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Message Johnny White Fiction Writing – ENG 2261 Spring 2025 I am a student writer enrolled in Creative Writing at Cowley Community College. This portfolio is a selection of my work. It highlights my interest in speculative fiction, third person limited, and character driven stories. These works explore the part and parcel of character, explore location as remembered in dream, and a sense of machinations just outside our peripheral vision.

Reflective Essay Green Country informs everything I create. Many days were spent wandering through woods listening to trees dance in the wind, the babble of creeks, and the otherworldly hollows of caves. The people were always of a kind – once you got outside of town – who were offbeat and refused to measure their lives with a coffee spoon. The quirky characters of television were, luckily for me, the denizens of the hills I call home. Growing up, Green Country was always behind. The whole “West Coast is twenty years ahead” could have been kicked up a few more years. It was a location out of time and place. The time I didn’t spend making shapes out of gaps in tree branches or tracing runes under tree bark I spent dreaming and consuming dreams. Speculative fiction, weird music, anything that rhymed with the otherness I felt in and around me. This portfolio has double-vision. It is the result of writing with each eye staring in a different direction: one into the past and the other into the future. The stories reflect where I come from as an individual, the land and people who shaped me, and where I want to be as an author. With a squint they might be locations and people you know too. I encourage you to get to know them. Parallels fascinate me. The currents of time spill out of cosmic culverts onto the road ahead. Places not quite as they should be, and people pushed into the periphery dredged into focus. The semester I have spent with these stories has been a good one. It recalls to me when the cicada molt. It isn’t as dramatic as a butterfly, or a moth, but pragmatic. Writing, revising, and discussing has led me to molt as a writer. Much like the cicada I am hopeful a magpie doesn’t catch me much too soon.

Value Menu Values A sheen of gold reflected on the silver shining body of the little man frozen in action and wrapped in plastic. Leper Prawn moved him about in the little bag observing the details. The remarkable wrinkles in the suit, the scuffs on his helmet, and the implied crackling energy of the beam sword in his left hand. The golden MacGuffin's sign outside, brilliant neon, flickered a bit in the soft drizzling cold rain. Leper sat the toy down remembering his disguise. The MacGuffin's hat and vest shoved easily into his patched backpack under the table. He glanced over his shoulder at the crowded fast diner: families coming to and from wherever families go, disheveled teens talking loudly, and nine-to-fiver's checking their phones like it would make the line go fast. The self-serve kiosk was down because it was always down. It doesn’t look too different from Mothership Down, y’know. Leper thought back to the record store, the novelty CRT, the commercial showing the anniversary celebration of his favorite TV show. These kids don’t even get what it all means. Not like I do. Leper jumped when the bald bastard sat down across from him, setting his tray down hard, and shaking water around the table – onto the bagged figure. “There ain’t nowhere else to sit,” the man said, “I didn’t see no one sit here while I was in line. That was a time.” Leper took up the toy and dried the bag against his band shirt, looking it over, before making eye contact with the man. “Don Erikson,” he said with his hand outstretched. Leper took it, without returning the firm grip. “Leper Prawn,” he said. Don looked at him – the ripped and patched clothes, unkempt hair, and didn’t immediately say anything. Leper sat the toy back down in front of him and glanced over Don. Overalls, balding, over the hill, and eating aggressively. “Most call me Leper. It’s a nickname.”

“You must be from around here,” Don said, the words struggled between bites of his burger, “’Cause I only see people like you here.” His eyes flicked down to the toy, back to Leper, and the toy again, “You get that here?” Leper moved the toy under his hands and looked around. “Yeah, I guess.” He wrinkled the plastic wrapping under his fingers and moved his gaze out to the golden washed rain falling from the MacGuffin’s sign. One of us has got to go. He watched the rain come down a moment longer. It’s gotta be him. He looked back to Don who was chomping fries and looking at the toy. “You from outta town?” “Yeah, Thermopylae. West of here,” Don swalled the mouthful, “Come in about once every three months. HVAC school. Bastards,” he sucked bubbles from the bottom of the blue coke, “Nephew wants one of them figures.” He glanced at Leper’s hands. “I figured I’d give it a shot. They only had girl toys.” He spread his hands in a shrug across the table. “That sucks,” Leper tightened his grip on the bagged toy, “I saw ‘em on commercial, and had to get one. Favorite show when I was a kid, y’know.” He looked around the diner for a spot he might move to, and wait out the rain. “Yeah, they’re great for kids,” Don burped, and mopped grease up with his leftover buns. “That’s the way I see it. Never understood men playin’ games or collectin’ toys. But hey, to each their own. That’s what I say. It’s not my business.” “It’s no one’s business, y’know -” “Still, I sure woulda liked to get one for him. This is the closest MacGuffin’s in a six-hour drive east or west.”

This guy. Leper looked out the window again. The rain seemed to be letting up a little. He looked back to Don, and realized the guy had been talking. “What?” “I said, I figure you already ate, not that it woulda taken long what with how small a kid’s meal is for someone like us.” Don’s eyes were flicking from Leper’s face to where he concealed the toy. Something similar to the rain going down the window went down the inside of Leper. It felt like water going down the inside of his skin from his shoulders down. He uncovered the toy and looked it over. “What’s it that you do, Peter?” Don paused, “Leper, sorry. Helluva name for a guy like me to remember.” “Whatever’s payin’ the bills. This, that.” Leper pushed the silver figure towards Don, “Here. Tell your kid the original run is better. It’s on streaming.” He didn’t watch Don quickly scoop it up so much as he felt it. The kid probably needs it more than anyone else. This guy never shuts up. “Looks like the rain’s gone, y’know.” I can get another. If I want. Don stood, “Well, I reckon. It’s gonna be midnight ‘fore I’m back home. Good thing there’s a couple of stops along the way,” he patted his stomach, “if you know what I mean. The drink. You’ll get it when you’re old.” He left his tray sitting on the table. Blue rivers of coke ran down the cup. “There’s a guy like you in Thermopylae. Good guy. Lives under the overpass.” Leper didn’t say anything. Don made a noise; Leper wasn’t paying attention but watching the golden neon light reflect in the parking lot puddles. The puddles looked like the moons found in kid’s storybooks. He blinked, and the puddles were rippling in the wind, and Don was gone somewhere into the darkening evening. I guess I could do that again. Call me Robin Hood. He

looked back at the rapidly emptying MacGuffin’s, and then down at his beat-up backpack. The uniform inside. It’s not like they’ll miss it, and people seem to like it. He took both trays to the trash on his way out. ‘Nother MacGuffin’s fifteen by bus. I haven’t been there a minute. Leper stood and swung the backpack over his shoulder. He stepped out onto the glistening pavement, and farther onto the black asphalt where oil whorled in pools - catching light in off-metallic shades of the rainbow. Maybe make a stop at the Mothership Down.

Wildcat – Dialogue Focus “There is an actual amusement park ride inspector, and they get to ride them,” the jacket girl said to the redhead beside her. They didn’t look at each other. Leper Prawn said nothing. He turned his eyes to watch the line gather for the next trip on the rollercoaster. Jacket and Redhead, welcome to the ride, please buckle up. Redhead said, “Okay. That’s cool.” “They travel around the state. It’s one person. They inspect every ride.” “You mean they’re supposed to.” Leper turned his attention to the girls sitting in front of him now. Jacket had turned back to her friend. “I know this one was inspected.” “How? Okay, but why are you bringing it up?” “It’s what my dad does.” “I thought he wasn’t ‘round?” “He’s not, but we text. Mom doesn’t know. She wouldn’t like it.” “Is he still -” “Don’t tell. No. If he was, he couldn’t work for the state.” “Right.” Jacket girl stared somewhere. The redhead looked at the now full line. Leper kept his head turned but had his attention on their conversation.

“You’re freaking me out,” Redhead said. “It’s okay. He said he inspected this one.” Redhead tried to stand, and the rollercoaster clanked up. “Abbi, that was dumb.” “Dad fixes things now. He fixed this. He’s gonna fix things at home.” “Abbi, when?” “Yesterday.” Redhead twisted in the seat looking at Leper. The rollercoaster clicked into place. He looked at Redhead. “Buckle your pants,” he said.

Wildcat The line to the Wildcat was a knot of body order. A coagulation of summer hopefuls and amusement park rats who thrived only here – only now. The summer might as well have been a park restroom – hot and wet without rain. An open sky oppressing and welcoming as a cop’s moustache. Leper Prawn sat in the last cart with one arm hanging loosely over the side to catch a breeze that wasn’t there – only hot metal that was. I bet you feel it in your balls, y’know. Leper adjusted on the flattened Judas cradle of a seat. Ridin’ a real wildcat. A redhead and a jacket took the cart in front of him. Redhead and Jacket – welcome to the ride. Feel free to hold hands if you get scared. Leper rode alone and adjusted his denim jacket. Everyone might be sweating, but his sweat wasn’t making a river with anyone else’s. The last summer hopefuls corralled in, and the hair curler hot lock bar clanged into place over his lap. Yup, you feel it in your balls. The redhead and jacket sat next to each other as strangers do after sharing a pew for twenty years. He drifted his attention further up the Wildcat. A real proper rollercoaster made of steel and bolts and other shit a strong wind wouldn’t blow over. Not like that wooden Zingo. The track rails were painted red to complement the white star banners that alternated between red and blue backgrounds. Real American. The string of summer hopefuls looked like a bargain bin cat toy in their many colors, or a wind torn windsock blowing down the back of a metal slug. Would a wildcat beat a large metal slug? The summer hopefuls were bouncing with energy. Bet they’re coked up on deep fried fat battered Icee’s or something. Leper couldn’t imagine being much excited as they were with a hot metal bar pressing into their legs to hold them in place while they were flung about.

Redhead glanced back, and Leper realized he had been bouncing his leg. He stopped, avoiding her quick look. “Okay. That’s cool,” Redhead was saying to Jacket. Leper could almost make out the design on the back – it looked like a dolphin with a psych motif. Screen print. Pretty cool. The two were not looking at each other. ‘Bout to get flung around and they gotta add more tension. The Wildcat began clicking up the steep incline as the next group of carts pulled behind them for more summer hopefuls to corral into. Leper watched the concrete pull away and felt the open embrace of the sky grow. He shifted on the seat and checked his belt. I could be at MacGuffin’s right now. “They travel around the state. It’s one person, and they inspect every ride,” Jacket was talking now. Her voice was tight. Probably likes this as much as I do. Jacket was looking around; she watched the ground peel, the carts pull up but did not look at her friend. Redhead was mostly looking forward, at least as far as he could tell. Don’t stare. Be like water. Cool. “You mean they’re supposed to,” Redhead was saying something else, but Leper couldn’t piece it together. There’s a word for that. I can’t remember. This clickin’ is too much. Leper looked forward – not looking at the two in front of him, but also at them. We’re close enough, anyway. Jacket had turned her attention to her friend – finally – she her face close to Redhead’s. “I know this one was inspected,” she breathed just loud enough for Leper to hear. Weird. Redhead twitched her head a little and kept looking forward. “How? Okay, but why are you bringing it up?” “It’s what my dad does.”

A stillness caught the conversation as their carts clicked into place at the peak of the incline. Leper found his breath weak – shallow, that’s a word for this. He looked behind him, and felt the sky lean on his back. The carts below were just filling up. That was a mistake. This was a mistake. He faced forward again. “I thought he wasn’t around?” Redhead had turned her face so that they were almost cheek to cheek. Two moons orbiting each other. Like a scifi flick. “He’s not, but we text. Mom doesn’t know. She wouldn’t like it,” Jacket said, moving closer to her friend. “Is he still -” “Don’t tell. No. If he was, he couldn’t work for the state.” “Right.” If words were lasers this would be a light show of carnage. The two looked their separate ways, but didn’t look like strangers sharing a pew. Seems like they hit their targets. “You’re freaking me out,” Redhead’s voice raised. This time in Drama Drama Drama, no one communicates, and we watch the same episode next week! Leper looked about the cart, but didn’t look down. Feels like we have been up here a minute. The sweat down his chest and back had stopped. A coolness washed under his skin leaving his hands clammy. “It’s okay. He said he inspected this one.” “Abbi, that was dumb.” Jacket, Abbi, twisted to face her friend with her body as much as the belt and bar would allow. “Dad fixes things now. He fixed this. He’s gonna fix things at home.”

Drama Drama Drama. Stay tuned after the break for -. “Abbi, when?” They were facing each other now. Leper could see their eyes welling with tears. Abbi held her face firmly with a distant stare at her friend. Redhead’s face was quivering. “Yesterday.” A loud clank thudded through the carts. Wind blew against Leper’s back. His view of the two in front of him was wreathed with his hair. The summit of the track fell away. Leper felt it in his balls – the drop. Redhead twisted in her seat – eyes wide as she looked past Leper. His own vision tunneled: some heads in front of him, one wide eyed, and blue sky scraping against track. A wildcat against a large metal slug. Everything was loud. The noise and motion of the summer hopefuls in front of him were like watching a robin in a thunderstorm – drowned by the roar of wind and utterly goddamn pointless. Leper twisted in his own seat and looked back. The ground was opening to welcome them. The rails shook. The summer hopefuls in the previous carts who had been waiting their turn were screaming and flapping just like those in his cart. This was a mistake. Leper turned forward. It felt like Abbi and Redhead’s eyes burned into him. “Buckle your pants,” he said. Sometime he blacked out. This is that other consciousness. Leper was standing in a Konbinient store, and then he was in a MacGuffin’s. The MacGuffin’s was good with golden lights and the same-same faces of the clerks smiled at him. The burger was perfect. He took a bite and found himself in the wet weather creek behind the Filipino nail place. The burger was still in his hand. This ain’t bad then.

Partied – Build Up The marble end table made a triumphant thump against the older wood of the deck. The peak morning sun reflected off the polished black and white surface but suffocated into nothingness against the deep chocolate legs. There were bugs biting this morning. Their buzzing hymn was accentuated by the slap of flesh. He leaned against the deck rail, feeling the wood made soft by weather and time – I really shoulda been paintin’ it. I can do it next weekend – the haint blue heavily chipped exposing raw wood. Kinda like Ma’s hands. Weathered, but soft. Warm. He let his weight rest heavily against the deck rail. The deck had been young – new, young is weirdass word for a deck – when Ma had last been here. His vision focused on a carpenter ant as it crawled across his arm. A line of them weaved from one crack in the rot to the next. Their moment in the sun brief. He lifted his arm out of their path. Saint’s work. Ma would be proud. Lake Hudson was still. Bur oak, cottonwood, and eastern redbuds reflected in the placid mirror. About time for storms to begin rollin’ in. The sky was clear, and watersports had not started. As far as he could see, the trees ringed the great glass of the lake, a small forest on every side interspersed with old new development houses like his own. With a squint he could distinguish a snake or alligator snapper – still ain’t seen a gator proper, though, like out in Claremore Lake – in the nearby waters, or pick out a red mulberry or smooth sumac along the edge up the way. He filled his lungs with a deep breath, coughed, and spat the mucous over the railing. About time for sinus bullshit too. Rapping the wood with his knuckles, he turned back to the house and stepped into the half-floor living room. LeAnne Taylor was saying something mute on the tv. Empty words for an empty room. Not sure where Sarah up and went to. He ran his hand

along the back of the black leather couch and stopped at the turntable just before the kitchen. Where’s the Sabbath? A nice gap sat where the first four Black Sabbath records should be. Brady said somethin’ about listenin’ to ‘em, but he ain’t been over in a week. He stared at the emptiness. Some dust swirled in the space. Little particles that caught light dancing in a miniature void. He heavy blinked. “I need a drink.” The kitchen was as it always was. They each had a room – he and Sarah – his was the living room, where he could sit and listen to music, or watch old music videos on the tv. It was a space he spent years getting right – the couch, the audio setup, the band tour posters on the walls. The kitchen was the same for Sarah. There were the knives she could only use – special ordered from Japan, I guess, don’t get it – and the special dinnerware, the catalogue-ordered-from-Europe accessories and decor. It always seemed potshot to him, but Sarah had made the kitchen her own since moving in. Here it is. He opened the freezer; it was one of those new smart fridges and grabbed out the glass jug. The clear liquid was bone chill cold, but not frozen. He grinned and sat the jug down. “Now we’re partyin’.” There was a junk drawer in the back of the kitchen, even Sarah couldn’t avoid that black spot in her perfect little kitchen, and that’s where he kept his shot glass. It sat with discarded batteries, extra cables, and detritus they weren’t willing to let go of yet. Just plain forgotten, but not this. It was a plain shot glass – he never knew it to have any logo or some such on it, but the glass had weight and strength to it. He liked that. At the turntable, he took out the first Bolt Thrower album and let the need drop. That first oomph. When the needle hits. He placed the record sleeve on the display stand and went back to the kitchen to grab the moonshine and shot glass. Everclear’s cheaper, but the ‘shine has the

taste. He went out to the deck again and put the sweating jug on the end table. Susan was strict about coasters, but he was strict about the records. He poured a shot. Took it. Poured another and held the little glass in his hand. The day was quickly warming, and the cool sweat of the glass felt good. Out and back across the house, he heard a car door thump shut. He turned. From the deck he could see across the living room to the front door with its windowed face. Susan stepped in – tote bag about recycling, baseball cap, hoodie and jeans. She wouldn’t get caught dead wearing that out. “Party’s startin’,” he shouted across the living room from the deck entrance, “come have a shot.” He knocked the ‘shine back and poured another.

Partied – Coming Down “Take West 420 ‘til it goes Strang Road,” he sat the shot glass down on the marble end table now footrest. A sweating glass jug sat next to the glass. “Yeah,” the phone clunked down on the footrest, “Nah. Still here,” he said pressing the speaker button. From the deck, Lake Hudson lay before him – the sky envious of a truer blue, mirage streaks of bass, cradled by coiling foothills. Damn, they make it good in Chouteau. The jug clattered a bit against the whiskey glass, “You been to the Amish Cheese House out in Chouteau?” He realized Emma had been talking – she was always talking like her Ma – but he hadn’t been listening. Just as well. “Good people out there,” he knocked another shot of shine back, and let the glass fall onto the footrest. “Guess I’m tired, yeah.” Emma said something about work – same country mile drawl – Lake Hudson had always looked like a camouflage jacket left out in a thunderstorm: shades of verdant running vibrant with sun kissed lightness humbled by brown splotches with a fat water moccasin in the center. Goddamn beautiful, goddamn free. “---I’m glad you and Ma,” Emma was saying something again, but he was centered now. The breeze came up wet carrying the dry cicada hum. Brady hated ‘em. The wet breeze became a small cave not far from this house where he and Brady had sworn the cicada song filled their heads. Something about... “I’m happy to be seein’ the lake house.” He picked up the phone and walked into the house. Metal music thumped the 90’s new construction from the master bedroom. Sarah was lying about – like she always did after fucking or fighting – the furniture was partied around laying or sitting in awkward positions like a wasted sophomore. He ignored the pools of liquid. “Yeah. It’s nice. Your Ma loves it – she's in bed.”

Emma was saying something again in that voice. It was a cicada song slowed down. Brady hated ‘em. He caught himself from slipping on a dark pool with the counter and dropped the phone on it. The lights were low dimmed and recessed as they were. Said I was always handsomer in low light. Where the linoleum didn’t squelch under foot, he could feel a dullness pushing against them – like a baby in the belly. Brady hated them too - “Stay the weekend. You won’t leave,” he laughed and brushed aside shattered plates. Or bowls. Or decorative – bullshit novelty – cutting board. It was hard to make out in the darkness – I been makin’ out in the dark for a long time – and his head had started to roll coal it felt. He took the good knives – or the good knife only used for special occasions – the rest were scattered about: sticky on the floor, stuck around, partied. Missing. So much for good cutlery. “You gotta at least stick around to help clean up,” he laughed, dropping the good knife, catching it for a moment, and let go with a slick hand. “Shit! Cut myself.” He bent over and grabbed another knife – it's all the same – from a sticky puddle. From a cabinet he grabbed summer sausage and began chopping it. The cuts were thick; the knife loud against the stone counter, gauging and marking it. His bleeding hand made the knife slick and loose. It stung with each cut, but it felt good to cut through the sausage. Smears of chunky blackness bleared the sausage chunks. He skewered a fat chunk with the knife, pocketed the phone, and walked towards the deck. Goddamn beautiful, goddamn free. “Gonna have my buddy, Brady, over too. Sarah and him gets along. You’ll too,” he pulled the phone out of his pocket, “yeah, south on 442. I’ll see you.” He hung up and threw the phone. For a moment it seemed to hang like a fish in an egret’s mouth – caught between sky and a truer blue.

Anonymo 04 Earl held the report under the fluttering lamp. No amount of fiddling with the LED stopped it. There were more pressing matters. The ID document checked out - good, White might be good - and the timestamp reinforced the matter. He glanced at the subject. Risk Assessment - Anonymous 04. His skull seemed to suck in, or the walls of the one room squat slammed. He wasn’t sure. “This report will summarize and confirm various concerns held in A.I. about Anonymo 04”. Early sank his weight against the desk. A midcentury dupe 3D printed like everything else in the room. The plastic bowed a little under his elbows. Anonymo Intelligence, or A.I., was a privately funded government division buried under a nauseating mixture of parent corporations and government red tape. Earl didn’t know who his boss was for sure. Not that it mattered. What an understatement from this White guy. Anonymo 04 is priority one for A.I. Earl steadied a finger and guided his eyes past the bullshit legalese. Fluff to make the report beefier than it needed to be. Ever since the leak a few years ago everyone thinks their report has gotta be goddamn stellar to sell their tell all book. He stopped at “DANGEROUS,” and backed up a line. “Anonymo 04 has been determined to be DANGEROUS. Anonymo 04 not only exhibits cognition, awareness, and resourcefulness but a negative disposition to non-Anonymo.” Earl stood and angled the lamp upwards. The light fluttered in a slow cycle like it was just woken up, or was falling asleep. He felt much the same. Somewhere between now and somewhere else. Anywhere else. He scanned the paragraph again, picked apart the grammar, and made sure it said what he read. He caught the name Ford. Read the sentence again. “It should be noted this Anonymo has taken the human name of Ford.”

The lamp cycled into darkness again. Earl punched the cheap plastic desk and left a crater. Anonymo 04 is just the latest. We have a goddamn problem. Light filled the room and he picked the report up. The Anonymo had been steadily breaking free of local and mesh security networks. A.I. had not been able to determine if this happened before or after their apparent birth of free will. He looked at the analysis and findings. 1.) Finding One: Anonymo 04 is dangerous. 2.) Finding Two: Anonymo 04 has gained independence. 3.) Finding Three: Anonymo 04 is missing and has likely gathered with more Anonymo. Earl skipped through the rest to the conclusion. We know there are more. It’s just finding them before they go AWOL. We can’t. He turned to the conclusion. A small photograph was attached of Anonymous 04. The pale android stood in a bare room illuminated by a bare lightbulb that hung from the ceiling. The light made his factory stock blond hair look ghostly white. Anonymo 04 was dressed in black. A black button up, black tie, black slacks. Neatly pressed, ironed. Goddamn. He stared out a window. There were no drapes, no blinds, bare glass overlooking the faux neon signs below. The stare was distant. Earl flicked his eyes to the last line of the report and felt cold wash over him. “It is imperative we contain the Anonymo threat. Ford is a likely leader and is very resourceful.” He looked at the photograph again. That stare is ad hominem.

The Mailbox & The Store The snow and rain and heat and gloom of night had beat the hell outta the mailbox. I could see where rust had eaten the legs, been painted, eaten again. They looked like they could run about as good as those Grumman Long Life Vehicles did. About as good as I can run. It looked better than me. Like a rockstar coming off a binge at the Viper Pit those goddamn mailboxes could look like the dark side of a bruise and still look decent. Iconic. It was a block away. Midday sun shining the way it has to. The sweat was running down my face. Hiding in my beard. The coffee shop, local DCF building, and what I’m pretty sure was a continuing drug or human trafficking front was all that stood before me. It wasn’t bad for a Thursday walk. I couldn’t remember why the hell I had parked a block away. People, that’s right. I hadn’t wanted to sit awkwardly in my car waiting for a family or group of friends or something to move on. I hadn’t paid much attention. There were people, and I couldn’t stand to be near them. Kansas and their goddamn window tint laws made me feel like an ape on display, sweating, watching people and waiting for them to pass by. So, I parked a block away. Letter on the dash. I was standing at it now. The blue bastard of a box with more balls and brains than me. It didn’t back down. My hands were shaking, and my head was heavy. I could feel the creak in my teeth. Taste it even. I hated it like I hate the box and the weight of the letter and the soft thump it made at the in the belly.

The sweaty man left the mailbox. He was in a hurry – using horse legs. I thought he looked sick or maybe he didn’t spend enough time walking. Mom always says to walk a lot. She says it’s best to walk in the sun. Or outside. But inside is okay, too. It’s best to walk in the sun. I liked the mailbox a lot. We always go to it to mail my Aunt Kristy letters. We have a mailbox at home. It’s painted a light blue with flowers. We painted it because before it looked like dirt. Mom didn’t like it. I thought it looked like poop. So, we painted it and now it’s the only mailbox with those flowers on it. It’s a pretty mailbox, but we come to this one to mail letters to Aunt Kristy. We stopped by the coffee place and got a drink with a long name. It tasted like chocolate. When it’s hot we get it cold, and when it’s cold we get it hot. Most of the time. That is what we always do. Every week I mail a letter to Aunt Kristy telling her about school and my friends and the funny things that happened. I drew her pictures and a poem too. I usually get a letter back on Monday with a lot of stamps and Aunt Kristy draws a picture on the letter too. The mailbox was about my height. I liked that. It was like a great big fish – with a great big mouth – trying to eat a great big bug. Instead, it got my letter. Again. Poor fish! Mom says that how it gets fiber. She laughs. I think broccoli has fiber too. Like the letter. “Hey!”

Ryan turned to face the clerk. He was a big guy – a big guy – the kind of guy who learned how to swing his weight, and little else. Eyebrows. I know those eyebrows. The clerk closed the five or so feet between. However wide the aisle was. His face was already red and squinty eyed. Oh. The protest. Ryan took a step back and to the side, but the clerk was on him. “I don’t know what-” “You know me ‘cause I know you!” The big guy’s muscle on a stick for a finger jammed into Ryan’s chest. The pain was dull. “We had a talk ‘bout two nights ago. It was during the party at the city hall.” Same finger, another jam into hist chest. “Yeah. You know me!” I know you’re a fucking ape. Ryan reached behind for a can of something and found a large can. He swung the can around to hit the clerk’s head with a meaty thump. “Screw you, man!” The clerk blinked and Ryan dropped the can. Here we go. It rolled a short bit away. Meat brick. The clerk lifted Ryan from the ground and threw him into a display behind. The metal wire dug into his back. The shelf left a dull cut on the small of his neck. He jumped back to his feet, catching himself as his footing slipped on a box, and brought himself into the meat brick’s face. “I know you, yeah. Scraped you off my boot!” He pushed the clerk. The clerk didn’t move. “Talk about shit!” Ryan pushed again. The clerk’s fist anchored back, and Ryan watched the fluorescent lights overhead smear away as he dropped. The clerk had the man by the collar and was in the process of throwing him into a display of animal shaped macaroni noodles. The boxes crushed under the man’s weight. Some of them scattered like drunk beetles across the polished concrete floor. I wonder if the rest will get marked down. Ryan loves those. The macaroni man stood up and got back into the clerk’s face. I hope he throws him into the Velveeta.

The shouting had mixed in with the twenty years out of date music playing overhead. She had heard it, but the same way she heard the music, or conversation around her. It was like those jars of peanut butter and jelly in neat little stripes. Mixed, and technically fine, but better ignored altogether. Hope this doesn’t slow down lines upfront. I could use the self-checkout. The macaroni man was spitting words into the clerk’s face. What a jerk. The clerk punched the macaroni man in the face. An explosion of snot and blood wrapped around the clerk’s fist. Like strings of cheese. There was more shouting, but it was impossible to hear over the loudness of the punch. The crunch of impact followed by the soft squelch. A crowd was gathering, and Shay backed her cart. Ryan can wait. I’m not in the mood for mac and cheese. Tonight is a frozen lasagna and whatever Netflix recommends night. Shay made her way towards the frozen section and ignored the crumpled man on the ground.

Two Tickets “Where were you last night?” The feeling of a hundred insect legs went down Shawn’s neck. He turned from the time clock and let the name badge lazily dangle while the busted badge reel on his apron struggled. Moira wouldn’t be here. Dampness, the consistent cologne of every Konbinient backroom, no matter the make and model of season, overwhelmed him. Ryan stood close. Oh, it’s not Moira. The cold from the large walk-in freezer he spent most of his shift on radiated from his oversized coat. The coat was wet and shined under abrasive white light. His face was wet too – the trademark miniature icicles dangled from his nose and beard – almost making an iceshelf. A skinned Yeti. Just a well-groomed Yeti. Shawn’s vision lost focus on Ryan’s face, the brown hair and beard in disarray, and instead focused on the visible cold that crowned him. “Earth to Major Dipshit,” Ryan lightly knocked on Shawn’s forehead. “Yeah, I was sick. Had a cold,” Shawn replied with a heavy blink. His eyes refocused on Ryan’s face, and he saw that he was grinning. Shawn groaned. “Yeah, I bet. Cold sleeping out in your vintage creeper car. How pissed was Moira?” “It was just another fight. That’s all.” “Sleep?” Shawn leaned against the time clock. It beeped. He ignored it. “Not really, no.” He rubbed his eyes, “I don’t know.”

Ryan laughed. The laughter was cut short by the truck doorbell. “Aw, man,” Ryan said as he turned to the bay door, “I forgot we got a delivery this morning. I got it, I got it. You wake up a little. Work frozen – I won’t tell Linda.” He nodded his head toward the door. “Comin,’ I’m comin’!” “Thanks, man.” The lights inside the shelf coolers kicked on as Shawn walked up. Boxes of frozen entrees and specialty items filled the shelves. Products promising better health, less salt, or worldly cuisine. He parked the small cart of cold boxes to prop open a door. They oughta fix this. It’s been two months. The mobile scanner made quick of checking inventory - the plant-based bean and “cheeze” burritos were low by three. Cold wetness slapped against his back where his shirt rode up - I’ll get a damn screwdriver. Fix it myself - as he placed the last burrito. The cart squeaked away from the door. Shawn let it drift. That’s life. They promise self-propping doors and you get shit. You get a cold ass back. He leaned against the opposite side of the frame, propping the door with his knee, and began to check dates. Would have been a good time to bring the pads. The condensation and cold made steady work on his knee as he worked. His watch read a hair past seven. This section of frozen overlapped into produce and the small health food section. Seventeen years. The money ain’t bad. This store is smaller than the last. A produce associate was worrying with the potatoes. She wasn’t anyone he recognized - not that anyone sticks around long - and would probably be introduced at the morning meeting. Or she had already. The meetings tended to blur together - a lot like the music overhead.

The morning crowd will be in soon. There were the smokers who bee-lined it to the service desk upfront, and the New Yorker who did his best Midwestern improv who bought whatever the college cafe was lacking between order deliveries. If Moira gets that promotion back in Lawrence, I’ll have a couple of stores to move to. He took a breath away from the cooler and held the door with a gloved hand. The gloves were “store used” garden gloves. “You’re lettin’ the cold out,” a round man stood next to Shawn with a hand basket. The man wore a bright Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned with a white tank underneath, his white chest hair curling over, khaki shorts and well-worn sandals. The overhead lights crowned his balding head in a halo. “Your momma never teach you?” Someone let the weird uncle out. Shawn laughed, “Just taking a moment outta the cold.” “Time and time,” the man stuck out his hand, “Gary.” Shawn shook his hand and noticed he only had a six pack in the hand basket. A local microbrewery. Strong weird uncle energy. “Just gettin’ the breakfast of champions,” Gary winked. “Shawn, tell me -“ Shawn jumped a little, and the round man laughed. There was a twinkle in his eye that hovered between friendly and mischievous. Like the ocean sunlight zone. “How did you -“ Shawn remembered the name badge lapeled to his apron and laughed, “I forget that is there. People get the name jump on me all the time.” “I saw you thinkin’,” Gary said with a smile, “and I heard you too.” He looked up at the speaker above them. “Different song.” He hummed the melody for a moment. “I know that look, kid. You was lookin’ somewhere else.”

Shawn felt the refrigeration run up his back, and shut the door behind him. Gary had pushed his cart further away and stood in front of it. “Well,” Shawn slapped his legs jokingly, “it’s about that time. I better get back to it.” Gary reached into a side pocket of his shorts, and pulled out two tickets. “It just so happens I got these, and don’t need ‘em no more.” He held them out to Shawn. “The old lady and I have other plans,” he leaned in, “on account of the gout. Hers - not mine.” Shawn tasted his breath. It was distinctly sausage patties and beer. He took a step back, and glanced at the tickets held in Gary’s hand. “I don’t think - “ The light caught the gold filigree on the tickets. Paradise shone brightly. Natural neon. He laughed, “Where did you even get these?” “Swap meet,” Gary held them closer to Shawn’s chest, “They’re yours, kid. What are the chances? Life don’t just throw an opportunity like this. Take ‘em so they ain’t weighin’ me down. Think it over.” “Good morning Konbinient shoppers! Associates, it is time for the morning meeting. Please report to the morning meeting, thank you.” Shawn took the tickets and shoved them into his apron pocket. “Thanks,” he slid past Gary, “I appreciate it. I’ll see you.” He took the cart and made his way to the backroom. The overnight guys got it good. They don’t get these weird shoppers. Moira was parked outside near the bike rack. She looked at Shawn’s bike chained to the rack, and motioned to the pickup bed. He unchained the bike and threw it in the back. He got in the truck. Moira had a podcast playing low, and the AC running, although she was wearing a

sweater. “Nice surprise,” he said while turning the podcast up for a moment to hear which show it was. “Yeah, I decided to work from home for the afternoon.” She put the truck in reverse a hair to turn from the parking spot without backing up anymore. The truck rode over the sidewalk edge as she turned. “Country rules,” she glanced at Shawn, “I figure we could make lunch together before I get back at it - before you take your nap.” He laughed, “Sure, sounds good.” She is mad if she took work off. Moira did not return the laugh. She made a slow turn along the back end of the parking lot. Guess we’re snails today. Shawn observed the tattered Yule decorations that hung from the privacy fence. The decorations were old and battered. He had never seen them lit in the few years he had been at the store. Trash against the fence is almost festive. Few more Dorito bags. The podcast host’s voice offered a low susurration mixed with the soft blow of AC. A soundtrack for tension contained in a truck cab. Shawn looked at Moira, but she did not look at him. That’s pointed. That’s sharp enough to cut. “So, how was work?” Moira continued to focus heavily on the parking lot. Customers and their vehicles were low this time of day. Shawn took a deep breath and observed a mechanic working on the drive-up ice machine while Moira waited to pull onto the highway. If she can do it so can I. Shawn lost himself in the observation of the mechanic. Sure feels like forever. The highway, main street in town, had more traffic than a three o’clock Tuesday usually did. A motorcycle with Colorado tags weaved between vehicles to break past the coagulation Moira and Shawn seemed to be caught in. Somewhere in the mess, someone honked, and another responded. In a moment, it sounded like a pack of dogs barking. Must be a baseball game.

Shawn looked over his shoulder, but didn’t see any of the gaudy school buses that often came to town for tournaments. “This is pretty wild, huh?” “Must be a game,” Moira was focused on the road, and Shawn distracted himself by checking messages on his phone. Anything but this. It was mostly memes and days late follow up texts. It took a few minutes, and he found himself watching videos. The truck jerked and Shawn dropped his phone to the floorboard, “Shit!” “That car!” Moira pointed at a red convertible that had forced itself halfway into their lane, forcing Moira to drift quickly to the side, almost against another truck that made no move to give space. “What is this? This isn’t Topeka!” “Maybe something blew up,” Shawn said, “like the world.” Moira laughed, “With the shithead for President we got, probably.” She paused for a moment, “I got the promotion. Was gonna tell you at home, but I’m super anxious. This traffic isn’t helping.” “That’s great! I’ll put in at a couple of Kobiniences out there,” Shawn leaned over to pick up his phone and pocketed it. Moira pulled into the turning lane, and waited to move forward. The traffic around them continued, but didn’t seem to get better. Only thicker, louder. “Should be easy. Speaking of which, but not really.” He reached into his apron pocket and pulled out the two tickets. “Check this out. Some old dude gave these to me.” Moira glanced over. The golden filigree was bright, almost self-illuminating, in the cab of the pick up truck. “Movie tickets?” “Tickets,” Shawn laughed, “to paradise.”

Moira shook her head, “This is what I wanted to talk about. You’re not taking this seriously -” A large greasy hand slapped against his window, and Shawn jerked away closer to Moira. A big guy in greasy overalls shouted something he didn’t catch and slapped the window with his meaty hand. “What the fuck.” Moira released the brake, and turned. “I don’t know what the hell is going on.” The railroad crossing ahead was closed. I hate living on the north side. “Well, we’re gonna be home in a few,” he looked around at the traffic. They headed to Hutch? Traffic crowded ahead and behind them on the old highway. “Anyway, he insisted I take ‘em. His name was Jerry or something. Weird guy,” Shawn continued, “I figure they’re like those coins you get where the tail sides is a butt and-“ “Look,” Moira said. He followed her gaze ahead and saw a large old school passenger train come to a stop at the crossing. It gleamed silver and white in the afternoon sun. The word Paradise was in blinding gold on the side. Shawn looked at the tickets in his hand, and back at the train. “You look,” Shawn said and lightly shook the tickets, “do you think?” Moira stared at the tickets. “No.” “What else could it be?” “It’s weird, and too coincidental.”

“Look,” he gestured, “there’s a guy. What are they called? Conductors? I’ll see if these are legit.” “Shawn, I don’t think – look, this is stupid. Stay in the truck.” “It won’t hurt nothing if I check it out. It could be our big break. You and me in Paradise. Think about it, Moira! No more state park stuff, no more ‘for your konbinience.’ I – we, need this.” He unbuckled and stepped out into the road. All four lanes were full of traffic. That’s weird. The other side is oncoming. As far as he could see both sides of the highway were headed their way - out of town. He gripped the tickets in his fist and worked his way through the vehicles. As he got closer to the Paradise some cars honked - probably pissed they can’t get to that bar and grill on the other side - and stopped. It was almost like the fluttering of wings when a great flock of birds took to the sky, but deeper, as if someone had downturned the notes. Shawn looked back and around him. Everyone was getting out and heading towards the Paradise. Headed towards him. Moira stood halfway out of the truck, “Shawn! Get back! The tickets!” The crowd began to yell. Shawn stumbled, and turned back to the Paradise. He began to run toward it. He reached the conductor - or whatever the train welcoming dude is - as each vehicle parked behind the Paradise had its car alarm go off. He held out the tickets and shouted, “Can I get on?” He was distinctly aware of the crowd - the mob - gaining on him like a slow mudslide. “Just one?”

Shawn looked at the tickets, and back to Moira who was again in the truck, and back at the man. “No - I don’t know. What?” The man took the tickets and clapped him on the back. “Welcome aboard! Welcome to Paradise!” He half-shoved Shawn onto the train as he stepped forward to board. The silence was loud. It drowned out the shouts and car alarms outside. The air was cool, but he heard no hum. Outside the opposite side Shawn could see the road was as clear as the sky. He looked back at the crowd. They continued to yell, and cars continued to flash. Moira sat in the truck, which was now surrounded by more of the crowd, who beat their fists on the hood. “Glad ya could make it, kid.” Shawn turned, and Gary sat a ways down at a small table for two. A large burger basket sat on the table, with a large styrofoam cup, and he had a large ‘kerchief with a red lobster tucked into his white undershirt. “Sorry about your old lady,” he motioned with a plastic fork that had burger speared on it. “What -“ “Looks like she bought a different ride than you,” he laughed and gestured again. Shawn turned to the window. Moira’s truck was being rocked. She sat in the driver seat bracing herself and staring at the Paradise. “It’s one way or another,” Gary continued, “though I guess you didn’t really buy anything. Not with your money.”

A waiter came down the aisle with a cart, and stopped at Gary’s table. He wore a creamy gold suit and hat. He served a single burrito, burst on the sides, on a white plate opposite of Gary. The waiter and Gary said something to each other that Shawn didn’t catch. Outside, the Paradise blew its horn, and Shawn thought he heard bells. I taste copper. “Come on,” Gary stood and beckoned Shawn as the Paradise moved, “You oughta eat. We got a long ways.” He wiped his face with the ‘kerchief, and grinned. “It’s one of those bean and cheeze burritos you were stocking.” Shawn sat down, “What is this? What about Moira?” “Look, I get it kid. I left my own old lady behind. We’re headed west – call it Paradise. Everyone wants a piece of the pie.” Gary gestured out the window. “Some don’t know it, you got yours, and that’s what matters, alright?” Shawn poked at the bean and cheeze burrito. What the fuck. “Why me?” Gary looked Shawn up and down, “I figured you could make it, and that means you’re good for my needs. Kid, you sang, and I answered.” He held up a hand before Shawn could speak, and the taste of copper became overwhelming in his mouth. Shawn felt his jaw muscles tighten painfully and could not open his mouth. “It ain’t about the destination. Enjoy the ride before it slows down.” Gary reached across the table and took the burrito. “If you’re not gonna then I don’t guess you mind.” Shawn felt his legs lock when he tried to stand. It was like pushing against a stone wall internally. The waiter returned and buckled Shawn’s belt across his lap.