Eulogy for Lead

My grandfather liked to paint lead miniatures, redcoat British riflemen and coal-colored Zulu warriors with brilliant spears. He would wax poetic about square formations and Michael Caine, talk about each individual figure as though they led deeply introverted lives. On hot summer mornings I'd wake with my child's eyes and see: all those soldiers shifted from their positions, playing out an historical drama that only my grandfather knew. Grandfather survived the brutality of the Pacific Theater. Now he lays forever asleep, something inanimate, molded by ancestral pressures unknown, moved with care, another lead actor in some endless recursive performance.

From Guest Contributor John K. Webb

Little Red Riding Hood And The American War For Independence

Red waited on the river bank, her nervous eyes on the church tower, repeating the instructions to herself: One if by land, two if by sea.

When two lanterns appeared, she jumped on her pony and raced into town, shouting to every townsperson she encountered, "The British are coming! The British are coming!"

Unfortunately, her red riding hood proved a poor wardrobe choice, considering the enemy was particularly famous for their red coats.

Red became the first casualty of the war. She may have died prematurely, without ever getting to say goodbye to her grandmother, but she died a hero.