My First by Joseph H. Stryker
Monica’s place was no joke. Built with wood so fine it would make even the most steadfast futurist pine for a re-communion with nature. Nestled below shrub covered cliffs and other beach houses. It stood next to a strand of sand and seawater only accessible to those whose property it touched.
It was a place I envied. Seeing the photos she posted online of each sunset, all from the comfort of her bedroom, made my blood boil. She had an indoor hot tub, a reading room the size of my family”s apartment, and even her own personal gym. That’s why it had to be my first.
I’d done smaller things, sure. Trees, mailboxes, benches, and even an old car. They weren’t real firsts, though. I could always give this hobby up if those were it. Monica’s place was what made it a passion.
Nostalgic Nightmares by Joseph H. Stryker
I was young then, playing beneath the palm trees.
“You’re dead Angel,” said Frankie while pointing his right hand, which was shaped like a gun, at me. “It’s sad, but that’s the way of life. I’ll go make love to Eva Greece while you rot.” We both giggled. I was nine and he was eleven.
“Who the heck is Eva Greece?” I asked while rolling around on the grass..
“The Bond Girl!” He shouted as if I should have known. Two months ago we had sneaked into a showing of Casino Royale. Frankie became obsessed. After it was over he said, “When I’m old enough, I’ll move to Europe and become a cop.”
“James Bond isn’t a cop,” I told him.