by Isa Hopkins, editor-at-large

“El doctor!” he heard, calling from behind.  He had been moving deliberately, in his construction workers’ costume, making his way through the fence around Guantanamo to where he might slip through, shaking hands and introducing himself as Juan to anyone who asked.

“Doctor Fajardo!”

He turned.

“Doctor, I thought that was you,” said the workman; an old patient from — was it a gallbladder surgery?  Perhaps an appendix removed?

“Jose.”  The doctor drew his former patient in close, in the half-handshake, half-hug of Cuban men.  “You caught me!”  It was a racy thing to say in the postrevolutionary country, Che and Fidel thinning the ranks of their opposition day by day.  There were men deep in La Cabana who had moaned the doctor’s name: Who dressed this wound, demanded a party loyalist, perhaps one of the men of the Sierra Maestra who Doctor Fajardo had once counted among his friends, and the counterrevolutionaries who were his allies now gave it up in agony, admittances to just to make the torture end.  It did: at the firing squads.

Jose looked confused, at the doctor’s words and the doctor’s presence; what could a surgeon be doing here?

“Ay, Jose,” said Doctor Fajardo, with a laugh.  “You know, there is no better way to see the country through the eyes of another than to walk in another man’s shoes.”

Jose was uncertain and other workers drew near, curious.

“Now I know what it is to be a workman!  I have been learning how to repair this fence all day.  We must work together now, si?  You will show me what you know?”

However strange it might have been to see his doctor dressed in construction coveralls Jose was flattered at the opportunity to show the surgeon what he knew — he, Jose, a worker, teaching a man as smart and educated as Doctor Fajardo!  This was the revolution at work!

And so they spent the afternoon together, digging and mixing concrete, solidifying the walls around Guantanamo that the doctor had hoped to slip through.  Doctor Fajardo made jokes and Jose laughed; they shared an earthy machismo and at the end of the day el doctor went back to Santiago, a made man, thinking on his next opportunity to escape.

Armando Fausto Fajardo was a man’s man, a surgeon who loved his job and was well-respected in his community.  He had lived in the country, in a place called Marcane in southeastern Cuba; in the Oriente province where the revolution had first brewed on the farm next to his, where the Castros lived.  He had operated on old Angel Castro, a last-ditch effort to save the man’s life, and it hadn’t succeeded but none of Angel’s children seemed to hold it against him.  He had gone to school with Fidel — in Havana, at Belen, where all famous Cuban boys went, where Desi Arnaz entertained all his classmates with his guitar and his smile and where Fidel’s younger brother Raul pretended that he wasn’t the one setting fires in the bathroom or torturing small lizards when none of the Jesuits were looking — but it was Mongo with whom he was closest, Mongo to whom he leased land and sold sheep, Mongo who strode in and out of his house and greeted his wife and gave presents to his daughters.

The land Armando owned was wild and he tamed it with horse and rifle, riding at night.  Hunting in Cuba lacked spectacle — Armando traveled each year to Wyoming, to shoot bears and deer and moose — but here there were cigars and rum, and rum families like the Bacardis and the Medellins who were his friends.  He ate a steak each day and his wife was beautiful and his mustache was imperious, a Cuban Ron Swanson, and early in the revolution he had carried messages for his friends the Castros, back when anything seemed better than Batista.

But as Fidel’s power grew Armando began to doubt his old schoolmate and he sent his two daughters out first.  They went to Miami, stayed with his sister-in-law until his wife could leave too — but Armando was tied to Cuba for a little while yet, unwilling to leave while his ailing parents still lived.  His sister had fled at the first signs of chaos, moving her family to Spain, and their son — their doctor — was the only family his parents had left.

He had buried them, days before he went to Guantanamo.

When the revolution began they had stayed in the countryside, hiding under beds and tables as bullets flew by — the Castro family farm was headquarters for the revolution and fighting blossomed out from it, arriving in Havana only in newspapers and radio stories; but there, in Oriente, in the Sierra Maestra, the soundtrack of overthrow was not suspicious whispers or protest chants but gunfire and groaning.

They moved to Santiago, the whole Fajardo family, as the fighting continued.  Cuba’s second-largest city, there on the southeastern coast, a port city, safer than living next door to Fidel.

Next he tried a ship: a Greek ship, a transport vessel, and the swarthy captain had agreed — over rum and cigars in Santiago — to stow him away, out of site and out of Cuba.  He arrived on the docks at the appointed time and place but the port was crawling with revolutionary soldiers, inspecting passenger manifests, looking over cargo, standing guard.  There had been riots here last night — new security measures, a young soldier told Armando sternly.  Who was he?

“Ship’s doctor,” said Armando.  “Please let me through.”

“Ship’s doctor?”  The soldier consulted a crew list.  “I don’t see your name here.”

“Well, then there is a misprint.  I am this ship’s doctor.”

“Show me,” said the soldier.

The doctor had never been inside this particular ship before but he boarded it with practiced confidence, the soldier at his back.  He nodded at crewmembers in the narrow hallways as though they were his coworkers at the hospital, looking for the ship’s infirmary without trying to appear as though he was looking.

“Don’t you know where you are going?” asked the soldier, two hours on.

“I thought I would give you the full tour,” said Armando.

They found the infirmary; closed.

“Ah,” said Armando.  “I have forgotten my keys!  Well, I suppose it is not so bad.  I need to buy more bandages before we leave anyway.”

They backtracked, the doctor and the soldier, out of the ship, back onto the docks; Armando to his car, a made man once more.

He never saw the Greek again.

Mongo had sent him a message, as his parents were dying: It’s an emergency; please come back to Marcane.  We need your medical knowledge.  He would not have come for Fidel or Raul but for his old friend Mongo he began to pack — perhaps it was old Lina Castro, Angel’s wife; the family had trusted him with their patriarch, and perhaps he was the only one they could trust with her too.

Mongo’s wife had a sister, a plain but friendly woman named America.  America’s marriage lacked love and instead she felt it all for Armando — even his eight-year-old daughter had realized it.  His wife tolerated the affection so long as it was from a distance and as Armando was planning his journey back to Marcane another message came, this one from America: Don’t come back here, she wrote.  It’s a trap.  They will kill you.  They want you dead.  You have to get out of here as soon as possible.

Armando wrote a short letter to his former neighbor explaining that he couldn’t make it out to the country on account of his sick parents, and he began to plan his escape.

He found a fisherman, a name passed along by trusted parties; it was good to be well-respected, to have so many friends in such an hour of need.  Anybody with a boat was in high demand on the island but the fisherman had a sick daughter and Armando offered a trade, treatment for escape.

They crammed into the small motorboat, half a dozen where only two fit comfortably.  They left under a full moon, departing from a dark and quiet beach — they had tried to leave when the night wasn’t so bright but the weather was sour, storms brewing off the coast, and better to leave under a full moon than not at all.  Armando was a wanted man; the fisherman was suspect.

They didn’t try to run the motor until they were out from the shore but when the fisherman pulled the cable it sputtered and coughed, hoary and mechanical and then quiet.  Another pull: silence.

There were no sails to raise and so they rowed and drifted in the quiet Caribbean, landing two days later at Puerto Rico and safe haven.

by Pope Benedict XVI

Infallible advice from the Vatican’s very own love doctor!

My dearest Joseph,

What is this awful rumor I hear, of you voluntarily giving up power?!  What can our love be if not based on the little-known joys of absolutism, the sweet pleasures of totalitarian rule that so few in this world can ever truly know or understand?!  If not in you, where am I to find my solace amongst the leaders of the Western world — the royal family of Lichtenstein?  Those idiots were invaded by the Swiss!  The SWISS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have never known such betrayal… but in honor of our secret love, I have sent you a parting gift.  The metals are soft, but they are… precious.

If I cannot have you, no one can!

Babushkas of love,

Vlad “My Dick is the Impaler” Putin

Dear Vlad,

I appreciate your concerns.  But an old man must know when to give up worldly power.  I am not in such fine physical condition as yourself; why, it has been years since I wrestled a polar bear in front of photographers!

Alas, I was not able to enjoy the special gift you sent, as the cardinal who opens all of my mail was swiftly waylaid by radiation poisoning.  

Yours in the Eucharist,

His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI, formerly Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, Defender of the Roman Faith

My dearest darling J-Ratz,

Ahahahaha!  I should have known better than to think I could fool a pope.  The science of a slow, polonium-induced death is no match for the might of the Vatican!  Do you not see why you and I are meant to be???  As we say here in mother Russia: “Quit Stalin’, be my Valentine!”  Do you understand the pun?  What the joke really means is “Stop exterminating millions of peasants and come purge my PANTS!”

I have sent you another gift; this time, I promise, it is safe for your consumption, a traditional dowry of cabbages and laundered oil money.

You are the Sputnik of my heart,

Your Vlad

Dearest Vlad,

Your cabbages are very fine.  I have enjoyed them heartily in the borscht recipe you sent me last year.  Your attention to the delicate dietary needs of an old man is truly touching.

Yours in the Eucharist,

His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI, formerly Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, Defender of the Roman Faith

To my one and only love,

Your words fill me with hope.  Perhaps your retirement might be a good thing for us: with you no longer bound to the schedule and demands of tending your worldwide flock, you can finally come visit me in Russia.  We will ride shirtless throughout the Urals and spend a romantic week at the Gulag Archipelago, which is a very fine new hotel in Siberia — much like at the Vatican, the gold and jewels trimming the lobby were stolen from Jews!  You will feel right at home, in my country and in my arms.  We will eat enough borscht to drown ourselves and the sun might finally shine upon our love.  (Not if you come in the winter.  Although I’m sure your time in Hitler’s Youth taught you all about that, ha ha!)  We shall conclave together beneath bearskin pelts from St. Petersburg to Vladivostock!

Call me? Maybe?

V.

Dearest V.,

For cabbage and Carly Rae Jepsen, I’ll go anywhere!

Yours in the Eucharist,

Benedict XVI, Pope Emeritus

by Paul Lander

Ripping the Headlines
by Paul Lander

Time reading is time wasted, Hobo Pancake Nation.  You think you can work on upping that Halo score AND stay informed?  Hell, no!  Well, me neither.   That’s why I like to treat the news like I treat people. Make a snap judgment and move the hell on.  So, here are some headlines and my first thoughts:

‘US Economy Adds 157,000 Jobs in January’
Although most of them were taken by Ryan Seacrest and Mario Lopez.

‘Google’s Self-driving Car Logs 300,000 Miles Without an Accident’
Guessing it wasn’t made in Asia

‘White House: Rubio Immigration Moves May ‘Bode Well’ for Action’
Look for opposition to proposal to come from… Rubio

‘World may be forced to go vegetarian by 2050, scientists say’
Call me an optimist but I think enough people will die from obesity, stroke and heart disease to stop that from ever happening.

‘GOP: “We Can’t Come Off as a Bunch of Angry Old White Men”‘
WIth Boehner’s spray tan we can be a bunch of angry old orange men

‎’Chris Brown Crashes Car While Evading Paparazzi’
For Rihanni’s sake, hope she didn’t try and give him directions

‘Oldest Poison Pushes Back Ancient Civilization 20,000 Years’
And explains how Larry King’s first wife died.

by Sameer Saklani

They looked out of the glass and saw themselves approaching slowly, but in reality at speeds near thousands of miles per hour.

“Mission Control, we are approaching landing,” said Neeli.

A voice spoke back through an electronic box.

“Zike, prepare for landing,” instructed Neeli.

Zike pressed two red buttons and flipped a black lever up.  The shuttle began to slow and rumble.  They looked outside the glass:  a vast expanse of rocky, sedimentary gray, astonishing yet dull somehow, plastered before the blackest black unimaginable.

“Mission Control, preparing to land.”

The shuttle slowed to a hover and floated above the gray surface.  Then slowly it began to descend.  Neeli and Zike kept quiet and austere, waiting for landing.  Minutes passed and they felt the shuttle make contact with the surface.  Zike pressed another button and flipped another lever.  The shuttle began to lose its power, the rumbling subsided, and the lights dimmed.

“Mission Control, landing successful.”

A voices squawked back.

“Okay, get the pills,” Neeli told Zike.  Zike retrieved two white pills from a cabinet mounted on the wall.  Neeli and Zike both swallowed one.

“Mission Control, Space Adjustment pills taken.”

Then they just sat, bore waiting for the pills to take effect.  They were both dressed in gray jumpsuits, very light and thin, no spacesuits or helmets. Neeli was a tall dark man with a black beard and short black hair.  Zike was shorter and fatter, with soft cheeks and medium length brown hair.

Thirty minutes passed.

“MissionControl, proper time elapsed.  Bodies adjusted.”

“Begin mission,” said the metal box.

“Mission Control, beginning mission,” said Neeli. “Jesus Christ, now turn that damn shit off, Zike.”

Zike pressed two buttons and the voice from the metal box shut off.

“And cut the damn audio and video off, too.  Those perverts probably watch and jack-off to this shit.”

Zike cut the audio and video.

“Alright, let’s get the hell out there.  Grab a couple bottles, Zike.”

Zike grabbed two fifths of whiskey.  Neeli pulled back the handle to the door hatch and it slowly opened upwards.  They stepped out.  Once again, it was nothing impressive; dusty, humid, the ground brittle and gray like old clay, and blackness, so much blackness.  It was nothing they hadn’t seen several times before.

Neeli and Zike walked south (if there were such a thing on the moon) a few hundred paces and settled on a spot much like the rest.  They could see over the horizon and into the inky well called The Universe.  They sat down and began sipping at the  whiskey.

“Can you believe they spend 200 billion dollars of the country’s money just so we can stare at this bland, subnormal shit?” said Neeli.

“I don’t know, I’ve stopped thinking about it,” replied Zike.

“Yeah.”

They kept sipping.

“This stuff tastes even better up here.”

“Yep.  A man can’t get more alone than this.”

“Suppose there are aliens up here?”

“Like hell.  There ain’t nothing but dust and nothing up here.”

“But say there were aliens.”

“Oh well.  If they’re weak, we become their kings.  If they’re strong, we become their servile bitches.”

There was silence.  Then Zike spoke.

“Say, if we do find aliens or water or anything up here, should we tell them down there?”

“Eh, fuck em’.  Let them burn in their poisonous farts.”

“It could mean the end of the human race.”

“Shit, now whose fault is that?”

Neeli and Zike looked forward, as if there hung some painting or picture screen.  But there was nothing.

“You think there’s a God, Neeli?”

“By the looks of things up here, I don’t see the point.”

“Boy, I really hope we settle up here first.  Not those damn Soviets or Chinese, or hell, even those damn Injuns.  Those bastards came from nowhere.”

“Who gives a shit?  What’s the difference between an American or a Commie or a Chink or Black or an Injun up here?  Let them fight their war and whoever is left will relocate up here, leaving that planet rotting and burning behind them.  And once they get up here, after colonization and stabilization, they’ll soon start to see the ugliness and the faults and beastliness in each other, yea, their own fucking kind.  And then, there’ll be more wars, wars between smaller subdivisions of the same aggregate, and eventually one group will have killed all the others.  And then…again…”

“Christ, Neeli, you’re drunk.”

“Not enough.  I’m out.  Go grab a couple more bottles.”

Zike ran back to the ship and brought back a half gallon of whiskey.

“This should last for a little.”  He handed the bottle to Neeli who took a big swig.

“Look, Zike, look down there.”

Neeli stared into the abyss.

“I don’t see a thing, Neeli.”

“I mean look.  Think about Earth.  Earth and all its little people.  Scampering around like, uh, I don’t know, rats or cockroaches or snails, y’know, just running around, working, fighting, fucking, yelling, sleeping, crying, eating, shitting, singing, dancing, drunk driving, y’know, all of that, worried about money or sex or movies or family, with their, uh, with their, assholes, assholes all tight and their hair white, thinking their shit means a goddamn thing to all this nothing up here.  Stupid.”

“Yeah.”

“Up here there is…uh, there is…”

“No more.”

“Yeah, there is no more.”

“Well, if none of that stuff is real, are we?  My god, Neeli, do WE exist!”

“Of course we exist.  I’m drunk, aren’t I?  Therefore I exist.”

They passed the whiskey back and forth, falling farther into drunkenness.

“Y’know, Zike, Sarah is down there on that little planet.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“Yeah.  She’s down there fucking that Jules, that fuckerr from her acting classes.  Or hell, maybe she’s fucking Chris, her ex-husband.  Or maybe it’s that young florist.  Or her therapist.  She’s fucking them all, Zike.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.  But shit, what does that matter up here?  I’ve got no woman up here.  And from this view, her tits and ass and legs aren’t so big.  She’s got nothing!  Her bread and butter up the ass of a blackhole!”

“Atta’ boy, Neeli.”

“Those dumb bastards, working their dead-end jobs…”

“Well, we’re working our jobs right now…”

“Hell no, Zike, this isn’t no job anymore, this is LIFE.”

“That’s right.  Which reminds me, these pills wear off in eight hours.  One of us is going to have to stay awake.”

“That’s fine.  I’ll do it.”

“Okay.”

“I can’t believe we pump billions into those brainiacs and they can only make this pill last eight hours.”

“Yeah, a shame.”

“So how many did you bring anyways?”

“A couple thousand.  They should last about a year.”

“And then?”

“Not sure.  Implode, explode, disappear, who knows?”

Neeli took a large gulp of whiskey as he heard this.

“How about the booze?”

“Plenty.  100 gallons.”

“Good.”

“And plenty food, too.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Say, Neeli, you think they’ll be mad when they realize we’re not coming back?”

“Yeah, so what?  Let em’ be mad.  A big ol’ A-bomb will drop on their heads soon enough, anyway.”

“You think they’ll send someone up here to look for us?”

“They’ll send someone up here, but not to look for us.”

Neeli reached down and scratched his crotch.

“Hey, my balls still itch up here, what’d ya’know?”

The two laughed.  Then abruptly stopped and sat quiet, seeming pensive and unsure, almost stoic, like walls given consciousness, contemplating fate and time.

“So what do we do here?” asked Zike.

“I don’t know; nothing, anything.  We’re free from all their bullshit and demand.  Demand, demand, demand, and drive and dreams and desire.  Bullshit.”

“So just sleep and drink?”

“What else do we need?”

“I don’t know, what if we get erections?”

“What the hell is giving you an erection? These rocks?”

“I mean, what if we miss women?”

“It’s not so bad if you’re let alone.  A lot of the chase is just our answer to the treachery we’re bound to.”

“I’m not gonna’ suck you off, Neeli…”

“I’ll give you the same answer for now.”

They were quiet.  Nothing happened.

“You think they’ll be mad, Neeli?”

“Yea, probably.  It’s a lot of money.”

“Say, Neeli, don’t be upset…”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s head back.”

Neeli sat there pondering, turning and examining his original scheme, weighing its pros and cons.

“Okay, Zike.  Let’s go.”

“Okay.  What about the data?”

“I don’t know, just forge it.”

“It could sacrifice the dolphin population…”

“So be it.”

The two stood and walked back to the shuttle. Inside, Zike pressed a few buttons and pulled a few levers.  The shuttle began to hum and the power slowly returned.  Then with the press of another button, the shuttle began to tremble and lift off.

“You’re not too drunk to drive, are you?” said Neeli.

“Oh, fuck off,” answered Zike.

“Mission Control, data gathered.  We are now making our return.”

The voice from the electric box had returned and answered.

The shuttle began to move away from the large, round rock as Neeli and Zike sat, not bothering to look back.

As they were making their descent, another shuttle came into view, flying upwards through the atmosphere, heading towards the moon.  It was the same shuttle model except painted on one side was a large red flag with a yellow sickle and hammer in the upper right corner.

“Neeli, look,” said Zike.

“Yeah, I see them.  Don’t worry, we’ll kill those damn Soviets soon enough,” said Neeli as the shuttle moved back towards Earth.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sameer Saklani sat down the other day in an attempt to calculate whether writing had garnered him more money or more women.  He realized the answer was women; this meant that indirectly, writing had cost him more money than it had made him.  He can be contacted at ssaklani@mail.usf.edu.  Gentlemen, feel free to reimburse him for his loses.  Ladies, continue bankrupting him.

by E. Watson

As a dedicated oral health professional, I adore treating you lovely patients.

Most dentists, hygienists, and dental assistants claim to like treating patients like I do but they’re liars.  Pay them no heed.

I adore treating patients because I love digging out your chunks of food debris and smearing the pulverized globules on your patient bibs.  It makes my mouth water.  I don’t why.  I like to smell it, too.

In fact, I love to smell it.

Forcing myself to refrain from prematurely taking a giant snort of your ground up breakfast burrito is really hard to do.  That’s a big issue for me.

How would that look to you beautiful patients if I shoved my dental scaler up my mask to take a huge whiff of your chewed-up tuna and spinach salad… right in front of you?

As a clinician, I must own up to my professional boundaries and parameters.

I smell it after you leave my operatory.

If I had to pick a favorite kind of food to release from in between your neglected, plaque-coated teeth I’d have to go with meat.  I don’t mean poultry, now.  I mean red, rare, steak-ish kind of beef.  It’s unfortunate because I don’t get to see much of that kind of meat.

Typically, in adults, it’s masticated fish, chicken, or broccoli mixed with the stench of their five-cups-a-day Starbucks habit they really can’t afford.  Oh, yes, my silly patients.  I’m able to smell it all.

Yet, for reasons I still don’t understand, folks are cutting down on their cow intake nowadays because they believe ‘it’s bad for them’.

Live and let live but I’m the one that’s missing out.

That’s what I thought… so naïve.

I get down to business, ready to clean the living crap out of this particular patient’s bovine-ridden mouth.  I’m doing my usual thing– staring at all of this delightful, beef-in-between-the-teeth sight, slavering and sucking up my saliva like crazy so my mask wouldn’t get damp, and then I come across this particular fragment of beef.

It’s a goddamn nightmare.

It’s like the John Boehner of chewed-up steak: the most stubborn, elitist, piece of plutocrat animal flesh I’ve ever dealt with.  I couldn’t get the cow out!  It was wedged so well between my patient’s upper left molars that I found myself sweating, cursing under my breath and not getting off on my saliva anymore.

It was right there; there within my grasp to be picked out, gazed at, and ready to take the biggest, fucking whiff of…. and I couldn’t get it out.

I was pissed.

After working the area for over thirty minutes or something, I gave up.  I put down the blood-soaked dental scaler (this patient doesn’t floss) and kept thinking how very disappointed I was with myself as a clinician.

All I wanted to do was get it out and smell it… dumbass, meat.

by Adam Rabasca

“It’s not working, Doc.” Dick could bully anybody with his glare, especially while in office, but not Dr. Grossman. “I’m craving knishes, corned beef.”

“Oh, don’t eat that,” urged the doctor. “Awful for your heart. Besides, the transplant was to start over. Eat better, live better…right?”

“Cut the crap, doc. Something’s wrong. Heart feels…foreign.” Dick always wanted America American, particularly since serving under George. “This heart’s spoiled. I’m feeling…shame…for decisions I…we…made. Never been ashamed in my life. I’m remembering that hunting accident…feels like guilt.” His eyebrows lifted. “I should’ve called my mother more often.”

Dr. Grossman wondered whether Dick’s politicking had become too much.

“Something’s different.”

“Yes, Dick, something is different. You have a new heart. I imagine you’ll never feel the same ever again.”

***

Dick left dissatisfied. He didn’t mind Dr. Grossman’s Argentinian nationality -nor his Jewish refugee parentage. “Besides,” he thought, “Jews are good at this, even Argentinian Jews.”

Dick looked for his shadow. Upon leaving office, he was eager for surveillance to end, but ultimately hired a bodyguard. Liberals wanted revenge.

He instructed his driver to head to Eli’s. He wanted something kosher.

Amidst gawking patrons, he ordered a hot corned beef sandwich on challah and inexplicably began humming “Tradition.” He spent the rest of the evening ignoring interest groups, watching Fiddler on the Roof, and enjoying a complimentary loaf of challah. Before bed, he went to the bathroom and, upon peering into the mirror, anxiously sighed, “Oy, vey.”

***

Dr. Grossman’s shoulders dropped upon seeing Dick’s shadow. “It’s a Jewish heart, Doc. I ate corned beef yesterday. And challah!”

“How often have I told you?” Dr. Grossman hung his coat on a mahogany rack, Ronald’s gift for removing polyps in 1986. “Eat better, live better. No corned beef!”

“Enough with the sandwich! It’s a Jew heart!”

Dr. Grossman returned Dick’s glare. “Have you forgotten yourself?  Have you forgotten me?”

Dick paused. His political beliefs on immigration, on Jews, never interfered with their relationship. Dr. Grossman just added another ten years to Dick’s life.

“Doc, I’m sorry…but this heart’s killing me.”

Something in Dick’s plea -perhaps that Dick ate challah- convinced Dr. Grossman. The scans revealed that as strongly as Dick’s new heart rebounded the day before, its overnight decline was as equally fervent -and rapidly worsening. Dick slipped back atop the transplant list.

Meanwhile, Passover approached. Dick and his shadow returned daily to Eli’s, researched Seder preparation on Wikipedia, and investigated temples for Shabbos. He and his wife discussed vacationing abroad, perhaps the Mediterranean. Lynne fainted when he suggested purchasing real estate in Israel.

Seven pounds of Dick’s body disappeared. He was wheezing, and, he was convinced, his nose elongated. Surgery could not come soon enough.

On the morning before Passover, the Seder already arranged, Dr. Grossman called.

***

After the transplant, Dick felt better than he had in years. The urges for corned beef sandwiches and challah vanished. He cancelled Seder, planned a visit to the Hill, and called George for a future lunch date. It wouldn’t be kosher.

***

“It’s not working, Doc.”  Dick tucked his chin low. “Never craved falafel. Never heard of tahini. Now, I can’t eat enough. The heart’s…Pakistani. They’ll say I’m Muslim. They’ll put me on the ‘no-fly’ list.”

Dr. Grossman felt nauseous. His eyes drilled into a teak paperweight, George’s gift for a colonoscopy in 2002. Dick relished those two hours he was in power. He could have blocked immigration entirely or bombed the hell out of Iran. His health made him unelectable, though. Besides, he ran things better from within.

by Jordan Rubio

Hello, my name is Mark Malcovich and I am writing this testimonial as a warning to anyone who is interested in experimenting with the drug “Life”. Now let me just say, I never intended on getting hooked on the stuff. It was just something fun to do with my buddies in college; it was supposed to help me unwind after class. It was simple at first you know, playing Frisbee on the lawn or just taking a bike ride around campus. That was all we needed to get a good buzz going. It started with just us doing it once every few weeks, but then it turned into every few days, then just about everyday of the week. (I developed a serious case of arthritis from playing Frisbee so much and now have to masturbate with the help of a machine.) But eventually, even that wasn’t good enough anymore. “This is boring” we would all say in unison while riding our tandem bike. That is when we started getting into the hard stuff.

We were into everything and anything, you name it: Hiking, Friendly Debates, Morning Jogs, and Chess. We were high so often, I started ditching class just so I could go learn cartography in the back of my buddies van. I was a mess. And I hadn’t even hit rock bottom yet.

Despite my absences I still managed to graduate and marry my then girlfriend Tonya. It was a rash decision we both made since we were madly in love and it was during our impromptu trip to Vegas so, needless to say, that had us smacked for a good while. And when I started living with Tonya, things just started getting worse. We supported each other’s addictions. She would take me to a rare Turkish spa and I would show her a part of the woods where a family of wolves lived. We just stopped caring. We made love so much while we were high that I couldn’t even get it up anymore unless I was bungee jumping.

And things only continued to get worse. I started base-jumping every other day until it got to the point where even Tonya didn’t want to be around me. She decided to quit Life and try to get me to quit with her. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t do it. She left me and I began to spiral farther. I started spelunking heavily and had to resort to street performance to feed my addiction. That is until one day, I couldn’t afford to even go on a bike ride and I just ended up sitting under a bridge trying to learn French.

I stayed under that bridge for two weeks until social workers found me and cleaned me up. I was able to detox and I have been attending support groups ever since. I have been sober 3 years now and I can’t remember ever being happier. I don’t even think about leaving my room for excitement anymore. And I am happy. But it wasn’t easy getting to this point. And I would change it all if I could go back. So please, heed my warning whoever you are and don’t do it. It isn’t worth it at all trust me. Just do heroin instead.

“Instructional Pamphlet for the Reluctant Homeowner”

by Jessica Wheeler

Until recently, were you under the impression that a Home Depot was a place Midwesterners went to sign up for housing? Are you more interested in painting your nails than your walls? Does the idea of a store full of containers perplex you? Would you rather take midday NyQuil than think about window coverings? Do any of the following phrases sound familiar? “Why do people buy houses?” “What have I gotten myself in to?” “I can’t believe I let my husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/parents tell me this was a good idea.” “I just want a loft and a full time cleaning service.” “I hate tables.”

I thought so. As a new homeowner, you will face a barrage of problems, most of which will be entirely new and utterly terrifying to you. For example, your initial enthusiasm about having a non-coin-operated washer and dryer might be mitigated when you discover that every time you do a load of laundry, gallons of water leak all over your garage. (Beware; the cause of this problem is often a rodent.) After successfully finding a mattress delivery service and throwing out your back operating a mattress protector, you could lie down, look up, and discover that the light fixture in the guest bedroom is hideous and nightmare inducing. Perhaps the clothes closet that seemed “big enough” when you were house hunting is frightening now that it’s filled with fluorescent lights, dust bunnies, and bins of your old sweatshirts. Maybe the “chic” bamboo floors are cold and creaky in the morning and you’ve discovered that all the rugs you like on the Internet are more expensive than one of your brand new mortgage payments. Maybe you feel like a failure because, while you’re wondering if it’s too early for a nap, your mom-friends on Facebook have cleaned their houses and “prepped dinner” before noon and the hipsters have already refinished their antique dressers and planted heirloom tomatoes.

Clearly, you’re in over your head. Don’t despair. Although I am unable to sell your new home for you at a profit and secure you a suite at the Four Seasons while a crew of volunteer firemen steam and pack your sweaters, throw away your mismatched furniture, and fill your car with supplies for a road trip to a land without hoses or cabinet fumes, I can offer you a few tips. First, the preliminary measures: Take a sedative; wash your face; if necessary, find and wear your corrective lenses; put on very loud music so that you can pretend you have really talented company over to help you – company who loves it when you sing along. Facing a home in which you are uninterested is very much like facing your family at Thanksgiving. You need to be comfortable yet functional - calm and a little intoxicated, but alert enough to find solutions to inevitable confounding situations. You may need to change outfits a few times – from pajamas to “real clothes” and back, perhaps. Try sit-ups or pilates in each outfit to make sure you can experience a full range of motion. Once you’ve taken the edge off with pharmaceuticals, can see clearly, and feel fresh-faced and properly outfitted, it’s time for the next step.

Make a list of all the things you would like to accomplish this afternoon. You will probably want to cry, drink, or go back to bed when you read over your list. Take a deep breath, close your eyes and count to ten, and shove the list into the back of a drawer. You don’t need it anyway. Those formidable tasks have seared themselves into the walls of your mind, along with the image of that hideous light fixture. And because you are tired of waking up each morning with puffy eyes, tell yourself that, just for today, crying and going back to bed are not valid options. That leaves drinking.

Take quick look around the room to see if there’s anything you can accomplish before heading to the kitchen. When you start to get angry – inescapable once your eyes rest on the piles of books that would be so easy to put on shelves (if only you had some) and you begin to resent your husband/wife/girlfriend/boyfriend/parents for putting you in a situation that requires sacrificing artisan cheese and upgrades to business class for furniture – close your eyes again and count to ten. Imagine a world without HOA fees.

Sigh. Then collect any empty glasses and cereal bowls, deposit them in the sink, and make yourself a cocktail. You’ve earned it.

by Jack Bristow

I won’t lie to you, Mister—every night, after my beloved wife Ruth falls asleep I rush off into the bathroom and pleasure myself. But first, I have to haul ass into the library, and gather all the nudie books stashed neatly away underneath the dust-covered Encyclopedia Britannica. Then, I rush off into the living room and snatch a few cinnamon scented candles from off the coffee table; I carry the candles with me into the bathroom, along with the nudie book. The hand lotion I don’t even have to worry about—because it’s already underneath the kitchen sink. During the time I go to work on myself, I flip through the pages. Well, I will not go into intimate details Mister because I am, after all, a gentleman. I will say, however, that this has been the normal routine for me, the past twenty years of my marriage. No, scratch that. Not just a routine, a scared ritual of sorts. My wife is getting up there—in her mid-seventies—and so am I, for that matter.  Well, after I’ve finished my little… ritual I will automatically check the bottom of the floor and carpeting for any mess. It’s a husband’s worst nightmare to have his wife walk into the bathroom late at late and step in his jolly juice, ha, ha, ha. Anyway, I’ll immediately turn the Walkman off—no more Barry White!—and hobble back into the bedroom, beside Ruth, in the bed. Sometimes, eye-protectants over her head so she can’t see, she’ll mumble, “Is that you, Arthur? Where did you go, huh? You’ve been gone a mighty long time. I was just about to take these googles off and go looking for you,” just as I slither my way into bed. “Nothing, sweetheart,” I’ll reply. “I thought I heard a prowler outside. Go back to bed.”

And off to bed I can go now too, finally! That I’m no longer backed up, and my mind is so clear. Now, things aren’t so bad. And usually, in spite of Ruth’s snoring, I am able to slip off into a nice dream-state as soon as you can say jumping Judas Iscariot. Off away into dream land now—I am in an entire different reality, an entirely different house, with much richer furnishings. A two-thousand dollar leather sofa, off in the corner of the living room, a matching couch on the other side, near the fireplace. Atop the hearth of the fireplace is a silver-platter, on which there are two glasses of sparkling champagne, a brand I have undoubtedly never had before in my life, but dreamed of having, ever since reading all those fancy Jane Austen novels. Anyway, now, I grabbed a glass of champagne from off the platter and walked leisurely back over toward the leather couch, and plopped myself down. Suddenly, romantic jazz escaped the speakers from the CD player near the kitchen. And in walked this silhouetted form, dressed in what appeared to be a fluffy pink romantic nightgown. As it neared I made out who and what it was! My lover—the only thing I had ever loved sexually, after Ruth had gotten old. My hand!

“Hello there, sailor,” the hand had said seductively. “I see you are enjoying the champagne. Mind if I join you?”

“Why not,” I said coyly, as I took another small sip from the glass. I just sat there, the stoic businessperson, the-until-tonight-monogamous husband, who had not all the way given into temptation yet but who damn well would soon, if the other party knew which right words to say. Hannah, my palm, watched as I sat there uncomfortably and then she cut to the chase.

“Arthur,” Hannah said, “I want you to leave Ruth.”

“Leave Ruth,” I damn near spit the expensive champagne out all over Hannah’s opulent gown. “Why?”

“Because,” Hannah said, “You don’t love her anymore. You know it. She is nothing to you anymore. She does nothing for you. You do nothing for her. You’d be better off away from each other.”

“Go on,” I said, finishing off the rest of the champagne.

“You have had no children together. You two don’t get along. You are always constantly bickering. And you have to sneak out every night just to make love to me. Listen to me, Arthur. You are seventy-five years old. Just how many years do you suppose you have left? You are not immortal, you know. You are an ordinary man. But I am in love with you, madly, hopelessly, desperately in love with you. You know that, don’t you? Good. So, what I want you to do is, when you wake up,” Hannah continued, “I want for you to tell your wife you want a divorce, and that you intend to spend the rest of your life with me. You understand that, Arthur?”

“Gee, Hannah,” I said, shifting uncomfortably on the couch, “I’m not so sure about that.”

Hannah grabbed me with her entire fist, and it felt so very swell, splendid. How could I say no? My best years were now over. I no longer loved Ruth, unfortunately. And Ruth, unfortunately, no longer loved me, either. What Hannah was telling me was the truth, by gum! Before I knew it, I was wide awake again but, it was not yet daytime, only night. I felt around in the bed for Ruth and would you believe it I could not find her. Darn, I thought to myself, getting up out of the bed and running toward the bathroom. What happened to Ruth? It was unlike her to get up and go to the bathroom this late at night. She never did. I ran out of the bedroom and through the corridors, hoping against hope that her blood pressure didn’t raise again and that I’d become a widow. Hell, I loved Ruth, but I loved Hannah more. I prayed and prayed that Ruth would be all right. My poor, precious Ruth! I ran through the corridors and as I neared the bathroom door I knocked. No answer, and the bugger was locked, too. So I ripped the door off its flimsy hinges and would you believe it, there was my wife Ruth inside, sitting on the closed toilet seat, in a rather indecent pose…

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” I said to Ruth, aghast, horror-stricken, and incalculably traumatized.

Ruth looked up at me—ruthlessly, vindictively. And then she thrust her hand up into the air. “Arthur, I don’t believe I’ve properly introduced you to my new friend yet. Arthur, meet Scratchy. Scratchy, this is my beloved husband, Arthur.” There was uncomfortable silence for a second or two, but dear God, it had felt like a lifetime. Ruth finally broke the awkwardness by speaking again. “Arthur, Scratchy and I have been talking, and I think it’s time you and I had a serious talk.”

by Daniel DiPrinzio

“I can’t believe I listened to you,” Jenny says. “Why did I listen? It’s my own fault, I guess. And yours, of course. Yours more than mine.”

Zambone says nothing. Nobody is angrier than he. He’s still in a bit of shock. He can’t believe the murder-suicide didn’t work. When everyone had made a martyr out of the rancher killed by illegal Mexican immigrants, he figured a husband and wife slaying would get rid of all the illegal Mexican immigrants. And when they’d tie in the fact that he was out of work, replaced by some illegal Mexican immigrant who was working for half the wages, Mark “Zambone” Edwards would go down in history.

Jenny takes a drag of her cigarette, but it doesn’t get any smaller. She’d been smoking it for more than two hours.

This place looks familiar, even though Zambone knows he’s never been here. It’s sandy and hot, a scenery of rocks and mesas. He thinks he sees in the shimmering distance an outline of toll booths.

They are among many others who look and sound like illegal Mexican immigrants.

“Now what says the great martyr?” Jenny asks.

A boy of around 12—who, to Zambone, will no doubt grow up to be an illegal Mexican immigrant—pedals by on a bicycle, tossing newspapers. One lands at Zambone’s feet. The headline shouts at him:

Mexican Immigrant Framed for Murder-Suicide Seen as Hero
Framing reminiscent of Sacco and Vanzetti; helps further naturalization cause

Zambone picks it up, sees a picture of his old rancher, his 1979 Dodge Charger on the front lawn. Someone has sloppily spray-painted the Mexican flag on it. Enraged, he flings down the paper.

“Any interesting stories?” Jenny asks sarcastically.

Zambone looks around, tries to gather his bearings.

To his left is an urban setting, long sloped rooftops of varying tans and browns, Mexican women in flower-print wraps and kerchiefs washing clothes in washbuckets. Tricked-out jalopies drive by, blasting samba music.

To the right are fast food restaurants selling burritos, tacos, chimichangas, and other Mexican grub. He turns around; standing in the middle of the road, staring at Zambone like a gunslinger, is Speedy Gonzalez.

Zambone is angry, scared, frustrated, confused, aggressive, impotent, and a few other things he can’t put his finger on.

The two walk for what seems like a long time, though neither gets tired, hungry, thirsty, or hot. When Zambone squints and stands on his tip-tops, shielding his eyes from the sun, he swears he can see Tucson. When they finally reach the toll booth, a sign greets them:

Proof of citizenship necessary to cross border

Zambone reaches into his pocket, and realizes with dread that he doesn’t have his wallet.

“Proof of citizenship,” says the Mexican toll man.

“Uh, this is embarrassing, but I don’t have my wallet,” Zambone starts. “I wouldn’t be surprised if someone around here stole it.”

“I need proof of citizenship, Senor.”

“First off, my name is not Senor,” Zambone says. “It’s Mark Edwards. But everybody calls me Zambone.”

“Edwards, Edwards,” the illegal Mexican immigrant says. “Why do I know that name? Oh, right—you’re the guy who killed yourself and your wife, and tried to make it look like a murder-suicide to garner sympathy for the anti-immigration sentiment in Arizona. Guess it didn’t quite go as planned, huh?”

“How do you know all that?”

“Oh, these things have a way of getting around,” says the toll taker. “I also know why you were fired from your job.”

“Yeah, because it was cheaper for them to pay some illegal Mexican immigrant to drive the truck.”

“You were caught driving drunk three times.”

“First off, I wasn’t that drunk,” says Zambone. “B, there were never that many highway patrolmen out before all of the illegal Mexican immigrants came.”

People in line begin to yell. “Vaminos! Ondelay, ondelay!”

“I need proof of citizenship, Senor, or I’ll have to remove you from line.”

“So what are you saying?” Zambone asks, fear now pulling ahead in the race for primary emotion. “That I’m stuck here? And just where is here, anyway. Is it ….”

“Is it what?” asks the toll taker.

“You know … hell?” Zambone whispers the last word.

The toll taker laughs. “No, Senor, this is not hell. In fact, I find this place to be pretty pleasant. But I’m sure you are feeling the opposite, huh?”

“I mean, over there, just on the other side of this border, that’s where we should be,” Zambone says. “Can’t you just let us pass? You can tell I’m not a bad guy. I’ve never harmed anyone—besides, you know, the whole murder-suicide thing. Which I now realize wasn’t the greatest idea. What do you say, pal?”

“I can’t let anyone cross the border without proof of citizenship, Senor,” the toll taker says. “It is not up to me; only the president of the A.I.N.S. can make executive decisions for those without proof of citizenship.”

“A.I.N.S.?” Zambone asks.

“Afterlife Immigration Naturalization Services. Big Papi, and I don’t mean David Ortiz. He forgives a whole lot, but I’ve heard that suicide is something he doesn’t take lightly. If I were you, Senor, I’d try to make some friends, maybe find a job, and try your best to fit in. Because there’s no telling how long you’ll be here.”

The line behind gets even more restless.

“Please, Senor, step aside,” the toll taker says. “There are many people waiting to cross the border.”

Defeated, humiliated, embarrassed, and ashamed, Zambone slinks from the toll booth. He forgets all about Jenny until she speaks.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” she says.

 by Joseph Kirkham

The women stood in the circle, chanting and roaring with their fat fists raised in the air.  Their pudgy feet stomped against the wet grass in an eerie composition, crammed in thick wool socks, reaching just below their rough-surfaced knee caps. Like unpleasant smelling meat wrapped in sweaty plastic wrap, their feet that sat in thick wool socks were pinched in black leather shoes.  The frayed and dancing shoelaces bounced against their ankles, collecting bits of congealed dirt and horse maneuver that found a home across the bottom of their daisy dresses.  Their bloated yelps bled across the night sky, causing even the moon to hide in shame at such a gross display of large bouncing women.

Two more woman stood in the middle of the circle.  Each one had on a pair of red padded gloves cinched at the wrist.  They stood motionless in the mud, each one waiting to take the first swing.

“C’mon Georgalo, don’t be shy now.”  Georgalo wore a white, sleeveless shirt.  She had black curly hair that resembled a bird’s feeble attempt at a nest that sat ear level.  She had bruised elbows.  Large women always had random bruises.  Her arms looked like two pasty beached whales that had no hopes of revival.  Her sister fashioned her a makeshift shawl from stained bedcovers with two fabric straps that hung loosely around her shoulders, reaching midway between her thighs and clumped knees.  Her bellybutton had sucked in much of the fabric from the cold sweat that clung to her body.  Her white socks encompassed much of her lower leg, like a hideous looking sock puppet that put more fear than joy into a child’s eyes.

“Who you callin’ shy, Anastasia?” said Georgalo.

“I’m sayin‘ shy to ya cause you don’t dare take the first swing.”

Georgalo stepped forward and took the first swing.  Anastasia didn’t expect such concentrated fury as a padded glove flew towards her face.  Beneath the glove Anastasia saw Georgalo’s squinting eyes with tightened lips.  She was swinging blindly.  Anastasia was able to lift her face before her thick and pasty skin absorbed the moving glove.  Like a chef violently beating pizza dough for hungry spectators, Georgalo’s glove landed squarely underneath Anastasia’s chin, causing a ripple effect that traveled to her upper lip.  Her upper lip bounced against her yellow teeth, while bits of saliva mixed with rolling sweat flew off her face.  The crowd of gawking women exploded in a ravenous fury.  Some held up pieces of paper in the air with names scribbled, while others threw coins and moist crumpled dollar bills in the center of the circle.

“You done got my face, Georgalo.  My auntie’s not gonna be happy, why she spent thi‘ whole mornin‘ applyin‘ makeup on this here face of mine.”

“I think I done made it that much prettier,” replied Georgalo.  “Why, your auntie has no sense in puttin‘ those chemicals on your face, she done made you lookin‘ uglier than before.”

Anastasia’s auntie lurched forward from the crowd and grabbed Georgalo’s hair from behind, pulling it towards the wet grass.  Georgalo began to swing her arms, like two demented windmills.  Like an overweight domino piece, she fell flat on her back.

“How dare you harass my Anastasia, you hog!”  Georgalo looked up and saw the woman who had just pulled her down.  She had on thick, smeared red lipstick, with blotches of it spread across her corn shaped teeth.  She had clumpy black eyeliner that coursed down her round pancake face and infected holes that filled her cauliflower ears.  Her sweaty bushy sideburns connected to her thinning hair which stood wildly on top her large and bulbous head.

“Now, now, Auntie.  This isn’t your fight.  You stay out of this, you hear?”  A large man with thinning hair, black pants with rolled up cuffs, black socks, and faded leather shoes stepped into the center and gently pushed Anastasia away from the fallen Georgalo.  His name was Trawson Wellerbie, and being the only male present, made sure that no real harm came upon the women.

“Words can’t harm anyone, but you pullin’ her hair down can, now can it?” said Trawson.

“Can, can, all you can say is can, can’t you?” smirked Anastasia’s hot-tempered auntie.

“Enough!” Yelled Anastasia.  “Auntie, you stay out of this.  This here’s my fight.”

Georgalo had managed to prop herself to her feet.  Her knees were smeared with grass stain and her sticky shirt was bunched in the fat roles above her belly.  The back of her neck looked like a squinting hippo that had emerged itself in a swamp.

“You all right there, Georgalo?” asked Anastasia.  The out of breath Georgalo was busy pulling out her shirt from her fat creases when she glanced up and nodded yes.

“I didn’t expect ya to hit me all in the face like that,” said Anastasia.  “Why do ya got to be like that and hit me in the face before I was ready, huh?”

“What do you expect me to do when you talkin’ all, ‘don’t be shy now,’ Georgalo?  Cause that’s what you said to me.”

“Enough talking from the both of you,” said Trawson.  “Anastasia, It’s your hit.”

Anastasia began to pace back and forth.  She had a smug bull dog look on her face.  She made sure not to break eye contact with Georgalo as she pressed her foot in the soft soil.  Each woman was allowed one hit each.  Those were the rules.  Never had there been a winner in the sport of fat women boxing.  Never was there going to be a winner.  After one hit each woman was so exhausted that the end result was them lying unconscious in the grass below, while villagers and children attempted to revive them by waving fans over their blowfish faces.

Anastasia began to growl, swinging her fists like a creature of the jungle looking to mate, attempting to show its dominance over the creature that it so desired.  Georgalo showed no fear but stood proud, like someone posing for a painting, occasionally re-situating the loose strap of her dress as it tiptoed its way down her shoulder.

The crowd knew that when Anastasia took one step forward she would attempt her one and feeble punch.  The timing of her step that resulted in the swinging of her arm towards Georgalo’s face had to be in perfect sync.  If her rhythm was off she would fall face down in the mud like an intoxicated pig.

Anastasia never did take that first step.

Georgalo charged her like a bull ready to gore.  Anastasia felt the rushing force in her gut as she looked down and saw Georgalo’s lopsided head being swallowed up in her stomach.  Anastasia flew backwards, falling into several people.  They attempted to catch her with their arms but the weight was too unbearable.  Several people fell backwards causing a ripple effect that distributed to several of the front row bystanders.  Georgalo caught her own balance and managed to stay on her feet.  The rest of the crowd was in a communal shock.  Never had someone taken two swings in a single match.  Even Auntie dared not approach Georgalo.

A legend was born.

Everybody in the crowd stood with wide eyes and open mouths.  And then a cheer erupted.  The crowd raised their arms in the air and began to shout Georgalo’s name.  Auntie pushed her way through the taunting arms and made her way towards the fallen Anastasia.

“She’s much too big to lift by myself.  Somebody help me, please!”  Anastasia attempted to turn to her side, kicking her legs in the air.

“Don’t worry, momma.  Auntie’s here to help you.  Auntie dug her heels in the ground and shoved her hands in Anastasia’s side.  Her arms were swallowed in Anastasia’s stomach as her legs soon gave out, causing her to fall to her knees.  Now she was stuck.

Her voice was muffled by the song of stomping feet and clapping hands.

“I guess we have a winner,” said Trawson.

“Let’s lift her on our shoulders!” somebody cried from the crowd.  They surrounded Georgalo and began to raise her in the air.  Several bent down and wrapped their arms around her knees.  Others placed their hands in her lower back.  But her weight was too much.  They raised her up onto their shoulders, only to drop her, crushing both Anastasia and Auntie.

Legend quickly turned into tragedy as the fallen Georgalo now sat on top of a crushed Anastasia and Auntie.

The excitement died, and the ones who dropped Georgia, including everybody who had witnessed the great fall, fled, in fear of being blamed for dropping Georgalo.  She was up to her waist in solid earth.  She was able to turn her neck and swing her arms.  She yelped for sometime, but her voice soon gave out, knowing that she would be stuck, like some fresh tree rooted in the ground.  Maybe leaves would sprout along her arms.  She shuttered at the thought that Anastasia and Auntie were directly underneath her.  She felt their warm bodies pressed against her legs.

The sun eventually dipped below the mountains, and the villagers lit their kerosene lamps in their houses.  Georgalo still hadn’t moved.  She heard the rustling of leaves coming from the direction of the village.  Several children were walking towards her.  One had a small fan.  Another had a vase of water.  The other had a plate of bread with butter.  They approached her and sat down.

“We brought you some water and bread.”  Georgalo grabbed the warm bread with her bare hand and dipped it in the butter.  She grabbed the vase of water with her left hand and drank it in its entirety.

“Thank you, children.  Why have you all come to see me?”

“We heard that you won the boxing match.”  The little girl began to fan Georgalo.

“We heard that you punched her twice!  I wish I could have been there.”

“Can you tell us how you won?”

“How I won?” replied Georgalo.

“Yes, we want to hear it from you.”

And so Georgalo told the tale of how she won the boxing match.  The children sat and intently listened.  To the children, Georgalo was something of a legend.  The children didn’t know that she crushed Anastasia and Auntie.  Nor did they know that their parents, the adults, dropped her.  This didn’t matter to Georgalo.  She liked the version of the story where she was the hero, where she was the legend.  Every night the little ones visited her, bringing bread and water.  And every night she told them the same story, of how she won the first and last boxing match.