Dr. W. A. Frost's Ides of Revolution

“Just one more week, Mr. Winslow. The shop is slow, my boss reduced my hours. But I have enough coming in this next check to pay off some of the arrears…” David pleaded, his voice quivering. After several bad months, he was behind on rent for the very first time in his life. Was that enough to convince the landlord for some patience and leniency? Of course not. As he droned on about the lease and the state laws, David kept typing furiously on his laptop. All the stress of daily bills and daily life had taken it’s toll on his degree, and his grades had started to slip. What he needed was an injection of funds, and within the next few days. He hung up the cell phone, hit the submit button on his essay, and immediately starting hitting the job boards. His new Applicant Headshot proudly sat atop his impressive résumé filled with internships and volunteer work. A deep breath and he started searching. First listing: Receptionist Needed, part time, 7.25/hr. Definitely not enough to even cover...

 By 5:30, Ezra was finally off work at the local diner. He’d clocked out, barely finishing his side work as he was bolting toward the old clinker in the parking lot. The announcement was going to be dropped by 6, so he had about thirty minutes to get to Vinnie’s house off Lakeshore Drive; that was across town, but if he was lucky enough to make the bridge before the fishing boats came back in, he could make it! He threw the old Saturn into reverse, flooring it enroute back into town. A little ding on his phone signaled Titus had finally texted him back. “yo you still comin for the oz?” Titus wasn’t often a man of many words, especially in text. Ezra sent a thumbs up, speeding down the winding road as the mist began to sweep into the harbor. The pines were waving in the wind, wooden fence gates swung from right to left… The wind was beginning to pick up. Passing over the bridge, he cheered, throwing his fist into the air as he saw the drawbridge rise up behind him to let the parade ...

  You sat, embarrassed in the backseat of the hurdling car. What started out as a simple recon mission became a lot deeper real quick, and now you’re off to some unknown place with this drunk and high punk douchebag making faces and taunting you. He sits there, pulling his lips from side to side, sticking his pierced tongue out, letting it get mere centimeters from the side of your face. The smokey timbre of his breath, and the horrendous stench of age-old marijuana permeated your nose. Irritated, and already anxious in your predicament, you turn to the little shit and shove him back in his place. “Fuck, man! When am I gonna see Travis? You better be taking me to him!” The punk, in his inebriated stupor laughs, lounging back against the side of the van, kicking his filthy, reeking feet onto your lap; the trashed Vans and ratty socks did little to contain their rank musk. “You’ll see him… He wants to see you too.” He winks, teasing your cheeks and nose with his footstench. “Besides,...

  “Tyrone, what the hell did you bring me?” Dion looked the reporter over, examining every observable ounce of him. He was average. In every way. Not exactly the type of guy he usually would dream of using. Yet, there was something deep down that was intriguing. Maybe it was the uphill battle that he knew would ensue? Perhaps it was the challenge? The potential? So, as Tyrone held his tight grip on Manuel’s shoulder, Dion slowly changed his tune. “Fine, man. Just leave him here” Tyrone released his grip on Manuel, and left the two alone in Dion’s kitchen. He leaned against the counter, still to all outside appearance to be thoroughly unconvinced. Manuel, understandably shaken, pulled out his small notepad and pen, sitting down at the cheap birchwood table. “I trust Tyrone told you why I’m here, right? The piece on gang violence here in East New Orleans? The Times-Picayune is really interested in it.” Dion’s eyebrow raised, giving Manuel a much needed respite from his worry. “All so...