So since no one besides Mike and Kyle entered the story contest last year, it sorta ended. So I am going to post Kyle's story today in honor of his effort. Kyle who partially win the contest, so for a prize, you can have something in my apartment, if I approve it first.

Anyway, here is Kyle's story

On Paul's fourteenth birthday, his father had given him a Red Devil condom in a foil envelope. The surprise had sprung from an unassuming rectangular package that was carefully wrapped in newspaper and sat alongside a pile of others that differed only slightly in their sizes and colors. When the time finally came for his mother to put out her cigarette and scream for the amateur sports heroes to abandon the field for a tattered afghan laid on the wooden floor, Paul had already been standing for ten minutes at the imaginary line his mother had drawn at a five foot distance from the gifts. When the crowd and its chaotic clamor had gathered, Paul didn't seem to notice as he grazed through the pile of geometric treasures and ran his fingers along their surfaces just in case the contents were printed in Braille on the outer wrappings. He had almost looked over the neutral looking cube of newspaper until his eyes fell on a D and traced the proceeding A and D scrawled in pencil on its top. The brash hurriedness and irregularity of the text sprayed his face with sweat too quickly to distinguish excitement from fear and his palms grabbed the package with an instinctual force just short of crushing in the corners. It had been almost four years since Paul had heard from his father, but he immediately recognized in the letters the aggression he'd seen bursting from the grasps of the police officers as his father was pulled out of his bed and dragged away. An impatient c'mon from a spoiled neighbor named Ricky who Paul never liked (or invited) jarred him out of his debilitating confusion and he glanced up to his mother for some direction. She sheepishly looked down into her yellow coffee mug to contain an obvious concern. With an exhausted wave of her weathered hand, she passively communicated the decision she had made earlier in day when she had found the package in the mailbox: that he needed to be old enough to protect himself. Paul's mother had not only been left alone, but left alone with the heavy responsibilities of dealing with thoughts that she had brought this into their lives, of explaining to herself daily that she had no reason to suspect anything like this, and to somehow fix Paul. And she was tired. Paul began picking at the corners of a piece Scotch tape with a hesitance that was perceived as preserving the newspaper, but was really a combination of indecision and making the moment with the consciously inappropriate but warmly familiar touch of his father last as long as possible. When Paul's pull on the tape was followed by a long strip of ripped paper, he let himself ravish the rest and revealed a tattered cardboard box that was as light as air, but boasted of 50 Flat sided Horseshoe Nails. Paul saw his mother pull up on her waistband and glance uncomfortably into the kitchen. He strategically opened the flap of the box to briefly keep the contents for himself in the crowded room. The silver foil wrapper was like Paul had seen contain spicy peanuts, though he didn't recognize the brand. Paul ripped the edge of the foil and pulled out a golden circle that he raised in the air with a delighted confusion. A disconcerting yelp accompanied the clumsy line of Paul's mom darting over, grabbing the token from Paul's' hand, and scampering out of the room. Paul didn't see for years the mental image that his mother saw of his impaired father sitting dirtily in the dark, enjoying the deepening of his assertion into the vulnerable boy. Her burst had spilled a small bit of lukewarm coffee on the collar of Paul's new green sweater which he rubbed with concern and his index finger. Ricky asked when the cake could be eaten.

Well... I suppose...