Jen Schneider
My Name is Agent T.
F.G.W.W. — Fair games work wonders. First gather wayward wonderings.
You’d be surprised how many combinations are possible. Language rivals puzzles for never-ending entertaining.
I start and end each day this way. At least two a day. Like cups of dark coffee — no milk / no cream — and hot showers — extra shampoo / lavender soap. In honor of my father. He took his coffee black. We’d pack him a thermos before he left each morning. Now, my mornings begin like his. I repeat the letters, then string together more words. We’d spend hours solving puzzles.
My name is Agent T. and I have just been assigned a shift at a downtown motel. I’m in training, and I wear my badge with pride. My dad was an agent and I always knew I’d follow in his footsteps. I accepted the assignment without hesitation. My father wouldn’t have it any other way. Neither would I.
The mission was non-descript. The locale and destination described in vague terms.
The assignment came through via text.
--
Assigned Agent: T. Gunther
Destination: Downtown Motel
Specifications: Undercover. Three weeks. No contact. Daily documentation.
Objective: Intelligence gathering.
--
I followed orders. Packed light. Checked in by noon.
The motel was no 5-star establishment. I was housed on the third floor. The room was neither Yelp nor Triple AAA worthy. It contained the necessaries. A twin bed. A toilet. No unidentified roommates / though I spotted an ant family and a few mouse droppings. Nothing regular housekeeping couldn’t handle.
The carpet was thin. The walls, too. My feet brushed old nail heads. Floor panels creaked as I walked. I heard voices — altos and sopranos — in rooms to my right and left. Above and below, too. The air was heavy. Somehow, I felt like I had been sent to prison.
The room’s third-floor walls were stenciled. The yellowed floral paper had been treated. A mix of pencil lead and indelible ink, I believe. I noticed thin grey lines, stenciled over the wallpaper. Numbers within varying geometric shapes. I would have spent more time studying the stencils, but I was on assignment and assignments had routines.
Television romanticizes our work. Dad had warned me.
“Ninety-five percent of the time it’s routine. Coffee and chatter. It’s the remaining five percent that makes the job special. Your time will come.”
I was patient. Spent mornings in the lobby — with coffee. Afternoons at the bar. Evenings in the restaurant.
“The devil’s in the details,” Dad would day. “Capture details, capture crooks.”
I captured as many as possible. A ballpoint my constant companion. My side-palm shaded with evidence of my work. Until the evidence disappeared.
On Day 3, my journal went missing. I showered and left it on my desk. The room door locked.
I called my team. The agency. No answer.
Fear set in first. Instinct second. I focused on the walls. The stenciled paper. Dates — Dad’s birthday. My hometown. Stencils with meaning.
I ran to the thin white door. Locked. From the inside out.
Called the front desk. Five rings. No answer.
Searched for clues. Under the carpet. Behind the toilet. In the sink drain. Found two cameras, though they appeared broken. Found two stink bugs, though they appeared dead.
Beneath the mattress — folded paper. A puzzle.
1. Find _Fabric_
2. Locate _Glass_
3. Answer _Why_
4. Assert _Who_
Then, I knew. Dad told me there’d be tests.
His initials were F.G. / Agent Frederick Gunther
Mine — W.W. / Agent in Training Wiggle Worm
I remember the morning he left. We shared pancakes and a crossword. After finishing the puzzle (in record time), he pushed aside his plate.
“Wiggle Worm. Watch,” he said.
He used the blueberries as props. Tiny agents dispersed over the pancake canvas.
“Everything sweet holds dangers,” he said, and popped a blueberry in his mouth.
“Tests, everywhere”, and pointed out a blemish on a berry and a crater in a cake.
“Your time will come,” he said and squished a blueberry on my nose.
“I love you,” he called before closing the front door.
“I love you, Dad,” I replied, blueberries still on my nose.
I never saw him again. But he was with me. Always. I focused.
The motel’s bathroom sink dripped. I felt like I was back home. The sink in Dad’s old room wouldn’t stop leaking. We tried everything. Dad said it was a test — of problem solving. Persistence. Patience, too. Dad was right. We were being tested then. I was being tested now. I had been trained for this. I was getting out.
Dad would be proud. I took the pale blue cotton sheet and rolled it into a tight log. I carved my Dad’s initials in the glass pane, like he taught me. Just enough to break — not shatter — the window glass. I applied toothpaste from a tube to the pane and pulled towards my chest. My heart beating, the broken pane fell gently into my arms. The wool blanket, placed underneath, caught stray shards.
Next, I used the bed frame as a base. Dad had taught me knots and I was a good student.
My exit secure, I slid out the window — careful not to make a sound — and grasped the fire escape stairs.
As I left, I could have sworn the shadows on the stenciled wall danced. Waved.
I was being tested. I was an agent. Also, my father’s daughter. I was free.
That afternoon I returned to headquarters. I had passed.
The sign read:
1. Find
2. Locate
3. Answer
4. Assert
My father’s agent number stenciled on the sign’s perimeter. A picture of the motel in the bottom right corner.
“Your father trained there, too. Room 3B”, my supervisor explained.
“Your father’s old hat and uniform, they’re yours.”
I turned and saw Dad’s olive-green jacket and navy overcoat on the table. The empty arms waiting for me. My journal placed in the middle — just where he’d want it to be.
I love you, Agent F.G.
on curtain calls & carefully curated chaos
the wristwatch stopped keeping time as i & other members of the audience continued to wait. patience turned upside down. all eyes on devices. oversized limbs locked & souls shifted in undersized seats of worn corduroy fabric. life on the wooden stage remained busy. shadows circulated in curious patterns. all actions anonymous. the stage’s velvet curtain — a heavy blend of emerald-green and crimson — shielded all activity. rumbles. roars. rare sightings. three. two. one. voices whispered. cameras readied. the room shook. curtains parted. all eyes reconfigured & refocused. devices down. attention consumed. all playbooks on pause. rapunzel let down your hair, a shrill soprano shrieked. quiet the beast, an alto answered. the room spun. a family of moose instigated mayhem as an unidentified object approached. tickets checked. the spring musical at the local high school is ready to commence. let the show begin. consume. encore.
On Goose Bumps & Bumps in the Road
The goose sat alone, all feathers tucked, in the middle of the gravel path. Careful not to move. Its comrades several hundred feet away. Carefree and in perpetual motion. Consuming bonfire scraps and greasy grains. “Is it hurt?” a girl in denim cut offs asked. “Aren’t we all?” a guy with a tan and an oversized belly tucked in an undersized tank replied. “Goose me,” the girl joked as she pushed her elbow into the man’s middle and flung her pig tails. “Hey,” he scoffed then stooped. Before the stoic goose, the guy softened. Middle and all. “It’s the foot, got punctured,” a park ranger interjected as his brown leather boots crunched stray leaves. “Chasing a spider. I’ll keep my eye on him. Make sure he eats.” “Quite a feat,” the guy replied as he stood. An air of respect where a shadow once lingered. “We all need a hand with bumps in the road,” the ranger explained. “Amen,” said the guy. “Like Charlotte,” said the girl. The ranger, the guy, and the goose shrugged, then smiled. Hungry webs everywhere.
12 (plus) ways to dress (conceal then hide) a devil
i spent seven days sleeping on a wooden board in the new jersey pine barrens. deep slumbers in soft nylon cocoons. dark nights quilted of rem sleep with no interruptions. everyone else awake. fearful of the jersey devil. my own sleep full of a peculiar peace. draped in white lace & cream linen. dreams of forever ever lands (never before realized) in deep & dark forests. ebony skies specked of crystal and diamonds. rambles and rumbles through grassy meadows. palettes of lemon-line, evergreen, and chartreuse. overgrown stalks. cotton tailed bunnies. all creatures at the hop. fifties music on speakers. dances of and for every moment. soles in cherry canvas lace-ups. running never an option. my own stalker, a devil dressed in blue jeans and lycra, waiting. in plain sight. our bus due back at noon of day seven. exhaust pipes streamed dragon breath. moments after deboarding the white wagon pulled closer. all motors on. all engines ready. my being absconded. my belonging collected. no time for recollections; the devil was hungry. too many missed meals. too much sleep. we had a deal. seven days. no refunds. i was just one egg. of a baker’s irregular dozen. scorched. scrambled. fried. the devil’s breath always hot. hungry. the devil’s burner always on. my bum always ready. ultimately nothing more than a chicken with no legs. baked. broiled. fried. ready to serve. fresh meat daily. never runny.
12 (plus) ways to dress (conceal then hide) a devil
Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. She is a Best of the Net nominee, with stories, poems, and essays published in a wide variety of literary and scholarly journals. She is the author of A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Daily Puzzles: (Un)locking Invisibility and On Crossroads and Fill in the Blank Puzzles (Moonstone Press), and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.
My Name is Agent T.
F.G.W.W. — Fair games work wonders. First gather wayward wonderings.
You’d be surprised how many combinations are possible. Language rivals puzzles for never-ending entertaining.
I start and end each day this way. At least two a day. Like cups of dark coffee — no milk / no cream — and hot showers — extra shampoo / lavender soap. In honor of my father. He took his coffee black. We’d pack him a thermos before he left each morning. Now, my mornings begin like his. I repeat the letters, then string together more words. We’d spend hours solving puzzles.
My name is Agent T. and I have just been assigned a shift at a downtown motel. I’m in training, and I wear my badge with pride. My dad was an agent and I always knew I’d follow in his footsteps. I accepted the assignment without hesitation. My father wouldn’t have it any other way. Neither would I.
The mission was non-descript. The locale and destination described in vague terms.
The assignment came through via text.
--
Assigned Agent: T. Gunther
Destination: Downtown Motel
Specifications: Undercover. Three weeks. No contact. Daily documentation.
Objective: Intelligence gathering.
--
I followed orders. Packed light. Checked in by noon.
The motel was no 5-star establishment. I was housed on the third floor. The room was neither Yelp nor Triple AAA worthy. It contained the necessaries. A twin bed. A toilet. No unidentified roommates / though I spotted an ant family and a few mouse droppings. Nothing regular housekeeping couldn’t handle.
The carpet was thin. The walls, too. My feet brushed old nail heads. Floor panels creaked as I walked. I heard voices — altos and sopranos — in rooms to my right and left. Above and below, too. The air was heavy. Somehow, I felt like I had been sent to prison.
The room’s third-floor walls were stenciled. The yellowed floral paper had been treated. A mix of pencil lead and indelible ink, I believe. I noticed thin grey lines, stenciled over the wallpaper. Numbers within varying geometric shapes. I would have spent more time studying the stencils, but I was on assignment and assignments had routines.
Television romanticizes our work. Dad had warned me.
“Ninety-five percent of the time it’s routine. Coffee and chatter. It’s the remaining five percent that makes the job special. Your time will come.”
I was patient. Spent mornings in the lobby — with coffee. Afternoons at the bar. Evenings in the restaurant.
“The devil’s in the details,” Dad would day. “Capture details, capture crooks.”
I captured as many as possible. A ballpoint my constant companion. My side-palm shaded with evidence of my work. Until the evidence disappeared.
On Day 3, my journal went missing. I showered and left it on my desk. The room door locked.
I called my team. The agency. No answer.
Fear set in first. Instinct second. I focused on the walls. The stenciled paper. Dates — Dad’s birthday. My hometown. Stencils with meaning.
I ran to the thin white door. Locked. From the inside out.
Called the front desk. Five rings. No answer.
Searched for clues. Under the carpet. Behind the toilet. In the sink drain. Found two cameras, though they appeared broken. Found two stink bugs, though they appeared dead.
Beneath the mattress — folded paper. A puzzle.
1. Find _Fabric_
2. Locate _Glass_
3. Answer _Why_
4. Assert _Who_
Then, I knew. Dad told me there’d be tests.
His initials were F.G. / Agent Frederick Gunther
Mine — W.W. / Agent in Training Wiggle Worm
I remember the morning he left. We shared pancakes and a crossword. After finishing the puzzle (in record time), he pushed aside his plate.
“Wiggle Worm. Watch,” he said.
He used the blueberries as props. Tiny agents dispersed over the pancake canvas.
“Everything sweet holds dangers,” he said, and popped a blueberry in his mouth.
“Tests, everywhere”, and pointed out a blemish on a berry and a crater in a cake.
“Your time will come,” he said and squished a blueberry on my nose.
“I love you,” he called before closing the front door.
“I love you, Dad,” I replied, blueberries still on my nose.
I never saw him again. But he was with me. Always. I focused.
The motel’s bathroom sink dripped. I felt like I was back home. The sink in Dad’s old room wouldn’t stop leaking. We tried everything. Dad said it was a test — of problem solving. Persistence. Patience, too. Dad was right. We were being tested then. I was being tested now. I had been trained for this. I was getting out.
Dad would be proud. I took the pale blue cotton sheet and rolled it into a tight log. I carved my Dad’s initials in the glass pane, like he taught me. Just enough to break — not shatter — the window glass. I applied toothpaste from a tube to the pane and pulled towards my chest. My heart beating, the broken pane fell gently into my arms. The wool blanket, placed underneath, caught stray shards.
Next, I used the bed frame as a base. Dad had taught me knots and I was a good student.
My exit secure, I slid out the window — careful not to make a sound — and grasped the fire escape stairs.
As I left, I could have sworn the shadows on the stenciled wall danced. Waved.
I was being tested. I was an agent. Also, my father’s daughter. I was free.
That afternoon I returned to headquarters. I had passed.
The sign read:
1. Find
2. Locate
3. Answer
4. Assert
My father’s agent number stenciled on the sign’s perimeter. A picture of the motel in the bottom right corner.
“Your father trained there, too. Room 3B”, my supervisor explained.
“Your father’s old hat and uniform, they’re yours.”
I turned and saw Dad’s olive-green jacket and navy overcoat on the table. The empty arms waiting for me. My journal placed in the middle — just where he’d want it to be.
I love you, Agent F.G.
on curtain calls & carefully curated chaos
the wristwatch stopped keeping time as i & other members of the audience continued to wait. patience turned upside down. all eyes on devices. oversized limbs locked & souls shifted in undersized seats of worn corduroy fabric. life on the wooden stage remained busy. shadows circulated in curious patterns. all actions anonymous. the stage’s velvet curtain — a heavy blend of emerald-green and crimson — shielded all activity. rumbles. roars. rare sightings. three. two. one. voices whispered. cameras readied. the room shook. curtains parted. all eyes reconfigured & refocused. devices down. attention consumed. all playbooks on pause. rapunzel let down your hair, a shrill soprano shrieked. quiet the beast, an alto answered. the room spun. a family of moose instigated mayhem as an unidentified object approached. tickets checked. the spring musical at the local high school is ready to commence. let the show begin. consume. encore.
On Goose Bumps & Bumps in the Road
The goose sat alone, all feathers tucked, in the middle of the gravel path. Careful not to move. Its comrades several hundred feet away. Carefree and in perpetual motion. Consuming bonfire scraps and greasy grains. “Is it hurt?” a girl in denim cut offs asked. “Aren’t we all?” a guy with a tan and an oversized belly tucked in an undersized tank replied. “Goose me,” the girl joked as she pushed her elbow into the man’s middle and flung her pig tails. “Hey,” he scoffed then stooped. Before the stoic goose, the guy softened. Middle and all. “It’s the foot, got punctured,” a park ranger interjected as his brown leather boots crunched stray leaves. “Chasing a spider. I’ll keep my eye on him. Make sure he eats.” “Quite a feat,” the guy replied as he stood. An air of respect where a shadow once lingered. “We all need a hand with bumps in the road,” the ranger explained. “Amen,” said the guy. “Like Charlotte,” said the girl. The ranger, the guy, and the goose shrugged, then smiled. Hungry webs everywhere.
12 (plus) ways to dress (conceal then hide) a devil
i spent seven days sleeping on a wooden board in the new jersey pine barrens. deep slumbers in soft nylon cocoons. dark nights quilted of rem sleep with no interruptions. everyone else awake. fearful of the jersey devil. my own sleep full of a peculiar peace. draped in white lace & cream linen. dreams of forever ever lands (never before realized) in deep & dark forests. ebony skies specked of crystal and diamonds. rambles and rumbles through grassy meadows. palettes of lemon-line, evergreen, and chartreuse. overgrown stalks. cotton tailed bunnies. all creatures at the hop. fifties music on speakers. dances of and for every moment. soles in cherry canvas lace-ups. running never an option. my own stalker, a devil dressed in blue jeans and lycra, waiting. in plain sight. our bus due back at noon of day seven. exhaust pipes streamed dragon breath. moments after deboarding the white wagon pulled closer. all motors on. all engines ready. my being absconded. my belonging collected. no time for recollections; the devil was hungry. too many missed meals. too much sleep. we had a deal. seven days. no refunds. i was just one egg. of a baker’s irregular dozen. scorched. scrambled. fried. the devil’s breath always hot. hungry. the devil’s burner always on. my bum always ready. ultimately nothing more than a chicken with no legs. baked. broiled. fried. ready to serve. fresh meat daily. never runny.
12 (plus) ways to dress (conceal then hide) a devil
1. wrinkle sheets of cotton meadows. rose & rumble.
2. lather leather of oil & eloquence. both overt & covert operations.
3. cart eggs. brown. large. medium. by the dozen.
4. card minors. discard meters & metrics of minor annoyance.
5. stir regularly. extract rarely.
6. run with abandon. turn not to burden.
7. freshen linens. spot check for drippings (& dropped pits).
8. moisturize sandpaper skins. memorize scorched lines.
9. float yolks. shell covers. crack facades.
10. fry queries. dial (& drill) answers.
11. warn of dragon breath & deviled brandy.
12. dissect for defect. declare destiny.
13. dress (conceal then hide) the devil.
Jen Schneider is an educator who lives, writes, and works in small spaces throughout Pennsylvania. She is a Best of the Net nominee, with stories, poems, and essays published in a wide variety of literary and scholarly journals. She is the author of A Collection of Recollections, Invisible Ink, On Daily Puzzles: (Un)locking Invisibility and On Crossroads and Fill in the Blank Puzzles (Moonstone Press), and Blindfolds, Bruises, and Breakups.
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