On the runway before climbing up the tail-gunner tells me he has a bad feeling about this trip.  Says these 17s feel like a coffin to him and he’ll bail out at the first sign of trouble.  I say we all will as a last resort but he’s not listening so I shut up.

Bright sun. My eyes water. You are standing at the end of the point. On the horizon, Kirk and Matty float back-to-back on the inner tube, legs dangling in the cold water. A small finch lands on a bough of the spruce in front of me, and its weight reveals a linen shoulder–Anita’s shoulder–level with your knees.

She stood out of her chair under the fruitless mulberry tree and strolled over to the century plant. She paused, surveyed the lot, and then bent and snatched up a rock she threw in my direction with all her might.
To avoid being pelted by the stone, I hit the dirt.

The bus squeals to a halt before his stop and the folding doors open with a hiss like an exhalation of breath. He makes his way to the front of the bus, careful not to brush against any of the legs that protrude into the aisle. He nods to the bus driver and the driver gives the slightest declination of his head and looks away as he gets off.   

The skies are black with smoke from thousands of smashed buildings. Roads are like the surface of the moon. I am forced to park my car five kilometres away from home and walk. Streets are barely recognisable. In places I must scramble over smashed piles of rubble. Cats prowl through the ruins. It has become a city of predators. At one place I gash my hand and I curse. I hear bombers overhead and I shout at them, hurl a brick at them that lands in a burning building and nearly dislocate my elbow for my trouble.

He sat with the body for a long time, thinking about his last move. After a while, he took the tattoo kit from his bag and sat at the table. He placed the items before him and rolled up his sleeves. He gazed at the tiny stars on each arm, counting them, recalling the deeds behind them. But there was no way to balance it.

I will endure martyrdom, Kojirō tells himself, before they hit him on the back of the head. This time the blow is strong, he even hears the bone in his skull creaking. Ah, if God were merciful I would die instantly! he still says, but no mercy comes to him from heaven as he rolls to the ground.

It’s the same with flag football. True fact: no one wants to be there. Not the players, not the coaches, not the refs—not even the women who sell mouth guards and water bottles at the games. The only people who believe in the whole painful exercise are the mothers in the stands, the women who want their sons to play football (because there’s some prestige in that) but don’t want them to get hurt. And the more they get into it, the more they cheer and cry out things like “Way to pull that flag, Taylor!” the more the boys on the field want to disappear.

The funny thing about the story is she got a flat tire on the way to school that morning, thought could my day get any worse?

The Cop-Watch Advocates demanded to know Zapata’s name, and filmed the suspect and his pool of blood with great enthusiasm. The suspect, though, was cleared by a medical team. Meanwhile, several of his victims began loudly telling their stories to the sergeant, which made for much less compelling cinematography.