Author name: Jenny Ng

At 7:00 a.m. sharp, the old biker slammed his grease-black knuckles against the dead factory’s time clock—and thirty seconds later the bulldozer screamed as the ground spit out lunch pails. I was there for content. That’s the rotten truth. I’d filmed him before—the town legend everyone called Ghost, real name Caleb Harrigan—rolling up on a […]

Part 1 – Left on a VA Bench at 11:47 PM My son left me—an 85-year-old Vietnam veteran—on a metal bench outside a locked VA door at 11:47 p.m., my oxygen tank half-empty. The metal bled cold through my coat. The security light hummed, turning my breath into smoke. I had my DD-214 folded in

Part 1 – Boots in the Aisle, Sunflower High I heard the boots before I saw them—seven sets, heavy and certain, cutting straight down the aisle of our pinning ceremony—then the man in front lifted something small and impossible over his head: a child’s yellow motorcycle helmet painted with sunflowers, held like it could break

She pressed POLICE into my left glove and FIRE into my right.“Hold them, please—I’m busy keeping my hands from shaking.” The girl couldn’t have been more than six. Freckles across the bridge of her nose. A pink dress under a too-big black windbreaker with reflective strips. Her fingers were cold, though the July sun was

Part 1 — The Box and the NDA He set a velvet box on my Harley’s tank like it belonged there and slipped a packet of papers under the bungee cord. “Sign the NDA, Ray,” he said, smiling the kind of smile that has publicists on retainer. “Or you lose access to Maya tonight. Clean

Part 1 — The Jar The kid didn’t ask for a selfie—she upended a greasy mason jar onto my boots: $7.28 in quarters and nickels, and a whisper, “Please teach my mom to ride again.” We were in the kind of parking lot that smells like frying onions and wet asphalt after a quick noon

Part 1 — The Note that Roared Forty phones swung toward me the moment a seven-year-old shoved a pink notebook into my vest and, in thick crayon, warned: “Back by 2 or someone gets hurt.” Fluorescent lights hummed over the grocery aisles. I was just a six-foot biker in a scuffed leather jacket, buying coffee

Part 1 — They Called It “Beautification” Before We Left the Cemetery They posted a photo of my brother’s “removed clutter” to the building’s Facebook page while I was still holding damp soil from his grave in my hand. The caption said: “Beautification Day success! Eyesores gone.”The “eyesore” was Luke’s motorcycle. I drove straight from

“He doesn’t get to die today.” The little girl stepped into live traffic with her palms up, chalk-red handprints flashing like flares. Brakes screamed. Horns exploded. Somewhere to my right, a semi juddered, its trailer shivering like a scared animal. I lay twisted on the shoulder, cheek on hot asphalt, tasting dust and pennies. The

I pulled the red safety cord on the garbage truck because what I saw in the bin wasn’t trash. It was a folded flag—blue field tight as a heartbeat, white stars pressed into the shape of a memory—and beside it, a small wooden box with a name burned into the lid. The compactor’s plate was