In a Chicago suburb, late afternoon was sliding into early evening. This cozy village had been around for 150 years and stately old elms lined its streets. The British, Dutch and French colonial homes, all circa 1920, sat in stately comfort alongside each other.

It was late November and rain was speckling our windows. The icy wind, fresh from nearby Lake Michigan, swirled and twirled around those elms, stripping them of their final batch of foliage.  

The lawn and sidewalk already had layers of large, wet leaves. They were so layered, I couldn’t walk to the mailbox without several of these wet hijackers sticking to my Sperry Top-Siders.

Fortunately, we had places to go and things to do that unpleasant Saturday night. Neighbors were having a dinner party and six couples were invited. It was to be a fairly fancy shindig and required a bit of closet choreography in order to get an outfit put together.

Arriving wet and chilly just three houses down, we slipped off our dripping wet outerwear and began to mix ‘n mingle. The neighbor I saw a couple hours ago up on a ladder, putting up holiday lights, was now complete GQ cover material in his Brooks Brothers turtleneck, velour jacket, Scottish plaid pants and jodhpur boots.

Following the ding of a proper little bell, we were asked to move into the dining room.

I must say that the candles reflecting off the hand-cut Waterford glasses, the flower arrangements, Wedgwood china and abundance of wine decanters told me this was not Denny’s. There would be no “Moon Over My Hammy” served here.

As the evening moved along and those wine decanters emptied and refilled, all was going well until my wife, seated two people to the left, asked them to pass her empty glass to me for a refill. There was a decanter directly in front of me. I filled the glass, turned to the guy on my left and paused. This guy apparently had completely forgotten that just moments ago, he’d passed me the glass. He and the woman next to him were involved in a vigorous discussion and I didn’t want to interrupt.

When their conversation continued and I was sitting there with a glass of wine going nowhere and my warm meal going south, I had an idea. Waiting for them to grab a breath, I wanted to say, “This is Shirley’s empty wine glass which you just passed me and apparently forgot about. I just filled it. Would you kindly pass it back to Shirley? Thank you.”

Instead, I condensed it, turned toward him with the glass held upright and said, “To Shirley.”

Still not fully understanding the situation, he paused. Then lifted his glass and tinged it with his fork.“Of course,” he said. “Attention, everyone. To Shirley!”

With that, the entire table lifted their glasses to toast Shirley. But of course, Shirley didn’t have a glass.

Y’know what? Sometimes it’s just easier to eat at Denny’s.

Jim was a creative director at two prominent U.S. ad agencies where he created TV commercials for a variety of well-known consumer products. Today, he’s become adept at channel-switching whenever a drug commercial appears along with its disclaimer, disclosing the drug’s dreadful side effects.

It was growing late on a wet, stormy night in Ireland and the innkeeper was worried. Three American women were overdue for their visit. He was right to be concerned.

With phone in hand, he considered calling the Automobile Association to begin a search. But exactly where were they?

Ireland has over 3,000 miles of national roads and another 8,000+ miles of regional roads. That doesn’t even take into account all the local roads that probably lead to someone’s sheep ranch. So these women could be almost anywhere.

Driving a rental car in Ireland as an American driver is tricky at best. Everything is reversed. For starters, you’re driving on the “other” side of the road. That’s challenging enough. But to make things harder, you’re seated in what we’re used to calling the passenger seat and steering from there. But there’s more. Most rental cars didn’t have automatic transmissions. Therefore, you had to shift gears with your left hand and use your left foot to work the clutch. These unfortunate women were doing it at night and during a storm so violent, their full speed wipers weren’t nearly speedy enough.

There are areas of Ireland that get rained on 225 days a year. That doesn’t leave many bright, sunny days. So it’s not surprising that Ireland has analyzed all that rain and come up with “11 Levels of Irish Rain.” They range between “Grand Soft and Dry” to “Bucketing,” and that’s only Number 7. Moving all the way up to Number 11, we come to “Hammering.” That pretty much describes what these three lost ladies were dealing with when they left the Dublin Airport for Clifden.

The next morning, I was pleased to see that the rain had subsided and was only “Raining Stair Rods,” Number 6 on the scale. This was still big, fat rain, but we were moving in the right direction. Entering the breakfast room, I was also pleased to see three women, all “Of a certain age,” enjoying their Irish breakfast. As the innkeeper walked by, I asked him, “Are those the three missing women?”

 “Yes, they are,” he replied.

 “So when did they arrive and what happened to them?”

“They arrived quite late,” he said. Then went on to explain that neither of them had ever driven a shift car, and all three were bad with directions. So using American ingenuity, they hatched a plan. Lady 1 would steer the car. Lady 2, seated in the passenger seat, would work the clutch. And when she did, she’d call out “Clutch!” This was the driver’s signal to shift the gear. Lady 3, seated in the back with map in hand, called out directions.

Later that morning, these three sprightly women headed off to a knitting workshop. But the rain was now down to Number 2, “Spitting Out,” the sun was playing peek-a-boo with the clouds and peace once again settled softly upon the green Irish countryside.

Jim is a semi-retired ad agency creative director. He enjoyed this trip to Ireland, where he and his wife drove on the correct side of the road much of the time. He’s convinced that leprechauns are in charge of all roadside directional signs.

It was never my intention to join the Civil War Round Table of Chicago. While I admit to being interested in Civil War history, I never dove very deep. But that all changed during a neighborhood BBQ in my leafy Chicago suburb. Making polite conversation with a neighbor, I mentioned my tangential interest in the war.

Wrong move.

What I didn’t know was that this wizened gentleman taught history at a local high school and the Civil War was his prime area of interest. Before I knew it, he was grilling me on various battles, uniforms and military culinary needs. Not knowing any of the answers, I was tap dancing like crazy. Just about then, he hit me up with an unexpected request.

“I insist that you come as my guest to our Civil War Round Table meeting Wednesday evening. We’re always looking for new members and I just won’t let you say ‘No’.”

I was trapped.

At the time, I was an ad agency copywriter writing TV commercials featuring the Pillsbury Doughboy and his Poppin’ Fresh biscuits. I just couldn’t envision how I’d ever transition from daytime biscuit writer to nighttime Civil War student.

Walking into a roomful of Round Tables at a downtown hotel, I noted that I was the youngest person in the room…by decades. It looked like a Civil War reunion. As I searched for my host, conversation sputtered to a stop.  Grey beards and canes were everywhere. A low-lying cloud of Old Spice aftershave floated through the room. I saw enough hearing devices to pick up signals from the International Space Station. Several men looked like they stepped off a Smith Brothers Cough Drop box.

As they closed in on me, they had no way of knowing that I still had biscuits on my brain as their questions rang out.

“What did you think about the proper way to build a trench?”

“How do you feel about the grade of wool used in uniforms?”

“How much do you know about hardtack?”

Staring blankly at a fancy chandelier, I thought this last question was one I could answer. Good thing, as I was now completely encircled by a platoon of Civil War scholars. If memory serves, one may have even been on horseback.

“Never really had the pleasure of tasting hardtack,” I vamped. “But I do know a thing or two about biscuits. I’ve been working on biscuits all day. I bet those soldiers would’ve loved a flaky, piping hot Pillsbury biscuit or two.”

The world stopped rotating. A waiter dropped a tray of Sausage Johnnycake. A fly paused on the tablecloth. As I stared from face to face, these Round Table Regulars, frozen in position, were slack-jawed, speechless and stupefied. Taking advantage of the moment, I executed a flawless military retreat.

My neighbor never mentioned the evening. However, during our next neighborhood gathering, he shot me a withering look as he dramatically removed my biscuits from a table.

It just happened to be round.

Jim has never met anyone else who has written about biscuits, but he’s sure they’re out there somewhere. He has fond memories of his days with Poppin’ Fresh, the Pillsbury Doughboy. Jim’s only regret is that he never asked his doughy friend why he was so anxious to pop out of his tube, only to be eaten.

For years, I’ve thought on and off about Mr. Coffee. To be perfectly clear, I have nothing against the guy. In fact, I think he makes a great cup of coffee. Instead, my wonderment has to do with Mrs. Coffee. Where the heck is she? Or was there ever such a person? Is Mr. Coffee a lifelong bachelor or did he and Mrs. Coffee go splitsville and I just missed hearing about it?

I’m not a regular reader of those supermarket magazines, but I know for certain that if there was ever any news about a Mr. and Mrs. Coffee breakup, it would’ve been splashed all over the cover. If so, I would’ve caught it, just as I caught another breaking story. Someone spotted the Pillsbury Doughboy at a weight reduction clinic. There’s even a grainy shot of him on a yoga mat, and it isn’t pretty.

I occasionally wonder if Duncan Hines and Betty Crocker know each other. After all, they’re stocked in the same aisle, sometimes right next to each other and have a lot of kitchen wizardry and wooden spoons in common.

I frequently see signs about “Gluten Free” and wonder, since it’s free, where I can get some. But there’s never any small print providing directions or attempting to clarify things. But that’s okay. I’m thinking I wouldn’t like it anyway and would probably return it. But where would I take it?

How come we never hear anything about Laura Scudder? She makes a mean batch of peanut butter, despite forcing me to bend a spoon and tear a wrist tendon while trying to stir it. I can see why she wouldn’t want to hang with Peter Pan, as he’s too young and an imagined character. However, I have heard rumors about Laura and Chef Boyardee, but can neither confirm nor deny them.

I also feel a little deceived whenever I go to Bed, Bath & Beyond. Despite asking every time I’m in one of their stores, no one can point me to the “Beyond” section. The Bed and Bath merchandise is easily found. But whatever’s in the “Beyond” department is a mystery. Maybe there’s a secret door somewhere behind the display of lemon-scented garbage disposer balls. I’ll take a closer look next time.

That brings me to that Mike Lindell guy of “My Pillow” fame. Have you ever seen anyone prouder of their pillow? If I were to purchase one from him, would he still consider it his pillow? Or would it now become my pillow? And when, exactly, does it officially become MY pillow? Why does one guy have to have so many pillows he considers his? Also, if I purchased two, would they then be called My Pillows?

Admittedly, none of these are problems worthy of a think tank or some cumbersome governmental committee. But let’s all work together to get them cleared up.

Doing so will give me more time to try to pull my spoon out of Laura’s peanut butter.

An ad agency creative director turned freelance writer, James is enjoying his newfound creative freedom. During his career, he was once challenged to find features and benefits in a well-known beauty soap. Today, he’s free to lather up stories that bring smiles and joy while never leaving a ring in the tub.

When I first met David, I noticed a tiny ladybug embroidered on his denim shirt, just above the pocket. Over time, I noticed that the ladybug moved. On Monday, it was on the extreme left side. On Wednesday, it had moved to the center and by Friday, it was all the way to the right.

David was a Hollywood film director and my ad agency had contracted with his studio to shoot some car commercials. As I got to know him, he was delightfully off-center. The shirt was only the beginning.

When I asked David about the ladybug, his answer made all the sense in the world. He said he disliked trying to decide what to wear each day. So he had seven identical denim shirts made, each with a ladybug embroidered where it fit in the week. The rest of his outfit consisted of jeans and a pair of oversize Herman Munster-style boots.

When we first met, David had flown to my agency in Chicago for a pre-production meeting. This is when the studio and agency put their heads together on the commercials about to be produced. At that time, tragically hip show biz types and creative folks carried a newspaper-carrier-type sling bag. These were always leather and had some fancy designer’s name embossed on them.

David, on the other hand, made his entrance carrying a Greyhound duffel bag, complete with the dog logo. I thought, “I gotta’ get to know this guy.” And so I did.

Weeks later, when we were finally shooting out in the desert, we were awaiting the big name Hollywood spokesperson. All of us, including David, were told that this A-lister was sensitive about being short, his recent divorce and his bald spot. We were to avoid any mention of these subjects at any cost.

David was up high in a crane, blocking out the first shot, when he saw the dusty contrail of an approaching limo. It rolled to a halt in a cloud of floating brown dust and sagebrush particulate matter. When this all finally settled, the chauffeur opened the door and out stepped a short, balding big shot.

David then lifted his bullhorn and announced to cast and crew alike, “Attention: we’ve just been joined by a short, recently-divorced, balding Hollywood fruitcake.” (That “Fruitcake” appellation, by the way, was a term of endearment and we were all called that.)

When David’s amplified echo finished its aural sprint and return from all the distant peaks and canyons, the world became scary silent. Any one of three unpleasant eventualities could have happened, but nobody expected the fourth.

The celebrity looked sternly up at David, then broke into a big smile followed by a roar of laughter. And that was the beginning of a wonderful shoot and a lifelong friendship between David and this short, bald man.

Though David’s gone and sorely missed, I cannot see a ladybug without thinking of him.

Jim is a freelance writer and seasoned creative veteran with 25 years of writing experience at two leading advertising agencies. He’s proud to say that his stories are gluten free and that no artificial color is ever added to enhance their appeal.

Every year I stand in front of the stove. Wooden spoon in hand, I stir liquid that is magic, admiring the soft caramel color of the fudge. I make sure to scrape the edges of the pot, to keep the sugar from burning, and I hear a voice encouraging me to be diligent in my task. 

Stirring the fudge is my job. 

When I am little, I stand on kitchen chairs, scrawny legs poking from beneath my nightgown. I imagine I am a Christmas witch, stirring a bubbly cauldron – the other witches admire me for my mad stirring skills. I imagine I am a chef, creating delectable candies that melt on the tongue – Oprah will invite me to interview on TV. I imagine I am an expert in candy-making, my skills rivaling the best cordon bleu chefs. My ultimate success, a shiny published book for children, so they can make this delectable confection too. And I, seated at my place of honor, will sign my books at the Borders in the mall.

But I am none of these after five minutes, because my arms ache with fatigue, so mom takes over and I run off to play Barbie in another room.

When mom calls me to the kitchen, it is to lick the edges of the bowl — quickly hardening films of chocolate — and wait for the fudge to set. Later the fudge melts in my mouth, and we eat until our stomachs protest. 

Indulging is a gift — a privilege — an occasion to mark a moment of sweetness. 

Fast-forward: A new reel of film every year or so until there is a library of memories, clouding the hippocampus, brilliant and painful, to ponder at night instead of sleeping.

Lives are built on complex routines and rituals. 

As an adult, I stand in front of the stove. Wooden spoon in hand, I stir liquid that is magic, admiring the soft caramel swirls. I make sure to scrape the edges of the pot, to keep the sugar from burning, and I hear a voice encouraging me to be diligent in my task. 

Stirring the fudge is my job. 

My legs are no longer scrawny, and I sit in the chair while I stir. I balance a  book on one knee, because witches aren’t real, Oprah is different, and I prefer independent bookstores. Still, the smell of the fudge is comforting and the process doesn’t take as long as it did when I was a child. My arms don’t get tired, and even if they did, mom isn’t here to take over. For the sake of the product, I soldier on through every potential arm cramp…

Although, it is never as tiring as I remember.

Afterwards I still lick the bowl and eat so much fudge my stomach protests. Yes, I’m old enough to know better. And I’ve heard it all:

• straight from the lips to hips 
• you’re fat, don’t eat that 
• you’re disgusting 
• you have such a pretty face 

But indulging is a gift — a privilege — an occasion to mark a moment of sweetness. 

Many of my memories aren’t sweet. They are turbulent, rough, exciting, dull — they taste of ash, alcohol, and coffee. They are like living on a ship constantly tossed around by storms — followed by moments of calm.

Making fudge is sweetness, like the ice cream we’d get at the gas station on hot summer days, and the taste of jam made from berries picked fresh each season. 

Moving through the motions of making the fudge, scripted by the routine carved from memories, with the confidence of a child born with a wooden spoon in hand, I indulge in the sweetness of the privilege.

Originally from Michigan, Chelsea now writes from the desert of Arizona in the company of her fur-family and partner. Chelsea enjoys hibernating during the summer heat, and is always seeking the appropriate creative outlet to keep herself busy.

To find yourself in the infinite, you must distinguish and then unite- Goethe

Voco Vocare Vocavi Vocatus
vox verve vent vocalize
Verbum verbī verbō
visualize verbalize vitalize
and there you have it.

Inspiration derived itself and surged through sacred byways depositing mass and dimension, time splayed flat against the front bumper just ahead of the breach where whimsy swallowed a unified creation and spit it back out in eleven dimensions; before-[time/space] cataclysmically sliced, and He who knows the end from the beginning knew the complications of a multiverse and played it.

Luminous Lucifer: to what end? It’s what comes from trying to budget inspiration, compress leftovers into a one sublime creature: a magnificence so startling it unhinged fidelities and induced a gobsmacked stupor, zealots incapable of anything but a drooling reverence; they failed the breath test and fell
ahead of the fracture, and

calculus
is what
they fell
through.
Esperanto of the gods, cosmic taxi driver/tour guide/translator (roughly, very roughly)
of enigmata, desiderata.
No matter which axis you slice
an/infinite/number/of/slices/sandwiched/together/make/the/loaf
and there’s always room for one more.

Calculus—that traitorous Frankenstein accreting its legends and limbs across the centuries, unveiling every hiding place, pointing its decrepit finger at every entrance and exit. This was the infinite sum they rode to safety; and at its edge, cutting the trail of its unfurling, was light—pulling the ethereal decoder by its v-v-vagaries, trailing footprints as big as stars.

The Fundamental Theorem of Reckoning warns that the perfected integral of inspiration between the fracture and the fusion as t → zero hour is equal to the derived imagination of the multiverse minus politicians, poets, hubris.

And then shall The Theory of Everything appear, the mother of all antiderivatives casually scrawled across his thigh like a crib note, the badass integral that will cause black holes to belch their booty and Stephen Hawking to rise from the dead, the rebound that will pull gravity back onto its spools, and collapse wormholes into paving tiles in His foyer.

And this galactic gansta, this cosmological commander, shall peg rebellion to the hem of the cosmos with a shout, and the burning you smell will be the brakes as light decelerates from c2 to zero, and the BANG that you hear will be calculus meeting its limits, guts flayed, as light, that great usurper, succumbs in a universe without shadow, without sun, without moon. And the gentle trickle of tiles as the periodic table collapses into its single pre-elemental glory will be the last sound you hear from these former days.

https://www.etymonline.com/word/calculus

Judith Solano Mayer is a Pacific Northwest transplant with an ancient history in physical science. She enjoys the porosity of the multiverse and tries to incorporate its character into her poetry whenever possible.

I read in the Arizona Range News that a well known publisher would be lecturing at the public library in Wilcox on Saturday, and I drove into town to check her out.

There was a good turnout at the library, and I watched as the writer/publisher placed copies of two of the books that she had written on display near the podium where she would be speaking.

The publisher went through her introductions and I was beginning to think that I might have a chance to pitch one of my manuscripts to her, when she began to talk about the mystery/crime division of her company.

An old female hippie wearing a beret saved me the trouble of asking what the publisher was looking for in crime fiction.

My wife elbowed me and shook her head when the publisher told the audience that the strongest “cuss word” she would allow would be “shit.”

The publisher went on to say that there should be very little violence and no sex in the crime fiction novels submitted to her company.

Before the lecture began, I had looked at one of the books on display that she had written. The back cover described her book as a hard hitting crime novel about a retired Marine Sergeant turned homicide detective, on the trail of a serial killer.

I waited for the break to make my get-away from the library. As we drove away my wife said, “I guess she wouldn’t be interested in your books.”

I told her I would just have to keep looking for a publisher. As I drove home, I pictured in my mind the retired Marine Gunnery Sergeant that played the drill instructor in the movie “Full Metal Jacket.”

I could see the gunny with a crew cut wearing a rumpled suit, as he pulls his .357 magnum on a deranged killer holding an axe that is dripping with blood.

The homicide dick says to the killer, “drop that darned axe, you turkey.”

The killer replies, “Why don’t you make me Mr. Funny haircut.”

The homicide dick is really mad now, as he shouts, “What is your major malfunction twinkle toes. Don’t make me cock this gosh darned pistol.”

“OK, OK, I give up. You don’t have to yell Mr. Potty mouth,” the killer tells the detective.

A few hours later, the homicide dick returns home to his young beautiful wife. She greets him at the door with a hearty handshake and a cup of hot chocolate. She is wearing flannel pajamas buttoned up to the top button.

After he drinks his hot chocolate, he tells her, “I got that dog gone serial killer tonight.”

“Gee whiz, that’s great,” she replies before going off to her twin bed.

The homicide dick reclines in his favourite chair and works on a crossword puzzle while watching a Charlie Chan movie from 1942 on the late show.

Leroy B. Vaughn the writer is not the hillbilly singer of the 1950’s, the former motorcycle officer from southern California or the dentist from Los Angeles, all with the same name. This Leroy B. Vaughn is retired and lives in Arizona, U.S.A.

There’s an art form to commuting and it’s one I learned well while shuttling from my suburban home to downtown Chicago.

On a crackling cold January morning, very few commuters are seen. Most are huddled inside the depot or up against it, out of the wind. Then, as if a signal just shone from above, movement begins. The herd heads toward the track, artfully forming discrete clumps in very specific spots. These seasoned riders know exactly where they should be when the train stops and the doors open. And as an outsider clad in a journeyman cloth coat and a ball cap, I just didn’t dare to attempt to affix myself to this curated clump.

This station, being in a rather well to do suburb, has more than its share of well turned-out dandies. Camel hair coats are de rigueur. However, only an erudite few would know that their coat was made from the hair of the double-humped Bactrian camel. They just know they paid dearly for it and it alone gained them access to the herd.

As seen from above, these morphing brown clumps resemble a flock of Bactrian camels at a watering hole. Only these non-humped camels sport jaunty hats and oh-so-pricey Burberry scarves and kidskin gloves. Of course, highly polished wing tips or brogues complete the look. So these are definitely not your garden-variety camel.

These are well-dressed businessmen (and during the years I’m writing about, they were predominately men) heading to the Chicago Board of Trade, an ad agency or perhaps to some snazzy LaSalle Street law firm. The only other visual cue that proved these folks weren’t heading to less lofty jobs was a copy of the Wall Street Journal tucked under their arms.

Once settled into their seats, the conversations I overheard from these camel hair-clad corporate warriors were priceless.

“The wife and I just skied St. Moritz. We found the fondue lacking. The Swiss are just so uninterested and the wines, barely drinkable.”

“Recently visited the spa at Baden-Baden in the Black Forest. Doesn’t hold a candle to Parador de Corias in Spain, wouldn’t you agree?”

“We dined at Chez Mirage recently and found the wait staff indifferent. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”

On the homeward train, the bar car was the place you always found these high-dollar commuters. Tales of deals made, trades consummated and clients acquired swirled through the car like a Sirocco wind in North Africa, only without the annoying sand and airborne fleas. It also didn’t escape my attention that while camels endure long periods of travel in harsh conditions without water, these guys couldn’t get through a day without a highball or beer.

So no camel hair coat for me. If I want to be at one with my inner ungulate, I’ll see them at the zoo. And they won’t care what I’m wearing.

Jim is a freelance writer and seasoned veteran with 25 years of creative experience at two leading advertising agencies. He’s proud to say that his stories are gluten free and that no artificial color is ever added to enhance their appeal.

I was an idiot at 14.

            I mean, I’m sure a lot of teenagers were idiots. But I’m sure not every teenager is an idiot in the way where they trust a two ton animal won’t throw them off and step on them. Except the whole point was so the two ton animal does throw you off. The getting stepped on it what you actually want to avoid.

Surprise surprise, this stupidity was at a Christian summer camp. We all signed releases, and our parents did too, promising not to sue. It’s a good thing they had us do that, on their behalf, since that week a boy broke his arm real bad. He did the same thing I did. Except his hurt more. Except mine was more long term.

We rode bulls.

I’m not entirely sure why both this camp and all of our collective parents decided it was a good idea to send preteens and idiot teens to a camp where we could seriously maim ourselves in the process but oh well. They said it was okay and we all spent a week getting muddy and injured. Bull riding wasn’t all we did. We learned to wrestle steer too. Most of our stuff was on horseback though. That was the main appeal to all of us. Barrel racing, pole bending, keyhole nonsense, and team penning. Even some basics of trick riding which the guys were all frustratingly good at without even trying. How dare they.

Bull riding was not on my list to do. Not once. But the two girls I connected with that week decided that I had to. They decided that it was now on my list. I told them I’d rather drink hot sauce. So they dared me to and I did. It wasn’t that hot. And they still made me ride the bull.

The chute was red and rusty. Rather than the gates used in the fence lines, these had real thick and flat metal bars to hold the bull in and keep his horns or hooves from getting stuck. The spacing was just big enough for me to get one of my Ariats into so I could slither my way down onto the back of a six foot six inch tall animal. That’s a rough estimate. It was the biggest bull they had, that’s for sure. I had ridden draft horses before but this sucker was bigger and broader. The cowboy waddle was an exaggeration of riding horses for a long time, but it definitely wasn’t wide enough to get around this thing.

He wa white and covered in brown stains. Whether they were dirt or feces, I’ll never know. I grabbed the rope tied around his barrel, just behind his front legs. There was a leather piece on his back and the rope arched over it. That piece of leather was well worn and had obviously seen better days. The rope was fraying too. I couldn’t feel the rope through the thick gloves they gave me to stop my palms and fingers from getting burned.

“You ready yet?” I don’t remember the sound of the voice, but it came from the guy who was in charge of the bulls and steers.

Nope.

“What about now?”

Not even close.

My heart was full of helium and trying to fly up my esophagus and out through my mouth. Except my jaw was clenched so tight that it’d be never able to escape.

“Now?”

No. I pulled on the rope and tried to get my backwards hand more into my crotch. That’s where it should be and I wanted it as close to me as possible. I figured it’d help me stay on.

“C’mon, you should be ready.”

You’d think but nah. I’d rather just sit here on this big white bull that had horns that curved upwards. If the horse had been straight, they would’ve been longer than my arm.

“You’re ready.”

No I’m-

Well.

I’m screwed.

The chute opened and the bull jumped sideways. You know how people say that everything went into slow motion? Nope. I don’t remember the 6.8 seconds between the gate opening and my face on his left shoulder as I somersaulted over him.

Technically, I volunteered to ride a two thousand pound animal. But I never volunteered to have one of his cloven hooves catch my knee as my upper back collided with the ring’s sandy flooring. No one believes this part of the story and I’m not sure why. I had a centimeter thick set of parallel lines on my right knee for almost a decade after that. And that mark sure didn’t exist before that week.

Those two girls and I became the three musketeers of pain. They rode bulls that day too. We all hurt different parts of our body. One had her shoulder, another her hip, and I hurt the entirety up my upper back. We walked around with ice packs attached to us every day until the end of the week. The one girl who hurt her hip had a hard time getting on and off her horse the next couple of times. Me? I got nauseous. Really badly nauseous.

We were standing around on horseback the day after I was an idiot, and I got really dizzy. I had to hop off of the horse and put my head between my knees. The world was spinning and my throat felt full of mud and molasses. It was hard to breath. The rest of the week was the same. Every so often, I’d have to dismount in order to see and breath.

While nausea and a lack of sight didn’t follow me after that week, the back pain did. Thanks to the idiot that was 14 year old me, I have a slightly curved spine and can’t sit still for more than an hour and a half without excruciating pain. Thanks, past me. Bitch.

Kelly Lynn is a northern Maryland native and graduate of Susquehanna University. She grew up around horses and loves her 30-year-old mare, Terminator, very deeply. She plans on owning her own piece of land one day if only so she can buy her dream pet: a cow.