Cause-and-Effect (Making Inferences)

When a self-admitted crackhead—let’s call him Prisoner K—reads about a tropical rain forest, his mouth and index finger stumble over the words. He knows he’s set foot, temporarily, in unfamiliar terrain. “Can you pronounce this for me?” he asks.

“Photosynthesis,” I answer.

He’s learning about cause-and-effect relationships, where one “thing” can make another “thing” happen. More specifically, he’s studying the global effects of the rain forests. He repeats after me, “Pho-to-synnn-the-sis,” and continues to drag his finger across the page.

With guided practice and encouragement, Prisoner K is able to answer most questions. However, there’s one open-ended question troubling him to no end: What can you do to help prevent the destruction of tropical rain forests?

He smudges his first answer and starts over. “Quit chopping down trees,” he scrawls.

“Now Mr. K,” I ask, “when’s the last time you swung an axe or used a chainsaw?”

“Never.” He shows me where he found his answer—middle of page 84.

“You’re not a logger,” I point out.

“Nah, I’m just a former crackhead.”

I ignore his statement. “How about not wasting paper, how about recycling?” … “Paper comes from trees,” I add.

“Yeah,” he responds, “but nothing I do is gonna matter.”

... HEARSAY

I overheard two students discussing the cell extraction of a prisoner in their housing unit, and, as usual, one put his own spin on it, while the other agreed.

—They beat the livin’ tar out of a handicap person.

—Yeah, they should’ve let him be. I heard the screams.

—Beat his ass real bad.

—You guys don’t have a clue, I said. There was a slight pause, before they started up again.

—All in our Kool-Aid and don’t know the flavor, the younger student said.

—Yeah. Dippin’ and dappin’ and don’t know what’s happenin’.

I tried to redirect, to get them focused on their school work. It was a losing battle.

—That man wasn’t gonna hurt nobody.

—I heard they dumped him from his wheelchair.

—Guys, knock it off. It has nothing to do with you.

—They made us leave our unit, the older student claimed.

—Yeah. How’d you like to be gassed?

—He was stuck like Chuck.

I didn’t want to engage their conversation, yet I couldn’t help myself. I asked them if they knew about his staff assaults prior to arriving at our facility. I asked them if they knew about his shampooing the cell floor in preparation of a conflict. I asked them if they knew about the razor blade weapons he used on the officers. They were in denial. I gave them a direct order not to speak about it again. —Enough’s enough, I said. The class resumed its normal operations. Silence hung in the air. Such unbearable tension.

—They didn’t gas him. They wanted us out of the unit. They didn’t want witnesses.

—Okay, I said, remembering my days teaching delinquent youths, you better check yourself before you wreck yourself …

—‘Cause I’m bad for your health, they said in unison. Then they laughed.

MDIT WARNING

The Michigan Department of Information Technology (MDIT) is warning all state agencies not to open e-mail related to “CNN” or “The Beijing Olympics.” These e-mails ask for a “flash player” update and once given permission, download a malicious virus that will kill your computer. MDIT claims they’re dispatching technicians across the state to fix infected computers. They suggest calling their 800 number for assistance.

Maybe I should give them a ring. “My computer is infected,” I could lie, “can you send someone over here pronto?” What do I have to lose? I’ve been waiting two months for MDIT to fix my machine. Not that it’s a real emergency. I only use it for class attendance, student plotters, student evaluations, Adult Learning Plans, monthly reports (including the latest and greatest Offender Education Tracking System & boilerplate forms), TABE scores, half-test scores, GED scores, testing schedules, academic payroll, tutor payroll, and the occasional memo. None of this, you see, is top priority.

I’ve been cancelling classes too, wandering around like a nomad in search of a functional computer to keep pace with my job duties. My students are losing out on classroom instruction. Not that that matters either. With the constant “transfers” and “ride-ins,” our facility is a revolving door of human bodies. As long as enrollment stays at 20 per class, as long as my computer is fixed in time for our August 28th school audit, as long as my records are in order, then the Talking Heads will be content. That is—if I don’t say the wrong thing. Last time we had an audit, I informed the auditors that we had an academic teacher who never had a teaching certificate. Ouch!!!

In this photograph I’m sporting a 1996 Summer Olympic neck tie from Atlanta, Georgia. A former prison librarian gave it to me after the death of her ex-husband. As for her—she lost her job for doing some X-Rated activities with an inmate. Now they’re safely married. He’s doing his bit, while she’s working security at the Flint airport.

GONNA GET MY METAL

There are times where I have to remind my students of their current situation, “You’re incarcerated. Your choices are limited,” and to soften the blow, someone usually responds with something like: “I bet you was a real nerd when you was a kid.”

It’s always easier to deflect the pain, to switch the focus, to point the spotlight on someone else, especially an authority figure. I’m a good sport about it. I usually tell them about the neighborhood bully who made me do his school work, how it helped me get to where I am today. They’re not stupid; they see the hidden message in what I’m saying. Call it my ultimate revenge, even though I’m not a vindictive person.

On Monday, when I report back to my fishbowl, these types of comments will increase tenfold. It only takes one prisoner to peep the braces on my teeth. They’re a real pain in the ass. The inmates. The braces.

My sentence: three years. I’m already drinking buckets of coffee, which should yellow the ceramic appliances in no time. At least that’s what the orthodontist’s assistant calls them. And how the hell do you eat anything? In a few months I’ll probably start looking like Christian Bale when he starred in “The Machinist.”

On a slightly similar subject, I have jury duty in September. If I’m selected to participate in a trial, I promise to remain impartial, I promise not to take out all my past (and current) frustrations on some poor unfortunate soul. I’m just hoping for plenty of down time away from our facility, away from the convicted felons, so I can read a good novel or two, and perhaps practice my writing.

Song of the day: “Lunchbox” by Marilyn Manson

THIS OLD HEAD

Lately, due to my so-called uncooperative work spirit, I’ve been labeled an “Old Head,” which, if misconstrued, reeks of ageism. My boss says (as if I’m out of earshot), “The Old Heads won’t do it”—a reference to a modified work schedule.




I am here to say, “I am not an Old Head.” That is, unless you mean someone with work experience, someone who has been around the block, who has seen pit-near everything, who knows what does and does not make sense. For instance: I’ve been approached regarding a 2-day educational conference in Lansing. Since I need 18 CEUs (Continuing Education Units) to renew my teaching certificate, I asked, “How many CEU’s will I earn?”

After my question got kicked up the ladder (Lansing) and back down to the bottom rung (me), I received the following emailed response: We are, at this point based on the hours for both days a teacher can get .9 CEU’s. They will have to fill out a form and submit $10 as the department will not pay the processing fee. They will be able to sign up in the morning when they register. It is all or nothing, we cannot do a one day CEU amount, they must attend both days. (No corrections made to email.)

Hmmm… call it negativity if you will, but I will call it practical. Ten dollars is reasonable. No problem there. However, at this rate I’d have to attend 20 2-day conferences—the equivalent of 40 days of shutting down my classroom—in order to renew my teaching certificate. How absurd is that? What ever happened to 1 CEU meaning 1 hour of training or at least something remotely close?

Once again, this “Old Head” will refuse to do something that doesn’t make sense. Hopefully this will not lead to further name-calling, and if it does, I might have to fight back. I might have to call the powers that be, “Talking Heads.” Yippity-yap-yap-yap.

THE COPENHAVER RISK FACTOR

Some of us had been threatening our friend Colby for a long time, because of the way he had been behaving. And now he’d gone too far, so we decided to hang him.

From "Some of Us Had Been Threatening Our Friend Colby"

by Donald Barthelme


With what he had done, Ryan Copenhaver should’ve known his life would never be the same. Normalcy flew out the window the day he flipped his vehicle. But he was the lucky one; Two passengers did not fare so well. So much for—in the words of Prince—partying “like it's 1999.” August 6, 1999, to be exact. Injured: 1 Casualty: 1.

Copenhaver served 3 years and 7 months. Then he paroled. Then he experienced life as a semi-free man. Days rolled into months rolled into years. He worked two menial jobs. He’d been sober for God knows how long. (That was expected.) So why the change in events? Did he think his blatant disregard for the conditions of his parole would go unnoticed? Hadn’t he rules to follow? How careless could he be? Did he not read the fine print? Did he not listen to his parole agent? And only three months from becoming a truly free man! Three months! Shame, on, him!

Here’s his violation: Possession of weapons.

Here’s the punishment: Tack on 5 years. Reinstate his prison number. Retrieve his prison file. Stick a B prefix on the cover. Have the quartermaster fit him for his prison blues. He’s coming back. Second time’s a charm.

The Michigan taxpayers are much safer with Copenhaver off the streets. Face it, he didn’t pay enough in taxes. He’s much more valuable when locked up. He’ll create prison jobs. We’ll feed him, we’ll shelter him, we’ll supervise him. Do we have a choice? There’s no telling what mayhem he may have caused with two toy “air guns” found in the attic of his friend's parent's house. He could’ve robbed a fast-food joint. He could’ve robbed a gas station. Or worse—he could’ve robbed a liquor store and flipped another vehicle and heaven forbid killed another passenger.

PLEASE & THANK YOU

This is not a formal apology, nor is it an angry diatribe. I have no platform, no soapbox, from where to preach. I’m not sure the general public would understand my actions, my position, as much as my thought-out but never-acted-upon reaction.

I believe in saying “Please” and “Thank You,” and opening doors for others. It’s the right thing to do. It’s civilized. I’m sure you would agree.

“Let me get that for you.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

That’s how our conversation went. He held the door open. I said, “Thanks.” An exchange of pleasantries.

So why did this small act of kindness become a festering wound? Why did I regret what I had said?

He entered the administration building from the back, while I exited. His destination: The courthouse for sentencing in the brutal rape and murder of a thirteen year old girl. My destination: The prison school building beyond the chow hall.

During our passing I didn’t know his identity, although I will admit he looked familiar. Then, after our kind words to one another, it dawned on me: I’d seen his mug shot in the Detroit Free Press.

I wanted to ask him: What you did—was it instinctual like opening a door? Or did you think about it? Did you plan it? But how would he answer? Would he say, “I don’t know,” or would he say, “You’re welcome.”

BLOG FODDER!

My first instinct for not posting in awhile was to hang my "Gone Fishing" sign, but truthfully I'd only went once and got skunked. Thus my Freyish pic falsely advertising victory, yet realisticly depicting too much blood on my hands (yeah, I know - gloves - work with me, ok?).



You see, my wife's cousin SA from Chicago, the one living downtown in an old building where they filmed a "Chucky" sequel with Meg Tilly, informed me of a "24 Hour Short Story Contest," and after much consideration and discussion, we both coughed up the 5-buck entry fee and took the plunge.

On Saturday, 12 O'Clock noon (Central time) we received the following emailed prompt:

The bells on the door were still echoing as she stepped further into the old toy store. The owner winked at her and turned back to his black and white television set. She reached under the rack on the back wall and pulled it out. It was just where she'd left it last week. She approached the counter and put the item down. He turned to her, grabbed the item with surprise, and said, "This is NOT for sale." WORD COUNT: Stories for today's topic must not exceed 900 words.

Twenty-four hours later, we were left picking up a million little pieces. I complained to SA that my entry (submitted in the body of the email) had the following (WINDOW-1252?) crap inserted throughout. Their confirmation, which included my story, showed this. I resubmitted.

SA in turn reminded me that my 2nd submission would be deleted. I quoted Rule No#9: If you find part of your story missing, try sending a text-only attachment.

Could I resubmit under Rule#9? Nope. Why? Because my story did not have any missing parts; IT HAD @#%$!!! ADDITIONAL PARTS!!! Instead, I retyped my short story in that stupid little email box (how many writers write this way?) and resubmitted. They acknowledged receipt of both stories.

SA, who followed the rules, who emailed her story much earlier (or should I say much later - Chicago time), never received confirmation, which in turn meant disqualification.

The only redeeming aspect of this whole screwed-up experience is: 1) they will read my first submission "as is," 2) it was worth the practice, and 3) I can always use my short story as blog fodder.

I'll know the results in a month.

CAUGHT IN THE POSSESSION OF . . .

If I were standing I’d’ve stumbled backward. But I was sitting, my hands comfortably intertwined and resting on the kitchen table. Still, her accusation seemed unwarranted, unprovoked ... un ... unAmerican. The conversation started something like this:

—You’re breaking the law.

—Huh? What? I had just shown her my catch of the day; one sheephead, one catfish, and one pike. I always snapped a few pics for proof then tossed the fish back into the water. It’s not like I demanded she clean the slimy bastards. I only wanted her to praise my skills as a fisherman.

—I checked the DNR site. It’s illegal. She was referring to the Michigan Department of Natural Resources’ website regarding a species of fish called the Goby. She needn’t say more, but she did —You are in possession …

—No I am not!

—If they’re on your hook, then you possess them.

I believe she was referring to page four of Michigan’s Fishing Guide. —It doesn’t make sense to catch a Goby then throw it back in the water, especially if it’s a highly invasive species.

—Do you keep them in your minnow bucket?

Now I felt like I was on trial. —Yes. Yes, I do.

—Are they swimming in your minnow bucket?

I’d had enough of this interrogation. I had refused to answer.

—Possession. You are in possession. Possession is illegal.

I knew not to argue. It wasn’t until later, after I had done my own research, that I had discovered my intentions were honest and I was indeed within the guidelines of the law. —I cut the Goby into two pieces and bait my hooks. They are no longer alive at this point; therefore, I am not in possession of them. It is perfectly legal to use a Goby for bait.

—But don’t you still have live Gobies in your minnow bucket?

True, I was ignoring this point; I could’ve been some crazed “save-the-Goby” lover. I decided to compromise. —From now on when I catch a Goby I will immediately cut him in half before placing him into the minnow bucket.

—Make sure your bait doesn’t have eggs on it.

I never knew fishing could be so damned complicated, so damned controversial. I refuse to let anyone take the fun out of it for me. How else can I relax after a hard day of working with convicted felons?

CHAIN SMOKING BABIES

Every educator has one—that student, that know-it-all perched upfront, intercepting every question lobbed toward the teacher’s desk.

“Spansky,” I said, “let me do the answering, not you.”

He volleyed back. “I’m trying to help. Can’t I help?”

“Spansky,” I rephrased, “I’m giving you a direct order: Mind your own business.”

Deterrence? I doubt it. Spansky knew everything AND I MEAN EVERYTHING. All you had to do was ask him.

As for respect, he never received it. No one appreciated his assistance. On that rare occasion when he was actually correct, the questioner questioned the origin of Spansky’s answer. “Thanks, Parrot Head,” the recipient of Spansky’s good deed would say.

“Don’t call me that.” Spansky didn’t appreciate the title.

“I saw Brookes whispering to you.”

“I already knew the answer,” Spansky claimed. He defended himself, justified his expertise on many topics, his mouth in continuous motion, a nervous chatter box. “I don’t need Brookes’s help or anyone else’s,” followed by some long-winded story involving Spanskyworld.

One day, Prisoner Evans asked, “What’s whooping cough?” and as usual Spansky beat me to the punch.

“Whooping cough,” he answered, “is what chain smokers get. It’s fairly common. I know a couple of inmates in our unit who have it. Officer Fowler has it too.”

Ignoring Spansky, Prisoner Evans repeated the question to me: “What’s whooping cough?”

I referred him to the World Book Encyclopedias.

“Fine!” Spansky interjected, “Don’t listen to me. See if I care!”

In a matter of minutes Prisoner Evans located whooping cough and read the passage out loud. “Hey Parrot Head,” he chuckled, “I didn’t realize how many chain smoking babies we got in this world.”

Spansky quickly changed his tune, “I never said anything about chain smoking.” Then he talked about his kids, how they grew up, how their mother left them at an early age, how he practically raised them on his own.

No one listened.

CLARITY OF NIGHT

Place a nursing home escapee on a motorcycle and let him ride into the night. That’s what I rolled with in the “Running Wind” short fiction contest. Three words shy of the maximum 250 and I’m not sure I hit all the right notes. Did I try to do too much in such a short space? Did this in turn lead to discontinuity? Would I have faired better with a simple chronological story? And then there’s word choice… Read my story here.

The self-doubt lingers, but I’ll move on.

Wait! One last thing—actually two—I revised my main character’s last line from “I had an accident” to “I didn’t make it.” Do you think it was the right decision?

Secondly, my odds on favorites to place in the top five are:

Henry Young “Bitch” - A biker gets his revenge on a relationship gone bad.

Charles Gramlich “Precious Cargo” – A biker makes a heartwarming rescue.

Sheri Perl-Oshins “GPS” – A daughter handles her Biker Dad’s navigation while simultaneously facing a dilemma of her own.

After reading 45 entries, my pick to win the whole enchilada is “GPS.” However, the contest is still open (click here: The Clarity of Night ), but you better be quick if you’re going to enter.

BUS STOP, 1970

Prisoner Wright positioned himself next to my desk, seeking the attention his cellmate could not give him. A cellmate in protective custody.

“Put my stapler down,” I said, trying to act indifferent.

“You know who my Bunkie is, don’t you?”

I stayed with my paperwork, checking to see if my students signed their work-evaluations. “Yeah, I know who he is.”

“He’s one stooopid motherfucker!”

I warned Prisoner Wright about insolence, that I could write him up. He rephrased his statement, again indicating his disapproval of his cellmate’s actions. “Why?” I asked. Prisoner Wright never told me, like some inmates do, that pedophiles should be castrated and left to bleed out.

“Why!” he shot back. “First of all, why would you reveal the whereabouts of the victim’s body after twenty-two years?”

“Maybe he wanted to clear his conscience, give the family closure.”

He shook his head. “He got no deal!”

I ignored him.

“You heard what I said didn’t you? He got no deal.”

I continued with my paperwork, thinking, is this what it’s all about?—manipulating the system, making it work for you—or is it about the sudden realization that a family has a right to give their little girl a proper burial? “Yeah,” I smiled, “he got no deal.”

To the family of Cindy Zarzycki, your daughter's coming home. May she rest in peace.

SHEEPHEAD

A student doing time for retail fraud and uttering & publishing, when confronted for the umpteenth time with the same procedural error: You cannot add the denominators of fractions, defended himself.

“I,” he said, “was a mathematical genius at my old school.”

What school? The school for dummies.

I asked, “What grade?”

“Fourth grade.”

I wasn’t in the mood to unearth the truth in his statement; after all, he internalized it, he believed it, and quite possibly, he’d stake his last dying breath on it. So maybe, just maybe, he had been the sharpest fourth grader in his class … his school … his district. He spoke with such conviction, such sincerity. He believed himself and that took precedent over all else.

“How old are you now?” I continued.

He started mean-mugging me, watery eyes and all. He knew where this conversation was headed. “Twenty-seven,” he answered.

Then I said it. I probably shouldn’t have. But I said it. “And you’re stuck at the fourth grade level.”

Then he did what most convicts do. He played with my emotions, he tugged at my heart strings, he announced that he had a closed-head injury which in turn led to short term memory loss.

“When was this?”

“Fifth grade,” he answered.

STAYCATION

I have nowhere to be, nowhere to go. It’s called a staycation—stay put, save money, burn less fuel. I’m not bellyachin’ about it, not like the bald, pot-bellied, middle-aged man I saw on the 6 o’clock news whining about his prized possession, his big azz boat, his mini-ocean liner, not leaving the marina.

The anchorwoman (not the snivelin' boat owner's wife, but the t.v. gal) reported that gasoline was $3.03 per gallon last 4th of July in Michigan. Most of us had complained, seems like a bargain now.

I wonder how many folks, such as myself, have decided to stay home. I wonder how many of these folks have joined carpools for work—that is—if they aren’t unemployed.

Have a safe, fun-filled holiday everyone. I’ll be thinking of you. Don’t be a gas-hog. Think GREEN.

IMAGINARY NONFICTION

I’ve taken up this new sport called “imaginary nonfiction,” my thoughts racing full-blast into the eye of a storm. I’ve been searching for the disappearance of a coworker, for a limb, for something to toss a lifeline to. He’s been submerged for far too long, the dark green water churning my thoughts.

In the school office in a plastic tray in plain view lay a copy of my Traverse City expense report, my social security number crossed-out, yet my address and phone number clearly visible. What if an inmate-porter intercepts this information? And if so, how will it be used against me? Perhaps he'll sell it to another inmate who will enter my phone number into a smuggled cell phone, and if caught, concoct an elaborate story of how I knew him in the “real world,” how I knew he was at our facility and didn’t report it, how I willingly keestered in a bag of dope every day of every month in exchange for a considerable amount of money.

Need I remind you, dear reader, that this is “imaginary nonfiction,” and, although it poses a real threat, only exists in the deep gray matter of one’s brain. We all have our price, but the inmates can’t afford me, and I sincerely believe they couldn’t afford my coworker as well.

A deputy warden, having done time himself, once said: It’s the prisoners’ job to ask and our job to say “no.”

—No, you can’t have a bathroom break.
—No, I’m not bringing magazines in for you.
—No, you can’t leave the classroom to go to the yard.

“No” breeds contempt. “No” breeds retaliation. The trick to longevity is to fight back with all your might. Fighting back means hiring the best defense lawyer money can buy. I’ll wait for my coworker to reappear. I’ll wait for someone to give me an explanation as to what happened. But I won’t wait to throw him that lifeline. It's the least I can do.

I BRACE MYSELF

I once loved a woman who grew teeth all over her body. The first one came in as a hard spot in her navel. It grew quickly into a tooth, a real tooth with a jagged edge and a crown, enameled like a pearl.

from “Dentaphilia” by Julia Slavin, first appeared in The Crescent Review


I’ve ground down my teeth into tiny little nubs. My dentist has me chewing on a bite-splint. “It’ll protect your teeth from further damage,” she says. “Wear it when you sleep.”

A year later, after examining the mangled plastic, my dentist says, “JR, you’re a rather handsome young fellow, and you have such a beautiful smile, have you considered veneers?”

I massage my mandibles. Then reply, “Ask my wife. She’s the one who has to look at me.”

Another year vanishes. My dentist reminds me, “JR, you really should consider veneers. I’m afraid your bite pattern is shifting.”

I have no rebuttal.

I go home, discuss it with my wife. She talks. I listen. We agree. I need a mouth full of porcelain.

The dentist sends me to an orthodontist. The orthodontist molds me a retainer. Thus my lisp. I could never pronounce the orthodontist’s long Indian name anyway. Or spell it. I bet he’s a good speller. “Call me Kumar,” he suggests. “Dr. Kumar.” He says my teeth need straightening before I can have veneers. “You need braces first,” he says.

I’m not thinking about the added cost. I’m thinking about a movie with “White Castle” in the title. Somebody goes there. For sliders. Kumar, I think, and his friend, college buddies.

Dr. Kumar sends me to a gum specialist. The gum specialist says my gums are perfectly healthy. “In fact,” he warns, “you’ll probably need to have some excess tissue cut away.”—For the veneers, naturally.

More trips to the orthodontist.

“How’d it go?” my wife asks from Dr. Kumar’s waiting room, it’s the day after the Detroit Red Wing’s triple overtime defeat.

“I snored so loud, I woke myself up.”

“Is that why everyone was laughing?”

I tell her that Dr. Kumar should tighten the wires on all those kids mouths, shut’em up.

My wife reassures me that everything will be okay. “Three years will go by fast. At least you’ll have your braces off by the age of fifty.”

Thank God for that! I feel so young.

CONVERSION

As a sophomore in a new high school finding my way among strangers, I became acquainted with the metric system. The media had been warning us for God knows how long, and since I wasn’t a mechanic who would need two sets of tools, I embraced it like an aggressive, friendly girl—somewhat peculiar, yet easy.


During that period in my life, the school district resurfaced our high school track, painted an Olympic curved starting line near the first turn, and hung an empty record board of all the events on our gymnasium wall. Instead of running the mile and the 2-mile, I would run the 1600-meters and 3200-meters. I was filled with hope. There was a chance at name recognition. Just be the best that year in your event and own a record.

It never happened.

Twenty-eight years later and I’m puzzling over the metric system. Why didn’t it become popular?

At our annual catfish tournament, with a half-hour left, my old man landed a 12-lbs. 5-oz., 30 ½ in. catfish—enough to secure third place. Poor Dan Ingles was bumped to fourth place and out of the money. Little did he, or anyone else at the time, know that his catch should’ve remained in third.

Here’s the goofy scoring system (combining weight and length):

3rd Place: My Dad – 12.5 + 30 1/2 = 43.000
4th Place: Dan I – 12.11 + 30 1/8 = 42.235

Do you see the error? Dan would’ve been better off reeling in a catfish at 12-lbs. 9-oz. (12.9). Oh well, I’m sure he enjoyed the tournament. And once again, I never made the board.

SHARING SOMETHING SMALL

NANO Fiction has selected my short story “Pitch” for their fall issue.

Thank you Kirby Johnson, Fiction Editor, and the undergraduate students at the University of Houston. It’s been a long dry spell between publications.

Catfish tournament pictures coming soon.

GONE FISHING!

A PTERODACTYL IN MY YARD

There’s a pterodactyl in my yard. He—the male aggressor, the hunter, the gatherer of food—circles my house before landing on the rooftop, before landing on the chimney, before landing on the shed, before landing on the telephone pole. He watches. He waits.


I shoo him away. “Git,” I yell. “Go on, git!” I flap my arms to get his attention.

He glides above the treetops and disappears. I survey the damage, the carnage. It’s minimal. For now. His shadow darkens my spirit. He’s big, he’s huge, he’s stubborn, he’s predatory. He’s on the endangered species list, and if not, I’ll put him there. I’ll pay the hefty fine. I’ll justify my actions. I’ll call it self-defense.

My wife says, “Let’s buy some netting.” I’m not so sure this is the solution—covering beauty with ugly black nylon.

I’ll get my gun.

There’s a pterodactyl in my yard. I need to protect myself, my property, my toads, my frogs, my fish. My neighbor’s pond is decimated. “I’ll kill him first,” he yells.

“I’ll turn my labradoodle on him,” I compete. A pterodactyl’s lift-off is slow, cumbersome. My dog will pull him down, tear his limbs to smithereens. I’ll finish him off. I’ll ring his neck. I’ll get a heavy duty garbage bag and conceal the remains.

There’s a pterodactyl in my yard.