When I was a little younger than you, I never wanted children. The crying! The soured-milk smell. And oh! Never being able to finish a sentence with my friends before a little one would yell, “Momma.” Not to mention getting fat. I don’t think I was exactly selfish; instead, I was gonna be a model.

The Canada geese, emboldened by their sheer numbers, increased their territorialism. Competing with the local raccoons, they looted and toppled trash cans in the park and surrounding neighborhood.

Janie’s first thought was to have security call the cops. Then she realized this may be a way out of being a scribe, an indentured servant.  She would be able to follow her passion, her dream of being a novelist, immersed in literature and chess.

At the bar, she ordered a lager called “If It Ain’t Fixed, Don’t Break It.” Clean and clear as your last drug test. Staring at her phone or checking the door, she feigned expecting someone any minute. She wandered, gazing at the merchandise display along the back wall: logoed T-shirts, pint glasses, and growlers. A man about her age (she smiled to herself; she still passed for under thirty) with shaggy black hair and a black Labrador retriever eased away from the bar, an opaque yellow pint in one hand, his dog’s leash in the other.

As she slowly progresses in the pat-down line, some protestors off to June’s right get her attention.  Most of them silently loft their signs – “A Lying Danger to Democracy,” “Lock him up!”  “A Pig’s Pig,” “Liar, Loser, Crook” – while a few yell what is on theirs.  Two men in line just ahead of June bellow back in unison to the yellers, “Woke-ass shitbirds!”

They pitched and swayed for an hour before they were picked up by the Moby Blu, another nearby ferry. The Italian-speaking purser was confused when they boarded. He assumed they were a couple and temporarily housed them in the same cabin. They protested at first, but the hot shower, dry clothes, and warm food brought by the steward overcame their awkwardness in the small stateroom.

We all have the capacity to express our extraordinary selves through the arts, literary and otherwise.  We do it because it makes us feel good.

“Shut the fuck up!” I say. She’s alphabetizing all my slights. I threaten to rip her cord out of the wall. Order her to dial my husband’s mobile. She hovers there glowing purple. Like the color of kings or a plastic plum.  “Echo? Echo? Echo!?” I yell. Then, restart her

The old bastard couldn’t believe they’d really done it,
left him at the Home in a room the size of a one car garage,
with a roommate who snored like a train.