I intended this book of short stories to be precisely 50 tales, some loosely based on real occurrences, some told to me by fabricators and significantly altered to my tastes and whims, and some fictionalized by a good or bad recurring dream I just can’t shake. Nonetheless, these tales turned into 66, primarily because I can’t sleep unless I write every night. Each tale is followed by a Shakespearian sonnet, although Shakespeare is present only in the format. The sonnet itself is far from Shakespeare’s style in terms of content and writing, but I’ve always been fond of his ability to say so much in 14 lines. You’ll see references to hobos in several stories because my dad lived as a bonafide hobo when he was young. In my early 20s, I followed in his footsteps and packed up a sack I carried on a stick with a canteen of water, a few bucks, and a back-pack pocket book that told me how to make edibles out of grass or whatever I could find in the woods. Of course, I learned how to steal since there weren’t many edibles to be found; my back-pack pocket book referred to plants I never did see nor was able to identify. From experience, I can say theft is much easier. Neither my dad nor I were hobos for long, him for a couple years, me for a solid 4 to 5 months. It’s no fun being a hobo, but everyone should try it some time. If you’re afraid of fast carnival rides, jumping out of airplanes or climbing mountains with faulty gear, then being a hobo for awhile is more tolerable than you’d think. And as a fallback, picking up a craft like stealing is a favorable option when you’re hungry, although for me there was always fear of getting caught.