(Bishop's POV)

I just went to sleep 2 hours ago, and it’s already time to get up for work. I can never sleep anymore. Can never get to bed at a decent time. I have nightmares—haunting ones. About the night my brother was killed in the car crash. I can’t help but blame myself. Surely there was something I could have done.

Fucking drunk drivers. All he wanted was to go to the store to pick up a new video game. He was a good kid. I promised my mom I wouldn’t let the death of Elijah turn me bitter, but he was only 10 for fuck’s sake. I grab my phone and turn off my alarm, finally. As I always do, I clear all the bullshit social media notifications to check my email. Swipe, swipe, swipe. Bah! Nothing, but marketing emails, and some ol’ other bullshit. Oh! But what’s this? FINALLY! I'm waiting to hear back from someone about a job opportunity.

Oh, but wait…

It’s another rejection—false alarm. I put my phone face down and head to the shower. Letting the water run a bit so it can warm up, I go back to my room and grab my phone. Gotta have some music playing while I’m in the shower. Maybe it’ll help wake me up. Hmmm..

What am I in the mood for this morning? I scroll my Spotify for what seems like forever and still can’t come up with anything. Ah! Kendrick Lamar-Feel. That’s about how I’m feeling today so far. Once the song is playing, I click the button to repeat it. Before getting in the shower, I make sure the water is nice and hot before I step in. Ahhh. The water feels extra good this morning. It’s making me realize more and more, though, that I need a haircut. I’m growing quite the afro. Not like Huey Freeman big, but it’s getting to the point of annoyance.

Any time my hair gets this long, I know life is kicking my ass. I do not care right now. Luckily, I have good hair so it doesn’t look like a sheep’s ass.

“I feel like a chip on my shoulder.

I feel like I’m losing my focus.

I feel like I’m losing my patience.

I feel like my thoughts in the basement.

Feel like, I feel like you’re miseducated.

Feel like I don’t wanna be bothered.

I feel you may be the problem.

I feel like it ain’t no tomorrow.

Fuck the world.

The world is ending, I’m done pretending

And fuck you, if you get offended.”

I rap along with the lyrics of the song as if I wrote them. I feel these words so much. The burden of having to carry others’ burdens, others’ feelings, and praying for other people. No one cares enough to extend that same courtesy to me, though. Yet, I continue to do it. I let Feel play 2 more times before getting out of the shower. I always leave plenty of time to just sit around and bullshit before work. I would rather air dry after a shower. I also hate my job. I try to remind myself that it’s temporary until I get done with school, majoring in Journalism.

Until then, I’m at this retail job, dealing with these dumb, entitled, idiot ass customers. I love my coworkers, but that’s about the only enjoyment I get out of going to work. I’m over this shit. I’ve been working in this field for so long and got so good at it, but my drive was killed to be a top salesman and performer a long time ago. Money is no longer a motivator. I know, I know. Money should be everybody’s motivation, but I cannot bring myself to care at this point. We get hourly and commission here so that’s good, but when I graduate, I’ll hit six figures easily. Only two years to go. Two years of me restraining myself from slapping the fuck outta somebody.

But anyway, I brush my teeth, rinse with mouthwash, and go back to my room in my towel and just sit. I don’t even know what time I get off today. I open my work app to check my schedule. Nice! Off at 1:30 today. Easy work. Guess I’ll head out so I can get an energy drink to help me wake up. My clothes are on and I’m out the door. Black pants, almost a blend of track and cargo pants. Definitely not within dress code, but they look close enough so the manager lets it slide. Only good thing about that job is the coworkers. I just grabbed the first work shirt I saw.We have a lot. This one, in particular, is a shirt with a hood attached, short sleeves, and our company logo—a giant red S for Sonic Mobile. Alright, out the door. As soon as I walk outside, the sun slaps me in the face harder than inflation hit the country. Damn, this Texas heat. Here I am with leather seats and no tint like a complete dumbass. I love my car though, a white Lexus. The beeping noise on my car greets me as I place my hand on the door. Ooooh shit! It’s a hotbox in here and not the kind smokers make. So for me, a sauna is a more appropriate term. I stop by the store and grab a Mountain Dew energy drink. It tastes great and it actually does make me alert. It isn’t one of those gimmick energy drinks. At least in my case. Now I’m finally pulling up to this red hellhole. I put my left earbud in and press play. When I walk in, I pretend whatever song I’m listening to is my theme song.

“What’s up, Bishop?” Jose greets me first. It’s pretty slow today. Hopefully, it stays that way. Less idiots to deal with. Unless you’re buying something. Then come one, come all.

“What up, fam.” I give the up motion with my head.

“There go Bishop walkin’ in like he coming in to fight,” the assistant manager, David mocks the way I walk in. I walk in that way because I don’t wanna fucking be here. My music and my walk is my way of trying to prepare myself for the dumbassery that’s sure to come.

I reach the door to the employee hall that leads to the break room. When I enter the code to the door, I see Diego and some other girl I’ve never seen. I shot her a quick glance. She has long hair. Looks Hispanic, or Native American maybe? I don’t know. She’s cute though. She has on headphones sitting down at the computer, probably taking trainings. I motion “Who’s that” silently to Diego.

“New girl. Starr,” Diego says.

“Ah. Got you. Let me grab my tablet,” I respond. I wasn’t really interested in talking about her further.

“Oh, yeah, I need some sales today or I’m gonna have to ship you off,” Diego says, followed by a small laugh. I knew he was serious, but we have a way of hiding harsh topics behind jokes.

“Fuck you. I’m ready to leave this ho anyway. Please fire me,” I respond, jokingly of course. We share a laugh behind the banter. I hope the new girl couldn’t hear that. She wouldn’t know that’s just how we are.

I grab my POS tablet and head out onto the floor. Still no customers yet.

Guess I’ll sit on my phone and scroll on TikTok to pass the time. About 10 minutes go by and Diego comes over to me.

“Ey, you think you can let the new girl shadow you?” He asks.

“Negative,” I shoot him a quick, dry response.

“Thanks. You the best,” he replies, basically showing me that the question he asked was rhetorical. That motherfucker.

“Motherfucker.” I crack a smile and shake my head, still looking down at my phone.

On cue, the new girl comes out.

“Hey, this is Bishop. He’s one of our vets here. You can shadow him today. Any questions you have, let him know,” Diego says.

I’m not uninterested in helping her. I’m not annoyed at her, but I can’t really explain to her how burnt out I am here. So now I have to be all helpful and shit because she needs to see how to properly do things.

“What’s your name?” I ask just to make conversation. I already know her name.

“Starr,” she says. She has the cutest voice. Now giving her a second look, she’s a little more than cute. She’s fine. Pretty face, long hair, beautiful skin, and she actually does her makeup well and not super caked on. She’s petite. The kind of body that you can have fun with. Not that I’m thinking of any of that. I’m just about done with women and their bullshit.

“Oh ok. Nice to meet you. Have any questions so far?” I ask.

“No, I think I just need to get out there and start doing it, ya know?” She looked up at me with intent. Like telling me with her eyes to let her do the interactions so she could do a hands-on type shadowing.

I just nodded my head in agreement. A customer walks in. Someone gets them. Another walks in, it’s—it’s my ex. What the fuck?

I let out a sigh. “Bruh, why is she here?” I say out loud, but I was talking to myself.

“Who’s she? You know her?” Starr asks.

“My ex.” I grab my tablet and head up to her. Starr stays behind. I look back at her and she shakes her head indicating that she doesn’t want to shadow me on this one.

Chump! But it’s understandable.

“What you want, Kali?” I lean over on the display table and try to keep my body language tame. I really don’t want to look at her, let alone talk to her.

“Dang, what type of customer service is this?” She’s being a smartass.

“Fam, what you want?” I’m already irritated.

“Dangggg. Now I’m just fam? Does this look like fam to you?” She does a 360 slowly so I can see her outfit. She has on short jean shorts. Tight ones. Some shit she used to only wear around the house. This is how I know she’s on bullshit. She has on a black tank top. I’d be lying if I said she didn’t look good, but she’s a lying, cheating, jezebel. I can forgive, but I can never go back to that…I don’t think. I deserve better than that. Do I not?

“You here to buy something?” I’m still trying to figure out what she’s doing here so she can leave.

“No. I’m here to get my man back. Duh.” She gets louder. Other than the music playing on the overhead speaker, it’s quiet. I turn around, everyone is looking up at us.

How embarrassing.

“Come outside, bruh.” I motion for her to come out the door with me. Thankfully, she does without being argumentative.

“Why you coming up here starting shit? At my place of work?” I get onto her immediately when we get outside.

“I’m not starting nothing, baby. I just miss you is all. You don’t miss me?” She asks in a seductive tone, getting closer to me.

I’m annoyed because yes I miss her, but I am also annoyed because it’s this ho’s fault that we are even broken up. She cheated!

“You only miss me because you and the muthafucka you were screwing behind my back didn’t work out. Fuck outta here.” I never talked to her this way before. Like she is a dude who is getting on my nerves. There is no sense in being nice about anything at this point.

“Ouch. You’re being rude.” She touches my face. Her hands are so soft. That one gesture brought back memories. Ones that I missed, but also that I wanted to forget. I moved my head back to escape the obvious trance she put me in.

“I’m not being rude. I’m being smart. I wasn’t good enough for you to not fuck some other guy while we were together,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.

“I told you that didn’t happen!” She tries pleading her case. Giving me puppy dog eyes.

“Oh, it didn’t? Then enlighten me on what did…actually don’t. I have to go,” I try to push past her to go back inside.

“Let’s talk later?” She steps in front of me.

All I can do is roll my eyes and try to avoid looking at her. I’m pissed at myself because how the hell does she look this good to me when I want to hate her guts.

Fuck…

I look at her with a defeated look. She knows it too. She gives me a “gotcha” smile in return. As if she can hear that my silence is words of affirmation.

“I’ll be waiting,” she says as she steps aside. She walks to her car, slowly and intently. She wants me to look at her. And if you think I didn’t watch that ass, you’re crazy.

I place my hand on the handle of the store door, my head tilted back, and I take a deep breath. I yank the door open with purpose. It feels so heavy walking back in. I can see the wandering eyes and greasy smiles. I am about to get an earful from my coworkers because this is a tight-knit group, like a family. They are definitely gonna ask questions and talk shit.

“Well, well.” Gordo has a smirk on his face. Asshole. As I look around the box store, everyone else is as well. The only one who isn’t wearing a douchebag smile is Starr. She has never seen Kali before since she’s new. Everyone else knows her.

“I don’t wanna hear yo shit, Gordo,” I snap back. Not being entirely serious. That’s just how we talk to each other.

“I thought you said you’ve never been to Cali?” Carson makes a pretty good joke. I can’t be mad at that one.

“Ohhhh look at you with the jokes. Okay, that was pretty good. I can’t lie,” I just laugh it off. I knew this was coming. I go back to standing beside Starr.

“Don’t get too close, she might come back and beat me up.” This little smartass joins in on the fun.

I’m not that tall standing only about 5’6. She has to be like 5’1. “Oh, ha-ha. You too?” I sarcastically roll my eyes.

I catch a glimpse of her hand. She’s wearing a ring. Oh! She’s married.

“You’re married?” I ask.

“Yep,” she quickly replies.

“How old are you?” Now I’m being nosey, but hey, curiosity killed the lion, ya know?

“21, why? Are you going to tell me I’m too young to be married? Because I’ve heard that a thousand times already. Be original.” She got a little sassy with me. I can tell she was annoyed with that whole thing from hearing it over and over. So, I didn’t take it personally. People are always telling others what they should and shouldn’t be doing. I never understood it.

“I actually was not gonna say that. What does age have to do with anything? Calm down. Danggggg.” I put my hands out as if to give a ‘don’t hurt me’ motion. Try to ease the tension for a bit and show her that I was genuinely curious and not trying to rip on her marriage.

“See! Perioddd. I am totally happy with my decision and marriage,” she says.

Damn Gen-Z’ers and their lingo.

I hear the door ding—the sound that the sensor makes when the door is opened. Finally, an actual customer and not any cheating ass exes.

(Starr's POV)

Bishop seems to be unaffected by that whole ordeal. I don’t think I could go and talk with a customer after that. Part of me is nosy and wants to know what happened between him and his ex. I may ask him. He asked me a question about my marriage, so it shouldn’t seem too out of line.

We finally get a customer, though. I'd better listen to how he does things. As I am watching Bishop and listening to his pitch, I realize that he is really good at this. Why are his numbers so low, then? Once his pitch is done and he gets this guy to go from paying his prepaid phone bill to still getting a new account postpaid. That’s insane.

“Hey. So you are really good at this, huh?” I say to him as we are walking to the back.

“You thought I was trash, huh?” He is such a smart aleck.

“Noooo. They just stuck me with Rocko because he was top salesman in the store, but since he left, now I’m with you.” I hope that doesn’t come off as rude. No one here seems to like me as is. I have been here at this job for about a week now and this is my first time ever seeing Bishop because of how the schedule has been made. I’ve heard of him, though. He’s very well-liked around here.

“Dang, well I guess it’s a good thing we got the sell then, huh? Since you just called me ass cheeks at my job,” he says to me, clearly joking.

“Oh my God! You’re soooo dramatic,” I reply with a little laugh. I can see why he’s well-liked. He takes nothing seriously apparently. He’s funny.

He just laughed back, not responding to my claim of him being dramatic.

The transaction took about maybe fifteen more minutes then the customer was out the door.

“So, if you’re so good at this. Why aren’t you top in the store?”I ask, curiously.

“Checked out. Not trying to ruin the experience for you. It’s a good job, but my desire to move up in this dumbass company has been long gone. So, I don’t care about the ranker, the top awards, and blah blah blah, who gives a shit. I’m just waiting to get outta here. As soon as I get done with school, I’m outta here.” He has such a calming, deep voice. Not like super deep, but even when he’s going off, he has a very mellow demeanor.

“Oh, okay. Well, what are you going to school for?” I ask. Maybe I’m being a little too nosy, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

"Journalism," he says.

"Ah, okay. That's cool. So you're good at writing and stuff. How much longer do you got?" I am suddenly drawn to asking him questions like magnet.

"Bout two years or so. Too damn long," he playfully rolls his eyes a bit.

"It'll go by before you know it," I reply. I feel my phone vibrating in my back pocket.

Oh, it's hubby just checking on me. He's so good to me. People were so against us marrying. I lost my best friend over this relationship. She liked him. He and I got close and that was that. He married me as soon as I turned 18. It's been 3 years so I don't understand why everyone was so up in arms about it. I consented. He legally didn't do anything wrong. The consenting age to date is 17.

It was slow today, but we're anticipating it picking up as the holidays come up. Work has been largely a blur. I'm going to be working full-time hours while I'm in training, but down to part-time when I'm out of training. May as well milk the clock while I can.

Before I know it, it's 1:30. I see Bishop leaving. "You're leaving already? Dang." I give him a disapproving shake of my head slowly with my lips pushed to the side of my face, making a funny expression.

"Ey, man. I did my time. See ya later alligator." He holds up a peace sign and walks out. He's so funny.

Right after Bishop leaves out, a customer comes in.

"Hey, welcome in. How can I help you?"

"Someone was helping me before, but I don't see her right now. Can you help me?" He's an older guy. Maybe not like, ya know super old, but maybe in his 40s.

"I'm fairly new here, but I'm sure I can still help you out. What's going on?" I throw that in there in case I need to call for backup. Chances are, I will do that anyway. We all have commission codes and I need to see who was helping them initially to give them the credit for the sale, but I just want to practice by myself so I can get better at this.

I guide him over to the table and everything is going well. Now I'm stuck on something. I need to ask a question. Diego is in the back. I can ask him.

I excuse myself from the interaction with the customer and head to the back room. In there is Diego and Amber. I ask Diego a question and he begins to help fix it.

The door opens and it's Shaun. "Hey, Diego. We need you on the floor real quick."

"Alright, I'll be right there." He looks over at Shaun. "Hey, can you go over this with her while I take care of whatever fuck up they did on the floor?" He looks over at Amber this time.

Diego leaves. I didn't think anything of it, but Amber immediately got hostile.

"I know you just got here and all, but when we help people, we expect you to hand them back off. You know this job is commission." She gets an attitude.

I just stand there, dumbfounded. Like girl, he didn't give me a name and I was going to give the credit to the proper person anyway. I don't understand where all the hostility is coming from.

"Well, he didn't give me a name. I was going to find out who helped him. I just needed to practice and get better at using the system. I don't understand why you're so upset considering I'm doing everything for you and you're getting paid. So can you get out my face?" I got hostile back, but I tried not to keep it somewhat civilized. I'm new, I don't want any issues with these people, especially being the youngest one here.

"Don't let that shit happen again, bitch!" She storms out.

What the hell? If I cussed at all, I would have lit her butt up. That's wild! These people are crazy. I'm getting emotional. I take a few minutes to get myself together before going back out there and facing that customer.

After composing myself, I go back out and finish with the customer. I did not give Amber credit. I got Bishop's commission code instead and gave it to him.

"Yo, Starr. You can go for the day if you want," Diego says. It's slow, I need the money, but after that little interaction with Amber, I'd rather go home to the love of my life, Cesar.

I hastily get out of the store and into my little blue Kia Soul.

I put on my favorite song, Expresso by Sabrina Carpenter. It’s so catchy and such a great song. As I have a full-blown self-concert, I realize I hadn’t eaten all day. I’ll just cook something for me and the hubby when I get home.

And there it is. After about 10 minutes, I am finally home.

I walk in and I just feel the tension ease from my shoulders.

“Hey. How was work?” Cesar’s on the couch playing the game.

“Heyyyy. It was okay, I guess. Had a little run-in with one of the girls at work.” I plop down beside him and lay my head on his shoulder.

When he’s on his game, he’s completely neglectful.

“What do you want for dinner?” I ask.

“I don’t know. What did you have in mind?” His eyes remain locked on the TV.

“I’ll look at what we have in here.” I’m not gonna get anywhere with him right now. May as well just go in the kitchen and get to cooking.

As I’m taking things out of the counter, Cesar comes behind me and hugs me.

“Oh now you want to pay attention to me,” I say playfully but I really was annoyed.

“I’m sorry, babe. You know we can’t pause online games.” He kisses me.

He’s about 5’10 so he towers over me.

“Hey, can you put those blinds up in the guest room tomorrow?” I ask.

“Thought your dad was coming over to do it. I don’t wanna mess it up.” At this point, I’m not sure if I married a complete idiot or he is the laziest man ever, but I love him so much. Guess not every man can be good with their hands. At least he works and comes home to pay the bills.

I settle on making chicken alfredo for the night. I am an excellent cook if I do say so myself.

I fix Cesar a plate and take it to him, then I fix myself a plate. While he’s in the front playing the game, I go to our room to eat and watch TV.

I hear a phone vibrating. I thought it was mine, but it’s not. I look over on the nightstand beside the bed and see it’s Cesar’s phone. He’s getting messages. Probably his friend’s group chat or something.

I never look through his phone, but I want to see who’s blowing him up.

Fully expecting to see his group chat with his friends, I open his phone, preparing to be annoyed.

But no, it’s much worse. There’s a girl sending him nudes. What the heck?!

My heart sinks, my mouth drops, and my stomach is balling right now. I’ve lost my appetite. I feel like I’m about to throw up.

This girl is everything I am not. She’s all of my insecurities. She’s pretty. She’s blonde. I have small breasts, A-cups. Her breasts are big, and Cesar said that he likes mine. He's clearly lying. I had light brown hair before. I didn't think he liked it. So, I went darker. I don't know what he wants anymore.

“Hey baby, have you—

Cesar walks into the room and stops in his tracks when he sees me crying.

I hope you enjoyed the snippet of my Romance entitled Dear Summer that focuses on the intertwined lives of Bishop and Starr.

title, genre, age range, word count, author name, why your project is a good fit, the hook, synopsis, target audience, your bio, platform, education, experience, personality / writing style, likes/hobbies, hometown, age

Title: Dear Summer

Genre: Romance, Erotica

Age Range: 18+

Word Count: 50k and counting

Name: Shadrick Holloway

My project is a good fit because it tackles a lot of issues within the love lives of many. It is relatable, but also spicy in some parts. There's something in this story for everyone and the focus on two different point of views makes the character's tie-in well with each other.

Hook: Older man-younger woman become lovers due to a combination of their growing work relationship and troubles within their own relationships.

Synopsis: Bishop is the disgruntled employee at work who is tasked with training the new girl, Starr. Despite being 11 years apart in age, they become good work friends. While Bishop deals with his troublesome ex-girlfriend, Starr is living the good life in her marriage...or so she thought. She finds out that her husband has been cheating on her for quite some time. After he apologizes and promises to stop, Starr forgives him only to continuously catch him messing around with other girls. This leads Starr looking for love outside of her marriage. With Bishop and Starr working together more, it becomes all too easy for their lives to become intertwined in chaos.

Target Audience: Women

Bio: Shadrick Holloway is an American author, poet, gamer, and tech enthusiast born on August 2, 1992, in Jackson, Mississippi .

He writes in genres spanning literary fiction, thriller, and Christian-themed speculative fiction, and has published several books, including:

Leaving Heaven (paperback, 2020), a speculative story set in a dystopian future

Urijah (2021), his third major title, featured in his interview on The Zach Feldman Show

2030 (2023), a novel about a global population crisis and a young savior figure

His online presence includes an Amazon author page and a personal author website, where he shares poetry, blog posts, and updates on his work. On Goodreads, his existing titles—2030, Leaving Heaven, Urijah, Trust No Love, and a children’s workbook—have earned strong ratings (often 5 stars) from early readers. Holloway describes himself as someone who uses storytelling as a way to escape and offer messages of hope and transformation, often informed by his Christian faith. He’s shared plans to adapt his novels into a cartoon series in the future

Beyond his writing, he is active on social media platforms like Instagram (username @godslight0802), where he publishes poetry and personal updates—like attending local wrestling events in Waco—demonstrating a creative and engaging personal brand.

Platform: Instagram(godslight0802)

Amazon

Goodreads

Education: Callaway High School(2010), The Los Angeles Film School- Writing For TV/Film(2026)

Experience: Experience in SEO writing in Sports, Gaming, and music. I've done work and articles for publications such as the CHRD Magazine, Jersey Column Sports, and Apex Media. I've also published multiple books in multiple genres and mediums.

I have a decade in writing, storytelling, and creative writing.

Personality/Writing Style: My personality can be seen all over my writing style. I try to keep my writing style as real and authentic as possible while also keeping it clear for others to read who may not understand the way I speak. I am introverted, but also an open books of vulnerability and that's where my creative process and writing prowess comes from.

Hobbies/likes: Gaming, working out, writing, streaming., video editing, cell phone enthusiast

Hometown: Jackson, MS

Age: 32

I built a being unlike any other.

Instead of carbon and iron and the like, however, I used charcoal, potassium nitrate, and sulfur. The analogous anatomy is not that far off from the parts of the human being that allow it to think thoughts, make decisions, and alter its destiny. After all, it's a continuum of electric potential, sequenced in ways that form consortia that produce thought.

And love.

And hate, ambition, and self-preservation.

My creature is one of incendiary potential.

The beautiful thing about the human being is that its ingredients take nearly a hundred years to burn out…or less. True, some humans die explosively when crossing paths with irresistible forcies, e.g., trucks or bullets; but barring such calamitous interactions, the parts all fire together, albeit skewed, in an orderly arrangement of neurons and nerves in concert with the biochemicals that are associated with these machinations.

How many actual thoughts does a person muster before the end? Axon to neurotransmitter to dendrites to neuron to nerve is a linear tract firing off to propagate onward to one’s intentions or great ideas. And that’s not even considering the circuitous hovering of ideas in and out of the sensorium. Or the imagination, where typically unsynchronized embellishments of thoughts ascend wildly into the mindscape without even a destination in mind before they settle into a bemused awareness.

Who can say in the busy brain where any fuses are lit?

In my creation, however, I light the fuse.

I have assembled a novel tangle of intersecting, flammable paths that will accomplish what the complexity of the human mind does effortlessly. But whereas the human being is hard-wired with checks and balances, it also has a complexity I could never mimic.

My gunpowder man is designed much more simply. He’s going to burn out much sooner than a hundred years.

Once its process—its purpose—is initiated, by my hand, there can only be one thought that ends up reaching the powderkeg. Thus, my gunpowder man has only a wherewithal of potential for just one idea to make his life worth the trouble. To give it meaning, even if briefly.

I wonder what his one thought will be. Love? Hate? Ambition? Or self-preservation?

The only path toward self-preservation is to dampen the fuse and kill the lighted thought before it reaches its destination. But that’s as likely as a human being un-pulling a trigger that engenders the irresistible force of the aimed bullet therefrom.

Good luck with that.

Taking existential inventory, on one hand there’s the complicated human being with hopes and dreams and the striving toward actualization and fulfillment…and then on the other, there’s my gunpowder man.

His life will be simple and quick. But he will be able to enjoy one thought.

But his one thought—be it even brilliant in its isolation or just stupid foolishness—is as meaningful as the lifetime of thoughts concocted in the human brain.

Because each of their lives must end. And with that, for each, there ends up nothing but ashes.

“It’s a böxenwolf transfiguring. The skinny wolf is attacking him,” Schuster radioed. He worried that specifically identifying Ms. Brown as a böxenwolf would overwhelm the deputies. He yelled, “Ms. Brown, get off him! Sir, stop biting her!”

“They can’t listen to you,” the deputy said.

The fat böxenwolf rolled on the ground, making a noise somewhere between a growl and a groan, and as if a wolf cursed in English. Blood trickled, and yellow pus oozed. He snapped at Ms. Brown’s side, but she jumped over him.

“Olsen, tell a Happy Howlers employee to secure their skinny wolf,” Chief Deputy Swan radioed. “We can’t move in until he does.”

The deputy closest to Schuster knelt.

Schuster had joined the Wolftown Police Department, and though the Wilde County Sheriff’s Department technically held authority over the city police, the two departments generally operated separately. He thought the böxenwolf’s actions justified firing at him, but the other deputies seemed prepared to shoot anything that surprised them.

Ordering the böxenwolf and Ms. Brown to cooperate, Schuster advanced. Shooting the böxenwolf while he and Ms. Brown fought could be less dangerous for Ms. Brown if Schuster were immediately next to him. Also, the wolf strap healed him so quickly, Schuster had less time than usual to restrain the böxenwolf.

“Hey, wait,” the deputy called.

Schuster ignored Chief Deputy Swan.

Chief Deputy Swan radioed Sheriff Jordan: “Were you serious about saying if we see an actual böxenwolf, don’t approach it?”

Sheriff Jordan radioed, “Keep your distance from confirmed böxenwolves.”

During the radio messages, Ms. Brown ripped part of the wolf strap from the fat böxenwolf. Although Schuster expected the böxenwolf to transfigure into human form, he remained in a monstrous form. She ran towards Schuster.

“You’re going to get bitten!” He shot Ms. Brown once.

“Deputy, stop! Don’t shoot the damn wolf! Or when someone is that close to her!” Schuster yelled while Chief Deputy Swan threatened dire consequences for anybody discharging their weapons again without authorization.

Ms. Brown dragged one leg behind her, and Schuster darted forward.

“She’s going to bite you!” the deputy said.

She had dropped the scrap of wolf strap on Schuster’s foot and was cowering behind him, and Chief Deputy Swan was grudgingly approaching them.

Chief Deputy Swan reminded Olsen that somebody needed to collect the wolf.

“I’m working on it,” Olsen radioed.

When Ms. Brown ran to him, Schuster only remained in place because Wayne had told him several times since childhood, “Don’t run from a wolf. It will catch you and eat you.”

Grabbing Ms. Brown by the scruff of her neck, Schuster yelled. “Look, I have her under control! She’s not a threat! Watch the monster! He’s the highly dangerous one!” Aggravated, but not loudly, he said, “Get on the ground. Keep your paws where I can see them.”

Ms. Brown lay on her good leg, panting and whining. Schuster pinned her with one knee.

“You’re going—” the deputy said.

“I have to restrain you before the deputies shoot you,” Schuster said.

Ms. Brown craned her neck for the wolf strap as Schuster held her front paws together and began winding paracord around them.

“Stop, stop. It will keep you alive,” Schuster said.

She scrabbled a bow knot with her foot, complaining about something.

“People are going to freak out if you do that,” Schuster said, but unwound the paracord; her wolfish wrists were much smaller than her human wrists, and he worried the rope would break her skin. He radioed, “The skinny wolf is probably about to turn into a lady. Don’t shoot her. She’s not going to attack us.”

“What?” the deputy asked.

Chief Deputy Swan watched Ms. Brown transfigure from wolf form to human form, and he aimed his gun at her. Schuster shielded her, radioing for an ambulance.

“She isn’t a threat. Take the wolf strap away from her, and she won’t transfigure.” Schuster offered it to Chief Deputy Swan and started emptying his raincoat pockets.

“I’m not dying as a böxenwolf,” Ms. Brown grumbled.

“Okey-dokey, don’t get scared, sir. I’m throwing the wolf strap to you.”

Chief Deputy Swan lowered his gun. He pointed from the male böxenwolf to the female böxenwolf and stuttered as Ms. Brown pulled on Schuster’s raincoat.

Schuster handcuffed her, asking, “Where are you shot?”

“My hip, but I think it stopped bleeding,” she said. “You have to go get him. He’s really weak, but he’ll heal.”

“Stop staring at her,” Schuster snapped at the kneeling deputy.

“Hey!” the deputy said.

He began first aid. “Watch the monster. She isn’t a problem right now, but he is.” Schuster began first aid and pitied Chief Deputy Swan, who had yet to express a coherent thought. “Why do you and him look different?”

“No idea,” Ms. Brown said.

Olsen radioed, “Wayne seems to think it isn’t his problem anymore, but a John Dalton is willing to do it. I’m verifying what ‘it’ is. And there’s a lawyer here saying he’s a wolf’s lawyer, and the general consensus seems to be that the wolf needs one. Do I proceed?”

Chief Deputy Swan hesitated. “Never mind. The wolf is gone.”

“Whatever. Close enough,” Ms. Brown said.

Ms. Brown’s gunshot wound and the shallow bites had scabbed before she removed the belt, but barely. Her hip hurt, and the bullet entered her buttock and exited through her lower back.

“More here?” Chief Deputy Swan waved vaguely.

Chief Deputy Swan told the other deputy to move back, but Ms. Brown said, “Hurry before he gets better.”

“Are there more böxenwolves?” Schuster asked.

“He’s got one strap and that one is the other one,” Ms. Brown said.

“Why didn’t he transfigure into a human when you ripped the strap?”

“It hasn’t happened before.”

“Is the wolf strap healing him?”

“Maybe slowly.”

Schuster radioed, “Part of the wolf strap got torn off, but maybe the rest is having an effect on the suspect.” He asked her, “How did you get out of the bathroom?”

“I slipped the cuffs and unlocked the door,” Ms. Brown said. “You’re welcome.”

“So, your arms and hands are okay?”

Olsen repeated himself, and Chief Deputy Swan told him and Zimmer to bring a portable stretcher from the ambulance.

“Yeah,” the lady said.

“Did you injure that?” Chief Deputy Swan pointed at the böxenwolf.

“On his side, and I got close to his backbone. You have to go after him. If he gets away again, I’m not going after him,” Ms. Brown said.

“Take it easy,” Schuster said.

“Is she the witness about the wolf attacks? The one saying they were using the sewers?” Chief Deputy Swan asked.

Ms. Brown glared at him, and Schuster thought, Why would you say that in hearing range of the guy who says he will kill her if she gives information to the police?

The male böxenwolf roared. He jumped but aimed at the böxenwolf. Chief Deputy Swan reminded the deputies to hold their fire. Sheriff Jordan had promised that Ms. Brown would never be transferred to Wolftown Police Department custody, but that she would be detained for a police investigation and her own protection.

“I detained Ms. Brown under suspicion of breaking and entering Mr. McDowell’s wolf museum,” Schuster said.

“Right. Yeah.” Chief Deputy Swan flipped through his notebook. “Oh, yeah. Oh, no.” He swore under his breath.

“I haven’t had an opportunity to run a background check on her yet,” Schuster said.

The male böxenwolf wobbled to his hands and feet and turned to face Schuster and Ms. Brown. His arms and legs were of equal length. She scooted further from the male böxenwolf, and Chief Deputy Swan hauled her several feet back. He hurried Olsen and Zimmer.

“Get on the ground or I will kill you,” Schuster ordered.

The deputies also told the böxenwolf to comply, but Chief Deputy Swan told them and Schuster to wait until he behaved aggressively.

The böxenwolf stepped one hand and one foot forward and was lifting its other two limbs, growling. He moved so slowly, Schuster finally had an opportunity to aim carefully.

Fairly certain that the böxenwolf had fled Happy Howlers because he thought Schuster intended to kill him, Schuster said, “Get on the ground or I will shoot you in the brain. Do you really think the wolf strap can keep you alive after that?”

The böxenwolf lay down, failing to turn a collapse into a coordinated movement. It relieved Schuster; half the böxenwolf’s face would be unrecognizable in human form and Schuster thought a gunshot wound to the other half might interfere with identification. He doubted he could aim at the mangled side.

Olsen and Zimmer arrived with the stretcher.

“Hey, officer, are you sure I should go with them?” Ms. Brown said. “Guess why I don’t think so.”

“You’re still being detained,” Chief Deputy Swan said.

“Your lawyer will be with you, so it will be fine,” Schuster said.

The böxenwolf heaved itself so that he faced away from the deputies, as if he intended to run into the woods.

“I’m pretty sure I’m screwed either way.”

“Take it easy. It will work out fine if you stay in the county sheriff’s custody.”

Ms. Brown tolerated Olsen and Zimmer placing her on a stretcher, and they took her to the ambulance, which left a few minutes later. Olsen and Kevin accompanied her.

“If he runs, keep up with him, and slow him down if you have to, but keep your distance from him,” Sheriff Jordan radioed.

The böxenwolf fiddled with the wolf strap.

Sheriff Jordan reached Happy Howlers, looked at the böxenwolf, and spoke with the other deputies and Schuster. Chief Deputy Swan and two other officers guarded the böxenwolf.

Because Schuster had the most experience with böxenwolves and his encounters had not yet hospitalized him, Sheriff Jordan told him to help plan. It surprised Schuster. Technically, he had fought a böxenwolf, but at the time, he identified it as a wolf, and he thought several hours speaking with one böxenwolf did not qualify him as an expert.

By questioning Ms. Brown through the EMTs, Sheriff Jordan had learned that the male böxenwolf bit shallowly and released her quickly, in pain. Schuster said that when the apparent wolf (probably the böxenwolf) bit him and Foster, the wolf bit and held like a K9 dog, and according to Wayne, with force equal to a wolfdog. Wayne reluctantly speculated that, although the blunt teeth confused him, the böxenwolf bit Ms. Brown as forcefully as a human.

Sheriff Jordan said, “Corey Brown unexpectedly draining the man’s abscess wouldn’t fix his jaw pain. He clearly doesn’t have any more weapons with him. His claws are dull. He has average senses and muscle function for a person or a wolf, so tasering will probably incapacitate him. We just have to respond to a slippery naked person, and everybody does that sooner or later, although this situation is very unusual. It’s not unheard of for a person to attempt to bite us, and we’ve got hoods. So, it could be worse. The locations of a böxenwolf’s anatomy change when he turns into a human, and Corey Brown says it can affect where an injury is. She says the wolf strap will heal him as long as he wears it. I’m concerned that if we turn him into a human, he will bleed out, so he has to be in the ambulance as soon as possible.”

Sheriff Jordan assigned himself and the less jittery deputies to arrest the suspect, and he accepted Schuster as a volunteer. The K9 team’s dog handler, Zimmer, participated without his partner, whom he locked in their vehicle. One deputy was Schuster’s high school friend’s dad, Terry.

The Sheriff’s Department and Schuster advanced on the suspect, and once within range, one deputy tasered him, then four deputies wrestled his arms and legs. Schuster tackled him to remove the wolf strap. On the basis that he might dodge bites, Zimmer forced a spit hood over the böxenwolf’s head; he also monitored the böxenwolf for suffocation.

The suspect stank of pus, blood, and days of running through the streets, sewers, and woods. Everybody lost their grips from his sweat, blood, and the mud, and slipped and skidded. The böxenwolf scratched with long, cracked, filthy nails.

The deputies and Schuster ignored the suspect’s complaints, swearing, groans, and wails, until Zimmer said, “He has dog shoulders. You’re going to break them or something. Stop yanking his arms like that.” He and another deputy handcuffed the suspect’s arms in front of him and pinned them three inches deep into the mud.

Simultaneously, Schuster untied the wolf strap and gathered the ends. He tugged them together and each end individually and yanked one end from under the böxenwolf. Schuster systematically pulled them again.

“We have to get him on his back,” Zimmer said.

To subdue the suspect, a deputy tasered him again, but one probe shocked the suspect, and the other probe shocked Terry. He dropped the suspect’s leg, but Sheriff Jordan grabbed it. Some of the deputies tried to roll the böxenwolf the opposite direction, some waited, and some rolled him in the original direction.

“Are you okay?” Schuster asked Terry, as a deputy said, “You’re in the way.”

Terry responded with great indignation, and Schuster moved to the opposite side.

Schuster moved to the opposite side, saying, “Sheriff, the wolf strap is stuck to him.”

“Get his other leg,” Sheriff Jordan said.

They cuffed the böxenwolf’s legs.

The deputies successfully tasered the suspect and rolled him onto his back, while Sheriff Jordan yanked the wolf strap several times.

To see better, Schuster lay on his stomach and shoved the böxenwolf’s flab upwards. The böxenwolf twisted and leaned back.

Schuster, Sheriff Jordan, and the others pushed the böxenwolf onto his side and, with nothing to brace against, fought to hold him in position. Chief Deputy Swan and another deputy joined the struggle.

“What’s up?” Sheriff Jordan asked, lying down.

“There’s a furry or hairy patch on his skin, and the side of the wolf strap that should be leather. The rest of it is leather.”

Sheriff Jordan rinsed the mud off the wolf strap. As he pulled the strap taut, the furry patch of skin stretched and wrinkled like skin, and Schuster gathered up the loose sides of the wolf strap.

“Maybe if you cut it away without cutting him, it will fall off or peel off or something. Wait, not you. If it goes wrong, you don’t need another reason to be written up,” Sheriff Jordan said.

“Okey-dokey,” Schuster said, relieved somebody else would take responsibility for a problem nobody trained for.

“Hold still,” Sheriff Jordan told the böxenwolf.

As expected, the böxenwolf ignored him. Sheriff Jordan sawed with his knife, pointing the blade towards himself, since the alternative directions would injure either the suspect, Schuster, or a deputy. He trimmed as close to the skin as he dared and accidentally cut the böxenwolf. Schuster wondered if he scabbed quickly because it was a shallow cut or if the wolf belt healed him.

Despite the trimming, the böxenwolf had four digits and one dewclaw on each limb, and a human-skinned tail.

“It looks like we have to take him to the hospital like this,” Sheriff Jordan said. “The doctors will figure it out.”

“Can I go?” Schuster.

“The deputies will go with him. You and I have to warn the EMTs and the Oneida Community Hospital, and Sheriff Sommers.”

Before leaving, Sheriff Jordan informed the böxenwolf that he seemed to be part-human, part-animal, rather than like a human temporarily resembling an animal. Although willing to assume the böxenwolf was human, Sheriff Jordan threatened him that, if the suspect assaulted any of the medical personnel, Sheriff Jordan would consider him animal-like and personally hog-tie him, cram him into Wayne’s wolf cage, and transport him to the veterinarian.

“Hospital,” the böxenwolf said.

“You’ll be there as soon as possible.”

The böxenwolf refused to give his name.

Sheriff Jordan explained he had reasonable suspicion that the böxenwolf committed assault on law enforcement, and then he arrested the böxenwolf.

Through the tussle, Schuster thought through the böxenwolf’s speech patterns, which strongly reminded him of Dennis Laufenberg. Few people swore and insulted as fluently as him, and he might have been more specific than a person unacquainted with local and county levels of law enforcement.

“Did you see his eye color?” Schuster asked Zimmer.

“One was green, and one was kind of…wolfy green.”

Dennis Laufenberg had green eyes and an appendectomy scar, which Schuster found. The böxenwolf had a bald spot, like Dennis Laufenberg, and shaggy grey, black, and dark and light brown hair. Although Dennis Laufenberg had brown and grey hair, the fat wolf in the Wolftown attacks had black, brown, tan, and white fur. Because few people had green eyes, an appendectomy scar, and a bald spot, and weighed over 300 pounds, Schuster thought Sheriff Jordan arrested Police Chief Dennis Laufenberg.

Next part coming July 18, 2025.

A lifetime passed before Ginny came back from the kitchen. Maybe not a lifetime, but long enough that I had learned the lights above the fireplace flicker every 4 seconds, but you have to be focus to notice it. But I wasn't focused, I'd flipped through the pile of books beside her bed three times over. I kept going back to the Bible on top of the stack, still in perfect condition—not even a crack in the spine. It was exactly the same as the day Great Fields tied a ribbon around it and told Ginny she hoped she'd do what's right. That sentence must have been born from our friendship because there wasn't a day in Ginny's life she hadn't done what was right.

She willingly went to church on Sundays and never stayed out past midnight, even after I'd talked her mom into extending her weekend curfew—on the promise that we'd clean the dishes every week after church that summer. Ginny never cashed in on the curfew, but she'd still polish the forks and knives while I'd draw in the church bulletin on the counter.

The bedroom door creaked open and Ginny whispered, "it would be so much easier if you carried anything up here. I almost broke the bottle twice."

"Why'd you bring that one? I put the one from last week in your drawer."

"What drawer?" Her eyes got wide as she sat on the floor and set out the bottle and cups.

"Your sock drawer. And the bottle you have is filled with water."

"Why would you do that?" Ginny quietly panicked, "My mom will kill me!"

So overdramatic. "Oh please, she hasn't looked in that cabinet in the entire time I've known her."

Ginny rubbed her temple, "She has been on me for weeks. You have to tell me if you hide liquor in my room, unless you want me to be grounded for the rest of my life."

"If you get grounded, I'll climb the walls like Romeo." I stood up off her bed, "What light through the window breaks? Ginny is the sun!"

She laughed and pulled at my ankle, "Keep your voice down!"

I crouched down and held her giggling face. "Oh, give me my Ginny! And when I die take her and-and give her whiskey and love and courage and-and I don't know! I never finished the damn play!"

She slowly clapped, still quietly giggling, "That was terrible. You are terrible and I think maybe you shouldn't have anymore to drink."

"I only had three beers at Jackson's! You made us leave before he got into his dad's cabinet."

"Okay, then you may have one more drink and then I'll read you Romeo and Juliet until you fall asleep."

"Sounds good to me." I changed out the bottle and crouched to the floor.

"What were you reading?" Ginny asked while I poured vodka into her cup.

"Hmm?"

"The book you were reading when I came in, which one was it?"

"Just that old Bible that Great Fields gave you."

Ginny hummed, eyes locked on the rim of her cup.

"Why do you keep it on your nightstand if you never read it?"

"I do read it." She said quickly. "It's not old." She lifted her cup to her mouth.

"Yeah, it's actually very nice. Great Fields does like the finer things." I took a swig.

"No, she doesn't," Ginny mumbled into her cup, not taking anything into her mouth.

"What'd you say?" I mumbled into mine.

"Nothing."

"No you definitely said something."

She put her cup down. "Grandma doesn't like the finer things. Her favorite verse is about the meek inheriting the earth."

"Well, then why'd she give you such a nice Bible?"

"Maybe it was for you." She joked, "Maybe she thought you'd read it, see the light, and find a way to heaven."

"And keep from dragging you to hell?"

She said nothing.

"Virginia Fields!" I gasped, setting my cup down.

"But you said it!"

"God, maybe I am a terrible influence." I flopped forward over her legs and laid my forehead straight on the floor.

"No, you're not." The bottle and cups clinked as she moved them under the bed.

"I know, I can't get you to stay out after midnight, so I definitely can't get you into hell."

"Maybe if we commune with the devil and sacrifice a virgin, we can be in the same pit of fire forever." She joked lazily.

"I think we'd get tired of each other."

"But we'd be stuck there."

"Yeah,” I hummed in thought and turned my head to look at the fireplace light, “but you‘re the only virgin I know, so I’d have to kill you and sacrifice is probably like a straight shot to heaven."

“Maybe...I don’t know if I’d want to go without you though,” Ginny huffed and laid back onto the hardwood. We made a lopsided cross on the floor.

“No,” I mumbled, feeling the floor for her right hand with my right hand, “you should go. As long as you let me go to hell first. Live your life without me.”

She didn’t answer. I felt her right hand slip up to my elbow as her breathing slowed down. The cold wood finally lulled me to sleep as the fireplace light flickered on.

Artificial intelligence is quietly transforming the way we live, work, and connect — but how often do we stop to notice it? Join the 7-Day AI Awareness Challenge and discover the invisible role AI plays in your daily life. For one week, pay attention to how your phone predicts your next word, how your shopping feed seems to read your mind, or how your health app offers personalized insights. From smart playlists to AI-powered maps, every day brings a new way to reflect on this powerful technology. At the end of the week, share what surprised you most and what you think the future holds. Use the hashtag #AIInEverydayChallenge, tag your friends, and let’s build awareness about how AI is reshaping life in 2025 — not just as a buzzword, but as a reality we live with every day.

The rain has blackened all the tree trunks, but a white face is painted on a young oak.

I almost missed it staring back at me from the wood line. Two eyes, an exaggerated nose, an idiot's toothy grin, they all follow me as I turn against the wind. I cup the Winston, and calm sanity warms my throat as I squint against wisps of rolled North Carolina gold.

It isn't really a face, I reckon. It's lichen, or moss, or some other forest growth that's had its way with the bark of some wild tree.

I lean against the wet railing of my deck. The air is thick, but cool. Soon, the sun will turn wet grass into the floor of a sauna, but for now, everything is perfectly comfortable, maybe even a little chilled.

Maybe it's just the face dropping my temperature a little.

I refuse to make eye contact. It's silly, I know, because it isn't really a face and there are no eyes. I can't shake my odd feeling about it, though. It reminds me of one of those moths that intentionally draws the eye away from important bits.

So where should I be looking, if the face is a decoy?

I chuckle, shaking my head. This place is playing tricks on me.

I drape one leg over the banister and straddle it. I don't have any patio furniture yet. It's pretty low on the priority list, since I'm still living out of cardboard boxes in the new house.

I'll go poke around the tree line when I finish this Winston.

What's the worst that could happen?

Ashes to ashes...as they say. From ashes we arise, and to ashes we'll end up. That's not religion; that is physics.

Don't be fooled by entropy. There's more at work even at the granular levels of dissolution—smaller than the scintillas; tinier than the remnant specks; less noticeable than the crumbs that end up in food chains.

For there's data in those ashes. Carbonaceous trails. Life stories. Love stories. Entire histories. Whether buried by burning or fragmented and atomized via deterioration, we all settle onto our world as wisps. Wisps that carry the data. Data that can be read.

Perhaps one day we'll build machines that can read that data.

That's when we'll know who our deathbed-fellows are. Those progenitor ashes, from which the lives that live, laugh, love, suffer, and relate to all the other ash-bound beings on the world, come from...on the front end...

...themselves carry the data of all those before and provide the new ashes to be forged into the stuff of new lives. And their data is added to the data our own ashes will carry after our lives burn out in conflagration.

And that machine that will read the data, contained therein, will columnate, sort, and collate our otherwise tangled web whose lifelines cross not only time zones, borders, and cultures, but epochs, too. Clio's substrate of the history of all that was and all who were.

Ashes accrue. Ashes bequeath. Ashes define all that was before, all who were before, and portend who will be and who will add yet another layer of data to the planet's motes, stored deceptively under footfalls to come or along the winds.

For those who care to look beyond the false simplicity of detritus.

My Pavlovian response was activated once it registered the teenaged clerk’s up-sale question of, “Will there be anything else, Sir?” Since I had experienced this rote, non-confrontational pleasantry and accompanying misnomer during previous retail interactions, my somewhat passive-aggressive correction of “‘Sir’? Is my father behind me?” was locked and loaded.

However, this time, unlike other encounters, I suppressed the interjection of my rebuttal to this random person’s innocent attempt of pigeonholing me into a respected status that I wasn’t ready or willing to occupy. Restraining the urge to pretend I was not an elder, I politely said, “No, this is all for today.”

And like that, there was no more fight left in me, no more will to hold onto what I use to be. It was a good run, but the charade is over. (I noticed liver spots punctuating my hands while fumbling to remove the credit card from my wallet. When did these appear?) With a sigh, I understood that old is my new normal.

Acceptance is important for making peace. But acceptance requires letting go of the past. And letting go of the past, both the negative and the positive aspects, is difficult. It’s difficult but necessary because without acceptance you can’t deal with the reality of who you’ve become.

So, I’ve stopped thinking of “Sir” as a misnomer. I consider it a badge of honor and utilize the associated benefits to their fullest. Now get off my lawn and turn down that noise you call music.

I didn’t want to walk into her work looking like I did. I hopped her fence and fell asleep under the trampoline.

I woke up sweating from the heat of the black rubber. I found a corner of the yard and threw up. Under a palm’s short shade, I went through my bag and found my Walkman far at the bottom. I played my music until my batteries went dead. I thought of ways to get my four hundred and sixty-two dollars back from my father, though I knew it was spent already. I laid my head on a pillow of shirts and closed my eyes. Since the sudden death of my mother, he was bound for what he did. The pain of his chemical life was easier for him than dealing with his guilt for treating her like dirt, for ignoring her. Only thing was he still had a son. I wanted to hate him but I couldn’t. I thought about my mother reading her Bible from her chair under the big lamp. She was with the faith but never once pushed it on us. I thought about the old man now, a husk of waste on the floor, while I tasted my vomit and blood. My throat grew thick with bile and I leaned to my side and let it go on the grass. The Sun reached through gaps in the palms and gripped my swollen eye. It burned with tears but my eyelid wouldn’t open for anything. I covered my brow with a shirt and remembered back to my old life, to my mother reading the word, and my head burned beneath the sky that was once full with stars, which was now bright with sickness while I tried to breathe. All of nature’s passions spent, all of her God’s forgotten grace descended and rotting, the failure of His plan and the bloody tears of war-torn angels. All the mysteries of children lacerated.

As an adolescent, my living arrangements were determined by where my folks resided. Their home was my home. The bedroom I grew up in was comforting. I call it “my bedroom,” even though it was owned and maintained by Mom and Dad. I had some leeway as to how I could decorate, but I needed approval from both for all major renovations or interior design changes. When I lived there, my parents had control, which meant they could filter out any negative influences or deflect the constant bombardment from the outside world. This enabled me to develop at a nurturing pace. The custodial oversight shrouded me in happiness.

The more I learned from others, the more confidence achieved. I reached the point after high school that the confines of my bedroom felt restrictive. It was time to venture on my own. I packed up the lessons learned for keeping my room tidy and headed off to college. Some material things were left behind, as is always the case when you have too few boxes and too much stuff. The next four years I occupied what amounted to a glorified bedroom but with full exposure to the diversity of society. I took the parts of my childhood bedroom and incorporated them into my dorm room.

After graduating, there was some trepidation, but I knew I had what was needed to continue exploring instead of returning to my parents’ house. So, I set off in search of my first apartment. The one I settled on was expansive compared to my two previous living arrangements. It was a scaled-down version of a real home. There was a kitchen, a small dining nook, a living room and my bedroom with an attached bathroom. After moving in, it became obvious that what I had packed would not fill up my new space. So, I started collecting what I thought was important to have as a freshly minted, independent person.

There was so much I didn’t know I needed. As a child, it was a given that dishes were in the cupboard and silverware in the drawer. The laundry basket was in the closet and the nightstand had a functional light. I had access to tools, a couch and a microwave. Attaining the title of “Grown up” I needed to get my own version of these things.

Being on a tight budget required weekly jaunts to thrift stores and frequenting yard sales. Through perseverance, I managed to find treasures. Like similar-minded, frugal souls, I relied on finding things others were willing to part with, objects that were once held dearly but now being let go so someone else could benefit from their use. I quickly amassed items. Some were gathered spontaneously, some serendipitously. My world grew.

I took in all I could, so my home replicated the comfort I knew as a child but now viewed from an adult perspective. Not all my possessions were practical. I felt it was important to buy a rice cooker. Despite my parents considering this purchase as “wasted money,” I bought one. I felt it was a smart investment. Never had one before. Don’t ever recall any family member ever owning one.

Instant rice was a staple in my family. I ate it during many a meal. But now, after emerging from my childhood phase, I felt the next logical step in the journey towards maturity was having a rice cooker. So, I paid full price for a top-of-the-line model.

Once I unboxed it, I couldn’t wait to take it for a spin. Upon reading all the warnings and instructions, come to find out, it requires ten minutes to cook rice (twenty if you’re using brown rice). My childhood staple, Minute Rice, as the name implies, only required a minute. Considering myself a mover and a shaker, I don’t have the time nor the patience to wait ten minutes. I had places to go and life to experience. I put it back in the box. I’ll use it at a later date.

My new girlfriend moved in; under the assumption she’d live rent free for the entirety of our relationship. Trying to impress her with my culinary skills, I offered to make dinner. As I demonstratively began taking the lid off my rice cooker, she interjected that she’s not big on rice. (That’s strange. I hadn’t noticed her holding that red flag before.) She prefers couscous.

Not wanting to miss an opportunity to showcase my rapier-like wit, I replied, “The only time I ate couscous was as a side dish for my grilled mahi-mahi that I had ordered while vacationing in Bora Bora and listening to Duran Duran accompanied by Yo Yo Ma sing their cover version of New York, New York.” She looked at me as if I had contracted beriberi. She moved out soon after, so I was free to continue not using my rice cooker without judgement. From that point forward, I became selective on who I allowed in my apartment.

When I gained financial traction, I took the leap to being a homeowner. I got my first place. Now I was responsible for all the working of a house, both inside and outside. No longer would I be able to call the leasing office when there was a drip in the sink or a stain on the ceiling. Life involved maintaining a yard, gutters and driveway. I had seen my parents handle these tasks. I watched as they executed the daily responsibilities from living in a house.

Having my own home was empowering. I realized that it wasn’t a daunting undertaking. I parlayed the knowledge gained from my parents’ role modeling with the experience of living in an apartment to overcome any challenges that might arise. I felt I no longer didn’t know what I didn’t know.

A bigger abode requires more items. The possessions that filled my apartment were now spread out thin in a structure five times larger. Using my bargain-finding expertise, I went about getting more things to make my home feel like a home. My rice cooker was stored in the cabinet next to the dishwasher.

Now it’s time to downsize. The house hasn’t changed in dimensions, but it feels too big. I’ve got to jettison what’s no longer important and refocus on what is. Things that have served their purpose will be passed on to the younger members of my family as they begin their journey of independence. Unwanted or unneeded items will be put in a yard sale. I’ll ask five dollars for my virginal rice cooker. A great bargain for someone just starting out.