Paddling In The Sea

It was curious. At times, especially in the middle of the day, she thought the sea was talking to her. Walking along the beach, the breeze touching her pale face, she heard the waves saying, 'Sara, Sara, we are waiting for you' as they rushed eagerly towards the shore. She would stop walking and stand still. 'Stay, Sara, stay.' She heard again.

She came to the beach at every opportunity. Especially when the children were in school. Usually, she'd end up sitting on the sand, staring outward. She'd watch the boats moving slowly across the horizon, going from Seabury to Eastbourne. Eventually she'd fall back onto the sand as the breeze crept up her thighs.

If she'd known she'd never have married Jim. She'd loved him once but the sheer tiring boredom of life in a small seaside town had killed off her love. Sometimes she found it hard to love her children. She wanted at times to get away. Find some excitement. The sea symbolised her desire for flight, continuing onward seemingly without end. It led she thought to the East, to golden lands beyond Europe.

Nowadays, they hardly made love. He was always tired when he got home after working in Canary Wharf until seven each day. He hardly spoke, but sat in front of the TV devouring the meal she'd cooked him. He rarely even looked at her, exhaustion biting into his face. At the weekend he went off to play golf with his friends.

In this state, neglected, unhappy, she began going off to London one day each month. She'd leave the children with a friendly neighbour, catch the train and in just over an hour be in Waterloo. Once in London, she'd wander around. A few times she got picked up and was taken for a drink or a meal. Once in a while she went back to the man's place and there enjoyed brief lovemaking. It gave her respite from her unforgiving loneliness.

But always she returned to the sea. It seemed, she needed to hear its rumbling, insistent voice calling her. She only truly felt alive when she was near the sea, luxuriating in the repetitious movement of the waves, the salt flung into the clean, cleansing air.

They found her lying there one day. The water had washed over her, settling on her happy form. Her arms were flung wide; salt filled her hair, stiffening her clothes. The sea had filled her lungs. Rigid, she was manoeuvred onto a stretcher and carried up the path to the top of the cliffs. Seagulls darted around incessantly. A terrier barked, hiding behind its owner.

In the half-light, as night descended, occasionally local people, strolling across the beach, thought they saw her. Lit up by a strange inner glow, her hand gently touching the waves as if holding a lover's hand, they thought they saw her release her incorporeal grip and lay back in the sand and sigh. Then, and only then, did her ghost seem at peace.

A Sea Dream.

She noticed the basking shark was wounded,

weeping vaginal blood.

The tall man in a fedora whispered as he passed,

and she blushed.

The horizon was a hazy green line dipped in red.

She had been there since morning

searching for love,

and found it

from a six-pack merman offering solace

as he rode on the silvery

back of a ray.

As he approached, the sun at his back,

she moaned and threw out her arms

like a supplicant.

Complete at last, the sand grasping at

her shoeless feet, she sank

towards the earth's distant core

using her arms as uncertain ballast.

She awoke with a shiver

brushed away the sand

and headed back home.

The shark had turned belly-up,

scavenged by seagulls.

Another day-dream enjoyed in the

empty hours between lunch and dinner

between her third cup of tea

and fourth cigarette,

her children snoozing in

the back bedroom. Half-slumbering

in a town barked at by bothersome seagulls

where an unencumbered sun

set on a postcard shoreline.

Planning the rows of petunias to be

planted by the hedge,

making shopping lists,

writing novels, never to be published,

staring out of her windows at the sea

she waited for her husband's return,

tedious evenings of T.V.

and coition under the brightly coloured duvet.

The waves that overwhelmed her, flooding her senses,

were her own. The man

in the fedora had made her smile.

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Aaron the Aryan

Today, the nerves of Aaron the Aryan are strung higher than the laundry on his ever-loving mother's clothesline and, as you likely know, the ever-loving mother of Aaron the Aryan lives in a very tall building indeed. Now, the why to this young man's sudden bout of anxiety is a tad too byzantine to illustrate sans some knowledge of yesteryear. So I figure that the most commonsensical thing to do is to retreat back to before Aaron the Aryan is known as Aryan the Aryan and just called little Aaron Klotsky. This way, you may better understand how he eventually becomes so nervous and such.

No knock to Aaron the Aryan intended, but he grows up without much of a clue in the world, living so charmed and bubbled an existence in a little town by the name of La Jolla. He is born here on one humdrum day, sporting blond hair and royal blue eyes, neither which bear much of a resemblance to the features of his ever-loving parents. The only thing he is sharing with them in fact is a very fair epidermis, which does not remain that way for very long once he starts bathing in the Californian sun (which is not actually a Californian sun, seeing as there is only one sun to my knowledge and it is very international). Soon after, little Aaron Klotsky learns to walk, talk and surf as good as anybody. And eventually it becomes rather difficult to discern between him and any other flip flop-clad La Jollan. Except, little Aaron Klotsky is different, you see. It turns out that he is really very Jewish.

So Jewish in fact is little Aaron Klotsky that it is a challenge to find even a twig of gentile on the deftly researched Klotsky family tree. Mister and Missus Klotsky are of course very pleased to admit this and often crow about it endlessly at parties and galas and potlucks and such. But I wish to say I never find being very Jewish so impressive, personally, because I am never understanding what makes one more or less so, and furthermore, being an atheist, I don't see the attraction to being very religion-oriented anyway.

Well, by and by little Aaron Klotsky becomes not so little and gets to wondering more than somewhat about his Jewish forebears. One day he asks his ever-loving mother, "Where are we from before La Jolla?" Now, Missus Klotsky is happy to tell this not-so-little Aaron Klotsky that once upon a time they spring from a land flowing with dairy products, but she hesitates. Wonders she, "Why tell my not-so-little son, when I can show him?" Indeed, Missus Klotsky becomes so enamored with the idea that she forgets to answer the question of Aaron Klotsky in the first place. Off she runs to convince Mister Klotsky that they must visit the place of -ites and -isms, and he is similarly smitten by the notion. And so it happens that Aaron Klotsky and the Mister and Missus end up on sitting on an aeroplane aimed square for the so-called holy land.

To abridge a few dull as dishwater chapters, let us just say that when Aaron Klotsky sees his so-called homeland for the first time, he gets very daffy indeed. And his ever-loving parents turn out to be quite partial to remaining yonder for some time as well. Personally, I will have to be paid more than somewhat to habitate in such a sandy place, but it apparently conveniences the Klotskies no little, and I might add that scratch is the last thing on the mind when you are as well-heeled as a Klotsky. Anyway, some time passes and Aaron Klotsky turns eighteen years of age. And it is on this birthday that he discovers, much to his La Jollan dismay, that he must serve in the so-called holy land's Israelite military and any minute now at that.

Meanwhile, I happen to be vacating in the so-called holy land myself and am sitting with Uzi Izzy in Phedinkus, a little joint on the south side of Alenby Street one Sunday morning about four o'clock, finishing my drink all quiet like, when who barges in more daffy than a bull seeing red but Aaron Klotsky. Of course, this causes great indignation among the other customers trying to enjoy their hangovers in peace and quiet, but Aaron Klotsky, who is worried stiffer than a bad case of rigamortis, does not seem to notice. He drops into a chair alongside Uzi Izzy, and then orders a kubbe-duo with sliced onions to come along, which is a dish that is considered most invigorating, and immediately Aaron Klotsky begins telling of his woes, although nobody asks him to. So Aaron Klotsky tells us as follows:

Well, (Aaron Klotsky says) according to Hershel the Heckler, all citizens of the so-called holy land must do some sort of military service and one thing and another and this includes myself. Now, at first I consider this earful nothing more than phonus bolonus and furthermore I hold little confidence in the word of a shifty type like Hershel the Heckler. So, I ask Gadi Shimon, who is seldom misinformed, for his two cents worth. But I forget that Gadi Shimon speaks little to no English, and so he starts frowning and raising his eyebrows more than somewhat until I remember. Well, what happens but right at that moment my ever-loving mother is walking by, mittens full of groceries and what not. I figure she might know a thing or two about this military business, so I stop her and say:

"Wait a minute! Do you have any idea what is with this military business?"
"Why," my ever-loving mother says, "do you not hear? Mr. Klotsky receives your conscription form in the mail today!"

Now of course all this is surprising news to me, indeed, (Aaron Klotsky says) and in fact I am quite flabbergasted, and as for understanding it, all I understand is that I'm getting a rotten deal and that frankly I will never come to the so-called holy land in the first place if I know I must serve in the Israelite military.

"Well, Aaron," I say after hearing all this, "it is a very unfortunate story and full of shocks and all this and that, and," I say, "of course I will never be so inconsiderate to call a guy a sap, but," I say, "if it is not naive to move to a country before reading the fine print, then it will do until something naive comes along."

Well, this is not cheering up Aaron Klotsky so much and I figure his case is just about hopeless when Uzi Izzy suddenly perks up. "What makes you so sure you are eligible?" Uzi Izzy asks Aaron Klotsky.
"What do you mean?" Aaron replies.
"Well, unless you are very certainly certified Jewish," says Uzi Izzy, "to my knowledge, you are not forced to serve."
Aaron Klotsky considers this for a second but then continues to sulk. "I'm afraid I am very certainly certified Jewish." he says, "In fact, I believe there are few people as certainly certified Jewish as me."

Upon hearing this, Uzi Izzy is looking very forlorn indeed, and I wish to say I see many a drooping kisser in my life, but I never see one so sad as Uzi Izzy's in that moment. And all three of us are quiet for some time, which is considered customary in such cases. But then, while giving Aaron Klotsky a worried gander, a thought suddenly crosses my mind.

"Why, Aaron," I say, "you don't look so Jewish."

"No?" he asks.

"In fact, if I am never meeting you, I will say you resemble just about anything but Jewish."

"I guess I do!" he exclaims and chances are we both guess right.

Then Uzi Izzy gives Aaron Klotsky a quick once-over too and asks: "How do you become so gentile-like anyway, Aaron?"

"Well, I am born and raised in La Jolla, you see," Aaron Klotsky says, "and if one lives in La Jolla, there is little choice regarding one's genetics."

Now this of course is making no sense but I have not the heart to tell Aaron Klotsky so, and furthermore I don't wish to burst some newly sanguine bubbles regarding Aaron Klotsky's draft-dodging prospects. Anyway Uzi Izzy, Aaron Klotsky and I begin to form a plan so as to convince the Israelite military that Aaron Klotsky is really just as non-Jewish as he resembles. And by and by, this is how Aaron Klotsky gets to being called Aaron the Aryan.

Now if you are never having to partake in something by the name of Tsav Rishon, I wish to say you miss nothing much because what is it but a room full of very testy testosterone at work. There are plenty of almost-military men taking tests from already-military men all on behalf of this military and it is a very sore sight indeed. And it happens to be on this day and spot that Aaron the Aryan finds himself in that prior mentioned state of tremendous anxiety. Today, you see, is his one opportunity to convince the Israelite military that he is not belonging in an Israelite military in the first place and he is sweating plenty of bullets over the matter. Aaron the Aryan sits awhile all on his lonesome, picking his knuckles into a ghastly state as young people are liable to do, when at last a little man bustles in to the room.

He is a pretty wide guy, very heavy set, and slow moving, and with jowls that you can slice shawarma off of, and tired run-down eyes, and he somehow resembles an old basset hound that just happens to be in military uniform. Walking around the desk, he takes a seat across from Aaron the Aryan, glances at him and then starts to chatter-train in his native tongue. Now of course Aaron the Aryan is not in a position to interrupt the wide induction officer, because he figures he is liable to hurt his fair-shake at cajolery and anyway, he does not wish to make this wide induction officer mad as he is apt to strong-arm Aaron the Aryan into an undesirable unit in some awfully sandy place is so he wishes.

So, Aaron the Aryan does not request a translation and just sits there, nodding his head every couple of seconds at the wide induction officer as he twaddles of this and that. Then after plenty of this, the wide induction officer opens his desk drawer and pulls out a piece of paper and a pen and slides it toward Aaron the Aryan matter-of-factly, chatting all awhile. But Aaron the Aryan is not letting a single finger linger on it, being very weary of signing sheets that he does not understand and such. So eventually the wide induction officer notices this and stops to look at Aaron the Aryan curiously. Then he says, "You don't look very Jewish."

Well, Aaron the Aryan is very gratified indeed that the wide induction officer at last stops chattering away, and is about to compliment the man's gentile-radar, when the wide induction officer interrupts: "But your file seems to suggest that you are so."

"My file?" he asks.

"Yes, yes. Everybody has a file, you see. And according to yours, the Klotsky family tree is very well populated with very Jewish figures."

Panicking, Aaron the Aryan starts, "But the thing is, I am not Jewish."

"No?"

"No, not even a smidgen."

Well, the wide induction officer takes a good long meddling gander at Aaron the Aryan for a few moments before turning to stuff his head into a bunch of paperwork. And meanwhile Aaron the Aryan feels more than somewhat uneasy, certain that he is playing all his cards and that the jig is about to be up. And just when he considers coming clean with the honest truth, the wide induction officer pulls his head out of the plentiful folders and papers and what not, and interrupts Aaron the Aryan once again. "It appears you are right!" he says.

Well, naturally Aaron the Aryan is very much surprised at this statement, because he is not right, and he is Jewish as a matter of fact, and if the file claims the contrary then this is a very peculiar circumstance indeed.

"How do you figure?" Aaron the Aryan asks.

"Why," the wide induction officer responds, "Don't you know? You are adopted after turning two years of age and your real family tree is not certainly certified Jewish in the slightest. In fact, there's not even a twig of Jewish in sight!"

Now as it turns out, Aaron the Aryan is in fact an aryan with not a Jewish bone in his bodice and when he confronts his ever-loving parents on the matter, they tell him an astonishing story indeed. Apparently, Mister and Missus Klotsky are always wanting to tell little Aaron Klotsky that he is not an honest Klotsky, but they never get around to it. And furthermore, when they decide to live in the so-called holy land, they figure that by and by Aaron won't mind serving in the Israelite military, being so daffy about the spot and all. But personally, I know this cannot be true, for if there is one thing a non-Jewish La Jollan never yearns for, it is to serve in an Israelite military.

Anyway, Aaron the Aryan resolves to mull over all these revelations and I hear he is taking a flight straight back to La Jolla to meet his real ever-loving parents just the next day. So this is about all there is to the story, except that when Aaron the Aryan decides to return to the so-called holy land and forgive the ever-loving Klotskies for misleading him and keep being Jewish anyway, he ends up volunteering in the Israelite military while he's at it. And last I hear, they are still calling him Aaron the Aryan in there on account of his very La Jollan looks.

"For two weeks I gambled in green pastures. The dice were my cousins and the dolls were agreeable with nice teeth and no last names." -guys & dolls

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A Light In All Darkness

LOST IN THE DARK

"Why? Why is it so dark?"

"Where am I?"

"Poor girl, she was found in the middle of the road..."

I heard some voices around me, but it was all dark I could not see a thing... "Is someone there?"

"Please answer me! Hello?"

"What happened to me?"

"I opened my eyes, but it's only darkness I see..."

"Who am I?"

"I can't... I don't remember... I DON'T REMEMBER!!!"

"Please calm down, I am a Doctor. You were brought here by someone who saw you at the middle of the road...You were unconscious."

"Doctor? Why is it dark? Do you know my name and where I live or came from?" I asked.

He did not speak for a moment... I felt he was searching for the right words to answer me.

He spoke to me very gently.

"You are here in my Hospital, dear. This is a non-profit hospital. You were found at the middle of the road, and was brought here unconscious. Your eyes were swollen. I was the one who did the surgery for your eyes, but I did my best to save your eye-sights... but it was already too late. You must have hit yourself to some kind of a sharp object and must have wounded yourself. I expected that when you would regain your consciousness, you could tell us what had happened to you... But here you are you do not remember a thing... I can tell for now that you are experiencing a temporary amnesia. There is hope that you will remember everything once you got yourself back to people who may have known you.

"I cried as I heard what he had just said. I don't remember anything about me.. I don't know where I'm going to stay. Would they let me stay here at the hospital until I regain my memories? I guess not. But what should I do? I don't want to be a burden to them. But if they offer help, I guess the wise decision will be- - "

"You can stay here until you regain your memory or until we can find someone who knows you. Will that be alright?" the doctor said.

- - I don't want to take advantage or to be a burden, but I need their help.

He continued while I felt his hand gently holding my left hand on my side, while I rested my right hand on my chest as I was sobbing. I felt cold and I know he felt that I was shivering and worried about my situation. But he was nice to assure me one thing.

"Don't worry, dear, we already have contacted the authority about your case. I am sure you will be found soon..."

I felt my eyes went so heavy...The drug that was injected to me by one of the nurses is now working. She said, her name is Nancy and that the drug will help me to calm down and feel comfy.

I closed my eyes and I prayed in silent, "Dear God, I am totally lost in the dark, help me and guide me. I need your protection..."

I choose to pour out the love I have to shine on everyone that I meet and inspire them with my writings and/or short stories of encouragement and enlightenment. We just only started. Journey with me and experience the joy of adventures of giving love unconditionally and enjoying the life we experience in this universe we live in.
Your love for fun and for keeps...
Tiffanie King

A day in the life of Me...all my travels, adventures and all kinds of writings... You are all welcome. Feel free to follow me here: http://raffleberry.weebly.com/
http://lovebytesonair.blogspot.com/

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David Allen: A Short Story

"You're driving tonight, Allen. It'll be hilarious," said a mumbled voice that sneaked out from the smokers crowded around Seth Raines' Explorer.

David Allen knew nothing about speakers or 'systems', nor would it have mattered if he did. Seth had recently had a new stereo installed, and Alice in Chains "Down in a Hole" blared from the open tailgate.

"I've been guilty of kicking myself in the teeth," David honed in on Layne Staley's admission, until Becca, a classmate of his since elementary school, shouldered him as she chased Seth around the school parking lot. Becca was getting a head start on her perpetual weekend dramatics.

"That's my CD and you know it, asshole!"

A pack of Merits fell from the front pocket of Becca's uniform blouse. Most of the seniors in David's class were eighteen by this time of year, including Becca. Judging by the brand, it appeared she still chose to steal the cigarettes from her housekeepers purse instead of buying them herself.

"Sounds good," said David. "Let me know."

He recognized most of these relationships as temporary, and knew that, for him, they would end the day after graduation.

David drove a 1979 Oldsmobile Cutlass. Over the past three years, it had become a virtual mascot at Episcopal. Upon arrival each morning, a smoke cloud would escape from under the hood with a desperate force, like someone gasping for air after being held underwater. The smoke would rise so high, David often thought it could serve as a signal to his first period teacher that he would soon be in attendance. Occasionally when he would get ready to head home, a handful of onlookers would applaud if the ignition turned over on the first try.

It was Friday, and Episcopal was in the second round of the high school football playoffs. There was plenty of excitement among his friends, and David felt it as well.

The cool November air agreed with David's car. The air conditioner had bailed long ago, and there wasn't much interest from he or his parents in getting it repaired. The once mighty Olds must have been a pioneer in power windows and locks technology, a feature that was surprisingly reliable. It was humbled, though, by a factory-installed eight track, three blown speakers, and a torn out headliner that David had hastily removed before picking up a date junior year. The once sagging felt was now replaced with profanity written in the underlying foam by his jackass friends.

David lived several miles across town. Most of his prep school friends lived in an upscale neighborhood near Episcopal that David passed to and from school each day. When he was in eighth grade, David's parents applied for and received a scholarship that provided him the opportunity to attend Episcopal.

Town South was the local public high school David would have attended under normal circumstances. TSH had ten times the enrollment of Episcopal, which lead to a daily traffic jam in front of the school. David looked forward to being held up at the signal just beyond the campus. He would see some of his old friends from his public school days, which always gave him a comfortable feeling. There was no way to predict, unfortunately, how uncomfortable things were soon to become.

The sound produced by the horn of a '79 Cutlass is like nothing else ever manufactured. David always hesitated to honk because anything within a two mile radius might feel it the recipient. So when the wretched Cutlass inexplicably wailed like a World War II air strike warning, David instantly regretted his decision to chance the after school gridlock, and soon felt suffocated himself.

The incident may not have been so embarrassing had he not waved in the Honda Civic carrying five cheerleaders attempting to exit the lot. David recognized a couple of them from a party at the Russell's lake house over the summer. They politely waived as David scrambled to find confidence. All was lost as soon as the horn awoke. They must have briefly thought he was just trying to get their attention, but after thirty-seconds of solid blowing, it became uncomfortable for everyone involved.

He watched in agony as the traffic light at the south end of the campus changed for a third time before he was able to break free. David considered shutting down the engine, but that could have potentially lead to a situation far more humiliating. For now, staying mobile was all that mattered.

David Allen took pride in his self-control, but as he approached the light at Highland Avenue, he brought with him language that would make a frat guy blush.

He made a sudden decision to cut through Park Heights, a quiet area usually immune to such a commotion. As the Cutlass serenaded the historic district, David's anxiety went elsewhere. The red brick homes with stately white columns reminded him of the sacrifices his parents made. He remembered life before high school to be less complicated. He could not remember ever doubting himself then. Maybe it was because he never sensed the slightest bit of shame from his parents. So where had this sudden shame in himself come from?

Southern Drive was the main street that lead to David's modest subdivision. His house was about a mile and a half from the intersection of Southern and Porter. As he continued on, he sensed empathy from some of the familiar strangers he passed along the way. He noticed a Caprice Classic in his rear view mirror transporting a plastic swimming pool. Instead of tying it down, each of the four passengers had one arm out of their respective windows holding the pool to the roof. David felt immediate community with them. Several cars joined in on the honking as the Cutlass neared the turn at Pilot, David's street. He noticed Edmond, his next door neighbor, laughing uncontrollably while getting gas at the station on the corner of Pilot and Southern. David was laughing, because he knew Edmond had never surrendered more than five dollars into that gas tank.

The honking finally stopped when he put the car in park. His mom was already home, and David drug himself inside, exhausted and numb from what had just happened.

"Was that you honking?" his mom asked when he opened the door from the garage. He knew she wasn't worried, only curious.

"It did that the whole way home."

"Were you embarrassed?"

"It was pretty embarrassing."

David could not have been more at ease at this point.

"Did it start in the parking lot?" she laughed.

"No, it spared me until the log jam in front of Town South."

The lessons from these adolescent wounds were what kept David's mom from feeling sad. Of course she wished they could offer him more, but she recognized that even as a high school senior, he responded to her reactions. As long as she maintained the humility that was missing from so many, so could he.

She paused, then said, "Oh well, these things are temporary. You have to find ways to celebrate them."

"At least it's Friday," David yawned. He dropped his backpack on a kitchen chair and started for his room.

"Are you going to the game?"

"I told some of the guys I would go."

"Seth and them?"

"Yes, ma'am. We'll probably take my car."

Her eyes closed and her hand went to her mouth as she kept a laugh from escaping.

Written by Paul McCallister author of http://www.nojerseysat30.com/ Mistakes We Make: Social, Professional, Spiritual, Style

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The Mefaked

They too have souls. They too have mothers and girlfriends and homes to go back to, childhood friends to commiserate with about all the bull they're going through. They too daydream in the desert of a nourishing meal and of more than five minutes to eat it. They sweat, they drink coke, they laugh, check Facebooks, and reminisce on all the drunken debauchery they enjoyed back in high school. Sometimes they see the same mirages of civilization, of proof that there is life outside this army and don't know whether to laugh or cry when the vision inevitably dissolves into dust. And of course, they too once were Tzairim, a partly endearing mostly insulting term used for the army's newcomers. Yes, even the Mefefakdim, the commanders were once Tzairim. Like me.

But right now, that all seems too hard to believe.

"KEEP CRAWLING!" Mefaked Doron bellows, veins pulsing violently out of his neck like weaving flash-floods in the desert. He lets out his most head-splitting shriek yet, "WAKE UP! You garbage, you jokes!!! What do you think this is? Summer camp? A hiking trip? Crawl faster now or I will stick my arm so far up your--"

You get the point. I'm smack dab in the middle of basic training and right now all I want to do is kill my Mefaked. He's a short guy, probably a chain smoker, with a face only a mother could love (with difficulty). His perpetually scrunched, sun-blotched expression dominated by a long crooked crease between his eyebrows makes him very very easy to impersonate. And this we all do with glee. Especially easy to parrot is his trademark, somewhat impossible-to-follow command: "SHUT YOUR FACE!" This he squawks at least 3 or 4 times a day, spittle consistently flying from his mouth, with such venom and velocity that it is remarkably difficult to keep said shut face straight.

In order to stay sane, and not commit homicide (which could be rather easy considering we carry around M-16s and two loaded magazines at all times) we just have to laugh. At him. Usually we wait 'til we're a safe distance away, but I'm not going to do that today. Here in the wilderness, crawling without end under the unforgiving Middle Eastern Sun, getting berated for not bloodying my elbows enough, I sure as hell ain't feeling patient. No, today, I'm feeling brave and invincible to whatever creative hell he's got up hidden up his sleeves. Make me run, crawl, do a couple hundred pushups, whatever you want--I don't give. It's worth any and every punishment just to make you look like a complete idiot for next couple of seconds. Bring it on.

And so I stand up and wait. At first, it takes Mefaked Doron a few seconds to notice; he's busy grabbing Ofek by the collar and dragging him a few meters for crawling too slow. But when he finally finishes and notices me standing there, naturally his reflex is to throw a tantrum.

"What do you think you're doing?!" he roars, "Drop! Get back down and crawl! Don't make me--"

Then before he can finish, before I have a chance to second-guess the possible consequences, I do it. Face scrunched into an ugly scowl, voice lowered to a trembling overdone bravado, finger pointed centimeters away from his nose, I scream with all my might his own favorite line back at him, "SHUT YOUR FACE!"

Silence. His jaw has dropped--quite literally as if about to ingest a massive deli sandwich. All the other soldiers aren't crawling anymore; they're staring in awe at my outstretched arm and posture, an imitation they've all seen and more than half of them done themselves a million times before but behind Mefaked Doron's back. This however is real, uncut 100% chutzpah and, god, are they scared for me. It feels like a whole eternity has passed and still no one's dared to move, stuck in the strangest still-life ever painted. Then finally without warning, something remarkable happens. Mefaked Doron laughs.

I don't know at first if this is really happening. I'm certain I'm dead or hallucinating because there's absolutely no possible way that in this life or any other, my Mefaked could have the capacity to laugh. But he's still at it, shaking his head self-effacingly, giggling as if he were physically tickled, an irresistible grin spread across his face. And suddenly everyone's laughing, and some people are laughing so hard they're crying. The soldiers, still lying where they were, are howling, their hands slapping the sand sending it flying into the air, rolling around as if they've never seen or heard something so hilarious. I'm going along with them, half-shocked half-jubilant and mostly just so immensely relieved that a) he didn't kill me and b) it turns out Mefaked Doron has a sense of humor. For even though his job is to be the biggest schmuck in the world, to turn us Tzairim into real soldiers and to break us in order to do so, Mefaked Doron is only human. And when something's funny, something's funny.

Eventually we all calm down and the Mefaked tells me to come over to the side. I know whatever's coming can't be good, that such a gracious moment can only be short-lived, so I approach him cautiously. He waits for a moment, still half-smiling, and then puts his arm on my shoulder.

"You know" he says, "We Mefakdim make fun of you guys too." I nod, partly surprised, trying to imagine him imitating us, though this is still too big a stretch. He continues, "Now, I have to punish you, of course. This is clear. But I wanted to remind you that I was once in the exact same spot you are now. Don't worry, Basic Training will end eventually and when it does we can laugh together again." He gives me one last grin, a real sincere one and I'm struck by how wrong I had him. He's really not that ugly after all. And y'know, he seems like a pretty decent guy in real life. Maybe if I just think of him as Doron, remind myself that he's not always a Mefaked, then I'll be able to get through Basic Training just fine. I don't think I even want to kill him anymore.

A few minutes later, I take that back.

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Faith, Hope, Love, And Luck

Celso was the first one up every morning. Despite the fact that he and his two younger brothers started school at the same time, the twins always seemed to run late. Celso, like many 16-year-old boys at his high school and at other schools in San Francisco, shaved his head every morning. Celso and his friends called it the "clean-cut look;" yet it was more economical than fashionable, especially in a city known for its cold, damp fog that lingered throughout the year. Celso was rubbing baby oil on his smooth and perfectly round head when he heard one of his brothers pound the door and say, "Dude, hurry up!" Celso opened the worn, squeaky oak door and saw his brother Marcos looking down at him. Without saying anything else, Marcos pushed his way in, and Celso quickly walked back to their room.

He sat on his bed where he tied his Adidas and watched his brother Miguel still asleep on the lower bunk across from him. Celso was only a year older than the twins, yet ever since their mom ran away with Celso's godfather, the Garcia men had grown apart and learned to fend for themselves. Celso heard the top lock on the main door rattle and boots walk over the wooden floor. Without any concern for his sleeping brother, he yelled, "Hey, Dad." He walked into the living room as he adjusted the beanie around his pierced ears.

His tall and stocky father wore navy-blue pants and a pastel-blue shirt with the museum's logo embroidered on the right side of his chest. He walked toward Celso without saying a word, patted him on the shoulder, and dragged his tired limbs toward the second bedroom. Dropping keys and a set of handcuffs on the coffee table, he faded into the dark room.

Celso walked out of his apartment complex, down Laguna Street to catch the 5 Fulton line. The city seemed drowsy despite the occasional car zipping by. Celso sought cover under the MUNI shelter from the misty breeze. He felt his pocket vibrate and pulled out his pager. The message read "143," and he knew it was Sophia paging him. He glared at the numbers on the tiny screen and smiled coyly. As he waited for the bus, he noticed a patch of green peering out from between the broken cement. He squinted his brown eyes and shifted his body toward a green leafy object that stood out from the isolated grassy patch. He realized it was a clover and, without any hesitation, began to count its leaves. Celso shook his head a few times, thinking he'd miscounted the four leaves on the clover. He saw the power lines flash above him and cocked his head, noticing the bus approaching. Before he could think of his next move, he saw the doors burst open. The white-haired Asian woman clutching the steering wheel asked, "You comin'?" Celso rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, the four-leaf clover now looking back at him. Uncertain, he boarded the bus to school.

That afternoon Celso and Sophia sat on a forest-green metal bench as they waited for the bell to ring. Celso wrapped his arms around Sophia as he snuck a kiss on her neck. "Quit, fool; it's too early for all that," said Sophia as she pulled away.

Celso smirked before answering, "I'm just responding to your 'I love you' message from this morning."

Sophia looked straight into his eyes as she brushed aside a strand of her honey brown curls and said, "You can just rub my feet later."

They both laughed and Celso asked, "Have you ever seen a four-leaf clover?"

Celso saw Sophia's brows flair with confusion before she asked, "Is that what the Mission kids are smoking that's got them all wild 'n' out?"

Exposing his dimples, Celso shrugged and told Sophia he had spotted a four-leaf clover on Laguna and that he was planning on going back to get it after school.

Sophia smacked his shoulder and rolled her golden eyes at him. She then said, "You ain't going to my game then, huh?"

Celso reminded her that he had to work and that once he got a car, he would go to all her basketball games. In disbelief, she sighed as the bell rang and headed toward the girl's locker room. Disheartened, Celso grabbed his backpack and walked toward the bus to go back home.

Celso pulled the plastic rope a few times to alert the driver he needed to get off. An old man sitting to his right scuffed, "You only need to pull once." Celso ignored him and sped out the bus. He looked all around and saw the little patch of green had been removed. He saw another small section of grass and clovers behind the bus stop and leaned down to look through it. All the clovers he found were missing the fourth leaf. He rubbed his hands to remove the dirt from his fingers. Feeling as if a vending machine had stolen his change, he went back home to dress for work.

During his entire shift, all Celso could think about was the four-leaf clover. Every time he chopped mushrooms or spinach for his pizzas, he pondered whether or not that clover could have somehow changed his life. He smiled as he packed the pizzas into boxes, remembering when his whole family would head to Market Street to watch the St. Patrick's parade. He recalled the last time his mom drew four-leaf clovers on all the boys' hands. Tiredly, Celso switched the fluorescent pizzeria sign off, collected his share of the tips, and dreaded his commute back home. When he reached Laguna, he began to look around to see if he could spot any charm. He walked and scanned every space visible with the glow of streetlights. His fingers dug into bushes and grass, finding the occasional three-leaf clover. His pager began to beep; dusting off his hands, he reached into his pocket and went home to call his girlfriend.

Belo Cipriani writes both creative non-fiction and short fiction across several genres with the help of adaptive technology. To read and edit, he uses a talking computer that runs a screen reader called JAWS and a talking dictionary device called Franklin.

Belo holds a Masters Degree in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing from Notre Dame de Namur University, where he studied under award winning poet Jacqueline Berger and fiction writer Kerry Dolan.

He is heavily involved with the San Francisco literary community and is a member of Litquake, The California Writers Club, and a contributing writer for Bay Area publications. Belo and his guide dog Madge live in San Francisco. Learn more at http://blindamemoir.com/.

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Behind Close Doors: Pilate and Herod on The Day of Jesus' Judgment

"I curse these people and Caesar," Pilate said.

"You can say whatever you about these blasted people," Julian said. "But, remember Caesar has friends with in your company."

"Julian don't threaten me," Pilate shot back. He could have continued with we all know that he is your uncle, but he kept his mouth shut beside tonight presented other problems. The Jews wanted him dispose of one of their problems, someone name Jesus of Nazareth.

Pilate wiped the sweat from his face with his robe, as he walked over to the table. He lifted up a bronze pitcher and poured its ruby red contents into a gold cup. He lifted it and poured the contents into his mouth. After doing so, he filled the cup again, and continues in a somber mood. "You don't have to remind that you are Cesar's nephew." He paused and continued, "I was their when he made you my aid, and your aid has been most valuable.

Julian bowed, and let the issue go because he still knew whatever Pilate says he could use against him at his own choosing. His Uncle Caesar and himself despised Pilate. Caesar had sent him not to aid Pilate, but destroy him. Caesar sent Pilate and himself to this wretched place and people in hope to goad Pilate into scorning him, so that he had enough just cause to finally do away with Pilate.

Julian walked over to the table and poured himself a cup of wine. "I also want to curse these people because the have been nothing trouble since we arrive." As Julian spoke, Pilate gazed at him for a moment and estimated his age to about, twenty-five. "Remember when we almost had an insurrection when we put Caesar's mantle in their temple." He paused to let Pilate ponder his words then continued, "But, under duress Rome relented and removed the mantel from the temple."

Just as Pilate rose to respond the doors flew open and a Centurion Officer named, Octavius stood in the doorway and raise his hand and brought it hard to his chest as he looked toward Pilate. "Governor, I just got word from Herod's palace," the officer said."Herod is sending Jesus back to you. He says only you have the authority to kill Jesus not him. Herod wants know why you sent this Jesus to him?'"

Pilate just slumped back into the chair in looked at the floor. The Gods have sealed his fate.

While back at Herod's place, words of anger echoed off the walls. The Head Priest Caiaphas stood glaring at Herod. You had to wonder if his white beard made his face that bright red, or his bright red face made his beard a bright white. His body shook with rage as he open his mouth to speak.

"Herod you are no better than your father," Caiaphas measure his words. "You are no better than your spineless father. It took one seductive dance for him to finally to kill that nuisance, John." Herod's father did not kill John until his wife's Herodias' daughter performed a seductive dance for him. Being please with the dance, he granted her request. Listening to her mother, she asked for the head of John on a platter.

Herod open his mouth to respond and Caiaphas continued his tirade. There would be no stopping the years of anger toward Herod from being release.

"You are no Jewish King," he said. "You have nothing do with your with your Jewish people or Priests, but your Hellenist companions who feed you their Hellenist ways. They have told you this garbage to lead you away from your own Jewish roots. You know Herod that there. His anger subsided.

Herod stood up and responded. "Caiaphas, your foolish choice of words could make me order your death." To which he replied, " But you won't because only Pilate has that authority." After that Caiaphas turned and walked out of the room while Herod shouted curses at him.

Just as the guards led Jesus out of the room to be scourge according to Pilate's orders, Julian and Octavius enter. Julian stirs at Jesus, and shakes his head.

Once Jesus has been removed. Pilate begins to speak. "I have had men plead for my mercy as the guards had to drag them from presence. Many of these men were the so called Zealots that while they were free, boldly claimed that they would make me die slowly." Pilate turned to look at window at the city. "They said those very word outside on that street below." He turned toward back to the two men with his right stretched back towards the window.

He looked this Julian and Octavius with a solemn face and spoke with measured words. "This man Jesus, just looks me with dark eyes and says very few words. It is almost as He has accepted death.

"Piate, what, this ha man unnerved because he does not plead for your mercy?" Octavius question.

"Perhaps our dear Governor has grown soft in his old age." Julian responded, mockingly.

"No dear Julian have not grown soft." He said glaring back toward Julian. "To tell you the the truth I would like crucify Caiaphus and his Priests along with Jesus. They have caused me nothing trouble since I came. You have figured that since they have one God their Religion would be..."

"We are not here to hear about how much trouble Caiaphas and Jews cause you," Octavius cut Pilate off. "As you have said Caiaphas will be dealt with it later. We have a this present matter about Jesus. I don't care how He how looks at you. He is a threat to Rome's interest. Has more followers than John. He also talks about some kingdom that we can't see."

"He also said that He is the Son of God," Julian added. "This makes Him into a God-man, and only Cesar can be a God-man. He is not equal to Cesar from the stories that I have heard that His father was a pour carpenter. He can not make any claim to royalty because He has no Royal blood."

"My man have reported that He has raised a man from the dead." Octavius said. "Do you think that He is some kind of God? Is that what frightens you? We Romans seen all kinds of so called Religious trickery from Brittany to here. I for myself do not believe in such nonsense."

"The guards have brought back a very bloody Jesus for sentencing who sits with a table with a basin next to him. "Jesus the King of the Jews will be Crucified as your Priest wish. The crowd's cheered and jeered, as Pilate walked behind the table. His lifted his hands to silence the crowds, and lowered them into the basin. "I wash my hands of this man's blood."

Julian and Octavius both looked each other. Julian whispered in Octavius hear, "Did you he see. He just sentence a man to death while not taking responsibility for it."

Pilot walked up to Octavius. "You will lead the Crucifixion Detail." He turned toward Julian. "Make sure that your uncle knows that I have defended his honor."

He then looked at the both of them. "I just thought the man was insane. I have had those appear before me with the same delusions of grandeur, and I dealt with them by scourging and being sent to the salt mines to disappear. So if it had been my way Jesus would have just disappear. That is how you deal with problems. You just make them disappear without a mess."

"Why not just kill them?" Julian asked.

"Because they just don't die, they live in the minds of their followers." Pilate responded.

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