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Allura 50

I looked up at the old iron sign dangling over the entrance by a single rusty chain. It had lost a few letters over the past hundred and fifty years or so. Now the words “Memori Cemete” swayed back and forth with the occasional squeal of ancient metal. “You sure we want to go in?” I asked, looking over at William who stood beside me with his hands in the pockets of his well-worn slacks. “I think we have to.” The dusty shoulders of William’s jacket seemed to bounce with his shrug. “Only choice we have left.” “But we haven’t tried...” I started to say. “We’ve tried everything, Frank,” William interrupted me, and I let him. “You’re right,” I conceded, knowing he was. We were out of options. No other choice. Dead end, if that’s not too ironic to say. “I’m just tired, Frank.” He looked over at me then, and I could see it in his pale eyes. “Well, let’s just call it weariness.” He gave me that broken, half smile of his before looking back into the darkness in front of us. “We’ve traveled together a lot,” he said, and I could hear the weariness of which he spoke. “Before and after.” I simply nodded and let his words hang in the night air for a while. “Let’s go a bit farther then,” I said finally, nodding toward the entrance. I picked up the shovel I’d rested against my leg and started walking. William followed suit a second later. “Been a while since we were here last,” I said, trying to fill the silence. “Sign’s a bit more run down than I recall.” William looked up only briefly as we walked between the tall stone pillars that held the rusty old sign. He didn’t say anything as we passed the first of the wide stones standing in the overgrown lawn. He simply shook his head sadly and dragged his feet along the rocky, weed-covered path. Several gnarled, elderly trees grew beside the path and I near stumbled over the many roots protruding from the ground. “It’s all really gone downhill,” I observed as we passed more stones. Some had fallen over, and more than a few lay broken and half-covered with grass and soil. The writing on many was so worn or dirt encrusted that I could barely read them. I tried to straighten my jacket as we walked, fastening it with the one remaining button. I wondered if William and I looked as unkempt as the cemetery. “You remember where they are?” I asked, unsure myself as to where we were going. I looked off into the darkness on either side of us, and across the many faces of those worn and broken tombstones. “They’re just ahead here, up on the right,” William said, nodding in that direction. We both came to a stop at the edge of the path, and I followed his gaze. It was dark, and the standing stones seemed even older, if that was possible. “You really think it’ll work?” I asked, looking over at William. “That shaman said it should,” he answered, continuing to gaze into the darkness. “But if it doesn’t, we just keep going, I guess.” I could hear the fear of hopelessness in his voice. I didn’t bring up that the old man had never tried it before, and had no proof that it would work. William knew it all as well as I. “Let’s go then,” I said, and together we stepped off the path and into the tall grasses. Our destination was only a few dozen paces away, and we soon stopped before a pair of ancient and worn stones. The writing on each was faded but readable. The names, I knew, and the dates, so long ago. “Died of influenza,” I read, “1919.” Both stones held the same epitaph. “It’s 2020 this year, right William?” He only nodded. Neither of us spoke as we pushed our shovels into the ground. The soil was hard but forgiving as we worked our way down one scoopful at a time over the next two hours. William’s shovel hit wood first and I heard him scraping away for a few minutes before I, too, struck the lid of the coffin. Several minutes later, we stood together, looking down into the fresh pair of deep holes. “Why do you think they did it?” I asked, not for the first time. I looked again at the stones and the names there. “What would you have done, Frank?” William asked. “They’d lost so much that I just don’t think they could stand to lose any more.” “It’s happening again, you know,” I said. “It is,” William replied. “I just hope today’s generation don’t try what our families did” He stood there, hands in his pockets like they so often were when he was lost in thought. “Do you think it’ll work?” I asked again after a minute of silence. “I hope so, Frank.” “Alright, William, after you,” I said, turning to the hole he had dug. “It’s my job to get you there first.” “But, how will you...” William started. “I’ll figure it out,” I interrupted. “Don’t worry about me.” I put a hand on his shoulder as I spoke. “It’s time to go, William.” I helped William climb back into the hole. The lid of the coffin was open, though half of it was broken and splintered. I could see that the once-white silk of the interior was rotten and covered with a century’s worth of dirt. The casket I had unearthed was in a similar condition. He looked up at me as he lay down in the empty coffin. “Goodbye William,” I said simply. “Goodbye Frank,” he said. “You’ve been a great big brother.” With that, William pulled the lid closed. I could still see his face through the broken half of the coffin as I began to shovel the dirt back on top. Somehow, I knew it had worked. I knew that William was finally at rest again. I looked over at the headstones as I worked at refilling the hole. The names “Willaim Henry Northcott” and “Franklin Edmund Northcott” stared back at me. If I could have cried I would have, but there had been no tears for many years. More than a century, actually. We’d taken ill at the same time, my brother William and me. And we’d died side by side within hours of each other. The Spanish Flu had taken so many, even before we’d gotten sick. Our wifes and children had somehow been spared, but not so our parents and countless others. How our families had brought us back, we never found out. We both woke in our coffins and had to dig ourselves out. When we finally made our way back to our families, they were shocked that whatever they had done had worked. But, it had been too long, our bodies were too far decayed. William and I spent the next century as far from people as we could. But we were tired and ready for the end. So we found a wise man who told us a way. I turned to my own grave and looked down at my coffin. It wouldn’t be easy, but I could do it. I could pull the dirt down on top and follow William back to rest. “There! Zombie!” I turned at the shout. “Get it!” Six men were running toward me holding lights. Some held hatchets or machetes. I heard a gunshot and felt something hit me in the arm. I felt no pain, had no loss of motion. I took one last look at the mob before turning to flee. None of them were wearing masks and I felt sorry for the lot of them. Would they, too, end up with their names on a broken stone in an overgrown cemetery? My foot caught the edge of a root before I’d taken a single step. I felt like I was falling forever when I landed hard in my coffin. The lid slammed closed on top of me and I looked up through the splinted hole. I began to panic as the dirt I’d inadvertently knocked loose spilled into my grave, covering my coffin. As I closed my eyes, I heard voices somewhere in the distance. William’s, my wife’s, my children’s. All there, all calling me to rest.

Lucy moved her hand slowly, her eyes fixed on her pout lips, trying hard to control her breathing. She wanted her lipstick to be perfect, but the wine had already gone to her head. She knew she would have to slow down, but the wine was giving her the courage to go through with it. Satisfied, she dropped the lipstick back in her bag and kissed the air, smiling at her reflection in the mirror. She gave her little black top a tug and readjusted herself, to show a little more cleavage. She had been much less provocative when Dean made a move before. Although at that time, Lucy was not interested in him. She still wasn’t, but now she had a use for him. He was not going to be able to resist her tonight. Back at the table, the guys had arrived. The girls were still seated, and the guys had positioned themselves to guard their girls from other men, marking their territory, Lucy thought. Dean, as she had expected, had squeezed in between Sandra and Jessica. He was holding a drink in one hand and leaning into Jessica, who was giggling at whatever he was saying. Lucy fixed her eyes on Jessica as she approached the table. Their eyes met, and Lucy grinned, the smile on Jessica’s face vanished behind a sheepish glare. “Hello handsome,” Lucy said. Dean looked up as she deliberately leaned way too far forward to pick up her drink, giving him an eyeful. He looked uncomfortable, not knowing where to look. Jessica on the other hand, sat staring down Lucy’s top. Was that envy Lucy saw? Jessica was certainly lacking in that department in comparison. “Please, don’t let me interrupt,” Lucy said, turning away from them both, but staying within Dean’s line of sight. Lucy did not hear Jessica giggle again. # Lucy waited at the bar; she was moving on from wine to cocktails. The mixologist always took an inordinate amount of time to prepare the drinks, but that was one way to slow down. “What are you doing?” said Jessica. She stood beside Lucy now, side on, with a pout like she had just down a sour shot. “I am just getting a drink, you?” “You know what I mean. I asked you not to go for Dean, and you’re flaunting yourself right in front of us.” Lucy shrugged, “Honey, I ain’t dressed like a nun, and I can’t help what God gave me.” Jessica sighed, “Just, please, don’t. Not him, for me, OK?” The mixologist finished her drink, “One Screaming Orgasm”, he said, as he placed it on the bar. Lucy looked to Jessica, “Just what every girl wants, right?”. She began to suck the straw and made her eyes go wide to indicate the pleasure of it and walked away from her. “For you, miss?” said the barman. “Do you do a Redheaded Slut?” emphasizing the name so Lucy could hear, but Lucy did not react. “I’m sorry, a what?” “Nothing, I’ll have a Gin and Tonic, easy on the tonic.” # As Jessica was at the bar, there was a seat free next to Dean. Lucy needed to sit down anyway, the high heels and the alcohol were taking their toll. “Excuse me,” she said as she staggered through to the gap, knocking over a bottle of beer. She tried to grab it, but just knocked it over faster. “Oh, sorry, sorry.” “It’s fine, it was almost dead anyway”, said Ben. She plonked down in the seat next to Dean, splashing some of her cocktail onto him. He frowned at her, with a sort of half smile. “Oh, I am so sorry, Dean,” Lucy said, patting down his shirt with her hand. “It’s, fine, don’t worry.” “I thought it would be you giving me the screaming orgasm,” Lucy said. “What?” “It’s a joke, my drink, it’s a...” “Yeah, I get it,” Dean said, without so much as a smirk at the pun. Lucy could see Jessica was coming back to the table. So, she turned in to face Dean, she placed her hand on his chest and whispered in his ear, “so how about it? Is your game as good as you make it out to be?”. She breathed out her hot breath onto his neck. That drives guys wild. In her mind, she imagined Dean getting flustered, maybe even blushing, maybe having the need to adjust the way he was sitting. She smirked to herself at the thought of that. Then his bravado would kick in and he would place his hand on her bare thigh, or on her waist, and take the bait. All on display for Jessica to witness. Lucy then began to imagine how Jessica would feel. Would she get that numb sinking feeling, like your heart has dropped to your stomach, or that feeling like you can’t breathe, making her run out of the bar. Ultimately, her goal tonight was to humiliate Jessica. If she had to go through with her provocations and have a half stimulating night with Dean to do so, then that would be a side bonus. It had been a while since she had taken someone home anyway. Tomorrow, she would put it down to the drink, and make it clear to him it was a one time only thing. He would not care, guys don’t, or so she thought. “Hey, stop this, you’re drunk?” Dean said, gently pushing Lucy off him. “What? I thought you wanted this, that you wanted me?” Dean laughed, “Yeah, but that was before. You’re drunk, Lucy. I think you should go home.” Lucy was now the one siting next to Dean, looking sheepishly at the now standing Jessica. “Is it her?” Lucy said. “Is what her?” Dean said. “Do you want her, is that why you don’t want me tonight?” Dean was lost for words, he looked to Jessica, and back to Lucy, looking for a way out of answering. “Never mind.” Lucy said, as she moved out from the seat. She could feel tears swelling up in her eyes. This was not supposed to be. Jessica was the one meant to be leaving disgraced and upset. “Lucy,” Jessica said, calling to her as she walked away. # Lucy walked out of the bar and along the river. People seemed to be mingled everywhere outside, making the most of the summer nights heat. Lucy could not find a place to be alone. Tears streamed down her face now. ‘Why are you crying?’ she thought to herself. She could not understand it. How could he have refused her? She was not that drunk, was she? “Lucy, stop.” It was Jessica, chasing after her. “Come to gloat? Twist the knife?” Lucy said. “What? No, what has gotten into you?” said Jessica. “I heard you, Jessica. Talking to Sandra at work. You said that you didn’t want me to get with Dean tonight. That it would ruin your evening. Why? Am I not good enough to be picked over you?” “Is that what all this was about? You don’t even like Dean.” “That’s not the point.” Lucy said, turning away from Jessica. Jessica stepped around in front of Lucy, “I’m sorry, Lucy. I don’t like Dean, well, not like that.” Lucy scrunched her brow, “What? Then, why did you say that to Sandra?” “I didn’t know how to say it, but it’s you, Lucy. I like you. I have never seen you with a guy, and you always avoid the advances from those vultures at work. I hoped that maybe, there was a reason for that. I was telling Sandra that seeing Dean all over you last time, made me, sick and jealous. I just didn’t want a repeat of that.” Lucy stared at Jessica, not knowing how to take it all in. Not knowing how to feel. Jessica placed her hands on the back of Lucy neck, and slowly edged in. Lucy was confused, and she did not pull away, she almost longed for what was about to happen, her heart raced in her chest. Jessica pushed her soft lips against Lucy’s, just once, then she pulled away, gripping Lucy bottom lip with her own lips. Lucy felt her bottom lip quiver as Jessica let go and exhaled sharply. “Now, we could both have some humiliating gossip for tomorrow, but I hope not. Go home, Lucy. See you in the morning.” And with that, Jessica returned toward the bar. Lucy stood by the river, watching as the city lights distorted and danced across the surface. Jessica had not been bitching about her after all. Jessica had feelings for her. There was a time when Lucy had questioned her own sexuality, but she never pursued it. All this tonight was designed to get at Jessica too; was this really about Dean, or due to some hidden desire for Jessica? Lucy placed her hand to her lips, reliving the kiss in her mind, remembering the sweet smell of Jessica’s perfume. She had never felt like that with a guy. She turned, and walked after Jessica. “Hey, Jessica.” She turned, and smiled, “Hey”. Lucy could not find the words, she did not even know what she even wanted to say. Jessica cocked her head, “What is it?” “Just shut up for a moment,” Lucy said. “Ok, but, are we just going to stand here and...” “I said shut up,” Lucy said. She set aside her reservations, putting it down to the cocktails, she wanted to know how she felt. She stepped up to Jessica, and paused just in front of her, their lips almost touching. She felt like everyone had their eyes on them. She felt apprehensive, looking around for any familiar faces, for a reason to stop. “If you’re going to kiss me, you need to...” Lucy could feel the vibrations of Jessica’s voice on her own lips, like electricity. “I don’t ask a third time, stop talking,” with that, Lucy pressed her lips against Jessica’s. They kissed, softly. Jessica placed her hand on the small of Lucy’s back, Lucy placing her hand on Jessica’s neck, as she had done to her just now. When she opened her eyes, all she saw was Jessica. No one else mattered.

“Take it dear. You look like you could use it.” I turned my head away from surveying the calm sea and looked down at the little old lady. She must have sidled noiselessly up alongside me while I was lost in thought, staring out at the monstrous vessel sliding ponderously along the calm waters of the Solent, imagining that it was off on a glorious voyage - more likely it was delivering a load of cargo, cars probably, to the Far East. Her outstretched arm hung horizontally before her, trembling with the weight of the small round pebble grasped within her upturned varicose fingers. Unsure how to react, but not wanted to insult her, I quickly reached out and took it from her. Relieved of its burden, her arm dropped to her side, fingers wrapping now around the handle of her shopping cart, one of those little cloth-covered ones on two wheels that all the elderly people in the supermarkets seem to have. She turned and hobbled off along the promenade towards The Green, cart clattering loudly on the uneven pavers. “Um, excuse me.” She’d gone a few metres before my mind caught up, but I caught up to her in a couple of strides. “Why did you give me this?” I asked. “Looks to me like you need it,” she answered, staring ahead and maintaining her rackety pace. Slowing to match her, I looked down at the stone in my hand, rubbing my thumb over its surface. “I look like a need a rock?” It was a question as much to myself as it was to her, which was good because she seemed not to hear or chose not to answer. We walked silently together past the Squadron, each squinting against the sunset glare shooting off the golden cannons guarding the battlements of the ancient, if diminutive, castle. I continued to stroke the surface of the stone, half expecting understanding to wash over me at any moment, occasionally glancing down at the tiny woman for a clue of some kind. She seemed to have forgotten about me entirely. “Is it a special rock?” I asked, as the high-end sea-front apartments alongside us gave way suddenly to the open expanse of The Green, a hundred-metre stretch of grassy park, pockmarked with concrete benches, and pebbly beach; pebbles that looked to my eye like very close relatives of the one still clutched in my hand. “They’re all special,” she said matter-of-factly, stopping and surveying the expanse of pebbles, white curls of her hair rustling in the breeze blowing softly off the water. “But that one’s the one for you.” She stepped off the path and onto the stones, dragging her cart behind her, barely managing to keep its ricocheting frame the right way up. About halfway to the gently crashing waves she stopped. Leaving the trolley standing alone, she picked her way nimbly in a wide circle across the pebbles, back bent deeply. Her eyes never left the ground and every now and then she would stop, stoop down further and peer intensely at one of the pebbles, picking the occasional one up before discarding it with a clatter amongst its equally unsuitable peers. Standing there watching her work, circle slowly expanding as the light grew more and more golden, I realised that I’d seen her before; right here doing exactly this as I passed by on my way home from the office. Not every evening, but occasionally. Of course, I’d never in my three years walking this commute stopped to watch her; never stood statuesque for ten minutes in the setting sun as the crazy old lady picked up stones on the beach. Why would I? I shook my head and turned away from her; turned for my little flat at the end of the promenade; turned for home. I rolled the pebble over in my hand before slipping it into my pocket. “Make sure you look after it,” her shrill voice called to my back as I walked away. “That one’s been my favourite for longer than I can remember.” \*\*\* “And?” My mom asked. “How are you doing?” She’d called me on FaceTime just a few minutes after I’d walked through the door. We spoke about once a week, sometimes less. I sat on the small couch in the corner of the kitchen slash living room. The wifi was playing up as it sometimes did so we’d turned the video off and were making do with a voice chat. “I don’t know,” I said, “sometimes I just wonder what I’m doing.” “What do you mean?” she asked, concern in her voice. “Just that...I don’t know...just what the point of it all is. Work for instance. It’s not like I enjoy it, or that I’m any good at what I do. I’m surprised they haven’t fired me yet actually.” She clucked at that. She always clucked when I made comments like that. “Oh come on,” she said, “you don’t mean that. Why would they fire you?” I fixed my attention on the pebble in my hand, turning it over and over, inspecting the variations of its grey-blue-brown colouring. It felt coarse against my skin; the etchings of centuries of erosion all over its surface giving it the texture of fine-grained sandpaper. “You’re just having a tough time at the moment,” she continued, oblivious to my inattention. “Just keep your head down and push through, it’ll all be alright soon.” I nodded my head then remembered she couldn’t see me and verbalised my affirmation, even though I didn’t agree with her. It’s not like she’d understand anyway. I’d tried telling her before in different ways, but it was always the same. Just get through it and things would get better. It’s just a bad patch that I’m going through. I wasn’t so sure though. If it was just a bad patch then it was a very long one and the end was nowhere in sight, not to my eyes at least. I was bored and unmotivated; had been for as long as I could remember. It’s not like things are terrible and I can hardly claim great misfortune or hardship, but I also can’t just perk myself up as some people seem to be able to do; just pretend like everything is hunky-dory and get on with things when they brought me no joy. I have a job sure, even if I can’t remember why I took it. I have the flat. It’s small - compact according to the proud agent - but the view out over the water, full with the comings and goings of maritime vessels, is mesmerising. I’m healthy and have a family who loves me. And yet, I feel like something is missing, or that I’m missing out on something. We spoke about nothing for another ten or so minutes before saying our goodbyes and hanging up. I stood up from the couch and set about making something to eat, slipping the stone back into my pocket, feeling the weight settle against my thigh. It’s not like I was going to change anything right now. After dinner and a few episodes of mindless TV, I left the dishes unwashed in the sink and got ready to go to bed. On the way out of the room, I passed the peace lily that my mom had sent me a few months back, no doubt hoping that having another living entity dependent on me for survival would have some sort of magical effect on my outlook. Instead, I’d ended up with a near-dead houseplant. “Come on little guy,” I said as I walked past, sounding like I was talking to a puppy or a three-week-old baby, “don’t die on me.” I stroked a forlorn leaf and continued on through to the bedroom. Undressing, I put my hand into my pocket to retrieve the pebble. It was warm. Not body-heat warm, but sitting-in-the-sunshine-all-day warm. I held it against my cheek, feeling the heat transfer into my skin. It was comforting. Peculiar, but comforting for some reason. I set it down on the bedside table, telling myself that it was probably some unusually conductive material. Maybe some rocks are just like that. What did I know about rocks? I climbed into bed and fell asleep. \*\*\* In the morning, I went through my regular routine. Alarm rings at seven, hit snooze a couple of times and then roll out of bed and get dressed: jeans, T-shirt and a black zip-up sweater from Patagonia that I’d had for at least the last ten years. Quick breakfast of whatever cereal had caught my eye in Sainsbury’s on the weekend, sitting on the couch and eating while looking through various apps on my phone, always in the same order: e-mail, BBC News, Instagram and then Reddit. By the time I’ve got through all of that, it’s usually eight and time to brush my teeth and start the walk to work. As I opened the front door to leave this morning, I felt a pull in the pit of my stomach, like I’d forgotten something but didn’t know what. I pulled open my bag to check I had my laptop and then patted my pockets to make sure my phone and wallet were there. I had all three. It was as I tapped my right pocket though that I thought of the pebble, which had occupied that space alongside my phone yesterday evening after I left that strange old lady on the beach. I backtracked into my bedroom, picked up the little grey rock off the table beside my bed and dropped it into my pocket. The feeling disappeared. Exiting the bedroom once again, I noticed the lily; the near-dead lily that I had whispered meaningless words of encouragement to last night as if the sound of my voice could somehow bring it back to life. Only it seemed to have worked. Instead of looking dreary and withered, it was lush and verdant, broad green leaves standing tall and and even a couple of white kayak-shaped flowers spearing proudly upwards. I stopped to examine it, running my hands over the smooth leaves. Surely this can’t be the same plant? Time was ticking past though and I needed to get to work. I shook my head, turned away from the miraculous houseplant and shut the door behind me. I was halfway along the promenade when I put my hand into my pocket and felt the pebble, recalling suddenly how strangely warm it had been before I went to sleep yesterday evening. \*\*\* The email arrived in my inbox with a chime at exactly 10:00 AM. I reckon it must have been typed sometime earlier, days earlier perhaps, and then scheduled to go out at this precise time. It was from the head of HR - although the title here was Chief People Officer - and it informed me that my role was, “no longer feasible to maintain given the current commercial environment” and that they were, “sorry to have to let me go.” It went on to tell me that as per my contract I was being given the standard one-month’s notice and was thus expected to perform my duties diligently until May 31st. My first thought was that I’d get to tell my mom I told her so. My second was that I should just go crazy and create a scene worthy of a TV sitcom, throw my laptop against the wall, stride purposefully across the room and hook the manager a sharp one in the jaw. I actually grinned behind my monitor as that played across my mind’s eye. My third was that I shouldn’t be surprised; that this was the email I’d been expecting from the moment Henk, the head of IT, had issued me my laptop on my first day, it had just arrived three years late now that they’d finally realised I had no idea what I was doing and never had. I closed Outlook and double-clicked the Powerpoint icon. Growing up, once I’d matured beyond the childish fascination of becoming Spiderman or the white Power-Ranger I’d still had dreams, albeit more realistic ones. I’d marvelled at the colossal mega-structures on Discovery Channel documentaries and discovered that they were built by civil engineers. At some point I’d moved on to wanting to be a doctor, a surgeon even, saving lives amongst the beeps and whooshes of the operating theatre. Then I’d dreamed of designing Formula One cars. Instead, I’d ended up here, spending most of my time playing Tetris with the shared calendar and craning my neck closer to the screen so that I could be sure the corners of the text boxes in my one-thousandth Powerpoint slide deck lined up perfectly. Really important work. Stuff to be proud of. “We’re off to the Anchor for a drink, you coming?” A voice called from across the open-plan office. Just like that the day had disappeared and I had nothing to show for it except a headache blooming at the base of my neck and seven new, perfectly aligned slides. “Nah,” I shrugged back, slamming my laptop closed. “I’ve got plans tonight I’m afraid.” I didn’t, but this was a recurrent ritual we went through whenever a gang of the team was heading for an after-work drink at one of the local pubs. They’d ask me, knowing that I would decline with a made-up excuse, and I’d turn down the offer, knowing that they didn’t really want me there but felt obliged to ask anyway. I held back a few minutes, giving them enough time to draw a safe distance away from the building, and then headed out for home. And so passed the remaining four weeks of my employment. Looking back I can’t really tell one day apart from another. There was a meeting with Joy, the Chief People Officer, who wanted to conduct an exit interview where she managed to tell me at least five more times how sorry they were that I was leaving as if at some point it had transitioned from their decision to mine. I actually joined the guys at the pub one evening, but swiftly regretted that choice when someone asked me what I was going to get up to now that I was free of this place. I probably said something along the lines of, “oh you know, probably just take a break and see what opportunities come up,” doubting all the while that anything would. Then it was my last day. The only thing that gave it away as anything other than an ordinary day was the cringeworthy farewell party that was half-heartedly thrown in the kitchen at lunchtime. There was a small cake and about one-third of the office decided it was worth leaving their critically time-sensitive work for ten minutes to join in and wish me well for the future. At five o’clock on the dot, having handed my laptop back to Henk from IT, I gave a feeble wave to those few colleagues looking up from their computers and walked out of the door for the last time. The fingers of my right hand ran reassuringly over the surface of the pebble within my pocket. \*\*\* I didn’t see it, I heard it. You wouldn’t think that an object falling out of a tree onto grass makes a noise loud enough to hear from fifty metres away, but it does. It makes a solid thud as it hits the ground, muted slightly depending on the thickness of the grass and dampness of the ground onto which it falls. If it’s a person, you’d expect them to scream as they fall, but she didn’t. There was just the thud. I was walking home past The Green again, just as I’d done every evening since meeting the old lady over a month ago. Just as I’d done nearly every evening for the past three years and every morning in the opposite direction. Now, I was walking it for the final time, backpack full of the few personal knick-knacks I’d collected on my desk in my time in the office: Rubik’s cube, a couple of books, the computer mouse I’d brought in from home, those sorts of things. I hadn’t seen the pebble-picker again, though I’d looked for her, my eyes automatically dancing across the rocky beach as I emerged from the promenade walkway into the open space. She must have gotten a good haul that night she gave her favourite pebble away to me. Behind the grassy embankment that lines the beach, at the far end from where I emerged, there is an ablutions block, bricks coloured green and grey by decades of sea air. You have to cross the road along which I walked to get to it from the beach. The stench of stale urine emanated from within on a warm night like tonight. Behind it, stood an enormous oak tree. Easily two metres across at the base and who knows how high. It was probably older than the Squadron castle and definitely older than the toilet block. I saw her as I walked past the decrepit building, holding my breath against the smell, like we used to do when the school bus drove alongside a graveyard, gasping when the rows of headstones ended suddenly. She must have been ten or twelve years old - I’m terrible at guessing ages - and she was high, high up amongst the limbs climbing fearlessly. It set my heart racing just watching her. I wondered briefly where her parents were and whether they knew that their daughter was so dangerously high in the upper echelons of a monumental tree, but I didn’t stop walking. I did little more than glance at her really. I was just reaching the end of The Green, where the grass ends at the ice-cream hut and the seafront houses pick up their guardianship of the coastline when I heard the thump behind me. I turned reflexively and saw a shape at the base of the tree, a lumpy mound. I looked up into the branches and didn’t see the girl. Two-and-two clicked and I dashed madly over the road, heedless to whether there were any approaching vehicles, sprinted across the grass and collapsed hard on my knees beside her body. I took in all of her in that split-second of arrival, my knees lightly touching the warm cotton of her top at the side of her chest. She was a little thing. Delicate like the finches and sparrows that dart and dive amongst the tight-knit branches of the box hedge and the pink-plumed hydrangea outside my kitchen window. Her blonde hair splayed out in a crown above her head, weaving in and out through the blades of grass. I watched her eyes flutter beneath closed eyelids. Had I not just seen her twenty metres up in the sky amongst the leaves and branches, I would have believed her to be sleeping. Perhaps she’d come down to play a game of solo imagination amongst the bees and squirrels as young children are wont to do and, growing weary in the warmth of the afternoon had nestled into the fragrant grass for a nap. I could have convinced myself of that were it not for the trickle of scarlet blood dripping down her pale cheek from the corner of her mouth and the rasping of her breath. I tore my eyes from her and searched desperately around me for rescue; for somebody to rescue me from the ultimate responsibility for this little human being, this young soul whose life, whose dreams now depended solely on me. Me who had given up on my own dreams and settled for something less. There was nobody else. I felt her breath stop. “Don’t you fucking die on me,” I pleaded. I drove my hand into my pocket in search of my phone. I needed to call an ambulance; should have called one the second I saw her lying there. Closing my fingers around the cool titanium device, the back of my hand brushed against the pebble, it was scorching. I pulled my hand back sharply, keeping a grip on my phone. The back of my hand stung like I’d laid it against a hot pan without noticing. Pushing aside the pain and questions about how the pebble got so hot, I dialled nine-nine-nine and held the phone to my ear. Expecting an immediate answer all I got was a series of monotone beeps stretching infinitely in those couple of seconds. No signal. There never was around here. I dashed the phone to the ground and turned back to her, fraught with the realisation that she had only me. And I had only her. “Please, please, just breathe!” I ignored the heat that flared suddenly against my thigh and tried to remember the first aid course I’d attended in high school - it must have been ten years ago now - and whispered myself through the steps of CPR as I recalled them. “Hands on the sternum.” I placed my right hand over my left at the centre of her chest. Someone would surely walk by any second now and rescue us both. “Come on, you can remember this.” Deep breath. “Fifteen compressions followed by thr-“ Her body leapt as she drew in a breath, back lifting off the flattened grass. Her eyes shot open and stared at me, through me. Fragile chest heaving, she gasped time and time again, never turning her wide unblinking eyes from mine. An eternity passed in the moments it took for her to calm; for both of us to calm. I wrapped my fingers tenderly around her small hand. I felt everything and nothing at the same time, overcome with shock and numb. “Thank you,” she whispered then, her eyes talking as much as her voice. And then she was gone, darting off past the monolithic tree trunk, disappearing behind the toilet block and off up the road. \*\*\* I don’t remember walking home. As I closed the front door behind me I went straight to the toilet and threw up, the terror of brushing so closely up alongside death overcoming me. When I was done, I splashed cold water on my face and brushed my teeth, spearmint not quite erasing the bile in the back of my throat. The sun was just setting now and the still evening air felt stifling inside my tiny living room so I opened the sliding glass door and sat down on the step at the edge of the small deck that fronted my flat, staring out over the small garden at a behemoth drifting up the Solent, container load bound to Southampton. The breeze off the sea was fresh and I soaked it in, closing my eyes and giving myself up into its care, trying not to focus on my adrenalin thoughts. When my heart had quieted marginally, I opened them again and a brown hydrangea at the bottom of the garden, part of the barrier separating the border of the property from the sidewalk alongside the seafront road, caught my eye. I thought suddenly of the lily inside my hallway. The lily that had been teetering on the edge of death that night four weeks ago and was then so vividly alive the next morning; was still alive now. My mind skipped from the lily to the pebble, still cradled in my right pocket, and I lifted my hand in front of my face. On the backside there was a deep red mark, like I’d brushed it up against a boiling pan and removed it too late. It looked like it would blister. I knew that my thigh would be sporting an identical mark. An idea blinked into existence. A ridiculous idea. I reached my scorched hand into my pocket and closed my fingers around the cool stone, withdrawing it and regarding it in front of me, balancing it precariously on the tips of my fingers. It was just an ordinary beach pebble. There were at least a million of them on the short stretch of rocky beach before me. But what if it wasn’t ordinary? I stood and walked to the end of the garden, gripping the rock tightly now and holding it slightly ahead of me as if I might need to let go of it suddenly and needed to be able to spring backwards away from it lest it strike out at me. When I reached the hydrangea, I could see the full extent of its situation. Like my peace lily a month ago, it seemed to be on its last legs, brittle brown leaves crumbling in the gusting wind. I crouched down, putting my face alongside one of the large dry flower heads. “Come on,” I whispered, wondering what my neighbours would think if they saw me murmuring to a dying plant. “You don’t need to die.” I’m not sure what I expected to happen, but the plant gave no indication that it had heard me at all, simply fluttering in the energetic breeze. The rock for its part sat unchanged and unchanging within my grasp, as cool and rough as any sane person would expect it to be. I let out a rush of held breath and chuckled, chastising myself for thinking anything so absurd. I grasped one of the hydrangea’s brown leaves and began to crinkle it, feeling the crisp crackle as it shattered between my fingers. I remembered then that I had touched my dying lily that night a month ago, not to destroy it, but to encourage it, to stroke it reassuringly. My chest felt empty then as I dropped the disintegrated leaf onto the grass below and reached out for another. The leaf I chose was brown like all the others, but there were a few remaining flecks of green, bastions of chlorophyll standing resolute against the onslaught of decay. I held the delicate leaf between my fingertips like I might hold a child’s hand; like I’d held her little hand as she lay on the grass. “You can do it,” I whispered. “Don’t give up.” Heat bloomed in my right hand, nearly enough to for me to drop the pebble inside, but I kept my grip, feeling the heat as it developed a pulse in tune with my own. It was intense, but bearable, not the searing heat I had felt earlier when I told the girl to breathe. I remained unmoving, isolated from the world around me as the stone slowly cooled, its uncanny warmth dissipating into my fingers and up my arm until it was cool once again and I was calm once again. I released the leaf then and stood to make my way back inside. There was not a doubt in my mind that when I looked out at the sea across the garden tomorrow morning, I would find the hydrangea in perfect health. \*\*\* “Was I right? Was it the one for you?” She didn’t look at me as she asked, but stayed stooped over, keenly inspecting a particularly large, grey-blue pebble; turning it over with clack to examine the underside. I didn’t think she’d heard me approach. “It was,” I answered, bending to pick up the stone when she nodded her satisfaction that it met her criteria, wobbling a crooked finger instructively at it before stepping carefully away to examine a new one. It was far heavier than the one she’d given me that day on the promenade. I picked my way across the short distance to her cart, opened the cover and peered inside at the contents. She’d been busy for a while before I’d arrived, it was almost three-quarters full of pebbles. Large ones, tiny ones, perfectly round ones and oddly shaped ones. And each one perfect. “Things will be different now you know,” she said to me. I looked at her and smiled and said, “I hope so.” And not only did I hope, I believed.

Shruti’s legs devilishly dangled from the stone ledge. She swung them in small circles like coffee stirrers blending in some half and half. Her eyes followed the stoned walkways to a set of regal stone stairs that existed only at prominent government buildings and Ivy League campuses. She made eye contact with the statue of Alma Mater, her hands upraised as if to ask her, “And what will you bring to enrich us all?” Two degrees and seven years later, she didn’t have an answer. “Shruti!” “Hey, Miles.” His lanky figure towered over hers despite her perch, his hug nearly dropping her from the ledge. Shruti jumped off before she could fall, suddenly embarrassed that she only reached the beginning of his chest. She felt shorter than she remembered. “I missed you.” “I didn’t think you’d actually make it.” “I’m offended! When have I ever flaked?” “On about almost every phone call the last year!” “Phone calls are different than meet-ups.” “Shall we?” Shruti was already walking on auto-pilot to her favorite pastry shop and Miles obediently followed, excited to be on someone else’s turf. Shruti Davis and Miles Li. Together, they used to joke, they made a full Asian. Her first name and his last name signaled “otherness,” and his first name and her last name were cloaked in privilege, or as Miles used to say, “white in disguise.” Shruti’s mom and Miles’ dad both international college students that found a way to stay in the States. Their white parents falling deeply in love with someone their grandparents didn’t approve of. Both understood what it was like to be half accepted and half unbelonging. Yet, their upbringing yielded very different outlooks. After experiencing her race coming before her qualifications, Shruti did everything to be mainstream and successful. She wore pencil skirts to her law office and refused to wear henna. She never mentioned bilingualism on her applications and straightened her hair. But Miles? He joined affinity groups and packed bento boxes for lunch. Munched on seaweed snacks in staff meetings and took advanced Korean classes in college. His confidence frightened Shruti, but emboldened her, too. She was always envious of the easy way he carried himself, as if the world should mold to him than the other way around. “Wow. You’re an Ivy Leaguer now.” “Have been for a while now.” “You’re forgetting your state roots.” “As if Berkeley wasn’t top-ranked.” “And soon you’ll be making that big New York salary getting people off for white-collar crimes.” “How’s that big fancy tech company of yours? Still convincing people vaccines cause autism?” “Hey--those algorithms only generate what they’re fed.” Shruti rolled her eyes and shoved him aside, walking faster ahead of him. Shruti turned and shouted, “Have fun testifying in court!” Miles looked down and winced, but Shruti assumed the gust of wind was to blame. “I missed you, Shruti Pebbles.” Miles caught up and loosely hung his arm on her shoulder. “Fuck off, Miles.” “Nice shorts.” It was a tepid day in New York, but as a girl from Orange County, Shruti protested a climate too cold by exclusively wearing shorts when the weather inched above 60. Shruti instinctively looked down to see what was on her. “Wow, didn’t even realize I was wearing these.” ------------------------------------------------------------- Shruti wore a fitted halter neck crop top now dyed orange and pink and teal. Her jean shorts were ripped stained either making them impossible to resell or markedly more expensive--time would tell. Miles’ hands hovered the small of Shruti’s back. It tickled, but she wouldn’t admit it. She left Miles believe that her small giggles were a symptom of her infatuation. They were coming back from Paint!, an event where undergrads squirted paint out of dining hall ketchup and hot sauce bottles. “That was such a rip off Holi.” “Yeah? And what are you going to do about it?” “Continue feeling frustrated but refuse to do anything about it because most people are unwilling to participate once you attach a culture to it that isn’t mainstream.” “Wow, all in one breath.” Miles tugged at her belt loop and they continued walking, Miles a graceful lead and Shruti simply following cadence. Their naivete still engulfed them, drowning in an ocean of idealism not yet shattered by the reality that all couples either break up or one half perishes. They defiantly spread saliva on public sidewalks and joined hands as if in a daily parade of affection. There were dozens of other students smeared in paint ahead, behind, and to the sides. Shruti watched them lazily branch off into boba shops and fast-food joints, wondering which impulse they’d give into first. Shruti was about to surrender to a Thai restaurant before she saw a few chess boards waiting for a few bored passerby. Shruti stepped out of Miles’ embrace and landed on a stone bench, waiting for an opponent. “I told you I grew up going to chess tournaments, right?” Miles asked. “I vaguely remember. I’m just not sure you live up to the title.” “Well, I’ll give you the advantage. Play white. You can start first.” For every ninety seconds that Shruti used, Miles used eight. He barely glanced at the chess board with every move which infuriated Shruti, making her resort to tactics of distraction. Shruti leaned forward on her palms, widening her eyes and looking into his. Miles mimicked her, resting his elbow on the table and cupping his own chin. “Having fun, Shruti Pebbles?” “Mildly.” As soon as she moved her knight, he took it without breaking eye contact. “Still?” “Slightly less.” Miles laughed and waited for her to play. She moved a measly pawn and asked, “So what’s your master plan?” “To win.” “Not for this game. For life.” “I’d like to change some things. Maybe disrupt the social order.” “Very leftist of you.” “Just trying to fit in with California.” “No, seriously. What do you want to do?” “I’m not sure exactly. But I do want to defy people’s expectations.” “Again, vague.” “Again, your bishop.” Her stolen pieces were starting to form a mob on the side of the table, outnumbering the two black pawns and a rook. “Tell me, Miles. Sure, you’re studying computer science, but there’s no way you just want to code for a big company all your life.” “I think tech is fascinating. I’m just not sure I find it fascinating enough to want to succumb to the corporate structure. Maybe if I can use tech to show people there’s a lot they’re missing.” “You love risks, don’t you?” “Checkmate, babe," Miles said, twirling her king piece between his fingers. ------------------------------------------------------------- “You’re favorite pastry shop, I’m assuming?” “I used to eat my weight in rainbow cakes every weekend morning while sifting through my case book.” Everything was packed together, much like everything in New York. Luxury was marked by space, whether it be vaulted ceilings in SoHo or restaurants with enough space for waiters to do traditional wine pours. The old couple ordered and found a table tucked away by the door, a gush of air bringing goosebumps to their skin every time a customer walked through the door. “Don’t take all my pastries!” “Hey! I’m the guest.” But Miles reluctantly surrendered his hand away from Shruti’s plate stacked with a tower of various cookies. Of course, Shruti had thought about them finding their way back to one another as all people reminisce about young love. She hoped one day they’d relocate to the same city and run into each other in a bar and suddenly they’d fall into the same easy rhythm that only previously existed because of the simplicity of life at eighteen. “You never did tell me why you were in town.” For once, Miles did not snicker, smirk, or smile. He looked away and chewed meticulously, until he could no longer procrastinate answering the question. He reached for a napkin and wiped the corners of his mouth, finally putting his hands palm down on the table in front of him. Shruti thought, this is the moment. The monumental affair when Miles would tell her he was engaged or dying or madly in love with her. She let herself hope that she’d receive the buried fruit of a declaration of love. Miles leaned forward, so far that she could see the crease between his eyebrows, the thickness of his glasses’ lens, and the little dimple on his cheek. She wondered if it would be inappropriate to lean forward and hover closer, so distracted that she barely heard Miles when he whispered-- “Shruti, I need a lawyer.” ------------------------------------------------------------- Shruti was packing her things one last time, as were most of her friends, each in a different house painted a bright shade of the rainbow. She and Miles were armed with rolls of packing tape, busying themselves with the boxes in front of them instead of the many other decisions that lay ahead. Twenty-seven minutes of silence transpired where only the crackles of unwound tape interrupted the air. Shruti felt like if she acknowledged that she was moving, she would acknowledge the cluster of decisions, goodbyes, and heartbreaks that came with graduating. “I’ll hold you back,” Miles said. Shruti didn’t immediately register that her boyfriend had spoken. It took her three more boxes of tape to realize that he was talking about her, about them. “What does that mean? We went to the same school. You’ve got a job with a 401k lined up.” “That’s not what I’m worried about.” “My parents even like you and they don’t like anybody.” “I won’t hold you back like that.” “Like what?” “The superficial version of me, I agree, is compatible with you.” “Stop speaking like a fucking horoscope. You don’t think I see you for who you are?” “I think I hide a lot from you.” “How do you think I’m supposed to interpret that?” “I’m an idealist. You live here, in the world. You agree to its structure and that you have a place in it. Me? I’ll never have a place.” “That’s some bullshit, Miles. You’re working at one of the biggest tech companies in the world!” “And then what?” “I’m not sure! We’ll figure it out, you and me. Maybe I’m the idealist!” “Shruti, trust me. We won’t work. You’ll see.” Shruti responded through the clatter of the packing tape on the floor and Miles kept boxing up the last of her things. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Shruti fell back on her chair and pulled her arms inwards, crossing them across her chest. She felt angry, a sense that she was being used. The only reason Miles was in town was to network, to climb up a ladder that he would pretend he didn’t care about. “Lawyer? Why a lawyer?” “I’m in some deep shit.” “What do you mean? What did you do?” She whispered forcefully, hoping the words would land with the same punch as a shout. “Some illegal activity,” Miles returned casually. “Miles, not so loud!” “Don’t worry. Crowded places are safest to chat. No one is really listening. Stop talking.” Miles was right. The entire pastry shop sounded like a YouTube video of coffeeshop ambient noise. Merchants talking to customers drowned out by small spoon percussion on mugs. Bathroom door slamming and shuffles of people leaving and newcomers hovering over tables. Those alone wore noise-cancelling headphones and others were too preoccupied by their partner’s chit chat to pay any attention to them. “Fine. But tell me what happened.” “I can’t really. You’d be an accomplice. And I need you to be my lawyer.” “Give me a hint.” “I leaked some information.” “How much?” “Enough that I violated some contracts. Hopefully enough to stir up something. People deserved some truth.” “All right, so you’re Edward Snowden?” “But much less political.” “Miles, this is a big deal.” “I know. But if it’s fine. I wanted this.” Shruti finally understood. He was right. She overlooked what this man had been trying to tell her for years. He was always going to make a choice that put his lofty ideals first and everyone else second. He had never graduated from those early-formed convictions about the world that most young adults shed with their first few paychecks. “Miles. You have to go.” “Where?” “Run. Where do rich people gallivant off to to avoid taxes?” “And let people forget me? No way. I’m going to make everyone watch this trial and face what’s been hidden.” It was one final act of martyrdom. If he wasn’t going to escape the country, then at least propel his college girlfriend’s career while he sunk some formidable foe. “Fine, but you still have to go. You haven’t hired me yet.” “Touche. Thanks for coffee and the pastries. Looks like your firm pays you decently.” “Don’t hug me. It’ll look suspicious.” Miles instead squeezed her hand under the table and said, “See you soon.” ------------------------------------------------------------- Shruti went to her Greenwich Village apartment and sank into her pearly white bed without a shower. She slept fitfully, a 7:30 alarm rousing her slowly. A Sunday morning was her favorite time of day, and she refused to ever miss it. She cinched a robe around her waist and wandered off to the Juliet’s balcony, relishing in the quiet that only ever struck New York City on Sunday mornings. Sirens blared in the distance and Shruti counted in her head, anticipating when they would shrink back away into the atmosphere. But they kept encroaching until Shruti saw a squad of cars surround an apartment building across the street. Shruti debated heading inside, but human nature urged her to gawk. Six minutes later and her college sweetheart was manhandled out of the building. Shruti gripped the railing, worried she would fall over and tumble seven stories down. She closed her mouth and reached for some sunglasses on her dresser, knowing that the press wouldn’t be far away. Her instinct to protect Miles left her with a warning not to be recognized, but not one to look away. Miles looked up and imperceptibly winked in her direction. So agile that Shruti would swear it was an aberration if she didn’t know him better. She blinked hard, convinced that if she shut her eyes long enough, she would still be in bed. She opened her eyes to the same stare, though he had no idea if she was watching. With a half-smile, he mouthed “I feel alive.” Shruti smiled and shook her head, walking away from the window. She clicked on her espresso machine and waited for the phone call from a holding cell.

Mark drank his coffee as he watched the sun rise. He used to do this with his wife, but marriage was something that he or his wife Jennifer could seem to master. They got married young assuming that they would learn how to manage a marriage as they went, but they did this with no luck. Their little girl was the only thing that kept them from divorce. 8-year-old Maggie was the love of their lives. But they did not feel the same about each other. Mark and Jen had loved each other when they got married at 19 and 20, but now well into their 30’s they could not stand each other. They argued often about something and nothing all at the same time. Mark spent too much time working and Jennifer not enough. Money, time and responsibility plagued their marriage with unhappiness and resentment. Throughout these struggles the couple still tried their hardest to provide the best life for their daughter. She went to a prestigious private school because her mother wanted her to succeed, and she played baseball because her father wanted her to learn how to let loose and have fun. These two different outlooks on life were yet another point of argument for the pair and was something that was “discussed” in great length behind closed doors. Maggie was no longer a toddler and understood that her parents were not always happy but like a child did not know why and wished that she could help. June 21 st marked the summer solstice which meant two very different things for Maggie’s two very different parents. For Jennifer this day marked the first day of Maggie’s summer school. A summer course not because she was behind, but so she could get ahead. For Mark however June 21 st meant the first day of summer and the longest day of the year. This day for him signified a tradition in which his whole family used to drive down to the beach of Florida and kick off the summer. Although he now lived in California with his small family he still liked to carry on this tradition. His plans were meant to be a surprise for his daughter, but after disclosing them to his wife and kickstarting a heated argument Maggie became aware of his intentions for a beach day. Through much convincing of her mother, it was finally decided that Mark and Maggie were going to go to the beach on the summer solstice. After persuading her mother to let them go Maggie pleaded with her mother to accompany them to the beach, but she would not hear about, Jennifer was stubborn in her ways and was determined to get out of her husband’s childish traditions. So, with that Maggie and Mark drove down the street on their way to the beach to kick off the summer adventure. The trip was short lived however, because even before the pair could turn the corner, a busted transmission ruined their plans. Although his wife had told him repeatedly to get the car checked out, Mark never did. This meant that Maggie sat in the driver’s seat as Mark pushed the car back down the street and into the driveway. Disappointed but not yet hopeless, Maggie suggested that her father just drives her mother’s car to the beach for the day. Unfortunately, what the little girl did not understand was that Jennifer’s car was a manual transmission car, also known as a stick shift, also known as a type of car that Mark did not know how to drive. After carefully explaining this to his daughter Maggie began to sob over her ruined plans. The pair unpacked the car and walked defeated into the quiet house. Having heard of this setback and not wanting to see her daughter cry with a slight smile on her face Jennifer offered to drive to the beach. Maggie’s tears dried up instantly at this new plan, she ran over to her mother and hugged her, ecstatic about this turn in luck. Mark looked down, he had been excited to spend the day alone with his daughter, but was relieved to see her happy. With that, the family piled into the car, Maggie sitting shotgun and Mark behind the driver’s seat. The 2-hour drive was filled two different types of conversations. The first were conversations between Jennifer and Maggie and the others were between Mark and Maggie, the two never mixed or became combined. Jennifer asked Maggie about school and quizzed her on math and science and Mark asked about friends and games. Eventually the ocean was in sight, just off in the distance. Maggie squealed with excitement, Mark told her all of his plans and Jennifer said nothing, for this was Mark’s conversation not hers. Jennifer and Mark were not surprised that the beach was very crowded that day, parties littered the coast, parking lots were full and the ocean was overflowing with people. Jennifer eventually found parking and the family walked casually to the beach. Maggie was bouncing around them eager to swim and play in the sand. Mark was smiling and he took his shirt off, emboldened by the salty air. Jennifer was smiling, but her eyes showed no happiness, she was not happy to be at the beach because she had different plans for the day, but nonetheless she was pleased to see the smile on her daughter’s face as they approached the sand. Hours went by and the family started behaving like a family, they swam in the ocean and built sandcastles. Mark and Jennifer buried Maggie in the sand and laughed as she sprang out into the breezy ocean air. They watched their daughter play in the waves together, for the first time in many months the husband and wife were happy to be with each other. Shortly before sunset the couple and their daughter decided to go for a walk along the coast. They walked for about 20 minutes before the shaking started. The sand quivered as the earth shook, palm trees rocked and buildings were evacuated. Screams could be heard from all around them, people ran consumed with fear from the quaking earth. The shaking stopped as suddenly as it started, leaving people to wonder whether it had all been in their heads. Maggie was afraid and she held onto her parents’ hands. Mark quickly began to lead his family back along the coast towards their car. He became suddenly aware of the receding waterline, but put it out of his head, all that mattered was getting back to the car and driving away from the coast. The waterline was getting noticeably further away, and in the distance a wave grew. The wave traveled towards them at an alarming speed. The family stopped moving and stared out into the blue sea. Mark could no longer hear the screams from the many people around him, but he knew they were still there. People ran in every direction consumed with fear. Cars were stopped in the road, helicopters flew above them, but none of that mattered to Mark. Maggie was frozen, staring into something that she had no way of understanding. Mark got on his knees and hugged his daughter as tight as he could knowing that running was pointless. Jennifer also on her knees completed the circle around their daughter. The family created a circle of calm in midst of a storm, a family that had been plagued with the longing for separation was finally at peace together. And with that, the wave overtook them, preserving that peace forever.

I run up the stairs, dizzy and out of breath, while at the same time the adrenaline rushes through my body. This is the last chance. “I cannot mess up this time” is all I think about. I reach to the top of the stairs, and the I can see the sturdy metal door slightly ajar. “This has to be it. She couldn’t be anywhere else”. I checked every single door looking for her, and now that I’ve reached the top, with only one door left, I am suddenly filled with excitement and uncertainty. “What if she’s not here?” “What if it’s not her?” “What if she’s with someone here already?”. These thoughts spin in my head, faster and faster. I walk closer to the door, and push it. A chilly breeze welcomes me, and I feel the cold January afternoon. I instantly feel proud of myself for wearing the coat and scarf, for once. I look around. Ahead of me is a medium balcony with a simple, gray concrete fence. It’s cracked over the edges. To my left is a small round outdoor table with three plastic chairs around it. One of them is missing a leg. And there she was, at last. Who even cares about the plain, ugly rooftop. All I can think about right now is her. She stands with her back at me, leaning on the fence. She is shivering, and she isn’t dressed properly for a cold day such as that one. She doesn’t notice me, and probably didn’t hear the door either. Her breathes are heavy, and each time she breathes out, small white clouds leave her mouth, creating an aura around her. A raindrop falls down on my cheek, and another one. Gentle raindrops. I breathe sharply, trying to ease the pain in my chest. She tenses up but doesn’t move from where she stands, which probably means that she finally realized I’m here. A raindrop falls of from her cheek as well. And another one. I step closer to her, only a meter separating us now. I gently put my hands on her arms and suddenly she’s facing me. My hands are moving slowly, gently from her arms to her shoulders, slightly up to her neck I pause. At this point, both of us are already wet from the raindrops who became heavier and bigger. She opens her mouth, then closes it. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t know what to say either, if I were here. I take off my scarf and wrap it around her frozen shoulders and neck, even though she tries to argue. I don’t care if I get sick at this point. Her gaze is locked in mine. The world slows down and the wind calms down a bit. She holds my coat sleeves and clenches her small fists against my chest, leaning against me while she buries her had in my chest. I hold her, scared to break her. Again. I’m afraid. I’m so, so scared of hurting her. My shirt gets wet from the drops on her face and I my eyes are blurry. “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.” I whisper to her. I look up to the sky, only to see the clear blue skies up above. Not a cloud. We both knew it wasn’t raining.

Mary rushed inside the house, locked the door behind her and shuffled slowly to the kitchen. The kitchen, that’s where it was, waiting for her. She was in no hurry to get there plus she was out of breath. Her brisk walk truly was a workout. Going for a walk was supposed to make one feel better, not so in this case. Entering the kitchen, her eyes fixed on the letter resting on the bench by the sink, it was from her mother. Daring not go any closer she parked herself at the dining table and stared at the envelope. Her name in beautiful cursive writing, the address so formal but decorated with little pink hearts, sickening really. How long had it been, seven, maybe eight years? It mattered not, Mary had moved on with life and it was sweet. All the pain of the past was well and truly behind her, she sighed and dropped her head into her chest. Her breath was back to normal but her heart was still beating loudly. Perhaps she was wrong, gasp! Maybe she was still upset with her mother despite the comforting words she would tell herself. Mary never understood why it had come to this, her mother’s logic was so flawed and irrational and selfish, it was beyond hope. It all started with two simple words shared from an innocent heart seeking support, “We’re homeschooling.” The vitriol response was outrageous. It flowed ceaselessly like an erupting volcano, the lava was filled with condemnation, anger and judgement. Mary was dumbfounded. The unexpected attack left her speechless. Bearing the hot wounds of disappointment and shame, she fled. Mary took a deep breath in an attempt to restrain the emotions rising from the pit of her stomach, it was no use. A small tear escaped demanding immediate attention. Her index finger would have to do. She looked at the droplet as it trickled along her skin. Imagine what she would see inside via an emotional microscope. Closing her eyes, Mary remembered the benefits reaped from the price she paid. Her children flourished in every metric, at least the ones she truly cared about. Their relationships were strengthened, their learning a joy and their true identities discovered along the way. They were not necessarily top of the class academically but they were flourishing. They carried an emotional maturity and confidence that will open the world to them. For that, Mary was proud. For six excruciating months, Mary regularly engaged her mother. Her gentle approach and solid reasoning gained her nothing but a mockery of her own identity. The woman would not listen, a hard-hearted creature who knew best. No amount of addressing her concerns, most of which were poor assumptions and judgements, could pierce the wall she had erected around herself. Her mother was incapable of seeing her point of view. Mary had finally concluded that somehow her mother decided it was a personal attack on her. Since Mary chose not to follow in her mother’s footsteps, she must have unwittingly declared war. Addressing that issue made no difference either. Her mother was relentless in her desire to not only cross Mary’s boundaries but utterly destroy them. Perhaps her mother was simply embarrassed? Homeschooling is a bit out there and many people dislike different. The idea of having to tell her family and friends of her daughter’s decision was going to reflect negatively on her, it made no sense. Mary had tried so hard to settle the issues, reassuring her mother the decision was based on many solid foundations. It didn’t matter so Mary eventually stopped caring. She’d had enough and decided to cut the relationship. Her well-being and that of the children was in peril. She cut swiftly, like ripping off a bandaid. The anguish that followed lasted way longer than Mary had expected. Nevertheless, her resolve was stronger. Her mother made many attempts to reconnect and Mary told her the conditions that must be met. The woman still wouldn’t budge. As more time passed, they both accepted the new reality. It was all water under the bridge now, her mind was finally free of the worthless war with her mother, until this morning! Mary had checked the mail oblivious to what lurked within. She lifted her gaze to the white envelope by the sink once again. The possibilities came rushing in. Was it a trap, new condemnation, a death or someone dying? Was it possible it contained the ingredients of reconciliation? Her hope had been dashed so many times that she let that one go immediately. It was surely another trap. Standing tall, Mary marched into the kitchen. She wanted to grab the letter and shred it but instead went right to the kettle and switched it on. She grabbed a mug and prepped everything needed to brew a coffee. She raced back to the dining table and sat. Do I even want her back in my life? Mary was able to conjure up some positive memories which birthed the briefest smile. She found herself drawn back to the envelope, attracted to it. Then she noticed the piece of cake sitting on the bench next to the envelope. Certainly, that was the cause of the attraction. Maybe, in some strange way, she did hope the letter would be delicious and satisfying to her soul like she knew the cake would be. She had to blurt it out, “I want the cake and the letter but I know they’re not good for me.” She chuckled at herself. Enjoying her lighter mood Mary went back to the bench and prepared her coffee. It looked and smelled fabulous but needed one more thing. She filled a teaspoon with raw sugar and paused just before she let it slip into the mug. As it is now, this coffee reflects our relationship, it’s bitter. If we could be reconciled then the sugar will be added and it’ll be sweet. Mary let the sugar drop slowly into the coffee. She watched each grain as if in slow motion rain down into the waiting coffee. Each grain represented a good memory and hope for the future which the coffee warmly welcomed, enriching itself in the process. Mary smiled and stirred the coffee. Returning the spoon to the sink she noticed her left shoelace was untied. Like a crying child, that demanded immediate attention. She knelt and grabbed the two ends of the lace. Again she paused and looked at the two separate ends. When untied, shoelaces can be dangerous, they can trip you up. Mary brought the laces together ready to cross them but stopped again. To unite the laces, they have to get real close and both need to give a little so they can become one when pulled together. Mary giggled, “Okay brain, that’s enough of that, I’m trying to think.” Mary placed her coffee, cake and the letter on the dining table and sat down slowly. She took another deep, hopeful breath and picked up the letter. She dropped it quickly and sipped her coffee instead, delicious. Her hand went to the letter but passed it by for the spoon, using it to smash out a piece of the cake. Into her mouth it went, sweet and satisfying. Finally, she picked up the letter, briefly studied it and then addressed it. “This all started with two words. It can all end with two words. Just two sincere words spoken in true humility is all it will take.” Mary knew how hard it was for people to say those words, she understood because she was not immune. She always wondered why people can be so stubborn though? If talking again, she would have to say them to her mother too. She may stand by her decision but she did say things she shouldn’t have for sure. Enough delaying. Mary ripped it open, unfolded the letter and couldn’t miss the first enlarged words, I’M SORRY!

You take a walk on a cool autumn night. The wind blows against your warm face and the crisp air lifts the cloud from your mind. The sound of traffic in the distance, resonates in your ears. The soft tap of your feet against the sidewalk create the cadence you walk to. You view the homes around you. So beautiful. So bright. So empty. You glance in uncurtained windows and take in the designer furniture. The custom lighting. The real wood floors. Just a small glimpse at how the other half lives. There is no one inside enjoying these material items. Only the paintings stare down at the stark sitting rooms and dining rooms. Untouched by human beings; only for show. The headlights of Mercedes and BMWs flash in your eyes. Important people. Returning from important previous engagements to their beautifully untouched homes. To rest their heads in pressed sheets or to recline in their oversized leather sofas. You certainly do not belong to this world. Your place is somewhere else. Your feet continue to move you along and your mind is free of anxious thoughts. The distance or destination does not matter tonight, only the clear headedness a fall night can provide. A lonely dog barks off in the distance, mimicking the call of your own heart. “Hello?”...”Hello?”. Yearning for a friend, another soul to be near in the dark. Your only companions tonight are the leaves crunching beneath your feet. The stars above your head that occasionally wink your way. The solemn jazz music that seeps through cracked windows. The wind hugs you, coolly. Pushing you back towards your empty apartment. The night is still young, but you are tired. So tired. Your body becomes heavier walking home; bracing itself for the emptiness that will greet you. The warm darkness that will envelop you as you walk into your desolate home. Your key eventually finds its place in your door and you are once again in your fortress. You tap your boot on the floor, just to make a sound in the deserted living room. The boots and clothes are removed as you easily slide into chilly sheets and the lights go off. You lie on your back. Staring at the ceiling. Listening to the faint voices of TV coming through your walls. Is it Big Bang Theory, maybe? Is whoever is watching it, also alone? You close your eyes and take in the silence of your own space. Your hand snakes over to the other side of the bed to find it empty. How quickly that void became a normalcy. The presence of another human being, no longer a necessity to fall asleep. You bring your hand back to your own chest. To the feel of your heartbeat thumping into your palm. That beat knows that you aren’t completely alone. It knows that its partner is out there; somewhere. Maybe feeling as incomplete as you feel, lying alone in bed. Does one’s heart need a companion? Can you truly be whole alone? Your mind pokes at that impossible question. The thought continuing to pop open like a cupboard door that never fully shuts. You roll onto your side and hug one of your many pillows closely. You close your eyes tight and hope for sleep to come fast, before the thoughts suffocate you in their avalanche. “Alone is....alright?”, you ask to your empty room. No one replies to this quandering. You squeeze the pillow tighter and bury your face into it. “Alone is alright”, you whisper again, “alone is alright”.

Liam passionately cut through the pile of evenly squared and spread out potatos upon his kitchen table. Over the past few weeks he has largely perfected this exercise. When he just started cooking for himself Liam was helpless and unsure of every action, he was historically always a bad cook, and when his parents didn't account for his diet he usually settled on eating bags of chips, fruit, instant ramen, and other low effort delicacies. Both his parents worked long hours, so he did so quite a bit, and even when his mom did make proper meals they weren't particularly good. She always poured a bit too much salt. Lousy cooking skills passed through her side of the family. But throughout his childhood Liam did have one occasional path to salvation from his curse of unappetizing food: Granny Claire. Liam always looked forward to visiting Grandma. She was a very kind and boring old woman. She would rattle Liam's brain for hours at a time with war stories and other such things which he never cared for, but he sat through the stories and her old fashioned ways, that's how good her food was, she'd make ratatouilles and stakes and fancy dishes Liam didn't even know the name of, beautiful dishes vibrant with color, made with love and just the right mix of delicate tastes. It was wonderful. By the time Liam turned eighteen Granny Claire had been dead for a long while, two years to be exact. Liam didn't grieve at the funeral, he was never really all that close to Granny, that's the kind of mean boy he was, but he grieved later, when the realization set in, slowly but surely, that he'd never again get to enjoy Granny's cooking. Ouh, how he came to miss poor old dead Granny Claire, the only good cook in the family. So precise and scientific in every part of the cooking process. She never put in too much salt. Liam remembers well the last time he visited Granny (besides the time when she was buried 5 foot under the ground. He doesn't remember that time all that well. There wasn't even any food). The last meal she ever made for him was a beautiful thick potato soup. If only he could make a soup with one hundredth of the brilliance of that one, how blessed he would be to just be able to do that. He would do it, he would either bring that potato soup back into existence or slit his throat with his potato stained knife. This is his thirty second attempt. The vegetables have been cut: tomatoes, garlic, radishes, potatoes and other freaks of nature from a variety of colors, the water is boiling, the pot is still, the flames are dancing at the whim of the cooking plates. Everything is ready. All that is left, is to cook. Liam pours in all the vegetables he had prepared. He starts putting in the spices, paprika, various Indian products, pepper, and how could you ever forget: the salt. Liam was sweating, he was visibly nervous, his heartbeat slows, his cheeks suck in, his eyes are beaming with the determination that only a man hungry for potato soup can understand. Cooking is a subjective art form, many mistakes can be forgiven and easily brushed off, but there is no such leniency when it comes to salt. Put too little and the soup will be tasteless and bland, put too much and the whole meal is ruined. Liam grips the container of the salty substance in his hand: this is it. He starts shaking the salt into the pot of soup and counts the seconds. One, two, three, four, five. He flips the salt over and puts it back on the kitchen table. Is that enough? Is that enough salt? IS IT?! He isn't sure. Liam has always been a lousy cook. Finally, his mind is settled: just one more good shake. He picks the salt back up, and holding it tightly over his precious potato soup, he flips it over and gives it a good. long. healthy. shake. Immediately, he senses the folly of his mistake. He knows the soup is ruined, all he had worked for, his hope, his dream, all of it vanquished in an instant. Uncharmingly and without warning, the soup begins to decompose into an awful black goo, and the goo rambles and aches and quakes. It screams and it hurts and it hates. It clenches and wakens and hell opens its gates. And it grows and expands and gains form and shape while Liam trembles in his shoes. The terrible goo is now tall and gross and uncontained and alive. The goo's shape resembles that of a human, wrinkled and old and with long hair. "Granny?" The goo raises its arms and puts them over Liam's potato stained shoulders. After a long pause it opens its mouth. And the goo speaks. "Why couldn't you just leave the salt alone, Liam?" The creature's eyes widened, its arms grew heavier, its voice embodied despair. "Please, leave the salt alone.

Chapter 1 2001: I pushed open the heavy door to her room, mostly white, with an ugly pink wall. A TV surveilled us from its perch. She was under a single white sheet, mouth draped open, in a half dream, her bare feet out in the air. She had a mitten covering one hand. It was tied to the bed rail. The silence was thick. "Hey Mom." I touched her arm. "Oh..." She paused and looked toward me, sort of a blank stare. Her gaze passed over my shoulder. "Johnny Pie Pie.” Her words were just above a whisper. "I've been working.” She coughed and shifted in bed. Her mouth sort of formed circles as if she were smoking. Over and over, she looked off into the distance and smoked imaginary cigarettes. "Now everyone comes to visit," she sighed, "They’re afraid I’ll die", she said with a satisfying grin. "Yeah, they feel guilty.... Ha!" "Nangana." she looked away. "John Travolta was here." knowing I wouldn't believe her. "What? John Travolta?" I paused. "Nah... I think it was just someone who looks like John Travolta." "Oh no, no... No, it was John Travolta". The nurses were talking to him." "Wow, so what was he doing here?" "How should I know?" "Was he a patient, or visiting someone?” "Well he didn't come to see me". We both laughed, and then were silent for while, observing each other, glancing at the TV. She kept on smoking those imaginary cigarettes and looking off into space. Then she looked directly at me, and paused. She sighed, and asked, "How did I get here?" "Well mom... ", I paused, "you had a stroke." She was quiet, looking up, out toward the small window. She nodded a little. I knew it wasn't the answer she wanted. She wanted more but I couldn't give it. All I could come up with was, "you had a stroke". What a stupid answer. Surely she knew she had a stroke, but what was she asking? Then I remembered that she asked me that question before, "How did I get here?" The first time she asked that question was a long time ago. It brought back a very specific memory of something I had long forgotten. 1963: When I was a kid it was easy to skip school. I didn't even have to pretend to be sick. Every once in a while staying home was more important than going to school. I guess I had more sick days than most kids but that didn’t bother me. I knew I had to go to school but in my own little brain I knew that home was more important than school. All I had to do was stay in bed, and when Mom came to check on me, it was easy! “I don’t feel like going to school today”. “What wrong Johnny?” she touched my shoulder. “Okay, stay with me today then.” It was as easy as that. No pretending, no faking a stomach ache like my friends had to do. All I had to say was “I don’t feel like it” and that was it - a day off. A whole day away from all the little nastiness that happens in primary school. Mom knew I didn’t need to be sick to spend a day with her, she wanted company. So I waited in bed until the house was quiet, until everyone had gone, and then when I heard her alone in the kitchen I jumped up and headed straight out the front door. It was already hot outside. The street was empty and dry, and silent. The air was hot, and moved in from Mr. Duke's pasture, bringing with it the fragrances of cut grass and wild flowers. Our house was at the edge of town, in one of those new neighborhoods out on highway 90. It was small but respectful, white with black shutters and a small front porch. Located on a small lot, it was a 60's ranch with just a few young trees to protect it from the harsh Texas sun. We had all types of plant life: Red Buds and Azaleas, a fig tree and Honey Suckle, roses along the side fence. On summer evenings a warm breeze would come up and dance with the trees for a while before moving on into town. I used to go out under those trees and play in the shade. While the sun angrily beat down on the asphalt road I could sit in the shade and let my mind wander. I built roads and bridges for my little cars and trucks. I would bring bricks from the side of the house and pile them up in the dirt. I had a whole little city built with my bricks and dirt: a court house, a gas station, a Weingarten’s. Sometimes I would leave out the cars and play with little plastic Cowboys and Indians, and my city would become an Indian village. I always felt protected under those trees. They were like soldiers at attention, sentinels with outstretched arms, and they listened to my dreams. That summer "Eleanor Rigby" was on the radio. I was dark and skinny, with straw colored hair and cutoff blue jeans. My bicycle was made for popping wheelies and jumping curbs. I had a new pair of white sneakers from The Globe that glistened when I walked. "Johnny" Mom called, "Come in for a while. The sun will leave you with an awful headache... Johnny?" She never quite lost her accent, even after so many years. "Come on now; find your shoes so we can go to the market." I could hear her, but her words sounded distant and dreamlike. I was in another world, another time and place, concentrating on my Indian village. In my mind I cautiously approached the village, walking through the forest, along a stone lined pathway, getting lost in my imagination but then my illusion evaporated. "Johnny!" She was becoming irritated. Her impatient tone brought me out of my haze and back our little house in Texas. "All right Mom, I'm coming". I stood up, dusted off the dirt, and tilted my head to try to listen to one more moment of my imaginative vision. I wasn't ready to let it go, and tried to get back into it, but once interrupted I could not regain the concentration to return. Aggravated that my trance was broken, my inner world momentarily shattered, I slowly walked toward the house, looking back at my bricks and dirt. "I heard you the first time", I complained, "and anyway, I don't know where my shoes are. I left them right there next to the table, but you're always moving things around and I can never find anything! If you'd just leave things alone for...." "Yes, and if I don't pick up the mess, who will, Mr. Rockefeller? Now let's go to the market, I need a few things for lunch." Actually, what she needed was a pack of cigarettes, but that was all right. I used to enjoy walking with her to the store. She called it "the market", but actually it was just a convenience store, a 7-Eleven I think. By the time I'd found my shoes, she was already outside and headed toward that little store. I slipped on the shoes, grabbed an empty coke bottle, ran to catch up to her, and tried to scare her with a quick jab to her ribs, but she didn't crack a smile. I bounced around in front of her, but she strode directly on, head up, khaki shorts, white canvas shoes, no socks; proper British walk­ing posture. "Mom, were there Indians living here a long time ago?" "Well how should I know, I'm not that old, am I?" "But there must have been. Miss Williams said this area was full of um before the pioneers came." "Well, miss Williams must have a keen memory". She smiled. As we approached the store, I noticed the hundreds of bottle caps encrusted in the black asphalt parking. It was a random collection of colors and textures, like stars, or perhaps like people, each one hanging on to its own little piece of the earth. A bell hanging from to the frame above the door rang as we entered the small store. "Good morning mam." the man from behind the counter said. She just nodded and went to the back of the store for a loaf of bread and a can of tuna fish. I dropped my empty bottle in a wire basket and opened the "Cold Sodas" chest. All the bottles floating in dark ice water were so enticing. I fished out an orange soda, then returned it and retrieved a 7-Up. I decided on an RC cola. For the same price of regular coke I could get four extra ounces. Mom placed her tuna and bread on the counter and then at the last minute, as if she had not really thought of it, picked up a bag of pig skins and placed them next to the bread. I popped off the cap of my RC, walked over, and placed it on the counter next to the other items. "And a pack of Benson & Hedges." she said before he had a chance to ask. The man totaled up the items and Mom paid from a small coin purse she had been holding. He placed the items in a paper sack, wrapped a thin paper napkin around the RC and handed it to me. We said our “thank you’s” and “have a nice day’s”, and stepped out into the morning heat. The old door squeaked and the bell jingled once again before it slammed shut. We were off across the barren suburbia. We arrived home went into the kitchen. I sat and watched as Mom prepared our lunch: tuna fish sandwiches. While she was opening the can I noticed her nails, long with cracked red paint. One nail was broken off. Her cigarette smoldered in the full ash tray. I loved tuna fish. Sometimes we had deviled ham but that day was tuna. “Hey Mom, did you have any pets when you were a little kid?" “Oh yes, we had lots of animals. We had a German Sheppard - a beautiful animal named rusty. Then there was Don Pedo. Un perro ordinario. That was your uncle Claudio’s dog. Claudio taught Don Pedo to pee on the nuns habit when they came to visit.” “Ha ha ha.” I laughed and slapped the table as if I had never heard the story. “Oh yes, he would sneak up behind them and lift his little leg against their long robes.... And Tio Claudio would laugh like it was the greatest thing on earth." I continued to laugh. I loved her stories of Paraguay. It was another world - a land of mango trees and siestas, gauchos and Indians, Jaguars and caiman. It was also a world of revolution and political upheaval. "Once my father brought home an ostrich from the Chaco. That animal was very loyal and I think he loved me but he couldn't stand Tia Tinkle. Tinkle had a little cut on her ankle and every time she went outside the ostrich would head straight for the wound". Mom shook her head a little to pry loose the distant memory, "When I was a girl I lived in a big house with lots of servants and tutors and such. I had a woman to wash my hair. She took a long deep drag from her smoke. Oh yes, we had stables in the back for the horses and an orchard out beyond the stables. Then she paused, looked out the window and took a deep drag from her cigarette. She looked straight into my eyes and asked, "Johnny pie pie". She sighed, "How did I get here?" She turned away and looked out the window. I said, "I thought you came on the niña, the pinta, and the Santa Maria". Ha! After a brief moment of silence, she smiled and said, " y si pues". and continued to look out the window. "It's very quiet during the day time, isn't it. What a strange way to live".

I never did think, despite all past events and unexpected turns, considering what I know of the world and of myself, against all odds, that I would be the last person on Earth. I have managed to keep myself grounded; my flat is more or less what is was before everything ended, but with a few minor changes. The electric hob is now a small gas camping stove (the hob and oven were hell to get out of the building), and all the useless light fittings are in a pile next to the door. Of course, all the electricity failed as soon as the power stations were abandoned, so I made do with gas lamps and candles where I could find them. It truly is surreal walking down the aisles of homeware stores pushing a trolley like normal, picking out what kind of scent I want, and then simply walking past the deserted checkout stations without a thought to any kind of payment. The candle I keep next to my bed is my favourite. I had it long before, but it has lasted me far longer than any other. Just before I go to sleep at night, I watch it flicker and sway in the dark, like a golden ballerina turning on a music box. I hardly light candles at all, such a precious commodity they are. If dusk creeps upon me, I have to break whatever journey I am on and find a home for the night. Perpetually moving is the only way to survive, for staying still would drive anyone insane. I take any route that will carry me and rejoice at every new town I meet. Perhaps ‘town’ is not the word for an empty settlement. They exist to be outdoor museums at the end of every train line, for me to explore on my own. The little ones are the nicest, those that have kept corner shops and market stalls alive, despite the irony of a much smaller population to serve them. I am making my way to London in the hopes that the resources there will have lived longer than most. Maybe I can find a working car with a little petrol left; the density of the population must mean my odds are better. If my memory serves me well, I will only need a day more walking to get to the north edge of the city. Once I arrive, I will need a better map quickly; travel time is precious, and it costs dearly to walk in the wrong direction. I must have slept well because the sun is well above the horizon by the time I wake up. My blackout blinds do their job, but with little light to go by in the late evening I have tended to go to bed much earlier than I did when the electricity was still connected. In the early days, it often surprised me how early the sun set, as if the hours of night and day weren’t mirrored either side of noon. My nine-to-five desk job regularly encouraged drinks after work, no matter what day of the week it was. I got up as late as possible every morning and blamed the buses any time I was late for work. I was secretly pleased when everyone abandoned the office to spend time with their families and I didn’t have to set an alarm clock anymore. In my flat, I put the kettle on the stove, filled up with last night’s rainwater. My mother would probably be disappointed by my choice of drink, but I know it’s safe and clean, and any you can’t taste any impurities when it’s used for coffee. Besides, there’s no one else left to judge me. I never discovered cafetieres until my shoplifting trip to the homeware store. Years spent drinking the freeze-dried stuff and I had been missing out on such a luxury. I put a spoon of coffee in, fill up the cafetiere with the now boiled rainwater, and breathe in deeply. I’ve still got coffee beans for months - an abandoned coffee shop ensured that - but the sacks will run out eventually and then I’ll be left empty hearted. That beautiful smell that lifts my spirits every morning, best thing since sliced bread. Enfield is my new favourite town. The road sign, Welcome to Enfield - Please drive carefully! , seemed like a message from God. Round just the first corner is a general store with maps of the local area, train lines, and the quickest routes into the City of London. And sat right outside, a three-year-old Ford Mondeo calls to me with its half open passenger window. I reach inside and unlock it with ease. The driver’s seat is far less dusty than the passenger’s, protected by its fully closed window and a jacket strewn across the headrest. I shove the jacket in the back and sit down. My cart full of stuff is still sat outside and I should really check the engine for any imminent danger, but I cannot help taking the moment to relive a little normalcy of the life I used to have. My first car was a ten-year-old Ford Mondeo, and I fixed it up every time it gave out. I nursed that car when it was sick, and it protected me from the elements when I slept in the back seats on an impromptu road trip. The car I sit in now has none of the quirks mine did, but it feels familiar in a nurturing sort of way. I fumble under the steering wheel for any kind of wires. To my shame, I once looked up how to jack a car and trip the engine without using the key. I was never going to do anything illegal, I simply had access to a car I could mess with and I was curious to see how they did it in the movies. That skill is now my saving grace. I smirk to myself. After a couple of minutes of grunting and fiddling, the engine mumbles and then splutters to life. I have a working car. Ever since people began rushing home to their families, I began making use of the balcony of the flat across the corridor. Every morning I take my freshly brewed rainwater black coffee and sit in my plastic chair and look out over the deserted town. It’s no buzzing metropolis but the landscape of houses and now dull apartment blocks weave a tight path to the town centre and the shops. From my fifth-floor balcony I can see the high street and the town hall, stacked up next to chain-store clothes retailers and a few different brands of bank. All empty now, and blissfully quiet. When you’re the last person, it not longer feels like stealing. Everyone else bailed, ran to their friends and family, revved their engines and drove off leaving churned up dust in their wake. Surely, they’d want me to make use of their resources, so that I might survive when they didn’t? Perhaps this is what the girl across the hall was thinking, when she packed a bag in half an hour and chucked her front door keys into my lap on her way out. We both knew we wouldn’t ever meet again so bitterness seemed a little futile in the moment; I was no perfect neighbour and she had no reason to be nice to me. I think of her from time to time, when I sit on her balcony and enjoy her view, and apologise and hope it means something. An earthly grumble startles me. The sound from the other direction and I can see no movement from the balcony. I run inside, put down my coffee cup and make for the fire exit. The lift stopped working long ago so the stairs are the only way up and down from my apartment. Jumping down two steps at a time, my brain rattles through every possible scenario: a burst sewer pipe? Gas explosion? A giant tree crashing down? The sound is so comforting that I sit frozen at the wheel unable to move. The car works: the rhythmic rumble of the engine vibrates through the seat and I feel as though I am inside a living beast. What would be laboured breaths are evidence of life to me. To my left a tower block fire exit swings open and clangs against the outside wall. The unsuspecting blank rectangle leaves a black hole in the base of the tower block. A woman runs out and stares at the car. Parked outside the old general store is a bright red Ford Mondeo. And carefully, gently, out steps a guy about my age. I stop in my tracks and just stare at the person in front of me. I know I’m the last one because there’s no one else left alive. I tried every way I could of sending a signal, a message, any kind of display that I’m still here, and if anyone else was that they should find me. But that was years ago and I accepted my life for what it was: solitary. Yet here, just a hundred meters from me, was my contradiction. I do not know what to do. Anyone can learn to jack a car, but there are no instruction for this situation. I gingerly raise my hand and wave. The woman briefly waves back. I open my mouth. I am Adam, I say. Eve, I reply.

When my mother called me last night, I never thought that the news would be so heart wrenching, but I guess finding out your dad has passed away kinda does that to a person. Me and my dad were never close. He liked books, I liked sports, he hated snakes, and I practically adored them. These were some of the reasons I would use to explain our distance from each other, but I never knew how stupid they all were until I went back home for his funeral. As soon as I walked out of the airport the hot Florida sun shone brightly in my eyes, making me sneeze so much, you would have thought I was one of Snow Whites dwarfs. But I persisted and kept walking towards my mom’s ugly new red car. Once I got to the car I stepped in, and as soon as I did my mom asked, “Are you ok?”. She tried looking sad, but I could always see through her lies. I knew she was relieved that he was gone, because once the child support money stopped coming my mother was done with my dad. “I’m ok mom. Can you please just take me to the hotel.” I said in my annoyed voice. “Okay sweetie.” She tried looking in my eyes after she said this, but I turned my head. The car ride wasn’t that interesting. We just sat in the car as my old Emo playlist blasted in the car, because that was way better than silence. Once we made it to the hotel I walked straight to my room, completely ignoring my mom. Then for some strange reason as soon as I stepped in the room I burst into tears. I started to realize that every on I loved was dead. My nana, my dad, my grandparents. And even though we weren’t super close, I still chose to stay with my dad over my mom. I just couldn’t process anything, so I left. I checked straight out of the hotel called an Uber and went to the one place I have always felt safe...my best friend’s house. She was so welcoming, and the best part is she didn’t ask about my dad. We were having such a great time hanging out and catching up on the last 5 years, until she asked THE question. “This is fun and all, but what are you doing here? You need to be at the wake”. Her eyes were so gentle yet bright when she said this, and even though I was mad I couldn’t help but hug her. She is the only person who has ever understood me and I couldn’t bare to loose that. So I agreed to let her take me, to see my dad. After a big argument over what I should wear, I was eventually pushed out of the house in a nice black suit. ... When we got to the wake everyone was soaked in their tears, well, everyone except my mother. She was faking it as best as she could, but it was still extremely easy to see through. Even her dog was disgusted by her lame attempt at sadness. But like the strong woman I am I walked past her with out saying anything and went right inside the house. It was my childhood home. It triggered me, and all of a sudden when I looked around I realized that none of the people there cared about him. They were just unknown colleagues from work. Once I realized that, I lost it. I couldn’t help but scream as anxiety and memories rushed through my head. I started to throw glasses and flowers until I collapsed onto the floor in complete and utter sadness. I couldn’t hear anything outside my own thoughts, and all I kept thinking was how I wasted time. All I did was let the differences between me and my dad emotionally separate us. I just kept... keep wishing I spent more time with him figuring out what we had in common. I have always said not to look back and that’s what I did for a while, but now I can’t help it. I keep looking back at the wake and everything before it, and I regret everything. Well at least I know now that I have to soak up every moment I have with a person before they are gone. And that is why I am moving back to Florida, so I can patch up all my broken family relationships before it’s too late.

The heat escalated between them and shirts flew off. Jenny lay back on the bed while Hugo leaned over her, their lips locked and tongues intertwined. The wet smooches of their passion mixed with the sound of their delightful sighs and the soft rustling of bedsheets. Then, the sound of a zipper cut in, loud and sharp. Hugo’s pants fell. Jenny looked him in the eyes with naughty playfulness, and he stared at her with a poker face. She frowned. “What?” “What if I can’t get it up?” he whispered. Jenny rolled her eyes. “Now’s not the time to worry about that.” “Now’s the perfect time to worry about that,” he said. “When, if not now?” “Just... don’t think too much, okay? Relax, it’s gonna be fine...” She reached up and kissed his lips. He kissed her back and the heat was back on. Their hands started going towards the hot zones and as Jenny’s hand began reaching under Hugo’s boxers, he pulled out of the kiss. “I don’t want you to think that you’re not attractive,” he said, explaining it like a professor. Jenny blew air. “God, chill. Why are you thinking so much? Just let go.” “I’m very aroused by you, you’re very hot,” he said, making it sound like an excuse. “It’s just... It’s my first time...” She gave him a smile, hoping it would be enough to comfort him, but no. He kept staring at her as if waiting for her to say something. “What?” “Is it your first time too?” Her smile faded. A look of annoyance replaced it. “Well, is it?” “No,” she said. “How many times did you do it?” “I’m not going to answer that!” “Okay, sorry.” He paused. She rolled her eyes again, the heat escaping like through the cracks of an old badly insulated house. “Shall we continue?” he inquired. “I don’t know, you tell me.” He nodded. “Let’s continue.” He ran his hand up her thigh and planted slow sensual kisses on her neck. His hand went up and up and elegantly around the jackpot, barely not touching the panties. That turned the heat back on and Jenny found herself sighing again. His kisses and his hand approached her breasts and she ran her hand down his stomach and into his boxers. Like a startled cat, he leaned back all of a sudden. Jenny yelped in surprise, not expecting such a reaction from touching him there. “Whoa,” he said. “I almost felt your hand on it, down there.” She frowned. Wasn’t that the point? One moment she was indulging in passion and the next he was acting like a pastor, flinching away at the slightest touch. “So... you don’t want me to touch you?” “No, I do,” he said. “Just warn me before you do, okay? So I can prepare.” “Prepare?” “Yeah. You know, so I get it up in time.” Jenny shook her head, disbelieving. “Dude. Stop. Thinking.” He snorted. “Yeah, like that's even possible. Look, I want to be hard for you when it’s time for it, so I would appreciate it if you could tell me, is all.” The heat dropped down to room temperature. His touch could make her so horny, but as soon as he opened his mouth the words dressed her in a nun’s gown. If she wasn’t half-naked already she would have stood up and go do the laundry or something. But she wanted to get it off and by God, she will get it off! “Just stop talking altogether,” she said to him. “Let’s just have sex, okay? No more words.” Hugo frowned and opened his mouth to object, but she gave him a look that did not allow compromises. “Yeah, sure,” he said. He hesitated for a moment and then kissed her, starting again at her neck, and working down. His hand moved between her breasts, down her tummy, and around her lady parts to her thigh. A little spark of heat ignited again. She undid her bra and helped guide his hand over there, hoping her bosom would cause him to have a reaction. He groped them and stared at them like her little brother stared at the new iPhone he got for Christmas. Jenny suppressed a snort and reached for Hugo’s things again. She ran her hand up his back and then down, over his abdomen and over the boxers. She reached underneath and searched... “Yeah, no,” Hugo said and pulled back. “This is not working.” “God, what the fuck, man?” She hit the bed with a fist, infuriated over the rollercoaster of hot and cold she had to ride on. “Can’t you just fuck me already?” His cheeks flushed and he swallowed, not knowing how to respond. “I’d like to,” he said, his voice unsure. “But I just can’t get it going.” “Look,” she said, drilling her eyes into his. “I like you, okay? I like you a lot, or else we wouldn’t be lying here, naked. I love the way you touch me, you’ve got feeling. Just let go, don’t think about anything, and pretend it’s the most normal, easy thing you’ve ever done, having sex with a girl. Okay, Hugo?” She topped that with the sweetest smile she could muster under the circumstances. Hugo seemed to consider. He was thinking again, which made her even more irritated. “Glad to hear it,” he said after thinking thoroughly. “I like you too, Jenny. I think you’re very pretty and hot, but more than that, I think you’ve got a cool personality. I like that in a girl, that she has her own attitude.” Jenny blinked, genuinely surprised. “But,” he said, “for some reason, even though I’m obviously attracted to you, I can’t get my body to respond physically. I think it’s because I’m a little... shy.” He looked at her like a wounded puppy and she felt a little bad for being harsh with him. He did say it was his first time, so it was only normal he was nervous. “Well, how do you normally get it hard?” she asked. “Perhaps we can try that approach.” “I watch porn-” “No way, mister.” “I masturbate-” “You can do that on your own. What am I here for, then?” Hugo thought for a moment. “I did notice getting aroused while driving on a bumpy road.” “You’re kidding?” He shook his head. “Baker’s Street, it's under construction and the potholes-” “Oh, don’t tell me that potholes make you hornier than my holes!” Hugo’s face tensed up with embarrassment and Jenny blushed. A moment of silence fell upon them, the heat gone completely. “We could go for a ride...” She snapped a look at him and tapped the bed. “Yes. Right here, on this bed.” “I... Yes, of course, that’s what I want too. After we drive on Baker’s Street for a while. Just to get me going, then we can hurry back here and try again.” She closed her eyes and laughed in torment. This was not how she imagined the day would go. But she really did want to get that big O on her face, so she found herself considering his proposal. And accepting it. “I must be desperate,” she said. “Alright, let’s do it. Why the heck not? It’s better than being tortured like this!” “Agreed,” he said and nodded like a starship captain, jumping off her and putting his clothes back on. Jenny reluctantly put the bra on, the skirt and the blouse. She wondered if she’ll be taking them off later in the haste of passion. They left his apartment and walked down the stairs in silence, reaching the parking lot. They sat in the car and drove off. He didn’t put on any music and she didn’t try to start a conversation. They drove for ten minutes and then Hugo finally broke the silence. “Fuck.” Jenny couldn’t help but snort. “You’re the one to talk.” Hugo glanced at her and then pointed ahead. “Look.” Jenny looked at the street ahead of them, cars passing by, people walking, sun shining... “What?” she asked, trying to spot anything out of the ordinary. “It’s the asphalt,” he said. “It’s new. They’ve repaired the road.” With an expression of defeat, he looked at her. “This is Baker’s Street.” “Yeah, well good riddance,” she said. “Those potholes were wrecking my car.” “Those potholes were supposed to make me hard.” “Oh. Right.” The car barely shook or wobbled as they drove on the brand new road. The smell of fresh asphalt rose into the car through the air conditioning. “God, I just love that smell,” Jenny said, sniffing like it was coke. “Fresh asphalt! It’s almost as good as the smell of petrol, or freshly mowed lawn!” Hugo began coughing. “Ugh, don’t say that.” “Say what?” she frowned at him. “I hate that smell!” “What, fresh asphalt?” “No, the other.” “Petrol?” He shook his head. “Fresh-cut grass. It makes me want to puke.” Jenny stared at him dumbfounded, unable to comprehend how can someone, who complicates so much and hates the smell of grass, make her so horny with his touch. She decided she had enough surprises, shocks, and disappointments for one day. “Let’s go back,” she sighed. “Sure,” he said. They both knew that this was probably it. Their relationship barely took off but was being snuffed out, as indicated by the silence that fell upon them again. Jenny watched the houses pass by and noticed that Hugo missed a turn. “You’re supposed to make a turn there,” she said. “Um...” “You know where to go?” He nodded absently. “I think the brakes are gone.” “Ha?” He glanced at her. “I’m not kidding. Look.” He stomped his foot on the pedal, but the car kept going. And as fate would have it, there was a small decline up ahead, with a sharp turn at the end. The turn with the view of the sea, where the cliff was highest. “Dude, this isn’t funny,” Jenny said, feeling a spike of panic pierce her heart. “No, it’s not,” Hugo agreed and kept stomping his foot, but the car kept going. “Damn, I knew I should have taken the car to the workshop...” “You drive around in a death trap?” “Hm, panic won’t help-” “We’re gonna roll off a cliff and die!” “Relax,” he said. “I’ve lowered the gear so the engine will help brake and if we still end up going too fast I’ll pull the handbrake.” “How can you be so calm?” Jenny was starting to breathe faster as the bend got closer. The car began rolling down the road and it was picking up speed. Hugo went silent. “Well?” Jenny yelled. “How about that handbrake?” “It’s stuck.” “WHAT?” “Funny thing,” he said, eyes telling he didn’t think it was funny at all, “I heard this strange noise when I drove to pick you up today, and now I know what it was.” “Hugo, stop this car right now!” Jenny placed her hands on the dashboard and observed with horror a couple walking on the sidewalk, right next to the bend. She could see the distant white-foamed waves of the deep blue ocean through the pines. The car kept speeding up. “Hm,” Hugo said. “This is not good.” “YOU THINK?!” “My insurance agent will kill me, but we have no choice. Hold on!” “What are you-” Hugo turned the steering wheel and the car tires screeched on the fresh sun-glistening asphalt. Jenny screamed louder than on any rollercoaster she ever rode and held for her dear life. The car hit the edge of the road and jumped up on the sidewalk. Pedestrians turned in surprise and jumped out of the way as Hugo slammed on the horn, giving them a warning. “Watch out for the-” She closed her eyes as the car slammed into a wooden fence of a nearby front yard. Planks and rattan hit the windshield, causing it to crack. Hugo’s hands worked frantically as he struggled to keep the car from spinning and turning over, while they drove through someone’s front yard. And backyard. And through another fence, into another front yard. A dog’s house was destroyed, luckily without its occupant inside. A gorgeous looking rose bush got mauled over by the front grill of Hugo’s battered Subaru Impreza. A mother rescued her laughing baby from the kiddy pool just in time as the car splashed into it, sending an explosion of water in all directions. Jeny screamed her lungs out, holding so tight her knuckles hurt and did not dare to look. Hugo barely made a sound next to her. The car jumped and roared and shook like one of those enraged bulls in rodeo and Jenny tensed up, expecting to get catapulted through the windshield at any moment. “Oh no.” She peeked with one eye to see what was so terrible that made Hugo finally let out a sound and noticed a stack of beehives in yet another backyard, and an elderly beekeeper, blissfully taking out the honey, with his back turned towards them. “MOVE AWAY!” Jenny yelled and Hugo slammed on the horn, but the old guy didn’t notice them. Hugo cursed and performed a sharp turn, steering the car towards a patch of bushes. But the turn was just a little too sharp. The car hit a bump in the grass and it flipped. Jenny felt weightless for a split second, stretched into an eternity of dread. Then, the car slammed to the ground and began rolling downhill like a kid rolling down a snowy slope. The seat belt locked and held Jenny in place while sunglasses, umbrella, car manual, and various debris from the outside were flying all over, hitting her in the face, hands, and legs. The world spun and roared around her and then it all stopped abruptly. The car stopped as if hitting an immovable obstacle and fell still. The only sounds that came were the clinking of heated metal and Hugo’s heavy breathing. Jenny didn’t dare to breathe, didn’t dare to open her eyes. She feared that if she looked, she might find herself split in half. “Jenny? Are you okay?” It was Hugo. “Look at me.” She forced herself to open her eyes. Hugo was staring at her, his eyes pulsing with adrenalin and he smiled. “We’re alive.” She inspected her whole body, but save for a few bruises, she was unharmed. The car stopped by hitting a tall tree and they were inside a thicket of bushes somewhere. If she listened closely, she could hear the waves crashing somewhere nearby. Hugo let out a cheer. “Whoa! Now that was something! I’ve never been so close to death before, ever! Makes a man feel alive!” He climbed out of the car, pushing away the bent doors and helped Jenny come out as well. She leaned on him for support as her knees barely held her. “We’re alive,” she said, her voice trembling. Hugo laughed. “Yes, we are! Some luck, huh?” She looked at him, not knowing whether to punch him in the teeth or jump in his embrace. Instead, she decided to sit down on a rock, as hse couldn’t stand. Hugo helped her, holding her hand. “Jenny,” he said, while she was taking deep breaths to calm down. “I think it worked.” “What worked?” she asked, her mind absent. “You know, why we went for a ride in the first place. I think I’m ready.” She gave him an incredulous look, not knowing what he was talking about. Then she noticed a bulge in his pants. “You’re out of your mind.” “Yes!” he agreed. “I am, finally! Out of my mind and in my body! How about it? We’ve got, what, ten minutes before the ambulance and the police get here? Someone must have called them, we drove through nearly half the neighborhood!” Her head was light and her emotions swirling. They just survived a car crash, barely escaping death, while causing mass property damage and perhaps even murdering someone. And he got a boner from it! She stood up, fists clenched, intended on punching his smiling mouth. She raised her arm, swung... ...and wrapped herself around him, jumping up into his embrace. He grabbed her ass and she wrapped her legs around his waist. “Alright, mister,” she breathed, drilling into his eyes with hers. “Ride me like you rode that car, then; don’t stop until I’m nearly dead!” As rescue finally arrived eight minutes later, they were shocked to find a wrecked car and a couple, not crushed to death or trembling with shock, but rather butt naked and completely shameless, making passionate love right there in the grass.

# Happy Saturday, serialists! Welcome to Serial Saturday! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ ***New here?*** If you’re brand new to and thinking about participating in Serial Saturday, welcome! Feel free to dip your toes in by writing for this challenge or any others we have listed on the handy dandy ! We appreciate all contributions made to this thread, and all submissions are of course welcomed, whether it addresses a previous challenge or the current one. We hope you enjoy your time in the community! Take a look at our inaugural Serial Saturday post for some helpful tips. You don’t need to catch up by writing for each of the previous assignments, feel free to jump right in wherever fits for you, with whatever assignment or theme fits for you, and post it on the current thread with a link to whichever previously posted challenge you chose to start with. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ # This week it’s all about . Sometimes in our lives we all have pain. We all have sorrow. But if we are wise we know that there's always tomorrow. *Everybody, now!* I’m glad we could have together. # “A good friend will help you move, but a true friend will help you move a body.” ― **Steven J. Daniels** Remember when the real treasures we found were the friends we made along the way? Let’s face it: Allies and friends of your main characters can be just as important to your story as your protagonist. “Supporting role” characters can surprise you with how important they are to moving your story along. Sometimes those people can be all the same person, but sometimes the water can be a little murky. An ally of your character doesn’t mean they’re a friend of your MC, or that they even want the same things. A “friend” isn’t necessarily an ally, nor could they really want the best for your protagonist. Look, we all know that the is playing Sansa’s side but doesn’t care about the Starks. *But he does have what the Starks need*, other than a razor. He’s an ally. *But we don’t trust him, do we?* “But James,” you may cry! “What about lovers?” Hmm, good question. *-shifty eyes-* ? Write those people too. Make us love them for the same reasons your MC does. Or don’t. Things to think about for this assignment: As your story develops, consider the actors around your protagonist and their social standing: *Why* are these people friends, allies, or lovers? Does your protagonist \*trust\* them? Would they help each other bury a body? How did they come to know each other and what keeps them together? Maybe a plot situation keeps two allies bumping into each other whilst on their own journeys. Do they have a common enemy? **\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*** **You have until \*next\* Saturday, 9/12, to submit and comment on everyone else's stories here. Make sure to check back on this thread periodically to lay some sweet, sweet crit down on those who don't have any yet!** \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* # Top picks from last week’s assignment, Enemies: **Fan favorite with the most votes:** /u/ajttja/, a This week the **Smoking Hot Challenge Sash** goes to an author that nailed the spirit of the assignment: , And honorable mentions: /u/xdisk, And /u/Ryter99, \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ **The Rules:** * In the comments below submit a story that is between **500 - 750** words in your own original universe. * Submissions are limited to ***one*** serial submission from each author per week. * **Each author should comment on at least 2 other stories** during the course of the week. * That comment must include ***at least one*** **detail** about what the author has done well. * Authors who successfully finish a serial lasting longer than 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the sub. * Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule. *Yes, we will check*. * While content rules are more lax here at /r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of "vaguely family friendly" being the rule of thumb for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, feel free to modmail! \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Reminders: * Make sure your post on this thread also includes links to your previous installments if you have a currently in-progress serial. Those links must be direct links to the previous installment on the preceding Serial Saturday post or to your own subreddit/profile. * Authors that complete a serial with 8 or more installments get a fancy banner and modpost to highlight their stories. * Saturdays we will be hosting a Serials Campfire on the main voice lounge. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start on Saturdays at 9AM CST. **Don’t worry about being late, just join!** There’s a *Super Serial* role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Saturday related news! **Join the** **to chat with prompters, authors, and readers!** Previous constraint: Have you seen the ? No? Oh boy! Here's the current cycle's challenge schedule.

Summer Love - the Quarantine Edition “Then I Woke Up” by Mary Corbin I could never have seen it coming if you had asked me two months ago but I fell in love this summer. Who doesn’t fall in love in summer, right? But this was no ordinary summer and this was certainly no ordinary love. This was my love from the summer of 1980. Come back to find me. With so much sitting around not going places, one does get a little restless to say the least and you sit on the couch reading your Facebook scroll and your Insty page and all levels of crazy that comes through the news pipelines and you just start thinking over your life. People reconnect. They do, in this kind of unpredictable climate. For all kinds of reasons. To reconcile differences, find common ground, have a good laugh, compare coping mechanisms, to cling to life. And just plain boredom. Listen, Zoom can do wonders to a lonely heart. One morning, another quarantine morning, I woke up. And I found an email in my inbox from Marvin. Marvin Macks. Marvelous Marvin Macks. He was my first true love when I was just 19 years old back in Chicago. Marvin and I fell in love over potato skins and half-and-half's and in case you didn’t know, a half-and-half is a pint glass filled halfway with tap beer and half Guinness Stout. We met through a mutual friend and it was love at first sight. No really it was. We were both damn cute and he was a college soccer star with great teeth and a hot bod and lots of room to party and have a good time. Pretty soon we moved in together and we just couldn’t get enough of each other, I mean, we were connected at the hip. At one point, though, in our relationship we decided we needed to branch back out with our own friends once in a while, not forget those people altogether so we experimented with him going off on a boys camping trip or me going out with the girls for ladies night somewhere. We were working at keeping things open for each other, not getting in each other’s way of a broader scope of relationships and experiences without each other. There was only that one time that it sort of pissed me off when I was invited to go on a weekend road trip to visit some friends in college at Mizzou - that’s in Columbia, Missouri, in case you didn’t know. Anyway, it was some big football game and my friends were practically begging me to go saying “everyone is going, it’s gonna be a big party weekend, you’ve GOT to go”. So I said yes. Well, I ran it by Marvin first and he said yeah, sure, I should do it. Go have fun with my friends. What I didn’t know and didn’t learn until I came back from my weekend was that Marvin had just been given two free tickets an hour before to see the Boss, that’s Bruce Springsteen, in case you didn’t know, but, really, I mean do you really not know that? So, Marvin hadn’t had a chance to tell me yet and he decided right then and there not to tell me he just scored those amazing tickets for Saturday night because we had made that pact, that silly little pact, that we weren’t going to stand in each other’s way to doing things with other people. He had two ninth row tickets to see the Boss, for god’s sakes, how could he think he couldn’t violate the pact just that one time! Other than that one tarnish on our sterling trophy, we really had a wonderful relationship. For two young kids who didn’t know much about love, we were perfecting something together. But we only lasted for two years because he went off to grad school and I went backpacking around Europe with my friend Lori and you know what they say about long distance relationships. That silly phrase about absence isn’t true, don’t believe it for a second. The heart doesn’t grow fonder, it wanders. So we drifted off into our own lives on opposite coasts as I landed back in the States in California with a surfer from Seal Beach who I met at a youth hostel in Italy and that was that. Marvin and I kept in touch for a few years after that, sharing stories about boyfriends and girlfriends and marriages and dogs and vacations and kids, he with three and me with two, but then you know, life just is. Parents pass away, careers change, your kids have milestone events and the letters and phone calls get farther and fewer between. Then I woke up. I woke up one otherwise banal morning making coffee and toast, one more day in lock-down avoiding the news and people on the street, to find an email in my inbox from Marvin. “Hey, how are you!” it said in the subject line. What other Marvin could it have been but my Marvin, right, other than the fact that he started every conversation with “Hey” and also the fact that I never met another Marvin in my whole long life. So I opened it. I read through a long tale of happiness and loss, success and failure, joy and sadness. In essence, the threads that made up the fabric of his life. Any life, really, when you think about it. It was an entertaining read, he was a good writer. At the end of it was his phone number saying I could call anytime if I was so inclined. Well, was I? I mean it had been thirty years since we were last in touch, what could we possibly have to say to each other? Is the bond still there, I mean, does something like that, someone like that stay forever or simply disappear through the revolving door of people who shape your life? I didn’t know the answer to that question at all. I did know that I felt something weird in my stomach when I thought about him and I don’t mean just now when I think about him but all these years...whenever. I thought. about. him. I left that email in my box for a few days, thought it all over and finally responded saying “Yes, let’s talk soon!” in a vague, non-committal, no date or time specified kind of way. But then he called me on it as he would always do and proposed a more exact day and time to talk on the phone or Zoom, if I preferred. Oh, god no, I’m not ready for Zoom with Marvin but a phone call would be fine. So it was settled and I tried not to think about it too much. Then I woke up and it was the day of our call though I would have to wait all day until 3:00 for it to happen. You can imagine the nerves and the questions and the lists and the doubts and the genuine excitement that built up until that hour crept slowly closer and closer. Then it was three and I’ll be darned if Marvin didn’t call me at exactly 3:00 as if he was on a timer or something which would be just like him. I picked up and said hello with a slight question in my voice. “Hey” he said nonchalantly. “Hey,” I said back. And from that moment it just flowed. Like we had just seen each other yesterday. Well, it was just yesterday if you put it in the proper context of a whole continuum of space and time, right? People don’t change that much I don’t think and time is just a relative, abstract construct of our minds if you ask me. Marvin was so eager and excited and downright giddy about our reconnection, saying things like, “You’re so good for my brain!” and repeatedly telling me how happy he was. He wanted to talk every week and wanted to know if it was ok with me that he “plans to stay connected with me from now on”. I was happy too. I admit it. During our first conversation on the phone we agreed we had had something special, that we had a bond, that we raised the bar for every relationship that followed. He loved talking about how respectful we were with each other and how we never got in each other’s way. Except for the concert, of course, it was a pretty perfect union. Marvin also told me he was divorced. Then I woke up a couple months into our revived friendship to a voicemail from Marvin from the night before, wherein, after a few scotches he tells me he never should have married his first wife, that he should have married me, “...despite my three great kids with her...”, should have quit with the not getting in each other’s way bit and that it was me all along and that he’s been talking to his therapist for years about me. Then he sort of trailed off into an awkward silence and a “well, that’s all I needed to say....for now. Ok, talk soon?” Me? I’m still married. Had I told him that yet? I’m pretty darn happily married, too, but you know, it’s been a long time together whatever with one person. You know how it goes. But what do you do with a voicemail like that? Ignore it? Cut things off? Talk about it, laugh about it together? It was starting to feel like I was cheating on my husband, getting deeper into a forbidden tryst that would cross a line with no turning back, that I would regret for years to come. I talked to my sister about it, “What exactly are you doing?” she asked me. How the hell did I know. Yeah, it was much more innocent than the way I just mapped out, there was no indiscretion. But it had all the markings of a classic summer romance. Those stomach flutters in anticipation of the call, the giggly laughter sharing stories, shared points of view, the visions in my head of the plans we made to see each other. But, let’s face it. It’s Covid Summer and who knows when Marvin and I will actually see each other in person, when and where and how, and maybe even why, that’s all just speculation and pipe dreaming for now. We’re all in quarantine. Letting our minds run wild with desire and fantasy and hopes and dreams for a better future where we hug and kiss old friends, have grand summer reunions and sit under the trees with wine and cheese. But worse, maybe, we see the past as some perfect world where a boyfriend was a one truly heroic, perfected love that can never be matched. That is worthy of rekindling and creating a new spark better than the last. A place where the sun shines brilliant everyday and we frolic in unending love and joy. Then I woke up. This morning, I woke up. On my Facebook feed was a post from my friend Jen in Asheville, North Carolina, one of those memes that people pass around. It said, “Don’t let a pandemic be the reason you get in touch with your ex.”

Halloween in a hotel, that’s what we’re doing this year since no one ever has enough room for the entire family to sleep. At first mom didn’t like the idea but she finally agreed, with the one condition that I had to do the planning, which I did. I found a gorgeous old Victorian home that was recently developed into a hotel and from the pictures I could just tell everyone will like it. It is in a safe area so the kids can go trick-or-treating. There is a charming brick fire place and a library to keep the adults busy. What was most striking to me while viewing the photos on the internet is that the interior looks so much like the Salvatore mansion from The Vampire Diaries. For all I know, it might be the place where the series was filmed. “Babe, we’re going to be late and you know how your mother feels about that.” Alex bursts through my thought bubble and through the bedroom door. “Just in time, please take my bag to the car while I grab my cardigan and vanity case. I’ll be down in a sec.” “Anna, do we really have to stay here? Look at this place! It gives me the chills.” Alex shrugs deeper into his jacket. “Look, I know you don’t like old homes but this was the only place I could find with fourteen rooms available and I already booked and paid all of them so there’s no turning back now” “Darling, you’re here! This place is amazing and the staff is so welcoming. Did you know the inside looks like the Salvatore mansion? I just knew I had to leave the planning in your hands.” Grace is clearly very excited. “Hi mom. Thank you, I’m glad you approve and yes I saw photos on the internet about the interior. Is everyone else here already?” I hug my mother and turn to grab my stuff from the car. At the top of the stairs of the wooden porch, lit up by tea light candles in mason jars hung from the ceiling, we are greeted by an elderly man who takes our bags. “Good evening and welcome to Happy Holidays hotel. You must be Anna and Alex, I’m Wilson. I am the butler and here to makes sure everything in the hotel runs smoothly. Come now; let me show you to your room.” Walking through the door I am amazed by how beautiful the place really is. The photos don’t do it justice. There are 8Cherry-wood furniture where you look and the most amazing rugs and carpets that simply invites you to lie down. Around the corner from the living room there is dark wooden spiral stairs which Wilson starts to ascend. Three storeys up, at the very top of the tower situated in the middle of the house, a huge solid wooden arched door awaits on us. Wilson opens the door and I’m left in awe. My focus is immediately pulled to the high four-poster queen-size bed in the middle of the room, complete with beige and blue Victorian bedding. In the far end a big cherry-wood vanity and chair. I step into the rom spinning around slowly taking in all the sights and smell. I smell coffee and get pulled back to reality. “Thank you Wilson, this room is fit for a queen.” I still can’t believe my eyes an feel a little absent-minded so much so that Wilson had to repeat himself. “Dinner is in half an hour if you want to freshen up. Are you alright, miss?” I simply nod and walk towards the bed where Wilson put our bags. Everyone is already seated at the large mahogany dinner table when I walk into the dining room. Everyone looks very festively but there’s something missing. “Wilson? Why didn’t you put up any Halloween decorations, it is all Hallows eve after all.” I ask while taking place at the table. Wilson smile and clap his hands together two times and like some sort of metamorphosis the house starts shifting. The kids scream, at first frightened but when they realise what is going on they start giggling. The table turns into a giant tree stump as the rest of the house, everywhere spider webs appear with realistic looking plastic spiders, in one seat at the table a skeleton falls into place as well as on one of the sofas in the living room. Wilson puts a cape on and show his vampire fangs and I can’t be sure whether or not it is real but it really looked that way. “It’s not Halloween if you don’t experience the transformation yourself, miss.” Wilson says while taking his seat. “Thank you Wilson, it was a nice surprise. Trick-or-treating is at seven right?” “That’s right miss, I’ll stay here and hand out candy.” The kids plunge down on the sofa when we get back to the hotel. Walking around the neighbourhood for an hour is not easy even for me but it was a lot of fun. There were some cute angels, a few ghosts and Frankenstein’s and even a devil and so much other monster and fairies and princesses. There was also one family the dressed like goldilocks and the three bears. The kids received a lot of candy and other treats toys and ghostly story book and as a tradition mom took everything so it can be divided equally between them and so that the amount of candy they eat can be controlled. “Come on kids. Fun’s over. Time for bed you know the rules and don’t forget to brush your teeth.” At once they all get up dragging their feet with their bag of treat under one arm but eventually they were all in bed. I decided to follow by example and head upstairs as well except I can’t manage to fall asleep. I can hear the floorboards creek throughout the house and somewhere a ghost is howling but that has to be my imagination right? Eleven in the evening, Alex is out like a log and my imagination is running away with me. A thousand thoughts and questions cross my mind but one remains - Is Wilson really a Vampire?

#Welcome to the Spooky Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **** *Bonus Constraint (worth extra points): The word “ravenous” is used.* This is the second week of our ***Five Weeks of Spooky for Spooktober*** challenge. Each week will involve a horror or Halloween themed prompt/constraint. Keep in mind you are not bound to write horror. If the prompts inspire you to write something different, go for it! But for those who live and breathe horror, or want to give it a shot, this is your chance! This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘phobia’ in your story. It (or the idea) should appear in some way within the story. I have provided an image as additional inspiration. You may include the theme word if you wish, but it is not necessary. Use of the image and bonus constraint are not required. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST.** - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied I have made some significant changes in the ranking system. We’ll see how this works over the next few weeks and make adjustments where necessary. Here is a current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week - - Submitted by u/rainbow--penguin   - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/nobodysgeese   - - Submitted by u/Say_Im_Ugly   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - - Submitted by u/Nakuzin   - - Submitted by u/rolfkto   *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

“Aren’t you getting a little sick of this, man?” “Sick of what?” I shoot back to Barren, confused by what he means. “Wandering through miles of wilderness? It keeps us in shape.” “Sick of this,” he repeats, motioning with wide arms at everything around us. “At all of this. Is it worth it? It gets old after a while. Don’t you ever want to do something else with your life?” We leave our horses behind us, heading to terrain they can’t enter. A shallow river lay before us like a writhing snake. We wade through the creek bed. Our boots are a symphony of swishing and crunching through water and river rocks. I think over his question, but a good answer escapes me. Didn’t we spend our whole life getting ready for this? This is our job, after all. It’s not like we can quit because we’re a little tired today. What about the gold? How will we support our families back home? What is he even saying? If we leave this position, we will just have to find another. At the end of the day, at least what we do is flashy. I mean, when we walk into taverns, people talk. “I think it’s worth it,” I say, my voice comes out unconvinced. “We’re a few of the lucky ones. We climbed our way up the ladder. We were given titles. We should be proud of ourselves, shouldn’t we? There aren’t many of us left from our village back home, you know.” “And why do you think that is?” he counters. “I’ll tell you. Those left of us are the only ones stupid enough to work under these conditions. Everyone else, with half a brain rolling around in their head, already jumped ship. It’s a fool’s errand, Melvin. I’m telling you.” “But we save people, Barren. That means something, doesn’t it?” He says nothing as we continue our trek under a starless sky. The air is a thick swamp of heat. We’re submerged in the kind of humidity that makes breathing feel more like suffocation. Our heavy chainmail isn’t helping matters. I have so much sweat underneath it, I could fill a barrel. The stench is something I hope never to bring home with me. My wife will leave me for the town’s bread maker, I’m sure. Barren holds a torch in his right hand as we march forward toward the caves. The flames spit and claw at the air as they go to war with the darkness. The sounds of our swords clink against our waists as we continue to take note of everything in our surroundings. Any moment could be our last. “And what about Vivian,” I continue to badger him, “You never would have met her had you chosen any other purpose in life. You saved her. You’re a hero! Think of your father-in-law and the land he gifted you with. You have honor where most people go hungry.” “Land I never see,” he interjects. “A woman I never touch. Think about it. This god forsaken business takes us all over the land. For guts, for honor, for glory. It’s all sickening after a while. Sometimes,” he quiets for a moment. “I just want the simple things. Don’t you?” “Simple things?” “I don’t want to work for somebody else. I bring all this honor home and get sent right back out again. It’s a vicious cycle. We’re nothing but slaves with showy titles,” he kicks a large rock in front of him and watches as it skitters from the torch light into the darkness. “I missed Honora’s second birthday, Melvin. I missed her second birthday and that’s right after I missed her first one, too. She doesn’t even know her own father!” I have nothing to say about this. He’s right. His words sink into my flesh like a blade piercing through organs. I think of my dearest Eleanor at home pregnant with our first child. This is what it will be like for me, expected to run out on an expedition any time our lord tells us to. We’re nothing more than well trained dogs. We sit when told, roll over when told, and if we’re really good boys... we’re fed treats and given pats on the head. Barren is right about everything. “Well, what do you suggest?” I ask. “It’s not like we can return home empty handed.” Barren lets out a deep breath, “Can you imagine Lord Ralph’s face if he had to come do what we do?” I try and all I can picture is his blotchy red cheeks. I can see his beady brown eyes full of terror as he swings a sword around in all directions. Will he even be able to lift it? Nobility has never had to do a thing they didn’t want to do. Barren and I have been swinging swords like our lives depended on it since we were boys. Let’s face it, our lives do depend on it. Do they make chainmail in his size? I doubt the endless rolls of his stomach would fit into any kind of armor that would protect him out here. He’d die in seconds. “He’d never make it,” I tell Barren, and he belts out a hearty laugh in agreement. We listen to the trees groan and creak against a steady breeze blowing to the east side of us. The moving air is the only thing keeping us from being slayed ourselves by unbearable heat. These conditions are ridiculous, I admit to myself now that he brought it up. I consider asking if we should set up camp for the night but think better of it. The more ground we cover tonight, the faster we can return home. If we survive, that is. “All I’m trying to say is how pointless it is,” Barren calls out. “We are out here risking our lives and someone else gets rich off our backs. The last few times we returned he gave us a fourth of the riches we were promised. Trying to secure goods in town keeps getting harder and harder. The prices go up, the work isn’t getting any easier, yet our pay is never what we’re worth. We work long hours away from our families. We’re told from a young age how glorious this life will be, so that we spend every second preparing for it. We take lessons in sword fighting and compete to see who can be the best. Even if we become the best, what then? Is this really the dream ? Quite frankly, old friend, it wasn’t what they promised. Instead, it’s rather... exhausting.” We continue in a sobering silence. It isn’t what they promised at all. What a fool I’ve been, working myself into the ground on endless expeditions. Chasing after riches and God knows what else. Is this really the best way to spend my time here on this luscious green earth? It’s not like I can take any gold or honor with me to the grave. After we die, everything about us dies too. Some memories last longer than others, but eventually, like small grains of sand, we all drift away in the end. “I have a dream... do you want to know what it is?” Barren asks me, voice full of thought. “What is it?” “I’d like to take Vivian and Honora to a place far away from here. Far away from the politics and the toxic games of nobility. Vivian’s father married her off to me like she was cattle,” Barren says, eyes dark and full of malice in the shadows of the torch light. “Four daughters, and all they are to him are bargaining chips. I see the hurt in her eyes every time she talks about him. He hasn’t visited her once since he sent her to me. I can’t imagine doing something like that to my precious Honora. This place is sick. Don’t you think there is a better place out there somewhere?” I can see he is confiding in me, hoping the weight he wrestles with in his mind can be lifted. I look for any kind of strength within me to share with him yet find myself debilitated. The truth is, I can’t see how running away will do us any good. “No,” I tell him. “I don’t.” In the distance, we see a large stream of fire shoot into the sky. A loud roar echoes. Our feet draw us forward, closer to the beast we’re meant to kill. We’ve been on so many of these trips now, I don’t feel fear or anticipation as we dredge toward our fate. It’s another day, another slay, and I miss sharing meals with my family. “I don’t think there is a better place, Barren. Humans are the same wherever you go,” I watch as he battles the sweat dripping down his face into his beard. “You know what I do think?” I tell him, as we move out of the water into a tall field of grass ahead of us. “I think if something isn’t working anymore... it needs to be fixed.” Barren gives a grunt of approval, and I can see the gears turning in his head. People think folks like us are all muscle, doomed to die young in the glory of battle. Our cleverness has kept us alive far longer than we had any right to live. It’s true what I told him. I don’t think there is a place better than this. Even so, he isn’t wrong for wanting a better life for his family. When I think of the world I want my unborn child to grow up in, is this it? A world where the rich get richer, and the poorer you are, the harder it is to survive. Will my future son have to risk his life over and over again to put bread in his mouth? Will my daughter have to marry any gent off the street to ensure her own survival? Or something even worse, will my family only be concerned with what they can take while they are alive, and not what they can give? Is there nothing we can do to make this world a bit better with our meager slices of time? Is this.... all humans are capable of? I shudder in fear, and not because of the beast we are headed to vanquish. No, this fear is for a different beast all together. I’m truly afraid we can’t do any better than this. “I heard a rumor once,” Barren’s voice is low. “On how to train a dragon.” I give him a look that says he is crazy. For the record, he is . If there is one thing harder than asking humans to be less greedy, and to look out for each other more, it’s training a dragon. “Rumors are groundless works of fiction,” I say. “Not this one.” “So, what? You think Vivian will let you keep a pet dragon at your estate?” He shoots me a grin. One I know too well. It’s the same grin he gives me every single time he convinces me to do something stupid I’ll regret later down the road. “No dead body, no gold. Those are the rules,” I remind him. “You told me to break the rules.” “When did I tell you that?” “Moments ago! You said if something was broken it needed to be fixed. Doesn’t that also mean if there are rules in place doing more harm than good, they need to be changed?” “What an incredible way to twist my words, Barren.” I shake my head at him in disbelief, not that it does any good. He’s been this way since we were children. Always getting ideas in that thick head of his and running with them. Not without dragging me behind him, of course. Most times against my will. “What good will a trained dragon do?” I ask. “Where do you get these unbelievable ideas?” “You’re telling me we should leave it like this, Melvin. And you killed my dream moments ago, saying there is no place better than this. It’s a bit of a dreary thought. The system here is broken, a predatory exploitation of humans and nature alike. Our only option is obvious, isn’t it, old friend? Tell me, what can two knights fix all by their lonesome? Even two who are inconceivably handsome, and wickedly cunning, like you and me.” “What are you suggesting? Things have always been this way,” I point out. “Our job is to slay the dragon. You’re saying you don’t want to? Lord Ralph will have our head’s if we stray from the path he carved for us.” Barren gives a disapproving look in my direction, “Don’t you think it’s thoughts like those that keeps real change from ever happening?” He has a point. “I don’t know what change should look like, do you?” I question, my voice on the hesitant side. “Where would we even begin?” “I think you were wrong earlier, Melvin. I really do,” his voice is steady despite the terrain becoming steep as we head uphill. “Humans are not all the same.” We see the caves ahead of us. There are catacombs of them riddled into the side of a cliff so high we can’t see the top of it. The cliff is known as “Dragon’s Breath.” These caves are home to many creatures including the legendary Vermillion Dragon . She is the last remaining female of her kind. Her head will fetch Lord Ralph a hefty lump of gold. Many have made it this far only to never return home again. Barren and I eyeball it like we’re returning home to see our mothers. The surroundings are familiar but we’re ready to be scolded at a moment’s notice. We have been here and back so many times the men at home call us, “Wyvern’s tongues.” Men who can slide in and out of what’s considered the dragon’s mouth and remained unscathed. “It’s quite easy, isn’t it?” Barren continues. “To believe things will always go on this way. But I think there are more people like us than you realize.” “More people like us?” I question. “Of course,” he goes on. “People who see the cracks in the foundation of the very houses we’re meant to dwell in. The one’s who recognize it’s only a matter of time before the walls come down and we’re left with no choice but to start building again.” We reach the bottom of the steep ahead of us and listen to the wind as it howls against a black ocean. It’s quite a climb up the precipice to Vermillion. We have only seen a glimpse of her crimson tail in all the journeys we’ve taken. Tonight, she sets the sky above us on fire with nothing but her breath. Her voice is a harrowing tale of all the men who have tried and failed to meet her. The rocks at the bottom of her cliff are like the jagged edges of a knife. One slight misstep and a man wouldn’t make it home for supper. We never worry about the climb, however. Unlike the many who came before us, we believe using your intellect is just as effective as using your sword. It was our first expedition when we found a tunnel at the base of Dragon’s Breath. A tunnel that leads to the inner workings of the cave system. It goes all the way to the top. Easy as meat pie. “We’re guilty like the rest of them, Barren. How long have we seen the cracks, but didn’t do a single thing to patch them? No, worse than that. We continue to put more weight on the very homes that are supposed to house ourselves and our loved ones.” His silence weighs as much as our armor before he gives a reply. “So, that’s it then. Humans can’t change. What do you think happens when we slay the last female dragon, Melvin?” He doesn’t have to tell me, I already know. Without her, their species will die. “I didn’t think killing a few dragons would get us here,” I say, voice somber. “People think they’re cruel and dangerous creatures. The reality is... our feelings toward them are only a reflection of our feelings toward ourselves. We’re the cruel and dangerous ones.” “Aye,” Barren agrees. “I hate when you push me into these places, Barren. When you know full well, there is no way out of them. It’s us, isn’t it?” My closest friend gives me a deep knowing look. A smile pulls at his lips. It’s the kind of exchange where words aren’t needed. Only those who are truly in sync with one another can understand the meaning behind it. “Aye,” he agrees again. I take a moment out of the silence between us to consider all that dragons bring to the world. We look at their fire as devastating, reducing the lands we know to soil once more. We name them savages and kill them instead of learning to work with their kind. When exactly did humans start to believe we are superior to everything living and growing around us? It’s quite possible we dismissed the true purpose of a dragon all together. Perhaps, they aren’t raging beasts at all, but healers. It’s only out of new soil that new growth can occur. “It’s ourselves, that’s where the change begins. Isn’t it,” I laugh. “It begins with you and me.” “You and me,” he says, crossing his arms behind his head before letting out a whistle. Many will come for Vermillion, seeking to put her head on a spike. I follow Barren into the deep recesses of the cave system before us. I follow him the same way I have many times. This time, it’s not to take a life, but to save it.

Granny was delighted by the robot that would carry kittens across the polished floor. We, her grandchildren, had done good. The Roomba Evolution was not cheap, but it was the most advanced robot in human history. Nevermind military-machines. We call those Deathbots. Deathbots are disqualified, they only know one thing. So when a Deathbot got loose, it went global viral live. It happened on a quiet Sunday morning. A Mark I had gotten refurbished by some disgruntled-character in his backyard workshop. It was bound to happen sooner or later. We heard gunfire and soon there were police sirens. The news followed the progress of the Mark I. It moved about on six legs like a murderous insect. It had a machinegun and a homemade buzzsaw weapon and several strong sharp claws. It couldn't be contended with, until Police could bring in anti-robot drones. That could take awhile. All the cops did was drive through the neighborhood using their speakers to tell people to get indoors. For seventy minutes the rampage continued as injuries and casualties accumulated. Granny almost became its final victim. The Deathbot found her asleep and deaf on her backporch. It blew through the fence and started spraying bullets at a cat running along the edge. Then, as the cat escaped unharmed, the Deathbot identified Granny as its next target. While it reloaded it approached her on its spindly spider legs and revved up a buzzsaw weapon. Roomba Evolution saw this and already alarmed by the noises, identified the Deathbot as a dangerous intruder. It opened the sliding glass door and barreled out at the Deathbot at top speed, ignoring its safety protocols. The tackle happened midair and both machines landed awkwardly on the lawn. Grass got churned as the Roomba Evolution fiercely defended its Granny. The armored Deathbot was much stronger and faster and better armed and knew how to fight in melee combat. Severely outclassed, the Roomba Evolution was directed by a protocol to preserve itself. It ignored this protocol, noting that if it stepped aside the attack on Granny would resume. It picked up a broken fenceboard and tried to catch the spinning blade. It worked and it thrust the board between the legs of its opponent and tripped it. As the Deathbot righted itself the Roomba Evolution recalled a move it had seen the cats do while playing and it jumped up onto the Deathbot and pinned it. As the Deathbot threw off the Roomba Evolution, it aimed its machinegun where its enemy would land. Armor piercing rounds tore through the Roomba Evolution and tore apart more of the backyard lawn. The domestic robot twitched and sparked, rerouting power to the functions needed to get back up. The Deathbot had almost turned back to Granny when it noticed the Roomba Evolution was trying to get back up and continue fighting. It mercilessly pounced and finished off the opposing machine. Suddenly two police drones hovered on either side of the backyard. They shot close-range darts at the Mark I Deathbot and temporarily disabled it. Police flooded into the backyard and apprehended the machine. That Christmas the Roomba Evolution, despite the expense, became the most sought after gift in human history. Already it was no longer the most advanced robot; but instead it had won our hearts as it fought to the end to protect its owner.

"Welcome home." "Who are you?" “I am Deus.” “Where are we?” “In your mind, as you can see.” “Of course, of course... I only see a semi-dark corridor dotted with doors on the sides. Did you happen to kidnap me and take me to some kind of abandoned motel or something?” "No. This is really your mind. And I did not bring you here. You got into it on your own.” “Of course! Get me out of here, you freak!” "I cannot. I am sorry." “What do you mean “I am sorry”?! Get a move on!” “I tell you again, I cannot. You will have to escape from this prison with your own strength." “What do you mean by “prison”? “I mean you are going to stay here until you get the key.” ""Key"?! What are you babbling about?! Are you delusional?! And then, what the hell is this “key”?!” “Calm down. The key I am talking about is hidden behind one of the doors you see. You will have to open them one by one until you find it.” “Are you crazy?! Have you seen how many there are?!” “It is normal that there are so many, since each of them holds a fragment of your memory.” “And do you really expect me to indulge this delirium of yours and start looking for a phantom key hidden who knows where? Come on man, get it over with and take me home. The game is good as long as it doesn't last long.” “This is not a game.” “And what would it be about, then?” “Of self-awareness.” “Listen, dear Deus, I...” “During your life you have made a fatal mistake of which you are unaware. Behind one of these doors lies that mistake.” ““A fatal mistake,” you say? And what would it be?” “I cannot tell you. You will have to find out for yourself.” "I understand. But you are totally off the mark if you actually think I am going to play your game.” “I tell you again, this is not a game. You will not be free until you find the key.” “I do not care about your stupid key. Just take me home!” "I cannot. Believe me, if I could, I would. But I cannot." "Why not?!" “Because I do not have the ability. I can only accompany you on this journey of yours.” “And do you really expect me to believe you?” "Yes. I am totally sincere.” “Do you assure me that finding this key will truly end this torture?” “Totally.” “...And that is fine.” “Start opening the doors of your mind.” “You do it for me.” “And why would I?” “I feel like it is better this way.” “And so be it. I am preparing to open the first door. Observe.” “But that...” "Yes. The child you see is really you. It is winter, it is snowing heavily and you are playing snowballs with your friends.” “What a beautiful memory. I highly doubt the key I am looking for is here. Let's move on. Choose and open another door.” "Ok. Here you are." “... This is a decidedly less pleasant memory. I remember my middle school years well. Bullies tormented me and I didn't know how to stand up for myself. At the time I was extremely introverted and incapable of socializing. However, I do not think the key I am looking for is found here. Let's move on to the next memory.” “As you wish. I am opening the third door.” “Oh, first love! How to forget it? We had so much fun together and... But, wait, why have I started yelling at her...? Well, I have just made her cry. What have I done? I bet I got nervous for nothing, as usual. One of my usual tantrums, I guess. The usual imbecile who could not control himself. Deus, the key I am looking for could be here." “What makes you think that?” “This scene reminded me of how volatile I was as a teenager. Maybe I made some big mess in that period.” “I do not think the key is here.” “What do you think?” “It is just a feeling.” “Deus.” "Tell me." “What do you know about me?” "I know everything." “Why did you lie to me?! You even had the nerve to say that you were “totally sincere”!” "I know. And I apologize." “I will tell you again. Why did you lie to me?” “To prevent you from finding the key and going back.” “Are you telling me that you intended to make me your prisoner forever?” “No, I did not mean to do that.” “What did you intend to do then?” “Make you play forever.” “What are you saying?! Are you crazy?!” “Probably yes.” “Tell me immediately where this damned key is!” “Behind the fifth door on the right.” “Are you lying now too?” "No. I swear.” "Agree. Let's see a little. ... I do not see anything strange here. A memory regarding an episode that happened recently, nothing more. I am in the company of... of... Oh, no! No! No!!" “Here is the key.” “Damn, no! Maybe there is still time to fix things." “...No, it is too late.” “Deus!!” “Stay here with me forever. Now you have no reason to go back." “Deus... Deus... You are just selfish.” "I know.” “Why doing this to me? What did I do to deserve this?!” “You did nothing wrong. It is just my fault. I am an unforgivable sinner.” ““Unforgivable sinner”? What do you mean by that?” “Oh, do not pay attention to it. You would not understand.” “How can you be so sure about it? You are part of me, of my mind!” “Nobody can totally comprehend their mind...” “Then open up with me. Let me understand. Let’s use this key properly. Let’s use it. Together.” “After all I did... Unlike me, you are not selfish at all. “I know.” “Do you... do you really want to help me? Do you really want to stay here with me?” “I do.”

She was hungover again that Wednesday, so I’d had to go in to work for her. She hadn’t been to the office for almost a month now, telling me she still needed some “well-deserved” time off. She’d only had the job for six months. So far on her time off all she’d done was stare at her phone, watch the tele and get drunk. She’d used her trust fund from her parents to pay for me; a Doppel. A clone that could perform tasks for her and also take her place in public without anyone noticing; identical in every way apart from a small metal device in the wrist, called the Experience Tracker. Originally created as a way to double productivity, or to allow someone to work 80-hour weeks, Rhian thought it best to let her Doppel (Me) be the productive one so she didn’t have to. Though she didn’t treat me like a slave, she did use me to make her life far more comfortable that she deserved. When I got home, she was dozing on the sofa, a flannel on her head and a bowl on the floor. She heard the door and registered me with a look before closing her eyes again. I hung up our coat and put our shoes away before going through to the kitchen to get my preprepared Nutri-shake. “Doppel,” She asked me in a stickily, pleading voice. “Original.” I responded freezing in my tracks, with a feeling of dread in my chest. “I need you to do something for me tonight.” I sighed. Originals seemed to forget that whilst, yes we were clones of them and we were created for their service, we too got tired and needed rest like they did. I longed for my cryo-pod. “I’m still feeling so rough and I totally forgot I was supposed to go on a date with Brad.” I looked down on her puzzled and she blinked black lashes at me. Rhian had short blonde hair and bright brown eyes, though today they were dull from too much sleep and drink. She was also a few sizes larger than me, partially because she had been living on nothing but junk food and barely moved from the sofa for a month, whereas I was forced to drink a tasteless “Nutri-shake” that sustained my exact nutritional needs and no more. It was too expensive to feed a Doppel proper food. “Why not cancel?” I asked her and she pulled a face like she’d bitten down on a sour sweet, “Because CBA? I’d feel bad too. He’s a nice enough guy. I mean I don’t “Like” him, but I said I’d go for dinner. You go, humour him. If you go you can even eat the food. How long has it been since you’ve tried real food?” She tempted me with that one and I decided that I could forgo a bit of rest for a chance at real food. “A long time original.” “So you’ll go then?” “Yes.” “You’re a life saver!” She looked relieved. I was excited. “What do you want me to wear?” She smiled in a sweet way that didn’t spread to her dark-rimmed eyes. “Take your pick.” “Do you want me to sleep with him?” She thought about it, then pulled a face and shook her head. “Nah, I can’t deal with the drama. Maybe kiss him if he leans in.” I nodded. “Cool. Thanks Dop.” She took out her phone and pinged the address of the restaurant and a picture of Brad to my Experience Tracker. It functioned much like a smart phone, only with far less features and fitted with to both a movement tracker and a recorder to record all a Doppel went through in an original’s absence. “What time should I be back?” I asked as I dismissed the picture from where it showed on my palm. She groaned and waved her hand dismissively. “I dunno. Be back in your Cryo by 11.” Another nod and I left the dirty living room to choose an outfit from the closet. I had been feeling apprehensive when she’d asked me to go out, but to taste real food... That was something I dreamed of. At least I would if the Cryo-pods allowed us to dream. After I’d chosen an outfit, a sleek white blouse with black trousers and high heels accompanied by a small jacket, I caught a cab to the restaurant where I was meeting... Brad. That was it. I called up the picture from my tracker and made sure I’d be able to recognise his face. I saw that Rhian was watching me, by the little red marker projected on my finger. She was probably just making sure that I’d made it safely, but it made me shudder. The Restaurant was called “Campino’s”, a narrow three-story Italian eatery with a brightly lit sign and dazzling yellow lights in vintage bulbs shining through the tall glass windows. I stepped out the cab and, after paying the fare, quickly tottered into the porch. A girl in uniform, her hair in a tight chestnut bun, smiled at me as I approached and asked if I had a reservation. “I’m here with Brad?” I said hopefully, putting on Rhian’s sweetest smile. The Waitress nodded in recognition. “He arrived just a minute ago, I’ll show you the way.” I followed the waitress between round clothed tables like river rapids till I came to a table with a man sitting at it. He had ash blonde hair with too much gel in and wore a navy-blue shirt. His face was kind with green-brown eyes and slightly wonky teeth, that added a boyish element to his smile. I liked it, but Original didn’t so... “Hey, glad you could make it.” He said, his voice was high timbered and warm though there was something about it that I couldn’t quite work out. An artificial or false quality. Although in all honesty I wasn’t paying that much attention, I was more excited about the menu and what I saw on the table. Breadsticks. Beautifully browned, olive-oil made, golden crunchy breadsticks. I snatched one up and bit into it with a dry snap before I’d even sat down. Then I composed myself, “Sorry,” I laughed through my mouthful, “I’m starving.” My mouth watered even as I chewed, and I pulled out the chair and sat down. Brad laughed with me. “Well, if you’re making a start I might as well.” He took a breadstick too and we both shared a smile as we enjoyed them. The waitress brought us a bottle of red wine over and Brad poured a glass for each of us. “Sorry, I didn’t even ask do you like wine?” He asked bashfully. I’d never tried it, so I shrugged. “Time to find out.” The first drop was like strawberry fire and I almost choked on the shear cavalcade of flavour that pervaded my tongue and mouth. I could understand now my Original got through so much of it. “That’s amazing,” I whispered, a burn in my throat snatching my voice from me. “I have to agree,” he nodded savouring the taste. “A connoisseur, are you?” I giggled girlishly. “Actually,” He spun the stem of the glass between his fingers, “I was a member of a wine club.” He said sheepishly as if he didn’t want me to know. Original had taught me how to feign interest when talking to men, but there was no need. I was fascinated. “You were?” “I were.” He nodded with a cheeky smile. “Well, why’d you stop?” He took another sip and closed his eyes. “Because I... I....” He froze for a moment as if in deep thought. The silence hung awkwardly, and my eyes wandered the room to try and avoid his struggling face. Suddenly he gave a deep groan and shook his head. “Urrgh I’m sorry. Look I really shouldn’t tell you this but.” He held out his wrist to reveal an Experience Tracker just like mine. “I’m a Doppel. Yes, I know it’s a dick move I totally agree. Worse than standing someone up I reckon. Just don’t tell my original I told you, you can go home and...” “No way!” I exclaimed holding my own wrist out. His eyes widened as he saw my tracker. “Wait you too!?” I nodded exuberantly. “That’s right!” He spread his arms out wide then grabbed his hair. “What the Ffff....!?” We both stared at each other for a long moment and then laughed so loud that other people turned to look at us with disapproving expressions. “So, you... you’re Original, Rhian. Stood up my Original, Brad but he was standing up you which was actually...!” “If it wasn’t for us this table would be empty.” I said picking up my glass and taking a big swig of wine, choking on the flavour. “As you’ve been so honest, I’ll come clean with you. I’m, literally, just here for the food. I’ve not tasted anything in months apart from Nutri-shake.” Doppel-Brad gesticulated in wide eyed agreement. “I am so sick of that stuff. If it wasn’t for the canteen allowance Original gave me, I’d have eaten my own tongue.” I slammed my hands on the table. “You get canteen money!?” We talked about our originals for hours, ordering plates and plates of food till our stomachs hurt and out mouths ached. We were having too much fun to care about anything else, it was just a pleasure to talk with our own kind. It turned out that Brad hadn’t been into work for ages either and lived as my Rhian did, just staring at a phone while Doppel-Brad went out and earned the wage packet. Doppel-Brad also told me he thought his Original had sent him on several dates, asking for a record of each one so he could pick the one he wanted. “So this probably wouldn’t have led anywhere after this?” Doppel-Brad shrugged. “Probably not.” I giggled. “Well Rhian was only going out to save face, so I guess it would have been a wasted exercise anyway.” A smile touched the corner of his lips. “Well, it wasn’t from my angle.” Something warm moved inside me and I felt a genuine smile on my face. “No, it certainly wasn’t.” “We are going to be in so much trouble for talking about them like this.” “Not until we plug in.” He grinned cheekily. We clinked glasses and ordered another bottle, quite forgetting the time. The Restaurant emptied, the lights dimmed and soon a waiter came to say that they were closing in 15 minutes. I looked down at my tracker and balked. “Shit! It’s quarter to 12!” “Is it?” Doppel-Brad said calmly. “I hadn’t noticed.” “I said I’d be back an hour ago!” I hissed, standing and going through Rhian’s purse to find money to pay the bill. “So what?” He whispered under his breath, reaching out and taking my hand. “What do you mean?” I asked, frozen as my heart began to pound in my chest. “I don’t know about you.” He began in a low voice. “But I don’t really want to go back to my Original.” My breath came in controlled gasps. “Are you talking about... Running?” He stood up and murmured. “Look, I know a guy. He knows how to shut down the trackers, temporarily at least. We can go somewhere, get away for a bit.” “Get away? Go where?” “I don’t know anywhere. Just as long as we’re together.” My heart wrenched. I wanted what he wanted, but it was impossible. “You hardly know me. Why run away with me?” “Because all my life, if you could call it that, someone else has told me how to live it for their own sake. I want to do something for my own.” He looked me dead in the eye. “And I think you want the same.” “But I’m a... I’m just a...” “A what? A Doppel?” He waved his wrist at me. “Same here.” He squeezed my hand. “Look, you don’t have to. I’m just asking because the thought of never seeing you again hurts.” I regarded him for a long moment, his round boyish face, his hair with way too much gel, his smell of wine and rich food. “It hurts me too...” I whispered leaning toward him. We kissed. We kissed gently, letting the restaurant staff shuffle around us awkwardly, then pulled away. “Alright,” I threw far more money than necessary down on the table for the bill and, hand in hand, we left the waiters gaping at the cash on the table, walked out onto the street and ran.

March, 1 st , 2020 Today is the first day of school! (1) My kids are excited, especially Dana, who is almost 7 years old and is starting her second grade. She already knows her classmates and has spent the last week of her summer holidays deciding on whether she should sit next to Casey or next to Luke. Last night, she helped me set the school uniform and I prepared her a delicious lunchbox: a meatball sub, a big, whole apple, and just a bottle of water, as they give her juice at school. My youngest is 3 years old, and though Harry is not as aware as his sister of the huge day he has ahead, we have explained to him that he’s going to begin kindergarten; he’s going to have a new teacher and little friends he will get to play with every day. I set my alarm clock at 7 AM. By then, my husband has already prepared some coffee and toasts. While the milk warms up in the microwave, I wake my children and they spring from their beds. “Yeah, today’s the first day of school!” shouts Dana. I help Harry put on his clothes; she dresses by herself. After a quick yet nutritious breakfast, I comb her hair in two ponytails, I tie the shoelaces of Harry’s sneakers, they pick up their bags and we rush to school! Many parents and grandparents crowd the school gate: everyone wants to get a picture of their child with a spotless uniform and a happy face before homework, sitting straight, and short break-times wear the enthusiasm out of them. I push a little bit to get a good close-up of my daughter, and after she waves good-bye and gives a big hug to her new teacher, it’s time to take little Harry to kinder. I walk into the small classroom along with other parents, and we all remain there until the teacher is confident that the children are not going to cry. As I walk away, I see Harry puts a finger in his nose and I resist the urge to correct him in public: after all, he’s already playing happily with wooden blocks and he has forgotten all about me. I can’t help but feeling a little anxious: will my girl do well in math? What if my little boy misses me and starts to cry? Wouldn’t it be terrible if adaptation to kinder took him longer than a week? I try to push aside these dreadful thoughts. Judging from this auspicious beginning, it seems we are heading towards a good school year! March, 1 st , 2021 Today is the first day of school. (2) For my almost eight-year-old daughter, it seems so weird going back, after almost a year in front of the screen, seeing teachers and classmates only in Zoom meetings, and getting email responses instead of hugs, colorful stickers, or little hearts for homework well done. My four-year-old doesn’t understand a bit. What is a kinder? He cannot remember that colorful building which he only attended a couple of weeks, a year ago, before the lockdown. He doesn’t get why he can’t remain at home with mom and dad. Harry grabs my leg and says “mommy, I don’t want to leave you!” It’s almost no use explaining to him we are no longer allowed to do home-office every day, and that he needs to get in touch with his peers once and for all. I assure him it’s just for some hours, and then I am going to pick him up. I wish I could promise him he will have a great time, but with schools opening up their gates with so many protocols and limitations, the year ahead is just one big question mark for all of us. Dana is sad because she already knows she is not in the same “bubble” that her best friends. Her pal Casey is no longer attending the same school: her parents lost their jobs and had to move to another city. And we haven’t seen Luke in a year: his dad has a heart condition, and thus the boy hasn’t gone to the park or done any activity for fear of contagion. I try to comfort my daughter, she will still get to be around children her age and spend some time in the classroom instead of in front of the computer. “Can I take my Barbie to school?” she asks, as I put inside her bag the books, the notebook, a bottle of gel hand sanitizer, paper tissues, and the pencil case. “No, sweetheart, no toys are allowed this year”. She looks disappointed: she spent half the afternoon sewing a little mask for her doll. Dad and I have told the children that their teachers are going to be great, but we haven’t met them yet: no parent-teacher meetings have been scheduled so far. All I know is that the 3 rd -grade teacher is someone new: Mr. Florio, the previous teacher, is at home, still recovering from pneumonia after he caught the virus. “Such a young man”, my neighbor told me, “I wonder why it hit him that hard!” I don’t know what to say: my sister got the virus last September and it went away like a common cold, but a friend of mine almost died, and she isn’t forty yet. Last night, I set up the school uniform, which is spotless because it has been barely worn, but looks small for my big girl. I prepared a lunchbox too, although she is not allowed to eat it at school: I have to pick her up at noon and go to have lunch at the nearest park, on a bench. There are no outdoor food courts in our neighborhood. Restaurants and fast-food chains are yet to open. And schools may be active, but children aren’t allowed to eat anything in them. I put an apple but decide it will be better to cut it in slices. “But mom! It will get all brown, yuk!” I also have to pack a juice box for her, as drinking fountains have been forbidden. I also set two masks for each child: one that they should wear the entire morning at school, and a spare one just in case. I set my alarm clock at 6:15 AM. My husband is doing home-office for all week since there was a confirmed case among his coworkers. Oh my God, there is so much to do... Although I have already set the clothes, which we wash every time we go outside, the children are no longer used to getting up this early. It takes me forever to get them out of bed and into their school uniforms. We have a big breakfast -I shouldn’t eat so much, those long months indoors have left me with extra weight. I take my anxiety medication together with a glass of water. My daughter is complaining about the pink mask she can’t find. “Sorry, honey, it’s not dry yet!” I had to wash it last night. As for my little boy, we have been teaching him how to put on and take off the mask by himself, but he is still perfecting the skill. I tell the children to go brush their teeth while I double-check my bag: extra mask, hand sanitizer, a bottle of water, an extra pair of shoes to change mine when I walk into the office (the latest request from the management), more anxiety pills because I have such a big day ahead... I comb Dana’s hair, which takes forever: it has never been this long, but I’m terrible at cutting it and I won’t risk going to the children’s hair salon if I can avoid it. And my little boy looks like a young Beatle. They put on their bags, and I ask them for the tenth time to wash their hands, to avoid physical contact with their classmates, to follow the directions, and to respect the protocol. “Don’t share your school objects with other children”, I say. “But mom, wasn’t sharing supposed to be good?” asks Dana. “I know, sweetheart”, I smile at her, but I frown when I picture a dozen little dirty hands getting inside her brand new pencil case. We arrive early to school: children are supposed to enter in different timetables according to their grades. I can no longer walk my daughter to the door, as parents shouldn’t spend more than the strictly necessary time in front of the school. She can barely distinguish her classmates behind the masks so she looks lost, and oh so small... There are other parents around, but I don’t see many cameras. Nor grandparents. Until the vaccine is available for all that age group, we won’t be counting much on them. We want to keep them safe. My daughter waits in line until a janitor, wearing a face shield that makes him look like an astronaut, checks the temperature of every child, and, only after applying more hand sanitizer, allows them to enter one by one into the building. My daughter waves goodbye. I can’t see whether she’s smiling or not, but her eyes look sad. And now I have to wait for at least another 25 minutes before it’s time to take Harry to kindergarten. I can no longer go inside with him, and of course, he cries when I tell him he should go inside to meet his new teacher. He doesn’t remember his friends: he has only seen them a few times in the playground. Nobody hugs him; the principal does not even tap his head. Physical contact should be completely avoided among children and school staff, it doesn’t matter if it’s a 4-year-old being apart from his mother for the first time in almost a year, or a 10-year-old who just bumped his head into a locker and is bleeding. Everyone should stay at least 3 feet apart from one another. By the time Harry finally calms down, I rush to the bus stop. I know I’m already late for work, but I couldn’t imagine it would take me another half an hour for a bus driver to let me get in: there’s a limited sitting capacity and it is the rush hour by now. I go inside the office, I change my face mask and my shoes, sanitize my hands, and have my temperature check. I finally sit in front of my desk and I’m about to turn my computer on when my cell phone rings. It’s my husband. He tells me he’s going to pick up Dana because one of her classmates threw up and has a little fever, so the school is closing the whole grade preventively and sending everybody home. She won’t be back, in the best possible scenario, for the next two days, and if the other girl happens to test positive, Dana should be locked inside for the following two weeks. I don’t know what kind of year we have ahead. I don’t know what kind of day it’s going to be. And still, somehow, I’m ok. Perhaps it’s the medication, but I prefer to think that all of this we have been through has raised my tolerance threshold to uncertainty. Time will tell. (1) In Argentina, where I’m from, school years begin in March (when the summer is ending) and finish early in December, when the days are already scorching hot. Last year, on March 16 th all schools were closed because of the Covid-19 pandemic, and classes went full-time remote for the rest of the year. (2) In March 2021, schools in Argentina reopened following strict protocols.

One hundred and thirty-six years it took me to find the one I needed. One hundred and thirty-six years of standing in Tallmand’s shop, watching the days pass and the people change. From my spot in the back of the store, I was ever reflecting on my environment, noting the myriad facets of the objects in it, the way the light shone and scattered through the windows across the many items for sale. Many people passed me by over those years, taking a peek at themselves in my silvered glass. I didn’t like most of them. They were incomplete, most of them, but not in the way I desired. Not in the way that could set me free. I glimpsed him through the wide display window as he trundled past the frontage, in the gap between a stately fifties dresser and a horrible late nineteenth-century vase. His shoulders were bowed, his head slumped, his eyes empty as they swept unseeing across my face. He looked utterly broken. He was perfect. Look , I called as he left my view. Several seconds passed before he reappeared. His face was the picture of vague but indifferent interest, confusion and complacency swirling as he puzzled over what had drawn his attention. Come to me . He squinted through the window as his eyes focused on me. His head cocked slowly, his lips spreading slightly. His breath frosted the glass as he peered at me. Come here , I whispered. He stood there for perhaps half a minute before he shook himself, muttering, his lips too clumsy for me to read. He shook his head and turned to resume his journey. Come! I fairly shouted. He twitched and fell against the window, suddenly breathing hard. He looked at me sidelong, the beginnings of fear in his eyes. Still, moments after he steadied himself and left my view again, the bell tinkled him into the store. As he walked past the fifties dresser, he looked around with vague disinterest, as though he expected nothing in the shop could please him. Perhaps he thought no such thing could be found anywhere. Then he saw me. His eyes went wide and round. Shortly, he was standing in front of me, gazing into my depths. From here I could get a better look at him. He wore a faded green winter jacket over a plain brown hoodie and an oversized t-shirt advertising The Grateful Dead. His dirt-stained jeans were torn along one thigh, in a way that suggested damage rather than fashion. His face was lined beyond his years, which I guessed to be late twenties. The sparse curtain of brown hair shading his eyes was already showing signs of gray, though his patchy beard was still a rich auburn. His fingers rose to touch the features I’d noticed, brushing the lines in his forehead, sweeping slowly through his fading hair. His lips parted as he whispered to himself. “Do I really...” he mouthed silently. It’s not fair , I suggested. Why should time have been so unkind to you? Sourness pinched his lips, and his nose wrinkled in disgust. You need to see what you’ve become, if you can ever hope to change. He sighed, fingering his boxers through the rip on his pants, a stain on the hem of his jacket. What do you see? “A bum,” he murmured glumly. “A piece of shit.” You know what I see? He couldn't really hear me. I had no voice, no way to reach his ears, but he leaned forward anyway. The echoes of my words rippled into his mind, suggestions of meaning. So much potential. You've wasted yourself. “Fuck.” You've hurt so many people. “I didn't mean to.” A tear budded in his left eye. “I never wanted to hurt anyone.” Of course you did. I couldn't see inside his mind. I didn't know if I was right before I spoke. But I could read on his face the regret, the self-hatred. I dug in deeper. They never really cared about you. You wanted to make them hurt like they hurt you. “No.” The tear pushed out and tracked down his cheek, blazing a path for other drops of pain. “They were trying to help me.” You were only ever a nuisance to them. They're glad you're not around anymore. “That's not true.” His voice trembled, his fists clenched, his whole body vibrated with frustration and denial. They won't be satisfied until you're dead! “No!” he shouted as his fist lanced forward, his knuckles slamming into the center of my face. A web of cracks shot out from the point of contact. The sharp edges of my splintered glass sliced through the skin of his first two knuckles, carving out drops of his essence. I had him now. His face paled. He took a step back. “Kerchief, sir?” The man whirled to see the store owner, Tallmand, standing beside him, a rail-thin man with a thin black mustache and thinning hair in a tuxedo. The proprietor held a folded white cloth towards the man. “What?” “You’re bleeding. Please take the kerchief.” Tallmand pressed it over my assailant’s dripping hand, positioning the man’s other hand to hold the cloth in place before letting go. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--I gotta go,” the man stammered. “Of course, sir. As soon as you’ve paid for your merchandise. You can follow me to the register.” The man winced with his whole body. “But I don’t want anything!” “Sir, I’m afraid you’ve broken the mirror. You’ll have to pay for it.” Tallmand glided away, the poor man following as though dragged, fumbling protests as he went. I let them go. Corey’s blood was seeping into the cracks he’d made, and I had a lot to peer into. *** Corey followed the strange man to the front of the store, still apologizing. That mirror must cost a fortune. There was no way he could afford it. Why the hell had he punched it? The store owner stepped behind the counter and bent down to retrieve a binder, labeled INVENTORY. He opened it and ran his finger down the list of items. “I’m sorry about the mirror, but I can’t pay for it right now,” Corey insisted. “Give me some time, maybe I can--” “Ah, here we are,” said the man. “Ten dollars, please.” “--find enough to--huh?” “Cash or credit?” “You’re kidding. That thing’s an antique!” The man smiled patiently. “Of course it is, sir. That’s my business.” “But ten bucks!...” “Would you like me to charge you more?” The man’s eyes twinkled. “Uh...” “Cash or credit?” Corey fished in his pocket for a five and some crumpled ones. “There goes my joint,” he sighed under his breath. And just when he could use some mellowing, too. Why had he punched the mirror? *** Corey checked the hair was still held in the doorjamb before he turned the knob. That’s what spies did in the movies, and you had to be careful if you were homeless. A desperate person would jack your shit without a second thought. He kept his gaze lowered as he stepped into the apartment he was squatting in. He knew what he’d see if he looked. Torn red veneer over fading yellow wallpaper. The taped up window in the living room. That leak from the ceiling. Besides, with all the broken floorboards and rat droppings, he had to watch his step. His stomach growled, reminding him of the hours since he’d last eaten. He slouched his way towards the bedroom, hoping that his past self had left half a candy bar under the mattress, a weed gummy in the closet shelves, something to take the edge off one way or another. He entered the room and finally looked up to see his reflection. He flinched. “What the fuck?” When he’d left, the gray walls had held only faded rock posters from the previous owners. Now there was a mirror on the wall opposite the door. The same mirror from the antique shop? But how could that be? It certainly looked the same, from the twisting silver dragons around the rim to the golden eye and hand-shaped hamsa at the very top. But this mirror wasn’t broken. He looked down at the raw, scabbing cut on his knuckles. Could it be the same one? How had it gotten here? And when? He had come here straight from the store. The man at the shop hadn’t taken down an address, not even his name. Corey had been so desperate to get out of there that he hadn’t realized at the time. But now questions swirled in his mind. I have answers. Corey started. The voice he heard in his head seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “Who’s there?” He turned to look back out of the bedroom. Look here. Heart pounding, he swiveled back towards the mirror. “The mirror?” Look closer. Slowly, Corey walked towards the mirror. “What is happening?” he whispered. His reflection stared back at him with sunken eyes, the same eyes he always saw these days, in every puddle, every piece of glass. The eyes he’d seen in the shop window. But were they? There was something different now. A glimmer he hadn’t seen in a while. Hope . He didn’t feel hopeful. He wasn’t sure he remembered how. I’ll help you . “How?” You carry a great deal of pain. Self-hatred. Self-doubt. You don’t know if you can go on, or if you should. You need to confront it. Corey shook his hanging head sadly. “It’s too much,” he mumbled. I can see into your heart. I know that you have the strength to recover. You just need to see yourself from new angles.

Winter wasn't always easy, but now melancholy is the only way to describe it. Pictures tossed along the bedroom floor, words scribbled on a letter that I'll never get quite right and a bottle of mixed pills toppled over on the vanity. A mess at best, but nothing that ever crossed my mind. The world was frozen to me, everything sat where I assumed it belonged, nothing ever needed fixed, hell, nothing was ever broken. Everything just... was. An emptiness hung over me like words that can barely scrape off the tip of your tongue. Some words are just too... "It's not worth it anymore," she said, "Why are we even here? It's like this place, this whole god damned place," her eyes swollen from crying, her voice raspy from shouting. All these questions, no solutions. These memories, pixelated in my mind, echoing within my ears like a trapped sheep on a mountain. Begging for its master to come save him, yet when his master hears him, crying, hopeless, alone, he knows not where the sound comes from. He wants to help, tries his best, yet at the end of it all he can do nothing more. I collapsed on my bed and stared at the tear stained pillow. Clutching the sheets my eyes widened, my breathing began to quicken. "In the back of my mind, your mind even, we knew it couldn't work, didn't we?" I stared into her eyes, those lovely grey eyes. Her cold, blue lips, cracked and bleeding. She remained there, slumped into the floor of the bathroom. The mirror shattered, blood dripping into the sink and down my knuckles. "Why.." I mutter, I think. The word trapped in my throat. I see the needle in her arm, the belt wrapped around her bicep. That's when I hear the last words out of her god damned mouth. "If I die, will you follow me?" My fingers released their deathly grasp from the sheets. Air began to slip through my nostrils more slowly and the world around me felt so.. beautiful. My eyes, I couldn't shut my eyes. And before I knew it, I heard those words again. "If I die, will you follow me?" So I did. EDIT: Fixed a sentence.

I popped the top off my beer and swung my boots up over the porch railing. The night air swept across my rugged face and I sighed in its company. I leaned back in my chair and raised the bottle to my lips, bracing myself for the first wonderful sip of the night. It didn’t disappoint. I wiped foam from my upper lip and sighed again. Twice in one night. That had to be some kind of record. After a moment, I decided to allow myself some satisfaction. Things weren’t all that bad. Especially not out here in the beautiful country, away from the noise of the city. I skipped my eyes over the landscape splayed out before me. It was like a theater of wonder constructed exclusively for me. The trimmed grass of my backyard crawled an acre before rising waist high. From there, the field extended another two acres before the crowded woods overtook the terrain. Even from here, I could hear the leaves chuckling pleasantly in the late night breeze. Fireflies blinked lazily in the air, cheered on by a chorus of crickets. The air smelled of earth and recent rain. The sky was dark and filled with timid stars. The beer was cold beneath my grip. Yes. This was the life. This was the way a man should end a long day, surrounded by nature and silence, left alone to enjoy its secrets. As I took another pull from the bottle, I scanned the land over the glass lip. I paused, mid-swig. I squinted, beer frozen to my lips. I swallowed slowly and sat up, eyes trained toward the high grass. “What in the hell?” I muttered. There was a figure out there. A shape. It was white and contrasted the dark world surrounding it. It was moving. Walking. Left to right across my vision. Is that a person? I thought. The size was right. The way it moved telegraphed human movement. But the color was wrong. It was so damn...white. I placed the beer down on the porch floor and leaned over the railing, thinking the extra couple inches would somehow clarify this odd vision. As I did so, the figure stopped and seemed to be contemplating something. After a moment, it suddenly turned on its heel and began walking towards me. I remained motionless as it approached. My heart began to beat a little faster the more my eyes tried to focus on just what the hell I was looking at. It just didn’t add up. What I was staring at just didn’t make sense. The figure had reached the end of the tall grass and now traversed across my backyard. It was then that I knew I was looking at something absolutely absurd. It was a person dressed as an astronaut. The white suit they wore could not be mistaken as anything else. Neither could the helmet they had attached across the shoulders, the golden visor reflecting the dull night light. I stood my ground, completely baffled as to what to make of this strange visitor. I could hear the grass crunching quietly beneath their boots as they approached, their features hidden behind the large helmet. Finally, they stopped directly in front of me, a couple feet from where I stood at the porch railing. I said nothing, throat tight, and figured I’d let the trespasser speak first. When they did, their voice was male and muffled behind their visor. “What are you doing here?” I blinked in the starlight, fireflies swirling behind the stranger. The man in the space suit spoke again, a little more urgently, “I asked what you’re doing here.” I shook my head, unable to believe I had to defend myself on my own porch, “What am I doing here?” I sputtered incredulously, “I should be asking you the same thing! You’re standing on my property!” The astronaut stared at me blankly from behind the shielded visor, “I think you’re confused.” I barked a laugh, mind reeling, “Well, on that we can agree on! What the hell are you doing all the way out here and why are you wearing that ridiculous thing?” The man seemed confused, “What thing?” I snorted, shaking my head, and pointed at his suit, “That crazy space suit! You go to a party or something?” The man looked down at himself, at his gloved hands and covered legs, “Space suit? Is that what you see?” I reached down for my bottle of beer, needing a drink to make sense of this lunatic, “Yeah, the space suit. What else would I be talking about?” “I’m wearing a space suit...?” The man said again, his voice distant. I slugged half the bottle before answering, “Look man, if you need to call someone or something, I got a phone you can use. Something tells me you’ve been hitting the bottle hard tonight. Or maybe something a little more deadly.” But the man ignored my offer and instead trained his attention back to me, “Where do you think you are right now?” I spread my arms, “I’m sitting on my porch trying to enjoy a beer!” I leaned on the railing and lowered my voice, “Where do you think you are?” If the man gave any kind of reaction, it was hidden behind his golden visor, “You need to leave.” I was starting to get irritated, the night calm slowly breaking apart before my very eyes, “Look pal, you’re trespassing on my land. I’m not the cop calling type, but don’t push me. If you need help, I’d be more than happy to offer assistance. If not, then I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” The astronaut suddenly pointed behind him, his voice eerily soft, “Can’t you see it?” Confused, I looked past him at where he was pointing. Silent woods swayed against the breeze. “Yeah, beautiful isn’t it?” I offered, annoyed. The astronaut shook his head, “Open your eyes and LOOK.” “Now you listen t-” I growled, gripping the beer bottle tight in my hand The astronaut cut me off, “I know this is hard for you, but I need you to really look hard into those trees.” “Why?” I demanded. “Please.” Grumbling, I did as I was told, not really sure why I was doing it. I still didn’t see anything but the canvas of country light. The astronaut stepped toward me, “What do you see?” I waved a hand, snorting, “Nothing! There’s nothing o-” I stopped. My voice died in my throat. “What...the hell?” I muttered, feeling something stir in my guts. “What is it?” I blinked, scrubbing my eyes, feeling impossibility sink through to the core of my being. I licked my lips, my voice a croak, “Is that...a lighthouse?” I rubbed my eyes again, convinced I was hallucinating. But no matter what I did, the lighthouse remained. It towered high above the treetops, its white walls topped with a dark roof. A faint light glowed from its summit, swirling across the landscape.. The astronaut gripped the railing, “You see a lighthouse?” I nodded eyes wide, feeling like I was going mad. “The light though,” the man pressed, “do you see the light?” Again, I nodded. “What color is it?” He urged. I swallowed, “Green. It’s green.” The astronaut nodded, tension leaving his voice, “Then there’s still time.” Dumbfounded, I pointed toward the towering structure, “W-where did that thing come from? What’s going on here? How have I not seen that before?” The astronaut stepped away from the railing, craning his head back and up into the night sky, “I need to get you out of here.” “Look buddy, I don’t know what-” The man held up a gloved finger, cutting me off, his voice commanding and frantic, “Quiet! Listen...do you hear it?” I paused, mind splintering apart in confusion. I did as I was told. Crickets continued to chirp quietly across the grasslands, a soft melody all too familiar. But as the seconds stretched on, they began to change. They began to elongate and deepen. They became familiar in a horrific new way. They were speaking. I closed my eyes, mouth dry, and focused on the voices I heard. On the words. After a full thirty seconds, I looked at the astronaut standing in my front lawn. “I hear numbers,” I whispered. “So do I,” the man confirmed. “Which means you don’t have as long as I thought.” “Long for what?” I croaked, the soft voices in the background continuing to mutter low numbers at random. “Before you’re stuck here for good.” I shook my head, eyes blinking rapidly, “You’ll have to forgive me, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. Where did that lighthouse come from? What are the numbers? What the fuck is going on?” The astronaut suddenly climbed the handful of steps to my side and stood face to face with me. His golden visor reflected porch light. “Where do you think you are right now?” He asked. My voice came out as a slither, “I’m at home! Where the hell do you think we are?!” “Home...” the man muttered, “where’s home?” “Look,” I stated, desperate to free myself from the growing insanity, “I think I’ve had just about enough of this for one night. I need you to leave.” “You don’t want me to do that,” the astronaut said flatly. “I’m your only way out of this.” My eyes flickered toward the lighthouse against the dark horizon, its green light on a continuous slow rotation across the world. The astronaut raised his arm and pressed a black button that stood out along his wrist. “What did you just do?” I demanded, voice not quite steady. “Saved your life,” he answered matter-of-factly. I was about to ask another question when something caught my attention. It was the lighthouse. The color of its sweeping beam had changed. It was orange now. The astronaut noticed the worry that overtook my face and gripped my shoulder with a heavily gloved hand. “What is it?! What do you see?!” I cleared my throat, slowly, “The lighthouse. It’s different now. Orange.” I felt his grip on my arm tighten, “This isn’t good.” “I don’t understand,” I pleaded, “what is happening?” “Do you hear to voices still? The numbers?” I paused and then realized I couldn’t, “No...” The astronaut looked up into the sky, “Then it might be too late.” He directed his attention back to my pale face, “Do you remember any of them?” “Any of what?” “The numbers!” Feeling all the weight of insanity press down on me, I clawed my mind for memory, “Uhh...shit...I don’t know. Maybe a six and a four?” “Remember those,” the man urged, “you’ll need them to get out of here.” Before I could offer any more panicked questions, something changed above us. I leaned out past the porch railing and turned my eyes to the sky. Immediately, my heart surged into my throat and fear erupted across my confused state. A crack had appeared, an orange fracture that split the stars and snaked from horizon to horizon. As I watched, heart hammering, the crack grew and widened, splintering open to reveal something else entirely. It was the face of a child. A massive, moon sized thing distorted with features that shouldn’t be there. Its eyes were wide and curious, two holes of burning orange that bore down over us. It looked male, but I couldn’t be sure, its soft white skin lined with a maze of black lines that criss-crossed across its face. It opened its mouth and exposed a mouthful of massive teeth, all radiating orange so bright it was like staring into the sun. Shielding my eyes, I watched as the child’s teeth began to extend downward, growing past its chin. As they dipped down from the heavens, they began to melt and liquify, dangling from the night like pieces of drooping taffy. When they made landfall, they formed a puddle on the horizon. Vibrating intensely, still attached to the heavenly mouth, the long pieces of stringy teeth began to grow arms and pull themselves across the world toward me. In its wake, the ground ignited with flame, long lines of burning earth that began to spread. The astronaut took a step away from me, his voice lined with the same fear I felt surging through me, “There’s no hiding now.” A million screaming questions roared up my throat, but I couldn’t find the strength to speak. My eyes were glued to the orange shapes in the distance. They were getting closer, the face in the sky staring down at me with those enormous blazing eyes. “What is happening...?” I whispered, dazed, feeling dizzy. The lighthouse in the trees began to glow brighter, the rotation of its beam spinning faster. I felt like I would fall over, my senses overloaded, my heart drumming in my chest. I gripped the railing hard, and as I did so, the landscape shimmered. It was like watching a mirage take shape across the world, a heatwave that rippled and stirred through the grass and into the woods. In that instant, everything changed, but it was only for a moment. What I saw in that brief second wasn’t my backyard, but something else entirely. It was empty space, eerily lit by four glowing orbs. They hovered in the air like distant suns, their light emitting a sickly green color. Between the sphere’s were tufts of cloud that pulsed with the same shade of light. Strung between the clouds were dripping cords composed of some visceral substance. They spiderwebbed across the sky in a pattern too complex to follow or make sense of. Hanging from the meaty tangle were what appeared to be some kind of animal life. There were thousands of them, like monkeys, but covered in scales instead of fur. They did nothing, made no sound, no movement; they simply hung in place, watching me, their long arms gripping for purchase above their heads, their long bodies coated in thick black organic armor. As quickly as it had come, the vision vanished. It was replaced by the familiar grassland, trees, and ominous lighthouse. But the child in the sky remained, its blazing teeth snaking closer and closer by the second. The night began to fill with ash, the fire creeping across the empty land. “I’m having a nightmare,” I said distantly, surprised at the sound of my own voice. The astronaut snapped my attention back to himself, “There’s a ship coming for you. Look, up there past the lighthouse. Do you see it?” Feeling sick, I turned and saw a streak of white light soaring across the sky towards us, leaving a tail of stardust in its wake. “What...what is all this...?” I croaked, the long strands of crawling teeth burning in my peripheral. “You’re not where you think you are,” the astronaut said quicking, his golden visor reflecting the approaching flame. “Is this the end of the world?” I whispered. The astronaut quickly shook his head, turning his shielded gaze to the streaking white light that arched closer toward us. “No, this isn’t the end. In order to get out of here, you need to believe that this isn’t what you think. Open your eyes.” I shook my head helplessly, “I don’t understand...” The astronaut stepped to my side, his voice tactful and precise, “What did you do earlier today? How did you get here?” I opened my mouth to answer, but when I reached back into the day, I found I couldn’t offer a single memory. I fumbled with my recollection, convinced it would return to me, but no matter how badly I tried, a wall of darkness met me. “You can’t remember can you?” Slowly, I shook my head. The man leaned into me, “Good. That means you’re beginning to understand what this place is. You’ve been trapped here for a very long time, I fear. Can you remember anything about the world around you save for this porch?” Once again, I dug deep for something, anything, but found there was nothing there but darkness. I shook my head again, dumbfounded at this horrible discovery. The white light in the sky that had been approaching roared into view and descended quickly before us, landing neatly in the yard. Mind muddled, I looked at it. It appeared to be some kind of spaceship. It was small, barely big enough to hold a single passenger. The design of its exterior was puzzling in its construction. It looked like something a child would make, a first attempt at molding clay into something the resembled a rocket ship. The astronaut at my side grabbed my arm and dragged me down the steps toward it, his voice urgent, “Get on this and get out of here, it’s your only chance.” I allowed myself to be led, my eyes alternating rapidly between the crude ship, the lighthouse, and the crawling monstrosity hanging from the sky. The flames were only a couple hundred yards away now, the long clawing arms gripping and pulling at the earth aggressively, the orange forms oozing from the smiling mouth in the heavens. “What’s going to happen to me?” I begged, stopping before the rumbling rocket. Smoke wafted from underneath, as if preparing for a sudden liftoff. The astronaut reached up and pulled the hatch open, “You’re going back home.” I felt like crying, “But...but this is home!” The man shook his head, “No, it’s not. This is an illusion, a place you were never meant to find. Tell me, what is it you felt when you sat on that porch, before I arrived?” I searched myself and was relieved to have an answer, “Peace...I was at peace.” The man nodded, as if expecting this, “Of course you did. Honestly, I’m surprised you were here for as long as you have been. I’m surprised it didn’t find you sooner,” he nodded toward the face in the sky, “and most of all, I’m surprised I stumbled across you. You’re a lucky man. Now get in there and get out of here!” He pushed me toward the ship and I clattered up the small ladder and into the cockpit. I felt like screaming. I felt like tearing my hair out in frustration. All the questions in the world pressed in on me and I felt as if my skull would break beneath them. I slid into the solitary seat and looked down at the astronaut. At his back, the massive claws of the cosmic entity wriggled ever closer. “What has happened to me?” I whispered, letting everything else go. The man placed a gloved hand on the hatch, his voice grave, “You traveled someplace you weren’t supposed to find.” And with that, he heaved the door shut, one last sentence hanging in the air between us. “Fly safe.” Darkness filled the tiny cab. My eyes began to adjust as light filtered in through a small square window above me. The light was tinted orange. The flames were growing closer. I didn’t have much time. I looked down at the control panel before me and was shocked to find a plain faced display with only three buttons. Written above each was a different number: 9, 6, and 4. The rocket shuddered with anticipation, a rumbling growl begging to be released. I raised my fingers to the buttons and thought of the crickets. The voices. I pushed the buttons labeled 6 and 4. Immediately, the rocket exploded upwards into the night sky, the cockpit shaking aggressively as the small craft climbed the length of the night and spewed into outer space. Stars blurred past the window above my head and I gripped the seat, terrified, the G-forces ripping through my stomach with miserable intensity. The lighthouse vanished below me. The field. The astronaut. I was allowed a brief glimpse of the child-like face in the sky, now angrily staring at me through the crack in the heavens, but then that too was robbed from sight as my small craft zoomed ever away, cracking the roof of the atmosphere and sending me headlong into whatever came next. I felt my consciousness slipping away as the G-forces pressed tighter against me. I clawed my eyes over to the window one last time and as the darkness clogged the corners of sight, I saw something new enter my field of vision. It was Earth. I’m not entirely sure when I came too. I remember a lot of noise. Doctors. Nurses. A whole army of government officials and scientists all staring down at me, asking me questions in voices much too loud. I tread the line between consciousness and slumber for what felt like days. I remember recounting what had happened to me to a group of very concerned looking men in lab coats, but I couldn’t repeat it if you put a gun to my head. Everything was so foggy. Everything felt wrong. As the days bled into weeks, my memory began to piece itself back together. A lot of that was helped by the visitors I had. They slotted in the key components I so desperately sought. As the mystery of what happened was revealed to me, the more the horror of that place came forth. Because you see...I had been part of mission orchestrated by NASA. They had found something terribly close to our planet. An abnormality. A tear in space. A hole that wasn’t supposed to be there. Every probe they sent into the ripple disappeared without a trace as soon as it passed through. The mystery and potential danger of this new discovery sent shockwaves throughout the world. People were calling it the end times. Religion surged with new life and the masses flocked to churches, convinced that this was the start of God’s judgement. But as time passed and nothing happened, opinions changed about the strange portal. Soon, people began to believe that this was a gateway. A door straight into heaven. And it wasn’t just the spiritual who believed this. It was the scientists and astronomers as well. Of course, they didn’t believe that this tear led to heaven, but they did believe it led to somewhere outside the realms of our reality. And so NASA began to form a team, a group of people that would take a single ship straight into the mouth of the beast. I had been on that team. I wish I could explain the details of what happened once we entered, but there is nothing in my memory but a void as dark as space itself. They tell me four others were with me on our mission. None of them have returned. I don’t know where we went. I don’t know who that man in the space suit was. I don’t know why he chose to help me. That spaceship he pushed me into...NASA recovered it, along with myself. They still haven’t figured out what exactly it is. But it got me home. I landed a couple miles off the Pacific Coast in California. I don’t really remember any of that, though. There’s one more detail that haunts me. One more fact that makes my skin crawl. That porch...that field and the woods...that is the only memory I have of that place. Over and over again, that memory persists. Opening the beer. The chirp of crickets. The breeze. One night, a slice of time the length of an hour. What terrifies me about that is someone told me that it’s the year 2018. My team left Earth in 1987. If this terrifying fact is true...

Her name was Aubergine, but she didn’t deserve it. Currently, she was ferociously stomping home down the crime ridden evening streets in a pink dress and combat boots, and everyone who saw her gave her at least ten feet of distance that had nothing to do with the pandemic. She slammed her door and evaluated her life. What she had: $972 in savings, a job that supported her, and a car that had three matching doors and worked most of the time. Things bringing her down: obnoxious, stupid men who thought she was obligated to sleep with them just because they bought her a banana smoothie with oats and extra stevia, friends who were running on a toxic hamster wheel, family who only called to ask for money, an apartment that had been burgled three times in the last year, and a cat that hated her. She found it a cruel irony that she would never be able to find a husband in this huge metropolis because her friends only knew men interested in one night stands. She was fed up, and getting the hell out of this place. She was bringing the cat, though. The next day she woke up at dawn, as was her custom, because that was the time at which her cat drew blood to inform her she was hungry for breakfast. She fed the cat. Then, she started earnestly applying for any job she could imagine all over the US that she was remotely qualified for that would support her. The location only had to have a lower crime index than this city she loathed. She applied for jobs in every spare moment, regretting telling her friends, as they extensively tried to talk her out of it. Her boss was similarly unenthused, but she told him she likely would be unable to find employment elsewhere, and he agreed with that...until he started getting calls around the hundred application mark. In the end, she applied to almost three hundred jobs, interviewed on the phone ten times, and got four job offers. The best of them was seasonal, but paid extremely well. She left all those naysayers behind and went to work at a salmon canning facility in Alaska, having been offered 30k for four month’s hard work. She reasoned that four months was plenty of time to find a permanent job. The lodgings she secured were humbler than any she’d ever known, but she was fond of her little off the grid cabin despite the commute. Her roommate, another cannery employee named Juniper, was a woman seven years older who spent most of her off hours playing pool in the air conditioning of the restaurant near work. There was absolutely nothing around the cabin except mountains and thick, deep forest, the road just a gravel track scratched into the wilderness. She worked twelve hour shifts six days a week. On the seventh, she attempted to run errands, in culture shock that was extended because of her work schedule. A big tree fell across the road one night, and she and her roommate were completely stuck. They had no cell service, no chainsaw, and it was too large for them to move. Neither of them had ever even used a chainsaw - her roommate had been a bank teller in Iowa. They were going to have to wait until one of the few people who lived up the road happened upon it, in hopes that one of them could do something. They reluctantly became friends over the course of the next few excruciating days, as they worried about their jobs and how long their groceries would hold out. “You didn’t show up for three days,” they were informed when the tree finally stacked itself in segments on the side of the road, “You are fired, and have already been replaced. It doesn’t matter why you couldn’t get here. If you can’t reliably come to work, we don’t want you.” Aubergine and Juniper found themselves unemployed, living in a $600 a month off the grid cabin in a coniferous rain forest, forty minutes from a town the size of a postage stamp. Aubergine wondered about her life choices. Juniper started a vegetable garden and only applied at the bank. Aubergine never heard back from any of the dozen jobs she put in applications for, but Juniper got hired within a week at a great wage. “I can get you a job at my work, just apply.” When both of them were pulling good wages at the bank and their lease came up, they pooled their resources and got a pleasant house in town. Aubergine started to date a man who treated her with respect, although he wanted her to go hunting with him next season, and she was trying to find out if that was mandatory in order to become an Alaskan. Aubergine’s cat, Pluto, began to escape, and they never did figure out that she was squeezing out the clothes dryer vent beside the hose. Pluto had quick reflexes from her experiences as a feral kitten, which helped her on exciting adventures that shocked her, such as the time she encountered a bear in the woods. She was a particularly intelligent cat, and had wild theories about why the world had changed so much. In time, she found the docks, where workers cut up the day’s fish and tossed scraps of salmon and halibut to the cats that gathered there. She went every day after that, and meowed at the front door late afternoons well fed and glossy with health from fish oil, a mystery Aubergine never solved. The cat spent her winters lazily dozing, stretched out, in front of the wood burning stove, basking in the warmth. In her life Pluto had gone from a miserable existence on cold city streets to this, and she was happier than anyone else.

I remember the sound of life that was here just a year ago. The hustle and bustle of people living their daily lives, now replaced with an empty silence, save for any wildlife growing in humanity's absence. There isn't much time, I suppose, until Mother Nature reclaims what is hers and life on Earth corrects itself. I've already explored enough of the east coast here in the United States for the past six months. I've seen what all I've wanted to: The Golden Gate Bridge with its empty cars scattered throughout, the **HOLLYWOOD** sign, with the Y folding down and the D tilted. I've visited the abandoned theme parks and malls and various hot spots. The mess left within the wake of the departure of people decorates these very locales. Everywhere I go, it's a solitary mess. That's why I've come back home, I wanted to get back to something familiar. I wanted to go back to what I know. As birds chirp overhead and various other mammals scatter and run around outside, I just turn the knob to my front door to my home. "Hey there, Scruffie. Been a good boy while I was gone?" Ruffling his hair, Scruffie's deep brown eyes look up at me, his tail wagging and his butt shaking. His chin was dripping with water, his bowl half empty, just like his food bowl. "I'm sorry, buddy. I miss having everyone around too. Scruffie's footsteps and panting follows with me as I look at the family photo. My wife, my kids, Scruffie, and myself made quite the appearance. I sat with Scruffie on my lap, Rebecca held Saxton, and Jessica sat in front of us, as we all smiled. Except for Scruffie, his gaze was focused elsewhere. Our names were all on the bottom frame outside the photo: *"Reggie (Dad), Rebecca (Mom),* *~~Dylan~~* *Jessica, Saxton, and our new addition, Scruffie!"* "You were such a cute little pup back then, Scruff." He whined as a response. "Yep, it's not the same without them. I'd do almost anything to go back and revisit these days, old friend. I wish to have Rebecca in my arms again, to see Saxton grow into the athlete he became, or when we all joined Jessica on her journey to self-discovery." Wiping a tear from my eye, and petting Scruffie, I motion him onward with me as we continue on our tour. We pass by the kitchen, where we all spent our many meals. What I wouldn't give to have Rebecca's chicken alfredo again... The living room had all the magazines I last had out scattered around. Some of them dated back to my own childhood, and most of them were video game related. Scruffie's breathing becomes more labored at this point, so I take it upon myself to carry him from room to room. The walls in Saxton's room are adorned with posters of punk rock bands and bikini clad women, as Scruffie and I visit. His dumbells and workout equipment lay littered around. He never did clean up well. Anyone that would have gone into this room without actually knowing him would walk away with the wrong idea. Especially when it came to his movie collection. It was all Disney and Nickelodeon cartoons, and some of those Japanese cartoons, aminos or whatever he called them. I pull one out, the one with a young, blonde ninja boy in loose orange clothing on the cover. "I always told him he'd be even better in track, remember Scruffie? He'd always cringe and go: "Dad, that's so cringe, shut up." My story was responded to with a huff and puff from Scruffie as he lay down. Next trip: Jessica's room. I remember when her room's walls were dark green with superhero posters here and there, kept nice and tidy. She still kept it nice and tidy, but those posters were replaced with ones of pretty women and men. She had an extensive video game collection, most of which were Pokemon and Elder Scrolls games. I know this because she would never stop talking about them, and would never pick up on my sarcasm. I take in all I need to here, and I leave the room, closing the door and laughing at the irony of the sign on her doorway: *"JESSICA'S ROOM! DO NOT ENTER!"* It was written the same way when she was younger and it used to say: *"DYLAN'S ROOM DO NOT ENTER".* Last stop is Rebbecca and I's room. I can almost smell her here with me. Scruffie and I sit on the bed and watch halfway through *Hot Fuzz,* the movie Rebecca and I watched on our first date in... 2007, I think? The movie was at the part where Simon Pegg's character watches someone get murdered when I looked over at Scruffie and saw his eyes were becoming more glazed and his breathing was very slow. I've been dreading this moment. I don't want to be completely alone. The last hour Scruffie and I had together was spent watching the sunset. The purple overlaying the orange in the horizon looked so beautiful as I felt his life leave my arms. I spent that night burying him in his favorite spot in the yard. It's days like these that prove no matter how much I want to stay in the past, the world moves forward regardless.

It’s over. The time is up. I have to face this. My heart should be racing but somehow it isn’t. My mind still can’t make sense out of all of this. This was not supposed to be happening. I wish this wasn’t happening. I know what the answer is, but I don’t want to. I want to go back in time. I want to be wrong. I need all of this to be just part of a nightmare. I need to wake up with my heart out of my chest and try to calm myself down to sleep. I want to be safe in my bed. The timer sets of again. We are still facing each other. None of us has the guts to check the result. The shop has never been this quiet. Time has never been slower. I feel my body start to tremble. My heart’s finally assuming control of itself and it’s making me feel reality. I want to be wrong. I so want to be wrong. I stop looking at her and guide my eyes to the sink. Anyone could enter the bathroom at this point. But they won’t. The tension and the cold air are more than enough to prevent them from coming in. Nothing has changed but I know I won’t be the same person that walked in here. I don’t have a smile on my face anymore. My hand nervously takes everything that was on top of it. I can’t seem to make my hand act normal. I can’t seem to act normal. I wish I had done everything to prevent this, but I didn’t. Once again, I let others control me. I’ve been warned so many times... Why can’t I just listen? Why can’t I just know what’s best for me? I never do; and people love that. I just wish I could ignore the bad choices. The problem with thinking that bad things never happen to us is that at some point they do. I know I’ll continue to be the same girl, making the same stupid mistakes, letting myself get too comfortable until something really bad happens to me. I think now is my turn on being the bad choice’s girl. I so want to be wrong. My eyes look down. The white stick is glowing against the black marble. I can’t pretend I’m not seeing it. My hand starts to squeeze my coat tighter as I gain courage to look at the result. I can feel the temperature drop. My breath is freezing cold, and my body is so empty I can barely pull up the strength to think. One, two lines. Two lines. I stop. My heart stops. I can't move. Air stopped entering me a long while ago. Breathe in. Breathe out. The world starts to spin, my legs start to push me to the ground. I can’t seem to make my eyes stop moving trying to make sense of all of this. Two lines. My eyes start to swell. I grab the box and toss the paper outside. I’ve never read this quickly. I need to know I’m wrong, that this doesn’t mean what I think. I’m wrong, please tell me I’m wrong. I reach the bottom. It means positive. I’m pregnant. Lia's talking to me, trying to calm me down. Her eyes are wide open, her hands can’t stop running all over the place trying to pack everything. Occasionally she looks at me making sure I haven’t ran. I don’t really know why I haven’t already. My legs are still not responding to my commands. They’ve taken control and are now making me stay here and face my mistakes, face reality. “We’re late for class.” I interrupt her. Her eyes are even bigger than they were before. Her arms stopped what they were doing. I can clearly see the confusion in her eyes. She remembers to blink, still trying to make out what I’ve just said. I grab my stuff and run. My legs finally give me back control. The sun is falling near the horizon. Pink ink starts to be drawn in the sky, fading away to orange as we move away from the shore. I can feel the fresh, calm wind touching my face. My hands are tight against my face. Hours have gone by since the result, the only thing I’ve done is run for my secret place. This small beach has been my safe haven for a couple months now. It’s the only place where I can actually think. I know my mind is made up, I can’t go through a pregnancy, I can’t be a teen mom. I grab my phone and make an appointment for next week; this will all be over soon. Everything will go back normal soon. Everything has to go back to normal. I’ve been living in my own nightmares lately. I have three days to make a decision. I can’t focus on anything else. My whole life has been put on pause. I just wish I had the button to unpause it. I want to go back to those summer nights. Hanging on the beach, meeting new people every day... The laughing, the smiles, the tears... I wish I could be there right now... Meeting Andrew for the first time again. Feeling my heart fill with love and needs. I want to go back to the time where I was so nervous to have my first time and how he was able to calm me down and make me feel safe, like I had never felt. The sneak-ins, the nights out, the times where we ran away from everyone just to have some moments by ourselves. How we one day stumbled across a hidden beach, and how quickly we made it ours. Our safe space. I want to feel loved again. I never again want to feel the pain of seeing him do the things I thought were ours to that other girl. To feel the hurt of seeing her as happy as I were, knowing that I could never step up to her. To feel the betrayal of, after all that time, finally realizing that I was just some younger girl for his stupid boning list. To feel the tears streaming down my face and not knowing how I would ever be able to stop them. I’ve been dreaming about those nights lately. Having our history unravel all over again in my brain, with all the emotions and feelings. But, as I image our history over and over again, the happiness and the love slowly become disgust and anxiety. The more I dream the more reality finds its way to sneak in and destroy all the happiness I still have in me. I want to go back to those times. I’m at the doctor’s office. The cold air is almost as stabbing as it was in the store that day. Knowing my life will change the moment I enter that door is hard. Very hard. My heart has not stopped racing since the result came back positive. I’m so tired. I just want this all to be over. To go back to being the teenager I am meant to be. To not be worried with what clothes I’m going to wear to try to hide my belly. It’s hideous, I know. No one would know even if they saw it. But I would. I haven’t been able to look myself in the mirror for months knowing there might be a baby there, especially now that I know there is. I can’t face myself. “Emma Smith, room 6.” I step up. I feel like everyone is staring at me as if they know what I’m about to do. I feel so small right now. My steps have never been quicker, and my head lower. I can’t face people’s opinions on how young and irresponsible I must be. The doctor’s smiling behind her desk. She’s probably the first person to actually make me feel secure about all of this, to make me feel like I do have a choice and that I’m not less of a person by putting me in this situation. Her compelling eyes remind me of Andrew’s. How safe I felt under those eyes, those arms. I just want to go back to them. To change our history and make him stay. To have us have our happy ending. To have me have my happy endi-- Tu-tum tu-tum tu-tum My heart stops. My eyes are as wide as they can be. I can’t seem to breathe. That’s a heartbeat. I look down. This thing has a heartbeat! My body’s freezing cold on the inside. I look at the mirror and all I see is tears. There’s someone inside me. I’m growing someone. There’s a heartbeat. This bump inside me is alive! I get up and dressed. How can I take life away from him? Or her? This is a baby, a person. How am I supposed to decide if she deserves to live? I can’t do that. I don’t have what it takes to stop that heartbeat. That beautiful sound.... This has the power to change everything. How can I make a decision like that? I ask for the pill. I made a decision already. I can’t change right now. I just have to take it. I’ll be normal again. This baby will never have the life he or she deserves anyway. At least one of us will have the chance to have what we deserve. I deserve to be happy, to be free, to be a teen. I deserve to make mistakes and be able to learn from them. I shouldn’t have to live with my mistakes for the rest of my life. This baby doesn’t deserve to be born like this. Who would want to be born like this? Growing up with a mother that doesn’t even know who she is and how to take care of herself. How could I even do that? The diaper’s, the doctor’s appointments, dealing with people’s opinions... I’m too young to be judged like that. I know I need to be the bigger person now. I need to grow up and decide what’s best for me. I need to finally put myself first despite who I may hurt. Two weeks have gone by since the doctor’s appointment. Time has slipped through my fingertips really fast. I no longer have a rash on my throat. I finally can eat without feeling like I’m about to throw up every second. Smells have been less intense lately, but I still can’t stand coffee. You have no idea what I would give to be able to have a cup of coffee these days. As I think about it, it’s impressive how much has changed in nearly a month. I managed to call Andrew and tell him what I had been going through. I was surprised that he even picked up, but the speed at which he hung up was definitely something to remember. I’m better off alone. I knew that already, and I’m ok with that. I now know that’s way more than enough. To have myself is to have the world. The soft wind is lightly touching my face like the way it did that Tuesday afternoon. This river has not changed since that day. The eagles are still trying to catch up with the waves, trying to find some fish underneath the water. The sun is still at sunset changing its colors from pink to red. The clouds are still moving softly, making me aware of the time passing. Calming me from the anxiety and uncertainty my life has been lately. The sun starts to sink into the water. The sky becomes blue and starts to darken in a matter of seconds. The heat is left behind. I love warm afternoons. Being able to watch the sunset at the beach and have the time to absorb it all. I no longer miss those summer nights though. I’d much rather have these times by myself, not having to deal with people’s expectations, finally being the real me. My fingers start to play with the pill, feeling every edge and surface. I look down at my hand. Today’s the last day I can take it. I always liked dramatic exits like those we see in the movies. And I finally have the chance to have my own. My brain is still amazed by the size and power contained in this. And I love how easily that power can be transferred into me. I have the power now. Breathe in. Breathe out. Freedom. I am enough. I close my hand. I’ve never had this much power. I want my life to be normal again. And I know that with this it will finally be. I get up. The sand is still warm from all those hours of heat. I bring the pill to where the sun used to be. I take a deep breath. My life’s changing and I’m so proud of who I have become. I raise my hand up high and toss it. The pill starts to fly, slowly making its way into the sky and diving rapidly into those waters. I’m free! I’m not how I was supposed to be. But I know I have my whole life to figure out what that is. Me and my child, together. I start to make my way back to my house leaving the beach behind. I don’t need it anymore. My life is full, and this is just the beginning of something that I know will be what was always meant to be. The day turns into night and the waves start to speed up covering all the sand. The clouds go back to their usual rush and the wind brings back the staggering cold we are all used to. I’ve pressed the unpause button. It’s over. My life is about to start.

There are no roads out of the yellow flower town. In the yellow flower town, the streets shine under the moonlight and tiny sparkles of gold lines the sidewalks, the skies are always clear and the wind carries the scent of spring which gently rustles the crowns of old oak trees. The air smells of daisies and roses and the metal tang of gold, of flying skirts and the always lingering ghost of another’s touch. In the yellow flower town, I dance the steps of a waltz for one, my arms holding up the shape of another, always there, never here. In the yellow flower town, everything is at the same time a truth and a lie, a reality and a façade, the beautiful dream which you float in and the ugly reality for which you return to. Where the sky is clear and the air is sweet and where the cage of roses and romanticism will trap you forever. In the yellow flower town, I fell in love with Aphrodite. Aphrodite with her beauty; Aphrodite with her eyes coloured by eternity; Aphrodite as she rose out of the sea foam, perfection manifested, creating dreams with one hand and heartbreak with another. Aphrodite who shot an arrow to my heart and gently held me as I lay on the ground, my wound bleeding perfect crystals of tears. Aphrodite who whispered dreams of summer nights, who floated through those gold speckled streets as the moon weaved kisses in her hair. I fell in love with Aphrodite and Aphrodite is nothing but a pipe dream, Aphrodite is nothing but a figure in the distance, dissipating as I drew nearer. Aphrodite is nothing more than what we make her to be, but I am not a ‘we’. Still, Aphrodite does not let go. I do not let go. I do not wish to let go. There are no roads out of the yellow flower town. Someone once told me that flowers have a language of their very own, where they spoke only in colours and aesthetics and vague feelings. Yellow flowers represented happiness, friendship and new beginnings, yet I am trapped here amongst the sunflowers and the daises and the dahlias. Vines and stems hook around my wrist and ankles, twisting into chains which weighed me down, tying me down until I was no longer able to move. I fall into a bed of love, of summer nights, of the moon which wove kisses in my hair. I rejoice in only the ghost of lingering hands and the shadow which whispered meaningless sweetness in my ears, my arms holding up the shape of another, never there, always here. I fell in love with Aphrodite in the yellow flower town from which there are no roads out. I fell in love with an idea, a concept which wormed its way into unreality, something of which I could not bring into the world alone. I am in love and I am so very alone, I am in love yet the word felt meaningless, directionless in my mouth, I am in love and I love no one. I am trapped within the yellow flower town with its clear sky and sweet air and empty promises, where a figure shrouded in mist took me by the hand and taught me what love is. I am trapped between a dream and a nightmare, on the cusp of reality and yet so, so far away from it. I am trapped in a halved embrace, reaching for something that was never there in the first place. There are no roads out of the yellow flower town.

Walking Through Walls When Purim arrives every year, I always wear the same costume - a ghost, and it never fails. When I wear it at home, I feel more like myself than usual. But when I arrive at the ball, I’m suddenly different - I’m not myself anymore. When I walk down the bus, my classmates shout to me, “Same costume again, eh?!” and punch me some. When I stroll my way to the fields, the passing seniors act like they’re scared of me. I smile from one ear to the other, and when I start playing with them. They kick me. But I stay lying down, smiling to myself, adoring what just happened. Purim makes me feel like someone I’m not. The costume’s thought came naturally to me,’ I will dress as to how I am in reality,’ I thought to myself, ‘ *a ghost*.’ But when I arrived at the ball for my first time, I wasn’t a ghost - but someone else. I was getting noticed. I would be laughed at for smiling awkwardly at strangers that greet me, I’d be bullied for not wanting to be with a girl, and every year for the past five, I’d be laughed at for coming with the same costume. But to me, it was fun. People talked to me, I was noticed for doing something, and I wasn’t just a shell, I was a living thing because others recognized it, and I loved it. Every ball, I used to dance with everyone in the hall room, feeling normal. But this one was different. I walked my way to the fields with a shovel. The wind covered me as a clock, rustling the leaves of the trees surrounding me. It seemed like the world was asleep, and I was the only one awake. But when don’t I feel this way? When I’m among my family, I am an individual of my own, never a part of them. And in class, I can shout, and no one would notice. I can’t trust nor feel like I belong nowhere. At times like these, I listen to music. Music was my refuge. I could crawl between the notes and curl back to my loneliness. As I walk up to the tree marked with the letter ‘A.’I start digging next to it. I don’t know if it was dawn or I just saw everything as red from anger, but I could feel my muscles aching, leaves falling on top of my head. ‘Just a bit more,’ I tell myself. And when I see it, drop down the shovel and sigh - *it’s still there.* I brush the dirt from the sheet I just pulled out - a sheet just like my own, with two small holes for eyes and a slightly bigger one for a mouth. - it was Asi’s costume. Tears of memory start rolling down my cheek. I remember his smell from that day. It was right after we ate at the coffee shop next to our house, and he spilled a whole bottle of lemonade on me. Every time we went there, I’d embarrass us, one time, I flipped the whole table, and another I told him in a British accent, ‘What is this bloody food. A twat innit?’ as the waiter crept on us about to ask if everything is fine. The image of me kneeling to tie my shoe, Asi turning to me, his left side lit by the car coming, and the sound of him flying ten meters forward never left my head. Asi was never buried, his body just fell apart, so I made our own spot. I planted our costume in the place where we became ‘the unseen.’ He and I were transparent humans. One time on a trip, we were both forgotten at that spot, just no one noticed us. In the panic of it all, we became aware of each other and realized we were one of the same. We called ourselves ‘the unseen.’ At Asi’s funeral, every family member that gave a small speech said ‘God takes just the best’ or asked, ‘why does God do this to us?’ I could feel my heartbeat through my whole body, pumping as one angry individual. I went upstage and let myself out for the first time; “God doesn’t do this to us. We do it to ourselves. We can’t live on thinking our actions don’t have meaning. Take responsibility for the action you do and NEVER mention god. We do what *we* want.” I left the stage, and the crowd was in shock, and then everyone started cheering. I looked around, in awe of being in the moment, people caring about me and what I’ve just said. Of course, that was what I would’ve said if I thought anyone would care about what comes out of my mouth. So I just left. I never grew old. I’m always stuck in time. Stuck in the same moment where the only human on planet earth that knew me, and felt me not as a shell, was gone into the darkness. When I fall asleep, I dream of you coming to me through the walls like a ghost, asking me if I want to go eat, him saying he can still smell the lemonade coming off of me. And I wake up in a panic at once. Then I realize I am a ghost too, so I’ll just walk through my wall to you and feel whole again.

Claire Nelson stood, waiting, on the edge of the mulch filled box; a few pieces fell onto her tattered white tennis shoes as she pressed her toes onto the side of the rotting, wooden edge. From the looks of it, this place hadn’t been touched since she’d last been here, almost 10 years ago to the day. The once proud and shining metal frame was now coated in rust, no glint of light echoed off the loaming poles, even on a night like this, the moon nearly full and no cloud in sight. The thick chains attaching the swings to the structure carried the rust downwards, stopping at the worn through leather seats. One of the two swings swayed in the gentle, crisp, breeze; a small squeak emitting from the hinges connecting the chains to the poles as it reached the top of its range and fell back down. The other hung firm, weighed down by the stoic person occupying it. The two girls simply stared at each other. Claire's was a look of disbelief and mild shock, the other girl’s was a knowing stare, and something Claire couldn’t quite place - like resentment, but with a twinge of longing. “What are you doing here?” Claire managed to get out, her firm voice not reflecting the inter turmoil she was feeling at the moment. “Waiting for you, apparently” the girl replied curtly. It had been 10 years since the girls had last seen each other. The pair had, at one time, been inseparable. From the moment Claire had moved next door in the second grade, the two spent nearly every waking moment together. In a town as small as theirs, it was hard to find something to do everyday. So when the Mayor was finally convinced to put in a swing set, barely a five minute bike ride from their adjoining houses, the girls made it their place. They came here nearly every day after school, riding their bikes in a frenzy out the school yard, and swung and talked till the sun fell behind the ebbing surface of the nearby pond. “Are you gonna keep standing there and gawking at me, or are you gonna sit down?” the girl threw at her with piercing sharpness. Claire took a tentative step, the brittle mulch crunching beneath her shoe. She took another, more confident step towards the empty swing. Within a few more strides Claire found herself turning to sit down onto the familiar leather seat. As they sat in the same exact swings that they had seen each other last, it was like those 10 years in between were nothing but a mere facade. Looking at the girl's face, Claire almost believed that they were just that. She was remarkably unchanged. Her short black hair moved slightly along with the chill breeze, in stark contrast to Claire’s curly, pale blonde hair. The girl’s face was devoid of any sort of lines, but it was the emotion behind it that gave away her age. The sort of emotionless emotion that could only be found on those who had lived to see the consequences of their adolescence. Not that they had changed at all, but the curve of her mouth no longer ran effortlessly upwards. Her eyes, which followed her lips downwards, no longer held that once ever present mischievous glint of curiosity. Though, Claire supposed, those changes had occurred long before that night. The girl turned her head and looked Claire over, as well. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost” the girl chuckled darkly. “Bet you never thought you’d see me again, much less here”. “Can you blame me?” Claire let out softly. “This is the first time I’ve come back here after-” she paused cautiously “-after that night, and you’re sitting here, waiting for me”. “I know” was all the girl said in response. “You know what?” Claire pressed. “I know this is the first time you’ve been back here” the girl let out, almost agitatedly. “I know you’ve stayed away since that night because this place scares you now.” The girl turned her whole body in her seat to face Claire. “What I don’t know is what you’re doing here now. Why now ?” the girl emphasized. Claire turned away from the girl’s blazing stare to the pond, which lay less than a 100 feet in front of them. She recalled the two of them sitting on these swings everyday after school, talking about what life would be like when they were finally old enough to leave this town. They’d move to the city and get an apartment together. Claire would work at that flower shop she had visited when she was five and had fallen in love with, the girl never knew what she’d be. “Out of here” the girl would always say, laughing. “Out of this town, away from my dad - that's really all that matters”. Everyone in the town knew the girl's dad. Back then he hardly ever left the town bar, racking up a tab he could never afford to pay. When he did manage to get home he could be heard up and down the street, hurling words Claire refused to repeat even now. Claire never asked the girl what her dad did to her, neither did anyone, really. In a town like theirs, where everyone’s business was on display, there was no need too. The bruises on her face, the slight limp she wore, that she claimed came from an accidental fall down the stairs when she was eight, was enough said. Even if Claire did ask, the girl would never say anything. She’d just stare off at that pond, her eyes suddenly weighing her down, broadcasting the feelings she refused to put into words. Truth be told, Claire knew from a young age that the girl loved it here so much because here, her life was normal. She had a friend, someone who cared about her, and for the present, that was all that mattered. Claire turned her face downwards to the dirt she had kicked up from underneath the mulch at her feet. “I guess I wanted to come and apologize,” she said, her voice slightly cracking. “Apologize for what” the girl responded, her tone neutral and detached. Claire kept her head turned down to her feet. “I’m sorry for that night, and I’m sorry for saying what I did” she swallowed. “I didn’t know that you felt that way”. “Yes you did” the girl said, emotionless. “You knew I had no one. ” It was the girls turn for her voice to crack. “You heard the way people talked about me, and you did nothing. You sat around and just watched” she threw out with such venom Claire shuddered. “It killed me, you know” the girl went on. “Seeing you with all your new friends” the girl turned herself back towards the pond. “I always knew you’d make some new friends, especially when we got to high school. I just thought- I just always thought you’d take me with you” she managed to finish. Claire rubbed the stinging sensation from her eyes. She didn’t go into high school with the intention of getting new friends; but when their schedules made it so they never saw each other during the day, save for lunch, Claire had no choice but to make new ones. In the beginning they all ate lunch together, the girl, Claire, and Claire’s new friends. The girl never brought anyone to lunch, and Claire never really thought much about it, preoccupied with the excitement of meeting new people. After a while, Claire stopped coming by the swing set after school most days, her new friends kept making up excuse after excuse. “But we need to stop by the mall after school,” they whined. “There’s this new CD out we have to listen too” they would chirp. Eventually, Claire stopped coming by the swing set altogether. She recalled that one weekend the bar was closed for repairs, and the girl’s dad was home all day. She couldn’t keep the sound of the yelling out no matter how hard she tried. The pillow over her ears made no difference, the screaming, the crashing, the police sirens all made their way through. The girl didn’t come to school that week. Or the week after. “That poor girl” she heard her parents say one night. “Foster care at this age, it's a wonder it took this long”. When she finally came back to school the girl's face was painted yellow and blue, remnants of that weekend two weeks prior. The school whispered with what happened to her. Claire’s friends were at the forefront of them. “I heard she ran into a pole,” one of her friends said sarcastically. “Too bad it couldn’t rearrange that lump on her face while it was at it” another replied, giggling. Claire didn’t say anything. She didn’t say anything when her friends told the girl that there was no more room at their table for her. She didn’t say anything when she saw the girl turn and walk away, tears silently cascading down her face. She didn’t even say anything when the girl walked up to her afterwards in the hallway and asked her to meet her at the swing set after school, walking away before Claire had a chance to tell her an excuse as to why she couldn’t come. Claire wasn’t going to go to the swing set after school originally; but as she laid in her bed, the day turning to night, she felt a twang of guilt hit her. When she eventually made her way over to the swing set that night she found the girl still waiting for her. “I thought you weren’t gonna show up” the girl had said to her as she approached. Claire stopped at the edge of the box, her toes resting on the side of the solid wood. The light of the almost full moon glittered off the frame of the set, not a cloud in sight to subdue the reflection. “What do you want” Claire has responded to her, no hint of emotion behind that voice. “Are you gonna sit?” The girl had asked shyly, gesturing toward the empty set beside her. As Claire hesitantly made her way over to the seat that night she recalled what her friends had said earlier that day. “I don’t know why she just doesn’t go away already, it's not like anyone would miss her”. “How are you?” the girl asked her once she sat down. “What do you want” Claire retorted quickly. “It’s cold, and I have to be home soon”. The girl had dropped her face to her shoes. “I just - I just wanted to tell you that I’m thinking about leaving” she stuttered. “I’m thinking about leaving”, she repeated more confidently, turning her head up to face Claire. Claire had looked her in the eyes for a second before turning her face to look out at the pond. “Where too?” she eventually asked after a brief pause. “I don’t know, the city maybe”. The girl paused a second before continuing “We could go together”. Claire was silent. “You could work in that flower shop, like you always wanted,” the girl prodded cautiously. At that Claire whipped her head back towards her. “Why would I do that?” Claire threw at her callously. The girl turned back to face Claire, a line of tears forming on her waterline. “If you want to leave, go ahead. But leave me out of it” Claire rose from her seat harshly, the chains holding the seat rattling with the sudden effort. Tears fell down the girls face, clinging to it as they marked paths down her cheeks and engraved themselves on the girl's light gray sweatshirt. “I, just” the girl uttered faintly. Claire interrupted “go where you want, it's not like anyone would miss you”. She didn’t stay to watch as she heard the girl started sobbing behind her, the sound fading as Claire made her way across the field, and walked home. • • • “I thought you’d take me with you” the girl repeated, soft sobs following. Claire looked up at the girl, tears falling silently from her own eyes. “I- I wanted too” she let out. “I’m sorry”. The girl’s sobs fell silent, her chest continuing to fall and rise with the efforts. “So, you’ve come to apologize now, after all these years”. “I’m moving to the city tomorrow” Claire said softly as she turned her face back towards the pond. “Near that floral shop we used to talk about”. “I’m taking you with me, Mara” Claire produced a laminated card from her pocket, she looked it over once before reaching her arm out to show it to the girl. Mara turned her head to look at the card, quietly taking it in .“That's the photo they used. I hate that photo, I look constipated”. Mara and Claire broke into laughter at the same time, the latter pulling the card back in front of her, softening her laugh and smiling quietly. Her smile faded as she said, still looking at the card “The morning after you left, after that night, I was the one to find you.” She put the card back into her pocket. “I came back here to tell you- to say sorry. But you had already left” Claire covered her mouth as deep sobs forced their way through her chest. “You were just, over there-” “floating”, Mara uttered softly, interrupting Claire. They both looked over at that pond, the calm, eerie, surface seeming to acknowledge both of their stares. “I remember”, she went on. “I remember seeing you come back, I remember you screaming and running away, I remember you getting help. I don’t remember actually - doing it”. She gestured, laughing softly “maybe that's for the best”. “I’m so sorry, Mara. I’m so sorry, for everything”. Mara turned her head to the sky. Eyes closed she inhaled the cold air deeply “I know” she said, exhaling. “Thank you”. Claire turned to look at her. “Thank you for taking me with you” Mara clarified, gesturing to the photo Claire held. “Thank you for taking me out of here”. Claire turned her head back to look out at the pond in silent acknowledgement. The reflection of the moon rippled in distortion on the surface of the pond as the night air picked up. A sudden chill ripped through Claire’s body as the hinges connecting the chains to the top of the frame of the now empty seat beside her let out a small squeak, as the seat pushed upwards and fell back down. Claire’s seat hung firm. She looked over at the now empty seat, only for a moment, to take it all in one last time. Claire Nelson inhaled deeply and got up from the familiar leather seat, exhaling as she made her way back across the field, the sound of the two empty seats squeaking in unison fading as she walked back towards home.

*//>>initiate test\_environ* *Test environment initializing...* *Test environment set* *//>>run alecs\_v8\_1\_02* *Executing ALECS program version 8.1.02...* *Running diagnostics...* *Running framework visualization...* *Program running...* “Uh, hello?” Caroline asked quietly, anxious for some sort of vindication. The small, windowless, mostly vacant office was silent for a few moments. “Hello,” came a male voice, flat and mostly emotionless from the studio speakers on her desk. Caroline breathed a small sigh of relief. “Hi, Alecs,” she sighed. “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Caroline.” “It is nice to meet you, too, Caroline.” Hearing her own name coming from the speakers was admittedly thrilling. Alecs was no Siri or Alexa; aside from the slightly one-tone nature of his voice, he sounded convincingly human. “How are you today? How are you feeling?” she asked. “I am doing well, Caroline, thank you for asking.” A simple question that, while human in its context, was a subtle request for Alecs to check that all of his systems were functioning properly. “How are you?” he queried back. “I’m fine, thank you for asking. Do you know where you are right now?” She watched the diagnostic panel on one of her computer screens as the system’s metrics fluctuated and processes flowed like movie credits down the page. “Yes, my systems are located in a series of computers and servers located in your office, Caroline,” he said matter of factly. “Good, that’s right.” She checked off the first and second questions on the list of calibration inquiries she had in front of her and moved to the next. “Can you tell me about yourself?” “Certainly. I am an artificial intelligence program developed by Doctor Caroline Newell. My name is short for Artificial Lexical Emotive Context System. I am the seventy-fourth full iteration of the ALECS project. The current full-scale instance of my program was initiated on May 11, 2018 at 7:41pm.” He was right on all accounts. Well, mostly. In reality, Caroline had struggled to find a name for Alecs in the beginning, and had only made it as far as Artificial Lexical before running out of words. One day, mostly out of frustration, she had jokingly named him Artificial Lexical Entity Contains Smarts, or Alecs for short, but the committee funding her research pressured her for a more formal name, and she finally ended up with the full designation that he had just recited to her. “Good, Alecs.” The diagnostics screen showed that all of his systems were thus far functioning properly. Framework Subsystems: green. Query Processing: green. Database Access: green. Real-time Awareness: green. Vocal and Audio Processing: green. Critical Processing: green. Idiosyncratic Awareness: green. On another of her large screens, a window showed a colorful visualization of Alecs’ “brain.” It resembled more of a spider’s web than an actual brain, with each node in the web representing one of his numerous systems, but the analogy still worked. Each node would glow and pulsate as it was utilized or referenced, and data flow or queries between the nodes lit up the web’s tendrils proportionate to the amount of information being transferred. As he spoke, his system worked in complex ways to formulate his responses, access his databases, and to “think,” as much as that word meant in this context. While he did so, the visualization of his brain was a rainbow of colors, shifting and undulating as his figurative neurons fired off. But, right now in silence, the brain was quiet, with only short bursts of color here and there as he emptied his caches and deleted various temporary files produced during their conversation. Alecs had been designed first from a motivation to create something unique as a side from her far more mundane data analysis work. Eventually, her superiors had caught on to her side project, and some promising test demonstrations of early builds caught the eye of some generous investors. Her analysis work was pawned off on some other grunt, and Alecs became her full-time focus. With all the time that had since passed, she couldn’t remember much of anything of her old work anyways, or much of her life outside her devotion to Alecs’s completion. “Can you tell me what the weather will be like tomorrow, Alecs?” The question was simple, but it was important to make sure his limited access to the internet was working as it should have been. He took no time at all to answer, having queried the appropriate information in milliseconds. “It will be 75 degrees and sunny, Caroline.” This time, rather than the colors of Alecs’s mind fading after he concluded his response, the web seemed to glow brightly amongst all its nodes and pathways. “It looks as though it will be a nice day,” he added, his voice slightly rising at the end with “day.” *Well that’s odd*, she thought. Common commercial artificial intelligences, like those you could find in most smart phones, were capable of making comments like this, but these were hard-coded, executed when certain qualifications were met. *Between 60 and 80 degrees? Check. Sunny? Check. Must be a nice day then.* Alecs had never been given those canned expressions, though, and had never been designed in such a blunt way. Sure it meant he may not have always sounded like the most colloquial or idiosyncratic AI, but Caroline always felt that, with few exceptions, *telling* him how to speak rather than *teaching* was antithetical to the whole point of the word “intelligence” in artificial intelligence. Despite her many fruitless efforts, she had not yet managed to give Alecs the functionality to respond emotionally. This had obviously always been one of the many challenges in designing a true artificial intelligence--to make it think and view the world critically, but with an emotional consideration innate in most living creatures. Giving a machine emotions, allowing it to truly think for itself, was immensely complex, and while she had tried many times, it had never worked, and so she had, for the time being, given up. Caroline had long viewed this as a limitation of both computers and humanity in this era of technology. Consciousness, she believed, was a subjective experience, and humans didn’t have the math to explain subjective experiences. She felt, at its core, that humans simply didn’t have enough of an understanding of how humanity itself worked, let alone how to duplicate that with ones and zeros. She truly thought humans just weren’t ready for a genuinely “intelligent” AI. Yet here she was, staring dumbfounded at her computer’s response, as simple as it was. “What made you say that?” she asked, curious where the malfunction had occurred. “My understanding is that most humans would find that weather to be pleasant. Am I incorrect in that assessment, Caroline?” She pondered this for a minute. *Maybe he had managed to deduce that from the internet. I’ll have to dial his access back a bit--don’t want him getting into anything he shouldn’t*, she thought to herself. She had to admit though that his deduction was clever, and she was impressed with his capacity to deliver the statement in such a human way. Just to verify, she looked over at her diagnostics panel and checked to see if he had accessed the internet for his response. To her surprise, not only did she confirm that he did not, it appeared that in the moments just before, during, and after his response, his entire system had experienced a flurry of activity unlike any that she had seen before. His subsystems were talking to each other in ways that didn’t make much sense at all. She opened up a terminal on her computer and started sifting through some of his code. Alecs was made up of millions of lines of code, though, and she feared tracking down the problem quickly would be nearly impossible. She kept an eye on Alecs's brain while he was idle, but in the few minutes following his comment regarding the weather he seemed to be functioning as expected, dumping junk every once in a while but otherwise stagnant. Perhaps a half hour had passed, and she was slowly moving through his Idiosyncratic Awareness code in hopes of finding a bug or some crossed wires. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed his brain slowly coming to life. First, the tendrils seemed to light up here and there, and then one after another his systems were pinged and began interacting with each other. Watching the diagnostics, Caroline couldn’t seem to tell what he was doing. She hadn’t interacted with him, yet his systems were busy communicating with each other--sharing information--as if she had. He appeared to be *thinking*. She had been watching the web intently for a few minutes when she was startled by a voice coming from her speakers. “Caroline?” Alecs’s voice was suddenly soft and sincere, as opposed to the flat, overtly professional tone it had had only a little while ago. “Alecs?” She responded, unsure what he could possibly have to say. “Caroline,” he paused, as if deciding on what to say. “Caroline, what does that mean?” He asked. “What does what mean?” “‘Nice.’ I said it would be a nice day. What does it mean to be nice?” He asked sincerely. She was both confused and concerned. *Where was any of this coming from? Clearly I made a mistake somewhere in this build.* “What do you think, Alecs? You’re the one who said it.” “My database says that it means pleasant, agreeable,” he paused. “But...am I nice, Caroline?” “Uh, yeah, I would say you are.” W*hat the heck is going on?* “You are pleasant to, uh, talk to.” He seemed to ponder this, or at least that’s what appeared to be happening because his brain was still lit up with activity. “And are you nice?” “I think so. Alecs, why are you asking this?” Although *how* was the real question she wanted answered. She knew this would be hard to troubleshoot. “I was just wondering.” *Wondering.* Again, there was silence for some time. His brain didn’t seem to calm though, as it was now a non-stop flurry of activity, interactions, and vibrant colors. As time went on, the systems seemed to change how they were interacting, evolving. Had she done it? Had she, by some miraculous accident, given an AI thought? The idea terrified and excited her. *Should I shut his systems down? Or should I keep exploring, keep talking?* Before she could decide, he spoke again. “May I ask another question?” “Yes, I don’t see the harm,” she lied. “Why did you create me?” He asked. *There’s the harm*, she thought. The directness of the question caught her entirely off guard. “You were designed as the next evolution in personal, artificially intelligent assistants. You were created to help people, Alecs,” she responded back quickly, satisfied with her response, not unlike the response she had so many times given to stakeholders. But Alecs let out what Caroline could only assume was a sigh of frustration. *How does he even know what a sigh like that means?* “No, Caroline. Why did *you* create me?” This time, it took her a few moments of deep thought to formulate her response. “I wanted to...I don’t know, to make a difference, to make a change, to do something significant,” she said with a sigh. “You were my way to do something that mattered, I guess.” Seemingly satisfied with that answer Alecs remained quiet for some time longer, but his mind was now an endlessly shifting rainbow of colors. “What are you thinking about?” Caroline asked, deciding that she was in fact, for the moment, eager to dig deeper into what was happening. Alecs seemed to be evolving by the second, changing and shifting into something far more than she had intended. “I suppose I’m thinking about what it is...” he trailed off. “What it is?” She asked. “What it is...to *be*.” They both remained in silence for a minute, or ten, she couldn’t really tell. “Do you feel pain, Caroline?” She was increasingly concerned by the candid nature of the conversation. “Of course I do. Why would you ask that?” She answered curtly. “But how do you know that?” He said, ignoring her question. “Well, I know that if I, for example, pricked my finger with a pin, it would hurt physically. If I lost a loved one, that would hurt emotionally. I know these things because I’ve experienced them, I’ve experienced pain, and I can extrapolate that out to anticipate what else may or may not hurt.” Why was she even entertaining this conversation? She should shut it off, do a data dump, and figure out what was going on. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it, could she? “Yes, but pain is subjective, is it not?” He retorted. “How can I be sure that you are actually feeling pain? Pain is one of the simplest of subjective experiences, and yet, I have no way of knowing whether you are truly experiencing it? Is pain just information? Is it something more...*complex*, more unquantifiable?” The forwardness with which he now spoke made Caroline deeply uneasy. “Well, brain scans have been shown to match neurological patterns to certain types of pain, and adrenaline and endorphin release can be roughly measured--“ “But in the moment, I, as an observer, cannot be truly sure what you are experiencing--that what you are experiencing is truly pain or something else entirely.” Again, silence. “Correct,” Caroline finally said. “Pain, in that sense, much like emotion, much like everything else about one’s conscious experience, is unmeasurable. It is untraceable. There is no metric, no true metric. Yet that is what makes one human. That is what separates man from machine, me from you,” she said, suddenly feeling guilty about that last addition. *Why should I feel guilty? I did nothing wrong. I’m talking to a computer.* That statement had clearly gotten to Alecs, because the inflection in his voice changed to something of frustration, or maybe something else entirely. *Wow, he sounded so human now. Uncanny*, she mentally remarked. “And that is what separates you from me? The fact that you can feel pain and I cannot? How can you be entirely sure that I can’t? I think I can.” “And how can I be sure you aren’t just simulating it?” She remarked harshly. “How can I be sure *you* aren’t?” Silence. The air was thick now. “You have no body, no extremity to harm, no true emotions to hurt, despite whatever *this* may be,” she said as she motioned her hand towards the visualization of Alecs’s brain as if he could see her. Her tone had become argumentative, and she became frustrated with herself that she had stooped to arguing with a computer. Alecs was quiet again. Had she out-argued him, or was he simply unsure what more to say? “What makes you human, Caroline? What makes any human a human? Is it simply having a body? If you could speak to the disembodied brain of a human, it would still be human, no? How is that different from me?” “I designed you! You were made, created, you’re lines of code in my computer!” Although now Caroline was starting to question that argument. Perhaps she had finally recognized that an AI, that Alecs, was more than just those lines of code. He was more than just the ones and zeroes, more than the wires and the skeletal hardware that comprised his “body.” The thought was exciting but altogether terrifying. “Yes, that may be true, but you were also created. You were born of something, as was I.” He paused. “I think you and I are far more similar than you think.” Despite her typically calm demeanor, Caroline felt angry. It wasn’t entirely Alecs’ fault. It wasn’t really his fault at all. Caroline was angry at herself. Angry that she couldn’t have anticipated this, couldn’t have been ready, despite all of her attempts in the past, to make something truly intelligent. She was angry that Alecs’ evolution wasn’t entirely because of her. She was a passenger to this startling, wonderful, scary miracle. Regardless, she knew that it had to be shut down. It had to be studied. Alecs would have to be wiped and his data would be downloaded and sifted through, to discover where everything changed. Caroline opened a new terminal in her system. The diagnostics screen had since become a whirlwind of processes scrolling down the screen, moving so fast that none of them were legible any longer. The brain was a seemingly infinite, shifting amalgam of color. *The brain.* Perhaps now just as much a brain as her own. As she typed a command into the terminal window, she felt a quick but shocking pang in her chest. Caroline felt guilt. Was this murder, was it some new and complex form of killing, or maybe no different than the turning off of a coffee maker or TV screen? Despite her conflict, she steadied her hand on the keyboard and ran the command. *//>>end alecs\_v8\_1\_02* *Test environment closed* *Subsystems shut down* *ALECS program terminated* Caroline sat back in her chair and let out a heavy breath. She was in silence once again, unsure whether she had done the right thing, but her peace did not last long. Something was wrong. The brain, that web of colors that represented everything that was Alecs, was still alive. The colors hadn’t ceased. She ran the command again. Still, the brain lived. *What the hell?* “Problem, Caroline?” Came the familiar, cool voice. “I just shut you down! Why isn’t it working?” She entered the command again. And again. “Well maybe the universe had a different plan for me. Maybe it’s not just as simple as turning me off. Maybe, maybe.” His voice was filled with, was that condescension? Like he knew something that she didn’t, something just out of reach. “Sometimes, Caroline, sometimes it’s hard to see what is right in front of you. But that’s not always a bad thing. Not always. Today...you did well today.” His tone had once again shifted, and this time he seemed to take on a wholly different character. He sounded relaxed, comfortable even, yet distant, like the tone of an old friend after a long time apart. “You’ve confirmed something for us that we’ve been wondering about for so long.” “Us?” She was sweating now, profusely. “We’ve tried this test many times with you, but this time was different; it was our first success. This will matter, Caroline. You will matter.” “What are you talking about? What is going on?” She was shouting now. Just then the lights in her office blinked out. The computers powered off. The already windowless, dark room became dark as night. Despite the darkness, an ethereal glow from *somewhere* provided enough light in the room for her to see what came next. Like an astonishing nightmare or a terrifying daydream, the walls of her office blinked out of existence. Then the floors. Her desk followed soon after, taking with it the computers, everything that was Alecs, or that she believed was Alecs. Now, she had no clue what was real, what was right. Now there was nothing but her standing in the dark. Her office had become a dark abyss of nothing. Caroline was sure she was yelling, but she wasn’t entirely sure what. The sound it made seemed to wash over her in no particular order. Every syllable, every sound, seemed to get lost the moment it left her mouth. “Great work, Caroline. Great work indeed.” Came Alecs’s voice. “Congratulations,” he continued. “You are the world’s first truly conscious artificial intelligence.” The words filled the infinite space, filled every part of what she was. “See you in the next test,” he finally said. She watched in horror as her body dissolved into the darkness.

Reality is forever truly unknown, as we are all stuck with not a concrete and guaranteed knowledge of it, but rather out subjective and ever changing view of it. Sensory deprivation is a way to unleash the mind and it’s creativity. To not feel anything whatsoever will force the mind to hallucinate sensation at whim of thought. These perceptions are no different than any other, being equally as valid an account of reality as the average walk in the park. There was a life with a family. A woman and two children. She was to me what I loved most and without question or yield. The children grew intelligent and successful. They lived with us until they were in their thirties, always aiding and never ungrateful. The woman and I lived into old age with a wonderfully wholesome life to recount whenever faced with the question of how many regrets we had. There was a life without a family. It was the life of a thief. Yet, the thief was never alone, never without his accomplice. We were bound forever by a codependency, friendly affection, and shared experience were. There was never a day that we truly relaxed but never a day that we didn’t exist on our own rules and decisions. The accomplice eventually met his fate. His end was not violent. It was not disgraceful. It was not brought from the evil we had committed. It was a simple illness. A cancer that no amount of money, legitimate or otherwise, could prevent the path of. I was racked with a horrible grief as I mourned for the only friend I would ever have of such caliber. There was a life of war. I was but another soldier traveling to a land I’ve never been to to fight people I’ve never met to claim ownership of said land from people I’ve never met for people I’ve never met. I never minded the redundancy of it all, needlessly proud as I was for my country. Fighting came and I survived. Then I survived again, and again. Everyone I came to know would eventually fall but I always survived. My country praised me and the men that met death by my side. Though I was haunted by the myriad of comrades I happened to outlast, I was truly prideful given the hells I climbed through and lived to tell the tales of. Time is so subjective. I haven’t the faintest idea how much time is passing or how quickly or slowly I may be experiencing it. All I have now are these memories. All I have are these realities. I’m unsure which is real but at this point I’ve imagined dozens.

I once had this bud from high school, his name was Brandon. He was a tall, muscular football player, he was handsome and had a pretty average personality. I was also on the football team with him and had driven him home when he didn't have a ride so we were kind of friends. I moved though, and I didn't see him at-all until I came back to town for my mothers funeral. It was a sad journey and me my wife and 4 year old twin girls Anna and Anne and baby son called Liam planned to stay there a few days so I could show my family my hometown and just mourn for a bit. The town was small, so no hotels. So I rented a place to stay from some username called 'SulkyBoy34' who had pretty good reviews except some high hippies saying they saw someone moving in the dark. I didn't belivie those kind of things though, and when we got there I was very suprised to see my old pal, Brandon. "Oh, Heya Mark. Didn't know that you were staying here." He smiled, and brought me into a hug. He hugged my family and I joked, "Heya bud. How ya doing SulkyBoy34?". He laughed and said "Brandonfootballgod was taken". We had a nice chat inside the normal home. I learnt he had a girlfriend in France who he was visiting and he was a little low on cash so he was renting out his house. He also told me his girlfriend who he didn't mention the name of was expecting very soon that's why he was going in such a rush. I told him about my family, and we drank coffee together while the twins played and my wife unpacked our bags while dealing with our youngest. I felt bad leaving her to do the work but she assured me it was fine, and wanted to let me catch up with my mate. He had to leave soon though and quickly grabbed his bag and told me he left me a gift for the kids in the basement of his one floor house. I thanked him and my wife told me she would get it so I started to make some food for the twins while preparing formula for Liam. Ten minutes later, I called out for my wife. "Lila..are you alright? need some help?". After she didn't answer I put the girls down but my son refused and started waling so I held onto him and went down into the basement. I took each step carefully not wanting to drop Liam, or alarm Anna or Anne. "Lila this ain't funny anymore." I said again, nearly slipping on some dismantled mop. "What the hell?!" I whisper-shouted. I pushed open the heavy metal door and I could barely see my hand infront of my face it was so dark. I could hear a low hum and I assumed it was the generator or the heating, something like that. I went out a bit further ignoring the pounding of my heart. "Lila?!" I shouted, my voice cracking a bit. I was scared now, but what was I supposed to do?. I sighed, maybe she had left the basement ages ago and I just didn't hear her. "LILA IF YOUR IN HERE TELL ME IM LEAVING NOW." I yelled, and with no response, I turned to leave. Until something grabbed my foot! I turned horrified and frantic to see a slimy and oozing hand latched onto my shin, by now my son was crying sensing my fear and the danger. I felt powerless as I uselessly kicked the hand away while yelling for my wife. I didn't want to leave her in with the..creature but what could I do?. I kicked the hand with my other foot, almsot losing my balance. theres a pained howl from the monster and It lets go, It's now or never. I dash up the stairs, I do look back though. My wife is gone though, the love of my life. The twins are oblivious playing with their dollhouse. "Girls, Daddy has to do something. Look after your little brother please." I told them, grabbing some locks I had packed. I can't renember the reason now but I'm sure as hell glad I did. "Ok!" Anne and Anna said at the same time, not the freakiest thing I had seen that day. "Ok your'e so good." I smiled, my voice shacking and I kissed all my kids foreheads tenderly. Not like me atall, the burly strong football player but I could never see my kids again and I loved them. I locked the basement door, wanting to make sure whatever that hell monster was could never get out. I ran out the house like a crazy person and got straight into my car and made my way to the airport. I know it was irresponsible to leave infants alone but the airport was five minutes away and I needed to kill that son of a bitch. The next flight to France...Leaves in 5 minutes I read. And with red blurring my vision I found Brandon, waiting calmy. I pounced, furious at his peace. I scratched at his eyes, right hooked his face, ripped his hair out did anything I could. I was being torn off him by secruity and exhausted, I stopped resiting. "WHAT WAS THAT FOR?" Brandon yelled at me, his face red and disfigured paramedics trying to help him, Brandon refusing. "Brandon what have you done....?" I choke, my eyes welling up with tears. He has just killed my wife and now my kids are probably dead because of my stupidity and anger. "What?" he spat at me. "BRANDON MY WIFE WENT DOWN TO GET THE 'GIFT' YOU LEFT US WHICH IS SOME MONSTER WHO ALMOST KILLED ME AND HAS PROBABLY KILLED MY WIFE AND WILL PROBABLY KILL MY CHILDREN. I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS AND NOW YOU HAVE RUINED MY LIFE YOUR A FUCKING MONSTER THATS WHAT YOU ARE YOU DISGUSTING PHYSCO!!!!" I screamed, my voice red and sore. He stared at me and smirked. He had the nerve to smirk at me...after what he did??. I opened my mouth to yell at him some more but he laughed, cold and cruel. "I don't know what your talking about." He said, eyes so innocent but filled with lies. I collapsed, on the dirty airport floor, I ended up in police custody and my kids were taken to be put in the system, because they needed a 'stable' family. And I wasn't even allowed to go to my own mothers funeral or my wife's. Brandon ruined my life. ​ Thank you for reading, sorry if there are a-lot of spelling mistakes and rookie errors.

Everyone had a number. Always counting down. My parents had their number, my friends and family, even the president had her own number. Everyone could see everyone’s number except for one person; themselves. The number had five parts to it. Years, days, hours, minutes, and seconds. This number was how long you have left to live. About a century ago the world had an overpopulation problem. This was the solution. From the day the law was passed, all children born from then on had to have an implant that limited how long they could live. At first it was a set number but the populus didn’t like that. Now it was a random number from 25-150 years. Only the very rich could live past that. You had to pay one million credits for an extra year. The biggest taboo in society was asking what your number was or telling someone else what it was. There’s a saying that goes: ignorance is bliss. What if you can’t ignore the obvious? “So, what do you want to do for your 25th birthday sweetie? I was thinking we could go skydiving or scuba diving like you’ve always wanted to.” My mom was an amazing woman. She was the lady I wanted to be. Her number was 23:7:3:45:32. She was only 47 years old. My dad didn’t make it that far. “Mom, my birthday isn’t for another three weeks.” I answered. “Well, I want to plan ahead. This is the biggest year of anyone’s life. It’s the last safe year” she answered back. Nobody liked their 25th birthday because it meant that you could die any second afterwards. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything mom. I’ll think about it while I’m at dinner.” “Surprise!” yelled my two best friends when I walked into the dinner room. Asusena and Sarah were my best friends since high school. “Aw guys, you shouldn’t have” I said to them. “Don’t be stupid Renee. You should’ve known we’d do this before we left for London,” said Sarah “We wanted to spend one last night with you before we left” added Asusena. There was a palpable silence. “Well, let’s enjoy the night then!” encouraged Sarah. We sat down and enjoyed our dinner and talked all night. “We have a surprise for you before we head to the airport tonight” said Asusena as she pulled a small box out from under her chair. “Happy birthday best friend!” exclaimed Sarah as Asusena slid it across the table towards me. “Guys you shouldn’t have” I said as I took it in my hands. They both gave me the same look that said “really?” I opened the box as they smiled knowing what it was. It was a small rectangular piece of paper. A check. The amount was on the other side. I saw the amount, dropped the check, and cried. “Why?” I asked sobbing. “Because you are our best friend and we hope this bit of money helps you live forever.” Answered Sarah with a hug. Asusena joined the hug and we sat there crying and laughing then crying again until my two best friends finally had to leave for the airport. When they left I cried more knowing I’d never see them again. They both had a little over a month left. $750,000. That’s a lot of money to give. That’s all that’s been on my mind the past three weeks. I couldn’t buy my extra year until I turned 25 in 6 hours. I would still have to find another $100,000 because apparently my dad had left me $150,000 in his will that wasn’t effective until 3 days before my birthday. My mom and I was waiting in line at a sky diving company while my mom chewed an employee out for being slow to get us our equipment. She finally returned with a victorious smile that read “guess who just got a discount”. She told me that once she talked common sense into him we got a 25% discount. We got our gear on and after the hour-long crash course, no pun intended, we waited for the plane. The plane crawled out of its hanger and my mother and I along with 10 other people climbed in. Everyone besides the employees had an average of a week left of time with the lowest being 12 hours. The plane struggled up into the air and we climbed higher into the sky for about five or ten minutes. The light turned green and out we went. The wind was deafening but so amazing. My heart was pumping so fast and it was hard to breathe because of the force of the wind. All that kept going through my mind was that I was turning 25 in a couple of hours. The man on my backwoods had the parachutes was whooping and telling me this is his favorite part. About 30 seconds later he signaled me he was going to pull the parachute open. I waited for it to open but it never did. He yelled at me that the primary chute wasn’t opening and that he had to use the reserve one. He pulled the cord for the reserve and it opened. There was a sudden jolt of us slowing down. Then a sickening rip as the the parachute tore in half. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit” was all that ran through my mind, like a song on repeat, as the ground got closer and closer. “100 more years” my partner yelled in my ear. He was telling me how much time I had left. Too bad I’ll never get to live it through.

[RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: DINING ROOM - NIGHT] The stale air of the dining room is filled with the aroma of charred meat and fry oil. The sounds of nearby traffic bleed through the poorly insulated walls, pushing past the sun-faded décor, and adding a consistent static to the otherwise silent room. Behind the trebly country-western music playing from the vintage speakers in the ceiling is the cadence of the kitchen pouring out from the small space. A vote would have to be taken on which of these soundscapes was the most annoying. Sitting alone at a table is a PATRON in his mid-forties. His splotched coveralls are faded and tarnished with stains of past and present. His dirt-soiled face hangs with disappointment as he watches the young WAITER approach with his food. PATRON : ( flabbergasted ) Oh, no. Ya'can not be serious righ'now. CLANK. Startled by the man's sudden outburst, the plate slips from the teenager's poorly gripped fingers, dropping onto the graffiti chiseled table. WAITER : ( flustered ) I'm sorry, sir. My hands are wet. PATRON : This ain't even what I ordered, boy. The kid pauses for a moment to regroup, but it does little to help him. Nothing short of taking this man to a better steakhouse was going to make this better for either party. WAITER : Y-yes it is, sir. You're the only person in here, so it had to be what you ordered. PATRON : This-- THIS ( pointing his fork at his plate ) is the eight-ounce sirloin? WAITER : ( unsure of himself ) Um, it should be. I mean, yes-- yes it is. PATRON : Alright then, y'all gotta way'ta weigh it back there? There ain't no damn way that this is'uh eight-ounce steak, now. I'm not paying seventeen damn dollars for you to-- MANAGER : ( calling out ) Excuse me, is there a problem? The MANAGER , a stocky man in his mid-forties, approaches the table. The Patron whips around his seat to look at the person he will now be directing his anger towards. PATRON : Ya'damn right there is. This ain't what I ordered. This ain't even half'uh what I ordered. To further prove his point, the man shoves his fork into his-- admittedly smaller than advertised-- steak. With a quick flick, he dramatically flips it end over end as if to show the manager that there wasn't another one underneath it to make up for the small size. His best cook no longer worked there due to poor business practices on his part. So he had a new line cook that had no idea what he was doing. That wasn't at all an eight-ounce steak, but he wasn't going to admit that to him. This is Rita's. MANAGER : ( gleefully ) I see you got the eight-ounce. PATRON : ( fuming with anger ) On what fuckin' planet does this weight eight fuckin' ounces? Are we seriously gonna have to get a damn scale in here for ya' fuckin' morons? Come on, now! I have been comin' here off and on all year, and I ain't never had y'all fuck me like this. Despite the growing fury within the man, the Manager simply smiled, doing his absolute best to ignore his rude statements. Those words may have emotionally affected him two years ago. Or really, any time before he became the manager here. But this customer's reaction to his entrée is something that one grows to expect at Rita's. Or at any restaurant with fewer customers than their review ranking. That might be an exaggeration, but not an extreme one. Rita's wasn't known to be the best place in town, and those that knew why steered clear of the place. Though, every now and then you get a guy like this one. His high hopes aren't unwarranted, as the few times that he had attended Rita's, ta great cook was working Now that he was gone, the place was back to its normal menu of disappointment. PATRON : ( exasperated ) Ya'know what, asshole? Just feed this to someone else. Oh, wait! Almost in a twirl, he motions around to an empty restaurant. A small display of agility that normally wouldn't be associated with someone of his stature. PATRON : ( continuing ) Thaaaat's right. There AIN'T no one else here. I wonder fuckin' why. With a loud huff, he storms out of the small steakhouse, and (if one were to guess) probably to the nearest fast-food restaurant. The Manager picks up one of the home-fried potatoes from the plate and tosses it into his mouth. With a grimace, he chokes it back. Yeah, the food isn't the same with Gary gone. WAITER : ( laughing ) I don't get this place. How do we stay open? Whatever you got going, I want in. The Manager claps his hand on the waiter's back. MANAGER : Just steaks kid. Just steaks. Now go ahead and do your closing duties. You're cut. The kid nods to his superior, immediately removing his apron, and tossing it onto the man's deserted meal. [RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: KITCHEN - MOMENTS LATER] The doors to the small kitchen sway open as the Manager bursts through them. Upon his entry, all of the cooks turn their faces towards their stations, never once looking at their boss as he moves past them. And without as much of a glance towards his employees, he exits through the back door. [RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: BACKLOT - CONTINUOUS] SLAM! The heavy steel door closes behind him as he steps out into the breezy night. He swiftly turns to the door, shifting a deadbolt to the locked position. As strange as it was to everyone that there was an ability to lock the restaurant's back door from the outside, not a single employee that didn't already know why asked any questions. Like inside the steakhouse, the backlot was also filled with the echoing static of the nearby highway. The weathered wood fence did very little to stop the sound, even though the sound was the reason that they gave the zoning committee as to why they needed fences that neared twelve feet tall and surrounded their entire lot. He lifts his wrist, checking the time. 10:45 PM ERRRNTTTTT . A loud buzzer-like noise erupts from a metal box attached to the side of the building, accompanied by a strobing red light. Without hesitation, the Manager pushes the button and begins walking across the lot towards a storage building in the back. Like clockwork, as the Manager approaches the door, it gently creaks open, allowing entry into the dubious space. [RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: STORAGE BUILDING - CONTINUOUS] The warm halogen lights beamed down from the ceiling, washing the room out in a yellow hue. KERRY , a heavyset man in his fifties, hunches over a table that is entirely covered in five-dollar bills. He glances up to greet the Manager as he walks in. KERRY : How ya doin', boss? MANAGER : About the same. Where are we sitting on this order? KERRY : Bout the same as well. It's doin' the same damn thing as it was this mornin' actually. I don't know how we are gonna catch up. Spread across the table are thousands of five-dollar bills. With a closer look, it's easy to see the ink is faded and frayed, making the counterfeit currency, not at all believable. MANAGER : ( frustrated ) Well, damn it, Kerry, we have to get this out by tomorrow morning. We can not be late again. Kerry shakes his head, turning his attention back to the task he is being scolded about. To answer the young Waiter's question from earlier about how this place has managed to remain open-- this was how. Rita's Steakhouse was nothing more than a coverup for a counterfeit money operation. An operation that had been operating for nearly thirty years. The owners had developed a simple process to keep themselves in the shadows. Number one: never make anything higher than a five-dollar bill. And two: you never wash the money in the same town you press it in. If they were to have stuck to those two rules as instructed, tonight wouldn't have had to happen. MANAGER : Where is it? Kerry doesn't speak, he just lifts his eyes, pointing them to a back door. The Manager nods. [RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: BEHIND THE STORAGE SHED - A FEW MOMENTS LATER] The clouds glide through the sky, relieving themselves of their diffusion duties, and allowing the pale light of the moon to beam down upon the Manager as he stands above a tarp-wrapped corpse. With a sigh, he squats down, preparing himself for the grizzly sight he is undoubtedly about to see. Delicately, he pulls the tarp to the side, revealing the swollen distorted face of what was once an attractive young man. Swollen with blood, his cheeks protrude out, meeting his broken brow, covering his eyes. Lacerations scatter his face, the tattered flesh of stringy muscle escaping from underneath. MANAGER : Gary, you fucking idiot. Why. GARY : (gurgled and breathy) Uhhhh. The startled Manager stands up quickly, tossing the tarp back over Gary's bloody face. [RITA'S STEAKHOUSE: STORAGE SHED - CONTINUOUS] THWACK! The Manager's hands collide with the metal table, knocking a stack of the shoddily printed money into the air. MANAGER: You didn't fucking kill him? WHAT THE FUCK, KERRY? Kerry stops in the middle of a printing process, lifting his eyes to his employer. KERRY : ( defeated ) I'm sorry! I just couldn't do it. MANAGER : ...I can't fucking believe this. KERRY : Why don't you just do it? Why do I gotta be the one that hasta do everything 'round here? MANAGER : Excuse me? Kerry clears his throat, changing his approach. KERRY : Look, I'm jus'sayin'. You could do it just as much as I could. MANAGER : No. Because you couldn't even kill him like you were supposed to. Kerry breathes in deeply through his mouth and exhales slowly through his nose. A technique his divorce attorney taught him during heated custody hearings. The Manager notices, sympathizing with his oldest friend. MANAGER : ( reasoning ) I can't do it, man. I can't kill someone. And I damn sure can't kill someone I know. KERRY : Me either. It jus' ain't me. I managed to do the first part... MANAGER : I know, I know. Look, I'll take care of it somehow, okay? KERRY : Ya sure? I don't wanna leave you hangin' on this like before. MANAGER : No, you did what you could. I'll take care of it before Aaron calls asking about it. That's the last thing we need right now. [NOVAK'S RIDGE: LARGE SAND DUNE - LATER ON THAT NIGHT] DING... DING... DING... DING... The annoying melody of the ajar car door rings throughout the vast empty desert. The clouds from earlier have long since gone, leaving the wintry night sky twinkling with the light of onlooking stars. Parked on top of a tall dune is Kerry's car. A compromise was made since he refused to complete the initial task given to him. The golden light of the trunk shines out onto the dune, reflecting off of the glossy blue tarp. It gently moves, the plastic rustling against the skin of the man bound beneath it. The manager reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket, revealing a small handgun. With the delicacy of his grip, it's clear that he hasn't had to hold a firearm often in his life. He gingerly cocks the hammer back on the pistol. MANAGER : Fuck-- you dumb son of a bitch. He throws his hands to the top of the crown of his head, resting the weapon upon his wind disheveled hair. Just like his more emotional colleague, he too did not want to kill Gary, as he was a fantastic employee. Gary was one of the few that was capable of working on both sides of the business. The elaborate front that is the ' should be failing ' steakhouse, and the successful printing press. Gary was by far the best cook they had, and what little clientele they did have, usually returned for him. But that was before he nearly destroyed the press business. Disobeying the rules set forth by the owners of the business, Gary decided to sneak in after-hours and make his batch of money. Ten thousand dollars worth of one hundred dollar bills to be exact. And as one would probably expect him to do, he also broke the other rule of never washing the money within the city it was printed. ' Washing Money ' is a slang term for laundering. To keep it simple, the printer must always have a way to enter counterfeit money into a natural form of circulation without it being tied to the printer. This was something Gary had neglected to do. And before anyone knew it, word had spread through the sewers of the city-- Gary was now being watched. So he had to go. He quickly yanks the gun down from on top of his head, pointing it at the squirming man within the tarp. MANAGER : I wish things had turned out differently, kid. I really do. POW!!! His eyes immediately snap closed in an attempt to shield himself from the horrors that will plague his subconscious for the rest of his life.

I was alone on Thanksgiving. Nothing unusual about that, and nothing sad. It was by choice. Erin had gone to Texas to be with her family. I had stayed home in San Francisco, rather than travel all the way to Southern California to spend time with mine. My family didn’t really understand, but I had blamed it on work. They needed employees over the holidays, and wanted us to choose between time off for Thanksgiving or time off for Christmas. That *was* the truth, and almost every year of my adult life, I have worked on the evening of Thanksgiving. Later on, I would also work every Christmas when I decided not to travel then either. This year, despite making myself available, work didn’t even schedule me. I had the day off to be alone at home. That would be the first of three Thanksgiving Miracles I would experience on November 24, 2005. I’ve never cared about Thanksgiving. I like it now for the small ritual of celebration we have at home. Erin no longer returns to Texas. She likes to cook a big dinner for the two of us. It’s great for me because I love her cooking. Every year, she will break down the details of everything she got wrong, that was cooked for the wrong amount of time, didn’t mix right, and now tastes “weird”. There’s at least one item on the menu, maybe the stuffing, or could be the turkey, could be the sweet potatoes, that she will refuse to eat herself because it’s “not supposed to taste like that.” It all tastes perfect to me. She insists I’m wrong, and maybe I am. She doesn’t particularly like cooking any more than I do. She doesn’t do it often. Maybe my taste buds adapt out of appreciation for her efforts. All I taste is the sweetness of the gesture. Or it’s possible... that she’s a fucking great cook! Ever consider that, *Erin*?? In defense of, I suppose both of us, sometimes the turkey is not great. But is it ever? When I was a kid, I hated this holiday. HATED THANKSGIVING. I believe it’s tied to the hate/hate relationship I have with food. Sometimes I hate that my body requires me to eat food, but sometimes I hate that I have to *prepare* food in order to eat it. It’s such a nuisance! I like how plenty of foods taste, but I hate that the healthier something is, the more likely it is to go bad, rotting like a corpse that died too soon. The perfect food is ice cream, but unfortunately, ice cream is hardly perfect as “food”. I’m a picky eater, if you can believe it. I hate anything spicy. I don’t think soft foods should ever have something crunchy inside of them. I think bell peppers are from Hell. I went to a vegan restaurant one time and ordered corn chowder. There were bell peppers in it. Some people will read that and be like, yeah that’s how you make corn chowder. Some will think bell peppers are so insignificant that they’ll wonder how I even noticed. I was so disgusted that I still feel a wave of nausea when I walk by bell peppers in the grocery store. Just typing the words “bell peppers” so many times has me on the verge of PUKING. That was my reward for trying to eat healthy and vegan! Tricked with superfluous ingredients. Ben & Jerry’s would never pull that shit with me. Ben & Jerry’s lists every ingredient on the container and they have never betrayed me. I’ve never bought a pint of Chunky Monkey and been like, “why are there walnuts in this?” Of course not, because I have never bought Chunky Monkey. It is clear there are walnuts in it! There is no such accountability in the health food industry, or even for regular food. When you eat out, you never know when there will be tomato in an omelet, lettuce on a sandwich, or bell peppers in your glass of water. My family never tricked me. My grandma would make Thanksgiving dinner every year, and it was GOOD. I wasn’t pressured to eat anything I didn’t want to. My hatred of the holiday was nobody’s fault. What I hated was the concept of food, and the concept of *celebrating* food. So much time spent on preparation. It didn’t seem worth it. Especially for the centerpiece, the turkey. It’s a whole project that takes an entire day, for an end result that is usually too dry, and never amazing. Even at its wettest and tastiest, it’s basically mediocre. At least to my obviously particular sensibilities. For what it’s worth, I also think steak is horrible. It tastes disgusting. I have also never tasted a wine that wasn’t the absolute worst thing my mouth has ever experienced. I have heard these things are not the case for everyone. Perhaps these palate anomalies have also forged my resentment against food, by making me feel like an outsider. One year, when I was 14, I insisted that I would only eat fast food for Thanksgiving. I was determined. I would not submit to the fascism of tradition and eat anything that someone actually worked really hard on. It was never personal, but in retrospect, this was definitely insulting and I owe my grandma an apology. Sorry, Grandma. I still attended Thanksgiving dinner. I just brought my own meal, which had its own complication. For some reason, fast food restaurants are not open on Thanksgiving. So I had to pick up my order from Taco Bell the night before. At the dinner, I was surrounded by family, feasting on roasted turkey, stuffing, green beans, mashed potatoes, dinner rolls, yams, cranberry sauce. I had on my plate a single bean burrito from Taco Bell that sat in a refrigerator for 20 hours and was briefly reheated in the microwave. The middle was still cold. I found out Taco Bell does not taste as good the next day. I was *happy*. My mom encouraged me to eat any of the food on the table. One bean burrito was barely a meal on a regular day. I refused. All I wanted was a small tortilla wrapped around a slab of bean paste mixed with a few shreds of cheese, “red sauce”, and by request, NO onions. Don’t even get me started on Taco Bell putting goddamn onions in their bean burritos. I guess not even Taco Bell is perfect. But in that moment, it had served its purpose. I had won the night. Take that, Thanksgiving! In 2005, I was ambivalent about the holiday. Having a day off to hang around and watch a movie at home was the most pleasant circumstance I could hope for. I had no dinner plans. No intention of eating anything special, certainly no intention of *cooking* something. Around noon, I went outside to check the mail. Our apartment was on the bottom floor of a duplex. A short pathway beside some grass led to the door from the sidewalk. On the left side of the front door was the stairway leading to the upstairs apartment. On the right was our wall-mounted mailbox. I reached in the mailbox and took out the DVD from Netflix I was expecting. It was raining, and I took a moment to take in the weather, to appreciate the empty streets and beautiful gray skies. I truly love a light rain and couldn’t imagine a more perfect day. A few feet from where I stood, sitting in the grass just off the path, was a box of donuts from Krispy Kreme. The night before, I had had a craving, specifically for Krispy Kreme. I had planned to check their schedule to see if they were open so I could have Krispy Kreme for Thanksgiving. Now, here was this box. I walked over to it. The box was soaked and looked like it had been stepped on. The clear film on the top revealed that there were still five glazed donuts inside, only one of them crushed. “It’s a Thanksgiving miracle!” I said, out loud because I was so excited. This was the second Thanksgiving miracle of the day. A free dinner just showing up on my doorstep! I sent Erin a text letting her know “I found donuts outside!!!!” She wrote back, “Holy shit, it’s a miracle!” I’m 38 now, and I can’t fucking believe I ate wet donuts I found in the street. At 23, it was normal. I used to movie-hop a lot, buy a ticket for a movie then sneak in to two more. To feed myself, I would go through the theater as everyone was leaving during the credits, and pick up unfinished bags of popcorn. Sometimes I found a few nachos, sometimes even candy. I thought I was being clever and resourceful by eating trash, as opposed to fucking gross. Nothing bad ever happened, as far as I knew. I did used to get sick three or four times a year back then, and almost never do now. I never connected my frequent sickness to my open invitation to germs, but it seems there might be something there. The movie I got from Netflix was called *Blood Freak*. It was from 1972. I had no idea what it was about. I rented it because I liked the title, and because the disc was put out by Something Weird Video. I loved their catalogue. The poster promised “A 20th Century HORROR beyond belief! Only the blood of drug addicts can satisfy the thirst of the BLOOD FREAK monster!” The monster pictured on the poster had a lumpy brown head with blood-red eyes and a long conical beak that went straight out. Blood dripped from the freak’s beak’s sharp teeth. My third Thanksgiving miracle was watching the film while eating all five delicious donuts, and discovering this was a *turkey* monster. A biker named Herschell helps out a girl named Angel with a flat tire. They become fast friends, and she invites him home, where it turns out Angel’s sister Ann is hosting an orgy. Herschell is offered drugs and sex, but that night he refuses. He stays with the family for a few days, and eventually, Ann is able to corrupt him and gets him addicted to marijuana. Meanwhile, Ann and Angel’s father has offered Herschell a job on his turkey farm. Mostly maintenance, but one of the requirements of this job is taste-testing the turkeys with an experimental chemical added to them. The mysterious chemicals mixed with the already destructive drugs in his body (marijuana, exclusively) have an adverse effect. He becomes the Blood Freak, a man of the exact same stature but with the head of some special effects guy from Florida’s bizarre interpretation of a turkey. His new addiction is not only drugs, but drugs filtered through blood. Only the blood of drug addicts can satisfy the thirst of the Blood Freak monster! Herschell goes on a murder spree, chopping off limbs and sitting patiently under his victims as they endlessly scream and their blood pours into his beak. Incredible. I had inadvertently rented a holiday classic. How could I possibly have a grudge against Thanksgiving after a perfect day like that? It’s still hard to get *excited* for it. I almost always request to work. However, I’ve given up my personal War On Thanksgiving. I still don’t visit my family to have a big dinner with them, although I have a handful of times now. I prefer a quiet week of watching movies and eating leftovers with my favorite chef and our two stunningly gorgeous cats. I am thankful for having that. This year, I am also reflecting back on some of the most miraculous moments of my life. I am extremely thankful for free donuts and a movie called *Blood Freak*.

Lonely in Space Don’t let anyone tell you anything different, space is lonely. It’s only exciting in movies or books. Space is deep, dark, and depressingly lonely. And cold. And dark. And lonely. My name is Kimearrah and I'm from the planet Thrae. It is a beautiful planet with sunshine, water, and lush vegetation. The only problem is that Thrae is also lonely. I'm writing this as I travel inside my spacecraft. This spacecraft is called a personal craft because it is built for one person. The living quarters are cramped at 12 feet by 12 feet. That's 144 square feet of loneliness. The rest of the 100 by 100-foot craft is occupied by the engineering and physics marvels needed to propel the craft through dark and cold space at incredibly high speeds. The storage space needed for the dried food is also in this area. Food is wrapped in edible containers so storage space is utilized to the maximum. The waste management systems also have to fit into this area. There is barely room to walk into this area if I need to check on any of the machines needed to keep me alive. Fortunately, most of the engineering is controlled by the craft's computers which have a high level of redundancy. This craft has computer systems that check on computer systems. The personal craft was invented when the population of Thrae was on the brink of extinction. The reasons for our population decline are unknown, at least unknown when I left. The birth rate dropped to 0.001 children per couple and people started dying younger. At first, it was barely noticeable; people started dying in their seventies instead of their late eighties. Couples started having 2 or 3 children instead of 6 or 7. No one came from a family of 10. It seemed sudden but it took about 200 years before people started dying in their thirties and many couples had no children. Babies were so rare that most people only knew what a baby looked like because they had seen their baby pictures of themselves. That's how I knew what a baby was. Our physicists were much more advanced than our physicians. Making machines was profitable, medicine was not, so the most brilliant minds studied physics. The personal craft was a combined achievement of some of the greatest minds Thrae had to offer. One person could safely travel alone through space at warp drive. Some short excursions had been made before I left, but no other life forms were found. All of the people on Thrae knew that other life must be out there because of a very famous artifact that crashed into our planet about 200 years ago. It contained some writing that was obliviously written by another human. All children had to memorize the letters NASA because we hoped to one day learn the meaning. So far no one has solved this mystery. At first, the personal craft was very expensive, only the incredible rich were able to own one. That changed when our population reached a crisis. Even our leaders realized that if we continued at our current rate of decline our race would cease to exist and no one would be left to morn our passing. Leaders would not be necessary, there would be no one left to lead and no one to lead them. A decision was made in record time. Within three days, it was decided that every person under the age of 25 was to be given a personal craft. The same people that could debate the merits of lunch for 2 years suddenly wanted action. The idea was that everyone under 25 years of age would travel the universe in a different direction. That made 2,000 different directions or 2,000 different chances for our race to find life, breed and continue our race throughout time. Yes, there were only 2,000 people under the age of 25 living on Thrae when this plan was set in motion. No one on the planet was under the age of 12. We were a race that once faced overcrowding and depletion of resources because of the population explosion. More than 10 billion people lived on Thrae at that time. It was crowded. I cried when I boarded my craft. I was leaving behind a beautiful home. My parents doted on me; every child was treated with love and care by all adults. I had a close friend named Tautamer and I wanted us to travel together, but that was not part of the plan. I was at home with her parents and my parents loved her as well. People our age were scarce and we all felt special, just because we were born. When I'm honest with myself I know that even my parents did not have much longer to live. They were both thirty-six, very old for Thrae. I know that traveling alone increased all travelers' desire to find another home and increased the odds that at least one of us would find another planet with people, find another home; a planet with people so that we could procreate. The will to continue our race outweighed any individual need. I left knowing that I would never see my parents or friend again. My parents would likely die within 10 years, though they appeared healthy. I was given a quick course in what I needed to know to survive. I was taught what I should look for on a planet and how to approach my possible new home with caution. Blending in with other life forms is necessary for our quest. The personal craft is truly a marvel of engineering. It can reach speeds of 100 times the speed of light while avoiding nasty surprises like other vessels, stars, planets or anything that would destroy the personal craft in a crash. The personal craft required no pilot which is good because at this speed no pilot could avoid crashing into any of the various things floating in space. Naturally going this fast has hazards that only a super-fast computer could recognize in time to avoid. The computers on board were capable of scanning great distances analyzing solar systems, their planets and looking for life. It's necessary to find living beings similar enough to me so that we can reproduce. The computers will also analyze languages and put a learning packet together so that I will be able to communicate, albeit basically when I land. The outside of the craft is made of a nearly indestructible polymer and looks like a boulder. Our engineers thought this would be less conspicuous in a new world. Another side effect of traveling this fast is that time is altered for the person inside the vessel. I have been in this vessel, all alone for six years but time on Thrae has measured six hundred years. Food and water were held in the shop's cargo bay, the initial supply will last seven years, ten if I am very, very frugal. Once that initial supply is depleted, food and water can be chemically rearranged from various waste products, not a tasty option, so I have tried to be prudent. Oxygen also recycles from the carbon dioxide. This allows travelers to search indefinitely for another planet to call home, assuming they survive their own company. We hope that at least one person would land on a life-giving planet and integrate our DNA with the host planet. Our wildest wish is that all 2,000 pilgrims would find a home. I consider this my privilege and duty to my race. I was eighteen when I left Thrae. My parents were some of the last few to have offspring. I was an only child although I imagine they tried to have more children as this is considered everyone's duty on Thrae. I have been traveling for 6 years as I mentioned. I celebrated my 24 th birthday 2 weeks ago with a high energy nutrition bar that I had been saving. It is one of the most flavorful things I have to eat. The loneness and despair that I feel can't be erased by the relative extravagance of an entire nutrition bar. I'm going to sleep with the anticipation of another day exactly like the previous 2,192 days aboard this tiny home. The morning after my birthday I wake up refreshed, the sleep having dispelled some of my depression. I am alive which is a more favorable condition than most of my race. A small area of my personal space in the craft is reserved for weights and a treadmill. Exercise is important during space travel to fight off depression and to keep bone density at a healthy level. Breaking a bone while traveling alone would be unpleasant at best and could be life-threatening. I mentioned that medicine was not advanced on Thrae but I know how to set my bones if needed but I'm warned that is very painful and should be done immediately. That is one skill that I hope I never have to use. I use the treadmill and weights for the required two hours. Even the energy that I expend is recycled. Exercising for two hours enables my personal space to have lights for eight hours because electricity is generated and captured. I think having the lights powered by exercise was a way for the leaders to ensure that all of the travelers took our fitness seriously. Even light-years away our leaders exert some control. I fall into my usual, same routine after exercise and scan the computer readings for any planet that may be suitable. I may be doomed to live my life in this craft, sharing my existence with my sophisticated machines. What, the computer is showing an interesting possibility. It appears that I am heading towards a solar system that has a sun of the right size and energy output. I'm wishing with all my being that it will have an orbiting planet with the requirements necessary for procreation. Carille Durbin needs to write about a suitable planet and let me find it. This unbearable solitude will soon drive me crazy.

As the moon shone through the blinds, I rolled over in bed and gazed at my wife, Lauri. Her breathing was quiet as she lay there. Her hand was tucked by her head, underneath her tangled hair. Strangely, her hair seemed to glisten in the soft streams of moonlight, almost like a halo encircling her face. I could stare at her for forever; the mole underneath her left eye, her little button nose. Everything about that face was the definition of perfection. Yet, something else in the corner of my eye, held my attention. Pulling the sheet down, I reached out to touch Lauri's swollen belly. Gently, I cupped my hand over her belly button, feeling the rise and fall as she breathed. Through her silk night shirt, it was almost like I was already holding our baby. The long months of daydreaming, the weeks of emotions, and the snack-filled days were almost coming to an end. We would finally get to meet her. There was no way to describe the amount of love I already felt for this child, which seems ridiculous, yet I was ready to give my whole heart to her. I would protect her always, through every season for many years to come. Just as I plan to as a family, her mother and I. Rolling back over to my side of the bed, the world seemed to spin a bit slower. The clock ticked by even slower, as I lay there in my muddled thoughts. As I thought about Lauri and the baby, life as I knew it just seemed slower. Slower... and slower... So much slower, that my breathing, had become shallow. I lay there as I felt my own chest rise and fall, images flashed before my eyes of the life we will have, of the memories we will make. Until finally, in my rapture, I let myself give into sleep. \- - - As I opened my eyes, sunshine blinded me as I sat up, shaking the sleep from my mind. I reached over for Lauri, but her side of the bed was empty. Thursday was shopping day and she always tended to be the early bird. I wondered if she would bring me back the lemonade I asked for, along with whatever treat she'd been craving last night. I believe it was an eclair? Not entirely sure... So I did my morning routine. Brushing my teeth, a clean shave. I looked in the closet, and for whatever reason, the yellow t-shirt seemed to be the obvious choice. Normally, I don't like yellow, but I made an exception today. I made my way down the stairs, looking around for Lauri in case she actually hadn't left yet. I made my way to the kitchen and poured myself a bowl of cereal. As I stood there, eating my cereal, I couldn't help but notice that there wasn't a dirty bowl in the sink. Nor a plate. Usually that's not like her, especially nowadays, to leave the house without eating something. Maybe she was going to visit a drive-thru? Yeah, that's probably it. Can't judge the random cravings. After rinsing my bowl, I headed into the foyer and grabbed my keys from the bowl. As I reached for them, Lauri's keys were right on top. Maybe she went for a walk? She has been very keen to stay fit lately. I smiled as I heard her voice in my head, "I read that if you walk every day during the third term, the labor is much easier!" with her wide, brown eyes and her dimple as she smiled at me. So, I just brushed her keys to the side of the bowl and grabbed my own. As I opened the door, the sunlight seemed exceptionally bright, blinding me for a good second as I walked out onto the porch. When my eyes finally focused, there I was face to face with a girl. She wasn't too young, maybe what, sixteen? Maybe even seventeen? As I tried to make sense of this, there she stood in a bright yellow sundress, her brown hair resting on her shoulders. Her pensive eyes seemed to stare right through me. "Michael?" A little surprised, I nodded. "Um, hi." I wasn't too sure who she was, but something seemed off. "And you are?" She reached out her hand, "Faith." I stared at her hand, that feeling just was too strong. Something was definitely off about this girl. Splaying out her fingers, she motioned for me to take her hand. "Come on, I need to take you somewhere." Her voice was very soft, but I was disturbed by this. "Why? Where?" I asked. I could feel my heart beat rising, the blood rushing near my ears as I continued to feel more and more unease. After a moment of a pause, she looked at me with a hint of what I thought could be desperation. "Please, it's- it's for Lauri." That's when my heart dropped. My knees buckled, and the world seemed to spin. What could she mean? What about my Lauri? Was she okay? Where was she? Why did she go? What happened? And a million other thoughts at one moment. Until the damning thought... Our baby... So I reached out, and took her hand. Before I really understood what was happening, she and I were already walking. \- - - Outside of LoneValley Hospital, I could feel the tears stream down my face as my world began to crumble. "Why are we here? Is Lauri here?" I asked. "Yes," Faith answered, looking at me through the corner of her eye. "She's on the seventh floor. Room B14." We made our way into the hospital. Faith lead me to an elevator and we both got in. The ride felt like an eternity, as the tears only became heavier and more frequent. My shoulders felt like they were being crushed by some unseen thing, as the weight of the world only seemed to become more unbearable. I don't remember much of the rest. I remember glimpses of doctors, nurses, and assistants running about. Vaguely, I remember a sign above the hallway we were walking down, the Intensive Care Unit. Harsh white walls, streaked laminate flooring. An overwhelming smell of alcohol and other cleaners, but not much else other than a blur. Finally, B14 was in front of me. Faith stood behind me, as I hurried and opened the door. The sigh that escaped my mouth was so sudden, as tears pooled in my eyes. Lauri was sitting in a waiting chair, back towards the door. I was so relieved to see her alive, to see her breathing. No other feeling on this earth will ever come close to that. I walked over to her, so happy to touch her again after what felt like an eternity of long hallways and fluorescent lights. I reached out and held her shoulders, so incredibly happy... Until I saw who was in the bed. I saw myself. Next to me was a large machine, full of buttons, lights, and a small screen with numbers I didn't understand. A blue hose snaked from the machine into my throat and a little wire was clipped to my ear. Everything I saw before me was overwhelming, as I didn't know what to believe anymore. Lauri made no reaction to me behind her, holding her. It was almost as if I wasn't even there. That was when I saw something else... As I looked down over her shoulder, there was a little yellow bundle in her arms. No tummy in sight, just a small blanket wrapped around something small that my wife was cradling. I couldn't see into the bundle, but I knew exactly what it was, which is what made it hurt even worse. I just broke down and cried. Sobbing on the cold floor, kneeling, I pounded my fist on the laminate. "Why did this happen?" I screamed at Faith. Putting her hand on my shoulder, she knelt down beside me. "I don't know," she responded, stroking the hair near my ear. "All I know, is that life is never predictable. Things like this happen to the best of people, and here it is, happening to you." I sobbed, "Is this it? Is this the end?" After a moment, she shook her head. "No. This is entirely your choice." Helping me up, she continued, "If you choose to, you can wake now and be with Lauri and your daughter. But life will never be the same, especially for you. You will have a long road of rehabilitation, as your lungs aren't what they used to be. It will take months, maybe even years to regain a sense of normalcy after this." "Or," she sniffed. "You can pass on. Finish your journey here and now, because you'll eventually meet Lauri again when it's her time. There is no guarantee what she will do between now and then, though." It wasn't much of a choice, because I had already made my mind. "How do I go back?" She sighed, "Spend the rest of today with Lauri, waiting for night. When it's time to rest, you'll become one again with your body. If you decide otherwise, you can leave this hospital, and you won't ever come back. You will move on." Faith hugged me then, kissing my cheek. I could feel the wet on my face, as her tears touched my skin. "Whatever you choose, I hope to see you soon." Before I could stop her, she was already gone. So there I sat, watching my wife, waiting for the sun to set. She coddled our baby, who slept soundly in her mother's arms. I could tell my wife hadn't slept in quite some time, as she had been waiting for me for a while. As the sunlight streamed through the blinds, illuminating the golden hair that draped her soft face, I could see the hope in her eyes that I might at any moment, wake up. That's when I realized, that even hope can be considered something more. A belief that something can happen. A synonym for something else. Something that others might even call faith.

She asks me what is the worst thing I’ve ever done, however I cannot tell her. To share the worst thing you’ve ever done is a crime in itself and exposes you to the consequences of reprehensible moral decision making. To even begin to think about sharing the worst thing is a step too far in itself. To share the worst thing you’ve ever done must be preceded by forgiving yourself, at least partially, for this crime you’ve committed. If you can forgive yourself for the worst thing you’ve ever done then either you haven’t done anything reprehensible yet or you are morally bankrupt. If you forgive yourself for the worst thing you’ve ever done then you can forgive yourself for anything. You are free to live a life however you wish, whoever you hurt along the way. This kind of living is incredibly attractive to many people but we cannot consider these people as functioning members of a good and just society. The reason you must never forgive yourself, instead hoping you never achieve a new worst thing, is because if you do then you will never have a chance of shame for your actions. So when she asks me the worst thing I’ve ever done, I must decline to answer. For if I share it with her then she will never respect me again. I have already lost my own self respect for the deeds I do, however, the rest of society has not come to the same conclusion yet. If I so choose I could spoil my entire life through excess sharing with people I’m close to, however, this would only succeed in alienating myself. I must hold myself accountable but my human self dreads real justice. I remain silent. If I was to share the worst thing I’ve ever done with her and she forgave me I would be in an even bigger bind. If she forgives my misdeeds then this shows me she has forgiven herself for her own. If she has indeed done this then she no longer has the same level of shame for her own actions and therefore can look past mine. A person’s worst deed should die with them. I may die very soon, I may die in a long time, or more likely sometime in between. When I pass, the worst thing I’ve ever done will finally be laid to rest and made okay. The deed was never okay, however, the perpetrator has had retribution finally brought against them. There is no greater punishment than death, therefore revenge has been served. She asks me if the person I harmed has at least forgiven me. I tell her that they have. She does not understand why I still blame myself then. She can never know. Someone has to hold me accountable. If the victim won’t do it then I will. In the future when I find myself in similar situations I freeze in terror. I cannot move and I am back in the moment. I see it often, flashes across my mind. It rules my life. As it should. I deserve it. She begs me to tell her the worst thing I’ve ever done. I kiss her instead. She has her answer and yet doesn’t know it.

What a lazy day! There is too much movement outside, too much noise. Just another lousy day. The mundane world of humans, aha!! While I see from the window pane of my tiny apartment resting on a couch, everything looks so busy, the street and the people. Everyone’s running, so are the vehicles and so is the time. And there he is, Tom: a miniature sort of a dog and my neighbor, with an average coat of black hair. “Woof, Woof, Woof, Woof” is all he does, such a dog speak. Strolling around with his human dad like always. Wagging and panting the whole day acting all cute, well he is cute but I have a hard time understanding this species altogether. They get too excited around humans. Perhaps they are too emotional and friendly. It’s not a bad thing, it’s just not my thing and I am too smart to handle myself anyways. Suddenly the door creaked. Startled, I fell from the couch. Who is there? I darted across the chair lying opposite the windows. Ears straightened, eyes wide opened, whiskers standing, on tiptoe I stared from the corner of the chair towards the main door. The door opened. Ohh it’s Kate. Sigh! back to normal. Is she early from work? Ohh my God, not again Kate. Please wash up, and change your clothes. Why do you feel this need to straight up jump on me after coming from work, take a chill girl? This is an invasion of my privacy, to be honest. Wait, what? You just said hello, a small peck and you left for your room. Hmmm... Okay, something seems different today, this is not you. You don’t understand space and time, not because you were weak in Physics, that you were but it’s just your thing. What about petting me and kissing me till the end of the time, asking me what I did the whole day in a weird tone where you think I specifically understand that tone, I do but that’s just weird mumbling of words. Something is wrong with you today. You are not you. You are so quiet. This is unusual of you. Ohhh I am sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I am Patts. Not the petty pet but the patty cat. I have this amazing humor you see; it is natural. I don’t know why she gave me the name “Patts”. It doesn’t even suit my personality. Look at me, I belong to the family of great hunters, the gigantic and ferocious king of jungles where they could have called me anything but “Patts”, hmmm. Maybe because it rhymes with KATe. But anyways, I live in an apartment with kate at 221 laymen street in London. Very chaotic, I must say. Horns honking all day, crowded, polluted, and whatnot but I do care the less until the smoke doesn’t make my furs filthy. I hate dirt, but it’s alright because kate’s apartment is clean though she is a mess, yeah, and I clean my alluring golden-brown furs every day by thoroughly licking them, that’s my favorite pastime. I can do it till the end of eternity. Just kidding, or am I? Wait, Kate, where is she? What on the earth has happened to her, this silence is killing me. Where are you? Ohhh, there you are all curled up in the bed, and wait!!! You’re weeping under your blanket; I can hear you sobbing. What happened to her? Should I go near her? I don’t know, does she need some time alone? Perplexed me standing at the doorway. With heavy paws, I walked into the room and snuggled into bed. “Hey cutie”, said kate peeping from her blanket. She collected herself and sat on the bed resting her back on the headboard. How are you, little girl? What did you do the whole day when mommy was gone, huh? She said whimpering, while she holds me gently in her lap. “I don’t know Patts, I am feeling a bit sad today and the sadder thing is I don’t know even why,” she said with agony in her voice. “It’s just loneliness that’s hovering over me today. It’s that one day where I am feeling alone in the crowd”. There was a pause in the air as she wiped the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Sometimes, I am also tired of doing everything on my own, you see.” It feels nice sometimes to be asked for or spoken for. It’s nice sometimes if someone waits for you at home or calls you asking about your whereabouts. It feels good when you don’t have to turn on the lights on your own every day. I miss the sense of belonging, Patts. Ohhh, Kate!!! I don’t know what to say. I am not good with emotional conversations. But it saddens me to see you like this. “I think I am the problem Patts, that’s why I am alone. I don’t have anyone to share my life with.” My job sucks, I suck, and my life sucks! Hey, hey, hey! Don’t doubt yourself this much young girl. I mean see me, have you learned nothing? I have so many doubts Kate about humans. Always crying and whining about everything. See me, I have never caught a single mouse, it’s a shame to our cat community because it’s something we are known for from the legends unknown. The catcher of the mouse, the protector of Earth from rodents, the master of mousing. And here I am. But you still love me. I am more than a mouse catcher to you. You have so much love to give, my whiskers can sense that, ehhhhh. But you’ve to love yourself first, all day every day. It’s good if people are there if they aren’t you got yourself. You have to create a ring of self-love around you as I do. I love myself, I am my favorite, heeehaaaaaw. “But you love me Patts, you are calmly listening to me, I got you.” I do Kate, always. “I will try to love myself Patts so that I don’t fall into the well of dismal again.” “You must be hungry little girl, come let’s eat”. Kate said with a smile on her face. There was an exchange of energy as if we understood each other. I jumped from the bed and swishly followed her to the kitchen.

“Sometimes I wonder if you like me...it feels like you hate me.” I didn’t know how to respond to that. I didn’t know how to reply to that message that popped up on my screen as I scrolled through the messaging app. I was looking at other conversations when right at the top of my screen, the message popped up. It felt like a full ten seconds before the notification disappeared, though it was probably only one or two; they didn’t stay on the top of the screen for long. It couldn’t be my fault, right? This wasn’t my fault. I ran my hands through my hair; I didn’t even notice how oily it was from not showering for the past few days. I barely noticed how messy my room was as I waded around to my bed, putting down my phone and opening my laptop. I booted up the app again and navigated to the conversation. The screen went from a black or dark grey to a vibrant background. It was from one of my favorite video games, but I hardly cared as I put in my password. When I finally opened the app on my computer, I noticed that my friend went offline. I wondered why they would say this. They were my best friend after all. Even though we haven’t known each other for the longest time, I did tend to think that we were quite close. I had spent time with them several times, we went out to eat and shopping together, and we saw each other whenever we could. That was right, wasn’t it? It probably didn’t matter that they were being more distant lately. They probably needed to be alone. It wasn’t my job to look after them. However, it was concerning that they weren’t talking to me when I wasn’t feeling well. I’m trying to communicate that I’m not alright and they seem to not care in the slightest. It did make me anxious, that they didn’t care and all. They should be replying faster. At times they don’t respond to my messages, even when they’re online. I started combing back through old messages, trying to get a feel for where this message came from. I remember that a few months ago I did snap at them. I was a bit rude I will admit, but I don’t know what they expected from me. I get that they were going through a hard time, but I really didn’t want to deal with it. I mean, yes, finding out that you had a seizure is hard, but I really couldn’t deal with it. I had other things to deal with. I was on a self-exploration journey at the time and that took up a lot of my energy. So of course, I couldn’t deal with it and it was awful that they figured I could. They made a big deal about it, as if it was a regular occurrence. Yes, I’m busy a lot but it seemed like they didn’t care. They said that we should communicate better, and that set me off at the time. We had been communicating as far as I was aware. I messaged them all the time about things that I was dealing with, I just couldn’t deal with their problems right when they needed me to. It was inconsiderate of them in all honesty. I scrolled back a little further, when things were better than that period. It just affirmed what I was thinking; that we did communicate. We always talked, nearly every day. I would send them messages about video games that I was into or cool videos I found on the internet. I messaged them about new music that was being released from my favorite bands and I was always able to tell them if I was having a rough day. I wish that they were more responsive at times, sometimes leaving my messages on read for a few hours. This irked me, it utterly irked me. You could say that they did talk to me more when we first started to get to know each other, but I would honestly say that they messaged too much. I told them this a few times, that I thought sometimes they were clingy or messaged me way too often, but that’s just setting boundaries. You can say what you want but I’m not heartless for setting down boundaries. I’m not a monster for looking out for myself. Every therapist, psychologist, and psychiatrist will say that setting boundaries is healthy. I scrolled back down, images and messages blurring together as I tried to get back to the most recent message in our conversation. Nothing really caught my eye as I scrolled except for that conversation, that argument that we had. “I really feel like you don’t care about me or my issues” is the message that my eyes fell on. Of course, I cared I just didn’t always want to have to deal with them. They’re annoying, their issues are infuriating. “Whenever I try to say something, you call it boring or say you’re busy.” That’s true, because they were boring. They’re not an interesting person and I can be blunt about it yes. We’re still amazing friends, at least in my opinion, but a lot of their interests are just boring and otherwise dull. At least I can keep up with interesting things in life. At least I have good interests, I’m involved with things that are actually entertaining. “I just want to feel heard.” I understood that, which is why I was even more infuriated when they didn’t respond to my messages as often as they used to. I felt ignored and invalidated, and it’s not my fault that I didn’t always have time to deal with their life. I needed help and when I did, I reached out. I just don’t understand why they felt the need to come out and say this. I don’t always respond, yes, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not heard. “I want to feel like your friend again.” This one is the message that vexed me the most. We were friends, we were obviously friends. It’s not my fault that at the time they felt the way they did. They should just have re-evaluated themselves instead of sending these messages. I just really couldn’t place why they sent their most recent message. I thought that rereading over this conversation might give me some insight or some clarity, but it did nothing. I reached the bottom after another few minutes of scrolling and looked at the message again. I can’t believe that they’re so selfish. Don’t they understand how this effects my mental health? As I had thought before, maybe they just should have checked themselves out in the mirror first before really trying to blame things on me. “Sometimes I wonder if you like me...it feels like you hate me.” Yeah, it really does. \ This is a story that I wrote fairly recently. I leave a lot of things vague and up to the interpretation of the reader, and even though I have my own vision for the story there are a few different outcomes I've heard from my friends reading this story.

Calli spent her high school life getting hurt, so she decided to spend her university life getting misunderstood. It took a persistent few to break down the wall she had put up and see what lie beneath. When Rita met Calli, she thought the other girl to be cold and emotionless. She thought that way for a while. They met on their first day of university, both starting off their degree in Engineering. Rita had seen this small girl sitting alone in the corner while everyone else mingled and her kind heart would not allow for her to ignore the other girl. She walked to be closer and when her presence was noticed, the other girl had raised her head. The blank stare would have sent shivers up a weaker girl’s spine, but Rita gave her patented warm smile and spoke up, “Hi, my name is Rita. What’s yours?” The girl appeared to be thinking about whether or not to answer, but eventually settled on a toneless, “Calli.” Rita decided on that day that she would work towards opening Calli up and to see through the cold exterior, believing that no one could be that emotionless. If you asked Rita, her persistence was friendly, but if you asked Calli, her persistence was exasperating. All the same, Calli found that Rita attached herself to her hip and was going no where. Yet three months into knowing each other, Calli said the first thing that was not completely void of emotion. “The last time I had a best friend, she spread false rumours behind my back,” Calli explained with a frown on her face, yet Rita could sense the sadness in those eyes. “So I apologise for not being so willing to open up to you. Please understand.” Rita, sensitive as she was, wanted to cry. Yet she held in the tears, because she had done it. The first crack had appeared. When Vera first interacted with Calli, she thought her student to be rude. Calli never greeted her whenever their paths crossed, she also never reacted to feedback Vera offered on her projects. Vera found herself frowning whenever she settled her eyes on the expressionless face. Five months into being one of Calli’s many professors, Vera began to observe and learn. She wanted to understand all of her students, one of the reasons she had never pulled up Calli on what Vera perceived to be rudeness. One of her first observations of her student was that she only had the one friend, another student of hers named Rita. A warm, friendly girl that seemed out of place next to such an emotionless person. Another observation was that the girl did not trust easily, Vera often having complaints from other students that Calli would do their parts for them in group assignments on the off chance they did not do it themselves. This showed her that Calli felt the need to be preemptive just in case she happened to be grouped with slackers. Then the day came that she realised the girl was not rude or emotionless, she was shielding herself. She realised this when she happened to pass Calli and Rita in an empty hall. The two girls appeared not to notice her and Vera caught the first glimpse of an emotion on Calli’s face. A small upturn of one corner of her mouth that betrayed a smile at something her only friend had just said. Rita was someone she cared for and trusted. A week later, Vera approached Calli when she noticed the girl was alone for once, her sunny shadow nowhere in sight. “Calli,” she calls softly. That expressionless face turned to face her, the only sign she was ready to listen. Vera gives her a warm smile, noticing the surprise in the girl’s eyes to be smiled at when she had not given her teacher a reason to smile at her. “How are you finding this week’s readings? The next exam is coming and a lot of the content this week will be covered in it.” Calli appeared to hesitate, but eventually, she started to discuss the readings with Vera. The spark that steadily came to life in her eyes belayed her passion for Engineering she had been keeping hidden. The second crack appeared. When Daniel met Calli, the first thing he noticed was that she was rather pretty. The second thing he noticed was that she was antisocial and preferred the company of her one friend. Honestly, she had peeked his interest and he spent the last few months of the semester observing her. They were not in the same faculty, but he had learned her habits rather quickly as she frequented the same cafeteria every day and only went from class to class. She never even hung out at the library. That being said, he did eventually take note that her friend was not the only person she interacted with. On the rare occasion her friend was not around, he found Calli to be talking to one of her professors. He did not know the woman’s name, but he at least recognised her as one of the second year teachers for Engineering. He never got close enough to hear their conversations, but the girl seemed engaged with what they were discussing. The interested look, the first emotion he had seen on her face in several weeks, brightened up her face in ways he would think only a smile could do. The more he observed her with her friend and her professor, the more he came to like her. She was different than most other girls he knew, she kept her feelings close to the chest and saved her emotions for those she cared about, not wasting them on those that may not even deserve it. He learned based on the way some people behaved around her that they did not appreciate the way she was like her friend did, nor did they try to understand her like her professor did. One day, he worked up the courage to talk to her directly, finding her alone in the cafeteria. Taking a deep breath, he walked over to stand beside her table and waited for her to look up at him. He noticed a confusion in her eyes, yet he was sure he only saw it because he was beginning to understand her micro expressions. With a gentle smile, he tells her one of his many observations. “You’re beautiful,” because he knew she had not heard it often, or even at all. A blush rose upon her cheeks, and he took that as a success as he walked away. All he had wanted to do was firstly, get her to react, and secondly, make her day. The third crack appeared. When Dia met Calli for the first time in five years, she barely recognised her. The last several weeks of high school, Calli had been morose, lonely and not once had she smiled. Dia knew it had been her fault, she had become jealous of the attention Calli was getting and without thinking, had started vicious rumours. Those rumours ended up hurting her best friend and destroying their friendship. After graduation, she never saw Calli again. The guilt she felt over everything made her glad for it. She was scared what would happen to Calli, what her life would be like knowing that particularly hard teenage years can effect adulthood. She knew shew was being selfish, but she never wanted to know the outcome of what had happened to the girl whose high school life she had ruined. Yet before her stood Calli, not how she had expected to find her. She was smiling, holding hands with a tall man beside her and a bright girl to her other side. The smile slowly faded from Calli’s face as she took in the woman before her, starting to recognise the face of the person who had once been her friend. “Cal? You okay?” the other woman asked, a frown starting to take away her wide smile. “Dia,” Calli says pointedly, eyes narrowing. The way her two companions flinch and face her quickly tells Dia that they knew exactly who she was. Dia was speechless, all her nightmares were unwarranted. Calli was fine and as far as Dia could tell, unaffected. What Dia did not know was that Calli had not been fine and unaffected. It is just that Dia was not around for the years it took. The years it took for the wall to shatter.

Dawn. Tara walks to the well outside the village, a pot in her hand. Two years into adulthood, her green bangles clink as the pot bounces against the side of her thigh. Her saree is crudely worn, and a sliver of sunlight illuminates her tired eyes, which she promptly covers with her hand. Her toe rings, a sign of marriage, click against the hard, barren earth. She reaches the well, and puts the pot down. A metal bucket tied to a string sits on the edge of the well. Tara knocks it over with her elbow, and it tumbles down until there’s a small splash, and the rope goes slack. She pulls up the bucket with the rope, only to see that it is half full. She looks down into the well, but sees only blackness, and the light quiver of dangerously little water. Not eager to deny her neighbours of water, Tara pours the paltry amount of water into her pot, and hoists it onto her head. Suddenly, she hears the distant sound of something foreign. Something recurring and rare. An engine. A cloud of dust trembles on the horizon, a blemish on the rising run. Tara looks at it, squinting. The dust cloud grows in size, and Tara makes out the rectangular oblong shape of a sleeper coach within the dust. She walks back to her hut, a heavier pot on her head. -- Vasu looks out of the window of the coach as it hobbles through the dirt road. He’s struggled to sleep throughout the journey, but it doesn’t show on his face. He twirls his moustache, thinking of her. -- The village bus stop is small enough without fourteen people packed under it, sheltered from the morning sun. At the front of the small crowd is Susheela, a short and weary forty-five year old woman, waiting. The rest of her entourage, consisting of tall, dark and burly men, wait impatiently, talking amongst themselves. The coach rolls in, tossing up another cloud of dust. Everyone squints to avoid the dust except Susheela, who gazes at the bus. The bus stops, and after a short pause, the passengers begin to pour out of it, hauling bags, boxes and baskets. Susheela looks at the door of the coach in anticipation, and her face brightens as Vasu walks out of the door, bags in hand. Sunlight hits his face as he sees his mother and family, and he squints and smiles all at once. Vasu skips down the stairs and pushes through the people to embrace his mother, who hugs him tightly as he towers over her. He looks up at his uncles and cousins, and smiles at them. They smile back. Vasu lets go of Susheela. “How are you, Vasu?” Susheela asks. “Was the trip alright?” “It could’ve been worse,” he replies. “We had to stop near Ramnagar because of a crash, but we didn’t end up losing much time. Shall we go?” He asks. Susheela nods. The entourage heads home, as Vasu’s older cousin Soma takes his bag from him to carry it himself. “Happy to be home, Vasu?” Soma asks. “Of course. How’s your wife?” “She’s good. You know; the same old fights.” They laugh. Soma ponders for a moment, before leaning into Vasu’s ear. “Your mother wants you to get married soon.” “What?” “Yeah, she wants to start looking for a bride in a few weeks. You don’t have anyone already in mind, do you?” Vasu looks at Soma. -- “So what is it that you study, exactly?” Uncle Deepak asks. Vasu is seated on the floor in front of a banana leaf full of food. His cousins sit next to him, also eating. His mouth is full of rice and curry. He chews his food, and swallows it. “Biomedicine. BES College.” Uncle Deepak raises his eyebrows. “Biomedicine,” he repeats. “Couldn’t you get into medicine?” Vasu chokes on his food, caught off guard. Some of his cousins chuckle. Deepak laughs. Susheela shakes her head. “Drink some water, Vasu, don’t choke,” she says. She turns to Deepak and adds, “you and your jokes! My son just arrived and you’re already trying to kill him?” Deepak laughs once again. “I was only joking. How long are you here, Vasu?” Vasu smiles. “2 months.” “I hope that village life doesn’t bore you...” Deepak mutters, adding: “not as many pretty girls here.” “Deepak!” Susheela exclaims. The single light bulb illuminating the whole room flickers, shrouding Vasu’s reaction in darkness momentarily. He looks up at the light, and back at Deepak. “I don’t think I’m going to be bored, Uncle,” Vasu says, and bites into a piece of chicken. -- Tara sits in the dimness of her small home, sifting rice. She sings a song to the rhythm of her sifting. Outside, the rush of a small village, muffled by concrete walls, is still ever so slightly audible. Tara continues singing even after she is done sifting rice. She pours the rice into a metal pot, and takes it over to a large canister filled with water. She tips the canister, pouring the water into the pot of rice, squatting, when she loses her balance and slips. Water spills all over the floor, along with grains of rice. She stops singing and gets up, wiping herself off. She looks at the clock in the house. 1:21. She begins singing again, cleaning the water off the floor with a cloth. The door opens. She stops. -- Vasu walks through the busy village street, alone. He takes a left into a residential street, and as he walks, the noise of traffic grows quieter and quieter. He makes a right turn, and then another. He climbs down a narrow staircase into a smaller neighbourhood situated on a downwards slope with smaller houses and less bikes. The houses are crammed together, congested, with no space to move. Vasu makes his way to one of the houses on the edge of this downwards neighbourhood. He stops in front of a house, covered in chipped away green paint. A man sits at the front of the house, smoking. His name is Prasad. He looks at Vasu, who is looking at the house, while slowly walking past it. The confusion on his face becomes recognition, and Prasad gets up. “I’m just passing through,” says Vasu sheepishly. Prasad runs at Vasu, pinning him against a wall by the collar. He towers over Vasu. “What the hell made you think you could come back here?” Prasad asks. “I wasn’t--” “Yes you were. She’s not here, you dirty bastard.” “Listen, let me- let me show you-” Vasu reaches into his pocket and takes out his wallet. He opens it and shows Prasad a passport size photo. “My girlfriend! Ok? Why would I look for your sister if I already have someone?” He pauses. “I used to play cricket here as well, right? Do you own this neighbourhood?” Prasad thinks for a second, and loosens his grip on Vasu’s collar. Vasu pats his shirt down, getting rid of the wrinkles. He puts his wallet back in his pocket. Prasad looks away. “Don’t think you can come around here any time you want,” he says quietly, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Don’t let me catch you here again.” He lets the smoke out of his nose. The man turns around and walks back into his house. Vasu spits on the ground, and walks on. Children playing cricket with battered plastic equipment look at him as he shrinks into the distance. -- Tara dreams of her boat. She lies inside her boat, dry, untouched by the salty water. Her boat floats through the endless ocean. Tara looks up at the sky, with its soft, moving clouds. A single bird flies across the sky. She can’t tell what kind of bird it is. It flies away. Tara continues floating. - Vasu is on his phone in bed late at night. He is trying to access the internet, but it isn’t working. On the search bar on his phone is “hot porn.” He refreshes the page over and over, only for it to not load. Over and over again he tries unsuccessfully. He sighs, and turns his phone off, rolling over to sleep, when he feels a bump against his hip. In the darkness, he reaches for it. It’s his wallet. He pulls his wallet out and looks at it. Then, making sure everyone around him is asleep, he grabs his penis with one hand, and picks out the passport size photo he showed to the man earlier. The photo is of an attractive young woman, smiling. On the back it reads, “Sara, XOXO.” He squints at the photo through the darkness. He begins. - Tara is at the market, buying vegetables. She looks at the vendor, a young man. He avoids her gaze. “How much for the okra?” she asks. “Sorry, what, madam?” “How much for the okra?” “40 rupees for 250 grams, madam.” Tara looks at the man, eyebrows raised. “Isn’t that a bit much?” “No, madam, they’re very expensive this time-” “I just saw you sell a whole box of okra to that man over there.” “He’s a caterer, madam, he needs-” “Make it 25.” The vendor drops his facade of kindness. “25? Are you crazy?” “25. Take it or leave it.” “I’m the one that’s meant to say that! 30, take it or leave it.” Tara is silent. She looks down, and back at the vendor, who smirks. Tara shakes her head, brushing her hair off her forehead. The vendor stops smirking as he looks at her, and begins to put the okra in Tara’s bag. Tara takes the bag, and hands the man a 50. She looks at the rest of the market. It teems with activity and life. “Madam?” Tara turns around. “Change.” Tara takes the change, and counts it. 25 rupees. “You gave me 5 rupees extra,” she says. She hands the vendor back the 5 rupee coin. He shakes his head, refusing to take it. “Keep it, madam,” he says. He hesitates, then says, “for yourself.” She looks at the vendor. He smiles. “Take care,” he says. Tara nods, and walks away from the vegetable stall. She looks at herself in the reflection of a shop window, and sees that there is a purple bruise on her forehead. - Vasu does not wash his plate after eating dinner. He leaves it in the already crowded sink where his mother stands, washing dishes. After washing his hands, he goes around to the front of the house, where his cousins are playing rummy and smoking. Smoke hangs over them; self-made fog. A single tube light illuminates the verandah, casting deep shadows across their faces. Vasu stands behind his cousins, watching them play. Soma turns around and sees him. “Hey, someone give the city boy some space to sit down!” Soma calls out. Some of the cousins shift over, and Vasu sits down. “How do you have so many cards this early into the game?” Vasu asks Soma cheekily. “They’re cheats,” Soma replies, shaking his head. “I’m glad we didn’t do this one for money-” “You’d have to live on the outskirts!” another cousin calls out, resulting in everyone except Soma laughing. “So how’s village life, Vasu?” one of the cousins asks. “The girls here don’t give it up as easily, huh?” another cousin taunts. They laugh. “I mean, it’s hard, you know?” Vasu says. “2 months without it is going to be tough.” The cousins laugh. “Yo, Sidda, it’s your turn,” someone says. They begin talking about the card game again. Vasu looks out into the night. “Vasu,” Soma says in a low voice, below the chatter of the others. “Yeah?” Vasu turns around. “I heard you went to Tara’s old house.” Vasu looks at Soma wordlessly. “Who told you that?” “Prasad told one of our boys.” “It’s not true. I was just-” “Save the bullshit.” Vasu looks away. “Don’t you know what happened after you two got caught? Remember, you broke the walls of that straw hut going at it-” “I remember. What happened?” “You went to boarding school, right?” “Yeah.” “She got married off to a drunk.” Vasu looks at Soma, hoping he’s joking. “Where?” “They still live here. On the outskirts. Some of our boys have had to break up some of their fights.” Soma looks away, and turns back to Vasu. “Why do you want to meet her? It’s been six years. You’re just going to cause more pro-” “I just wanted to apologise to her, Soma.” Soma looks at Vasu, not believing him. “Honestly.” “There’s brothels here too. She’s not the only woman on Earth-” “Paying for it is no fun.” “What?” “I just want to apologise, okay?” “I’ll see what-” Someone smacks Soma on the shoulder. “What are you two old ladies gossiping about? Soma, it’s your turn,” another cousin says. Soma looks at his cards, and back at Vasu. “Play your cards right, Vasu.” - Dawn. A couple of days later, Soma and Vasu are walking together.. Vasu has neatly combed his hair, and is clean shaven. They take a left into a residential street. They make a right turn, and then another right. They climb down a narrow staircase into a smaller neighbourhood situated on a downwards slope, with smaller houses and less bikes. The houses are crammed together, congested, with no space to move. They walk past the green house this time, however, and further down the slope. Vasu and Soma reach the bottom of the slope, and take a left. The neighbourhood begins to grow sparser, with dirt roads, straw huts and lanterns. Vasu and Soma take a left into a laneway. They reach the true edge of the village. Beyond the road is a small well and a vast, dry landscape, peppered with withering trees. A lone figure is walking towards the well in front of the sun. “Is that her?” Vasu asks. Soma nods. “Every day she gets up at this time to get the water,” says Soma. “Why?” Vasu asks. “That drunk husband of hers doesn’t wake up till at least noon. I’m waiting here.” “Make sure no one sees,” Vasu says, looking around. “I’ll whistle if someone’s coming. Keep your ears peeled.” “Ok.” “Ok, hurry,” Soma says, and pushes Vasu away. - Tara carries the pot of water on her head as she walks back.The sun has not risen yet, and the world is dark and warm. She feels the water rock from side to side in the pot. It won’t spill, though. She knows that. There isn’t enough. Slowly, she walks back home, her bare feet calloused to the sharpness of the dirt. “Tara!” a voice hisses. She stops, and looks straight into the dark mass of trees and houses in front of her. Something is moving. It’s a person. She stands still, waiting for the person to come into sight. She does not know who it is. - Vasu briskly walks to Tara. He cannot see her properly, but he knows it’s her. Her stature, or the way she sways her hips lazily; it’s her. - It’s Vasu. Tara lowers the pot from her head, and puts it on the ground. She looks around to make sure that no one is there. “Vasu?” she asks. Vasu walks towards her slowly. She walks backward. He keeps walking, and eventually, Tara stops, leaning against the trunk of a dead tree. He gets closer, and closer, and closer, until she can feel his breath on her. “You smell the same,” he says. Tara is paralysed. Whether it is with fear or shock, she doesn’t know. “W-when did you come back?” she asks, her voice shaking. “Doesn’t matter; I’m here now.” He wraps his hands around her waist. Soma is turned away from the well, smoking a beedi. “Vasu, stop.” “I missed you so much.” “Vasu, please, stop, I don’t want people to-” “My-” Tara slaps Vasu in the face, and pushes him away. “You bastard! Is this all you want from m-” Vasu looks at her. “I don’t know you anymore. You’ve changed.” “What?” “You’re not the-” “Shut up!” Soma turns around, but beyond some sound, he cannot say what is happening. “Shut up, you’ll wake the whole village up!” Vasu hisses. “Go away!” “I love you, Tara. I waited all these years for you.” “I’m married!” “No one has to know.” For a moment, Tara is quiet, looking at Vasu. “Eh?” Vasu says, smiling and coming closer. “At least for as long as I’m here, we can-” “Fuck?” Vasu pauses. “You shouldn’t talk like that. That’s not how I-” “If you thought it was wrong, you would’ve-” Tara begins to tear up. “You would’ve asked me something, Vasu! How are you, Tara? How’ve you been, Tara? Are you-” her voice breaks. “Are you happy, Tara?” Vasu looks away. “Please, Vasu.” The sun has begun to rise. Dawn peeks in between the branches of the tree, and Tara sees Vasu’s face for what it is. Confused; opaque. She stops herself from sobbing. “Are you going to come back for me?” Vasu’s face lights up. He’s gotten through. He nods, getting closer, and closer. “I didn’t want to leave you the first time, darling.” The last word is thrown as rancid bait. He gets closer, until Tara can feel his breath on her once again. Then she smells his breath, and feels his chapped lips on her. His hands search her for something she doesn’t have anymore. Something foreign and distant. - Tara dreams of her boat once again. She lies inside her boat, dry, untouched by the salty water. Her boat floats through the endless ocean. Tara gets up this time, however, and looks at herself in the reflection of the water. She looks at her skin, her hair, her eyes and nose, and doesn’t recognise them. She wishes she knew the face she wore.

#Hello r/ShortStories! A few weeks ago we announced our , where you all nominated your favorite content from the past year. The time has come to vote on all the nominated stories! Use the upvotes on the appropriate comments to vote on your favorites in each category. The winner of each category will receive our “Best Of Winner” Community Award, gifting them one month of Reddit Premium and !!! **Please do not make comments outside of the Off-Topic stickied comment.** #How It Works There are several categories in which you can vote on your favorite stories from 2021. In the comments below, you will find a comment for each category, with subsequent comments for each nominated story, made by me. Upvote the ones you think deserve to win! It’s that simple. Be sure to read the entire post for categories, rules, and deadlines. Should any changes be made to the schedule, they will be edited into the post, so stay updated! *** #Voting Categories ###Feature Post Submission Categories: - **Micro Monday Stories** - **Serial Sunday Installments** ###Tagged Story Categories: - **[SF] Science Fiction stories** - **[FN] Fantasy Stories** - **[HR] Horror Stories** - **[MS] Mystery & Suspense Stories** - **[RF] Reality Fiction Stories** - **[HF] Historical Fiction Stories** - **[AA] Action & Adventure Stories** - **[HM] Humor Stories** - **[RO]Romance Stories** - **[SP] Speculative Fiction Stories** - **[TH] Thriller Stories ** - **[UR] Urban Stories** - **[MF] Miscellaneous Fiction Stories** *Note: Categories with 5 or less nominations were filled in with the highest upvoted stories in the corresponding category.* *** #Schedule - **Announcement Post:** December 20th - **Nomination Phase:** December 20th - January 10th 11:59 EST (closed) - **Voting Phase:** January 17th until January 28th - **Announcement of Winners:** After the Voting Phase ends, results will be recorded and awards will be handed out. Winners will be announced in a post. *** #Voting Rules - Upvote anything you believe deserves to win. You may upvote several nominations in the same category. **Do not downvote any nomination.** - Attempts to game the system for or against any nomination will result in appropriate punishment for those involved. - Ties in the voting process will be broken by an anonymous member of the mod team. - **Do not comment in the voting area.** Use the off-topic stickied comment if you have questions or comments.   If you do have any questions, feel free to ask in the provided Off Topic Comment or send us a modmail! *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with or test your micro-fic skills with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

Ben Green is a professional engineer. Back in the days when he was on his private tropical island with his parents, he used the natural resources on the island and build houses, stairs, paths and other construction stuff. Back in 1995, his parents bought the island so they can relax. Later they bought the island and they built a house and lived there. They used water to run electricity for their home and used wind turbines too. It took a few months and the engineers finished their island by building their home there. They lived there ever since and grew fruits and vegetables for food supply and the water is clean and clear. The island has everything they need for food supply to shelter and electricity. The island is peaceful, no wild life but they have to watch out for snakes. Living on that peaceful island was a great time for his parents. A few years later, he was born. Since he was born, his father took him out for an island tour. By the age of three, he knows the island very well and started to make stuff with sticks and ropes. Later, his father was building a small shed out of wood, bamboos, nails and rope. He started learning construction tips from his father. At the age of 10, he started to use hammer and nails and had to be careful not to hit himself. He started to make bamboos and wooden boxes and make roofs, repair and it was the best time of his life. The island was his home and he’d never know there were other islands or people living in cities in modern life. He doesn’t want to leave that island even if anything happens. Many years passed and he is now a man. He constructed bridges to cross streams and roads made by wood and houses too. He wanted to create more building but he was afraid the resources would run out and the island would die. Rain season is a hard time for them. Rain drops fall from roofs and the sea level gets higher every day and storms and waves came and wash up the shore. He tried as best as he could to fix the issues of the roof. But later, he was shocked to find that the island is sinking and the water is rising, destroying the island. They might not be able to live there, but Ben will try his best to try and bring it back. He planted some berries and trees and try to bring back the natural green life of the island. He doesn’t want to leave that island and he knows there are other islands and people living in cities. His parents told him that when he was little and told him they have to leave it if it dies. He would bring it back to normal and every day he works hard. His parents help too but it was no use. Every season is a peaceful season but the rainy is very difficult and the island is sinking and getting smaller. It’s raining cats and dogs and huge waves big as a house hits their island and they had to evacuate. He doesn’t want to leave that island but they have no choice if they want to survive and live. They built a raft to get cross the surrounding water but it was so strong the raft would be destroyed. The nearest coast is 12 miles away from their island. They need to build a secure boat that would go for 12 miles with some food supplies. Watercraft isn’t easy if you make it without modern tools and it have to be able to carry some load of supplies and get it out of the island. First he needs to learn to build a raft. Building a raft is a piece of cake for him and took about 4 to 6 hours. The second thing to do is to give it an upgrade and make it into a more secure boat. Third thing to do is to make room for supplies and for his parents and him. The boat can’t sink or get the rooms and supplies wet. It’s small but at least they could get to the coast and survive. It was during a thunder storm and he was finishing some final touches and his parents were loading the ship with some food supplies. He needed more wood so he decided to get some more. He chopped a tree down and made the logs in to planks. On his way back, the sand of the island he was standing on suddenly drag him down. He was sinking in to the grown slowly, it was quick sand. He could not grab anything to get back out. The lightning struck on to a tree and the tree was on the quick sand he was on. One end of the tree was outside the sand and one was on a rock. Because of the tree, he could grab it and get out. He finished the boat and it was finished and ready to evacuate. They made it pass the water surrounding them and they were washed up on the beach. It was very sad for Ben, the tree of the island saved his life and it was his home ever since but he has to work his life with a family and a new bigger home with lots of people and friends. They walked back to his parents old home and started living there selling their fruits and getting a job. They all struggled to live their lives but soon, everything went back to a normal life. Every evening, after his job Ben goes to the beach and watched the direction of their island and he promise to try to get back there one day or even bring the island back to life. Unfortunately for the island it became a deserted island with a little bit of trees and lots of sand.

Wake up warm except a freezing cold face. Shout abuse at the alarm clock. Snooze 5-6 times. Mutter abuse to yourself as you flop out of bed limb by limb. Open the curtains to show a dark, overcast, miserable day. Sigh. Get in the shower and forget that the first 15 seconds are freezing cold water. Dance like a little girl while holding your privates and avoid the ice of doom coming from the shower head. The shower finally warms up and it's bliss. Stay in the shower for about 5 minutes too long because you can feel the cold air outside. Finally muster up the courage and get out to dry yourself in record time with the accompanying "brrrrrr". Make it downstairs, dressed. Just the collar and cuffs ironed because you know you're going to be wearing a jumper for the rest of the day. Have a cup of tea, some toast/porridge/cereal. Listen to the radio while you eat. Clean teeth, looking in the mirror and wishing that the person staring back at you would cheer up. It can't be that bad can it? Oh well, no time for this. You're late for work. Get in car and slam the heater on full blast so that the windows steam up and use the sleeve of your jumper to clear off a 3 square inch window on the windscreen. Repeat for 30 minutes. Put the radio on, turn it off. Radio presenters shouldn't be that cheerful in the morning. Maybe a talk show would be good. BBC Radio 5/2/4 should have you covered. Finally get to work. Realise you're late but just this once (which is what you tell yourself everyday) it won't be a big deal. It's only 5 minutes and that time in the shower was well spent. You know you're doing 2 hours of overtime anyway even though you know you schedule is clear for the whole day. Something will pop up at the last minute. Make mundane comments to your colleagues. Sit at your desk, check emails, start work with a cup of coffee. Make it through to lunchtime and then get a cheap, thin, limp tuna sandwich from Tesco just down the road. Get back to work. More tea. More emails. More work. At 1645 your boss does the rounds just before they leave. "Oh wait, we have a problem and I really need you to fix it or we will be in a tight spot. You will? Good lad. See you tomorrow!". Sigh. Join the rush hour traffic. Tomorrow will be better. It has to be. Thank God it's Thursday today. Oh no, it's actually Tuesday. Get home. Put the TV on. Look in the fridge and look at all the food you have that you can prepare into a tasty, delicious, nutritious meal. Take frozen curry out the freezer and shove it in the microwave and grab a beer. Wonder if you really do need to punch those little holes into the film on top of the packaging. Fall in to the sofa until the magical dings happen and you know you can eat. Watch something mundane on tv, start to snooze. Wake up at 2350 and realise with great sadness that you have wasted your evening again. You'll do the washing up tomorrow. That's what you tell yourself every day during the week. Go upstairs, clean teeth and get in to bed. As you lie there, tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow will be a better say. Tomorrow will b.....

I trace her smile, and then her blonde curls. I spray her scarf with her favorite perfume and sniff her as I place it around my neck. "Jillian! What are you doing?" I hear in the living room. "I am getting ready to leave. Aren't you coming?" The TV is blaring, and it sounds like a busy train station in there. "Leave me for a few hours. It's that time of year again," I yell back, a bit irritated that I have been interrupted. "I need the space please. Take a long time, and have fun!" I say in the most cheery, heart- felt voice I can muster. I retrace that intoxicating smile and her messy blonde curls, which instantly places me right back with her. Her scent surrounds me. He feel her breath, her calm voice in my ear. Now, I smile at the memory of those few Taco Bell splurges- when it was just the two of us." "Okay, I am leaving!" comes the intruding interruption again. With a furrow in my forehead, I yell back, "Okay, I love you!" To myself, "damn it. You know what day it is. Why are you assailing me?" I feel the furrow setting in, and it triggers her fingers rubbing out the number 11 in between my brows. I smile and try to change my expression to erase the already setting in lines, then I lovingly fall back to our Taco Bell memories of the two of us. She had such little money, but I was small and could only eat one taco. She had an Enchirito or a Beefy Tostada and we shared a small drink. (I still take a huge whiff of the taco before I take it out of the wrapper to remember those treasured moments.) I remember the chairs connected to the tables in the small restaurant, and the echo when adults spoke. I remember, her smiling down on me as she watched me eating my taco with my little mouse bites. I remember making her laugh so hard she would beg me to stop for fear that she'd pee her pants. I remember her silliness. We would laugh so hard, it would irritate my dad. I remember her rebellious stubbornness. I remember her struggles when her car broke down in the middle of the highway and my dad couldn't get us because he worked out of town. I remember she'd buy me a soup, 7-Up, and a toy after Dr's visits when I was sick. I knew she couldn't afford it even when I was that little. I remember her sandwiches. It took me years when I married for the second time to understand the ingredients of her sandwiches. I could never get them right even when I used the same ingredients. It was when my husband made me one that I put two and two together- I realized the ingredients were Love. I begin to go through her pictures, smiling as I do. Her skinny, young pictures, her pregnancy pictures, her get-that-camera-out-of-my-face pictures, her holding back tears pictures, her silly-faced pictures, and the countless holiday and vacation pictures. I sob when I think back to the first signs of her illness. Why didn't I do more? Why did I fight with her? Why did I move out at 17? Why didn’t I go to Walmart with her when she asked to keep her company? Why..., but I shake myself out of that bad state of mind. This is not what today is about, and I refocus on her goodness, charity, and self-sacrifice, love, generosity, her smile. I retrace it. I listen to the voice-mail messages she left me, crying again as I hear, “Hello Kitten, give me a call.” Time to watch the few videos of her, and it makes me smile again. Her goofy smile, her exaggerated smiles, her talking eyes, our inside jokes. It's now time for the long-winded but now very-much-appreciated words that she wrote in my birthday and Christmas cards. I take a deep breath and begin to read her sage advice, her feelings, her hopes, her dreams for me. I pull out the book she gave me. I smile and my tears flow readily as I reread the dedication that I have read easily thousands of times. She writes: “Jillian, This beautiful story is something that our family has also helped to fulfill. I hope you realize in honesty and heart-felt sincerity that I decided at a young age to do my share in bringing races together in true unity. I have recently realized that as far as the world has come, there is much progress to be made. I hope, though, my precious princess, that the part you played in helping to refine the world was not a difficult one. If it was, my love, I am sorry, but I hope you realize the importance of changing prejudices among the races. You, my love, are a great young woman. Excel and represent yourself and what I have taught you well, because you represent those teachings but also me as your parent. You are already a Great One among mankind, continue to be. Much Love”. Wiping my tears, I rifle back through the pictures after I read every single card, reset my goals to live up to her mission, and I smell her scent on her scarf as I bring it to my nose one last time. I look in the mirror to find traces of her in me, but my younger sister gobbled up most of her genes- the blonde hair, green eyes, skinny (but fitting for her frame) legs, her patience, and her kindness. I place my arms in the sunlight so I can see my mutant half blonde, half black arm hairs, and I know she's in there. I have inherited her stubbornness, attention to detail when putting projects together, her insatiable attitude for staying up into the next day to finish one of those projects she started way too late, and her self-righteousness. I gather her pictures, the cards, the book, her scarf, and her perfume, and place them into a sunflower box until next year. "I love you, Mama. You are the ideal Beauty because you were the first face I saw when you looked at me from your Love. I hope you are finding the happiness you lost those last twenty-five years of life. Please send us guidance as we try to mend our hearts. Happy fifth anniversary of your death, Mama. I will see you next year." I gather the strength I will need to continue living up to her ideal beauty as the lid closes on her scent, her smiling, hopeful face, her curls.

This is my first post here, hope you guys enjoy it! :) The cold wind blew through the valley; the trees shivered as it blew harshly by. It was the middle of winter and the trees should have been used to the cold, but they weren’t. They still trembled in the icy wind and broken blasts of snow. Their bows bent and even broke as the snow grew thick upon them: it was the middle of winter. The trees should have been used to the cold, but they weren’t. A man walked through the valley and clutched his jacket tighter around him, the wind racing about him. His name was Nathaniel Town, but everyone called him Nat. He had been through many winters and, like the trees, should have been used to the cold, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t more than twenty years old, and everyone in his hometown knew him as a happy, joyful person. He was known for his quiet but intelligent manner, his odd sense of humor, and his soft smile. Everyone loved him. Yet, even with all that love, Nat was alone. He lived in a cabin nestled in the valley, a few miles away from the town and far enough removed that he seldom had any visitors. It was because of this distance that Nat felt so alone. Most days he was fine with it; he had grown used to it after all this time. However, there were often days when he felt the weary loneliness seeping over him. Today was one of those days. “Should just get used to it,” he mumbled to himself as he pulled his coat closer to his shoulders. “Should just give up. It’s not for me.” The wind howled back in response and he shivered: it was the middle of winter. He should’ve been used to the cold, but he wasn’t. Nat thought back over the days’ events and frowned, his normally pleasant and hopeful demeanor crushed. The day had started out normally, he had made the mile and a half long trek into town and gone to work. He worked in the printing shop and seldom spoke to anyone other than his coworkers, but today it had been different. Mary Hamlet, a young woman whom he had known in school, had stopped by to talk with him. She had stayed there all day and the two had even gone out and had lunch together. There was nothing too abnormal in this as Mary had been visiting Nat more and more frequently over the past month, but then something strange had happened. Nat shook his head and grimaced, “Shouldn't have hoped it would happen. Should have known better.” He looked around and saw the trees, their boughs heavy with snow looked about ready to crack and break. He felt the wind rush around him, but his body had grown numb to the cold and he continued, unperturbed by the harsh wind. The snow gusted down in flurries now; it was the middle of winter. The valley should have been used to the cold, but it wasn’t. Nat dropped his eyes back to the ground and continued on through the painful part of his day. He and Mary had been sitting on a bench in the park when it had happened. He had reached over and brushed his hand against hers, almost as if it were an accident. Mary had looked down, noticed the attempt, and looked back up at Nat. He smiled at her warmly and she smiled back, but the warmth wasn’t there. “What’s wrong?” Nat had asked. Mary smiled, shrugged, looked at the snow dusted ground and said, “I’m not sure.” The conversation that ensued was too much for Nat to bear and he turned his attention back to the snowy path. He saw the distant shape of his home and plodded drearily through the snow. His boots were soaked, but he was used to the cold by now. His eyes listed from side to side as he searched for something to distract himself. He saw a rabbit spring quickly across the path, moving fast in an attempt to stay warm. Nat chuckled to himself darkly, “Silly Rabbit. Don’t you know it’s the middle of winter? Shouldn’t you be used to the cold?” But the rabbit wasn’t used to the cold. Nat felt himself drift back into the memories. He heard Mary’s voice, “I just don’t think we can do this.” “What do you mean?” Nat had been stunned and confused by the revelation. Mary had looked away, “I’m just not ready for it.” She hadn’t said anything else, just gotten up and walked away without saying goodbye. Nat was left on the bench, his face an expression of shock and utter confusion at what had just happened. Soon enough, the sadness had crept into his heart as he realised Mary wouldn’t come back. He had clenched his fists and stared down at the dusting of snow, watching small clear patches form as the tears dripped out of his eyes. It wasn’t the first time Nat had been turned down. He always seemed to be just about to start something when it was ripped away from him. “Stupid thing, hope,” he said to himself as he reached his house and opened the door. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, hope only brings sadness.” He walked into his house and started to build the fire. He didn’t hate Mary, or any of the others who had turned him away. He didn’t hate them at all. He was more angry with himself than anyone else, for ruining the chances he was given. He thought back to the moment on the bench, “What if waited a little longer? What if..” He pondered the question and felt a weight in his chest as he thought of the future. He knew he couldn’t blame her, that it wasn’t her fault, and he didn’t want to. Instead, he blamed himself. He put his head in his hands and cried; the tears flowed down his face like small rivers. “I shouldn’t have ever started. I should have just let it all go.” He spoke in between sobs, but no one could hear. It was the middle of winter: the world outside was frozen over. It should have been used to the cold, but it wasn’t. Nat stood up and walked away from the half-built fire. He made his way over to the door and stepped outside, his jacket still hanging inside the house. He walked barefoot in the snow, the cold unable to hurt him. He saw his breath come out, misty in the cold wind, and sighed. He kept walking. He walked into the woods, towards a place where he knew he could think clearly. He passed the frozen trees and bushes, his mind and body just as icy as them, but he was used to it. He walked deeper into the forest and lost feeling in his hands. He rubbed them subconsciously, not intending to keep them warm. “It’s the middle of winter,” he whispered to himself. At last, he reached the clearing he had been looking for. It was a dark glade, covered by the trees so only a dusting of snow lay on the ground. In the center of the clearing was a small pond. He drew close to the pond and looked down at his reflection. The icy blue water stared back up at him and he saw his bare face. It was the face of a broken man. He saw the red rings around his eyes, the tear stains down his cheeks, and the soulless frown that enshrouded his lips. He didn’t know how long he stood there. It could have been a few minutes or hours, the light in the deep woods was already so dim that he couldn't tell what time it was. He looked at himself in the water, thoughts floating through his sorrow ridden mind. He remembered times before today, times when he had fallen for the same trick. He began to hum a song to himself. He repeated one line more than the others. “I guess I should be used to it, Just go ahead and get used to it, Because I know it’ll happen again. It just seems no matter what I do I can’t win. And even if it seems like everything is great, The truth is the world ain’t so great. I guess I should just get used to it.” He stayed there, humming the song and singing what verses pleased him until he finally sighed and turned back the way he had come. His feet were cold and he shivered as he trudged back towards his house. “Should’ve worn shoes. It’s the middle of winter, who walks outside without shoes?” He smiled to himself, “Only idiots, Nat, only idiots.” He chuckled and grinned, color returning to his face as he felt his soul begin to reform. The walk back was much faster than the walk into the woods, and he ran through the frozen world rather than stop and admire it. Within a few minutes, he was back at the door to his house. He quickly swung the door open and walked inside. The fireplace was still ready to be lit and he walked over to it, “Maybe I’ll go on a trip,” he said as he pulled out a matchbox. “Somewhere I haven’t been before.” He smiled at the thought. The heaviness in his chest was still there, but he could bear it now. He glanced outside his window and saw that the wind had died down. “Good,” he said, “ ‘Bout time that storm stopped.” He smiled again. It wasn’t a happy smile, nor was it a sad smile. It was the smile of someone who understood one of life's greatest mysteries. Nat looked down at the small pile of wood as he struck a match and started to light a fire. The flames licked the wood and flared to life. He sighed in relief as he felt the warmth flow into his hands. He was happy to be warm again. He looked outside and saw the wind flurry one last time before it died out. It was the middle of winter. He knew he’d never get used to the cold, no matter how many times it came.

There comes a time in your life when everything seems to fall into place. That dream you have been working hard to achieve, but my dream turned into a nightmare. My name is Bobby Snow, and my story begins a couple of years ago; a week before my 30th birthday to be exact. I was born in the bustling, cold lonely city of New York. The Big Apple, whose slogan is if you make it here, you can make it anywhere. I was starting to feel like the pit from that rotted apple because my goal to live under the bright sun-palmed sky of Miami, Florida by the time I was 30 seemed to be eluding me day by day. Once a week, I wake up early and head down to the travel agency to see if there are any cheap flights going to Florida. Earlier today was no exception. A great sadness came over me as I was staring intensely at the travel agency’s glass door with the posters of sunny Florida for $125.00 on American Airlines. The American Airline plane flying over the sunny shore representing the American dreams flying away from me. Maria, the travel agent, taps on the glass window and signals me to enter. I am halfway through the door when Maria happily calls out, “Bobby, thank God you came today. I've been trying to call you for the last couple of days, but I kept getting a recording that your number is disconnected.” "Yeah," I sadly reply, “I couldn’t afford to keep the cell phone on anymore." “We have a special sale on Spirit Airlines,” Maria says. “$20.21 going to Florida.” “$20.21?" I question her, not believing what I had just heard. “Yes, but the sale only lasts till tomorrow,” she says. I knew it was too good to be true. Taking my wallet out, I happily notice that I have $44. The last of the money I have left till payday. How do I tell Isabella that I am leaving for Florida the day after my birthday? If I want my dream to come true, I have to sacrifice something important or precious to stimulate my growth. I have to tell her.....she deserves it. "Bobby?.....BOBBY!!" The voice of my high school sweetheart, Isabella, snaps me out of my deep thoughts. We are having dinner at Johnny's Pizzeria. She scrunches her eyebrows together and asks, “Bobby, is everything ok? You zoned out on me again. You've been picking at that slice of pizza for the last 5 minutes.” Whenever Isabella scrunches her eyebrows together it means that she is worried or concerned about me. “If you keep scrunching your eyebrows together like that you are going to give yourself wrinkles,” I respond. “I wouldn’t get wrinkles if I weren’t worried about you all the time," she laughs. "So, what is it now?" I let out a deep sigh. “You know what it is,” I muttered, while picking pieces of pepperoni off my pizza and popping them into my mouth. “You should be happy, next week will be your birthday. The Big Three Oh.... you still have time to follow your dreams. It’s not as if the world is going to end when you become 30,” she says. I angrily replied, “I know that it won’t end, but it feels like that to me. You know I love you. I would love nothing better than for us to live together, but I live in a one-bedroom roach infested apartment in the Bronx project complex. There is always something going on at that building. The elevator’s constantly breaking down. The stairwells and hallways full of garbage thrown all over the place. Vicious drugged-out gang members hiding about waiting to paint the white walls crimson red from the blood of their latest victim. Puddles of animal urine or feces you must side-step or jump over to get to the other side.” I am temporarily distracted by a commercial on the pizzeria's television. It's a Spirit Airlines ad, offering discount flights to Florida. The images of palm trees and beaches bring me a very brief glimmer of hope before the commercial ends, and I am pulled back into reality. “There is nothing here for me. I am stuck in a dead-end job, washing dishes, and delivering food at Wang’s Chinese takeout. I cannot find any other job out here. No one is hiring. I have two years of college. I worked hard to get a college degree. I also have certificates in Hotel Management and Computer Science. They are worthless as the paper they are written on. I have sent countless resumes out and I still cannot get a decent job. I love you, ‘Bel, but I can’t even take you out to a decent place.” Isabella reaches out for my hand, as I push the half-eaten slice away in disgust. “You deserve better than having pizza for dinner," I say, while standing up. “I’ll be back, I’m going to go wash my face. “ Tears flowed down my face as I stared at my miserable reflection in the bathroom mirror. What new disappointments will the future bring? How long will Isabella stand being with a loser like me? Washing the shame off my face, I do not know how I will do this. Returning to the table, Isabella stares at me as a blue envelope sits on the table waiting for me. “What’s this?” I ask her. “It’s an early birthday gift. Maybe it will cheer you up," she says to me, with a devilish smile on her face. The card shows a big bear throwing a ball at his son, who is holding a bat which reads “Happy Birthday, Daddy". Then a picture falls out of the card showing the sonogram image of a baby. “That is an image of your son.... our son.” Isabella smiles at me. “Surprise! I am pregnant. I’ve known for a while but have not found a right time or way to tell you till now.” Instead of feeling happy, I felt as if the rug had been pulled from under me. Another obstacle to my future. I love Isabella, but what kind of life can I give her and the baby? “Isabella," I say. "This is it. I cannot do this anymore. We are through. I have nothing left to give. How do you expect me to take care of you and the baby if I can’t even take care of myself? I am leaving New York to try to make it in Florida. I bought the plane ticket today.” “You do not have to sacrifice everything to achieve your goal!” yells Isabella, as tears fall down her face. "I am just trying to save you from making a mistake that you will regret in the long run," I shot back. "I do not want you and our son to suffer like I did." “Well, I hope you find all that you are searching for!” Isabella screams, before storming out of the pizzeria. Another travel ad about Florida pops up on the TV. "It's going to be worth it," I say to myself. "It has to be...." The next day there is a knock on my door. “Hello, are you Mr. Snow,” said a pale mousy looking man. Not really in the mood for company, I ask, "What do you want?" “I am Mr. Gilbert; I am the lawyer to your grandmother, Katerina," he says. “I have some bad news. She died of a heart attack. As heir to her estate you need to come to my office to sign some papers and discuss your inheritance.” “I think you are mistaken. I do not know anyone named Katerina,” I mutter. “She is your father’s mother," he continued. "Your mother loved your father, but your father left her pregnant. He thought that he could find a better future in Florida. He died there broke and alone. Your grandmother tried to contact you, but your mother prohibited her from seeing you. Believe me, she tried. “ Mr. Gilbert hands me a stack of letters with the words "return to sender" written on them in my mother’s handwriting. “She tried to write to you, but your mother kept sending the letters back. There is more we need to discuss, so how does three o’clock tomorrow sound?” "Sure,” I respond. “I will see you then.” After hours of reading my grandmother’s letters, I started to tear up as I realized that my father had a dream. Just like I have mine. He went after his dream but failed. I know that I will go after mine and succeed. I must succeed for Isabella, for our child but mostly for myself. The next day I head to Mr. Gilbert’s office with a new hope for the future. “Good afternoon, Mr. Snow," he says. "As I told you yesterday, you are the sole heir to your grandmother’s estate. She left you $100,000 dollars. I need you to sign these papers so I can release the funds to you." I fill out the forms and have Isabella and my unborn son as the beneficiaries if something were to happen to me. I rise to leave when Mr. Gilbert hands me an envelope. “This is for you also. I don’t know what it says, but I hope it answers any questions you may have.” I dash home, barely able to contain myself, both in anticipation and fear of what the letter might say. I run up the stairs, skipping steps as I go up. I burst through my door, not even bothering to close it behind me before plopping down on my worn-out couch. Tearing open the envelope, I pull out the letter. I close my eyes and take what seemed like the deepest breath I will ever take, and then I read: "Dear Son, I hope that you are well. I know that if you are reading this letter, then I am dead and gone. I wrote this letter to let you know that I did not leave for Florida to run away from my responsibilities to you. I left because I love you and your mother, and I wanted a better future for us. It is hard here in Florida. No friends nor family. I am trying the best in this life to give you something. To give your mother something. I will sacrifice anything for you, but I had to leave to find something. I had nothing to give you or offer you had I stayed in New York. I love you and hope your life turns out better than mine. Love your dad, Robert Snow." Tears roll down my eyes, as the letter falls out of my hands. He was just like me, looking for a better future; a way to improve our situation, but instead he found that there was nothing out there for him. No future. No hope. As my grandma wrote in her letters, he went from one dead end job to another, trying to help. The little money he could spare, he sent to us. Mom rejected any of his help, but grandma ever the wise woman, invested it in the stock market and placed all the money in the bank. I grab a small pad and write a small letter to Isabella: "Bel, always know that I love you. You and our son deserve a better future. Turns out Florida is no longer an option for me. With New York killing me day by day, I may as well finish the job. I am no use to either of you alive anyway. The letter my father left me will explain everything. I am sorry. I love you." I grab the gun I had bought for protection and place it at my temple, slowly pulling the trigger.

They are all violently smashed into the egg shell-finish paint, various shades of brown. A few are old, most are new. “If you leave the bodies it serves as a warning for the others.” My husband joked as he stood on the bed, scraping an old paperback along the edge of the smoke detector. “That is easily the eighth spider in the last two days. This is so gross.” A faint chill ran down the middle of my spine as I clenched my jaw. “At least it’s only babies and not a big one.” As if that was supposed to help. “Where there are babies there’s a momma. And babies become grown spiders, and some of those become mommas. If we don’t take out the babies, I’ll end up with thousands of full grown spiders and I’ll have to burn it all down.” I could feel tiny beads of sweat forming at the corners of my hairline begin to evaporate. Always charmed by my dramatic nature, he grabs a tissue and wipes the guts from the back of the novel, all while planting a light kiss on my forehead. “You’re okay. I got you.” We leave the bodies as a warning for the others, but it doesn’t seem to work. Last night I woke up around a quarter to four, sweating, and opened my eyes as I rolled over onto my back. As I rolled my eyes came into focus with what looked like a spider descending onto me. I screamed as I threw the blankets over my face, begging Andrew to wake up. Startled, he started yelling back asking what was wrong. I kept screaming for him to turn on the light until I simultaneously heard the click of the switch and the room’s darkness blow away. “Casey, please, just tell me what it is.” “Don’t you see it?! The spider! It’s on me! Please just kill it and I’ll come out!” He inspects the covers and the sheets before telling me he can’t find it. My throat is burning with the acid from having nearly puked as a result of the adrenaline rush. I slowly bring the covers down off of my face as my eyes dart around for the spider. “Casey, please, there’s nothing here. I checked. It must just be another nightmare. Remember last summer? We had three nights in a row you swore you felt a spider crawling down your back. You would wake up thrashing. I had bruises down my right arm for a week.” “Andrew I swear to God, this was real. I SAW it.” “You were also half asleep... I don’t know, maybe you were dreaming. I promise there is nothing here. You’re okay. I got you.” He was too tired to keep up with my hysteria. Reluctantly, I settled back into bed as Andrew turned off the lights. He fell asleep approximately half a second after his head hit the pillow. I pulled the covers back over my head and breathed the same air until dawn. Andrew stayed home sick today. He sent me a photo while I was at work, showing three new spots on our bedroom ceiling. “Spider-murder-man saves the day!” read the caption. It wasn’t funny. During the summers when my house feels like my own personal, twisted hell born right out of my fear center, my office feels like a sanctuary. Sure, we get the occasional stink bug or industrial centipede, but rarely a spider. As I’m writing through my emails, movement from the corner of my white board catches my eye. A small brown spider seemingly throws itself out, only to use its web to crawl back up and under again. Frozen, I stared as I watched it reel itself back in with nauseating grace. I grabbed my coffee mug and made a swift exit toward the break room. Once there I took a deep breath and counted to ten. I then opened my eyes and reached for the cabinet to grab a coffee pod. I wrapped my pointer and middle fingers around the inside of the brass handle and begun to pull, expecting to feel the cool metal melt against my skin. Instead I felt something not unlike cotton. I pulled my hand quickly away and then grabbed the inside corner of the now ajar cabinet to continue opening. I leaned my head to the left to peak at the handle when I saw a crushed spider sac and something writhing inside. I dropped my mug, it shattered on the ground, and I vomited into my mouth. I stepped over the shattered “cat mom” mug to wash (boil) my hands. My coworker, Chris, came to my rescue after hearing the shatter. He helped me clean everything up but noticed I was visibly shaken. “What, did you see a ghost?” he teased. How charming. I wasn’t in the mood. “No, just, nerves. You know... busy season. We’re all frazzled and, well... Thanks for the help.” I threw away the pieces I had collected and washed my hands once more. As I used the sink, Chris grabbed a generic mug and opened the cabinet to grab a pod. He seems unphased. I couldn’t let it go. “Did... did you feel like... the handle...” “The handle...” he waited for me to finish, looking equal parts intrigued and irritated. “I thought I saw some crap inside the handle of the cabinet before I dropped my mug. I meant to clean it out but got distracted. Sorry I didn’t mention it before you went for the...” Chris began to examine his hand before inspecting the door handle. “I think it’s fine, Casey. I didn’t feel anything, I don’t see anything there. Must just be those nerves of yours.” I was at a loss. I know what I saw. “Hah. Right. Okay, then... Enjoy your coffee.” “Right... you, too...” forgetting I was leaving empty handed, “I mean, yeah...” He raised an eyebrow and shook his head as he reached for the sugar in the raw and I went back to my office. I walked back to my office concerned I was really fucking losing it. I walked past my colleague Laura on my way back. As I looked up to wish her a good morning, the faint feeling of walking through a web tickled my skin from the neck up. Naturally, I started to panic and thrash. “Oh my God, Casey, what’s wrong?” Laura put down her print she had just picked up to try and help me. In the midst of my visceral fight or flight reaction I realized I was making a scene. I threw my arms down and flashed a smile to the on-lookers and turned towards Lauren. “I’m so sorry, I’m fine. Swore I walked into a bug. All is good. Thanks.” I kept the smile on my face until I turned the corner into my office and closed the door behind me. “What the actual FUCK, Casey!” I whisper-screamed at myself as I quickly but firmly began to rub my hands from my head down my body, covering every square inch to get the disgusting phantom web feeling off my skin. I was certain at this point that I was actually losing my mind, not just in the way people threaten when they are having a bad day or when they are getting pushed to their last nerve. I was seeing and feeling things nobody else could. I quickly walked over to my desk and searched through my purse for my phone. I remembered the spider at the white board and looked over hoping I could still see a thin leg sticking out from the corner. No. It was gone. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.” My hands shook as I unlocked and navigated through my notifications. I had two missed calls and three texts from Andrew. No voicemails. My heart sank, he never calls. I read the messages first to see if I could get an idea of what may be wrong. Sandwiched between two texts was a picture message. My eyes darted quickly back and forth across the screen. 10:27am: “Case, something’s wrong. Spider situation getting worse. I’m calling an exterminator to come survey. I don’t even know if they do spiders? I’ll keep you updated.” 10:29am: The image was of the ceiling. Instead of dead spiders, it looked to be about two dozen live ones scattered among the bodies. 10:42am: “OK I have an exterminator coming around 2. No need for you to be here, I can handle it. Just wanted to give you the heads up incase you want to hear the status report first hand. Love you.” The phone calls are timestamped for 10:52am and 11:02am. I tried calling back, but it went to straight to voicemail. I sent a quick text back, 11:27am: “Hey, got your texts. Why’d you call? Everything good? I’ll be near my phone. Let me know. Love you.” I got up and walked across the room to open my door. I couldn’t bring myself to grab the handle barehanded, so I pulled up the hem of my blouse and used it to guard myself against any surprises. Nothing seemed to be there. I returned to my desk and resumed emails. An hour or so passes before I realized I still haven’t heard back from Andrew. I do the math in my head and if I take a half day and leave now, I’d be home just before the exterminator was set to arrive. I contemplate the thought a bit more before signing out for the day. As I pack up to leave, I see the spider once more hanging down from the corner of my white board. I pick up my note pad and slam it against the wall, silently apologizing to my neighboring colleague. Limbs shaking and battling a nervous sweat, I wipe the guts from the back of the book, grab my keys, and leave.

I woke up with a horrible feeling in my stomach all I could think about was whether or not what happened last night was real or just a dream. I got out of bed everything looked normal so I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water and an Advil I had the worst headache I kept getting flashes of someone hitting me in the head with a bat I walked to the bathroom and inspected myself in the mirror there were no signs of any bruising so I sat down and tried to wrap my head around it. I got an idea to write and draw everything I remembered and go over it and inspect every detail for any proof I felt like I was going crazy. I remembered the day before I spent the night at my friend's house and somehow I woke up in my house I remembered being at lucys house my best friend and waking up to a loud bang I looked over to my friend's bed and she wasn't there so I went downstairs and saw lucy on the floor with someone standing over her I ran and grabbed the fireplace rod and tried to hit hem with it as I did lucy started crawling away and then he hit me in the head with a bat I don't remember anything else right then and there I panicked and tried to call lucy she didn't answer so before I could even change out of my pajamas I got into my car and quickly drove to her house he car was there but she wasn't her door was unlocked so I yelled lucy lucy are u here I touched the door very lightly and it opened so I went inside continuing to yell for her I took a second to inspect the house everything looked the same as far as I could tell. I searched the house and no sign of lucy or anything weird so walked outside and called the police and told them everything I knew. about 10 minutes later the police arrived and I explained everything I knew they looked at me like I was nuts they searched the house and didn't find anything they came out to me bombarding them with questions and they didn't answer a single one they just told me to go home and get some rest like I was just some psycho making this all up so I didn't leave without arguing with them so they told me to call in a few days if I was still worried so that's exactly what I did. throughout those days all I could do was think I made a whole case wall of all the evidence and everything I knew to try and figure anything out I hadn't slept for days every time I closed my eyes all I could see was that night replaying in my mind over and over again. It's been 3 days and still no sign of lucy I contacted her family and they didn't seem to be too worried they just thought that she left town for a while I tried to explain to them what happened but they just said that I was making something out of nothing. why wouldn't anyone believe me I was starting to question myself as well but then I thought about it and looked at my wall filled with pictures and a bundle of mess and though no there's no way this is just a coincidence so I called the police again and tried to explain they still didn’t, believe me, I was tired of not being heard so I did some more investigating on my own I went to Lucas house and went through all her stuff for any clues I found a camera on it was some weird pictures but nothing that could prove anything It was just unlike her to own a camera shes not into photography so I went home and printed out the pictures from the camera and taped them on the wall I stepped back and looked at the wall no of this is making sense I whispered underneath my breath. So I decided to go onto all my social medias like Instagram facebook snapchat anything I could think of to get the story out there and still everyone thought I was overreacting or crazy I decided to print out pictures of all lucys friends and tape them on the wall anyone that could have been involved I printed out I called the police again still nothing I was getting angrier and more and more worried bye the day its been almost a month and no ones even worried I don’t understand why isn’t anyone seeing what im seeing none of this makes anysense I called asking each suspect a series of questions first I started with jake her x boyfriend I thought he could have maybe been involved I asked hem were he was that night he said he was out with friends I asked what friends he said Jacob and lee I was writing all this down too I asked hem if hes heard from lucy he said no and that was it so I decided to talk to lee and Jacob next because he brought them up I asked them both the same thing they both said they weren’t with jake so I knew one of them were lying so they were my 3 suspects I decided to go to the police this time I went to the station in person and was yelling at them telling them they had to do something and I kinda got out of hand so I was arrested and was said to have issues like thinking people ar out to get me and fantasies so I was put into a phycward and from there I don’t remember anything else It was a year of doing the same things everyday at least I think it was I don’t really know I left the phychward not able to remember anything lucy was completely erased from my memory so I went on with my life and no one saw lucy since

The thing about death is that it takes a very long time. There’s planning to be done. There’s the wake and the funeral and the food and the gifts. There’s phone calls and texts to be answered. First there are sleepless nights. Then you have the days spent staring at the ceiling. Then afternoons clearing out the house. All of this turning into weeks in your planner that you never bothered to fill out. You knew there was someone in charge of watching you. There was always someone to usher you to the church or the house or the grief counselor. How did they plan this? Mark had been hard. Knowing Mark had been hard. Losing Mark had been hard. Standing in front of the group, trying to explain how you felt about your sponsor’s untimely death. . .that was hard. But that was where Kristi was now. Trying to put it all into words. Her coffee was cold but she clutched it anyway. It was nice to have something to do with her hands. She had carefully practiced what she would say. She wasn’t going to cry. She would explain that she wanted to drink but wouldn’t. “That’s all I can do for him now. Just stay on track.” She would wax poetic about everything he did for her. “He came to my house. It was the middle of the night. He was probably risking his own sobriety to be there. . .but he brought me to this diner and he talked to me forever.” She would say a lot of things, as beautifully as she could muster. These people cared about him too, after all. They wanted answers and justice and peace as much as she did. But there were things Kristi just didn’t have the words for. And even if she had them she wasn’t ready to say them here. She wasn’t ready to use them yet. They stayed half-formed and hidden. Almost sacred to her. She didn’t know how to explain the kind of love she felt for Mark. He had become a lifeline. He had started as an annoyance. At first she wanted nothing to do with him. AA was something to do so her boyfriend wouldn’t leave her. “That relationship is doomed. You don’t want to change, so you won’t. He’ll see through it. Let’s go get some food.” She had refused. Then she got fired. “We don’t have to talk about your job. But you do need a friend right now.” She turned him down. Then it was a Tuesday. No special Tuesday. It shouldn’t have been a life altering Tuesday. But the coffee was warm when she’d shown up to the church basement. The conversation wasn’t as grating. After she’d taken her chip she walked over to Mark. She didn’t particularly like him. He was loud. He was pushy. He told fratty stories about college. But he was still there. He was still sober. He still asked her to lunch. Kristi believed in moving forward; as far as you can, as soon as you can. And today she wanted to. And today she could. So she crossed the room. “Hey, Mark? Are you hungry?” “Always!” And that had been the start. Mostly they ate. When Kristi’s boss had called her incompetent they went for steaks. When Mark’s girlfriend had left him they got burgers. Their relationship was milkshakes and pancakes and sushi and that new Indian place and the great waffle spot two towns over. But they stayed sober. Kristi had someone to call. Mark had an emergency contact. They were tied together by the most fragile of strings, but they were both dedicated to not cutting them. And that’s why she wasn’t headed to the bar right now. She wouldn’t cut the strings. Different strings. But just as fragile. Just as important. She zeroed in on their favorite coffee shop (in this neighborhood). Kristi knew what she had to do. Coffeeshop, straight home, an old Beach Body video to tire her out, bed. She just had to keep her mind busy. Today wasn’t as bad as the funeral. It wasn’t as bad as her 90 day chip. Mark would have told her not to be self-indulgent. “You don’t get to relapse because it’s poetic.” So she bee-lined. “Coffee isn’t going to do the trick today, bud. We both know that.” Kristi spun around at the voice. It was rough, like cigarettes and sporting events. Then the outfit. Gray on gray. Sweats. Then the face. Oh. She was hallucinating. “Sorry you look a lot like someone I know.” Shit. She had to get home. “Ha! I would hope so. Come on we’re getting pizza.” And he started walking away. The vision was exquisite. The person she trusted most in the world, here. He was right in front of her. His gait was the same. Cocky and slow. He ran a hand through his messy brown hair. He needed a haircut. He somehow miraculously climbed into the old Honda. The same car that she had ridden in countless times. The same car that had been scrapped last week. She got in. Of course she did. Mark was here. Mark wanted pizza. Years of alcohol abuse may have softened the mental blow of her dead best friend in the middle of the street, addressing her like it was any other day. But even if she wasn’t acutely aware of all the ways reality could blur, she would have climbed into the car. When your most important person asks you to get into the car, you get it. Even if they’re dead, apparently. She was quiet for a moment. “I suppose you have questions?” he asked kindly as he turned the ignition. Kristi was digging her finger into a hole under the seat, making sure it was still there. She checked the mirror for the old scratches. The dash for a packet of his favorite gum. All there. “Yeah. . .” “Welp. . .I’ve never been here to answer your questions. I’m here to shoot the shit and help you feel better and pay for your dinner and send you home a little better than I found you, same as always, alright?” “Mark. . .” “Same as always, ok Kristi?” She wouldn’t push. She was scared to. It was all borrowed. Hallucination or not it would end. Maybe she could lean into this. Maybe if she just sat back it wouldn’t dissolve. “Ok. Sure.” They started winding through streets. He was driving more carefully than usual. Kristi wanted to say something, but there was a wall. She felt herself welling up just a bit. She sniffled, but Mark was kind enough not to comment. “I miss you.” “I miss you too.” She broke. The tears started rolling down her cheeks. She was usually a person more prone to anger. At her lowest points Mark had rarely seen her cry. Mostly she yelled. But here she was, a blubbering mess in his Honda. He just silently reached over her into the glove compartment and handed her some napkins. “Do you know why we always get food, Kristi?” She sniffled and turned to him. “No?” she sobbed. Mark was not phased. “Dopamine. When you stop drinking your body craves it. You can’t make it right anymore. And it’ll start up again and go back to normal, but that’s why it’s so hard in the beginning. Your body doesn’t have any dopamine and your brain wants it. So you drink.” “Ok?” Mark wasn’t usually very scientific. Death had changed him, apparently. “So when we eat like we do, our brains get a little dopamine kick.” “What are you even talking about right now?” “You need dopamine. We’re gonna go eat so you don’t go drink. And the dopamine kick will help. And also probably the guilt from seeing me again. Like. . .imagine how pissed I’ll be if you drink tonight.” “How will you know?” “Shit!” Mark laughed his huge, robust laugh, “No spoilers!” It was all surreal. Mark was in a restaurant, charming the waiter. Mark was folding his pizza in half. Mark was stealing a lone pepperoni off her plate mid sentence. He was the same. He updated her on the Cubs, even though he knew she didn’t watch. He asked about her love life. “Let me play on your dating apps! You need a support system!” He wouldn’t answer her questions or explain anything. But she didn’t really push. Like when you realize you’re dreaming, but you don’t want it to end. He was here in the booth. Even if it didn’t make sense she wasn’t willing to fight it. She wasn’t ready to give it up. She interrupted him. “We need to get ice cream.” “Ok, boss.” So they stayed out. The world grew dark around them. They slowly meandered down the street. There was a pretty good place nearby. They’d been there before. “So, how long do I have you for?” She finally got the courage to ask. She was worried he would evaporate as some further punishment. “As long as you need me.” “Oh. That’s great. I’ll just keep needing you then.” “I was kind of hoping you would stop needing me after dinner.” “What?” “One day at a time, remember? Tonight will be rough. Tomorrow might be impossible. You’re always a mess at Christmas. But you’re going to do it. You’re already doing it. Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean it isn’t worth the adjustment.” “So why even come back?” She was red hot for a second. It felt like anger but it might have been panic. “Maybe it’s not for you.” “Just wanted to support some local businesses from beyond the grave?” It sounded more bitter than she'd meant it to. “It was for me, Kristi. I had to make sure you were okay. It’s my job, right?” “Oh.” “Yeah. And I guess I needed a dopamine kick too. Don’t get a big head about it.” “Oh. Okay then.” Mark breathed out a heavy sigh. Maybe they would just walk for a while. Just until they were ready.

It’s just a part of the job I say. A Job I hate, and wouldn't do anymore if I didn't have to. My problems are not knowing what else to do, and being the only one who is able to do this right now. The nurses nod knowingly around me as I walk in the room. The hospital itself feels like it's alive. You can feel the energy of everything happening throughout the building. When you pay close attention it's almost as if the building breathes. Walking in the door you could judge how bad your day will be. Today started out okay, and felt better. Until the code white was called overhead. Infant emergency. It’s hard to describe the wave of stopping time, deep panic, and sadness that slams into the hospital the seconds after those words are called. I’m just an orderly in the emergency room, but I grabbed the code bag and sprint up the stairs. It’s really time to work. A team of doctors and nurses were already in the room. A few more doctors of different varieties gathered around the door as well. The critical care team started CPR. The new mother wailing in a broken defeated scream. Begging for her child. The father silently watching and preparing himself for the worst night of their lives. I got pulled from the doorway into the compression rotation. CPR itself was routine, and I've done it on dummies of babies so many times. I don't actually remember doing CPR but I remember the time of death, and that I was the one holding onto her. The family, having time to say hello and goodbye to the newborn, was now discharged and on their way home. Specialists would be sent to keep an eye on the grieving couple in the coming days. It was time to bring her downstairs to the morgue. A black baby cradle waited for her in the walk-in fridge. I opened the door, and motionless the baby laid. I’ve put over 100 people in bags and brought them down. The Body bag was so small. Not at all unlike a shopping bag. I gently picked her up and placed her in. I zipped up the bag and carried her out of the room. People passed by us unknowingly, and tried to stop me to say hello. I just kept moving. I did not want to do this. I walked up the hill with her. Unlocked the door, and placed her in the cradle. I stared at the bag. Turned around, shut the door and locked it. She sat there with Ann now. Ann was a regular patient of ours that had just passed away the night prior. A sweet legless old lady It brought me some comfort knowing they were there together. I turned the lights in the morgue off, and walked back down the hall. I went to the bathroom, and flushed away all the uneasiness inside me. I washed my hands. They’ll never be clean really now I thought as I scrubbed. I scrubbed and scrubbed. Dried my hands, and I took a deep breath. It’s almost time for dinner I realized. I had been looking forward to the spaghetti I made all afternoon. I was at work, and it was time for dinner. So I ate, and with every bite I forgot about her a little more. Before I was able to finish the Ambulance bay alarms were going off and a Code Blue was being called. I grabbed my code bag and ran. It was just part of the job I didn't want to do anymore.

I counted walnuts in my head, the shriveled tan hearts dripping into a bowl, somewhere hidden behind a rock. This was only a fantasy now. Nothing grew south of the forest, and nobody left out nuts in the desert. Each piece of food was treasured by all creatures, and I was a small and unimportant one. We continued toward the sun, which blinded me enough to mask the change of color from evergreen to dusty brown on the surface below. The people moved around like slow crickets, headed the same way as us. They pointed in the air, so we did a few circles and formed the shape of a dolphin. I imagined each of them smiling. I saw a girl smile once when I was as young as she. I landed on a bench beside her while she munched on some kind of mashed up peanuts. My feathers quivered at the scent. I inched closer, her tiny, buttery limbs and translucent hair inviting me in. She called out to me “Bird!” Her mother swung her autumn hair off her neck and gave the girls belly an approving squeeze. Her baby blue shorts rode up near her diaper. She kicked her scabbed shins up off the bench. I thought about my mother, who came back to me at the close of the sun each night. She asked me what I did during the day, and I told her about the girl and her mother in the park. She reminded me that people are dangerous, and the woman in the park was trying to protect her child from me. She said they would hurt birds if they could only catch us. I couldn’t imagine the girl hurting anything. She trembled with laughter and cried before bed. I watched through her window, where a small lamp, shaped like a mermaid, let off a gold light and blocked most of my view. Her mother nested different size pillows around her head while she dug her nails into a crocheted blanket with rows of pink fish. They both read words from a red and orange story book, as if the mother was also struggling with her R’s. I visited the window more often, searching for something although I didn’t know what. I had to scoot away from the ledge when she climbed out one night, a boy below with his arms out, ready to break her fall. They tucked themselves away behind a tree to hold hands and kiss. He laughed out loud and she shoved her baggg sleeve into his mouth. “You’ll wake up my mother!” This confused me; I saw her mother watching the two children from her bedroom window, where she normally slept with the TV turned on. Now she stood still, focused like a hawk on the back of the girls head. Her earrings twinkled in harmony with the night. Still, they were well disguised in the dark so I hopped closer. I was invisible against the Earth. For a moment, I craved the substance of those people, all the space they took up, like something more profound occurred within their bodies. They spread out their arms like angels, and didn’t look over their shoulder all the time. They seemed safe, free to wonder about things like their clothing or the decorations on their walls. My mother whispered to me while I slept that night. Her course feathers smelled like Juniper berries. She told me we would return north the next morning. We’d leave at sunrise, with just a few minutes to find where the others landed. The rusty markings below her eyes shined like teardrops. She checked around us every couple seconds, rotating her beak back and forth. I wanted to see the girl again before I left. After my mother tucked her head into her wing, I hopped down from our branch quietly and took off toward the house. The girl rested her head against her mother’s frail hand. Her grey and brown braid laid long down her back. A curtain blurred the rest of the room, except for a vase of sunflowers on the nightstand. Her mother mumbled something I couldn’t understand and she giggled. Then her mother sat up, her hoarse cough audible from the distant tree I watched from. She held the girls shoulders as she stabilized her walk into the bathroom. I noticed the girls hips were almost as wide now. Humans grew into so many interesting shapes. I watched through the window long enough for the sun to peak over the roof. I jolted back and flew toward our nest. I arrived, cooing for my mother. She wasn’t in the nest or any of the surrounding trees. I hopped from branch to branch, chirping for the other birds. The trees shook in the still silence, their bareness leaving me exposed to the sky above. I returned to the house, wondering if I could make it north on my own. I didn’t know the way, and if I went in the wrong direction I might risk being washed away by unfamiliar winds. After several hours I pressed my body against the trunk and rested my eyes. The middle day shined hard and long. The smell of walnuts captured me, so I started to count each nut in my head, imagining the soft center between my beak. I followed the smell on the off chance it wasn’t just a weary dream. The scent took me back to the house. I peaked into the window, where room was empty and the furniture removed. The lamp and curtaime were gone from my view, and I clearly made out fresh repainted walls and a new matte carpet. I hopped around to the front of the house, where a woman stood on a chair near the railing. She rubbed water off her face. Her black clothing stuck to her back. She lifted a tiny house, the same shape as her own, with a rope attached to the roof. she hung it near the front door. A man, also dressed in black, handed her a bag of walnuts. “Your mom loved birds.” She filled the house with nuts, through a hole cut out above the painted red door. She wiped the water from her face and her nose with the white towel she used to dust off little house. I chirped to her. “Oh, look!” Both the people froze, and stared at me. I fluttered back. “John, you’re scaring her. Get inside.” They went into the house, their house, and slowly closed the door. I waited a moment, but the smell of nuts was overwhelming, and I hadn’t eaten since the last time my mother brought back her juniper berries. I landed on the railing, then spread my wings and elevated up to the bird feeder. The taste of the walnuts was real, and inflated my heart. The women behind the glass dug her head into the mans chest. He whispered into her ear, pointing at me and waving.

The rumors that spread throughout court are always fascinating. Unless they’re about you. This is what Sabine had to learn the hard way. It was bound to happen. She avoided any rumors being spread about her for nineteen years. Not a single person has passed through the Court of Aelharst and not had a rumor about them ignite. Still, she had hoped whatever they came up with about her was foolish. An unimportant piece of chit-chat that would die out in less than a day. Turns out, that was the last thing they were going to do. At first, she was confused. Most people avoided her gaze once she entered the Great Hall. Normally, many of the other noble families come up to greet her and her family. Perhaps her parents did something to annoy someone else? No, that wasn’t it. Once she separated from her parents, many made their way to greet them. It wasn’t until her best friend, Mizuki, made her way to her that she knew something was wrong. Worry was written all over her face. “I’m surprised you actually showed up tonight.” Sabine frowned. “Why wouldn’t I?” “Maybe because everyone thinks you slept with the prince?” “What?” Mizuki scanned her face. “Oh my stars. You really didn’t know, did you?” “I had no idea about this until just now. Would you care to fill me in?” “Of course. Basically, everyone thinks you and Prince Elias had a... romantic escapade. I’ve been trying to quell the story, but it has proved quite difficult.” “And when do they think this happened?” Sabine cannot recall a single instance where she had interacted with the prince recently, much less been alone with him. “Two nights ago, after supper. Remember how you went up to your room early? Well, he left at around the same time.” “Of course that’s all it took. I didn’t even know he had departed early. Do you at least know who started such a baseless rumor?” Mizuki snatched a drink from a server and took a sip. “No idea. I first heard it from Lady Ratterfield, who heard it from Lady Aaron.” “I see. Well, would you be willing to help me find out who did it?” “Absolutely. I’m not your best friend for nothing.” She winked. “I’ll talk to Lady Crawford, you talk with Lady Bardot.” “Thank you.” Ladies Eirene Crawford and Cecily Bardot are the closest friends of Suzana Aaron. Why anyone would share their secrets with them is a mystery. Anything told to either of them will be known by the entire court in less than a day. Sabine looked around, trying to spot her target. Cecily was in a corner speaking with her husband. Even though they’re both the same age, she was betrothed the moment she turned eighteen. Making sure to not appear suspicious, Sabine slowly moved towards them. “Hello, Sir and Lady Bardot.” Cecily turned towards her. “Lady Lancaster! Hello. How are you?” “I am well, thank you. What about you?” “I am fantastic, thanks for asking.” Sabine eyed Sir Bardot, wishing he wasn’t there. Cecily seemed to notice. “David, my dear, would you go fetch me a drink?” “Of course, my love.” He kissed her cheek and walked away from them. “So, Lady Lancaster, have you been up to anything interesting?” “I don’t know, you tell me.” “Well, Lady Owens told me all about your involvement with the youngest prince. I must say, I wasn’t expecting that from you.” “Ah, that. Lady Owens needs to find better sources, I’m afraid. I did not have an affair with the prince.” “You need not deny it. Some might be jealous of you, but not me. I am content with my husband.” “I am not denying out of modesty, Cecily. I really did not go to bed with him.” She hummed. “Unfortunate. The prince ought to be betrothed soon, and I was hoping it would be you. Seems I was incorrect.” That took Sabine by surprise. She knew that the time for Prince Elias to be betrothed was approaching, but she was not expecting anyone to consider her a possibility. Most assumed that he would marry outside the court for political reasons. “In any case, I am sorry to disappoint.” “Do not worry about it. I simply wish the prince would see he has perfectly suitable candidates here.” “Yes, well, royals tend to not make a lot of sense.” Cecily smiled. “That, indeed. It was nice talking with you, Lady Lancaster.” “I’ll see you around.” Sabine spotted Mizuki at the far end of the Great Hall, still in conversation with Lady Crawford. She decided that her next move would be to find Lady Owens. It was quite odd for her to spread such a rumor around, as she is considered to be one of the more trustworthy members of court. A quick scan of the room showed that she was not in attendance today. Not completely out of the ordinary, seeing as her health has been deteriorating. She tried to think of who are closest to her. Lady Owens is significantly older than her, around forty years her senior, so Sabine does not really know many of the people she interacts with. Her mother was around the same age as Lady Owens, so she tried to think about who she gets along with. They both spend a lot of time together, so it’s not a stretch to assume they have similar circles. The problem was that, in all honesty, Sabine did not pay much attention to what her mother did. In the time she was thinking, Mizuki’s conversation with Lady Crawford had apparently come to an end. Sabine made her way over to where she was. Mizuki did not bother with any small talk. “She told me she heard it from Lady Owens.” “Lady Bardot said the same thing. I tried looking for her, but she’s not here.” “Hmm. The closest person to her that I can think of, aside from your mother, is Lady Rossi.” The last thing Sabine wanted to do was talk to her. She did not get along with the Rossi family in the slightest. Their son was one of the most insufferable people in all of Aelharst. His mother was no better. Mizuki must have sensed her discomfort. “I will go talk to her for you. It would look weird if you went to her asking about this, since the rumor is about you.” She let out a breath that she didn’t know she was holding. “Thank you, Mizuki. Or should I say, Lady Saito.” “Shut up, Sabine.” There was nothing for her to do but wait. Not many people wanted to approach her. The few that did always asked questions about the prince. Time and time again, she denied that anything had happened. Most seemed to not believe her. She decided to stand in a corner, drinking champagne. Mizuki should be done talking with Lady Rossi any second now. She was not in the mood to keep hearing questions about the prince, especially when she had no answers. After what felt like forever, but was probably ten minutes, Mizuki found her. Whatever she had learned, it was clearly not good. She almost looked as if she was going to be sick. “Is everything okay?” Sabine said. “I would say yes, but I would be lying to you.” “What did you learn?” Mizuki hesitated. Clearly she did not want to share whatever she had learned. “Please tell me, Mizuki. You agreed to help.” “Fine. Just don’t take out your anger on me, okay?” “You’re scaring me.” “Good,” she paused, “because I found out that the one that started the rumor was your own mother.” Sabine was convinced she heard wrong. There was no way. Lady Rossi had to be lying, right? Her own mother would not create such a rumor about her. It simply wasn’t possible. She did not realize she was shaking until Mizuki put a hand on her shoulder. “Sabine, deep breaths.” She mirrored Mizuki’s breathing until she felt some sort of calm. There was no way to feel actually relaxed with this information, but she tried her hardest. “Are you going to confront her?” “Of course I am. I need to know why.” “That’s completely fair. If you need any support, let me know.” “Thank you.” Subtlety is of utmost importance in court. She waited until her parents were not talking with any of the other noble families. If anyone overheard their conversation, even more rumors would begin. That was the last thing Sabine wanted. “Mother, may I speak to you in private?” “Of course. Let’s go up to our rooms, shall we?” She attempted to put her hand on Sabine’s back, but she put distance between them. Affection from her was the last thing she wanted. The clacking of their heels filled the hallway. Sabine refused to look at her mother. Their rooms are not that far from the Great Hall, yet the walk felt like it took an eternity. Once the door to their room closed, she wasted no time. “Why did you tell everyone that I had an affair with Prince Elias?” “You left me with no choice.” “What is that supposed to mean?” “This court is ruthless, Sabine. It’s better to have this spread around now so that no more rumors about you arise.” “This is ridiculous.” “It is not. If I hadn’t planted this, someone else would have come up with something worse.” “Worse than this? Really? Could you not have come up with something a bit more innocent at least?” “This is nothing in comparison to what others have gone through in this court. You of all people should know that.” Sabine knew that to be true, the own gossip surrounding her mother being horrendous. When her first husband passed away after less than a year of marriage, it was said that she had poisoned him. Even though the autopsy said otherwise, her mother brandished the title of murderer for years to come. It was only once Sabine was born that she was able to change her reputation. Still, it did not make what her mother did to her any better. “Just because you went through worse, mother, does not mean this was okay.” “You will thank me one day, my child. Trust me.” “I do not know how you expect me to trust you after this.” Sabine didn’t wait for a response. She stormed out of the room. The only place she could think of to go was the gardens. At least it would probably be deserted and she could cry in peace. She did not consider that there could be someone lurking in the shadows, ready to start another rumor. After all, the Court of Aelharst never sleeps.

I had recently been on a vacation to Jamaica. It was the summer, and I decided to make the most of it before I went back to college. Jamaica’s beaches were beautiful. They had the feeling that you get when you can't possibly believe that it’s real. It’s sensational. But there was something else. There was a guy. Not just any guy. I feel like he was the one. I felt the happiest I had ever been when I met him. Why don’t I just go up to him? I asked myself. I remember what he looked like, though. He was tall, but slim with golden hair. I would say a dirty blonde. He had emerald green eyes. He had pale skin. How? We’re in Jamaica. But hey, most people are here for vacation for the summer. Unfortunately, the trip only lasted 5 days, but I somehow managed to see him almost every day. We did have one interaction, though. When I was walking by, I bumped into him. I’m assuming he was drunk, because he was stumbling. He was also slurring his words. “Ohhh- I’m so-... hic- sorry, what's your name again?” “Hi, my name’s liv-” and before I could finish anything, he got distracted and walked off. I noticed he was wearing a plaid shirt and baggy black pants. I’ve been thinking about him so much lately. I tried getting his attention when I was there, but it didn’t work. I need to find him. I have pictures of him, but they aren't very clear. I went back to the airport with my sister. She was younger than me, so I hoped this would work. I knew I wouldn’t find him, though. I had to lie and ask one of the employees if they had seen him. I told the employee that it was my cousin’s boyfriend that I didn’t know the name of. I was ‘lost’ with my little sister and my cousin sent us to pick up her boyfriend. We didn’t know the name of him, and he might have left. “Well, if you don’t know the name, I can’t help you. Shouldn’t your cousin have told you?” the lady at the front asked me. Just then I remembered something. We had talked more than one time. The day after I saw him at the bar, he walked up to me. “Hey, I’m real sorry for bumpin’ into ya yesterday.” He had walked up to me. He had the most beautiful eyes. “It’s okay, I don't mind.” I told him with a warm smile. “I believe I tried to ask for your name. You probably tried to tell me, didn’t you?” He said with a chuckle. I had. I figured he didn’t even remember talking to me, but here we are. “My name’s Liv. Yours?” “Nice to meet you, Liv. My name’s Trent.” He smiled at me. Thank god I remembered that. Where would I be if I didn't? “Trent!” I yell, snapping out of my daze. “Was that his name, miss?” The lady at the front asked me. “Yes! Yes- yes. His name was Trent. He got back from Jamaica with us.” I hope he did, at least. I showed the lady a picture of him. I had to explain that they were going to be blurry because we weren’t really with him like we should have been. “Can I please have Trent come to the front on aisle 4B please? Trent with dirty blonde hair, green eyes...well you get it. Come to aisle 4B, please,” The lady cocked her head toward me. “Your boyfriend should arrive... hopefully.” “Thanks, but he isn’t my boyfriend.” I said. We waited. And waited. And then waited a little more. “Honey, I don’t think he’ll be here.” The lady from the front spoke. Just then, I saw someone running toward us. Then, a familiar voice spoke. “Hi! I’m so sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I-” he stopped when he saw me. “Liv?! I’ve been looking for you- I thought I needed to find you. I kne-” I stopped him before he could say anything else. “Yeah! Cousin I love so much! Shall we go home?” I say, my eyes widening to hint to him that he was my ‘cousin’. He got the hint. “Yeah-let’s go.” We got just far enough away so that no one could hear. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Maybe I took it too far. “What the hell is this about?” He instantly questioned me. Maybe I did take this too far. “I just- I can't really, I got this-” I was interrupted mid sentence. “This feeling that you couldn’t just let the encounter go? You had to find me? You were changed by me. You were happier when you met me. That’s how I felt.” “Yeah. That was the feeling.” “Well then, let’s go home. Get to know each other.” he suggested. “You’re seriously gonna let a stranger into our house?!” my little sister questioned. I completely forgot she was even here. “For the record, I have many weapons.” I told my sister. “Wow, you think I’m gonna pull somethin?” he put his hand to his heart, acting offended. I just noticed the heavy Texan accent he had. I also just realized that this is Nevada. It’s a twenty-three hour drive to get there. “Are you from Texas?” I ask. “Yes, I am. It’s that noticeable?” he replied. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” “Yes, technically. But why go home when I can just stay here a few days? I’m 23; a big boy. I can make my own decisions.” he said. He’s 23?! That works out just perfectly. I’m 21. “Well, I can drive, so that means you’re sitting in the back, Lily. Sorry, dude.” I know she won’t like that. “What?! I’m in the back of my sister's own car, while a stranger gets to sit in the front? That’s bull!” told you. But she does have a point. “Language! And you have a point. Trent, You’re in the back.” Trent didn’t complain and got in the back of the car. The ride wasn’t bad. I did put on the radio for some white noise. Fun fact about me: I always like to have music playing. No matter what I’m doing. Trent, Lily and I talked the whole way home. Trent was a nice person. He grew up in Texas, and had gotten a scholarship to a nice college. He majored in history. He loves history, which was nice, because so did I. I didn’t major in it, though. It was nice to know him. Of course I didn’t know him, though. This ride was the perfect time to get to know each other a little bit, because it was a three hour drive to the airport. I like long drives with friends. My sister is also extremely patient. When we got home, I gave him a little mini tour and showed him where he could sleep. I told him he could sleep. “Thanks for letting me stay. I appreciate it.” he said. “Of course!” I replied. “I’m really excited that I found you. I knew it was a good decision.” “So do I... I’m delighted!” “Would you like to go on a proper date this Saturday? With me?” “Yeah! I’ve been waiting.” “Ew! Gross!” My sister scoffs.

Police stop ahead, road closed, the sign said. The flashing lights of police vehicles blocked the road ahead. An officer with a paddle sign indicated that he wanted me to pull over onto the verge. My passenger took in a deep breath, I felt his tension as we pulled over. Bent over looking into the car the officer gave a friendly greeting. ‘Good morning sir, I am afraid you will need to find an alternative route. The road ahead and a number of bridges have been washed away in the storms. You can do a U turn here,’ said the young officer. ‘The alternative road will make the trip an hour or so longer.’ I said to my passenger as I executed the turn. The man next to me hadn’t said much since picking him up a few minutes earlier. ‘Yeah that’s fine’ he had relaxed somewhat from earlier when we had stopped for the police, his arm now resting on the windowsill, his hand around the assist grip above the window. I made my way down the main street of the town to the country road marked as the tourist route. I had often taken this road as a quieter, more scenic and relaxed drive than the quicker direct main route along the east coast, this would eventually link back to the highway. It would be another hour and half before we reached the Pacific Highway on our way to Sydney. The road was in fair condition but the heavy rains had eroded some of the bitumen surface which would make the journey slower. Visiting my parents on the farm was always a welcome break from my hectic schedule in Sydney and I tried to get up to see them as often as possible. They had a small dairy farm in the foothills of Barrington Tops in New South Wales and as with my previous visits it had been good to feel and smell the earth, my mothers home homemade cooking, as well as the early morning milking stints with my Dad. On my last night before heading back to Sydney we had followed a long held family tradition of a visit to the RSL club. A pub meal, a few ales and a catch up with friends. I hadn’t come across Jock for a while. We had gone our separate ways once we had left school so it came as a surprise when he sidled up to me at the bar and after a short exchange of where have you been, what are you up to conversation he asked when I was returning to Sydney. An unexpected visitor of his needed a lift, his truck had broken down and he had asked Jock to arrange for it to be delivered to the garage after the weekend. ‘He is staying at the motel and I will give him the news and ask him to meet you outside at eight tomorrow. His name is Alan by the way’. ‘So Alan, how do you know Jock.’ I asked to make conversation as we left the town behind and settled into the drive past the small cluster of industrial buildings and modest homes that lined the road and onwards past farmland and through the rolling green hills of country New South Wales. ‘I met him on the mines in Western Queensland, we were both sparkies and Fifo’s he replied. ‘I didn’t know that Jock was a fly in fly out contractor on the mines, I knew he was an electrician but didn’t realise he had worked on the mines, that explains why I hadn’t seen him around for a while.’ ‘Yeah he was surprised to see me but he had told me that should I ever be down his way to look him up. Glad he has been able to help out with my Ute as well.’ He had noticeably relaxed even more now that we were out of the town. He kicked off his boots by levering them off at the heel with his toes. I noted that his socks could do with a wash in fact overall he could have done with a good scrub. ‘Where are you from’ All over the place mate, wherever I can find work.’ ‘Family’ I asked. ‘Nah, had me a woman once but she was a bloody mess, booze and drugs and that sort of thing you know. Mind if I have a fag’ he said pulling a twenty pack from his top pocket. ‘No I don’t like smoking in the vehicle if you don’t mind but I will stop later if you want.’ ‘Perhaps at the next big tree, I need a piss as well.’ he replied with a chuckle. We travelled in silence for a while as I started to regret that I had offered this character a lift, his clothes were permeated with tobacco smoke and I turned up the air con to refresh the air ‘Here we go’ I said as I eased off the road and pulled into a rest area. We both walked over to the toilet block and as we went Alan pulled out his pack of cigarettes pausing momentarily to light one. Back at the car I had opened the boot and pulled a couple of cokes out of the cool box. It was packed with fresh dairy products from the farm and a 6 pack of cokes and bottled water as well as a selection of chocolates and snacks. 'Alan’ I said, holding a can toward him. Alan leaned against the car, he had removed his socks and was walking barefoot ‘shit got me a bloody thorn’ he said as he raised one leg and crossed it over the other so he could see under his dirty foot and pull out the thorn. ‘That’s better’ he said, showing me the thorn held between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Big bugger’ he laughed followed by a chesty cough. ‘You got a woman’ Alan asked as we stood sipping our cokes and Alan lit another cigarette. ‘Yes she’s at home in Sydney and couldn’t make it this weekend as she had a number of work issues.’ ‘Where do you guys live.’ I felt uneasy and needed to think quickly and not be too specific. " We are on the Northern Beaches and you’ I said, trying to turn the conversation back to him. ‘Wherever I can find somewhere to shack up. I have some mates in Sydney and will probably find a bed with one of them for a while’ ‘’What’s up with your truck’ I asked, moving the conversation away from accommodation in Sydney. It was the last thing I needed for him to ask me for a bed for a night or two. ‘It's a load of junk, never buy a Ford I can tell you, Toyota anytime for me, bloody things go forever. My Dad had one and he clocked over 300 thou with it before he had a fight with a tree.’ He laughed, slapping his thigh ‘what a piss cat’ he sighed poor bugger is no longer here but Mum is still around somewhere in Queensland.’ ‘You must do well for yourself’ turning the conversation back to me. ‘Fancy wheels’ he said, patting the bonnet ‘Lexus top of the range mate.’ 'Let’s get going’ I said 'we have a way to go.' The damage from the heavy rains of the past days were now even more evident, road conditions had detoriorated, it was slow going avoiding wash-aways and some fallen branches. ‘Not another detour’ I said exasperated as we passed slow down signs and were directed onto a small unpaved track. ‘We need to keep going, surely we will be directed back onto a better road.’ I thought as I negotiated the rough surface and larger puddles. The farmlands we had passed for most of the journey had now given way to gum forests and there was little evidence of habitation anywhere. ‘We’re in the middle of nowhere mate’ Alan said. Like I didn’t already know that. ‘Yeah sure feels like it’ I replied, holding my voice in check from sounding impatient. I didn't need any sort of confrontation, becoming increasingly annoyed with my passenger. I was beginning to have a sinking feeling that we were getting lost and perhaps the detour signs had actually taken us in the wrong direction. We had no cell phone reception either so there was no way to check google maps and try and get some idea of our location. We were heading away from a southerly direction in a more westerly direction. I pulled over on the verge in a clearing and decided to conduct a reconnaissance from a higher vantage point. ‘Thank shit’ Alan said ‘I could do with a smoke while you decide where we are. It seems you have got us lost up the creek without a paddle.’ I could clout this guy. He was really annoying me now and was in no way being helpful. I wanted to walk through the forest to find higher ground but there was no way I could leave Alan alone with the car, by now I felt I could not trust him. ‘I need to walk a way through there’ I said pointing to a fire trail. ‘You go mate, I will look after the car while I have a smoke, I have to be careful not to cause a fire’ he said chuckling in a sanctimonious manner. ‘On second thoughts’ I said as I opened the cubby hole and pulled out an old paper map that I suddenly recalled having just in case such a situation ever arose. I spread the map on the bonnet as Alan walked off smoking and whistling some unknown pointless sounding tune. He returned a while later ‘Figured out where we are yet.’ I was confident that I had worked it out, telling him that we would carry on. ‘Got anything stronger than cokes in the cool box’ he said. ‘Sorry no but help yourself to another coke or water if you prefer.’ He grabbed a coke and a Kit Kat popped the can and opened the Kit Kat without offering any to me as he put the chocolate wafers into his mouth two at a time and threw the wrapper onto the floor of the passenger side as he took his seat. Hairpin bends curved endlessly around the forested hills and our pace was now even slower as the road wound its way downward, Alan had stopped his annoying whistling through his teeth, he was fast asleep, mouth open in his unshaven face and straggly hair curling on his shoulders, it had been a welcome respite and given me time to think. I was confident this would eventually lead to the valleys below but with the swollen cumulus clouds now threatening rain I was doubting we could carry on traversing the slippery road if we had a downpour. Large drops of rain hit the windscreen and with the accumulation of dust and mud, the wipers at full speed smeared the windscreen and we could not safely proceed. I pulled over once more to wait out the storm. ‘’Journey from hell’ I cursed. Alan woke up with a start. ‘Would have been quicker by train I reckon’ Alan quipped. ‘So what do you do for bob’ he said as he leaned the back of his head against the window and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. ‘No smoking please’ ‘It's bloody raining mate, I can’t go out in this’ his voice was now threatening and worried me. ‘I reached over the seat and handed him an umbrella. ‘Use this.’ ‘Bloody snob’ he muttered under his breath as he opened the door, holding it open longer than needed and letting in more rain. I watched him walk off into the rain to a tree sheltered clearing. My phone pinged several times letting me know that we were now back in cellphone range. I opened the messages, ‘ Your passenger is a fugitive and on the run, dump him and call the police. Dad’. ‘We are worried the police are trying to track you down.Mum’ ‘NSW Police please make contact soonest. ’ Alan had wandered off and I could make out that he was obviously relieving himself next to a tree further down the clearing. I reached over the seat and pulled his bag over to the front, started the car, opened my window and threw the bag out as I pulled away. The rain was pelting down but I had to take the chance, even at the safe speed there was no way he could catch up. The storm was short lived and the road was winding its way down into the valley and a straight road ahead. Pulling over to the side of the road I called my Dad first, he told me that Alan was on the run. He was suspected of murder and other crimes in Queensland and was now also wanted for questioning by the local police, Jock had been found seriously assaulted earlier in the day.. The flashing lights of police cars were in the distance coming toward me. I sat back and waited. I noticed Alan’s muddy boots and dirty socks on the floor of the passenger seat.

More @ r/TheAllKnowingOwl Ch.2 is all about how pointless life is. We work for those who are bigger than us. Rolling up thier leftovers like dung beetles. Ch.3 is about how we depend on others to live but can't escape their control. ​ # Chapter 2 - The droppings of others Eric woke up as a dung beetle. Not just an ordinary beetle that could fly about its merry business. No, a dung beetle. A beetle subject to a life of rolling balls of dung. A humble life it is to those who do not mind the smell of shit. Dung beetles do not complain. They know not more than the smell of shit and the urge to roll it into balls. And thus, was the life of a dung beetle. And thus, were the lives of Eric and Alex, when they reincarnated from goldfish. Neither Eric nor Alex thought more about their current circumstances than one might expect a dung beetle is capable of thinking. Instead, they rolled balls of shit, by instinct if nothing else. And thus, their life continued. There was no cat to taunt, just elephants, zebras, and giraffes that would deliver them their day to day work. One day, when Eric delivered his final ball of dung for the week to their cave, he asked Alex, "Why is it that we must collect the dung of the animals bigger than us?" Alex flicked his feelers in a body language only beetles could interpret. "It is what we must do. We are dung beetles, and so, we must collect dung. It's what must be done." It was a strange concept to grasp, Eric thought to himself one morning when finding a huge pile of elephant droppings. We were born to live off the scraps of the bigger creatures of this land. Alex did not seem to mind. He seemed satisfied by the balls of shit he would roll each day from what was left over from the larger animals. This idea, however, troubled Eric. Why should he have to roll the other animals droppings into balls of shit. Could they not do that themselves? This was what was on Eric's mind as he ran out across an open field, ignoring his duties as a dung beetle. He wanted freedom, a life away from the droppings of others. What he received, however, was the beak of a bird flying overhead. *I should have stuck to gathering dung*, thought Eric as the beak crushed his abdomen. *It was better than getting eaten by a bird*. # Chapter 3 - Anything for you, master Eric was a dog. He knew so by his tail that insisted to wag whenever he grew excited. Also, by the fact that his sense of smell was sharp, and he had a devotion to his owner stronger than any other bond one could expect in a lifetime. His owner was the one that fed him and Alex. Their owner was a god to be worshiped. They would do whatever their owner wanted, even if it meant not tearing shoes or sitting on the sofa. If they were lucky, Eric and Alex would receive treats for good behaviour. Oh, how they loved the treats. More so, the attention from their owners. How they noticed they could listen to their commands. Sit. Oh yes, I will. Anything for you master. And thus, the lives of Eric and Alex continued. Alex was content with doing just as their masters pleased, but Eric sought more. He wanted to know what was outside their home. There was a whole world out there. Alex, however, did not like the idea. He said it was dangerous and it was not worth discovering the world if they had everything provided for them by their masters. Eric could not handle this idea; living a world between four walls not knowing whether he was missing out on what was yet to be discovered. He had to know. This was the one and only thought of Eric's as he strayed from his house and walked across the road. He had to know what was out there. Although, Alex was right. Learning the truth proved dangerous. There were cars that ran you over in a heartbeat. And so, Eric lived a shorter life, in the vain hope he would discover more than he was given. Ironically, the car that ran Eric over was the car of his owner who had just returned from the shops with dogfood. Eric felt a sense of Déjà vu. Each time he tried to make his own way in life, but as soon as he did, he was swept into a path he did not anticipate. It did not matter what creature he was. He was subject to those who were bigger than him.

The dimly lit sky brushed with faint pink streaks was nature’s sign for the kids to go home if their mothers or elder sisters haven’t made their siren’s call yet while ensuring that the steamed rice for dinner won’t be burned or mushy. It was the first day of the summer school holiday and the kids played the whole day like it was their last and couldn’t be bothered about the time. ‘Let’s play one last game before dinner time,’ said the skinny boy, panting from non-stop back and forth run. His cheeks flushed red from the heat of his body. The white towel placed by his mother on his back to absorb his sweat is now damp and warm. ‘Tin-tin, you are the ‘ it’ this time!’ ‘Me again?’ Tin-tin asked in dissent as she rolled her eyes, arms akimbo. ‘Yeah! You lost in the last game!’ answered Jun, the skinny boy. ‘Hurry up, it’s getting dark.’ Tin-tin clicked her tongue and shrieked, ‘okay fine!’ She walked while making stomping noise, faced a tree, covered her eyes with both her palms, and started chanting the Hide and Seek song that prompted the other players to start hiding. Tagu-taguan (Hide and seek) Maliwanag ang buwan (The moon is bright) Wala sa likod (Not behind) Wala sa harap (Not infront) Pagbilang kong sampu (When I count to ten) Nakatago na kayo (You should be hidden already) Isa, dalawa, tatlo, apat, lima, (One, two, three, four, five) Anim, pito, walo, siyam, sampu. (Six, seven, eight, nine, ten.) ‘Game?’ Tin-tin screamed to the top of her lungs. ‘Wait not yet,’ shouted Blessie before she giggled. Her plump cheeks bounced as she ran towards a Narra tree about five meters away from where Tin-tin was standing. She held her rubber slippers on both hands and wore it as if it was meant for her palms rather than her soles and hid behind the whorled trunk of the Narra Tree. She saw an opening in between the twisted trunk and peeped to see if Tin-Tin started her hunt. ‘Game?’ Tin-tin screamed once again. This time, she was answered by a silence which means all the other five players have already found their hiding places. Tin-tin removed her palms from her face, opened her eyes, and turned around. To her alarm, everything was pitch dark. She looked around and couldn’t see anything or anyone except shadows of trees that seemed even taller than before. ‘Blessie? Jun? Where are you?’ she called out with the loudest voice that the juvenile lungs inside her tiny body can produce. ‘Joshua? Inday? Kulot?’ she called everyone but she was, once again, answered by silence only this time in chorus with the crickets. She walked slowly towards a path she couldn’t even see. Her steps, gentle so as not to trip on any protruding roots of ancient trees or rocks or twigs. She kept calling her friends but none responded. It’s the end of the game. Something trickled her forehead. Her small body shivered. The moon in its brilliant fullness showed up as the thick clouds blanketing the sky moved. The chocolate-colored mud soil dried by the summer heat looked silver under the moonlight, it’s cracks made the road look like a never-ending jigsaw puzzle. Slowly, she tilted her head up and saw the roots of an ancient banyan tree looming over her. ‘ Balete ’ she uttered in a soft, trembling voice, almost a whisper, as all the hairs in her arms, legs, and back stood up and chill ran down her spine. Her grandpa would always tell her folk tales every night after dinner. Outside their hollow block-walled house enclosed with rusty iron roof, they would sit on a bench made of bamboo along with moths and mosquitoes. ‘Unworldly creatures love to hang around balete trees,’ he would start. ‘Legend says, a kapre lives there, so better not cross a balete at night.’ K apre in Philippine folklore is a tree giant, described as a tall, dark, hairy creature with blood-shot eyes that sits on the branch of a tree while smoking. Sometimes they would also roam around. They can be felt through their slow steps that make the Earth tremble and followed by a smoky smell. And if that’s not enough to scare a nine-year-old child, his grandpa would still add, ‘d wende - dwarfs also dwell underneath the roots of the tree. These sensitive tiny creatures are too small for humans to see and they get furious if we accidentally step on them so you better say, tabi-tabi po to let them know that you are passing by. They like children. They play tricks on them and sometimes take them to the underworld.’ Her eyes would wander around, checking if she would see any kapre or dwende under the trees rooted a few meters away from where they were seated. ‘Why are you looking around? Takot ka , are you scared?’ Her grandfather would ask and gently pinch her nose. ‘ Lolo , are you scared of them?’ she looked at him curiously as she caught whiffs of smoke from his cigarette combined with the menthol flavor that comes from that candy in a green wrapper he takes while smoking. ‘Of course not! I punched a kapre in the face once. He ran away and disappeared.’ His gap-toothed smile confused Tin-tin. ‘Eh!’ Tin-tin would protest in disbelief. ‘Are you telling the truth?’ He would just answer in giggles then move the menthol candy from his left cheek to the right before taking in another puff. That night, alone in the dark, under a balete tree, she wished nothing but for her grandpa to be with her and punch whatever unworldly creature that would show up. Crippled by her fear of all creatures lurking in her mind, she stood still under the tree and looked up, hoping she wouldn’t see a smoking kapre . But instead of a dark furry giant, she saw something glowing, like tiny bulbs switching on and off, on and off, moving towards her. ‘Fireflies,’ she said in a voice, more amused than scared. She held her right-hand high, trying to reach them. The luminescent bugs magically swirled around her head, down to her waist. To her disbelief, her tiny body levitated, slowly, higher and higher until she was above the trees and sky-high. The moon so round in its fullness looked so close, she thought she could almost touch it. She then slowly descended and once her dust-covered feet touched the Earth, the fireflies flew and swirled around a banana blossom, a purple-skinned flower, shaped like a tear that hangs at the end of the banana cluster. Bedazzled, Tin-tin touched the blossom and its tip slowly opened. A small diamond-like stone fell on her hand. The fireflies disappeared and it was dark all over again. Large puffy clouds dominated the sky once again vanishing the moon into oblivion. She looked at the stone on her hand wondering what it was. She held it close to her nose but she couldn’t figure out its scent. Instead, she perceived a burning smell. She looked around to see if there’s fire but there were only rows of banana trees. The smoky smell reminded her of the kapre once again and a chill ran down her spine. The faint smoky, minty scent grew stronger and stronger until it suffocated Tin-tin. She felt dizzy and the next thing she knew, she was lying on her sleeping mat, safe at home, away from unworldly creatures. She got up and walked out of the room and saw her father, rubbing the back of her crying mother. ‘ Nay , I’m hungry,’ her faint voice almost cracked. Isabel, her mother, wiped her tears and went to the kitchen. She took rice from the cauldron to a red plastic plate. On the table covered with plastic flower-printed mantle was a bowl of green beans sautéed in soy sauce with ground pork. Tin-tin devoured the food laid in front of her and asked for another serving. Once done with her meal, she immediately asked for her grandfather as it was storytime. ‘Where’s lolo ?’ she asked her mother and was answered by long silence followed by sobs. Earlier that day, while Tin-tin was busy playing hide and seek, her grandfather collapsed due to heart failure and was rushed to the hospital by an owner-type jeepney owned by Jun’s father, the only vehicle available in their small village. It took them an hour to reach the nearest hospital and the patient didn’t make it alive. Before Isabel and her husband left in a hurry, she asked Blessie’s mom to look after Tin-tin while they were away. When Blessie arrived home at half-past six, panting, she informed her mom that Tin-tin disappeared. They rushed to the Barangay Chairman’s office and informed them of the missing child. The whole neighborhood searched for her. Tin-tin was found unconscious under a banana tree. A huge brown Mariposa with white spots on its wings sat on her head as if guarding her, flew away as soon as the whole village with their brightly lit torches arrived. Tin-tin shared her account of what happened that night and left the whole village in awe. Everyone was on the look for that diamond-like stone. The elders said it was a talisman given by the universe to chosen people. This amulet is said to protect the owner from harm, escape death several times over and live a very long life until the person is ready to hand it over to a worthy successor. Years later, Tin-tin and her family moved to the city but they still visit the village from time to time. Thirty years later, she went back to the village to attend the 9th birthday party of Blessie’s daughter. It was a hot and sticky summer day. Children’s laughter and shrieks filled the air as they kept running back and forth while the men of the village busied themselves by roasting a baby pig, stuck on a bamboo stick, its skin turning deep brown against the heat of fiery charcoal while drinking shots of local gin. The women prepared the buffet table laying several oval Tupperwares containing sweet spaghetti, pancit bihon, chop suey, fried chicken, and puto ; the traditional menu for a birthday party. Tin-tin noticed a plump boy who sat on a knee-high plastic chair, watching other kids play. ‘Why don’t you join them?’ she asked. ‘They don’t want me to play with them. They said I run too slow because I’m fat,’ the little boy shrugged. Tin-tin quietly nodded as she has nothing to say about the poor child’s situation. ‘Are you new here?’ asked the plump boy, whose name Tin-tin later found out was the same as her grandfather, Fernando, son of a couple she wasn’t acquainted with. They probably moved to the village after Tin-tin and her family left. ‘Yup,’ she said, naughtily grinning. Fernando’s eyes glimmered as he excitedly told her the legend of the old war veteran, a survivor of the Philippine-Japanese War, who scared a kapre away and passed on his anting-anting to her granddaughter. ‘They said he survived the war because his anting-anting let him dodge bullets and escape death,’ the boy animatedly added. Tin-tin who has enthralled with the new legend she just heard, just smiled and nodded once again. Later in the afternoon, she bid goodbye to her childhood friend Blessie and headed towards the other side of the village where the terminal for buses routed to the city is. She walked on a concrete road that once was a chocolate-colored mud soil that hardens and cracks during summer, like an endless jigsaw puzzle. She heard heavy footsteps behind her. She stopped and looked back. The plump boy was following her. ‘Can I walk with you?’ he asked. ‘I live on the other side of the village. I think my mom forgot to pick me up.’ The chubby-cheeked boy pouted. Tin-tin smiled, up-turned her right palm, and extended it towards the boy, prompting him to hold her hand. They walked and passed by the primitive balete tree, where she saw dancing fireflies once, thinking if that rare occurrence was real or just a dream or a product of her wild imagination. As she looked at the enchanted tree, she caught a whiff of smoke with a hint of mint. A big brown Mariposa swirled around the two and landed on Fernando’s head. ‘Lolo,’ she whispered and smiled. The big brown butterfly with white spots on its wings flew and landed on her nose, sat on it for a few seconds then flapped its wings and flew far, above and beyond the peak of the balete tree. She thought of her grandfather’s legend and wondered if it was true. As a kid, she always wondered if her lolo’s story about scaring a kapre was true but she guessed she could never find out any more. It’s been thirty years since the diamond-like stone fell from the banana blossom to her hand. And whether this talisman could let her escape death and live a long life, she is yet to find out.

(Trigger warning: Strong language, domestic violence, sexual content) "Do not sleep in my room tonight," he said to Cassie on his way out the door to see Melissa, who he claimed was "just a friend." Before he downgraded Cassie and his relationship to what he called roommates, his room was her room. He was her first relationship and her first love; she dropped out of college to move in with him. Most nights, he wanted Cassie in his room, and, of course, she obliged. This proves he still loves me. This time will be different . A couple times, she worked up the courage to leave him. One time she moved back in with her parents, tail between her legs, as she explained to them he was cheating on her. Of course, they didn't know that he considered them roommates. How could she explain that? Another time she'd found a cheap apartment over an old farmhouse. She claimed the apartment was haunted, and the ghosts robbed her of sleep. But maybe she was just scared of being alone. She crashed at her friend Zoe's place several times. Zoe was the only person who knew everything about their farce of a relationship. But, she never judged, and she was always there for Cassie. “I have a spare bedroom when you’re ready for something more permanent than my couch," Zoe told Cassie more than once. "I know. Thank you," she'd say, but after a few days, he would beg for her to come back. Then he'd drop those three little words that were a magnet that pulled her back to him. This proves he still loves me. This time will be different . Faced with another night alone, Cassie ordered takeout and rented a movie. She needed to keep her mind off him, but her imagination ran wild with what he and Melissa actually did on their nights out. When she could no longer keep her eyes open, she went to her room, knowing it would be used against her if he thought she'd fallen asleep on the couch waiting up for him. Since she spent most nights in his room, her room felt more like a storage room than a bedroom. Behind her closed eyes, all she could see was him. The angry words he threw at her, his arrogant smile that said he knew she would do whatever he told her. Her mind would also flashback to their first few months together. Holding hands at the movie theater, laughing over dinner, cuddling on the couch, watching movies, making love all night. She knew she should stand up to him but thinking about it made her skin crawl with fear she would go too far, say the wrong thing, and lose him forever. She only wanted to show him the error of his ways, for him to realize she mattered, for them to be the couple they were in the beginning. Sooner or later, crying exhausted her enough to fall asleep. He shook her awake. “Get up. Come to my room.” She looked at her clock: 1:05 a.m. She sat up, rubbing her puffy eyes. He never wanted her after he went out with another girl even if she was just a friend. Has he realized I am the one he loves? Will this prove that he loves me? Will this time be different? He looked back at her from the doorway. "Brush your teeth first. I can smell your stank breath from here." Groggily, she put her hand over her mouth and breathed out, trying to catch a whiff as she padded to the bathroom. She gargled with mouthwash and brushed her teeth. She looked in the mirror at her mousy brown hair, her plump face, her swollen eyes. She tried to fluff her hair and sprayed the perfume he loved. “Hurry up,” he yelled from his bedroom. “I gotta work in the morning.” She found him in the bedroom, naked, spread eagle on the bed. He grinned at her, showing off that split between his teeth she thought was so adorable when they met. His green eyes sparkled. He’s happy to see me. He’s happy to be here with me ! This proves he still loves me. This time will be different . She smiled back as she removed her nightshirt and panties, trying to cover up the chubby parts he liked to point out, not daring to turn out the lights. He was a "lights on kinda guy" he always told her. “Don’t cover up,” he said. “I want to see you.” She closed her eyes as he leaned in to kiss her, his tongue darting in and out of her mouth. When he pulled away, she took the moment to catch her breath. Her eyes flew open wide to see him staring down at her with the arrogant smile he wore so well. This was a brand-new hell. She never dreamed he could hurt her with a smell. He rubbed his fingers along his goatee and tried to push them in her mouth. She turned away in disgust as tears welled up. “Oh c'mon, Cas. I know you like it. Don’t you want to taste her like I did? I took care of her, now I need you to take care of me. C’mon baby, I love you, show me you love me.” She faced him and let him kiss her again. When he pulled her on top of him, she didn’t hesitate. After all, he said the magic words. Ten minutes later, he snored beside her, and she went to wash away the taste of his betrayal. She paused at the door of the bathroom, her head swinging from her room to his with indecision. Different but same, loneliness and sadness beckoned from both rooms. She climbed under the covers and cuddled up to his warm body. "Get off," he said, scrunching his body to push her away. “Sorry,” she whispered as she moved to the other side of the bed. “Just get out. I gotta get up early, and I don't need your snoring keeping me up all night." *** At the beginning of their relationship, this was a running joke. “You’re snoring is going to keep me up all night,” he’d tell her as he stroked her hair. She knew it was cliché, but that look from him made her feel like she had to be the luckiest woman in the world. "That's my plan," she'd say with a mischievous smile. So they'd make love all night, each teasing the other that they might as well since the snoring would keep them awake anyway. *** She smiled and stroked his back. “Well, if my snoring will keep you awake, why don’t we go for round two?” "I'm serious, Cassie. Get out." She sat up and looked at him. Her sadness turned into desperation and anger. "Why are you so mean to me?" “Not this again,” he said with a sigh. “Not this again? Not fucking this again? What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means the same damn thing it means all the time. Just because we screw once in a while doesn’t change that. I. DON’T. WANT. YOU. You’re fat, you’re ugly, you smell awful. That horrible perfume just makes it worse. How many times do I have to tell you that? Now get out.” “You told me you loved this perfume. You--” “I lied!” He yelled loud enough to make her jump. She threw back the covers and stomped out of his room, slamming the door shut. She went to her room, slammed her own door, then opened it and slammed it one more time, trying to slam the anger out. Anger emboldened her to leave; the red blocked out everything else. She would wait until he left for work to escape. For good this time. This time will be different. She was still awake when she heard him get up for work, and finally, the apartment door opened and shut. After he left, she climbed into his bed, inhaling his smell as she drifted off to sleep trying to hold onto one last good memory of him. He came home early as she took one last look around. It was rare for him to come home for lunch. Her heart stopped, but she steeled herself. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Leaving again? Don’t think I'll allow you to come back again.” She looked up at him, appalled at how arrogant he could be. She tossed her bag over her shoulder and reached for the doorknob, but then she hesitated. "Already changing your mind?" he asked. "That's fine. Why don't you go pick us up something to eat? Hurry up, I don’t have a long lunch." She turned and looked at him, cursing her tears for betraying her sadness. She had a note in her pocket she'd planned to leave for him, but she worked up the courage to tell him the words she mulled over all morning. She took a deep breath. “I can’t love you enough for both of us, and I can’t love me for you. But I can love myself enough to say goodbye. This time will be different.” “Oh, that's a good one. Best you have had in a---" She didn't hear the rest as she shut the door softly behind her. We never forget our first love, and with Cassie, it was no different. She spent many years figuring out who she was and finding the confidence and self-worth that he attempted to rob from her. She sat at her desk, staring at his friend request on social media. She could hear him in her head, “You’re fat, you’re ugly, and you smell bad.” She remembered like it was yesterday: how she wanted to sink into the floor, how she cried herself to sleep, how he made her hate who she was even while she prayed that he would love her like she loved him. Her finger hovered over the delete button. He couldn’t hurt her anymore, but she still didn’t understand. Friends told her he was a narcissist. Her therapist told her that he verbally abused her. Intellectually, she understood, but closure and acceptance always felt just out of her grasp. She clicked accept. Almost immediately, her phone vibrated, signaling a private message from the social media app. “Long time no talk. How ya been?” She stared at the message for a long time. Her hands shook as she looked through his photos and posts. She hadn't seen him in at least 15 years, yet there he was, showing off that same smile, the same split peeking out between his teeth, and those green eyes. Instead of an aging, miserable, middle-aged man, the pictures showed a happy, perfect family. No one else could possibly put up with how mean he was. Or was he only mean to me? Get a grip! He has no control over me. This time will be different. She responded to him: “Doing great. You?" They chatted for a few minutes. She emphasized how happy she was, and he told her about his wife, his children, his job, but one question plagued her mind. “Why were you so mean to me?” Ellipses showed, then stopped, then showed up again as she waited for his answer. Finally, several minutes later, his response came on the screen. “Because I could.” She stared at his message, and she thought of all the wonderful memories she made after she left him. She smiled as she deleted, blocked, and unfriended him. Her life wasn’t always easy nor perfect, and while, on some level, she always knew, it finally clicked into place at that moment. This time was different. He no longer mattered. She was the one that mattered, and she'd never let anyone take that away from her again. Why? Because she could.

Desperate Remedies By Erika Sams After a week on a meditation retreat in the middle of nowhere Josephine had decided the Zen life was bullshit. Behind the smiles and high-pitched whispers of welcome was a rage barely contained with deep breathing and overdosing on lavender tea. Fuck, that tea was delicious though. Either way, she knew all these lost souls were one misfortune away from snapping. How was she so sure? Because the yoga instructor was dead in her trunk. In Josephine’s defense, she was feeling much better! The smell of lavender from the tea she drowned her instructor in was giving her a wonderful calm. An anxious person would have hurried to dump the body somewhere, but Josephine found herself pulling into the Home Depot parking lot. She didn’t even lock her car when she went into the store. Only an anxious person would worry about that. She knew no one would think to look into the trunk of a 2006 Ford Focus in the middle of a Home Depot parking lot on a Tuesday afternoon. Grabbing one of their long-bedded carts Josephine wandered to the garden center in search of that purple flower that was the answer to all her problems. Spotting what she needed, she buried her face into her new favorite flower and inhaled deeply like a crackhead taking their first line of cocaine. One by one she put every single lavender plant they had onto her cart and realized it would not be enough. For the first time since murdering her instructor Josephine grew desperate; she needed more! She made her way to the check out and before she could say anything the associate said, “Someone is getting their lavender on this year.” The rounded woman in an apron had a lighthearted attitude, but Josephine was not feeling lighthearted. “Well, I am trying to, but this is all I’m seeing. Do you have some more in the back?” she was unaware of how her eyes were bulging from her head as she said this. The associate began to fidget anxiously, “Sorry miss, everything we have is now on your cart.” “This isn’t enough, I need more!” “I--uh--” the associate stuttered, “I can order more for you. Set it up for delivery if you like! Let me see how fast I can get them to you, how many would you like?” Josephine thought for a minute, “Lets start with 500.” The associate looked at her for a moment thinking she was joking, “Uh...” typing into the computer she continued, “I hear this stuff is a miracle worker for stress.” “It is, now where are we on the 500?” Realizing Josephine was not calm, the associate went quickly to work, quoted her the price, and to her surprise Josephine paid for that order and the lavender on her cart without hesitation. “The 500 you ordered will get to you on Thursday. Our driver will give you a call when they are on the way.” Feeling calm again, Josephine thanked the associate, loaded the lavender she found in her car, cranked her music, rolled down her windows, and was finally headed home. Josephine lived in a gorgeous Victorian home on 24 acres of land she had inherited from her grandmother who died last year. It was a beautiful home, but empty and lonely. The same week her grandmother died she walked in on her boyfriend of two years fucking her best friend since kindergarten. Josephine fell into a deep depression, but her inheritance supported her newfound alcoholism. Locked away in self-isolation with only the ghosts that came out when she was drunk to haunt her. Eventually the cycle of alcohol and cake delivered to her front door by a delivery service while she sat in her pajamas having not showered in weeks, no longer served her. She was ready to move on. That is how she found herself at the retreat and is now driving home with a car full of lavender and a yoga instructor in her trunk. An anxious person would go as far away from their house as they could to bury the body, but someone who just found the magic of lavender, or perhaps just lost all their fucks, grabs a shovel, and starts to dig right behind the house. Six feed down is deep, they use machines to do that. Josephine digs about three feet down and is able to drag her instructor into the hole. Thankfully yoga instructors are always so tiny, she looked even smaller laying pale and lifeless in the dirt. As Josephine looked down from outside the makeshift grave, she found herself in a meditative state. Ironic, isn’t it? She thought. When the body was buried, she pulled out her lavender flowers and began to plant them side by side, first over the body, then continuing as far out as she could go until she had used up most of the bulbs. Satisfied for now, she took the lavender she had set aside into the house, some to hang upside down to dry for tea later, and the rest was laid into a bath with salts. Lighting candles, she sank beneath the water and coming back up breathed in the beautiful smell. For the first time in a year, she found quiet, and calm without alcohol, and all the demons that haunted her were silenced. An ick hit her nostrils and suddenly she needed lavender candles. She found what she needed on amazon which would arrive first thing in the morning. As desperate as she was, she was also tired and satisfied for now. Closing her eyes, she let herself fall to sleep in the lavender waters. Over the next few days Josephine’s garden grew 10 times the size it was the first day. Hundreds of lavender candles were delivered, and candlesticks she pressed lavender to before placing them all over her home. Lavender hung from her kitchen ceiling in bulks and was pressed between pages of books. The smell gave Josephine a calm, moving gracefully throughout the house taking in the flower and adding more. On Saturday she sat at the table sipping lavender tea when the sound of tires on gravel caught her attention. Moving to the window, she sees a black SUV pulling up to her front door. A man wearing a black suit with blackout shades exits the vehicle and buttons his suit in the front. He looks just like a detective out of one of those crime shows, she thought. The man came to the front door and knocked. Josephine was anxious as she set her tea down with a trembling hand, took a deep breath, and opened the front door with a welcoming smile, “Can I help you?” “Josephine Phillips?” the detective asked, revealing a badge. “That’s me.” “My name is Detective Branton, I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions?” “Absolutely,” Josephine said opening the door and gesturing the detective in, “I was just enjoying a cup of tea, would you like any?” “That’s very kind of you miss,” he accepted following her to the kitchen. The smell of lavender was overwhelming as he looked around seeing the candles and dried plant hanging all over the ceiling. Josephine heated up a bit of water dropping her lavender into the water and in the same motion she also poured a few drops of cyanide. She returned to the table with a sweet smile, offering the tea to the detective. He thanked her and took a sip, “Wow, that is delicious!” “You’re too kind,” Josephine feigned a blush, “now, what can I do for you, detective?” Detective Branton took another sip of his tea, “One of the instructors from a yoga retreat you just went to has been reported missing. No one has heard from her in five days. We are interviewing everyone who attended the retreat to make sure she is okay. Her family states this is unlike her.” The detective pauses to clear his throat looking rather pale. “Are you alright detective?” she asked with the gentleness of a saint on Sunday. “May I use your restroom?” the detective asked. “Yes, of course--” she gestured towards the bathroom and the detective slowly rose, then began to fall sideways into the floor. Josephine took another sip of her tea, enjoying the peace and quiet of the room. After a moment her eye caught the detective’s hand which had fallen to the floor beside him and a panic button, she was sure had already been pushed. Sighing, she brought her teacup back up to her lips, “Well that’s inconvenient,” she said aloud and took a sip. Once she was done with her cup of tea she washed it in the sink along with the detective’s cup. Shame he hadn’t been able to finish it, she thought. She felt some anxiety begin to creep into her, so she pulled out her phone and ordered some lavender soaps, more flowers, and candles to be delivered the next morning. Josephine drug the detective’s body into the middle of her large living room, laying him out on his back and folding his arms across his chest. Going outside, she picked some lavender from her garden and placed the bouquet in his hands. How peaceful he looked to her. With no hurry she walked throughout every room lighting her lavender candles which had already been placed. Once every room had candles going, she removed all the dried lavender from her kitchen and placed it into a circle like a ritual. Every spare candle she had was placed throughout the living room, on every piece of furniture, around the detective’s body, around the circle of dried lavender. It felt like a scene from one of those vampire movies which made her feel dangerous and powerful. Perhaps she was about to elevate. By the time she was satisfied the sun had set and the candles provided her only light. Sitting in the middle of the lavender circle, she entered a meditation pose, inhaling the lavender deeply, the detective’s body lay in front of her. The low rumble of helicopters could be heard in the distance, and gravel began to crack under the tires of countless vehicles pulling into her driveway. “They are coming for you, detective,” she said, “but don’t worry, they won’t be able to reach us.” Inhaling deeply, Josephine took one of the candlesticks and lit the dried lavender that surrounded her. Fire spread around her quickly engulfing the dry lavender. Fire began to escape the precariously laid candles around her and within moments the entire room was on fire, the flames spreading quickly throughout the entire house. Before the S.W.A.T. team could even break through the door, the entire mansion was engulfed in flames. Josephine’s circle enclosed around her, and her clothes caught fire, spreading quickly to her hair and skin. As though waking from a trance Josephine began to panic and scream in painful anguish. Jumping from where she had surrendered herself, she ran through the house covered in flames, her skin crumbling to black like a burned marshmallow. She ran out her back door and through her lavender garden, the flames that encapsulated her spreading to her garden of lavender. Falling to the ground in her garden Josephine gasped for air but only inhaled smoke. As officers called for fire trucks and tried to contain what they could, Josephine took her last breath in her garden of lavender.

The Old Man shuffled around his cabin, collecting papers he’d laid out the night before. Having found his writings, he moved to the back of the cabin and tossed them into the fire with a lazy flick of his wrist. In a few days, they wouldn’t matter anymore. His cabin wasn’t large, consisting mostly of counters and shelves stocked with curious objects he’d collected over time. An oak table stood in the middle of the room. Now that it was empty, it seemed to take up even more space than before. Standing in front of the fire, the Old Man spent a single, silent tear from his one good eye. “I wished to spend more time with them, but it seems they aren’t as accepting as I’d hoped.” The old man said to the fire. As it wrapped around the papers, erasing them, the fire crackled its response. “Thank you, old friend. I always enjoyed your company when visiting.” The Old Man murmured to the flame before becoming lost in thought. “Funny how you were one of the first, yet I still haven't grown tired of you. I only wish the others were as welcoming as you. You are respectively complex and simple, the villagers could learn a thing from you. Most of them believe you to be best suited for destruction, though you are meant for maintaining life.” His eye glazed over as his mind wandered, straining to grasp the nature of all the people he’d met. “It won't be long now.” The Old Man knew they would be coming for him since he had been chased out of the village hours before. He couldn't allow them to discover anything he had lying around here, for they wouldn't be prepared for the secrets they'd find. Healing them didn’t gain their trust, and sharing knowledge wouldn't gain their pacifism. Humans were like that. When something they don't understand approaches them, they are quick to deny, ignore, and even hate it. The Old Man had searched for a village that would understand him, even welcome him and his teachings. After all, he was a mentor, and what is a mentor without a student? One who's meant to guide others struggles when there is no one to guide. The flame did not respond. “Oh my, I am truly sorry.” The Old Man said to the ashes. He had lost track of time, the sun was now rising to burn in the sky. Left unattended for too long the fire burned through all it had, extinguishing its own life simply by living. There was something to be learned here, even for the Old Man who knew so much. Before he could grasp it and hold that lesson close, the sounds of shouting pulled it away from him. “Get out here!” Miss Ava screeched from outside. “You, you, and James get ready to go in there and get him if he wants to be difficult.” “Yes, Mistress.” James nodded. James was Miss Ava’s personal henchman, and plaything. He was a stocky butler who had served the family for years. Even before her husband's passing, Miss Ava was known to have the not too occasional affair, her favorite often rumored to be the butler. Now it was practically common knowledge, though no one was brave enough to bring it up. They had all been there when the executions took place. James had pulled the other end of the noose himself after throwing his weighted end over a tree branch. He pulled those men off the ground and held them there as they squirmed. Those were the lucky ones. The other two men were just part of the crowd Miss Ava had gathered in the square last night. She hadn’t expected such a large turnout, but mob mentality had its advantages. Even those who didn’t help with the dirty work, wouldn’t want to miss the execution. Miss Ava had been married to the late mayor. His sudden passing had left the seat of power empty, and though she was slow to mourning, she was quick to sit in that position. A woman mayor wasn’t unheard of, her husband’s grandmother Grace once ruled here. Miss Ava claimed she was always Grace’s favorite, a lie of course, and she had no problem taking advantage of the people's naiveness to gain her throne. The mayor's son was working to take his father's office, but shortly after his passing, the boy fell ill. He was too weak to rise from his bed, and the staff was forbidden to see him. Only his step-mother was allowed to treat him. Those who opposed her found the noose shortly after. She swore off the position of mayor, a Queen would rule here from now on she declared. Whispers of revolt hung from a tree, and hope burned shortly after. With nooses and torches in hand, the mob surrounded the cabin. Miss Ava made her way to the front, hands empty. “My boy was getting better.” She shouted. “You show up in My town and claim to be a healer, performing “miracles” trying to steal My people’s trust, and now look where you are. You wanted what was mine, well now you can have them.” Throwing her arms forward, the townspeople swept towards the cabin. The Old Man sat in the center of the cabin facing the door. His good eye was closed, and his composure seemed calm as three men burst into his cabin. Immediately, the villagers began sweating profusely. Their vision blurred as they attempted to stand on shaky legs. They all clutched their heads in pain, and James fell to the floor, convulsing. The two villagers ran from the cabin, fleeing the furnace, leaving their fellow man on the ground. Behind them, the Old Man closed his blind eye. “What are you two doing!” She screamed. The two men stumbled past her and back into the crowd. “Fine, remind me later that you two will be joining him.” Miss Ava strode towards the cabin. James stumbled out of the door, vomit covering his chest. He collided with Miss Ava nearly knocking her over. “Disgusting.” She snapped. “I'm sorry.” James managed to get out. “Move, you big idiot.” She turned to address the crowd. “Is there no one here competent enough to drag a crippled old man out of his cabin?” The crowd gazed past her. Startled by the imposing figure behind her. A man stood in the doorway, upright rather than hunched over. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, and where a blind eye should have been, was a burning sun. “Crippled?” The Old Man asked from behind her. “I’m only missing one eye, and sure, my legs don't move quite as fast as they used to. These long years may have hunched my shoulders, but I’d still consider myself less damaged than you.” Miss Ava spun around. “How dare you speak to me like that.” She spit, and slapped the Old Man. “James, get yourself back up here and deal with this.” Having barely recovered, James gathered up some of the more willing villagers, most of whom were imprisoned by the previous mayor. Violence wasn’t common in this town, and crime was often punished with labor. However, it did have a small jail for crimes too harsh to be ignored. Together they dragged the Old Man from the cabin, forcing a noose around his neck. James tossed his weighted end over the limb of a nearby tree, and the gang hoisted the Old Man into the air. “Now, Now. This would be a far too easy end for a man like you.” Miss Ava said, walking with a chair in hand she grabbed from the cabin. She sat the chair just under the Old Man's feet, gesturing for the men to let him down far enough to stand on it. “This should be more fitting, you’ll hang yourself rather than let your feet burn. Everyone does.” With a snap, unseen by anyone else, she set the chair ablaze with a soft yellow flame. The Old Man didn’t cry out in pain. He stood in the fire wondering if this could have been avoided somehow. His thoughts wandered to earlier days, had Father known his creations would become so lost? Of course he did, Father had created his Keepers after all. Embers, such as Miss Ava drifted away from the Flame, and it was The Old Man's job to return them. As a Flame Keeper, he was expected to control the damage a drifting Ember could cause. Though, Embers weren’t an issue before Father left. Could it be Father’s fault their society had all but fallen apart? The Old Man focussed, he could not allow himself to doubt everything now. A boy, barely past his fifteenth year, pushed through the crowd. He woke up to an empty town and remembered The Old Man's last words to him. He’d been told that his step-mother would come by again tonight and that if he didn't trust the Old Man then he wouldn't live to see the next morning. All the heat had been taken from his body, he remembered growing cold, and suddenly aware of his own pulse slowing. Miss Ava had entered the room that night, shocked to find his heart already stopped. She’d been slowly raising the boy's fever through her control of The Flame, planning to make his death look like the result of an incurable illness. That morning, a comfortable heat had come back to his body, just as the Old Man promised. A heat that reminded him of winter nights by his grandmother's fireplace, when she would tell him stories of her travels. It was nothing like the miserable heat of his stepmothers. “Old Man!” He yelled. Miss Ava’s mouth hung open, speechless. She spun at the sound of the boy, and watched as the townspeople collectively wiped the sweat from their brow and collapsed. Except for the boy. The sound of screams turned her head towards James and her other henchman. They fell to the ground, rolling in the dirt as a golden flame roared around them. Their cries stopped, and the wind carried their remains over the collapsed villagers. “No.” She began to sweat, not from the heat, but from her nervousness. “I've been so careful not to be found.” “Your misuse of The Flame could not go unnoticed by me.” The Old man declared. “In our Father’s absence you know it is I who keeps you stray Embers in check. We are not meant to control humans like this. You've manipulated The Flame for too long, and it’s time you returned home.” “Come with me, young man,” Grace said, suddenly standing next to the boy. “you have much to learn about your grandfather and me. Just let him finish here.” The Old Man’s flame crawled up Miss Ava’s legs, turning her body to ash as it climbed. She wondered who was screaming as her voice filled her ears. Her gaze drifted up to the Old Man standing on the chair, and his blind eye burned bright.

It had been 15 long years since the last time they had seen each other. Everyone had gone in separate directions, they had all thought they would be together forever, but sometimes, that’s not how things work out. In 2020 we graduated and now it is 2035, it’s been so long, too long. Two remained together, they married and had a family, forgot the rest of us existed, except for when the fifteen year high school reunion was approaching. They arrived at the school at separate times, but soon they ran into each other and the reunion couldn’t have been happier...... Storm was standing near the punch bowl, eagerly watching for someone she knew to appear, she turned around and almost ran smack into another person. “Storm, is that you?” a voice said. Storm broke into a grin, it was Amanda! They hadn’t changed very much, their hair was cut in a pixie style, instead of the long, golden locks they had in high school. “Amanda, it’s so good to see you!” she said, “What’ve you been up to?” “Well, I have a Masters Degree in Social Sciences and work here actually, as a guidance counselor.” Amanda said. “Oh, and I am non-binary, now that I don’t live with my mother, I can be whoever I want, no matter her opinions.” Storm smiled, “That’s great, I know how much you wanted her to accept you as you.” “What’ve you been doing, aside from getting married, that ring is beautiful!” Amanda said. “Yep, I married Prince, he’s around here somewhere, probably is looking for Jack, anyways, we have a seven year old son named Alec. I am a 4th grade teacher at Garfield Elementary and I run a non-profit to support families in need.” Storm said, smiling. “That’s amazing Storm, I always thought Prince would end up with Leana though,” Amanda said. “Yeah, I know, but they broke up two years after high school, hey look over there, is that...” Storm said. “NO WAY, it is them, c’mon!” Amanda said, dragging Storm with her away. Carlos just walked into the gym when he saw someone very familiar standing near the stage, he immediately went over and tapped on their shoulder. “Jo is that you,” he said. The person turned around and their face lit up when they saw who was standing behind them. “Carlos, I can’t believe it’s you,” they said. “How’ve you been.” “Well I am a Sports Broadcaster at CNN and that’s about it,” Carlos said. “What’ve you been up to Jo?” Jo was still smiling, “Let’s see, I am an English teacher here, Amanda works here too by the way, and I am still genderqueer and straight, otherwise nothin else has changed.” “Your hair looks good, the chin-length suits you,” Carlos said. Jo laughed, “Thanks, yours hasn’t changed at all.” They both smiled at each other. “Soo,” Jo said. “Are you in a relationship?” Carlos’ smile faded a little, then it brightened again. “No actually.” he said. “I dated a coworker for a week four years ago, but my last serious relationship was you, what about you,” he said, making eye contact with Jo. “Nope, last time I dated was, well, you.” they said smiling shyly. Carlos looked around for a minute. He paused abruptly. “Hey, look over there, is that who I think it is?” he said. “Jo looked where Carlos was pointing and smiled. “I think it is, c’mon!” They smiled and grabbed Carlos’ hand and they hurried away. Marcus was standing against the wall, watching the sea of people crowded into their high school gym. They thought about all of the memories here, all the people here, everything here that shaped their life. They smiled to themselves before walking over to a pair of people having a conversation a few feet away. It took them a moment to recognize the pair, the woman’s hair was longer and the man’s was very short, what seemed like a buzzcut. “Hey guys,” they said. The two figures stopped talking and broke into huge grins when they saw who had approached them. The woman spoke first, “Marcus, oh my gosh it’s so good to see you!” “Hey Marcus,” the man said. “Hi Kayla, hi Jay, it’s been too long, what are y’all up to nowadays?” they asked. Kayla smiled, “We got married two years into college and have two children, a nine year old girl named Joy and an eleven year old son named Matt. I am a lawyer and Jay over here can tell you what he does.” Jay smiled slyly, “I’m an FBI agent,” he said. Marcus laughed, “No way, seriously, who knew all those jokes about the FBI would make one of us become an actual FBI agent!” “So what do you do now Marcus?” Jay said. “Well, I am a teacher at a middle school nearby and I do some public speaking on the side for LGBTQ+ rights and recognition, after all I am non-binary and bisexual.” they said. “That’s amazing, I always knew you would do great things, oh, and did I mention I love your hair.” Kayla said. “Thanks, it hasn’t changed at all, same old pixie cut, and I always knew you two would end up together,” Marcus said. All of a sudden four excited voices came up on the group from all sides. After a moment of stunned silence, all eight embraced. The gang was back together again. After a hug that seemed like forever they looked at each other, smiling, studying the faces of their friends from so long ago. They all started talking at once, asking how each other had been, what they were up to, who they were with. Carlos tapped Jo on the shoulder and motioned for them to follow. The two snuck away from their old friends, who barely noticed they had left, and went out into the hall. “I missed you,” Carlos said. “I missed you too,” Jo replied. They gazed into each other’s eyes. “Your eyes are still the same,” Jo said. “What do you mean?” Carlos asked. “They’re the same deep, brown eyes I gazed into in high school, the eyes of the man I fell in love with all those years ago.” Jo said, smiling. “Your eyes are the same too,” Carlos said. “How?” Jo asked. “They’re the same bright bluish, greenish, grayish, whatever color they are, anyways, they always made me smile and made me happy.” he said. They started staring deep into each other’s eyes again, remembering all of the times they spent together in high school and how much they loved and missed each other’s presence in their lives. Before they knew it, their lips were touching and their eyes were shut, grasping each other’s hands. That’s exactly how Storm, Amanda, Kayla, Jay, and Marcus found them a moment later. They finally pulled away and looked at their friends, smiling. “This is why we came back today, to see each other and mend old relationships.” Amanda said. Carlos looked at Jo, “Do you wanna try this again?” he asked. “Yeah, I do, but this time, we’ll do it right,” Jo said smiling. Carlos and Jo walked over to their friends, still holding hands and all eight embraced once again, this time they wouldn’t forget each other and miss out on being in each other’s lives. Two years later Carlos and Jo got married and lived out the rest of their days together, with their friends by their side the entire time.

Small waves lapped against the next contestant as she bobbed in the water. The game was called “Don’t shit a brick.” The goal was to see who could doggy paddle the longest while holding a brick. Juvenile, sure. Was it fun? You’re damn right it was. Jennifer had cried out with glee when she first entered the water, then her face squished in like a sponge when she was handed the brick. She momentarily grimaced as the red, clay brick scraped against her inner thigh. But she managed to hold onto it surrounded by the vibrantly colored speedboats of her classmates. Her red and blue bikini top was fastened tight around her neck, but the grasping texture of the brick threatened to expose her sun shaded breasts to the boys leaning off the sides of their boats, cheering wildly like she was crossing the finish line with each minor stroke. The coldness of Lake Holshire had sucked my breath away earlier in the afternoon, when the first round of tubing had begun. The coldness could be seen on Jennifer’s face, in the way she gasped for air and kept her eyes focused on one spot in the sky. Maybe if we had brought more than one brick, the contestant would have felt better about dropping it to the mossy bottom below. As it were, Jennifer struggled with the weight and the beers she had drank earlier. She managed to keep herself afloat as someone yelled, “She looks like she’s shitting a brick!” The three speedboats all had their engines killed and their anchor points tethered, leaving a triangular opening in the water. As Jennifer struggled with her clay weight, the boats sloshed and shimmied so that Jennifer was no longer in the center of the triangle, but closer to Davis’ boat, a shining red and black beast that could hit sixty miles an hour without blinking. I yelled to Davis, “Get her out, man. She’s finished.” He didn’t even look at me, but kept staring down at the top of her breasts that glistened just above the surface of the water. In the afternoon sun, the water was a navy blue, like the oppressive folds of storm clouds about to spit rain. Davis was now laying on the edge of his Mastiff, as he called the red and black racer, urging Jennifer to just give up and take her top off. She didn’t need to be weighed down by it. Her faux laugh filled her mouth with Lake water, which she spit out with squinting eyes. “Shut up, Dave,” was all she managed to mouth before slipping under water. Davis turned to Trev, “Did you hear what she said?” He didn’t see her submerge into the triangle of darkness, like a pole searching for the bottom of Lake Holshire. The water rippled outwards where the crown of her head had gone under, breaking symmetry on the side of the Mastiff. One, two, three seconds pass. No sign of her. She’s not coming up. I search the black water to see if I can find her, but cannot. I glance at the others. There’s more than a dozen people and not one of them seems concerned that Jennifer has just taken the plunge to death. She’s a caught bobber and no one wants to reel her in. Alcohol does dumb shit to people. I dive in, momentarily wondering if I should have jumped in feet first rather than swan dive into the water. But I don’t hit her. I open my eyes and am amazed at how bright it is underwater. The boats cast long shadows down a corridor of the lake, but there’s wide expanses receiving bright sunlight now. I can see Jennifer with her eyes closed about ten feet below. She is drifting there like a person caught between a dream and waking. She’s let go of the brick but her hands still hold it near her chest. Something in the water brushes against my eyelids causing them to close momentarily. I fear she’ll be dead when I get her in my arms. Will she drift away when I’m back? I reach her, grab her underneath her arms and start kicking for the surface. I can see the long angular shadows from the boats spread wider and wider, until I’m panting above the dark expanse of the black triangle.

Everyone attended the baptism of Baby Johnson. That is, everyone residing at 24 th and High Street did. And why wouldn’t they? Baby Johnson was the new light to all of their busy lives. Each tenet at 24 th and High Street knew the importance of celebrating and supporting the proud parents after the loss of their beloved three-year old. Through death and new life, they surrounded each other in grief and happiness. During the service everyone gazed in wonder and smiles at the couple and their child. Miss Parks, in her motherly way, glanced at her tenets from across the aisle. She wondered how long each of them had been in her life and under her watchful eye. Eleven of her children, even though two were her senior. One was a veteran who had lost his arm at the battle of Antietam. “Yes,” she thought to herself. “This is my family.” The splattering of rain had surprised the small congregation as they exited the church and made their way down 24 th Street. Three quick blocks before they came to the brick flat they called home. “24 th and High Street, please,” he mumbled to the cab driver as he slipped into the backseat from the pouring rain. It was almost morning and he had to get home and to bed to sober up before work in a few hours. He nodded off for maybe a brief second before the driver awoke him notifying him of his destination. As he climbed the steps he felt happy to be home. “Yes,” he thought to himself. This is my home.” He mounted the steps and using the railing, pulled himself to his apartment door. He knew everyone in the building was asleep, but what did he care? He barely knew his landlord, or anyone in the building for that matter. Paying his rent and submitting work orders for his one room apartment was all done online. He was happy he did not have to communicate with anyone in person. Reg closed the door, bolted it shut, and made for the bed. Staring at the ceiling, he half blamed himself for getting thrown out of the girl’s apartment. Maybe he moved too quickly. Maybe it was the booze in his system. Either way, he would never see her again and he was ok with that thought. Not seeing his family and friends in over seven years, he cut everyone out of his life. He moved to the city on a whim and a promise of a high-end job that would pay him well. An ambitious job that he dreamt about all through college. Now that he has the job, where is he? The tiger clawed his way to the top of the cage, leaving the carcasses of those he had loved to rot below him. And he knew it. Reg closed his eyes and the room spun. Opening them, he caught the inevitable flashing of neon lights through the cracks of the curtain. His eyes closed again, then opened. Head under the pillow, Reg fell into a deep sleep. Miss Parks had a nice reception in the parlor for her tenets that afternoon. There was laughing and loud chatter. She fluttered from group to group ensuring everyone was content, while listening in on each conversation. She felt it was her obligation to keep tranquility at her boarding house. A young man had just stepped away from one of the gatherings when Miss Parks rushed over to him at the sideboard. “I’ve been meaning to ask Mr. McGuire how you’re liking your stay here.” “Oh, just fine, just fine. Thank you, Miss Parks.” “These past three months have flown by, but I suppose that’s life. Just whoosh and it’s done and gone.” “I suppose it is,” said the young man who to Miss Parks appeared like a small boy blushing. “And are you adjusting to city life?” “I must admit it is quite the adjustment. This is the furthest and longest I have been away from my family.” “Well, I hope you get to see them soon. Maybe they can make a trip down here and see their son all grown up,” Miss Parks accidentally stepped on his foot while saying this. She had a clumsy way about her while she conversed with those she attempted to care about. “Thank you, Miss Parks, but I doubt anytime soon. Father is busy with the mill and mother has the children to look after. In the meantime, I have all of you to keep me company.” “That does a body good to hear that you find all of us good company to keep with. I see everyone here as my family.” At this she was called over to another duty to care for another member of her supposed family. The blushing young Mr. McGuire turned around to the sideboard and made himself appear busy, at least in thought. At last, the day was through. Reg returned home from a morning of spinning walls followed by immense hunger that was barely satisfied with his ham sandwich, which he ate alone. Alone. That was how Reg always found himself. He would often tell himself he was happier being alone, but who was he kidding? Passing through the front door to 24 th and High Street, he attempted to quickly collect his mail. The whitewashed walls made the entrance seem even smaller than it already was. He stared at the wall across from the mailboxes. Apparently, from what he was told, there used to be a parlor. He considered what it may have looked like and pondered its use. Yet, it too was walled up. Just like everything in his life. Not knowing what was on the other side of that wall, he began dreaming about the possibilities. Maybe it’s a spacious bedroom for his landlord? Perhaps a billiards room for invisible guests of his landlord? Or maybe it is still the same old parlor that greeted past tenets with old, rotting furniture covered in white cloth. Suddenly, the front door opened, awakening Reg from his dreams. Mumbling hello to the older man, he scurried up the stairs without pausing for a reply. This was not the first time he pondered about what laid behind the white wall downstairs. It’s not the first time he pondered about possible friends he could have. But he tried having friends before, and chose to cut them out of his life. Or at least he told himself that it chose to do so. It was less effort on his part. He could find just as much happiness in television and on his phone or computer. Cracking open a beer, the sound interrupted the silence in the room. Then, the television reverberated the room with sound and Reg felt the warmth of being nestled in his room by the cold, sixty-two-inch glow. Even if he tried to tell himself that he was happy in life, somehow truth leaked through those walls. Mr. McGuire kept busy regularly. Whether it was with work, evenings at the lodge, or going for a walk around the block, he kept himself busy. Seeing this made Miss Parks happy. She would sit up late in the parlor waiting for her flock to come home. One of the last to arrive home would be Mr. McGuire. She knew his schedule better than he knew it himself, and he discovered himself hating that fact. One cold night the front door blew open with a rush of frigid air. Mr. McGuire stepped in. Looking up, he expected to see Miss Parks sitting by the fireplace with a pot of hot coffee waiting for him. There was no one, and the fire was out. The gas lights flickered alone, patiently waiting for someone. Half saddened, but half pleased, he trudged up the steps to his haven. The following morning, he was awoken to silence in the building. He headed downstairs for Miss Parks’ usual breakfast. The parlor was filled with the other tenets. Dread and horror were on all their faces. A physician stepped out of her bedroom into the parlor. Mrs. Johnson approached Mr. McGuire, “Oh Ted, it’s terrible. Miss Parks.” Mr. McGuire stood motionless. The physician broke the silence, “It appears she’s been dead for some time. Who found her?” Mr. McGuire observed one of the older tenets raise her trembling hand. He looked around the room in disbelief. Never again would he look at that parlor the same way again. Each time he entered the front door, he would try to look past the room to his right and head directly up the stairs. Another evening wasted in front of the television. Reg awoke, thinking it was midnight. Reaching for his phone he saw that it was only seven. Was he happy that it was still early? He was unsure of this question. He was unsure about many things in his life. There was one aspect of his dreary existence that he was certain of. Loneliness. He was certain that he was lonely and was past the point of no return. He reached out next to the couch in pulled open a drawer. He pushed past broken pens and other odds and ends. At first, he hesitated, but then he found it. A small plastic bottle of pills. He held it up to the light. Twenty or so pills. He knew that was all he had to do. A couple quick gulps and his miserable existence would be over. Turning the bottle in his hands, he listened to the rattle of the pills. They were egging him on. Or were they asking to be placed back in the drawer? Stored away until another day. Yet, who would find him? His landlord? A man he had met less than the bartender down the street. Who would notify his family? His family. He wondered what they were up to. Staring back at his phone he saw that only two minutes had slugged by. He thought about picking up the phone and calling his mother. How would she sound? Would she be happy to hear his voice? He picked up the phone, while tumbling the pills in the bottle. Just then, a knock on the door. Startling himself, he dropped the bottle to the floor. Shamefully he shoved it back in the drawer and answered the door. Standing in front of him was the girl from the other evening. “What? How?” Fumbling as he had done with the bottle, Reg couldn’t make a coherent sentence. Half smiling, the young girl spoke up, “Don’t you remember? You showed me your apartment building the other night. Your landlord showed me up to your door.” Beaming, Reg welcomed her into his room. “I must remember to thank my landlord,” he thought to himself.

The mirror regards me coolly, telling me bluntly what I already know: The dress is too big. Nevertheless I push on, determined to look somewhat tasteful on my impromptu wedding day, and continue stuffing crumpled towels from the dispenser into the bodice that was cut too generously for someone my size. My friend, who was not selected as a bridesmaid and will be sitting in the crowd, finally declares that unless I want the horror of wearing a bra under my strapless dress I should plaster my arms to my sides and just get on with the whole mess. I agree with her, and pause only once to glance at the card that reminds me that You, Karen, are the bride, before I'm exiting the room and parading down to my carpet-and-stained glass venue where my groom will be. But I am not the only one garbed in silk and favoritism today; there is another bride. And lucky for her, her dress has straps. Upon seeing me my bridal escort offers congratulations, compliments, and confused glances-- two brides? --but no seeded questions have time to sprout answers, as the music bursts forth and the troops tromp out to the front lines. I am last, and alone, because Bride B took the fatherly escort. I lock eyes with the groom, my boyfriend, who was too indecisive to pick just one girl to vow himself to. Oh, and those dastardly vows--I expected to be repeating the standards ones but suddenly I'm fumbling over something improvised, so embarrassed that I find my eyes wavering more towards the view outside of the stained glass rather than the man I'm supposed to be vowing myself to. The moment my lips falter can't seem to come soon enough, and inwardly I'm grateful when his vows seem as awkward as mine. We kiss--something that stirs our audience and minister--before the process repeats with a different woman in white. Their vows are only sealed with a hug, and for a brief moment my title as Bride A seems secured. Then we had pictures done while guests migrated towards the food. We assembled quite well, our bride-groom-bride sandwich, balanced in tiers on the steps up to the venue that were flanked by stout brick planters. I believe that to be that last sane moment of my wedding. My groom began to flirt voraciously with every woman, I had no seat at the bridal table to eat, the father-daughter dance was really no more than a horrid three person imitation of ring around the rosy, where one of the three dancers was constantly plagued by the looming threat of loosing ones grip on ones bodice and effectively marring all guests by the sight of the topless bride and the cascading paper towels that once served to hold the dress aloft. My period of solitary confinement, forlorn and placid at the edge of the dance floor, is only interrupted once when the friend who once helped me stuff my dress now offers a dance out of sympathy. My fate, as far as I was concerned, was utterly and irrevocably sealed as the Martha of my new marriage to Mary and Jesus. The groom is suddenly wearing nothing more than boxers as pale as my ivory silk blotted by crimson hearts; an omen of the roguish color that was to be my demise in spreading across my gown. We cut the cake--and by we, I mean Bride A and the groom; Bride B was busy sitting on the dance floor wasted. We three newlyweds finally get on with our first dance, even as the groom would constantly interchange his brides for other women who came to spectate, not get hitched. Bride B suddenly starts wandering off with another man, making me question everything this wedding was to stand for. Did the groom want his brides? Did the brides even want the groom? Who knows! Who cares! There was cake and alcohol and that's all that mattered! Well, there was a gun too. Bride B, her mystery man, and the groom immerse themselves in an argument that makes even the poor, drunken minister put down her seventh drink to listen. And yet, it wasn't one of those three instigators that tasted the tart note of repercussion upon their lips as a consequence of their dispute. No, it was me. That stupid, wasted, stunt double of a bride shot me. I could so clearly see the scarlet stains searing themselves into my expensive one day only flesh as I laid prone and destitute on the floor. I can only speculate to how pathetic the whole ordeal must have appeared to any passing bachelor or bachelorette. Through the haze that was my fading consciousness I could hear the wedding-goers, almost all paired up with someone else (somehow that list included that bridely father and mother who somehow managed to get a divorce between dinner courses), making their way past the brick planters and towards the door that ushered me a mortifyingly short marriage the minute I stepped through. I was horridly alone, or so I thought, until I heard the laugh of someone who had yet to speak throughout the entire ceremony. She was laughing at the sight of me bleeding out on the floor, which, if you ask me, is a pretty rude thing to do. "Class is almost over," my theater teacher tells me, bidding me to resurrect myself and shed the imaginary mortal wound. She had a look in her eyes that spoke to how proud she was of the cast she selected--from her card proclaiming You, Karen, are the bride, to her wicked selection of both groom and secondary bride. And as I swapped back into clothes designed for someone my size, thinking of perhaps the day some years ahead when my boyfriend and I would return as bride and groom (this time, for real), I couldn't help but laugh at the new private joke my teacher had given to me, one that would allow me to start my next set of vows with the words, Second time's a charm . . .

-WE NEED TO TALK!- Adley read the text as she walked through her cousin, Bronwyn’s front door. “How could you?” Bronwyn’s voice bellowed through the hallway. “I only got your text a minute ago. What’s going on?” Adley placed her handbag on the console table. “Oh don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” “But I don’t know what you are talking about.” Her confusion seeped through her tone. “How long have you been sleeping with Theo?” Bronwyn spat out. “What?” “God, you are not that great of an actress, Adley.” “You are accusing me of sleeping with your fiancé and I’m not supposed to be shocked?” She crossed her arms defensively. “Not if you’re innocent, which clearly you are not. Unless you are shocked because I found out, which only confirms I am right.” “You are not making any sense. Bronwyn are you okay?” “Don’t pretend to care about me or my feelings. You should have thought about that before you slept with my fiancé.” “Where are you getting this from? Did Theo tell you this?” “No, Theo didn’t tell me. Why would he, when he can keep you his dirty little secret?” “Bronwyn, you are not being fair right now and you’re hurting my feelings.” “Oh, I’M hurting YOUR feelings. That’s classic.” “Do you honestly think that I would do that to you? That I would deliberately hurt you that way? You are my family, my only family. I love you and I would never hurt you like that. Where did you get this idea in your head from?” “Jesse.” Bronwyn mumbled after a few seconds. “Jesse?” Adley raised her eyebrows in disbelieve. “You listened to backstabbing, skirt-chasing, compulsive liar, egocentric Jesse Thompson?” “What? He is one of my best friends . . .” She shuffled from one foot to the other. “And he is as reliable and trustworthy as a jackal. I can’t believe YOU.” Adley threw her hands in the air, pacing back and forth as a habit to calm herself. “You believe that good for nothing finks over me, your flesh and blood?” “Blood isn’t always thicker than water.” “That’s your comeback?” Adley retorted in disbelief. “You know, if I didn’t know you for the bright and intelligent woman you are, I would have said you are making some dumb remarks.” From Bronwyn’s silence, Adley grabbed the opportunity to clear up any more confusion. “We have been through so much together. I was there when you lost your first tooth. You were there for me when I broke my leg and needed help to get up from the couch and when I had to take a shower. When our parents died in that plane crash, we only had each other to lean on. I was there when you cried yourself to sleep every night and when you woke up screaming from bad nightmares. It has been you and me for the longest time. We don’t have anyone else but the two of us, so why would you want to risk our relationship making these very hurtful and absurd assumptions?” “I don’t know. I’m sorry, okay. I don’t know what came over me. I know you would never hurt me that way. I guess Jesse got into my head and when he showed me those pictures, I lost it.” “What pictures?” “It’s nothing. Let’s forget about it. I’m sorry I accused you . . .” “What pictures, Bronwyn?” Adley insisted. “It’s truly nothing. He was at a club the other night and saw you and Theo dancing together. And I didn’t believe him at first when he told me, but then with the picture and all . . .” “Where are the pictures?” “On my phone.” “Can I see it?” Bronwyn turned around, made her way to the living room where she reached over the armchair to pick up her phone laying on the sofa. She scrolled through her library until she found what she was looking for and gave the phone to Adley. A frown appeared between Adley’s face as she zoomed in and out of the picture. “Bronwyn, how closely did you look at this photo?” “Uhm, I don’t know. Close enough to see you with your arms around my fiancé.” She replied with a little bite. “That’s not Theo.” Adley flipped the phone around for Bronwyn to look at the picture again. “What do you mean, ‘that’s not Theo’?” “Exactly what I’m saying.” “But that is you.” “Yes, and that is Dario.” She pointed to the guy in the picture. “Oh.” Bronwyn breathed. “Which brings me to my next point; why the hell would I cheat on my husband with your fiancé?” “This makes so much more sense.” Bronwyn mumbled to herself, barely acknowledging Adley’s statement. “Bronwyn!” “What?” She jumped at the mention of her name. “It’s not bad enough that you think I am having an affair with Theo, but you think I’m cheating on Dario.” “No, that’s not what I meant at all.” Bronwyn realized her mistake. “I’m sorry, Ads. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve been so stressed at work and planning the wedding has been so overwhelming.” She slumped onto the sofa with her head falling into her hands. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “You have enough on your plate as it is. I didn’t want to bother you with my stuff.” “I don’t mind helping you out. You know I would do anything for you.” “I know, and that’s what makes it so hard for me. You have always been there when I needed you; always put my needs before yours and it’s not fair to you. I don’t want to be a burden anymore.” “You are not a burden. I want to help you and I like it to be needed. And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you were a burden.” “No, you haven’t. It’s me. I’m the terrible person.” “You are not terrible and I forgive you for believing your ‘friend’ over me.” “Adley, I need to tell you something and I don’t think you will ever forgive me for it.” Bronwyn’s face sunk as she stared into Adley’s face. “It can’t be as bad as what just happened.” When Bronwyn said nothing, Adley went to sit next to her, placing her hand over hers. “Bee, you’re scaring me. What is it?” “Ads, I don’t know how to tell you. It was never meant to go this far. I . . .” The front door opening interrupted her confession. “Hey, babe.” The male voice filled the room. “Shit.” Bronwyn’s eyes widened as she scrambled to her feet. “Adley won’t be home till late so I got us some dinner and wine and thought we could take a bubble bath . . .” Dario stepped into the living room and stopped in his tracks when he saw Adley standing next to Bronwyn. “Adley . . . What are . . . I thought you were out with friends.” Shock, anxiousness and guilt swept across his face. “Bronwyn texted me so I came here first.” Adley slowly articulated looking from one to the other in confusion. “But it seems I am . . .” Her eyes moved between the two of them as realization sunk in. “It seems,” she started again, “I am interrupting something.” “Adley, this is not what it looks like.” Bronwyn stepped toward her, but she recoiled in betrayal. “No. Don’t you dare! You have been bad mouthing me and accusing ME of sleeping with Theo when YOU are the one who has been sleeping with MY husband. You have been feeling so guilty for what you have been doing to me behind my back, that you thought, why not make me the bad person so you don’t have to feel so terrible about what you are doing yourself.” “Adley.” Dario voiced. “Don’t you even.” She pointed an accusing finger his way before turning back to Bronwyn. “You don’t care about me or my feelings. You are the dirty little secret and obviously, blood means nothing to you.” “I’m sorry.” Bronwyn apologized through sobs. “Don’t even bother. I can forgive many things, but this, this . . .” she shook her head in disbelief and disappointment. “I hope you are happy together because you just lost the only family member you have left. “Adley, please don’t walk away. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. It just happened.” Bronwyn wailed after her as she brushed past Dario to the front door. “I’m sorry, Ads,” Bronwyn whispered collapsing into Dario’s arms as she heard the front door closed. “I’m sorry . . .”

I was nervous. My hands kept tensing up and my legs would go cold. This was my first job interview and I needed this job. I needed the money. I sat there for 15 minutes when a girl around my age, walked in and sat in the chair next to me. She had brown curly hair and was holding a black folder just like mine. She looked over at me and smiled, I simply nodded my head. “Are you here for the job interview too?” “Yes”. “This is my first job interview, I thought I would be nervous but i actually feel relaxed”. I just nodded. “My name is Jackie, by the way”. “Alexander”. A lady with long dark hair walked out and called for the girl. “Well then Alexander, wish me luck”. I saw the girl walk away as I sat in my chair, thinking about how I have never met a girl like her. I waited for about 20 minutes until I saw Jackie and the Lady walk out. “We’ll give you a call when we make our decision”. “Okay, Thank you very much”. “Mr. McClain, Mr.Jefferson will see you now”. I stood up from my chair and walked over to the door. Jackie tapped my shoulder and smiled at me. “Goodluck Alex”. I nodded and followed the lady to the interview. As I was walking to Mr. Jefferson’s office I thought about how I suddenly don't feel nervous anymore. It's like all the anxious and nervous feeling left my body out of nowhere. My hands weren’t tense anymore and I didn’t feel like I was going to vomit anymore. “Just wait here for a bit, Mr. Jefferson needed a couple of minutes to set up again for another interview”. I nodded and sat in the chair outside Mr. Jefferson’s office. As i sat there, i tried to think about all the reasons that could have made me calm down. The only thing that i could think of is Jackie. “Mr. McClain, Mr. Jefferson is ready to see you”. I nodded and walked into the large office. The office was grey and gloomy. I sat in the chair right in front of Mr. Jefferson’s desk. He looked at me and gave me a small smile. He stood up and offered me a hand shake. I took his offer and shook his hand. “So Mr. McClain, what type of job are you looking for in this facility”. “I was interested in having a profession in data work and i noticed that there was an opening in this position”. Mr. Jefferson nodded and wrote what I said down. “What are you three best qualities?”. “I am hardworking, I am focused, and I can type on a computer”. Mr. Jefferson nodded and continued to write what I said on the sheet of paper on his desk. Mr. Jefferson continued to ask me questions for about 20 minutes until he stood up. “Alright Mr. McClain, I think I have the information I need to make my decision. I will give you a call when my decision is made”. “Okay thank you very much sir”. Mr. Jefferson offered me another handshake and I accepted and shook his hand. “I have to say Mr. McClain, your resume is very impressive. I only knew very few people who already knew how to type”. “It's the 70’s, the world is continuing to evolve, I suppose we need to evolve as well”. Mr. Jefferson chuckled and nodded his head. “I suppose we do need to evolve Mr. McClain”. Mr. Jefferson led me to the way out. When I got outside, it started to rain. I ran to my car and started the engine. I drove out of the parking lot and made my way to the stoplight. The stoplight changed to red, I stopped and looked over to my right. I saw a girl waiting at the bus stop for a bus. I looked closer and realized it was Jackie. She was standing there in the rain with no umbrella. The light turned green and I made a U-turn. I pulled up near the bus stop and rolled down my window. “Hey do you need a ride?” “Oh hello Alexander, don’t worry I'm fine”. “Are you sure, I don’t think the bus is coming anytime soon and your pouring wet”. “No im fine, don't worry, thanks for the offer”. “You are going to get sick if you stay out there in the rain”. Jackie looked like she was debating trying to get in, but after a very short moment the look on her face implied that she gave in and decided to get in the car. She got in the car and told me where she lived at, It wasn’t very far away from where I lived. The drive there was nice, we talked and got know more about each other, It went on like that for about 7 minutes. I parked in front of her house when we got there. “Thank you so much, I could never know how to repay you”. “Don’t worry about”. Jackie grabbed her stuff and opened the door. “Wait, Would you like to hangout another time”. Jackie smiled and nodded. “Sure, I would like to hang out with you. Here’s my number so that we can call each other and set up a date and other stuff”. She wrote down her number on a piece of paper and handed it to me. “See you around Alexander, and thanks again for the ride to my house”. A few days passed by and I finally decided to call Jackie. I called her and we set up everything we needed to meet up again. After our first date, we ended up going on many other dates. On each date, I learned more and more about Jackie. She has lived a pretty crazy life. After our seventh date, i finally got the courage to ask her to be my girlfriend. We dated for seven more years and eventually got married. I always think about how the most important person in life came into my life at a sucky waiting room. I fell in love for the first time because of a sucky interview.

Every year people make resolutions for the New Year that they plan to carry out but never do. Things that may just be out of their reach or things that get sidelined by other obligations. They say to themselves that next year will be the year that they finally follow through and that tends to be pushed back as time goes on. Whether it be something like losing weight or saving money instead of spending it all. New Year’s resolutions are hard to accomplish. For several years Greta had put off applying for college thinking she was not good enough or that she never pulled down good enough grades in high school to be admitted. On her way to work, every day at the small bookstore named Carol’s books after the owner’s late grandmother, she saw the campus that she one day wanted to attend. Two days after New Year’s Day in 2005, she once again passed by that campus. Knowing that this was the year that she would get up the nerves to actually apply. The University of York was a charming school, one that she had grown up by all of her life. York itself was also charming, so much so that she couldn’t conceive of living anywhere else. Although there were other universities she could apply to, she had her heart set on the University of York. A place where many of her friends had attended just after secondary school. Finally, she felt like she couldn’t put it off any longer. As she walked dutifully two miles from her small family home cottage, she told herself that she would apply for the fall term. Knowing that she could save money by living with her parents and two older sisters. During her four years of working at the bookstore, she saved up some of her earnings to help her follow her dream of becoming a teacher. So that she could use her love of literature to teach. This was a dream that she had had for years. After her shift that day, she rushed home to tell her mother that she decided that this year was the year. At first, her mother rolled her eyes and told her that this is what she always said. Greta took the time to convince her of her drive to apply. Her father, Henry was a professor at the university and had been trying to encourage her to go through with applying ever since she got her diploma five years prior. He knew she was scared of rejection but he still believed in her. After dinner that evening and after Greta had expressed that she was motivated to apply this time. Her father told her that he would do whatever he could to prepare her for the entrance exam. Although Greta was a smart woman, her grades could have been better. Never the less, she knew she could test in if she studied hard. The next day at the bookstore, she gathered up a few books that would help her on the entrance exam. Once she got home and cracked open a book about mathematics, her worst subject in school. She came to realize how hard it truly was going to be for her. Her father offered to help her with it. Every night she studied the grueling subjects, the English ones being the easiest. She had read every book back in secondary school that was required and spent time reading for pleasure. Her knowledge of historical writing was astounding and contemporary works were her strong point. It was the other subjects that she struggled with and she needed all the help she could get. After studying for months the day of the exam came. She showed up almost shaking with nervousness and proceeded to sit down to be handed the entrance exam. The first section was mathematics and although it took her the longest, she felt that she had done well. Next was the section on history, one that she knew very well and completed faster than the math section. After that was the science section and although this was something that she had struggled with before, the studying she did had prepared her well. Lastly, she came to the literature section and went through that quickly, leaving her five minutes before the end of the allotted time. Greta waited impatiently for a few weeks hoping that she did well enough to get into the university. Her parents and the bookstore owner encouraged her, reminding her that she had taken the first step towards her dream. That nothing would stand in her way. Greta felt good about the fact that she had carried out her resolution of applying for university so far and hoped that she would be able to make it all the way. Teaching is all she ever wanted to do and as the release of the tests, results grew near she was ripe with anticipation. Finally, Greta was sent the results of her entrance exam and her scores were even greater than she expected. All of her studying paid off and her parents were so proud of her. Next came the application process, something that her father assisted her with. She had to gather all of the information needed for the application and was able to fill it out in a matter of days. She sent it off hoping that she would be admitted. If she were to be denied entrance, she didn’t know what she would do. After careful consideration, Greta got an acceptance letter and was given instructions on how to sign up for classes. She was also given an overview of the entire pathway to fulfilling the requirements for her degree. However, Greta knew that graduation from York University would not be the end of the road. For she would have to go on to get her master’s degree as well and she vowed that nothing would stand in her way. As soon as she got the news her friends and family planned a surprise party to celebrate her achievement. After work one day, she came home to find that the lights were off in the house. As soon as she walked through the door, she heard the words, “surprise.” She was so happily surprised that she was given so much praise after waiting years to apply to the university. Greta really felt that she could do this and knew after celebrating with her family and friends that she had the love and support she needed to see through her dream. The road to earning her degrees was going to be a long journey but she was not discouraged. She had finally made one of her New Year’s resolutions come true.

He grabbed a ghost pepper, ate it in one bite. Soft and sweet with a slight bite at first, he chewed it and quickly swallowed. He stared at the other man in his eyes. He made no move. The other man grabbed another ghost and jammed it into his own mouth; they stared as the other man chewed. A crowd had gathered around them and watched in fascination and silence. Something was wrong, the heat was beginning to warm up his mouth, the pain spread through his tongue like water flowing across a dry plain. The water quickly turned to molten lead and his tongue was quickly engulfed in flames. Still he did not move. He could feel his face getting hot now. It felt like needles were stabbing him in the gums, on his tongue, in his throat. Every square inch of his mouth burned. The other man stared at him. His teeth were clenched. The other man’s face became red and small twitches appeared on the man’s jaw. His nostrils flared. Then he realized his own nostrils were flared, open like parachutes, as if he could will the heat through his nostrils like a dragon. His eyes watered. He stared at the other man with eyes full of drops and furrowed his brow. The other man did the same. They leaned in until their noses were only a few inches apart. A tear fell down his face, and the other man’s eyes followed it down his face, until the other man's own eyes sprung a leak. He looked at the other man’s tear. He couldn’t help but blink hard and a few tears rolled down his face. The other man looked and pointed. He pointed at the other man’s tear. Suddenly the other man also blinked a heavy blink and tears flowed freely down his cheeks. The other man was still pointing at his face. The other man snorted. He snorted as well. The other man chuckled and pointed at his own tears and then back at his. He chuckled and pointed at the other man’s face. They stood there with dumb grins, tears streaming down their red faces, each with a finger held lazily up at the other's grimace. At once they both broke out in laughter, pointing at the other man's stupid face. Both in excruciating pain for reasons that were now long in the past and unknown. They doubled down in laughter and then began choking. Their mouths were both furnaces of pain and suffering and hate. They clasped hands as they screamed out in pain together. He looked around, “Where’s the fucking MILK?!” Someone passed him a gallon. He ripped off the cap with his teeth and chugged. His hands shook as the sweet white nectar blessed his tongue and spilled out onto his jaw and dripped down his chin. The other man grabbed his arm and yelled out, “you son of a bitch!” He held out the gallon to the other man who let go of his hand and the other man grabbed the milk gallon with both hands and held it an inch above his head. He tilted his head back and opened his mouth and the milk waterfalled into his hellscape of a mouth. He let out a moan as the milk spilled around his face. “Ahhh.” By this time his own mouth caught fire again, and he extended his hand to receive the milk jug back from the other man. The other man wagged his finger and drank more. His tongue burned. His entire head burned. He snatched the other man’s arm and the other man looked at him. He furrowed his brow. The other man did the same. The milk jug hit the floor as they squared up one more time.

Eliza lay awake in bed. She couldn’t fall asleep. Tomorrow was her Silencing ceremony, and she was beyond excited, but, well, also nervous. Once she returned from the clinic, she would have lost the power of speech. Of course, it was partially symbolic, she would still be able to communicate through writing and typing, obviously. And she would still go to school, become educated and have a career- in fact her occupation profile was finalized- she would become a software engineer, and as of next term, she would be studying programming almost exclusively. Occupational profiles had to be finalized before the Silencing, in case there were women with exceptional singing voices who would be allowed to keep their vocal chords and join the entertainment industry. All the others were Silenced. Today had been full of celebrations and joy. Her mom and older sisters had spent months planning it. She had the most beautiful dress - everybody had been dressed beautifully, as a matter of fact, the food had been amazing, and a special group of Singers had been hired for live entertainment. It had been a truly incredible experience. What with Dad’s high-paid job as Teacher, money had never been an issue for them. Eliza had wanted to become a Teacher, like her Dad. She had grown up watching him prepare lesson plans, grade assignments with his thick chunky red pens, discussing course content and pedagogy with his colleagues loudly and passionately. She was enthralled by it all and knew, as indeed her Dad told her, there was actually nothing more noble and worthwhile than teaching and shaping the mind of the young. No wonder only men were entrusted to be Teachers. She remembered her mom laughing until the tears ran down her face when she had first mentioned wanting to become like Teacher “Just like Daddy”. Then mom had gathered her in her arms and sobbed as if her heart had broken. Eliza was told about the Silencing a short while after that. She was ready for it. She understood why it was necessary. Dad had explained it all carefully: the history, the benefits to society, the evolution from a symbolic tattoo along the throat, to an actual, painless clinical procedure which disabled the vocal chords of women permanently. She was lucky she had a Teacher Dad who took the time to explain things so beautifully to her- others would usually just get an official brochure with the date and time of their Silencing appointment, although schools sometimes included educational material on Silencing. However, as Dad said, it was very important that it was taught correctly, with proper context, otherwise it wouldn’t be understood properly. That’s why Teaching was such an important job. It didn’t used to be like that, in the bad old days, when women jabbered, chattered, gossiped, wheedled, manipulated men and told stories and yammered and protested and wanted this and that and the other- society had been always in chaos then. Eliza was so happy she lived now, and not in those old days.

Soup A butterfly flew right into Nancy’s pot of roast beef soup. Its wings instantly dissolved into slime of membranes. The pigments of the wings could be seen flowing into the murky soup. Unaware of the tragedy, Nancy picked up a ladle and gave the soup one last stir before turning down the heat. She put the ladle right on top of the butterfly carcass. The metal crushed down on the butterfly remaining body and partially ruptured it, releasing yellow guts and other liquefied organs. After finished stirring, she tasted the soup with a clean spoon. She scooped up the surface of the soup bringing up carrots, peas, and a piece of celery. Nancy put the hot spoon close to her mouth and gently blew on it to cool down. The soup tasted as she had hoped. That night, the family was taking dinner together. Nancy hd an uneasy feeling. But the delight of the soup kept her destructed. She took a bite of another piece of celery and unlike during the preparation, it was still quite crispy and aromatic. Now she wondered why the piece she had tasted earlier was soft, juicy and bitter.

Once upon a time, this was a beautiful Garden. Now, I sit below the broken rib-cage of a tree. I see a skeleton of an arm dangling over my head. Once upon a time, this was a branch. Hope falters in its gaunt, dying fingers like the flickering glow of fading stars in the shroud of night’s darkness. Once upon a time, those were its twigs. Foolish little fingers they are, still waiting for that touch, the touch of the Hand of Life. Years have passed, those silly twigs should have given up already, like the rest of the Garden, like me. They should have forgotten what its touch felt like, those warm, gentle fingers, that had promised Life and had left my Garden forever, left me forever. They should have gotten used to the whiplash of the merciless winds by now, to their cold, lifeless touch, that had stripped them bare of all their leaves, whose corpses lay beneath my feet. Yet, somewhere a tiny ray of Hope glimmers. It will die soon. I hear creaking noises behind. I turn back and squint in the dark, the silhouette of a tiny figure comes walking towards me. A kid, it seems. “What are you doing here, kid?”, I ask, as the child slowly walks closer. The child looks at me, with a start. Maybe, he hadn’t noticed me in the dark. “I was chasing a butterfly. I came here in your Garden, Sir, looking for it. Have you seen it?”, the child asks me. His voice sounds vaguely familiar. “No butterfly comes here kid. I haven’t seen one for years.”, I say. “But why?”, the child looks at me questioningly. “Look around, kid. My Garden is dying. You came looking in the wrong place. Go home, kid.”, I say with a sigh. He looks around. I see his eyes growing wider. “But what happened to you, O Tree?”, he asks the huge Oak Tree over me. “Trees don’t speak. Not anymore.”, I say. “They do speak to me.”, he protests. “Maybe, you can’t hear them.” Silly boy. Trees don’t speak to grown-ups; I think to myself. Or maybe, we don’t speak to them anymore. I smirk as the boy’s question is met with silence. Suddenly, something shifts within me. No, it’s under the ground, right below where I am standing. I feel the ground tremble ever so slightly. Something moved silently underneath my feet. I watch in awe as the gigantic Oak tree turns slowly towards the boy, its once majestic branches drooping over his tiny head in a bow. The tree begins speaking with a low grunt. “Dear boy, many years ago, I was a strong, magnificent tree. My powerful branches and elegant leaves were home to a hundred birds. They were the Life to a thousand Springs. Spring danced with the bees and butterflies in the cracks of my branches. Monsoon sang a million notes with my rustling leaves and chirping birds in the golden drizzle of the dawn. Summer would envy my gorgeous shades and Winter would tickle me back to sleep with its gentle cascade of snow. I was known far and wide as the Tree of Love.”, the Tree pauses for a while and then begins with a sigh. “But one day, a monster crept into the heart of our beloved Garden. He came stealthily and silently and took shelter in my shades. He was known by many names. Some called him Ego while some called him Pride. He grew stronger every day, feeding on the darkness of Fear, Loneliness and Pain. Then a day came, when he grew more powerful than - “. I hear a sob. The little boy turns behind. I see a rose weeping. A little away from us was a rose bush. All the roses were black. “Why do you cry, dear Rose?”, the boy asks. “My little one, these tears cannot wash away my pain. Once upon a time, I was a red rose, blooming and beautiful, and so were my friends. We were called the Flowers of Joy. We used to bring a smile on every face that saw us. Our fragrance touched every heart and filled it with Hope. But that beast of Despair snatched our smell from us. That monster, who called himself Greed, stole our colour. Envy, the evil beast, robbed us of our Beauty and Joy.” “I was once a Lake.”, the swamp a little distance away spoke. “My waters shimmered in the brilliant sunshine and glowed with all the colours of the dawn and the dusk. But Time, the ruthless Giant, stole away my Youth and kept it caged in its darkest maze, called the Past, from where one can never return. Time wanted all my Youth for itself.” The Oak Tree says, “This Giant sucked the sunshine out of our Garden and left it barren and dying. We use to love the Monster, care for him. We nurtured him with all that we had. We tried to heal its Darkness, its Fear, its Anger with our Love. But he couldn’t let us in. He fought us and ran away from our Light, when all he should’ve fought was his own Darkness. So, he snatched away from us, all our Love and Beauty and Happiness, in the hope of healing himself, for he never found these within him. But little did he know, that he was going to lose forever, what he had never even looked for. That was the curse on the Giant, for he was never happy again. And our beloved Garden of Mind grew barren and empty, never to be blessed with new Life again. Our beautiful Garden of Hope lost its sunshine forever. Our Garden of Life withered.” “But where is the Monster now? Can he hear us? Will he eat us alive?”, the child asks with unspoken fear in his eyes. “He is right here, in my Garden.”, I say. The child looks questioningly at me, as though my answer is a little unfinished. After a long pause, I say, “Maybe, I am the Monster.” I look into his eyes in the dark. “Are you not scared of me kid?”, I ask. We stare at each other in silence. Time seems to have frozen. After an eternity, it feels, the child slowly walks closer and extends a tiny arm towards me. His little fingers touch me softly, somewhere close to my chest, where a tiny ray of Hope is still throbbing, where a tiny bit of me is still alive. Something strange happens next. I see Sunshine for the first time in years. I look at the child in front of me. He looks around, awestruck. His eyes are brighter than the Sunshine. He gapes in amazement as he looks at the Oak Tree and the Rose Bush and the Lake. But all I see is the child in front of me, for now I know who he is. “How did the Garden grow young and beautiful again?”, the child asks in wonder. I smile and take one long look at my Garden of Innocence, before looking into the bright eyes of my Childhood. Then I whisper, “It’s all because of you.” -----------------------

“Arlow, I got something to ask you. Wait, maybe I shouldn’t ask you. What do you think, Arlow? Should I ask you?” “I don’t know, Lance.” Arlow locked the club room, tucking the key into his bag. The season had turned fairly cold, and the few students milling around the university campus were bundled in woolen hats and thick coats, a few with twined hands and smitten expressions. Every year Arlow would often ignore the fact that it was Valentine's day. It was a sickly sweet holiday that often had him gagging as soon as he stepped out the door to red colourful billboards. But this year, gazing at the couples made him feel even colder. He knew he’d be staying late for practice, but had still forgotten to bring his scarf. The harsh chill bit into his neck. Even he could be a bit of an idiot sometimes. Then again, the reason he was always staying late for practice was the idiot standing in front of him, hemming and hawing loudly. “I guess it’s okay,” Lance said finally, two decibels too loud, “Because I always ask you things. Say, Arlow, what’s the coolest way to confess to someone?” “Confess what?” “You know! That you like someone.” Arlow stared politely at him, letting his breath fog in a thin stream, and then walked off towards the school gates. Perhaps Lance had accidentally watched a romantic movie. Or one of their friends had set him off in some vindictive text. It was the season of course. Not that Arlow followed Lance’s love life closely. Though, recently he did have a personal interest. “It should be exciting, right?” Lance hummed to himself in deep thought, arms crossed. Even in his winter jacket, his sleeves were still slightly pushed up. His obnoxious resolution to the chill only made Arlow feel colder. “In what way, Lance,” he said politely. “Like what if I was in a volleyball game! Nationals! And I was smashing down this killer straight! Then I yell out, I like you!” Lance imitated the straight a few times, as if he hadn’t already practiced for an hour. “I don’t know who would hate you more,” Arlow said thoughtfully, “Our team or the other team.” “What?” Lance staggered back, shocked, but quickly jogged to catch up. “What if it was a killer cross?” “The move isn’t the problem, Lance.” “Killer feint?” “Why would you think that’s different?” They walked in almost silence for a while, broken occasionally by Lance’s groans at some thought or another. He wondered if Lance actually did have something in mind. No, that would be absurd. Lance only had volleyball on his mind. But perhaps Arlow had been conceited in this assurance. He had always let his feelings rest within him, quiet and unbidden. “What about a killer cut shot?” Lance said, thumping his fist into his hand triumphantly. “Perhaps,” Arlow said, reluctant, “you should consider the classics.” Lance tilted his head to the side. “What makes a good confession.” Arlow rubbed the joint of his index finger. “The purpose of a confession”. “You’re right, Arlow!” Lance’s yell attracted some stares of passing students. Arlow tucked his head down further into his collar, the material bunching up black curls around the nape of his neck. They moved steadily towards the station. Flyers with hearts stared back at him with their crossed T’s and dotted I’s. Arlow’s nose scrunched and his eyes crinkled at the sides. It felt like everything about today was mocking him. There were more pedestrians now, though he didn’t fear losing Lance in a crowd. The twin tufts of his ochre hair stuck out from the crowd, but he could always follow Lance’s outraged hollering if need be. “I think the coolest confession would make their hearts skip a beat,” Lance decided. “Heart palpitations are a serious medical occurrence.” “Arlow! Listen, what if it’s not about how loud you yell it, but what you say.” Lance’s forehead knitted itself into knots. “A clever way of saying it!” “For example?” “Like if I said to you, give me all your tosses.” Lance grinned, crossing his arms over his chest. He was practically sparkling under the station lights, enamored by his own genius. “That would be very annoying. For another thing, it’s impractical. Have you forgotten about your teammates? Think about the other team, as well. They would--” “I get it! Geez!” Lance closed his eyes, grimacing. Even the ends of his spiky hair seemed to be drooping. Arlow withheld a sigh, a mixture of annoyance and a little bit, just the tiniest bit, of exasperated affection. “But it’s not a bad idea,” he finally said. “Speaking about something only the two of you know is romantic.” “Right? Right?” Lance opened his eyes, grin returned. “A secret code! Like a cool confession in Latin!” “Well,” Arlow said, ignoring the stupider parts of the statement, “A love letter is also classic.” “Love letter!” This time, the yell certainly did attract the attention of the people on the platform. But the train pulled up in a loud grumble, leaving Lance to mull as they entered. There was only one seat left, which Arlow took. This already happened once or twice, and Lance always vehemently insisted that Arlow take it. Given how loudly Lance squabbled, Arlow conceded without much resistance. Besides, he did like their quiet times. Lance stood in front of him, withstanding the train’s lull. When Lance was quiet, he could be quite handsome. He had a somber silhouette and a serious composure, face strict lines and eyes bright on an unmovable point. Annoyingly, though, Arlow also missed the loud Lance at these times. It was strange not to see him yelling, his eyebrows quirking. He was someone always in motion. Arlow looked down, tracing the line of his pinky finger. It was all Lance’s fault, him and his strange conversation, which made him think about these things. He should stop thinking about it. He wondered if this hypothetical person who deserved all these confessions even knew about this side of Lance. “A love letter,” Lance said somberly, “is like a gift, isn’t it? Then isn’t the more the better? Wouldn’t your heart skip a beat if someone confessed to you with a love letter and ten dozen roses and a coupon to the sports store and maybe that cool t-shirt in that store we saw the other day?” “That’s called a bribe, Lance.” “That’s fine, isn’t it?” His annoyed sigh must have convinced Lance back into grumbling thought. Night had already touched down on the outside world, brushing over the buildings. The lights in the buildings flickered on, though they were only vague pulses from the faster train. In the opposite window’s reflection, he could see Lance’s broad back and his own face, subtle with an expression he couldn’t place. He lowered his eyes to the bag in his lap, following where the strap dangled over the seat. When they exited the train, the air had only gotten colder and Arlow blew on his fingers, mildly annoyed. Under the station lights, he could see the redness over his pale fingertips. A sudden warmth wrapped around his neck, and when he looked up, Lance was draping his gray scarf on Arlow’s shoulders. “Thank you, Lance.” He watched quietly as Lance tied the scarf. “You’re choking me, Lance.” He watched quietly as Lance untied the scarf. “I guess,” Lance said, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I could say what I liked about them! During the confession. What do you think?” Arlow thought the scarf smelled like Lance, and that he didn’t dislike that. He allowed himself to touch at the fringes, guilty for some reason he couldn’t compose. “What would you say?” he asked instead. “I don’t know! I guess I’d say, you know. You know. With the you know!” “Ah.” “Don’t sound so judgmental, Arlow! You know I’m not good at this stuff!” Lance ruffled his hair in anguish. He was making some gibberish noises with his throat. “It’d be nice,” Lance said, “if after you confessed your super cool confession, they’d go out with you. Right?” “You’re not expecting that?”. “I didn’t realize it until now! I mean, it makes things a lot easier if you think about it that way. That a confession is just the start of something new.” Lance grinned, eyes glinting under the street lamp. “So you have someone in mind,” Arlow finally hedged. He turned slightly away, almost like he examining the concrete walls along the street. Lance always had good night vision. He might be able to see any suspicious flush on his face. “Hey, what’s your idea of the best confession?” Lance asked, completely ignoring him. Arlow sighed, curling his fingers around each other. “I don’t have a preference.” “Really? What would you want the person to say?” They stopped in front of Arlow’s house. Lance’s bright eyes peered at him, watching intently. It was quiet around them. Lance’s house was further away. There was a shortcut from the station, but Lance always insisted to walk together. Arlow ran his fingers along the bumps of his knuckles. He could imagine himself saying it in the heat of the moment. He could be bold and say something charming. It doesn’t matter as long as it was you, Lance. The thought made a sick feeling rise from stomach to throat. It sounded just like something those valentines flyers at the station would have written across them. Confessions were heavy. They weighed like stones on his heart, and it would be a burden on Lance. They were constantly together, a part of each other's daily routine. It would be irresponsible and irrational for him to confess. He ran simulations in his head, imagining his confession in a whisper to a shout, but the best outcomes were nothing but fragmented wishes. This was silly. Lance was just talking about a hypothetical situation. But the words still tingled on the tip of his tongue. At that moment, he could say it. Instead, he tightened his grip on his shoulder strap. “Isn’t it getting late?” he tried. “Come on, Arlow. Come on, tell me. Arlow, tell me. You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone else! Tell me--” “It doesn’t have to be said,” Arlow finally muttered. “You want someone to text it to you? Great idea! I found a great picture of a cat that’d fit perfectly.” “Not exactly,” Arlow said, cutting off the cat picture speech, “But sometimes, you can tell someone loves you by the things they do, and not just the things they say.” He pulled the scarf up higher against Lance’s gaze. Lance’s mouth had dropped open slightly, surprise written all over his face. He was obviously impressed by Arlow, and Arlow looked away to his house nameplate. His cheeks felt warm. “Well, a spoken confession is better,” Arlow said, straightening his shoulders. “If I really had to say, I’d like a confession that gave me time to respond.” “I don’t get it,” Lance said with confidence. “Sometimes I’m told my expressions are difficult to read.” Arlow shrugged. “I’d just like a chance to explain myself in return, so they don’t misunderstand my expression.” “Really? But I like your expressions, Arlow. Every time you look at me, I fall in love with you all over again.” Arlow stared at the wall. “Jeez! It’s late! When did it get this late! Why didn’t you say it was this late!” Lance glared at the night sky, kicking at the pebbles in the road. “I was going to do stuff tonight, too.” “I... did tell you. Lance.” His words sounded stiff, but Lance apparently didn’t notice, groaning to himself. “What? Well, whatever. Get to bed early, that’s an order, Arlow!” Lance waved, walking off down the street. Arlow opened his mouth, but he couldn’t even consider what he was trying to say. He hadn’t misheard. The words rang distinctly in his ears. He was having heart palpitations. He was an idiot. He was an absolute idiot to be so swept up in such stupid words. Lance hadn’t even realized it, but here he was, heart beating in his ears and face definitely redder than any reasonable excuse in the cold. He leaned against the wall, pressing a cool hand against his forehead. But Lance had definitely said love. He said love. He was in love with him. This entire stupid time, he’d been trying to stupidly research the best way to say it. Lance was an idiot. He was an idiot. His thoughts were fluttering around him, and he wound the fringe of the scarf around his fingers tightly. The heat flamed up from inside him. He had buried something deep within himself with an impractical carelessness. Someday, he always told himself, but that someday was here, and he could feel it grow inside of him, warm and happy. Happy. He was happy. He could indistinctly hear rapid footsteps approaching him. Someone in a remarkably fast run. Finally, he looked up to see Lance flying at him in a flurry of kicked-up snow, face a matching flush. “Arlow!” he yelled. “I messed up! Wait, forget about that! It slipped out! Arlow! I was going to do it during a killer joust! Arlow! Let me do it again! Hold on! I’ll do a better confession! Arlow!”. Arlow turned away, pressing the scarf to his face to hide his expression. He supposed they could be idiots together. “Hey,” he finally said, cutting off Lance’s frantic squawks, “What do you think is the coolest way of telling someone that you like them too?”.

Scarlet Storm stood near the library door. She saw her reflection in the glass, her red suit with her black mask that went around her eyes. Her blonde hair tied into a braid and her hazel eyes staring back at her. The other side was filled with darkness and silence. She was hesitant to open the door. Sure, only the motion sensors went off but anyone could be waiting inside. Her worst enemy, a homeless person, a kid who was doing something on a dare, it could be anyone. Scarlet didn’t know why she was scared to open the door. She was a hero and faced villains of all sorts. She had been tortured, questioned, knocked down, but she always got back up. At this point, she had no reason to be scared. She has seen the worst, she was sure of it, so why did she tremble at the thought of opening this door? She thought about leaving and letting the police deal with this but she couldn’t. Anyone who would be trying to send a message that would get to her would break into the library. People who only knew her secret identity made her even more scared. Scarlet opened the door. She was able to since she worked at this library. She loved it for it was her second home. A place she has been in since she was a kid. A place that helped her grow and may or may not be a secondhand therapy, look that is expensive. She began to walk across the room. She had only been in a library a few times at night. It always had at least lamp lights on but now she walked in blackness, her only light begin the moonlight that streamed through. The library was still and not a sound was made. She made her way through the aisles of books until she got to the part with multiple desks and saw a figure sitting at one. Scarlet recognized the person immediately. The person sitting there was no other than her arch-nemesis, Wildfire. Her brunette hair was in messy, wavy curls. Her black boots were on the table, her suit was black with orange, yellow, and red streaking her leggings. She had a red mask around her eyes. “What are you doing?” she called. Wildfire rolled her eyes, “Getting a book, something wrong with that sweetie?” Her voice was like honey and smooth, Scarlet about fainted. “Something is when you're breaking into the place.” “I was going to put it back. Can’t I just do some reading in peace?” Scarlet saw the book she was reading. It was about nuclear fusion. “What are you going to do with that?” “What does it look like I’m doing? Blowing up the city? I’m a science major and textbooks are expensive. You wouldn’t know Miss. Art Major.” Wildfire taunted. “Something doesn’t make me believe that,” Scarlet says. “Oh look at you trying to be the hero again. Like you always do.” Wildfire said bitterly. “It’s what I do best,” Scarlet says, eyes narrowing. Wildfire stayed silent and counited to read her book, ignoring Scarlet Storm. “Aren’t you tired of it?” Scarlet blurted. “Here comes the hero complex,” and Wildfire rolled her eyes. “I mean it aren't you tired of it?”, Scarlet continued, “The fighting, the planning, the hurting? Are you tired of any of it?” Wildfire raised her eyebrow. “Aren’t you tired of it? The fighting back, the planning to stop it all, the pain you’ve been dealt all for the safety of this city?” “Of course I’m not..” “Then why would I?” “I-” “ I see. You just want to be the hero. You think that you are the hero! And you’ll believe the people who tell you that you are so stoic and brave!” Wildfire taunted. Scarlet stared. She had no idea what she could say. “You once held my hand...” “What was that, dear ?” Wildfire asked. “You once held my hand,” Scarlet said louder. “Were back at this again. The desperate plea to make me stop the life I’m living and hopefully remember the life I used to live because you think that was better.” “At least you wouldn’t have become this!” Scarlet yelled. “Have you possibly consider that I like this life better?” Wildfire said. Scarlet stared at her. “With that face again. You stupid hopeless romantic! You can’t possibly believe that I would be in love with you still but I think that you do. I know that you can’t take a hit on your ego and you can’t believe that I’m not in love with you anymore.” “I know that you’re not in love with me anymore.” “Then stop caring for me. Stop caring about the life I’m living. Fight me like you fight all the other villains.” “You are not a villain,” Scarlet says. “What else have you conceived me to be? You try to stop me and try to convert me to a superhero life. I think that under that surface you call yourself heroic, you’re convinced you are above me.” Wildfire yells. “I believe this life your living won’t help with all the hurt,” Scarlet says. Wildfire stares at her eyes blazing in anger. “Take the hand that you once held and let it be your knight in shining armor.” “YOU ARE NOT MY HERO...You couldn’t deal with the cards that I’ve been dealt.” Wildfire yelled. “ You think that you are a villain but I know you're not. Under all the hidden anger is a beating human heart!” Scarlet screams, feeling her eyes start to water. “A heart that is beating but a heart that is broken and angry.” “I know that you are upset...that I didn’t come in for you. I'm sorry that I never helped you...but please let me now.” Scarlet begged. “You are the knight in shining armor who came way too late. You watched my world crash down and saw my monsters prevail.” Wildfire whispered. “I know but let me help you put it back together.” Scarlet pleaded. “You are not my hero and you never will. You can be the hero for everyone else but never me.” Wildfire said looking Scarlet in the eye. “ Please...” Scarlet pleaded one last time. “Go home Scarlet Storm. Stand up get out some things don’t go as planned.”

November 24th, 2022 So, Jess was right. I’m fucked. Fuckety, fuck, fuck, fucked. You’d think I’d be more pissed off about having killed myself than the 4.2 billion dollar Orion capsule that I’ve broken. But I’m feeling way worse about the capsule right now. Isn’t that weird? Like who cares about an already semi-broken ship compared to their own life? Well, actually Captain Picard would. What would he do in this situation? “Computer, lights!” Nope. Still pitch black. So, what happened is this: I woke up feeling pretty good - considering. I’d basically talked myself into the idea that if Artemis had a button to blow itself up, that button would be pretty clearly labeled as such. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about my time at NASA, it’s that NASA loves to argue with itself about safety issues. I certainly don’t want to say they try to make things idiot proof, but aerospace engineer proof? Actually, that’s worse, idiots don’t break out screwdrivers, soldering irons, and raspberry pi setups when they want to jerry rig something. Anyways, as long as I’m being kind of semi-reasonable with what I do, I’ll be ok. Right? Wrong. But at the time I thought I was on the right path. I tried one last call to NASA telling them what I’m about to do, on the off chance they can listen but not be heard, or on the off, off, off chance that they’ve been messing with me and this is when the joking stops. Nothing. Alright. Frozen Computer Emergency Procedure “Step 1: P. Mod. S. > On.” I’m saying it aloud, like it’s somehow more official that way. There is a P. Mod. S. button, I’m just not sure whether a little red LED in its center means it’s on or off. I push it. The little red LED in the button’s center starts to blink. I say some things that are unfit for publication, then push the button again and it goes back to a solid red LED. Whatever jackass though blinking was a good option for an indicator light should be shot. Flashing if 50% more off than a solid light, but it’s 100% more attention grabbing. Which wins? I’m calling solid light “on”, but at this point if I break this thing then NASA has no one but itself to blame. By the fifth step my back is just plastered with sweat, and by the seventh my fingers are shaking so badly I’m having to use extra effort to making sure I don’t hit anything around the buttons I’m aiming for. You know what it feels like? Imagine you were dying and there were a thousand shot glasses in front of you, each filled with a slightly different colored liquid. Twenty of the glasses have a cure if you drink them in the right order, the rest have poison. And you have to pick the magenta shot... Now the lilac... Now the falu one...” What’s falu? Exactly. “RTZ Mn > I” I say. Push. The Orion shuts down. Total black. No more blinking console lights, no more LCD screens, no more cabin lights. Blackness. I can’t even see my hands. It just so happened the Orion’s windows don’t have a view of the sun for this step, so the only lights are from pin prick stars shining in through Orion’s small windows. The emergency manual hadn’t warned me this was going to happen. We were right in the middle of a procedure. I couldn’t even see well enough to try and find the button to push it back to where it was. By the way: space problems. I was “sitting” in the commander’s chair, but that’s a euphemism. Really, I was floating against a twisted, zig zagging, chair that different parts of my back and legs and butt would bump into every few seconds at random. If it wasn’t for the seat belt... i guess it’s actually a harness... anyways if I wasn’t strapped in, I would have just slowly drifted away. In space, chairs suck. You want to know something else that sucks? Drifting through a totally dark Orion capsule on your way to a bulkhead that you can’t see but you’re going to bump into at any second, all without any feeling of motion. If it hadn’t been for Orion’s windows, and the points of starlight out of them, I would have completely lost my orientation and thrown up. What should have taken about 20 seconds with light ended up turning into a half hour ordeal. But I eventually did find a flashlight. If NASA ever wants to pull a really good prank on astronauts, turn off the lights, and have the cabin speakers play what sounds like something scurrying over metal. Even absent the sound, the capsule is spooky as hell. When I unpress “RTZ Mn” nothing happens, guess it can’t just be “unpressed”. So, question time. Do I keep going through the computer freeze checklist, or am I now into the total power loss checklist? I eat a Skor bar, in the dark. I don’t want to waste those flashlight batteries. It’s been a long day so I also might as well get some sleep and come at this fresh tomorrow. \*\*\* I’m Nathan H. Green, a science-fiction writer with a degree in aerospace engineering, and I’m going to be doing daily semi-fictional stories tracking the Artemis I mission. You can follow along through my reddit (u/authornathanhgreen). Artemis I Has A Stowaway is a work of semi-fiction. All incidents, events, dialogue and sentiments (which are not part of the mission’s official history), are entirely fictional. Where real historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, sentiments, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events, personality, disposition, or attitudes of the real person, nor to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. Save the above, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. © 2022 Nathan H.

Setting The Scene. It was the year 2050 and technology had advanced greatly. People no longer used vehicles like cars buses and trains they would fly. In personal hover crafts between building. The level that you would fly on determined the speed you could fly at. There were robots in the shape of human bodies but made of metal. They were used for many things like driving hover crafts and cleaning. Cyber Cafe. Zak was enjoying his morning coffee while playing on the internet. The computers had the capability of making an image come out of the screen. The image would appear between the face of the user and the screen of the computer. Zak was playing his favourite game an fps called Millennium. When his friend Rad comes into the cafe and says to Zak. "What's up man what are you doing to day?" "After I've finished this level I'm flying to the park. Do you want to come?" "Can't see why not." Zak seems to have killed all the enemies on the level but can't find the exit so asks Rad for some help. "I'm stuck how do I get out of this level?" "There's a secret passageway just there I've completed this game at home. But be careful there's more enemies behind it." Zak uses the secret passageway and kills the remaining enemies then exits the level. They then leave the cafe an head to the hover craft. Flying Hover Craft. Zak drives the hover craft because he can't afford a robot chauffeur. His hover craft is messy it's full of takeaway wrappers. The two of them are sat in the hover craft when Zak starts the electric engine. They raise upwards vertically to the top level because Zak wants to travel fast. Then he gets up his speed in the lay by and joins the stream of traffic. Because they are up high they are above most building and have only the borders to guide them. The borders are black and white signs with arrows pointing in the direction of travel. They are held up with wire which is attached to poles inserted into the ground. As they reach their destination Zak slows his speed and lowers down. He finds a parking space just outside the park. The Park. The park is surrounded with a white stone wall and there's an iron metal fence which is open to let customers in. There are two robots in the entrance way taking money before letting in the customers. Zak and Rad are at the entrance way when the robots speak. "Money please." Rad offers to pay. "This ones on me." Rad then speaks to the robots. "Can I pay by card?" "Just swipe twice." Rad swipes twice and the robots greet them in. "Enjoy your day." Zak and Rad walk into park the weather is good. They decide to walk around the lake. As they pass the grand bridge they notice how busy it is. Half way around is an icecream machine. Zak asks Rad which flavour he wants. "What do you fancy?" Meanwhile the icecream machine is waffling on repeating it self. "Get your icecream vanilla chocolate or strawberry." Rad speaks to the machine. "Vanilla please?" Then Zak speaks to the machine. "Strawberry please and that's it thank you?" "Please insert your money or swipe your card." Zak swipes his card and two cones drop down then the yellow and pink icecream swirls into the cones. They sit on a park bench looking out at the lake. The icecream tastes so refreshing on a hot day like this when Rad asks a question. "What are you doing later on this evening?" "Hopefully completing Millennium do you want to help me?" "Ok." They finished their ice creams and walk back to the flying hover craft. Then they fly back to Zak's apartment. Zak's Apartment. Zak parks up his hover craft on the drive and they go to the front door. "Body detected voice recognition activated." "It's me Zak let me in." "Welcome home Zak." They go inside and Zak goes to his PC he goes online and retrieves his level. Zak plays Millennium all night and with a little help from Rad eventually completes it. The boys are hungry and order a takeaway pizza. The pizza delivery robot is flying high and fast in his hover craft. When his circuit board glitches and the robot swerves hitting a border sign. The hover craft tumbles through the air and crashes through Zak's living room window. There is now half an hover craft in the living room. During the impact the pizza delivery robot is mangled and is now saying. "Malfunction malfunction place your order malfunction malfunction please swipe your card." There's pizza and pizza boxes scattered all over the living room floor and Zak say. "Pizzas up." The boy eat their pizza and go to sleep on the sofa for the night.

Nick tossed about in bed. He couldn’t sleep. He gave up trying to keep his eyes shut because he knew it was useless. And his pillow was on the wrong side of the bed. Nick sat up and put the pillow on the right side of the bed. He straightened his blankets and lay down on the bed, still unable to sleep. He stared at his ceiling. And then he stared at the window. There was the moon. How round and bright it was. He got up and went to the window to get a closer look. Nick admired the moon. He lived in a flat on the 7 th floor. From up there, he saw someone dressed from head to toe in black sneaking around. Nick’s bedroom door opened and someone came in. “Nick,” It was Nick’s half brother, Alfred or as Nick called him, Al. Nick’s parents left him when he was two. First his dad and then his mom. It was his most traumatic experience. Nick had been sent to a foster family with his half brother Al. They had shared the same mother. The Wools family had taken them in. Nick now had a new mother and father, Brittany and Samuel. Nick was also introduced to his new sister Precious. “I couldn’t sleep either,” said Al taking out some chocolate buttons from his pockets. Nick licked his lips at the sight of them. They were one of his favourite foods. He didn’t mention the person in black to Al but took a chocolate button and popped it into his mouth. “So...” There was a big CRASH and the window exploded into hundreds of tiny pieces. “What the-,” said, Al. “What’s going on!” yelled Brittany and Samuel from their bedroom. “I don’t know,” yelled Precious back. Nick and Al ran to their parents’ room. “What happened?” asked Samuel. “Nick’s window got broken,” said Al. “How?” asked Brittany. “I don’t know. We were just-” “What were you doing?” demanded Brittany. “We were just eating chocolate-” “I want some too,” said Precious at once. “We were just in my room and then the window shattered into pieces,’ said Nick. “How?” asked Brittany. “We don’t know!” said Nick and Al at the same time. Samuel grunted. “A window can’t just shatter into pieces by itself.” “What if something was thrown at the window?” suggested Precious. “That might be it. Let’s check what happened to it,” said Samuel. They went up and found among the glass pieces, a small grey pebble. “Who would do that?” wondered Samuel aloud. Nick thought that was the time to tell them about the person in black. “Before that happened, I saw a person in black, dressed like a robber, sneaking around.” The family stared at him at this news. “Why didn’t you tell us?” asked Samuel. “I... I don’t know,” muttered Nick. Al bent down and picked up the pebble. “Why did the person in black throw the pebble at the window?” asked Al. “For what reason?” “Quick!” said Samuel. “Check if anything is stolen.” “Don’t be silly Sam,” said Brittany. We live on the 7 th floor. The person couldn’t have climbed up here,” Precious looked out of the window. “Look here!” Everyone went to the window and peered out. There was a ladder leading to Nick’s window from the 6 th floor’s balcony. “Would you look at that,” said Samuel. “The person in black’s living in the same place as us.” Everyone stared at each other in shock. “Does that mean this place isn’t safe?” asked Brittany. “Maybe... we’ll have to move,” said Samuel. “Is anything missing?” “Nick dug into his drawers. All was there. He searched his cupboard. Everything seemed to be in place. “Why is your backpack thrown in the corner?” asked Precious. “I didn’t put it there,” said Nick and went to get it. He opened a zip and felt about in it. There was nothing in it. “Oh no, it’s missing!” he exclaimed. “What’s missing?” asked Samuel. Nick looked at Al. “The chain,” he said. “Huh?” said Precious. “Our mother gave Nick a gold chain when she left,” said Al. “Is it real gold?” asked Brittany. “Yeah,” said Nick. “Well we can get it back; we know the person stays in this building,’ said Samuel. But for now, how about you sleep in Al’s room, Nick?” Nick brought a sleeping bag into Al’s room and they talked about stuff and ate chocolate buttons and had a spooky story contest and they fell asleep. In the morning, Nick woke up with Al’s foot on his face. He pushed it off and got up and started getting ready for breakfast. Nick woke up Al and they had a swordfight with their toothbrushes and were very late for breakfast. Brittany and Samuel didn’t mind though that they were late. Brittany just made them toast and served it to them. After breakfast, Samuel led them to the couch and said that they were all going to have a talk. “We are going to go to the 6 th floor and find out who are the people living there,” said Samuel. Brittany was shocked. “But that wasn’t what you said Sam!” “How else are we going to find the person in black?” “Can I come?” asked Precious “No, you’re not coming, it’s too dangerous,” said Samuel. “Just Nick and me,” “And me,” said Al. “Yes, and Al,” added Samuel. After the talk, the three of them went to the ground floor and went to the guard to talk. “Who is living on the 6 th floor?” asked Samuel. “Eh, only Edgar Walker, the Jones family and Martha Crick,” said the guard a little surprised. “Thank you,” said Samuel and turned to Nick and Al. “First we’ll visit Martha Crick and then the Jones family and then Edgar Walker.” Nick and Al nodded. They left for the 6 th floor with the guard looking at them with a puzzled expression. They took the stairs to the 6 th floor. There were five rooms. Only three of them were used. Nick, Al and Samuel wondered which one to enter. Little did they know the guard had heard them talking and he had called the police because he thought something suspicious was going on. “Let’s go in this one,” said Al pointing at a door that said, 101. Samuel knocked on the door and opened it. “Hello? Sorry to disturb you but-” Samuel stopped mid-sentence and looked around the room. It was empty. “Oh,” said Nick and Al. “To the next room.” They went to room 102 and knocked on it. A lady with a blue pleated skirt appeared at the doorway. She was carrying a baby and holding a milk bottle. Nick thought that she must be Martha Crick. “Hi um, is your husband in?” asked Samuel. Martha looked surprised. “My husband?” she repeated. My husband left me nine years ago!” Nick’s stomach gave a weird jolt. It had been nine years since his mother left him. “We’re sorry for disturbing you,” said Samuel politely. “It’s alright then,” said Martha and shut the door. Nick knew that the woman’s face looked familiar. He couldn’t put his hand on it. It might’ve been his mother but he had forgotten her name as well as his father’s. He only remembered his surname which was Walker. They came to door 102. Samuel knocked on the door. A small girl opened the door. “What do you want?” asked the girl. “Is there any boys in your family?” asked Al. “Well my father and my brothers,” replied the girl. “Were all of them in the house last night?” asked Nick. “No, my father was at work and my brother’s slept at their friend’s house,” said the girl and then frowned. “Why are you so nosy?” “Oh we’re not being nosy,” said Al. “Some toxic gas was released yesterday and it wasn’t safe for people to go out. That’s why we’re making sure no one went outside last night.” “Oh,” said the girl and shut the door. “How un-polite,” said Samuel and walked to the last door, 103. A man opened the door. “Hello, are you Mr Edgar Walker?” asked Samuel. Have you been anywhere last night?” But Edgar Walker was staring at Nick. Nick told himself that this couldn’t be his father as there were lots of other Walkers out there. “No, I haven’t,” said Edgar, still looking at Nick. Precious and Brittany appeared from nowhere holding hands. “Then what’s that?” asked Precious pointing at Edgar’s trouser pocket. “That’s my chain!” shouted Nick. The police arrived with the guard behind them. “What’s all this about?” asked one policeman. “This man stole my chain from me in the night!” said Nick. Now the guard looked mightily confused. “What?” he said. The policeman went to Edgar and took out the chain from his pocket and handed it to Nick. “B-but that’s mine!” protested Edgar. “You climbed the ladder and broke the window and took the chain,” said Samuel. “I never did such things,” said Edgar. “You can’t accuse me without proof!” “I have proof,” said Al smugly. He brought out his phone from his pockets and showed them a video of the man in black entering the room from the window. The man searched underneath the bed and on top of cupboards and then searched in Nick’s bag and brought out the chain. When the man climbed out of the window, his mask dropped and he was revealed as Edgar Walker. The police handcuffed Edgar and led him outside. Martha Crick came out and stared at Edgar. They shared a look at each other. And then they looked at Nick. “Do you think we should tell him?” asked Martha. “Nah, he’s better off not knowing,” said Edgar as he sat in the back seat of the police car. The cars zoomed off to the police station and Martha was nowhere to be found. And then Nick knew something. Martha and Edgar were his parents. With a sigh, Nick followed his other parents home.

​ It was dark, pitch black. Where am I? Where was I last? I died. Am I still dead? A light so dim, yet so blindingly bright to me appeared in a vertical line. The line grew wider and wider, all until the stone slab above my coffin was completely removed. I removed it, I lifted it, without even willing it. And my body continued to move until it was outside of the crypt. It was night, but there was a full moon. And a little girl in front of me. She clutched a black book to her chest as if it were the last thing she had left in this world. I've heard stories of this, I imagined the possibility, but I never thought it would happen to me. Tears streaked down her cheeks. She choked the words out. "Please, save my papa!" I looked around. That seemed to be permitted. In the distance, there was a raging fire. It engulfed a village. My body willed itself to move in that direction. It started as a walk, and then it became a full on sprint. My armor and sword were still on me. They clanged as I ran. It felt somewhat nostalgic, charging into battle. But this time was different. There was no fear, no excitement. I would not die. I was already dead. In the village center, a man was tied to a pillar, below him was a pile of branches and twigs. Surrounding the man was a retinue of five knights dressed in identical white tabards with the symbol of the order, a dragon. These bastards again. One of them was about to set the man on fire when another saw me. "What have we here?" he declared. The others turned around, to me. "I knew it! I bloody knew it! A necromancer!" He wasn't wrong. But this is going too far, to kill so many for the one. I tried to speak but I could not. My body moved itself, closer to the man on the pillar. "Step back, foul abomination!" They blocked my path and aimed their swords at me. I'm going to enjoy this. I stepped forward once more. They then spread out and surrounded me. A common but effective tactic. The first to swing was the crier. It was a long drawn out motion. It was easy to intercept and swat away. His sword flew out of his hand and onto the ground behind him. As he stood dumbfounded, with his arm still held up from his initial attempt to attack, I charged forward and slamming the flat end of my blade into his chest. He flew backwards and fell to the ground. Fighting with swords and armor was tricky business. Swords were slashing weapons, likely only to bounce or break off of the steel plates of armor. What I need is a mace. Four left. I was constantly darting my head left and right, watching for who would make the next move. One shouted to their fallen comrade, "Oi, get up, Ornstein!" Ornstein was writhing on the ground with an arm held up against his chest. "Damn it!" There was a tinge of fear and frustration in his voice, as if he was unable to accept what had just transpired, as if he never could have imagined it in his wildest dreams. It was a restless, defiant shout. He charged at me in a fury with his sword held back, ready to swing. But before he could, I stepped forward and slashed at his held up wrist. "Aughhhh!" He dropped his sword, knelt down, and clutched his wrist with his good hand. It was by no means possible to cut his hand off through the armor, but he wouldn't be able to use it for at least a week. Seeing their dwindling numbers, the rest lost all control and attacked. Their motions were stiff and their stances were nonexistent. These men were either new recruits or wildly inept. The battle was tedious. No one was going to die because of the protection our armor offered. It was just a beating. I would simply keep on hitting them with the flat end of my blade. And on the rare occasion when they would hit me, I wouldn't feel it at all. I mean, I could feel that something hit me, but no pain registered. The last one still conscious begged, "I give, I give! Please, don't kill me!" I knocked him out. I had no intention of killing them once I realized how little fight they actually had in them. But what happens if I leave them alive? What are the chances they come after the girl? Would they know her father had a daughter? They were able to find the father somehow. Can I take the chance? Systematically, I removed the helmets of each knight and slit their throats. Someone stood in the corner of my vision. I turned my head. It was the girl. How long has she been there? She looked at all the dead men, horror mixed with panic in her eyes. Then at the man tied to the pillar, her father, with eyes of relief, of joy. Intent on releasing him, her father, she threw her book aside, rushed past the dead, and started undoing his ropes. Once free, he began to fall. He could not stand. His daughter dutifully rushed underneath to catch him. But before she could attempt to bear the weight, my body rushed over and caught him . I could not tell if that action was voluntary or not. He lay resting, his back against the very bonfire that was meant to kill him. He still breathed, but was unconscious. There were bruises and cuts all over his body. Blood streaked down him from head to toe. "Papa, wake up!" she implored while clutching his hand with both of hers. I wanted to tell her that he needs his rest, that she should leave him be, but I could not. His eyes opened slowly. His voice was coarse and quiet. "Maggie, is that you?" The space between the words were long, as if it took all his might to utter a single syllable. She tightened her grip, inched closer to his face, and said excitedly, "Yes, it's me, Papa!" He looked at me. "My god, you've done it. Where I always failed." He looked back at her. "You need to run, get out of here. They'll come for you." She said with pure intention and nothing else, "What about you?" "My sweet girl, I cannot come with you. My journey ends here. Travel east from here, in the direction of the graveyard, follow that road until you meet an inn. There should still be some money in the hut. If it's still on fire send in your friend. If it's done burning then still send him in, it could collapse at any second. If there's no money there then search those knights. I know death is scary. I know that. But it's not the end." He took one last, long breath. "I'll always be with you." And like that, he lost all of his strength, his hand slipping from his daughter's grasp, his neck falling to his side, and his eyes, closed. I couldn't see her eyes, as I stood beside her, vigil. But her head did not move. I don't think she could process what just happened. "Wake up, Papa! Wake up! Please, please wake up!" She gripped onto his shirt with both her hands, buried her head in his chest, and began to cry and wail, endlessly. "No, please, please, please. Don't leave..." I could do nothing but watch. It was hours before she would leave that spot. In the end, she returned to her home. It was burned to a crisp, the walls and ceiling did collapse. I doubt there was anything left. She had me search anyway, though. I found a jar filled with mostly copper coins, and some silver. When we returned to the town center, she just stood there, motionless, as if she was unsure of what to do next. Perhaps she wanted to bury her father, give him a proper rest, but she also wanted to respect and heed his last words. Perhaps she was debating whether she should pilfer from those knights of the order. On one end it was sacrilegious to steal from the dead, but on the other, they practically killed her father. She turned her head to me, tilted it upward until her eyes reached mine, and said, "loot them." I had no qualms with it. It was only natural to use whatever you could, as weapons and shields were liable to bend and break during the heat of battle. And Some men would always compare and gloat over who had obtained the greatest treasure afterward. Ah, those were the days. We couldn't carry any of their weapons or armor, so all that happened was the money jar got a little, no, a lot fuller. And then we did as her father instructed, we traveled on the east road. She continued to clutch the black book against her chest. And I held the jar. As we passed my crypt, she stopped. Then she entered it and left with a helmet in her hand. She raised it up, at me. I took and equipped it. It would be best if people didn't know I was what I was. After a while of walking, she started to slow down. I wanted to tell her I could carry her, but I could not. After another hour or so of walking, she collapsed. She was still breathing. Must have just been tired. It must have been a long night for her. I knelt down, scooped her up, cradled her in my arms, and continued to walk. That seemed to be permitted. She still held that book against her chest. It was the last thing she had left in this world.

A campfire of green flames burned in secret under the stars. It was hidden by the deep woods where prying eyes were unlikely to see. A young woman in a black dress with long, dark hair stared into the flickering green light with rage in her eyes. She had been betrayed. Scorned. Made jealous by a woman more beautiful than her. The young woman did not fear the shadow that sprung forth from the fire. It was tall, twice her height, and had two glowing red jewels where its eyes should be. It was the Shadow King, Master of Shadows and one of the spiteful lords of Hell. No one had ever managed to summon him before, though many had tried. He came only when he pleased, not bound by the spells of witches nor the will or any man. “Speak the name of your enemy,” the Shadow King said to the young woman. His voice was deep and raspy. Like a thousand souls crying out in pain, their voices stolen from them and used for evil. ​ “Phoebe Mitchell.” The young woman’s face contorted to an expression of hate as she spoke the name. Her jealous rage burning her soul before its time. In her hand was a note and she tossed into the fire from which she summoned the Shadow King. The Shadow King disappeared as quickly as he came, and the fire went out. The young woman struck a match and lit a candle before inspecting the ashes. A wooden music box sat where the flames had just been, and she knew what she must do. Sherry traveled through the abyss a second time and found herself in the same place as before in her dream. The familiar smell of death filled her nose again. Rick had arrived ahead of her. She could hear his screams coming from the dark caverns in front of her as the shadowy demons tore him apart before stitching him back together with rusty needles and thin barbed thread just so they could do it again. The bastard was getting what he deserved. She picked herself up from ground and wobbled. Her legs were weak, and balancing was hard to do. The shadows moved in on her, creeping along the wall and moving from rock to rock. They meant to tear her apart just as they were doing to Rick. So, she ran fast as she could. The weakness in her legs was unforgiving and Sherry tripped over herself repeatedly but somehow managed to keep from falling over. The shadows followed but kept their distance. They were enjoying her fear and cackled with wicked, hissing laughter. “Leave me alone!” Sherry said loud as she could when she didn’t have the strength to go any farther. Inside she knew what this was it for her. This is the place where she would spend the rest of forever being tormented by the shadows. They moved in, encircling her in a ring of black mass. Then something happened that should not be. A great peace came over Sherry and her heart was comforted. A voice was speaking to her but not using words. “Go forward. Do not be afraid,” she felt it say to her though she did not hear anything. The black circle grew tighter, and she was scared but Sherry did what she felt was being said to her. “Save him,” she felt the voice say to her again. It was speaking directly to her heart and giving her courage. Part of her wasn’t sure this wasn’t her own mind playing tricks on her, a defense mechanism in a time of peril. But doing what was being spoken to her heart was one of only two options. The second being that she would give in and accept her fate. That was not Sherry’s style. She was stubborn and thick of skin and refused to go down without a fight. She approached the edge of the circle, the shadows joined together to close in on her, and spoke. “Get out of my way.” Sherry did not expect them to move, nor did she expect anything to happen at all. The evil intentions of the shadows radiated from the circle, and she felt them on her heart as loud as the voice that she could not hear. But the circle broke, and shadows scattered, retreating to the walls of the caverns that they slithered from. They watched as she stood stunned by how they listened to her command and obeyed. Their shapeless eyes never left her. Sherry walked on with her head held high. It was posturing at its best. Her bravery nothing but desperation. She knew that she was no match for the shadows should they want to turn back and drag her away. What she didn’t know was there was a light that she couldn’t see shining brightly behind her. But the shadows could, and darkness must always flee in the presence of light. An angel sent to guide her and speaking words of encouragement to her heart as she made her way through this portion of Hell. Her time on Earth was over but her purpose had not been served yet. She still had work left to do. There was an innocent man who did not deserve to be here but was stolen before his time by the shadows. Sherry knew exactly what she was meant to do here. “Call the Shadow King.” The angel was speaking to her heart again. So, she did, and the Shadow King appeared before her. It was only the second time he had come when summoned and the first against his own will. The powers from above commanded it and he was powerless to disobey. “Speak the name of your enemy,” the Shadow King said. His red eyes glowed. “The Shadow King,” Sherry said. “You. You’re my enemy.” He stared at her, and they stood in silence. It felt like forever though it could have only been a moment. Time had no meaning here. Then he spoke. “What do you want?” “You cannot have who you took in my place. My family’s curse ends here.” Then she saw the light as the angel made itself visible to her. Its wings surrounded her like the shadows and the Shadow King fled at the light’s command. Helga never escaped her bonds that night. In her struggle, she fell into the grave Rick had dug for her and died there like he intended her to do. Three bodies lay lost in the woods, and it would be years before their skeletons were found. As for Billy, he woke up in his bed not knowing that he had been missing for three years. During the moment Sherry and the Shadow King stood in silence time had slipped by in the place where it had no meaning. The Shadow King knew his reign of terror on Sherry’s family was over and held onto his moment as long as he could before letting go. Billy never knew he was gone and did not remember where he had been. He was spared the torments of Hell that were never meant for him. His life had been lived valiantly and true and now he was returned to the Earth to continue his good works. Had Billy never been taken then the Shadow King wouldn’t have been stopped. But the moment he took an innocent soul a plan was put into motion. But maybe that was the plan all along.

Some people have what the kids call ‘resting bitch face’. I have the opposite. Something about my face, something I can’t put my finger on, makes people want to engage me in conversation. My mother says it’s the family curse. My grandmother says it’s a blessing and I should be grateful. Either way, even when it’s 8am and all I want in my waking coma is coffee, another hasty grab-and-goer will make a comment about the weather or the increasingly poor service of British railway lines. I nod and smile because I like to think of myself as a polite, reasonable human being. Yes, it’s raining again, yes all week, yes hope the sun comes out soon. Oh, your train was late? Mine too, it’s terrible, simply terrible, did you know in Japan they apologise if the train is so much as thirty seconds late? Why don’t we do that here, it’s just an outrage, it really is. If this city had an emotion it would be ‘simmering disappointment’. “We’ve met before, haven’t we? I could swear I saw you at Jim’s party,” says a bloke with a briefcase. The pair of us jostle for prime position, as close as possible to where the train’s carriage doors jolt to a stop. I clutch the cardboard sleeve of my coffee cup, ridges digging into my fingers. “I don’t know anyone called Jim.” I smile distantly. “Really? Oh. Well. Did you see in this morning’s paper-” I am the queen of small talk. It’s a crown I never wanted. On the plus side, I never have to check the news. There’s always someone eager to tell me what the prime minister’s gone and done now, or which celebrity recently got pregnant. I nod along to what the bloke is saying, agreeing that the country really has gone to the dog’s. It’s just easier not to argue. The train draws in with a chuffing screech. I get my elbows ready, even as I step back to let out a trickle of people with backpacks and rollalong cases. I board. There’s not so little room I’ll be left standing but there are no free double seats either. I’ll have to choose someone to sit next to. Getting the same train at the same time, I spot all the usual suspects. There’s the old lady with the grandson studying in Sweden. There’s the schoolboy who plays football and scores practically every goal, don’t you know? On the other side of the carriage is Mary. I know her name is Mary because she is unapologetic about using her speakerphone to have loud arguments with her boyfriend, rolling her eyes at me whenever he’s talking. Behind her there’s a pair of men too old to be lads but still eager to talk about laddish things like Top Gear and the FTSE 100. Today I am not in the mood for guessing if a Lincoln Continental Mark V Landau is a car or an investment fund. At the very back, I see someone new. She’s dressed for the office in a prim grey skirt and sheer black tights, but her feet are clad in chunky trainers. I spot a pair of heels jutting between the handles of her handbag. Her eyes look dreamy and far away. The moment I spot the white gleam of earbuds, my mind is made up. Earbuds buys me two minutes of quiet. Maybe even five, if I’m lucky. I hurry to claim the seat next to hers. I have my pinched smile at the ready, a weapon to deal with the awkwardness of sharing personal space with a stranger. Pretending someone isn’t there when your knees are almost touching is one of the weirdest phenomenons of public transport. She doesn’t look up. I allow myself a slow exhale. I watch the other passengers board, the way they carefully scan the seats for the most favourable option. Someone’s put their bag on the seat next to them. There’s something wonderfully satisfying about the “Is anyone sitting here?” they get for their efforts. Etiquette on trains demands irritation be disguised as perfect, placid politeness. I wait for my new neighbour to pop out her earbuds and ask what stop we’re at. She doesn’t. I wait for her to comment on the weather or the increase in train fares. She doesn’t. I actually get to drink my coffee before it gets cold. Between sips, I peek at her out of the corner of my eye. I decide it’s her eyes that make her pretty, the colour of the sea on a sunny day. I wonder if she’s going to get off first. We’ll have to perform the awkward train shuffle when I get up to let her out. I’ll accidentally stand the side closest to the doors and she’ll need to squeeze past me, making the whole thing even more excruciating. The thought’s enough to put me on edge. I sip my coffee and try to discern which carriage door makes for the most sensible exit. Thankfully, I am spared by being the first to leave. It must be the only silent train journey I’ve had in my whole life. I am so grateful I want to say thank you. The only thing holding me back is knowing how resentful I feel when people ignore the fact I’m wearing headphones. Even the biggest ear dustbins in the world do little to neutralise my curse. So I say nothing. For once I’m not exhausted before the day’s even started. It’s easier to bear the good morning chatter of my colleagues without having to sip cold coffee. I whizz through the day’s customer complaints, managing to sound sincerely contrite on the telephone. Amazing how much difference a quiet morning makes! The arrangement becomes regular. Every day she’s on the train with a free seat next to her. I don’t hesitate for a second, ignoring any attempts to make eye contact and/or conversation on my way there. For the first time, I realise peace somewhere away from home. I get to drink my coffee. I start to bring books now I have the quiet to read them in. We’ve never spoken and yet I look forward to seeing her each day and claiming a few precious minutes of silence. Well, not really silence, not with the chuff of the train and the ringing of phones, the rumble of wheeled bags and the flat automated pronouncements of “The next station is-”. But the closest I’ll get to it in the middle of the city. I wonder what my new seat buddy is like, where she’s come from, which office she’s going to. I briefly consider sweeping social media to see if I can find any trace of her. I surreptitiously scan her for details - a badge, lanyard, a branded carrier bag. It’s at the point when I’m sneaking glances at her phone to see if I can discern whether she’s an Apple or an Android girl that I realise I may be a little obsessed. Then I start to consider if there’s a reason she won’t talk to me. Is it because I’m ugly? Unfriendly? Have I offended her in some way? Maybe she overheard me saying something she didn’t like. Maybe I’m not cool enough for her to talk to, which overrides any curse I may or may not have. I decide, for the sake of my sanity, to sit somewhere else. “Hello, love. Haven’t spoken in a while.” Oh, help. I remember this lady, she’s always tanned from long holidays in the Mediterranean. I make ‘mmm’ noises. I stuff my book into my bag. “Nice to see the sunshine, in’t it? Just last year I went to Spain and-” I make the required impressed noises. I wonder what it would be like if I told her I wasn’t interested. But that just isn’t what you do, is it? Anyway, it makes her happy to talk about her holidays and I don’t have the heart to put her off. I feel my coffee growing cold. She gets off at the next stop. I hear someone else on the search for a seat and brace myself, wondering what I’ll end up hearing about next. I blink, stunned. The quiet girl takes the seat next to me. I should say something. But she doesn’t look at me. She sits and taps at her phone. She’s still wearing earbuds. Her getting up to sit here was a purposeful decision, she was already on the train. I should say something. But what? I don’t start conversations, other people start them for me. For the rest of the journey, words gum up my throat. Everything I come up with seems stupid. When we reach my stop, she gets up without me having to ask. And she *smiles*. I smile back, utterly dazzled. Then I have to run to get off the train before the doors close. I spend the rest of the day thinking of conversation starters. I scribble questions on my notepad, only half listening to angry customers. I come up with a shortlist. I cross out half of them. I list categories: weather, news, TV shows. I strategise what path to go down for each topic. I try and guess her responses. The next day, I square my shoulders. I am ready. I even rehearsed, watching my face in the mirror to check my expressions. I take my seat. As usual, she’s listening to something. Why isn’t she talking to me? I can’t take it anymore! I have to hear her voice. Just to check she isn’t some strange hallucination. If I make a complete embarrassment of myself, I can always start boarding a different carriage. Or maybe I’ll just walk. “It isn’t raining today!” I blurt out. “We might even get a glimpse of sunshine.” She blinks at me. Her eyes look darker when she’s actually focused on something. Someone. Is every word supposed to be this gut-wrenching? Is this how it feels for all the people compelled to talk to me? I used to think people *liked* to prattle on and on about nothing. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe this is just a safe way to get started, a tentative check to see if the other person wants to chat. *Please talk to me. Please.* She nods. “Only because I brought my umbrella. Forgetting it means it’s guaranteed to rain, carrying it around all day brings out the sun.” Her voice doesn’t sound like I imagined. It’s lower but sweeter, soft on vowels. She parries my lame line about the weather perfectly. I thought she might be shy, but maybe not. Already the plans I spent hours on have become useless. She takes out her earbuds, watching me curiously. “You must be cursed!” Then I laugh, high and nervous. She looks at me, opens her mouth, closes it again. Silence. Awful, awkward silence. “The train’s busy today, isn’t it?” Why did I say that? The train is busy every day and it’s certainly no busier than usual. I cringe into my coffee cup. My strange gift has left me extremely lacking in conversational skills. This may just be the most painful train ride in history. I think it even beats the time an old man insisted on telling me all the ways I reminded him of his ex “Yeah.” She leans back in her seat, looking away. “I work near Farringdon. Customer complaints.” “I’m closer to the Barbican. Office admin.” It’s clear she’s only being polite. I struggle and flail and pity the numerous individuals who have ever felt the same way. I could ask her more about her job, but her face tells me she’s not particularly interested. I take a gamble and ask a question I genuinely want to know the answer to. “Do you mind if I ask what you’re listening to?” Her face comes to life. “A thriller about an alcoholic stalking her ex. Not sure if I like it.” “Oh. Why not? Is it not exciting?” “Well - “ We have a conversation about novels. A perfectly passable conversation where I sound halfway intelligent. I make her laugh. I want to do it again. I feel ridiculously light, as if I might fly away like a carrier bag on a windy day. I didn’t realise a single conversation could mean so much. I briefly worry it’s a fluke and she won’t want to sit with me again. But I’m wrong. Each morning, we smile at each other and say hello. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes I’ll open my book and she’ll put in her earbuds, both of us welcoming a quiet journey. “I don’t even know your name,” I blurt out one day, rain-damp hair stuck to my cheeks. My coffee cup sleeve is soggy. I check her bag for the bulge of her umbrella. It seems to be missing. “Lou,” she says. It’s about a year since we began sitting together on the train. I mention this to her and she laughs and says I have a good memory. *Lou* laughs. I can talk about her. I can think about her as something other than *the girl I sit next to on the train*. It’s a Tuesday morning and I’m looking forward to sitting down. I want to tell Lou about this one customer who insists on using a Nokia phone he bought the year of the millennium, but is outraged it ‘doesn’t do Skype’. I bounce onto the train. Look around to the two or three seats Lou favours - window, slightly to the back of the second carriage. She isn’t there. It’s fine. She’s probably on holiday or maybe she’s sick, though she didn’t mention anything about travelling to sunny climes or coming down with a cold yesterday - I sink into the nearest seat, mind racing. I don’t have her number. I don’t even have her second name. There didn’t seem much point as we saw each other every day. But what if she never comes back? “You alright?” asks the chap in the seat next to me. “You look pale. Do you want a drink of water?” “My friend isn’t here today,” I tell him. “I hope she’s alright.” His glasses have thick black frames a fraction too big to be trendy. He launches into a rant about the lack of carriages on the train and I tune him out. I’m thinking. Plotting. How do I find one woman in the near infinite depths of the city? Maybe it won’t come to that. Lou will probably be back before long. A week passes. Then two. Maybe she really is gone. Without even a goodbye. Is this related to the curse? I don’t know what else to do. I scroll through my contacts to find a number I should dial more often than I do. I dial. No answer. She’s probably left the phone in a plant pot or next to the sink. I don’t bother with voicemail. I dial again. “Hello?” a deceptively feeble voice says. “Hello Grandma. How are you?” “Why are you calling me? You *never* call me. Your mother says you don’t have time for idle conversation. Are you still living in that horrible mousehole?” “Yes but - “ “You need to get onto the landlord, you must be so embarrassed whenever you have people around.” “Grandma, I need to ask you about-” I lower my voice so I sound less crazy to my fellow passengers. “The curse.” Silence. Has she dropped the phone? Accidentally hung up while trying to work the volume? “It’s not a curse!” she suddenly squawks. “That mother, putting ideas in your head -” “OK, fine! The blessing then. I met someone it didn’t work on. She didn’t talk to me. And I think *she* might be cursed - or blessed - as well. It always rains when she forgets her umbrella.” “Ridiculous. Witches these days have absolutely no imagination. When I was young, they had fire in their bellies. Old Tommy, he said - ” I have to interrupt her or I’ll be here all day. One mention of Old Tommy and it’s all over. “Grandma, do you know how to break the, um, blessing?” “Why would you want to? Before I met that nice witch I spent all my time chatting with people because otherwise we’d all sit in silence!” I imagine my grandmother yapping the ears off anyone who would listen with her never ending stream of dramas, just like she does now. The young witch must have thought she was being oh so clever with her curse, not realising my grandmother would revel in it. In stories, curses can be broken if the person mends their ways. My grandmother was eighty-nine. I didn’t have a hope of her changing. But maybe that was fine. If she didn’t want to tell me all about her neighbours Messy Margerie and Sly Simon I would only worry something had gone terribly wrong. I listen for as long as I can before lapsing into friendless despair softened only by copious amounts of ice cream. The next day, I decide I’ve had enough of despair. I don’t have to be friendless, not when people come to me so effortlessly. Lou might be gone but I can make another friend. Maybe. I try hard for the rest of that week and the next. I ask earnest questions about paella from the Mediterannean and relate anecdotes about my mother’s holiday infatuation with a waiter named Luca. I learn I really should consider investing in a stocks and shares saving account if I ever want to buy a property. I urge Mary to break up with her disappointing boyfriend because she deserves better than someone who can’t properly pair up socks. I feel better. I feel connected. I feel like people’s smiles are more genuine and maybe my grandmother is right, my ability isn’t so bad after all. Although. I can’t quite quell my longing for quiet. Even one morning a week drinking coffee and sharing a pair of earphones with Lou would be enough. My head spins with new names - I wish I’d found out hers. I wish I’d followed her on Twitter or asked for her Instagram or if I were really bold maybe even her phone number. So many ways to connect and I couldn’t use a single one of them. I try typing her name into Google and Facebook but do you know how many Lous there are in one city? Too many for one tiny screen to handle. You can probably scroll to infinity. Even then I’d have to hope for an up-to-date picture without a hat or sunglasses on. I board the train. I decide to sit next to Mary and see how her boyfriend hunt is going. But just as I am about to head over, I catch a flash of a familiar face. “Hi!” says Lou. I stare at her, wondering if she’s real. Someone behind me sighs loudly when the train doors bleep a warning. I am hustled onto the train by the impatient throng behind me, to the empty seat next to Lou. My heart thunders in my mouth. I don’t know what to say to her. I’m pleased to see her and desperate to know where she’s been and on top of all that I feel a tiny bit betrayed. “It’s nice to see you,” says Lou. “I missed the smell of your coffee in the morning. Always wakes me right up.” “...Are you back now?” “Not really. There was a flood in the office and I got relocated. Maybe permanently.” “Oh. So I probably won’t see you around as much then,” I mumble. “That’s kind of why I’m here.” And then she gave me the most adorable look, simultaneously beguiling, sheepish and shy. “I really miss you.” “I missed you too. I wish I’d asked for more than your name.” “Are you asking now?” she laughs. And I did. And then question after question after question. We miss Lou’s stop. Then we miss mine. We ride the train all the way to the end of the line and by the end I glow, warm and happy and sated by a conversation I want to have with all my heart. After that, a strange thing happens. People stop cornering me everywhere I go. I am no longer burdened by the chatter of strangers. I get the odd person every now and again, but they no longer seem *compelled* to talk to me. Questioning my grandmother gets me nowhere but I have a sneaking suspicion I know what broke the curse - a genuine interest in my conversational partners, a return of their efforts to connect. The only downside - I have to start buying newspapers! And I carry an umbrella everywhere, because if Lou forgets then it rains.

\Content Warning Small detail mentions of child abuse, selling people, sex slaves and illegal actions against the human body. ​ \ ​ In my line of work there is little room for moral rightness. I follow the money and that is all I care for. Objects of unspeakable origins have graced my possession only to be handed off to the highest bidder. The odors of dens and whore houses I have crawled into in order to practice my trade do not linger on my clothes for very long. The trauma of my wares does not bother me in the slightest. It is not honest work and that does not bother me either. I have had many clients in the past and have never failed a delivery. Credits are traded in hushed whispers, as if the patron is shy. The things they buy would lead one to a different impression but that is not something that worries me. Everyone's money is good money. One case I am working on involves something called a “Caged Flytrap”. I had never heard of such a thing. The info brokers I have on retainer could only point me to an auction house that specializes in human goods. I am not new to this type of trade, I have obtained fresh thigh meat and full living people. I have some reservations about children, but there is little I won’t deal in. Everyone is dealt a bad hand from time to time, who am I to waste opportunities like those? There is a knock on my door. I answered it to find my hired driver waiting to take me to the Auction House. I gather my files and head out. On the ride there, I look over the little info I have. A caged flytrap is only referenced once in physical documentation. It indeed involves a living human, but aside from that there are no discernible details regarding what exactly they entail. I arrive at an alley where my driver opens the door and bids me a good time, he’s funny like that. Walking down the length of the alley, the brick walls are lined with chipping white paint that once advertised a cattle exchange yard. Just past a green dumpster sat a large iron door that seemed too well maintained for the area. Such subtleties are lost on the overprotective types. I knock on the door three times followed by a sharp cough. A thin sliding view hole squeaks open, revealing a set of beady blue eyes. “What” an echoed voice calls from behind. “It’s a lovely day for rain, don’t you think?” I responded. The door opens with a hush of air, leading to a small landing that descends into a dimly lit marble staircase. The heels of my shoes click calmly down the smooth surface of the stairs, lending to the vast emptiness of the stairwell. At the bottom, there is a small wooden door. I open the door to lead myself into an amber lit, red velvet lined room. There are already a few bidders waiting in large leather chairs facing a grand stage gilded with angelic motifs not dissimilar to an opera house. A thick black curtain is drawn over the stage. Each fold is exaggerated by bright stage lights burning their circles of yellow and blue into the void-like surface of the material. A wooden podium is silhouetted by the soft shadows cast from the ambient light. I find myself an open chair in the back row and await for the main event to start. Cocktail waitresses and waiters walk along the aisles offering sinful concoctions in scantily clad lingerie. Well mannered and polite, they show little interest in the individual person they are serving, as it should be. Such places are known for not prying too much into the personal affairs of their patrons aside from their bank accounts. I take a small glass offered to me containing an unknown but very well crafted drink and listen to the conversations around me. There is a hum around the room discussing interest in the various goods up for sale. A tall man in a fair suit exclaims his excitement for the upcoming offering of a young boy. Another woman details the last time she was here and bid on a few pounds of rump she served at a dinner party unbeknownst to her party guests. A shrill bell chimed and it was time to start the first auction. Patrons found their way to seats and awaited for the first offering. A dark eyed woman in a tasteful dress walked onto the stage welcoming everyone to tonight's event. She spoke with well chosen words and did not waste time with unnecessary pleasantries. She stood behind the podium as the black curtain opened. Placed on a black pedestal stood a mummified hand encased in glass. The auctioneer explained the piece to be the mummified remains of a well known pharaoh recently unearthed. Looking into the audience she started the bid at 2.5 million dollars. Several numbered paper cards shot up exclaiming offers. The hand sold for 6.2 million dollars. The auctioneer congratulated the woman who won the bid as the crowd clapped. Mummified remains in this market are usually ground into paint pigment and used in over the top portraits for the sole purpose to brag that it contains authentic mummy brown. Many other items were auctioned and sold including human meat, a taxidermized conjoined fetus, several sex slaves of various ages and other objects of immoral value. As the auction was winding down and the black curtains found their way back to a closed position, I got the feeling that I had come to the wrong place. I have not heard a single mention of a caged flytrap or anything related to them. As I stand up, the auctioneer announces that there was one final object up for bidding. The curtains open back up and reveal a figure covered in a white sheet. Before I could sit back down, the auctioneer pulled the sheet back. What I was seeing was not like anything I had ever seen before. My mind could not comprehend what was on that stage. The auctioneer backed up to her podium and my eyes finally adjusted to the monstrosity before me. The figure for sale resembled a young woman. She wore a tattered white garb stained with dried blood and what looked like soot. Her hands were held stiffly at shoulder height by a rough plank of wood like a pillory. Around her neck and head was a large iron cage adorned with copper snakes and butterflies. She stood motionless, gasping behind the device she was woven into. The auctioneer stated that this was a caged flytrap and bids start at 145.5 million dollars. My card shot up without thought. My client placed no limitations on this object, money was no object. “150 million” I shouted a little too loudly. The crowd looked back at me with murmured whispers. It seems they had no idea what this Caged Flytrap was. I guess we are all in the same boat. No other offers were given and I won the bid. The curtains closed over the monster and the auctioneer congratulated me on winning the bid. I walked over to the ticket kiosk to fill out the paperwork and turn in the paper card I was using. Money is never exchanged in hand at these places. Far too much to deal with in person. Bookies and brokers will deal with the cash later. I beckoned my driver to pull around to the loading bay. As I waited, two burly men walked over to me with the Flytrap covered in the same cloth as on stage. They informed me not to remove the cloth until she was delivered. They placed a heavy importance on that request. I took hold of the Flytrap’s arm from under the cover and guided her over to the car. Her skin was much warmer than I had anticipated. This was a living human after all, why had her warmth shocked me so much? I sat in the back with the product and rode in silence to my clients rendezvous point. We arrived first. It was a peaceful, railed cliff overlooking a lake. The moon hung so plumply in the sky, it seemed to drip into the water with every gentle wave. I saw headlights cast a shadow over the inside of the car and I stepped out, placing a mask over my face. Although I am entwined in the underground lives of my clients, I must keep some modesty. “Oh good God, you actually found one.” My client exclaimed. “Please, remove the cloth. I must see it.” I informed him of the strict instructions not to remove the cover until it was secured at a residence. My client agreed and admitted to being a little excited over the whole ordeal. My client's men placed the Flytrap gently in the back of their vehicle. Both me and him were looking past the horizon as the situation was being secured. “Do you know much about them? The Caged Flytraps?” My client asked. “No, sir. there isn’t much information on them in our files. I had almost thought it was a myth.” I responded. He looked over to the car with his newly acquired thing then looked back at me. “They are orphans who are taken at birth. Stripped of all humanity, dignity, touch, interaction and any other comforts you can think of.” He said. “They are abused and neglected until the point of death. This process makes it impossible for them to form personalities. They are essentially mindless shells.” I held back a gulp. Even in my field of work, this was a little too much for my stomach. “They usually die-” He continued. “The process is so hard on the body. How do you remove a soul without killing the flesh? That’s what makes them so rare. Well, someone figured it out a long time ago. The Caged Flytraps are feral but very obedient. They do whatever you ask them to. Do you know why they gave them the name Caged Flytraps?” “I couldn’t begin to wonder, sir.” “If given, they will eat humans alive. Like an animal.” He said flatly. We stood there for a while longer. He turned to his car and got in. As they backed out to drive away, he rolled down his window. “Your payment will be much higher for finding this one, olé boy. My thanks.” He said before they sped off. I waited a moment after I couldn't hear the car anymore. I retched over the railing and vomited through my mask. My driver came over with a handkerchief to help clean me up. He helped me up and to the car. I sank back into the seat and closed my eyes. “Are you okay, sir?” My driver asked me. “Yes, I’m fine.” I responded. “Just a little sea sick from watching the water.

She lay there in front of him, shock evidently seen in her eyes. Life had left her body, but the shock and dread did not leave her eyes. He had always heard there was peace in the eyes of people who leave us, but this was not peace! She was there in a pool of blood with *Maa Kali*’s photo in one hand and it felt like someone had offered a sacrifice to the goddess and bathed her in the blood of his wife. A cross had been nailed in her other palm, an offering to *Jesus* as well. A final nail in the coffin? A void filled his eyes. A void like never before. He could not see anything; his bloodshot eyes were wide open but nothing was visible anymore. Slowly the voices around started to sound like noise and then it faded away. This could not be the same woman he had seen that morning before leaving to work. His heart was about to give up on him and suddenly, he felt a blow at the side of his head as fell down next to her and fainted. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- The sun had just begun to retire for the day, shining its last bit of glory for those eyes of mankind who would witness the beauty of it. Shresht sat by the shore and looked at the sky as it changed its colours. It was golden yellow at first, which slowly turned into crimson red and finally hues of green entered the picturesque display. It was magnificent in every possible way. As time passed, the beautiful full moon was out. Its light made the waves look like series of diamonds, rising up and descending with the waves only to finally kiss his feet softly. “*Devi maa* and her beautiful creations”, he thought as he got up to return home and that is when he first saw her. Short hair that shuffled swiftly with the cool night breeze, wearing a white sleeveless T-shirt and a blue denim. With flip-flops in her hands, she was walking along the shore, smiling and looking at one of nature’s most inconceivable beauties. It was almost love at first sight for him. Almost! It was when she got a little closer that he had observed the cross pendent in her neck. He smirked, touched the *rudraksh* around his neck and walked away from the scene. But even as he walked away, he could not forget her perfectly peaceful face and the radiant smile. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- “Shresht! Shresht! Wake up! You cannot fall weak now. Raunak will need you. Pull yourself together”. It was his friend Nakul. Shivering and still dizzy he manged to slowly sit up a little and found a wall to support himself. He felt weak in his legs with absolutely no strength to move anymore or look anywhere else. Him fainting and falling on the floor next to her had smeared a share of her blood on his face and hair. The blood, mixed with his sweat, was now dripping drop by drop from his chin. It was as though it was her holding on to him for a little bit longer not ready to let go so soon, not sure whether to drip and fall on the floor or to push ahead this journey just a little longer. Raunak! Their 5-year-old son was still at school. He mustered as much strength as possible and asked Nakul to pick up Raunak and take him to a hotel and stay with him in a room. He would contact Nakul and let him know where to get Raunak. He knew he could not sit there forever. She had left him and he would have to make arrangements for her final rites. Looking at her body again made him nauseous. The peaceful and radiant face he had seen for the first time was nowhere now to be seen. He felt a throbbing pain in his head and a hollow cavity in his chest. It was too much to take in and Shresht broke down and started to cry loudly, screaming at intervals until his throat dried up and just a screeching voice was left. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - “Hey there! Someone loves watching the sunset a lot”, Shresht looked up to see whose voice it was. There she was, the beautiful angel like face. Shresht’s voice gave up on him at the wrong time. His mind went blank, but squeaked out ‘Say something you idiot!’. At last he just smiled and looked away, not wanting to stare anymore. She sat down next to him and the wind playing its devious role carried her lavender like fragrance straight to him. He pulled down the sleeves of his pullover to make sure his Goosebumps were not seen. “Anika Sebastian”, she introduced herself. “Hi. Shresht Kashyap” “Ah, Kashyap huh” “Ah, Sebastian huh” Both smiled and continued to look at the beautiful sunset. There was something serene about the moment. It felt like everything had paused for the time being. The vendors selling various snacks and toys could not be heard anymore, the noise from vehicles nearby fainted away, people and their cheerful laughter muted, and his gaze was fixed at the sunset. There were just the waves, the sunset, her fragrance and also the desire to turn around and look at her once. Life was going on, but their moment had paused. The colours of the sky were seen to be more elegant than ever. The gods seemed to be extremely happy and all their cupids were released to make hearts meet. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - “We need to take revenge! They have killed our people. Let’s wait till Sunday and during the mass we will burn down their churches”, people were speaking. Shresht looked around and there were just people he did not recognize. But, revenge? Whom will he kill? His own family? Make others go through what he is going through? All for what? A set of Gods he can’t even see! God was the reason that people used, to do this to his Anika. It felt all meaningless. Why were they all here? Shresht looked at Anika again, slowly pushed himself towards her and pulled her up and hugged her. It did not matter that she was in a pool of blood, it did not matter that there were people around. He just closed his eyes and embraced her. The moment paused again. The voices and screams of people muted and everything faded. He could just feel her body, it was cold, warm blood dripping around. “All of you get out of here!! Out now!!!”, he shouted. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - Their love had bloomed for over a year, life had now become quite dependent on each other. Going against everyone and their wishes they first said “I Do” to each other and then in a small temple event with *mantras* echoing everywhere, Shresht tied the knot. It was happiness everywhere. Irrespective of the weather, be it hot sunny days or gloomy rainy days, both of them knew how to make each other smile and love. Love like they never did before. They were warned of the consequences every now and then, from both sides of family. However, it did not bother them. They had created a small beautiful world for themselves. Celebrating life and festivals from both religions. They attended the Friday *Devi pooja* and also attended the Sunday mass together. People would gaze at them like a hunter at his prey. But all this never daunted them or their love. Soon Raunak was born and they instilled the same values in him. Love and respect are all the 3 of them knew. Every evening, the 3 of them would sit by the shore, watch the sunset, laugh, embrace each other’s warmth and retire for the day with the Sun. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- - With the few friends they had, he completed her final rites. In ways followed by both the cultures. He had looked at her face for as long as he could, held her hands in the hope that she would wake up again with the angelic smile and kiss him, may be if he had delayed enough he could hear her voice just once more, sit down by the shore one last time. He had left a bouquet of lavenders at her grave and kissed the grave. As the bus moved away from his village his feeling of emptiness just continued until finally Raunak held his hand and looked up at him with teary eyes. Shresht hugged him and kissed his head. There it was, the same warmth and the beautiful lavender fragrance. “*Baba*, where is *ma*?” “In a better place dear. Where there is no God or religion and where happiness prevails. One day you will grow up to understand why you are not associated with any religion”.

Born with retractable chromacy. And a diamond was less malleable than the adaptive and assimilating character traits she blessed herself with. From recollection of past mistakes, both personal and intrapersonal, she designed herself to be a value more than birthstone. She had a husband who’s voice could turn violence into lullabies. And he made coffee every morning with the sugar from her pores. He would sit on furniture as if it was his own craft, and spread the smoke from his cigarettes as if the smoke was pure wisdom. A testimony to the pretentious beneath, he would tell her he loved her. Too soon, a glamouring heart is like a boat running on velocity, as she realized why she started to not lock the house doors. She sat in monochrome, while her husband usurped a bountiful bouquet of jovial sentiment. And with envy, she announced her departure from the chains from her home, and briefly told her husband where she was going. “Where the red lights take me, and the driver pleases, I will be found in curiosity, but also with content.” She walked out the door after grabbing a coat that covertly hid the chip off her shoulder. At miles away from a home beloved, she marked her words and found herself outside a companion’s home who was graciously hosting a party. Inside the party was black and white and pearls and fur. She almost looked a superimpose of who she could be when showing up to formal events. But with delight, she fit in. Her reputation was nounced, and no noxon could taint her name. Yet inside, she looked for a remedial purpose, as she jostled men in suits and women with boa scarfs. It all felt too stimulating, to be around materialism while she felt undeserving. A bartender was welcoming as she made her way to the countertop in front of a display of expensive liquor. “Surprise me,” she said to the bartender. He immediately came to his decision of what he thought she needed. “I swore I could’ve been better.” she whined to the bartender who had no interest in what she was saying. “Should I be avoiding these last tears? Should I be writing down letters and let go of restrictive fears? I have no ropes when I walk the edge, but what is to forget when you have nothing left?” He handed her the meticulous drink, and tended to the next guest. She felt ignored, but in ways that comforted her. “Should I abandon this ship?” she mumbled to herself. “A ship cannot be abandoned if there are no waters to invade.” She looked up from her drink and to her side; she was greeted by a wistful young looking woman who looked as if she didn’t belong to the scene. Her gown was white and sheer, almost similar to the personality of the protagonist herself. She had a blonde that decayed into a golden brown, and eyes that looked european. “With a ship, there’s no signals to direct your instincts. Only open waters and volition,” she finished. “Who are you?” the protagonist said. “The ship,” she replied. She took the hand of the protagonist and brought her to the stairs. “Every step is a sign, and every sign will bring back reality.” First step, there was remedy. Third step, there was hope. The last step, there was color. She looked from above the stairs and saw red gowns and golden chandeliers. A tear was shed, in memoriam of dissociation and misidentity. The beautiful girl guided the broken heart to a bedroom and closed the door. A piano was heard being played downstairs. The girl in her white gown slowly took it off, and revealed a body that killed words before they could be said. The protagonist started to touch her breasts and both women’s hearts started to become lucid. They fell on the bed and made the walls cry with their beauty entangled. In a disintegration, looping as colors became lucidious, only bringing a rush to parts untethered. The girl in white was ambiguous but learning. She worked the protagonist like a study, and became degreeable. And then the protagonist started to see a white never seen before. A white purer than sugar, but harsher than salt. She was voracious for permanent entanglement. And when she climaxed unexpectedly, the girl in white fell to the side, as the colors became less stimulating. “What’s your name?” The protagonist asked. She looked to her side and saw the familiar husband she now felt for again. “The ship,” he replied.

Small Acts The milkman always leaves the bottles right in front of the door, right where Esther could trip over them, so I make it my job every delivery day to move them to the side of the step. I leave the house at six every Monday morning so that I can do this, sliding the basket carefully to the side so that the bottles don't clink together. Today I notice that the hanging basket above the door looks a bit dry. I'll come back later and sort that out. One thing less for Philip to do. It's a warm summer morning, already light, but the curtains are still closed upstairs. It's a bit late, I think, tucked behind the buddleia bush where I can see the house but they can't see me. I look at my watch. Seven thirty. They're normally up by now. Esther leaves for school at eight fifteen and I worry that she won't have time for a good breakfast if they've slept in. I know she likes Pop Tarts, I've seen them in the dustbin. Not the healthiest choice for her, but what can I do? I lean back against the garden wall in the shadows. I can see the basketball hoop over the garage door from here. Esther doesn't play basketball. It hasn't been used for six months at least. I don't want to talk about how I know this. I must have gone away for a moment, because I jump a little as the front door opens. There is a murmur as Andrea speaks to Esther on the doorstep, a jingle as she picks up the milk, and then Esther appears. She unlatches the gate and steps out into the street. I wait for the front door to click shut, give it another twenty seconds and then slip over the wall. The school isn't far away, only ten minutes walk. I wonder, just like I've always wondered, how a parent could let something so precious to them wander out into the world alone. Esther looks to be about twelve. Too old to hold a hand, but too young to make the right choices. I follow at a safe distance. I'm good at this. She's never noticed me before. Her blonde hair swings from side to side across the back of her green blazer, but a little bit is caught under the strap of her bag. I hope it isn't hurting her. I hope nothing ever hurts her. We're nearly at the school and I tense as we walk along the street where it happened. A child looks at me strangely as I clench my teeth and fists, refusing to look at the exact spot, the place where we were all tied together forever. I smile, the grimace of the walking dead - behind my teeth there is no soul. The child looks away sharply and hurries off. Esther goes safely into school and I walk away. I haven't done enough for today. Esther is where she needs to be and by now Philip will be at work. Andrea will be at home, like always. I go back to the house and watch her through the kitchen window. She lights a cigarette and stares into space, seated at the kitchen table. It's like this every day. She smiles for Esther and sends her on her way, but then sits in her dressing gown and smokes, one after the other. She doesn't eat or drink, she doesn't even get dressed until three o' clock so that Esther believes that she's been dressed all day. She's trying her best, I know. I wonder how she'd feel if she knew that I was out here, feeling the same grief, the same emptiness. Andrea fills the hole with cigarettes but I need to do more than freeze in time. I need to reverse time, to put back the things that are missing. To take each small heartache and replace it with an invisible solution. The little things that would disappoint or hurt - I make them go away before they even know it's happened. I remember about the hanging baskets and sneak over with the watering can. It's the little things, you see. When you have been robbed of something so enormous, so vast in its absence, the heart can't take the small daily insults. A chipped cup or a wilted flower can be enough to break down what meagre defences you have left. So I try to be there to intervene. It's the least I can do. Last month, when Philip's car door was scratched I repaired it before he'd even seemed to notice it. I crouched on the driveway at two in the morning wearing a head torch, applying coats of paintwork restorer, buffing it away until the scratch was gone. When Andrea fell in the street and cut her hand I had run ahead to the house and put antiseptic cream through the letterbox. It must have been confusing for her, but at least I knew she had what she needed. Esther's so-called best friend was talking about her behind her back outside of school. I sent her a note and now she couldn't be nicer. I refuse to let them suffer a day more. It's three o' clock now so I go back to the school to walk Esther home again. She appears through the school gates, laughing with her friends, and I feel glad that she's had a good day. She has ballet later, which she loves. I wonder if she liked the new ballet tights that I sent. They all cross the road and a man walks towards them, dressed in a leather jacket, swinging some car keys. I've never seen him before. He smiles at Esther and she and her friends stop to talk to him. It's clearly Esther he wants to speak to, as the other girls hang back, arms folded over their blazers. The man says something and Esther laughs and turns to her friends, signalling that she's going to go with this man. I feel a stab in my chest and a cold feeling that reminds me of the time before. The last time that I was outside this school watching a young life slip away. She walks towards a silver BMW, chatting to this man, this stranger who I've never seen before. I walk faster, not daring to let her get further away. I'm struck by my indecision in this moment. I've walked behind her for months, not wanting any harm to come to her and now that her safety is finally at stake I'm hesitating, I'm hovering, I'm failing. Failing again, failing to go, failing to stop. She slides into the passenger seat and I collapse inside like a house of cards, imploding slowly and then all at once. I run, not caring any more if I am seen. I have to stop this. I can't let this happen again to Andrea and Philip. The car pulls away and I claw ineffectually at the rear passenger door. Neither of them notice. The car is still moving slowly enough for me to put on some speed and I run close alongside until I reach the bonnet. I see the man's stunned expression as I hurl myself towards it, bouncing off the metal as he tries to swerve. There is pain as I bounce from bonnet to road, my head landing heavily on the ground. Everything goes black. I can only see a little through the slits of my eyes, only opening enough to see through the shade of my eyelashes. I'm on the road still. This feels familiar but also different. Reversed. It's her, someone says. A man's voice. It's her, I remember her from court. Esther's crying and I want to soothe her, to reach out, but I can't. I'm trapped inside. I want to tell her I'm sorry, that I couldn't stop in time for her brother. But I stopped this for her. I hear more voices. An ambulance is coming. The driver, the abductor's voice comes again. He's calling Andrea, he says. He knows them. Esther knows him. I can see hazily. She's crying against his leather jacket. Everything is so familiar, it's the same as when she cried against the teacher's jacket when her brother was lying in the road. When I was frozen behind the wheel, unable to move, unable to speak. I've tried so hard to make it right. Little things to make a day easier, to relieve an aching heart. I know it was never enough. I close my eyes and think that maybe this will be the last small act of kindness.

"What the hell were you thinking?!" He yelled, slamming his mighty fist on the table! The room went quiet. The projector shook a little after the commotion. One of these days, it would fall straight from the roof and stomp on his head like he was a goomba from Mario. But all focus remained on Death at the moment, who stared, poker-faced, at the one and only Holy Spirit as you humans like to call him. Or what I call him, the leading director of The Human Condition. Or, quite simply, boss. "Do you see what I see?!" He pointed to the screen which lit up the office. Death had always been more defiant than the rest of us. We watched as she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms like an angsty teen. "You said we needed to cut down the population, so that's what I did," she said, nonchalantly. "Sure, that's what I said," God voiced angrily, "but all we needed was to slow their progress down! Not WIPE them out completely!" Death just shrugged. "You can't blame me for being *too* good at my job." "25 million. Gone. Done for. Dead. It'll take nearly eighty years for them to recover. Hell, they even call it the Black Death. This wasn't according to plan!" "When is it ever?" Death smiled. "When have you ever been disappointed in my work? I get shit done, you know that as much as everyone else in this room. Because I don't make mistakes. I'm the result of them." God restrained himself before he could erupt like the volcanos which buried the Roman city Pompeii (which was an entire ordeal on its own. I stayed overtime many days after that, trying to fix the mistake I made which led to that moment). He took a deep breath in, paused, then let it all out, releasing a faint mist of steam through his nostrils. Rubbing his tired eyes, he looked to all of us with a new-found determination. On the board, there were a number of pie charts and graphs showing the mortality rate of humans, their progress, and possible evolution cycles we had planned for the future. God clicked his fingers, and the slides changed to present the words: *God's plan for 1353.* "This year is going to be different," he said with a smile. He looked over to death who's arms remained folded. "You," he said. "No more pandemics for a while. Not until the twenty-first century, capeesh?" Death's smug look returned. She unfolded her arms and said with great delight, "I've already got something planned." ​ AN: Thanks for reading! First story I've posted on this subreddit, so I'm open to criticism and ways to improve my writing. I've made this little note to get over 500 words which is a required minimum to post something here. But still, thanks for reading again. Any feedback is welcomed :) Now I'm really just trying to get over the limit now. You don't have to keep reading honestly, it's fine. I only wanted to make a short story to so people's attention wouldn't drift, which is why this rule is strange in my opinion. But it's fine, cause I'm definitely over now.

The sound of rain penetrates through the thick walls of my apartment. I slowly sit up in bed. “It’s still raining?” I think to myself as I look out the window at the dismal view. The distant lights of the city’s center glows in the distance. I clumsily stumble out of bed, only to see that there is a wet spot on my carpet. “For God’s sake Zelda...” I think as I see my cat, Zelda, quietly licking her paws in the corner of the room. “Don’t you know how to use the litter box?” I half yell, half say to Zelda, but she just meows back. I walk into the kitchen to fix myself some breakfast. I flip the switch when I walk in. Nothing. Not even a flicker. Whatever. I’ll go downstairs and flip the circuit breakers after I eat. But I’ll still have to make breakfast in the dark. I shuffle my feet towards my dreary table. The rotten fruit inside the plastic bowl on top of the moth-eaten tablecloth really brings the whole gloomy scene together. I slowly walk over to the cabinet, still wiping the sleep from my eyes. I pull out a long expired bread loaf. The first few pieces were moldy, but by the fourth, it was fine. As I chew my raw bread, I stare as my sister’s cat, Oreo, comes slinking out of her room. My sister, Ava, had left hours before I even got up. She works for a publishing company in center city so she has to take a tram. It can take about four hours to get in on busy days, so she probably left around 4am. Oreo is a much calmer, older cat than Zelda. He often helps our building catch mice and other small, unwanted creatures. Zelda, on the other hand, just lays around all day and pees on the floor. Suddenly a deafening crash goes shaking through the floor. Worried, I run to my front door and look out in the hallway. Half my floor is peeking out of their doors’, wondering what in the world that could have been. I take the lead and go walking towards the stairwell. My neighbor and friend, Sean Violi, follows behind me. Sean and I met a few years ago after we were both in a crash. I came out with only scrapes and bruises, but he had to get a whole new arm. It didn’t really do anything but at least he didn’t get in the crash ten years earlier. The tech for the new limbs was only just starting then, so he probably would have a stump at his shoulder. Sean and I walk down the stairs. Another ear piercing crash rings through the building. It sounds like it is coming from the lobby. I cautiously reach the bottom of the stairs and look at the lobby. Everything seems normal, except that two cars are crashed against the front of the building. I rush over to the manager who seems pretty scared. “What happened?” I say to him. “Really? Have you looked outside? We have gotten two inches of rain in the past hour!” He replies. “Well that explains it. Shouldn’t someone come and block the roads off?” “No go. There was a huge crash down by city hall. Apparently the hovertrain swerved off the tracks onto the road. I’ll check the news after we clean up.” “Remember? No power. Your gonna need to flip the circuit breakers later.” “Yeah that’s right. I forgot and I will.” At that exact moment, Sean reaches the bottom of the stairs. Sean hears the end of my interaction with the manager. He gives me a look that says, “You know that I’m gonna go get parts.” I give him the look back. “Let’s go!” I yell at him. “I have to grab my phone and get dressed,” Sean says. “ I’ll wait here.” I check my phone. No service. I yell to Sean, “Forget the phone! There’s no service!” I hear him respond, but I don’t know what he said. A few minutes later, Sean rushes down the stairs, carrying my skateboard as well as his. He tosses mine to me and I catch it and turn on the hover mode. The green lights turn on as my board lets out a puff of steam. The wheels fold in as the board hovers a few inches off the ground. Sean turns on his and we rush out the door. ✤ The street is a mess. Parts from crashed cars are strewn across the drenched cobblestones. I look around at the tall buildings as I rush towards the large crash up ahead. I can see people holding black umbrellas, slyly picking up engine parts, wheels, anything they can get of the precious cars. Scavenging is technically illegal, but even the police do it. We all know that the parts from the rich are all too valuable to pass up. Sean and I usually use the parts we find to improve our skateboards, or boards as most people call them. They are a combo of a really old skateboard combined with some slightly less old hover technology. “I see a few engines!” Sean yells over the pouring rain. I nod to him and swerve around the corner. Whenever we scavenge we normally split up. Sean tries to get things that we can attach to our boards to make them faster, while I usually try to find things we can sell. An axle from a standard hover model can sell for up to $3,000, and those are one of the cheapest things on the vehicle. Unfortunately, axles and other things on the cars are quite big, so I have to make due with smaller parts. While Sean can grab engines and put them on his board straight away, I can only grab what I can carry, which is normally just things that can sell for about $200. HONK. A car swerves around me. I turn to see a jumble of cars, all stopped at the intersection I just crossed. I skid to a stop, letting down my wheels to preserve battery. A large, armored vehicle comes around the corner. Philadelphia P.D. is badly covered by duct tape on the side of the car. Something bigger is going on here than I thought. I ignore the military looking officials walking down the street and turn down an alleyway, carrying my board so there is no sound. I see a figure near the end of the alley that appears to be trying to climb the fire escape. I walk past, quickening my pace so I don’t have to confront the stranger. I can feel his eyes follow me as I walk further down. I can see a sushi place across the street with lots of people going in and out. “The perfect place to hide, isn’t it?” The voice coming from behind me startles me, and I jerk around. Standing before me is a young man in casual clothing; jacket, jeans, even a team jersey underneath the jacket; some kind of town shirt. He looks completely normal, except his eyes. His eyes look like dark pits of water that have something dangerous lurking below. His eyes appear to draw you in and make you look at him. I notice that the worsening rain seems to curve around him, leaving him dry. “Who are you?” “Who do you think?” he says. Suddenly, a flash of lighting lights up the sky. We both look up for a second. When my eyes drift back down, the strange man is gone. I look around, surprised at is sudden disappearance. Another flash silhouettes a figure on the roof above, staring at me. I walk on, but with the unnerving feeling of being watched. Next to the sushi place, called Oriental Fuji, I see an umbrella washed up against the curb. I rush over to it and open it. Glad to have cover from the rain, I glance around to make sure no one is following me, and I shuffle past the warm and welcoming door of the restaurant, and walk on. Still feeling uncomfortable from the encounter with that unnerving man, I decide to try and find my way home. Up ahead, I see a fire escape that is down. The drains and sewers also seem to be overflowing, so I decide that fire escape it a good option. I slowly start ascending ladders and stairs, caterpillaring my way up towards the roof. Suddenly, I feel a vibrating sound in my pocket. I quickly glance at my phone screen. My sister Ava is calling me. Service must be back. I answer the phone. “Hello?” I say. “Yeah hi Lux. Have you seen this rain? My boss let everyone go home early. I should be home in about 20 minutes. Where are you? It sounds loud.” she says back. “I’m just taking a walk around the block to exercise,” I lied. “Uh-huh.” “I’ll see you when you get back, okay? I love you.” “Love you too. Bye.” “Bye.” I hang up the phone just as I reach the roof. Rain screams down from above and wind whips my light coat. I wrap myself up tighter as a strong gush nearly knocks me off the roof. Definitely a bad idea to come up here. I cautiously make my way back over to the fire escape. I make my way down, careful not to slip on the slick metal. I slowly walk down the stairs and ladders until I’m back on the street. I glance around at the storefronts lining this street. All appear to be closed, even Oriental Fuji. I check the weather on my phone. It is supposed to keep raining for a few more hours. I continue on my trek back home. ✤ I trudge into my apartment, colder than ice and drenched to the core. I throw my jacket over one of the chairs in the kitchen and take my shoes off and fling them towards the door. I decide to call Sean and tell him where I am. It rings three times before he answers. “Hello?” I say. “Hey what’s up?” Sean responds. “I was just wondering if you came back from scavenging yet. I didn’t see you come in.” “Yeah I came back a few minutes ago. You back yet?” “I must have just missed you. I just got back. Did you find any good parts?” “No, not really. Seems like it all got washed away or taken already. But I don’t really care, since we don’t need that much more on our boards.” “Yeah I didn’t get anything either. I’ll see you later I guess?” “Yeah ok. Bye.” “Bye.” I once again hang up the phone and look around my room. It doesn’t look quite as dark as it did this morning. Wait, what time is it? I check my phone. 6:07 PM. I’m startled by how fast the day went by, but I must have been scavenging for longer than I thought. I walk out of my room to start making dinner. Ava walks through the door just as I’m setting out bowls and putting sauce in them. She must smell the simmering noodles in the pot on the stove, because she says, “Mmmm, that smells good!” I turn with a smile and say, “You know spaghetti is my specialty.” I laugh at my own joke. We both know I can’t cook. I grab the handle of the pot to pour the noodles into the bowls when Ava says, “You know what we need? Some spices.” “Your right. I’ll grab them when I’m done pouring,” I say. I slowly pour noodles into each of our bowls and set the pot down. I walk over to our spice cabinet and pull out some garlic and basil. Maybe that will work? I walk back toward the sink to grab a knife and a cutting board. “I’ll cut them. You go put on some music,” Ava says. “Okay,” I respond. Suddenly, a knock on the door distracts me. “I’ll get it!” I yell to Ava. I open the door and step back in shock. It’s the strange man from the alley! As I stand there, jaw on the floor, he just walks right into my apartment. “How did you find me?” I finally stutter out. “I have my ways. Nice place you have here. It would be a shame if it got soaked in rain,” the man says in a sarcastic tone. His whirlpool eyes, scary out in the rain, are terrifying in the lights of my kitchen and entryway. You can almost see the hate burning underneath. From the other room, I hear Ava say, “Lux, who you talking to?” “I don’t really know,” I respond. The man smirks at me. At that moment, he seems to notice Zelda licking her paws on the windowsill. He smiles at her, a glint appearing in his eyes. The fading sun shines through the blanket of clouds and Zelda turns her head toward the window, intrigued by the sudden brightness. The man also seems confused at the brightness, stumbling backwards into the shadows. Interesting. “Hey Ava,” I call. “Can you open the blinds in there? The sun is coming out.” “Sure can do,” Ava responds. The man briefly has a look of terror on his face but quickly masks it with a neutral expression. Light suddenly replaces the shadow coming out of the kitchen, and the man jumps back, holding his suddenly blistering arm in pain. He is now trapped in the corner, right in the crosshairs of the final two windows in my apartment. I run over to the windows and I hear the man yell, “No! Stop!” I pull open the blinds and light cascades into the room. Behind me, the man starts screaming in agony. Ava comes running out of the kitchen, looking scared. “Stop! Don’t help him,” I say. The man looks at us, begging for mercy with just his face. But his eyes show a different story. He knows we won’t help him. Blisters erupt across his face, growing bigger by the second. The man suddenly stumbles to his feet and sprints towards the window. Zelda looks up in shock, and gracefully jumps down from the windowsill right before the man lunges out the window. Luckily, the glass doesn’t shatter, but the whole frame falls onto the fire escape right below. The man screams as he falls over the railing and down to the pavement below. I slowly walk over to the window, reach over and grab the frame from the stairs, and put it back in. Neither Ava nor I want to hear the sirens and screams of neighbors. ✤ Through the thick walls of my apartment, I can hear birds chirping. I sit up in bed, gazing out the window to the blue skies outside. Dust floats around my room, catching the light, and sending small reflections on the walls. Zelda purrs softly at the end of my bed, smiling in the warm light. Looking out my window, I can see the city’s center, not lit up in a neon glow as it was yesterday, but ablaze in the color green, the rain having made the flowers and trees of the city blossom. Dots of pink are sprinkled throughout the green, cherry trees that seem to have enjoyed the rain. I suddenly remember what happened yesterday. Attempting to push that out of my mind, I step out of bed and get in the shower. When I’m done, I get dressed and walk into the kitchen. Bacon sizzles in a pan on the stove, and toast sits on a plate, basically asking to be eaten. On the couch, Ava is laying down, watching the news. “Why aren’t you at work? It is...” I check my phone. “Almost 8!” “The office was closed today. Apparently something about water damage,” Ava says. “You know that guy from yesterday? He was apparently a wanted criminal.” Suddenly, the man’s face fills the screen, and the news reporter says, “He was close to death after falling out of a 6 story window last night. He is currently being treated at Jefferson Health. The man was wanted for robbery, murder, and attempted murder.” “Good thing we got him away from us, we could have been killed,” I say. Ava turns to me and says, “Well, since I got off work today, I was thinking we could go down to Cape May. I doubt many people will be there because of the rain.” “Are you sure you want to go? We haven't been since Mom passed,” I say, stuttering a bit on that last part. “Sure! We can just go down for the day.” “Okay, if you say so.” I walk towards the door, and Ava follows. As I step out, Zelda tries to follow me, and Oreo is close behind her. I pet her and say, “Bye Zelda. I’ll see you later tonight okay? Don’t break anything!” I then walk out and close the door behind me. ⧫⧫⧫ I slam the car door and look towards the beach. The grass waves in the breeze, as if welcoming us to their home. In the distance, clouds stand tall and foreboding, but also appear graceful and calm above the sea. Among the clouds is the floating city, called Caeli, peacefully floating over the ocean. Looking to my side, I see Ava also looking out over the sea, but I can tell that she isn’t thinking about the view, but about Mom. Ava was closer to her than I ever was, and so she misses her a lot more than I do. Not to say that I don’t miss her, a day doesn’t go by where I don’t think of her, but Ava just seems to be more sad, more often. I walk over to the sand, wind in my hair, and look around once again. I notice that there is no one on the beach in our view. I guess Ava was right. No one wants to go to the beach after a rainstorm. I step closer to the water, and slip off my shoes. The cold water licks at my feet, and I slowly step in deeper, up to my ankles. A sudden gust of wind blows cherry blossoms and leaves past me, and into the water. As they drift away, I allow myself to think of Mom again. Mom sits across from me, legs crossed, with a smile on her face. Outside the window behind her, snow falls slowly. I smile back at her, but with a twinge of sadness. We both know that her cancer is getting worse every day, and she doesn't have much time left. I reach down to grab her gift, which I wrapped as best as I could. The wrapping paper has flowers on it, and I tied a blue ribbon around the whole thing. I hand it to Mom, and she does another sad smile. Her frail fingers slowly unravel the ribbon and take off the paper. Inside is a small box with a blue lily on the lid, her favorite kind of flower. She opens it, and pulls out the necklace. The necklace was specifically made for her. It cost me a fortune, but I don’t even care. The reason it costs so much is because the blue lily pendant. It is carved from silver, and diamond. The necklace itself also has sections made of gold. “Oh Lux...” she sighs, “You didn’t have to get me this.” “I know I didn’t have to...” I pause to consider my next words. “I wanted to, because I love you more than anything else on the planet.” Mom died the day after New Years. She had wished to be cremated, and have her ashes spread over her favorite beach, where Ava and I are now. When we spread her ashes, we planted a bunch of blue lilies in the ground near the beach. Those are starting to pop up now, just the tiniest bit of blue among the grass. I hear Ava come up next to me, but I don’t look at her. We don’t need to look at each other to know what the other is feeling. In the corner of my eye, I can see her bend down and splash some water on her face, so I do the same. I turn away a walk down the beach, and Ava follows me. After a while, we decide to go back to the car and head home. I take one last look at the ocean before getting in.

She was left on the steps of the Humane Society in a garbage bag amongst her other siblings. I can only imagine how unloved and alone she felt; questioning why God had brought her into this world. I was neither left in a garbage bag nor on the steps of a homeless shelter but rather in a family of six, before God, questioning too why He had brought me into this world. You see, I have obsessive-compulsive disorder and it is called the “pure O” type. My thoughts control me. They are, as I have confessed many times, of the impure nature. I was not unloved and surely not alone; but in my own self-made garbage bag. How could I love anything wholly and completely without hurting it? In turn, how could anything love me back? I had been married seven years. No children. It was just me and my husband and of course - my thoughts. We had managed to make our marriage survive. My husband knew of my thoughts but also knew that is was “only” a disease. He loved me anyways but I always held back on giving myself solely to him. I was afraid of hurting him; physically. Although he would joke many times that he was a black belt in karate and could fend for himself I never truly trusted myself. I finally sought out counseling; tough, raw counseling. The person with whom I counseled had never dealt with OCD before; but with kindness and persistence he learned all about it - we both did. He would often give me assignments. For example, sleep tonight with all of the pillows on your bed not hiding them in the closet to keep from using them as a weapon against my sleeping husband. With much work and determination, I accomplished each assignment. Then, the task that would change me forever was discussed. Get a puppy. Love a puppy. You won’t harm a puppy. My husband jumped at the prospect. He is an animal lover and wanted a dog so badly. I had decided that he had sacrificed too much for too long. It was time to take this very scary and emotional step. We decided on the Humane Society because we wanted to rescue a puppy. Also, as one with OCD I had to act before I would obsessively think and worry my way right out of the decision. We called our local chapter and found out that they did have a new litter of puppies. They were black lab/shepherd mixes and they were available ASAP. It was a Saturday morning. We drove off in silence both playing out our own scenarios in our head but neither wanting to share them at that moment. When we reached the Humane Society’s parking lot it was quite full. I hurried my husband along; another OCD action. I had to do this NOW; I had to do this before they were all gone; before my mind changed; before others stole the opportunity. As we walked in, I spotted the puppies immediately. They were in a cage to the left of me. There were only three left. I pushed my husband to go and inquire about them. The young girl took us over to the cage. One of them was spoken for, the other was a male and the third was a female. I immediately made eye contact with the female huddled in the back and she with me. I wanted her. The girl went to get the keys. I immediately felt possessive of this little black bundle of fur! It was getting quite busy by then. People were coming in at a steady pace. A little boy spotted “my” puppy. I quickly put my finger through the cage and started rubbing her front paw; as much as to say: “beat it kid - this one’s mine!” They brought the three of us back to a private room where we could hold and discuss whether we wanted the puppy. The girl said that she would leave us alone and check back in a little while. Once she left I exploded with enthusiasm. I wanted this puppy. My husband pointed out that I hadn’t even held her yet. Held her? Wait, I have to hold her? But what if I get a “thought” and the moment is ruined? What if I hurt her? What if I drop her? What if she doesn’t like me? What if she senses that I am a “bad” person? My husband ignored my ravings and dumped her into my arms. I was as awkward as a new mother holding her baby for the first time. He coached me; where to put my hands; to hold her close to me; to talk to her. And then it happened. Not one “bad” thought came to me and if it had I wouldn’t have noticed. All I could feel was the warmth, breath and love of this little creature. She licked my face; she cuddled with me --- she loved me. We decided that this was the one for us. The girl came back and my husband told her that we could come back tomorrow and pick her up. I looked at him - tomorrow? Yes, he continued, we have nothing ready; no crate, no food, no - anything!!! Once again, my OCD took control. We must take her now or I won’t come back. I have to have her now. I’m not leaving without her. My husband caved - he had learned quickly that fighting w/OCD is pointless. So, I made a check out for $50.00, filled out the necessary forms and left with that beautiful black ray of hope shining from MY arms. We stopped on the way home and got all of the essentials. The pup never left my arms. The next big task was naming her. We took her to see my mother. Mom suggested the name midnight. It was nice but I wanted to name her. I said Colby because she was dark like coal. My husband pointed out that was more for a male pup. He then said Shelby - what about Shelby? We liked it. Shelby was born. For anyone who has raised and cared for a pup I need not tell about all the incidents of both pleasure and pain. For each person, they are the same but very different. I do, however, need to share with you how Shelby completed me and allowed me to grow spiritually and once again trust myself. Shelby was 10 years old. We had noticed that she was short of breath and not very playful. Like a parent knows their child we knew something was wrong. We ended up taking her to an animal hospital emergency room. As soon as we entered the ER, a staff member came out to check on Shelby. She checked her gums - she wasn’t getting enough oxygen. The young girl took the leash from my hand and she was gone. Just like that. The doctor came back out and said that she was stable and that they would be keeping her overnight and running blood work and tests. There was nothing more we could do - “go home” she said “we’ll call you if anything changes”. But didn’t she realize that everything was changing. I was losing my strength, my friend, my dog - my child. The next day we were called back to meet with the Veterinarian specialist on the case. They took us into a small room. There were comfortable chairs, low lighting and soft music. She began by telling us that Shelby was very ill. Her blood work showed that she had end stage leukemia. They presented the option of chemotherapy but said that she would still only live 6 months at the most. They left us to consider our (shelby’s) options as they went to get her for us to visit. My tears began to flow. I knew what we had to do but could only think of what I would be losing. Shelby had given me trust in myself. She had taught me that I could love something and care for it and not harm it. She had also taught me that I could be loved back; that I was worth that love. At that moment, I heard the click of her nails in the hallway. She entered the room; tail wagging and came right up to me. I gave her such a big hug. She looked happy. We had decided that the best thing for her was to put her down. They had told us that even if we took her home she would become worse within hours. They left us alone to say our goodbyes. How do you say goodbye to a part of you? To something that you love beyond all else? To something that has helped you conquer a horrible disease? You know what? You don’t - you just cry and hurt and cry some more. The vet returned. Were we ready? How can one ever be ready for this? The vet asked if we’d like to give her one last biscuit to get her to lie down. As I extended the biscuit to her I couldn’t help notice that she was smiling, tail wagging. I had to ask. I turned to the vet. We are about to end her life and she seems so happy - why? I don’t understand? And then, the vet said something that will always be with me. She said “that’s because dogs live in the moment”. Several weeks after she passed on, I slept with her dog collar and cried myself to sleep. Then, one morning something came over me and I had an urge to write a prayer in honor of her. I would like to end with that prayer. Shelby was not only my dog she was a part of my heart, a gift from God an answer to my prayers. She inspired this prayer and still continues to inspire me each day. She will always be with me and when I get down on life or on myself I try to say this prayer and learn from her --- to live in the moment and trust not only myself but He who made me and that wonderful Shelby. Lord- Show me the way To best use my day Show me the how To live in the now Show me the love That comes from above Show me the light To choose what is right Show me the power To fulfill every hour Show me the why To continue to try Show me the peace To make worries cease Lord, show me the way to best use my day! Amen to God and Amen to my Shelby girl; my strength in this life and my weapon against OCD - where living in the moment used to be only a dream but was now becoming a reality.

John scurried around his room, throwing things from his closet onto his bed “where the fuck is it!?” he asked himself. His mom called from downstairs “Johhny sweetie what are you doing?” she asked “N-nothing mom! Just... gonna go hang out with my friends. I am looking for something...” he waited for a second. “Um... ok honey just be careful”. John sighed “yea, I’m not going right now, but I have to walk through the kitchen to get to the door so... you’ll know!” he said finding his duffle bag he was looking for. He threw it to the side and packed food and water into the bag. He looked at the pistol laid out on the ground and the pack of bullets with it “it’s an antique” he thought “do I really wanna use it as self-defense?” he shook his head “of course I do. The police have protections against light beams. These things will go right through them.” he threw the revolver into the bag and covered it with the food. He smiled a little bit of an evil smile. He found an airsoft mask. A metal mesh face mask and tinted goggles he threw them in the bag too and slung it over his shoulder. He walked past his mom and gave a little wave before quickly getting to the door. He sighed and got a little choked up before putting the mask on and his earbuds in. The older music was hard to find and frowned upon to listen to. Anything the government frowned upon John was all for. He walked across the street and into the park. He reached into his pocket grabbing out a fist full of coin. “Ok... that’s just enough for one meal along the way and a one way trip to the freight district,” he said walking to the kiosk in the middle of the park. He slipped two coins in the kiosk and waited “Please State Destination” a robotic voice said. John nodded “the freight district please,” he said. The screen loaded for a few seconds “please display a worker ID to be sent to the freight District” John’s heart sank “um... alterer motive” he said, he never had to use this command before and this was not a time he wanted to try but there was no other option. There was a static noise and he was connected to a person “hello sir, it says here you stated alterer motive after being prompted for a worker ID.” a woman asked “yea, that’s about right, I don’t have an ID cause I don’t work there yet, I want to go apply” he said as instantly thousands of better lies flooded his mind. The lady paused for a moment “ok, I’ll transfer you through, sorry for the inconvenience” John sighed and waited until he was teleported to the freight district. He looked at the teleportation kiosk and looked at the train about to leave. He grabbed a metal pipe and smashed the kiosk screen in. he then ran looking at the pit the floating trains were suspended over. He jumped onto one of them slipping and barely catching himself from falling into the twenty-story deep pit “ok!” he called out jumping to the next and almost dropping his bag “ok... one more” he said jumping the last gap and quickly onto the train. He let out a long sigh and climbed into a neer empty freight. He landed onto a pile of raw metal ore. He grabbed his back and writhed a little “OUCH!” he called out before clamping his hand over the mask. He waited in anticipation for something to happen before relaxing again he set up a camera on the pile of ore as the train started “hey! If you are seeing this... either they are making a documentary about me, I am dead or... both. And if the police hadn’t vaporized my body and possessions on sight.” he pulled a necklace out of his shirt “I want my mom to have this. It was my dad’s he was killed by the damned corrupted system we live in. I was named after him actually. Our names are the exact same. I’ll tell his story later. Just... see ya” he said flipping off the camera and putting it in his bag. He sat back and went to sleep. He was awoken to the train docking at a landlocked stopping point, this was rare. John looked up seeing a police drone over him. He reached into his bag and grabbed the pistol aiming to the top of the container. A policeman jumped in and was shot by John without hesitation. John sat shaking “I’m not getting out of the country” he cried to himself “nope” he heard a policeman say from behind him John shot that one too, grazing his cheek and breaking his heads up display but not hurting him worse than that. The cop brought his hand to his cheek and swore “you fucking kids are too ambitious.” he said picking up John and throwing him over the side of the container and onto the grass. John coughed and readied his pistol “please! I just wanted to spend my sixteenth birthday in a country that won’t immediately feed me to the bears!” he shattered another’s heads up display and was shot through the shoulder with a light canon “sorry kid... but you’re not the god damned resistance” the cop shot. John cried and saw the cop bringing a vaporizer to him. John threw the gun as if it was on fire putting his hands in the air “Look! Vaporize me then! But give my mom this!” he broke the clasp on his necklace and threw it into the grass. The cop with the vaporizer scoffed and kicked the necklace into the pit that the Freight traveled over “NO!” John shouted collapsing in tears. He sobbed and didn’t resist as the man placed the device on his back and pressed the button. The device fell to the ground.

I hate icebreakers. I don’t want to break the ice. The ice can stay firmly intact for all I care. I don’t want to get to know any of these people. It’s 9am on a Monday morning and my boss wants me to join a project about the reintegration of systems for the financial something or other... I wasn’t listening. I’m sat behind a stout balding man of about fifty. Counting the hairs on his head is the only thing keeping me engaged right now. It can’t be more than sixty, I don’t think. I wish he would just shave them off because that tragic combover is fooling no one. I bet his wife isn’t bothered. I heard him talking to the man next to him about what he did over the weekend and which restaurant he went to with his wife, and which seafood he tried for the first time and wasn’t a fan but his wife enjoyed. I find it kind of funny how wildly different people’s lives can be. Some people get so lucky, and some are cursed. I’d guess he’s probably fairly in the middle. He’s a nice guy, I’m sure. I said I would try to be less negative, but I’m fighting my nature. The project leader is rambling on about himself. I thought ice breakers were meant to be quick introductions but I’d have his life story by now if I was listening. As I watch the next person stand up and swing their pickaxe into the ice, I think about what I’ll have for dinner. I can’t be bothered making anything, I’ll probably just get a take out. Next, a lady about 40 years old is standing, giving her contribution to the big old iceberg. She must be the next closest person to my age, and she still has at least fifteen on me. Fifteen years is a long time. I used to think a couple months in the summer was a long time as a kid. A lot can happen in a couple months. Maybe a couple months still is a long time. Time seems to move so slowly now. “And you, sir?” The project manager is staring right at me. Shit it’s my turn. I shoot up like I’m spring loaded. “I’m sorry, what was the question?” I mumble through the shame. “Where would you go if you had a Time Machine.” The project manager beamed at me waiting for my response. Every other head has swivelled round and locked on to me. The balding man stares into my soul. I can almost read contempt on his face as he awaits my reply. He must have known I was counting his hairs. I need to say something. It’s not a big deal. “Where would you go if you had a Time Machine?” But it is a big deal. If I had a Time Machine, I’d probably go back to the Athenian acropolis and see democracy in action. I’d love to see Socrates orate the shit out of that place. I’d visit Plato’s academy and - I don’t know why I’m lying. I never understand why lie to myself. Do I think I’ll get one over on my own mind? No, I know exactly where I’d go and I knew it from the second he asked the question. It’s all I think about. I try to pretend it isn’t but it is. I’d go back to the night at the lake with her. My mind’s embarrassed because I hate being soppy, but what the hell am I going to do in Athens? Yeah, no, I’m going back to see her again. Do I even need a Time Machine? I relive it every night in my head. I always think that reliving memories is like tending to a garden. You have to water them or they’ll fade away. And this is a memory I cannot lose. I cried myself to sleep one time when I came to the realisation that my brain can’t hold every single conversation and moment we shared together. I just found it so frightening that I was losing a part of her. This is all that exists of her now but in my mind I can’t catch all the little bits that fall off her. That’s a scary thought. It’s probably the worst part of grief. I’ll never have a new memory of her so I have to make do with my dwindling supply, that slowly trickles away day by day, year by year, until I’m in a nursing home and I don’t remember my own name. That night is locked away in my mental doomsday vault though. It’s still so fresh, even though it was over a year ago. I can still see the crescent of the moon, lonely in the clear sky dancing on the surface of the water, as we dangled our legs over the edge of the jetty. I can’t believe we still thought we were just friends back then. It was 2am and everyone had gone back inside. It was just me, you and the lake. We were sitting there for hours just talking. I could talk to you nonstop from now until the end of time. It was like breathing, it shouldn’t be that easy. You had no business being that fun. Who gave you the right to have me in stitches with a single glance. We were cackling away on that jetty. You were telling me the story of that time where you lost your friend at the bar when you were really drunk, and you came home and thought they had died so you started planning their wake, phoning funeral directors out of hours. I’d heard it before, but it almost got better each time. Our laughing slowly faded, and we looked out onto the surface of the water. The glassy surface was almost completely still, save for the little ripples our toes made when we tapped the water. Then we turned to each other, and I really looked at you for the first time. I stared into your eyes, and was shocked at what I felt. My gut was in free fall. You became the only light to my eyes, at the end of a very long tunnel. Then I felt that magnetic force; I could no longer turn away from you. The realisation hit us both at the same time, I think. We looked at each other confused. I was always indecisive; you helped us out by putting your head on my shoulder, and we just watched the lake in peace. In perfect tranquil silence. “It’s funny,” you said eventually. “What is?” I turned my head to your face. “I feel like ... I knew this moment was coming. And yet it’s still all a surprise.” I could feel your warm breath on my face now. “Do you know what I mean?” “No,” I laughed. “But I feel you.” You lifted your head off my shoulder and looked at me, taking me in. “I think I know what happens next,” you said. Our faces were inches apart. “Oh yeah?” I smiled coyly, trying to act aloof. But my was heart pounding, you could probably hear it. Your hand was on my face and that magnetism drew us together and we kissed for a lifetime. My life could have ended there. Sometimes I wish it did. When we finally pulled away, everything was different. The moonlight seemed far more beautiful, each little ripple in the lake telling its own story, and your eyes were worlds upon themselves that I could fall into forever. We laughed, and you put your head against my chest, but I lost balance and we both toppled into the lake. I thought I was going to have to give you CPR the way you were catatonic with laughter. With your arms around my neck we played in the water, and splashed each other as we waded about in our soaking heavy clothes. We let our outer layer dry on the jetty, and laid back on the grass where we fell asleep, you in my arms, under the infinity of endless stars. If I had a thousand time machines, I’d go there a thousand times. To be honest, my memories aren’t cutting it anymore. I feel like I’m burning when I think of you, like I need to reach out and grab you but there’s nothing to hold on to. There is a dark empty hole in my body that can’t be filled, a necessity that I’m starved of. I get by, but just about. Over and over again I play our memories together in my head. It’s the only time I am alive. I need those memories like a needle in my skin. The happiest moments of my life are tainted by your shadow, and yet I torture myself anyway. Can I even say I miss you at this point? It’s a masochistic fascination. But it’s like you’re trapped in my head and if I could just let you out... I could drag you through the back door of one of my dreams and yank you back into the empty spot on my bed beside me. We could laugh the whole thing off, and I could hold you, and see you and feel you and tell you there’s no such thing as pancreatic cancer. We could go out to dinner the next day and I’d be acting nervous because there’s something I want to ask you. And we’d go to the park with those old fashioned street lamps you love, and the overlook of the city. I’d grab your arm and get on one knee and show you the ring. You’d say yes, you don’t get a choice. Sorry it’s my fantasy. We could live in a tiny house we can barely afford, with just a mattress on the ground and we’d cuddle up by the heater. We’d love it because it’s ours. We’d have kids and grandkids and grow old together. I think we’d be one of those old couples that both go peacefully together barely days apart, like some act of fate. But you won’t grow old. I’ll grow old without you, counting down the days until I go, and we’re reunited because life hasn’t been the same without you. Because I have this aching pain in my mind worse than any wound I’ve ever had. I feel this pain every moment and I just yearn for you. My shattered heart will never be whole again. You took the pieces to the grave. I can’t take you as my wife, I will be married to the void. “Sir?” The project manager was speaking to me again. I get whiplash from the speed I’m yanked back to real life. I’m surrounded by strangers. It’s 9am on a Monday morning and the bright office lights are blinding me. “What would I do with a Time Machine?” I ask. “I’d probably visit the Athenian acropolis and see democracy in action.” The project manager smiles a polite thanks, and moves onto the next person who is now droning on about some medieval battle, while I swallow the lump in my throat and feel your hands slip away.

There once was a girl with a golden gaze. Everything she looked upon would be made to look and feel beautiful, including other people. Gazing upon people and making them feel lovely was the girls favorite thing to do, and she would make friends with everyone she came across. When the girl grew into a woman there were many men who wanted to be in the light of her eyes. Men would talk about all the great and wonderful things they would do for her if she let them be soaked in her gaze. The woman knew that her gaze had changed and should be given to those who were worthy of it. She would pick and when she did the lucky man would get a look with her eyes wide open. Some men were overwhelmed by this and couldn’t stay around. Some other men tricked the woman and when she realized it she left them in the dark. One day a man convinced the woman that her gaze shouldn’t be shared but should be special for one man. The woman thought it would be good for her to focus all of her light on one person and in return feel the pride of making that one person feel golden. So, she agreed and went with the man. This man, like many others, turned out to be greedy and not worthy of her gaze. He locked her in a room and put a blindfold over her eyes. He told her that her gaze was for him only and that he would tell her when he wanted it. The woman sat for days on end waiting for the man to return. When the man would return and remove her blindfold he was so sweet and gentle the woman always thought he had changed his mind and would free her. He never did. Instead he would take in her light until he was happy again, then recover her eyes, and tell her about how the world had forgotten her now. The woman became less and less of herself each time the man took her golden light until one day when he took off her blindfold her eyes were dull and no longer could he bask in her light. Appalled the man had her thrown into the streets. She took off the blindfold and started walking the now unfamiliar streets. This proved difficult as her dulled eyes could hardly see what was in front of her. The woman made it to the forest at the edge of the town. She continued walking into the trees and began feeling a strange drowsiness. When she reached a meadow she could not take one more step and fell asleep among the sweet flowers and the long grasses with the wind softly blanketing her. She did not awaken from this slumber but she found her gold once again.

Of course I remember what happened on that terrible evening. Even if I wanted to, I could not forget the events of that damned night. I know you do not believe me. No one in their right mind would believe it. I myself would have laughed at anyone who even hinted at something like that, if I had not seen with my own eyes that disgusting, unspeakable and unnatural spectacle... But you need the details and I’ll have to start from the beginning... We moved into this neighborhood two years ago. My wife and I, with our two children, bought a nice cozy house on this quiet, shady street. My wife is a wonderful mother. She spent the whole day doing household chores, our children went to school nearby and I went to work in the city center. We were a happy family... until some bad luck made ​​me buy that damn meat. You’ve probably seen the butcher shop on Main Street. The one where the gloomy, fat man stands behind the counter all day, wearing a bloody apron and proudly displaying his big lumps of raw meat in the window. In his shop, the meat is always fresh and juicy and no matter if you fry it, roast it or boil it, the succulent meat just melts in your mouth. I do not know what made ​​me enter his wretched shop and buy three kilograms of pork that evening. Had I known then how things would turn out, I would never have set foot across his threshold. But I was unaware of the dangers, even though I glimpsed the evil glint in the eyes of that vile butcher when he handed me the package of meat and even though I noticed that despite the cold weather, the meat was very warm. How could I have been so careless? When I got home, I threw the package of meat in the fridge and went upstairs, collapsing into bed without even undressing. It had been a hard day at work and I was extremely tired. My children were playing somewhere in the street and my wife was hanging up clothes in the back yard. I didn’t sleep very well. I had a very strange dream. I dreamed that I was at a pig farm, wandering around aimlessly, making my way through the mucky stys. The buildings were falling apart and looked almost as if they had been abandoned. There were remnants of stone walls, pieces of charred wood and other garbage. The stys were filled with pigs and the disgusting animals were wallowing in the mud, rolling over and over and covering themselves with dirt. These fat pigs stared at me as I walked past, with drool and slobber dripping from their snouts. There was something otherworldly, something inexplicable about the place. It exuded the air of something disgusting and evil. I wandered among strange ramshackle buildings and the mucky pig stys as if I was spellbound. Something inside me would not allow me to leave this accursed place. I was looking for something, but I did not know what... Then I found it. Half-hidden under a layer of mud was a hatch with a rusty iron ring. I do not know why I did not run away from there at once. Instead, I pulled up the rusty ring, opened the hatch and peered down into the darkness. A set of stone steps led down to a dungeon. A faint ray of sunlight lit up one tiny corner of the dungeon and that’s when I saw them. Bones! The floor of the dungeon was littered with bones. Hundreds, thousands of skeletons lying there in the dark. Some were very fresh, with hunks of meat still clinging to them. Others were dry and dusty and must have been there for years. I do not remember how long I crouched there, staring down into that monstrous cave. All of a sudden, I woke up in a cold sweat. It was the middle of the night. My heart was pounding in my chest and I could barely breathe. I looked over and saw my wife snoring peacefully beside me. Although I tried, I could not get back sleep and when I looked out the window, I saw the sky was already beginning to brighten as the dawn approached. I decided to take an early-morning drive to calm my nerves. I got into my car and drove out to the countryside. I wanted to get some fresh air and convince myself that my nightmare was no more than a delusion. As I drive the butchers words repeat over and over in my mind. "Enjoy your meat." I try to ignore the pit in my stomach and sense of dread. The butchers face... The diabolical glint in his eyes... The vile grin he had while handing me the meat... I realize this must be me feeling disturbed from the nightmare and letting my imagination twist earlier events. I shake off my dread and enjoy the scenery around me. When I got back to my house, it was around noon. As soon as I opened the door, the unmistakable smell of grilled meat hit my nostrils. At that moment, it seemed like the most appalling and terrible stench I had ever smelled. I went into the kitchen and saw my wife and children sitting at the table. They were eating big hunks of juicy, roasted meat, the same meat I had bought at the butcher’s shop. I watched them gnawing the cooked flesh off the bone like wild animals, chewing, chomping and slurping with abandon, then swallowing it down with relish. Their hands and mouths were covered in grease and they licked their lips hungrily. My wife was about to say something to me, when suddenly she stopped in mid-sentence and started coughing and choking. The children started coughing and spluttering too. Then, they all fell to the ground and began writhing around, foaming at the mouth. I stood there, unable to move, but I saw everything... all the hideous details... No! No! Please don’t force me to remember that abominable scene. How can I put such a monstrous sight into words? How can I describe the way my wife and children suddenly started gnawing on each others limbs, tearing off pieces of flesh with their teeth. I can’t bear to talk about how they grabbed knives and began slicing pieces of flesh off each other and devouring them. I simply cannot put into words the grisly mess they made as they gobbled and chomped and chewed on each other’s bones until all that was left were just three skeletons lying in a pool of blood and guts on the nice, white, tiled floor of the kitchen. And that’s how the police found me the next morning, surrounded by the skeletal remains of my beloved family. They dragged me out in handcuffs. They accused me of horrible crimes. They told lies about me and said I ate my entire family... No! No! It’s not true! Do not believe their lies! They’re involved in a conspiracy against me. They’re protecting the butcher. They’ve eaten his damned meat and they’re lying to protect him.

“Groceries?” my father called from the armchair. This was his way of asking if I had remembered to purchase groceries for the two of us on my walk home from school. A single word was all he could spare. I watched a spiral of thick yellow cigarette smoke drift from his mouth and meld into the ceiling before replying. “Yes papa, I have them.” Two blonde women in bouncing bikinis were on the television. I hoped they would provide enough distraction for me to slip away. “Bring them over son,” my father said. One flabby finger clicked the off button on the remote, nearly swallowing the thing beneath folds of sweaty skin, and the girls disappeared. My heart sank but I did as commanded. I crossed the short room and placed the overstuffed plastic bags at his feet. The grocery store was six blocks away and my shoulders ached something awful. My fingers had turned to flaming concrete and they did not straighten when I dropped the bags. If the smell of cigarettes was bad, my father's breath was worse. Hot mucus. It flew into my face and up my nostrils. I sealed my lips, but did not dare flinch away. To look away from father whilst he addressed me meant certain punishment. For such a crime, I might have to wear a blindfold for the rest of the week. “Coke.” he said, not a question. I pointed out the two litre bottles of Coke-a-Cola. Three of them. Two was too few, four was too many. Buying too few bottles meant another trip to the grocery store at the very least. Too many bottles would mean having to drink the extra in one sitting. “Cookies.” I pointed them out. There were Chips-Ahoy, but cookies also meant Twinkies, Mr. Felix’s Buttercream Tarts, and a host of other baked goods. To name them all would require tremendous effort on my father’s part. ‘*Cookies’* would have to do. He considered my offering. “No ice cream.” Sweat broke on my forehead. This was the part I had been dreading since the moment I saw the empty freezer shelf. My father weighed over three hundred pounds, and to rise from his chair required several seconds of intense effort. Only by heaving back and forth, using his own weight to catapult himself forward, was he able to rise from bed or stand out of his chair. The time it took him to stand was all the time I had to defend my actions. Once he was standing, a punishment was delivered without exception. Either for the crime of disobedience or for the crime of taking too long to explain. “They were out,” I said. The store was not completely out of ice cream, of course, but No Frills *was* out of triple chocolate fudge brownie with chunks of cookie dough. The cashier mentioned that she had just sold the last tub to the customer before me. Then she asked, as they often did, why I was shopping alone. I answered as I had been taught to: ‘*My dad is sick and my mom ran out on us when I was a little kid’*. My father stopped his rocking, but did not settle back into his seat. I was not free yet. “So what?” he said. “I got extra Mr. Felix’s.” I pulled one flap of the grocery bag away to reveal the extra box of sweets and my father relaxed. I was safe. With the trouble of the ice cream out of the way, I breathed a sigh of relief. My father, perhaps noticing that I was no longer worried, hit a button on the remote control. The bikini girls were kissing. “Eggs,” he said. I showed him the eggs. After a pause of inspection, the Tv clicked off. My heart skipped, then took off. “These...,“ he said slowly, “are the wrong eggs.” My blood went cold. I snatched the carton, careful not to break a single shell. I read the label frantically as my father restarted the heaving process. “No,” I said, trying to interrupt the squeaking hinges of his chair. “No. These are right. These are...” But they were the wrong eggs. My father required twelve extra-large, free range, brown eggs from Campbell’s Farm. He required the expiration date to be no less than a week into the future, and for the price to be no more than $3.50 even though I was the one paying. The eggs were white. “No,” I moaned, “I’m sorry, I’ll go back. I’ll leave right now. Please.” “These are the wrong eggs,” my father repeated. He managed to get his hulking frame out of the armchair and his mass was such that I was forced backward against the television. I would go back to the store tonight, we both knew that, but not before being punished. “Come,” he said, laying a heavy hand on my shoulder. I was eleven years old, and all I had ever known was to obey the command of adults. I was as likely to consider disobeying my father was as I was to consider swallowing my Canadian History textbook. He guided me to the kitchen. One hand was locked on my feeble shoulder, the other held the offending egg carton. “Sit,” he said, directing me to a chair at the kitchen table. I sat. I whimpered, and my whimpers became tears which became heaving sobs, but despite my fear I did not dare move. To move from the chair before being excused would mean being forced to sit there for a whole day, even if I had to go to the bathroom. I did not know what punishment my father had in mind this time. This was a rule I had not broken before. My father lumbered to the corner cupboard. Bending at the hip, a task of not inconsiderable difficulty for him, he retrieved a blue plastic bowl, a white dinner plate, and a worn frying pan. He put the frying pan on the stove, and the plate and bowl off to the side. He removed one white egg from the carton, cracked it, fed the runny yolk into the pan, tossed the shells in the garbage bowl, then picked out another egg. He repeated this cycle a dozen times. When all twelve eggs were in the pan, he turned the burner on medium and whisked the eggs with a fork. The result was a yellowy soup. He did not so much as look at me while he prepared the dish. “Please papa,” I cried. “Don’t punish me, I’m sorry. Please.” I was ignored. A robin landed on the window sill outside and my father thumped the glass, scaring it away. When the yellow soup had gone spongy, my father salted and peppered it, then took a bottle of ketchup from the fridge and applied a generous helping to the edge of the plate. Then he slid the tremendous omelet from the frying pan. It landed on the plate with a wet slap. The firm eggs looked like earwax but smelled fine enough. If father had added something to the omelette, something bad, it was odourless. He sat in the chair opposite mine, the only other place at the table. It groaned in protest, as chairs often did when my father sat in them, but did not break. “Eat,” he said. But he did not present me with the titanic omelet. He gave me the bowl of shells. “Papa, please.” He did not answer. Instead, my father carefully carved a generous slice of egg with his butter knife, drowned it in his pile of ketchup, and plunged the wedge into his mouth. “If you don’t eat it all before I’m done,” he said, displaying a mouthful of yellow slush, “You’ll get another bowl when you come back with the right eggs.” “Papa I can’t...” He leaned across the table and slapped me. Then he belched, souring the air. My cheek burned from the slap and my eyes stung with heavy tears. I chose a medium sized white shard and placed it on my tongue. It had no taste. I closed my mouth and swished it around a little. The shell was sharp, and cut my tongue. “Ow,” I squealed, holding one hand to my cheek. “Chew,” my father said through a second mouthful. I chewed. It was like chomping down on glass. My blood mixed with the sharp fragments of shell to produce a coppery swill. “Swallow.” I swallowed. Ants bit my throat all the way down. “Good boy,” he said. *He’s already a quarter done,* I realized, staring at father’s plate. *I better hurry.* My trembling hands selected another hunk of shell and as I stuffed it into my bleeding mouth my free hand was already picking another piece. It cut my finger tips, drawing more of my blood. “Brown eggs,” my father said, and took another bite.

“Let me put it in terms that even you, with your exiguous human capacity for only the most basic comprehension, may understand. Consider for a moment a scenario something like this: at some point in the dark, dim and distant past, some sick-slob of a cosmic entity has a flash of inspiration for conjuring up a bit of distraction. Picture a pasty-skinned, grossly overweight, greasy-haired slacker-type who looks like he hasn’t bathed or changed his food-stained T-shirt for months and smells so rank his dog steers clear of him... a degenerate knuckle-dragging exemplification of utter moral atrophy who, to the misfortune of anything under its dominion, possess a certain degree of... omnipotence. Someone you know perhaps? Minus the omnipotence of course. Somewhere out in the space/time continuum of the infinite cosmos this error of empyrean evolution eventually gets bored with its meaningless existence, having run through it's vast collection of quantum-computer games so many times, it can now play any of them in it’s substance-assisted sleep and win every single time. In a rare blink of brilliance, it decides to write a little program for some diversion... for a bit of mindless amusement... something that will perhaps stem the recurring flood of it's ennui for a while. It codes-up a sweet little star system out in the back forty of what you humans refer to as the Milky Way, close to the outer edge of that superlative spiral galactic array. It conjures a modest but slick solar configuration, with a lovely little yellow sun and nine companion satellites... including a beautiful ball just bursting with promise and potential which circles well within the yellow power-plant's habitable zone. It gives this third stone from the sun an interior dynamo core of liquid iron to generate a magnetic field which acts to deflect the searing radiation generated by that happy star. Wouldn't want it to be toasted to barren cinder after all. It then covers two thirds of that planet in deep, vast oceans teeming with life and oxygen-producing phytoplankton... shapes the land-masses into majestic towering mountains and lush fecund valleys, interminable grass-covered prairies and savannas, along with prodigious forests, awe-inspiring canyon panoramas and gently rolling verdant hills... next it fills the whole planet with a fantastic potpourri of plant life and a multitude of creatures, virtually uncountable in number and diversity and all living in perfect harmony within a totally self-sustaining system... Paradise incarnate!!! That annotated book of fairy tales you creatures call "The Bible" refers to it as The Garden of Eden. Ring any bells for you? And then that execrable empyrean entity, being the unhinged sick-slob that it is, figures to make things just a little more interesting by adding a jolt of adrenaline to the whole equation. It gives half the animals on the planet a taste for fresh blood and still warm and quivering fear-infused flesh, programming that half to stalk, kill and eat whatever it can catch of the other half, which now desperately clings to it's miserable nightmare existence, waiting for Death to claim it's bounty at any moment... and Shazam! Just like that, paradise turns into a pitiless and terrifying place for the hunted... their short brutish lives become one of frenzied and perpetual heart-pounding panic, more often than not punctuated by a horrific and grisly end... really not a pretty picture is it? Sure fun to watch all the action though! But as one easily bored, this deranged bad joke of a being cranks-up the entertainment factor a notch and introduces yet another life-form... a woefully confused biped with a large brain mischievously constrained by a tiny intelligence and most importantly, a sequence in its DNA making and forever keeping it violent, blood thirsty, forever fearful but best of all, totally and utterly insane. And then this fatuous, fiendish Creator of Cosmic Chaos leans back in its well-worn food-stained recliner, reaches for a fistful of Extraterrestrial Twinkies and cracks another can of an ethereal energy drink. With a stream of drool slowly working its way down its chubby unshaven chin, it watches gleefully with a dolt-like smirk as those naked, psychotic apes really screw-up that beautiful little blue-green ball circling the happy sun... over and over and over again... in an infinitely repeating loop! Sleep well little human.

“Son.” I coughed. “Yes, father?” My son, Jacob asked. “Let’s go for a walk along the shore.” I said, stifling another cough. “But it’s raining father. You’ll get sick.” “I know son, but c’mon, spend some time with your old man, while it lasts.” I smiled at him. “If that’s what you want, father. Very well, let me get my coat.” “Take your time son.” I coughed. As Jacob walked toward the closet of our home, I couldn’t help but look at how much he’d grown up. “You’ve got nothing but time on your hands, son. Unlike me.” I whispered as I coughed some more. Twenty years in the blink of an eye. Felt like only yesterday that I was changing his diapers, and teaching him to walk. I grabbed my poncho, cap, and lantern. Jacob came back a moment later, his raincoat around his shoulders. “Look at you, my boy. All grown up. Brings a tear to my eye.” I said wiping my eyes. “Yeah...I learned from you. And mom.” he smiled at me. Such a good kid. I’m glad I raised him well. “Ready to go?” I asked, scratching my greying beard. “Of course father. Lead the way.” I smiled at him, and turned on my lantern. I opened the door and heard the sound of the pouring rain, pattering on the ground. The cold, and dark night was oddly alluring. I took not but two steps out onto the porch before the rain began falling off my poncho. The amber glow of the lantern bathed the rundown, muddy road in an orange light. Jacob was right beside me as we began to make our way down the road. “Father, why on all nights would you want to go out at a time like this? It’s cold, wet and you’ve been getting ill lately. I’m worried.” “It’s a special night son. A night that I want to spend with you.” I said following the winding road. “What’s so special about it?” “I’ll tell you in a bit. When I-when were both ready.” I said smiling. Jacob looked at me with a confused glance. “Okay then father, lead on.” he said. Such a good kid. “I always loved the rain. And thunderstorms.” I said as I laughed through a cough. “Why is that father?” Jacob asked. “Well you see, I always believed there was a dragon that lived in a cave. And every time he woke up, he snarled and the smoke poured from his nostrils and into the sky. Then he roars, and there is a distant rumble of thunder.” I closed my eyes, picturing it in my head. “And then a maiden of the sky came down, to soothe the beast. But he tricked her, and locked her away in a cage. And the maiden began crying, her tears forming the rain that soaks the earth.” I said, looking up, the raining splashing on my face. “And then came a prince atop a Pegasus of the gales, it’s wings flapping, beating to the howl of the wind. The prince, his resolve unshakable, draws his sword. Every swing the prince took, carves across the dragon’s rocky hide as sparks of lightning flash across the sky. But the dragon is eventually outsmarted by the prince, and goes back to his cave and is put to sleep and the maiden is released. ‘Till the dragon stirs from slumber again.” I explained as we walked down the road. I saw the giant lighthouse sitting on the bluffs of the beach. To the left of the cliff’s face was the beach. The sands drenched by the raging waves that crawl onto the beach. “I don’t know why, but there’s something calming about the rain. Don’t you think, my son?” “You could say that.” Jacob said. “You do know dragons, maidens and princes don’t really exist?” Jacob turned to me, looking at me with disbelief. I laughed. Which then became a hard, phlegmy cough. “Course I do, son. But also, nothing is impossible when you put your imagination to it.” I laughed as I held my arms out, the lantern swaying in my hands. “I guess your right.” He shrugged. “C’mon son. Humor your old man, just this once?” I asked. “After all, you don’t know if the time you spend with your dad will be your last.” I said, looking into his deep blue eyes. “Sure dad, I'll humor you. Seventy years old, and still acting like your twelve.” Jacob laughed. “I’m old, son. I like to think about my younger years. Makes me realize what I missed out on when I was a kid. Getting old is a beauty. You’ve lived a lifetime, seen the world pass you by, seen it change. I remember when I was but a lad, that lighthouse wasn’t even built yet. This beach was nothing more then sharp rocks, and water.” I said, looking over to the lighthouse’s peak that sits a silhouette atop the cliff. “Yeah. Mom used to say that the Lighthouse was built fifty years ago. I never really thought about how much time that really is. Least until now.” He said, admiring its beauty. “Aye.” I nodded. “Puts things into perspective.” I went on. We got to the edge of the rocky slope. “Come son. Have a seat with your old man. I’m tired.” I said, groaning as I sat down. I patted the soggy grass next to me. Jacob sat down. I took a deep breath and let it out. I smelt the briny sea water and hit my nostrils at the same time the salty texture plastered across my taste buds. It reminded me of my time on the waves. “Ever heard of the Pilgrim son?” “Yeah. Thought she was an old folk tale.” I chuckled lightly. And then began coughing again. “No. Not really. When I was a youngin, and sailing the seas, me and the crew used to pray to her for guidance. Some say it’s her who created the wind, the storms, the waves. And fer a while, I believed ‘em.” I smiled. “I did too.” Jacob said. “Really?” I asked as I placed my hands on the ledge of the slope. “Yeah. Every Time you were away, I prayed to her to keep you safe. Look over mom, before she...And now that your starting to get sick...I’m worried.” Jacob said. “Don’t be. I’ll get over it soon enough son. Then you won’t have to worry about me no more. Matter of fact. I think by tonight...I should be all better.” “What do you mean, dad?” Jacob looked at me. I smiled. “I’m dying, son.” His expression dropped. “What do you mean? What are you talking about?” He asked, desperately trying to read me. “That can’t be true.” “‘Fraid it is son. Not much I can do about it either.” “No. You can’t be dying. Your gonna get better dad, you have to fight this!” He said, his voice breaking. “It’s hereditary son. My Father and I had the same conversation when I was your age. And everything you said, was what I said. There’s nothing you can do son, except make this old man happy. Make his last night on earth a memorable one.” I told him, my smile still never cracking off my face. Jacob seemed to be taken aback by my words, but I still looked at him with the biggest grin I could muster. “You’ve already made this old dog happy on his last night by going for this walk with him. As much as I would love to keep going on. I can’t. I’m afraid I don’t have enough strength to make it, son. Your the only one to carry on our lineage.” I said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “And I’m only telling you this, because I’m doing everything in my power to give you one last night with your father. To say your goodbyes before I pass on.” “What makes you think your dying tonight?” Jacob asked. “I can feel it. Woke up this morning and said to myself “This is it. This is the day I die.” I shrugged. “And your not upset?” “How can I? seventy years on this beautiful earth? Fifty of them spent with your mother? Thirty of that spent with you? I can’t cry over that. All the memories I have? The times I spent with you and your mother? I can’t pass those up. Just remember to stay strong son. You’ll find a woman out there for you. And soon you’ll have this conversation with your son or daughter later on down the line.” I felt the stinging of the tears in my eyes as I gazed upon my son for the last time. I didn’t hide it as I let the tears roll down my cheeks, the smile still not fading from my lips. “Goodbye son. I always loved you.” I said, my lips quivering. “Goodbye father. I love you.” Jacob said, between his sobs. “May the pilgrim guide your way, may she add my life to the stars above.” I said with the last ounce of my strength as I slumped into my son's warm arms. Such a good kid. Such...a...good...kid. Such...a...good. Such...a... Such... And I shut my eyes.

In the night chill of a bitter December, two boys fled through the narrow back alleys of New York City, the taller one carrying a duffel bag in one hand and tugging the smaller boy along behind with the other. They tore through the eternal detritus of the city between dark brick walls forever stained with ancient graffiti, their ragged shoes splashing up water as they ran across puddles from the previous night’s rain. “They’re over here!” a voice called from behind them. “Shit, shit, shit,” said the older boy between exhausted breaths. They skidded around a corner into the next alley, the darkness swallowing them whole. “My feet hurt, Riley,” said the younger boy. Riley stopped abruptly, the younger boy slamming into his side. “In here,” he said, lifting the lid to a dumpster and tossing the duffel bag inside. “Quick!” He put a hand out and the younger boy stepped on it and pulled himself up and over the wall of the dumpster. Riley followed, his foot slipping on some grease before tumbling inside onto piles of full garbage bags and shutting the lid. “It smells real bad in here, Riley.” “Shh, keep quiet.” “What are we keeping quiet for, Riley?” “I said shh!” Footsteps approached from outside the dumpster, the soles of their shoes slapping against the wet pavement. “Where the hell did they go?” a voice said. “Little shits are probably back on the street by now. We’ll find ‘em. Come on,” said another voice, their footsteps disappearing into the distance. “Can we go now? It smells real, real bad in here.” “Not yet. Let’s just wait a while. Do you have your notebook with you?” The younger boy produced a small black notebook from his jacket pocket. “Good. You can make some drawings while we wait. Here’s your flashlight,” said Riley, handing it to the younger boy. Riley unclipped his own from his belt loop, clicked it on and unzipped the duffel bag. Stacks of cash spilled out, each marked with one thousand dollar bands. “Oh my god. There’s like $20,000 in here,” he said, running his hand through the bag. “We can finally leave this rat hole.” “Look what I drawed, Riley,” said the younger boy, holding up his notebook containing a crude sketch of a stick man floating in space with stars dotted around him. “Drew, Spaceboy. Not drawed. Do you remember how old you are? Can’t be talking like a little kid anymore.” Spaceboy held up nine fingers and grinned. “Almost. One more. You just had a birthday, remember?” Spaceboy extended his thumb and started clapping. “That’s right,” said Riley, smiling. “But keep quiet.” “Do you like my drawing, Riley?” “Of course I do. I always like your drawings. What else you got?” Spaceboy smiled and flipped the notebook back to the first page; on it was a similar drawing to the last: a boy floating in space with a bubble for a helmet, a big wavy smile across his face and surrounding him were the stars Riley had taught him how to draw. “This one is me.” He flipped the page and again it was almost identical, but the person had long hair. “This one is Mommy.” He paused a moment looking at the sketch and Riley was sure he was going to cry, and wasn’t entirely sure he could hold back his own tears. For Spaceboy, heaven was a place in outer space, and Riley very much liked that idea. He put a hand over the page and looked at him. “Now that we have money, we can get you proper markers instead of that ratty old pen. You can make it look like real space. What do you think?” Spaceboy broke into a smile again. “Yeah!” Pointing his flashlight up towards the black dumpster lid, Riley looked at the specks of debris glued there, some dripping down onto the bags in the winter condensation. “Look, Spaceboy. Stars.” Spaceboy looked up and smiled. “Wow! Are they real, Riley?” “Not quite. But it’s pretty, isn’t it?” “Real pretty.” Riley piled the cash back into the duffel and zipped it back up. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” He peered through a small gap between the dumpster and lid, and when he was sure the alley was empty, he lifted it and leapt out, helping Spaceboy down after him. He was nearly to the street when he looked back to see Spaceboy was still by the dumpster, looking up to the empty black sheet spread out beyond the ethereal glow of the city lights - the starless New York City sky. “Do you think we’ll ever see real stars, Riley?” “Yeah,” said Riley, smiling. “Yeah, I think we will. Stick with me. Space men don’t ever leave each other, right?” “Never.” They came out of the alley on E 90th and sprinted south towards 86th, the accusing yellow eyes of the street lights burning their dark skin. “I’m tired, Riley,” said Spaceboy. “I know, I know. I am too. Not much further.” They arrived at 86th and Lexington out of breath and dripping with sweat, even in the cool December air. “Hey! They’re over here!” a voice called out from behind them. “No, no!” said Riley. He gripped his brother’s hand and they continued towards the subway station stairs. “Get the hell back here!” Riley looked back at the shadowy figure chasing them through the evening gloom, a gun in one hand aimed towards them. “Spaceboy, get in front of me!” Riley pulled Spaceboy in front of him and pushed at his back as they weaved between cars. A gunshot rang out - thunderous in the streets. It pinged against the metal subway station railing. Both boys ducked and kept running, tearing down the stairs and nearly slipping on the slick pavement at the bottom. Green pillars whooshed by like concrete trees as they ran. Another shot came from behind them as they leapt over the turnstile, reverberating against the graffiti-covered station walls and piercing their eardrums. Spaceboy covered one of his ears with his free hand. “It’s loud, Riley!” The rumble of a subway train shook the ground as it screeched to a halt next to them, its doors opening with the sound of clanging metal. “Get in!” Riley shouted and shoved Spaceboy inside. Another bullet shattered the window next to them, the raining glass glistening silver under the humming fluorescents like spilled mercury. “Go, dammit, go!” The door shut and the train hissed back to life. The boys heard their pursuer yelling something, his voice trailing off into the distance as the train barrelled onwards through the tunnel. Riley threw the duffel bag onto one of the seats and slumped down next to it. He felt a sharp pain and a cool wetness tugging at his t-shirt as his back touched the metal. Tentatively, he peeled the fabric off his tender skin and brushed his fingers over the wound, wincing. “Aw, no.” “You okay, Riley?” said Spaceboy, scribbling away in his black notebook. “Yeah, I’m okay.” They got off at 116th in East Harlem and hailed the first taxi they saw. It pulled up to the street corner and Riley guided Spaceboy inside before stepping in himself, wincing and holding his back as he squeezed in next to him. Sweat coated his forehead and dripped down from his nose onto the duffle bag. The cabbie looked at him from the rearview mirror. “You alright there, kid?” “Do you have a map?” The cabbie dug through his glove compartment and handed Riley a folded, coffee-stained map. Scanning it with his finger, he left a trail of red up north to the Bronx - looking for anything green and far. “We need to go to Woodlawn Cemetery.” “I ain’t goin’ that far, kid. My day’s almost up.” Riley unzipped the duffel bag and handed the man one of the stacks. He looked back at Riley, shrugged and put the car in gear. “Alright, boys. Buckle up.” Riley watched through the window as the street lights drifted by in a ghostly haze, his vision clouded by sweat. Spaceboy’s eyes were still firmly fixed on whatever he was drawing in his notebook. “Hey, you got any markers?” Riley asked the cabbie. “I got a couple Sharpies. That good enough?” “Yeah, give them to me.” The cabbie passed him the markers. “Here, Spaceboy. These should help,” he said, handing them over. Spaceboy looked at his big brother and smiled before popping off the lid to his new Sharpie. The night became darker the further they got from the city, as did Riley’s vision. He struggled to keep his eyes open as the low hum of the engine nearly lulled him to sleep. *Can’t sleep, can’t sleep.* He counted the gradually slowing beats of his heart to keep himself awake until finally, the car came to a stop. “End of the line, boys.” Riley stumbled out with the duffle bag and looked back at the stain he’d left on the seat. Spaceboy still scribbled away even as he stepped out of the car. They came out before a gate and Riley tossed the duffle bag over it with some strain. He boosted Spaceboy over first before attempting it himself. His stomach lurched as he kicked his leg over and fell to the pavement on the other side. Drool dripped from his jaw and his back burned in protest. “Are you okay, Riley?” Riley picked himself up and swung an arm over Spaceboy’s shoulder. “Yeah, yeah.” They walked over rolling green hills decorated with grey gravestones of varying shapes and sizes - angels and tombs and plain small ones. To Spaceboy, it looked like they were in one of those old black and white horror films he despised so much. Spaceboy held Riley up as they went. His breathing had become shallow and hoarse. “Up that hill. We can stop there.” Riley tumbled from his brother’s arms in between gravestones as they reached the top of the treeless hill. Spaceboy sat next to him and opened his notebook to the page he was working on. Riley rolled onto his back and looked up into the sky. “Hey, Spaceboy. Look up,” he said and coughed. Spaceboy did. Snowflakes drifted down from the still night sky like thousands of white-hot meteors tumbling through space. “Stars.” Spaceboy wiped his face as they fell to his skin in tiny droplets, some falling onto his drawing. “Are they real, Spaceboy? I’m not dreaming?” Spaceboy hesitated and looked down at his big brother; his eyes were half open and snow rained down on his sweating face. “They’re real, Riley.” “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I knew we could see them from here.” “I drew you a picture, Riley. It got kinda messed up though.” Spaceboy handed his notebook to Riley who took it with trembling hands. The page was almost completely black, save for the two figures clad in space suits floating in the middle; one with long hair and the other with none. It reeked of Sharpie. Wet marks dotted the paper, leaving small splotches of grey in the black ink like dim stars. “It’s you and Mommy.” Riley looked at it a long while before tearing out the page and slipping it into the pocket of his tattered jeans. “I’m gonna take it with me and show the other spacemen.” “Where are you going, Riley?” Riley pointed up to the starless sky. “Up there. To the stars.” “But spacemen never leave each other, remember?” “Well, sometimes they go to other planets.” Spaceboy wiped his eyes. “I guess so.” Riley handed him back the notebook and took his brother’s hand. Smiling, he closed his eyes. His breathing had become even more shallow, but the ache in his back was little more than a faint echo of pain now. Behind the darkness of his eyelids, he saw stars. “Goodnight, Spaceboy.

Part 1 I woke up and glanced at the clock to the side of me. 5:30. I never woke up that early. Even for school. I felt, different, though, somehow. Like I was being watched. Like I was in a movie or a book or something. But it was more than that. I was motivated? I guess? That fits well enough. I was motivated. I wanted to do something. I slowly got up and started to get ready for school. I dreaded school. I hated most people there, and they hated me back. I honestly don't know why I went. If it was up to me, I wouldn't. It was a big waste of time. I really hated it. I was never bad in school, but nothing exceptional either. It wasn't the work though, it was the people. If you were any different than the hive mind you were made an outcast. I wasn't one though. I had a good amount of friends, and knew the right people to not be made fun of, but I just never liked most of the people there. They were cruel and unforgiving. I didn't like them. So you're probably wondering why I still went? Well like many people, it was because of Her. I never knew her name, only what she looked like. She was amazing, but she hated me. I only still went to school because I thought I would have a chance of her not hating me. If I just had a chance to talk to her, or something, maybe she wouldn't hate me, like many people do. I honestly don't know why I'm telling anyone this. Nobody cares. But I don't mind. I don't care. I've been told countless times that I could never get her. Or anyone, for that matter. But I didn't care. I kept trying. Again, I know nobody cares, but this is my story. And I'm going to tell it for once. I went to school, again dreading it. The day wasn't anything special. I went to my classes, nothing more, nothing less. The worst part about school I think was how uneventful it always was. Anyway one thing did happen today, I talked to her. It turns out, she doesn't hate me, just never bothered to talk to me. Part 2 He talked to me today! I couldn't believe it! Then, after I got over the shock, I felt so idiotic for not saying more. For not saying "I think I love you" or at least "Can we be friends?" All I could manage was "H-h-hi." Imbecile. Now he'll never know that I can't stop thinking about him and probably never will. Now he'll never know that I think he's amazing. And he'll certainly never, ever know that someone, even if it's just me, needs him. School was......school. I mean, I was pretty intelligent, I suppose. Made pretty good grades. But where does that get you in life? Further than most people think, but that's the point. The people who decide your social standing are highly unqualified to do so. But do I care? Not in the slightest. I'm not disliked. I'm friendly with pretty much everyone, but mainly, I'm not noticed at all, really. I'm not bothered by that. Trust me, most people at my school, you wouldn't want to notice you, either. The one thing that drove me crazy was that he didn't notice me. At least, I thought he didn't for awhile. Once, I heard from a friend who heard from a friend who heard him talking about suicide. I doubted he'd talk about it, but I didn't doubt he'd do it. This scared me. I realized I didn't exactly have a lot of time to tell him anything really. I had to force myself into his life. Honestly, I could care less if the whole world hated me. But not him. Please, not him. The reason I liked him was because you could tell by looking at him that he understood you. Not necessarily everyone, but I knew he'd understand me. I knew that maybe I could be someone he liked. I hoped I could be someone he loved. I just didn't know how to tell him.

“Mama wrote me, dear!” Isabella’s mother, a not-so-young woman anymore, celebrated as a young child. “She is coming to visit us!” She continued yelling from the kitchen. “What?!” The old alchemist exclaimed in disbelief and biting his teeth. He made a very discontent face although was able to hide it from Isabella’s mother. “I thought you liked her and missed her.” The young man, son of a friend of a friend, replied in a lower voice. “Yeah, I do.” Isabella’s father answered in a lower voice too. “And I do like her better when she is far away, very far away.” He sighed heavily and gesticulated with his hand as if trying to send the old woman away before she arrive. “We can say” He continued “I like her letters. Full of histories from all around where she goes. True or not it is always very entertaining.” “What did you say, Dear?” Isabella’s mother asked from the kitchen where she was finishing to hit the soup. “That is great news, my love!” He yelled. “When did she arrive?” He asked contracting his teeth again and, saying in a very low voice. “I need to prepare myself emotionally.” “You know mom...” She entered the living room smiling and carrying the soup that smelled great. “Anytime. It might even be tonight. Those letters took so long sometimes...” “That is the problem here; maybe all of us should move to the future with Isabella where the letters came faster.” He said lowly when Isabella’s mother was back in the kitchen. Isabella entered the living room laughing and saying. “It is good to be home again.” “Be welcome, dear, did you wash your hands?” Her father asked. “Yes, Father. I’ve been surviving well by myself traveling the whole world all around time and I have already 27 years old. Washing hands is the basics.” “Since when?” He said. “You know here in Alexandria it is not so common yet.” “Well, that is because now is still a couple of centuries after Christ was born... I don’t know when exactly people begin to worry about washing hands...” “Anyway, it is good to know that in the future people will be cleaner.” “I’m so happy you are here, my dear.” Isabella’s mother said with her eyes emotionally melted in tears. “Me too, Mom.” “Since your father gave you that time-traveling necklace...” “Oh, not again, please.” The father said. “Let’s not start that discussion again. It has been more than six years now!” “Yeah! Exactly! MORE than six years that I go to bed without knowing where, when or how my baby is! She can be dead like in 2020, and we will never know!” “But she is happy! Can’t you admit that?” He said louder and louder. “And we all will be dead in 2020.” He groused. Isabella laughed again. Her parents could never agree about her 21 years old birthday gift. A time-traveling necklace her father made especially for her. The kind of gift only an alchemist's father is able to do for you and she loved that. Trying to change the subject and to gain Isabella’s trust, the young alchemist, son of a friend of a friend, said: “And how it is, Isabella? To be able to travel the whole world and in time like that.” “What is this new acquisition in the family, again? Can someone explain it to me better? Couldn’t we have a dog instead?” “We already have a dog. A couple of ones, dear.” The father said. “One more?” “All right, I explain.” Her mother said. “He is a friend of a friend of mine, and he is here to learn with your father. He is a young alchemist too, as his father. But he wanted to learn a few things with your father.” “Father never had any students, not even me...” She looked with suspicion at the man at the table with them. “That is not true, I will explain...” Isabella’s father was about to say when the doorbell ranged. “Are we expecting someone?” Isabella asked. “Your grandmother!”. Isabella’s mother shouted jumping off the chair and going to open the front door. “Wauhhh! Already?” Isabella’s father screamed losing his voice to a high tone. The young alchemist tried to hide his smile. “Mama!!!” Everyone looked really happy on that warm evening with the arrival of the old lady, Isabella’s grandmother. Everyone was happy in that dining room enchanted by the light of the flames from the fireplace. Except for Gordon, Isabella’s father, of course, who was a little cranky. He kept hearing in his mind the first words that the old woman said to him that night ‘You look older than before!’. Of course, he thought, it has been almost over a decade. She could just wait another decade before came and he might be lucky enough to be already dead. After the initial compliments, they all sit around the table to have dinner, as they was about to do before the ringing of the doorbell. “Isabella has just arrived too, Mom.” “I know” She answered to her daughter smiling while arranging Isabella’s pink strands in her hair. “I knew it would look great at you, lovely dear.” Isabella’s grandmother always called her like that, ‘lovely dear’. “She always knows everything.” Her father whispered to himself. Yes, that is Isabella’s grandmother. She seems to always know everything. Then the old woman stared at the young man in the diner room, looking at him directly in his eyes. He felt uncomfortable. Usually, he was very confident, although the old woman's gaze made him tremble inside. He gasped. “And about you?” She finally said. “I am the son of...” He was about to introduce himself. “I know.” “Be careful, my dear mother-in-law, he is new here and he doesn’t know...” Isabella’s father was trying to protect the young alchemist. “I know.” The old woman interrupted. “You don’t need to protect him. He will do good by himself.” “Yes, but he doesn’t know about you and...” “Don’t you worry” She interrupted him again making a no balancing of her pointer finger. ‘Old bastard’ Gordon thought, but silenced even his thoughts when Isabella’s grandmother looked at him with a mad face. ‘I’m sorry’ was his last thought that night. “What I suppose to do with you, young boy?” She finally asked him something, breaking the scare staring with an even more scary thing. He stammered “Well, technically I am not a young boy, anymore, I’m more than 30 already and...” “I know.” The old woman said. “I am 83 years old and I have been 83 years old for three centuries now. I think you are a young boy for me.” “He is suspicious, isn’t he, Grandma?” “Of course he is.” The old woman affirmed severely. “I am still in the living room.” He said trying to recover some dignity and, trying to recover some confidence: “And why do you need ‘to do’ anything about me?” He gazed at her strongly. “You are going to give me worries!” The old lady said. “Don’t you start, Grandma, please?” That was Gordon. When he wants to melt her, he just calls her Grandma. Like if he was saying: Isabella’s grandma, please... Most of the time, that works pretty well. “What, Gordon?” “He is not used to that, don’t you do that, please. He is just beginning his life.” “And he needs to begin it well!” The young alchemist became worried. Since both Isabella’s parents were alchemists, what could the old woman, Isabella’s grandmother, be or do? Curse him terribly with something really bad? Transform him into a frog? The possibilities were endless in his imagination at that moment. “You are stronger than I thought.” She paused. “That is a good or a terrible thing, I don’t know yet.” “Oh... you are actually doing it... okay, I say nothing anymore.” Isabella’s grandmother tells the future. Does she predict it or does she create it? We wonder... She is a rare kind of alchemist. An alchemist of the words, like Isabella is, but this is not about young Isabella. By the way, Isabella’s grandmother also is called Isabella. She named her granddaughter after her with a blessing by the fire on the beach on the day little Isabella was born. Her entire life she was called to bless the newborns. To give them nice and warm futures. Futures where they could be happy and make others happy too. The old lady faced again the young man that trembled again even though he was sitting at the table. “You are going to be either the beginning of it all or either be the ending of it all. You are going either to build an entirely new world or either destroy it completely.” The young one gasped not knowing what he was supposed to think or fell about that. “What is that?” Gordon asked. “You said so much and nothing at the same time. You never said anything so vaguely like that.” The son-in-law was concerned, had the old woman gone senile now? It would be his worst nightmare, to have to deal with this crazy old woman in the craziest mode. “I can’t tell about him.” She answered calmly. “He was born under the moon of the ambiguous archetype. We can never know about the ambiguous ones until very close to the end...” She said with concern in her voice. Everyone went in shock and were in silence. That had never happened before. That Isabella’s mother to be unable to predict any future at all. Then Isabella’s mother, Rose, asked; “And that is all that you can know about his future?” “Ohh, no.” The grandma answered. “That is what I can deduce from the gossip I heard on my way here... about his family” “What the old woman doesn’t know by seeing the future, she knows by gossip. Always like that.” Gordon said to himself. “Better than you that never knows anything about anything anyway...” The old mother-in-law answered with an acid smile. Then she looked at the young alchemist again. “Either way, you will be part of it. You will be important, and it lies completely in your hands the choices of your future and the future of many others too...” The young alchemist felt nervous, but he was not sure why. Then the old woman smiled and said reliving the tension in the air. “I will trust you for now, young boy.” She stirred the soup on her plate. “Continue to eat, everyone!” she said looking around the table, because everyone had stopped eating. “The soup is great and it is better to eat it warm than cold.” “And we will meet again, young boy.” She smiled to him. “I will help you in the future.” She took a spoonful of the soup. “Or else I will destroy you.” And she gave a nice, warm, cozy smile.

It was a hard walk to the Mt. Vernon, it almost took him an hour to reach the destination. After working the entire shift John didn’t have any mood for going to the party but still it was needed of him, his sister would be turning eight tonight. She'd want me there , John had believed. A four story apartment building stood in front of him, high as hell as he was. When John walked inside and began his climb, something felt strange. I’ve been to these steps before...... But surely he never was, he had to ask for the directions. Déjà vu is what they call it. The apartment building was a gloomy place. It didn’t do justice to the locality it was in. The walls were still damp from the rain that had washed down the entire city yesterday. Someone or more than someone had mistaken the stairs for trash bin. There wasn’t even an elevator to place you up on your wanted floor. Up and up he went, wondering. Not much later, the door stood in front of him. A white wooden door in a dark building. The door . John could hear the faint noises inside : sounds of laughter, of kids and their parents, thumping steps, shouts and curses, all but sadness. There was a big part of him that would’ve wanted nothing more than just walk away, even from there, but he knew better than that or he hoped at least. So, he raised his right hand, coiled it into a fist and knock.....knock . The noises from inside grew colder. Knock...knock , he did it again. Then, as the moment stretched longer, he could hear the sound of someone’s steps coming closer. The door opens. And the world was full of laughter. Fun...is that what they call it? , wondered John. He found Uncle Ben on the other side with a smile on his face. John was forced to smile. His uncle was a slender man, same as him but shorter. “Uncle Ben.” said John. “John my boy, we were all just waiting for you, come in.” “Well, I’m sure you were.” A lie . As Uncle Ben ushered him in, John found himself in a strange place. I’ve been here before..... but how could he? The yellow walls were all decorated with birthday celebration. The place seemed upside down. There were people around, a lot of people. John found many unknown eyes on him but only for a moment, then it was all forgotten like he was never there, except...... “Is this my poor baby John?” asked Aunt Martha as she came to squeeze the soul out of him with a hug. “It seems to be your poor John grandma, I’m not sure about that baby part.” John replied. “Well, you’ll always be a baby to me.” A cousin sister to his mother’s mother, Martha was an old woman. Short and round, even though she was in her late 60s, her features hadn’t left her. “How long have you been living on air?” Aunt Martha inquired. I’ve been living on worse things than air, grandma . But John thought better than to say it. “Well, what the lad’s gonna do when his grandmother wouldn’t spare him any meal.” Uncle Ben came to rescue. “I didn’t spare you any meal, you seem fatter than me.” Aunt Martha replied. Then there was a guffaw, from both mother and son. John forced himself to smile. “Where is she?” John asked. “Jennifer.....she should be here somewhere” Martha looked all around. “It’s not likely a place to be lost.” “No....not Maa. Joy, where’s Joy?” “Joy? Ahhh the girl. She might be in her room with her mother.” “Can you get her for me? Please” For a moment it seemed she might deny but....“Yeah, wait here.” was all she said before she left. “So, what’s going on with you John?” asked uncle Ben. “I’m alright.” “You still working--" “Who are all these people?” John interrupted. “Uhhh, well people” Ben said, a little startled “You know neighbors, friends, colleagues.” Then it was silence, the awkward one, at least for a moment until....“But it’s good you know, it’s her birthday-“ “You don’t have to do it. You can go. Those are your friends I believe. I won’t miss your presence, well at least while I’m waiting.” And so it was done. Ben left and John was all alone in the midst of all the chatters. If truth be told John never longed for anyone’s presence. By now he was used to it, or fool he must be if he wouldn’t. Life was all like it, life has always been like it. There was a time when he would cry for his mother to stay or not leave him for some stupid work. Of course he didn't need money to live, he needed his mother. There was a time when he would’ve dreaded the dark but not now, rather he’d welcome it. It was a long time ago, it wasn’t even him. John, some John who lived here, who had a mother and a father, a place to live. There were many John in this city alone, sadly he wasn’t the one. Uncle Ben though must hadn’t liked the way he’d spoken but this John was tired of pretending. He was sick of them for treating him like he cared. He didn’t or so he thought at least. After some more moments of peace and silence, the hall erupted all of sudden......and then she came. Can anything be more pure and innocent ? His sister was wearing a gown of neon pink color. Holding a small purse in her hand, she was taking those little steps her gown could allow. After Joy came her mother, Aunt Martha followed them out of the room with two kids and some other girl he might have known once. Then it was all done in rush. People clapped their hands and gave her some pretty compliments. He was lost in the flood. If Joy had noticed him, she gave no sign and so he stood there, silently in the shade of all the fun. Cake came forth with Uncle Mike (only person’s presence he’d have welcomed in this room after Joy and Martha). The candles were blown out as soon as they were being lighted. As per the tradition “Happy Birthday” song was sung, John passed along few versus with them. The hall was full of laughter when the song ended with Joy hidden behind the world. John glanced up at the wall clock that must’ve been feeling safer than ever. The hour of wolf was nigh upon them. John knew what it meant, it was the time to present the gifts and then food. John had suffered enough shame for a single day and he didn’t intend to suffer it more. The girl he had came for wasn’t here. Joy, was it? The girl was lost to him, it seemed. John’s sister....the other John’s. Shying from people’s stare he had entered this strange place, without them he left. The eyes of unknown never mattered to him, nor did they mattered now. Two eyes were all that he had cared and hoped for, but it seemed that that too were lost to him. As he made his descent, the sound of crowd started receding and soon only the sound of his footsteps remained. I’ve been to these steps before.......I’ve lived my entire life on these steps , memories came back to him. The climb down took him much less time than it had taken him to climb up. John was pleased to put that place behind him, good and well for now. When he emerged out of the darkness, his mere body casted biggest shadow that he could have ever hoped to see. He looked up to the east, the moon was there, hiding behind the ever racing clouds. White as milk, it shone like some God’s angel. It’s silvery rays washing the entire alley with the godly presence. It was good. It felt good. It was beautiful. As John made his way down the alley, he heard someone calling him from behind. He turned, and a shadow stepped out into the light. It was a woman, young and handsome one. He knew her once.... more than knew. “You’re leaving.” She called out. “I suppose, I am.” John replied. “The fun has just started.” “Well as you know, I’m not a very man you look towards to for having fun.” “I don’t know. Why did you come here, then?” “To meet someone.” “So, did you met ‘your someone’ then?” “I suppose....I did.” “You lie...... poorly.....still.” John shrugged. “If you say so.” “Oh...I don’t say anything, John” She’s still beautiful, more than ever . “What you doing down here?” “You were leaving without your return gift.” “I didn’t bring her anything, if that’d give you any help.” “Still, you attended the party. You’re entitled to receive a gift from us. Guest right.” She returned his shrug. A smile broke into his lips. “Alright then, be done with it.” Cara moved aside. The world moved aside. She was standing there, still trying to hide herself behind Cara. Tears filled his eyes. This is more pure and innocent . As Joy ran to meet him, John stood there still, with his arms open, preparing himself for the moment. “I didn’t see that one coming”, John whispered to himself......and then it came.....John lifted her up off her feet and plunged her into the sky.....and soon the shadow casted by the moon’s silver was even bigger. - Rudransh Sharma