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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v096) (the July 2011 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:						This writing also appears in this 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback “America the Lost” Order this 6" x 9" ISBN# book:

Order this writing in the book Prominent Pen dirt edition		get the 324 page May-August 2011 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

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Career Advice

Justis Mills

    His lower jaw encroaches on his throat, while the upper engulfs his nose. His fingers are loosely clumped into spades, halfheartedly directed. The delicate nerves that clenched his fists are transplanted in his shoulder blades, doubly jointed with extra limbs that leave him always hunched. His bones are hollow; his blood is thin. His skull is remodeled to a point: eyes above the vertex, beady and sunken, searching for something that shines.
    Men in black suits tell him it will be impossible, offer alternatives. Men in blue collars shake their heads, laugh, and spit. Men in white coats implore him to reconsider. He does not reconsider. He finds a man in a red smoking jacket, with dark glasses over twinkling eyes. They shake hands.
    His ex wife has the house, kids. Says she liked how he looked at her, mistook it for love. Common mistake, really, and she doesn’t ask for half the money. She takes the house because he’s always at work anyway. Takes the kids for other reasons. They play on the roof, say daddy used to stand there and stare, dream of the day he comes back.
    Work is not going well. People are scared to take the plane. He is not as rich as he used to be, or young. He finds peace on the way to 20,000 feet, staring out the window at them. He thinks of that time at school and smiles. The pressure of landing splits his head with pain. He does not ever have an affair. Wife thinks he does. Wife does, he thinks. He dares not ask.
    Twenty years old, he is successful; he flies all the time. Meets a girl who stares at him, across the aisle. He stares back and the headache doesn’t come. Misses them outside the window. Next time, he sings inside his skull. Next time for sure. He translates their reply, their tiny voices strained: “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.”
    He is sitting in a circle on the floor. Everyone is laughing, even the teacher. She stops them, smiles. It’s just so very cute.
    “Don’t be silly,” she says. “Of course you can’t be a bird when you grow up.”

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