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We had relatives visiting for the week. My parents had planned activities from breakfast through dinner. Everyone was exhausted by the end of each day. I was sleeping in my brother’s room on his bunk bed. He had passed out early as I lay on my back staring at a shadow of a tree on the ceiling. I turned onto my side pulling a pillow toward my face while closing my eyes. I fell asleep that night listening to the calm steady breathing of my brother.

We were sitting in a circle behind the Performing Arts Center. Somebody dared Joe to throw his apple across campus. Now food fights weren’t uncommon during lunch but it typically happened between the jocks and the surfers, but with a little pressure we knew Joe would break.

With everyone in our group gaining up on Joe, we convinced him to forgo eating his food for tossing the fruit. He reluctantly stood up with his apple, hand hanging down at his side, knees bent, a single jump and stride with a swing of the arm and a forward fling sending the round red produce into the bright blue sky.

We watched in awe as it flew through the air, reaching its highest peak, arcing and gaining speed. It seemingly happened in slow motion, dauntingly descending, narrowing in on the unsuspecting Perry. Thud. It split upon the top of his head, a hollow harrowing sound.

Quickly Joe sat down as we suddenly stuffed our faces with food as if nothing had happened. Silently, we sat… waiting. Maybe Perry thought it was a football player, possibly a surfer? Not quite. He was looking straight for us, tossing a brand new apple up and down in his palm, two split slices at his side.

One of my friends, quietly whispered toward Joe, “That sucks Joe, you should go apologize…” We agreed enthusiastically, coming down hard on Joe, “Why’d you even do that?”

Oh, how the tide turns.

“You guys suck”, Joe snapped, pissed with our betrayal, scared for his life while walking toward Perry, mind you, Perry was twice the size of Joe and we had no idea what would happen next. Eagerly watching with anticipation, anxious… curious. We could see them talking. This wasn’t good. Should we help? Does anyone have another apple? Joe slowly started back for us. Cautiously sitting down, “Screw you guys”, and we continued with lunch.

I cry every time when watching Fantasmic on the Rivers of America along the streets of New Orleans. A battle between good and evil as children cheer for our protagonist and jeer the antagonist.

With honesty finally triumphant before deceit, awarding an audience with a hopeful feeling of ‘genuine’ despite our recent prevailing ‘hypocrisy’.

I am a sucker for heroes… I just wish we had more.

I fall asleep to a deep diaphone foghorn. It warns my waning wanderings.

During the winter season of eighth grade I began experimenting with fashion and would soon develop my own style. I would wear flannel jackets over turtleneck shirts, which were tucked tight into khaki slacks. I had an affinity for earth tones and slicked my hair back with grease. I loved argyle socks with untied wing tip dress shoes. It was truly trendsetting or terribly tasteless.

During my freshman year of College I developed a slight obsession with a coed on campus. When I first noticed her, she was shyly walking to herself between classes. Admiring from a distance, I began to deduct presupposed theories of my anonymous affection: She didn’t have any friends therefore she must have been a commuter. Boys never played into her path thus she must have had a boyfriend.

My friends would refer to her has purple backpack girl. That was all any of us knew of her. On a few occasions, when talking about her while walking with my roommate, we would cross paths. Conversation would quickly change into awkward silence as we passed followed with immature giggles of exhilaration… but I never said a word.

The following year, after finally collecting the courage to approach my obscure desire, everything had changed. She was now walking with friends, talking to boys and her once purple backpack was now brown.

My morning started early with a meeting. I would spend the rest of the day bouncing back and forth between seminars, summits and symposiums. My night would end with a round table discussion and suggestion session. When I finally made it home I was already preparing for tomorrow until I turned the key to unlock my door… I didn’t have my bag.

An anxious panic overwhelmed me. A cold sweat and a loss of breath soon followed. I had everything in that bag: my journal, a diary and notes for several books and projects including original drafts that had yet to be copied or transcribed.

While retracing the details of my day I realized I left it at my last appointment. Quickly, I called my contacts. Nobody was answering. I dialed information for the number of the restaurant where we met… they forwarded my call. An employee picked up. The bag was nowhere to be found.

I began to convince myself that this was a sign. It was meant to be. Maybe the journal, my diary and those books and projects were supposed to land in the hands of someone else. Fate. And then my phone rang. Paul had my bag. He picked it up before he left and would have it for me in the morning.

I was back to the middle just as I was ready to start from the beginning.