Music ^ 2, Submission 7 by Charlie Arnold

“No! It’s not too late to change majors.” Chet angrily left the room after telling his family that he’s giving up the free ride for applied mathematics for a new interest. It was the first time his grades have dropped his academic career. Late nights were being taken up at a local bar with a piano that was once only used for novelty.

It started with a dare. The argument was simple enough, not everything was derived from math. This kind of thing happens when outnumbered by friends from the psychology department.

“Come on. You can’t really believe everything is numbers.” slurred Carl. Fritz was quiet because he could see the scientific method in his work. He usually was the quiet one letting ideas have time to roll around before making a conclusion.

“Of course it is. It can be applied to all arts. Fractals were only the beginning.”

“So you can learn how to be a master pianist simply by creating formulas?”

The challenge was set. Chet was given two weeks to learn and create music from math. All classes were missed for this. It wasn’t just a challenge to him but to his craft. At the end of the two weeks he début his formula of sound. Every one was so surprised that the bar tender asked him to come by next weekend. The deal was sweetened with free drinks.

Chet showed up and put on a show. The crowd wanted an encore but he couldn’t go on. There was nothing left of that formula. It takes too long to make the calculations eliminating the ability to improvise. After another month he realized there was nothing that could be done about this.

Thanks to the past time of reading and contributing to science posts he was contacted with an unusual opportunity. There was another university where they discovered how to record a map of a brain in digital form. They wanted to help his goal. He wouldn’t be improvising but creating the formulas as he played.

It was a success. Chet sat playing in a bar as empty as it started. He had removed the human element and was left with only science. This made his music faster with a precision never before achieved. But that wasn’t what the people were coming to see.

Cyborg, Submission 7 by Lee Martin

“Let’s play Catalyst!” said Jane.

“No, I am tired of that game. Besides, you always cheat,” replied Billy.

“I do not!”

“Let’s play Cyborg. You can even go first.”

“Ok,” said Jane agreeably.

“I’ll get the board.”

Billy ran to the closet, stepped up onto the first shelf, reached up and pulled down a brushed aluminum box. He walked it back to the living room smiling. The colored lights on the side had already started blinking. It had a pulse.

He pulled the lid off the box and laid the board and pieces out.

“Go get the tools,” ordered Billy.

Jane folded her arms. “You go get them, bossy. I’m older.”

“I’m setting up!” replied Billy, waving his arm across the electronic board.

Jane sighed and left the room, flipping her hair in annoyance while Billy continued with the plugs and cables.

“IT’S ON! HURRY UP,” said Billy.

“Here,” said Jane, shoving the box of tools into Billy’s arms.

Jane pressed her palm to the sensor pad, and after a series of beeps and flashing lights, her piece, which resembled a shopping cart with off-road tires, advanced three spaces.

“NEXT PLAY-ER,” replied the board.

“Ha!” said Billy, pressing his palm to the pad. His piece, shaped like a cartoon football player with guns, advanced four spaces, onto a silver square that began flashing blue.

“YESSSS!” said Billy. Jane rolled her eyes.

“AUDITORY AUGMENTATION,” replied the board.

Jane rolled up her sleeves and connected a black wire and clip under her left elbow and a red wire and clip under her right elbow. “Ok, try it.”

Billy pulled a scalpel from the tool box and slid it lightly across her extended index finger. He quickly looked up at her face. “Anything?”

“No, I can’t feel it. Go ahead.”

With the help of the board Billy slowly cut around Jane’s right ear. An articulated arm reached up from the board to collect the blood. The installation only took a few minutes. Jane unclipped the wires from her elbows. “It tingles!” said Jane smiling.

“How’s your hearing?” asked Billy.

“Wow! I can hear your heart beat! And I can hear Ms. Jones next door…she’s with someone else…I think they’re exercising or something. I can’t tell. It’s my turn, right?”

“Yep.”

Another three spaces.

“DEXTERITY DEVELOPMENT.”

“Coooool,” said Billy.

After a few minutes Billy examined his new hand. Having run out of supplies from the game board, they resorted to using pieces of nearby appliances.

“I wonder if mom will notice that your new hand slightly resembles pieces from the coffee maker,” said Jane.

“She never notices anything,” said Billy angrily as he folded his arms and scowls.

“Yeah. All she cares about is this house, with the stupid gadgets and sensors.”

Billy quickly typed some commands into the game board with the aid of his new hand.

“I have an idea,” said Billy.

“Me too,” said Jane, smiling in understood agreement. “I’ll get connected again; you find all the gadgets you can.”

The entire process only took an hour, and Jane only lost just over a pint of blood. New eyes, arms, a new leg, some brain enhancements, and of course, the new ear.

“This is cooool,” said Jane slyly. “Watch this!”

Billy wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked up as Jane lifted the remains of the couch up over her head.

“Wow,” said Billy.

Jane set the couch down and punched the air.

“I wonder what mom will think of her gadgets now!” said Jane.

“Yeah!”

“Hi-YA!” she said, then kicked with the new leg and made contact with the lamp, which blew apart into a million pieces.

“Oh no!” said Billy.

“Oops! I didn’t mean to do that!” said Jane.

“What’s wrong?” asked Billy. Jane stood with her head in her hand. Billy noticed some blue sparks emitting from a small tear in Jane’s leg.

“Ow. Billy, something’s wrong. I don’t feel ok.”

Jane ran into the kitchen and began crashing into appliances.

“What are you doing?” screamed Billy.

“I don’t know! I mean, I am not doing it! It’s the gadgets! The gadgets are doing it!!!” said Jane, who then crashed into the kitchen wall which, exploded outward and rained onto the hundreds of vehicles on the courseways. She fell backward through the hole. “BILLY!!!”

“Oh crap! Oh CRAP!”

Billy hastily scribbled a note to his parents. He considered writing “this is your fault, mom!” but thought better of it. He left the note on the kitchen table, then crawled to the hole in the wall and looked down, wondering where his sister was and how long he thought he should let her have all the fun.

Rebuilt, Submission 7 by Ryan Wrenn

There was a commotion outside the door, voices scaling the stairwell and apparently having some trouble with it. Dr. Scaldwell rose from his desk and faced the door expectantly. But no man entered, nor knocked. Just shuffling outside the door. He walked closer and leaned his ear toward the door. Two men, it sounded like, arguing in harsh whispers.

“Well he’s fallen out of the sheet now.”

“It’s no matter, we’re not on the street anymore, just help me get him on his feet.”

“Shall I knock?”

“Not yet! Let me get his top hat on.”

Before the men could finish, the doctor reached for the knob and cracked the door open just the faintest sliver. A military man in the blue dress of the Union was attempting to prop up the limp body of a man half covered in a grey bedsheet. Another man, this one dressed in finer civilian dress, helplessly moved about with his arms extended as if to support the weight of the limp man without actually touching his person. Finally, without the finely dressed man’s help, the military man was able to stabilize the limp man enough to place the top hat on him. At once the doctor recognized him and opened the door wider.

“Mary Mother of God!” screamed the finely dressed man much too loudly for the situation, staggering back almost to the edge of the stairs but catching himself just in time.

“Sir, you really must try to stop screaming so loudly. This is meant to be a discreet operation,” said the military man, exasperated. He did not pay any mind to the doctor though; he simply pushed the limp man forward quickly and into the doctor’s small office. Reaching the examination table at the center of the room, the military man dragged the man on top of it, ever careful to keep the top hat secure and in place.

“What is the meaning of this?” the doctor asked as he made room for the finely dressed man to enter before shutting the door behind them.

“You are Doctor Scaldwell, I presume?” asked the finely dressed man, wiping the sweat delicately away from his brow, cheeks, mouth, and neck with a handkerchief.

“Yes, yes that is me but I’m strictly by appointment only and I…I’m afraid I must know what’s going on this instant. Who is this man?” he asked though he most certainly knew.

“This,” began the military man, “is no simple man. This is the half dead body of your President, Mr. Abraham Lincoln.”

A pause that should have been longer was interrupted by the finely dressed man loudly sighing in such a way as to sound much more in peril of dying than this man who lay unconscious in front of them.

Refusing to believe or to give into the obvious cries for help emitted by this sad, impeccably dressed man, the doctor approached the examination table. The man certainly was dressed like the President. A fine black suit and his signature top hat. His face, though, was wrapped tightly in cloth bandages.

“Are you confident that that bandage is not obstructing his breathing?” he said be felt above where the mouth should be for the heat of the man’s breath.

“No we’re not. That’s part of the reason we’re here.”

The doctor looked up at the military man, who stared back in cold sincerity.

“Remove the bandage.”

“Fine,” he said and removed the top hat, set it aside, and began the process of undoing the bandage. As he did so the doctor could see how it was bloodied from the back of his head.

“What has happened to him?”

“A man, some actor type, shot him at the theatre.”

“I see. How long ago?”

“Thirteen hours.”

“Thirteen hours? Why have you waited so long to see a doctor?”

“He has been with doctors since he was shot. That is not the concern.”

“Have you removed the bullet? Has the bleeding stopped? What has been done?”

“Mary Mother of God!” screamed the finely dressed man, again, only louder and more finely punctuated with a stumble over a chair and a fall to the floor. The doctor and military man looked to see what had startled him so.

Lincoln had risen on the examination table, propping himself up by his elbows. He stared hollowly at the two men who stood above him.

“Fuuuuucckkk,” he utterly deep in his throat, and promptly collapsed back onto the table.

“He’s been getting up and saying that about once an hour.”

Baffled, the doctor retrieved the chair the finely dressed man had just feinted over (and not regained consciousness from, so deep was his shock) and sat.

“And what do you require of me?” he asked and looked up at the military man.

The military man seemed as confident as ever. He folded the President’s former bandage neatly into a square and set it next on the doctor’s desk.

“The man behind you, on the floor,” he began, turning toward the doctor as he leaned on the desk, “is from the President’s personal bodyguard. He has issued instructions to me, and only me, to bring the President here after he was falsely pronounced dead by another doctor, paid off by us. We are to ask you to enact the President’s dying request, as detailed in his Last Will and Testament.”

“Which is?” the doctor asked, almost too afraid to hear the answer.

“We need you to revive him, and rebuild him.”

“’Rebuild him’? My apologies, sir, but I am not quite sure of your meaning.”

The military man stood up straight, reached into his coat, and retrieved a small, yellowed parchment. He began to read.

“On the evening of July the third, in the year of our lord eighteen hundred and sixty three, a Doctor Scaldwell accepted a severely wounded soldier into his office in the town of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. Realizing that there was no help for the young man, having been pierced through several times with musket balls, the fine doctor set to work on elaborate machines meant to sustain and augment the soldier for the duration of his natural life.”

“That boy died!” the doctor exclaimed, shocked into remembering that desperate night and those desperate machines.

“And you must not let that happen to Mr. Lincoln,” spoke the finely dressed man as he slowly rose to his feet. His hand found the doctor’s shoulder and gave it a quick, too-friendly pat before the hand and the man backed away, across the room to the military man’s side.

“To what end must I do this?”

“The President’s will was very clear about that,” the military man said, gently putting the parchment back into his coat.

“Yes? Well? What is it?”

“The President would like to be rebuilt in order to find and kill the ones that killed him, and then to fight crime ever thereafter,” the finely dressed man said, no trace of doubt in his voice.

The doctor sighed the same sigh the finely dressed man had sighed early, his head in his hands.

“Would he not want to continue being President? That is if I can even do this absurd thing you ask of me.”

“The President’s will was very clear, Doctor Scaldwell,” repeated the military man.

“Yes, you said as much. And what if I refuse? Or accept and fail? What will happen to me?”

“It will be assumed that you are co-conspirator in the plot and you will be tried accordingly. Mrs. Lincoln will also not be very pleased.”

“The First Lady knows about this?!”

“It was her idea,” the military man said calmly.

The doctor looked up to the same blank and coolly serious faces.

“I suppose I do not have much of a choice,” he lamented and sank back into the chair, limp as the President’s body on the examination table.

“I am very glad to hear it, Doctor. We must be returning to the President’s…ahem…death bed now to avoid suspicion. But please do what you can for the President now. And prepare a list of material you may need. I will return with the President’s ink drawing of how he imagined his re-born self would look like so that you may use it as a reference. Good day, sir.”

With that the two men made for the door quickly, shutting it loudly behind them. Doctor Scaldwell stood and looked about the room, trying to will away the President’s body not two feet to his right. It was no use.

In his head he made a list of what he would need. A waterwheel, a musket, a spyglass, and the makings of a small steam engine.

The Terminal, Submission 6 by Ryan Wrenn

The display illuminates green and Alexa flips open the phone. Tim will be here in two minutes.

Carmen Electra fills the screen selling some bubble gum, this one the ever-so-exotic mix of strawberry, banana, and something called ‘acai’. A berry only found in the jungles along the Amazon River, where Carmen now effortlessly paddles in a long, hollowed out tree trunk. Alexa wishes she had that smile.

Just then someone at the bus station switches the channel from some unseen location in the crowded terminal. The small television perched in the upper corner of the room blinks to black, then to some celebrity criminal she doesn’t yet recognize. She tries to follow the story as close she can but the buzz of fifty conversations swirling around her makes it harder than she expected to concentrate. She closes her eyes a moment to focus, to maybe isolate just once voice among the flat, blank hum.

She opens them again, finds herself staring across the area of crowded seats where she’s planted herself, near the door so she could see Tim’s car pull up. A man, nondescript but for an inordinately large pair of industrial gray headphones hanging loosely around a bone-thin neck, stands in the automated ticket line. His hair is flat and blond. His clothes also loose fitting, gray sweats. Her gaze would’ve passed right over him had his face not begun to scrunch up in some exasperated anguish of a yawn. How the creases around his eyes folded, how his nose looked pushed up above his mouth. The face exploded in her memory and for just that instant, almost imperceptible in her subconscious and entirely forgettable had his eyes not locked with hers when he finished. Jonah, from middle school. That day of the final presentation where he had paused and his face contorted in the same painful way. He collapsed and his muscles flexed, seized. How scared she was. How she never had to say anything to that boy, sitting next to her and staring as the teacher draped a small blanket over Jonah so as to better conceal his embarrassing convulsions, to know they were both terrified. How they kissed for the first time that afternoon. How she hadn’t spoken to him in six months.

Jonah evidently doesn’t recognize her and looks away as the line moves forward a step. She pulls her phone out again and thumbs through her contacts, finds his name. Looks out the window for Tim.

Kiss Me, Submission 6 by Lee Martin

“Kiss me,” she said.

“No.”

She sat in orange streetlight and looked up into the mist of insects in the beam. She remembered how light used to pour from holes in clouds and how it never fell on her. But now…her turn…this. They leaned against the dirty brick wall of the old bar, which had not always been a bar; it used to be a tailor, and before that a pizza store (take-out only) and before that a bank and before that a bar again. Now its lights were permanently off, part of an isolation project of the city to sequester deteriorating locations before they became cancerous. They were alone for at least four blocks in each direction.

He studied a soda can as it was blown down the dark street and rolled into the waiting mouth of a sewer.

He dug into the olive drab sack and pulled out a black and white composition book, flipped a few pages, then pulled out five more books just like it.

“There. Hold on.”

Book 14, page 52, table 2, line 5, column 33: Book 33.

“Almost,” he said, diving back into the bag for Book 33.

She came with him on his observation nights in order to enjoy the almost-silence of the isolation corridor. He would sit patiently and watch the dead world around them, waiting for some mundane event or occurrence so he could document it and consult the tables. She would stare at storefronts and imagine fat kids tugging the skirts of their mothers on a summer day, shiny cars, the smell of real meat cooking.

“There,” he said, and she heard him hold his breath. He always held his breath after he finished tracing a long trail of events and coincidences. It had taken over 40 years of hermit-like seclusion to observe, compare, compile, consult, document. She turned to face him as he finished scrawling on a scrap of paper.

corridor/bar--->date?/June/Tuesday/trash/soda can--->environment?/wind/sewer=….

He held the sheet of paper next to his watch. “Ready?” She didn’t answer; he knew she was.

“Three…two…....….now,” he breathed softly as he closed his eyes, and not a moment later a soft blue thread connected the street and sky, not 100 yards from where they sat, followed by a train wreck of sound sprinting down the street.

“Wow!” she said, feigning her excitement. His predictions were almost always correct, but the pragmatist in her was always disappointed by lack of application. She saw no purpose. They sat for a while longer before he packed his notebooks. He placed them in the bag, one at a time, like jewels, while he mulled over the idea of meaning. She watched his weathered hands and wondered if he was paying attention to the right coincidences.

Unnatural, Submission 5 by Tricia Pooladi

Submission 5 posts inspired by:




"See??! That fucking bitch follows you everywhere. I wish she would quit fucking moping all the time and learn to be alone."

"She's not a bitch. She has merits. And if you'd been th---"

"I swear to GOD don't you use your trite-ass-hole phrases to make me feel better. We came here to be alone with each other. Not to be alone with your stalker. Instead of defending her, cut the fucking tether."

"Aaagh! It kills me when you call her a fucking stalker! I TOLD you, she's not a fucking stalker. She's--"

"Morbidly obsessed with a man who's not her father."

"Baby, what do you want? Her mom's dead..."

"...stupidbitchwhoredservestobedead..."

"--Baby!---And she's like the only family I got. The only family I've ever had. Even if she's not really my daughter."

"Demond, it's just not natural. I'm just saying, that bitch is a fucking parasite. You're practically her daddy, and I don't like the way she looks at you. Why's she always wanting to hug you? What the Fuck is That??"

"Baby are you serious? If she really was my daughter, would you be saying this to me?"

"And why's she always sitting on that dock moping? CUT THE TETHER. You can't do nothin' for her."

Unfinished, Submission 5 by Ryan Wrenn

“What if this is his tomb?”

“His what?” he says as he wipes the water from his eyes, looks up at her as she perches herself on the edge of the dock.

“His tomb. Like what if this is the last earthly testament to his existence?”

“I’d hope he’d do a better job at finishing it then.”

“No I mean, what if he fell in? What if he drowned in the same water you’re treading now? Who would know?”

“His wife? His kids?”

“He wouldn’t’ve had any.”

“Listen,” he begins and moves closer to her dangling legs. “It’s probably just some guy who didn’t feel like finishing it so left it. I mean we’re out in the middle of no where, why would anyone need a dock out here?”

“Well we’re here aren’t we? I mean he obviously started it for some good reason. And besides, why would he leave all his tools and nails and all?” she says and delicately, absentmindedly traces the outline of a hammer encrusted with a thick layer of pollen.

“Maybe there was a storm? Maybe he just didn’t care? I don’t know. Why do you care so much?”

“You don’t care about swimming in the same lake as a dead body?”

“If I based everything I did on the possibly proximity of death I don’t think I’d do much.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re being ridiculous. C’mon, jump back in. Let’s swim back.”

“Can you check?”

“Can I what?”

“Can you just feel around and see if you can find him?”

“You want me to dive down and see if I can find this guy in the mud?”

“Yes.”

He stares at her and smiles. “If I do can we swim back?”

“If you don’t find anything, yes.”

He grabs at her ankle playfully. She kicks at him lightly to shake him off.

“I’ll be back,” he says and sinks beneath the brown water.

Early Morning or Late Evening Discussion with an Island on the Colorado River, Submission 5 by Jay Johnson

"I often converse with inanimate objects and sometimes cannot stand being me. But, the water is cool and the breeze is too, and I like this spot by the river's edge. So, Hello River, and, Hello Island, I see you over there, by your lonesome – not significant enough to split the river in two, but substantial enough to jut about the water's surface. I don't know why I described you, as if somehow defining your parameters actually means anything. Well, I guess it does. Defining things gives me a sense of control over them. I am telling you, Island, that you are 'this' and not 'that.' And, because you are 'this,' you're mine. Do you understand?

I think everyone (everyone being a general term for people that actually think about this stuff) eventually has a problem with the idea of 'significance.' It's just a different way of asking if anything one does is actually important, which is – of course – a very bland extension of the 'why are we here?' question. Actually I think all questions, regardless of subject or origin, are just a manifestation of that question. I won't, but I am pretty confident that I could show that any question asked ends up just being a version of 'why we're here.' Again, I won't, but I so totally could. Just realize when you are asking some teenager behind the counter at whatever fast food store, for a straw, you're really asking why you're here.

I'm sitting here talking to you about things that should be important – that are important – but I'm having a hard time getting past my apathy. I do the majority of my life utterly terrified, but I hide it. And I don't mean – 'I'm nervous about my fifth grade Christmas recital terror' – I mean fucking 'realizing your about to be in a car wreck and can't do anything but think about how frightening this is and how much this will hurt,' terror. But then, I ball it up and save it for after I'm done doing whatever scares the shit out of me. I don't know how I rationalize the fear away, but it all ends up coming back anyway. I wonder; is this how everyone lives? I can't imagine that my 'human experience' is all that unique or different from everyone else's. We're all just creatures of impulse – some of us are just better at ignoring the impulses. Either way, Island, I'm pretty sure the next big storm, this summer, will wash you completely away. T.S. Elliot showed us fear in a handful of dust, but I bet that storm will do the same to you with a bucket full of rain drops.

I generally feel awkward around people and I feel, strangely… guilty, about that. But, God, everyone keeps brushing up against me, so now I'm feeling angry. Please stop, but they don't, and every one of them, unknowingly, takes a little bit of me, like the water slowly eroding your tiny shores. All metaphors are tired. Attempts, again, to define – visualize. I did it again – in my complaint about metaphors being another attempt to define things, I defined metaphors… I just did it again. I could own the world… the whole fucking universe, if I could find the right metaphors and I know I can find the meaning of everything through any question. I think in long soliloquies to inanimate objects, sometimes animals, because I don't think telling a person makes sense. I don't think I want a response. We're all so beige anyway."

But, for a moment there I just got confused. My perception changed, and instead of seeing the river slide past the constant, immovable land I saw the earth flow past the constant, immovable river.

Where Will You Go?, Submission 5 by Lee Martin

“Where will you go?” asked Sara, her feet swishing back in forth in the water as she dangled them off the dock. Her pink shoes lay forgotten in the grass behind her. The muted orange sky turned all the shadows to dark green.

“I don’t know. Do you think I will be able to go places?” said Tim.

“I dunno. Maybe. I heard that you can.”

“Then I will come here!” said Tim.

“Come on! You have to pick someplace exotic! Remote! Like California…”

“Is that where you’d go?”

Sara paused. “I haven’t thought about it,” she said, thinking she probably wouldn’t have to for quite a while. “When did you find out you’re leaving?”

“A few months ago,” said Tim casually as he swam back and forth in the warm water to the beat of crickets singing.

“Does it hurt?” asked Sara, pulling her black hair back behind her ear.

“A little. Sometimes.” said Tim. “I will spy on you.”

“You better not!” said Sara.

“In the shower...,” said Tim slyly.

“Don’t!” said Sara, reaching down off the dock and splashing Tim in the face.

“You won’t even know! Sometimes I will be there, sometimes not. But for all you know I’ll live in your shower!”

“Oh no you won’t!” said Sara as she jumped off the dock and crashed into the lake next to Tim. She put her hand on his head and pushed him down. Tim grabbed her leg and pulled her under. They shoved and splashed for a few minutes before Tim’s mother called down to the dock.

“Tim! It’s time for your medicine!”

“Ugh! That’s one thing I won’t miss,” said Tim.

Sara skipped the funeral the next week and threw small sticks into the moving water and watched them glide away.

“Ok, that should be enough time,” she said as she stood up. It was nearly sunset again as she ran back to the house. She closed the bathroom door behind her, locked it, and smiled as she took off her clothes and started the shower.

Breaking the Water, Submission 5 by Charlie Arnold

Running through the woods it was easy to see how important this message was to Headquarters. There were only days left before it would end. At this point there’s no telling which side was going to win.

They weren’t the only ones who considered recon. The enemy must have performed their own, cutting off the lines of communication. Now the equipment was as useless as a string with a single tin can.

They knew the other side was more familiar with war. There were jokes that they were made for battle. We’ve spied some of their conversations where they said we were better at intelligence. Well I guess we didn’t learn anything from that one. But something on this scale was never expected. The introduction of navel warfare.

“Martin, I should have known. Who else knew this land better than you?” He was infamous because of the familiarity he had and the threat he presented.

“C’mon Taylor, you always use your best pieces for the final moves. And I was the one who severed your line.”

“I figured that much.”

They both looked out on the lake.

“Beautiful isn’t she?”

A smile grew on Martin’s face as Taylor looked down in defeat.

“False information,” muttered Taylor.

“That’s right. This was first thrown on the table as a joke. But when people get behind something and give it an awesome name like ‘Operation Breaking Water’ code named ‘DamnAmn’ it can’t be stopped. All we had to do was make you think we were behind schedule until it was too late. Now that my job’s done I’m going for a swim, you in?”

Martin was in the process of taking off his shirt and shoes.

“After all that running I went through for no reason, no! But I think I’ll sit here for a while.”

With a running start Martin yells out, “And the boys win!”

“Do you think we’ll have any classes together this year?” asks Taylor.