Should have made love when they first dated, back before his Ph. D., but Jesusgirl wouldn’t. She moved away, sang in a punk band, dated a painter. Loved his smell of turpentine. Years passed. The doctor distinguished himself with cows. She became a poet. Wrote sporadic letters. Both married others. The doctor visited when she was three months pregnant. Same smell of persimmons. Pursued her via e-mail. She resisted, had her baby. His letters shifted boulders inside her. He flew to see her baby, but left with her heart. Her husband discovered letters she’d saved, and mailed them to the doctor’s wife.

Six months ago after dinner my husband announced he only had a couple of good years left and he didn’t want to waste them on being married to me. He wanted to fish. “Let’s sleep on it, that wasn’t my best dinner.” “No, now.” “OK, do you think you could call 911—I’m hyperventilating!” “Oh, stop the dramatics, you’re fine. We’ve had a good run of 35 years. I just want peace and to go fishing.” Turns out he’d already been snagged by a 40-year-old mermaid with two teenagers. Hope she likes her fish cleaned.

Years later, as a physics student, I learned why it happened. As my mother organized her last minute Christmas purchases for the ice trek to the car, I was curiously surveying the coins at the bottom of the seemingly shallow small fountain. Reportedly, she heard the splash before she saw it. Boots, gloves, hat, oversized down jacket and my disbelieving face emerged from the water. My mother would later tell my father of her embarrassment, particularly when the four giggling nuns walked by. All I remember is the cold ride home, my father’s laughter and the taste of my first whiskey.

I must have been on the third mile of an early afternoon run in Bidwell Park when I realized that I was surrounded by death. It had fallen from above and scattered across the earth in melancholy shades of orange and yellow. Withered souls sagged from exposed branches, waiting to be freed. I passed two old men hobbling towards each other on the edge of the path, both of them smiling. “Here we are again!” proclaimed one to the other. The tone of his voice was one of genuine surprise.

A carpenter and an artist met at an intersection in Old Monterey. She was nervous and babbled but he was cool and unfazed, in work clothes, casual, relaxed. His demeanor calmed her. They spoke of their lives: his business quiet over the winter, her watercolors and animation in LA that got her by. His peace found a resting place in her, as souls connected on the sidewalk, waiting. They had each sustained only superficial damage. She took responsibility. Officer Mouro arrived. Almost with regret, insurance information exchanged, they parted with a warm handshake, never to meet again in this lifetime.

Virgil sat in his chair in his house that he built, surrounded by a foundation of mortar and memories. He watched the news reports. He saw the images of rest homes and the hidden abuse. He was not going to budge for anyone; not his daughter, not his caregiver, no one. He did not live and work for 84 years to be pulled from his home to be a hushed up statistic. With feeble hands, he pulled the gun from the dresser drawer and set in on his lap. He watched the door to his room and waited.

“I picked these for you, grandma,” she said. “You can take them with you...you know, to put on that stone.” Her 5-year-old arms motioned to the ground in front of her. “Thank you, dear,” I sighed. I was heading out to the cemetery again. Loneliness had preoccupied me and I realized that I had been neglecting her. I reached for her humble bouquet. “Two dandelions and a daisy!” she exclaimed. My eyes filled with tears. “They’re beautiful,” I whispered. I pulled her close to embrace her, and as I did, I remembered what it was to feel peace.

A child runs chaotic circles around a tall statue of Christopher Columbus. Christopher points west, towards his claim to fame. The child chases only himself, maturing slightly with every completed lap. Then he inexplicably breaks his circle and sprints east, defying Columbus. A group of desperate pigeons explode into the sky like a detonated firework. The boy stops alone in the middle of the plaza and watches as Columbus is consumed by pigeons. He grips the old cobblestone with his feet, closes his eyes, and extends his right arm forward, back in the direction of Christopher, suddenly full of life.

A friend of 20-plus years borrowed $500 two years ago Halloween. Having never known her to be a welsher, it was an easy check to write. Until today, I thought she was dead. Turns out she is living in Pismo Beach, and hosting her own Web site and beach blog on self-help and financial independence. She always wanted to be a writer. I guess she writes fiction. She has a link on her site to paralegal services. I wonder if I should use them to sue her. I wonder if she remembers how she spent the money.

The fat man was walking, walking for his health, no iPod and bored to tears, when a bright yellow taxicab pulled up. The cabbie was a skinny redhead. “Need a lift?” He got in. The next day, so he could resist her, he carried no money, but she said, “You can sign for it.” He rode. Next morning he changed his route but she found him. He shook her off. She begged. “You need the ride, I need the fare.” “Give me a charge slip,” he said. He signed, adding a big tip. Walking away, he called, “Bill me.” She didn’t.

Julia is lost at sea. Clinging to her surfboard, she calmly kicks further out. Her parents on their beach chairs dwindle away. The ocean swells pull her away from them. On her left breast is Julia’s new tattoo, a winged pig. Get a birthday tattoo? “When pigs fly,” her father had said. The tattoo looks blistery and stings in the saltwater. Suddenly action on the beach: parents pointing, lifeguard yelling! Julia stands on her surfboard, her delicate young body glistening. With arms and face lifted to the endless horizon, she asks for rescue from a place where there is no shore.

She’s alone, hair hanging limply, hands folded in her lap, rocking in time with the bus. “No!” she snaps. “You’re not listening to me. You never listen to me!” She’s surrounded by empty seats. “This town,” she explains, “is a different town than it used to be.” Her voice is softer now, as if admonishing a child. She lapses into silence and the other passengers look hopeful, but her manic dialog begins anew. At least she’s never lonely. How many people can say that? Maybe, when the world abandons you, you have to find people who don’t belong to the world.

I was only there for her, but charisma-man was coming on thick, and brainwashed mania shone through the gaps in their congregational smiles. “How do you like our group?” The proselytizer beamed. “Scary.” I said. “The Lord’s power scared me originally,” he agreed. How could belief reach this fervor without drugs? I had seen it before, in newsreels of saluting Nazis. Sanctimonious sweat gleamed on the preacher’s temples; the avid screamed their approval. I swiveled, counting the bodies between freedom and me. Satisfied I could fight my way out if hypodermics appeared, I felt I wouldn’t be asking her out again.

When Grandfather, my hero, died, I inherited his golden key. But no one ever told me. Years later, while closing up my childhood home, I discovered an exquisitely carved box hidden inside my mother’s wall under a tool box in which she stored her diamonds. After I signed the final estate papers, my mother’s attorney handed me the tattered, yellowed envelope addressed: “For my beloved Jilly,” written in Grandfather’s jiggly handwriting. Inside was Grandfather’s golden key. It fit the lock in the carved box. Inside I discovered a fragile parchment scroll edged in gold that read: Imagination is Everything.

Hands gripping the wheel, Nick swore at his parents. “You’ve fought for 30 years. I can’t take anymore!” Having read a psychology book, he explained how he wanted them to communicate. “Mom, you first. Something positive!” “Tell him to put his hat on, I can’t stand the sight of his bald head.” “Mother!” “[expletive deleted]!” said Dad. “See what I put up with?” Dad punched the windshield, cracking it, then opened the door onto speeding pavement. “I’ll walk!” “Look!” Nick pointed. A small plane descended into the cornfields. Not a dove, but it would have to do. They drove in silence.

I told my son to go. He seemed so excited to have found a scholarship option that’d get him into college. Those TV ads helped him decide, I’m sure of it. Smiling at me, he’d said, “Dad, this is it. I’m going to be an engineer.” We went to the recruiting office together and he’d filled out the papers, signing his 19-year-old life over to them for two years. Boot camp. Shipped overseas. Now he’s coming home. The letter came three days ago and I’d wept. My son. The 1,000th soldier to come home on a silent aircraft.

My feet drag, old-man like. Hell, I’m not old. It’s freezing. Can’t warm these bones. Behind overflowing dumpsters. I savor the dwindling bottle. Artificial warmth. Almost there. I’m late. Too slow. Climb the stairs heavily. Door is closed, no hushed voices emerge. Never go in anyway. Damn hypocrites. Edge alongside the tiny window obstructed by hedges. The choir starts. Face against stone. Watching. Listening. Emily loved that one. I hear her sweet soprano rising above. My heart swells. Been gone 15 years but I can hear her voice. Organ notes fade away. Shuffling homeward lighter, faster. My heart warm with Emily.

“I dozed off.” “What!” “I dozed off. I mean, a millennium is a long shift to pull.” “How long were you asleep?” “Only two centuries. I left a great party to do this shift, and...” “What’s the damage?” “They’ve industrialized. They’ve taken it up to atomic fusion and space travel. If I’d been awake I would have followed procedure, but...” “Damn! They’ve gone CRITICAL! I’ll have to start over from late mammals! All My work ruined! Good thing I came to check, or We’d be fried.” As He spoke, He pressed the button marked EMERGENCY PROJECT TERMINATION.

Gingerly she secures a sliver comb into her white hair. Today is her 90th birthday. She recalls her life, its joys and sorrows. Smiling to herself, she remembers the boy who gave her this comb. How they danced in Paris that summer on nimble feet. They survived two world wars, family deaths and life’s hardships. A knock on the door rattles the woman from her revelry. The door opens, a hand reaches out, helping her rise from her seat. They share an intimate smile as they walk hand in hand to the celebration and the remainder of their lives.

The first thing she noticed was the comprehensible background noise. It had been two years since she’d spoken the same language as everyone around her. In the airport, her mind recoiled from the mindless chatter of hundreds of people speaking her native tongue. Her loud, large countrymen contrasted painfully with the contained, polite people of the world where she’d been living. Suddenly, she wanted to go home to her mouse-hole, tatami-floored apartment half a world away. Where she belonged had strangely become more foreign than the place from where she’d come. She was in between, and never the same again.

She sits alone at a cluttered table with forced indulgence, eating sardines straight from the can. The light overhead casts gangly shadows, like neglected hands across her face. There’s a knock at the door. She yanks herself up and slowly opens it. There stands a cigar-smoking little man wearing a white tuxedo and a fat, dirty smirk on his face. “Fresh as lettuce and ready to please,” he says. Somehow unsurprised, she studies him and the carnation in his lapel—pink. Hmmm. Finally she says, “You have the wrong address,” and carefully shuts the door, smiling as she turns away.

She sucked air through her teeth as she withdrew the needle from her arm. Matt concentrated on keeping the lighter flame underneath a spoon. “Laura, I’m the only one who loves you. You ain’t got no one else.” Laura did not look up while she nodded. “That’s my girl. We’ll do it together.” Matt handed Laura the gun and she slowly raised it to her head. The gun barked like a dog. He watched her corpse slump to the floor. There were knocks at the door. “What’s going on in there?” “Nothing Mrs. Holtz,” said Matt as he closed his eyes.

Paul rocked on his driftwood seat. The salty breeze chilled his tears and he squinted unintentionally. Despite his own silence, the surf roared his feelings. He wanted to yell at it. He wanted to take back what it had stolen. He was lost. He fumbled the pill between his fingers and remembered what they told him. Take it and “feel better” or chuck it and “live through it.” His grief was all he had and not for a shrink or anyone else to take away. He wiped his eyes and flicked the pill into the sand. His son loved the beach.

I’m scared as I sit on that window seat on the sixth floor, holding the baby as he paces in front of me. Rage in his eyes, teeth clenched, the knife in his hand. Hours before we were having a dinner party. Three bottles of wine later I’m choosing my death. My lip is swollen. Blood drips on our daughter’s sweater. She cries and I shoosh, shoosh her. I whisper, “Little girl don’t cry.” I’m ready to jump and...He passes out, cold...But that wasn’t the last time he beat me. Christmas Day we just pretended that night didn’t exist.

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