Where did they go? Mother's red eyes and Father's rueful glance –

under harsh lights, their helpless looks harken broken romance.

Life's dream ebbs

like silken webs,

gone as if by chance.

What is this place? No life or touch, old sets of memories –

gossamer echoes of times long past, sweet host of reveries...

But all before

I knew the score

of my life's treasury.

Time does not pass. It's come to rest. No sun or darkened sky –

watch the moments, both joy and shame, and all fool's hope gone by.

I am outside.

I am apart.

No effort here to try.

Emotions come and then expire, but envy lingers here –

jealous of he who lived my life and never knew to care.

He stood inside,

with angst and pride,

and let love disappear.

I can't abide. I cannot look. Exhaustion. Endless pain –

imprisoned death, unmoved so long that I forget his name.

I only hate

his laggard youth.

Ignorance, you are my shame.

What is it? This man’s first day driving a bus? I swear, If I’m late, I’ll –

She’s thick, ain’t she? Man, if I had just five minutes, I’d...

I rub my eyes and sit. I made the wrong choice. Fucking telepathy. “Know all!” they said. Turns out all there is to know is that people hate. A lot. Oh, and they think about running away, stealing, and, my God, they hurt inside… at least in this little slice of paradise. I shake my head and cover my ears, but it doesn’t help. The implant uses bone conduction technology. There’s no drowning it out.

I pull out the instructions.

Thought Genie! Step into the minds of anyone not wearing a mind vest and know all! Chip will dissolve in 24 hours. If the chip does not self-dislodge, T.GENIE NOT AT FAULT! All sales are final.

I huff. Yeah, my fault. I should be flying around right now with the rest of the addy-flight freaks, but there’d been a few things I wanted to know. Did my brother-in-law cheat on my sister? Bastard. Was the lying prick Stephen stealing my ideas from my office desk? Does Mel still love me... I rub my temples and see Du Pont Circle coming up.

“Next stop, Florida Ave.,” the speaker buzzes.

I make a note to stay off the damn bus til the weekend. I stand and brush past a man who breaks eye contact as quickly as he makes it. He smells like ashes and ozone. I shimmy-shuffle past the lady in the front seat with all the bags. And then I hear it.

Wait ‘til she sees what I did. Oh, man! I can wait ’til that dumb cow sees what I did to her. She’ll regret droppin’ me. Oh, man...

The words bother me, but they aren’t that unusual, even after just two hours in the city with the Genie. It’s the tone. I know. I know, but thoughts have a tone. And that particular thought stops me cold. My stomach drops. What is this? I... feel something. The Thought Genie is basically a high-frequency tuner. Reads some kind of chem signals in the brain and interprets the neurons and synaptic patterns. Science shit. Who knows? But there’s no place they talk about feeling the transmitter’s feelings. Fuck.

I yank at the device above my ear, but it’s locked in tight. I shake my head and try to differentiate between my feelings and the man’s, but they’re entangled.

Mary’s all but dead and she doesn’t even know. Walking dead, bitch. What she deserves.

I stumble backward and shake my head. A prim woman in a pressed skirt and tight glasses bats me with her paper like a bad dog. “Sorry. Sorry, ma’am. Miss. I -”

I shoulda made her pay years ago. Well, best served cold, ain’t it, Marrrry?

“I’m - ugh, excuse me.” I make for the bus door and trip. “My stop, driver. Coming.” I muster and feel my fists clench. My insides tighten like a spring. My eyes focus on the black grippy floor. What? Why? I turn. The man is staring at me. Jaw tight, fists clenched, eyes locked. Shit.

I mat my hair over my Thought Genie and scramble to my feet. Just some distance. Just need some distance and he’ll go away. Poof. I jog a few steps and feel the connection begin to link to another mind. Thank God. Anyone else. I jog around the corner and breathe out against the cool morning brick. I feel a vibration in my head, then a pause as it uplinks.

Where did that piece of shit go? Dammit! Damn tech mutants. I’ll kill him. Freak. Eavesdropper! What’d he hear? What’d he hear?

“Help, sir!” I say to a man striding past on his phone. He raises his eyebrow behind thousand dollar sunglasses and sweeps passed. I peel off the wall and peek around the corner. There he is. Walking this way. A conservative mad man in stark relief against a city that accepts him. Wears a cool salmon tie against a crisp blue suit that cuts to his svelt body like a shell. But inside it, he hides. A hermit crab human. A white-collar monster.

I run.

Kill him!

Can’t think. Can’t separate his thoughts from mine.

There he is. What’d he hear? Never gonna tell another secret again.

I race. A store. Glass windows. Keep running. There, Kramer’s Books! I know it. Maybe Josh is working. Oh, God!

Go on, little rabbit. Can’t hide from me.

I bang open the door and look around. Quiet mid-morning. Empty. Old book smell. Two, three... all women. “Josh!” I call. A woman behind the counter shushes me and beckons me over, shaking her head. “Call the cops. There’s a killer - a killer coming!” She stares. I begin to cry loose sloppy tears and run to the back of the store. A way out? Back Entrance?

No way out. He’ll try to come out this way. You still listening, pal? Go ’head. Listen.

I run upstairs. The stairs creak and moan. I stumble past rows of Mechum and Bryson. I turn the corner into the wide-open space with no exit.

Right behind you.

I smell ashes and ozone. I see the huge window and race toward it. Blind sprint. Can’t breathe. No more tiles. I stop and turn. “What’d you do?” I scream.

“You’ll never know,” he says as he shoves me through the glass. I hear the crashing glass above the fray of his myriad thoughts.

Got ’im. Close. Too close. I can get out of this. You’re next, Mary.

Bright light. Grey clouds. Crack. Buzzzzzz.

“It’s alright, ma’am. I’m... Agent Foster. That man’s a criminal. Stole private property. I’ll go outside and phone the cavalry. You just relax now. Stay here.”

The light fades. A blue suit steps over me, careful of the oozing crimson.

Now, where’s that bus stop.

#Prosechallenge #superpowers #Dangerousminds #thriller

     As a boy, my big brother and I seldom found ourselves on the same side of anything really. We fought over video games, the front seat, and who sat where at dinner. He tortured me for having a night light and sucking my thumb. I told on him for just about everything in return. 

     Back and forth we fought, as brothers do, until one fateful day I heard a subtle, wasteland-heart, crooning notes over a rock guitar. The voice sounded both lost and fearsome at the same time, and the melody droned on, melancholic and penetrating. I crept down the hall to hear more and found myself in my brother’s room while my big brother V and his best friend Mike nodded in unison to Sound Garden’s “The Day I Tried to Live.”

     I knew I’d catch a beating for even thinking about being in V’s room without a good reason, but the voice called me from the hallway and pulled me in. I was powerless. The voice soared over the dissonant guitar riffs, wrenching away from the melody with crystal clear rebellion. I was changed. I closed my eyes and imagined what the singer looked like. He must be tall. Defiant. A hero, fighting against something bigger than himself, but fighting bravely anyway. Saturday cartoons had taken hold and I was very into super heroes back then and imagined him like that. “V, what the hell?” I opened my eyes to see my brother and his six-foot behemoth friend gawking at my bravado.

     V sat up and stood but instead of throwing me out, he said one of the first non- threatening things to me in our short history at the time. “Hey, come over here. What do you think of this, huh? You don’t like it do you?” Mike laughed his dopey laugh and shook his head.

     I piped up, “It’s...amazing.” I’ll never forget how my brother grinned. Like I’d passed some test. Mike laughed and said, “Start it over bro! See what his favorite is!” We spent the next hour listening to Superunkown, ironically enough, it's how my brother and I got to know each other.

     To this day the album takes me back to a place of discovery and understanding like nothing else, and though I’ve grown up some, now I don't think, but know, the singer who cranked out those noble notes was a hero. He was fighting against something larger than himself, and he held fast decades passed when a kid heard those cries in the hall and heard sounds of a battle. 

     Not all wars can be won and, "The lives we make never seem to ever get us anywhere but dead," but Chris gave us the soundtrack to the fight and showed us the meaning of perseverance. For that and so much more, we will miss you Mr. Cornell. Your voice will never die.

Rest in Power,

Hanif

Chapters 9 - 10

Red

       He told me to get in. Get in this car that’s gonna try to leave the flashing lights and cocked guns in the dust…no chance. The seconds ticking by on the expensive watch Mr. Fox bought me were currency more precious than gold, sex, or power. Then there was a twitch from the near-dead ‘officer’ in my arms and Dom’s eyes fluttered, probably winking at the devil wherever his consciousness was…we’re gonna lose him…I can’t lose him, we need him. I got in the car.

       The majestic pine trees lining the English countryside would have been a haunting sight, kneeless in the early morning fog, but trees begin to blur, really blur when you reach about 110 mph, something I never knew before my life as a fugitive from justice. I guess I never had a reason to look out the window of a car while more than doubling the regional speed limit.

       An air of malcontent spread over our tense crew like a wet blanket, the very road rising up to meet the speeding wheels of our getaway like the prickling spine of a waking dragon. Off to our left, thick rushes spread over dales and mounds of earth that rose and fell into the fog swept distance like deep sea waves, barely aware of our race for survival, save for the sparkling dew that occasionally broke through their local atmosphere reminding me to blink my dry, dazed eyes. The morning was light enough, but I could not see the sun.

       I sat motionless, staring out the tinted window. My clothes were a mess, Dom’s blood coating my vest and shirt, but I felt warm and calm like the blood. I couldn't bear the thought of him dying so I sat and stared while Val spurred our car’s horsepower toward its limits. The engine of our ‘borrowed’ Cadillac CTS-V whirred and whined like a dozen ponies instead of the 649 horses its namesake boasted. Occasionally Co would lean out the driver’s side backseat window to spit a few harmless bullets into the air as a reminder to the pursuing beat cops to keep beating. POP! POP! POP! The immediate pressure following each squeeze of the trigger momentarily silenced the rest of the horns, engines, and wind in my ears.

       Mr. Fox had trained us well for much of what we’d encountered but not for this, not for losing one of our own. The car rocked like a clumsy phone booth during an earthquake. I ignored my nausea. Val wrenched the emergency brake, threading our car like a needle through oncoming traffic and onto a moor beside a bright stretch of rush-hour highway…the thick grass was more than aware of us now.

       The English are far more blasé than Americans give them credit for. If we were in Texas, soccer moms and screaming teenagers would be screeching this way and that, but we zipped to and fro on the English lanes without so much as a second look, almost as if the police sirens were echoing ‘mind your bloody business!’

       Val took a risk at the first break in the median and wrenched a U-turn going in the opposite direction of our pursuers. He stomped on the gas pedal, taking full advantage of our momentary separation. We exited the expressway as soon as the flashing lights disappeared from the rearview, under cover of a recently descended hill. Once off the freeway, we were back on track to our pre-mapped escape route. Our driver was a marvel, with a pulse closer to reading a book on a Sunday than in a race for his life.

       My friend, fellow captive, and the chief contributor to the mission we just accomplished lay eerily still, long since passed out in my lap. I'd been talking to him, reminding him of how pathetic he'd have to be to quit now after all the hellacious struggles he'd already endured, struggles that made being stabbed in the left lung with a fountain pen seem more like a break from work than a serious injury. I spoke to him until his closed eyes and pale face were the only response to my encouragements and then I gazed out the window knowing I would probably lose my strongest ally unless something was done soon. Up ahead I could see the safe house. Maybe there’s still time.

       The morning sun filtered through the half-closed blinds as we burst into the pre-rented apartment off Oldham Street and Cobb. Dom was more like a corpse now then my friend. I felt sick laying him on any other table than an operating one or God’s altar. Instead, we strew him across the kitchen table and within ten seconds, his blood covered it like a crimson tablecloth. I had no idea we had that much red inside us, but he made it seem endless.

       "…You send that medic! Do it and bloody yesterday, wanka’. You’re on my time now! I’d rather not have to pay a visit to St. Catherine’s Primary School on Drury Lane…” The dead line on the other end had an effect on the atmosphere in our very room. Mr. Fox must have been calling in a favor from one of his network of undesirables, but even I felt a chill at the mention of an elementary school in the same sentence as a criminal request. He had a way of communicating that was both clever and razor sharp. His tone of voice was always filled with excitement, but rarely framed in a space where it was merited. It was almost funny if he spoke that way on purpose. He sounded like a bad friend, ‘Surprise! Your wife is cheating on you!’ or the way a disbarred doctor might explain, ‘Got some news! You’ve got a week to live!’ Despite his interest level, however, it was contrasted further by his discomforting whisper. His volume was eerie enough to cool the blood in your veins to a slurry, like hearing your name whispered at night in your bedroom, alone, within seconds of drifting towards dreamland. It was the kind of voice that made you pray the speaker didn't know where you lived or where your kids were.

       Mr. Fox growled the instructions that originated from the phone white-knuckled to his ear. He had the look of a man who deeply resented going through the motions of a rescue that we all knew would fail, taking time that was beyond value to those fleeing the scene of a crime – time that compromised the entire purpose of our small mission and may render Dom's unexpected sacrifice utterly pointless. We reacted like sleepy college kids to an unplanned exam, trying to piece the how and why when we should only be focused on the ticking clock. Co shoved an Epi-pen into my hand, which I plunged into Dom’s heart. Co was trying to paste a special three-sided petroleum jelly patch on the wound itself to keep it from sucking air into the lung the wrong way, but Dom came back to life for a few seconds in a big way causing the patch to be secured to his abdomen, missing the wound altogether. This process was made all-the-more juvenile by Dom’s unconscious arms randomly swinging in large arcs like he was having a night terror about Apollo Creed, clocking me in the eye here and Val in the nose there. Note to self: read a damn book on military field surgery and pray you never have to practice what you've learned again.

       Ironically, the ideal man to conduct a debunked MacGyver surgery, reusing syringes and employing I.V.'s made of salinized Aqua Pura bottles, was the pre-cadaver unraveled on the table. I would happily trade places with the man simply because I knew he'd save me if our roles were reversed. My forehead pulsed, pounding all thoughts and memory out of my mind except one, ‘do a good job!’

       Levine Sikes, or "Co" as he'd come to be known, short for "Company," short for the man you'd want to be the face of your company because nothing can stick to a man like that, was the weakest in the presence of blood yet was diligently swabbing as much as he could from Dominic's gushing wound. Shirtless due to our lack of towels, his fit and scarred body would lead anyone who couldn't see his face to a very different conclusion as to what sort of man he was.

       Mr. Fox swept through the three of us surrounding Dom’s limp frame and scooped him up like a football player recovering a fumble, "We're out of hea' chaps.” Just then, as if Bad-timing herself wanted to prove her worth by example, the large door downstairs snapped open and MI-6 came pouring through the opening before the splinters hit the floorboards. Blindly, we followed the pallbearer as Co lay down cover fire into the hallway to give our party the precious few seconds we needed to climb the fire escape to the roof.

       Laurence Mayfair was watering her geraniums for the second time that day trying to get them to bloom. Still without success, she frowned and decided it was time to take them back to the store when she heard fireworks from somewhere below her. "Outrageous!" she whispered to herself, knowing exactly who it was breaking the apartment bylaws; her son Daniel and his friends should be setting an example, not breaking her own rules! She angrily reached for her coat and the doorknob when the unmistakable metallic clang of the fire escape rattled behind her. "Daniel! I've half a mind to..."

       Laurence never finished that sentence. Instead, she crashed to her knees in shock at what she saw. As she looked on, a furious constable carrying a dummy, an unbuttoned beat cop, a shirtless runner with a gun, and a construction worker scaled the escape onto her flat and they were all covered in blood. It seemed like she could hear a little joke forming in the back of her head about an old American rock group, The Village People. She always fell to her dark sense of humor when she was nervous, but before she had time to finish her thought the crack of the constable's threatening voice fell on her like the priest's fire and brimstone sermons that terrified her as a child. Men like this made her believe in God because she was looking at the Devil.

       "Look at me calfer! I need your car keys and its location or you'll look like this bloke hea', ga' it?” Laurence got it and moved mechanically and quickly, no questions asked. She walked fast to him, handed over her keys, and then pointed downstairs on the opposite side of the street at a small, yellow hybrid. Then, without waiting for a response, she lay face down on the floor and spread her arms and legs as if she knew it was unsatisfactory. A good thing for her, too, because as soon as Mr. Fox fixed his eyes on the worst luck in the history of luck, he instinctively backhanded the air where she had been standing and excruciated “Dof Doos! I bet you went an’ bought a fuel-efficient vehicle like that ’cause it makes you feel better about being a wasteful oinka', eh?” Then, to drive his frustration home, he flipped over her gardening table, knocking her plants to the ground. Now eye-to-eye with the geraniums, Laurence caught a glimpse of a tiny bloom and smiled at the spilt dirt. I felt sick being near a man like this but sicker still at the idea of sharing showers at the local penitentiary for the rest of my life, so I said nothing.

       We dropped Dom as carefully as possible into a garbage heap below the near balcony and then leapt together into the black stench that we were hoping would be soft, but wasn't. With course shouting at my back, I gripped Dom’s collar and dragged him free as we all ran for the Hot Wheels version of a car across the road.

       Val, our handyman behind the wheel looked cramped as he shoved the E-brake into the release position. Mr. Fox seemed to respect him most of all. The two of them looked at each other as if making some heavy-handed decision and without a word depressed the gas pedal and their trigger fingers out the window as ten or twelve service men were falling, scrambling, and firing down the street at us.

The Chase

       My stomach fell and the lump in my throat tasted like the first day of school wrapped around the seconds before hearing the answer to a wedding proposal. Swerving through the narrow lane amidst oncoming traffic and pissed beat cops, the tension in our tiny car was so tangible I felt sure that if Val braked too hard my head would smack against it like a taxi partition. It was like a nightmare, watching death attacking us from every angle to find purchase and only Val's steady hands keeping the Reaper's sickle dry. Still, while Co chewed his nails to a pulp and I gripped my knees, Val looked calm, almost sleepy. Working the wheel and wrenching the emergency brake more often than the brake pedal, the man needed no advice on how to best handle our predicament. The drifting of the tires and the bumps of jumped curbs gave me the impression of a cheap carnival ride and then it happened…quietly. I realized I was having fun, looking around at the tense faces and Dom's comatose one, I was instantly ashamed that I was smiling. Smiling my ass, I’m grinning like an idiot. It had been such a long time since I had been in the company of a few good men my age that the camaraderie filled some need I'd been denying myself back in my small academic life.

       I thought back to my studio and the ants there diligently working away in their farms. These little complex companions had become my focus due to their incredible capacity for weak and stupid action when singled out. In fact, get a few together and they still have no sense, but observed in the grace and fluidity of their hill or farm and their every movement has a purpose; their every choice, a carefully rationed calculation. Once they reach a critical mass of antennae sets, each ant goes from zombie to mindful engineer. The real question is not whether this happens…but how? All throughout nature, it has been documented. A bee separated from the hive falls listless and dies without the closeness of its brethren. The theory of a collective unconscious isn't new but it's been difficult to prove until…"Ow! Damn! I'm shot!" The side of my head burned like it was scraped with red-hot sandpaper.

       Mr. Fox reached back without looking and gently stroked the wound, then eyed the faint amount of blood on his hand and made it clear "No you haven't! You've barely got a kiss, a bit far from the big fuck, ain't ya?” Relieved but oddly insulted, I ducked my head hoping to avoid the kind of intercourse that would lead to my final outercourse.

       Looking like he was losing a game of strip poker, Co took his sweatband and put it low on my forehead to stop my small but painful injury from bleeding into my eyes. Then the car went dark and Co disappeared.

Title: Confidence Men

Genre: Thriller

Age Range: 22-40

Word Count: 90,000

Author Name: Hanif S. Ali

Why it's a good fit

Many would agree that the times we live in are deeply troubled and those without firm belief systems find themselves not knowing where to look for answers on a day-to-day basis. Whether it's a school shooting in the States, to bombings in Aleppo, to drive-by's in London, Confidence Men is a tale of one place we all can find strength: in the stranger next to us. Confidence Men is not just relevant, but necessary because it takes a magnifying glass to the integrity in men's hearts. Philosophically, it skirts and explores the line between what makes a person good or evil, while simultaneously raising awareness of human trafficking, refugees and other social issues.

Hook

When four young professionals at the top of their game are blackmailed into joining the criminal underworld, only the depth of their combined intelligence and the power of the brotherhood they form stands between them and the dawn of the next World War.

Synopsis

If you’re orchestrating three significant heists across three countries, you’d want the very best criminals on the job – but, there’s a glaring issue: criminals, by their very nature, cut corners. The South African mercenary in charge of these heists, code name: Mr. Fox, can’t risk that behavior. So, what’s a soldier of fortune to do? Simple – abduct four high-profile figures with unparalleled skill sets and blackmail them into doing the jobs for you. The problem now? When four brilliant minds unite, even a veteran merc like Mr. Fox could turn from a predator into prey.

Target Audience

I have played some form of team sports for the majority of my life. Though my experiences on the field helped shape who I am, it has been my teammates throughout the years I relied on to cope with the difficulties life has thrown my way. Now, as an adult and teacher, I do not have much time for teammates and scoring goals; yet, as buildings fall, bombers and hackers attack our way of life, and the daily news feed is cluttered with chaos, climate change, terrorists and Brexit, I long for, now more than ever, that feeling of shared adversity and brotherhood to make sense of it all. Confidence Men is a book written for millennial men and women who feel like the world is out of control and wish they could physically fight back with a crack team in their corner.

Author Bio

Raised by a Muslim father and a Christian mother, I grew up in a house full of culture, ideas and fierce opinions in a city that consistently shelters people from every corner of the globe seeking the Happiest Place on Earth. My name is Hanif S. Ali and though I was born and raised in Orlando, FL, I feel more like a citizen of the world. I received my education at the University of Florida, graduating magna cum laude with degrees in English and Philosophy. Though my interests are eclectic – from painting to mentoring, attending concerts and physical fitness – it’s my lifelong love of reading that led me to become a media assistant in a library until I was approached to head the Composition program at a prestigious preparatory school in downtown Orlando. After several years teaching and designing curriculum, I founded a writing academy and worked to inspire other writers daily, while polishing my own craft.

My outlook on life is that of a realist and a problem solver, but my background as a philosopher adds an extra layer beneath all of my writings – a lens for those who see the bigger picture and read between the lines. From the names of my characters to the shades of gray in the hearts of my villains, there’s always something more to be found for those who are willing to look.

Platform

I have been a closet writer for nearly all of my literary life – until recently. For this reason, the social media-minded might find my platform somewhat paltry. That said, between Instagram, Facebook and Prose, I have approximately 1,200 followers, all of whom are real contacts that support me. My website is under development and can be found at www.hanifsali.com.

Chapter 1

     There’s got to be a better way to do this. I tried again, “Though they might, at first glance, seem multifaceted and layers-deep, human motives tend to draw from a mere handful of needs…” A stadium-seated, stone sea of glassy, sleep-deprived eyes stared back at me. Many of the students dropped pencils and slouched in their chairs, obviously hungover, while others were still too drunk to be hungover for a few hours yet. Some, it seemed, were already beginning the work of tomorrow’s hangover, still in its infancy. I wonder if I should talk to the school board about making AA meetings a mandatory credit.

     “Human motivators! You’re humans, what motivates you? What’s motivating you to be here right now? Let’s take a look. Well, obviously getting an A in this course, which will fulfill your credits to get a degree, which will allow you to get a job to provide for a family… so that when you near the end of your journey you will feel as though you’ve left a legacy behind to continue the fruitless march of procreation that rolls on without end or meaning…” I trailed off staring at all the blank faces twisted in expressions of mental constipation. Come on Henry, they’re just kids you cynical prick. I closed my eyes and took a breath.

     “Okay…who went out last night?” Not a hand. “C’mon, it’s…8:32 a.m. on a Friday, raise your hand if you went to a bar, or a party, or a friend’s house anytime last night.” Every single hand stood erect. “Good! Okay, now keep your hand up if you had at least one drink while you were out – the alcoholic sort that is. Don’t worry, you’re secret’s safe with me.” Every hand went down. Shit. “Let’s try this again.” I pulled a flask of Glenlivet out of my breast pocket, raised it to the class, “Salude!” and draught long from the tin. The 400-seated stadium classroom was packed with 19 and 20-year-olds looking on in shock as their professor gulped 18-year old scotch right at the podium. “Okay, now you’ve got dirt on me. I won’t tell if you won’t. So, raise your hand if you’ve had at least one drink in the past twelve hours.”

     Every hand shot up with a roar of giggles and taunts of “lightweight, you know you can’t handle a beer!” and “Last twelve hours? Try last twelve minutes!"

     I smiled. At least I’ve got their attention.

“Why’d you drink, you think?” Hands dropped. “Relax, this isn’t an after school special, I’m just trying to show you something. Raise your hand if you can tell me why you had your first drink last night.”

     A powerfully-built Alpha male in the back row wearing a PKE tank top and neon Wayfarers shouted, “Cause it lubricates every…” he paused to flex his biceps at the sorority girls a few rows away “…and I mean every, situation.” He smirked the same way he’d probably practiced in the mirror every day since he was ten. The girls cracked up laughing along with much of the packed house.

     “Thanks, Jessie! Our brave volunteer is correct. Many people drink to better their chances of passing on their genetic code. Legacy. Ensuring our genes live on after we do could be one reason to ‘lubricate’ your social comfort level, though few have the courage to admit it.” I winked at the muscled meathead. Jessie transformed from feeling shocked that I knew his name to a lamb in his seat, as the hidden essence of his comment began to sink in. The laughter came slow, but was contagious. “What else we got?”

     A sad-eyed girl in a torn hoodie muttered, “I drink ‘cause ‘fuck you,’ that’s why.”

     I did a little dance of excitement, “Good Rebecca! A state of pure rebellion for its own sake is little more than a boundary test for the newly-fledged adult. By testing the limits of our independence we learn the safe from the unsafe as well as our own capabilities. The essence of this motivator is fear and survival.” The girl bristled, hating me. I tried not to smile. Let’s see the Board try to make me teach Gen. Ed. credit hours again after all the complaints they’ll get today. “What other brave souls have an offering of insight for the class?”

     A girl some rows back said, “I only drink socially, like with my friends and stuff.”

     “Ah yes, Natalie, your need is complex indeed, by fitting in with your friends and they with you, your clique not only gains the security of safety in numbers, but shows prospective partners that you follow the agreed upon rules of the social normative, making you more attractive to the sort of male you desire to couple with. Your motivator is acceptance, and not unlike Jessie in the back, ultimately reproduction. You two might endeavor to save some time and meet up for lunch after class.”

     Chants of “Ohhhh!” and “Damn!” resounded from the horny students.

     Natalie sank in her seat and whispered, “pompous ass.” I had to smile a little. The conversations in the room grew out of hand like kudzu vines.

     “Is this guy serious right now?”

     “Found my new favorite teacher!”

     “He does have a point or two.”

     “I can’t believe I signed up for a class taught by a psycho.”

     “My buddy hooked up with Natalie. He’s right, chick’s baby-crazy!”

     Then, a voice unlike the others sounded out, “Drinking is for cowards who lack conviction, eh Henry?”

     I stopped smiling. Something in the voice from the crowd set off alarms – dusty alarms in my head that hadn’t rung out since my post-doctoral research on severe mental disorders back at the asylum. The voice was placid and sounded older than any of my kids’ should’ve. It had gravel in it and its low octave shoved its way through the young crowd like a monster truck on a go-cart track, but the origin of it was less distinctive. The budding chaos from shouting sorority sisters burst into loud arguments all over the class and a scuffle broke out between two boys on the right wing of the room. The students stood with camera phones drawn, jumping and clawing over seats to get a good view of the fight. I watched from my little soap box as a gaunt man in a dark coat stood and silently climbed the stadium stairs towards the exit. The root of why people flock to watch a fight: self-preservation and threat assessment. The more we know of the dangerous members of our society, the safer we can operate around them…

Her face is a poem,

stops men in their tracks.

But her piece of art,

is defined by its cracks.

She worries and races,

throughout her whole day.

No one stops to think,

about the price she must pay.

While others want from her,

to her family she gives.

Her freedom must die,

so their hope may yet live.

Then one day she meets him,

recognizes his power.

He begs for her trust,

and bears Bleeding Heart flowers.

Her eyes tell him the story,

of the way she must go.

He respects her decision,

about their love yet to grow.

Her heart is a puzzle,

and by her mind it's driven,

It can never be taken,

it can only be given.

I can’t clasp the light inside my mind

until I let go of anger’s dark shadow

echoing in bottomless well of the past.

I’m swilling poison but expecting

you to die within your hollow walls.

Beneath my acid etched soul

the scars are fading into nothingness,

my broken world is patched with twine.

Buzzards circling must be cast aside

to feast on his rotting meat

as my throbbing starvation reaches

the abyss but decides not to jump.

I will get off the merry go round

of my circling rage without you

throwing away my jar full of tears

taking out the trash of fury.

My hatred will no longer sleep

with the enemy of bygone days.

Roses are red, Violets are blue.

Jack was a boy who had nothing to do.

Like all other children, he ran and he sprung.

He had small nimble legs and a sweet silver tongue.

And oh, how he hated being so young.

He was taught that the elders will always be right

To not fear the dark, yet obey the light

To listen, not say, or question its means

Just follow the rules and eat all his greens.

Jack was so playful, but he could not play.

He was trapped between four walls every single day.

He wished he could run, to fly like a bird,

To go to the stars that he so fondly heard.

But the grownups just told him his vision was blurred.

The tables had turned, he wanted control

To steer his own sailboat to where he wanted to go.

Time went on, and the light finally shone.

His wish had come true, he’s finally grown.

And all the time he feared the dark and the dusk,

When he’s only been living in its comforting husk.

Now he can smell reality’s harsh musk.

All work and no play made Jack oh, so dull.

He finally understood that age is null.

And as he grew up, his eyes saw the black.

No matter how old, he’ll always be at the back.

That was the turning point of poor, little Jack.

He never got to make it to the stars of his dreams.

He thought he’d have more freedom, all he got was more stress,

He used to want more choices, now he wants even less.

He’s now an adult. And he’s grown into a mess.

He’s forty years old. He’s tired and weak.

He lost his job now, his future too bleak.

He just wants some comfort, but nobody’s home

He’s still all alone in his well made of stone.

He checks the newspaper for a possible loan.

He stared at a picture, then off to deep space

He remembered exactly where he saw that face.

He looked upon his own hands with disgrace.

Life was much harder than he ever thought

But surviving so far, and all was for naught?

His world stopped spinning. Everything was still.

He stared at the rope. He’s had it restrung.

It was almost taunting him. It dauntingly hung.

Oh, how he wish he was still free.

And young.

He could now fly to the stars.

He kicked the stool from his feet.

Hoping his dear is still waiting to meet.

All colors will fade, and all things will soon age.

The young has its cons, but it’s still just a stage.

Enjoy life, young or old, it’s better than none.

The roses have wilted.

This poem is done

You and I are high on the beach,

Counting stars in the under cover of darkness,

The bad blood has finally faded,

It wasn't an instant crush,

It came out of the blue,

But now we can't stop.

We are the tide, rolling in the deep,

Open your eyes now and awake my soul...

Gratisfaction.