Lost In Space

It is a sweltering summer evening, and Dad bursts through the back screen door, home early from work, carrying a paper bag stuffed with green frilly leaves. “Look,” he beams unpacking the strange-looking vegetable. “Something new. It’s called Romaine lettuce.” He tears off a long tapered leaf and glides it over my upturned hand. “Try it,” he grins. “It flies—like a supersonic r-r-rocket!”

It is the age of Sputnik, Explorer, ballistic missiles and orbital launchers, and we kids are all enthralled. I bite into the crisp, tall leaf, savor the pleasantly cool, exhilarating blast and I am riding high.

From Guest Contributor E. C. Traganas

Hindsight

Debbie got high last night.

Her conscience weighed on her, but not enough to refuse her friends. There was no explicit peer pressure. Rather, not joining in would have meant that she'd forever be considered apart from them..

Once the high came on, her reservations disappeared. It was the best decision she'd ever made.

Twelve hours later, lying in bed as the guilt tries to set in along with the nausea, she's no longer so sure. Hindsight suggests getting high was a mistake.

Debbie remembers kissing Eric Bradshaw and decides that no one listens to hindsight. No one cool anyway.