I was born into darkness. ‘My life’ in one word “disastrous”.

I grew up running throught the storms. ‘My life’ in one word “chaotic”.

I bared my youth through blind unpredictability. ‘My life’ in one word “fear”.

I saw the clouds clear. ‘My life’ in two words “peaceful bliss”.

I was getting older, wiser and deafer. ‘My life’ in two words “overflowing rage”.

I withstood the test of ‘My life’ as I watched the locks of my tresses.

I had searched ‘My whole life’ for something I had no idea how to attain.

I did not suspect what was to happen next in ‘My life’.

I only had to look at the aged me, and there it was looking back at me from atop my matured crowning head, the “Silver Lining”. “Wow”,I said.

I fretted all ‘My life’, and all I had to do was withstand all the unpredictable storms of darkness in ‘My life’ til I could see the “Silver Lining”.

It was looking for me throughout ‘My whole life’.

Just goes to show ya’ everyone sometime in ‘there lives’ will see

“The Silver Lining”.

I don’t know what Jamie was thinking before she died. No one does. She didn’t leave a note, no strung-out goodbyes or final wishes. I don’t know what pain she was feeling. I don’t know if it hurt. I don’t know if there is an afterlife, but if there is I’ll ask her. Until then I seldom strayed from my daily routine. I needed it. I craved the structure. I left from my apartment and started my car. Immediately the stereo spun the CD up to speed and the soft song of a guitar came through my speakers. Also routine. Also needed. Silence had been the enemy since I had found Jamie. We declared war on each other from that moment on, and I was not one to back down easily.

Rodney’s was on the corner of a busy intersection. Amid rush-hour when my shift started, the shop was constantly filled with the sounds of blaring horns and yelling pedestrians. Inside the summer sun streamed through the windows and cooked the mechanics in their thick uniforms. A foul mood fell across the workforce when the day hit its highest temperatures every day like clockwork. My stall was settled in the corner of the shop where my toolbox sat against a water stained wall. When I started a year before I expected to become used to the smell, but I had not. The oil and fumes burned my nose. When I had settled into my stall, I stood in front of my tool box and took in the surroundings. Also, routine. Also needed. I took in the sounds. The blaring horns, the shouting, the wurring of the machinery nearby. I took in the smells. The oil, the exhaust, the gas. It was all so overwhelming. So overwhelming it left no time to focus on memories, to focus on Jamie. It was blissful.

I was supposed to have weekends off, but time at home was time spent thinking. I came in every weekend since Jamie died, and since my manager wasn’t supposed to work weekends either there was no one to oppose. However, the work was slow going, so often I simply sat in my stall and enjoyed the distractions around me. Work was also slow for Neil, who came by my stall often to keep himself from being bored. Also, a fan of not being bored, I welcomed his company. Today he came by with a large oil stain running down the front of his uniform. Each hand held a steaming cup of coffee and he wore the same goofy smile he often did. I sometimes wondered if he assumed that was a mandatory part of the uniform.

“Working hard?” Neil asked. He set one of the steaming cups on my tool box before taking a seat on my rolling stool.

“Not a day in my life,” I said. The coffee warmed my throat. It tasted like hot cat urine, but we had grown accustomed to it.

“Is that how you see seventy hours a week?” Neil snickered.

“Try it sometime, then you might have enough money to go to the laundromat more often.” I gulped down the rest of the coffee and tossed it into an empty oil drum. Neil looked down at his oil stained shirt and laughed. Neil took a long sip of his coffee and smacked his lips. His eyes stared at the toes of his shoes for a moment before he looked up again. The goofy smile had left his lips.

“How’d the funeral go?” He asked.

“As well as they can,” I said. I suddenly found something very interesting in my toolbox to stare at. The thing I appreciated about Neil was uncomfortable moments like these didn’t come often. When they did, I wanted to sink into the floor and disappear, but due to normal social conduct I tried my best to hold my head high.

Neil bobbed his head up and down. “Well, if you ever need to get out of that little box of yours, you should give me a call and we’ll go get a drink sometime. I’m serious, John. Whenever you need a break.”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “I think that’d be good.” That wasn’t a lie, either. It had been a long time since I had done anything remotely social outside of work. The rest of the day went by smoothly. Neil and I spoke of lighter topics and laughed often. When the clock struck seven, I closed my toolbox and headed for home.

My apartment was my sanctuary. Despite the toll isolation takes on a human being, there was no better place suited for me. It was a tiny little studio, with a weak attempt at a kitchen and an even smaller bathroom. It was all I needed. The entire wall that greeted you when you entered was lined with bookshelves. My treasures. Dickens, Poe, King, all my favorite works all carefully placed with the spines on the very edge of the shelf in alphabetical order by author. On the bottom shelf, Jamie’s books lined all the way across. Her collection was almost completely comprised of poetry. Behind them was hidden multiple different books about coping with loss, but I didn’t think those looked as appealing on display. That was my private collection.

I didn’t own a T.V, my room consisted of a small bed and a luxurious recliner, cupholders and all, and my desk where my stories are born. Since Jamie died, my craft had died along with her. Instead I invested in a large stereo that now sat on the desk top. I unlaced my boots and slipped them off before walking over to the desk. Routine. I tapped a few buttons on the stereo and the CD inside spun up just like it did in my car. Routine. It was followed by the soft lull of fingers dancing on piano keys. Routine. I stood before my bookshelf but froze for a moment. My eyes glanced over the current novel I had eloped with but skipped passed it. As much as my heart urged against it, I lowered my body to read the spines on the bottom shelf. I stopped at the collection of poems that wore a faded jacket and cracked spine. Jamie’s favorite. Not routine.

Indulging in grief was like playing Russian Roulette with all the chambers loaded. I found myself indulging many times before, hoping each time that the gun wouldn’t go off. Sinking into the recliner, I ran my fingers down the cover of the collection. The pages were dirty and worn from dog-ears. I open the pages to the only remaining dog ear and read the poem. I was two stanzas down when tears appeared at the corner of my eyes. The poem Jamie marked was about beauty. It was about laughter. It was about love. I closed the book before I could finish the poem and held my head in my hand. I thought of her face, the blue depth of her eyes. I felt a lot of anger it that moment. I hated myself for not saving her, and I hated her for not giving me the chance. She had taken her own life in the bedroom of our former apartment while I was in the shop. We would often discuss the works of literature we were reading. She read about the brighter signs of life, and I read about the things that go bump in the night. Ironically, she was absorbed in the darker side of life in which I loved. Sometimes I believed subconsciously I loved her more because of that. I threw the book to the ground beside the recliner and pulled my phone out of my pocket. I punched in the numbers with shaking hands.

Neil looked entirely different without his work uniform. He wore a basic white tee-shirt that glowed in the neon-lights above the bar. Although his distinguishing child-like grin was brighter still. The bar was mostly quiet except for the murmur of conversation and music drifting from the speakers above. It wasn’t the lulling guitar or dancing piano, but it did its job just fine. We drank in silence for about an hour. Neil made small talk with the bartender, but I was too busy tracing the grain of the wood we were drinking on to be concerned with civility. Eventually I spoke without taking my eyes off the bar.

“Do you think it’ll ever stop hurting?” I asked.

Neil took a long drink. “Nope,” he said, suddenly also very interested in the bar. “I think you’re going to carry her with you until you die.”

Not feeling particularly encouraged I asked, “do you think I can ever be happy again?”

Neil took another drink and looked at me with eyes like lasers. “That’s the thing about you, John. You’re a tough guy, you work hard, and you don’t give up when things get hard.” I tried to thank him, but he pressed on. “But your failure is that you need to learn that your happiness doesn’t depend on anyone else but yourself. You’re allowed to grieve, and you should let yourself grieve. But this is what I want you to do,” I was completely intrigued in what Neil was saying. I nodded enthusiastically. “I need you to find nine moments a day to give yourself in to the sadness and the pain, and one moment to feel happy about something or feel good about yourself. The next week you find eight for her a day, and two for you. Seven and three the next week, and so on and so forth.”

I couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. My coworker, no less of a grease-monkey than I, shooting hidden wisdom at me in a dive-bar at midnight. I was just finishing processing this information when he spoke again. “No matter what, after the tenth week, you stay in that pattern forever. Nine moments for yourself and one for her. Forever. Don’t ever forget how much she meant to you and how much you loved her. Okay?” He asked. I nodded. We drank for a while longer, once again speaking lightly. I felt in much better spirits.

Neil left an hour later, but I remained on my stool. I drank slowly, enjoying the peace of my newly found plan. I had hope for the first time since she died. I had confidence in the ability to be a functioning human being again. I wasn’t okay, not now, but I knew I could be. That’s all I needed to know. As I was fishing out my wallet to pay the bartender, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I expected Neil’s number to flash across the screen, but instead it was one I did not know. The only unexpected phone call I had received in the last week was from sympathetic onlookers or police officers. My stomach dropped. I flipped my phone open and held the receiver to my ear. It wasn’t the police. It was the fire department.

The woman downstairs fell asleep on the couch watching late night talk shows. She left a cigarette burning on her ashtray that caught her apartment, in turn mine, on fire. She made it out alive with her cat cradled in her arms. My treasures, however, did not. I stood against the fender of my car and watched firemen go in and out of the remnants of my apartment. My books, Jamie’s poems, all gone. The only possessions I still had was the clothes I was wearing, a few work uniforms in my car, and the toolbox in my stall. Everything else was charcoal. As I stood there, waiting for Neil’s car to come rumbling down the street to come pick me up, I wasn’t sad. For the first time I was engulfed in my thoughts and I didn’t want to hide. I had a fresh start. I had room to heal. I would become new again.

That’s one for me.

I am sick.

I don’t know why.

If this goes on,

I will die.

Extra words to meet the challenge...

The pictured insect was stuck on a wall.

It was flattened behind a picture.

That is an example of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

On here! Away from everything and everyone in my bedroom, no bigger than their attics. I returned my being, so far for you, unknown, close to a scientific observatory journey from a Brazil, only known for football, caipirinha and carnival. Ah! Let’s not forget Rodrigo Santoro, perfect in the three-hundredth feature that both rejoiced the Greeks and Trojans.

In his hands, an old pen, drafts in white, fluttered cheers between the corridors of the soul and reason. There! Physics, literature, poetry, all in cobwebs spattered like pickles.

As each formula in number jumps from mind to paper, in my eyes, I could see flowering in small plants, Isabel’s face. A Woman who steps briefly walked into a class at Harvard, a woman whose fear of the new, still makes me, not to have it on the same roof.

Without any advanced technology, blessing to aid in the pursuit of research, I left obstacles there. I continued each one of the accounts and gotten the certainty of nailing the gavel to earthquake locations all over the globe.

By the ways and infiltrations of the networks in little-known notebooks, as well as, in the voice of Mark Elliot Zuckerberg echoed present my discovery. So! Clack! Clack! I pointed out a great earthquake to reach the American territory, besides Capital Washington, would soon be all taken by the waters.

The television from the small room with its hisses, announced at the top of its lungs, a science of the north of the compass. Higher! An entire Nation, the minds I learned to admire from the corridors of the most advanced Universities, affirmed the erroneous fragility of the elaborate considerations.

The days were fading by the hourglass of waiting, but with the hearts of each of the notes, given in earthquakes, now really happening, everything was heading towards a conclusion. But the oval hall of the White House and its trustee Donald Trump screamed, none of this will happen. We are superiors!

But the flood filled the whole city, flooding the Capital Washington, a surprise for some, a truth already told to others. And Chief Commander Trump in announcing, declares Brazil superior in the interim of research.

The news, wins the television stations only in a very brief note. In response, the poet, writer, researcher and journalist is emphatic in denying the title, because for him, superiority hurts the precepts of a possible dialogue.

However, there is only something superior to everything and this is the love of one’s neighbor and to the one who has made him stand firmly in this daily work. Superior are the senses and feelings nourished by the search agent for the beautiful Isabel.

However, the lack of equipment, almost no gain in the daily life of this thinker could be obstacles to leave everything aside and today, he already walks the streets of the neighborhood where he resides, saying: I nominate for the popular Nobel of Geosciences 2018!

It seems as though the universe and I are at odds.

When I step outside, a cloud forms over my head.

When I get in my car, lightning appears in the sky.

As I walk from my house to my car, puddles form under my feet.

And i let out a sigh.

My darling, you have failed to notice that when you stepped outside, you were carrying an umbrella.

When you got in your car, it had rubber tires.

When you walked from your car to your house, you were wearing rainboots.

The universe is in your favor, my dear,

you just had the wrong perspective.

Serendipity is the word that best described that game. We were the underdogs by twenty points; the Orange County Vikings were the best team in our league. They were undefeated, until we met them in Irvine.

Our team was the So Cal Bulldogs (most other teams called us the “Bullshits”). We were going into that game with a 2 and 7 record, ready to close out the season with another shitty game against the number one offense and number two defense. We were all part of the LaBelle Community Football League, a developmental league intended to give chances to talented players unable to attend the “Football Factory” colleges. Instead, it attracted a flurry of thugs, gangsters, drug addicts, and players with emotional problems. That season we had a fight after every game (some between opposing teams and ours, some between our own players). But this game we had a fight during the game.

I had played with the team the previous year as a back up lineman. I was ready to play but the coaches thought I needed more development. But for this season they begged me to play. The OC called me during the preseason and said they do not have enough linemen for a consistent front. Apparently, they had too many skilled players, they were using the extra full backs to fill in gaps. I came back and brought my friend Chris. We were both over six and a half feet tall, around three hundred pounds. The coaches placed us both on the left side of the line, the blind side.

The game started terribly. Our kicker wanted to do an onside kick, since their special teams were mediocre. The head coach, Mike, said no. He was an alcoholic who lived with his parents at age forty-two. We kicked off, they fielded it, and took it all the way for a touchdown. Coach Mike threw his clipboard on the ground.

Our offense took the field. Our o-line was me, Chris, our center Justin, and a linebacker and power back on the right. In the huddle the linebacker (I forget his name) and the power back (Mario) started arguing about something stupid (I think it was about spat). They started pushing each other. Chris and I separated them. We got the play off, a run up the middle. The running back fumbled, the Vikings recovered. We jogged off the field. I told the offensive coordinator to separate Mario and the other guy. After a three-and-out they kicked a thirty-six-yard field goal to make it ten to nothing after three minutes of play.

Half time saw us down thirteen to zero. We were all irritated. Coach Mike gave us one of his patented speeches, in which he borrowed some lines from several football movies. But he closed it with something that woke us up. We were playing the number one team, favored by twenty points. But their number one offense has not scored a touchdown on us. We were only down two possessions. There was hope for us.

We started the second half with a good looking drive stopped short of field-goal range. We punted and managed a touchback. They had the ball at the twenty-five-yard line (before the rule change). They started their drive: a short pass here, a solid run there, making their way all the way to the goal line, where they faced a fourth and goal play. They could have kicked it to make it sixteen to nothing, but I guess their coaches felt confident. They lined up for a run. We called a time out.

Coach Mike had his jumbo package go onto the field. The jumbo package included two very large men as defensive tackles (both fat men were good for only a few plays a game). They stuffed the run, turning the ball over on the one-yard line. Our offense took the field, not going very far. We punted, hoping our defense could do better. They did.

We had a very talented cornerback named Jo Jo. I had seen him do some amazing things from the sideline. That night he did something phenomenal. The play was trips right (three receivers lined up on the right). Jo Jo played the receiver on the left. They snapped the ball, QB pump faked to the right, Jo Jo read the play. The QB threw to the left, Jo Jo stepped in front of his man and picked off the pass. Our bench erupted with applause. Jo Jo spin moved, avoided tackles, juked, and made his way all the way to the end zone. It was then thirteen to seven (after we made the extra point).

The league’s number one offense was angry. They methodically drove down the field and scored their first touchdown of the game. Coach Mike scolded the defense as our special teams took the field. It was an uneventful return, gaining minimal yardage.

We ran the ball twice (no gain) and lined up for a pass. Our QB called “Hike.” The receivers battled up field as he threw a deep pass to Jason, a wide out who smoked cigarettes between quarters. The CB was all over him, drawing a pass interference penalty. The crowd jeered as our bench whooped.

We were down to the fifteen-yard line. Our QB looked to the sideline for the play. It was a flea-flicker. We lined up, he handed it off, the running back fluidly tossed the ball back to the QB who tossed it to Jason for a touchdown. The whole offense tackled Jason in celebration. Twenty to fourteen.

The game was winding down. Our defense kept them from scoring. Offense took the field with less than four minutes left, down by six. This was when our serendipitous opportunity arrived.

It was first down. The play was a simple pass with four receivers and a full back helping to block. Mario had been benched, along with the linebacker he had the altercation with. For whatever reason they chose this moment to have an MMA match on the sideline. The Vikings defense lined up as we were ready to snap the ball. Suddenly, they all looked at the fight, with a few exclamations expressed. I looked at the quarterback. “Run the play!”

“Hike!” Justin snapped it. Jason ran up field, covered by the same cornerback that gave us great position with the PI penalty. He would not make the same mistake twice. Their defense was caught off guard for just a split second. But that was good enough for Jason. The ball was coming right to him, the CB was careful not to foul him. Jason looked back, as did the defender. He caught the ball, struggled to separate, and the cornerback tripped, allowing Jason to score. We were ecstatic. “Fuck YEAH!!!”

It was twenty-one to twenty. This was the only time during the whole season that the OC Vikings were behind. We relished the moment until we realized that there was over three minutes left for the highest scoring offense to work with.

Coach Mike (who was also the defensive coordinator) pulled me aside. “I need you to play a little defense.” I could smell the Irish Whiskey on his breath. “I need you to go out there and get angry. I need you to help us win this one.” The linebacker that Mario had body-slammed was out, and now I needed to cover for him.

I had never played a defensive snap in my semi-professional career. I had played pick-up games at the park without pads, involving a different technique. I ran onto the field and approached the line like a strong safety.

They quarterback saw me and called an audible. The runner came right at me. Being a tall person has its benefits, and its faults. Since I was standing it was an easy block for the offensive guard. They gained twelve yards.

Nick, one of the d-linemen, said “Hey 'Urlacher', get in the four-point stance.” I got down in the proper stance. “I guess we’re a four-three defense now.” The linebackers and linemen chuckled. The next play was a play-action pass to the tight end that fooled our defensive backs. They gained fifteen.

They worked their way downfield. Time was their enemy. For an offense that was used to winning this was a tough situation. Eventually, they got to within the thirty-yard line and let the clock tick down to one second. They called time-out, their special teams came out.

I stayed in. I had practiced with the kicking team but was unsure of myself. I took a deep breath. I got into the four-point stance. I looked to my right where Nick was (he looked tired).

The long-snapper hiked it back to the punter, who held it for the placekicker. I heard Nick grunt as he broke through their line, right up the middle. The ball made a loud thump as it was kicked right into his chest. The Bulldogs exploded. Our whole team charged the field. We had won!

The Vikings were stunned. The game meant nothing to them, but it meant everything to us. It was all thanks to serendipity, and a fight.