Some heartless monster had stolen my car’s antenna, but misfortune is for the idle.
I spotted my quarry in a crowded Target parking lot. With casual purposefulness, I pilfered the replacement part. The hastily scrawled note I left on my victim’s windshield said: Tag, you’re it!
My conscience was clear.
J. Ian Manczur once entered a small Oklahoma town in search of a gas station only to be immediately driven out by armed rednecks.
I’ve never been one for salvation. And being baptized in a sink in some god-forsaken prison seemed a bit desperate.
The pastor, though, was certain. He had written an essay and sent a check. Now, his paper cross could save us sinners. He would forgive what the dead never could.
J. Ian Manczur wrote this story.
The gas station attendant in nowhere, Nebraska, was majestically framed by a full-sized American flag. After niceties, he inquired about my accent.
“I’m from Jersey.”
His eyes misted, “That’s near 9-11.”
“Some might forget, but not me.”
I briefly wondered if people in Poland obsess over tragedies in Spain.
J. Ian Manczur wrote this story. ALIVD MONSTRVM SIMPLICITER SVM.