A powerline had fallen across the road, two car lengths up, trapping all drivers unfortunate enough to be on the wrong side of it. Latonda, a vegan of many years, stared out the passenger side window. She watched ironically as a transport truck filled with pigs emptied all its terror through the slats of the truck. For the last hour, excrement sloshed with 40mph rainy winds, painting the surrounding vehicles and the pavement. She considered they couldn’t have much left, but the squealing swine indicated more was coming.

She turned her head to Michael, who had been staring intently into the smeared future, squeezing the exclusive squish toy he desperately needed that caused their extra 10-minute delay leaving the park. He could feel her gaze upon the side of his neck trace down to focus on the anthropomorphized bacon in his hand. She watched its strangely emotional face pulse larger and smaller on a nervous rhythm before she finally spoke.

“This is all because you didn’t want to see Les Mis.”

Jacob switched the phone to his other ear, leaning back onto the shiny red and blue themed surface of the charging station while taking note of the various sets of aghast gazes, directed toward him by all the passengers under the redesigned led lighting that American Airlines hoped would make waiting at their gate feel “sprightly and fun.” He was used to it. Employed by a large agriculture and food mega-company, he had to take many a work call at airports. His 10-year employment anniversary carry-on promoted the products he helped sell and thus motivated the randoms at the airports to foist conversations upon him: whether organic is healthier for you, if cane sugar tastes better than high fructose corn syrup, farmed fish vs wild fish, whether food coloring causes cancer and autism.

He had experienced this so many times and patiently engaged so frequently that at some point a year or so ago, Jacob felt he was on the wrong end of a one-way energy flow and started to experiment with the power he noticed his bag had over their emotions and offenses.

He caught the stare of two college students returning from Hawaii. A trip they took because their favorite humanities professor convinced them Hawaiian culture is better than the culture of the United States. Both students’ fingers nervously grasped their appropriated leis as Jacob felt motivated to put on a bit of a show.

“They get all their news from TikTokers, who get all their news from TikTokers. A disturbed game of telephone, the end result of which is everyone getting increasingly dumber.  We test our milk and meat. It literally has the same amount of hormones as grass fed, organic, whatever."

Jacob was feeling himself. Getting louder, every so often he would gesticulate high above his head, temporarily exposing an ornate belt buckle that in quick glances left some of his viewers thinking it was Rodin's The Thinker, while others saw Mother Teresa standing off with a monkey. Exhausted and satisfied he had done enough to rile the audience, he finished his call and waited for the reaction. The sound of overhead lighting mixed with the beeping of a small people transport going by felt eerily quiet.

He looked up at all those in the terminal. They were silently staring at him. Well, wait… maybe not. They were looking in his direction, yes, but it felt like they were staring past him.

Jacob turned his head to see the beeping airport shuttle drive past, revealing behind it a four foot boy. Thick bodied. Looking to be 5 years old, possibly older. He had a pacifier in his mouth and was wearing a harness attached to a leash, being yanked from 10 feet away, by his mother.

Clint entered the produce aisle of the imaginatively titled “Neighborhood Co-Op” grocery store. It cost more by a lot, was filled with unknown and intensely bland cereals that had dubious health claims, and was clearly laid out by community members who were self-taught in retail space planning. But he believed, somehow, somewhere, he was making a positive societal difference by shopping here.

The extra harsh LED lighting bounced into his face as he lifted an heirloom beefsteak for inspection. Apparently, some well-meaning, earth-loving, forty-something thought it belonged directly above the tomatoes.

“Hey Clint.”

Steve’s relaxed but energetic voice felt like the kind you’d hear in a room with the words “fraternal order” above the door. Steve had switched careers to real estate recently, a step up from selling used cars.

“Did you see that listing I sent you? I think that place is so you.”
“Yeah. It’s awesome. $1.1 million though…. Must be nice for those who can do that.” 
“You gotta get you a boyfriend. It would be easy with two incomes.”
“True. If there were two of us, making my salary, it would be doable.”
“Look at me, giving you shit for being single. I’m an ass. It’s not like your goal is to die alone.”

Clint looked at the tomato in his hand which he had intended to purchase. He didn’t recall seeing that bruise before.

Tyler walked towards the line of grade school children all wearing matching red shirts. He wasn’t approaching the kids specifically, but they were in his path. After their school burned down they needed a place to get educated and conveniently enough an empty building needed a tenant in this high class office park, complete with a separate food court, expensive gym, and public display of a larger than life water pitcher. Despite the fact every day resembled a take your kids to work day, Tyler would just mind his own business and never interact. The armed guard, always present to let the kids into the building, punctuated the practicalness of keeping to oneself. But this day, the kids, who have gotten increasingly used to seeing adults go about their 9 to 5, something they never otherwise experience since buses typically would ferry them from house to school, with no connection to the world in between… on this day, one of the kids looked at Tyler’s upper middle-class face passing by and asked a question: “You’re here a lot. Why?”

“I’m going to work. I work here.”
“Kind of like school? Is it fun? Do you get recess?”
“Kid, work is where adults get paid to look at each other stoically while crying silently on the inside.”

The teacher took the child by the shoulders and guided him away, keeping herself between Tyler and the rest of the kids at recess.

Elden strutted outside for his morning walk. It is a Saturday. With hair that long turned white, notwithstanding those which had escaped his head entirely, he patted down the last bit of sunblock onto his face - a face demarcated by lines like the rings of trees, counting out his seven decades. The New Balance shoes showing a fealty to buying American, Elden started down the street. Happy neighbors, recognizing his excursion, greeted him as he passed by at his typical rate - somewhere between a walk and the thought of jogging.

“Good morning Mr. Withering”, said the new mother, watching her dog finish up in the yard.

“Happy Saturday, Mr. Withering”, as he passed by the father/son duo washing down their ‘67 Chevy.

Down the tree lined street he shuffled. In his youth he’d already have been 4 more blocks down the road.

“Blessed day to you, Mr. Withering!”
“Good to see you, Mr. Withering!”

Young children playing in their yards. The construction crew putting up that house for the last month. A father pushing a stroller across the road. The mail person already a few hours into their day. Every single person, as he went down the blocks, happily and enthusiastically saying hello.

“Mr. Withering, get it boy!”
“Looking good, Mr. Withering.”
“Slow down or we’ll need to put some flames on the sides of those shoes, Mr. Withering.”

A few more blocks down the road, Elden paused. He looked up the way he had come, at all the people he passed, then glanced at the backs of his hands for a moment. A singular thought entered his mind…“I fucking hate my name.”

Priya sat on the vibrant plastic bench of the open air tram which would take this party of strangers to the heart of the amusement park. The mixture of people who come to these parks are diverse not only in background, but reason for being there. There are the teens who remember coming here as a kid, and even though it’s G-rated, feel like grown-ups because it’s the first place their parents let them go on their own. There are the adults, who never wanted to leave childhood, and journey here to exit their real lives; they have kids who they could take, but somehow never tell them where they are going. Then there are the adults that are very connected to their busy lives but want to bring joy to their youngest children… or else. They believe all the expense, stress, and meltdowns are worth it. There are the young children themselves who are along for the ride. They love the colors and can’t wait to meet their favorite talking animal. And then there’s Priya, a business exec, there to meet an old friend who belongs squarely in one of the earlier categories, and otherwise would not show up on her own. 

She found herself sitting across from the cutest child, probably no more than 3 years old. Plump face, her pinkish fairy princess costume showed the kind of discoloration and wear that indicates it’s well loved. Blue eyes, blond hair, and a clear innocence. This park is for her. The young child held in her hands a doll. She was still at the age that such things are alive in their minds. Children have a deep capacity for lovingly providing voice and personality to their dolls, as if they actually are speaking, and in return the doll gives years of unending comfort. Priya looked down at the doll held in this sweet child’s hands. Dear lord! A hairless, plastic head connected to a taupe colored, sexless body with no detail - a baggy shape of filling, stitched to indicate arms and legs. No dress. No clothes of any sort. Just stained fabric attached to a plastic horror toy. 

This was a doll anyone would slam the door if seen at the end of a dark closet. Followed by a sincere “NOPE” and thoughts of where the matches were. The youngest of babies crying instantly because even their lizard brains recognize it as bad ju-ju. Holding onto this doll would only be appropriate if aliens ate her parents earlier that year. Priya watched this child talk to the doll, playing joyfully, showing it the sights as the train whisked by the well designed store front facades where much happier looking dolls live.

“Excuse me,” Priya said, grabbing the parents’ attention. “I think your child may be deficient.”

From his perch at Dirt coffee, on a corner in downtown Santa Barbara, Ken took a bite of his donut and experienced déjà vu. He sat alone by the giant, showpiece window that belied the name of the business. He knows it’s selfish to take up a four person table, but the divorce proceedings were really wearing on his nerves and he needed his space. He stared at the tall man wearing a rider's cap, electric blue raincoat, and carrying an oversized shopping bag with the giant image of a cat shooting lightning bolts out of its eyes. He tried hard to predict what would happen next, a task he attempted every time he experienced the aforementioned french phenomenon. He always felt that if he really was experiencing something a second time, he should be able to predict the outcome. Normally déjà vu has this sensation of grasping a cloud, almost knowing what is supposed to happen but never quite getting there. This time, however, the sensation was more clear. His memory told him this blue coated gentleman with the hat and bag would casually walk past and turn the corner just past Ken’s vision. And that’s exactly what happened. Holy shit. It worked. He predicted the future. It’s not much of an event to remember, but he’ll take it. What to do with this new milestone, he didn’t really know yet. So for now, he looked back at his computer, where the email he started writing to his lawyer awaited him.

Ken took a bite of his donut. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed but a new sensation came over him as he looked up. Can you have déjà vu of déjà vu? The man in the blue coat, bag in hand, walked past the window, turned the corner, and disappeared from Ken’s view.

“What is going on,” Ken said audibly.

Ken looked at his donut. Was that the same bite or a new bite? He couldn’t remember. Had he been drinking his coffee? It felt just as heavy. He sensed something was true about the details of his life, but couldn’t quite get grounded.

The fourth time Ken saw that crazy laser eyed cat go past, he looked around the coffee shop incredulously. Predicting the future was no longer fun. Was anybody else seeing this?!? Donut looked the same. Coffee felt the same. Blue coat was walking the same, languid pace. He hadn’t paid any attention to the other customers. Was anything different? The cursor on his laptop mockingly blinked at the last half-finished sentence: “a scary experience”.

When the blue coat appeared for a fifth time, Ken lost all of the collectedness he had displayed in the court room. “Not today Satan” he reflexively yelled, desperate for something new to happen. He needed information he didn’t already have. Ken stood up, pushed his face into the window hoping to see around the corner for what happens next. Or is it, what happened next? “You better surprise me mother fucker!” Gesticulating with force, the condensation of his breath on the window uncovered a previously drawn smiley face.

Jamar glanced at the coffee patron pounding on the window and pointing in his direction. Jamar knew his fit was on point, but he must have outdone himself. He made a mental note to thank his Mom for the gift of the hat.

“I think Robert Downey Jr. doesn’t approve of my work ethic.”

Jer looked stoically at his friend. He’s heard these inopportune, random exclamations before: “do you even know Robert Downey Jr.?”

“No,” replied Joel. “But it’s what happened in my dream last night. That man is incredibly professional. And if you really think about it, I am not exactly going into the office at 8am and giving it my all. You should have seen how prepared he was. All sorts of notes for his role. They were hand written. In a thick journal!”

“In your dream”, Jer said with what he thought was a tone of obviousness.

“Yes,” said Joel, with a tone that indicated he completely missed the point.

Jer paused, his mind searching for how he wanted to respond. He could see the stress lines in Joel’s face as this dream somehow got him tilted towards a weird state. Feeling awkward, like a consultant called in to explain to the CEO that the CEO themselves is why the business was losing money, Jer took a breath and organized his thoughts for diplomacy:  “I think you might have other things to be concerned about.”

Joel stared at him blankly, wind whipping through his unkempt hair, then took a moment to double check his safety harness. It was a long way down.

A thin legged Doberman, likely crossed with a racing greyhound, looked sheepishly at the customers dining outdoors.  The corner of 4th street and Broadway is not where this dog wanted to defecate. It had learned honor from its father at an early age with various lessons that educated on topics like how peeing on the carpet gets one get nipped on the ear

An encouraging voice came from behind: “Come on boy. You can do it.” The owner was readying a plastic shopping bag. The dog’s embarrassment was palpable as it looked around for anyone to intervene and explain how wrong this was. Just a simple comment from a passerby like “hey, the sidewalk isn’t the place dude.” But no one was paying attention. Reluctantly and defeated, he sprawled out his legs, knees shaking, pride wobbling, hovering its rear above the ground. No matter how many times this occurred the dog never got used to it. The owner grabbed each bag handle with respective hands, holding the opening up as well as he could to the dog’s behind, tracking its movement. An act he was clearly getting better at but still not an expert. The dog looked back to make sure that if this was going to happen, the owner was ready, and it would all go straight into the bag.

Jeff furiously took notes as he witnessed this awkward and unique sight from his strategically hidden vantage point at the appropriately named Pizza Pizzaz. A new hipster establishment combining casual dining with local art, and an inordinate amount of sequins. He liked to try new places to give him fresh ideas and felt it was particularly fortuitous to pick this particular place on this particular day at this particular time. Jeff stared intently, jotting down words and numbers, drawing images of the scene before him, making sure he got the angles and perspectives right. When the dog and owner finally walked past and into the distance, Jeff looked around to see who else might have witnessed this moment. There was that lady with the green purse, who pulled out a pencil at the same time Jeff did. Luckily it turned out to be an eyeliner. She couldn’t understand why that pale looking man, across the way, was staring so intently at her. Nobody else seemed to be writing anything down, to which Jeff let out a small gleeful ‘yes.’ He finished his final thoughts and closed the notebook. Upon the cover was a handwritten title: “Million Dollar Ideas”.

At the software security conference Sarah stared all around the crowd of predominantly men with a creeping sense of judgement. At first she felt envy of their technological exploits but as she evolved into her own, after 8 years as a security engineer, the feeling morphed into something entirely different. She watched them throughout the week, seeing the same patterns again and again. Someone showing off a feature only their phone has.  A story of bravado about being the only person that knew how to fix the priority zero outage. A bold statement that everyone else at company X is useless. Staking claim for a point some presenter made that they, themselves, had also made only 3 days earlier at work. She was a part of this. Had been a part of this. For 8 years. 

Sarah gripped her hands tightly, twisting her neck to look at the crowd from all angles. Seated in the plush seats of the convention center auditorium the audience was animated by the speech going on. Fists pumped in the air. Spittle fleeing from the corners of people’s mouths. When the keynote speaker ended his presentation with the battle cry “grep your way to freedom”, the applause from the appreciative tech audience was only matched by the crescendo of surprised cookie crumbs, suddenly dislodged, hitting the floor. Sarah slowly rose to her feet, gave one last look upon the masses in technological rapture, and screamed across all their seated heads, “You know, I had the chance to be a famous actress!”

Jamal and Kim eyed each other up and down, not sure of what to say. Kim adjusted uncomfortably against the corduroy cushion of the couch. Between them lay cards from an unfinished hand of Euchre. The eyes of the cat clock on the wall snapped back and forth against the swinging motion of its tail. The dishwasher whirred mutely from the kitchen; the result of a futile attempt to busy themselves and not give in to the awkwardness. It’s hard to explain why minute forty-two was bearable and minute forty-three had finally crossed over into decidedly uncomfortable. Nothing had occurred besides another second passing. Similar to the instantaneous difference between life and death, something about their deportment changed in a moment; all the same molecules were present but an immeasurable unknown wasn’t the same.

Jamal and Kim turned towards the bathroom door. Their friend had been in there forty-three minutes and they didn’t know how to handle it anymore. Jamal shifted his eyes as if to say ‘do something’. Kim silently winced back “like what?”

They listened intently for any sign of life. A cough. A shuffling of feet. A creaking of plastic. Their ears, attuned to any possible nuance, met with morgue like quiet. At the moment Kim was about to give up on five years of behavioral therapy and chew her nails, light shifted from below the door. Something slid out from underneath. Jamal crept over and picked it up. It was a colored note card. Kim looked over his shoulder as he turned the card to reveal a message written in black sharpie.

“Is anyone out there?”

Bob peered across the aisles to the woman checking out at the register. Only his eyes and forehead could be seen above the vinyl album cover for Pat Benatar’s “Get Nervous”. He has no particular affinity for Benatar, he just happened to be in the B section when the woman turned around and looked in his direction. Bob slowly backed into the shadows, like a soldier doing reconnaissance in the jungle with the ferns of The Beatles, Belle and Sebastian, Belly, Beulah, and Bingo Boys, closing around him for cover. 

Bob winced as he listened to the lady endlessly talk about the lyricism of Taylor Swift. This was followed by a self-serving announcement about how broad her own tastes were, bragging that on any individual day she would listen to both country and early 2000’s emo. “Just go” he muttered under his breath to Pat Benatar’s unwilling ear. “Please, just go.” He didn’t want her to find the early copy of Squid’s first album at the bottom of her purse until she got home.

This Story was Completed by:
Barb Lardwarg:
”Bob wasn't sure why Bright Green Field was the album he wanted her to hear. Perhaps it's the overall dark playfulness of the songs, or maybe it's just Ollie Judge's crazy vocal delivery? Even though it was a risk, Bob hoped this would open another mind to a whole new world.”

Close to the end of the evening, Peter began to sense a strange tension forming. Hector and Maria had been the most gracious hosts, offering a tasting menu of all sorts of soups. It was another one of Maria’s unique ideas - elevating soup to be the star of the evening. Gazpacho, Wedding Soup, vichyssoise, an original concoction she called Friendship Water, for which she refused to give up the recipe but he was sure contained cayenne pepper and green tea. And in between, palette cleansers of melon, grapes, cucumber - all of which were hand selected as Hector pointed out, to be the perfect flavor pairing to finish the prior soup. None of which actually were, but Peter was not the type to complain. The three of them had a lovely time eating soup and playing board games. However, in the last 30 minutes something subtle had shifted. His every move seemed under scrutiny, eliciting the strangest of responses, almost as if he were on exhibit. Peter couldn’t pinpoint a specific problem, just subtle clues - lIke when he stood up to stretch, head reaching towards the ceiling and upon looking back down noticed both of them quickly avert their gaze in unison. Or Hector demonstrably laughing too much at Peter’s jokes, repeatedly slapping him in the stomach saying “that’s a good one.”  At yet another point, when Peter had politely refused another refill of her hand-squeezed, rose water lemonade, saying he couldn't possibly drink any more, instead of typical acceptance or even mild disappointment, Maria looked almost excited.

Peter strategically looked at his watch a bit earlier than he might otherwise and announced it was time to go. Hector and Maria expressed sadness that walked a strange line between what is typical when friends part after a particularly great day and that of a scientist who just realized the monkey had died. He picked up his bag, gave everyone a genuine hug, hoping to dispel this strange vibe of examination, and walked out the door.

Reaching his car on the street, Peter looked back up the external staircase he had just walked down and thought to himself “that was some weird body snatchers stuff.”

Inside the apartment Hector and Maria stared at each other silently for a minute solid, as if they were co-processing large amounts of data telepathically. Hector finally broke away, turned the lock on the door, and said to Maria "you’re right. He never uses our bathroom.”

The two men faced off. Something had set off a powder keg of anger which caused Brute A to chase Brute B to the darkened, unstaged part of the arena. The threats hurled between them were preposterous in that way which only happens when the parties involved are truly angry at each other. It was as if people of limited vocabularies decided to have a conversation by speaking in tongues. Apparently, one was going to pummel the other so badly his grave stone would say he wasn’t buried there so much as poured into the ground. The hurled threats, while preposterous, escalated to raised hands. It would be silly if it weren’t so serious. Blood was in the air. Something bad was going to happen. And in between the two stood my friend Emmett, holding a rapidly wilting corn dog.

This Story Was Completed By:
Joel Dale: read his version here.

Shellie was driving down the palm tree lined drive of some neighborhood in Beverly Hills, marveling at the mansions, wondering to herself where does all this money come from? She hasn’t met that many rich people even though she lives in Los Angeles. She craned her neck to look at the replica of a Venus de Milo at one home’s front door. While at some level she found all this opulence wasteful and disgusting, she knew this is what she wanted. Shellie didn’t think her corporate job would pay enough ever to achieve this, unless she dedicated herself to the cause. She needed to be a vice president, at least. An innate goal started forming in the back of her mind that she would one day drive a car, far better than her Toyota, up the driveway of one of these mansions. Her mansion. She’d comment to her neighbor about how his new Mercedes looked like a Jeep and how Jeep owners would never understand the difference between that and a Mercedes. Her head cocked back, as if she would cackle about her socially inappropriate joke, unconsciously caught up in the vision of this conversation between two future rich people.

Then a squirrel landed on her car, fully splayed out, cracking her windshield. Their eyes met. She felt its clear disdain.

Stacy fiddled her fork amongst the elbow shaped noodles, lifting them into the air and watching them grab for dear life onto the tines. They dropped, one by one, back into the bowl, like disappointed escapees. Her brother stared at her, fascinated why none of the noodles made it to her mouth. Stacy looked up at her mom and declared “macaroni and cheese is the opiate of the masses”. Her mother turned from the dishes she was washing. “Where did you ever learn a phrase like that?”

The boy must have been only 12 years of age but his manipulation of the world started early. It is clear he’s not a natural platinum blonde. With his dark roots growing in, he approached his smaller “friend” with mousier hair, and lessor fitting clothes, who backed up knowing something was going to happen. The blonde closed in, hands outstretched to catch any defense. The boy with less expensive hair collapsed to the ground, giving into the inevitable. It’s clear this has played out before. The blonde took off the other boys shoes and threw them toward the street.

John watched this play out through the passenger side window of his Nissan Maxima while waiting for the light to turn. He stared at the blonde boy and thought to himself, “that kid is going to have a successful podcast.”