the high fiction project
I relate to these characters and can put myself in a position where, was I not distracted by this giant road trip and the company of a good friend, these are thoughts I would be thinking at the sight of a stranger like me, and the confusion of the intimacy I hold outside of the studio. The following stories were made in conjunction with the High Five Project body of work made with Rex Delafkaran.
-Ethan, 1 of the 2 hands in took to make this work
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May 30, 2025
Quartzite, AZ
The heat outside was blinding, but inside a gem shop in Quartzsite, Arizona, the fluorescent lights felt harsher, buzzing like they might snap. Two peculiar figures stepped in—one bundled in a parka despite the desert sun, the other unkempt with a beard and long hair tied up with a shoelace. Before the shopkeeper could finish greeting them, the man in a parka pulled out a .45 and said not to react.
The unkempt man started loading rocks that looked valuable into a duffle bag, as the man in a parka stared at the shopkeeper, hand on his gun, shaking. The shopkeeper stayed quiet, confused at the event that was currently transpiring. Not a whole lot of drama goes on in West Arizona, much less a small town shop robbery, and for just a couple of cheap rocks. As if on cue, another weird event occurred in Quartzsite, two young adults driving out-of-state plates parked in front of the shop and proceeded to walk in. Panic swelled, and suddenly the
unkempt man bolted through the back, bag in hand, pushing into the white glare of the Arizona street. Alone, the man in a parka lifted his gun toward the
shopkeeper, gestured a shhhh, and proceeded to slip beneath a low store table next to him (gun still pointed). Then the door jingled.
Two customers drifted inside, a man and a woman, both with chest-length, dark, black hair and graphic tees. The shopkeeper acted casual and asked where they were from. They drove from Chicago, and were on their fourth day of a road trip, headed for Los Angeles. The thief crouched deeper in his nervousness, face pressed against the dust-coated floor, pulse hammering. After chatting with the shopkeeper and joking amongst themselves for about 15 minutes, the man and woman from Chicago purchased a couple of bracelets, and walked out of the store. From under the table, the man in a parka stared at them outside the glass store door, waiting until they drove off. The woman excitedly shouted something to the man, then walked up close to high five him.
May 27, 2025
St. Louis, MO
The final note from the choir still hovered in the rafters when Marlene and Ezra stepped out of the church. Beyond the parking lot, the Arch gleamed in the
distance. Marlene lit a cigarette with deliberate slowness, her hands steady despite the confession she had rushed through minutes before. Ezra tucked his Bible under his arm and said something about feeling renewed, though even he could hear the hollowness in his own voice. They lingered at the top of the steps, watching Market Street shift with the flow of cars and blurred voices from passing radios. Ezra asked what Marlene thought of the service, and the new reverend, but Marlene just blew smoke and looked the other way as if it were an answer. Ezra rattled on about grace, mutual accountability, and a future free of old sins, all while his eyes kept flicking toward the woman across the street, her bright red top catching the light.
His eyes shifted again, this time to a car with out-of-state plates that had just pulled into the church lot. A man and a woman exited the vehicle and gawked at the Arch in the distance as they chatted and laughed with each other. Ezra thought about approaching them to bitch about how the lot was only for church parking, but quietly decided it wouldn’t be very Christian of him to yell at a
couple of strangers from out of town. The two strangers high fived, and as if
perfectly timed, the bells inside the church rang again, commanding everyone back.
Without a word, Marlene and Ezra turned in the opposite direction, their
shadows stretching long into the city’s pavement, neither mentioning that they had lied—to themselves, to God, and to each other.
May 28, 2025
Clinton, OK
Lila peered into Harper’s Western Wear, scanning rows of leather she knew weren’t right. Since the divorce and losing custody of Ivy a year ago to her dick-of-an-ex-husband, whom she exclusively referred to as “the Asshole,” Sundays had become awkward one-hour visits, her daughter’s attention often fixed on a phone. “She is a teenager after all,” Harper often thought to herself while still resenting her ex-husband, knowing he wasn’t the type to lecture Ivy on the importance of quality time.
The rodeo was coming, and Ivy needed boots—the Asshole had mentioned it one Sunday before dropping her off—and Lila clung to that need like a pool noodle in deep water. Somewhere there was a perfect pair that could close the growing distance between her and her daughter. The last week had Lila routinely skipping lunch, driving from town to town every sunny Oklahoma afternoon in search of the store that held the perfect pair of boots, one caramel brown, not too rich, but not beige, with the right style of broguing, maybe one that had flowers or stars in its pattern. In a dream she had last night, Ivy wore those caramel boots, smiling at her, until they both split apart into sand.
As Lila pulled into the Boot Outlet in Clinton, her fourth store of the day, she felt her phone buzz. Ivy had just sent her a photo of a pair of smooth black suede boots that her father had given to her as an early birthday present. Leaning the side of her head on the steering wheel looking out at the parking lot, Lila sat there quietly and spotted a pair of customers walking out of the store, a man with long black hair and a denim button-up, and a woman in a graphic tee with braided hair holding a pair of boots in her hand. As they walked up to a station wagon with out-of-state plates, she heard the woman yell “they’re perfect” to the man right before they high fived, and Lila started to cry.
May 31, 2025
Costa Mesa, CA
Rocky Raccoon pawed through a tipped-over trash can, the plastic bags slick with last night’s rain and bleach. Just his luck. It hardly ever rains in Orange County.
He got his name from a song by the Beatles, which he heard on the speakers of the suburban backyards every now and again when he was on the hunt for food. Every sound in the suburbs felt like a threat—the hum of a garage door, the sudden bark of a dog behind a fence. He hadn’t eaten more than scraps in days: half a crust, an orange rind, a smear of something sweet on Styrofoam. The suburbs glowed all night, pretending the California sky never got dark. Grass was clipped too short, trees too few, and every bin smelled of poison or plastic. He missed the little creek that was paved over, the berry thickets that became cul-de-sacs, and hated the goddamn mega-mall they built in the neighborhood for its blinking lights and noisy revolving doors that were made solely to keep him from sleeping.
A pair of headlights grew closer as a station wagon with out-of-state plates pulled into a nearby driveway. Rocky prayed for a couple of teenagers with leftover fast food in greasy brown paper bags to walk out, tossing their greasy buffet table in a bag towards the garbage as they walked into their suburban paradise. Only two weary, tired adults walked out, however. It looked as though they had been driving for hours, and hadn’t had a bite to eat, much less share with Rocky. The man who was riding shotgun hugged the woman who seemingly just finished a long shift of driving, and after chatting for a while, they high fived. The man got in the driver’s seat and headed north as the woman walked into the house. Rocky let out a sigh and moved on to the next trash can.