Articles by ALonelyRiotCrew

“You two live in Nerdville,” Dad snapped. “Why doncha play baseball for real steada sitting at that table all day, rolling those goddamn dice?” He was referring to the World Baseball League, that marvelous horsehide fantasy game that I played with my kid brother, Robbie, throughout every summer day.

Dear diary, I’m a ten year old boy who probably won’t make it till eleven. I’ve got a sickness but I’m not sure what kind. All I know is that I’m not as smart as the other kids and I look different too. It’s sad so I won’t think about it now.

While a few math geeks appreciated Joshua Calisto’s obsession with predictability, the general population thought he was just weird. A genius yes, but weird. Like most gifted mathematicians, he spent his life in obscurity, few ever seeing his work, fewer still understanding it.

Now, at last, Calisto’s moment had arrived.

You didn’t say anything as you gripped the bird in your fist. My parakeet, bright yellow like a small lemon, hung there very still, its head just above the knuckle of your thumb. The look on your face spoke your evil.

When I was seven my cousin John put a water pistol in my ear and pulled the trigger, laughing so hard he peed himself while I stumbled around the patio shaking my head and crying. Earlier that morning he’d boasted that everyone in the world was shit, except me, and someday he’d make the shits pay. That summer John was only nine, his arms covered with self-inflicted bite marks and Magic Marker skulls.