Craig Adams

My humble beginnings began with my parents. My father was an unidentified astronaut and my mother was Jacqueline Onassis. After the scandal, I was put up for adoption. I found my way to a small town in Southern California called Mira Loma. There I was raised with four other children. Since I was nine years younger than the one before me, they were the ones that told me I was adopted. The story has it that I was discovered on the front porch in a picnic basket. The nice lady that denied the story and claimed that indeed she was my mother did the best she could. The man that she said was indeed my father didn’t say much besides that he was hungry. He also had a prodigious ability to rent beer. I write every day, sometimes twice. I started this thing called writing when sitting on a bench looking out over Santa Monica bay one evening. Pondering my next move, a lobster with the face of Jayne Mansfield popped out of the water. “Hey, why are you sitting here when the whole world is a-spinning on? Get started doing what comes naturally!” And then it plopped back under the surface. Sitting there perplexed and in shock, it occurred to me to write down what had happened. Then it hit me like a thunderbolt! Should I be writing? There was a noise behind me. Standing there hunched over was one of our less fortunate. As I was being repulsed by this person’s overbearing fragrance, we locked eyes. A slight wry smile started to crease the dirt and crust-laden cheeks and the head nodded yes as he/she farted. It was a sign! Writing it shall be!