Craig Tyson Adams

Pursuing the life of a pug. A boxer. The smell of sweat and deprivation matched the humidity and heat from the lights. There had to be a better way of making a living. That time has passed. Once the taste was acquired, it was all over. I could smell the leather before it hit me. The twist of the hide tore at the flesh, leaving it raw only to be hit again. My arms ache after weeks of repetition and work. The effort that lasted until there was nothing left, only to push it further. The dull feeling of energy quickly dissipating made the body wish it had not consumed so much fast food hidden against orders. The time that should’ve been used to do more roadwork, as the endurance and lung capacity are now being felt at maximum capacity.  A flash of bright light makes me realize I need to bob and weave and move my head as another flash, while I think, tells me to hurry. My calves scream, but my thighs and back are moving perfectly in unison.  A spray of blood surprises me but then ...

A few days ago, I was on Facebook, and someone posted a photograph of their family. The picture was of their grandparents and their children before they left for California during the Great Depression. The kids were grinning and having a good time posing for the picture. The adults looked weathered and grim-faced. They were obviously apprehensive about the journey. The family’s move to California was arduous, but turned out well. They grew and thrived. Living through those times made people stronger. It gave them a sense of character and responsibility, mostly. Being forward-thinking helped make society improve. For the last 90 years, our civilization has progressed at a rate unseen in human history. We have gone from a millennium where horses were the primary source of power to where we are today with a multitude of power sources. What seemed unfathomable to the family in the photograph is now commonplace. For example, we have taken it for granted that we now have medicines that can w...

It is early evening. The rush hour traffic echoed from downtown into Emily Doliva’s neighborhood. Cars whooshed through the rainy streets. Their headlights reflected in the open water pooling up on empty sidewalks.  Emily stopped by the market on her way home from her job as a foreclosure administrator and picked up items needed to prepare dinner.  She knows for sure that her boyfriend Kevin will like this one. He says he likes her cooking, but she is sure he only tells her that to appease her. Emily pulls up to the walk-up she has rented for the past two years. She notices the same white cat she sees every day, dashing for cover behind the garbage cans. “I forgot to take the trash out again.” She thinks to herself. Her job has her stressed. Emily Doliva was a mortgage broker until the economy fell apart. She got laid off, but has now found a position cleaning up the mess that, in her own small way, she helped create.  “I hate carrying trash down two flights of stairs; ma...

  It was early morning when the janitor crew made it to the snowbank from Moose Creek, where they had to clean up after the previous nights festivities. “This is the dumbest place to have a pole dancing festival thing. Whoever thought of this has a screw loose.” the head of the crew said.  The idea came from 22-year-old Roman Bombardo of Fairfield, New Jersey. One night, Roman and a couple of his friends were in a local strip club when he had an idea. “I was thinking ‘Where would be the place that would have the best place to have a pole dancing bar?’ The most unique location possible. They already have them on islands and in cities and stuff. Where would be a place we could promote? My buddy Pate said Poland. I thought, nah, that’s too big. Then it hit me. The North Pole! I bet nobody thought of that before!” That set the wheels in motion. The plan to fund his new project was simple. Roman had just gotten a multi-million dollar inheritance coupled with a settlement from an in...

IT TAKES MORE THAN RARE SKILLS TO KEEP THE DREAM ALIVE   A baseball memoir Prompt: Write a memoir-style (first-person) entry for a baseball player (fictitious or real) who’s struggling at the pro level and feels like they might be demoted back to the minors after just making it up to the majors for the first time. Respect the game and it will pay you back. I’ve heard that from coaches ever since I first picked up a baseball. Sometimes my focus wandered and another line of work sounded like a good idea. In a moment of weakness, this felt like one of those times. Looking back, the call came in while I was pumping gas in my truck. My agent was on the phone saying he heard I was going to get called up. Former teammates of mine had received the same call from their agents and had been let down, so I decided I would not think about it until it was real. The cost of living for a minor league baseball player is another world from being in the show. Every cent is counted and budgeted, espec...

 I had just stopped for a smoke break when the UFO landed. It had been a slow night driving a cab in Grover’s Mill, New Jersey and the fog had settled over a lonely meadow. It was a perfect place for some peace until the streak of light appeared. The craft settled silently as it landed. So quietly that the local dogs didn’t make a sound. I stood there a bit stunned, when an opening appeared in the dark, semi-smoldering craft. From it drifted a being that looked like a kewpie doll encased in a six foot high jellyfish. Rubbing my eyes, looking and rubbing them again, I tried to visually decipher what the hell I was looking at. When it was close to me, I felt an unnatural calmness. I should’ve been going into fight-or-flight mode. My brain was telling me to do just that, but my body was serene. It was kind of soothing and enjoyable like a superb Indica and a glass of calming red wine. There was a trail of slime from where it had traversed the meadow to the side of the road where I w...