Ralph Pullins

When the spotlight hits the stage, it illuminates a single microphone on a stand.  The restless crowd goes quiet.  I walk out from the wings, in a black suit, no tie, shirt untucked.  It is very apparent that all the workouts and disciplined eating have really paid off.

I stand there for a moment, and appreciate the vast darkness that seems to swallow all sound.  There is the occasional throat clearing from the audience, but all eyes are on me.  
I lean to the mic.  "Hi there," I say. "Thanks for coming out tonight."  There are a couple claps and as is always the case in these situations, some character in the back yells, "You're welcome!"  I smile and wait for them to quiet down again, then I clear my throat.  I reach into my inside jacket pocket, and pull out a single piece of paper.  I unfold it, look at it for a moment, then reach into my other lapel and pull out a pair of half rim reading glasses.  Behind me in the darkness there is movement and …

Somewhere out in the darkness of the forest there is a path.  Not everyone who looks for it finds it, and not everyone who finds it was looking for it.  Many who take the path wish they had not, and many that pass it by wish that they had the courage to take it when they had the chance.  

At the end of the path is a clearing. In the center of the clearing is a standing stone, weathered and ancient, the once sharp corners rounded by time and by touch. It is a hidden place, a place of loss and pain and sacrifice, but also a place of rest, a place of freedom. The front of the stone is stained, layer after layer, cracked black and dusty brown and wet shiny red.

We speak of sacrifice, but what does that mean?

The kid hangs onto my arm, clings in fear.  He is maybe eleven, and even though he is big for his age, he feels small.  He shakes and clutches to me, flinches at every sound.  He knows that the world hurts, knows too young that mostly we live and die alone.  He has been left and aban…

I write things without knowing what I am supposed to do when they are done.  when I finished the first draft of Antiartists, I literally Googled "I finished my novel. What do I do now?" If I feel compelled to write for whatever reason, I always write first and figure out what to do with it after.  Sometimes these strange orphans find a home, sometimes they just wait until they come of age and then go out into the world alone.  This is one of the latter.  I don't remember when or why I wrote it, but I think it is beautiful and thought I would share it since it never got adopted.  It looks like a poem, and it is, but it is also a story.

The Impossible Distance
Off the late shift, walking and staring up at the stars, the impossible distance Between me and them, them and each other The impossible distance…
I worked, and I didn't speak to another person It is the nature of the job, a simple thing soon to be automated Soon I will be redundant.
At home awaits cold darkness, an ind…

In all likelihood, I don't remember you. I can't remember your name or your face.  Your name tag, your prompting, your cues, all of it will mean nothing to me, and I'm sorry.

I'm not really sorry; I only have so much room in here and frankly you didn't make the cut.  I need the space, you see, for the original two hundred fifty Pokemon, the Indigo League Pokemon, and the only real Pokemon if you ask me, and holy shit I can't believe I remember the Indigo League and I can't remember my own phone number or who I walked into prom with.  I was nominated for Prom King, I know that, and I know I didn't win.  I was runner up, second place, silver medal, the first loser.  I walked in with some girl, not my prom date, but my counterpart on the prom court that was nominated as well, and I swear I can't remember her name or her face. Whoever she was, she didn't win, either.

I was obviously not Prom King material.  Our class may have had a pretty progressiv…