Untitled - Thomas English

I was teaching an accounting class in room 207 of the business college.  When I teach, I walk back and forth across the front of the room.  A girl in the front row held up a hand written sign and I read it out loud.  It read “your zipper is open.”  I looked at the girl and she rolled her eyes as if to say “I was trying to be discrete and you messed it up.”  I certainly had.  The class had a very good laugh at my expense.  Ever since that class some 15 years ago whenever someone is smiling at me I check my zipper behind the podium.  I apparently have irreparable psychological damage.  

"Embarrassing Moment" - Judith English

It was the fall of 1968.  I was twenty years old and had just recently moved from my hometown of Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada to the “big city” of Vancouver, B.C., Canada.  I had moved there in May 1968 with two girlfriends who sadly gave up the idea of a fun and grown up experience and moved back home by September, so I was now on my own.  I was incredibly shy and introverted, so it was a big step I was taking living without family or friends.  Fortunately, I had my religion and I was diligently attending services each Sunday.  One Sunday in October, it was announced that there would be a dance that coming Saturday in the gym.  I was excited to meet new friends so I planned to go.  That Saturday came and I was ready…I parked my car in the church parking lot, checked my hair in the rear view mirror, grabbed my purse and water bottle and headed to the door of the church.  No problem getting in the church.  As I was approaching the gym I could see bunches of kids laughing and talking together in groups.  I took a deep breath for courage, quickened my steps and walked straight into the glass doors separating the gymnasium from the hallway!  Everyone on the other side stopped talking and turned to watch me peel myself off the door, leaving pretty messy looking face and hand prints on the glass.  I must have turned and headed out because I do not remember anything at all about the rest of the night.  Did I go home?  I don’t remember.  Did I stay for the dance?  I don’t remember.  So much for being brave…within a month or two, I, too, packed up and moved back home to the warm and comforting arms of my family.

"Backing over Hood of Car" - Paul Jahner

One of my first jobs was working for a moving company in Idaho Falls.  We had a contract to deliver new furniture and appliances for a department store downtown. 

The company had decided to try out a fairly new truck.  This truck was not really suitable for furniture moving.  The floor of the box was the height of a freight truck, rather than the lower level for a furniture moving truck.  It also had an oversized box that hung out over the top of the cab.

One Friday night, we were working to get the last deliveries done for the week.  It was about 5:00, and I was waiting to make a left turn at one of busiest intersections in Idaho Falls.  There were two lanes in every direction, but no left turn lanes.  I had pulled out into the intersection and was waiting for the traffic to go by.  I was talking to my coworker, when I realized that from where I was at, the overhanging box was completely blocking my view of the traffic light.  I would watch for the traffic to stop coming through so I could make my turn.  Much to my dismay, I missed whatever little break there was, if there was one, and the traffic starting crossing the intersection in front of me in both directions.   Only one lane coming from my left could get around the truck.

I had really put myself into quite a predicament.  At first, I thought, I'll just sit here and make everyone drive around me.  But then, I thought I would just back out rather than be such an obstacle for traffic.  I looked in both mirrors around the huge box, and could not see anything behind me.  I put the truck in reverse and started slowly backing up.  I was almost out of the intersection, when I felt the truck come to a soft, not abrupt, stop.  I looked in the left rear view mirror and I saw a piece of chrome gently go flying away from the side of the truck.

I jumped out and ran to the back of the truck, and much to my dismay, I had backed onto the dash of a Dodge Dart.  The front roof pillars of the car were bent back.  Behind the wheel was an older woman with her arms straight out, still clenching the steering wheel, her mouth in the wide open position, and her eyes about to pop out.  I went to her side of the car and asked her if she was alright, but all she could do was stare straight ahead at this moving truck jammed onto her dash.  While the traffic was now backing up all over, she was escorted into a nearby gas station, still unable to talk.  After about five minutes she came out of it, and it took two people to hold her back from ripping my head off. 

The police showed up, my boss showed up, and everybody was mad at me.  I can still see that cop squealing one of the back tires, unable to back the poor car out from under the truck even with some air let out of the front tires.  I wanted someone else to do it, but I finally had to drive the truck off of the car.  What a horrible crunching sound that was.  Ironically, someone I talked to later assumed that the car had ran into the truck.  I begrudgingly owned up to what really happened.

About a month later my boss suggested I look for a new job because the insurance company wouldn't let me drive any of the trucks.  I heeded his advice and found a job, in the paper, at a local gas station.  When I went to traffic court, the woman judge advised me that if I went to traffic school, I could get some points taken off my record.  When I told her I was already going to traffic school for another offense, she was exasperated, and said “You've got to be more careful, Paul!”  No argument there.

"Trigger Warning" - Jesse Peoples

Tick, tick, tick. Rhythmic drumming patterns quicken as I pedal faster, just going around the block. No big deal, no sweat. The rain feels refreshing in the steamy June morning. Aside from the weather, it’s a gorgeous day filled with the pleasures I enjoy most on my morning off from work. Almost there, I pause at the intersection, unsure of why. Most of the time I would cross the street earlier, to avoid waiting at the light; today is not most days. Green beacons beckon me across the street, and feeling sheltered by the established traffic laws and signals, I cross. Three heartbeats pound in my chest, like I know it’s coming. What I’ve always feared, being a cyclist. Everything seems to slow down even though I never see or hear brakes.

The sound seems to have been sucked from the day. No birds call, no rain splatters in the greasy gutters, nothing except the sound of my own screaming. When did I start screaming? I don’t remember. And this place is so dark, so I turn my head to the left to see what I can see. Tire tread, most likely cheap, most certainly about to run over my head. I crawl faster, trying to hurry, but it’s like someone poured water in the hourglass and time doesn’t know how to function. It’s frozen one second, leaping forward the next. The light from the overcast sky finally shines in my face as I reach the edge of the undercarriage, welcomed by the helping hand of a stranger. I finally realize he’s been shouting too, at the driver. “STOP! STOP! STOP! For CHRIST’S sake STOP!” He pulls me out, and the driver, with his front right tire inches from my face, finally applies brakes. The Helper pulls me out from harm but is afraid to move me. None of the people on the street know what to do. I can’t recognize any faces, because I can’t see: my glasses are embedded partially in my face and partially scattered on the ground. 

Priapism:  a medical condition in which the erect penis does not return to its flaccid state within four hours. Usually caused by some sort of trauma or medication. As I lay there waiting for the ambulance to arrive, I recall many people around but no one is helping me. They think my spine may be broken, or that I have some sort of internal injury causing the erection in my pants. It’s then that I realize I have to tell a potentially embarrassing truth: I’m female-to-male transgender, and the “erection” in my pants is not a potentially harmful medical condition.  Because the hospital is so close, they don’t cut off my clothes in the ambulance. They do take me to the closest hospital, which also happens to be the hospital in which my father is head of Human Resources. 

In the ER, laying naked as the day I was born on a hospital gurney, my secret that I’ve tried to bury, and ignore all my life is exposed, standing at attention for all the small city doctors and nurses to see. I only hope they’re more distracted with my health than the fact that I’m quietly crying in absolute and utter humiliation. Before my father comes in, my girlfriend enters the room. I start laughing, because at this point it can’t get any worse right? Covered in blood and unable to move my head, she comes to my face and smiles, seeing I’m okay.  “Honey, you’re never going to believe what I was wearing when they picked me up.” She looks in the bag of my personal effects, to find the dildo. “We have to get this out before your dad sees it. He’d be mortified!” she says, laughing.  And I can only nod, overcome with hysterical laughter.

"Frozen in Time" - Anita Jahner

It was 1990.  I was a wife, as well as a mother of a three year old son, and I worked full-time as a records manager for the BLM in Boise, Idaho.  About four years before, my father had come back into my life.  He and mom divorced when I was very young, and because of some unusual circumstances, I was raised by my dad's parents.

We were all excited that he'd come back into the family.  He began showing up for holiday events or the occasional dinner out.  We talked on the phone a lot.  I don't remember exactly when it happened, but about two years into his return, he started having some odd heath issues.  Tiredness, headaches, and he insisted he could smell orange blossoms, though there were none around.  He drank a lot, and for a while he thought the symptoms were a result of that.

Dad finally mentioned the orange blossoms and the headaches to his doctor.  Tests were run.  Soon the diagnosis came back, he had a brain tumor.  Actually two, one slow growing and the other fast and terminal.  The local VA hospital didn't do brain surgery, so this meant he would have to have it elsewhere.  He was flown to Seattle, and when he returned he was not the same.  Though he was still my dad, his personality and cognitive abilities had been altered, but he continued to enjoy time with his family, especially his grandchildren.

As time went on, dad's health continued to decline.  He had been living with my grandparents, but ended up back in the VA Hospital.  We knew his time with us was getting shorter.  I visited often.  The last time I saw him, a couple of days before he died, he never did wake up.  I talked to him, sang a couple of his favorite songs, but there was no response.  I told him it was alright for him to go, if it was his time.  It felt like the worst moment in my life, but it wasn't.

On Friday, I planned to go with my sister to see him at the hospital.  She came by with the kids, but by the time she'd arrived, I had the worst migraine I'd had in a long time.  I felt so ill, but wanted to go see dad.  I kept waiting for the headache to ease, but it just got worse.  She finally suggested we wait and go the next day, and I agreed with her.  She left for home.  My husband took our son outside to play, so I could rest quietly.  About an hour passed, and the headache finally began to subside.  That's when the phone rang.  I knew before I picked it up what was coming. 

“Hello” I answered.  It was my grandpa.  He explained they'd gone to visit, but when he walked into the room, a nurse was gently combing my dad's hair.  “I'm sorry, Mr. Roberts.  He slipped away a few minutes ago.  I saw you walking up and wanted to make him look nice for you.”  Grandpa recited her words to me.  I don't remember much more.  After I hung up the phone, the world seemed very quiet.  I remember walking to the back door, and standing there looking out at my husband and son.  Time seemed to stop.  A second, a minute, I don't remember how long.  I do remember my son looking toward me, then my husband turned and our eyes locked.  It must have been on my face, because he knew and came quickly over, wrapping his arms around me. Then the tears came.  My dad was gone.  I'd told him it was ok to go, but it was too soon.  I'd have given anything to take it back.  To have had another conversation with him.  We stood there looking toward the sunset.  It was beautiful that day.  My husband picked up the camera and snapped a photo.  A life changing moment, frozen in time.  

"Unforgettable Road Trip" - Lindsey Hanks

The highway stretched a crossed the high desert landscape with hundreds of cars and trucks speeding along to there destination. Elaine and her mother had been driving down the long stretch of road for a couple hours. Elaine sat in the back seat perfectly
content watching her favorite movie, The Mummy, on the portable TV that sat on the middle conceal between the two front seats.

"Do you want to stop at Subway?" Elaine's mother asked as she leaned her head back on to the headrest.

"Yeah, can I get a cookie with my sandwich?" Elaine replied excited about the
prospect of a chocolate chip cookie. "Mom, can I get a cookie?" Elaine asked again.
There was no answer. Elaine looked up from the TV and noticed the car was starting to
veer off the road, heading straight for a speed limit sign. "Mom!" Elaine yelled while
she sat up in her seat. Elaine's mother’s eyes flew open as she gasped and swerved away
from the sign. The car began to tip over. Elaine grabbed the grab handle, or crap handle
as it is often referred to, and the door. Not having her seat belt buckled that was the only
thing she could think to do. The car immediately filled with dust as it began to roll down
a small hill. Elaine's heart began to beat faster and faster as she watched the contents of
the car roll around. The TV was knocked into the passengers by the driver’s side air bag.
Time seemed to have slowed down while loose CDs began flying around the car; the
sharp edges cutting Elaine’s arms. With each roll of the car Elaine slammed into the side
of the door. The car finally came to a stop. Elaine finally let go of the death grip she had
been holding on to the door with and slid down the seat into the other door.


"Mom? Are we dead?" Elaine asked whipping the blood away from her nose in a
vain attempt to get it to stop.

"I don't know, but we need to get out of the car.” Elaine’s mother replied as she
crawled into the back seat.

Elaine shoved the back door open and looked at what was left of their Jeep. It
looked like a crushed pop can; the passenger door was mangled with a fence post sticking
out. Elaine looked at the cliff that lied about a hundred yards away from were the car
stopped. A trucker came running up to them asking if they were okay. He Took Elaine
over to his wife, who helped clean the blood off of Elaine’s face and hands. The police
officer asked Elaine and her mother to recall what exactly happened.

“I am not going to give you a ticket.” The officer told Elaine’s mother. “I think
you have learned your lesson.” Elaine’s mother nodded. The officer gave them a ride to a
gas station where they waited for a friend to pick them up.

"Shocking" - Jenn Schram

During a mid-summer afternoon in 1985. I was helping my father collect nightcrawlers for a fishing trip.  Better than merely watering the yard and waiting for the worms to crawl to the surface of the earth, my dad always used the “worm-shocker”.  This antiquated device was simply a metal rod, with a wooden handle - which was attached directly to a power cord. When plugged in, the electricity was connected directly to the metal rod - which was then placed in the ground.  Within moments, worms would crawl to the surface, trying to escape the 120V pulsing through their usually peaceful soil.  Dad had watered the lawn and I was poised and ready to collect nightcrawlers in my bucket. I was 7 years old.  I had observed my father use this tool several times and called to him in the garage that I thought we had collected all the worms in this spot - I asked if I could move the “worm-shocker” to the next spot.  Dad yelled back that I could move it, but to make sure to only touch the wooden handle.  Feeling quite proud of myself, I bent down in the damp grass to tug the shocker free from the earth.  As it came to the surface, it’s weight and momentum caught me off guard and with my free hand I accidentally grabbed on to the metal rod.  If you’ve never touched an electric current before, you may not know that your muscles contract when the voltage makes contact with your body.  So, my hand was stuck grabbing onto the electrified metal rod. I began to scream and my body began to bounce and jump around the front yard.  I tried to pry my hand loose with my other hand, but then the current grabbed  onto my other hand.  Now, I was completely attached to this hot metal rod, bouncing and jumping around the yard.  I remember looking toward the house, but I couldn’t see dad anywhere. I could see my mother, in her purple robe, standing in the front door.  I could hear my little brother screaming and watched as he began to run circles around our car in the driveway. My ears felt like they were full of cotton - sounds were muffled and strange.   Bouncing and screaming and mom and zapping and neighbors and grass and jumping.... and then …calm.  Dad had unplugged the shocker.  My brother was still running around the car and the scream I was hearing was my own. I had blisters on the palms of my hands, but no other injuries.  My dad has assured me for years that when he saw what had happened he walked directly to the outlet and unplugged the cord, that I had only touched that rod for a few seconds. It felt like an eternity.

"The Zigger From Way Back: A Tale of High School Badassery" - Nicholas Taylor

I used to be awesome. You may not believe me but I was bad-effing-ass. I even said the word “effing” is a euphemism for, with reckless abandon as cool kids are wont to do.  But this story is about badass words of a different sort. The most cutting turns of phrasecontain no maledictions. The enemy’s heart is above his belt, and only the most elegant
invective will suffice.

My junior Honors English teacher, Robert Crawford, is Idaho’s former Poet Laureate. I know that because he reminded us every day, whenever he felt his authority had been challenged or simply desired a self-esteem boost. During our poetry section, he would speak of some literary device, then with feigned off-handedness mention that if we wanted
to see a great example of said device, we could always buy his book.

(It was self-published.)

One day, Crawford berated the class about our poor test scores, repeating the conventional
justifications of a lousy educator. “If you get bad grades it’s because you didn’t try, not
because I’m a bad teacher,” he groused, excusing himself from the only measure of his
effectiveness. Meanwhile, state governments conspired to strip teachers of their collective
bargaining rights, and nobody seemed too concerned.

My classmates were content to let the clock run out on his diatribe, practicing for their
futures as disgruntled employees and beleaguered spouses. As for me, I was and remain
to this day a proud malcontent. I’m counter-cultural, I’m a hipster, if you zig I’ll zag even
though I’m a zigger from way back. My heart racing with petulant elation, I raised my hand.

“This is English, our test scores are relative. They’re based entirely on your opinion. I can’t
argue my grade in Math because if I’m wrong, I’m just wrong. I could argue my test score
with you, but that would require I stay to talk with you and I really don’t like you that
much.”

Cue the collective gasp. I bathed in the electric silence, awestruck by my own magnificence.
Crawford stared at me, aghast at my audacity, my arrogance, and my unparalleled
badassitude. I returned his gaze, stone-faced, daring him to do… something. I hadn’t
thought that far. My only plan was to throw a match into the powder keg and laugh
hysterically, like an arsonist or Donald Rumsfeld.

“Okay,” he said, his voice colder than when he talked about writers more successful than
himself. “Does anybody else have an explanation for your low test scores?”


Crawford took my abuse lying down? Gotham was supposed to devour itself! The crafty
bastard refused my catharsis and won by a draw. I wanted him to hit me. I craved carnage!

To sink the knife in deeper, he gave me a B for the semester. In college, similar stunts
earned satisfying F’s from less calculating minds. For his masterstroke, my most hated
teacher taught me the only thing I learned in high school: sometimes, the only way to win is
not to play.