Robert Scotellaro's stories and poetry have appeared, online and in print, in a variety of magazines and
anthologies, including Ghoti, VerbSap, 971 Menu, Boston Literary Magazine, The Laurel Review, Red Rock Review,
Northeast Journal, Long Story Short, Six Sentences, The Vagabond Anthology, Macmillan and Oxford University
Press collections and elsewhere. He is the author of several literary chapbooks, three books of poetry, and
the recipient of Zone 3’s Rainmaker Award. Born and raised in Manhattan, he currently lives in California
with his wife and daughter.
anthologies, including Ghoti, VerbSap, 971 Menu, Boston Literary Magazine, The Laurel Review, Red Rock Review,
Northeast Journal, Long Story Short, Six Sentences, The Vagabond Anthology, Macmillan and Oxford University
Press collections and elsewhere. He is the author of several literary chapbooks, three books of poetry, and
the recipient of Zone 3’s Rainmaker Award. Born and raised in Manhattan, he currently lives in California
with his wife and daughter.
The Twelfth Sign
"Make sure you keep an eye on that chicken," Susan calls through the open deck door. "I'm making us salad."
"Alright," Cody calls back as he peers at the heavens - the chicken drippings hissing onto the charcoals and smoking up briskly.
"I mean it, Cody."
"Okay, okay," he assures. Susan is unquestionably a "Shredder", he thinks. He hadn't figured out all the details yet for that
particular "sign", but nagging would be high among its immutable traits.
"Dang it," he mutters, as he adjusts the telescopic settings, squinting at the final constellation on his list - the only one he
hasn't redefined. Since his retirement, and the purchase of a high-powered telescope, he's reinvented astrology. Replaced the
old symbols of the Zodiac with these new ones: The Paper Clip, The Pencil Sharpener, The Coffee Maker, The Shredder…
Renamed eleven so far, but this last one eludes him - the one he's temporarily named: The Thingamajig.
"Don't you find it an amazing coincidence," Susan said earlier, "that you worked in an office for forty years, and all these signs
you've 'discovered' involve office equipment?"
"It's what's up there," Cody explained, adding 'cynical' to his copious notes under Susan's Traits List. "Sorry, if I don't see
lions and fish and scorpions. You think those high priests or whoever came up with that crap back then had a Celestron 11-
inch CPC with StarBright XLT coatings? No - they eyeballed it!"
"Maybe you should get a part time job, Co," she suggested. "In an office somewhere. It'd be good... "
"Nuts," he said.
"Well, what about starting back with Dr. Duncan?"
"Double nuts!" he asserted, waving her off. Shredders were a meddlesome lot, he thought, checking his notes to see if he'd
included that.
"What is that thing?" Cody puzzles now with his eye to the lens, as Susan comes out onto the deck.
"Hell!" she shrieks, glaring at the blackened drumsticks flaming, irredeemably. "Let me see that!" She pushes him aside.
"Ooo," she says, peering through the telescope. "Wow! I see it. It's kind of a circular cluster, right?"
"Sort of."
"Oh, definitely - I recognize that. It's a giant asshole! - and it's got your name written all over it!" She gives him a look he's
seen a lot lately and stamps off.
"Humm," Cody muses, gazing into the eyepiece, wondering why he hadn't recognized it before. It is round (kind of), he
thinks. Like a disc - a computer disc! The twelfth sign! He bends over his notes: Keen powers of observation, he adds to
Susan's Shredder Trait List, beaming gratefully in her wake - thinking, as he marvels at the heavens, the old gal's still got it.
"Make sure you keep an eye on that chicken," Susan calls through the open deck door. "I'm making us salad."
"Alright," Cody calls back as he peers at the heavens - the chicken drippings hissing onto the charcoals and smoking up briskly.
"I mean it, Cody."
"Okay, okay," he assures. Susan is unquestionably a "Shredder", he thinks. He hadn't figured out all the details yet for that
particular "sign", but nagging would be high among its immutable traits.
"Dang it," he mutters, as he adjusts the telescopic settings, squinting at the final constellation on his list - the only one he
hasn't redefined. Since his retirement, and the purchase of a high-powered telescope, he's reinvented astrology. Replaced the
old symbols of the Zodiac with these new ones: The Paper Clip, The Pencil Sharpener, The Coffee Maker, The Shredder…
Renamed eleven so far, but this last one eludes him - the one he's temporarily named: The Thingamajig.
"Don't you find it an amazing coincidence," Susan said earlier, "that you worked in an office for forty years, and all these signs
you've 'discovered' involve office equipment?"
"It's what's up there," Cody explained, adding 'cynical' to his copious notes under Susan's Traits List. "Sorry, if I don't see
lions and fish and scorpions. You think those high priests or whoever came up with that crap back then had a Celestron 11-
inch CPC with StarBright XLT coatings? No - they eyeballed it!"
"Maybe you should get a part time job, Co," she suggested. "In an office somewhere. It'd be good... "
"Nuts," he said.
"Well, what about starting back with Dr. Duncan?"
"Double nuts!" he asserted, waving her off. Shredders were a meddlesome lot, he thought, checking his notes to see if he'd
included that.
"What is that thing?" Cody puzzles now with his eye to the lens, as Susan comes out onto the deck.
"Hell!" she shrieks, glaring at the blackened drumsticks flaming, irredeemably. "Let me see that!" She pushes him aside.
"Ooo," she says, peering through the telescope. "Wow! I see it. It's kind of a circular cluster, right?"
"Sort of."
"Oh, definitely - I recognize that. It's a giant asshole! - and it's got your name written all over it!" She gives him a look he's
seen a lot lately and stamps off.
"Humm," Cody muses, gazing into the eyepiece, wondering why he hadn't recognized it before. It is round (kind of), he
thinks. Like a disc - a computer disc! The twelfth sign! He bends over his notes: Keen powers of observation, he adds to
Susan's Shredder Trait List, beaming gratefully in her wake - thinking, as he marvels at the heavens, the old gal's still got it.
Robert Scotellaro
