Craig Tyson Adams

 How unbeknownst to the family, a distant relative with OCD became a legend. While having a rare dinner with family members recently, we began talking about our maternal great-grandmother. She was quite opinionated and, with a fair amount of prodding, could get hysterically funny. She would verbally lambaste us whenever she felt we were being rude or overtly obnoxious. It was all in jest and when the good natured ribbing finished, we’d all be in maniacal fits of laughter. Granny was also the family historian. She had tales that were passed down through generations and we were all amazed by her almost total recall. Her memory was astounding as she could remember small and even trivial details. One cousin of mine wrote down Granny’s stories and, if there was enough detail, she could confirm many of them.  For instance, an uncle of ours knew the Wright Brothers. Another cousin served as a messenger under General Pershing in WWI. One family member attended one of Buddy Holly’s last concert

  IN 1914, A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE TOOK PLACE A story about how the spirit of fellowship could momentarily disrupt the cause that soldiers swear an oath to uphold A British soldier peeked up over the trench at the German trench opposite him and saw a string of lights. He asked another soldier what it was about. As they looked closer, they saw they strung the lights through Christmas trees the German soldiers put up along the trench line. The Germans began singing Christmas songs and, after a few, the British also started singing, but not as well, the Brit noted, as the Germans. Soon, the soldiers waved white flags, emerged from their posts, and walked out into no-man’s-land to greet them. This was the first Christmas of the brutal war. It littered the area between the two armies with the dead. It was the bloodiest fighting of the young war and had reached a stalemate. The soldiers had dug in. What had begun with a feeling of hope and confidence had given way to disillusionment and despair.

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 makes me

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; maybe I can get

EMBRACE THE STRUGGLE Focus on motivation While scrolling through YouTube videos, I ran across a snippet of Richard Nixon answering a question during an interview and it reminded me of Tyson Fury. It sounds a bit convoluted but stay with me here. The former president was talking about how life needs a purpose. All the people that he knew from swanky parts of the world spent their time drinking too much, talking too much, and thinking too little. People that were millionaires and spent their time hunting or fishing or golfing or traveling didn’t know life. What makes life worth living is purpose. A goal, a fight, the battle, even if you don’t win. Tyson Fury needs the fight. He needs to train. Tyson Fury needs the distraction because left to his own devices, he spins into the darkness of depression. As the undefeated heavyweight champion of the world, Fury has scaled the heights of his chosen profession. He worked his way up from being an Irish Traveler repaving streets with his father,

  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 insurance c

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, especiall

 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 was s