Face Value

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artwork by @jameswyngaarden

a short story by Jerry Zinn

The ache in every joint, the slow response of limbs to their calls for action, a stiffness generally reserved for raw materials, all delivered to Norman Warren an unequivocal message: he needed the day off. On a business trip, he woke up in a generously sized hotel room much larger than the space he required. It was on the company’s dime, so he didn’t feel it was money wasted, at least not his money. As for comfort, the expense proved unnecessary, for comfort was as hard to find amongst the “well-designed” furniture as Norman’s glasses, hidden somewhere in the recesses.

He was a lead guitarist on a drug-fueled fit while he tore the room apart. Then it donned on him. Like watching a brief headline span across the television screen, it was announced that Norman had locked his glasses in the safe. It was a foolish decision, that much was evident. He needed his glasses to get his glasses. In his state, the irony was too irresistible to not grant hearty laugh.

With a few clicks the combination safe opened, the same code as always. Norman never gave it any thought, but if he were ever asked how that year became chiseled so deeply on the tablet in his mind, he would reply with a shrug. There were many things he struggled to explain, but fortunately for his sanity, he was never one to get hung up.

Having retrieved his glasses, their horn-rimmed frames set squarely on the bridge of his nose, allowing access to a clearer picture of the world, Norman set about fixing the wreckage he’d caused. He was a details man, some would say eccentric in his deliberate nature. He dressed, smartly as was his habit. Rarely seen without a suit, well tailored, tapered, and lint-free, colleagues and friends frequently remarked on Norman Warren’s well kept style, before even commenting on his character or disposition.

Even on a day of rest from his profession, sartorial resplendence did not suffer. It had been some years since he was last in Chicago, colder times in younger days, but he scanned through his list of remembrances, probing for favorite activities to relive.

The rest was all-encompassing, any thought of business wholly and truly forgotten. If a passerby asked at that juncture to list the primary responsibilities of his office, he could hardly have produced a one. But Norman’s memory was not without water. He remembered a diner he used to frequent downtown, and the smell of its pancakes resurfaced in the cabinet de curiosité with the aromatic fortitude of a fresh stack beneath his nose.

Along the sidewalk the brisk winds whipped around impressive feats of architecture. There was a supreme contentment in the air like a private weather system. Norman danced along the cracks, a checkerboard of light under the guidance of a harshly angled morning sun. Little attention was paid to the many faces gazing upon him. And while it did not trouble him in the least, he noticed a few men in dark attire seeming to follow. Those characters he dismissed as figments of his elaborate imagination.

“A stack of plain pancakes, please,” Norman declared to the waitress who’d shown him to a vinyl booth, adding, “with just a dollop of butter on the top, and a container filled generously with maple syrup.”

She nodded with a smile, clamping the menu under her arm as she made notations in a dilapidated notebook.

“Any bacon or sausage?”

“No, no. I wouldn’t dream of it. Nothing to alter the experience of these wonderful pancakes! Things haven’t much changed since I was here last. Not too many places can say that. I’m not as young as I once was, of course. Sure the chef’s different now. Joe I think his name was. He was old when I was young. Now that I’m old, I suppose there’s another Joe,” Norman replied with an enthusiasm rarely in such abundance at that hour in that place.


“Indeed. If my sometimes faulty memory serves me, the coffee here is likewise worthy of unaltered consumption.”

Her confusion was legible. “Black, got it,” she answered with a laugh, sifted out the important elements of the superfluous reply.

Norman folded his arms and looked around the diner with great satisfaction. It was just as it had been those many years before, when responsibilities were minimal and attitudes could only be described as carefree. Norman was blissfully unaware of any changes undertaken since his last visit. Even the table possessed the same sticky spots identified decades before, elementary to its function. He glanced at the face of his watch out of reflex, but restrained his attention. It was not a day to worry about passing minutes or hours, and decidedly not one on which to be concerned with ticking seconds.

His pancakes arrived with the full-fledged scent he’d earlier recalled so vibrantly, though now they were real. Using careful swipes of the knife, Norman spread the butter. Precisely he laced a pattern of syrup that soaked into the pores of the hot, fresh stack. The pillowy texture and sweet, salty taste delivered to him the exact pleasure he desired since waking up. Bites he paired with sips of coffee, replenished at irregular intervals by floating hands in his periphery. Nothing distracted from the enjoyment of the monumental breakfast.

As Norman neared the end of the meal, a refill of his coffee came with the handwritten bill, a scribbled amount in faded pencil on a carbon copy. He reached into his wallet and pulled out the last remaining bill, heavy enough to cover the expense plus a generous difference to those who’d taken care of him. “I need to go to the bank,” he thought aloud. He tore open a wet wipe from the dispenser and sanded away the sticky residue from his fingers. Then he dusted off crumbs from his peaked lapels.

A few of the men from before were sitting at the window table, trying to be invisible. The other patrons, those not dressed in black, watched him too as though they expected a performance on his way out.

“Hey Norman!” a kid called out from nowhere. “Can I take a picture with you?”

Not wanting to appear as though he didn’t understand the intricacies of the generation, Norman obliged with a smile and a twinkle of an eye. How strange, he thought, what will these teenagers come up with next?

Norman noticed a branch of his bank two blocks down the street. His phone had a seizure in his breast pocket. It was the kind of arrhythmic nonsense that indicated a return to service after a period absent a signal. Best to be ignored, something for later, Norman supposed.

“Mr. Warren, good morning,” the spick and spam manager said with outstretched arm.

Norman was more than a little caught off guard at the warm welcome. The manager’s face was unfamiliar.

“It is a good morning,” Norman replied.

He approached the teller, who smiled with her bright white teeth in full display. For a moment he debated whether or not to complement on the perfect arrangement of her ivories, but thought the better of it. “You have a beautiful smile,” he went with instead, judging it a more acceptable compliment.

“Thank you, Mr. Warren,” she replied. “What can we do for you this morning?”

“I’d like to make a withdrawal. Here is my card and my identification.”

The teller picked up his debit card but slid the ID back. “That won’t be necessary. I only need this.”

So much for security measures, Norman thought.

“And how much would you like to take out this morning, Mr. Warren?”

“How does $160 sound?”

“Wonderful. And I’m guessing you’d like that in twenties?” she answered with a chuckle.

“That would be… fine. It doesn’t matter to me particularly.”

“I just thought you might prefer twenties, because, well, you know.”

“Beg your pardon? I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Here you are Mr. Warren,” the teller responded as if she hadn’t heard the comment, as though he’d said internally.

Norman retrieved the stack of bills. “Thank y—“ he started to say, but his attention was arrested. He examined the money, given to him in an exclusive denomination. Cold swelled like a frozen wave on the shores of a Scandinavian island. The gaiety of his earlier manner shattered into jagged shards. Staring back at him on each of the crisp bills, a green and black slide in two dimensions, was the unmistakable visage of Norman Warren.

End of the Year

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artwork by @jameswyngaarden

a short story by Jerry Zinn

“You’re afraid of water? How is that even possible? You mean you never like take a shower?” Maddox joked to the amusement of the boys huddled around.

“I told you, I’m not afraid of water; I just can’t go near chlorine,” David answered defensively with cheeks reddening.

“Sounds like you’re just scared to take your shirt off in front of the girls,” Andrew added.

“Maddox, Andrew, leave David alone,” warned Victoria.

“Oh, David looks like you have a bodyguard, and it’s a girl!” Maddox said, getting a rise  out of the audience once more.

“David, don’t listen to him. He’s just being a jerk.” Victoria added before returning to the girls clumped on the other side of the pool. Keeping with long-standing tradition, as the kids trickled in, dropped off by lucky parents to leave under the attention of the unlucky ones, the boys and girls self divided. Bridging the gap between the two gender-specific camps were the plastic tables covered in a hodgepodge of nachos, cookies, pretzels, sodas, and an optimistic bowl of salad. A large yellow cake sat in the center, prepared and decorated by the local grocery store in blue Crisco frosting which read, “Congratulations to the 3rd Grade Class of 2010!”

Though neither the parents nor the children believed that completing the 3rd grade was a monumental accomplishment, it was proper procedure to hold an end of the year pool party. It suited both the children and their parents. On the one hand, the boys looked forward to showing off what a week of push-ups could do to their physiques, and the girls enjoyed wearing new swimsuits and beating the boys at virtually every game. On the other hand, the parents who stayed could gripe about the struggles with teachers and administration from that year, and the parents who left could enjoy time without their kids. The adults watched the group of forty or so by delegating control to the lifeguards, grabbing a few beers, and eating the children’s snacks.

Each year there was one boy more eager than the rest who would tear off his shirt and cannonball into the pool, encouraging the others to join. Inevitably they would, moving in units of friend groups, until nearly everyone was splashing in the water like an excited gaggle of geese. As he was the previous summer, the year’s attention grabber was Eric Jackson, a slightly hefty, moppy-headed boy who was more goofball than cannonball as he jumped into the water.

“Let’s go! Come on guys!” he said flailing his arms around. He spoke only to the boys, playing the game of tactful disregard for the other half of the grade. The actions of 3rd grade boys and girls were chess-like, only each side was blind to the moves of the other. As a result, laughably awkward moments were the rule of every day.

It took a quarter of an hour for the boys to make it into the pool, every boy except David, and Freddy, who didn’t have a problem with chlorine he was just more interested in talking about the recent actions of the Fed with George’s dad. A few outspoken girls threw themselves into the mix early on, but the rest laid out on lounge chairs to tan with indifference.

Victoria laid back with her mother’s sunglasses, too big for her face, but stylish, which made her confident. On either side of her were the class’s second and third most popular girls, collectively forming a power clique. While she did enjoy the attention that came with her position, Victoria was a kind person and wasn’t afraid to let her true colors shine. She turned her head out of the direct sunlight and saw David sitting by himself, watching his classmates engaged in every manner of boisterous nonsense.

“I’ll be back,” she said to her companions who continued to readjust uncomfortably in chairs engineered for adult-sized bodies.

“OK,” they responded in unison.

Victoria pried herself away, plastic strips clinging to her legs. David didn’t notice her traveling in his direction. He was lost in thought. It had not been an easy transition for David, coming to a new school where everyone else had been together since kindergarten. It was especially difficult to make that jump into 3rd grade, when hormones were starting to play games with young minds and bodies, and low self-confidence was often medicated with teasing and practical jokes.

“Hey David,” Victoria said.

David looked up to see her, and blood involuntarily shot back up into his cheeks.

“Oh, hey Victoria,” he responded unsteadily.

“Can I sit with you?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Victoria took a seat, and the two sat quietly. David searched for something clever to say, while Victoria waited for him to say it. Time passed slowly, and Victoria could sense his discomfort.

“So, have you ever been in a pool?” she asked, breaking the stalemate.

“Once, when I was a lot younger, but I don’t remember it. My mom says I’m allergic to chlorine. I’ve been in the ocean a lot though. I do like swimming.”

“That sucks. What are you going to do here?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t even want to come, but my mom had some work thing, and she said it was better if I went to this party than to her office.”

“My parents work a lot too, but it wasn’t as bad before they got divorced. Do you like it here?” she asked with the kind of abrupt transition unachievable in adulthood.

“It’s ok, but there isn’t a lot to do if you can’t get in the pool.”

“Oh no, I meant like here in town and at St. Andrew’s. Is it better than where you used to go?”

“Oh,” David said with a hint of embarrassment. “It’s fine. We move around a lot. It’s just my mom and I. It’s usually just easier if I don’t make friends.”

“That’s sad. Life is a lot better when you have friends to be with.”

“You’re lucky. Everyone likes you.”

“Well that’s true. The part about me being lucky. I don’t think everyone likes me. They just act like it. Sometimes I think being like you is better.”

“What? Why would you want to be like me?”

“Actually, to be honest that isn’t what I meant. It’s that I sort of, well, I like you David. You’re a good guy.” Now it was Victoria who blushed and turned her head toward the concrete deck. David smiled lopsidedly as her words sunk in. They both stayed that way, looking at the ground for a few seconds before Victoria gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

“Thanks,” David said and immediately questioned himself for doing so.

“You’re welcome,” Victoria answered with equal discomfort.

At the deep end of the pool, where the rest of their class was engaged in a heated game of sharks and minnows, Maddox looked up just in time to see Victoria and David’s poolside exchange. He’d been keeping an eye on Victoria since he arrived at the party, and for most of the year leading up to it. His strategy had been one of shock and awe, using every chance he got to show off and appear superior to the other boys. Maddox’s hope was that Victoria would come after him. His theory was based on the mid-century principle that the tough guy was never supposed to go after the girl. He had to make her come to him. But it hadn’t worked, and as he watched her with David that realization finally started to set in.

“Maddox, what are you doing? They’re all making it across!” Alex cried out.

Maddox ignored him and climbed up the ladder, being sure to flex his microscopic biceps as he pulled himself out. He made a decision, then and there, that if Victoria didn’t want to be with him, he didn’t want her to be with anyone. Hormones hit Maddox like a breakfast tidal wave, early and hard.

“Allergic to chlorine… ha!” Maddox mumbled as he neared David and Victoria, his body still dripping wet. “Get up!” he commanded.

“Maddox, leave-”

“No Victoria. I’m talking to your boyfriend. Come on, get up David! I want to race you to the other end of the pool.”

“I told you, Maddox; I can’t go in.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re allergic to chlorine. You know what I think? I think you just made that up. Who ever heard of someone that’s allergic to chlorine?”

“You know, bullying me isn’t going to get people to respect you,” David said matter-of-factly with unappreciated maturity.

“What do you know? You don’t have any friends!” Maddox barked back. By now the entire class was watching the exchange with great interest. Maddox could feel the spotlight on him, and he used the opportunity to seize David’s arm and pull him to his feet. “Alright, we’ll do this the hard way then!”

“Maddox, please stop,” David pleaded. “You’re going to regret this.”

But Maddox didn’t relent. He dragged David with him to the edge of the deep end.

“First one to the other side wins! Here I’ll give you a head start!” he said pushing David over the edge with a shove at his back. Maddox jumped in a split second after and started to swim toward the other end. He was so focused on winning that he didn’t pay attention to what was going on around him. By the time he got to the other wall and turned around, everyone else had cleared out. They were all huddled by the poolside in shock. Some of the kids even covered their faces, peeking through gaps in their fingers.

“Maddox, get out of the pool!” yelled a boy frantically. “Get out, hurry!” But Maddox was too caught up in his victory to understand what all the excitement was about. He just hung onto the side and looked confused as he scanned the pool for David. Maddox couldn’t find him anywhere, but something caught his eye a few yards away. There was a fin cutting through the water and moving fast in his direction. He didn’t have enough time to react, let alone get to safety.

“He turned into a shark!” someone screeched.

All Maddox could do was close his eyes and let out a shrill scream as he braced for impact. Every part of his body tensed up in anticipation, but nothing happened. Maddox listened but all he could hear was heavy laughter in surround sound, and he slowly peeled his eyes open to see David wading in the water with a plastic shark fin strapped to his head, grinning ear to ear.

“I guess I outgrew my chlorine allergy. Found this at the bottom of the pool,” David said pulling the fin off. “I didn’t know you were afraid of sharks. I also didn’t know you scream like a baby, but I guess everyone knows now. Bullies don’t win.”

Maddox was shaking with shame. He took a deep breath and dipped his head under, hoping that everyone would be gone by the time he resurfaced.


Final Stretch



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artwork by @jameswyngaarden

a short story by Jerry Zinn

Entering the last turn I was in fourth, my legs churning underneath me with confidence in their training. I didn’t bother to flash a glance to the side or behind; I knew no one in my wake had any crumb of a chance. My attention remained on the three to my fore. Recognizing the exertion in their movement, and seeing each of their breaths as labors painfully borne, I knew my best option was to hold steady.

Coming out of the bend, I waited in anticipation for the proper moment to strike. I sensed a growing weakness and a loss of pace in the one in third and pushed harder to overtake. With my eyes beaming forward, only two left to pass, the distance to the finish line teased out like salt-water taffy. My competition seemed to launch ahead impossibly. I found myself locked in a tunnel, all light fading around the track ahead. The thousands of faces watching with hopeful energy dissolved into the bitter, mounting darkness. Flashes of cameras formed constellations dotting the void.

The final stretch is always the hardest. Time slowed achingly. I felt my lungs swell, and my heart was a metronome keeping irregular time. Latching my awareness solely to those two life-giving processes, I reached deep and drew out my last reserve of strength. Fire jolted into my legs like a shot of adrenaline.

I approached from the outside, my opponents fighting each other desperately, nose-to-nose. Darting pupils registered my attack. The end lay ahead of us like the virgin sands of unmapped islands, inviting one among us to be the first to step ashore. Only two strides remained, and I propelled through them with every remaining iota of strength. I lunged my head forward, seeking that crucial extra millimeter to propel me to triumph. A flash of the bulb signaled the end of the contest.

As the brightness dissolved away, the slowness gave way to rapid progression, and the faces reappeared amid a hurricane of applause. The race was over with no clear result as I let up. Unease drew itself like a sheet over the stadium in anticipation.

“Whatever happens, you ran one helluva race,” fell softly on my ears, in company with a few strong pats on my back. A passing minute later, the photo appeared to a resurgence of screams. A victor had been declared. A taut blow of the horn introduced the announcement.

“What an incredible race!” called a voice emphatically. “The photo-finish showed that the winner of the 145th Rosewood Stakes, is… Churchgate!”

With the sound of my name I made my way confidently toward the stands, a stunning wreath of red roses held high, eagerly awaiting a chance to don my shoulders. As we approached the winner’s circle, my jockey bent forward and kissed my neck. It was a job well done, deserving I thought, of a heap of sugar cubes.

The Lottery Saved My Life

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artwork by @jameswyngaarden

a short story by Jerry Zinn

“What do you mean by that, exactly?” the woman asked incredulously.

“The lottery saved my life,” Meyer replied, solidifying his statement with the concrete of repetition.

“Again, what do you mean? I heard what you said,” she took a sip of her martini. The olive rolled around the bottom of the vessel where it settled and would remain untouched.

“It’s a bit of a long story, Ms…?”

“Ms. Nothing I’m not a divorcee. My name’s Ida.”

“That’s an interesting name,” Meyer replied, half truthfully. A change of subject was on his mind.

“Not much more than Meyer.” The bartender approached Ida, but she was done drinking. Ida was interested in hearing how the lottery could, with such dramatic emphasis, “save,” a man’s life. She’d only heard of vast sums of money deposited in accounts overnight ruining people’s lives, driving them mad either with the burden of fortune or the carelessness that is so often served with excess. Meyer had a darkness in his eyes. Ida could sense his was a long story she wanted to hear. It was a tale her readers would be anxious to consume

“Well you’ve got me there. You may want another one of those. It’s that kind of story.”

“Why don’t you just start, you know, at the beginning? That’s what we usually say.”

“In that case, I’ll have one for us. Another rye Manhattan,” Meyer said raising a finger and swirling the remnants. The liquid was mostly clear now, ice the only inhabitant recognizable without chemical testing. “You know you could say a Manhattan is an island drink. Of course, only technically. Are you one for technicalities?”

Ida said nothing, hoping he would delve into his tale of lottery salvation. For a multimillionaire, Meyer dressed simply, business casual, in the way of old Wall Street, before tech vests were the uniform of choice. If she’d sized him up on her own, she’d have guessed commodities trader: intelligent, understated, and private.

“So the beginning…” Meyer sensed the time for stalling expired. “I’m an accountant. Well I was anyhow, for about fifteen years. I got a job right out of school and hated it, but I figured that’s just what being a college-educated adult was all about. Save your self-pity for the birds and all that. There was a clear track for me, promotion wise, compensation wise. I was making enough money not to complain, except over coffee with old friends.” Meyer bent over and took up the cuffs of his chinos another roll. He’d been in between on the appearance three versus four curls presented, and ultimately, as his story was just starting through the dry background, he changed his mind.

“Sorry,” Meyer said, taking a sip of the fresh Manhattan. He gave a look of contemplation, as though the taste of the drink validated his comment on technicality. Maybe the Manhattan is an island drink. “Anyway,” Meyer started again as though much time had passed, as though uncontrollable distractions had put the story on hold long enough for Ida to forget what he had been saying. “Blah blah blah, accounting. Let’s just say the bottom line was, I was content, which is a colorful euphemism for unhappy. I was never a gambling man, not even a betting man save for a few gentlemen’s wagers and the occasional exchange of six packs for football games. I wouldn’t call myself sheepish, but perhaps I am endowed with a certain… reticence.”

“That’s a generous way to call yourself timid. For a numbers man, you have a way with words.” Ida was toying with the charm on her silver necklace, sliding it along the gossamer thin chain links.

“I had an English minor. Just wanted a twist of pretension.”

“Like rye in your island drink?”

Meyer laughed a decidedly sporting laugh. “Touché. Well me being as I’ve described, I was never going to quit, not without something else lined up. And because I was too nervous to pursue other jobs, I wasn’t going to leave. Not in my lifetime. So I did what any rational, statistically proficient, diploma holding individual would do. I went to the grocery store and bought a lottery ticket.”

“Did you pick the numbers or were they random?” It might have seemed a horribly pedestrian question. What after all did it matter? But Ida was interested in anecdotal data. Those tidbits were gobbled up by the readers, the deflating topics of most comment streams.

“They were computer selected,” Meyer replied. Evidently he’d put a lot of thought into the decision. Accounting brought some considerations to the insanity. “I only bought one. I have a fate complex.”

“Oh I think we all do, if we’re honest with ourselves.”

“I guess I put it in a drawer and forgot about it. Truth be told I forced it out of my mind, because as long as I didn’t check to see if I won, there was still a chance I had. Don’t check and you can’t lose, right?”

“I see the logic.”

“The drawing happened, and a few days went by. I genuinely forgot. Accounting has an amazing ability to block out everything in your life with meaning and drown you in tedium. Then I saw a blurb in the news, that the winning ticket had been sold not just in my state, not just in my city, but at the very store I’d purchased mine. Well even over endless excel sheets that’s a hard set of details to ignore.” Meyer paused for a laugh that never came. “So I left work that afternoon a little early, and I sat at my desk with the ticket stored in a drawer, unseen, and so still viable.”


“Then I looked. And that was that. I won. Four hundred and twenty-two million dollars, roughly, after Uncle Sam. I didn’t go in to work the next day. Even with that much money I didn’t have the courage to quit my job, so I let my job come to me. My boss called after three or four days. It was three days, I don’t know why I said that just now. Of course I kept track. I never skipped work. And only then, over the phone no less, I cut the cord. I told him I was done with it all, and don’t mind about the two weeks. I thought fifteen years was enough notice. I expected, well hoped anyway, he would be at least a little mad but I think he was glad my salary and benefits were no longer on his budget. They were just going to replace me for less with a younger model.”

“May I just ask something?” Ida interjected.

“Please,” Meyer replied, welcoming the break.

“Well it’s just, you said the lottery saved your life, but other than being one of the countless victims of complacency, it doesn’t sound like you needed saving? You weren’t terminally ill were you?”

“No, nothing like that. I claimed my winnings. I never bothered to collect my things from my office. I’d just as soon have them throw it all in the garbage or donate it to an accountant charity. That’s what I thought over the weekend anyhow. Come Monday my tendencies returned, and I figured I’d better go in that afternoon and get my stuff, say goodbye to the select few whose company I didn’t detest. I was going to go too, except that I turned on the news, really just to see the weather. I wanted to know if I needed a rain jacket. That was October 19th.”

Ida’s face dropped, the life escaping air from a pinpricked balloon. “You were an accountant…”


“At… CDG?”

Meyer read the young woman’s morbid expression. “I take it you understand now?”

“That whole building… No one survived the attack. Hundreds of people died that day.”

“No one survived that went to work that Monday. And I had perfect attendance in my tenure. It seems no great prosperity comes without cost. Sure, I won the lottery. I lived, and I’ve got more money than I know what to do with. But I will always feel I should have been in that building. It will haunt me forever. As it should. I keep the ticket with me, so the memory never strays. I think what I said earlier, that should be the title of this story when your magazine prints it: The Lottery Saved My Life. It has a dark poetic quality, Edgar Allen Poeish.”

Hard Diet

Processed with VSCO with b1 preset

artwork by @jameswyngaarden

a short story by Jerry Zinn

As Marsha stepped into the kitchen it was pitch black, the world outside a shade darker. Only a small, weak light hung in the distance, glowing like an apparition. Marsha flipped the switch and a bright blur greeted her. It was a surprisingly modern kitchen with a bold mixture of black slate countertops and brushed steel appliances. Marsha remembered why she woke up, and the return of hunger was accompanied by the realization she wasn’t in her home. Everything was too neat, the room like something she saw in Architectural Digest, decidedly not her doing. She felt a sharp pain in her head. The events of the previous night were fuzzy. The lack of clarity did not strike Marsha as particularly positive, but until the details bubbled through she decided to withhold judgment.

Marsha opened the refrigerator and was more surprised than disappointed to find it completely empty. With frustration, she closed the door, which clicked as it sucked tight to ensure the emptiness maintained a cool temperature. Marsha moved on to the matte, charcoal cabinets. The kitchen quickly developed an unwelcome reputation as a barren wasteland. In a frenzy, Marsha frantically opened all the cabinets and drawers to find each carefully stocked with empty space.

She slapped her hands on the island and let out an exasperated breath. In a change of pace, Marsha noticed how beautifully her nails were manicured, each coated in a deep maroon and shaped with mechanical perfection. As her eyes worked their way up, she saw on each wrist a thin, black bracelet. She was wearing a dress, a nice piece with large green and white stripes, cut mid-thigh and devoid of wrinkles. Marsha saw her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows facing out from the kitchen and concluded that no one had ever looked better the morning after a hazy night. Having begun to view her situation with a better perspective, Marsha revisited her mission to discover food. Scanning the room for anything with that elusive edible quality, her eyes stumbled upon a bowl of bright Granny Smith apples on the opposite end of the island.

With considerably less elegance than her appearance would suggest, Marsha lunged at the bowl and plucked one of the green orbs from the steel container. Like a thirsty desert wanderer handed water for the first time in days, she held the apple near her mouth but couldn’t quite bring herself to take a bite. Recognizing the humor in her restraint, Marsha proceeded to sink her teeth into the fruit, closing her eyes so she could focus on the sweet taste of its juice. Instead she recoiled as her tastebuds were denied what they so strongly desired. She was grasping an apple severely lacking in that most desirable quality of her search: edibility. Pulling the hard sphere from her mouth, Marsha noticed the wood grains circling the object.

All Marsha could do was shake her head, feeling lucky her teeth had not jumped ship. She reached out to place the apple back in its position as object d’art, but her arm froze. Marsha was overwhelmed with a feeling of paralysis. Outside the kitchen, rows of lights lining the sky turned on in succession. A man was walking down the street, headed right in her direction. Standing there as if locked in place, Marsha watched the man move closer and closer. As he neared the windows, Marsha squinted. Her heart stopped, and she felt as though she’d turned to stone, everything about her world falling back into place. Her mind went blank when she saw the patch on the man’s shirt: Powell’s Home Department. And there she stood inanimate, another mannequin in one of the countless displays.


Processed with VSCO with b5 preset

artwork by @jameswyngaarden

a short story by Jerry Zinn

Each step was a beat of an unsynchronized drum, the sound dissociated from the contact of Ray’s feet against the inundated pavement littered with rain-filled seams. Now there was only a sprinkle. His $59.95 analog from Cyber Monday ticked as though the secondhand was working to push time forward.

There was a crash behind, but Ray fought the instinctual urge to jerk his head. Eyes watched from all directions like owls branched in the night. Trying to hide, he tightened the arc of his baseball cap and dipped the bill down to cover his face.

His car, a lusterless silver, seemed to reverse and back away slowly, matching the pace of his gait to remain forever in the distance. Ray wished he were home in bed, away from the atmosphere closing in around him.

“Tst, tst, tst,” their calls were like cicada barks from behind branches and leaves, thoraxes and delicate claws camouflaged by foliage.

“Slow down!” came a voice through the cloud of tongue-to-teeth clicking.

The parking lot was nearly devoid of cars, but a mass of people formed a mob in Ray’s trail, a storm cloud barreling with unquestionable intent. To turn around, to acknowledge the source, was to accept his fate. Ray was not ready to throw in the towel.

“You know what you did!” Ray recognized the kid’s voice. It was woven with tentativeness, as though the words were someone else’s. “Got nothing to say for yourself? Doesn’t matter to you. But this is my life! You ruined my life, man.” In the last statement Ray detected real anguish. “Hey, I’m talking to you! Answer me!”

Ray, his car still backing tauntingly, could not restrain himself any longer. The sprinkle reached more of a trickle in his tracks. His toes in mesh-covered shoes dampened. “It was nothing personal, kid.” Ray said, adding, “kid” to deaden the blow, but it was patronizing. He tilted his head to his shoulder like a parrot inspecting its feathers. “I’m human, just like you.”

“Just like me? You don’t know a damn thing about me, or what I been through! How I got here, how hard I worked. And just like that,” he said with a snap, “you ended it all. So don’t tell me you like me. You no human; you a rat! How much they pay you, rat?”

Ray’s mouth opened to defend his honor, and his guts twisted. He always prayed these moments would never come. So much for prayers, Ray thought with post-middle-aged cynicism.

“Why don’t you turn around and look at me, rat?” Each time the kid said “rat” it stung. Ray had been chewed out before, too many times to count, but this was different. This was a kid.

Ray realized he was never going to make it to his car. When he turned all he saw were the reflections in their eyes, a constellation of paired clusters. Above them all, two north stars in the sea of glaring sparkles, were the kid’s eyes. The singular street lamp lighted Ray like a statue, bugs whizzing in a cloud, feeding off the scarce brightness. “I—“ Ray started to say.

“Boo!” thundered the crowd, “Boo!” Ray could barely hear himself think, let along the whistles through the thick chants of displeasure.

“Ray! Are you sure?” another official asked when they congregated on the sideline.

“Looked like he got his arm on the way up,” Ray replied.

“I gotta be honest, Ray, I didn’t see anything. He was trying to sell it.”

“Yeah, from my angle it was a no-call,” the referees were screaming to make themselves heard from inches away.

“Ray, this could be the championship. If you’re sure, they’re on the line. But you gotta be sure. This place is gonna explode if the other team wins on the foul line.”

Ray considered the merits of his colleague’s comments. “We can’t let them decide this. They want that kid to win because he’s the next Zion. But that’s not how we call games.”

“I know, Ray, but we’re both seeing it as a no-call. You want to swim against that stream? It’s on you.”

“They’ll eat you alive, Ray. This is a no-call.”

Ray closed his eyes. He went deaf to the roar of outcries of “you suck!” and “go to hell!” He imagined he was walking outside, after the game ended and the championship was decided. Each step was a beat of an unsynchronized drum, the sound dissociated from the contact of Ray’s feet against the inundated pavement littered with rain-filled seams. Now there was only a sprinkle. His $59.95 analog from Cyber Monday ticked as though the secondhand was working to push time forward.

“Hey Ray! We need an answer,” one of the officials demanded.

Ray returned to the fold and went to the middle of the court where he summoned a shriek from his whistle. “There is… no foul call on the shot. It was an inadvertent whistle. Time expired on the play. The game is over.” He barely got the words out before the stadium erupted, the court flooded by fans hoisting the star-recruit on their shoulders with the trophy in hand. As Ray walked back to his car that night there was no presence behind him. He answered his own prayer.


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“Miguelito! Miguelito! Miguelito!” The cheers thundered from the highest seats to the lowest with equal fervor. Las Ventas, the cathedral of bullfighting, had a full congregation for its Saturday evening service. No seat was absent a body; even those less enviable in the sun were occupied. The matador, Miguel Rosales, known affectionately as Miguelito across the Spanish landscape, held out his arms, scarlet muleta in hand, basking in the encouragement. Several paces behind him stood the thundering bull in the center of the ring, kicking the dirt beneath its hooves as a match strikes its box. Though its skin was wet with maroon blood, six banderillas of white and blue hooked into its back and flapping as the beast shook, the bull remained decidedly majestic.

Miguelito reached over the burgundy, wood-paneled wall and handed the aluminum sword to his younger brother, Rodrigo. In return, Rodrigo gave his brother the true weapon. Thin, shimmering, and deathly sharp, it was made of tempered steel met with a small handle matching the color of the muleta.

“Godspeed,” Rodrigo said as they made the exchange, his message heard only by Miguelito through the buzz of the crowd. Miguelito smiled back confidently. He removed his hat, with its two distinctive ears, covered in black karakul fur and lined with purple velvet. Miguelito peered in at the postage-stamp image of San Quirico fastened to the side. He brushed his finger across the icon as he looked up. Miguelito stepped to another section of the wall and called out, “Padre Roman!”

A man seated just behind the railing stood up, dressed in black, the white collar of his commitment to the faith standing out like a beacon. He nodded with a big grin to Miguelito, whom he had known as the mischievous child of Beatrice and Francisco in the small municipality of Cambados. Padre Roman had been the priest of the parish in the small Galician town of Vilariño for several decades, and it was by personal invitation of Miguelito that he made the journey to Las Ventas that night.

“Para ti, Padre!” Miguelito yelled as he tossed his hat gently like a glass Frisbee to the priest, who caught it to great applause. Padre Roman motioned a sign of the cross in Miguelito’s direction: a small blessing to help him in the moment of truth. Miguelito bowed and turned to face the bull, its muscles rippling as it took short but powerful steps in place. The horn sounded, indicating the matador had three minutes remaining to emerge victorious from the challenge.

Miguelito stood clothed in his brilliant outfit of lush purple with gold embroidery so extensive it had no clear beginning or end. The beads sewn tightly to the fabric glistened like a suit of stars. His pants, skin tight and of the same lavish constitution, highlighted his flawless physic. Staring down the bulging beast and stifling the unshakable fear of his own demise, Miguelito was Hercules facing the Nemean Lion, sword in his right hand cloaked in the swatch of crimson fabric.

The bull walked with slow, deliberate steps toward him. There was still an impressive vitality in the spirit of the animal that humbled Miguelito but also sharpened his focus on the task at hand. Its came to a stop a few meters from him, hooves scratching at the white chalk line that encircled the ring, as it looked Miguelito up and down with the embers of the crackling fire in its eyes still glowing brightly. It pointed its two black-tipped horns at the man who had led it in a dance with capes, unaware that beneath the cloth hid the object ordained to deliver its fate.

A spiritual silence fell upon the coliseum with a hush like the rustling of a wheat field in a warm, summer breeze. Miguelito inched his way toward the bull until he could feel the warm dampness of its billowing breaths. He slowly drew the sword and matched the tip of the blade with the point on which his eyes were fixed. As he held the sword with the stillness of a surgeon with his scalpel, Miguelito gently waved the muleta at his knees, drawing the bull’s gaze down. Miguelito turned his feet, wrapped in black leather pumps, toward the animal. He shifted his left foot forward, rising to his toes and bending at the knee as he took a deep, calming breath before lunging forward. In the same lighting-fast instant, the bull pounced from its stance toward Miguelito as the blade entered its back between thundering shoulder blades until all that could be seen was the small handle.

Miguelito jumped out of the way, his death-defying act completed as he thrust his hand in celebration. He let his arm fall by his side as the crowd erupted in a deafening ovation.

“Are you going to eat it now?” a woman’s voice blared through the excitement.

“What?” Miguelito answered.

“Michael, why don’t you take the knife out of your steak and put your napkin down. I think it is time you stop playing with your food. People are watching you, though I’m sure they were all impressed with your performance.”

Michael reluctantly pulled the knife from his filet and laid the red napkin across his lap, looking around to see the faces at nearby tables staring at him amusedly. He gave a few bows of his head in recognition of their attention before returning his gaze to his wife seated across the table with arms crossed. As his knife cut through the juicy red steak like butter, he looked longingly at the bullfighting photographs lining the walls of the small bodega, nestled down a side street in Madrid, and his time as Miguelito the great matador faded back into the far reaches of his imagination.

The Last Monk of Laboche

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@babyboyjw c.2019

a short story by Jerry Zinn

Light poured in, the misting stream of an impossibly high waterfall from the mail slot window above. As it flowed, it caught the dust suspended in the air, moving about with no clear direction, resulting in solid beams, which stroked the floor. Other than the fine particles the shrine was resting, no sounds, not a whisper from the foreboding gilded statute seated at the front, clothed in thick garments of embroidered blue and umber silk, its irises burning of the pure turquoise watering far off Caribbean islands. On the plaster walls innumerable figures, painted vividly generations before by the practiced hands, held their poses. Some bore expressions of power, some of horror, of astonishment, of fear, of love, and of peaceful meditation.

Around edges where walls turned to the vaulted ceiling of rough-hewn logs was hung a parade of tapestries adorned with the likenesses of supervising lamas of Laboche’s past. Their procession outlined the long history of the monastery, and if an eye followed the circumference of the room, the timeline provided the illusion the place had existed forever, no first lama, no last. Two large drums of green sheepskin, thinned in the centers from ceremonial pounding, stood guarding the heavy entrance doors. The wooden floor, its rolling topography smooth and blurrily reflective like brackish ponds, was lined with rows of short platforms. Atop sat humble red cushions prepared to receive the weight of the monks’ devotions.

The room gave off the impression it was a great host who spent the night tidying and was now ready to welcome its guests. A weak smell of previously burned incense lingered like a dried bouquet of spices, hitching onto the laden air and dissipating accordingly. Smoke no longer drifted from the golden bowl beneath the statute, the sticks had turned to a black ash that even a gentle breeze might stir like a dance in a macabre snow globe. The only perfections in the room of worship were its imperfections, the twisting supports with their jagged angles dovetailed with complementary pieces to create a strength that defied the tenants of architecture. All elements fit together, melting away the divides.

Through the sliver of a space between the carved, black doors, crept in the crackling buzz of the horn signaling the day had officially begun in the citadel. Warblings grew from a trickling grumble to a full-bodied roar as young Mazu warmed up his lungs with the instrument. Mazu’s call rose with the sun as it climbed confidently over the sails of snow-capped mountain-peak hulls. High in the clouds, Laboche was isolated from the nearest hamlet by more than 100 kilometers. At its inception, if in fact it had not grown with the mountains in a natural process, the place was chosen for its strategic perch, where the likelihood of disturbance was found to be immeasurably low.

With much softer creaks than its size might suggest Mazu pulled the door open by the hefty brass handle, having been touched so many times it felt like a dolphins slippery skin. In so doing, the sun flooded the room and the myriad sacred figurines along with the silvery thread of tapestries sparkled metallically. The gradually waking space had suddenly been shot with the life of its own spirit.

Even at his meager height, Mazu had to hunch over to avoid knocking his shaved head against the unforgiving doorframes. It was a lesson learned the hard way, as most had been in the earliest days of a life lived in solemn dedication. Mazu placed his hands together and bowed in reverence as he stepped onto the cold floor with thick-callused feet. Like a mouse sensing he was being watched, he slowly and methodically made his way to the back corner of the room by walking along the wall lined with rolled up carpets, their white fringe frayed but tucked neatly beneath the cloth logs they resembled.

From the ground he picked up the hand broom: thirty or so thin, rigid, moderately pliable sticks tied together by a coiled rope resembling the falling tail of a racehorse. Bending at the waist, Mazu began the daily task of dusting the prayer space. Using short strokes, taking conscientious care to ensure all refuse was accounted for, Mazu made his way in a weaving pattern past the wall-hangings and down the rows of seats.

Little had accumulated, moved into a small hump by the door, as daily care prohibited it. The dirt that did not make it into the pile was donated to the air around him, further matter in which the rays could disperse. After sweeping out the remaining crooks, Mazu let out a sigh that revealed his loneliness. Once a lively place of eighty or so monks, moving from one place to the next in maroon robes like rolling cranberries, Laboche’s last remaining resident was Mazu. One by one the monks fell ill before their spirits left them. It had been a few months since Zhang died, the last person to whom Mazu spoke. It seemed ironic that the monastery’s youngest and oldest monks were the only to survive the incomprehensible plight. Mazu too wished he could disappear, and while he often thought of venturing out of Laboche, his strict loyalty and adherence to tradition kept him wedded to his location.

He went about the rest of the day as he always did. He prayed when it was the prescribed hour, cooked his meals when he was supposed to, tended the small farm, and spent time copying from the ancient scrolls housed in the library. He could join only himself in prayer, dine with the table for company, harvest the vegetables for his own stores, and present the new scrolls for only his eyes to appreciate. As the days went by Mazu allowed himself to reflect more and more on his life. He wondered what the world was like outside of Laboche. He had only vague memories of his brief time before, or were they dreams? Mazu was no longer able to differentiate. All he knew how to do was carry on his responsibilities.

It was clear to him that he was alone in his tasks, and it seemed a wasted hope to think he would ever come across another person again. But deep inside there was a part of him that still clung close, as a mother and newborn child, to the possibility that one day he would again meet someone. After all, it would have been too much for Mazu to bear if he knew the truth: he was not only the last monk of Laboche, he was the last human on Earth.



a short story by Jerry Zinn

“I don’t know. I think her teachers are fine. Jenny’s just having difficulty engaging with her classmates. It’s hard for her,” Mary said.

“Well Mary, that’s understandable. You know our girls are at that age now where they are starting to figure things out,” Taylor replied, disregarding the suggestion of Jenny’s hardship. “Take Lucy for example. Two weeks ago I was trying to get her to go to sleep and I said, ‘Lucy, it’s time to go to bed. You have to wake up early tomorrow for school.’ And you know what she said? ‘No, I’m going to stay up later. I can just call in sick tomorrow.’ That’s is what I’m dealing with, and she’s only seven,” Taylor said.

“I can sympathize, but I can’t empathize,” added Sally. “Taking care of a seven-year-old boy is like taking care of a pet sometimes, and I’m guessing Andrew will continue to act this age for at least three more years. When he makes noises at the table, sometimes I wish he were making sarcastic comments like Lucy. I just want him to say stuff Will and I can laugh about, but he’s not giving us much to work with.”

“It is good though that we make time for all of them to play together like this,” said Mary.

“Absolutely, how many of them are we supposed to be watching anyway?” Taylor asked jokingly as she head-counted seven kids exploring the community park.

It was a brisk day, but the warm sun permeated the splotchy cloud cover to take the edge off. The jungle gym, with its yellow and green bars, ladders, slides, and unclassifiable structures, shined brightly over the cushy rubber padding beneath, as Jenny, Lucy, Andrew, and four other like-minded children weaved their way in and out of parental surveillance. The three mothers designated to officiate the leisure sat on one of the park’s bench and continued talk of their children and the school, along with comments of spousal annoyance.

“Hide and seek,” Lucy said perched atop the highest platform.

“Yeah I’ll play,” Andrew added.

“What about you guys?” Lucy asked the remaining kids. Her question was met with unanimous yeses, and the proceedings commenced.

“Who’s going to be it?” Jeff asked from underneath the slide.

“I’ll be it first,” offered Andrew. “I’ll count to fifty.” Andrew covered his face loosely, allowing some visual information to slip through the cracks in his fingers as he began to count, “One, two…”

“Wait!” Hannah called out from the ground, “Let me just finish tying my shoe!”

“Come on Hannah, hurry up!” Andrew yelled back.

“OK, geez! You wont find me anyway!”

“Whatever! One, two, three…”

As Andrew restarted, the kids sequestered themselves to the far reaches of the structure and its surrounding obstacles. Lucy ventured the furthest, managing to hide behind the mothers’ bench with the unspoken understanding they would protect her location. Jeff wandered in circles for half of the count with a frantic look on his face as he scanned the area for possible refuge. Finding none to his liking, he settled for a “hide in plain view” strategy, parking himself directly beneath the perforated platform atop which Andrew was standing.

“Fifty!” Andrew exclaimed, rising up and removing his less than exemplary blindfold. His modus operandi was apparent immediately, as he left the confines of the structure and hunted the playground extremities.

Lying at the end of the macaroni-elbow-shaped, plastic slide was Jenny. She stared at the hard shell cradling her body, its imperfections appearing opaque in an otherwise translucent material, as the sun heated her surroundings and made her so comfortable she wished she were never found. With her hands she felt the seam where the pieces were bolted together. It was smooth except for one coarse bump, which she rolled her fingers on over and over again, hoping to wear it down.

“Excuse me,” she heard a woman’s voice whisper from outside her hideout. “Excuse me,” it came through again.

Jenny sat up in the slide and popped her head out to investigate. As she looked around, her head stopped on a dime when she saw, flanked on either side by bushes, a purple monster covered in green stripes that zigged and zagged like recurring M’s and W’s. The monster’s head was green with larger than life features. Its eyes were wide and a soft hazel with a small nose and ear-to-ear smile. The beast didn’t scare Jenny, as she slowly pulled herself out and stood staring at it.

“May I talk to you for a minute?” the monster asked, waving her over.

Jenny didn’t answer, but she approached the strange thing, her head tilting side to side, enchanted with curiosity.

“What’s your name?” Jenny asked, now standing face to stomach with the monster.

The green and purple monster leaned its head down to Jenny’s level and answered, “Mildred. What’s yours?”

“Jenny,” she answered as she reached out to hug Mildred.

“It’s very nice to meet you Jenny and thank you for the hug; that was very kind.”

“Are you a monster?” Jenny asked.

“No, I’m not a monster.”

“Then what are you? I’ve never seen anything like you at the zoo.”

“You wouldn’t find any of us there. I’m a nimalfog.”

“A nimalfog? What is that?” she asked, giggling.

“Well what are you?”

“I’m a person.”

“What’s a person?” Mildred asked crossing her arms.

Lucy stood with pursed lips and laughed, “I don’t know! A person is just a person.”

“And a nimalfog is just a nimalfog.”

“Hm,” Jenny replied, nodding her head approvingly. “How come I haven’t seen you here before? My mom brings me to the park a lot.”

“I’ve never been to this park before. Recently I’ve been moving around, learning about new places, trying new things, and meeting other people like you.”

“That’s nice. I’m in first grade.”

“What is that?”

“School. It’s where they teach us stuff like math and how to read. But reading is hard.”

“I wish I could go to school. I would love to learn new things.”

“I can teach you if you want. I like the learning part, but sometimes my classmates and I don’t get along.”

“Why not? You seem like such a nice person.”

“They don’t understand me. I feel like we speak a different language.”

“That’s why you can communicate with me!”

“What do you mean? I’ve never talked to a nimalfog before. How can I speak it?”

“The language we speak isn’t like English or French. It’s based on something even more amazing, something unique to each and every thing. It’s called imagination, and you have to have a very special imagination to talk to me.”

“So I have a very special imagination?”

“Yes, Jenny, you do.”

“Sometimes I think people are upset with my imagination. Maybe that’s why I don’t get along with everyone.”

“You should never be ashamed of your imagination. It’s what makes you who you are. It lets you see things that other people can’t because their minds are too closed. You have a gift, Jenny!”

“I do?”

“Yes, you do. A rare gift at that,” Mildred replied.

“Found you, Jenny!” Andrew called from behind. Jenny turned around and frowned.

“Jenny! Time to go!” her mother called from the bench.

“Sorry, Mildred,” Jenny said hugging the nimalfog lovingly. “I hope I get to see you again, but now I need to go. It was nice to meet you!”

“It was nice to meet you too, Jenny. Goodbye!” Mildred answered.

“Mary,” Sally said putting her hand on Mary’s shoulder, “Andrew told me he found Jenny hugging and talking to a bush behind the park. He said she was kind of… mumbling.”

“She does seem to communicate more with things around her than with people. The doctor told us to expect that with autism. But you know the doctor said it to us like he was delivering a terrible diagnosis. I like to think that Jenny gets to experience things we don’t. I often wish I could see what’s going on inside her head. I’m sure something amazing is happening in there, something we could never imagine,” Mary said.

The kids clustered around their drivers until all of them were divided between the three cars. Jenny gave her mother a hug and climbed into the way back of the van. She liked the back because it was her own space. As Mary backed up, she looked lovingly at Jenny in the rearview mirror, who was quietly having a joyful conversation. Mary tried to hear what Jenny was saying but she couldn’t quite figure it out. She thought Jenny said something about a “nimalfog?” But Mary decided she probably misheard, after all, there’s no such thing.

Other Side


a short story by Jerry Zinn

“The grass is greener on the other side.” It’s a phrase said by many but truly understood by few. People have said it to me, people who haven’t the slightest appreciation of the meaning.

When I sat down in the hard plastic chair, I tied my shoes slowly. Almost like I was tying them for the first time even though I’d done it thousands of times before. If Law & Order is a reliable source, I had jamais vous. I stood up and moved my feet around, enjoying the comfort of the shoes’ padding. But the enjoyment was short-lived. As I looked to my wrist for the time I became nervous and then slipped from nervous to nauseous. Seeing my wrist bare I patted my pockets in rapid succession.

Scanning the room I was relieved to see my gold watch, with it’s worn, hazelnut strap, resting atop an old issue of TIME Magazine on the coffee table. The timepiece was my father’s, the only remembrance I have of him other than a few choppy memories from toddler days, really just pictures I’ve seen that directed the blips. Even though his impact in my life was small, his watch is the most valuable possession I have, and I don’t think it’d be worth a damn thing at a pawnshop. After all it’s fake.

I threaded the strap through the buckle and pulled until I could slip the stem through the prescribed hole, raised from repetitive use. Then I looked at the face but didn’t bother to read the time; I just wanted the comfort of seeing it. On my way to the door I stopped. Something inside me kept my shoes glued to the floor, and I couldn’t bring myself to move forward. I turned my head and looked back out of the corner of my eye and felt a confusing sense of nostalgia.

“Keep going,” I heard, or maybe just imagined.

I reached for the knob and felt the cold metal on my hand, or perhaps I only pretended it was cold, through my thick callouses. Achingly, the door creaked as I crossed the threshold and stepped outside onto the path. The sun was bright in the sky, brighter than I’d ever known it to be. Slowly I made my way down the path, each step carrying the weight of a milestone. As I approached the end, the fence door opened like a blooming flower with the breeze. Again I found myself paralyzed, and again I heard, “Keep going.”

As if stepping into another dimension, the world around me changed fantastically as I went through the aperture. The fence door swung shut behind me with a jangle. In the sky I didn’t see a shade of blue; I saw open and limitless space. The clouds were not puffs of white cotton dotting the sky; they were passengers on the wind, caught in a migration from one part of the world to another. Even the breeze took on a different meaning. As it washed over my arms, below the rolled cuffs of my beaten button down, I sensed not its pleasant freshness, but the warmth of its welcoming embrace. Through the rustling of the leaves, a couple birds chirped in an orchestrated call and response intended only for me. It was as if the world and I were being introduced after years of exchanging letters.

The fragrance of freshly mowed grass brought tears to my eyes with its soothing aroma. With hesitation I brought my gaze down to meet the source, and yes, the grass was greener. It was greener than it had ever been, greener than any of the sorrowful grass I’d seen in ten years behind that prickled fence, behind that cold-knobbed door, and behind those unforgiving bars.