My boyfriend is stuck in a tree.  Great.

He looks good up there, all pale and panicky.  I like seeing him embarrassed.  It was his idiot move to climb up there in the first place.  I cannot radiate sympathy.  I have never been able to.  I’m sitting on the lawn winding my ghostly music box.  I refuse to run and find help because I’m nobody’s servant.

My boyfriend is stuck in a tree.  Wonderful.

It’s definitely a good thing that this happened.  He’s been getting quite uppity and full of himself lately.  Being trapped in a tree for a few hours will knock him down a few pegs.  He won’t talk quite so much about his indie rock shows after this.  He won’t compare himself to David Bowie.  He won’t buy other girls chocolate éclairs and cappuccino.

My boyfriend is from France.  He pronounces my name “So-Fee-Yah”, which I like.  Sometimes it’s “So-Fie-Yah” when he’s being funny.  Every once in a while he is extremely funny.  It’s one of his redeeming features.  That and high cheekbones.

My boyfriend is stuck in a tree.  Stellar.

His striped sweater looks good.  It’s an April kind of sweater, but it’s still March.  I cannot wait to graduate and go to college.  I cannot wait to waste my summer with The X-Files.

My grandmother gave me the music box.  The song freaks people out.  It’s the kind of song that makes you think of empty halls leading to empty rooms that were once filled with sadness.  My grandmother is dead.

My boyfriend is stuck in a tree.  Lunar.

It is becoming nighttime and I’m still ignoring his pleas for help.  He’s going to be pissed at me when they finally get him down, but I don’t care.  I’m going to lie on the grass for a little longer.  The first bat of the season is flying in dizzying spirals across the velvet sky.

So-Fee-Yah, you must go get help.  Please.

Good one, lover.  You’re stuck in a tree.  Just like a cat.  I could lure you down with tuna, I bet.

I wonder how many stoned teenagers the FDNY has to pull out of trees per year.  Probably at least thirteen.

My boyfriend is stuck in a tree.  Great.

Michael Giddings writes stories about junk food and the laughter of cartoon dogs.  He occasionally performs music under the stage name Mikey Parasite.  A graduate of Sarah Lawrence College, Michael is currently pursuing his MFA at Northern Michigan University.

Lori got swept out to sea about two hours ago. Yes. Sure did. Playa Grande. I saw her in the zone, then checked again, beyond the surfers. She waved. She waved again. Fuck. I handed my glasses to Mesa and Reef and yelled Stay on the beach. I ran. Heart pumping crazy. Hit the surf. Swam. Big MFer comes. Under or over? Over. Wrong. Swim through another, under this time, and another and another. Where is she? I’m fuckin dying. There. I spot her. Blurred. I get there. Somehow. She’s scared. I’m scared. I’m glad you’re here, she says. I’m spent. The waves are breaking. Big. Gotta get back. Hold on I say, hold on to my waist. I’m swimming hard with what I got left. Not much. We surf one, we surf another but this one sucks us down. And out. GD I think this is it. Something in my mind clicks, swim diagonal.  Diagonal. Then a rock. A fucking rock in the sea. Five seconds on a lucky rock. Recharge. Mouth just above the froth. Next wave knocks us down. It’s enough. We surf another and gain. I see the beach, the final line of breakers. Crashing. Touch. Sand. Mesa at the shoreline. Reef building castles. Friday the 13^th. Luck.

Richard Mark Glover has published short stories with Oyster Boy Review, Oracle, Weird Year, Sinister Tales, Canary, and won the 2004 Eugene Walters Short Story Award. His journalism has appeared in the San Antonio Express News, West Hawaii Today, Ke Ola and the Big Bend Sentinel where he won the 2010 Texas Press Association Best Feature Award, medium size weekly.