micheal a. peggins writes

[mapwrites]

The Trust Economy

Today, I am keeping it simple. This is less formal than my usual blog entry but I find it important to get it out.

Sam Altman revealed his plans for WorldCoin and The Orb - a way to verify our humanity in the future.

It was announced a few weeks ago that he was working on a physical product. That was during Meta's announcement on Ray Bans, AR, and VR glasses. People thought it might be something akin to that, or a phone, or something like Humane AI or Rabbit R1.

Turns out it is an iris scanner!

I have so many questions and concerns. But I think that will have to be for a more thoughtful post. For now, I want to say:

Going forward, trust will become a currency. As it is becoming more and more difficult to discern between reality and deepfakes, there need to be ways of verifying who we are.

Does that mean registering our irises in an international, ungoverned database? I don't know if people would be open to that. Personally, it gives me the creeps.

But I will say, it is an important problem that needs to be addressed. I expect to see more innovation on this forefront as opposed to mass adoption.

[mapwrites]

How I Learned Spanish

One of my superpowers is that I speak Spanish. No one expects it and I regularly surprise those who hear me for the first time. After asking me where I come from (shocker - not from a Spanish-speaking area or family), the second question people always ask is how did I learn? That is what I want to share today.

To start, allow me to share that I am a non-native Spanish speaker. I learned the language as an adult. I started learning at 20 or 21. In the beginning it was just to make jokes with coworkers and learn the curse words. Soon enough, it became an interest and a passion. I developed a love for the language.

Soon, I discovered that language is not just a combination of words. It is an expression of culture. Many words do not have direct translations, from English to Spanish, and vice versa. When you learn Spanish, you learn the words of course, but you also learn new meanings. You start to see your own native language differently. It is a journey not a destination.

So, how did I do it? Below, I will share what worked for me. I must note though that I did not necessarily learn in this order. Instead, these are all methods that I incorporated into my education. Start with what makes sense for you. Leave what doesn't resonate. There is no wrong way.

1. Music Videos with Lyrics

I give this suggestion to everybody. It is fun, and it is relatively easy.

Go to YouTube. Search for Spanish songs with lyrics ("con letra"). If you don't like the first song, keep searching. Search for genres that you like. Don't listen to something because you have to. Rather, listen to it because you enjoy it and want to learn it. That will make the learning easier.

While listening, pause the video as needed and translate what you need.

There are many benefits to learning the music. You learn how people actually speak. You learn the cadence of language. You learn slang. You learn vocabulary that isn't in your study books. Instead of learning rote rules (which are important but they have their time and place), you learn actual natural language. Also, I have discovered that learning music helps you remember the words. Catchy songs are great.

2. Listen to people or songs or shows, even if you don't understand.

Learning Spanish was never easy for me but it was convenient. I worked in restaurants and half of the staff and customers spoke the language. So, I had access to the language. What helped me is that I listened intently to what they were saying. I didn't do this to be nosey but to aide my understanding. I started to notice common sounds and words. Once I got those down, I could understand the basic gist of conversations. Eventually, I could understand full sentences (sometimes).

After all, learning in a class setting or language app doesn't necessarily translate to understanding. It usually leads you to passing a quiz that you forget a week later. Active listening exposes you to how the language is officially spoken, not just textbook pronunciations. (By the way, people don't usually speak according to the textbooks!)

3. Speak the language

This seems easy. Of course, you are going to speak the language when you are learning it. Right? It's actually harder than it seems. In the beginning, I was so nervous about speaking that I was afraid to do it. I did it anyway. I probably sounded horrible. In fact, I know I did. People laughed when I spoke. And not because I was telling jokes. I said the wrong things. I misunderstood conversations. However, I persisted.

The more you speak, the better you get. Sure, you are sloppy in the beginning, but you improve. Besides, you have to start somewhere. Face your fears. Sound silly. It doesn't matter. It will help your advancement.

4. Purchase some grammar books

So far, I have highlighted some advantages of learning the natural way people speak, of learning what the textbooks won't teach you. However, grammar rules are important. In the beginning, people forgive you for your mistakes, but you do need to learn the official rules of language.

I am not suggesting expensive textbooks. You can go on Amazon and get a couple of books for $20-$30 each. Learning Spanish, I think I purchased 4 books in all. One for Verbs and Tenses. One for Adjectives. "Breaking out of Beginner Spanish" (I highly recommend). " One for Spanish Idioms. They were all great but the Spanish Idioms one was a bit difficult. Each region uses different idioms and it is difficult to know which ones are universal. Try them out but a native Spanish speaker from Mexico may not understand an idiom from Spain. The other three books are fundamental, though.

5. Don't give up.

Some days I felt great. Some days I felt horrible. The more I learned, the more I realized I didn't know. Some days it felt that as soon as I grasped one concept, I completely forgot another. In fact, 14 years later, I still have more to learn. Speaking Spanish is hard, yet completely worth it. It exposes you to different worlds and cultures. When you feel like giving up, take a brief step back and take a break. But never give up. Keep going. The more you practice, the better you will become. The more you practice, the easier it will be. You can do it.

[mapwrites]

Socially Awkward

Talking to people has become difficult. I used to be so outgoing, so willing to charm anyone with my charisma.

And then I lost my restaurant job. The job where I chit-chatted with hundreds of people every day. The job where my duty was to be social.

Since then, I have decided to change directions. I will not work in restaurants again. Instead, I am finding a new path, and my self-identity is becoming jumbled.

At the start of this new journey, I withdrew from social interactions. Intentionally. After all, I went from being a hotshot restaurant manager at a world-famous Michelin-starred restaurant to being... someone who is... finding his path. I became less sure of myself, less confident. I pulled back.

This has made me more reserved, less outgoing, and more socially awkward. I find myself being short with people, saying rude things, or simply not being as thoughtful as before.

Then, with the additional time on my hands, I begin to overthink. I analyze my awkward moments and I worry that people will judge me. I worry that they won't like me anymore.

None of my negative thoughts played out. Though I might have said something foolish once, I kept showing up. I kept proving myself to be a considerate person. I learned from my mistakes and did my best not to repeat them.

Today, I experienced this again. I was rude to someone earlier and I only noticed afterwards. As soon as I noticed I proceeded to panic. And then I breathed. Yes, I was rude. However, I will be more mindful the next time I speak with this person and I will make an intentional effort to be better. I made another mistake but I will overcome.

Being rude once does not make you a mean person. Being rude time and time again does. Single mistakes don't define you. What matters is how you show up consistently. So, next time you blunder, don't panic. Acknowledge your mistake and keep showing up. You will get better.

[mapwrites]

semantics

New York City, 1984. The River Café.

It was a lively summer evening. The sun had already set behind the Manhattan skyline several hours ago but the night was young to this vivacious group of martini enthusiasts. One man toasted to his girlfriend at the same time she toasted to her husband. Everyone was lost in the drunken revelry and the good times. The pianist provoked the mania as his fingers kept rambling out jazzy tunes. Unfortunately, not everyone was destined to have a good time.

Barbara had finally stepped away from the bar - two champagnes and three gin gimlets later - and sought to find the lady's room. She passed the maître d' who pointed her in the right direction to "the last door on the left in the lobby." At this point, if Barbara had given the maître d' her full attention and not tune out before "the lobby" bit, and perhaps if she had one less cocktail and could tell the difference between the floor and the lack of one, the chain of events would occur differently and this would not be a story worth telling. However, most stories do not go the way their protagonists would like them to. As it was, Barbara was quite drunk and she did stop paying attention at a most unfortunate time.

With her stupidly newfound confidence in the location of the restroom, she spilled past the maître d' who was still talking, stumbled down the gangway, and just before the lobby, she took the last door on the left. This door was never intended for guests, it was an access point for the maintenance crew, but it was unlocked and ready for Barbara to use. She took one step out, her foot met a platform. She took a second step and that sent her flying, face first, into the frigid East River. The splash was quite loud and so was her scream, but the party indoors roared even louder and managed to deafen everyone to her fall. The gadabouts kept drinking and the pianist kept playing.

Fortunately enough (relatively speaking, of course) for Barbara, it happened to be low tide. She did drench herself completely but she did not have to test her ability to swim drunk and in high heels. Unfortunately, there was no ladder in sight, and climbing back up proved to be a feat. Draped from head to toe in Chanel, and now with accents of seaweed and East River debris, Barbara managed to find a grip on the barge's edge to heave herself back up on to dry land. She went to open the door which, for some reason, only opens from the inside. She banged on it furiously and screamed bloody murder.

Back inside, the maître d' heard the din and ran hurriedly toward the door. He opened it up and, at the sight of Barbara, his jaw dropped at once. Others must have heard the commotion as well because the party, in an abrupt decrescendo, transformed from a vigorous roar to a whispered hush. With surprising grace and calm, Barbara walked in, looked to the right down the gangway at an audience of awestruck eyes, brushed some seaweed off from her shoulders, straightened her skirt, and proceeded in the opposite direction to the last door on the left in the lobby. The drunkards laughed synchronously and the party raged on.

[mapwrites]

an oakland home

The sun stands tall in the midsummer sky, sharing its warmth with a Northern California town, gracing the people below with its gift of comfort and joy. A house sits on the ground, its front garden dances in the wind with long blades of bright green grass, or “kitty grass” as a ten-year-old neighbor boy describes it, for grey tabby cats prance and gallivant through it like a horse through a field of hay. Windchimes are strung from trees and rafters, singing with birds that trill and chirrup.

Inside the home, nag champa incense is lit, making its bold presence known to every nostril present. Books are scattered throughout the house, adding a subtle musk of old pages to entwine with the burning incense. Some are stored in an actual bookcase, the rest adorn every piece of furniture in the home – the office desk, dining room table, and even on a piece of wood haphazardly attached to the wall adjacent to the toilet.

Through the kitchen, a door leads to the back garden. A lavender bush sways, its full blooms so fragrant that one can taste it with a full, deep breath. There is a path of rough gravel and birdseed, one that leads to a solitary bench where a young woman in a flowy, yellow summer dress sits with her favorite book – Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut – shadowed by a towering oak tree. A stone birdbath stands several feet away, far enough for the birds to feel comfortable but close enough for a zealous one to lightly splash the girl and her book.

[mapwrites]

on blackrock drive

On the clean, quiet streets of a boring suburb of California’s Capital city of Sacramento stands an apartment, guarded from the outside world by a feng shui red door. Upon entering, one is greeted with a delightful mélange of fragrances, a union of both nature and the artificial, of herbs that have been smoked and candles that have been lit to cover said herbs. Fortunately, one odor does not cover the other; rather, they dance together, betwixt, wafting through the air, producing an utmost olfactory pleasure. Also fortunate is that their amalgamation effectively masks the scent of the litter box hidden behind the mudroom door of the entrance. If not for the myriad of cat scratchers and toys, at least no odor would give someone the impression this home houses multiple cats.

It is worthwhile to note that, while a sixteen-year-old boy and his forty-eight-year-old mother inhabit this house, the herbs do not belong to the young man, he is not attempting to hide anything – or, at least, anything that has been smoked.

Once inside, one will at once notice an eclectic array of sights and designs. For the two-bedroom apartment is recently built, and its walls, floors, and appliances are brand new, but the furnishings are a random assortment of antiques inherited from multiple relatives of generations past. The only semblance of coherent design are the touches of feng shui ornaments strewn throughout the home. Crystals hanging from nine- or twelve-inch red strings, mirrors everywhere, Chinese symbols and more red string, pictures and statues of Buddha, golden dragons and copper frogs with coins spewing from their mouths. Neither the mother nor the son is Buddhist, nor can either read the Chinese symbols, but they both find a sense of tranquility in the design. And, after all, should not happiness be the ultimate achievement of one’s home?

Apart from the mother and son, two cats call this apartment their home, a black one and a calico. There is another honorary resident, though he does not come inside – a grey tabby cat that regularly passes by the patio. The mother leaves out milk and other kitty treats in hopes that one day this cat will also join the family inside.

The patio is a peaceful corner of the abode, for both human and feline. Wind chimes are strung from the ceiling and sing their songs gently with whispering winds. Perched from the same ceiling are macrame net baskets that carry flowing plants of wisteria and dichondra. On the ground is a fence of planter boxes and large, heavy clay pots that house an assortment of miscellaneous trees and shrubbery, providing a sense of privacy to this first-floor dwelling. Nestled between two wrought iron garden chairs is a glass top table with an assortment of stones and succulents.

Back inside is the teenager’s favorite corner – the standalone pantry cabinet. It is not for the dry goods or the canned ones, the baking supplies, or the large collection of spices. The teenager is drawn to this particular piece for the contents of its top shelf – the booze. The mother rarely drinks as smoking is her preferred method of inebriation, though she does maintain a collection of tequilas, rums, and sweet liqueurs. The boy does not discriminate among the bottles but by this point, they are all quite watered down. For when the boy sneaks a drink, he always attempts to conceal his tracks, not that his mother would notice, nor care.

Though the apartment is of simple design and in an uneventful neighborhood, it is, quite simply, a home - one where kitties gallivant, wind chimes sing, and a family of two do their best to live their lives.  

[mapwrites]

blackout

I cruise down the palm tree-lined freeway in my white 2000 Subaru Impreza with the window rolled down because, although it is in the high eighties today, I refuse to waste money on air conditioning. Besides, I love waving my arm out of the window, letting it roll with the wind as if it was riding the waves of the sea. It makes me feel alive, the sensation liberates me.

The Black Eyed Peas come on the radio and I turn up the song, the energy and good vibrations flow smoothly through my body. As the first chorus comes I scream the lyrics along with Fergie and will.i.am, my open window is an open view for my driving neighbors to view the show.

All of a sudden the music stops. Nothing but static resonates from my dashboard. I quickly turn the knob down and change the station. Again, static greets me. I continue to do this fruitlessly until I eventually decide to turn the radio off completely. At first, I do not suspect anything is afoot, I simply attest this to my beat-up car - something must be wrong with the antenna.

I pull into my college's parking lot several minutes late. (I would have been on time but the traffic was strangely heavy during the last stint.) The parking lot is unusually barren and I only make a small mental note. Hurriedly, I run to my classroom.

To my surprise, only one other student is there, the class is still locked. As I look around the campus the grounds are oddly empty. What would normally be packed with student groups, kids lunching, and soccer balls being kicked around currently resembles something much more lifeless. The rows of buildings with their beige walls and red rooftops are there, as are the wood benches and the young, neatly lined trees but the campus is void of the usual joy, laughter, and life it normally carries.

It seems by all means to be a holiday but I can't fathom which one. Not to mention, today is a Wednesday, and holidays are typically expanded from the weekend, falling on a Monday or Friday. I truly don't understand what's happening but something is severely off.

I make eye contact with the other student and, although we don't share a word, we undoubtedly think the same thing: we seem to be the only two who didn't receive an announcement. Just as she is about to open her mouth, a boy skates by us, obviously seeing how out of place we are, and shouts in a friendly manner:

"Hey, you two! School's canceled. There's been a blackout. Go home and have some fun! Wooooo!!!"

With that, the girl and I look at each other and smile, both bidding each other a good day, each of us going our separate ways.

I check my phone and think of what to do. My charge is at seventy-two percent. I have no idea when the power will come back so for now I decide to just put it away. I don't want to drain my battery and instead, I focus on the world around me. I have no classes to go to, no job, I am a free man with no rush and no concern.

It's just after 3 pm and the midday San Diego sun hits me with a warm though comfortable dry heat. A fresh breeze blows in from the west. The ocean is not too far away and I think I can smell the saltwater in the air. I look up towards the baby blue sky and several small, gentle white clouds playfully pass by. The beach is calling.

It surely is a beautiful day to have nothing to do.

[mapwrites]

cookies

It's Monday again and this week it's your turn to take the kid to his gym. First, you get yourself ready because if you get him ready first he's going to throw a fit and rush you. Next, you pack his lunch and get his bag ready. By now you've realized snacks are the secret to a successful class. If he's even a little hungry, you're the one that will pay.

Finally, you get your son ready. Time to wrestle. You fight him every step of the way, get kicked in undesirable places, and at the end, but by the grace of God, you have a semi-presentable kid.

Despite the pre-gym wrestle match, you've got him ready, now you just need to get him there. Surprisingly, you get him in his seat easily enough today but he keeps yelling at you to take his seat belt off. NO! you say, to which he responds with a clever retort of NO! YOU!

Eventually, somehow, you get to the gym and are ready to give him his pre-workout snack. Crap. You brought the wrong yogurt, the one he randomly stopped liking two weeks ago. At this point you debate yourself - try to force him to eat this yogurt or cave in and give him the cookies that are supposed to be his post-gym snack. Being no rookie, you know pre-gym snacks are far more important: if you get him to behave during class, you won't be mistaken for a horrible parent.

You give him the cookies.

Double crap. The kid's fine for now but you have given away your only bartering tool. You now have nothing to bribe him with if (when) he starts fussing, you can no longer say If you behave, I'll give you cookies after class. No, now you have to hope he merely behaves out of his sheer toddler goodwill and not for bribes - a losing bet by all measures.

Class begins and you get him inside. Everyone to the big blue circle. The teachers ask your son his name and he actually says it for once. You're so proud and want to cry but you play it cool, you act like it's no big deal, and that he does this all the time. Then they ask him to introduce you and he calls you by the wrong name. Okay, you think, at least he got one name right...

The music turns on and you both start dancing. Another proud moment for you - he's actually got rhythm. Be cool, this is about your kid, not you showing him off.

Activity time begins and now all the kids gather to learn the rules of today's games. All the kids except your son. You see him in the corner and motion him to come over but he gives you that devilish look that means he's up to no good. You love him so much but you can't stand that smile. Especially here. You're in public and you can't scold him or put him in time out. You're determined to get him to behave but you can't even bribe him with cookies.

The teacher grabs him. You win, for now.

Class finishes and he doesn't fight you to stay, he's actually accepting the end of class today. You get ready to leave and, without even prompting him, he tells the teachers thank you and goodbye, he even uses their names. Correctly. Your heart melts and you beam with pride. All the stress is worth it, you think.

You return to the car and he's ready for his post-gym snack.

No cookies.

Uh oh.

[mapwrites]

where fates are sealed

The room's walls are a squalid brown, its color having dulled and paled through years of sorrow and despair, a testament to the victims that have passed through, a forever mourning. The lights are a dim yellow, lackluster and depressing, emanating no joy but filling the room with gloom. The air uncomfortably recirculates grief and melancholy, it is the oxygen that penetrates every nose and feeds every mouth.

Two parties sit across from each other, awaiting the words from the man with a gavel, words that will change the course of their lives. The judge sits in his chair and is the current focus of the room - all eyes beam directly at him. The room is silent, intent on hearing his every word, a shared sense of anxiety emanates from every woman and man present.

The judge lifts his gavel, ready to announce his decision, ready to seal the fates of the parties in front of him. His words can punish or they can liberate. In one breath he can take away all hopes one has for life or he can gift someone a new one. His words carry weight, more than most can imagine, though his power is not lost on him. He opens his mouth, everyone hangs to the edges of their seats.

"Guilty," he says, and at that moment he deals a swift blow to the man with the placard "defendant." Half of the room releases a loud gasp, and the other half roars with cheers and applause. The defendant is deaf to it all, he is clinging to the word guilty. He rests his head in his hands - the weight of it currently too heavy for his neck to bear - and begins to sob. The gasping half of the room looks at him in a silent despondency. His lawyer pats his back.

The woman across from him hugs her lawyer and also begins to cry, though her tears are filled with joy. She hears "Congratulations" pouring in from the people on her side. Her half went from anxious to relieved with one swing of the gavel, while the defendant's half remained somber and quiet. The fates of each party have been decided.

[mapwrites]

as above, so below

First POV: Protagonist

The lazy clouds hang lower than usual today, as if they are ready to take me but do not want to make much of an effort to do so. The sun too contributes to a somber mood for she refuses to shine, as if her heart was broken and she does not want anyone to see her. I understand because I too lack any joy, the only feeling I have is a deep sorrow that penetrates every cell. At least it is a good day to jump.

I pace the four corners of my high rise office, the air frigid and bitter as a jail cell. Before making the move I think if there is anything I need to do before I depart. It will be fine, I suppose, they can figure it out. I do wonder though - will they miss me? Who will attend my funeral? Will there even be one? I left no will, have no next of kin, perhaps they will just burn me, maybe feed me to the dogs.

I step towards the window and stop. It took me weeks to figure out how to open it more than just a crack. I imagine they limit the range for people like me.

Before opening it, I take in the view one last time. I enjoy the gloom, misery, and despair of that which we call life. I feel sorry for the throng of people below. Everyone is zipping around, caught up in the rat race. I am the only one brave enough to get out.

I pop the window off and take in the fresh air. I breathe in deeply and exhale a sigh. A sigh of grief. A sigh of despair. A sigh of release. For soon I will sigh no more, my melancholy will be gone for good.

I step on the ledge and I close my eyes. A voice echoes up to my ears, a scream. I cannot make out the words but somehow know they are directed at me. I open my eyes and look down once more. So high. And now I see a small crowd down below has gathered for me. I am not sure how they saw me but alas, there they are.

The screams continue but I do not deter, I tune them out and shut my eyes a second time.  These people do not even know me, they should not care. They do not know my heart, they are blind to my deeds. I wanted this moment to myself but these nosy gossipers have ruined the occasion. I guess I will let them revel in the show.

I take one foot off. A gasp. The shouts have stopped, they must have accepted my ending. Now they are sticking around for the finale. I push my other foot off and my body flies.

The wind feels quite nice.

Second POV: Bystander

It has been a warm summer and at least the sun is giving us a respite. The clouds gently hide her behind their billowing backs, providing us with a gentle, cool breeze. It is truly a beautiful morning.

My first meeting is not scheduled until later in the day and so I take a casual pace to work, a drastic change to the frenzied city bustle around me. I take in the energy, breathe in the air. I look up to admire the majestic skyscrapers. Just then I notice something odd -

A window opens.

Not only does it open but it appears to come off. I assume it must be some standard maintenance but being so peculiar I stop in my tracks and focus intently on this. I do not notice it immediately but my interest above attracts a small crowd and they all start to watch with me.

A man steps on the ledge.

"DON'T DO IT," I scream immediately.

I am not sure if he can hear me but I must at least try. Probably twenty-something stories high, this man is no engineer, he is not repairing the window - he is planning to jump out of it.

A few others join in the shouting to entice him to go back in but the majority remains quiet. The small crowd becomes the whole street. Everyone is watching. The cars have stopped, traffic is at a standstill. I do not know if people want to save him or just see if he will do it. The energy makes my core tremble, I feel weak just watching.

"DON'T JUMP. GO BACK IN," I plead.

He takes no advice and appears to all that he is going to do it. The crowd turns from scattered shouts to dead silence. They really are here just to watch. I suppose I cannot judge as my shouts too have stopped. I can only look up though I feel sick to my stomach. I want to vomit.

The man moves one foot off the ledge. The entire audience, myself included, gasps. What a terrifying sight that none of us can take our eyes off of. The seconds feel like hours and I feel my head sweat, I can no longer feel the wind.

He pushes the rest of himself off and the only sound you can hear is the loud whistle of his body falling. Then a roaring splash followed by a horrified silence. He actually did it. Everyone is frozen in place, no one moves towards him. We know he did not survive.

The clouds part and a ray of light shines right at the man's body. Perhaps Mother Nature was also watching, and now she has taken him to the heavens. Maybe there he will live a better life than he did down here.

[mapwrites]

night of passion

A sharp-dressed man wanders into a local tavern. This was not one of his usual haunts for he was only in town for a night, this was merely one stop on his journey home. As he enters, he is drawn instantly to the woman in red, with her tight dress, delicate visage, and aura of sensuality. She sits by herself, a vacant bar stool on either side.

Inside the man a fire begins to rage, a deep longing. His inner hunter aches, loins ready for his next conquest, the lady his prey. She's all mine, the man thought. He could already see himself caressing her hands, devouring her lips, gripping her thighs. His nostrils flare imagining her smell, his tongue tingles with her taste. His prize is in sight, ready for the taking. All he has to do is turn his charm on and cast her under his spell.

He approaches her slowly, filled with both confidence and greed, ready to make his move. He nears her, clears his throat to gain her attention. She spins, her silky black hair sways back and she greets him with the most invigorating green eyes, filled with zest and a thirst for adventure. He makes his introduction with his bleached white smile. He could conquer her without saying a word, though he enjoys the playful formality of verbal exchange, foreplay for the mind.

He speaks kindly, she speaks softly. They put each other both in a daze. Names are said, words are whispered. Neither she mentions her husband, nor he his wife. His ring is buried in his pocket, linked on his key-chain. She did not have the foresight to remove hers but she contorts her hand at awkward angles to avoid showing it off, she spins the diamond to the bottom side of her hand. He notices every move but says nothing. If they are both in the wrong, neither can judge.

She focuses her gaze on his sweet-talking lips. Surely he is skilled in the gift of gab, he is not new to this game. She does not mind though. Her friends abandoned her, she has the evening free, she enjoys the attention. His strong jaw and five o'clock shadow please her emerald eyes. She remembers her vows but cannot for the life of her care. She is weak, her suitor is strong. Besides, she feels justified - her husband has already created a scandal of their lives, he should not be the only one to have fun. This is her night, this is her opportunity. Carpe diem.

Drinks were on the counter but neither bothered to touch them. They were both enchanted, enraptured, lost to each other. Neither soul could tell you where they were, what day it was, or what drink was in front of them. Alcohol did not need to play cupid tonight, they were already victims to each other, drunk only to the sinful ardor in their hearts.

Two seats over sat an old man, his hair long, straight, and silver. He also came to this bar alone and has witnessed the entire scene. He too wears a wedding band but he is not married - he was. For he had once played this game, he too had his share of affairs. His ex-wife knew nothing about most of his mistresses but she did find out about one of them. She tried to forgive him but the betrayal sat deep in her embittered heart, her trust was poisoned. It became too heavy a burden to carry, she could not even look at him. They eventually divorced, though against the man's will. With this memory lurking behind his eyes, he looks at the couples with disgust.

Contempt for this act, he wants to condemn the pair, though he sits to himself and judges them silently instead, making only hushed comments to the bartender. If only they knew, he thought, that the heat of this moment will not last. What will is the shame and regret that comes with it, thousands of moments more. If only he could warn them, but he supposes it is none of his business. Let them learn their own lessons, they can find out the hard way.

The three all sat at the bar, each with their own thoughts. The man with lust, the woman with revenge, the old man with pity and melancholy. Each of their hearts was heavy, they each carried their own sin. The older man knew their future, but they were too blind to see. What seemed like a fun night would soon haunt their souls. They will go on with their lives, though their secrets will not leave them. The one night of recklessness will never be forgotten.

[mapwrites]

the fools are having a good day.

The fact that so many people take freedom as being able to express themselves in foolish ways is a marvel in this peculiar world. As a matter of fact, foolishness seems to have a magnetic effect, as it is rare to find a fool by himself - where there is one, there are usually many - folly congregates. Especially here, especially at this park. What's more, the fools tend to display their outlandish ways in bright and bold manners, as if they are peacocks and their lunacy their plumage. One simply cannot be a fool, one must let the whole world know.

Take for example the hipster on the unicycle. The wheel is grotesquely oversized, taller than the fool riding it. One can only be sure a large effort was made to mount it in the first place. What's more, the wheel itself is not the only spectacle - the man dons a stovepipe hat, a thin and finely waxed mustache, a brown plaid suit with highwater pants, and baby turd green shoes. What a sight to see!

Then there are the people with the odd pets. It is likely these people do not even care about their pets, they merely have them to be contrary. One fool has strapped a pink bow-tie to his white bulldog, another is walking his cat on a leash! What's more, one man has a bearded dragon on his chest and another a parrot on his shoulder. One fool must have even drugged his pets for he has an entourage and they are all completely calm, not one on a leash - two guinea pigs, three rabbits, one cat, and several greenfinches. The fools are having a good day.

Among the most witless are the ones who believe themselves the most sage - the college kids. With their weed-induced pseudo philosophies, they debate over the most unimportant and benign issues such as which pizzeria serves the best slice. The one with square pieces, the one with crispy crust, the one that gives a free soda. What's more, they are actually so ignorant that they believe with their entire hearts these are the pressing issues of the day, as if knowing who sells the best slice is going to make any difference in their puny, insignificant lives.

The park is littered with fools, fools of all kinds. Once fools, current fools, will-be fools. What's more, foolishness does not discriminate. Young or old, any race or gender or sexual preference, anyone can be a fool, and it appears to me that everyone at this park is. Perhaps I should get on my way before someone mistakes me for one.

[mapwrites]

the triwizard ball

The first character is Hermione Granger. Hermione is a young high-school-aged girl. She has light, curly hair that flows just below her shoulders. Her face is delicate and young though enchantingly wise. Her brown eyes peer through souls. She dresses well, follows the uniform code faithfully. Her biggest virtue is knowledge. The second character is Ronald Weasley, a few months older but you could not tell by the way he acted. Ron is a goofy looking boy with shaggy red hair that is begging to be cut. His wardrobe is tattered, everything a hand-me-down, he follows any uniform guidelines sloppily. He is not the best student though he is a loyal friend. He has a scent of light body odor.

My Character:

My character's name is Darren. His hair is slicked back to his shoulders, jet black. He has eyes that seem to change color, sometimes hazel, oftentimes grey. Given the right sky, they might appear red. His chin is sharp, with a small patch of a well-groomed goatee. His smile is blinding and never leaves his face, it is his secret weapon. He is not a tall man but he is broad-shouldered and slim-waisted, always in the finest of suits, looking taller than he is. His posture is impeccable. He is not a fan of bright colors, he prefers the darker variety - black, crimson, emerald - elegant yet menacing, graceful yet intimidating. He carries with him a crisp, oaky scent mixed with a perfumed aftershave.

...

Scene:

Rosy-cheeked and light-haired, Hermione made her way downstairs, cloaked in a gown fit for a queen, her beauty radiated throughout the room. At the bottom of the staircase, she did not find her date. To her surprise, though not yet to her delight, she was greeted by another man, one she surely never met before.

The would-be suitor was dressed exquisitely, his essence was clean, sophisticated, powerful. His jet black hair was coiffed back carefully, flowed gracefully to his shoulders. His eyes were brilliant though their color was not exact - they changed with every angle. His smile was impeccable, devilish, his chin was strong.

"Hermione?"

"Yes. And you are?"

"I'm Darren."

"Well," she scoffed, "it's a pleasure to meet but as it happens, I'm looking for my date."

"Yes, Victor. I'm aware. Unfortunately, he cannot attend the dance. He sent me to apologize for his absence."

"Then I will go and find my friends. Be sure to thank Victor for the apology," she said distrustfully.

"I shall. Though, as I am here now, would you indulge me in one dance?"

Hermione was ready to say no, though Darren was handsome and she did come to dance. It was a ball, after all.

As she contemplated, another gentleman approached. For now, Hermione would not have to decide.

"Ron!" Hermione said with glee.

Ron, with hair as red as embers and in need of a trim, had a sloppy and nonthreatening appearance, though his green eyes beamed with spite and insecurity at the sight of Hermione with Darren.

"Where is Victor?" Ron asked.

"According to Darren here, Victor is unable to attend the ball. He has just asked me to dance."

"Well, that's nice, but Harry and I are over here. Come join us, yeah?"

"Certainly, though I would like to enjoy one dance with Darren first."

Ron looked at Darren scornfully, his eyes now filled with distrust and disdain. Darren extended his hand to Hermione and commented to Ron:

"There is no need for such a sour look, friend. You are more than welcome to join in. This is a ball, after all."

He extended his other hand to Ron.

As Ron was preparing for a comeback, someone appeared that made Darren withdraw both of his hands.

Victor.

Looking bewildered and ratty, as if he had just left a bad fight, he glared at Darren and at once Darren disappeared.

[mapwrites]

work and abandon

On his desk sat his laptop, a pile of paper, and a glass of wine far too big - the size of which he would surely discipline his waitstaff for if he were to see it poured for a guest. It was the end of the year and he was analyzing the final numbers for his restaurants, a bit too drunkenly. He searched his computer for an important file, stumbled upon some old folders, and instead of doing his work, he took a wine-induced trip down memory lane. He filled his glass some more.

What he found made him cry - memories of former hopes, crushed dreams, a life he never had the courage to live. At one point in his miserable life, he thought he might be someone more than a soul-less businessman with a small restaurant empire. As a child, his heroes were never the well-to-do restaurateurs. They were Jules Verne, Douglas Adams, Kurt Vonnegut. The folder contained his old report cards from his writing classes, his short stories, and long poems.

He wept. He drank.

The drunker he became, the further down the rabbit hole he went, the harder he cried. After an hour of this cycle, his heart could not take it anymore. He grabbed his chest, fell backward, launched himself and his drink to the floor, leaving the glass to shatter and the wine to spill.

Some time passed and he awoke in a hospital. The overnight cleaner called an ambulance as soon as he heard the crash. Right now, his wife stood by his side. As she was about to say how much she loved him and how happy she was that he was okay, the doctor walked into the room.

"Mr. Jenkins! Welcome back. You gave everyone quite a scare back there."

"What happened to me?" Mr. Jenkins asked.

"You had a mild heart attack."

"What? How could that happen? I... I... I..." he trailed off.

"Is it safe to say you have been under a bit of stress recently?"

"Yes, I mean, it's normal though. I'm always stressed. My business is quite demanding, you see."

"I can understand. And it looks like you had a strong amount of alcohol in your system as well."

Mr. Jenkins looked at his wife.

"The combination of the two is dangerous. Your body is more or less telling you to slow down. Neither the stress nor the excessive alcohol is good, but together - well, we have seen what it can do."

The doctor and Mr. Jenkins finished their discussion after a short while. The doctor's only prescription was that Mr. Jenkins reevaluate his life's choices. At this rate, the doctor said, he would not be able to keep up with the career nor the drinking.

Thereafter Mr. Jenkins was discharged and his wife, with great relief, drove him home. At not one point did Mr. Jenkins think about the stress and heartache this must have caused his loving wife. In fact, he hardly thought of the incident at all. The only thought on his mind was his folder of school transcripts and short stories, his failed dreams.

They arrived home at the hour some of their neighbors would be rising. The sky was already lightening. They were uncommonly exhausted and yet fully awake. Mrs. Jenkins prepared coffee for two.

The wife and husband sat at the dining room table and shared an intimate conversation. Though there was a serious overtone, Mrs. Jenkins was quite pleased to have it, as they rarely took the time to talk anymore - Mr. Jenkins worked what seemed like every minute of every day.

In the conversation, Mr. Jenkins shared what happened before the heart attack, reminisced of his old dreams. Mrs. Jenkins also remembered those dreams, though reflected on his more recent choices.

"You know," she said, "this career of yours has taken a toll on this family. I remember your dreams as well but that isn't the path you took. Instead, you chased after what you thought would be the easier route. In so doing you have neglected me, our family, and our home, and now you have neglected yourself so much that you've damn near killed yourself too!"

At first, Mr. Jenkins did not respond. Actually, he took it to heart and reflected on the comments. First, he realized, he abandoned his dreams. Later, he abandoned his family. Now, he has abandoned himself. The only scrap left to abandon is that which caused him to neglect so much in the first place - his work.

The following day he had someone from the restaurant return his laptop at home. Later that night, after a family meal, he would set it on his desk, though he would do no work and look at no reports. This time, with no wine in front of him, he would look at the old folder and add a new document, begin writing a new story, ready at last to follow his childhood dreams.

[mapwrites]

freedom to die

It was a cool morning, crisp air blowing, but he would not know that for his only reference was his slim window, nine feet above. As he sat in his cell, he was filled with longing, not for freedom but for the sweet poison that landed him behind bars. His mouth was dry, pained with a thirst he could not quench.

A guard approached his door and without a hint of friendliness, he said, "The Doctor's ready for you."

"These cursed doctors," the prisoner thought to himself. "All I need is a strong drink and that'll cure me. The doctor'll just say the pain is in my head and give me ibuprofen."

Feeling weaker than ever, he managed to lift himself up and walk to the door. The guard put him in handcuffs and transported him painfully to the doctor.

"Good morning, Marcius," said the doctor.

"Enough with the hellos, do what you gotta do. You're not gonna give me what I need anyway. All I need is some whiskey and I'll be fine. Get on."

And so the doctor performed his examination. He checked the prisoner's vitals, took blood samples, and performed some x-rays. The doctor informed Marcius he had everything he needed and would be back after examining it all. It would be only an hour until he returned.

"So, what's the cure, Doc? Ibuprofen?"

"I'm afraid it's a bit more serious than that. A lot more serious. You see, you have put your organs through a lot of work and they're finally giving up. In my best estimate, you won't have more than a day to live. The damages are so extreme that there is nothing I can do. Some good news though, the warden has heard of your condition and has granted you early release so as to put your affairs in order."

Shocked, in pain, in disbelief, Marcius was at least a free man again. His only thought was to get a drink. The prison was in a dry county so he hitchhiked to a nearby town, played the part of a beggar, and hustled enough money for a few drinks.

He took a seat at the bar, ordered himself a shot and a pint of beer. As they were set in front of him, a plainclothes officer approached him with a cellphone in his hand.

"It's the doctor."

Annoyed that he had been followed, he took the phone.

"Well?"

"I consulted my colleagues," the doctor spoke, "and I believe there is a serum that could work. You can live longer than for the night. The only downside is you would not be able to drink again."

The conversation ended and the former prisoner looked at his drinks.

"What is life if not to be enjoyed," he thought. "If I'm going to die, I might as well do it while I'm truly living."

He downed the shot and chugged the beer, and in twenty-four hours he would never drink again.

[mapwrites]

fighting baby

After a long day at work I take the train home, my thoughts on my family. Across from me are a father and his daughter, asleep in the stroller. It is just past midnight and I silently judge him for having her out so late. Being none of my business, I avert my eyes and proceed in relative peace until my stop. With a longing for my family, I make a quick pace. I arrive home, I climb the stairs. My son is of course asleep, though so too is my wife. Through the dark room I walk to my son's bed, I lean in to kiss him but he has a surprise in store. What I thought was a sleeping baby turns out to be an alert one, not interested in a kiss. He cocks his arm back, and with long fingers and needing-to-be-cut fingernails, he hits me right in the eye. After losing my sight and weeping in the hallway, my wife stirs and rushes us to the emergency room. A quick diagnosis reveals a corneal abrasion, the prescription gel for the eye. We return home as a family, though I with blurred vision and un-kissed lips.

[mapwrites]

the fate of indolence

He arose one day with his heart full of joy, his head full of dreams, assured that this would be the day he finally embarked on the journey towards his ambitions. As he stood from his bed, he saw a letter pushed under his dormitory door, a letter that would surely alter the course of his day, turn his inner joy to a bitter cold, and crush his current dreams.

Severely curious, as mail often did not reach him - he had little correspondence with anyone - he leapt from his bed as quickly as a tiger pouncing its prey.

While his fingers mangled the poor envelope, his hands having lacked the skill of grace, a crow passed just outside his window, cawing as if to rush the young man. He quickly and greedily removed the letter to find white stationery, his university's seal emblazoned at top in the hue of crimson red. His eyes raced through the letter once, twice, and several more times as he was in such disbelief at what he was reading. Was this real? Could someone be playing a trick on him? His chest was heavy, heart ready to explode.

Having read the words quite enough times, having verified the letterhead and trusted the contents, Martin placed the letter on his desk and searched his memory for where he went wrong, in denial, pretending not to understand.

Sprawled out, half crumpled, the letter began:

"As a result of your academic performance, and in violation of your probation, your enrollment at University _____ is terminated effective immediately."