Thursday, December 17, 2015
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
The coach
It started like this—no one gave a shit about the wrestling team. They were the outcasts of the school’s sport-industrial complex, looked down upon by the baseball players, ignored by the basketball team, even made fun of by football players—until Damon. He was a freshman trying out for the junior varsity team, when he wrestled the coach—an immense man, over 250 pounds, broad shouldered with an immense stomach, a grey goatee, and a tattoo of a flaming rose on his bicep, himself a former football player who had never gotten over the fact that his life had peaked at 19 and had been downhill ever since; rumors spoke of a car accident, an injury, physical therapy, walking with a cane before his 20s were over, a marriage to a pill-popping bride, the drowning of his first born in a pool, a nasty divorce, Alcoholics Anonymous, a string of increasingly less dignified coaching jobs, a growing waistline, a second-born who hadn’t spoken to him in a decade.
This was a man who consistently pretended that, despite being in his 50s and despite having a shattered kneecap that had sidelined his college football career and forced him to use that cane, pretended that the best was right around the corner, that the future would be bright because a call from the Dallas Cowboys was coming any day now, any second, a call that would finally draft him into the NFL where he would have a last late flash of glory in the sunset of his life.
This coach liked to ‘test’ the incoming freshmen when they tried out for his wrestling team by shaming each of them in front of their peers, casually tossing around the word ‘faggot’ as he used his immense bulk to pin them to the ground and leave them there until they began to gasp for breath. Damon wrestled this man to the ground in 15 seconds. It was so fast that the coach was in a neckbrace for a month and ultimately forced to retire.
This was a man who consistently pretended that, despite being in his 50s and despite having a shattered kneecap that had sidelined his college football career and forced him to use that cane, pretended that the best was right around the corner, that the future would be bright because a call from the Dallas Cowboys was coming any day now, any second, a call that would finally draft him into the NFL where he would have a last late flash of glory in the sunset of his life.
This coach liked to ‘test’ the incoming freshmen when they tried out for his wrestling team by shaming each of them in front of their peers, casually tossing around the word ‘faggot’ as he used his immense bulk to pin them to the ground and leave them there until they began to gasp for breath. Damon wrestled this man to the ground in 15 seconds. It was so fast that the coach was in a neckbrace for a month and ultimately forced to retire.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Another Kind of Paradise, 1
Eugene Green:
The alligator’s name was Molly. That was what we called her. It all used to be Everglades land, back a long time ago they, the engineers, drained the swamp and dug the canals to channel all the water so that you could build houses on habitable land. From the air the maze of canals cutting through the Florida suburbs like a glistening string of wet pearls. But up close, the canal water has a murky burnt brown color, like tea left steeping for days. And the smell—the water table was so high you could dig a hole in your backyard and within four or five feet it would start filling with water—you’d smell it every everyday when the sprinklers went off because it was the same water as the canal, like if you cracked an egg and smoke poured out of it.
When we were kids, the neighborhood was still being built, it was mostly sandy lots, a couple of box frames going up, and a few finished houses where the early residents lived. It was common for animals—fish, frogs, skinks and snakes, herons, alligators, someone even said they saw a shark once—to travel the waterways from the glades and find themselves lost in suburban backyards. Nobody worried too much about Molly. In fact, whenever there was a gator sighting, everybody would gather along the canal shore with binoculars and sandwiches, toasting frosted cans of cola in the thick, humid air—my sister not yet born, old Phil Carver with enough hair to still try the comb-over.
Damon tried to throw Molly a hot dog one time. It landed with a wet little plop that was hardly noticeable but still loud enough to halt all conversation on the shore. The neighbors froze, the kids sat up in attention, the parents looked around worried, all eyes finally settling on Damon. People started packing up their picnics, rolling up the towels and tablecloths they were sitting on. Damon’s dad looked at him in disbelief before he rushed down to the shore and used his t-shirt to try to fish the hot dog out of the canal before the alligator noticed meat in the water. Damon was maybe eight, watching his dad hustle out of the water shirtless and dripping, panting for breath. His old man threw the wet hot dog, reeking that canal smell, right at Damon. “Eat it,” he said and stormed off.
Damon was crying as my mom tried to explain to him that the alligators didn’t care about us, probably didn’t even realize we were gathered there to watch it or that we even existed at all—but you should never, ever feed one. Because once you fed an alligator, it was aware of your existence, it knew you were watching it, and it knew you had food. It would keep coming back for more. It would expect you to feed it. It would come to humans any time it was hungry. She started telling this story I’d never heard before, about these boys.
Damon’s dad came back dressed in dry clothes, camo shorts and a t-shirt that said ‘I’d rather be a smart ass than a dumb shit,’ and stood there angrily. He sat down next to Damon, wiped the kid’s tears away, told him it would be all-right.
He handed Damon the stinking wet hot dog again, closing the boy’s fingers around it for him. Damon looked at the old man for a minute before he lowered his eyes and took a soggy bite.
The alligator’s name was Molly. That was what we called her. It all used to be Everglades land, back a long time ago they, the engineers, drained the swamp and dug the canals to channel all the water so that you could build houses on habitable land. From the air the maze of canals cutting through the Florida suburbs like a glistening string of wet pearls. But up close, the canal water has a murky burnt brown color, like tea left steeping for days. And the smell—the water table was so high you could dig a hole in your backyard and within four or five feet it would start filling with water—you’d smell it every everyday when the sprinklers went off because it was the same water as the canal, like if you cracked an egg and smoke poured out of it.
When we were kids, the neighborhood was still being built, it was mostly sandy lots, a couple of box frames going up, and a few finished houses where the early residents lived. It was common for animals—fish, frogs, skinks and snakes, herons, alligators, someone even said they saw a shark once—to travel the waterways from the glades and find themselves lost in suburban backyards. Nobody worried too much about Molly. In fact, whenever there was a gator sighting, everybody would gather along the canal shore with binoculars and sandwiches, toasting frosted cans of cola in the thick, humid air—my sister not yet born, old Phil Carver with enough hair to still try the comb-over.
Damon tried to throw Molly a hot dog one time. It landed with a wet little plop that was hardly noticeable but still loud enough to halt all conversation on the shore. The neighbors froze, the kids sat up in attention, the parents looked around worried, all eyes finally settling on Damon. People started packing up their picnics, rolling up the towels and tablecloths they were sitting on. Damon’s dad looked at him in disbelief before he rushed down to the shore and used his t-shirt to try to fish the hot dog out of the canal before the alligator noticed meat in the water. Damon was maybe eight, watching his dad hustle out of the water shirtless and dripping, panting for breath. His old man threw the wet hot dog, reeking that canal smell, right at Damon. “Eat it,” he said and stormed off.
Damon was crying as my mom tried to explain to him that the alligators didn’t care about us, probably didn’t even realize we were gathered there to watch it or that we even existed at all—but you should never, ever feed one. Because once you fed an alligator, it was aware of your existence, it knew you were watching it, and it knew you had food. It would keep coming back for more. It would expect you to feed it. It would come to humans any time it was hungry. She started telling this story I’d never heard before, about these boys.
Joan Grossman-Green:
These boys—I think they were the Douglas twins, Jimmy and Bobby, but I’ll have to ask Susan about it, her boy was a friend with them. Anyways, over in Coral Acre,s the Douglas boys found a baby alligator in their canal. They brought it into their home to raise as a pet. As first it was all cute and playful, like a little scaly cat. But it gets bigger and they’re feeding it chicken nuggets and then hamburgers, keeping it in the backyard, in that nice hot tub they had by the swing set.
When it outgrew that, they tried to put it back in the canal. Tried to put it back in the Everglades, but it kept coming to their house, laying on their stoop in front of their door, waiting for food, for pork chops and steak. And so one day, Susan tells me that Mrs. Douglas, their mom, told Jimmy and Bobby that they had to stop feeding the gator because the family grocery bill was ballooning up to hundreds of dollars each week. And this animal is literally sleeping on their doorstep. The poor family had to sneak out through the back door or a side window. Until they stopped leaving the house at all. Susan said she was so worried, she was calling their house. Her son stopped seeing Jimmy and Bobby in class.
When the police arrived they found an alligator large as a pony in the house. It was in the boys’ bedroom, lying on the bunk bed wrapped in their Star Wars sheets, chewing their dismembered bodies. Skin made of steel, mouth full of razors, belly filled with flames. Don’t you ever, never feed one, Damon. Do you hear me? Molly is a cat that—when she comes looking for another snack and you disappoint—will tear you apart and eat you instead.
Remember, Damon—and Eugene, you listen to this too, you hear? You boys remember that the alligator didn’t just wander into our backyard. We’re strangers in her neighborhood.
Damon’s dad came back dressed in dry clothes, camo shorts and a t-shirt that said ‘I’d rather be a smart ass than a dumb shit,’ and stood there angrily. He sat down next to Damon, wiped the kid’s tears away, told him it would be all-right.
He handed Damon the stinking wet hot dog again, closing the boy’s fingers around it for him. Damon looked at the old man for a minute before he lowered his eyes and took a soggy bite.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Rejection letters, 2
Ryan,
Thank you for sending us “Limits of Oceans and Seas”, which was shortlisted for publication. Unfortunately our editors could not come to consensus and, upon careful consideration, decided the work wasn't a good fit for our next issue.
I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding a home for this piece and we certainly would be pleased to hear from you in the future.
Thanks again. Best of luck.
Dear Ryan Boyle,
Thank you for sending your manuscript to us at ––––– via the online submission manager.
After careful consideration, we regret that this submission does not meet the editorial needs of the journal at this time. We do hope you will send to us again in the future as we could not publish ––––– without the many quality submissions we receive.
Although we would like to send an individual response to everyone, the number of manuscripts we receive makes it difficult for editors to respond personally to each submission. Please know that we are devoted to giving each submission to ––––– at least three reads and an editor personally reads each submission. We do appreciate your interest in –––––, and the opportunity to consider your work.
Thank your for supporting our journal with your writing, reading, and subscribing.
Sincerely,
——————————————
Dear Ryan,
Thanks for giving us the chance to read your work; unfortunately, it doesn't meet our needs at this time. However, we promise that if you keep writing, we'll keep reading.
All the best,
The Editors
–––––––––––
We regret that we are unable to use the enclosed material. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to consider it.
Sincerely,
The Editors
Dear Ryan Boyle:
Thank you for sending us "Common Features of Mammals in Captivity."
Unfortunately this particular work was not a right fit for
––––––––––––––, but we were very impressed by your writing. We hope that you'll consider sending more work to us soon.
We look forward to reading more.
Best regards,
–––––––––––––
Assistant Editor
––––––––––––––
Dear Ryan Boyle,
Thank you for sending your manuscript "Common Features of Mammals in Captivity," number 26652, to us here at –––––––––– via the online submission manager.
We are sorry this particular manuscript was not selected for publication in ––––––––––. We hope you will send us another soon, though. We could not publish –––––––––– without the fine writing submitted to us. While we regret that the large number of submissions we receive makes it difficult for the editors to respond personally, we want to emphasize that an editor personally read your manuscript. Devoted reading is part of the –––––––––– editorial mission; it is also our own personal one.
If this manuscript was a prize entry: we are sorry this prize entry was not selected for the –––––––––– fiction or poetry prize or for publication in ––––––––––. We receive many fine prize entries, so it was a difficult decision to make. Thank you for sending us your manuscript to read, and thank you for supporting the nonprofit –––––––––– with your entry's subscription. By the end of May we will announce the prize winners and finalists on the –––––––––– website, by e-mail list, and by SASE if you included one with your entry.
Thank you for supporting the journal with your reading, writing, and subscribing,
The Editors
Hi Ryan,
Thank you for your interest in –––––––––. We are going to pass on your
submission, but we hope that you will consider us again in the future.
Best,
–––––
Thank you for sending us “Limits of Oceans and Seas”, which was shortlisted for publication. Unfortunately our editors could not come to consensus and, upon careful consideration, decided the work wasn't a good fit for our next issue.
I'm sure you'll have no trouble finding a home for this piece and we certainly would be pleased to hear from you in the future.
Thanks again. Best of luck.
Dear Ryan Boyle,
Thank you for sending your manuscript to us at ––––– via the online submission manager.
After careful consideration, we regret that this submission does not meet the editorial needs of the journal at this time. We do hope you will send to us again in the future as we could not publish ––––– without the many quality submissions we receive.
Although we would like to send an individual response to everyone, the number of manuscripts we receive makes it difficult for editors to respond personally to each submission. Please know that we are devoted to giving each submission to ––––– at least three reads and an editor personally reads each submission. We do appreciate your interest in –––––, and the opportunity to consider your work.
Thank your for supporting our journal with your writing, reading, and subscribing.
Sincerely,
——————————————
Dear Ryan,
Thanks for giving us the chance to read your work; unfortunately, it doesn't meet our needs at this time. However, we promise that if you keep writing, we'll keep reading.
All the best,
The Editors
–––––––––––
We regret that we are unable to use the enclosed material. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to consider it.
Sincerely,
The Editors
Dear Ryan Boyle:
Thank you for sending us "Common Features of Mammals in Captivity."
Unfortunately this particular work was not a right fit for
––––––––––––––, but we were very impressed by your writing. We hope that you'll consider sending more work to us soon.
We look forward to reading more.
Best regards,
–––––––––––––
Assistant Editor
––––––––––––––
Dear Ryan Boyle,
Thank you for sending your manuscript "Common Features of Mammals in Captivity," number 26652, to us here at –––––––––– via the online submission manager.
We are sorry this particular manuscript was not selected for publication in ––––––––––. We hope you will send us another soon, though. We could not publish –––––––––– without the fine writing submitted to us. While we regret that the large number of submissions we receive makes it difficult for the editors to respond personally, we want to emphasize that an editor personally read your manuscript. Devoted reading is part of the –––––––––– editorial mission; it is also our own personal one.
If this manuscript was a prize entry: we are sorry this prize entry was not selected for the –––––––––– fiction or poetry prize or for publication in ––––––––––. We receive many fine prize entries, so it was a difficult decision to make. Thank you for sending us your manuscript to read, and thank you for supporting the nonprofit –––––––––– with your entry's subscription. By the end of May we will announce the prize winners and finalists on the –––––––––– website, by e-mail list, and by SASE if you included one with your entry.
Thank you for supporting the journal with your reading, writing, and subscribing,
The Editors
Hi Ryan,
Thank you for your interest in –––––––––. We are going to pass on your
submission, but we hope that you will consider us again in the future.
Best,
–––––
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Sasha Hathaway, 2
I didn’t expect to hear from Sasha ever again in my entire life. But she showed up knocking at my door the very next night. My mom answered the door and called me down and there was Sasha, her cheeks pale and her eyes outlined in red.
“My Dad is missing,” she said. Her father had looked worse and worse as the days passed and the tests mounted—rings growing dark around his eyes, mouth sagging into a worried frown. Since being laid-off, he mostly sat around the house in plaid shirts and read conspiracy theories on the Internet—so his being gone from the house for hours was strange.
“The phone rang,” Sasha said. “He looked like he was about to crumple into a ball. Then he hung up and left and he hasn’t been back since.” I looked across the street. The car was missing from the driveway. “He ran away. Just like mom.”
I told my mom we were going out for a bit. The streetlights were just coming on as we grabbed our bikes and set off. I tried to question Sasha about the phone call but she knew nothing. We stopped at all his favorite hangouts: the coffehouses and parks of our neighborhood, the pool halls, arcades, and bars around the docks. The sky grew darker with each stop, the air grew colder. No one had seen him.
We walked our bikes along the docks, our breath steaming into the air, the city lights pooling together on the surface of the bay.
“I give up,” she said. “I’ll live as an orphan.”
“You can live with us,” I said. “In the basement.”
“The basement? Yuck.”
“Ok, you can stay in my room.”
“Where will you stay, Andy?”
“The basement.”
“Yuck! No, we can share your room.”
I smiled. We were walking by the place where her dad used to work in better times, when he still managed the stevedores and smoked cigars as he watched the ships come in from far-off foreign ports—riding low in the water because of the weight of exotic goods—and watched them leave again for those same ports almost empty. Back when he came home every night to a wife and a healthy baby girl.
“Is that our car?” said Sasha, pointing into the gloom of an open warehouse. Sticking out of the shadows was the beige nose of the car I’d seen parked in Sasha’s driveway day after day. The engine was running. We checked the car and the dark warehouse and found that they were both empty. We heard a noise coming from the outside. The city lights reflected off the water like spirits, and we could see a man outlined in that dazzling light. He was sitting at the end of the pier, hunched over with his head in his hands.
We crept closer, careful not to let the boards of the pier creak. When we got close enough, we could see it was Mr. Hathaway.
“Sasha,” I whispered, pulling her sleeve. “Let’s go.”
She moved closer, looked she like she was about to speak to him but stopped. The noise we’d heard was clearer now, but still distant. It was sobbing. He wiped his eyes on the back of his hands, looked up at the moon, and told it he was sorry.
“My Dad is missing,” she said. Her father had looked worse and worse as the days passed and the tests mounted—rings growing dark around his eyes, mouth sagging into a worried frown. Since being laid-off, he mostly sat around the house in plaid shirts and read conspiracy theories on the Internet—so his being gone from the house for hours was strange.
“The phone rang,” Sasha said. “He looked like he was about to crumple into a ball. Then he hung up and left and he hasn’t been back since.” I looked across the street. The car was missing from the driveway. “He ran away. Just like mom.”
I told my mom we were going out for a bit. The streetlights were just coming on as we grabbed our bikes and set off. I tried to question Sasha about the phone call but she knew nothing. We stopped at all his favorite hangouts: the coffehouses and parks of our neighborhood, the pool halls, arcades, and bars around the docks. The sky grew darker with each stop, the air grew colder. No one had seen him.
We walked our bikes along the docks, our breath steaming into the air, the city lights pooling together on the surface of the bay.
“I give up,” she said. “I’ll live as an orphan.”
“You can live with us,” I said. “In the basement.”
“The basement? Yuck.”
“Ok, you can stay in my room.”
“Where will you stay, Andy?”
“The basement.”
“Yuck! No, we can share your room.”
I smiled. We were walking by the place where her dad used to work in better times, when he still managed the stevedores and smoked cigars as he watched the ships come in from far-off foreign ports—riding low in the water because of the weight of exotic goods—and watched them leave again for those same ports almost empty. Back when he came home every night to a wife and a healthy baby girl.
“Is that our car?” said Sasha, pointing into the gloom of an open warehouse. Sticking out of the shadows was the beige nose of the car I’d seen parked in Sasha’s driveway day after day. The engine was running. We checked the car and the dark warehouse and found that they were both empty. We heard a noise coming from the outside. The city lights reflected off the water like spirits, and we could see a man outlined in that dazzling light. He was sitting at the end of the pier, hunched over with his head in his hands.
We crept closer, careful not to let the boards of the pier creak. When we got close enough, we could see it was Mr. Hathaway.
“Sasha,” I whispered, pulling her sleeve. “Let’s go.”
She moved closer, looked she like she was about to speak to him but stopped. The noise we’d heard was clearer now, but still distant. It was sobbing. He wiped his eyes on the back of his hands, looked up at the moon, and told it he was sorry.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Rejection letters
from Diane Smith
to ryan
date Tue, Dec 28, 2010 at 2:27 PM
subject Re: Grey Sparrow submissions
Dear Ryan,
Loved your writing--not a good fit for Grey Sparrow and please think of us again.
Best,
Diane Smith
from upstreet
to exadore@gmail.com
date Wed, Dec 22, 2010 at 10:00 PM
subject Your submission to upstreet
Dear Ryan Boyle:
We’re sorry we can’t use "Limits of Oceans and Seas," which you submitted to upstreet number seven. We have received a great deal of work by writers who will not be included in the final selection, but certainly deserve to have their voices heard in other publications.
We wish you all the best with your writing; thank you for giving us the opportunity to read it.
The Editors
from Hayden's Ferry Review
to exadore@gmail.com
date Fri, Dec 17, 2010 at 7:56 PM
subject Your submission to Hayden's Ferry Review
Dear Ryan Boyle:
We appreciate the opportunity to read your work, but we will not be publishing your submission, "The Oral History of Impractical Devices." We wish you luck placing your work elsewhere.
Thanks very much for your interest in HFR!
Sincerely,
The Editors
from editor@barrierislandsreview.com
to exadore@gmail.com
date Wed, Dec 15, 2010 at 9:46 AM
subject Your submission to Barrier Islands Review
Dear Ryan,
Thank you for sending us "Limits of Oceans and Seas". We are honored that you considered our publication worthy to receive your writing. We thank you for the opportunity to read your work, but we regret that we must pass on it at this time. After receiving so many equally wonderful submissions, it becomes impossible to print them all. Thus, we must make the painful choice between them.
However, due to the caliber of your submission, we invite you to submit new work next month. We wish you the best of luck in your authorial endeavors, and we hope to hear from you again soon.
Sincerely,
Rebecca Anne Renner
Barrier Islands Review
from awesome@pankmagazine.com
to exadore@gmail.com
date Sat, Dec 11, 2010 at 11:44 PM
subject Your submission to PANK
Dear Ryan Boyle,
Thank you for sending us "Common Feature of Mammals in Captivity".
Unfortunately, while we very much enjoyed your writing, we didn't feel it was quite right for PANK. While we respectfully ask that you wait at least one month before submitting more work for our consideration, we do encourage you to keep us in mind for future submissions.
Sincerely,
Roxane
to ryan
date Tue, Dec 28, 2010 at 2:27 PM
subject Re: Grey Sparrow submissions
Dear Ryan,
Loved your writing--not a good fit for Grey Sparrow and please think of us again.
Best,
Diane Smith
from upstreet
to exadore@gmail.com
date Wed, Dec 22, 2010 at 10:00 PM
subject Your submission to upstreet
Dear Ryan Boyle:
We’re sorry we can’t use "Limits of Oceans and Seas," which you submitted to upstreet number seven. We have received a great deal of work by writers who will not be included in the final selection, but certainly deserve to have their voices heard in other publications.
We wish you all the best with your writing; thank you for giving us the opportunity to read it.
The Editors
from Hayden's Ferry Review
to exadore@gmail.com
date Fri, Dec 17, 2010 at 7:56 PM
subject Your submission to Hayden's Ferry Review
Dear Ryan Boyle:
We appreciate the opportunity to read your work, but we will not be publishing your submission, "The Oral History of Impractical Devices." We wish you luck placing your work elsewhere.
Thanks very much for your interest in HFR!
Sincerely,
The Editors
from editor@barrierislandsreview.com
to exadore@gmail.com
date Wed, Dec 15, 2010 at 9:46 AM
subject Your submission to Barrier Islands Review
Dear Ryan,
Thank you for sending us "Limits of Oceans and Seas". We are honored that you considered our publication worthy to receive your writing. We thank you for the opportunity to read your work, but we regret that we must pass on it at this time. After receiving so many equally wonderful submissions, it becomes impossible to print them all. Thus, we must make the painful choice between them.
However, due to the caliber of your submission, we invite you to submit new work next month. We wish you the best of luck in your authorial endeavors, and we hope to hear from you again soon.
Sincerely,
Rebecca Anne Renner
Barrier Islands Review
from awesome@pankmagazine.com
to exadore@gmail.com
date Sat, Dec 11, 2010 at 11:44 PM
subject Your submission to PANK
Dear Ryan Boyle,
Thank you for sending us "Common Feature of Mammals in Captivity".
Unfortunately, while we very much enjoyed your writing, we didn't feel it was quite right for PANK. While we respectfully ask that you wait at least one month before submitting more work for our consideration, we do encourage you to keep us in mind for future submissions.
Sincerely,
Roxane
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Definitely a human being
Kyle Tiller found the bloody remains in a field across the road from his house. Tiller, who was 16, called us breathless on the phone saying he'd heard a loud crash and we should get there immediately because we wouldn't believe what he'd discovered. "I think it's a person," he said.
Isaac Phillips and I rushed over on his moped. Isaac was only 15 but he was already nearly six feet tall and couldn't have weighed more than 130 pounds, his limbs stretched and spindly like mosquito legs. His head was topped with curly red hair and round glasses. His clothes never seemed to fit, pant cuffs always ending before socks began, jean jackets not quite making it to his waist. The moped was no different, and seeing him ride it around town reminded one of an adult on a child's tricycle, all elbows and knees projecting at odd angles.
When we got to Tiller's, we found the body was terribly mutilated, like a piece of fruit someone had given up trying to peel—bruised flesh coming off in sheets, jagged shards of broken bone piercing through uneven holes that slowly leaked their reward. Spreading around the body was a red halo that was melting the light frosting of snow on the ground and staining the soil beneath.
"Well, that's definitely a human being," I said as the three of us looked down at it.
"No shit," said Tiller. "It's wearing a shoe." We could also make out what appeared to be a belt and a pair of pants scattered through the mess. As far as we could tell, the rest of the body was unclothed.
Isaac, standing between us, pulled a small red camera from his pocket. "I've never seen a dead person before," he said. The flash reflected off the white snow around us, painting the body in lurid tones. "Looks like it was beaten by a team of baseball bats."
"Looks like Guernica." I said.
We speculated about what could have happened to him: piranha attack, hit and hit and hit and run, swallowed a cherry bomb, stood under a landing UFO, hit by a bulldozer ... or a steamroller, spontaneous combustion, pop rocks and soda. Tiller, his arms folded across his chest, pronounced with some confidence that it was a drug deal gone wrong, that they met in the woods around here all the time, this guy had probably cut the drugs with rat poison and they had taken their revenge by crushing him under a pile of cinderblocks and dumping the body here.
We heard something crunch in the snow behind us and my heart leapt. I immediately thought about the drug dealers, their teeth gleaming, eyes shadowed, returning to the scene of the crime to dispose of evidence, to dispose of witnesses. We turned to find a cop car pulling up—almost as bad—lights turning but siren silent.
"Aw shit!" said Tiller, waving at Isaac. "Put the fucking camera away. We're caught at the scene of a drug murder."
The cop said the same thing—"Aw shit"—as he got out of his car and caught sight of a smashed ribcage splayed out like broken keys on a piano. "What the hell happened?"
I watched the planes fly overhead and wished one of them would take me to California.
Isaac Phillips and I rushed over on his moped. Isaac was only 15 but he was already nearly six feet tall and couldn't have weighed more than 130 pounds, his limbs stretched and spindly like mosquito legs. His head was topped with curly red hair and round glasses. His clothes never seemed to fit, pant cuffs always ending before socks began, jean jackets not quite making it to his waist. The moped was no different, and seeing him ride it around town reminded one of an adult on a child's tricycle, all elbows and knees projecting at odd angles.
When we got to Tiller's, we found the body was terribly mutilated, like a piece of fruit someone had given up trying to peel—bruised flesh coming off in sheets, jagged shards of broken bone piercing through uneven holes that slowly leaked their reward. Spreading around the body was a red halo that was melting the light frosting of snow on the ground and staining the soil beneath.
"Well, that's definitely a human being," I said as the three of us looked down at it.
"No shit," said Tiller. "It's wearing a shoe." We could also make out what appeared to be a belt and a pair of pants scattered through the mess. As far as we could tell, the rest of the body was unclothed.
Isaac, standing between us, pulled a small red camera from his pocket. "I've never seen a dead person before," he said. The flash reflected off the white snow around us, painting the body in lurid tones. "Looks like it was beaten by a team of baseball bats."
"Looks like Guernica." I said.
We speculated about what could have happened to him: piranha attack, hit and hit and hit and run, swallowed a cherry bomb, stood under a landing UFO, hit by a bulldozer ... or a steamroller, spontaneous combustion, pop rocks and soda. Tiller, his arms folded across his chest, pronounced with some confidence that it was a drug deal gone wrong, that they met in the woods around here all the time, this guy had probably cut the drugs with rat poison and they had taken their revenge by crushing him under a pile of cinderblocks and dumping the body here.
We heard something crunch in the snow behind us and my heart leapt. I immediately thought about the drug dealers, their teeth gleaming, eyes shadowed, returning to the scene of the crime to dispose of evidence, to dispose of witnesses. We turned to find a cop car pulling up—almost as bad—lights turning but siren silent.
"Aw shit!" said Tiller, waving at Isaac. "Put the fucking camera away. We're caught at the scene of a drug murder."
The cop said the same thing—"Aw shit"—as he got out of his car and caught sight of a smashed ribcage splayed out like broken keys on a piano. "What the hell happened?"
I watched the planes fly overhead and wished one of them would take me to California.
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