Two little elves frolicked
in green lush grass.
Playful sprites
loving life
until the deluge of death ash.
At first, it was unnoticed.
Clothed in dress pants of
a kind friend, a sister, a brother,
a muggle wife who didn't like
her elf loving another.
Bit by itsy bit,
sabotage was laid
to rest in the lush green grass
for the elemental folk
to trip over.
Single words whispered
to breathe discontent
around their clover.
One elf could smell it,
and signaled out a warning,
but the other was aloof...
until the ash had settled
all snug and smiles
under their earthen roof.
Bit by itsy bit,
friendly-tailored rot
crept into their lot
to spoil the spritely two.
What were two little elves to do?
They clasped each other's hands,
retrieved some water and rags,
and dusted off their brooms.
They flitted about from
room to room
gathered up the fake,
smiling, friendly-fire masks
and tossed every one of them
out on their ass.

He was methodical in approach.
Seemingly selfless encroachment
entrenched in support.
A pillow for the wounded
until he too, was wounded
in ways he did not foresee.
A crutch for the penurious minds
until there was no more time
for the lucid intimacy left at home.
Too far did he roam
past the realm of what mattered most,
that within his need to hero, to host,
he became the selfless ghost,
lost within a methodical approach. ​

Belly curves carve lines
outside the waste of her jeans.
A reflection distorts,
hips much wider than they seem.
Objects in mirror
bigger than they appear.
Wrinkles and skin tags
bolster a hag
who still feels so alive.
How dare she?
Don't she know she'll never be?
Never live up to what he wants?
Bodacious boobs and a little butt.
A mouth that never speaks.
Sunshine locks on shoulders.
Freshly shorn legs that never quit.
Good for a drink, or ten.
He snagged himself a trophy, again.
But trophies are for shelving.
Trophies for display.
No meat, no vigor, no depth.
No layers, no fray.
Trophies are for bragging,
but then they're put away.
Her belly curves laugh out loud,
they belly-flop
into the crowd
with apologies unsent.
Her lips a caricature
for words with no audible repent.
A hairline streaked with silver.
A bust all a-quiver
underneath the fabric
of her being.
She is layered.
She is frayed.
And absolutely no
apologies are made.

This Burger King was just at the base of a heavy interstate exchange. Skirted with buzzing buttresses of concrete and asphalt, and flanked by a myriad of hotel chains; this joint screamed of irregular clientele and lazy staff. We didn't care. Five hours of grinding freeway traffic, construction zones, and fearless drivers had made us rather hangry. A pit stop refill was needed, and BK was the closest place.

The floor was sticky, and the counter tops even more so. There was a black sharpied "disinfectant" bucket filled with three-day old sludge, plopped by the napkin dispenser. I wondered which new employee had never cared to move it. My guess was all of them. Had I not been so highway frazzled, I may have chosen a different place to dine. Oh well.

We chose our filthy seats, unwrapped our questionable burgers, and dunked our saturated finger foods in stuff labeled "ketchup". We slurped at our plastic straws without caring about which landfill they would inevitably forever lay. Then, she walked in. 

She was a lone, middle-aged stranger from the random realms of public domain, and wore deep sadness on her face. I watched her gather a beverage from the filmy dispensers, walk into the kid's playroom, and settle at a table that appeared all too familiar to herself. 

I gnawed on my chunky chicken sandwich and viewed her hands stroke circles on the table top. At first, I thought she was attempting to clean the surface, but a far-off look in her eyes sang a different story. She was reflecting, remembering something, or someone. 

My daughters poked fun at each other while I stared at our stranger, and pictured a history only a mother would notice. The play area sat empty, except for her. She never drank from her cup, while she laid heavy eyes on a small, vacant seat. How long had she been visiting? Weeks? I'd guessed years, at that point. It was an old Burger King, no question.

We dumped our discarded bits and pieces in the hardly emptied receptacle and mosied back to our car. Outside the window, I saw her run thin fingers through her tired hair, and I hugged my girls as they climbed into their travelling seats. 

"Well, kids, how were your Whoppers?"

Harvest came late and early,


all at the same time.

Fruits were ripe for pickin' while

the first crop lay rotting in the fields,


groves, orchards, and urban greenhouses.

There was no way to keep up

with this burden of blessing.

We had to step on the squishiness of it all,


just to gather new bounty.

Ruined shoes and laces,

hot and sweaty faces,

an eagerness to unload,


to catch our breath,

led us in prayer for more time.

We wanted a rewind,

a step back in time,

just so we could be ready,

so the mess wouldn't slow us down.

But there it was,

glaring in the sun

like a ton of wasted wishes.

All we could do was keep pickin'.

Time’s hands were
hooded bandits.
Robbers.
Thieves.
Ticking a time warp
that stole precious
would-be memories
from a plate
of what
could-have-been.

At least there is a Now.
Somehow,
its hands haven’t
taken the Present,
the Today,
the At This Moment.

Those have been left
for the gray hairs,
the achy muscles,
and the scars.
Today is all that we have.
It is all that we are
till the sun gives way
to grace us.
Someday, we will not be cheated.
Someday, we will not be robbed.
Someday, we will show the world
exactly what we are made of,
and our ingredients are glorious.

Until then,
we remain current
and constant for the ones we love.
Like a time line that will never fade
retrograde, or dissipate. ​

Taps plays out.
Melancholy calling.
A reverberation
rattling my skin,
most holy.
I am flooded
with memory,
lapping up images
like waves of the Mississippi.
Fast upon my banks,
the brassy tones
invoke your every sacrifice,
and I am lost again.
But only for a moment.
The calling lulls...
it settles into the night
of cricket chirp concertos,
and tires rushing,
breezy trees, 
cicadas buzzing.
All is hushing
Taps to sleep.

She had a basket of bits
and things when she stepped
off the boat.
She had her papers tidy,
and a brogue to boot.
But no two stories are the same.
Some have a shirt,
some just sandy socks.

All of them
have a name.

Footprints
for milk and honey,
tear-streaked cheeks,
bellies hungry.

She ordered chips at the deli,
her first meal on this soil.
A man handed her crisps,
and she always recalled the trouble
of her confusion.

Fried potatoes
weren't supposed to
be crunchy.

Little feet hollering for momma.
Small cold eyes full of fright.
Crinkly silver blankets
rustling strangers in the night.
Chastised and caged
needing a better way
just to feel safe.

No two stories
are the same.

We really do have
enough to share.
We have dumpsters of food,
plastic packaging,
fruits for picking,
Tupperware.

We have water,
freshly bottled.
We have sheets,
freshly laundered
by some lady named Maria,
or Lucy, or Clare.

But we don't care
until every other one
born here
gets the choice
of throwing their own dinner away.

To this, I say...

She had a basket of bits
and things when she stepped
off the boat.
She had her papers tidy,
and a brogue to boot.
But no two stories are the same.
Some have a shirt,
some just sandy socks.

All of them
have a name.

She wasn't dainty,
like a bird.
Possibly hollowed,
and absurd.

Twas no man out there
quite aligned with her.
No muscle-bound
white knight scouring
the Great Divide
searching for her soul.

No, no, nooo.

Surely not one as
spirited as she.

Drumming up uncertainty
in sure-footed fashion.
Loosening up the buckles,
to be wounded when they fasten.
Cooing at the moon
as though it mattered.
Grooming thick-boned feathers,
distant remnants in a bloodline
of Celtic madhatters.


To think so,
she would be remiss.
Mistaken, and a fool.

She wasn't dainty
like a bird.
Possibly hollowed,
and absurd.
Holding on to hope
that her creative soul
had a match,
in the wide blue yonder.

Twas an idea to ponder
while she folded lonely socks
and tucked her kids to bed.
An idea to set on spin cycle
in her not-so-dainty head.

I will not credit the cards
stacked against me.

​No.

How could I allow those haters
​to creep inside,
when there are other cards
gently placed far and wide
for all of us to cling to?

So go ahead and stack 'em up.
I'll just pick 'em up,
and pass 'em back to the moles
whilst I don my shit kickers.

Those do-gooders shouting God's words
from their holier-than-thou
dirty rat pulpits.
​We'll have none of it.

They can scrub their lives
in directions that feed them best.
​We'll journey the endless miles
enjoy the giggles, and wiggles,
and we'll smile in our vagrant dress.

We'll bask in colors unattained.
shine in spectral rays, unglazed,
​un-phased by their vanity.

You and me.

Us.

We'll drop the Mic when our songs are sung,
​and not a moment before.

Then we'll tread upon their cards
splayed and scattered
​like little lost souls of spiteful haters,
​flung about the floor.

He rocks the cock block
like nobody’s business.
Suit and tie.
Crooked eye.
Aloof and pervasive
he dismisses with
casual innuendo.
Just the hook,
not the sinker.
Name in the book.
A safe way to keep her.
A lover with no intro,
Segway friends so
there’s no end.
But she can’t be a
girlfriend to anyone else.
That would dampen the fire
he stokes so solo,
in his aloof and pervasive mind.
So he cock blocks
whatever he finds.
​

          “Hi! Hi! What’s your name?” Mare bubbled out at the top of her lungs as she bounded off of her porch. She hadn’t noticed any neighbor kids since she’d moved in a few weeks earlier, so when she spotted the boy in her backyard, twirling on the tire swing, she wasted no time flying out the back door. Mare was hoping to meet some girls in her neighborhood, but after weeks of no one to play with; her parents working, unpacking, and being cranky, she was happy to meet any kids at all.

            Mare laid heavy eyes on the boy; soaking up his entire image. She figured he was around her own age, and no older than 11. Her cousin Jason was 11, and he was at least a head taller than this boy, so Mare reasoned her new acquaintance couldn’t be 11. This boy was thinner than her cousin, and she thought he looked a little sad. His clothes were sort of weird, too. Black dress slacks that may have been around the block, and a grey button-up shirt with odd straps that kept his pants up. She couldn’t remember what those things were called. Penders? Dependers? Pant straps! She settled on pant straps. That made the most sense to her. Mare wondered why he had to wear those fancy clothes, and whether he was gonna get in trouble for his pants being dirty.

          “My name’s Mare. I’m 9 and we just moved in. What’s your name? You like my tire swing? It’s too heavy for me to spin it, but you can. Yeah, keep twirling, I don’t mind.” Mare kicked at the roots of the tire swing’s home; a humungous oak tree that her mom said would drop a “shit-ton” of nuts in the fall. Too bad it wasn’t fall, Mare thought with a giggle.

          “I guess you don’t have a name?” Mare looked at the boy, who had come to a stop. He returned her glance and shook his head side to side, as if to say no. His eyes were dark, and Mare noticed how they looked like her black marbles from that Chinese checkers game her ole Aunt Jeanie had given her for Christmas. Chinese checkers my butt, Mare chuckled to herself, checkers don’t use marbles.

          “You don’t have a name? How can you NOT have a name? I thought everyone had names. Even my bitty ole Aunt Jeanie has a name, and nobody likes that lady, let me tell ya!” Mare chuckled out loud at herself and kicked the roots again. “You live ‘round here?” She inquired a little further. The boy shook his head yes, shuffled his wiry frame over on the tire and patted his hand down, inviting Mare to have a seat. Mare’s eyes widened and smiled to save the world.

          “Okay! I’ll swing with you!” Mare flung her legs over the tire and wriggled in next to her new friend. “Twirl, friend, twirl!”

          Mare gripped the rusty chains of the swing as they picked up speed, twirling round and round like water down the bathtub drain. She didn’t think that old tire swing could even go THAT fast, but there she was, spinning like crazy with her hair flapping, and feeling like she was about to barf. She clenched her eyes shut, to stave off the need to puke, and darkness sucked her in.

          Snippets of faces flashed through her mind like a movie. Big, angry eyes, even bigger hands grabbing at her arms, and a white-haired lady screaming, all empty-like. Mare suddenly felt all of the air get sucked from her lungs and she started to gasp. “Stop!” she tried to holler out, but felt her voice give way. Nothing. She struggled for grip on the chains and tried to open her eyes, but couldn’t. It was as though her eyes had been glued shut. She panicked, let go, felt her body go limp, then a stinging thud.

          The next few days were a bit of a blur for Mare. She remembered spinning with the neighbor boy, but her momma said she didn’t see that kid. Her momma also said that Mare had given her quite a scare when she’d found Mare unconscious, under the tire swing. Mare didn’t remember going to the hospital, and she thought it was all just a bad dream, like the ones she’d been having for days. Her momma said the bad dreams were part of her “conk-cushion” whatever that was.

          She couldn’t get the vision of big angry eyes out of her head, or that white haired lady, and every time she envisioned them, Mare felt angry. Like, so angry she wanted to throw things, anything. Her momma told her the dreams and angry feelings would go away once her conk-cushion healed. Stupid conk-cushions, Mare thought to herself.

          One week after her fall, Mare finally felt like her usual, playful self. It was a wonderful, sunny day out, so Mare decided to keep a watch out for her new friend. She really wanted to know his name, and show him to her parents so they wouldn’t think she made him up.

          “Mom, can I eat lunch on the back porch?” Mare shimmied up to her mother’s side in the kitchen. “Please, momma? It’s so nice out!”

          Her momma wiped her hands on a towel, scooped up a plate and looked down at her daughter. “I think that sounds like a great idea, Mare. You could use some sunshine, couldn’t ya? I hope PB&J, potato chips, and yogurt is acceptable today.”

          “Strawberry jelly?” Mare’s mouth started to water at the thought of strawberry jelly, and her tummy growled at her. Strawberry jelly was her all-time favorite.

“You bet, sugar-pie.” Her momma smiled and headed out the back door, with Mare in tow. “Would you like me to sit out here with you? I have one more load of laundry to fold, and then I can join you. Maybe we could go for a walk in a little bit?”

          “Sounds great, ma. Maybe we can find my friend’s house!” Mare stomped her feet excitedly and clasped her hands together. “Yeah! Let’s go find his house!”

          Her mother sat Mare’s lunch on a small weathered table, next to an equally small weathered chair that accompanied the house when they had moved in. “This table and chair is just your size, Mare! I guess I’d never noticed that before. Hmm. Well that’s just about perfect for porch lunches, isn’t it? Okay, I’m gonna run in and finish up the laundry real quick, and I’ll be right out. What would you like to drink, dear? Water? Lemonade?”

          “Oh! Lemonade, please!” Mare smiled up at her mother as she swung the back door open. Once her mom was out of view Mare turned her attention to her quaint lunch location. She timidly shifted her frame into the small wooden chair and it dawned on her that she had never sat in it before. How long had they lived in this new house? She wondered, and began her attempt to count back the days on her fingers that lay in her lap. “There are seven days in a week, and four weeks in a month” she whispered to herself as she crunched her young brain with numbers.

          Suddenly, a creaking sound caught her attention and she looked up to see that neighbor boy sitting on her tire swing, under that “shit-ton of nuts” of tree. Mare was shocked and delighted simultaneously. Where had he come from? He wasn’t there a second ago, she thought to herself.

​          “Hey!” she shouted without even thinking about it. Mare instantly jumped up and bounded off the porch towards her new friend. “Where’ve you been? I was hopin’ you’d come back, I want you to meet my mom!” Mare’s excitement reflected in her voice as she climbed onto the tire swing next to the boy, completely forgetting about the growl in her tummy.

********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
          Mare’s parents had sought out a small town to live in when her father was transferred for work. They thought it would be better for Mare. Small towns at least felt safer than a big city neighborhood. They could get to know everyone in a little town, and not have to worry so much about their daughter playing outside. Had they realized that Everton’s population of children was next to none, they may had opted for the city. All of the research they had done never made it clear that most all of the kids in Mare’s new school district were bussed in from the outlaying ranch communities. They didn’t dawn on that until a week or two after moving in.

          Mare’s father had taken a promotion at the solar factory, 25 miles away in the bustling city of Havery. The job was the opportunity of a lifetime, with a substantial pay raise that allowed Mare’s mom to stay home. This all worked out well since they moved during summer, and it gave the family a chance to get settled before transferring Mare into a new school.

          But they both felt a twinge of sympathy for their only child, since the move meant leaving Mare’s friends over 300 miles away. She would have to start over. They felt even worse when they realized there were no young kids to speak of in their new town.

          One Saturday, about a week after they had moved in, Mare’s mom took a walk around town and introduced herself to every person she came across. She had met the post master, the town clerk, every neighbor in a four-block radius, and the info hub of town; Pat Waylen, the Everton Corner Mart owner. She quickly realized that Pat knew everyone and anything in the little town, and had tucked that notation into her hat, just in case.

          When Mare took that spill off the tire swing and began talking about the new friend she’d met, her mom made a trip to the Corner Mart. As she checked out with some milk and eggs, she quizzed Pat about possible neighbor boys. Pat told her he couldn’t think of any young boys living near their new house, but he’d keep his eyes and ears open.  How strange, her mother thought. Mare’s mom and dad resided in the notion that her concussion gave her some strange dreams, and Mare was having difficulty realizing the boy wasn’t real. She’d grow past it soon enough, if they just let it go.

          “I’m telling you, Rick, she wants to go find his house. It’s been a week, I was hoping she’d be past this already. She still thinks he’s gonna come back.” Mare’s mom propped the receiver of the phone with a shoulder while she haphazardly folded some jeans. “Well, I’ll take her for a walk in a bit, and who knows, maybe we get lucky and actually find this boy. Oh, God, Rick, what if this boy IS real? What if he pushed her off the swing? Okay, okay, I’ll try to calm down, but I’m a little concerned, Rick. Okay hon, see you when you get home. Yep. I love you, too.” She laid the phone down on the counter and glanced out the window. “Oh shit!” she screamed and ran out the back door.

********************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************
 
          “Hey, why you wearing the same clothes?” Mare looked her friend up and down. “Don’t you have other clothes?” She was blunt and to the point as she sat on the swing, jutting her chin out to get a closer look at his face. His eyes were mesmerizing, and Mare couldn’t stop staring into them. She waited for an answer, but he just kept looking at her.

          “Aren’t you gonna say sompthin?” She quizzed harder. “What’s your name? My mom thinks you’re a figment of my imagination. When I fell the other day, I got a conk-cushion on my head…shook up my brains a little.” Mare studied the boy.

“Spin.” He whispered, barely audible, and Mare opened her eyes real big.

          “You CAN talk!” she blurted out. “If we spin, will you tell me your name?” Mare took hold of the chains real tight; she didn’t want to fall off again and get another conk-cushion that gave her nightmares.

            “Spin.” The boy whispered again, and without even pushing, the swing began to rotate. Mare kept her eyes locked on his, and as the swing picked up speed, she noticed his eyes began to change. At first, they were the size of black marbles, but then they grew a little, and a little more, and a little more, until all of a sudden, all Mare could see was black all around her. She felt the spinning all out-of-control like, and clenched her grip on the chains. Flashes of that white-haired lady came. Flash after flash after flash until the flashes all ran together like a projector. The lady was swinging her arms at Mare and yelling. “You’re a worthless boy! You’re a worthless boy!”

            Mare tried to scream, but nothing came out. Stop! She screamed silently. Stop! I want to get off! Still nothing. She jammed her eyes shut, but it didn’t stop the visions. The white-haired lady came at her with fists a-flailing and punched the side of Mare’s head. She felt the thud, the sting, and then everything went dark.
When Mare came to, she was still sitting on the tire swing, The sunlight hurt her eyes a bit as she opened them, and she heard her momma hollering all loud. “Mare! Mare! Oh my God, are you okay?”

          “Yeah mom, I’m, I’m fine.” Mare stuttered back as she looked up to see her mom running toward her. But, her mom didn’t run to her. She ran to some other kid on the ground, and Mare stretched her legs over the tire swing to get a better look. There, on the ground, Mare’s mom scooped up a little girl that was wearing Mare’s clothes. “Who is that?” Mare asked. “Mom? Who is that?” she asked again, but was ignored. It was like her mom couldn’t even hear her.

          Mare looked around, confused. Then she looked down at her legs, and at her arms, and her own chest. She was wearing strange clothes, clothes that didn’t belong to her. “Oh my God! I’m wearing pant straps!” she screamed and glanced up at her mother who was carrying a limp girl that looked an awful lot like herself. “MOMMA!” she screamed again, terrified of what was happening. The limp girl in her mother’s arms lifted her head to look back at Mare, and her eyes were as black as marbles.
 
 
 
 

The quiet leaves my mind
like a nimble typhoon
stretching my synapses
until there's no room
for anything alive.
​Hell on wheels
is the quiet
carving corners
​on a dime.

We were explosive, once.
​We tore each other apart.
I questioned your motives,
​and you defiled my heart.
But we were just kids,
​clawing at the world.
We knew nothing
of degrees and eloquence.
We bawked at forethought
and gave two shits for
​consequence.
We never saw the wrinkles
set in like masonry
on the walks,
and we missed our landing
among diluted point of views
and arrogant, centric talks.
Youth and ignorance abused
our potential for greatness.
So now here we are,
where gravity has left us
​weighted.

I lift you up,
as far as my arms will allow
and when these old,
time-capsule tendons
have reached their breech
readied to rip apart
I stretch a little more
and let go of my heart.

You land solid,
confident, sure-footed.
I watch you run.
I watch you run so fast
grabbing every taste
as though it’d be your last
and I am so fulfilled
so thrilled to see you free.

You are already more
than I could ever be
and that is a fact-checked timesheet
a testament and trophy
I’ll take to the grave with me
when my clock runs out.

I hope you’ve watched
every move I have ever made
in your shadow.
I hope to have left a trail
for the sunless days
when life feels too long
too shallow.
Bread crumbs that the birds won’t eat
so you may see where to place your feet
and follow my steps back home
or wherever you need to be.

I hope you stand tall
full of zest and zeal
for the Universe will test you
mess with you
make you crumble and fall.
I hope I have shown you
the best locale for your walls
and where to keep your ladders.
​
I lift you up,
as far as my arms will allow
and when these old,
time-capsule tendons
have reached their breech
readied to rip apart
I stretch a little more
and let go of my heart.

Unable to take a shot.
Knowing what you've had.
Afraid of what you've got.

What if it all blows up?

You bite your lip
and stop your shoes 
at the doorway.
So close.

But what if it blooms instead?

I was seventeen
and he was thirty-something.
I checked the registers
while he wore a wedding ring.
I bagged the plumbing parts
while he wanted to bag all the sweethearts
that worked the express lane.
He was tall and twiddled his moustache,
and anytime there was a question to ask,
he would mumble so you’d lean in close.
His eyes never found mine,
lest my eyes were in my clothes
that covered my chest.
I was seventeen
and he was thirty-something.
I processed returns
while he wore a wedding ring.
He would invite all of us young things
to the bar down the street,
after work, summer routine.
Loud music and beers a-pourin’.
I was seventeen when they said
I was a-whorin’
with a married man,
my Menards manager.
I wasn’t that drunk,
I don’t think I staggered
in the parking lot of the North Shore Inn
when he grabbed me and pulled me in
stuck his tongue in my mouth
then down into my throat.
I was shocked and surprised
that this married guy
was forcibly kissing me that night.
What could I say?
Should I report him?
I needed my job,
and I kind of adored him
for scheduling me at the Customer Service Counter
which was a whole lot better
than Register 10 in the winter,
where you freeze from the breeze
that blew through the sliding doors.
Did that make me a whore?
I really didn’t think so.
But what did I know?
I was only seventeen,
and hadn’t even had sex yet.
So I forced myself to just forget
and act like nothing even happened.
But it happened, and it continues to happen.
Every day, in different places.
Different folks, different faces.
But it is all the same, isn’t it?
I was seventeen,
and he was thirty-something.
I checked the register,
while he wore a wedding ring.
And that was the first time
I was assaulted.
I hushed it down,
and kept it vaulted,
but I won’t be doing that anymore.
And I have never, ever, ever…
been anyone’s little whore. ​

     It seemed like the upticks happened all at once. I mean, I could be wrong, it’s hard to tell, really. The changes were slow and fast, like a strong breeze minus the scent of a racing storm. No one noticed the upticks, till they were sweeping through the homes.  So, it’s hard to judge a timeline, really.

     I remember when they locked down the internet and all the news sites were taken off line. Anything creative was all of a sudden restricted. You know, games, music, blogs, vlogs, pretty much all of social media, and no downloading of that stuff, either. You could imagine, then, just how many people were totally pissed off. So many of ‘em.  Oh, gosh, so many of ‘em.

      But, we didn’t really hear about it ‘till later. And even then, at the county meetings, when ole Sam Landers, Tilly Goodrich, and the King family broadcasted their voicemails from New York, California, Florida, and Texas, even then we didn’t think it would spread clear out to us, which it didn’t. Not at first.   

     Us county folk, well, it just wasn’t the five-alarm fire for us that it was in the cities. We could still do some stuff online. You know, banking, email, shop, stuff like that. Commerce was allowed, but that was about it.

     Sam Landers’ brother had called him in the very beginning, when all the gamers took to the streets in Manhattan. Yeah. His message said that ICE brought out all the gear to gather those crowds, and they were apparently backed up by droves of security cronies. Water cannons, pepper bombs, and aerial chloroform blankets took out most of the folks.

     I recall Sam’s brother sounding concerned, I mean, I could hear it in his voice, hell, we could probably all hear it in his voice, but he was safe. He had said so. There wasn’t a one of us at the county meeting that had the gumption to say anything to Sam about the fear in that message. I think we just ignored it.

     Tilly Goodrich played her daughter’s message. Her voicemail said the protests in L.A. had shut down most all of the freeways, until they started to buckle. None of us were too sure what that meant, and that message was cut short, so I may never know. I can surmise, though. Yeah. You know, I think about it now, and it just. . . I can’t. . . I can’t even fathom. But back then, we were all just thankful we lived out here, you know?

     Anyway, so yeah. What was I saying? Oh, yeah, things just happened at the same time. Back before the web crash, in the summer, business had been taking off. The administration had eased up a whole bunch of farming restrictions, which was a good thing for us. We had the hog farm then, and not having to spend so much on litigated feed meant we could double, and then triple our hog count.

     We didn’t realize what was happening at the time, but our biggest account had doubled their hog purchases. We were concerned that we couldn’t keep up the breedin’ and feedin’ fast enough to fill all the orders that were coming through. I get it now. I should’ve connected those dots, but we weren’t getting the news fast enough, you know? I didn’t know. None of us really knew. It was so weird.

     Well, the whole scenario became a little clearer when Tommy King followed one of the hog trucks, after the county meeting. The Kings had about a dozen kids on their cattle ranch, and they were always nosing around on everyone else’s farms. I’d long known that the King kids were Intel operators for their dad. We were selling way more hogs than usual, and the Kings kept tabs on that, let me tell you. More hog sales usually meant more pork demand, which meant less cattle sales for the Kings. Yeah, anytime ole Denny King felt his pocketbook shrink, he just had to know why. He was a paranoid fucker.

     So yeah, Tommy King followed one of our loads over a hundred miles into town. How he was never nabbed is beyond me, but, the King kids were oily. Well, I’m thankful he did what he did, anyway. He came back and told us what he saw, down in the landfill outside of town. He told us what he heard, too, but the worst part was what he smelled. He smelled the hogs. Thousands of them. And to think we all thought they were just going to slaughter, to make millions of Sunday dinners. Well, that’s not what happened at all, now was it?

     It ended up being too little too late for the Kings, and for Sam Landers, and poor Tilly Goodrich. They were gone two days after we heard the news of Tommy’s findings. Like, just gone. A day later it was Darren and Lorraine, the hobby farmers, and the Swanson family. It was a whole week later when they came for the rest of us. It was horrible. Our hogs ate everyone.

     That summer, when our biggest account was buying up our pigs, we didn’t know it was the administration’s fault. But it was. They had already taken over the supply chains, and if they weren’t hauling folks out to the hog pits, then they were starving ‘em out of their homes and businesses. I guess there ended up being about 500 hog pits in total, before the United Nations finally stepped in and bombed the shit out of D.C.

     Keep in mind, each hog pit had thousands of hungry pigs, and pigs will eat anything if you let ‘em. I’ve seen a pig get a taste of fresh blood from a scratched sibling, and it was all over with. That pig tore its littermate apart in mere seconds. I’ll never forget that, so just imagine what a thousand bloodthirsty hogs could do to a crowd of starved, defenseless people. Tommy said the screams were never-ending that day he followed the truck.
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     Upticks. That’s what I call ‘em. Upticks in control. Upticks in protests. Upticks in missing people. Upticks in hog sales. Upticks in hog pits. You do the math. If I never see another swine, it will be too soon.