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Simply, storytelling. Dispatched once a month for a moment of pause in your life.
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The Odds | 009
When I was nine, I saw a man collapse in a salon chair. His heart had stopped. The hairdresser cried, and my mother rushed to his side. She started CPR and mouth-to-mouth. She had been an ER nurse for over ten years, so she knew what to do. She was the only one who knew what to do. Not long after, a parade of firetrucks, ambulances, and police cars swarmed the strip mall.
The paramedics took over, and my mother ushered me and my brother next door to buy mouthwash. I remember watching her swish and spit the blue liquid on the street as the chaos unfurled around us. She was everything to me, able to find life in those who almost lost it.
My mother retired almost fifteen years later and filled her time playing professional Blackjack in casinos. Those close to us never understood her interest in this world. It was dirty in their eyes. Taboo. They gathered only a certain type of person goes to a casino. So, there, my mother was.
Visiting my parents in retirement meant learning how to count cards. I found the community at most casinos to be the same. The machine techs and cocktail servers were always friendly. The hunched-over elderly would plop down at a slot machine and spin until their last 50 cents. There were those in their forties who were rabidly territorial. They’d shoo you away from their machine as they barreled towards you, having just withdrawn more cash. Then there were the party goers–the boys’ trip, bachelorette, and family gatherings. This group was docile; only hanging around long enough to try and win the same amount they lost.
I soon got good enough at Blackjack to go on my own. I would spend hours there, playing the tables and people watching. Between a particular set of games, I walked down a row of roulette tables. Young men placed bets on 000 and black, and out the corner of my eye–I saw him, a man tipped over like a ship. His head collided with the grungy carpet as his slot machine finished its final spin. There was a moment of silence before the mix of screams began. It wasn’t long until a swarm of people surrounded the man to get a glimpse of his body. But this time, my mother wasn’t there. There was no one to save the man. I wasn’t my mother. I wasn’t a lifesaver.
It didn’t take long for me to understand my mother’s interest in this world. ERs and casinos were the same–the controlled chaos, the spontaneity. My mother was good about beating the odds. She could dose a patient with a glance and knew when to bet big on a hand. The joy and success she found in her pursuits were reason enough to embrace her choices.
As the unconscious man lay on the floor, the chimes of the casino powered forward. Winners rejoiced as paramedics rushed to see if he was still breathing. A techno cover of an Elton John song blared through the speaker system.
A few machines down, an older woman was pounding on a slot machine. The interface cracked under her blows. This world has always been about the mental wins. You place bets on a hand and get a fraction in return. But what you always win is an abundance of hope. Hope of what could be. Hope of something better. I wasn’t nearly as good as my mother, but as they say on the casino floor, “There’s always tomorrow.” ∆
dispatched: February 1st 2026
The Unseen | 008
I wake
like most do
though I share my pillow
with a roach or two.
The sun still slumbers
as I work in the kitchen.
Measuring, mixing, moulding,
it’s my religion.
A firm pillow of dough
shaped in my way.
Their faces sour
as they watch my ballet.
Clear blue skies.
Crisp bare wind.
My peers give me eyes.
I ask, what’s my sin?
They say they don’t understand
when their grievances spew
I do not spit mine
I don’t add to the stew.
Well, I have no need.
I find joy
in the small
the unseen.
They scrunch their noses
and quickly flee.
I smile and think,
‘Oh, how good it is to be me.’ ∆
dispatched: January 4th 2026
Grey | 007
My little brother’s lips were slick with saliva. His eyes pinched as he screamed. He’d been thrown from his skateboard. The skin from his knees removed and replaced with blood. My heart raced, a small fire of excitement filled me. My cheeks pulled back, I smiled as his screams turned to wet hiccups. I found myself picking up his skateboard, claiming it. My mother was witness. She cursed and slapped my wrist for being so cruel.
I went to my father and asked why, why was it cruel? He laughed and pushed me out of his way. I asked my teacher, she told me I’d be punished by God. So, I asked God.
The sky turned grey and thunder struck. I ran inside, afraid. I smelled smoke and the cancerous odor of melting plastic. My mother was burning the skateboard, shouting at the flames as though they contradicted her. My father laughed from his chair. My teacher had summoned her deity to reign down upon us all. My eyes stung and I cried.
My little brother stepped to my side and patted my shoulder. He comforted me and whispered, “It isn’t fair, is it?” ∆
dispatched: December 7th 2025
Afraid – pt. 2 | 006
Under the sun, I remember lying out in the cool grass. Letting the light warm my toes. The air was sweet and musky with the scent of rosemary needles. I’d spend hours outside, breathing in the fresh air, looking up at the pale blue sky. I felt wonderful. As the days grew shorter and autumn came, a new someone moved into the neighborhood. He was around my age and had a kind face. I liked seeing him play in the driveway. He saw me. I wanted to know him.
It wasn’t until after the holidays that I decided to approach him. Now, I was the one who knew the neighborhood better than anyone. I showed him around. There was a middle school four blocks down the way. It housed animals the students took care of—ducks, chickens, goats, and a round pig. We would watch them and scream with excitement if they came close to us.
We spent every moment together, running through the blank roads. We’d run past the neighborhood busybody, Mrs. Greene. We’d run past little Pomeranians yapping themselves blue. We’d run past anything that would hurt us. He used to look at me in a way I think most would want to be looked at. His eyes would linger near my hem. My cheeks would redden like the bulbs of mercury thermometers.
At night, we’d jump the fence and use the school’s playground. He’d always stand near as I made my way over the monkey bars. I bent over and grabbed the edge of the slide when I sensed he was near. I looked over my shoulder and saw him standing above me. He was smiling. He reached for me—leaned in close. I pushed him. He fell on his tailbone. I shouldn’t have pushed him, but he shouldn’t have first.
The kindness in his eyes dissipated like cotton in bleach. He crawled to his feet and towered over me. The next thing I felt was pain and hot liquid pooling in my nose. I couldn’t see much in the moonlight, but I knew blood was coming. Iron filled my senses. He reached for me, but I was fast. I got up and ran. I ran into the streets. I ran past the empty lawns. I heard light footsteps behind me.
I cut through narrow homes and hid under the crawlspace of a brick house. A shadow flew past and out of sight. I stayed in that crypt. As day came, the family of that brick house skipped outside and played in the backyard. Blood crusted on my face. I watched the youngest play in the kiddie pool, damp earth dried under my fingernails, the parents filmed and took photos.
I stayed hidden for two days. I left at dawn. I slipped home and waited outside until my couple awoke. They were scared and angry. My clothes had been stained with blood. They cleaned me and locked me away in my room. I was safe. I didn’t tell them the truth.
I was afraid.
After two weeks, I was released from my comfortable prison, but I stayed. I didn’t want to be found. I wanted to leave this place. I wanted to leave and never return. It didn’t matter where I was going, as long as it wasn’t here. Fear consumed me. Until one day.
One day, like the many other days before, my couple packed. The blanket of fear lifted from my mind. I awoke alive. Alive to live. I helped them pack. I was happy to go—to never fear again. To be under that pale blue sky, to feel the icy wind of autumn. I was not afraid because I had nothing to fear. To experience fear is to experience change. They are not the same, but they are attached like limbs. I change without fear. I change with wonder. ∆
dispatched: November 4th 2025
Afraid – pt. 1 | 005
The sky was pale blue. It was autumn in the desert. The day was warm, but a swift breeze sliced through flesh like ice. There was a faint rumble of motors in the distance. It grew loud. The sound filled my ears, and then nothing. That’s all.
I was alone from the beginning. I don’t remember much—only the clear sky and the absence of fear. Why wasn’t I afraid? No one knew where I came from or who left me. I never cared to find out. I only knew my present, but wasn’t aware how uncertain it would become.
My next memory was atop a horse with a nice woman staring up at me. She knew many horses and dogs and people. She liked to dress me in little outfits. She would coordinate and say, “You are so darling.” I didn’t know what it meant, but I liked the way it made me feel. I didn’t stay with her long. I was sad to go. I missed being darling.
I was tossed in the back seat of a car. A couple sat in front and smiled back at me. The corners of their lips strained with excitement. The sound of the engine reminded me of the blue sky. Still, I wasn’t afraid.
They took me to their home. It was one room. They bought me toys and gave me space of the one room. The nice woman wouldn’t let me sleep near her, but this couple did. I preferred to sleep near them. The bed was soft and welcoming. I was fond of this new home. But soon, the couple packed. They put their belongings in boxes and bag, containers and sacks. I didn’t want to leave the one room but I was again placed in the back seat and driven to a new home.
I was thankful the couple moved into this new home with me. This one had three rooms and a yard where I could be. We stayed long enough for me to make a friend or two. I don’t remember their names now, but they knew the neighborhood better than anyone. We’d sneak out at night and gallop through the streets.
We discovered a neighbor, Glen, owned a store—a place to buy mancala and othello. But Glen was forgetful and wouldn’t lock up every night. We slipped through the back. There was a jar of treats at the counter we soon made vanish. We hollered through the store when a silhouette graced the murky glass door. It could have been Glen coming back to lock up or a security guard stretching his legs. Either way, I wasn’t afraid. We laughed and fled the way we came.
The days were filled with fun. We were footloose. Which is what made leaving this place ever more difficult. The couple packed. I knew I’d never see my friends again.
We drove for a while this time. Out of the city, out of the way. I was angry and thought, maybe eating all of Glen’s treats put me back in this car. I didn’t want to be on the move. I wanted to stay, I wanted to stay.
We arrived at a new home. It was the biggest home yet. The yard filled with rosemary and hibiscus smelled fuzzy and smooth. There were elementary schools speckled along our street. Kids’ laughter filled my ears. My time here was soon to be the most liberating and debilitating time of my life. ∆
dispatched: October 5th 2025
Restless | 004
The amber glow of light lifted the navy sky over the city. The blues and oranges emulsified, swirling together between flecked stars. The stone lane rattled a car as it flew past row houses. Music bumped through the speakers. Muffled but strong.
A five-year-old peered through a window. An electric candle lit their soft features. The pavement took respite in the night breeze. A darkened figure passed. The child sank beneath the warm comforter, slipping between the bars of the sofa bed. Protected from the world.
Murky water pushed and pulled against the harbor walls. Steam filtered through manholes. The 80’s skyline paled in comparison to larger cities but managed to sit just high enough to be deigned a metropolis. A high rise to the west resembled a stairway. The steps stretched above the lower buildings.
The child stared at them between tangled hair and cotton sheets. They imagined being big and taking the steps up, one-by-one. Grabbing a tree from the edge of the Patapsco and gnawing on the leaves.
The five-year-old looked over the city from their high perch. Protecting it from those that didn’t understand it. Glass shattered. The city was restless. Sirens mewed.
A parade of motorbikes zoomed through the city. People in scrubs and rags wandered the warming pavement. Box trucks chirped as farmers unloaded their stock near the underpass. Buses made rotation. First light dampened the glow of the city.
The five-year-old was satisfied. They drifted above the building and ambled through the air. The city turned a pale yellow as they passed. Settling back in the bed next to their mother and siblings, their eyes finally closed. They kept the city safe, tonight. ∆
dispatched: September 7th 2025
Vera | 003
Vera held her breath as a group of thin twenty-something’s walked into the cafe. They were edgy, she thought. Cool. Unbound by contemporary fashion yet so mainstream attractive. It was the perfect pairing. They waited in line with the air that it didn’t matter if they ordered. They were destined to gather and be admired by the undoubtedly envious, like Vera.
Vera was placed at the perfect angle to view the entire cafe. It was the sort of cafe that once sold cigarettes and short blacks but was now baby pink and dripping in plastic ivy. Vera had been around before the new owners renovated. She could have easily gotten tap water and snuggled up to fern. If she did now, she’d be grated by the pressed polyethylene edge of a spider plant.
But Vera couldn’t complain. She was living amongst royalty in the trendiest neighborhood. Rent was astonishing, and the demand was even more unbelievable, but Vera got to live there for nothing. Water didn’t come as often as it used to, at all really, but Vera could manage with the occasional rainwater that slipped between the window panes. It wasn’t too bad for the forgotten house plant in the rafters.
The young people ordered their drinks. They flicked their fingers to hanging art and marveled at the retro floor tiles. Vera was too far away to hear what they were saying but some were eyeing the exposed beams supporting the glass ceiling. A woman with a nose ring looked directly at Vera. She smiled. Vera froze with excitement.
Vera thought she should give some signal. Something to say, you see me and I see you. Vera let a draft carry one of her shriveled leaves side to side. The woman looked away, seemingly having unnoticed the wave. Vera let the moment pass, but she knew she had been seen.
Though she’d never admit it, Vera missed the previous owners. Not every cafe had live plants but Vera and her pals were cared for. They never had any issues. It was an older couple. They’d always help each other when help was needed.
After some time, Vera noticed one had stopped coming around. The other would show up, shuffle from task to task, and then just leave. It came as no surprise when the shop was shut down. The neighbors put on charity events, but it was never enough.
Once the doors had closed, a woman in a gray suit appeared. The remaining owner greeted her and gave the woman in gray keys to the shop with a smile. It was a strange affair to Vera, but the owner was happy, that’s all that mattered. Their shoulders had finally relaxed, and their expression looked like–well–like before.
Vera had only one wish. She wished they had taken her along. They’d taken all her friends, why not her?
The young group picked up their to-go cups and exited the cafe without so much as a backward glance. This wasn’t anything new to Vera, but she was hopeful. Next time. Someone would help. Help before her roots cracked and turned to dust. Someone would help. ∆
dispatched: August 3rd 2025
Tang Berry Fruits | 002
Tang berry fruits dance in my bowl
I turn them, flip them
Purple syrup pools from the belly
a mere taste of all
The rim slips between my joy
Shards clink across the tile
the baseboard chips and splinters
Tang berry fruits dance on the floor
rolling, shimmying, shaking their way
neath the stove
I cannot catch them
out the door
I cannot find them
as they dance
I wiggle my toes
between what remains.
The tang seeps through me
stained
for now. ∆
dispatched: July 6th 2025
Average | 001
I woke up with a feeling of dread. The thing I had put off for the past week and a half was getting wrinkly and limp. Similar to a pothos plant I had also put off watering. I wasn’t intentionally neglecting my duties, it just sort of happened.
At university, I was considered an excellent student. I submitted my projects on time, early, in fact. I was so consistent the professors eventually expected nothing less from me and my above-average homework submission rate was just—average. I think some students learned early on if above-average can be average than below-average has every right to be average too.
After graduation, I saw most people continue to give below-average effort and blow past me in the race to success. It didn’t feel great and so I slowed down.
I saw my partner off to his job and was left with a deadening silence Los Angeles was all too familiar with after the last labor strike. I sat on the couch and my oversized t-shirt ballooned before me like a raggedy ballerina’s tutu. I picked at the fibers of the cushion with my nail. Thinking of my task felt like running down a street made of used gum and rat trap glue.
Working out, I decided, that’s what would help me. I pulled out my crinkled yoga mat and single ten pound weight. My arms wavered like over-boiled noodles under the weight of my body. After a shower and a fresh t-shirt, I could finally muster an inkling of motivation to at least sit in front of the dreaded task. I made my way forward when a sharp pain shot through me. I looked down and saw the Oxford English Dictionary on the floor—my toe jammed into the R’s, somewhere between rumination and rummage. The book lead to a found crumpled note, to a discarded sweater, to a lonely sock, to me cleaning the entire apartment.
There was this artist at university who didn’t have an apartment. It wasn’t for any sad reasons, he just didn’t care about that sort of thing. He’d bring his trash bag full of clothes and stay with friends, girlfriends, or sublet for a week or two and then move on. I half expected to find him in the Back Bay Fens park trading splifs with drifters. I never did.
He was also a talented musician—everyone had his number. What most people didn’t know about him was after a certain period, he stopped trying. He hadn’t sat down and learned a new rhythm or transcribed a solo for years and, honestly, he didn’t have to. He was good enough to get the gigs, to get the spotlights. He peaked himself and he, and the world, were okay with that.
A yappy terrier pounced around to ward me away from his home turf. The two-foot plastic fence held him back just enough to make him feel vicious without actually having to be vicious. I passed houses with reflective ribbon dancing on windows and honeysuckle spilling over the sidewalk.
The gaps in the pavement conjured up visions of tripping and falling on my arm. It would shatter and I’d be unable to do anything. “What a horrible thought. It really is a privilege I can choose to trip and break my arm whenever I want,” I thought. “Not everyone has that choice.”
I took my shoes off to feel the overgrown grass between my toes. The local park nestled in the bend of a major highway which most neighbors said degraded the community but I didn’t mind. It usually drowned out the blasting music from the pimply teens and LARPers acting out scenes from some obscure fantasy novel.
After watching two dogs fight over a tattered tennis ball, my stomach turned in hunger. Being Los Angeles, there was usually a kitschy coffee shop not far from anywhere. The kind of place that sells dusty, old frames, lattes, and hand-drawn greeting cards.
Their courtyard was empty, their lights were turned out, leading to the rational thought that they were closed but I couldn’t help myself. I cupped my hands to peer into the window. The coffee machine idled with its blinking red light and the chairs were upturned. “This place never closes.” I thought. I checked the front door. The sign read: CLOSED. I was a little offended.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught movement. Inside the shop, a small woman emerged from a back room. She was hunched over. It gave the impression she was about do a nose dive at any moment. A slack apron hung from her folded neck. She carried a broom to the center of the shop and leaned it against a table.
There was something about her that kept me standing there, watching her. I realized she didn’t have the dazed look of repetition, she had a light in her tawny eyes. Either she didn’t notice me staring at her or she didn’t care as she lifted herself with great ease onto the counter and grabbed a rag from her apron. She stood as tall as a four and a half foot woman could stand and scrubbed the hanging menu above her. Her effort seemed to yield little results. She scrubbed for ages. And scrubbed. And scrubbed. She pinched the bottom edge of the sign to steady herself as she leaned back to analyze her work. She shuffled her feet to the right and repeated herself. Scrub and analyze.
Once she was satisfied with her work, she returned the rag to her pocket and diligently guided herself to the floor. She grabbed the broom and swept.
I backed away from the window and the reflection of the world behind me hid her from view. I turned and hurried home. ∆
dispatched: June 1st 2025
