(Art by Jordan Casteel)

I started by wishing him well but ended wishing I killed him. All of them actually. They called me all sorts of names. Imagine that. These well-wishers, perfect during perfect times. One guy in particular, swelled up in a way money and attention provide-the holiest of personal wars.

‘This is a wishing well you…’ He allowed the on lookers looks to finish his sentence. I applauded him for that, considering money helps angry people finish lives.

He was dressed like a smart man, what I imagine an ivy league professor to wear. Leather man purse. I think the pants are called tweed, bow tie, dark shirt.

He must operate in a realm above us common folk, dressed like that. He was younger than I imagine a professor to be though, head full of quaffed hair and a styled beard. I did see specks of grey. Maybe he was too old to still really fight for something.

I have to admit, standing knee deep, picking up coins, soaked, splashing audience members trying to join, I thought ‘I’m getting paid for cleaning.’ Blocking out the thought of having to mop him up.

‘You are disrespecting peoples wishes.’ He continued.

I was glad he didn’t say prayers. I might’of killed him. Everybody knows prayers are free. That’s really what wishes are anyway.


I write to breath. I write to give. I write for happiness.

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