https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site Shorts4Dinos Thu, 15 Jan 2026 18:58:17 +0000 https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site en https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/Information Wed, 16 Jun 2021 03:58:45 +0000 Shorts4Dinos https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/Information Short stories for Dinos and Nondinos and everyone in between.&nbsp; Tiktok: @Soap4dinos Inquiries: Elidalbora@gmail.com Eli D’Albora is a humorist and author from Seattle, WA. His work has appeared in Bricolage Literary Journal, East By Northeast Literary Magazine and The Bookends Review. He is a recipient of the Charlotte Paul Reese Award for Short Fiction and was shortlisted in Fractured Lit’s Flash Fiction contest. He is currently working on a novel. https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/Pushin-Biscuits Thu, 15 Jan 2026 17:50:35 +0000 Shorts4Dinos https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/Pushin-Biscuits Pushin’ Biscuits wc: 4151 &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; 2025 <img width="2007" height="2292" width_o="2007" height_o="2292" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/d92dc3ef02ce76531ba691ae578097822a5e1b083c305f783e7a497afe8a0d4a/IMG_3226.jpeg" data-mid="243294319" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/d92dc3ef02ce76531ba691ae578097822a5e1b083c305f783e7a497afe8a0d4a/IMG_3226.jpeg" /> We’d barely gotten started on the first five batches. The special gluten-free predawn special. Then glutenated plain, vegan, cheese, cheesybacon to come, his hands awhirl, Jacob, eyes on the dough, shaping and slicing and me standing to watch, no explanation—we were behind. We had met at 6 that morning, more like 6:10, after Bez the cook had let me in with their “new guy?” and let me sit and wait until Jacob showed up finishing a cigarette, already ruddy and whirring an apology and explanation about his friend in need last night and a breakup and a forest of mushrooms and beer just a little more milk, just a little, like that. Perfect. So I was like fuck yeah we’re gonna get fucked up tonight. We didn’t end up deciding to do all that, I think we’re gonna save it for another night, but we still stayed out pretty late and I slept through my alarm and the thing whirred and the sun was still only visible conceptually out the bay windows. He walked around twisting oven dials and rolling the cart and retrieving the giant mixer and whisk from the back and I just followed him, nodding and trying to remember where the utensils in my hand were from. “I put one and a half of these and then here the directions are off, you want a cup more, but I was like yeah, I’ve been there, as low as you’ve gone, I’ve been there. I actually used to work this job five times a week but it was too much, it’s so stressful even at like, 32 hours and I was being a real asshole to everyone and hearing voices so for my own mental health I moved it down to four. But yeah they said if he wants to have a girlfriend maybe he should date a woman, yeah that’s good, see how it sticks to the sides of the bowl? And even then they were crying and so of course I sat there with them because I know how it goes, you know? Put some flour out like this. Fuck that guy, yeah. Okay so now we dump and shape nice and long, sprinkle, and feel it, feel how it breathes?” It gave, almost warm, under my palms and he looked me in my face for the first time “They fell asleep not exactly in my arms but yeah every five inches gets a tick, five wide too but then like I walked around the lake and was like oh I’ve got four hours but it was really three in a. half which is why yup in half, then half again. So unless someone else gets their heart broken I should be on time tomorrow.” He took over, his hand like a river through, around the dough, occupying all the liminal space, fluid, dancing, the dough too, a miasma of flour rose to his chin then the sheets were full and in the oven and we were back to the mixer and the shuffle expanded and we were glutenated and the boss and the line had joined Bez and was watching us and the sun was casting shadows and people were jostling and a little kid said “these are the best biscuits ever” and Jacob literally guffawed and muttered “hockey pucks” at me. It didn’t help his darting eyes that they had placed the bakers in full spectacle behind a thin wall of glass like we were classy or pastries not wearing whatever and crinkly, splattered aprons from a baker only Bez remembered, shoving biscuits into the oven in the basement of a three-store plaza below the market, highly trafficked with the curious and vacationing stopovers, tourists, locals on a date. But and still the customers loved to compliment or comment or stare as Jacob tried his best to teach me the process. He was lean like a shadow, Jacob, undoubtably Anglo-Saxon, he wore a hat and had long bronze hair pulled back and tucked up underneath it, a few grey strands milked his temples. Not quite a baker’s hat but something you’d see on a British street corner outside a bar or bakery sometime before either of us were born. A checkered shirt. We chuckled over the [dumbass] kid and gawkers on the first break, the blindness and stupidity and lack of respect. We weren’t a [fucking] sideshow, we were just working, just—we stood on the splitting sidewalk, grass tufts fermented the cracks. He took the first drag from his cigarette. He’d already offered me one. I could tell his mind was humming by the way his cheeks trembled. Well, not his cheeks so much as his cheek bones. The upper part, just below his eyelids. And his fingers. Fingertips. Hummed or trembled. It just seemed like his bones wouldn’t stop vibrating, or couldn’t, or he didn’t want them to which was only clear when he wasn’t using them—when the butt was in his mouth and his eyes softened, the fingertips went wild. Nothing to occupy their vibrato, flaked in dried dough, but still not wringing his apron. When he smiled, I remembered his name was Jacob. I knew it was Jacob, I just also remembered it. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“We’re a little behind, but you’re doing great.” Jacob said. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Thanks.” &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Just make sure to add more buttermilk.” &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Okay, sorry, thanks.” &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“No, it’s good, I do it all the time but usually too much. We’re on, like, either side of perfection.” He chuckled and looked at me, his blue eyes and broom twine moustache became anchors for the concept of his face, which I hadn’t fully grasped yet. It was like I still couldn’t see him three hours into meeting him, like his face was there but it wasn’t yet a person. Just minutiae or something, new ideas that took time to understand but made it hard to look away. People flowed around us. “How are you holding up? You’ll get used to the pace, but don’t worry today you’re just following me.” The cigarette found its way back into his mouth. “A heads up, I don’t usually take a full lunch, just a bunch of small breaks.” “Whoa, really?” That sounded awful, but seemed appropriate. “I mean I smoke, so I take some breaks then. But not, like, full ones. Don’t worry, you can take whatever breaks you need.” His voice was not quite raspy, almost warm. His front teeth overlapped like mine. He took another drag and held it there, a pride in the way he stared up the street at the people streaming down towards us. I looked at the bench across the street. A squirrel was scratching at the seat, a nut in its mouth. “How ya like it so far?” “It’s good.” Which was not the first word that came to mind. Necessary maybe, or the only job that’d gotten back to me. I turned around to take in the workspace from a distance. It was a high-ceilinged affair, the majority taken by the brewery’s boasting fermenters, bench seating and long bar. Biscuits and chocolate were pushed into opposite corners as strange little square ships that buffered the flow of people until they ordered food or reached the shared veranda, which overlooked the stadiums and aquarium, wharf and piers and iconic mountain. We were behind and below the famous Market, with its flying fish, gatling pigs, and handmade puppets. Polka drifted through the air, somebody sneezed. “I don’t have any formal experience either, I was just on the line and wanted to learn. It’s cool that you just do it as a fucking hobby.” I shrugged, “You ever bake biscuits at home?” “Not really, that seems kind of masochistic.” He chuckled. I smiled too. “Masochistic biscuits.” There was another pause “How old are you? If you don’t mind me asking.” He put the cigarette out on his shoe and searched for a trashcan. “Seventeen.” The squirrel was trying a different plank. I would’ve guessed he was thirties. “The boss said nineteen.” I shrugged. We passed Orien on the way back in. He greeted us, and continued on. Jacob thought of something and told me to wash up while he told Orien something. It took a while for Jacob to come back. When he did he was alone. Jacob went to the boss first, who appeared concerned but didn’t leave his post at the register. Then he went to Bez who went to the line who sent concerned glances out the window and Bez put some bacon aside. Otherwise, the constant flux of customers continued the churn. The oven beeped, I sliced, people lingered. A firetruck arrived. Jacob was by the giant mixing bowl. It was on, but his eyes were on the vehicle. He motioned for me to check the oven and met me there. “He’ll probably have to go home—they could use another minute, just turn them around—he said there was a shooting outside the pharmacy so he couldn’t get his meds.” There was something wistful in the way he said one of those things, but I was rotating the oven batch and burned my forearm, making me jump. The mitts were too short and the baking sheets were large. “Careful.” “What happened?” “Hot and wobbly, behind.” Bez sped a bucket of gravy by. “I found him towards the end of it. He’d already rolled onto his side and was reaching out into the space in front of him like there was something to grab. Shit man.” He broke eye contact with me and his jaw shimmered again. “He didn’t lose his tongue which I was afraid of. He was able to answer the question ‘Are you okay?’” “What’d he say?” “I’m having a seizure.” It probably wasn’t helpful to say I knew a fast route to the hospital. The firefighters brought Orien to our corner of the capacious miniplaza, taking vitals in a nook between the shop and the floor to ceiling windows that enclosed us all. He was well out of my view, not that mine could much waiver from the new type of biscuit, relayed to me still, apparently, very much behind schedule. So when a customer lingered then pried “what happened” Jacob replied “None of your [fucking] business.” In a tone so harsh the manager briefly pulled him aside but all that did was have him come back shaking his head and move two steps faster. My feet and back were beginning to hurt. I thought I heard the boss say to Bez it was nice of him to do it out there. I wondered if we would have closed down or taken an hour or something if Orien had died. “Get three cups of coconut milk, three teaspoons of vinegar, a half batch of the flour mix—” “Corner!” Bez again. “Thank you, but make sure it’s the one with the green lid. It’s in the fridge on the left side in the middle next to the vegan butter which should be in there,” he pointed at the fridge, which was closed. “too on the middle shelf behind the” “Corner, back around.” Bez. “let me know if we’re out of” “CORNER!” Lev this time, loud as hell but across the kitchen, on the line. It was noticeably louder, the brewery we shared the space with was seating people. “and I can get some more from th—” “BEZ.” Like we were sharing a shirt. “—rage, have you seen” “BEZ!” Arm holes, neck hole, right up in the cochlea. “Feel free to add” “YOU NEED THIS?” Box of oranges or something. “and Orien” “NO? COOL.” Lev walked away, a masonic tattoo on the back of his neck. Something like TURGID underneath. “as much added in while you’re mixing, I’m going to go grab a spatula and talk to.” And he was gone and I didn’t remember how much vinegar I needed. He had taken it out though. It was nearing noon. I stood by the ingredients and searched the space for a recipe. I opened the oven and checked a batch, but the temp went way down and they needed more time. I tried to change the timer and was able to stop the count but couldn’t figure out how to start it. Bez whizzed behind me. I felt the peeling eyes of the manager and disappeared behind the fridge. Jacob approached already speaking. “Going on prep next, I’ll scoop the shortening. It’s so gross.” “I can do that.” “No, I want you to learn the basics first, like the flour ratio. Trust me, it’s really gross.” He began to walk away then turned around. “Wait, do you want a lunch break? I just looked at the time and was like, whoa, you’ve already been here like five hours, you should take a break.” It seemed like a test. I looked around and caught the manager still watching from the far side of the kitchen. “I can, um, it doesn’t matter.” “No, don’t worry, I’ve got that. You should take a break.” He smiled at me and his eyes were friendly, the tremor beneath them kind. I accepted. He brought me around to where the biscuits were reheated and turned into sandwiches. Lev was humming heavy metal as he slathered a biscuit in jam, turkey. PUTRID his neck read. “Grab one.” The line cooks were buzzing, short a worker. Lev and Amelia and the other one I hadn’t met yet but was really tall and seemed like she played drums. The three of them moved with such coordinated speed, there was barely space for us to reach a hand in and grab a fork. Like a ceiling fan on medium-low. “It’s okay, I brought a lunch.” “Oh, you did? Okay cool. Usually, you can grab one but maybe not this time.” “No worries, I’ll go get my lunch. Can I just go right out there?” I pointed to the bench on the veranda, where I was sure to see the view. “Oh yeah, for sure. Do that dude, wherever you want. Fuck yeah. Enjoy.” I smiled and went to collect my lunch which I’d kept in my backpack I’d dropped off to the side when I’d first arrived. It was still there, just next to the firefighters. And Orian. Mostly Orien. Like right next to Orien. In the small space between him and the wall. He was bent near prone and a firewoman sat next to him, whispering into his ear. I asked the one that was standing around with a lazy smile and eyes on the menu if I could grab the lunch, pointed. He shrugged. I approached until they acknowledged me, or fell silent and looked up, a glare making clear my intrusion. That acknowledgement felt like permission though, so I took a couple pointing and stammering steps toward my lunch until I was leaning over Orien, bent at the waist with a hanging claw on his far side and another smudging the glass for balance for what felt like a groping, looming, eternal silence until I made rustled contact with the bag and tried to withdraw and I had to shove off the window but I didn’t push hard enough or I was still kind of off balance, so I stumbled a little and avoided Orien but bumped into the crouching firewoman who lost her balance and fell into Orien, catching him with a knee in the back of the ribs. Orien definitely grunted, which didn’t make anybody look good, especially the firewoman whose sharp look I did my best to ignore as I took my lunch past her permissive coworker, who nodded and said, “Got it, nice.” On the bench a sigh overwhelmed me. Biscuit dough splotched my arms and mind. I wiped my face. It felt well into the afternoon. I could see city, water and trees—good. I groped in my paper bag. It was so early all I’d packed was a loose sausage, an apple and a whole carrot. As I chewed my lunch, I relived finding the unmarked and empty bakery nestled below the tile mural and main drag, veranda empty and sky an especially vibrant and vivid blue. I checked and rechecked my directions from the assistant manager who’d interviewed and hired me, decided not to text the boss in solidarity with my mysterious, tardy coworker. The edge of the city was welcoming, the calm salty Sound reflecting the beauty of the sky, the islands speckled in evergreens and early summer deciduous. What was this? A job? A lifeline? Desperation or calculated risk? Pops was out of the hospital, but he’d be back soon. I took in the same view now, the sky paler, surrounded by the excited buzz of people. I chewed my deconstructed salad. Drank some water. Stared into the middle distance. Thirty minutes happened. I went back inside. Orien was nodding and sitting up when I returned. The firefighters were packing up and ignored me. I felt the manager’s eyes. Was I late? I joined Jacob in the back, he noticed me glancing at the manager, the impassive eyes seemed beadier with distance. “Oh no, you’ll be fine. They’re just stressed because they’re down a worker.” “I made the firewoman knee Orien.” I grimaced at the handprint on the window. The customers clapped and watched as the firefighters led Orien out the door and sat him where I’d just had lunch. Great minds. Bez asked “Do y’all smell something burning?” Their mischievous grin at odds with their still slicing knife as they gestured their crown towards the oven. We opened it to find the biscuits I’d forgotten to time before lunch. Jacob hadn’t been using the oven, so busy with prep. “Oh no!” He threw on some mitts and took them out, knocking them with a fist once they were on the counter. They sounded like planks of wood, “Nice.” “Hard candies!” Bez said. “I WANT ONE.” Lev from the line. “Ah, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t figure out how to put the timer on then forgot to tell you before lunch.” Jacob carried them to the compost bin and slid them in. “THAT DOESN’T GO THERE.” Lev. “I didn’t put it there!” Bez. The two chuckled to each other. “These have been here, what, forty minutes? How did I not notice?” “I’m sorry, I should’ve told you.” “Don’t worry about it, I do that all the time. Look so if you press this button the time starts, same button resets it then if you press this one then the one next to the time you want to change you can press the up and down arrows to change the time, then back to the start button to set it.” I nodded, staring at the timer. “Is there a way for Orien to get home?” He wondered aloud. “Huh?” We stared at him through the translucent coworkers bouncing along their line, the manager doing paperwork at the counter, around and up and back again to the poor man hunched on the bench. “Shoot, I should offer. I don’t drive but maybe we could organize a taxi.” “I—” but he was gone, by his side in a heartbeat, consoling fingers atremble, dancing on his shoulder. I was relieved, they both seemed to relax a little, slow, decompress. Nodding, reassuring, genuine repeated concern and honest, completely sound alibi. Jacob rejoined me as I joined the process of preparing the dry ingredients for the next day. “The firefighters let his closest contacts know, they spoke on the phone. He’s got family in town, his mom is actually on her way to come get him.” “Oh, great.” Seemed appropriate, even under the circumstances. “Yeah, glad we don’t have to figure that shit out, huh?” He laughed a side eyed laugh and turned back to the spinning machine but only for a moment. He turned to me “You want to get a Fribawdi after this?” “Um…” I was planning on going home. Lying down. Telling a wall about the day. Wondering when I could quit. What other flavor of job I could apply to. But it was sunny and warm and “sure.” I wasn’t sure what a Fribawdi was. “There’s this great little community garden a block away. I’ll show you.” “Great, yes, good idea.” “Okay?” “Thanks, yeah. Sounds fun.” “Great.” His tremoring smile had begun to feel familiar. “Probably only need to fill a couple more bins anyways.” We did in a blur, followed by a trip to the storage fridge; a dank and unwieldy chamber in the multilevel underground parking structure below the building from which I registered endless buckets of sour cream, pyramids of boxed shortening and a cohort of floral arrangements whose source I assumed had stake elsewhere in the sprawling market. The crowd made way for our foul aprons and beleaguered cart, returning promptly to find Orien had finally left and there was nothing more to be done, truly, nothing, go wash our hands. I smelled sour and soggy, like a chewed up old shoe. As I scrubbed, Bez approached with a handful of bacon, “see you tomorrow?” they asked. I took a strip, but they kept their hand extended and I accepted the rest and returned their grin. I thanked them and departed for my backpack, where the manager pulled me aside. “Great work today.” A southern gummy bear drawl sparkled his reserve, “We would love to have you back tomorrow, is [minimum wage] okay?” His eyebrows raised and his chin shifted back, I could have sworn he held his breath. It seemed a gamble to find out if I believed I had worth, or knew what it was or maybe he knew my real age or desperation or just that was just business, and yeah I needed the job but he needed to make money and but like what was the difference in that and a few dollars an hour but it was a restaurant but minimum wage seemed low for being a full on baker even if it was just an endless array of well-placed biscuits. The longer I paused the less realistic more money felt, and I acquiesced. I guess I was more desperate or afraid or lonely or young or stupid. Regret burned me a hole in my stomach as he beamed and shook my hand. I met Jacob where I’d taken lunch and followed him to a bodega where he grabbed a couple of tall, colorful cans marked Fribawdi from the bottom shelf of the beer fridge. The guy didn’t ask for my ID. He led me down the hill past an apartment building and into a lush garden contained by a chain-link fence. He opened the can with a click and leaned against the retaining wall, I did the same. He withdrew another cigarette and nodded to me. “If I could pick a way to go, if I figure there’s nothing left here, I’d choose heroin.” “I hate needles.” “I hear it’s worth it.” “I think I’d sky dive.” “You’d have to get certified, you’d be attached to a professional.” “I’d jump past them. I’m pretty quick.” “I’m afraid of heights.” “But then you’d be flying.” “Same with heroin.” We shared a laugh and Jacob’s eyes unfocused as he took a drag. “What’s your sign?” “Sagittarius.” “I knew it.” “What? Why?” “Me too, that’s why we get along so well.” I looked up at the sky. Still a cloudless day. “This is just bonkers in the sun.” I motioned to the flowers, garden et al. “Right? I can’t wait for you to get to know everyone, Mandy and Damien weren’t even there. They’re both so great. You’ll be here tomorrow, yeah?” “Yeah, I think I should be. It won’t be like today, right?” “Well, Sundays are when the cruise ships come. There was just one today.” It seemed he had more to say but when he saw me grimace, he decided to pivot. “It’ll be fine. You did well. I don’t know how many times I’ve had to do Sundays alone.” He took another drag, sipped his beer. “That first batch, I asked if you felt the dough breathing.” “You said good biscuit dough felt like it exhaled.” “You never answered.” I thought about making an excuse to leave. I took a small grey stone from beneath a flowering scraggle of weeds. My father had had tubes stuck down and into his throat for days at a time. When it was dark and he lay prone, his eyes shut, the only certainty he was alive was the steady electronic beep. “I wasn’t sure.” “Sure.” He nodded, his expression vast, as though I’d said something meaningful. I tossed the stone into the garden, it landed with the smallest of thuds. The beer was cold, bitter and watery but still pricked my tongue with carbonation. The garden smelled of petrichor and cigarettes and city. We were quiet. A car drove by. I thought about leaving. I hadn’t tried the biscuits and I didn’t want to. But of course I would. https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/Golden-Hour-in-the-Greater-Phoenix-Metropolitan-Area Wed, 16 Jun 2021 03:58:45 +0000 Shorts4Dinos https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/Golden-Hour-in-the-Greater-Phoenix-Metropolitan-Area <img width="2340" height="1410" width_o="2340" height_o="1410" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/82a763fe63209fec6693720fd2e0c51b729653df405ab35e71ac026d9ef7a24d/IMG-9650-1.jpg" data-mid="112001274" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/82a763fe63209fec6693720fd2e0c51b729653df405ab35e71ac026d9ef7a24d/IMG-9650-1.jpg" /> Golden Hour in the Greater Phoenix Metropolitan Area wc: 98 2024 You’ve nosed to the edge of the grocery parking lot but an arterial flow rebuffs you, leaving you to inhabit the sidewalk. A man approaches driver’s side, limping, a half-zipped jacket fallen off one shoulder. His stubble has grown thick, pant leg ripped. He pushes a small stroller. A chihuahua sits, prim and stoic, awash in golden light. You yield, roll back. They pass before you. The near distance occupies the dog’s gaze but not the man’s, who finds yours through the window and nods, mouths his thanks. You nod back, wish him luck, hope it means something. https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/The-Minister-of-Love Wed, 16 Jun 2021 22:39:04 +0000 Shorts4Dinos https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/The-Minister-of-Love The Minister of Love &nbsp;wc: 296&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; 2021 &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <img width="4032" height="3024" width_o="4032" height_o="3024" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/6f350d6d62ed15654f32366f02e60da71dd45b8a34a340fdcdc1f77d628592b5/IMG-9530.JPG" data-mid="112001433" border="0" data-scale="45" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/6f350d6d62ed15654f32366f02e60da71dd45b8a34a340fdcdc1f77d628592b5/IMG-9530.JPG" /> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The burger place doesn’t accept cash. Papa Cyrus disagrees with this policy. “Cash is king.” He says as a thin fold of bills appears in his hand. “What happens if the internet goes out tomorrow? You’re funked, buddy.” He grins and winks and you smile back as you put his order in along with your card. “I love you. This extra’s just for you.” &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; He gives you a dollar tip. You put it in the communal tip jar in the back room. When you return, he’s opened a snuff box of weed on the counter but can’t seem to find his papers. You busy yourself organizing napkins. “Do you smoke?” “Not right now Papa Cyrus, not during work.” When you look up, he’s gone, although he’s left his paraphernalia; you move it all to the bench next to his traveling bags. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; When his burger’s ready he’s returned to the bench. “I love you. Extra napkins?” You’d forgotten he’d asked. When you bring the paper, he says he loves you again. He says you’re a light, to continue to grow and become who you’re becoming. He looks into your eyes as he speaks. A sincere smile under the fox grey mustache warms his words. As he eats on the bench outside, you take out your dinner and sit at a table in the empty shop. You watch his Panama hat through the window, the way his layers of silk rustle with the breeze. When Papa Cyrus leaves, he forgets his trash on the bench, his lighter too. You bring his lighter to him and he tells you he loves you again. You share that you love him too. His aromatic, citrus earth scent lingers long after he’s followed your hand drawn map to the nearest storage unit. https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/A-Warmth-at-the-Base-of-Your-Skull Wed, 16 Jun 2021 22:39:07 +0000 Shorts4Dinos https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/A-Warmth-at-the-Base-of-Your-Skull A Warmth at the Base of Your Skull wc: 251&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;2021 &nbsp; &nbsp;<img width="3024" height="4032" width_o="3024" height_o="4032" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/f9801a86d6d3dd9669ffec99b12d3694be4046da1b780997f36a97fe4a66feac/IMG-0806.JPG" data-mid="112072907" border="0" data-scale="91" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/f9801a86d6d3dd9669ffec99b12d3694be4046da1b780997f36a97fe4a66feac/IMG-0806.JPG" /> &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The four of you experienced the sunset from the bluff, a platonic reenactment of middle school forays. Dusk has since crept in with its somber blanket and the four of you, now walking in pairs, have fallen silent. Tree roots unevenly lift the sidewalk, preventing you from walking a straight line in the darkness. Your hand brushes then bumps your friend’s, the one whose offer to play with a crying boy has ripples still. The countless hours imagining worlds and monsters, the vessels of small wood and plastic that turned to late nights on patios where cheeks glowed, and the unbridled truth saw the clouds brighten with the sun. Whose grief when his father passed was shared but rarely witnessed. Whose house you sought on New Year’s, when fear that yours would need a new heart enveloped you. Ripples through here no doubt. &nbsp; You gently take his hand, just holding the palm, not interlocking fingers. Surely a joke until his folds back around yours. You don’t flinch, it’s not that kind of surprise. You look at him, ready to grin, but his blank stare remains down the path. You wonder whose hand he thinks it is, if he knows there’s one at all. &nbsp; &nbsp; A humming exists in your arhythmic steps. He has better circulation than you. So soft. There’s a warmth there. Then a switch clicks and he turns past you, raising and dropping your hand while exclaiming how cold you are, offering to hold the girls’ hands as well. https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/The-Fighter Fri, 25 Jun 2021 06:39:54 +0000 Shorts4Dinos https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/The-Fighter The Fighter wc: 775&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; 2021<img width="4032" height="3024" width_o="4032" height_o="3024" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/908558b2b24d03d1f62255c328e2ef8b87c0d16b16e33c90b66b4d12eed5be5b/IMG-0588.JPG" data-mid="112342368" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/908558b2b24d03d1f62255c328e2ef8b87c0d16b16e33c90b66b4d12eed5be5b/IMG-0588.JPG" /> &nbsp; &nbsp; The blinds of the first-floor apartment are lowered, but music still spills out the window. Behind them a man dances alone in his room. He has a broken leg, or at least it was recently; you can tell by the way he twists it in the air, it only touches the floor for balance. You can also tell by the cast, hardened and yellowing. He’s fully dressed, although the top buttons are loose, and he wears sunglasses despite the night. His mouth stays open as he moves in front of the wall-length mirror, the room feels bigger there. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; This is not an important man, although it is a large one. His name’s Redford but his friends call him Lucho and he’s a security guard at a local bank. There’s never been a robbery, at least while he was on duty, but he has had to forcefully remove some Rons and Sandys. He broke his leg last month when it was hit by a belligerent fucker with crazy eyes and a baseball bat, or he wrecked his car when he was high, or he fell down some stairs helping his neighbor carry groceries. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The music has horns and a singer who wants to be young again. The trumpets really bounce, and the drums are frantic, so he unbuttons his shirt and lets his gut fly. He hasn’t smoked in eight days and it doesn’t always feel good. In fact, it mostly feels bad, but it also feels great, but sometimes neither. He’s decided that nothing’s bliss. He bounces and glides to the rhythm, his arms swinging as he mouths the chorus. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; He’s never heard this song before, or the following one or the one after that. He imagines he’s not alone and they’re smiling and it’s not just anybody but the woman he left behind, the woman who broke his heart, the woman in the coffee shop. Maybe they’re all the same woman. He dances harder, faster, wilder as the new singer wonders how she could possibly love her wife more. He bounces off the walls and rattles the floor and gets up and apologizes to the downstairs neighbors in his head. He called his mom today. His dad too. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Redford takes his pants off. He folds them neatly then tosses them at the dresser. They unfurl midair and catch on the sole knob of the pant drawer. They fall when he’s not looking. He puts his hands on his legs, one on each. They’re different sizes, the hurt one noticeably smaller. He feels good when he does that, his body does. It puts him there, in his body, and it’s a better place to be than his head. This healing is palpable. His hands trace his knees, his scars, the cast, down to his feet then up to his belly. He slows to a jerking sway; beware, beware.&nbsp; &nbsp; The music has shifted too. A teenager sings of a devotion Redford’s never felt. She’s felt it though and he feels that and a knot forms. His arms wrap around an invisible body, her head on his shoulder, his in her hair. She’d smell nice. He would too. They turn slowly, she follows him even though he doesn’t know the steps. He gives her a twirl. He twirls himself. Then they return, close, but they don’t kiss, they just hold each other tighter and tighter until his arms are not around her but around him, his thumbs gently rubbing his lower back and upper shoulder. And he steps. And he steps. And he breathes. And the lump dissipates. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; The music fades out and back and the marimba kicks in and his sunglasses are off and so are his socks and his shirt. The singer revels in the energy. Redford uses it to give his leg a chance and winces, crumpling. The mirror catches his eye, his eyes catch themselves and the brass comes back so he smiles because that’s it. He wiggles and sweats and pants and wipes at his eyes with a meat claw that twice put a hole in a wall instead of a dipshit’s face. A ball of sensation starts in his gut and spreads both up and down until the limbs move without restraint and a grin with eyes as bright as comets. He twists and swings and bounces and listens and feels it all at once, there’s room for everything. When the drums grind down and the horns fade, he doesn’t check the clock and he doesn’t shower but he does floss, Redford is good about flossing, and then he goes to bed and tries not to think about anything important at least. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/Durland-Santorini-Was-Under-a-Whole-Lot-of-Dirt Thu, 01 Sep 2022 22:21:35 +0000 Shorts4Dinos https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/Durland-Santorini-Was-Under-a-Whole-Lot-of-Dirt Durland Santorini Was Under a Whole Lot of Dirt &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; wc: 1792&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; 2022 <img width="750" height="1334" width_o="750" height_o="1334" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ea23c905a3b8d2a5d965d574ebd76bc7e333350c2253c9a9502d76b952cb79a4/image_123986672.JPG" data-mid="151882507" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/ea23c905a3b8d2a5d965d574ebd76bc7e333350c2253c9a9502d76b952cb79a4/image_123986672.JPG" /> <img width="750" height="1334" width_o="750" height_o="1334" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/e4b42e0dabc7163e8f28a77a279a44ca64f2f84f23200f3cbc35100a91656bab/image_123986672-1.JPG" data-mid="151880957" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/e4b42e0dabc7163e8f28a77a279a44ca64f2f84f23200f3cbc35100a91656bab/image_123986672-1.JPG" /> <img width="750" height="1334" width_o="750" height_o="1334" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ea23c905a3b8d2a5d965d574ebd76bc7e333350c2253c9a9502d76b952cb79a4/image_123986672.JPG" data-mid="151882507" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/ea23c905a3b8d2a5d965d574ebd76bc7e333350c2253c9a9502d76b952cb79a4/image_123986672.JPG" /> <img width="750" height="1334" width_o="750" height_o="1334" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/e4b42e0dabc7163e8f28a77a279a44ca64f2f84f23200f3cbc35100a91656bab/image_123986672-1.JPG" data-mid="151880957" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/e4b42e0dabc7163e8f28a77a279a44ca64f2f84f23200f3cbc35100a91656bab/image_123986672-1.JPG" /> <img width="750" height="1334" width_o="750" height_o="1334" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ea23c905a3b8d2a5d965d574ebd76bc7e333350c2253c9a9502d76b952cb79a4/image_123986672.JPG" data-mid="151882507" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/ea23c905a3b8d2a5d965d574ebd76bc7e333350c2253c9a9502d76b952cb79a4/image_123986672.JPG" /> <img width="750" height="1334" width_o="750" height_o="1334" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/e4b42e0dabc7163e8f28a77a279a44ca64f2f84f23200f3cbc35100a91656bab/image_123986672-1.JPG" data-mid="151880957" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/e4b42e0dabc7163e8f28a77a279a44ca64f2f84f23200f3cbc35100a91656bab/image_123986672-1.JPG" /> <img width="750" height="1334" width_o="750" height_o="1334" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ea23c905a3b8d2a5d965d574ebd76bc7e333350c2253c9a9502d76b952cb79a4/image_123986672.JPG" data-mid="151882507" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/ea23c905a3b8d2a5d965d574ebd76bc7e333350c2253c9a9502d76b952cb79a4/image_123986672.JPG" /> <img width="750" height="1334" width_o="750" height_o="1334" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/e4b42e0dabc7163e8f28a77a279a44ca64f2f84f23200f3cbc35100a91656bab/image_123986672-1.JPG" data-mid="151880957" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/e4b42e0dabc7163e8f28a77a279a44ca64f2f84f23200f3cbc35100a91656bab/image_123986672-1.JPG" /> <img width="750" height="1334" width_o="750" height_o="1334" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ea23c905a3b8d2a5d965d574ebd76bc7e333350c2253c9a9502d76b952cb79a4/image_123986672.JPG" data-mid="151882507" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/ea23c905a3b8d2a5d965d574ebd76bc7e333350c2253c9a9502d76b952cb79a4/image_123986672.JPG" /> <img width="750" height="1334" width_o="750" height_o="1334" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/e4b42e0dabc7163e8f28a77a279a44ca64f2f84f23200f3cbc35100a91656bab/image_123986672-1.JPG" data-mid="151880957" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/e4b42e0dabc7163e8f28a77a279a44ca64f2f84f23200f3cbc35100a91656bab/image_123986672-1.JPG" /><img width="750" height="1334" width_o="750" height_o="1334" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ea23c905a3b8d2a5d965d574ebd76bc7e333350c2253c9a9502d76b952cb79a4/image_123986672.JPG" data-mid="151882507" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/ea23c905a3b8d2a5d965d574ebd76bc7e333350c2253c9a9502d76b952cb79a4/image_123986672.JPG" /> <img width="750" height="1334" width_o="750" height_o="1334" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/e4b42e0dabc7163e8f28a77a279a44ca64f2f84f23200f3cbc35100a91656bab/image_123986672-1.JPG" data-mid="151880957" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/e4b42e0dabc7163e8f28a77a279a44ca64f2f84f23200f3cbc35100a91656bab/image_123986672-1.JPG" /><img width="750" height="1334" width_o="750" height_o="1334" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ea23c905a3b8d2a5d965d574ebd76bc7e333350c2253c9a9502d76b952cb79a4/image_123986672.JPG" data-mid="151882507" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/ea23c905a3b8d2a5d965d574ebd76bc7e333350c2253c9a9502d76b952cb79a4/image_123986672.JPG" /> <img width="750" height="1334" width_o="750" height_o="1334" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/e4b42e0dabc7163e8f28a77a279a44ca64f2f84f23200f3cbc35100a91656bab/image_123986672-1.JPG" data-mid="151880957" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/e4b42e0dabc7163e8f28a77a279a44ca64f2f84f23200f3cbc35100a91656bab/image_123986672-1.JPG" /> <img width="750" height="1334" width_o="750" height_o="1334" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ea23c905a3b8d2a5d965d574ebd76bc7e333350c2253c9a9502d76b952cb79a4/image_123986672.JPG" data-mid="151882507" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/ea23c905a3b8d2a5d965d574ebd76bc7e333350c2253c9a9502d76b952cb79a4/image_123986672.JPG" /><img width="750" height="1334" width_o="750" height_o="1334" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/e4b42e0dabc7163e8f28a77a279a44ca64f2f84f23200f3cbc35100a91656bab/image_123986672-1.JPG" data-mid="151880957" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/e4b42e0dabc7163e8f28a77a279a44ca64f2f84f23200f3cbc35100a91656bab/image_123986672-1.JPG" /> <img width="750" height="1334" width_o="750" height_o="1334" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ea23c905a3b8d2a5d965d574ebd76bc7e333350c2253c9a9502d76b952cb79a4/image_123986672.JPG" data-mid="151882507" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/ea23c905a3b8d2a5d965d574ebd76bc7e333350c2253c9a9502d76b952cb79a4/image_123986672.JPG" /><img width="750" height="1334" width_o="750" height_o="1334" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/e4b42e0dabc7163e8f28a77a279a44ca64f2f84f23200f3cbc35100a91656bab/image_123986672-1.JPG" data-mid="151880957" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/e4b42e0dabc7163e8f28a77a279a44ca64f2f84f23200f3cbc35100a91656bab/image_123986672-1.JPG" /> It was soft and dry and cold and rose the tiny hairs behind his ears and on his neck. It seeped into his collar and past his belt, packing his fingernails and filling his boots. Sweat dribbled off his greying moustache and down his chin, dropping with the arhythmic scratch of his shovel and the grim satisfaction that he was the Georgia of an unstoppable will. &nbsp; A rock was scraped, the jagged edge falling heavy at his feet, leaving a small glowing hole. He felt like a mole, or a worm with a dream, as it came from the soil for the first time, tearing at the final orchestra of roots with a new sense of anticipation, making the hole just large enough to squeeze through, then cut a ladder into the wall and rose from the tunnel. The night sky was poorly lit. Durland guessed it was near three in the morning.&nbsp; The cottage was dark except for a candle burning in the bedroom. Something lacy seemed to seep down every window. A few dozen paces later he was at the back stoop, bringing the shovel with him. He opened the door and heard the tinkle of a small stone dislodge from his boot onto the floor. It would be foolish to leave a mess, any clue—fear, for the first time, wriggled its way into his senses. He knelt but could only do so much with his hands, in desperation he removed his shirt, which only sent whatever else was on it to the ground. Georgia appeared, chiding, teasing, at his back, hand over his, helping him kneel and wipe it up. Durland stepped into the yard and removed his boots, socks and pants as well. He jumped and shook and loosened the waistband. In the dim light he took stock of his clothing. Sweat and dirt had caked to every inch and would stay until it didn’t. He returned to the tunnel and tossed the shirt and jeans after his boots and socks. He’d return there, giddy, grab the clothes, fill up the hole that ended the tunnel and be back home by sunrise. The plan calmed him, and he wiped his hands in the damp grass.&nbsp; The cottage was quiet, no grating snores or pacing footsteps of the troubled sinner. His bare foot stepped in a mound of dirt he hadn’t cleaned, hadn’t even seen. He flinched and suddenly, overwhelmingly, felt himself a failure, dirty, rotten, his banishment righteous, his suspicions uncalled for. Time was starting to roll away from him, he might wait until tomorrow. He couldn’t wait until tomorrow, he wouldn’t be, it would be and but then what or there was no choice but to sweep it up. The broom closet didn’t have cleaning supplies. No brooms, instead full of coats, too large to be Georgia’s, see yes trust the gut say a mound of girt wood bee a flad a greg a reg a flad red a red flag because it would be. Just like the dirt. They were all there, even the warn leather one, the one that was a little too big for him and stank of body odor and wet sand. His eyes wandered towards the guest room and stayed there, unfocused in the darkness. It wouldn’t hurt to check there first. He put the jacket back but the guest room was empty, bed made, silent. He’d have to, unless the jacket was for just in case he got cold while he worked, just easier not to carry something, Francisco’s lips always had a little purple in them. Either way the broom, and Durland found the broom in the coat closet down the hall. He cleaned the mess and tossed it out the back door.&nbsp; He went to Georgia’s room, and paused to listen. Two sets of breaths, heavy and deep, came back. She may breathe strange, but he knew her breath, she breathed right alone. No echo in past door and quiet so no none of not more no not there. He took a breath. His impressions, the handleless slippery mass that couldn’t be grasped but instead seemed to fall faster through his hands, faster the more he fought it, the subtle movement of eyes, proximity of bodies, what needed who when, by where. The confusing masses that felt and beat and went blank when they shouldn’t when that was exactly what they didn’t want without any specific sense or intention just fear, nothing to keep the ground from shifting. He hoisted the shovel and opened the door. They were slotted together like cutlery, Francisco curled in a ball, Georgia caressing him from behind. Ugly, disgusting things. Both liars, liars to them. Didn’t think didn’t feel didn’t care. He went to the side of the bed, above them, the lines on Georgia’s face were shadows of lace from the moonlit window rather than the wrinkles that set deep in the daytime. Francisco shifted his broad shoulders onto his back, revealing his face, peaceful and stubbled and unconcerned but something in his sleep must have sensed something because he murmured and his face grew a little tense and then his eyes were open and staring into Durland’s. Durland imagined the shovel smashing and clanging, slicing as it had to, these faces that had brought him day and night into the woods behind to hack away at the land, to burrow and curse and sweat himself into exhaustion until he couldn’t think, just to get some rest. Rest that they made look so easy, flaunted and forgot him for. Never appreciated the presence he held. Even as the set of open eyes, “Durland” and blank again or semi-blank at the rush of options, first Francisco then Georgia, to leave the shovel in Francisco’s hands and runk back undgroun and fin in good per tomo-or maybe yesyes oh yayes no nono actually smash smashandsmash smashandsmash and smash and really wake them and they “oh please stop,” unsure if it’s a dream or their own Durland in front of them ending it like they always imagined or maybe the shovel goes under the bed and no one knows, he crawls in them and is gone by morning, something he could maybe do over and over and over and at once discovered they might just keep him there in his room after his room wouldn’t all he be the one when she left alone when all and Francisco got the alone got every a rand she would really give Francisco her if and when not him but him if she when she and only over as if be that could be not be home the be the be the be the she her have him. Let shove dro let shovel falldrop and see, just let drop and watch turn, watch fall and drop and turn out of hands, control, let fate, just drop the shovel and let see what, see what happens if the shovel just drops. It right. Just drop it and see. What’s right.&nbsp; But Durland couldn’t drop the shovel just as he couldn’t swing it. Not at that face not at either but not he could kiss smooch both smooch kiss kiss now too urge of friendship, like ma a closeness, sure a kiss, sure a kiss but a kiss isn’t more unless it’s more and it hadn’t been, and the lips now dark in the night, but forming something, whispering something like “put me down” and how tricky, always so tricky and unwelcome and forced but no, not really, from somewhere within and why couldn’t he, why couldn’t they they could both be could both find comfort in could enjoy the intimacy no all of it could be that type, it was, it could be but what if it’s not but but but could it be, could it function without a word or could it be allowed to be when there was space between words and sometimes looking each other in the eyes made him feel like melted and now smashing a shovel down and down “Durland.”&nbsp; Francisco seemed tense standing there on the far side of the bed, watching, lit by the window, a grotesque lacy shadow cast across his chest, a grotesque ugly lacy shadow, faint as it was ominous. “Durland.” Firm and not whispered, changing every time, no name ever appears the same way twice, sang almost, always singing even when she spoke, the type of voice with that kind of timber but not Francisco’s or kind of Francisco’s with certain names like his like his like Georgia’s whose breath still rose calm and slow and gave to Durland’s own, “Get out.” But Francisco didn’t and Durland said again “Get out.” But couldn’t bring the shovel higher so couldn’t stop Francisco from walking around the bed and so he smashed. The shovel twisted, slowed by an arm not the face just on the chest so it came again on the top of the head or hands with a scream, a yelling that formed something like two words that repeated as the shovel came down on wrist and hands and elbows as the stumbling young man who could think of nothing to do but oblige and geroutgeroutgerout and did, with the shovel still biting at the calves and feet now until he got to the coat closet and slipped inside and stayed there, the shovel banging against the door, banging banging and yelling and yelling to stop it, just stop, put the shovel down and smaller hands were grasping at his arms but still he whacked at the door, putting dents in it, chipping the finish, and where was Georgia swinging at it why was she in bed swinging and swinging why didn’t she dig when he asked her to even as the door slowly, just laughed tentatively opened she’d didn’t want, would rather see him, didn’t think he’d despite the shovel of steel and wood just sleeping soundly despite his smashing as a man made of coats holding his many arms above his heads emerged was that her yelling to stop to put it down and there was no good place to hit him except for maybe the ankles with real pain and worry and care and fear she was maybe weeping like him for him but he only got one good swing in before being smothered by the heaving jackets, was he now like her under blankets and dreaming, falling back to the floor and the shovel pulled from his hands she would understand why he’d done it and under it all, the panic and fluids and manic curdling, he smelled the earth and the blood and the floor boards sick and sweet and sour and clean. &nbsp; https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/On-Balding-as-a-Young-Man Thu, 15 Jan 2026 18:58:17 +0000 Shorts4Dinos https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/On-Balding-as-a-Young-Man On Balding as a Young Man <img width="3024" height="4032" width_o="3024" height_o="4032" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/c46daee2b88244160ef03c246440bd369aad24cb17693430aa5bcf4f97f8c670/IMG-9747.JPG" data-mid="243296468" border="0" src="//freight.cargo.site/w/500/q/75/i/c46daee2b88244160ef03c246440bd369aad24cb17693430aa5bcf4f97f8c670/IMG-9747.JPG" style="width: 233.262475px; height: 311.016633px; display: none;"> <img width="828" height="1073" width_o="828" height_o="1073" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/7813e8ce2986dd2495a3cc68bba81ed6d010824081f28a77b099cf6c42fab081/IMG_2727.jpeg" data-mid="243296515" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/828/i/7813e8ce2986dd2495a3cc68bba81ed6d010824081f28a77b099cf6c42fab081/IMG_2727.jpeg" /> &nbsp; &nbsp; wc: 995 &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; 2025 I’ve decided not to mind that I’m losing my hair. Not that it’s really a choice. And I very much do mind. So maybe what I’m trying to explain is why I’m not going to do anything about it. Although I wish I could. Maybe you’re wondering why I care so much. Most men bald and it’s more surprising than not to see an old man with a splenetic shock of grey up top. But, you see, I started balding as a young man. Twenty-three to be exact. Okay fair, there are plenty of men who get balder, younger than me, there always is someone who has it worse, but perhaps I still speak for them when I say: this shit sucks. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; What’s the issue with balding? To answer immediately, it signifies decline—old age, impotency, the loss of sex appeal. &nbsp;Popular culture teases the middle-aged bald man for his shiny dome, his loss or lack or unbecoming nature. Now why would that matter to a twenty-three-year-old? I always imagined I would be most dateable in my late twenties and early thirties. My zenith of confidence, critical thinking and empathy all coming to a head. That’s when my parents met, that’s how old the people playing twenty somethings on TV really are, right? The ones making life happen, having incredible Friends, great jobs, exciting dating adventures in the city. But if you’re ugly (ie. Bald)? You’re not a love interest. The only sexy tv bald guy I remember was on Insecure and he didn’t get the girl, you know who did? The guy with the great fade. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When I noticed my patch, I wanted to fight it. Turkish implants? I couldn’t afford the procedure, let alone the flight there. A daily pill or topical solution? Paying my hair to clock into work seemed wrong, but life is labor so maybe there’s something in the solution. Let’s try it. Not only does rubbing some foam on your dry head feel silly, but a scan of the strange words, long and scientific and with no disclaimer describing which I should be scared of made me think there might be something in the solution. So what are the side effects? A three percent chance of developing a heart murmur? A ten percent chance of decreased libido, erectile disfunction, or ejaculation problems (a disturbingly vague side effect that I don’t want to begin to explore)? Not exactly an inspiring team to join. I’d like to avoid open heart surgery if possible, and the whole sex appeal thing was rearing its ugly head again. So I dropped it and took some time to examine my head. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The balding pattern I inherited looks like Custer’s last stand but with less violence and racist imperialism. The little tuft on my skull ridge is completely surrounded. The receding widows peak, thinning crown and disappearing paths that connect them, one on each side, have left a sorry looking nest on top. Perhaps I should treat it like Custer. Perhaps the true destiny of this man’s hair is to root against those roots as age and genetics slowly surround and take them out, one by one, leaving what’s always been underneath in peace. Just like the ugly parts of American history, this is something I’ve inherited. It’s genetic, passed down through my mother’s side. This, my grandfather’s hairline, is a family heirloom. Not that I could sell this antique, but it’s generally priceless, no? This is a connection to a dear family member, and one that I never met. How better to connect with him than knowing that at some point we both looked in the mirror and thought “fuck, really? Already? Fuck this. Guess I’ll put a hat on.” &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;So what does it mean to accept it? Cutting my hair short? Realizing I’ll be a bald dad? Knowing I’ll have to wonder about toupees every now and then? It’s not like I won’t find a partner. That whole business is about accepting each other for who you are, and nobody’s perfect. There are plenty of handsome, famous bald men out there: Dwayne the Rock Johnson, Mr. Clean, The Michelin Man. All actors or models, public facing figures whose chrome domes shine and so do their muscles. Wait, they all have rippling muscles. Maybe I’ll start lifting weights. Who needs a wig when you’ve got biceps, right? &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Wait wait wait, you say, that’s not accepting it! But hey, what am I going to do? Accept that not everything can be perfect? That balding really isn’t that big of a deal? That my confidence should come from somewhere internal? I’m in my early twenties. I’m in my EARLY TWENTIES. I still think driving is fun and Olivia Rodrigo could fall in love with me at a meet-cute in an ice cream shop. Okay, fine, I’ll also try talking about this with my friends. And therapist if I have one. Journaling. Meditating. Engaging in world events outside of myself. Seeing there are actual problems in the world and that smelling nice and keeping my apartment clean can do just as much as a full head of hair. Ok? Fine! I’ll accept it! It’s okay that I’m balding! Alright? It’s exciting to age and I’ll make it work for me and things could be worse and I’m not actually ugly and old and decrepit and those aren’t bad things either! Okay? What do you want me to do next? Realize I’m not an island and can’t do everything on my own? Build community? An equitable future? Stop climate change? Get money out of politics? Become a kind and loving father and husband? Call home every now and then? Yeah? Okay, fine! I’ll do it! And I’ll do it bald! But I can’t do it alone. So you’re gonna have to get over whatever stupid shit you worry about too, okay? Weird nose or uneven boobs or whatever. Okay? Sisters not twins, right? Bald is beautiful, yeah? Deal? Deal?? https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/Physical-Touch-is-My-Love-Language Tue, 22 Jun 2021 05:51:24 +0000 Shorts4Dinos https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/Physical-Touch-is-My-Love-Language <img width="3024" height="4032" width_o="3024" height_o="4032" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/c46daee2b88244160ef03c246440bd369aad24cb17693430aa5bcf4f97f8c670/IMG-9747.JPG" data-mid="112070092" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/c46daee2b88244160ef03c246440bd369aad24cb17693430aa5bcf4f97f8c670/IMG-9747.JPG" /> Physical Touch is My Love Language wc: 369 &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;2021 When I was sixteen, I almost tripped on a bone half buried in the dirt. “What is it?” Niva called from the maple tree. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Cow femur.” &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Whoa!” There was a soft thud and some crunching as she kicked through the chip bags and plastic detritus. She knelt in close. “Are you gonna touch it?” &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When I was eight, Fletcher found a pistol. We’d been playing hide and seek and then we were in the backyard and he was pulling it out of his waistband. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Look what I found under your dad’s bed.” &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Cool.” &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Have you shot one before?” “Yeah. My dad lets me shoot at squirrels.” &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Whoa.” We both looked at it, he would need three fingers to pull the trigger. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; When I was twenty-four, my dad lay in the dimmed hospital room with a blanket pulled up to two large cardiovascular catheters protruding from either side of his esophagus. He lay motionless, his head propped on a plastic pillow so he wouldn’t have to stare at the ceiling. I felt his toes through the sheet, bony but warm, probably sweaty too. I asked who gave him those hickeys. He smiled and winked. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Fletcher held it up, pointing it at my face. We looked at each other; his eyebrows were raised, and his eyes were bulging and then he was laughing and then we were laughing. I put my hand up so I couldn’t see the mouth of it. He started waving it all around, making me move my hand to match him, both of us cackling all the time. I crouched down next to Niva. “You should touch it first.”&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “I’m not touching that thing, it’s nasty.” &nbsp; &nbsp; “It could be a good tomahawk.” I imagined three quick movements that ended in two yellow plummetting fluffs.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “A throwing bone.”“Ha, exactly.”“How do you know it’s a cow femur?”&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Look at the size of it.”&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “I feel like that could fit in a person’s leg.”&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; We both stared at it, imagining how a human’s bone could’ve gotten into the small patch of trees across the street from school, homeroom, the principal’s office.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “It’s probably a cow femur.” I said.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Niva shrugged, “So are you gonna touch it or not?”&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; There was silence or small wings shuttering&nbsp; away. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/And-Hope-Someone-Says-Walk Thu, 15 Jan 2026 18:29:32 +0000 Shorts4Dinos https://shorts4dinos.cargo.site/And-Hope-Someone-Says-Walk And Hope Someone Says Walk wc: 7443 &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;2025 <img width="2880" height="2880" width_o="2880" height_o="2880" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/81c8c257e7849ea8cc7d7525a38a4d84bebfba8ba46c830d01fc18521f91c0fc/IMG_9717.JPG" data-mid="243296431" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/1000/i/81c8c257e7849ea8cc7d7525a38a4d84bebfba8ba46c830d01fc18521f91c0fc/IMG_9717.JPG" /> The idea was almost introduced in passing. Did I want to go to court and talk to the Defense Attorney? Just tell them my client was in a program and see what happened. It would be a nice thing to do, not necessary though, not a mandatory part of the job. It was just if I wanted to. He had disappeared a couple weeks earlier, had missed his mental health appointment and shown up not in the hospital where we usually checked first, but in the jail registry. His girlfriend was taking care of his dogs. Property Management wanted to clean up his room. My coworker had just gone to court with one of her clients, an older guy on some prehistoric charge, got him off, compliant. Beyond being called as a juror a week after my eighteenth birthday, where I was instructed by my higher ups[1] to say missing school was too much of a hardship to serve as a juror, I’d never been in court. I was raised in a comfortable and prosperous enough environment[2] that survival was just about a guarantee, and most of my friends were too, and nobody I’d known had been the victim of racial profiling; at least to enough of a degree to have the law sent at them in any permanent way. I didn’t even experience courtrooms through entertainment; either too wordy and slow or the crimes too explicit and heart strangling, the bullets too head driven or a storyline too sexually and/or childly abusive for me to seek out. The sheer volume of courtroom dramas that I’ve spent my life ignoring was enough for me to think this was something I could handle. But could I do it? I’d only been there five months and although helping clients discuss rent, jobs and benefits was confusing and paperwork heavy, and the general steering towards food banks, mental health coordination and substance use counselors was important, the opportunity to leave the apartment complex, go even deeper into the field as it were, was an exciting prospect. One that would likely mean I could take my time getting back and grab a donut and long lunch after. It was part of my job of keeping them housed. My client would lose his housing if he was gone too long. He was just in on a gun charge, possession with the intent to sell (not use) and was looking at $125,000 bail. Plus prison, I’ve heard, sucks.[3] ARRIVAL &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I was taking it seriously, I was already sweating the type of nervous, excited, stinky perspiration that gives middle schoolers odorous fame. The building was just a few stories high, nondescript and across the street from a concert hall. There was a brief security line. The hall was eggshell and brightly lit, the lawyers were somewhat jovial—conversing and even laughing with each other. The plain-clothed seemed focused on where they were going but not morbidly so. I was unincumbered as I went from doorway to doorway, looking for M-33, finding room 33 but not finding my client. After calling my coworker—who told me to ask a bailiff there—I was ever so kindly and sweetly informed I was in the wrong house, the Civil courthouse, with daytime TV disputes and only money on the line. We’ll call it a clerical error. The building at the base of the three-block stretch was a variable protrusion of glistening white granite and terra cotta. It read City Hall, which was probably why a building shaped like that hadn’t been reconstructed in some way, especially in juxtaposition to what was my destination. To the left of the razzle dazzle of manly pomp, was a brutalist and drab, twenty story high concrete circumstance pockmarked by night black windows. The two’s proximity seemed no accident and if the Hall was indeed facing me, it would seem that the court was its right hand. It turned out I was entering through the back, through a pair of doors, although another ten or so panned to the far side of the building. The ceilings were much higher than the civil court, the walls a stormy grey and the floors a turbulent benitoite. I fell in line with the crowd. An undertow of crackling nerves was palpable as we were shepherded between two rows of haphazard and carpeted temporary walls that hadn’t been picked up or rearranged since 2002. The walls divided us from an empty, ballroom sized marble floor with nothing on it and no reason for anyone to really be on it but was still clearly thought out and designed at a time pre-security, I guess, which created this weird, extra herded and or relinquished feeling of confinement which, like pretty much every other kid who was too young to remember 9/11, is commonplace at just about every public/large gathering they’ve ever been to and for that reason isn’t quite annoying or safe but unnerving in a subtle, chips away at your psyche that maybe danger does indeed always lurk to the point that nobody really feels safe anywhere anymore, kind of way. The crowd, or at least myself, were made more comfortable by the security seeming fairly laid back and relaxed. They were also Black which gave me the feeling of potential safety in impartiality with the absence of racially nervous/predatory profiling, as far as that’s possible for the uniformed, and from what I could tell, relieved some tension in general amongst the scanned, some of whom chatted or joked with them. There was then a line directly to the elevators and to the left of them a little booth, similar to one found in grand central station but instead of train information, the presiding judges and their rooms lit the LED screen above the attending bailiff. There was a doorway to the left with the smell of the cafeteria wafting from it, a room that indeed beckoned but never enough for me to sample. The outskirts of the food room were visible from the approach to the back entrance and every time I passed, the tables were largely empty except for one mussed and bleary-eyed person half-heartedly gnawing two slices of bread or just generally looking wrung out. We were directed towards the stairwell, the elevators a snail’s pace and stuffed. This migration gave legs and shoes to the mass. It was clear everyone in the place was dressed up. Slacks, collared shirts, jeans, hoodies, dresses, sneakers, boots, fedoras, all were clean and crisp. It was also clear families were involved. Not with crying children but rather moving in tight packs, stern faced and concerned, speaking to each other in hushed tones and, if looking around, had eyes that bore or wept or put on a stoic veneer of bravery. The stairway was slim and concrete and cold and brightly lit but barren and industrial and sad, so people were moving quickly, like salmon upstream, popping through doorways. I went towards the bear’s jaw at the third floor, entering a long hallway of ornate wooden doors and bench lined walls. It was lit with dim, diffuse LED panels, the type that stay level with the ceiling, and which lined the walls rather than the middle, at points diving in, creating dispersed, square, disorienting rings of light that made the walk unpleasant. Left and right, clean cut, mustached and mostly White and Hispanic men gathered in navy uniformed, badged groups. It was unclear if they were comfortable or not. Their body language, with the thumbs tucked in various places and feet spread apart was incongruent with their darting eyes as they spoke to what I would learn was often prosecuting attorneys. The rest of the hallway was furrowed brows and nervous glances, the uniformed omnibelts making for a discomfort amongst the civilians. The numbers for the door were in gold painted metal, or perhaps real gold, and the removable nameplate of the judge was in the same style, clear and somewhat elegant. There was no welcome doormat or instructions to wait for the tone or light to enter, but there were two, clip art paper signs taped to the door warning to not keep it open and to not use your phone. I stood there, staring at it, waiting for something to happen. Nobody walked out. To the right of the door were about six cops talking to a woman in tan and wearing glasses, using “and then maybe I’ll” in a way that made me skeptical that she was changing testimony or doing something fishy until I realized if the lawyer didn’t know anything about the case, they wouldn’t know how to argue it. It must be witnesses that can’t be talked to. Or maybe they could. I really had no idea. A lot to learn. I glanced around and nobody seemed to be stopping me, plus I was late, so I stepped inside. Nobody was being sentenced to life in prison or fighting the bailiff or representing themselves or shouting about inequity or being acquitted on all charges. The room was pretty much empty. The judge’s seat was empty. There wasn’t even a place for jurors. There were some eight benches in two columns on my side, which were spotted with regular looking people then a little quarter wall with a saloon type door where a couple tables had chairs facing the judge’s stand. Those chairs were empty too. There was a witness stand, to the judge’s right, also empty. The only person who seemed to be ready for action was the bailiff, who sat on the far edge of the room and stared at the computer screen an approachable distance away. A few suits (all genders) were quietly intimating with each other near what appeared to be a sign in page and potentially where the stenographer sat. They seemed less serious and even friendly with each other but not quite relaxed. One handed another a coffee cup. Someone to my side sighed. I sat as far back as I could and put my glasses on to read a whiteboard behind the bailiff’s head that had names, my client’s included, and numbers next to these names. I approached to ask him who the defense lawyer was for my client, he said I could speak to the lawyer when they called my client’s case. It would probably be clear at that point. I returned to my seat and took stock of the human geography. I am a White man, of mostly Eastern European Jewery and Sicilian descent, passable for Middle Eastern or Latino, usually by those groups only. The dynamics of me being in this situation are hard to see clearly from the inside but is probably just generally good context to have. I was also raised in the liberal[4] city of Seattle, so have been raised socially justicely aware enough to know that a huge and disproportionate portion of the prison population is Black especially, and Brown[5] definitely as well, the economic stature being largely poor folks. The other piece to this is that none of this is new. People have been aware of this disastrous inequality for well over thirty years, 80 even, 150, the 1600s, before? So whether it exists is not really the question but why, which I am in no way qualified to answer, but others who are can be easily found. The bailiff was Black and wore the classic, sheriff-type uniform, the lawyers were White, Hispanic or Asian, dressed in black, charcoal grey or navy (non-gendered) suits. The stenographer was White, the translator was Hispanic. All those on the far side of the berm were crisp in attire, and makeup, although not in an overly pretentious way, and appeared relatively young and bright and alive in the way younger professionals with a certain amount of goals and career success tend to be. By their attitude and grace, it was clear this was another day at the office, and this sign in sheet was their water cooler. It was strange to see such open and comfortable conversation in front of those awaiting judgement, especially since it seemed some would be providing support and others would be doing the exact opposite. That’s not to say they shouldn’t be able to have some down time, or to say it’s evil to compartmentalize what seems like an impossibly stressful job for relatively little pay (as public attorneys), but it did feel like looking into a teachers lounge on exam day when your entire grade relies on this and seeing the teachers playing hangman with your friend’s name as the word. The folks seated with me, quiet and often blowing pursed air out expanded cheeks, or rubbing their stressed eyes with their palms, were Hispanic or Black, literally not one WASP, and wore expressions that ranged from optimistic to bored to terrified to nervous to asleep. There was a gavel. A large red one on this judge’s stand. It was shiny though, like super shiny, to the point where it was kind of like, I get it, I get it, it’s a gavel, this is a court room. Next to the GAVEL were a fake potted plant and fake flowers, then the classic bronze justice scale sword person and a nametag. Behind the stand were two inside flags, flaccid and sad as inside flags are, stranded on their poles. There were a surprising number of computers in the courtroom. One for the bailiff and another for the stenographer (again, assuming) and a couple for the judge. I assumed they weren’t playing solitaire; nobody had the blank and beady stare of the homicidally bored when they were using them. There was also a large television on the wall behind the witness stand. The last few accoutrements that adorned the room were the names and numbers on thd whiteboard and three large paper calendars showing three months—the current and the following two—on the wall opposite. Many of these dates were either crossed out, highlighted or circled. Without notice or affair, the door behind the stand shifted, and the courtroom fell silent. SESSION I As she approached the stand, the lawyers quit leaning and gathered their things like children caught not cleaning their room. The judge had an angular face that seemed to rest on a point or edge in the front, all leading there and a bit severe, her cheeks high and jaw strong. She was not especially tall, a healthy pale and made up in a way that made her features sharper. Her bleached, silvery hair fell in loose curls somewhere between her ears and shoulders. She wore three gold chain necklaces the bottom with large, dark gems hanging from them over her black judge’s gown. She was older than the lawyers and did not smile. The effect was no nonsense and somewhat regal, the hierarchy and intense disposition of the room striking as the provisioner of justice took her seat. The Judge referred to the people on the whiteboard by their numbers, single digits not that long array of whatever prison numbers happen in movies, and the first task was choosing the next few. Apparently not all the prisoners were ready for one reason or another. It also appeared to be chosen by lawyer, defense lawyer in particular, having that lawyer go until they ran out of clients assigned to that room. The first was a prisoner already. Wearing a yellow papery fabric jumpsuit with the county jail’s title on it and cuffed around the waist and wrists and likely ankles by the way he shuffled, he entered through a door I’d seen the bailiff stride in and out of a few times. The bailiff pulled out the seat for the man, then pushed the chair in when he’d been seated, the man looked up and thanked him. [6] The judge had everyone state their names and purpose. All were public lawyers who stated their name and the name of their client but what struck me was the title for the prosecuting team, those trying to put these folks behind bars, was “The People” as in, it seemed, the whole city wanted the defendant locked up. The crime wasn’t discussed, but either way that felt a little extreme to me. I didn’t necessarily want this guy in prison, let alone jail. He looked perfectly nice, sitting there, and as the day went on and more men were drawn from the hallway in their yellow jumpsuits, every one of them Black, and held and sat and made to listen, I wondered if the prosecuting attorneys held any ill will against them. If once they had the defendant don the costume of prisonwear, was there something in “The People’s” mind that made the picture look right, finished before the trial even began? Many hearings seemed procedural. A brief haggle to find another date upon lawyer request. One bail was raised on a man from $10 to $75k for no apparent reason. The man, shackled as he was, sat up and tried to ask why but the lawyer just put a hand on his shoulder and the judge continued without looking up, although her voice waivered briefly as she read blandly from a paper, much the way The People addressed everything to the judge both in tone and avoidance. It struck me as fear rather than guilt. Timid people kept entering the courtroom, or people kept entering the courtroom timidly. At one point a woman slightly older than me and her mom sat at the far end of my back bench. They seemed Caucasian. The people in the rows with me still looked tired and bored and stressed, not quite closing their eyes but seeming to blink through honey, understandably less interested in the proceedings when their own fate was hanging. My client wasn’t called but a domestic violence case was and a man from the stands in front of me went with his attorney to the desk in front of the judge. Attendance was taken again, and the case was law speak until it became clear that there was a witness who would be called to the stand. The woman sitting next to me straightened her blouse and bangs, pursed her lips and stood, then clicked ardently to the stand where she followed directions, apologized, then took the mic and gave a very harrowing testimony about the domestic abuse she was victim to, describing from start to finish the violence and confirming yes it was the man in front of her whom she had once loved that had done all of this to her, an overall very disturbing and scary, video footage backed (that’s what the tv was for) testimony as she took his drunken assault and saved her cats. As she spoke, her voice waivered at points but rather than weaken, it gave her story emotional velocity and clarified the bravery it took to go up and face the “look what you made me do” (literally, he said that, she said) hellscape she’d lived through. She grew more confident as the story unfolded, at times speaking directly to her ex like she was staring down the barrel of a gun, all while her assailant kept shaking his head—it was unclear to me at what—until the judge put a stop to it, reprimanding him for potentially intimidating a witness. When it came time for the defense attorney to speak, his line of reasoning was asking the witness, who had said she was in shock that this was happening, that if she was in shock, how could she know it was him assaulting her. He said it in an awkward, stumbling way, which, yeah, what kind of an argument is that, and it did not fly with the judge. Eventually the trial, although I’m not sure if it was that, ended and they all just left, maybe the full trial would happen later? The witness returned to her mother, made some eye contact and received my supportive nod with a pursing of lips, gathered her things and left. The defendant, when it was his turn, sort of wandered through the stands, eyes scanning for his own support but the only person I could look at was his mother, who wandered slowly behind her son with a somber shake of her head as she stared into the near nothing. It was hard to say exactly why, whether it was the nature of the job, the people themselves, or maybe a bad day on the stand, but it’s hard to describe the defense attorneys I watched as anything but bumbling. They stumbled over their words, hesitated and stammered, forgot what witnesses said and generally seemed like having their head above water was a surprise. Based on the testimony I’d just heard and my complete lack of understanding of the law, I could see finding arguments in some of these cases as nearly impossible. I don’t know if there’s a gun that’s not yours in the passenger seat in a car that’s not yours that you were driving and got pulled over in, if that makes you responsible for the gun, even if you admitted to the vial of black tar that was in your back pocket. Like would it help that he was honest about one of those things and that would prove that he didn’t know about it? What mattered here? The judge clearly knew, the way she dismissed and overruled the defense’s arguments just a few words out of every mouth with a scrupulous impatience “The People” did not receive. At one point a DA thought a witness cop had said something he hadn’t, and it crumpled her entire line of reasoning. These attorneys also seemed young, probably overly idealistic at one point, thinking there’d be way more innocent people (I certainly would have) to protect and that maybe their guilt would have to be proven rather than their innocence. Every now and then a new attorney would come in and leave, and the court probably saw three folks before there would be a small break and different people would leak in and out. Someone started snoring, another person left their glasses behind and they were returned to her. When I went to the bathroom the hallway smelled like weed. My client’s number was called after a brief break and before I could approach, the defense attorney started to speak. He was a tall but stooped, slim, bearded white man whose constant smile appeared kind, apologetic and pained. He had smooth and manicured long blond hair that curled up at the end, his head constantly dipping, but I couldn’t tell if it was in respect or in regret at the very nature of his existence meaning he must take up space. As he finished one sentence and continued to the next, I half stood in my bench and looked at the bailiff who was more enthralled by whatever was on the bailiff computer in front of him. I had no choice but to listen. Something about a delay, pushed to tomorrow. The judge agreed. When it was clear my client wasn’t coming out, but his attorney had more matters to present, I sat. When the rather uneventful string of date changes was up and there was a pause, I caught his eye like I wanted to order a beer at a bar. He had no reason to talk to a stranger in the stands and tried to busy himself with his satchel, but I was persistent and approached. I introduced myself, saying I was with number 3, and he looked at me like I’d ordered furniture. One lamp with the lightbulb in, please. I gave him the name and told him I was the man’s case manager at his residence. Realization softened his creases—“He said he was in a program…” tempered his grimace. I gave a brief overview of the program and asking how long they were looking to lock him up for. Three years. He asked for my contact information. It was good I had shown up, he assured me. He gave me his card and thanked me for coming, saying he’d let our client know I’d been there. It was still before noon so I went to work, where he texted me asking for a written and signed confirmation of enrollment, which I could email at some point over the next week. I emailed immediately and printed one too, planning on going in the next day, when my client was meant to appear. SESSION II &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The welcome committee didn’t change between Tuesday and Wednesday. Through the detector, to the stairs, to the same general milling. The same court room with the same judge and the same bailiff and the same set of lawyers so I took a more central seat, had my glasses on before I’d even entered the building. I waited. The girlfriend of the client showed up and we chatted briefly about hoping the client got off, she was curious about the Defense Attorney. I told her he was tall and white with long blond hair and a beard. As if on cue someone of that description walked in. I had to shake my head. Ten minutes later another came in, again I shook my head. It had seemed like a good description, she groaned. She wasn’t the only one. There seemed to be something agitating the grounds. The judge was in and out, the lawyers were loud and pacing and somewhat gruff. Nothing ever got started. No words were really explained. The people who were supposed to have a hearing that day still trickled in though, unsure what was expected they were stuck to wait patiently. Another long haired tall white, blond man with a beard came in, perking her up, but again I shook my head. I could have sworn the day before he had been the only one. A large man in a loud and patterned jacket with mahogony skin and dreadlocks sat near me though and asked what was going on. I shrugged, told him I didn’t know either. He nodded and took out his phone. My client’s girlfriend, saying she needed to do it her own way got up and disappeared. She came back ten minutes later without an explanation and I didn’t ask. She lay down on the bench, then sat up asked if there were any spots open at the apartment complex. I said I’d ask my supervisor. Eventually a familiar face appeared. My client’s DA, with his long hair and beard and hangdog, half smiling walking apology of a face took the floor and the judge immediately began berating him for the delay. It was his client who did something. To my surprise the lawyer, despite maintaining a look that made me think he’d rather be a thought than an object, made a joke about how the judge was welcome. He turned and walked out of the court room, acknowledging me which made it clear to my client’s partner that this was the described face. While she was out, I overheard a brief explanation from one attorney to a client, perhaps just there to update the judge on their community service hours, that one of the clients had the trial start, didn’t waive their right to a continuous trial, then disappeared. It was unclear how something like that could happen. Were they in the court room, then turned and ran and didn’t look back? Or made an excuse for the bathroom and took the stairs? I tapped the shoulder of the man on the phone and explained the situation—it seemed both of us were at a loss and shared a laugh. He then asked what they got me for, with the same offhand what canya do tone that my parent’s generation uses telling their friends they were busy because of something their betrothed wanted. Of course, a part of me wished there was something to share, keep whatever aura I apparently had intact, but even if after all I’d learned yesterday something had come to mind to try and pass off, that seemed like a million and half negative karma points that would put me on the brink of whatever lie I’d told. I told him I was just a case manager trying to help my client out. Questions, though, beg the same of the asker, but since we couldn’t share in misery all I was left to wonder. Maybe he’d wanted to share. Maybe salacious, something juicy he’d committed long ago and had done his time. Or maybe he was just given community service and it was something small and inconsequential that I’d probably done at some point in my life but not had any cops around to see it. He noticed my lanyard though and said that he’d applied for a job there but got a job as a housing navigator, an adjacent job to mine, as well as an overnight security guard—read: 2 jobs—and had actually come straight there after working overnight and the day before. When asked how he was up, he was, of course, running on coffee. Even yet, faced with whatever charge or punishment, he shared a great laugh and ready smile. My client’s public defender returned, and the girlfriend did briefly too, asking me to call her if anything happened. The DA made eye contact with me, raising his eyebrows and motioning out the door. I grabbed my canvas bag and followed, nodding at the stranger. We found an empty spot in the hall. He thanked me for coming again, reassured me that the day before, my showing up had made my client smile and that the letter had been a huge success, the prosecution was now considering probation, he said he might want to talk to me. It was starting to hit me that this was more of a process than I had realized. That there was a little more at stake than “supporting” my client, whom I still hadn’t seen. I asked what was going on in the room and he shrugged. He’d never seen this happen before, and informed me they were going to move court rooms. It would be a while, I should go, he’ll let the client know I was there again. Back at the office, I received a call from an unknown number. A gruff robotic voice asked if I’d like to accept the call from California State Penitentiary. Why, of course. His voice was gruffer and he used a fake name, “It’s Lucio.” “Lucio?” “Lucio.” “Uhh.” *silence* then, whispered “Lavar.” “Oh, of course. Hey, Lavar, how are you?” Had I put him at risk? Could I be less stupid, maybe? How could I help? We chatted for a moment. He said he’d had a seizure at some point, wanted to get out of there, appreciated that I’d shown up. He sounded tired, used a fake name, asked if I could get his dog for him (I couldn’t) and, after a sigh, confirmed that prison—did—suck. SESSION III &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;At three pm the following Monday the DA beckoned through phone I come the following day. The prosecuting attorney confirmed he wanted to speak with me. Was there much in the balance, or was it a formality? That night I decided to prepare a bit, writing down all of the services I’d attached to anyone. It seemed the more the merrier until it occurred to me that including substance use services might make it seem like he was using. That any of the services would make it seem like he needed the services which, in a space like that, might make them think it was safest to put him away, or that there were things they could prosecute him for if they hung onto him. But maybe the more services the better chance he got let off. That they could trust they were putting him in good hands. Half of me wanted to run. What if he didn’t get off? Would he blame me? Could I just say, whatever they asked, that he’s the best person I’d ever met? He wasn’t perfect, as mentioned he’d missed his mental health appointment. His meds had been off recently, and he was schizophrenic, with cruel voices that made him think he needed to be tough. He shadow boxed in the hallways, muttered that they try him. He took care of two puppies, his grin radiant as the summer sun. The property manager had found a bucket of screws and something flammable in his room (had she entered legally?). He liked to work on bikes and scooters, motorizing them. She said she heard him muttering about burning the building down just before his arrest. Hearsay, sure, and words of course, but then again. He had never acted on anything as far as I knew, nonviolence was a prerequisite for the program. I didn’t really know the man. But I had a sense. I’d seen him with a regulated medication program and without. It wasn’t until the third time entering the courthouse that I realized how cavernous and big it was. I don’t just mean physically, although the LA County Criminal Court definitely qualifies as looming, but once inside it felt larger. A great number of well-dressed lawyers and uniformed officers amongst a constant stream of plain-clothed citizens harnessed the gravity of some unavoidable societal mass. The precipice of some vast filtration system. Up until then, it had just felt like people to varying degrees of anonymity, choice and power layered among concrete and drywall, split by linoleum and piled high into the sky. This third time it felt like how I’d imagine seeing the ocean for the first time might be. The largess turning experiential, as it becomes endlessly wide, then endlessly deep, then endlessly real, unforgiving, dangerous. The new court was sleek and sexy, the wood darker, warmer, mahogany for all I knew. Fewer benches, no makeshift signs, a space for jurors. There was even a court version of a mud room, a silencing so the hall wouldn’t disrupt any proceedings. The California state seal[7]loomed over the room, Eventually my familiar face arrived but suddenly I couldn’t remember if I had seen his chin before. His ears were new. We nodded to each other, and he passed on to the saloon. It made me nervous, this sudden large change. He approached the new set of attorneys. They reflected the room—more sleek and put together, quietly professional, calculating. One of the prosecuting attorneys noticed my client’s lawyer. An older Black man with greying curls and a scarf, whom I’d noticed in this time watching liked to hold his glasses in his mouth and squint as he brought his notepad to his face, making incisively small marks whenever something struck him, asked “what happened rockstar?” in a bored but not mirthless tone to which the DA responded, “Now I look like a lawyer.” He was still wearing his same defensive smile, but the suit had changed from brown to navy and his forward, rounded shoulders seemed slightly higher on the clock face, his eyes lingering on everyone just a bit longer. I wondered if this was maybe where the big kids played. And if this was his first time, or maybe the first time he thought he could win. The other lawyers seemed to know him well enough, asking him about the sudden change—neither complimenting nor admonishing just saying how different he looked. The DA said without little awe that it had been ten years that he’d been growing those locks, and, as more people commented that they almost didn’t recognize him, said it sounds like it was a big change. He sat with his briefcase next to the man who had called him rockstar, who gave him a resigned but pragmatic ear. “Do you have time?” “Sure.” The Prosecuting Attorney leaned over his notepad without looking up. “I wanted to talk about (our client).” “Right..?” He spoke slowly, almost sarcastic like he’d heard him out but wasn’t happy about it. “I just don’t think he needs any time, he’s part of what sounds like a really good program.” “Oh?” “Like I said, he actually had a Department of Mental Health appointment the day after he was arrested.” “Okay.” “And his case manager is here if you want to talk to him.” He put the glasses on his head. I was glad I was wearing mine. He sighed, “I mean, hmm… Where’s the case manager?” the defense attorney looked right at me and I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t been listening. Understanding, I stood and followed them into the mud room. I’m over six feet but both men were taller than me, the prosecuting attorney seemed to loom like the building when I first arrived. “What’s your name?” He asked and I gave it to him. “And who do you work for?” I told him that. “How long have you been working there?” Just to make me feel green “And how long have they been operating?” My mind whirred back to orientation five months ago. He had his glasses off and the full bore of his scrutiny made me feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. And I was free. “Uh huh.” He eyed me shrewdly and wrote something miniscule. “and who’s the CEO?” Had I said too much or something wrong? What did that have to do anything? Was I going to jail? I told him the CEO. After a dry, lingering pause, intent on making me squirm: “What can you tell me about the defendant?” He peered at me again, his scrupulous squint made me feel like I actually was hiding something. “He’s nice, smiles a lot.” I thought about the mumbled threats, the punched air, the distant stare. That we’d found him asleep in the stairwell with food burning on the stove, that he always offered the food he was eating when he visited my office, the laugh when he was on his meds. “What do you want to know?” He eyed me again, the silence lingering. I didn’t offer any more. “And what does your program offer?” Wishing I’d scanned the list one more time I started listing them off. “We have benefits teams, the department of mental health comes through all the time,” I couldn’t stop myself, unsure if this was incriminating, “Substance Use Counselors on Thursdays,” I cringed as he brought the notepad to his face, “we connect them to food banks, phone services, Access transportation…” I ran out of things to say but he kept writing. I glanced at the Defense Attorney, he smiled back. The pencil stopped. Then the notepad slowly lowered. He put his glasses on and eyed me once more. “Okay,” he addressed the DA “that’s enough. Thank you.” “Thank you.” “Thank you.” He turned and led us back into the courtroom. I hung back a step or two and asked the DA “Was that okay?” “You did great.” He said and his apologetic smile widened a moment before he joined the PA at the table once more and I returned to the bench. They were talking again before I’d sat down. “I want to give him two years’ probation, 500 hours of community service.” “500 hours? That’s—” “He should have 32 months in prison.” “Okay, alright, okay.” They brought our client out and he scanned the audience with his grindstone jaw. Not tall, but broad and bald with shaved eyebrows and in that damn outfit, shackled and guided by the bailiff to his seat. When he saw me, his smile flashed then saw its shadow as the judge asked him to confirm his identity. When our attorney was given the floor first, it wasn’t the pacing, grandstanding, addressing of the jury I’d come to assume. Of course there wasn’t even a jury present. The lawyer stood and, addressing the judge, shared not that the client was innocent but that he should be afforded lenience because of this program he was a part of, explaining to her once more the missed appointment, the services available, even referencing and pointing me out as a system of care that would be a missed opportunity not to honor. Lavar stared at his hands and frowned, nodding along at the points he knew too. The prosecutor scribbled into his notebook. When the DA finished, the judge’s response was “Okay.” The man in the scarf cleared his throat and, addressing his notebook said, “The People recommend two years’ probation.” Lavar, staring into his palms, relaxed and the corner of one lip curled. My body flooded with relief, he would not be going to prison. “With 500 hours of community service.” He shifted his shoulders, nothing comes free. “He also must attend regular mental health appointments,” another nod, “substance use counseling and frequent drug testing.” His gaze migrated from his hands to the prosecuting attorney, that had nothing to do with the charge. “If he finds a full-time job, reduce his hours to 250.” The gaze softened, then hardened “The woman whose door he was opening? He should stay away from her.” Seemed to be bating him now, that was his girlfriend. “He should be nowhere near the premise of that apartment either.” Lavar’s cheek muscles bouldered and clenched. Lowering the pad, he rested. The judge entered the plea of guilty and my client’s face fell. He leaned into the DA and was furiously trying to get some intel on what the hell that meant as the judge went over the punishment just suggested, making sure for each requirement and appointment she received an audible acknowledgement, which he gave between fervent whispers with his lawyer. He would be coming back in a few months. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He was not going to prison. I tried not to worry about keeping him out. The DA came back to me and we went out into the hall. “They moved the case to today because of the letter, which was way earlier than they normally would have so that we could get the plea settled.” He implored. “You showing up got me asking for things I wouldn’t have been able to ask for. So, thank you.” We shook hands, I grinned. &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Thank you, you were great. Thank you for everything. Getting him what he needed, all of that.” &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Of course.” &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;We had walked to the elevators. That was as far as we’d go together. He stopped and so did I. I almost wanted to ask if he wanted to go to the food court, discuss some more but his expectant, apologetic smile seemed clear in the finality, already fading back towards his briefcase, the other lawyers, the fray. He had work to do. We thanked each other again, shook hands. Two weeks later I shook Lavar’s, in my office, a free man again. [1] Read: Parents—Mother, mostly. [2] If that wasn’t clear by me trying to pass missing a few days of my senior year of high school as a hardship. [3] It’s supposed to, I guess. Like, it’s not supposed to be some Hawaiian ski vacation—and that’s the point for at least some American visionaries. But it sounds more like living in a vat of burning oil than turning potatoes into French fries. I should also probably point out that I operate from the worldview that these people aren’t rotten but just have a blemish or two. Misguided potatoes who were given the options mashed or fried, never having heard of fondant.[a] &nbsp; &nbsp; [a] The potato dish that came up when I searched “fancy &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; potato.” [4] A word that can have many meanings and for all intents and purposes at this point just think leans blue, generally hard, but with a largely white and affluent undertone and surprisingly regressive tax structure meaning they don’t “tax the rich” (it’s baked into the state constitution). [5] Mostly Hispanic (not always considered Brown) and Indigenous. [6] This small act of chivalry seemed the only time the prisoners were ever granted the illusion of not being imprisoned. [7] Adorned by what looked like a trojan holding a shield of good and evil, with a spear. There was also a large bear far too small, perspectively, someone with a pick axe and shovel in the ground, four boats with some big old sails on the water in the distance, some mountains rising out of said water. “Eureka” it proclaimed, right at the top. It read to me like an erotic novel, historical fiction, or Julius Ceasar tripping on acid and explaining what he wanted in a self-portrait.