A writing update built around the small systems that keep the work moving. In “A List,” Greg Luti talks about jotting weekly notes, pulling back from social media, fixing a site problem, and making daily progress on the novel Hit of Henry. Writing a List During the Week I have been writing up these updates about what has been happening with my career for some time now, and when I sat down to write up the current one, I noticed that I really didn’t want to go back in time and try to remember every little detail about my week. Time goes fast, and sometimes I sit there and have to wonder what I was writing. I then realized I don’t have to do that. I know, shocker. But I can write up what I do for this update during the actual week. So for this update, I did something I didn’t do for the other ones, and that is I am going back to a list of stuff I did during the week. If you are going to post updates on your writing, or anything for that matter, take my advice, and write down a list of the update during the week, so you are not stuck sitting at your desk, wondering if you spent the entire week actually working or on social media. Did I sneak some advice into this update piece? Yes, yes. I did. Social Media Addiction Also, can we all agree how addictive social media is? You don’t need to know much about drugs to know that the sites are really made to have you be on them all day. There is one thing you like, so you view it. Then there is another thing. Then there is something you are not really sure you will like, but you view it. Then there is an image that catches your eye. And you know you have to check out the latest headlines, so you view them too. And what happens? Two hours went by, and you didn’t really do much at all. We have all been there. The whole situation makes me wonder if the social media sites will ever be held accountable for making sites or apps that are clearly trying to take advantage of the user. If you put a habit that is likely to cause an addiction into something, but people are not really seeing the harmful effects of the habit, is it still wrong to push that habit? I don’t know. It is not like we are talking about smoking or something that is clearly bad. The person is consumed with something not interesting and is not thinking for a long period of time. People don’t need social media to not think. I hear people say that social media or phones are the modern cigarettes, which is interesting, since no one really smokes today. Focusing on Hit of Henry The major thing that has been happening to me this past week is that I am finally getting around to looking at my latest book, Hit of Henry, every day and making that a part of the writing schedule. See, I like to get to the blog and other things, and then I forget about the actual book I am working on until I just don’t get to it. Because Little Fires is no longer happening, I can now devote time to Hit of Henry. Here is the lowdown of the book so far: It is going to be about 200 pages or so. Maybe a little more or less. I have divided the book into 9 different parts, and each of those parts has chapters. When I mean parts, I mean major events that happen in the story. I am at the point where I am bringing the entire story together. There are some scenes that still need to be written, but I am really at the phase where tying it together is key. The book originally had 10 parts, but there was a late part I decided to get rid of since it was not needed in the story. I don’t know what book I am going to work on after Hit of Henry, because there are a few outlines that may work. For now, I am going to continue on with this book. As I said before, I am trying to focus on one book at a time, rather than writing all at once. The Search Bar Problem I had a problem with the search bar on this site because Wix had the search configured in a way that broke it. I had to take some time one evening to actually solve the problem. What is funny is how you are never told those sorts of problems when it comes to being an indie author. Sure, every author wants to talk about their book and their progress. But no one wants to explain to you how the search bar is not set up properly on the site, or how the SEO needs to be altered. That is a part of being a writer, I suppose. The Author Without a Website A while back, I was teaching a student, and in the article was an author who didn’t have a site or social media page, and apparently this guy sold a bunch of copies of his books. I don’t remember his name, but looking at it now, the article may have missed the part that he either had a great agent, business connections from his writing job or other business experience, or help through a familiar acquaintance. Presenting someone’s success as though it is magic is a bit deceiving. Anyway, I think I was teaching about noun-verb agreement, and sometimes when I write up about the site and other boring things that I have to handle, I think about that one guy who didn’t have a freaking site and sold a lot of copies of his books. Here I am slaving away at my site, and this guy didn’t even have one. Writing Thinking Brain When I wrote the recent poem, Thinking Brain, I didn’t really have much to even write. I sat at my desk, and literally thought to myself, “Shoot. I need to write up something for the site, and I have nothing.” I told you a while back about advice where I use a generator to help me out. This was one of those moments. I got a style and a few words and… I didn’t like any of them. The generator gave me a style of a writer to base the piece on, and two topics. I got Shel Silverstein, which is not bad, since he is a fun poet to emulate, but not one I want every poem to be like. Then I got two words, and no, they were not thinking or brain. They were God and beginning. Yeah, I was not in the mood to write up something with Shel Silverstein’s style about God and the beginning. I then tried again to get two other words, and I don’t remember what they were, but I rejected them too. I decided to take a break, and that was when the silly rhymes came out of me, and the poem came to be what it is. A Better Way to Edit on Paper A big issue I have with writing on paper is editing. I have developed a good system where I annotate the parts so that I don’t really lose where I am. If you have ever tried to edit something, you know that after a while you are writing up the page, and you can barely read what you wrote. I stopped doing that. I write the first draft. I then go back, and as I edit, I put down a letter for wherever the edit belongs. At the end of the original piece, I then write whatever I think goes in the spot. This system helps the entire piece remain cleaner than I used to. I may even write up an advice piece on this, to give you all an example of what I am talking about. Write Things Down Don’t underestimate writing things down in the middle of them. There are some things you won’t remember, and you will be happy that you had a reference to look back on at a later time. The list I wrote did help me write up this update.

Greg Luti shares the official synopsis for his novel *Hit of Henry* in this book update — an intimate literary fiction story about ambition, family, and the complicated cost of chasing success. Synopsis - This is what is going to be on the back cover of the book. A reporter hears of a man who accomplishes an incredible feat in a local baseball game, but the more the reporter tries to learn of the man, the less he seems to know of him. In The Hit of Henry, you follow Tom, a small-town journalist, as he investigates a seemingly unusual moment at a weekend baseball game. According to those at the game, there was a stranger, whom neither team knew, who hit the ball so far that they are not even sure how far it went. What began as another story, the protagonist soon faces opposition from others, deeming the endeavor of identifying the home run hitter as pointless. Despite the uncertainty of the event at the game ever happening, Tom continues to search for this man, Henry, sensing that a man of that caliber should share his story. Tom’s journey has him go to a baseball field that is a dump, a nursing home full of cranky old people, a warehouse with a broken fence, to even an orphanage, to find out the question on everyone’s mind, “Who is Henry?” If a man is to do such an incredible feat in a local game, surely this man must be able to be found, right? Will Tom ever find this Henry man, who hit a home run longer than any ever seen, or was the entire thing made-up, a fabrication of a few weekend ball players?

A writing and editing advice post about a rule writers often take too seriously. In “What About Clichés?,” Greg Luti argues that familiar ideas are not automatically a problem, and that the real question is whether you are building on them, mocking them, or trying too hard to avoid them. What About Clichés? If you write enough, you will find yourself in the situation where the very idea you came up with, one you felt was all your own, is not yours at all. In fact, it is not only not your own idea, but it is an idea from many years ago, and many other writers have been using it. Heck, the very idea has a sub-genre in literature, and there is even a man who is called the father of that sub-genre. Damn, and you thought for a second that idea was worth exploring…. What exactly should a writer do about cliches and tropes that readers have seen so many times that they can help the writer figure out what to do with them? Don’t Panic If You’re Writing a Cliché The first thing I would say to do is not panic if you are writing a cliché. Hey, there are only so many story ideas, only so many ways a character can go about their journey. I don’t think you should view your entire writing endeavor as pointless because you decided to use a trope already popular. The Upside of a Familiar Trope Let’s look at the positive side of writing a cliché or something that the audience knows very well, and that is you don’t really need to explain all that much. The audience gets it. They have seen it before. That may even be the reason they are following the story to begin with. We can take a few examples of stories that were already in genres that were well-known. The first is the book Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. Today, we view it as the book about pirates, but pirate books were not an entirely new thing at the time. Or if you want a more modern example: The Scream movies didn’t invent the slasher genre of movies. The movie even includes knowledge of the slasher genre being popular before. Did that stop either story from working? No. Don’t fret about cliches. Shakespeare didn’t invent the tragedy. There are some things in your writing life that you will take from others. That is how it is. Know Why You’re Using It The second thing I would suggest is knowing why you are using that trope. Is it to mock the trope, or are you trying to build on it? I don’t think Stevenson was trying to subvert the pirate genre as much as explore it. Scream mocks slasher films, but still is one. You can go with the trope and see if you can add more to it, which may not sound as bad as you may think. I mean, there is a reason that some stories are retold again and again, and we see characters who act like other characters over and over again. They work. People like them. Whether we are talking about a god-fighting demi-god like Percy Jackson, or a womanizer like Charlie Sheen in Two and a Half Men. Sure, we have all seen the gods before, and we have all seen a man hit on women at insane levels, but that is because we like it. You’ll be told that you have to be original and that you should create something completely new and not seen before, but maybe you should not overthink this. There are some things in the storytelling world that work, and using them for your own sake is not always bad. Why Originality Gets Overrated Why then do people suggest that you be original? I definitely think a writer’s ego has something to do here. A writer who creates a brand new story feels like they accomplished more rather than the one who noticed people like a certain story arc and writes it. I will relate to music. I think a musician feels better if they can create their own genre, rather than hearing something and trying to copy it. Does that mean that the original piece is inherently better? No. I wouldn’t say it does. The Problem With Chasing Trends There are also times when we see the opposite happen here. The trend is popular, so you chase it and become another person who wrote about that trend, not being seen as an artist, but as a part of a cultural moment where something went wrong. Everyone knows the trope so well that you can’t really go anywhere with it, and the people are just not interested in it either. That is a double loss. Think of hair metal music, or mafia movies. At one point, it would make sense to make them since they are what sold and people liked them, but then the people moved on, and the artists are left wondering if they were successful because of the trend or because of the actual quality they put out. When you get on a wave, you should be aware that it will meet the shore eventually. Subverting the Cliché What if you don’t want to go with a trope you have seen before? What if you want to do something different, but you also know that the trope can be helpful to your story? I would say that is where you have to learn about subverting the cliché. Go against what you know the audience expects from you. Here is a funny example I feel illustrates this point. A child is given advice. “Look both ways before you cross the street.” A line that we have all heard a million times, saying it in a story is almost pointless. The child gets to the street, and looks right and then looks left, and crosses it without a problem. When he gets to the other side, he trips on the sidewalk and falls and hurts himself. By including the cliché line, we can then add our own message, one that, in our case, may be “You never know what life can throw at you.” We had the cliché. We used it. But then we subverted it to make another point. That is a good use of cliché, if you wish to have one without mimicking it. You Can’t Really Avoid Them Is there any way for you to avoid clichés? I don’t think there is. I heard a writer once say that he doesn’t read stories once they introduce the third cliché. I am not sure how many stories he reads, since it feels like every story has a cliché in it, and it is up to the writer to decide what to do with that overused part of the story. What if you are writing a story, and then you do learn of the cliché a little too late? I know that I have done this. I made a point and thought it was original, and then I learned it was a proverb. That is a tough spot to be in, since you were not writing the cliché as though it was one. If you are done with the story, then I would not worry all that much about it. Robert Louis Stevenson didn’t worry that pirate stories were not new when he started. Scream was not ashamed of the thriller genre. Shakespeare knew the tragedy was much older than himself. Learn How They Belong in Your Story The overall quality of a story should not go down because you use a cliché. That is really the lesson here. You can use them. You can subvert them. But you can’t really ignore them, so it is best for you to admit they are not going anywhere, and learn how they belong in your story, rather than the other way around.

A humorous poem about the mind refusing to work. In “Thinking Brain,” Greg Luti runs through the small, absurd reasons a person gives when the words will not come — weather, a forgotten charger, and the suspicion that the brain has simply gone missing. I can’t think. Not here, not now. My brain doesn’t work somehow. I am quite the thinker, most would say. Just remember I don’t think on certain days. Monday is too long. Tuesday is too slow. Wednesday never has anywhere to go. Thursday is a bore. Friday is too quick. The weekends feel like a snitch. I can’t think. I have a reason. I swear I do! Oh sure…. I’ll explain it to you. I forgot to plug it in. That’s the cause. That or I left it on pause. The charger is broken. That is it. Plus the thing can’t even fit. The batteries died. It's on a delay. Are you believing a word I say? The weather causes my brain to stop. Oh yes, it does to me. The case of brain-strep-sickness-ey Hot days boil it up. Cold days make it shrink. So bad I can’t even blink! Leaves on the ground cause it stress. Clouds in the sky make it shake. I even stop thinking during an earthquake. Storms shut it down. Rain makes it bounce around. My brain has a habit of shutting down. I’ll try to clean it out. Give me a cloth. It’ll look like it was newly bought. Rinse, rinse, rinse. Cleaning my brain. There that will take away the pain. Do you have a chip? Or an upgrade for me? What? I mostly only get B’s. I thought I wouldn’t think. But now I can sing a song. Oh no! I put my brain in wrong! Quick, get a plug! Or a charger for my mistake! Hurry! Before it’s too late! Put it left or is it right? What is it again? I don’t remember where I began. My brain is in wrong. I blame you. Oh, like you had something better to do. Wait… if I can’t think, and my brain is dead, How did these words come out of my head?

A reflective poem about the moment something familiar loses its place. In “What Happened?,” Greg Luti turns toward a once-beloved thing that has quietly faded, and asks how people notice the change only after they have already begun to move on. They’ll all ask what happened. What changed? Why is it not like how it was? The question won’t come from hate or even love, but curiosity. As though the question came up to them out of nowhere, like a salesman pitching a new product. “Hey buddy.” The salesman says charmingly. “See this. I got this for you.” “Wait. Why do I need that?” You ask. “Why don’t you?” The salesman winks. You then wonder about an item that up until that point had no place in your mind. You were thinking about your work schedule, and if you could get off on Monday. You were wondering about dinner and if you wanted tacos again. You were worrying about picking up your daughter from school, and if the traffic would be as bad as the last time. You weren’t thinking about the item of the salesman, just like you were not thinking about the question of what happened. Sure, there are many who will give opinions. The people moved on. What was new is now old, and the audience wised for new. What happened, I ask, I say. What happened to this thing today? Did it get old, washed up and sore? Is that why no one wants to see it anymore? They asked for new, and that is what they got. What about the thing? They simply forgot. The quality dipped. What was great is now not even good. What happened? Why does this suck? Is it because no one gives a duck? It got so bad. How can this be? Perhaps my eyes are deceiving me. No. It's bad. I’m not confused. I guess I’ll go watch the news. Or perhaps it was something else. No. No. No. I’m not rhyming for this part. The rhymes above were enough. Seriously, why does it now suck? Yes. Yes. Yes. I know I cheated there. It looks like the quality dipped in two places, to be fair. No matter the answer, things change after the question is posed. Nobody talks about it like they used to. It is a question workers bring up at an office party, before they get back to invoices. “That is still a thing?” “Apparently…” Family members ask the question in the middle of a dinner, before Grandpa’s rant, and the aunt’s joke no one gets. “That thing ended years ago,” Grandma says. “No. It is still going.” The one youth in the room who still knows about it says. “No! It is over with!” One side of the table says. “Wait, is it still on?” The other side asks. “I don’t even know what it is.” One family member quietly mutters. The question is posed. The room finds an answer, and then moves on. No one fights for it. No one is upset about it. It just is. The workers go back to work fine with the new way. Family members all forget about their interest in the topic by the time dessert comes out. It is accepted. Just as you know that asking off for Monday on a Saturday is too late. Or three days of taco dinners is not good for your stomach. Or you will be late getting back from picking up your daughter, since there is always traffic. It is accepted. As the sky is blue, or the fact that you need air to breathe. The next time you go outside and look up at the sky and take a long deep breath of the cool fall air, you may even convince yourself that life without that thing is better. The people moved on. The quality dipped. Or perhaps there is another reason you can’t think of at that moment. Either way, you are fine with it. At that point, what is there to do for that thing? Something died, something real and noticeable, and yet no one mourned for it. A thing rose, changed lives. But then those whose lives were changed left that thing. Until that thing, that which the world loved at one point, is gone. “What happened?” They’ll ask. And once that happens, it is already too late.

A writing update about a private decision and what came after it. In “I Was The Only One Who Knew I Quit,” Greg Luti looks back at a moment when he stepped away from the work, then shares the changes he’s making to his newsletter, free posts, and the books he’s choosing to finish. The Newsletter Scare A few things have happened in the past week or so for me and my writing. The first is that I had a bit of a scare with my email newsletter. For those who don’t know, the email newsletter is the lifeline of a writer. It is more important than social media or anything else, in terms of marketing. Without it, there is no real consistent way to get in front of readers. What happened is that I was cleaning out my email newsletter, and I was notified that the site wanted to see about some of the spam on it, since I did import some of the list. I was nervous that I would end up losing all of the few readers I already had, but to make a long story short, I did not have that problem, and the email newsletter is now fine. Why Newsletters Matter Again I am not sure when email newsletters became such a big deal again, because I remember at one time they were very popular, then they went down in popularity, and then people started promoting them again. Now everyone has an email that you can sign up for to get updates on everything. There is the funny issue in that since everyone has an email newsletter, the possibility of a reader seeing that newsletter goes down. It is like that line from The Incredibles, “If everyone is a super, then no one is.” Personally, I don’t get the people who have email newsletters that have thousands upon thousands of people…. I mean, I get that you can be popular and have an audience, but I sure as hell don’t know how to get one in that capacity. Yeah, so instead of having no one read my newsletter, I now have four people: one of my family members, a person whose book I discussed with once, and me (twice). I click on it from different devices sometimes. There is something fun and unique about being in the pocket of a reader and having them take a quick second to read an update or whatever it is I am writing on this site (probably stories). Like you are going to the grocery store deciding on whether to get cereal or not, or you are coming home from church, or you are at your lunch break, and then you see my email newsletter pop up. “Oh boy! I gotta read how this guy has an issue with his email…!” In hindsight, I am not sure if telling you about my problem with the email newsletter is as interesting as I thought it was. I can tell you that I was ecstatic when I got an email from the site during the middle of the day telling me that my email newsletter would not be restricted or stopped. Can you imagine after months of telling you about building the email newsletter, making it twice a week, that the newsletter is now gone… Damn, that would stink. I Was the Only One Who Knew I Quit It reminds me of a joke I heard from Rodney Dangerfield. “I quit. I tell you how I was doing the time I quit. I was the only one who knew I quit.” That is kind of where the writing is right now… Making Most of the Site Free I realized that I was doing a disservice to the few who actually read the email newsletter by having some of the stories behind a paywall, so I decided to only have book updates be for the literary club. The deal here is simple: all the short fiction and poetry, advice, and writing updates will be free for you to read, but the book updates will be a part of the literary club. I was thinking that I really don’t have the audience to charge people yet. I mean, I have all of four readers; why am I charging them to read some of my poems? That seemed silly to me, so when you get an email from me, you will be able to read most of it there. I also had a few short pieces that I really liked the ending of, but the ending was behind a paywall, so not that many people got to read the piece in its entirety. I was there like, “Damn, this has such a good ending. I don’t know if I want this behind anything.” Now, you can read those endings. Little Fires Is Not Happening That gets me to another major update I wanted to tell you, and that is the flash fiction collection Little Fires is not going to happen, since I am making all of those flash fiction pieces free for you to read here. The book was nothing more than the fiction in book form. I really wasn’t adding much to it, so I felt it would be best to move on from it. What is really funny about that update is that I was halfway done with proofreading the book, Little Fires. It was basically done, but then the issue with the email newsletter happened, and that made me second-guess how I handle the audience. Focusing on One Book Concerning the books, I am now focused on Hit of Henry, and a major goal I am working towards is to look it over every day, since I find I just run out of energy by the time the book comes up. After writing up a blog post, doing social media, and then taking care of business matters, I look at the clock and think, “Eh, I would like to have some sleep tonight.” I am working on focusing on one book, and then having that book be the priority and then finishing it. I have so many ideas that I try to write everything all at once, and then I end up writing nothing. Rocky and Passion On a side note: did you know that Rocky was filmed in less than a month? Yeah, I know. I just learned that too. I guess that movie is proof that you can make something really great on a tight budget, with a tight schedule. The key, from what I gathered, is passion. If you care about what you do and give your all to it, then you will be able to do it.

Greg Luti’s poem “Truthful Lines” reflects on those rare, powerful moments when a single line — in a story, a poem, or a conversation — cuts through everything else with raw, uncomfortable truth that stays with you long afterward. There are times when lines or moments can mean more than the rest of the scene or story being told. We all stop for a second because of the line. The part is so honest, so truthful, that we have to take a moment and appreciate what was said. The beauty of these lines is that they can really come from anywhere. There is no one place you can go to find these lines. Can you imagine if that were the case? You walk into your local corner store for some of those truthful lines. “Yeah, I am looking for the new lines that tell an uncomfortable truth about our world, but still stay with a person long after they are done with the original art. Do you have those?” “We have a few. They are next to the birthday cards.” It seems fitting that lines that give us universal knowledge and timeless information would somehow be put next to the birthday cards. No, not in the aisle with the toys. If you go to that aisle, you went too far. I am talking about the aisle with the school supplies on one end, and the romance novels at the other end. It used to have magazines, but not anymore. Those all got moved to the front of the store. These truths give us something that we are all searching for, and yet there is not a damn place in the world where you can go to actually find them. There is a certain level of irony there that I am not even sure I fully appreciate. Whoever created this world thought, “I am going to have things that many people will agree with, and if they know these things, their lives will be better, but you know what? I won’t even tell people where I put them. They will have to find them themselves.” Apparently, life is nothing more than an Easter Egg Hunt, but instead of looking for plastic eggs that have candy inside them, we are looking for truths that help change our mentality about the world. Oh, and there are no parents guiding us along the way, practically giving the eggs to us. We are on our own. Like many who have ever experienced these lines, I get them at the most awkward spot possible. You know what I am talking about here, too. I will be listening to a song, and then a line hits me in a way that I have to stop the song and reflect on what the line even means. I turned on my playlist to relax and hear some tunes, not have a thoughtful moment where I am wondering my place in the world. The only time more awkward than a line from a song morphing my mood is when I am talking to someone at work, as we are going about our day, and one of us says something that is deep and meaningful. We are not philosophers. We don’t study any of that stuff. But for a brief moment, you could have sworn Plato was talking to Socrates. We both look at each other, surprised by how enlightened we are. Of course, it only takes us a few seconds to start complaining about the amount of coffee in our cup and the parking lot being redone. Our thought that should have been quoted and remembered was forgotten because one of us had to complain about a stranger talking in a funny way, or handling a situation differently than we would. The most recent example I had of a truthful line sneaking up on me was not at work or in my interactions with another person, but in music. I was at my desk setting up the social media posts for the week, a job no writer wants to do. I play music to pass the time, and I got to a song that I have heard many times before. It is by that guy who also had a chicken restaurant. Kenny Rogers. In the song, he discusses an exchange between a young man and a stranger who knows about life and is speaking in metaphorical terms. The young man is playing cards with the stranger, but the stranger is using the game to give lessons on life. One line hit me: The best you can do is die in your sleep. I stopped the song when I heard that line. My god, is that really the best that I can do? Is that really the best that any of us can do? To die in your sleep… To go to sleep one night and just never wake up. That is the best you can do. Damn, that is not a line I needed to hear in between deciding on my Tuesday and Wednesday posts. How come no one has ever told me about this very important part of my life? No teacher ever brought this up. No friend ever mentioned it to me. No one. No one ever said to me that the best you can do in life is die in your sleep. Now, you would think that is something people would take time to tell others, but no, we don’t do that. Instead, I am told random nonsense about nutritional facts and opinions by strangers I have never met. You would think that one of them would stop by and tell us this important news. “Oh, hey, everyone. I just have to tell you something. Don’t worry. This won’t take long. I just want all of you to know that the best you can do is die in your sleep. Yeah, no. I am not kidding. That is really the best you can. We have done studies. We have researched this, and although we don’t have any testimonies, there are a lot of people who believe that dying in your sleep, is the best for you. So yeah…” I had to hear something like that from a freaking singer on my playlist. What is wild about this is how that is the best we can do, and that still doesn’t seem all that great. I mean, not that I have any experience with dying in my sleep, but that still seems pretty bad. Then again, what are we really comparing it to? Getting shot, having a heart attack, or getting run over by a car. Compared to the other ways you can die, dying in your sleep is not that bad. Sometimes I have gone to bed and thought, “What if I don’t wake up? I mean, I don’t think it will happen, but what if it does?” It is a bit scary that going to bed alone and then ending your life without anyone knowing is the best-case scenario. My god, I don’t even want to think about the other scenarios. There is an unsettling part to this poem. I am alive. I have no idea how I am going to die, and one day someone may read this and know how I died and then say to themselves, “That Greg, he went out in his sleep, as he wanted.” Or maybe I don’t, and something else tragically happens to me, making me one of those people who did not get the best I could hope for with my death. The reader one day will know more about my life and death than I ever will, since I don’t know how I am going to die. And for now, let’s keep it that way. The best you can hope for is to die in your sleep. Son of a gun… this entire time I was so worried about living, I forgot there was an end to all of this, too.

A poem about the moment trust runs out. In “The Limit,” Greg Luti follows a speaker through the painful realization that the systems and people he relied on have failed, leaving him isolated and questioning what comes next. Who do you go to when the system fails you? When your heroes can’t even defend you anymore? What do you do when all that you know is wrong? Nothing more than a carefully crafted lie, you believed and developed your life around. What do you do when the hope you carried is thrown to the ground and disregarded? As though it was nothing to be carried at all, only a paper weight, a trinket with no value. Where do you go where there is nowhere to go? The judges are out of the court. The police are not in their stations. The firefighters won’t answer the call. The nurses are not in the hospitals. The doctors won’t take on any more patients. The security guards are no longer standing by the door. Teachers no longer have the answers. Research only leaves you empty, with more trivial matters on your mind. And no one you know in your life can utter a response that would qualify as a valid answer. What do you do when you are told that it was a lie? The judge was never about mercy. You just never went on trial. The police were not going to solve the crime. You just never had one. The firefighter was not going to put out your fire. You were lucky enough to never have one. The nurse was not able to help you. You just never needed surgery. The doctor could not cure you. You just never had a life-threatening illness. The security guard wasn’t going to stop a criminal. There was no one who ever broke into the place. The teachers never had the answers. They lied to you in order to get you to pass the next test. The research you gather is limited because you are only one person, with limited time. And those who are experts were only experts at pretending to be experts. No one you know ever had an answer. And they never will. Where do you go? When all that you were told was a lie… You do what any sane person does, and ponder… Oh, do you ponder… How can a man feel obligated to righteousness or justice when those who wield the power to distribute those values feel no need to uphold them? Why should you care about laws if the judge doesn’t? Why bother with crime if the police officer is corrupt? How can you care about putting out fires if the firefighters are not doing it? The nurse and doctor don’t care about health, so why should you? The security guard lets everyone in, so who are you to stop that nonsense? Why should you worry about answers if the teachers don’t? What research is there to learn, if there is personal bias and prejudice attached to each line you read? Why should you ask questions if everyone you know around you doesn’t? We live in a liar’s world… We are told that truth and honesty matter growing up, only to learn that our heroes lied their way to the top, and those who make important decisions that impact many of us are, in fact, liars. Liars rule. Honest men are ostracized as though they are the criminals for proposing the questions. The honest men then find a fight against not truth but a system that protects the liars. You are not engaging with a liar one-on-one as though you are Socrates. No, you are battling a team that will defend the liar and does all they can to make you out to be the wrong one. Then you see all that you know, the judges to the teachers may not have ever even been on your side at all. They believed the very lie, and your world shatters before you. You wanted to believe in truth and justice. A part of you still wants to. You want to think that a hero will come in and save the day at the end, and everything will be okay. The liars will get theirs one day… That is how the world works, right? And now, the cycle is complete. You became the very liar you hated, for instead of seeing the truth in front of you, you are accepting of the life, as though it was the truth all along. And then, no matter what you do, you are left with the same disturbing question…. Where do you go? Who do you go to when this happens? This is the part of the poem where I am supposed to come up with a witty line for you. To give you something to ponder about and leave you with. This should be a witty, tongue-in-cheek moment for you and me, as we laugh at the questions I asked. They were just questions and nothing more. My job as a poet is to ask some questions for us all, as we all see them and enjoy them. Ha, ha! Let’s all have a good laugh! Oh boy! That last line was great! Did you think that line was hysterical? I certainly did! Ha, ha! Because that last line is too funny… Too right on the ball. Too correct for you and me. And the honesty leads to the humor… As though we are laughing at ourselves as much as whatever the original line was about. I want there to be a line here for this question. In this moment, there is no witty retort I can give you to make you feel happy. Something you can take with you, and feel a little better about the world and your place in it. This question has no answer…. Because when this happens…. When the lie is learned, and the truth is revealed… No one has an answer.

An uplifting poem about the person you hoped you would grow into. In “Your Name,” Greg Luti imagines a future where crowds chant your name — not for fame, but for the honest, good person you wanted to be since childhood. I hope when the crowd gathers, and the stadium is full And everyone is ready for the big show. I hope they are all screaming your name, kid. I hope that your name is the one on the billboard and is uttered by everyone who is there to see you. They are all excited to learn what you are going to do next. They see the greatness you have had in you ever since you were a child. And when they do scream out your name, I hope you give them someone to look up to, A role model for the youth, A gentleman for the ladies, Someone too honest for the truth, and too good for the lies. For you always had that in you, kid, to be able to reach people and make them see the greatness in yourself and in us all. And up in the bleacher seats, far off out of sight, I will be there, cheering you on, kid. Me and all those others who can barely afford tickets will be there to support you. I will be there for you, to see that the crowd saw in you what I always did. And when they leave, and they will leave, Leaving you alone, and by yourself, with nothing more than your experience and second thoughts. When that moment of uncertainty happens, I hope you stand tall and never be afraid of the emptiness. For your greatness was never based upon a filled room, or how loud the crowd yells. It came from something deeper in you. I hope you are so strong that when you stand alone on that stage, and people abandon and leave you, you shine brighter than ever, not once even doubting yourself or where you stand. And when the crowd leaves, and you start to wonder if anyone else is there to cheer you on, know that I will still be there, rooting from a distance, calling out your name. Let the crowds go. Let the phonies walk away. Let the trend seekers forget about you. They never saw you for who you are anyway. The great kid I saw growing up, who was meant to be something in this world. And when you look out and see the empty crowd, and wonder if there is anyone else left in the world to really care about you, I hope you remember two people who mean more than any other in your life. They are not your fans. They don’t want your autograph. And they are not star-struck when they see you. And like me, they will always support you, whether the room is full or empty. I hope you remember your parents when you stare out at the full arena, and everyone calls your name. When the world wants you and asks you to give too much of yourself, so much that you wonder who you ever are, I hope you remember the two who gave all they could for you. You didn’t see it like I did, kid, but those two, those two loved you more than they loved anything in this world. Don’t forget those who brought you into this world and taught you all that you are. Even after the crowds, the critics, and everyone else, will tell you there are more important things in your life than them. Remember Mom and Dad. There was a day when there was no stage for you to rule. No crowd for you to captivate. No one to fill the room. Only those two to love and care for you. Keep their love in you, wherever you go in this world, kid And you’ll find the very thing that makes you can never be taken from you. And remember, I’ll always be rooting for you, kid.

A historical short story set during the attack on Fort McHenry. In “Land of the Free,” Greg Luti follows Francis Scott Key as negotiations, bombardment, and the desperate effort to keep the flag flying collide in 1814. Francis Scott Key, an American lawyer, had received news of the very men that he had just gotten to be released from the shackles on a British warship are to be for nothing. The British are to bomb Fort McHenry and start a war with the land that Key called his home. Perplexed by it all, Key went down to tell the released prisoners of the unfortunate circumstances. “So we are free men, Mr. Key?” A prisoner asked the lawyer, still shaken by the news he received. “No.” He stared down at the ground, only slightly glancing at the prisoner. “But I thought you negotiated? I thought the British agreed that we would trade them?” Just earlier in the day, Key had informed the same American prisoners that he had made a deal with the British commander of the ship - the American prisoners for the British prisoners. The men jumped for joy when they heard of their release. That was before the very same British commander told Key that the British navy is on their way over to blow Fort McHenry, the closest fort to the ships, with all the firepower they had. The prior negotiations were fruitless, for the two countries would be at war soon. Francis Scott Key sat down on the lone chair in the room only a few feet from the prisoners. He stared off as he spoke. “They are going to bomb the fort ASAP. This was all a formality. The British are going to start another war with America. I told them that the fort was not a military one, that there were women and children there, but they didn’t care. They are to bomb the fort until we surrender.” “How could this be?” The same prisoner asked. “The British want that flag down. Once it is down, they will view that as our surrender.” “So all they need to do is make sure that the flag stays up.” A second prisoner who was listening in said to the first prisoner and Key. “And how do you expect them to do that, genius? That fort has no guns or weapons. You heard the lawyer-man, we are screwed!” Key, still down on the whole thing, asked, “If it is all the same to you, I’d prefer to stay down here with you all.” The first prisoner welcomed the lawyer. “Not a problem, sir. An American is always welcomed here. Plus, who are we kidding? We can’t get rid of you if we wanted to anyway.” “Yeah.” The second prisoner spoke up. “Plus, what if they keep the flag flowing all night?” The first prisoner spoke to the second. “Why are you doing that to the poor guy? You see, he is already upset. You don’t have to rub it in like that.” “Hey, all I am saying is that the flag isn’t down yet. There is still a chance.” “Ignore him, lawyer-man. I am sure that you did the best you could. I mean, it wasn’t really that good because of what you just said, but you did try.” The second prisoner said, “Yeah, and what if the flag is still up after all the bombing?” “Will you shut up?” The first prisoner slapped the second prisoner atop the head, tired of his silly thinking. Around that same time, the commander of Fort McHenry received the news of the British plans for the night. He called all the men at the fort together to inform them of what was about to happen. “Now, men, I have some disturbing news. The British navy is set on taking this fort and capturing it. Within the next few hours, there will be a barrage of bombs set upon this very place. They say that they will not stop until we surrender and the flag is down.” He let some silence sink into the air. “I plan to do neither.” Someone out of the crowded room called out, “So what is your plan then?” “Me and my assistant have decided on a strategy to keep the flag standing.” Prior to the meeting, the commander and his assistant outlined a horrific way to win the bombing, a strategy that neither was sure the men at the fort would accept or would even work. Someone else called out, “What are you going to do? Hold it up?” A person next to the shouter directed towards the commander, “Yeah, you are going to have us keep the flag up as they are bombing it.” The commander said sternly, “Precisely.” “You want us to hold up the flag while bombs and cannons are shooting at it? You know my bones break, and my skin bleeds. That is a death sentence!” His assistant spoke up quietly, “It is for a good cause.” The commander motioned to his assistant to allow him to speak to the men in the room. “Men, I know that I am asking nothing short of impossible from you. I am asking for your life, not of hard work or discipline but for your being. I claim to not be the Christian god of this world, but I believe that your life here is going towards a cause greater than any one man can claim. If you wish to walk out that door and risk the subjugation of a British rule on our free land, then you be my guest. If you value your life more than the freedom this land gives you, I will not judge you. I understand that some of you are fathers of children and husbands of wives and that you worry about what can happen to them without you. You simply cannot risk death for the life of your loved ones. I understand if you walk out that door now. I, too, am in that dilemma, as I have myself a beautiful wife waiting for me back home. I know that she would think nothing less of me than to put down my life for freedom. I can die in this world, but she can live on, free. I ask you all this, what is life without freedom? Are you truly living if the government or king runs your life? If you must answer to a foreign power and not rule yourself, what life are you leading? If your death could help save this new nation built on every man being equal, would you? I know that I am asking a lot from you men here. I am asking nothing less than your own life. But I only ask this as a way to preserve the freedom that you and I hold dear. I will not allow the British to tell us what to do or who to be. We are Americans, and we are free, and if I have to give my life for that freedom, then so be it.” No men in the room left. Even those who spoke up earlier didn’t move. “Very well, there are patriots among us. There is a special place in heaven for all of you, gentlemen. I will let my assistant explain the details of our plan and how we will keep freedom alive.” The young assistant addressed the group of men on the daring, simple, and dangerous strategy. He instructed them on the details pertaining to how they would keep the flag up. After the assistant talked to the men, he went back over to his commander. “They accepted the plan. They understand what they are to do.” “Very well.” “Now I have to answer the tough question of who will go first.” He said with hesitation and fear in his eyes. The assistant didn’t address this issue during the meeting, for no man brought it up, but whoever was to be the first would surely not make it through the night. “I will go first.” Said the commander. “Sir? No. You’ll die!” “I will hold the flag for as long as my body can stand it. Defending freedom, whether it be for only a few minutes or for a lifetime, is always a worthy defense. As Washington said, I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees. This young country is worth dying for. Freedom is worth dying for. Not for only me, but for those who find refuge in this free land. Let the world know that we stood up to the mighty British, not with our firepower or our military strength, but nothing more than the toughness of American hands and freedom in our hearts.” The assistant accepted that his superior would not take no for an answer. His boss would be the first to hold up Old Glory on that fateful night, and there was nothing he could do to convince him otherwise. “It’s been an honor knowing you, sir. I will surely be the second one to hold up the flag.” “No! You can’t. You must stay away from the flag to keep the men organized. You must keep this plan going all night. As the rockets show their red glare, as the bomb burst in the air, you must continue the fight for freedom. Do not abandon your post and keep this place organized. Do you understand? That is a direct order. Instruct the men on how to keep our freedom alive.” “But sir….” “No buts, you are to be my eyes and ear when I can no longer hold that flag up. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir” He nodded solemnly. As the night passed and the bombs went off, Key had not stayed still. Every so often, the prisoners would ask him if the flag was still standing. “Tell us about the flag. Is it still standing?” They all wanted to know if it still stood. These men knew that their very lives depended on the impossible, but it was the only hope they had. And every time he went up the top of the ship, to Key’s amazement, there were flowing colors of red, white, and blue in the smoke. He avoided seeing the British commander on the ship, for the sight of him, made him sick. Did that man know of the attack on the fort? Did he play Key for a fool? How could he be okay with firing upon a civilian fort? How could this happen to the nation that Key loved? Each time he told the prisoners of the flag’s placement, they all cheered. Even though Key didn’t believe it would last, he did think for a moment that maybe that second prisoner was right. They said that we were to lose when the flag went down, and it is still up. There was still hope, even though it was fleeting and would not last. Eventually, one bomb would hit directly on the flag pole and knock the whole thing down. It is just math, just statistics. As a man of sense and reason, Key accepted the odds. As the night became morning and Key sat next to the prisoners expecting to be taken prisoner himself, he noticed that the violent cracks and bursts that had filled the night had stopped. For the first few minutes, he considered the lack of sound an excuse for the British navy to reload. After some more time had passed and the loud sounds didn’t continue, he went up deck to see why the noise had stopped. “Your people are insane.” The British commander said to him, mad to see him and even madder at the result of the night. Key didn’t know what to make of this comment, whether it was only a British insult of his own Americanness or something else. He saw in the distance a sight he didn’t expect to see; the colors of the flag were still there waving. After confirming that the bombs had stopped and the fort would not be taken, he made his way over and pondered how the flag stood up all night. How did the flag not fall? Perhaps the British were lying. They must have never hit the flag head-on. But the royal navy is the epitome of warfare. They are the best; in all this fighting, they must have hit the flag at some point? Is there really a way that the most sophisticated navy in all of our world missed a flag so close? My, if that is such the case, perhaps the Lord looks down favorably on this new nation. How is the flag still standing? Despite what my eyes saw, the colors of my nation in the sky, I can’t explain it with any reason. Why is the flag still standing? It should be down. I should be a prisoner. But here I stand, neither. He entered the fort, filled with bodies and debris from the structures spread across the place. He asked a stranger where he could find the person running the place, and the stranger pointed him towards a broken room, with holes in the wall and broken furniture on the ground. In the room clearly hit by many bombs was a lone individual with their head hanging low. “Hello. I am Francis Scott Key.” He addressed the stranger sitting down. He saw the man in tears. “Yeah, what do you want?” “They say you are the one in charge.” “Yeah, so. Where were you in all of this? Too good to be here? Now you want to rub it in our face?” “No, not at all. I was on one of the British ships. I tried to negotiate for the freedom of American prisoners before this all happened.” “Yeah, you’re one hell of a negotiator, you know that.” The assistant was not in the mood to hear how tough of a night this Key man just had. “What happened here?” Key asked. “How is that flag standing? I thought….” He yelled back. “How do you think it is standing! We held it up during the night!” He spoke to himself. “So many good men were lost in the last few hours.” “No, you mean….” “Yeah. We took their best shot, and we held it up. Each and every man who held up that flag paid with his life. And did the men quit? Did they run from the bombs? No. They kept going into the hell storm. I only wish I could have joined them myself.” “My God, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.” He cried out once. “Well, we won. Freedom reigns, my old friend, freedom reigns.” “If there are men like this in our world, then freedom shall always reign.” Francis Scott Key left the room and later that night would pen the Star-Spangled Banner, the national anthem for the free nation, a reminder and inspiration to all its citizens that the freedom they have was not won through violence or conquest, but sacrifice from a few that paid the ultimate price. As he sat down to write it, he recalled the words that were the only hope that he and the prisoners had that night. “Tell us about the flag. Is it still standing?”

A short story about fandom, work, and the people who do not care about your bracket. In “I Hate Duke,” Greg Luti follows a passionate St. John’s basketball fan as March Madness collides with the tutoring center, coworker small talk, and a game night that matters more than it should. The day of schedule changes and constant messages from parents was done for, and whatever else was to be done would be completed later, by a more energetic version of myself. I picked up my bag and headed towards the door. I thought of the previous conversations I have had with a few co-workers about the current March Madness tournament, and who they feel would make a run in it. To my surprise, not a single person I asked knew anything about March Madness or what it was. They didn't know what a bracket was to be filled out. Why Cinderella is in the tournament, or what the Madness even means. They could barely name a school in the tournament. I didn't go into details with them once I learned none of them knew about it. I find that when I am speaking about a topic where I wish for an opinion from the listener, giving background information ruins the experience. I don't want to explain the entire thing to you; I want you to already come to the table with a take, I can then bounce off of, so we can have a back and forth. Conversations are ruined with too much explaining, in the same way that jokes are ruined if explained. The more I learn about the world, the more I wonder where exactly explanations are even needed. For if you understand the topic, you don't need an explanation, and if you don't understand, then you only need experience or exposure to it, rather than an explanation. Because I wish not to confuse or lose the reader, as I did with many of my co-workers, I will take a moment to explain what March Madness even is. Every March, there is a basketball tournament for the college basketball championship. 64 teams in the nation are in the tournament. Whoever wins this tournament is declared the winner of that year. The reason there is Madness in the tournament is that there are many times in the history of the tournament that the teams of less skill and from schools unknown to the masses win a game they are not supposed to win. David strikes Goliath in the history of the tournament, to use the more frequently referred to character, Cinderella. Why her? Because the winning by the unknown team is seen as unlikely or very similar to the story of Cinderella becoming a princess. I like to fill out a bracket every year in order to have some fun with the tournament and keep myself engaged. I put down the teams I believe will win, and somehow I am always out of contention to win my pool, or where my bracket is submitted by the end of the first weekend. Luckily for me, I did not have the printed form of my bracket on hand when I was talking to my co-workers who know nothing of the sport, for that would have been quite embarrassing. Like a typical sports fan, I was disappointed in the engagement from my fellow co-workers about the tournament. I even remarked to the last one, "My god, do none of you watch sports around here?" I did not include the thought of me questioning the time they have by themselves, for I am not even sure what one does in March without the tournament. I avoid trying not to be a jerk whenever possible, and not asking what my co-workers even do in their spare time, and being highly critical of their hobbies is not a good look. I have not addressed their lack of sports involvement yet, since there is no way for me to bring it up without having strong feelings about their dismissal of the current tournament going on. I guess I will have to imagine that all my co-workers are living morally righteous lives and preparing for their next day of work when they are off. Or they could be enjoying the nightlife and being friends with beverages that, after one too many sips, open one's lips and ruin their balance. If I like the co-worker, I will imagine they are doing good when not around me. If I don't, then I will accept that they not only know sin, but fully accept it into their lives like a family does a newborn child. I had already said goodbye to the workers and was ready to leave for the day when I saw a worker, Priya, signing out. She is a medical student who teaches a few days during the week. She is quite smart, and some may say too smart, in that she lacks empathy for those who lack any form of intelligence. Her brain knows math, so she assumes her students will as well. I have told her a few times that she needs to understand that everyone is not as smart as her. Despite her exhaustion from the hospital job and pompous attitude, she is a kind girl, one that I can see myself having a drink with, if not for her status as a taken woman. As she signed the attendance sheet, I asked, "Do you have any idea about March Madness? Do you have any idea what it is?" I expected her to say no, and then move on with my day, but she did know of the event. "Oh yeah. I am so upset North Carolina lost." "Why? They stink." "I went to North Carolina, so I always root for them." "Oh, so you know that the coach is probably getting fired." She opened the door to leave, and I followed behind her, as we continued to talk about the tournament. We walked down the stairs and into the parking lot, about to go towards our cars. She spat, "I hate Duke." "Yeah, me too. I never liked them." "Well, you know, I can't ever like them, and I never will." "Same. See you tomorrow." I walked back to my car, wondering where I had missed on her resume that she went to North Carolina. The next day at work, I made a point to leave early because that was when Saint John's and Duke were playing each other. I am a Saint John's fan, so I was going to get everything that needed to be done by the time the game started. I opened my Word document and wrote down a few things that I was to do before I could leave: make the schedule and teach Christian. The making of the schedule was a part of my job, and involved me going over any minor details that were needed in order to make sure that the teachers were all assigned to the proper students. Teaching Christian was not a usual maneuver, but since his teacher was not available, I had to fill in for the hour and a half. I was to do the schedule until 4:30, then teach Christian from 4:30 to 6, and then clean up anything about the schedule that I missed, and then get out of there by 6:30. Game time was 7:10. I opened the program we use for the schedule and started to look at every day to make sure that nothing was wrong with it. Monday: nothing was wrong there. Tuesday: Done. Wednesday: Mostly done. I had to move around a tutor to give him more time. We don't like to have the tutors be at the center for only an hour. We don't pay them very well to begin with, to have them only show to teach a student for an hour seems to be a rather cruel move, so we avoid it as much as possible. Thursday: Done. Friday: Not done. Not even close. We lost a recent tutor who normally worked on Fridays. I have to replace him with someone. I needed someone to teach for two hours. Despite the fact that you would think most teachers can teach every day of the week, the reality is that most do not want to, and if they could, the financial situation is not something they wish for anyway. If the tutor is working 40 hours a week with us, they are still not getting paid all that much. We actually had a tutor during the summer do that, a math tutor by the name of Fred. He had these large glasses and was awkwardly tall, in that he didn't seem to know how to hide his height, but was trying to. He always stood in the middle of the hallway where students walk down to get to their desks. I joked with him about it, "You have to stop standing in the middle of the aisle. You are too tall and make people uncomfortable." That is one of those lines I think in my head, and when I think it out, it is funny, but when I say it to someone, it is not as funny as I imagined, and I am forced to play it all off as though I was kidding. I wasn't, though. He took up half the way to walk. Fred, despite his glasses that made his face look like a fish, and unusual positioning in the hallway, was one of our best teachers, working over 30 hours a week during the summer. Why he ever agreed to such hours is something I never asked the man, but I do know he was fine with all those hours. Of course, one day at the end of the summer, he mentioned he would be leaving to go to Washington, so I suppose he was never all that worried about his hours, never seeing them as more than a temporary solution to a long-term problem. He was a math person, an engineer, I believe, so teaching was never truly in his career anyway. The teacher who recently left us was not Fred. He was Tom, and worked only a few days a week, both of the days that no one else really worked: Fridays and Sundays. No one likes to work on those days, which is why I was having a hard time finding someone to replace him. Most of those tutors who would be considered replacements are already on for Fridays. My mind shuffled through the tutors and who could replace Tom for his Friday hours. As great as the computer program is, the program does not know everything about the place and the tutors. For example, if the tutor is only able to work half of a day, the program can't show that, and sometimes the program is just a pain in the butt to use, frankly. I am not the first, nor will I be the last, to complain about its functionality. Of course, I complain when I am not doing the work on the program, for complaining as I need it and am using it is counter-productive. As I was deciding on who to put in place of Tom, I was answering a few parents' questions via text messages. Some of the parents of the students of the center are very straightforward with their texts, while others write me a novel (and that is coming from me) I answered back all the messages changing the program as I did so, for it is no help if I tell the parent that I will take the student off the schedule, and then not actually take the student off the schedule. Then the name of a new tutor hit me, Malak, who can be on for Fridays. He can teach in Tom's times. I put him on Fridays once before, when Tom was out, so he should be able to do it, although I am not sure how comfortable Malak is with those students Tom had. It was worth a shot. Saturday: I forgot if one of the tutors was able to be in on Saturday, so I left him in anyway. If he can't do it, then he will tell me. Saturday is also a problem since we frankly run out of tutors for the students on that day. I decided that for the schedule next week, I would assign one student to take a progress test while they are there, so they don't really need to be with a tutor at that time. Problem solved. Sunday: Done, quickly too. Before I knew it, the time was around 4:00, and I knew I had only about half an hour to get the rest of it done. "Almost done." I printed out a copy of the schedule and looked it over to make sure that none of the teachers had any gaps in their time. It is cruel to put someone on from 4 to 5, and then from 7 to 8. No one had that problem, so I moved to writing up the closing list, which is a document I leave out for those who are closing for that week. I don't always want to stay too close, so I like to assign two tutors for the job. I cross-checked the closing list for the current schedule with the one I am sending out. Not much was changed. Once the tutors and their closing times for each day of the week were written out, I was ready to send out the schedule. Then I remembered that we had a new tutor, but he was not in the program yet, so I had to add him to the schedule I sent out, without actually having him in the program. The trick there is to modify the PDF file of the schedule, so he gets the message he is teaching, even though in the program, it will say something else. I did just that and opened the email to send out the schedule to all the tutors. I used to give long threads of what we expect from the tutors and how they should conduct themselves, and other things they should keep in mind, but I have stopped doing that, finding the closing list more than enough information to add to the email. I wrote up the email, attached the schedule, and sent it out. It was 4:20 PM. "Son of a gun," I said aloud. "I still have some time before Christian shows." I took it easy for the next ten minutes, cleaning up my desk and getting ready to teach the high school senior who has the mental capacity of a third grader. I am not entirely sure what Christian has, but he is not what anyone would call a regular student. He doesn't speak when spoken to, and cannot go anywhere without much assistance. I am not a trained special education tutor, but I am the boss, and have no one else to teach the child at that time. I was thrust into this position when two of the other tutors who taught Christian left the center, and the third one called out for today. Despite my lack of background with special education students, I have found that treating the student more strictly than others is actually beneficial. I have to push him along verbally when we are doing things. I also try to get the student to move as much as possible, since movement can be good for any child, especially one who has a hard time thinking. Today was not the first time I have had Christian, so teaching him is not something above my expectations. Plus, I have taught at the center to various degrees for the past three years, so I can do it. The last time I taught Christian, the student was unable to write index cards on his own. The student can't study independently. I made notes on this in the lesson plan for that day and spoke to the other tutor, the one who still teaches Christian about this, "I don't know how he expects to learn, if he writes down a word every 3 minutes." She agreed, saying she wanted Christian's mom to see how slow a student he is, for she fears the mom is in denial about her son's mental state. When Christian showed up, I was very cordial with him. "Hey, buddy. How are you doing today?" The student didn't respond. "Does he have any homework today?" I asked the mom. "No. No. He is all yours today." "Okay, Christian. You are stuck with me today. Let's go get your binder." I motioned the student towards the hallway where Fred used to stand too much. "Bye." I waved to the mom, who then left. Christian walked slowly towards our bookshelf that held all the binders of the students, and I again instructed him, "Christian, we are getting your binder now. Can you find it?" He didn't say anything. Without waiting for the student, I grabbed his binder from the bookshelf and directed him towards the room we were going to be in. "Let's go, Christian. We are in the room all the way in the back." He started to enter the first room he saw. "No Christian. I said the last room. Last room. Walk all the way down." I grabbed a laptop from the shelf close to the binder shelf, and then I continued to give directives until we got to the room, never being more than a foot away from the student. I put down the binder and told Christian to take a seat. "So how is school going?" He didn't say anything. "Christian… how did school go today? Did you learn anything?" "Math…" he mumbled. "Oh, math? What did you learn in math?" That was about as much of a conversation as I could have with the student. He said nothing. Then I realized I needed the books he would be working on for the day. I opened up the laptop and decided I would start vocabulary with the student. "Christian, you stay here while I get your books." I ran out of the room to get the vocabulary book. When I got back, he was using the eraser from the pencil to erase on the table. I covered his hand from erasing. "No, Christian, we don't use the eraser on the table." I introduced the book to him. "Christian, this is vocabulary. Pick the right choice for each word, okay?" He started to flip to the answer sheet on the back of the page with the assignment on it, but I stopped him, "No, Christian. You are not to look back when doing this. Okay? No looking back. Cheaters never prosper, Christian. Don't cheat." The student did poorly on the assignment in that he didn't know many of the words, but he did not look back at the answers for this one, which I consider to be a success, since the other tutor mentioned he always cheats when he does vocabulary. I decided to add a new exercise to the vocabulary since he always takes a long time to write out his answers. I took out a blank piece of paper and instructed Christian about the new exercise. Before I could get to explaining myself, Christian was erasing the table. "No Christian. We don't use the erasers on the table. Don't make me take away the erasers from you. If you do this again, I will take away the erasers from you." He continued to erase, and I took the erasers off the two pencils he had. "Nope, I told you not to do it, and now you don't get an eraser. Don't worry, I will take good care of the erasers." I focused my attention on the blank piece of paper in front of me. "Okay, Christian, this assignment is a little different than the last one you did. You will have thirty seconds to write down the vocabulary words you just learned. I will time you. If you do not write down the words in thirty seconds, then it is considered wrong. We want to get you to write a little bit faster. You are not in art class, Christian. You are trying to write down the answers so that you can move on to the next one, okay?" The student mumbled, " Okay, " and we began. I set my phone timer to thirty seconds, and at the end of every thirty seconds, I told Christian to move on to writing the next word. There were twelve vocabulary words, and he spelled them correctly for only five of them. When we finished the exercise, I reiterated the goal to the student, "Remember, Christian, we want to write faster the next time you do this, okay? That is what we are trying to do. I know you can improve on this for next time. For now, good job." We did another book before he was done with his session. I had to prompt him throughout and never got much more than a word out of the student. We finished the session five minutes before the scheduled end time, so I sat with the student in the lobby. We had already put back his binder, which was me telling him where the binder was, more than him doing it himself. "I got some bad news, Christian: the label maker ran out of labels." He mumbled, "What?" "Yeah, we don't have any more labels. Sorry about that, buddy. You were the first one I thought of when I saw we were out of labels." The student likes to make labels of the letters of the alphabet, and this is really how I got to know him more than teaching him at first. One of the tutors would be done teaching him, and ask me if I can watch over the student until his parent shows up to pick him up, as he printed labels from the label maker. Although he is wasting labels, the benefit of him being occupied is worth it, in my opinion. I showed him the label maker, just to prove I wasn't lying to the student. "No slime. No labels. Boy, this is a tough day for you, kid." When we were putting back his binder, the student observed we had no slime in our prize area. For some reason, the student enjoys slime, and I have not ordered new slime in quite some time. The mom walked in, "Hey, how did he do today?" I jumped out of my chair and explained, "We focused on writing a little faster today. I wanted him to get better at writing down the words in less time." "Oh, okay." "I told him that we don't have any labels or slime for him. It was a tough day." "Oh no… no slime or labels. How are we going to make it?" "We may just have to write a few more words next time is all. "Okay, thank you. See you tomorrow." "Yes, Tomorrow he is with Kate. Bye, Christian." "What do you say, Christian?" The mom directed her words towards the student who was standing between us. "Bye…" he mumbled. "Bye, Christian. Great job today. See you tomorrow." The two exited the center, and I scanned the clock in the lobby. It was a little after 6. I can get out of there by 6:30. I went back into my office to get ready to leave. I cleaned up my desk and contacted a few parents who had messaged me while I was teaching. I left some notes to myself for what I was to do the next day, knowing that the current day was all but done. For a brief second, I took pride knowing that I got the schedule done already. I sent out the schedule on a Friday. When I originally started sending out the schedule, it was on a Saturday afternoon. I grabbed my jacket and my bag and started to head towards the door. Then a tutor came up to me, "Hey, are you busy?" "You better make it quick, because I am heading out of here. What do you need?" "I want to change Ariel's program." I grabbed a piece of paper. "What do you think we should change it to?" I listened and wrote down as she told me the few things to be done to the student's program. I then repeated back what she said to me, and she confirmed it. "Great, I will change this tomorrow. I have to watch the Saint John's game tonight." She didn't say anything as though she didn't know they were playing. "Wow, none of you watch college basketball, I guess." I walked around the center to say goodbye to the four other tutors in the place, reassuring the two who were closing that they were in fact closing, and then I headed out, knowing if I spent another minute in the place I would be caught in another task and miss the game. I texted my dad that I would be home in a few, and I saw a parent of a student in the parking lot, and waved to them. As I buckled my seatbelt, I muttered to myself, "Damn, can't I leave this place without having people needing something from me?" I pulled into the driveway, and my dad was already waiting for me by sitting on the stoop. He waved at me and entered the car. For a brief moment, we sat in the car, wondering where we should go to get a bite for the upcoming basketball game. "What do you want to get for the game?" My dad asked. "Eh, I don't know. What are you thinking?" I responded, not having thought about it all day. "I am up for McDonald's." "The one close by or the one in Syosset?" There is a McDonald's right down the road from us, but the one in Syosset is much better, in that whenever we go to it, the fries are fresh, the burgers are delicious, and the overall experience is more pleasant. There have been one too many times when we complained about not getting our food when we go to the local McDonald's, so we try to avoid it when we can. "Local. We want to catch the game." We drove off, agreeing that the game was more important than any actual order. I turned on the radio, and we both gave our different takes on the upcoming games. "They need to hit threes. That is what the guy on the show said." My father commented, although I was not aware of the show he was talking about, for I rarely watch sports shows, for reasons I don't wish to get into at the moment. "Yeah, but if Duke controls the paint, then that is the game. The Johnnies can't get pushed around. If they do, the game is over." "Hopefully Pitino can come up with something." Rick Pitino was the St. John's head coach and a legendary coach already. He recently got the job because he is trying to bring some credibility to the local school that was once good at basketball. "Yeah, hopefully." We got to the parking lot, and I asked, "Are we going in to order or are we going through the drive-through?" I didn't hear what my dad was saying, and went into one of the drive-through lanes that had just opened. Now, when I order at McDonald's and other fast food places, I am very easy with my order, in that I never really ask for more than whatever is on the menu. If I ask for a large instead of a medium, then I would say I am really adding a lot to my order. My dad, on the other hand, feels fine with customizing his order for every item. The burger has no pickles or onions, and light ice. What exactly does light ice even mean? Is there a number to represent that? Once I gave my order, my dad repeated his order to me, and I put it in. I made a wiseass remark to him about his order. "Bro, this is McDonald's. Why is your order so obnoxious?" He said nothing, and we continued to wait to move along in line. The game was on the radio, and just as I moved the car in line, the radio got all staticky, and neither of us could hear it. We tried to act normally as though nothing had happened for the first twenty seconds, but then we started to look at each other, like we knew we could not hear what was going on in the game. I moved the car ahead in line, and I don't know what happened in the game, but all I can say is that Duke was up 11 to 4, and then it was 14 to 14. We got to the window where you pay, and I handed the guy my credit card. I find it a bit strange that we all use drive-through, yet there is no common name for the window we use to pay for the actual food. Are they all called drive-through windows? Is there a difference between the drive-through window where I pay and where I pick up my meal? That is what happens when we allow common customs to dictate our lives; there are inconsistencies we never address because they don't really affect our day-to-day. Sure, I may be asking you, the reader, this question, but does it stop me from getting my food? No, it does not. I handed over the drinks and the bag to my dad, and I drove off. "Make sure you check the bag so that there is enough food in there. We are going to be fine if they miss something." Without really looking in the bag, he confirmed. "It looks good to me." We listened to the game on the radio, not getting any more interference. As we got into the house, we continued to speak of our talking points on how Saint John's can win the game. "They need to hit threes." He said. "They need to control the paint," I responded. What they actually needed was both, and for the refs not to blow the whistle so much. Every time Duke players went to the hole, the whistle blew, and yet when Saint John's did the same thing, nothing happened. We kept shouting at the screen as though they could hear us. "Call a foul! Call a freaking foul!" On what seemed to be the tenth play in a row, my dad finally called out what we were both thinking, "Duke gets every freaking call! Goddamnit! The refs know! They have to know! They are Duke, the great Duke, and who are we? Shitty freaking Saint John's!" I quietly agreed, not wanting to, but seeing it with my eyes. "Yeah…" Aside from our frustration, we spoke strategy during the game, as to what Saint John's should do in order to beat their opponent, more than the quick comments made while driving for the food, which was now gone at that point in the game. All the back and forth got us down to the last play of the season, where Saint John's ran a play to hit a three-pointer. We both looked on, waiting for a good shooter to get the ball, but that never happened. The point guard threw up an airball, and the game was over. Saint John's had lost by three points to Duke. I was not sure what frustrated me more, the fact that Duke won, or Saint John's lost. And just like that, the season was over. All the potential of having a run. All the intrigue in the building of the program. All the hype, all the talk. Everything. It was all over. There would be no game next week or the week after that. We would all have to wait another year to see what the team can do then, and by that time, the roster may look so different that we may not even notice it. After all the jumping up and down, all the frustration, to have the season end is a state of aggravated tranquility. As though you are done with a storm, but still have to deal with all the pain of it afterward. Sure, the journey is over, but the mental tear it had on you is not. "Well, there goes my interest in March Madness. I am already out of the pool we are in. Freaking Gonzaga. You know, one of these years they have to win." I stated. "It is wrong. It is just wrong." "I don't get it. What was the play at the end? They let the guy who can't shoot a three, who has not hit a freaking three this year, shoot one? What is that about?" "They had it. They really did. They blew it. And damn Duke. They always get the calls." I picked up my garbage from my meal and headed towards the kitchen. "Yeah, I am going to bed." "Night. I am so pissed right now." When I got into my room, I wasn't mad or frustrated anymore. I didn't feel anything. I didn't really wish to spend too much time thinking about my self-awareness. I reached for my phone and texted three words that my North Carolina friend would understand. "I hate Duke."

A flash fiction story about charm, rumor, and the one thing nobody wants to mention. In “The Black Eye,” Greg Luti introduces Tommy V., the wittiest and most well-liked guy in town, until a mysterious black eye starts following him through everyday conversations. Tommy V. is one of the nicest guys around town and is someone that you and just about anyone would be happy to meet. Yeah, the guy has the wit to say anything to make the room feel at ease. A charm that can’t be taught. Sure, he had smarts, but that wit, that charm. You can’t teach that. His kindness came from his seemingly easy way to accept all around him. The guy had been known to chat with every person you could name. He has had dinner with presidents on the red and blue, celebrities of all statuses, lowly garbage men who take out the trash, and janitors who complete the insignificant issues that can change our world. Most all agree on the man Tommy V. He is a good one. There is not much to dislike about the lightly overweight, quick-witted slick hair comedian. You gotta look to find something to not like about the guy. While you are looking for that error, you may find that there is one thing that you never talk to Tommy about, one topic never to be brought up or mentioned. No matter who talks to him, or where he is, no one ever brings up this detail. There is a black eye on the man that requires him to wear an eye patch from the permanent damage he received from it. No one knows where he got it from. And no one may learn the truth. I don’t remember when he got it but the word on the street is that he got it one day, and acted as though nothing happened. Just a minor bruise. He fell, is all. Just a bad slip. No one believed the man, even though that is all he ever said of it. Once a few people asked him of it, the situation was clear to all around, don’t ask him about it, for you may not want to know what really happened. As rumors spread of the cause, so did this notion that one is not to ask Tommy of the origin of the eye patch. Most think the bruise came from his woman. A real vile creature who spoke in shrieks and hysteria than any real words. She was the type of woman that you would meet, shake her hand, and know that bad things came from her, as though she was carrying around darkness in her pocketbook. She forced her man to be on tour doing gigs long after he made his money, so the cruel treatment was known by many. Even in his act, he jokes about the treatment of his wife, although the audience may not have thought there was truth to the joke. The lady always presented herself as loving and caring to her man, and he never objected to any who saw only that side of her. There were always rumors that there was a part of their relationship that people didn’t know. And in that chapter, was the black eye. Of course, that is not the only theory of the appearance of the black eye. There are some who say it was the mob. The guy lost a bet on a boxing match and had to pay up. The eye was a reminder of his lost payment. Because Tommy never fully avoided gambling and other vices, there is a good portion who feel the eye damage was not of his lover but of a possible enemy. The more conventional theory, and one that kills all imagination, would be about Tommy injuring himself in an accident. You can say that he fell down the stairs of a hotel if you want if you believe the guy. He lost his footing, and then his eye became a victim of the fall. No one believes this take. A few crazies in town even claim that the black eye is nothing more than an occult ritual that Tommy is now in. They believe that all are lies; all expect how they view the world and how they interpret situations. Tommy had to cut his eye to be a part of the club and get more perks in this world. That is how the crazies explain that one. So there are those who feel the black eye came from his crazy wife, the mob, an accident, or a strange ritual, and none of them can be proven right or wrong. If you go to the local bar, you may see Tommy go up and order a drink. He would make you laugh for hours as you both enjoy your drinks. Yeah, you can relax and allow the funny man to entertain you with his wit and charm, but there is something that you never are to ask him. What caused the black eye? For no one knows, and we all may be better off with that being the case.