Order your copy today at:  Jason-Eslamieh.com

2nd Prize goes to:
Michael Ireland and Jim Ramphal

3rd Place goes to:

We would like to thank everyone that entered our contest, it was a privilege reading your stories and we had the honor of meeting some great people.

Order your copy of Cultivation of Boswellia directly from Jason Eslamieh.

You can meditate!

Artful Meditation is the skillfully creative and imaginative use of experience and cleverness to quiet and focus the mind! Living life as a creative and enjoyable process of flow, experience and expression is a wonderful way to live. By incorporating an Artful Meditation practice into your life you can outwit that busily thinking and stressed out mind and have the creative, enjoyable and peacefully flowing experience you deserve.

You will experience stillness and peacefulness of mind as you experience this book.You will achieve:

•    A quieter mind that you know you can control.
•    Peace and calm regardless of what’s going on around you.
•    The physical well being that comes when you relieve yourself of stress.
•    You will be meditating before you finish Chapter 1!

Beyond even this, you will open a window to the vast  potential you hold within your mind. Relax into the ease and inspiration of meditation with me!

Get your copy now at: www.abooksmart.com

Some of my earliest memories in this life that I got to live are of me and my Mom riding in the car and travelling together from San Diego up to our family home in East Palo Alto, California. I have vivid memories of travelling the Old El Camino Real… the route of the Franciscan Friar Father Serra, who built the ideal and the ideals of the famous Mission Trail. Much of that still exists and roughly follows U.S. 101 down through central California. Dad was always gone to the Navy when I was a kid. My brothers had not arrived yet and early on it was always just me and her; me and Mom. She was a capable person who didn’t shrink from the challenges that our life presented. She taught me to live with what I had and to be thankful for the opportunity to do so. She always made everyday fun and found something interesting to do and plenty of life’s mysteries to contemplate. Thanks to her I aint scared to pick up my old guitar and sing a song. She sat me up on her knee and played that boogie woogie piano for me; eight to the bar… Oh yeah.

Monday I wrapped up my business on the peninsula with my little brother Michael. I took possession of my little hot rod GMC pickup and I headed south towards the salad bowl, King City and the Salinas Valley.

I ate tacos and fresh fruit from the stands that are everywhere along the back roads in central California. I filled a large cooler with beer, sodas and fresh fruit. Oranges, grapes, apples, and a double flat of fresh from the field strawberries… too good. I cruised Steinbeck’s haunts and tried to imagine the world as it was then, so very much different and yet, just the same as always. Contemplate that, Mom.

I ended up in a little motel in San Miguel, just north of Paso Robles. In the morning I went to the Mission San Miguel, a very special place in my life, my favorite little Church. I sat in the sanctuary and enjoyed the peace and the quiet in a place; a room where people have worshiped and received divine inspiration and assistance for centuries. I sat for morning prayers with the Franciscan’s and the mass that followed. I am not a Catholic, just a simple Christian, but I always find myself welcome at mass and I always hear a message and find fellowship with other believers.

After services I jumped in the pickup and turned south down the El Camino Real, headed for Paso Robles, San Luis Obispo and beyond. I stopped in Santa Maria for some Carnitas tacos for lunch. Took several side roads through the farm fields and checked in to the San Marcos Motel on the Avenue in Buellton right around supper time. We had planned dinner but Brad got called out. This is what his life is about, being ready to go at a moment’s notice. When he’s working, he is working. All business and dead serious. When he’s playing… same thing: serious. Serious about having fun.

I hung out, took some pictures, and sacked out late to sleep in late in the morning. We went for a quick coffee drink at the local joint and the cute little girl there was putting on some sort of veggie breakfast burrito that was out of this world. Beyond that, I got to meet the most incredible woman, Anwanur. Tall, with sharp features and well put together, the kind of put together that most women can’t really handle, just like a very expensive sports car that you have to know how to operate. You just have to know what to do with this much womanhood, and she knew. She openly displayed not only looks, but real brains too. She had the smarts and the physical capabilities to participate in a nice little sport known as Roller Derby; an interesting little affair whereby some nice girls all ride around a roller rink on pink roller skates and exchange pleasantries. You know, talk about shopping and hair doo’s … Not!

Chrissy Bang Bang was her ‘stage handle’ and alternate persona. Most women can’t come up with even one persona, this woman easily handled two; possibly more, I don’t know. I would have to maybe investigate that further at some other time. Looks, brains and plenty of chutzpah, she had all of that and those eyes; dark, smoldering eyes that catch it all and reveal nothing. Nothing that is until she sends the message, it is simple, ‘Be ready when your turn comes, fool. You may get to ride, or you may just get run over. But either way, you’re gonna enjoy it…’ Oh yeah, she was all of that. If you read this sweetheart; I aint forgot those eyes…

Brad is one of those people in my life that I absolutely cherish. We met at a jam session and cemented a solid friendship on shared pursuits in life. The kind of friend that I might not see for weeks or even months at a time yet the phone rings and we are yakkin’ away about whatever has gone on. I really looked forward to sharing this adventure with him.

We drove down the first night to Santa Barbara to an Open Mic at a coffee house down on Cliff Drive. Brad sang a couple things from his album and we heard some good local people givin’ it a shot. Afterwards we ended up across the street at a nice sushi place and enjoyed some crunch roll and pickled ginger. We talked some about a general plan to find some good surf on Friday and try to be in position to ride it.

Brad was built to be a surfer. He has the slim, quick build that he keeps in tip-top shape with as combination of Yoga, high quality beer, Thai cuisine and any strong tea or coffee. He suffers with some weird genetic predisposition towards monkeys which allows him to crouch ready to stand on a surfboard with his toes curled under like a monkey; his brain often curls up also, but a quick trip to the ‘collective farmacy’ for medicinals and he was quickly normal once again. We also have the video proof of Brad actually spanking some poor monkey. Not his monkey, mind you, but some farmers monkey. “Bad Monkey. Bad Monkey.” I could tell you the story, but we got to get on with it here. Like I said, all the attributes of a real surfer.

What I know about surfing I learned as a lad, a Navy dependent living in Honolulu. My Dad had drawn a duty station there and we were living in Halsey Terrace, CPO family quarters. We would drag our pathetic surfboards down to the beach at Kehii Lagoon, or if we could catch a bus that carried the boards, out the big open water breakers at Barbers Point. If you have ever been to Barbers Point, you know that this is sarcasm. The place has the most benign surf. But, it was an excellent place to learn how to get on and get off anyhow. In spite of not looking like a likely surfer, I did learn to catch the waves and how to fall gracefully into the white water and not drown. Thankfully, I was always very buoyant, that is I could always float. There is also a special feeling of simply surrendering to the swell and letting the wave have its way with you, for long moments you feel like the tiny piece of cosmic dust that you really are, and it’s okay. It’s alright to surrender to motion of the ocean, hold your breath and wait for the world to appear again once the swell is through with you.

At any rate, those experiences from forty some odd years ago gave me the instinct to shoot some killer surf pictures from atop the rocks in front of the old lighthouse at the end of Steamer Lane in Santa Cruz. There was an incredible local scene going on there. There usually is at any of the local beaches. This looked to be friendly yet highly competitive as good surfing must be. Just like the roller girls, they aint there to trade recipes, they’re here to ride!

I was struck by the individual personalities that they represented in their individual riding styles. I was sure that I could predict their personalities judging by their surfing styles. I was also struck by a protocol that was operating, for the most part everyone was polite and careful to give everyone a chance to catch a wave and ride. This is not always the case at some ‘Local’ beaches. Sometimes the locals can be anywhere from discourteous to downright vicious. Today everyone seemed to get along and even enjoy the company. There were several young ladies riding and they were all good, always a pleasure to watch. I got several nice shots of them. There were several obvious pro caliber riders who consistently caught and rode the best waves. Everyone recognized their abilities and gave them the right of way. There was an older gentleman, easily my age, and that is old. He was in killer shape and he consistently rode every good wave and I got some great shots of him. I took several dozen great shots of Brad on his new surfboard. He managed about a half a dozen rides during about three hours in the water.

We ended this day with a killer Thai dinner down on the beach in Capitola. The following morning, Saturday morning, we were up and after it. We left Watsonville at dawn and headed up the coast. It was a perfect ocean day along the beaches where the morning fog layer had surrendered to mean old Mr. Sun. We had crab cocktails and chowder at Ketch Johannes in Half Moon Bay and continued north. We had to stop in San Francisco and put Brads’ board away safe at a friend’s house in the Sunset. Then, off to Salt Lake City. We both had pressing business there and we set about motivating in that direction. We ran out across central California through the big valley and up the Tioga pass road and took the cut-off to Sonora.

We had begun this day on the coast at Watsonville and now we were ninety-six hundred feet up on top of one of the highest passes that cross the Sierra Nevada Mountains. We watched the last rays of a fantastic sunset from the tree line, ‘High Lonesome’ as the old mountain men would say. The Sonora Pass is laid on top of an old wagon road, more than a hundred years ago those old timers stood right here, next to their mules, watching the light fading to black night with a sky full of stars and one quarter of a waxing moon. Just doesn’t get any better… Contemplate that, Mom.

David Clark is available for freelance writing. To contact David, email: tedwhiskey51@yahoo.com

David’s debut book, Someone For Me To Love, is coming soon.

Copyright 2002

A steady rain fell against the worn shutters of the old house. Its doorway beckoned solemnly as the station wagon pulled to a stop. I hadn’t counted on being the family member to register grandmother’s belongings for distribution after the funeral. Yet, somehow I was the most logical candidate. I’d lived most of my life under her care. Her smiling cherubic face ringed by fiery ringlets of hair would never greet me again under the front porch’s faded awning. Still, that warm inviting voice could never be forgotten as long as I live.

Lovingly, I tread the short distance to safety from the incessant downpour. Inside, every nook and cranny beckoned with memories of childhood exploration on other rainy days such as this. A faint scent of cinnamon drifted from the kitchen. It was almost too much to bear as the regret of her loss swept over me.

Suddenly, a scuffling noise overhead caught my attention. Something was moving on the second floor. Snapping on the lights, it ceased. I quickly determined flight wasn’t an option. I’d never been afraid in this house. I wasn’t about to break the rule now.

Stepping smartly to the landing, I glanced upward. A glitter of light bounced directly into my eyes on the third step. It was only a reflection from a small bronze urn nestled comfortably in a dried floral arrangement. Yet, as I neared the bric-a-brac table, something moved at the end of the hall.

It may have been only a passing shadow from settling dust. Then again, goosebumps at the base of my neck confirmed my suspicion. I wasn’t alone in the house. I’d had the feeling long before when I wandered the hallway in childhood. I knew my special friend had returned. Just when I needed him most. Cautiously, I turned the glass doorknob to my old bedroom. A room I hadn’t entered in forty years. The stillness seemed invigorating, almost intoxicating. Until he spoke.

“It’s been a long time.”

His voice had lost none of its warmth. He had always been, and would forever remain, my best kept secret from the world.

“Latene,” I said simply, acknowledging his return.

“Put it on,” he whispered from the shadows. “Let me see what the years have done to you.”

I hesitated. Unsure of where he intended on leading me. He was a childhood friend who had grown to mean so much more with each passing year. Until I left the house. He hadn’t followed. Something bound him to this particular place. I remained fascinated by his presence despite the years separating our last conversation.

“I don’t know where it is,” I admitted, reaching for the light switch.

“No, don’t!” he pleaded.

His hand covered mine on the plate. Icy fingers closed around my wrist, but I shook him away.

“It’s in her jewelry box,” Latene’s voice grew faint. Almost as if he feared re-establishing the bond between us. His face floated hesitantly above me in the darkness. Dark hair hadn’t greyed. But his dancing blue eyes glittered almost ominously.

I reached for the large wooden treasure trove housing my favorite necklace. My grandmother had been the recipient of the Irish torc by tradition. Her mother had passed it to her and it should have gone to my own maternal parent. But, as fate would have it, she’d left it behind with the rest of her motherly responsibilities in my formative years. Now, the tarnished necklace was rightfully mine with no other apparent heirs to claim it.

Every piece of furniture and keepsake in the house could be distributed among nieces, nephews and their parents. But this particular antique, once dated by experts to approximately the ninth century, would be my only link to the house and its former tenant. And no one would ever glean its power except me.

“Please, hurry,” he cajoled in his most plaintive voice. “I remain disembodied without your force of will.”

“I know,” I agreed with the assessment. “But we have unfinished business before that happens.”

He stopped. Frozen in time by remembrance. His thoughts whirled back to our last farewell.

“We were civil.”

“You were cruel,” I corrected him. “I really think you were part of the reason Mother left. She couldn’t take your comings and goings. Walking the hallway at night didn’t exactly give her a good night’s rest!”

“True,” he admitted remorsefully. “But I’m a spirit, not a tour guide. Couldn’t exactly announce myself on the hour.”

I paused. Giving him time to reflect on my perspective. Holding the necklace closer, I noticed a glint flicker briefly in his eyes. There was something he was hiding. The fantasy of childhood had given way to dark intent.

“Put it about your neck,” Latene commanded, no longer pleasantly surprised by our reunion.

“I don’t think so,” I replied, trying to calm the rising panic in my voice.

“See how the torc glistens in the fury of nature,” he responded coldly.

As if on cue, two fiery streaks of lightning lit the walls. Peripheral vision of his face caught my eye in a six foot pedestal mirror on the far side of the room. His face retained the same unblemished features I recalled from childhood. But nothing existed below it. He stood perched as though ready to strike the one person he needed to eliminate. There was no longer any doubt in my mind to get back into the hallway. Away from the monster advancing toward me.

I screamed, then ran, hearing the crash of the mirror behind me. He’d obviously found the source of my aversion.

“You promised to put on the torc,” his voice whispered to the left of me.

I turned, seeing his face reflecting at the center of a large brass plate on the wall. His features had resumed their normal complacency. A soothing calm began to steal over me. Perhaps he was right. The torc remained merely a necklace for adornment.

“It’s a childhood plaything,” I noted, fingering the inscription engraved on its edges.

“Nothing more,” he replied assuringly. “Please, grant me this one request, for old times’ sake.”

Mesmerized by Latene’s reflection, I raised the jewelry to my neck. Latching it in place, I closed my eyes for only a moment. But in that instant, I felt a numbing cold engulf every inch of my body. With great effort I opened both eyes to see my old friend staring back at me from the hallway. We had exchanged places. He now stood in the reality I’d left while I resided within the confines of the brass plate.

“You see it wasn’t that difficult a task,” he laughed snidely. “I needed your cooperation and you freely gave it.”

“No!” I replied harshly. My voice echoed eerily behind me in the milky golden liquid that now formed my reality.

My head no longer moved from side to side. I could only stare blankly ahead. Watching the creature’s face returning my gaze with glee.

“You see, my dear,” he began, “I neglected to warn you that the torc’s power in childhood never encompasses more than a fantasy or two.”

“That’s why you never returned after the second journey,” I spat back at him. “I hated you for that.”

“Oh, but I did return,” Latene continued. “Trying to get your mother’s interest in the torc elevated for its greatest power.”

I gasped with whatever remained of my lungs. There was no point in searching for them without solid fingers to feel anything.

“You wicked viper!” I wailed uselessly at my own folly. “It all fits now. You drove my mother from this house trying to escape whatever vision of hell you’d been cast into.”

“Very true,” he admited. “You shall not suffer the same dire fate as I in the afterworld you’ve entered. Your stay should be less painful, though very similar in the levels of loneliness to be endured there.”

I thought quickly. There was no point in further argument. He meant to leave me there and enjoy his freedom in my world. Yet, if he’d escaped such entrapment, another way out had to exist for me as well.

“Enjoy your imprisonment, my dear,” Latene replied, turning to leave. “You’ll learn what life’s all about from the inside looking out.”

“Are you sure?” I whispered back. “Or have you merely traded your fantasy for mine?”

He paused. Moving slowly back into earshot. The logic had captured his interest. Now I only had one chance to turn the tables on the supernatural evil in front of me.

“I am in the real world,” he insisted, his eyes glittering from my reflection.

“Perhaps that can’t be prevented,” I smiled back. “But the torc is around my neck, not yours. It protects the wearer against all evil, save one.”

Latene struggled to contain his anger. Raising one controlled finger, he pointed back at me. Almost as a warning to be silent.

“And what would that be?” the creature’s voice cracked in the stillness.

“The fear inside,” I shouted back, “controls a child’s mind, but not an adult.”

Blinking twice, I saw the reassuring confines of my padded cell around me. Outside the steel-reinforced door, two ominous blue eyes softened through the small view panel.

“She is making excellent progress,” Dr. Latene reassured my mother. “It was a good choice to introduce a familiar item into her environment.”

“The torc’s been in my family for generations,” my mother explained. “She played with it a lot at her grandmother’s house.”

“A vital link to her past,” the psychiatrist agreed.

“And one of the few things that survived the fire she started,” my mother whispered as the panel closed and the lights dimmed around me once again.

Contact Emmett O. Saunders III:
emmett71755@hotmail.com

or visit:
http://www.youtube.com/emmett71755

Pritchard is a God.

Pritchard is also a bodybuilder.

He does not, as many do, body build to increase his mass, although it is a happily accepted bonus.

The rush. Pritchard lifts heavy things for the rush. And He lifts them very well.

6’2, his shoulders wider than a doorway, his abs like doldrums, his pectorals toned into slabs of rock. His legs are sturdier than foundation and his ass could crush beer bottles by clenching. All just an added bonus.

Even his face is muscular, if pug, as if his features are hiding behind solid folds of meat. Or trying to escape. Beady eyes, overpowered by cheekbones. Large lips, always kissing nothing. A flat nose. A tuft of blonde hair, as if by accident. Hitler’s dream.

There is something about the sweat that one produces while bodybuilding. There is something about the strain, the sacrifice. The sacrifice.

Pritchard is a God.

He is also his own disciple. He worships.

He bows down to Himself. He sacrifices. Again and again. Feeling that need to lift and lift. To please the god that He is. The God.

He offers the gifts, and accepts them. Offers, accepts. Again. Again.

He is a happy God, being worshiped so.

Pritchard is no one. He is the sole God, and also his own sole worshiper.

Daily, in the local gym –

He knows Natalie, the sweet-ass receptionist. He knows Bob, the fat loser. He is friendly, for a loser. He knows Sylvain, the foreigner, who thinks that trim is good.

That is, He knows these people, but He does not. Just as they know that He is Pritchard. And yet they do not know Him. But this is alright. Pritchard knows He is a God.

Pritchard knows Samantha from the grocer’s, Mac at the garage, Ger and Lettie and Carla from upstairs, Mr. Hanley from across the hall. But He knows none of them.

He takes joy in not knowing them. For they deny his Godliness. He does not interact with heathens. They do not deserve his presence if not in worship.

Instead, Pritchard is a solitary man.

He eats alone. He eats alone a lot. Carbohydrates, proteins, eggs, eggs, eggs.

He sleeps alone. Natalie is a sweet-ass receptionist, but he does not succumb to these urges. Heathens. Sometimes Carla from upstairs smiles that smile at Him. But He does not allow it. He must only worship.

One day, Pritchard is at worship. Dumbbells. Sixty kilos. Sixty reps. Bob is behind Him, leaking on the treadmill. Groaning.

Pritchard just breathes in, breathes out.

A new man enters. Not a big man. But acceptable.

He sees Pritchard. His mouth opens.

Later, in a new room, there are papers in front of this new man.

He says: Pritchard, I am going to make you a God.

Pritchard shakes his head: I am already a God.

The man smiles.

Pritchard signs. And everything changes for Him.

He doesn’t see Bob. He doesn’t see Natalie, the sweet-ass receptionist or trim Sylvain.

Instead, He walks around other people. More people. Bigger people.

Pritchard smiles more. The new man smiles more still. And always, this new man walks in front of Him.  The new man doesn’t stop smiling.

Pritchard stands on podiums, always side by side with other big men. But they are men, and Pritchard knows this. He doesn’t give them time or attention, although He respects their evident worshiping.

It seems that other people agree with Pritchard.

Little men wearing suits, and holding papers, talk amongst themselves and point at Pritchard and the men.

But mostly at Pritchard.

And when all of the talking stops, some man lifts Pritchard’s arms in the air. The people cheer.

This happens again, this time with more people, bigger men. More sweet asses.

And again, his hands are in the air. Cheering. Smiling.

This time, there are cameras pointing. It is a much larger place. Everyone is watching. Every person in the world. People, cameras, sweet asses.

This time, the men are closer to gods. Pritchard does not question Himself. He is a God. And although these men are trying, oh they are trying, they cannot be Pritchard. He smiles as they announce:

PRITCHARD!

Everyone cheers. Every person in the world. Sweet asses run to Him. People smile. People cheer. People ask Him questions -

How does it feel? What would you say to those who idolize you? Did you ever think this dream would come true?

And now Pritchard knows. He knows that finally, the world knows.

Pritchard is a God. And everyone knows.

Now, Pritchard embraces the people. Every person that approaches Him is happy. Always happy. Thanks to Pritchard.

He answers his worshipers’ questions. He speaks into cameras. To his worshipers. He sees Himself on buildings and on newspaper fronts and on televisions. Appearing to his worshipers.

And he sleeps with his sweet-ass worshipers. Lots of sweet-ass worshipers.

The worshipers take up a lot of Pritchard’s time. He has many people worshiping Him. They hug Him in the street. They take his hand. They take his body. They send Him letters. They ask Him to be around them. To share his Godliness with them.`

This leaves little time for Pritchard’s own worship. For his sacrifice.

Pritchard makes the most of the people’s awakening. He eats well. He drinks well. He sleeps well, and in good company.

People’s worship of Him is constant and unerring.

After some time, a worshiper stops Pritchard in the street. A disappointing man. Barely in shape.

It takes some time for Pritchard to recognize – and remember – Bob. Bob the fat loser from the gym. He is less of a loser now, by thirty kilos.

Like many worshipers, he thanks Pritchard for his guidance and dedication. Bob still has faith.

Bob then asks Pritchard for a favour, which worshipers often do. He requests that Pritchard return with Bob to the old gym, to worship. Just like before. Before everyone knew.

Pritchard’s new man – the original new man, as there are many new men now, always behind Pritchard – likes this idea. He tells another new man, who tells another. Suddenly, the world knows. Every person knows. And everyone likes the idea. So they follow Him.

The old gym is full of people now. Smiling men, women, children. Cameras and microphones and camcorders. People smiling. People waiting.

Pritchard prepares for worship, as He once did. Bob watches, also preparing.

Pritchard sees that Bob is ready. Everyone is waiting.

His arms are ready. His legs are ready. His back, neck, buttocks, all ready.

He begins. Barbell, seventy-five kilos.

But -

He cannot. His arms are ready. His body is ready. But He cannot worship.

He looks, confused, to Bob who is worshiping without fail. Comfortably.

The men, women, children are not smiling.

Pritchard prepares again. He tries. But no.

He cannot. The people are not happy. They do not believe anymore. They do not know.

Pritchard looks at them as they leave. Disinterested.

But He is a God. He is a God.

He is not a God.

Alone, in the gym as He began. For a long time He continues.

Flex, push. No. Nothing.

In the dark, he stops.

By Conor O’Hagan
conorohagan88@hotmail.com

Cultivation of Boswellia by Jason Eslamieh

Cultivation of Boswellia: Sacred Trees of Frankincense
By Jason Eslamieh
ISBN: 978-0-9828751-1-7

For the past 4,000 years, Boswellia, the source of frankincense, has played a role in the economic growth and technological advancement of the Arabian Peninsula. It was the source for a cure of many diseases and purified worship halls across the globe. It has been an ageless natural commodity equal to gold and treasured as a sacred gift from the Gods.

This book is a guide to growing, cultivating, exhibiting and extracting the resin of these wondrous plants in an urban agriculture and for personal and commercial use. It gives the reader scientific compilation of original descriptions of the nineteen species in their natural habitats, their historical perspectives, a process for hybridization, uses for holistic medicine, and what the future holds for these magical species of the ancient world. It is a reference book for botanists, growers and collectors with specificity of detailed habitat information and over 200 color photographs that compliment the text and illustrate the diversity of the genus.

Buy this full-color book directly from the author at:
www.jason-eslamieh.com/store.html

“Thanks for doing this. I just love him so much. I can’t tell you how much I admire you, another man, for getting him out.” Vivian said.

“Hey, I admire your unconditional love. I mean this is the deepest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m honored to be a part of it.

Now, I’ve got to go.” Darred answered.

Darred Shirant hopped out of Vivian’s 94 Accord and started running.

“It’s a little weird how she talks about him. And it’s a little weird how she talks about me in this whole thing. Oh well…”

Darred didn’t finish his sentence, but he knew why he was running across a field in the middle of the night towards a creek fifty yards away. The creek turned out to be a ravine, where thirty feet down hardly any water ran, so jumping straight into the water was out of the question.

“Ok.” Darred muttered to himself.

The clock was ticking. She would be back in an hour and wouldn’t wait. Unless there were two, there wouldn’t be anyone.

Darred took a few running steps off the side. He planned for a hard landing, but he hadn’t planned for the side to be steep concrete covered with a thin layer of sand, which took Darred’s feet right out from under him. Darred saw his feet below the stars above him and was then blinded by a flash of light when his head cracked against the concrete below him. Darred slid the remaining fifteen feet to the bottom, barely hanging on to a shred of consciousness.

The freezing cold water wasn’t enough to make Darred stand up, neither was laughing about his injury.

“HA! Ha! Ha…”

The pain throbbing from the back of his skull was too much for Darred to continue his poor attempt at a shrieking, Jack Nicholson laugh. He had to close his eyes and lean on the side of the mound of sand next to him in order to keep from passing out. But it wasn’t a mound of sand. It was close, but this wasn’t quite sand he was leaning on. Darred felt around and when he could open his eyes without spinning, he looked over to his right. Just as he thought, it wasn’t sand. It was a dead raccoon. Darred sat, thirty three degree water running over his lower half, blood dripping from the back of his head, spooning the rabies ridden corpse of a raccoon. He pressed his hand against the back of his head, then pulled it away and looked up at his palm.

“God damn. The things you do.” He said.

He looked up to the sky.

“When are you gonna cut me a break, God? Huh? Ya’ sick bastard! All I’m trying to do is get mine…” Again he trailed off instead of finishing his sentence.

It was still too painful to talk. Standing up proved to be worse. But the clock was still ticking.

Darred jogged fifty yards up the creek to where he could tell he had crossed the fence. The side of the creek here was no less steep then back where he fell, which made his climb out fun. Darred made it all the way to the top before slipping and catching his top lip on the grass and dirt which pushed a tooth through the back of his lip. Darred bit his hand and screamed a raging pissed scream.

But Darred had made some progress. He was now at the side entry of the building where he planned to be. There was a long fence lining the outside which was divided into small rectangular sections by more fence. Darred climbed up, not surprised when he snagged his jeans on the top wire, only surprised he didn’t tear his nutsack open. He jumped off the fence, making a soft landing and now feeling a soft breeze flow into his pants.

There was a small metal door on the brick wall. This was a point that Darred had thought about before. If he couldn’t pry this door open from underneath with his pocket knife, Darred would be in a bad way. She would leave him if he didn’t have company. He knew she would. Crazy, cold hearted and cruel as that sounded, Darred loved Vivian for that. He jammed the knife under the door and began twisting, hoping for the best.

His plan worked. Darred was shocked to see the metal lift from the ground. He slid his fingers under and lifted, but stopped and held the door still after he had gotten it up a few inches. He stared at the ground just under his fingers, shaking with nerves but kneeling still. Nothing happened. Darred couldn’t believe his luck as he lifted the door open the rest of the way.

Darred began to crawl in the opening. Even though he was now nineteen he hadn’t lost his elementary school chunkiness, so his hips jammed in the doorway. Caught at the mid section, Darred had to wiggle a half an inch at a time to get through the narrow opening. The more he wiggled, the more he heard.

‘Wait, what am I hearing? Oh shit! There is one in here with me!” He thought.

“Grrrrrr!!!!” He heard from the dark corner of the fence cell.

“Oh Shit!” Darred screamed as the beast, somewhere close, lunged at him. Darred fought his way out of the door with the dog on his shoulder when a strangely calm thought came to mind.

“It’s not that big.”

Darred was right, it was a cocker spaniel. Darred was able to pull the dog off and stuff it back through the door. The dog squirmed and ripped into his hand. Once through, the dog ran off and Darred pulled his foot out which was propping the door open.

Darred didn’t bother to put his hand under his shirt and feel his shoulder. He could already feel his shoulder and his hand was just as bloody.

“Little bastard.” He said as he sat down.

He could barely hear himself think over the surrounding chorus of dogs barking. They were all around him, in two rows of cages along the sides of the long room. In one of these cages had to be who Vivian was looking for.

Two nights prior, Darred had been sitting alone in his apartment as he did most nights. His friend Brandon, who only came over when there was a cloud of smoke to be made, had stopped by that night. Among the three other people Brandon had brought was a girl named Vivian. Darred noticed Vivian looked very sad.

“Excuse me,” he said as he looked over at her on the next couch.

“I know this is the first time we’ve met, but you seem very upset about something. Is something the matter, if you don’t mind me asking?” Darred puked out meagerly.

“She’s all sad because her dog bit someone and the pound took the fucker. Now they’re going to put her baby to sleep.” Brandon said sarcastically. Vivian put her face into her hands as if she were crying.

“He’s at the pound, the one up north?” Darred asked. His eyes grew big. Vivian noticed and answered yes.

It didn’t take long after that for Darred to explain that he had once bathed dogs at the pound, and that he knew that place like the back of his hand. Dogs could disappear as if they had never come to that place if Darred wanted. Vivian was intrigued and explained several times how much she loved her dog, Portis, and how she would do anything to get him back. Vivian spoke about Portis as if he were her lover, but Darred knew this wasn’t the case. He could tell Vivian wasn’t that weird. She was just weird enough, a real bowl of porridge. It took Darred less than an hour to promise he would get into the pound and get Portis out.

The easiest thing was finding Portis. He was exactly how Vivian described; an obese, black pit bull . Portis limped out of the cage when Darred opened it, and the two of them headed out a side door towards the parking lot. On the way out Darred noticed the hair on Portis’s front left leg had been recently shaved halfway down.

Vivian went apeshit when she saw Portis. After ten minutes of her loving the dog, Darred finally got a chance to ask.

“What happened to his leg?”

“Oh, that’s from when I ran him over with the car.” She said.

Darred laughed.”

“What, were you drunk?” He joked.

“No. I was sick.” Vivian said.

“What?”

“I needed the pain pills and they made me bring him in to prove that he was injured so I could get the prescription. That’s why I love him sooo much.”