Outside the portacabin the prostitutes sit around; once the men have finished with them and the girls have made enough money for the day they just stick around, some on the shaded stoop, some on the oil cans that wash up here, their slick skin glimmering in the sun, their exposed legs smelling of sex.Men come and go from this place. Sometimes is it said they just disappear. The ocean is a dark land and those who want to hide something can count on her as an ally. Up above us, high on the bank, the village children are out in the playground, their happiness drowned out by the scalded shrieks of seagulls hovering over the little fishing boats, waiting like the rest of us for a morsel to be thrown. Lately I miss my home. The sounds I crave are those of a calm breeze caressing the vines; the leaves of the olive groves, of my mother’s voice calling me, my father and my brothers to the house to eat; sounds of peace. I long to go back to my father’s farm, to my mother’s house, but everybody

It has been three days since I was taken by the agents of NASCORP. Every Citizen dreads the day they come for the Quarterly Collection. When they arrived at my front door, they came with a team of medics and armed guards. “We’re taking you for processing.” They said. Before I had time to react, they quickly escorted me into an ambulance with flashing red lights.So many seasons passed by without me ever being chosen. So many seasons came and went that I finally began to believe I was immune. But no one is immune. In fact, I was asked for specifically. They were especially interested in me because my blood type was the most conducive for hosting the Parasites–microscopic computer chips they inject into your bloodstream to erase your memory. The Parasites replace all of your thoughts with new ones so NASCORP can work with a clean slate. Most people go mad otherwise.I sit, alone and nervous on the edge of a not-so-comfortable bed.I’ve already tried escaping once, and that didn’t go so

For three nights now I have heard the gnawing at my front door. Each time, I choose to ignore this and fall back asleep. If a mouse or squirrel is seeking access, let it try. Come morning, when I open the door to inspect the wood, nothing is there. No scratches, no gnawing. When it happens a fourth night, at two a.m., I grab my 34” maple Rawlings and crack open the door. Nothing again. But as I turn back around, the old man is sitting at my computer playing backgammon, his left leg dangling over the arm of the desk chair, his bare foot bobbing while he charts his moves.“Avis?”He turns. My God, it’s him. Looking just as he did when he died last year: ancient, a monk’s pate with a hula skirt of white hair, thick black frames port-holing genteel eyes.“Where’s my bulldog.”He clears his throat to repeat, minus the rasp, my bulldog.My butt puckers. The dog is elsewhere. Given up. I retrieve a statue from a nearby shelf, a white, palm-sized replica with bovine spots parked on its haunch

Barnes read intently from the book in his lap—remove the neck and giblets from the turkey cavity. Discard or use for giblet gravy or stuffing—Wilson interrupted him again.Why do you want to toy with death like this? said Wilson.Barnes looked up from his magazine.I’m not toying with death, he said. I’m reading about deep frying a turkey.It’s a sin to toy with death, answered Wilson, pointing. You know that? It’s a sin just like playing Russian roulette would be a sin.Russian roulette?Right. Russian roulette. If the turkey’s even the least bit still frozen, it’ll explode when you put it in the fryer. These turkeys are like big bombs.Oh, and how do you know that?That’s what I read on the Internet.Why were you reading about deep frying a turkey on the Internet?Oh, I don’t know.Thinking of deep frying a turkey, Wilson?No. Of course not.Then why read about it?I read about a lot of things.Hum.Barnes let his feet down from the table and sat upright with the magazine spre

Leap year, winter of ‘84. Make a deposit at the local blood bank and get twelve dollars. If late, it’s ten. I hang out and drink all their orange juice.“Thank you, Sergeant Robinson, for your donation and service. Can’t stay here, all day.”This happens every time.“Just Willie, please.”I turn and hit the streets. Cash twelve-dollar check around the corner at a multi-purpose Package Store in West Roxbury. Get a sawbuck back. Bloody usury. This is bullshit. Young gypsy girl with sad eyes reminds me I have a daughter somewhere. Touches my hand, turns it over, scans the lines, frowns, and shakes her head. Gypsy girl knows. Never charges me for coffee at the Packy. Never says thank you for your service. Half Asian…maybe, “Have a nice day, Willie.”“If I were younger….”She laughs, smiles, hands over my coffee and paper sack. Good kid. Packy owner would fire her ass in a Boston minute if he knew about the coffee. Fran from the shelter and me, we loiter outside the Packy sipping coffee.