by Harry B. Sanderford

An untended Ferris wheel turns slowly against a smoke streaked sunset. The tattered sails of beached sailing ships wave cheerless gray and brown party flags over soldiers of every stripe. Ragged throngs too weary to separate by uniform sit on their helmets rolling tobacco or passing unlabeled bottles, the bitter local spoils of a global contest no longer possible to score. Some drink greedily thankful for another day, others drink just as fiercely regretting the very same thing. One soldier considers a childhood memory of snow falling on a boardwalk that no longer exists. The snow he knows will still fall, but this cannot be my life he thinks, to melt into a puddle, swirling in the gutter like so much dirty snow.


Harry B. Sanderford, author of Bananas, is a Central Florida surfing cowboy who'd sooner spin yarns than mend fences.