Woody watched as Biddy dropped to her knees and quickly disappeared under a tiny mound of earth. Every once in a while, a large clump curved upwards and unpacked against the sky before arching back down towards a fractured, brown charicture of unlaid plans and overinflated worth. Woody’s hairline was grazed, repeatedly, but he was not positioned close enough to share in an imagined competition. The spectacle resembled that of a baby bird, flapping his wings but not understanding what it meant to actually fly. Woody was *entertained and annoyed* and wanted to be back at home. For years, being flummoxed would have meant that he was prone and hidden against the ocean’s soft, mushy floor. As long as he promised not to trap any air, the depths would never return him or fail to keep his opinions safe. How ironic, a lifeguard, assigning human conditions to a place that had continued to retreat in order to prevent manmade harm from desecrating its provision. Lately, nostalgia made the old man buoyant. So Woody just stood there on the shore, bloated, and looked out for a *memory* that he could still work with. It was not a time for forebodance or any other literary device that mirrored what he was feeling inside. At this moment, Woody was a *compassionate swindler*, and the term was actually ‘foreboding’, that was why the water was a calm reflection of the sun, and was staged in tranquil blues and unrepentant greens, these revelations fought over whether they should throw him back towards the others or keep him as part of a running gag. Woody, was highlighted in their notes, and he stared until his eyes grew tight and fuzzy, all of youth lost inside a headache and the hologram of the sides of his nose. The rays from above provided the radiation which reduced his purpose to that of a hesitant interference, much like a lukewarm ensemble of hors d’oeuvres. It was enough to free himself from a vision that was overdue for being reconditioned, he walked a bit to the South, the water, that he did not realize he had been standing in felt *refreshing* and brought him back to a tingling in his knees. But no one else was in the water and aside from Biddy’s ankles, nothing was on the beach. Woody remembered that Jim had once been here as well, and that pulverized bark had occasionally interrupted his breathing. With nothing else to do, he kissed his hand and reciprocated by vertically stroking the right side of his neck. A family would be ill advised, as he apologized for being *intimate* while working late. The mother of the boys he had rescued so long ago, understood the importance of *punctuality* and now Woody was ashamed for never again calling them his *friends*. “I guess we all grow tired of waiting,” Maybe if he had been less concerned about *chipping paint and infringement* he would be down the beach with Jim. He knew little about Jim, and before today had never seen him, or was Woody searching for an option that was fluid, instead of a man that was garnished with a late blooming tuft of *mold*? In one of the more *desperate* attempts at satire, Woody leaned over until his chest was pushing down firmly on the undersides of Biddy’s feet. He was not sure about her abilities to fold his trunks or prepare his dinner, but the way she squirmed and shouted, “Uncle, Uncle!” he was touched that she already thought of him as family. Age offers little by way of sympathy, when the essence of being *disingenuous* fits better with a wrinkle smoothing the surface of affectation, than a wave that is only rumbling because its time has abruptly run out at the shore.

Biddy was ephemeral, and that was why she bobbed up and down like a top in the water. She had been lonely as a toddler and roughed up as a child, she was suspicious of a family friend, later in life, she was relieved to find out the man was actually an uncle. Biddy laughed every time she told the story, unable to understand why the listener suddenly asked her about work or ordered another round. Now on the beach, the wind was lifting Biddy’s hair, checking for unmapped points of reference. She hoped a modest level of scrutiny would always be guaranteed. Hope, Biddy had kept her imagination childlike and her illumination flickering, when many times it would have been more humane if the partnership had lied about being needed amongst a crop of facial stubble, and promising to return with the harvest from another worshiping fan. She could still do a handstand and all of its fancy variations. Recently, Biddy had found that first digging a hole in the sand would allow her head to separate from her neck, once she was vertical and upside down. That would make her lovable, she could even accept ‘cute,’ although if observations were traveling the back roads, Biddy preferred to be called ‘adorable.’ She giggled in the cool darkness, blowing outward to clear away intruding pellets of white dirt. That was how they had built up the unnatural dunes. Biddy assumed that Woody knew that. So now, she would have to as well. She giggled again, this was going to be fun. As the blood was beginning to make its way to the base of her skull, the tingling sensation associated itself with breaking Woody’s heart. It was as powerful as it was to hope, the two of them sitting distinctively apart, on her couch, him commenting on how pretty she looked, Biddy genuinely interested rubbing his arm, before telling him that he had to go. But she would find him tomorrow and the next day, mirroring everything that Woody had wanted for his life. Her head was pulsating, as she felt the others sitting on the beach, in the light, full of distraction, they had to be attaching themselves to her body. Now she saw Woody, who was angry. She was euphoric and in love. Not with him, but with what was warranted. Her braided hair, just the way Woody had preferred, the lifeguard massaging her feet, haggling for a life to share. And then she was upright once again, as her purple face acquiesced, splitting all that pooled, begrudgingly with the rest of her body that was pale. In real time, Woody was picking his feet as he sat on the bottom rung of his stand. He was clothed only in his red trunks. Biddy wondered if next time she could hold her position a little longer, at least until Woody was in a tuxedo and his beard was well kept. She laughed the hardest when she thought about her Uncle, and wondered if they had actually ever met.

As the midday sun ceded the sky to the showers of late afternoon, Mike and the rest of the crew finished up on the penultimate tree. It was not as big as the others they had cut down, but it was thick and stubborn, and uncharacteristically dry, and guarded by several offshoots that resembled overgrown, leafy plants. To Mike, it resembled a family and their removal affected him in a way that he had previously warned himself about: feeling too deeply for all that was perceived to be slipping through the cracks. And whether it was a shiny toy pleading for applause at the bottom of a storm drain or a sulking man on a park bench as the schedule would not allow the bus to stop, Mike took on the responsibility of a witness, who felt the pain, but locked up when it was time to act. Lately, he thought about this incessantly, enslaved by an emotional tic, especially when the observations were still fresh and new, and then when the clarity of the images began to wane, contemplation still refused to recede, the blurry residue manifesting itself in feelings that never became stale or wandered off. It was as if experience was being rolled like a giant ball of dough, all of the ingredients mashed together until they became a collective, but without the boundaries of a community. Anyone who had a young family of their own, would be surprised at the similarities they shared with Mike, particularly when it came to fighting off exhaustion from expectation and carrying the weight of dependents all alone. Yet, Mike could never really relate to anyone, when it came to the churning he felt inside. It was home for him, but even the above mentioned reference to the sole provider was not refined enough to roll out. So he chopped and he cut and wore the scars of the trees across his arms and his face. Sweat was designed to keep the body cool, so why did it sting his eyes with intense heat whenever he tried to focus on all that he was supposed to rout? Or was that the spatter of warring blood, blocking the wooden splinters that represented a final surrender? Then it rained and Mike along with the rest of the crew were ordered to power off. It should have been a relief, much could happen overnight, maybe a councilman or a developer would have a dream so vivid that they could renege on their promise to help the city grow. But this was Florida and the showers would be over quick. Mike stared at the last tree that remained. It was in an area that had been previously hidden and inaccessible. Now it was free to fulfill its purpose-or waiting-to mercifully pass away. The sun was peaking through, which reflected brightly on Mike’s wet blade. The freshly, cleaned rivets would make the job easier. Mike wrestled with everything else in between. Ultimately, he had grown accustomed to an arbitrary world encompassed by swirling debris. A few more storms and the bus would be compelled to slow for all who were downtrodden and the grate would be flooded, lifting the toy safely above the drain. Mike would remain behind, in case the offshoot was capable of producing grapes.

Jim thought about pushing himself up using his arms and his legs. This did not warrant further elaboration, for the bridge tender was on break, and the idea alone, as basic as it should seem, provided little by way of results. Jim had not exercised since he had slung a hammer breaking down walls while in college. But was it really exercise if he was in the process of becoming dishonest? He had broken into that first home in order to turn it into an acquisition. After the initial load bearing slab of concrete crumbled, the ceiling and eventually the roof were on borrowed time. What had been a luxury for a few hardworking students, was now a foreclosure against the young owners who had no money left to make the necessary repairs while keeping the mortgage current. Jim told himself that the place had not been up to code anyway. After all, the supposed impact windows had been opened with the gentlest of knocks and enticed by the merest of justifications-which was why he never needed to exercise, eventually Jim conceded that the reinforced pane of glass, while faulty, had in fact been locked. Sometimes intellectual brilliance overshadowed muscular recognition-breaking and entering countered much that could be ascertained. It was not until he watched the house being wrapped with structural warning signs that Jim flexed his biceps and then his chest. No one would see his brutish side bouncing in a spotlight, it was cold, and his muscles were buried under six inches of layered sweaters and a winter coat. At least the alternative for feeling the sting was palpable, Jim was fine without showing off, in fact he preferred having a secret. Most superheros felt the same way. Now, on the beach, the soft, powdery foundation was as unsteady as the old house. Jim should have already been at the shoreline, even without the deed, if that could ever make sense, but he was no longer of the same unnatural ilk. The last heel was getting smaller as the other women had disappeared behind a towering dune. Actually, it was just a tiny heap of sand randomly kicked up when the women had begun to scatter. Still, Jim had to roll over to avoid breathing it in. Could that be considered exercise, if one day the clump became a castle? He attached one of the fallen forks and angled it from the high point down to a small indentation below. Breathing heavily, he was not sure if the shiny reflection would be enough to entice a curious child to continue the construction. But at least Jim could say, the silver bridge was up to code.

Words can be a bridge–between ideas and plots, characters and places. Often times, it connects two sections of land over a body of water. Much like direct prose, the construction is not always attractive, but the footing is government issue and reliable. Safe and transitional like a walk along the shore. Even during a brief upheaval or raising, no chances are taken, at least not in a manner that will affect an outcome or subjugate a genre, no one gets left behind. Stragglers and scrutinizers have plenty of time to catch up while speedwalkers and those who are numb can finally rest. If you are bored right now, then this device is working. Once the bridge is lowered, selective interpretation becomes overwhelmingly picturesque. Without the need to buy further time, the footing is delicious and crumbling, aromatic and wet. But then again, even my mind needs a chance to recharge. So for this incarnation, just think of everything with an underscore and an asterisk. The bridge tender is safe to ignore, but one day may be the answer to a riddle.

When Jim finally angled too far away from the conversation and fell on his backside, every woman scattered wildly. A few tables were upended in the chaos, and nearly all of the plates, silverware and glasses crashed to the ground. But they were on sand and not lacking for drama, so Jim was safe and nothing was broken. Dirty yes, but the mouths that were being served were not exactly pristine. Studies had confirmed this. Human saliva was more unclean than the drool of any household pet. And while dogs and cats were the only animals acknowledged for this consideration, a return to the joy of the day’s offerings was certainly a scientific possibility. The word possibility was only thrown in to account for a panic that may or may not have been coming to a short lived end. While Jim had still been in contact with only the air, awaiting the second clause of Newton’s first law, he was already preparing to spring up as soon as he felt the first few granules of sand against his neck. At his height, and with the direction of his fall, his instincts projected this as the most likely point of impact. And then it was over, Jim was certain he no longer wanted to continue as an interruption. From such a low vantage point, the giants were restless and without organization. More than that, they needed a leader. Someone to assure the crowd, and coax them back to the tables. Even if the wooden frames remained upside down, they could use the legs the same way that a rough day used a bar, for balance and for distraction. Jim had righted himself and placed a half full glass on the square bottom, that was now a square top. Either way, he was lucky with his find, because the initial shock of the fall had dried his mouth. The women had composed themselves or they had just grown tired of yelling. All were quiet and all watched Jim. Gradually, they found their personal items which meant they were back to where they had been sitting. Since Jim had arrived late, he had been placed at the front, so now one by one, each woman passed him. They were silent except for when they wished him well. A few even brushed his arms. Not many did this , but just enough for Jim to realize it meant nothing on a personal level. Soon, they were all near the shore heading north. Jim noticed one woman looking back, and he became hopeful, just at the moment that a large clump of sand fell from his forehead, and landed in his glass. His drink fizzed and her face was gone. Jim lifted the rim to his lips and crunched the liquid in his mouth. As implausible as that seemed, what did science say about someone who was not able to properly judge a fall? As a self-appointed redeemer, he would have been better served to have rolled amidst the sand, studies show, not every group needs a leader, but even Newton would agree–everyone loves a pet.

I suppose five birds flying off, each with a french fry dangling from their beak is entertaining. Perhaps they were parrots freed from a life indoors, window sills are dusty and unfeeling. To hell with the birdseed, greasy human food, now that is really living. Yet, all I see is a napkin on the crowded ground, perfectly flat and mostly white, while speckled with ketchup and a much darker substance. Those damn seagulls and life’s inverted lessons…littering is synonymous with another day that is happening everywhere all at once. And you wonder why it is such a stretch to spit shine the sun and speak out loud of what others are thinking inside. Did you know, the best loved cats do not always have tails?

I tried my best to keep it simple, like the ex who still remembers the erotic coordinates of your favorite sin. Yet, a thesaurus can easily birth a word just as intimate, like the tight jeans gesturing for the check……before they notice you are the only one holding a pen.

The dirt was more than just a nuisance when mixed with salt and caked to a wet, sticky face. Add the pureed remnants of tree bark and predictably, the body temperature was ordered to rise, akin to a roasting charcoal, waiting to combust, while glowing red. The above described affliction found a voice that bellowed so loudly it forced a surrounding, quiet pause. The chainsaws were given a rest, as the workers were undecided whether they should react, instead they ignored the bird chirps, allowing their options to wear off, concentrating on the the next clump of trees to chop. Everyone was used to the outbursts. Yet, no one knew anything about each other. The pay was good, but did not commiserate upon the quality of chatter. There was no time for anything but the task at hand. The workers would never run for office or appear in magazines, that was for the city and its patrons; so what else should be discussed? Still, the men were not without gifts- a sharp focus that had first been identified as innate, now required as a skill-was as robotic as the intent of each saw blade, churning thru leafy sections of a disavowed portrayal and hyperbolized nuisance that no one attempted to blunt. Attention was the difference between a paycheck celebrated with a cold beer, and a poem read at a memorial wake. Mike raised his voice again. That was his name, because his homemade acoustics deemed it so. Of the same frequency and pitch to all, no matter how close or how far away the arbitrary worker was when his ears began to ring. Just as a microphone blanketed a smoky room. Amidst the dust that enveloped the west side of the road, Mike, hopefully it was obvious by now, was the short version of the analogy’s decreed persuasion. Mike saw it differently. He was not placed there by symbolism or to add color, rather, he was there due to intellect and more importantly, by choice. No third-party commentary needed, Mike’s education had not been a privilege or a right. It was just something that everybody did, at least that was Boca Raton before it waffled. Mike played sports and made friends, struck out with the ladies and routinely came back for more. He could not say that he was happy with how his life had turned out, his grades in school were a bit of a mystery. But on the sleepless nights the ceiling fan reminded him of the eternal lottery found in another sunrise. When it was too still to hide from self recrimination, the high speed setting blurred the fear of sensitivity and prepared him for future taunts. Now Mike’s chainsaw was silent, refusing to turn back on, his face painted in frustration, flailing in defiance, against the burden of the ubiquitous debris. How short lived was the marriage between fulfillment and occasion? In a few seconds the throttling buzz of the others would render him meek and without a cause. Beyond, it might find him unemployed. That was the unwavering pulse of the present day Boca Raton, and its threat of breaking another . Without the runaway pace of his blade, Mike would sink beneath the mask of the heaping residue spewing from the combustion of the city. And then a branch fell closely beside him. Had he not been in harm’s way? From now on, in the thickest part of what remained, Mike would not afford himself another distraction. He held his saw to the nearest tree, pursed his lips together and created a low vibration that rumbled as loud as humanly possible. The workers closest to Mike gave him a pre-packaged nod and a quick thumbs up. But the others who were further away, never looked over, not even with a condescending grin, they were only focused on their own machines. Mike promised that later that night he would make his mouth even tighter until he could hum over the whip that echoed from the highest setting on the fan. Skipping ahead, but not enough to destroy all plausibility, Mike felt ready to face the next day of derision, with a poetic solution, he was prepared to ask anyone who still could not hear him why he had not tried harder in math.

I had waded thru the thickest heat of the day to share all of the collected trimmings. Much was happening to the theories inside, and beyond the outskirts of my verbal disguise. Far out to sea, we were all part of a single archipelagical mansion. Am I allowed to shatter the fourth wall and force all words to kneel before me as concessionary adjectives? No matter how thirsty the ocean makes me seem, the ice cube numbs the tongue and the lemon thaws the brain. I advise…to deny all continuances, before the sky can divide or quicken. The long straw is caught off guard by a lack of priority, and tumbles across the sand in search of virtue…I care little for the abeyance and where it is leading….tomorrow we start again.