(Quick note: I understand that if you have to explain to a reader what he/she is about to read then you didn’t do a good job of writing it in the first place, but I wanted to clarify my thought process here because it got away from me.

Originally, I was just planning on entering the haiku that ended up being Part Three. I was going for a minimalistic slant. Then the song lyric aspect for titles came to mind. Then I started expanding on those and the other four haikus emerged and before I knew it, I had deviated from the “perception of space” theme and wandered into the “where am I at in relation to space” theme. So, that’s the excuse for not sticking to my initial goal. However, now that I think of it, since my perception changed even though the space stayed the same, maybe I didn’t miss the mark after all.)

Part One: “What you gonna do when everybody’s insane?”

Running a rat race

where we are all on treadmills,

each thinking they’ll win.

Part Two: “Stuck in the middle with you.”

The way to avoid

perpetual stagnation

is to change your space.

Part Three: “Well...how did I get here?”

There’s no end in sight

if on a Mobius strip.

So, find your own path.

Part Four: “Break on through to the other side.”

Ignore the carrot

and grab a hold of the stick.

Shift priorities.

Part Five: “Be runnin’ up that hill.”

It’s not where you start

that determines your success.

It’s where you finish.

I must be crazy to take you back, but this’ll be the last time. The absolute last time. Not like the other times. It’ll be different this time. I mean it. You say you’ve changed and can’t live without me. Ok, I’ll let you back in my life. But from now on, I don’t want any more of your hollow apologies. I’m serious when I say I’m done being trivialized and made to feel stupid.

Although your unfulfilled promises are stockpiled in my mind, I will give you one, and only one, more chance to not break my heart again.

People who say, “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” in response to being uncomfortable in summer temps have never attended a Council of the Damned meeting. Heat is just one of the factors that makes these unbearable. I’ve been a member for some time now and still haven’t gotten use to the conditions.

The room smells of burnt hair. It’s poorly lit. Heavy, woolen drapes have never been pulled back so the windows have never been opened. Gritty dust clings to every surface. The constant sound of an unseen, leaking faucet reverberates across the barren walls.

Thirteen chairs are situated around the trapezoid-shaped table. Four occupy each lateral side while five are stationed on the longest parallel side. I’m in the tenth position. An elevated, over-stuffed throne covered with blood-red, crushed velvet and adorned with skulls is situated on the table’s narrow end.

The individual chairs are uncomfortable. There’s no contour to the seats. The unpadded backs extend up just below your shoulder blades and have irregularly spaced, knobby protrusions. The front legs are shorter than the rear ones by almost two inches. Arm rests are nonexistent. As you are constantly adjusting your posture, it’s impossible to remain in one position for any length of time.

Arriving council members gravitate to their assigned spots. Names are not used here. We are referred to by the corresponding number of our table position. Number One, to the throne’s right, is the designated secretary, hence the pen and paper in front of him.

On our chairs is an individualized list of things each of us are responsible to complete after the meeting. I pick up mine to read: Take Cerberus for a walk and clip his nails. Seriously? Again? I did these last week. Still have a torn rotator cuff and bite marks as proof. I despise that hellhound. Everyone is less than enthused with their assignments as well. We shift in our seats, miserably waiting.

The pair of large metal doors behind the throne open, accompanied by that distinctive creaking sound. Two imposing figures clad only in loincloths emerge. Their muscular bodies covered with sweat and soot. Their faces are obscured by burlap sacks. Narrow horizontal slits have been cut for the eyes. One is holding a scimitar. The other a glaive. I say to myself, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Suck-Up Twins.”

We immediately rise to attention with lowered heads. Our boss strides in with an oversized, almost cartoonish, pitchfork and occupies his designated place. He pauses for dramatic effect, then sits. Raising his hand, he quickly lowers it as a directive. We gingerly take our seats.

He bellows, “How long have you all worked for me here at Fallen Angel Enterprises?”

Attempting to interject some jocularity into the meeting, Number Nine replies, “Feels like an eternity.” Expecting an aggregate chuckle from her peers, Number Nine swallows hard when the room remains quiet except for the now amplified sound of dripping water. Our eyes focus on her.

With a tilted head, Satan turns toward the comment’s source. “It appears we have a comedian joining us tonight.” Nine does not respond. “Speaking of comedians, weren’t you the one who missed out on securing Bob Sagat’s soul?” In an attempt to divert the pending wrath, Nine stammers, “Ah, um...me...no, that was Number Twelve’s assignment.”

From a rush of adrenaline, Twelve sits bolt upright, his back pressing against the raised bumps, and defiantly counters with, “Excuse me, absolutely not. That’s incorrect. You might want to check the records as I was never notified of being the lead in that case. And, I don’t appreciate being thrown under the bus or...”

“Maybe Number Nine needs some time to work on her jokes,” the Prince of Darkness interjects. “How about a week in our,” creating air quotes with raised demonic fingers resembling dried twigs, “Day Spa.” A collective gasp resonates from us. “Percy. Melvin. Escort Nine to the lower level.” The burly duo step forward and grab her by the elbows. Still holding their armament, she is lifted out of her chair with ease. Number Nine offers no resistance.

Number Three purses his lips, which had been sewn shut after they removed his tongue. As the only member who has ever returned from a visit to the “Day Spa,” he knew what was in store for Number Nine. The next 168 hours will be unpleasant, even by Hell’s standards, for one of the Council’s newest additions.

Although we know what’s coming, the four of us don’t move until instructed, “Ten, Eleven, Twelve and Thirteen, shift one seat over to your left.” We oblige. Nine’s seat is warmer than I expected. Beelzebub then informs Number One to “Add ‘Find a replacement for Number Nine’ to next week’s agenda.” One obediently scribbles on the paper.

“Now, does anyone else have a witty comment they’d like to add for the amusement of the group before I continue?” Since all questions asked are rhetorical, no one speaks. “Great, let’s get on with the business at hand. Our numbers are dismal, our membership anemic,” Lucifer begins while referencing a spreadsheet. “For the first time in a while, we have ample room to move about down here. That’s bad. We need the misguided to keep us, ironically, out of the red. With talks of tariffs, the price of supplies to fuel our fire and brimstone are rising.” We nod in agreement, as per usual. Every statement during every meeting, whether based on reality or phantasmagorical, is responded to with agreement nods.

“Funding has dried up. People are finding their conscience. I thought AI would counter this but that hasn’t been the case. Sure, there’s the usual lost souls that have strayed way off the path. We’ll always have new arrivals from those who don’t think about the long-term ramifications of their actions.

“We’ve got to get back to some new, edgy advertising to attract the distractable. Using my name in ‘the devil may care attitude’ or ‘the devil is in the details’ phrases put me in the spotlight but soon became part of the common vernacular, like Band-Aid, Kleenex or Jacuzzi. They lost their uniqueness and became diluted from oversaturation.”

Both phrases were from the mind of Number Two, a senior member. He never got credit or even acknowledgement for either. I think these oversights still bruise his psyche.

Getting worked up, Satan continued, “And ‘YOLO’ was beneficial for us until folks started looking at it from the perspective of how they could make a positive difference in other’s lives.”

That was Number Eight’s contribution. Again, uncredited. Fun fact: Eight’s original anagram was YOLD, which stood for “Yo soy Oscuridad Lord Diablo” (“I am darkness, Lord Devil”) in an effort to grab a larger portion of the non-English speaking market share.

But some Gen Z temp mistakenly typed an O instead of a D in the press release. It wasn’t caught by the editor in time. So, when questioned about the mistake, they said it meant “You only live once.” Nobody has heard from or seen the temp and editor since.

Diablo continues his rant, “Just look at all who attended the Pope’s funeral. More than 250,000 faithful waited for hours to see him lying in state or attend his service. How did this happen?” Again, silence on our part. Satan warns, “Don’t make me be the bad guy.” I covertly roll my eyes. “Because I’ll be forced to if you all don’t start drumming up business.

“So, meeting adjourned. Help yourself to some tepid coffee and a moldy Danish as you leave. Don’t forget to complete those chores tonight. We’ll reconvene at 6:45 a.m. tomorrow so I can hear your ideas on how to fix our problem. Keep up the evil work. Now get the hell out and do my bidding.”

We shuffle toward the secondary exit with the common, unspoken thought - This meeting was yet another monumental waste of time since the gist of it could have been conveyed via email. But, as middle management, we understand our position in the company is to toil away. Our struggles, no matter how insignificant or long-term, are for the betterment of the whole.

Walking down the hall, we pass a doctor and nurse pushing a cart with a bottle of anesthesia, a scalpel and sutures heading toward the Day Spa. It’s going to be another long night, yet again, for the Council.

THE PREP WORK:

The smell of vinegar inundates the kitchen. Originating from bowls of different colored solutions arranged in the same sequence as a rainbow, the containers are prepped and ready for the arrival of yet to cool eggs. This is the only time of year vinegar elicits a positive response from kids.

The table is protected by an old towel because no matter how careful we are, inevitably, someone will bump into the workspace while trying to pull his or her chair closer. This causes mini tsunamis on the surface of each vessel. Any spillage leaves a Rorschach pattern on the absorbent cloth under the bath nearest the epicenter.

There is the required modification to the wire holder included with the PAAS kit since the manufacturer specs are insufficient. The dipping end loop needs enlarging to securely hold our egg in its selected position, whether vertical or tilted. Only one catastrophic incident involving an egg that should be partially dunked but ends up toppling over and getting fully submerged, or worse yet, Humpty Dumptying onto the table, is needed for Dad to examine the problem and re-engineer a solution. Sure, “Build a better mousetrap and the world will beat a path to your door.” But “Construct a better dipper and the egg won’t roll onto your floor.”

Everyone fancies themselves the next Rembrandt, Picasso or Warhol when it comes to decorating their Easter eggs. You are absolutely, unequivocally certain that the wax design you’re meticulously applying to the shell coupled with the sticker you’ll affix with artistic care after the egg has dried will result in a masterpiece worthy of surpassing in value any Faberge. It never does. It doesn’t even come close to matching the photoshopped examples depicted on the back of the dying kit.

Then there’s the flimsy egg holder made from the bottom of the same cardboard box. Although clearly advertised as capable of handling six finished eggs without signs of fatigue, the cut-out design begins warping after soaking up the excess, colored water from the first egg placed in it. Ours accommodates two at most before the cardboard buckles from compromised molecular bonds.

On a continuous loop and with much enthusiasm, we belt out just the first verse of “Here Comes Peter Cottontail” because nobody knows the lyrics after “…Easter’s on its way.”

THE BACCHANALIAN SUGAR FEST:

There’s a rush of elation when I sense added resistance on my forearm while lifting my basket. When all the candy is gone, I pick up and shake the intertwined “grass” with the hope a wayward jellybean may have gotten tangled in the plastic clot. And then that satisfying telltale sound of the previously hidden jellybean plinking back into the basket. Bonus elation if it was a red one.

A true litmus test as to whether someone has deep, psychological issues is they actually enjoy black jellybeans. If one of these demonic, warped ovals so much as touches any candy in my possession, the result will be a Level 5 Contamination. The entire lot is compromised and needs cleaning.

As designated on the official “nutritional” label, five Peeps chicks constitute one serving size. So, after ripping open the package, there is no reason to tear apart the clutch. It’s wasted energy. Best to utilize it for the continuous consumption of the yellow chickens (or pink bunnies if you’re bougie).

Leftover Peeps is not a thing. They get devoured in one sitting. Plus, the dislodged sugar coating that has accumulated in a corner of the package is poured into your mouth and swallowed like a chaser.

Following the decimation of each Peep’s single serving, there is the associated sugar rush, then guilt, then craving for more, then the crash, then a nap before dinner.

And who doesn’t know the importance of first checking the weight of your chocolate rabbit to see if it is solid or hollow so you can pre-adjust your bite force?

My interrogation of said chocolate rabbit repeats itself each year. *Thick German accent* “Yous vill tell me where yous have hidden der plastic eggs containing das money.” No response. “Very well, her Bunny. Yous have given me no choice. Say, ‘auf Wiedersehen’, to your ears.”

As it is prone to do, life has changed since my youthful days celebrating Easter. I now view this holiday from the perspective of an adult. My recent memories involve waiting for the price of eggs to come down while stocking up on discounted candy.

My presence lowered the room’s median age by 30 years. Side-eye glares began once I entered. Judgmental early arrivals, who had separated into their cliques, were suspicious of this newcomer. Just looking to kill some time before reconvening with the bachelor party, I accepted my helot designation by sitting along the perimeter with the other outcasts. The lighting wasn’t ideal. I was in line with an AC vent. Such are the downfalls of the supposed downtrodden.

Settling in, I realized those nearby weren’t exchanging pleasantries to make my acquaintance. Although members of a lesser caste, these strangers weren’t friends I hadn’t met. They were out to gain a higher standing by beating someone on a lower rung. Winning sets you free. Expanding your social circle doesn’t. This was a cutthroat aggregate.

It quickly became apparent who the nobility were: Mrs. S and Reggie. I couldn’t figure out their relationship. Siblings? Married? Working as a team? But all exalted their names and acted interested in their retelling of past wins. Like royalty, the pair held court. Not meaning to, I made eye contact with Mrs. S. Out of politeness, I gave her a deferential nod and grin. She relegated me to being a subordinate by replying with a condescending sneer. Bitch. Game on.

“Everyone ready?” was the only announcement needed for people to affix their concentration. As expected, the action was fast paced. Players remained focused. You’d hear the attempted witty comment randomly interjected by Reggie. Done more to throw off others than for entertainment purposes. The unfortunate ones who were distracted by this maneuver ended up on the wayside.

I kept a low-profile the first few rounds. My strategy was to act obtuse, then strike when the stakes were higher. Reggie had already notched four wins while his femme fatale had six. They were dominating and knew it. However, they didn’t grasp that any congratulatory acknowledgment from the almost rans was insincere.

Once the big jackpot came up, I decided to make my move. I’d bolster the 70% luck and the 25% skill needed with my 5% determination. The first thirty seconds put me behind. My hand barely moved as others’ feverishly bobbed up and down. Then my rally began. G Forty-eight. Need it. B Fifteen. Need it. I Thirty. Need it. And then, as if hearing it slowed down to 33 RPMs: OOOO Sevvvventyyyyy Onnnnnne. Dabbing the blank square with my ink marker, I held my card high and exclaimed “BINGO,” before partially rising from my seat.

With gloating intentions, I scanned for Mrs. S. Her back remained turned to me. She was, no doubt, engaging Reggie in some contemptuous discussion involving “beginner’s luck” or “even a busted clock is right twice a day.” I reveled in the fact Her Highness and Prince Uncharming were temporarily deposed.

Victory was financially sweet and hierarchically advancing. I departed $250 richer. But more importantly, I discarded my status as a bottom rung serf.

Part One: Science Friction

Friction can be tricky

if not applied correctly.

None -

creates a slipping hazard on ice.

A little -

causes a blister on your heel.

Too much -

results in the collapse of a relationship.

But just enough -

will ignite a fire

(outdoors to toast a marshmallow

or in your soul to propel you forward).

Part Two: What's In This Box?

I happened upon a box in my attic.

One I must have packed years ago.

It was covered with dust

and had a faded label declaring:

FULL OF DARKNESS.

I wonder why I felt compelled

to keep something so ominous

or how I had forgotten it was there.

Curious as to what it contained,

I lifted the lid just enough to peek inside.

And was confronted with all my previous failures

that I had kept for way too long.

It wasn’t until I got the courage

to turn the box upside down,

that I could release the past’s darkness,

which spilled onto the floor and dissipated in the light.

It was at this moment that my life became brighter.

Now the box has a fresh label:

FULL OF HOPE.

If every storm runs out of rain, the question to ask is: Did you stock up on the necessary provisions and were mentally ready to ride out the storm? Were you primed for the impending tempest and planned accordingly? Can you endure the intensity of the squall knowing that at some point, it will pass?

Or were you caught off guard when the first raindrops fell? If that’s the case, you’ll be in danger of getting swept away by a brief shower. Because even a little bit of rain (or problems or setbacks) can wreak havoc on those taken by surprise. Knowing that given the right conditions, a person can drown in just an inch of water, what are you doing today to ensure you can stay afloat if a flood inundates tomorrow?

A boat secured too tightly to a dock will list and strain with the waves generated from a storm. Too much slack and the boat violently rocks back and forth. If marine warnings are not heeded and the appropriate preparations not taken, there’s a greater probability the ship will sink where it’s harbored. While a vessel moored correctly will adjust with the surging water levels and emerge intact.

We don’t give ourselves enough credit when we weather the storms in our lives unscathed. Or the proper time for reflection and recovery if battered. Either way, once the rains have subsided, shed those soaking clothes. Hang everything up to dry. Towel yourself off. Get some coffee, tea, cocoa or a stiff drink. Bask in the arriving sun that inevitably dissipates the gray sky. Find the personalized, silver lining in every ominous cloud that passes over you. Life flourishes after times of despair. And so will you.

Every storm runs out of rain. Don’t you run out of perseverance.

Inanimate things

are dependent upon us

to have memory.

Socks know it’s their job,

whenever they’re in the dryer,

to ditch their partner.

The end table leg

cannot recall what it did

to deserve your kicks.

The stove worries that

you will doubt you turned it off

once you are airborne.

Car keys remember

to be inconspicuous

when you’re running late.

The torn plastic bag

holding your carton of eggs

hid its flaw in shame.

The roll of TP

forgot to mention it’s low.

But you’ll soon find out.

It’s only when we

project experiences

that stuff comes alive.

From: Clifton Bellamy

To: M.Montrose@gmail.com

Subject: Regarding my employment.

Dear Mr. Montrose,

I hope this email finds you well. I am reaching out as additional information has been made available since we last spoke Wednesday morning. In light of these new developments, I would like to rescind my resignation. I understand that giving you an hour’s notice of my intent to leave the company was an ill-advised decision. I apologize in advance for the inconveniences my hasty departure may have caused and promise you that, given the opportunity to return, I will rectify any issues which arose after I left.

Upon getting home, I discussed the personal email I received on the previous evening of 4/1 with my parents (who, when they found out I was no longer working, demanded I make things right with you). Much to my dismay, they were emphatic that our ancestral tree has no branches of Nigerian royalty growing from its trunk.

So, the “$25,000,000 American Dollars owed to you from Prince Abache Tunde’s will that is held in trust at the Lagos National Savings and Trust Association cannot be released until the $3,000 American Dollars processing fee is paid in full,” was, after all, an elaborate ruse.

Although difficult to accept at first, in hindsight, this makes sense. It certainly explains why Prince Abache, or any of his descendants, never attended our family reunions and why none of my relatives ever acknowledged his absence. I figured it was because we are humble people, and nobody wanted to flaunt our connection to nobility.

Our last meeting contained some colorful language, mostly on my part. I hope you didn’t misconstrue my zany sense of humor as veiled insults. This was just me trying to lighten the mood to make my exit less stressful. I don’t want you to think I took advantage of your Open-Door policy for airing concerns or grievances. I should have been more professional given all that you and the company have done for me.

Now that we’ve had some time to process everything, I would like to consider our encounter as water under the bridge so we can learn from it while forging ahead by building upon that discussion. I realize I should have used more due diligence before resigning from my position at your company. I look forward to learning from this experience with the goal of becoming a better person and ultimately a better employee.

Anticipating my opportunity to rejoin the team.

Sincerely,

Clifton

From: Milton Montrose

To: ClifBe_da_man@yahoo.com

Subject: Regarding your employment.

Dear Clifton,

Your email does in fact find me well. Interestingly enough, as of Wednesday afternoon, things started going much smoother at work.

First, I must applaud the incorporation of whichever AI program you utilized to aid in writing your email. Such a succinct and descriptive use of the English language. From listening to you talk, I didn’t know you were able to express any thoughts without repeatedly interjecting words like, “yo,” “um,” “it’s lit,” and of course, “slay.” This definitely shows initiative for a twenty-something-year-old and hints at maturity.

Second, regarding our conversation. If by “zany sense of humor” you are referencing the comment you made concerning my leadership skills, rest assured, I wasn’t insulted. To be honest, not only did I think “Bozo could learn a thing or two from you about being a clown” was such a witty retort that I’m considering having my wife cross stitch it on a throw pillow, but I was also amazed a person your age even knew who Bozo the Clown was to begin with. Impressive.

Third, my Open-Door policy remains in effect for all current employees, despite a previous airing of concerns and grievances revolving around the phrase, “Ha, suck it, Monty.”

Fourth, you are more than welcome to come back and work for us when, as you so eloquently stated, “Hell freezes over.” I will keep your resume on file.

And lastly, speaking of bridges, feel free to contact me if you need the name of a reputable general contractor who can help you repair the one you just burned.

Cordially,

M. Montrose

I have reached the point where I can sit down. After spending the last four hours working in the back yard and garden, there’s nothing left to complete. The brick walkway is once again weed-free. After amending the soil, the potatoes and onions are planted. Netting is put up. Seeds for beets, broccoli, carrots, cauliflower, peas, peppers, radishes and spinach are nestled in their respective beds or pots. The windchime, rain gauge, garden flags and cast-iron pig (“This little piggie went to the garden.”) have been returned to their rightful spots. The bird feeders and water bowl/birdbath are full. Everything has been crossed off Spring’s To Do List. Quite a productive afternoon. But this wasn’t always the case.

Taking inventory of the work completed, I reflect on the original condition of the fenced-in yard when I bought my foreclosed home nine years ago. The exterior was in rough shape but still better off than the interior of the 106-year-old house. The fence needed repairs. There was no electricity to the deteriorating shed. Railroad ties appeared to be solid but were rotted out underneath. Bamboo had gained a firm foothold among the tree stumps and knee-high weeds. Large rocks were strewn about. At varying intervals, bricks peaked from beneath the overgrown sod. And the enclosed patio was not structurally sound.

Each of the first eight years, when the weather in Virginia warmed, I’d postpone my inside repairs and tackle the most pressing landscaping issues. I’d focus on a major job while utilizing any area not needing attention for planting vegetables. Underbrush, weeds, stumps, railroad ties and seemingly endless bamboo roots were cleared. Now I have more sun exposure. The entirety of a brick walkway was exposed and realigned while the rocks were organized. Now the garden feels more inviting. New roof, siding and electrical wiring for the shed. Now I have a functional workshop. The patio was demolished and replaced with proper steps flanked by permanent storage compartments. Now I have convenient access to the yard. Blueberry and raspberry bushes were planted. Two raised beds for strawberries were set up. Compost bins were started. Rain barrels were added. Now the garden is self-sustaining. These tasks dominated my summers. I looked forward to the day when all the work needed would be finished.

And that day is now. I can prep my garden in just a few hours, leaving the rest of the season to focus on planting and harvesting. The birds, squirrels and lone chipmunk get fresh water and food on a regular basis. Within six to eight weeks, I’ll have a steady supply of vegetables and berries well into September. So, sitting on the backsteps, surveying my private slice of Heaven, I know all the hard work completed the previous years has made everything right in the world now. This is a perfect day.