Sausage from a pasture in Poland. He wanted to create more grazing space for his sheep while moving closer to the Wolfhound in order to trap him. Next, Wags took back a bone that a French Poodle named Charles was chewing on. The poodle didn’t even fight back. A Neopolitain Mastiff named Benito wanted to be friends but turned out to be useless to Wags. He had a bark worse than his bite so no one ever took it seriously. Wags then tried to make friends with an English Bulldog named Winston with no luck. Wags goes on to ignore a mongrel named Sam, finally taking on a Wolfhound named Joe, vanquishing him in Stalingrad. Wags is a hero but can’t understand why everyone still hates him. This story kind of sucks.”

“What’s the copyright on that book?” Leonard asked.

“1933.”

Leonard spoke in near disbelief, “This may sound insane, but that story is a metaphor for Hitler's plan to rule Germany seven years before he executed it!”

They sat in silence. Leonard spoke first. “What do we do, Elsa? These artifacts could be worth a lot of money not to mention their historical value.”

Elsa got to her feet. “Not enough money to ruin a family name and legacy, we’re getting rid of all of it starting with that Plato’s retreat pile of porn in the other room.”

“But how?”

Elsa stared at the swastika printed on the spine of Hitler’s children’s book. “This gives me an idea…”

It was dark by the time Elsa and Leonard piled the boxes of porn, her Pop-Pop’s Nazi memorabilia and German dog training text books into a pile and doused them all with charcoal lighter fluid in the backyard of Carl Smith’s modest home. Several tiki torches surrounded them providing ominous lighting to the setting. Leonard took a torch from it’s holder and used it to set the pile ablaze. The bonfire’s flame erupted and danced before them.

Elsa held the two contentious books out; The autographed Mein Kampf and the fuhrer-inscribed Wag, the Brave Little Puppy by Alois Rithel. She pulled them back. “What if you’re right Leonard? These two books alone could be worth a fortune and might be historically significant. Do we really have the right to burn them? Doesn’t this make us a party to censorship?”

Leonard was dumbstruck. Was she having second thoughts? He reached his hands out to her. “May I?” He took the books. Leonard looked at the cover for a moment then turned to Elsa, “I say, burn ’em.” He readied to toss them when a stranger’s voice called out.

“Howdy!” A high Texas drawal made the voice sound almost musical.

The Finkleman’s turned to see a large man in jeans and a tee covered by a flannel shirt crossing the yard, carrying a beer. “I’m Chuck Norris you’re neighbor.” Chuck shook his head and wagged a finger. “No, Not the famous one.” Then used that same finger to pop the can open. “Thought we’d share a beer. I just wanted to say I’m sorry about Mr. Smith, he was a hell of a guy, that Carl.”

Chuck stepped up to the fire next to to Elsa and Leonard. “Great neighbor. Even though he was a millionaire, he never put on airs. Lived modestly, never had a curt word to say. Always cleaned up after his dog. In fact, my dog could shit on his lawn and he wouldn’t complain, just scoop it up like a regular Joe, y’know what I mean?"

Elsa smiled wearily. “Yes, everyone loved my grandfather.”

“They sure did. Salt of the earth, he was.” Chuck guzzled a swig of beer and belched, noticing the fire. “What’s going on here, barbecue?”

Leonard tossed the two contentious books into the pyre. The flames cradled the controversial tomes quickly dissolving them into ash. "Just a good old fashioned book burning."

“What books wuz those?” Chuck asked.

Leonard said, “One was a manifesto from one of those damn socialists called My Struggle. The second was a children’s book. A cross between Old Yeller and Mein Kampf.”

Another belch followed. “Dirty socialists. Though that second one sounded interesting.”

Leonard shook his head and winced at Chuck. “It had very graphic pictures, doggie style images, if you get me.”

Chuck snarled. “G.D. perverted socialists.” Then whispered, “What’s so wrong with missionary, anyway?” Chuck’s eyes then widened. "My wife! This is amazing!”

“What about her?” Elsa asked.

Chuck slapped his leg. “Talk about coincidence! Karen’s a teacher down at Jerry Jones elementary. She just came home today with a carload of books the school board banded!"

“Banned.” Elsa murmured.

Chuck guzzled his beer, crushed the can and tossed it into the fire. “What I said! Wait here! I'll go get 'em. I mean, why just ban books when you can burn 'em?” Chuck jogged off, stopped and turned. “Hey! Mind if I back my Ram 50 up your driveway?”

Leonard gave a thumbs up. “It’s a free country."

“B-T-W,  I noticed your MAGA flag ain't up no more.” Chuck said.

Leonard smacked his hand to his leg. “Damn Antifa!”

Chuck understood. “Yeah. You need to get one of them Ring cameras. Since I got mine nobody bothers us. My wife and I don't even have to sit on the porch with our AR 15’s anymore. Anyways; I'll be right back with Karen and the kids!”

Another neighbor came up the driveway. “Hank, what's going on over there? Should I call the fire department?”

“Hell no, Steve! Grab Louise and the rugrats and bring some marshmallows! We’re having a good old fashioned book burning here with…" He turned to Leonard, "What's your name?”

“Leonard.  Leonard Finkleman.”

“With Lenny!”

The neighbor waved back. “Yeehaw! Be right over!”

Chuck turned. “Finkleman? This is still old man Smith’s place, right?”

Leonard pointed to Elsa. “This is his granddaughter, Elsa. I’m his grandson-in-law.”

“Well, your grandpa was salt of the earth, he was! Be right back.”

Within seven minutes a small crowd gathered in the yard. Leonard and Elsa watched as a group of neighbors and their children surrounded the bonfire with looks of glee and neighborly camaraderie. They saw books of every kind and description being flung into the flames. Captain Underpants, Harry Potter, Catcher in the Rye, Dr. Suess, To Kill a Mocking Bird, I Have Two Dad’s, Out of the Darkness, Of Mice and Men, Maus,…

A neighbor stepped up to Leonard. “Got smores, Lenny?”

“Nope. That was the last of them.” Leonard showed his empty hands.

“Not more books, we got plenty of those! I’m talking smores! We're cooking em!” Sure enough, several neighbors were roasting marshmallows in the flames.

Chuck, on his umpteenth beer, stared glassy eyed into the hypnotic flames. He started to sing low at first, then his voice rose in increments. The neighbors joined in as the song rose to a level of reverance. The tune was Proud to Be an American, by Lee Greenwood. Those who knew the words sung them, others hummed along, including Elsa and Leonard, now swept into the tide of the moment.

Elsa stepped forward. “I’ve got one more book.” Elsa pulled out Franz Schillenberg’s day planner. “Hope you were proud of yourself, Auf Wiedersehen, Franz. Rest in peace Pop-Pop.” She tossed it into the flames and wiped her hands.

Leonard placed his arm around her waist. “We did the right thing, Elsie. The family name is intact. No one needed to see those books. What people don’t know can’t hurt us.”

Elsa watched as one of the neighbors tossed a copy of George Orwell’s 1984 into the flickering flames. She whispered. “I certainly hope you're right.”

by Wilkinson Riling

What’s your favorite cookie?

Mine? To the detriment of my waistline, I love them all; chocolate chip, oatmeal, macarons, black and white, Pecan Sandies, Vienna Fingers, Nilla Wafers (wafers are just crackers aspiring to be something more than just a cracker), shortbread, gingerbread, sandwich cremes, peanut butter, coconut, Fig Newtons, mallomars, all varieties of the sugar stuffed goodies the Girl Scouts offer. Except for thin mints, I never developed a taste for those. Something about the menthol I find jarring, it counters the velvety richness of the dark chocolate and sometimes feels like Vick’s Vapor Rub filling my nostrils. I find Thin Mint’s popularity puzzling. But I digest, I mean, I digress…

The fact is, putting one cookie above the rest by flavor can be daunting. As of this writing, I would say for myself, the Oreo is king, with chocolate chip standing close in line in succession. Fresh from the oven C.C.’s could easily usurp my current reigning confection. Since favorite cookie status could change depending on whether it’s freshly baked or pre-packaged, for argument’s sake, let’s stay with store bought cookies for this discussion. It’s with those factory baked, processed goodies that I discovered a unique characteristic in my long love affair with the cookie allowing me to have a favorite in all cookie situations.

For, no matter what kind, there exists a cookie that earns, deserves and receives my utmost respect. A respect formed from gratitude. I speak, of course, of the Keystone Cookie. What, might you ask, is the Keystone Cookie? It is the Gunga Din of baked treats which I treat with a solemn reverence.

The Keystone Cookie is the very first cookie your fingers pinch to remove from the tray. It creates the space that now allows for a complete cookie assault. With its removal, you are free to inflict any amount of damage you choose to bring down upon the freshly opened package. Whether grabbing only a few or seizing something the size of a professional gambler’s stack of poker chips, a fist full of cookies, if you will. The Keystone Cookie is the first cookie “Over the top!” from the crammed trenches of the sandwich tray. It may appear to be a chance selection, but trust me, despite the randomness, this is a brave cookie.

To begin with, this cookie has to face the fact it will be the first victim consumed and washed down your gullet in a torrent of milk.

Secondly, the remaining cookies undoubtedly see it as the “Judas Cookie.” The betrayer in the tray. To them, it leaves the gate open for the barbarians to pillage and plunder rest of the cookie village.

There’s no going home for this cookie. If you were to try to return it back to the package for some reason; say for instance, it’s midnight and you hear your spouse stirring while you’re sneaking a late night snack, one might try to shove it back before being caught snacking. You can be sure that the Keystone Cookie will crumble from the tight squeeze brought by the anger, rejection and pressure from the other cookies. In short, the Keystone Cookie faces stresses no other cookie faces.

You won’t find a Keystone Cookie in a cookie jar. Cookie jars are for wusses. In a jar, it’s every cookie for himself, clinging to the sides in the darkness, burrowing to the bottom, pushing their comrades to the top. Going stale before their time. Laying willy-nilly, waiting to be abducted one at a time. No uniformed stacking, no structure. No, “We’re all in this together” motto. Pure cookie anarchy. You can keep your stinking cookie jars.

These are the reasons I hold the Keystone Cookie in such high regard. It’s why I believe it would be cruel, forcing such a cookie to have to watch as I devour his former friends. Tearing their heads off and licking their double stuffed innards like a toddler with a large lollipop. Or made to watch as I dunk a single cookie in milk, removing it, then consuming it, half drowned, and barely holding together. Or smushing two cookies together like conjoined carnival twins. The Keystone Cookie deserves better.

In the end, as I reach for the Keystone Cookie, it's not merely a snack I seek, but becomes a moment of communion. With each bite, it's as if I partake in a sacred ritual, a baptism in milk that sanctifies the cookie-eating experience. For in the simple act of enjoying this brave yet humble treat, I find a moment of bliss, a respite from the chaos of the world, and a celebration of life's simple pleasures.

So, dear reader, the next time you select that solitary Keystone Cookie nestled snuggly in the tray, take a moment to appreciate its significance. Recognize it not just as a mere cookie, but as a symbol of unity, sacrifice, and the joy of indulgence. For in the humble Keystone Cookie, we find not just a treat, but a reminder to always make room for a little extra sweetness in our lives.

That’s the way the Keystone Cookie should crumble.