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The world fades in, blurry around the edges. You lay in the center, and your face stares expressionless into the void. I kneel down, placing my hands upon your fur as if to see that you’re okay, I do this sometimes, often earning a soft sound of annoyance or curiosity for my effort. You are silent. You are still. I fall to my knees, and my memory begins to falter. Someone is screaming, pleading, praying. It’s me, but it doesn’t feel like me. This can’t be happening, not to me and not to you. But it is. My phone. I need to grab it, to call her, to ask, ‘What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?’ It’s so far away, I don’t want to leave you. Time seems to skip forward, and I am desperately trying to tell her. I don’t remember getting my phone, and the television is off now, seconds of my life that vanished in my fervor. I wait downstairs, call her again, trying to see where she is. ‘Not here, not yet.’ I tell her that I’ll start walking, I know the way. Instead, I run. Bare feet slap on concrete, dodging glass and stones. The carrier is heavy in my arms, my legs burn, my breathing short as I run, as if trying to flee from the specter that has its eyes set on you. My throat hurts, and yet I talk to you. I tell you that everything is going to be okay. People stare at me as they drive past, the frantic woman with wild hair dressed only in her pajamas. I ignore them and look down to see you slide in your transport, unnatural and limp. I don’t look down again. The honk of a horn, the squeal of tires, the concerned look of a familiar face. I’m barely in the car before I tell her, scream at her, to go. We’re there much faster now, and my mind catches up with my body. The vet comes out minutes after you go in. The shake of her head is barely visible through tear-streaked eyes. ‘Blood clot,’ and, ‘Instantaneous’ wash over me in equal measures, and the sobs taper off into stunned silence. I hold you in my arms, the last time I ever will. You’re colder now, even swaddled in a blanket, and your eyes are still open, your tongue hanging out like some mockery of who you once were. You don’t look the same, no longer the excited little child circling my feet, excited by everything life had to offer in a way I’ve never seen before. I bend over, and I kiss your forehead, as if to send you off into your slumber, and the vet comes to take you away. You’re gone, but you’re not. Not for me, not for her, and not for your brother. He can’t understand where you went. He waits for you to jump out at him. You don’t. The world moves on. They celebrate in the streets, a victory long hoped for. They didn’t know about you, but I did. And I am numb. I am numb. I am numb.

#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? 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 provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: - **Prompt: The advertisement seemed too good to be true.** - **Bonus Constraint:** Story begins and ends with a question. This week’s challenge is to use the above prompt as inspiration for your story. Feel free to **interpret the prompt as you like**, as long as you **follow all post and subreddit rules.** The bonus constraint is not required, but it is worth extra points. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting.   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **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. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who 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. Everyone is welcome!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | **50** pts | | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts (unless noted otherwise) | | ***Actionable* Feedback** | **15** pts each (up to 75 pts) | | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | | **Bay’s Nominations** | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts | | **Submitting Nominations (voting for others)** | **10** pts | *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 5 detailed, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.*   *** #Rankings With just 5 stories posted to last week’s thread, there just weren’t enough stories to create a fair ranking spread. So, the podium goes to just one author this week! *Please be aware that starting this week, we have a new point system. See “How Rankings are Tallied” for more specifics!* - **First:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c *** *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Check out the brand new over on r/WritingPrompts! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

March 4th, 2042 - Detroit, MI The city is in ruins. The sheer sight of the gloomy, grey dust-filled skies strikes a feeling of hopelessness in my heart. One of the worlds greatest cities, bombed to debris. Most of my squad died in the initial bombings. Austin and David were the only other two to survive. We are currently held up in a barely-standing grocery store. We have a good supply of ammo for our guns, but that wont do us much good against the hoards of hostile troops. We don't know what to do now, our radios are on, but no higher-ups have even addressed the situation, let alone gave us orders. We're waiting in the grocery store for what seemed like hours, but was realistically only about 30 minutes. Every now and then, a big patrol would come past, usually a few tanks surrounded by dozens of troops. They never noticed us, or even bothered to check in the store. There we sit, in complete silence, with no clue what to do, when suddenly we hear it; radio static followed by a familiar female voice from my radio: "Message to any surviving US military: rendezvous point at the church on Jefferson Avenue, take caution while moving, extremely heavy hostile presence on the streets". "Did she say the church on Jefferson Avenue?" Austin blurted out loudly. "Oi quiet down, idiot, do you want us to get killed?" David says in a quiet, but angry tone. "Yes the church on Jefferson Avenue, now be quiet, lets get ready to start moving," I inform him. "I know where that is, its only a few miles down the road" Austin says, being useful for once. "Well lets get moving then, no time to waste" I order. We get our guns loaded, and make sure we've got our supplies, then we check the street. Clear. We start moving. The walk wasn't a long one, but seeing a once glorious city now be nothing but a pile of bricks and dust, except for a few buildings was really depressing. Humbling in a way. After not too long, we could see the church. "There it is" Austin says as he points towards a half collapsed, big, white building. We entire the building and shut the door behind us, only one other squad in here with us. I talk to their leader, and discuss what to do next. "I think we should just wait for orders fro-" i was cut off by a loud explosion. We all turn to the source of the explosion, and see a tank on the road, smoking barrel pointing towards us. David screams "TAKE COVE-", before he can finish his sentence, we hear gunfire and David groaning. "David's hit!" Austin screams, trembling with fear. We all take cover behind Seats, stands and anything else we can. Troop after troop runs in. Austin dies, David is still bleeding out. Only four of us remain viable to fight, me and a few members of the other squad. Troop after troop runs in, and gets gunned down. We manage to hold them off for a while, but one by one, everyone but me dies. I need to run, no way i can fight this many people, I sprint out the back of the church, and start running. Then everything seems to go slow. I hear a bang and feel a sharp burning sensation in my thigh. Ive been hit. This is the end. I watch hopelessly as i drop to the ground, dropping my gun on my way down. I go to reach for my gun, but then hear another bang, I got shot again, this time in the chest. I cant move. I give up. I lay down and accept my fate I see a hostile run up above my body, utter something in a language that I don't understand, and pulls out a knife. He digs it in my neck, and everything fades to black... "CUT" yells the director. "Well done men, you can leave the studio for the night. You did really well today. Everyone memorised all their lines today perfectly.

It’s time to visit my father again. I hate going there, hate visiting him when he’s no longer the man who raised me. The care home is only a fifteen-minute drive, but I avoid that route even when I need to go shopping. My mother phones me twice a day, always to check on how my father is, but never to check on me. I understand why. It’s hard for her, difficult to accept that her husband can’t remember the woman he married. I pull up into the car park, turn off the engine, and stare at the wheel for a good five minutes. The care home workers are probably suspicious of me. I’m sat in my metallic blue Kia Sorento, which is massive, and dwarves all the Minis parked beside me. I tap the wheel one last time, take a deep breath, grab my bag, and leave. After making it all the way here, I know I should go inside and visit my dad. The care home seems like a nice enough place. I’ve only visited once before, but I’m still shocked by how warm the yellow of the wallpaper is, and how gentle the staff are. Today, there’s a lady only slightly older than me, grabbing my arm and chattering away without a care in the world. I don’t listen as she speaks, instead staring at her blonde curly hair. It’s greying on top, and I can’t help but wonder when all my hair will disappear. I still have a few strands, but they’re precarious, and I’m sure I’m going to wake up one day without a single hair left. I had jet black hair when I was younger, but by the time I hit twenty-four, it had started to recede. My father had told me there were new surgeries to help if I didn’t want to be bald by the time I was twenty-six, but I’d refused. We’d never really gotten on, and visiting him in his old age was my apology. “Mr Hawkins, if you’d like to follow me, your father can see you now,” the nurse said. Her tone was jolly, sweet, and almost too fake in an environment like this. I didn’t understand how she could keep up the chirpy act. Despite the pleasant atmosphere, I just felt like I wanted to run and hide and never return. Still, I nodded at her. She led me into a comfortable-looking room. There were several armchairs scattered around the room, all different colours, with two cushions on each. In the centre was a massive rectangular table, with see-through boxes underneath. In the boxes I could see board games and dominos and packs of cards. It felt as if I was visiting a friend, rather than a man virtually on his deathbed. My father was on one of the comfortable-looking chairs. His round glasses sat perched on his nose, and his eyebrows were raised as he scanned a newspaper. He was muttering something to a poor social worker, who wore a strained smile as the staff lady and I approached. As I neared, I could hear him muttering about the lack of sports news, and tried to refrain from rolling my eyes. That was my father, alright. The social worker glanced up in relief as we approached, and then said goodbye to my dad, who coughed in response. I patted my bag in my hand as I waited for him to address me. I’d learnt not to address him first the last time I’d visited. My dad’s memory was fragile at the best of times, and a shock wasn’t needed for his system. The staff member waited with me until my dad closed the newspaper and then she addressed him with a smile. “Hi, Martin. You’ve got a visitor. It’s your son, Jeremy. He’s come to visit you, isn’t that nice?” she asked. Her voice was a bit patronising for my liking, but my dad didn’t seem to care. He was too busy looking me up and down. “Son?” he said, and I felt a weird sense of pride. The last time I’d visited my father had just stared at me, unseeing, as if I didn’t exist. It was the weirdest sensation. I think he’d thought I was there to give him his dinner because he kept glancing at the clock and then rubbing his stomach. Never one for words, my father. “Yes, dad, it’s me,” I said. The staff member had left, and it was just me and him. “How are you doing? Are they taking care of you? Giving you all your medication?” “I’m fine, as I always am,” my father said gruffly. “There’s nothing wrong with me.” That was my father all over too. Never admitting he had a problem, always in the right. It had always bothered me when I was young, but I’d never said anything to him about it. He wouldn’t have listened to me, anyway. At least now he had an actual excuse. “What were you reading?” I asked, trying to keep up the conversation. I’d never been good at small talk. “What?” he snapped. “In the newspaper, just now,” I said. “What were you reading? Any good news?” “I... I don’t remember,” my father said, and I frowned. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to forget everything a minute after I’d done it. “Was I reading a newspaper?” “Yes, you were reading one when I came over,” I told him. I wanted to help, to help him remember such a mundane thing. “Don’t you remember?” “No, no,” my father shook his head, and then stared at me again. I went cold as he looked me up and down, a bemused frown on his face. “I’m sorry, son, who are you?” It felt like ten buckets of cold water had poured over my body in a second. I felt tears welling up in my eyes, but didn’t dare shed one. If I showed any weakness, my father would take advantage of that, and refuse to listen to me. Still, it hurt to not be recognised by someone I’d known for so long, someone who’d raised me. “It’s me, dad,” I said. My voice was thick, and I felt any second like I would burst into tears. “Your son, Jeremy. I’m here, like you wanted.” “I don’t have a son,” my father said. I knew he didn’t mean it, that his memory was fading, that he was regressing back to his past, but it still stung. I wiped my eyes on my shirt sleeve, and blinked a few times, forcing back the tears. “You must have me confused with someone else.” “No, dad,” I said, shaking my head. “I know you. I know that your favourite meal is a steak and ale pie with boiled potatoes and mushy peas. That your favourite song is ‘Under the Boardwalk’ by the Drifters. That your favourite pudding was mum’s blueberry pie. It’s me, dad. I promise. I’m your son.” “Blueberry pie?” my father questioned, scratching his chin. “That sounds good. With a nice dollop of cream. Now I’m hungry.” “I don’t have any pie,” I told him, opening the bag I’d been clutching since I’d entered. “But mum told me to bring some of her cookies along. Ginger snap ones. She said they were your favourite.” “Ginger snap cookies?” my father asked, staring at my bag as I unloaded the box they were sitting in. “I love ginger snap cookies.” “Yes, I know,” I said, releasing the lid, and handing him the box. My father leant forward and took an intense sniff, a smile gracing his face as he took in the scent. I could smell them too, a combination of ginger and nutmeg and cinnamon. They smelled heavenly. My father picked one up and took a bite, letting out a pleased sigh as he ate. I smiled as he picked up another. He held it to his eye and then glanced at me. “These are just like Velma’s,” he said, smiling. I jolted. My father had not mentioned my mother once since he’d been in here. I’d heard many a time from my teary mother that he had failed to recognise her when she came to visit him too. But he’d said her name. Just then. I’d heard it loud and clear from where I stood next to him. The cookies had helped him remember her. I knew I had to tell her straight away, but I wanted to see if my father remembered any more. “Velma?” I questioned. My father looked up at me, gulped down the rest of his ginger snap cookie, and smiled. “Yes. Velma. My wife. I’ve been married to her for years. I proposed to her just after she made us a batch of these cookies, you know.” “Oh?” I said, eager for him to continue. I hadn’t heard the proposal story in years, especially not from my father, and I could feel pride bubbling within me. “How did you propose?” “Well, I got back from working down the mine,” he said, snapping the cookie in his hand and offering me some. I took one. “I was sweaty and disgusting and covered in coal, but Velma didn’t care. She just took my hand, led me into the kitchen, and sat me down to a nice bowl of beef stew. We had these ginger snap cookies for dessert. We ate them in silence, but we were so content. It was then that I knew I had to marry her. So, I put the radio on and asked her to dance with me. Elvis was singing ‘Always On My Mind’, and I was dipping her. She was wearing her nicest dress, blue with flowers, and I was so in love. After the song finished, I kissed her, and asked if she would marry me.” “And?” “And she said yes,” my father continued, voice loud and proud. “It was the best day of my life.” “She sounds like a wonderful woman,” I said, pleased that my dad had remembered something. In all the times of visiting, he’d said nothing about his past. Not to me, or to my mother, or anyone else. Today had been a breakthrough. “She is,” my father said, nodding. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s lunchtime.” “Okay,” I said, nodding to one of the social workers to signal I was leaving. “I’ll visit you soon. You can keep the biscuits.” “Thank you,” my father said, and I smiled at him. It was the first time he’d ever thanked me for something, and he didn’t even know who I was. “No problem, dad,” I whispered as I left. I made my way back to my car and let the tears fall. He’d remembered my mother, and I was so happy about it. My mother had been so upset ever since we’d sent my father to that care home, but now there was a chance he’d recognise her when she visited. I had to let her know the good news at once. With a smile, I picked up my phone.

So there you are when the thought hits you. Your feet propped up on the coffee table - she is laying on the other end of the couch, feet thoughtlessly curled in your lap, innocently watching TV. The thought shutters through you like turbulence and you wonder if she felt the shiver as you silently admit it to yourself for the first time. And suddenly it's the only thought you can have. *She's not the one.* Everything shifts. The mannerisms that you used to lovingly roll your eyes at turn into small daggers of annoyance. The nights you used to yearn of impromptu sleepovers turn into dreaded time spent behind a mask. Looking at the shared calendar you two have spent the last year and a half curating, at first cautiously but with innocent optimism and now almost haphazardly, turns from a fun look at what's to come to a tactical maze to navigate. *Wedding in Colorado next weekend that we already have booked. Friends in town the weekend after. A few weeks of downtime after that, maybe then?* You console yourself with the idea that you're trying to do it nicely and "the right way" but are disgusted at the possibility that maybe you're just doing it at a time most convenient for you. Is she saying she loves you more than usual? Does she see this coming? Is this a trap so she can ask how long I've been lying about that? But it isn't a lie. You do love her. You love her for the spontaneity she added to your life, for her youthfulness as you go through the maturing years of your late 20s. You love that she let you in and told you things and allowed you to help her. But it's waning. Or maybe you are. Like a dream you've just woken up from and are grasping to hold onto, you can't remember or trace the steps back to find exactly what it was or where it was or when that you loved as much as you did. And you can't fall back asleep. That's not how it works. So you figure you actually don't love her. Not anymore. But you did. You pause with the toothbrush humming in your mouth, your shirt halfway buttoned, staring into the drawer you've pulled open with the toes on your outstretched foot as if you don't want to get too close. A t shirt she wears to bed. A night mouthguard you teased her about but always found oddly cute. A hair brush. A bag of toiletries and hair ties. *What do I do with that? Bring it with me some day to her place? Wait for her to ask about coming to get it?* A crude painting she made in college before she met you but that you always said you liked hangs in the kitchen. A water bottle on the night stand. Tampons in the bathroom vanity. All just pieces of a plate on the edge of a counter yet to be shattered being eyed by the dustpan and broom. You want to be the bad guy. You want her to rage at you when you do it, to hit you, to scream, to tell you to leave and never come back. You know she won't though. She'll hurt. She'll feel alone. She'll feel abandoned and scared and vulnerable and broken. She'll feel all the things you'll feel but she'll feel them for the first time. They're realer that way sometimes. Rawer. Selfishly, you want this to be out of your hands but you know she would never end this. And you know it's already over. So you wait. *Wedding in Colorado next weekend that we already have booked. Friends in town the weekend after...* You try to enjoy what you have left. You try not to think about how she'll be after and you hope beyond hope that someday what she feels for you now disappears, a drop in the ocean of love she feels for another. And you hope that you feel the same.

#Welcome to the 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. 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, a theme word, a 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. And remember, feedback matters!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Luck** This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘luck’ in your story. It should appear in some way within the story. You may include the theme word if you wish, but it is not necessary. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   ***   #Last Week So many stories were submitted this week. I am thrilled to see all the different interpretations of the constraints week to week. I also love seeing writers come back throughout the week to leave feedback for other stories. It’s inspiring. You all are doing a fantastic job! Due to a very busy holiday weekend, I am sorry to say that the spotlight picks will be postponed until next week. They will be included on next week’s Micro Monday post. Until then,   ***   #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. Use to check your word count. The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words will be disqualified from being spotlit. - **I will take nominations for your favorites each week via a message on reddit or discord.** Each Monday, I will spotlight two deserving stories from the previous week that I think really stood out. I will take all nominations you make into consideration. But please remember, this is not a contest. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some feedback.** While it’s not a requirement, I encourage everyone to read the other stories on the thread and leave feedback. I will take all of this into consideration when making my selections each week. - **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. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the stickied comment on this thread or through modmail. - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   ***   ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

Strings of ants crawled on the walls of my seventh-grade French classroom, really a trailer. Our middle school, like most in Georgia, had little money and too many kids. When the classrooms run out of space, they put up trailers. A cluster of them parked outside the gym. It was freezing in the wintertime, scorching in the spring, with bees and hornets visiting class daily, as if we were pioneer children educated on the Western frontier. The French teacher hated children. You could see this wasn’t what she wanted in life. She snuck cigarettes between classes and ended up married to the P.E. coach. But I loved French class because Johnny Ramsey was there. He didn’t do anything. He sat hunched, pencil in his mouth, eyes blank. I was in love. All class, I switched between my favorite channels, Johnny Ramsey, then the ants, watching each carefully, gathering every detail of his nose and his back, then when his head turned towards me, it was on to the ants. They had a tag team system. One ant finds something, then comes to another, touches antennae, that ant then relays the message to another. They seemed not individual souls but parts of a network, like neurons snapping electricity in a shapeless brain. I hate killing ants. I hate killing anything, it feels like bad karma. And with ants, you have to destroy the whole system. Individual ants are replaceable. If you want them out, you have to be thorough. I would order the ant spray online, but I worry about pressurized cans sitting in the heat. The package has so many chances to explode along the route. I would also let the ants live in my house. There’s space. But when I first moved out, my mother had this thin-lipped look, as if I were still a teenager with poor motor skills driving for the first time. She doesn’t consider me competent enough to live alone. The house is already a mess -- I imagine her visiting, frowning at the ant colonies sprawled in my kitchen. She wouldn’t even say anything. She wouldn’t be surprised. I used to love grocery shopping. Before the pandemic, I spent hours gliding through the aisles, stopping to look at a new cereal box design, the bug-eyed fish frozen on styrofoam trays. But now, shopping is a tense affair. The mask is on, the clock starts. It’s in and out as quick as possible, minimizing time spent sharing air with other people. A new personal record, fifteen minutes. I wait in the checkout line, the can of ant spray shining in my cart. What a thing to buy, what a story it always carries. The cashier’s mask covers the lower half of his face. He’s lucky, he’s got nice eyes, good hair, both now emphasized by a lack of other features. That blank stare, it reminds me of the fish still sitting on ice in the freezer section. Ah, of course, that’s Johnny Ramsey who’s about to scan my groceries. I remember those eyes, that hair. I spent collective hours committing them to memory. He hasn’t changed in our years of separation. My turn comes and he’s grabbing the ant spray, scanning it, punching in codes for my artichokes. I’m thankful for my mask concealing a stupid little grin. He doesn’t know who I am. He never did. He’s a hot boy, and that’s all he’s been. He’s never had to think about things, figure things out for himself. There’s nothing he and I could ever talk about. Still, the silly, stupid animal I fight with for control over my body, the little ferret, the weasel, the pure mammal woven of milk and meat, she’s giddy about this. Only her and I know the significance of the cashier handing me my receipt. We giggle together beneath the mask as he tells us to have a good day. What a thrill! I sit down in my car, peel off my mask, put my hands over my fluttering belly. I missed this. I missed the intrigues of normal life, the glances, the stares across rooms, simple words whose meaning you spend the rest of the day analyzing. It’s all delicious. It’s usually one-sided, just me finding pleasure in looking and wondering, and it’s ridiculous, the one part of me resisting evolution, set in her schoolgirl ways. But it’s a vital part too, one that needs activation if I am to be excited about life. I’m home. I look at the ants crawl, door to kitchen. I hold their death in an aerosol can. It’s too much power to think about, and I decide to wait, to focus instead on this newly unearthed part of myself. How will she be fed now that her hunger is remembered? There’s dating websites. They don’t do it for me. I like nuanced rom-coms, where you wonder will-they-won’t-they end up together, and dating websites pull the tablecloth of suspense from beneath the silverware of conversation, like movies where they tell you the end right at the beginning. I hate being locked in, talking one-on-one when our phone algorithms match us. I much prefer to stare from afar, revelling in the magic of the present moment, of our proximity, drafting all the potential ends this situation has. Where’s the magic in being asked your favorite song for the twelfth time in a day by yet another poor guy just trying to make conversation, just trying to find common ground? The French teacher didn’t even know our real names. She gave us French names to use in class. Mine was “Marion,” pronounced Mary- ohn , the last syllable spat like something vile. She sounded disgusted whenever she spoke to me, but maybe that’s just French. 12 year old me offended her sensibilities. I was messy, unkempt, my books fell on the floor with a loud thud every class. These American children, she probably thought. Disgusting. Dégoûtant. Women like her, like my mother, terrified me. I had to prove myself to them, over and over. I always failed. I use “Marion,” not my real name on the dating website. If I must date digitally, I will still inject mystery, like Juliet wearing a mask the first time Romeo sees her. In five minutes of scrolling, I learn the pandemic has densely populated the dating websites. No one can go outside, but everyone wants love. It’s embarrassing, being so reliant on computers. They’re electronic butlers we once used to fetch the slippers but now control us fully, holding our memories, our schedules, our work, our friendships in their wired fingers, personal assistants you can’t fire because you’ve forgotten how to function otherwise. And they’re matchmakers now too, processing our wet, slobbery human desires into code, linking through signals and electricity desperate hearts of blood and yearning. That’s the thing, it’s hard to imagine the pixels on my screen as real people. There’s Mark, there’s Bradley, smiling faces holding beer cans and fish, profile after profile. They have flesh and dreams, desires, personal histories of blind, radiant joy and needle-pricking pain, but to me, they’re no more than flat, singular images, no more defined and alive than a magazine ad. And I’m the same to them. What does the computer know about human connection? What does it know about the delicacy, the fine spider’s web woven from words and glances when two people first meet? Johnny Ramsey’s profile comes up. In his pictures, he looks like every other boy, strong, smiling but not grinning, not too happy to be here. It takes long, but I swipe “no” on him. No need to drag old mud into my new house. The computer hurts my eyes. I shut it off. I ought to clean said new house -- it’s horribly messy. But first a snack. I make coffee and grab some chocolates. As the coffee brews, I remember French class again, one day when we had a substitute teacher. She was young, still excited to be with children. We made a collaged mural of a farm, labeling the animals, le cheval, la vache. We worked in groups, and I was paired with Johnny Ramsey. For those forty-five minutes, I hated him. He was stupid and lazy. His tongue sat heavy in his mouth, his French pronunciations stretched and condensed like kneaded dough. I ended up doing the drawings and the labels for both of us. The next day, our regular teacher returned. No more group work. Johnny Ramey sat silent and ublinking and I was once again in love with him. My coffee is done, my hands are sticky with melted chocolate. I return to my bedroom. My mother never let me eat in my room -- she said I’d get ants. Now, I don’t eat in my room, and I still have ants. Might as well indulge now. I take my clothes off too, a living-single privilege I forget I have. My sheets are crumpled, my pillowcase needs washing. My chocolatey fingers leave a smudge on the mattress and as I sip coffee, a few drops scald my bare chest then leap to the blanket. It’s all disgusting. I love it. I love this, I love me, my body, my every room, the ants in the kitchen, the bitter coffe-taste staining my teeth. It’s all an ugly truth, something perverse and revolting but it’s honest. If I cleaned, it wouldn’t be for myself -- it would be for an imaginary, invisible pair of judging eyes. There are no eyes here but my own, and they find no fault in chaos. Really, I don’t want any other eyes. Men who consider themselves romantics think their duty is orchestrating something grand, spectacular, flowers and grand pianos and diamonds-on-a-string. But what man could predict that I this is what I like, with my coffee lukewarm and my chocolate half-melted, my books to be in lopsided stacks around the bed, my jackets splayed just so over the cabinets and chairs? Only I make myself happy. I am in love with me for it. And the supposed objects of my affection, Johnny Ramsey and every other boy before and since, they are best treated as marble statues, silent, beautiful, untouchable. The second they open their mouths, fill that lovely, uncertain empty space between us with their hot breath, the love evaporates. Once the coffee is warming my stomach, I go back to the kitchen. The horrible task must be done. I crouch, still naked, holding the spray can as far as I can from my bare body. The ants run panicked from the toxic droplets, acid rain coating their little insect lungs. I whisper I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It isn’t fair. This isn’t what I want. I finish spraying, toss the can. I really don’t know what I want. I’m standing wide-legged, hands grabbing the fat around my hips, and I don’t know what the next move is. Really, I wish someone would tell me. I wish there was someone else to move the air around, break the ever-solidifying stillness. I want no more coffee, no more chocolate. I don’t want to get dressed and I don’t want to clean. What else is there? I sigh, go back to my room, open the laptop back up. More profiles have loaded, more smiling men. Maybe one of them will be understanding and bring me only lukewarm cups of coffee when we both awaken on my messy sheets each morning.

"Give me what I want, and no-one gets hurt." "I know that voice." Marshall Calhoun swiveled on the barstool. "Silas McReady. Ol' Lead Heart." "In the flesh." "Been a while." "Fifteen years, Ethan. Long time." "What's with the gun, Silas?" "Wanted to start this off on the right foot. Heard you've turned lawman now, Ethan. You were a quick draw back then, fifteen years ago, and from what I hear you're quicker now. Still don't think you're as quick as me, but I'm not anxious to find out. So, figured I'd get the draw on you from the get-go. And then there's this, my ace in the hole. Bring her in, Cookpot." The saloon doors swung open and Cookpot -- a tall, broad-shouldered, blonde, bearded man -- entered, his left arm around the neck of fourteen-year-old Annabelle Pinion, his right holding a Colt Cog Action Army .45 pointed at her head. "Heard tell this little one is special to ya, Ethan," Silas said. "Near to an adopted child, is what I hear. Like you were to me, back when." Annabelle was short, flat-faced, buck-toothed, wore her hair in long braids under a man's Stetson several sizes too large, and she had something wrong with her eyes so she had to use powerful goggles to read, reading being her favorite pastime. Since she wasn't reading at the moment, the goggles were perched up on the hatband. "You doing alright, Annabelle?" Calhoun asked, voice steady, but there was a thickness in his throat. "Yes, Marshall Calhoun, sir, he hasn't hurt me none, as of yet, though I can't say I like the looks of things." Marshall Calhoun stood up from the barstool, hands held up at shoulder height, palms towards Silas. Ethan "Iron Hand" Calhoun was tall, slim, with narrow eyes in a narrow face. He wore all black, except for the red kerchief around his neck. On his right hand, his gun-hand, he wore a mechanized glove, clockwork-powered for fast-action shooting. His left hand was bare, and he was missing his left ring-finger. The man Calhoun was facing, Silas "Lead Heart" McReady, was shorter by a head, and in contrast to Calhoun's jet-black hair, Silas's lead-gray shag was threaded throughout with silver strands, his weatherworn face creased and wrinkled with skin tough and worn as old boot-leather. But he had the same narrow eyes as his once-near-adopted 'son', the same intense stare, the same at-the-ready gunman's stance. "So, what do you want, Silas?" "Treasure." "Then you've come to the wrong place, old man. Gearsville's full of dust, but it ain't gold-dust." "You know what, you always were a straight shooter. So, I believe you don't even know," Silas said. "But I know. Believe me, there's treasure in this town, and, what's more, I know where it is. We're gonna take a walk down Main Street to the clocktower, get that treasure, and then head right out of here in the airship we just sailed in on." "Treasure, in the clocktower? News to me." "It's there alright. You're coming with me, Ethan, just so there'll be no trouble until we leave." Silas turned. "Cookpot, we're bringing the girl too." "What about that one?" Cookpot pointed to the grizzled codger slumped at the end of the bar, the only other patron in the saloon at this early hour, nine in the morning. "Hey, ol' timer, what's your name?" The old man stood up from his bar-stool. With his left hand, he smoothed down his rumpled shirt and vest, ran a hand through his unkempt white mane of hair and over his bushy beard. In his right hand, he still clutched his whiskey. His watery, unfocused blue eyes peered in Cookpot's direction. "Who's askin'?" he slurred. "I'm askin', ol' timer. What's your name?" "Phineas Cogsworth. Folk 'round here just call me Phin." "The town drunk, huh?" "Mr. Cogsworth is an inventor." It was the tinny, metallic voice of the automaton who was tending the bar. "An inventor?" Silas said. "This one? What did he invent?" "He made me, for one," said the automaton barkeep. "And many other wonderful machines." "Okay, Inventor Phin, you're coming with us too," Silas said. "And what about that one?" Cookpot motioned at the clockwork automaton barkeep. "Cog-boy stays," Silas said. "Don't care for his kind anyhow. You're gonna keep quiet, right, Cog-boy, lest your betters get hurt?" "Yes sir," the automaton said in its tinny, metallic voice, fixed grin engraved on its steel features, eyes two shining blue gems. "Please don't hurt anyone, sir." "Now, give me your gun, Ethan," Silas said. "Nice and slow. No quick moves. I've got my finger on the trigger, and it might twitch if I get startled." *** "I know it's here," Silas said. They were in the clocktower at the end of Main Street. Cookpot was standing guard outside, and a twitchy, freckled redhead desperado had joined Silas to watch over Marshall Calhoun, Annabelle, and Phin while Silas searched the place. On the ground floor of the clocktower, the room was bare, except for two dusty old chairs upholstered in green velvet, each on one side of a large portrait of Alexander Gearhart, the founder of Gearsville, with his neatly trimmed moustache and his iconic monocle and top hat. "I was told," Silas said, "that I should take a closer look at the painting." He peered at the portrait, then grabbed a hold of the frame and lifted the picture down off the wall. Something fell out of the back of the painting, a glint of gold as it rolled on its edge across the floor, landing at the tip of Phin's left boot. Phin deftly stepped on it, hiding the item. Neither Silas nor the freckled redhead had noticed -- they were too busy staring at what had been hidden behind the painting. "See, I told ya!" Silas said. "A safe!" This was an older model safe, one that used a key, rather than a combination lock. "Guess you need to find that key next," Marshall Calhoun said. "Nah, this one I can blow easily," the redhead said. "All I need is some gunpowder. And it just so happens, I brought some along." He guffawed. Sure enough, in less time than it would take to recite the twenty-third psalm and the Lord's prayer three times at a decent pace, the freckled redhead blew the safe open. Inside they found a good sized chest, about two feet long, a foot deep, and a foot-and-a-half tall. It was padlocked, but Silas fixed that in no-time, jimmying the lock with a crowbar. They all gathered around as Silas opened the lid, to find that the chest contained ... ... nothing! "I guess the joke's on you," Calhoun said. "Someone musta gotten to it first, and then just put it back again empty, whaddaya say?" "I say something's not right here," Silas drew his gun and pointed it at Marshall Calhoun. "I say you've been playing me all along, Ethan." Calhoun raised his hands. "Now hold on, Silas. You said yourself that I was a straight shooter. I didn't know it was here, honest. Look at the dust and cobwebs on the wall where the picture used to hang. This is the first time in a really long time that anyone got to that safe." "Well, then, we'll just have to find some other treasure," Silas said. "We'll round up the Gearsville citizenry and see what they can contribute, rob your bank, and then torch the whole damn town. What do you think of that, Ethan?" "I say that's rotten." "Well, that's what you think of me, ain't it? Wasn't that the last thing you said as you rode off back then, fifteen years ago? That I was rotten to the core? Well I'll prove you right, son. I'll show you just how rotten I can be. Let's get outta here!" *** Outside on Main Street, the gang's big airship was tethered to the clocktower, hovering a few feet above the street, ready to take off on moments notice, a ramp extended to the ground. In front of the airship there were nine steam-powered horses with Cookpot and six other desperadoes mounted. The freckled redhead stepped into the stirrup of the nearest of the two riderless steam-horses, swung his leg over the horse's back and settled in the saddle. Off in the distance, a man approached, walking slowly down Main Street. Silas leveled his gun, then relaxed as the 'man' came closer and he could see that it was the automaton barkeep. "What're you doing here, Cog-boy," Silas said. "Who's mindin' the bar?" The automaton barkeep ignored Silas and addressed Marshall Calhoun: "I made all the arrangements, sir, according to your standing instructions. The town is at the ready." "Thank you, Joe," Calhoun said, then brought his fingers to his lips and let out a loud whistle. The rooftops suddenly sprouted rifle barrels all around. The clockwork ratcheting of Winchester auto-repeaters echoed. "Here's the deal, Silas," Marshall Calhoun said. "Three options. Number one: I can give the signal and the townfolk up on the roofs will light up on you and your men. Or, number two: you can just take the easy way out and head up the ramp to your airship." "That's two options," Silas said. "What's the third?" "Back there in the bar you said you think you're still a quicker draw than me. Wanna find out once and for all?" Silas gave him a long look, then smiled. He held out the Marshall's gun. "Yeah, Ethan," he said. "Let's find out." *** "Any time, Marshall." They were twenty paces apart, facing each other, right hands hovering over their holstered guns. "When the clock in the tower strikes ten," Calhoun said. The clock in the tower began striking, one bell ... two bells ... three bells ... "You were just a kid, Ethan. I taught you everything." Four bells ... five bells ... "You left out the most important part." Six bells ... seven bells ... "What's that?" Eight bells ... nine bells ... "You never taught me to be a good man. I had to figure that out for myself." At the tenth strike of the bell, both men drew at blinding fast speed. *** Silas looks so small , Calhoun thought. I remember him being so much bigger, so solid, so strong . This crumpled scarecrow was a frail, broken rag-doll, half the size of the Silas of Calhoun's memory. Calhoun leaned down, used his left hand, the ungloved one, to feel for Silas's pulse at his neck. Nothing. The fixed stare in the pale blue eyes told the same story, as did the growing bloom of blood soaking the front of Silas's shirt. Dead. Gone. Calhoun moved his hand from Silas's neck to his eyes, closing both eyelids with thumb and index finger. Marshall Calhoun stood up, turned around, clockwork six-shooter still in his mech-gloved right hand. "It's over," he said, addressing the townsfolk riflemen up on the roof tops as well as Silas's gang down on Main Street, the eight desperadoes on their steam-powered horses. Calhoun stepped closer to the nearest horseman, the twitchy red-headed, freckled one. Calhoun cocked his gun, and in reply the redhead aimed his six-shooter at Calhoun. On the rooftops twenty rifles took aim at the gang below, the clockwork sound of levers winding up for mechanized repeater-action. "There's no need for more bloodshed," Marshall Calhoun said. "If you leave now, sail your airship into the big blue, we'll give you free passage, no posse, no-one even needing to know what went down today. You saw it, the treasure chest was empty, so there's nothing for you here. Silas had the wrong information, is all. Silas is dead. And I'll give him a good burial. There was a time when I loved the man, and there's still a fair bit of love for him left in me. Let it go. Leave now. I'll put him in the ground." "Eat dirt," the redhead said, gun still leveled at the Marshall's head. "You think you can get away with gunning down Ol' Lead Heart like that? No way. There's one of you and eight of us, and I don't believe that gaggle of hick-birds up on the rooftops could hit the side of a barn. For all we know they're pointing broomsticks at us, and winding alarm clocks, pretending to have cog-rifles." The big, blonde, bearded man, the one Silas had called Cookpot, rode up, clockwork-horse puffing steam. "The Marshall is right, Freckles," Cookpot said to the freckled redhead. "It was a fair fight. The Marshall outdrew and outgunned Lead Heart, that's the way of it. He's dead and gone, there ain't no treasure, and nothin' good comes from getting into a gunfight with these hick townies." He squinted up at the rifle barrels poking from the roof-tops all around, then yelled: "We're leaving. You hear? Your Marshall promised us free passage, and we'll take it." The eight men rode off to the airship, up the ramp, which closed behind them. The airship released its grapple hook tether from the clocktower, lifted off, and soon became a smaller and smaller dot in the big, blue sky. *** "See here's the thing!" Phin cackled. "It ain't so empty as you think, Marshall, this treasure chest. Lookie here, will-ya!?" The wiry, grizzled old man held up the golden cogwheel they had found behind the portrait in the clock tower. "This is the key," he said. "I mean, Marshall, it's literally the key. Let me show you." Phin fiddled with the golden cogwheel, inserting it between the two other cogwheels at the bottom of the empty treasure chest. Nothing happened. Phin scratched his neck. "Well, I'll be durned. I was so sure." "Needs a power source," Annabelle said. "And we have a great big one right outside, a white ball of hot fire up in the big blue." They dragged the treasure chest out of the clocktower and into Main Street. Annabelle took off her reading-goggles and used the lenses to concentrate the sun's rays to a bright dot which she aimed at the dull-gray jewel in the middle of the golden cogwheel. The dull, gray jewel turned green, and the golden cogwheel began turning in a strange pattern, forward once, backward once, then forward twice, then backwards three clicks, then forward five clicks, then backwards eight clicks, then forward thirteen clicks. "It's the Fibonacci sequence," Annabelle said as the cogwheel kept clicking backwards and forwards. The last was a long run of clicks. "He's goin' for eighty-nine clicks this time," Phin said. "That's the next in the sequence, right, Annabelle?" Annabelle nodded, just as the cogwheel reached that final click. With a thunk and the grind of hinges that had not been oiled for a very long time, the whole bottom of the empty treasure chest swung open. Inside the false bottom they found a leather-bound book and two rolled up documents. "This ... " said Phin, "looks familiar." While Annabelle unrolled the documents, which were blueprints of a complicated machine, Phin opened the book. "Well, I'll be durned," he said. "I do believe I wrote this my own self." "You," Marshall Calhoun said. "You wrote this, Phin? You hid this away in this complicated way? For Cog's sake, man, why?" "I don't rightly know, Marshall," said Phin. "You see, when the whiskey-demon got me and I began losing my marbles, I started doing stupid shit, like burn my books, destroy my machines, or so they say. Me, I can't recall much of those days. This must have been awfully important, if I went through all this trouble to hide it from myself, being that it's the only thing that remains of all I wrote and most of all the machines I made back when I was in my right mind. Yup, musta been pretty, pretty important." "Important?" Annabelle said, looking up from the blueprints. "You can say that again. Do you know what this is?" "No, ma'am, I don't." Phin shook his head. "It's the blueprints for a machine that would create unlimited power in the same way the sun does, except not hot," Annabelle said. "It's cold-sun-power. I don't know what else to call it. It's everything we could ever want. Why'd you not make this machine, Phin?" "I remember now," Phin said, "the reason I hid this away." "Yeah?" Marshall Calhoun said. "Why?" "Because I was afraid of it," Phin said. "It's everything we want, that's true, but it comes with a terrible cost. You see, this machine can either make unlimited power, clean power, free power for everyone, or ... " "Or?" Annabelle looked closer at the blueprint. "Oh," she said. "I see it. This machine could also be a bomb." "The biggest bomb anyone ever made," Phin said. "So big that it could destroy a whole city, so big that in the hands of the wrong people, it could destroy the world." "Put it all back," Calhoun said. "But ... " Annabelle looked at him. "It's too much power," Calhoun said. "We're not ready to wield the power of the sun. Not now. Maybe never. We'll play at being God and end up going to the Devil." She sighed. "You're right." "But what do we do with the chest?" Phin said. "That Freckles guy blew the safe to smithereens." "We couldn't put it back there anyhow," Calhoun said. "Someone knew it was there. Maybe someone you told, Phin, back when you'd lost your marbles, who knows. I'll find a place to bury the chest, somewhere only I'll know." He held up the golden cogwheel. "And you, Phin, go find a place to hide this, somewhere only you'll know." "Okay." Phin took the cogwheel. "One day," Calhoun said. "Probably not in my lifetime, but maybe it'll be your grandchildren, Annabelle, who make a world where it's safe to share the secret of the sun."

The Carnival comes once a year. It’s a mystery, she thinks, how the artists manage to set their tents so quickly without anyone noticing, but when the fated day comes, they are already set, lights hanging and flags waving. Parents all over town look weary of the Carnival; strangers are not to be trusted, after all. Strangers will doom us all, say the Elders. Her parents think so too. But she does not care. After all, she loves the Carnival. This year, she is finally old enough to go on her own to the Carnival, as anyone under the age of sixteen is banned from the show. Her parents do not want her to go, but everybody knows that whoever wishes to enter the Carnival will find their way inside. That’s just how things are. The Carnival is so big that it looks absurd. The stands go as far as her eyes can see, stretching and stretching. Her feet do not hesitate and carry her to the first one, then another, and another. There are fantastic little trinkets and treasures everywhere: she finds a clock that sounds like a human heart, a ring that is warm to the touch after spinning it three times, and a string that can only be cut with nasty words. Her pockets empty rather quickly. Having realized that, she cannot bear to look at the seller anymore. -What’s the matter little bird? -the old woman stares her up and down as she snatches a rainbow-tinted shell that tells secrets from her hands. -Out of money already? She nods, ashamed. -That seems to be the case, yes. The old woman smiles, -But that is hardly a problem, is it? There are many things you possess that are more valuable than money. Here at the Carnival, we trade everything. It’s truly a marvelous place. -She smiles again with perfectly straight, white teeth. Even at her age, she’s still remarkably beautiful -Tell you what, I’ll give you this shell if you give me three locks of your hair. -Of my hair? -Her hand reaches unconsciously to her head - I’m afraid I don’t understand. I’ve always been told that my hair is very pretty, but I don’t believe it is as valuable as this shell. -It is very pretty indeed. I wish I had luscious hair like yours. Three locks of it seem like a fair price. -Well, if you are so sure then so be it.- They shake hands, and, swiftly as a spring breeze, the old woman cuts three locks of her hair. The shell is now in her hands. -Pleasure doing business with you, little bird. -She smiles again, widely, wildly. -It is indeed a very good deal. She doesn’t know how to answer, so she curtsies and goes to another stand. And, oh, the old woman was so right: the Carnival is truly a marvelous place. Money is not needed to get what she wants. The sellers ask for so little and give her so much! Three secrets for a bottle that contains all of the salt of an ancient sea, a kiss for a key that opens all doors that cannot be opened, her freckles for a necklace that makes the bearer feel the embrace of a mother. This is the land of marvels and wonders! Everywhere she goes there’s a new treasure to acquire. Off with her ability to cry, more of a nuisance than a blessing, goodbye to all the memories of her first five years of life -she doesn’t remember that much anyways- it’s even easier to part with her middle name, which she despises anyways. Who cares about all the fights she’s ever had or all the wrinkles she’ll ever get? She trades, and trades and trades. Eventually, she has to stop at a near stand as she feels as if she could fall any time. The girl inside manages to catch her before she tumbles to the ground. Moving with just a leg is harder than it seems. -Parece que alguien ha perdido el rumbo -the girl is so pretty and smells like tangerines -siéntate un ratito a mi vera, ¿quieres? Nothing that comes from the girl’s mouth makes any sense. She can’t remember if she has traded her ability to understand languages. She tries to speak, but her mouth feels weirdly hollow. The girl pulls some cards from a wooden box and shuffles them without looking. -Tres cartas: una para el pasado, otra para el presente y otra para el futuro. Es la manera tradicional de hacerlo, ¿sabes? No bueno, supongo que no. -She pulls three cards from the deck. It is a very peculiar one, she must say. Instead of clubs, hearts, spades and diamonds, it has coins, garrottes, swords and goblets. -Tienes unos ojos azules muy bonitos. Por el color de tus ojos, te leeré tu primera carta. No es un mal trato, ¿verdad? She nods, not quite getting what she’s saying, but eager to see what she intends to do. The girl puts down a card and flips it, showing the picture of a funny man holding a goblet. She says something more and pulls another card. This time, the picture represents three coins forming a triangle. The girl smiles at her: all-white sharp teeth and she blinks in surprise. That’s the last thing she sees. -Supongo que no tiene mucho sentido que la saque ahora, pero bueno, un trato es un trato. -The girl makes shuffling noises and then lets a soft “Oh”. -Qué curioso. Está vacía. -she sights, and now that she can’t see, the girl’s voice sounds tired and older. - Mala suerte. The noises stop after a while, and she guesses that the girl must have left, so she tries to stand up. Standing over one leg, she approaches the closest noise. She wonders what could they possibly be saying. Her focus on the foreign voices is so intense that she barely notices falling to the ground. Someone helps her stand up and then she cannot feel her fingers anymore. More people crush into her. With every touch, she feels something slipping away: an ear, her lungs, her heart, her thoughts. A touch to many and she forgets her brother, her parents, herself. But she does not care. After all, she loves the Carnival.

Hello. This tale starts at the end of the “dark” period of my youth. My name isn’t important, but for the purpose of narrative, you can call me T. I grew up in an area that was known by the local population as a barrio. For the uninitiated, it could also be called the ghetto. In a lot of ways, I can say that I had it better than a lot of other people. Prior to the dark period, I had a fairly normal childhood. A mom, a dad, 2.5 kids, rusted chain link fence. But, when my mom died, it set off a series of events that lead to the dissolving of my family circle, and wound up with me living more and more with friends on the streets. Anywhere was preferable to being at home for any length. The end of the dark period signaled the dawn of the sunny time which involved the many animated, insane, and at times, frightening people that made up the tapestry of my teenage year friends. The dynamic of the realities of daily life shaped a great deal of things that most other people took for granted during that time frame. No one in my circle of friends relied on parents for anything more than a bed and an occasional meal. Often times, even that was in question. Police were more widely feared than the gangs that squabbled over the various streets and blocks of the city. Murder, violence, teen pregnancy were all the norm. It may sound trite, but the old gangsta rap songs proclaiming how hard it was to “get up out da ghetto” were not just a piece of creative writing. It began in the fall of my 7th grade year of school. I was still trying to rebuild after the world had crashed down around me. I had begun a new year of school, in a brand new school, with a brand new group of people who hated me just for being me. You see, in an area which had a majority population which were mexican or latin american, I was the token minority: white. The reverse racism of my youth, in hindsight, helped to build me into a much stronger person as an adult. It built character, if you will. But at the time, getting thrown into trash cans, dunked into toilets, and the occasional jumping left me feeling like no amount of character was worth this bullshit. The house next door to me had been occupied by 4 families in the span of my childhood. First was a blue collar gentleman and his family who moved out when the gangs moved in. I was 3 or 4 at that time. Next was a group of guys who I realized when I was older were in fact drug pushers. They didn’t last long, although I don’t actually recall when they left. The third was a family which came with three kids. They wound up being close friends of mine throughout much of my youth, but left at the time the dark period began. The parents wound up divorcing. I never figured out the exact circumstances behind what happened next, but my previous friends Uncle wound up buying the home next. He came with 4 children. Rigo was the oldest of the group. We were in the same grade, and due to a lot of similar interests, he and I became like brothers. He was only half related to the other 3 siblings, being the bastard son of his father. He was a wirey fellow, but extremely athletic. His dad and uncle both played AAA ball, and he always felt like he had huge shoes to fill due to those expectations. But, being a bastard, his step mom treated him disdain and hatred, and as a result, so did his dad. Chunky was the second oldest, and at the time, the only girl of the bunch. As her name implies, she was....rotund. She was a sweet girl for the most part, and more often than not could be find working with her mom in the kitchen or cleaning house. She was slow, however. She had some facial features of someone who suffers from down syndrome, but never took special education classes. In fact, she was a straight A student though most of school. Her grades did not mask the fact that she had the social skills of a stump however. They also did not mask the fact that she had absolutely no street savvy, and often lacked common sense. As a bonus, she also had a near constant odor of cheese. Conejo was the third oldest. For those who don’t speak spanish, his nick name translates to rabbit. As this name implies, he shared a lot of features with said lagomorph. He had pronounced buck teeth, large black eyes, and ears that were two sizes too large for his head. But he was smart. Not just in school, but also on the streets. For the purpose of these tales, I will use the name Rabbit for him. Last in the train was Daniel. Dumb Daniel. Oh....Dumb Daniel. He was a year younger than Rabbit, and shared some similarities in appearance. But where Rabbit had a good head on his shoulders, Daniel was sporting a brain that was sort of rotten and insane. Like his sister, he never was in any special education classes, but unlike her, he was not academically inclined. More than a few times growing up, I wondered how natural selection had not picked his weak antelope off yet. These misfits were the saviors who arrived just in time to prevent me from killing myself. They were my friends. They were my family. They were the hood rats that, prior, I never knew I needed.

"Nice tits!" Carlos had been pedaling hard, his legs moving in circles, his ass and hamstrings burning, when he passed the woman. A hiker with stick and backpack, deeply tanned and wrinkled, with thin, kinky shoulder length brown hair, the hiker was about fifty years old. And she'd just insulted him. _Nice tits!_ Nice TITS? Was she saying he _had_ tits, or that she _liked_ his tits? It must be the former, he decided. She was simply mistaken, that's all. He chuckled, slowing to an easy pace. Tits! Some people on the trail, especially far out in the boonies where he sometimes rode his bicycle, were just crazy. Raving and mad from the heat. Tits! He slowed again as he approached the trailhead and the lot where his truck was parked. Next to it was a small modern building with water fountains and benches, so he took the path leading to the water fountains. As he approached, he noticed his reflection in the building's smoked glass windows, and let out a small sound. His cycling jersey was very tight, and small breasts were visible, casting little triangular shadows on his thick torso (thicker than he remembered) in the midday light. _Nice tits!_ His body, the way it looked wrapped in Lycra, was not suitable for public display. Carlos felt a lump form in his throat as he noticed again how prominent, how _proud,_ his tits and their pointy nipples were through the thin fabric of his cycling jersey. How had this gone unnoticed? He turned around quickly on the path and rode back in the direction he'd come, but not before he got a second look at his reflection. His helmet, cheap and full of dents, looked too large on his head. His mirrored glasses looked out of place on his face, slightly crooked, with lenses too large. He slowed and looked at some of the other cyclists. Most were very lean and muscled, with fancy equipment and expensive clothing. He looked again at his reflection. _Nice tits!_ ** Carlos had finished email for the day and was getting ready to hit the Indian buffet when Jaleel, his assistant, appeared with a small package. "Ah, I know what that is!" He plucked it out of Jaleel's massive hand and removed its brown paper wrapper. They both stood admiring the coffee mug. "A classy little number," Jaleel said. "There's a story to it." Jaleel shook his head and went for the door. Carlos paused, staring. He wasn't sure why he'd paid for this mug. Maybe it was funny. Maybe he hated himself. NICE TITS, it said.

Taiga circles the room slowly, lighting candles with a single touch. “I told you your friends wouldn’t come back for you.” “They will.” A fire blazes behind the hero’s eyes. Taiga chuckles, “It’s been four days.” He smiles, “Then we'd better quit wasting time.” He reaches for her hand and pulls her down on top of him. “Fintan,” she giggles, landing against his bare chest. “Let me go. Fin!” Her protests are silenced by his lips on hers. He cups her face, rubbing a thumb across her cheek. A shiver runs through her as the heat of her body meets the ice in his veins. She slides to the side and settles next to him on the couch. She snatches the remote from his hand. “I won this time. My pick.” He groans, dropping his head back, “You’ve picked every night.” “It’s not my fault you pulled your punches.” She winks at him and turns on a hospital drama. “When you win, you pick.” “When I win, you go to jail.” Fin wraps his arm around Taiga and pulls her against his chest. “I get out,” she smirks. “With some help from a mysterious partner.” He snorts. “Yeah. Mysterious.” “The public would lose it if anyone ever found out about this.” She motions between the two of them. “You’re not as bad as everyone thinks.” He rolls his eyes. She narrows her eyes. “I kidnapped a senator's daughter.” He shrugs and takes a drink of beer. “That guy was an abusive scumbag.” “Still, there are systems in place for those kinds of things.” Taiga leans forward to pick her glass of wine up from the coffee table. “The system isn’t always effective.” He grins. She moves to the other end of the couch, crossing her arms. “I am not a hero. Just drop it.” “No, you’re definitely not,” he scoffs. “But you could be." "You could be a villain." "Nah, I don't have the traumatic childhood." He slides across the couch and snakes an arm around her shoulder. She immediately relaxes into him. “I’ve killed people.” “I wouldn’t call them good people," He chuckles. "And don't think I can't tell it bothers you." "It doesn't." Her voice is cold, but just an octave too high. "You've always gotten the job done." He brushes his thumb over her knuckles. "You may fool the rest of the world, but I can tell it gets to you." “What do I have to do to be a villain to you?” she cries. “Listen, Ty, you’re just not a bad guy.” He kisses the top of her head. Her hand trails down his chest. “But I can be a bad girl.” “You are so gorgeous,” he pants, pressing his lips against hers. His breath blows frost across her skin, though it melts instantly. He combs his fingers through her hair leaving small crystals of ice in their wake. *** Fin wakes to a muffled beeping. He rubs a hand down his face and trudges down the hall. He opens a door, and the beeping cuts through the house. He scans the monitors and shakes his head. He rubs his eyes and takes a step closer to the monitors. Making his way back down the hallway, he leans over the bed and kisses Taiga's cheek. “Hey, baby.” Fin brushes the hair from Taiga’s face. “I think your security system’s broken.” “What?” She squints her eyes open. “What do you mean?” “The motion sensor was triggered, but there’s nothing on the cameras.” “It was probably just a rabbit or something. Lay back down.” She tugs at his wrist. He takes a deep breath, chewing on his bottom lip. “I’m going to go check.” “No,” she whines, tightening her grip, “my bed is too warm.” He laughs and climbs into the bed, wrapping his arms around her. Leaning over, he kisses behind her ear and down her neck. The light in the hall turns off, leaving them in pitch darkness. Fin springs to his feet. “Believe me now?” Taiga sits up carefully, and a faint glow radiates from the flame in her hand. Concern covers her face as she steps out of bed, lighting a fire in her other palm. She moves down the hall slowly, Fin on her heels. Every footfall is calculated and sure. She will not be caught off guard in her own home. “Ty, what-” She silences him with a glare over her shoulder. When they make it to the living room, she begins lighting candles around the room while Fin flips every light switch he can find. The sparse light from the handful of candles is hardly enough to fill the room. Fin and Taiga stand back to back in the center of the rug, scanning the edges of the room for movement. The furniture is the only thing visible in the amber light. Taiga lets flames flick up her forearms, scrutinizing every inch of the walls in front of her. Fin wiggles his fingers, letting flurries of snow weave between them. The shadows dancing around the room only add to the tension in their muscles. “What happened?” Fin glances over his shoulder. “I don’t know,” Taiga bites. Lights flash and alarms blare in the hall. Talk stalks quietly toward the sound, ignoring Fin's protest. When she enters the doorway, the alarms go silent, but the monitors continue to illuminate the room. Taiga studies each monitor and sees nothing out of the ordinary. She turns to leave and stops in her tracks. “Fin!” She takes a step back when she hears Fin approaching. “What’s wr-" He slides through the doorway and his eyes go wide. The word “TRAITOR" stands two feet tall, carved into the wall. “Taiga,” Fin whispers, breathless, “who...” “I have more than a few enemies.” She shakes her head. “Why do you think I live alone in the woods?” The monitors go black, throwing them back into darkness. Taiga grabs Fin’s hand and ignites a small flame in her other palm. She leads him back to the living room by the glow from her skin. She stops at the end of the hall, pressing her back to the wall. The candles have been extinguished. Fin pulls on her arm, tucking her behind him, before taking another step forward. She grabs his elbow, whispering, “Fin, you can’t see.” “Let’s hope they can’t either.” He kisses her hand and dashes into the living room. After a long, silent minute, he calls back, “Baby, I think it’s safe.” Taiga steps out of the hallway and lets a faint glow spread over her body. She begins relighting the candles with a sigh of relief. “Whoever it was, they must be gone now.” Fin tries lamp again, huffing when it doesn’t work. She turns around the room, inspecting every corner. “I don’t know.” “Come on, it was just some prank.” He pats the cushion next to him. “Now, turn that off so I can cuddle with you.” She lets the embers on her skin fizzle out and drops on the couch next to him. “I don’t like it.” “It’s fine.” He chuckles wrapping an arm around her. She shakes her head, her hair brushing against his shoulder. “That’s easy for you to say. Hero. ” He gives her shoulder a light squeeze. “It’s fine.” The TV in Taiga’s bedroom flashes to life, sending light and sound streaming out the door. Taiga sits up and swats Fin’s chest, as if to say, ‘I told you so.’ He eases to his feet and stalks to the bedroom. As he makes his way to the TV, it flashes off. He hears skittering behind him and turns to see the light from Taiga’s body drifting through the doorway. He could swear he saw a shadow run through. He feels his way back across the room. “Fin?” Taiga gasps from the living room. Her light blacks out. Fin sprints through the door, stumbling over shoes on the floor. “Taiga!” He breaks into the living room and drops to the ground. The light in the kitchen flickers and the microwave turns on. He gropes along the floor, whispering for Taiga. His fingertips skim across her hot skin, and the kitchen goes dark. “Ty?” He wraps his hand around her ankle. “Get up. We have to go.” Fin crouches on his toes, and a hand on his shoulder drags him back. He lashes out at the attacker and finds no one. A foot in his chest knocks him into the wall. He unleashes a hailstorm from his fist, blasting back anything in its path. He crawls back to Taiga, barely touching her toes before he hears rustling on the rug in front of him. A heavy object crashes against his skull, toppling him to the side. He reaches a shaky hand out, resting it on her thigh, and sends a frost up her leg. “Baby, please wake up.” “Don’t. Touch. Her.” A hand crushes Fin’s wrist, pinning his hand to the carpet. He recognizes the woman’s voice, but his head is spinning too fast to place it. A knee smashes into his nose before small hands drag him to his feet. He stumbles back, cradling his nose. The blood warms his chilled skin at falls down his face. “Who are you?” he asks, scanning for movement. He backs himself against the wall and mumbles, “Where are you?” A cackle comes from the corner as the lights in the hall flash. “ You should know, Fin.” “I-” He rubs the back of his head, still pinching his nose. “I don’t.” A faint glow emanates from Taiga’s hands. “Why are you here?” The mystery voice nags at the back of Fin’s mind. He shakes his head. “What? Why do you care?” “Her?” The hall goes dark, and the TV in the bedroom comes to life. “I mean, real-” Taiga rolls onto her side and her hand toward the voice. A wall of flames erupts in front of her. “Get out of my house.” She wipes blood from her brow. She staggers to Fin’s side. Holding a flame up in one hand, she examines Fin’s face. “Oh, babe.” She runs her fingers along his jaw. A knife thuds into the wall by Fin’s head. Taiga throws her arm out behind her and the fire disappears. The room falls back into shadow. The glow slowly spreads up Taiga’s arm, spreading light out from the couple. “Let’s see who you are.” Taiga turns toward the intruder. Every light in the room flashes on, lamps included. The sudden change blinds Taiga and Fin, forcing them to snap their eyes shut. Glass sprays around the room as light bulbs shatter. Fin pulls Taiga against his chest and buries her face in his shoulder. The room falls back into pitch black. Fin’s hand remains tangled in Taiga’s hair while they catch their breath. She loosens her arms around Fin’s waist and slowly opens her eyes. The alarms in the control room blare, and Taiga breaks away. “Ty!” “How could you pick her, Fin?” the voice teases from across the room. Her body glows red, as runs across the living room and turns toward the hall. A clatter in the kitchen draws her attention, and she turns on her heel, lunging into the kitchen. Fin picks his way through the living room to the rhythm of their punches. Taiga’s fireballs light up the room as she launches them erratically, unable to locate the attacker. “I said,” she stalks past the sink, “get out.” She emerges on the other side of the island and screams. She drops to the ground and her light flickers out. “Taiga!” Fin races into the kitchen, building a hailstorm in front of him. He sneaks through the kitchen on hands and knees until he finds Taiga’s trembling form. He runs his hand up her hip and across her stomach, following the damp trail of what must be blood. When he finds the source, he presses both hands against her torso. “Do not leave me again.” She whimpers an agreement and nods, knowing he can’t see her. She eases herself into a seated position next to Fin and leans into his shoulder. The house breaks into chaos. Every working light flashes like a nightclub. The kitchen appliances buzz to life. The radio on the mantle blasts music through the house. The ceiling fan turns on full speed. “Fin, I don’t want to burn you.” She pushes away gently and stands on shaky legs. Her flames only add to the pandemonium. The heat sears Fin’s skin and scorches the ceiling. The strobing lights make it impossible to focus on anything. With every slip into darkness, the intruder’s silhouette seems to teleport across the living room. Taiga throws balls of fire at each appearance, missing by seconds. Fin pulls her back to the floor, his skin sizzling when he makes contact with her. “Ty, shut it down. It’s not doing any good,” he has to roar over the madness. As the flame fades, Taiga’s skin cools dramatically. Fin wraps an arm around her and raises the other arm chest level. A blizzard explodes around them. He presses a kiss to her temple and returns pressure to her abdomen. Her breath steams over his neck, short and ragged. “Fin,” she coughs. “Hush, baby.” He combs through her hair. “I can hold her off.” Her body heat fades too quickly. She shivers and coughs again. Her breathing slows and goes cool. Her hand falls limp onto Fin’s lap, and she lets out a quiet whine. “Taiga?” he whispers into her ear. “Hm?” Her head rolls to the side. “I’ll fix you up, baby.” She smiles up at him. “I love you.” “I love you,” he chuckles. “Give me just a minute.” He clenches his fists and sets his jaw. The storm intensifies until it’s impossible to see to the other side. Fin stands, glancing down at Taiga. The storm doesn’t touch her. Her hair doesn’t even flip from the wind. He takes a deep breath and throws his hands up. Icicles shoot up from the ground in every direction. The storm falls still, leaving puddles on the floor. The TV cuts off. The radio goes silent. The hum of appliances dies out, and the lights slowly flicker back to normal. Fin turns around slowly, surveying the house. When he sees the assailant impaled by ice, he nearly collapses under the realization. “Tora,” he gasps, swaying as he makes his way to her. Without Fin’s control, the ice melts away, and Tora drops to her knees. She clutches her stomach where the blood warms her frozen wound. “Tora,” he crouches beside her, gently lifting her chin to look in her eyes, “I don’t understand.” “I came back.” Her voice is fragile. “I saw everything, Fin. Why her?” “You don’t-” He squeezes his eyes shut, still reeling. “You don’t know her.” "She does whatever she wants, no matter who it hurts," she pleads. "She does whatever it takes, no matter what it costs her." Fin corrects, voice hinting at envy. “She’s our enemy.” Tora coughs. “A villain.” He shakes his head. “She’s not, though.” “But Fin,” her cough spatters blood across the tile, “the hero always falls for the sidekick.” *** The muted sound of conversation slowly morphs into a hospital drama, Taiga’s favorite. She reaches slowly to her side, scratching at the bandage wrapped around her stomach. Her face twitches as she tries to make her eyes open. “Fin?” Her throat is raw, and her voice comes out rough and scratchy. She feels weight on the bed and pressure on her thigh in seconds. “Hey, baby.” Finally, her eyes flutter open. Her bedroom comes into view, the lamp on her nightstand the only source of light. She raises a hand slowly and rubs her head. “Fin,” she repeats, “what happened?” He studies her face with eyes full of concern. “You’ve been out for a few days.” She nods, as if that explains everything. Truthfully, it’s not entirely uncommon for one of them to wake up bruised and bandaged in the other’s bed. It’s less common to wake up with amnesia in their own room. He strokes her gently and brushes the back of his hand down her face. “I think we’re on the same team now.”

Where I Come From By Anabel Fielding Where do I come from? I come from a big city in California. To be specific, San Francisco. I come from a city where some people are very kind to you and others are very rude to you. I come from, San Francisco. I come from a city that is always under a big chunk of gray fog or a stormy raincloud. I come from a city where the people I have met are hopeless romantics, and successful leaders, and they are trying to provide a life filled with opportunities for themselves. I come from a city filled with happy middle-class working men and women with their children going to public school. I come from a city of pain and sadness because there is an ongoing homelessness crisis downtown. I come from the beautiful, mysterious, and wonderful city of San Francisco. I was born and raised in a mixed family. My mom is a Latina woman from Honduras. My dad is American and also he is a San Francisco native. I come from a family that has been supportive, loving, and kind towards me and my older brother. I have dealt with bullying throughout my middle school and high school years. I come from traveling on a long road of depression and anxiety before I found happiness in my life. I come from a long terrible path of being rejected, ostracized, and framed by my first crush, whom I fell in deep love with. I have come from a hurricane storm of heartbreaking, traumatic memories from my childhood that I experienced. The boy that I fell in love with destroyed my heart. He broke me into a million scattered pieces on the floor. He was full of hate, arrogance, and pride. He was not very kind. I finally have moved on from him, this year. This year, I will be a more beautiful, strong, and even more intelligent woman than ever before. I come from a family of Swedish, German, and English blood. I come from the Fielding family. I come from a bloodline that is continuing in a southern state, Georgia. I come from a bloodline that continues in Tallahassee, Florida. My cousins, aunts, and uncles are in those southern states and they were veterans of the USA. My uncle played American Football and he is in the hall of fame. My loved ones whom I have lost, their names are remembered. Their legacies continue through me. I am the great-granddaughter of Ethel Cyr, I am her greatest joy. She is remembered and she rests in heaven, peacefully. I come from her blood. I am named after my great-great-grandmother Anna Belle Clark and she is remembered, too. I come from her blood and I come from many generations back and back of the Fielding family. I come from the Earth. I am a daughter of Eve, who was the first woman before me. I am a human being. I come from heaven because I was chosen in this life to exist. I come from heaven because I was born a blessing, under a double rainbow, a Diamond in my mother's eye. I am Anabel Fielding and I will survive this beautiful, dark, scary, happy, and fantastic world we all live in together. You, readers, and I will survive. Where I come from, you and I, we will be revived in pureness and strife. We will be just, fine. I come from a family full of struggles and successes. I come from a mother who is a very wonderful nurse. She helps those who are sick and in need. She provides money for the homeless people that she sees. She is a god-loving woman and she is an amazing wife to her husband. She is my mom and she is my best friend. I come from her blood, I came from her womb. I am a god-fearing, beautiful, and truly insightful woman. I am her daughter. I came from my hero, my mom. I came from my father, the one who plays the piano. The one who taught me how to read, write, and do mathematics... one of the most difficult subjects to learn, mathematics. Oh, how I yearn to answer the question. Where do I come from? I come from a childhood well spent with my happy, loving older brother. I come from a brother who is my blood and whom I adore. I know he sometimes thinks of me as a bore. But he will always love me and he always does. I come from an actor, my brother, I come from the most successful talent in the family. I come from a family full of love, pain, and happiness that we all endure together. I come from a tornado of loneliness and sadness. I come from heartbreak and anger. I think that all of the human emotions are where I started and it is where I will end. I am so repetitive in this writing. I am so alone in this life. I am truly a sight to behold. I am a writer and a good one at that. Sometimes, I feel so sad and very vulnerable. Sometimes I cry myself to sleep because I lost all of my friends and my first crush. Sometimes I wish I could be with the one I truly love, my crush. I wish I could turn back the time sometimes. But I know that turning back the time is not possible, never is, I suppose. I feel so good telling you about where I come from. I come from a soul that was destined to become fully, inevitably human. I have no tail, no wings, and I have no extra stomach. What am I? I am a human. I am smaller than a plane and a bus combined. I am so small compared to the universe, the stars, and the heavens above. I come from God. I come from my father who art in heaven. I come from purity, and innocence, and I come from being a child to growing into a fully grown adult. I come from another dimension into this one. I come from the planet, Earth, and then some. I come from a distant land or a foreign tongue. I come from Honduras, America, I come from only God knows, I come from the heavens above. Blessed, happy, and full of life. I come from my mother, father, and my brother. I'm in love.

The curtains stubbornly refused to hang straight. For the thousandth time I moved the stool over to adjust the screw at the other end of the curtain rod. Taking a step back I could see that my work had borne no fruit. The lines formed by the edge of the curtain and the window frame where infuriatingly still not parallel. It hurt, deep inside me, as if someone had stuck a knife in me and slowly twisted it around " at an uneven pace. Maybe the window was askew, or maybe, the universe had just decided to create a small pocket of concentrated gravity, making the curtains fall in different directions. I was abruptly interrupted by the candle on the kitchen table as it suddenly lit itself. Work. I strolled over to one of the chairs at the table and sat down. A woman stood in front of me with the customary confused look on her face. “You have just passed on from the world of the living. My name is Mort and I will help you to go through some paperwork” I recited. “I’m, dead?” she asked, twitching her hand. “Yes. Would you be so kind as to read this” I responded, handing her a yellowing scroll. It was completely unnecessary to use those frail old parchment scrolls. I had tried to advocate for some nice paper or even electronic tablets but the boss had said it wasn’t ‘stylish’ enough. I glared over at the curtains as I waited for her to finish reading. “What are you looking at?” she asked, trying to follow my gaze. Of course she could not see the curtains, lucky her, so I just replied that it was nothing. “What will happen now” she asked, fixing her gaze on me. “What do you think will happen?” I replied, in my customer-friendly voice. She hesitated before answering. “I was raised catholic, so I kind of expected to go to heaven.” She sounded nervous, I didn’t blame her. “That is exactly where you’re going. If you would just be so kind as to sign here I will send you on your way.” It was a lie. Theoretically, it could be true, but I doubt it. In my early days I had always tried to explain to my clients that I had no idea what would happen to them or where they were going, but over the years I have come to realize that it is easier just to let them believe what they believe. Happy clients are cooperative clients. She reached over, accepted the quill I held forth and scribbled something at the bottom of the scroll. ‘Terrible handwriting’ I silently judged her. I gently blew on the candle flame which turned blue for effect before going out. The woman disappeared and I turned back to my curtains. I was in the midst of debating with myself whether I should call a carpenter to straighten the window when the doorbell rang. It was a pleasant sound, perfectly tuned. When I swung the door open it revealed a small man wearing a big smile. He looked rather alive " a non-client. “Can I help you?” I asked, trying to keep my annoyance out of my voice. “Hi, I’m Bob. I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.” Bob, a palindrome, with a nice round ‘o’ in the middle. Too bad it is asymmetrical spelled out. Why do people insist on capitalizing the first letter in a name anyway? Can’t they at least capitalize the last letter too? ‘BoB’, definitely better, still not perfect. How about ‘bod’ or maybe ‘dob’. I forced myself to break my train of thought in order to comply with the expected social order. “Hi Bob, I’m Mort.” “I brought some cookies” he said in response, still smiling. I looked at the tray in his hands and sighed mentally. “Would you like to come in?” I asked and did my best to make my faked smile look genuine. I stepped aside from the doorway and Bob entered. He reached down, undid his shoelaces and took his shoes off. Thank God for that. Even better, he put them neatly side by side on the shoe rack. We went into the kitchen and Bob placed the tray with cookies on the kitchen table. “So, what do you work with?” Bob asked. “Human resources” I replied. Technically, it wasn’t a lie, maybe a slight alteration of the truth but I found it justifiable. People generally don’t respond very well when you tell them you do administrative work for Death himself. Bob walked over to the curtains and reached out a hand. Before I could stop him he had grabbed the curtain rod and tilted it slightly. I froze, crushed by the atrocity. I stared at the curtains and to my surprise they were hanging perfectly straight. The parallel lines made a warmth emerge inside me. What a blessing from the skies. Maybe he was an angel? On that note, I had met an angel once, or at least she had been dressed as one, but now that I come to think about it, it had been around the time of Halloween. “Sorry” Bob said. “They were a bit askew.” “Yes they were” I responded. My fake smile had transformed into a genuine one. I offered him to sit and went to get a nice bottle of wine. We sat at the kitchen table chatting for a while. Bob was a humble guy with a colossal -but reasonable- love for felines. He was happily telling a story about one of his many cats when suddenly he went quiet. His pupils dilated and he had a surprised look on his face. He fell forward hitting his head on the table. “Heart attack” I murmured to no one in particular. I knew I couldn’t do anything to help - company policy. Inconveniently the candle lit itself once more. It took me a moment to realize why Bob was still sitting there. A few seconds later Bob sat up straight, his gaze flickering around. He had the customary confused expression on his face. “It’s awfully dark here, isn’t it?” he said, looking at me for confirmation. “Yes, clients tend to tell me that” I responded. Just like so many times before I wondered what it was like to sit on the other side of the table. I knew they couldn’t see the mortal world, with the exception of me and what I handed them of course. “What happened” Bob asked. “You died. Heart attack I believe.” “Really?” he said. He gave the impression of being more confused than scared. “I work for Death. My job is to guide you through the paperwork.” I said, trying to read his face as I spoke. “You work for him? One would kind of expect that he would do it himself, him being Death and all.” “There is no way he would be able keep up by himself, people die all the time.” I usually don’t talk about the organization with clients but I liked Bob, he was worth an exception. “So what do Death do then?” I found it fascinating how he was able to concentrate on such questions considering his situation. I respected his lack of egocentrism. “Mostly he manages things on a higher level, management and all that.” I answered. It was an exceptionally good question though. What did he do? Sure, he showed up sometimes when a celebrity died. Honestly, he could be a bit of a fangirl at times. Sure, a very bony fangirl with a laugh that reminded you of coffin lids, but a fangirl nonetheless. Other than that you rarely see much of him except when he has some new stupid idea about talking skulls or decorative scythes. “I never really thought of the logistics before. What happens during wars, plagues and such? Must be pretty chaotic.” “You should see the ant department” I replied. Just thinking of their backlog made a shiver go down my spine. “Would you please read this document and sign at the bottom” I continued, handing him a scroll. When he was done reading he put an elegant signature at the bottom and handed the scroll back to me. “So what will happen now?” he asked. “I haven’t got the faintest.” I said, smiling. “Will you take care of my cats for me?” He asked, worry in his eyes. “I’d love to.” It wasn’t a lie. Cats are very calm, and let’s not forget clean, creatures. Also, they behave very nicely around the boss, not like dogs who always start to jump and bark around him, sometimes even trying to get a piece of his arm or leg. “I guess I should be going then.” Bob said. His smile where happy and sad at the same time. “Cookie?” I offered him the tray. He reached out a hand, grabbed one and took a bite. He smiled at me as I blew out the candle. Bob disappeared, leaving only a crumb behind him. This is one of the first short stories I’ve ever written outside of school. Feedback and criticism are welcome. English is not my first language so I would be extra grateful for feedback on grammar and language. Also, I'm not very happy with the title so suggestions are welcome.

I don’t own a cat. Can you call a cat a thing? You own a pet. Doesn’t this put them in the same category as your hat or scarf? You own scarves. I own quite a few myself, a whole collection of scarves, in fact. I suppose I don’t love them the way I love a pet. I had pet rats. They live only a few of years, about as long as a well-worn scarf. Rats are simple too. You keep them in a cage. You clean the cage. You own the rat. You own the cage. You what I don’t own? A cat. No one here knows who owns the cat. You would assume: doesn’t that mean it’s a stray? No, this is a well-fed cat. He just got a shiny new collar. I don’t know how anyone gets a cat to wear a collar. We’ve always had indoor/outdoor cats, and every collar we tried putting on them disappeared at some point. Maybe we didn’t get pretty enough collars. One of our cats went through more collars than the rest by far. She was more like a wolf than a cat sometimes, howling at the moon, much like this cat, which I do not own, is howling at my door. It’s funny how when a cat is yours, it’s family, but when it belongs to someone else, they own a cat. Everyone pets the mystery cat on the sidewalk, and so did I, until he followed me inside one day. I didn’t realize how horribly allergic I was to cats until I moved out of my mother’s house for college. Being able to breath was amazing. A new experience. It seemed as though I could keep breathing forever without-- How is this cat still yowling? It needs to stop for oxygen right? My cat’s voice went from a mew to a yowl as she aged. You would think there would be less breath with age, but I guess cats are different. Maybe they breath a bit easier the older they get. It occurs to me that she may have just been going deaf, which I suppose isn’t uncommon. I wonder if this cat, which I do not own, thinks I’m a poor deaf human, who will definitely open up the door. If. He. Just. Yells. Loud. Enough. I know he’s neither old nor going deaf. The first by sight. The second by the fact that every time I attempt to type, the yowling begins once again. I began typing this on my laptop, but it’s too close to the door, and not portable. So, now, I am on my phone, with its silent touchscreen keyboard, typing this on Google Docs. And yet, still, the cat howls to be granted entry. Why? I checked. My apartment’s baseboard heater, circa 1973, has come out of its less than seventy-degree-Fahrenheit slumber in the way that someone with sleep apnea is awoken at 3 a.m. which, as chance would have it, is also the time right now. I’ve turned off all the lights in the apartment, the heater crackles concerningly, and here I am, typing an essay on my phone. Perhaps, finally, the cat is gone. During the day, I like him well enough. I let him in to nap in my apartment. I leave out a bowl of water. I also get cold easily, which means it’s always warm here. I understand, I offer a very enticing place to sleep in any hour of the day or night. Cats don’t care for business hours, but I do. I thought about getting a cat, this past year. But, having had cats in the past, I know that caring for a cat is an investment. When I moved into an apartment alone, especially, I thought perhaps now was time for a cat. Thankfully, this apartment came with a cat I can own vicariously through my mystery neighbor. I just need to make sure to impress upon the cat, that I do not own a cat. I think I will try to do that tomorrow, when I let him in for a nap.

One morning, there was once an old man who woke up in a daze on a snowy winter morning. He stumbled towards the window and exhaled as to remove the frost. As he peered out of the window, expecting to see the neighbors' houses and cars that were always slightly better than what he had. Prior memories made him bitter and made him hope to take their belongings away. As he peered out and saw not the same miserable life that consumed him, he saw snow. Snow and more snow, as far as the eye could see. Bone shattering winds scattered from east to west, removing the possibility of any thought that life was out there. As the old man smiled in glee that he was finally alone and what he had was the best that there could be as far as the eye could see, he felt a sharp frost over his entire body. His muscles tightened and his movement slowed to a crawl. He then forced his way to his bed, where he grabbed his blanket and wrapped it tight around his body. Still shivering, he inched closer and closer to the shower. A turn of the knob and nothing came out. He stared up at the shower head and as he did, an eerie creaking pinged throughout the house. Mere seconds went by and then pipe after pipe started bursting at every weak point. The old man who was still bewildered by what was going on, still with his head below the shower head, looked up at the shower head just as the shower head came flying towards his face. Blood rushing from his nose and freezing water soaking him and the blanket sent his body into shock. What seemed cold before was now 10 fold. He began crawling down the stairs and towards the phone. Barely able to grab the phone, he began to shakily press each number in extraordinary pain, as if his fingers would break right off. He waited for a dial tone, but nothing happened, no noise, nothing. As a last ditch effort, the old man, barely able to move, inched his way to the front door, in hopes of calling out to anyone that could help. His hand reached up to the frozen door knob and twisted it open with all his might. As the door slammed open, the wind burned his face in frost. As much as it hurt, he screamed out for help, but no one was there. After his voice went horse and the cold became unbearable, he closed his eyes as a single tear drop froze under his eye. Then, all of a sudden, he woke up in his bed, with the sun shining on his face. He ran to his window and smiled maniacally at the neighborhoods that he once despised. He jumped for joy, ran to the shower and turn on the hot water. As the water rained down on his face, his worries washed away and all that was left was his grin of appreciation and relief.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me?” Josh turned to see a stubby little man smiling at him. “Aren’t you the guy from that movie?” There are few things more tiresome than standing in line for coffee but signing napkins for ‘fans’ who don’t even know his name is definitely one of them. The line moved forward several inches as one more person succeeded in placing their order. ​ “Excuse me?” *God dammit.* Josh prepared to put a smile on before turning again. “Is that your car?” He spun and looked out at the carpark. “Does it normally smoke like that? I wouldn’t know,” The little man shrugged. “I’ve never owned a Tesla.” Abandoning his place in the line (but to the joy of those queuing behind him), Josh ran outside. “Oh god!” he exclaimed. “What the hell happened?” Thick black smoke was rising from under the bonnet and curling up into the sky. Even stood a few feet in front of it, he could feel the heat on his face. Josh whipped out his phone and began to dial 911. But just two digits in, the phone began vibrating in his hand. He answered. “Hello?” “Josh - it’s Mallory the production assistant. Make-up just called. You haven’t arrived yet. Where are you?” *Shit.* He’d been out last night and woke up late. “I’m on my way. I promise.” He began. “Just car trouble.” The production assistant sighed. “You’re due on set in half an hour. Hurry up.” She hung up. ​ The door to the store banged open as the stubby man barrelled out. “The manager’s called the fire service. They’ll be here soon.” Josh pocketed his phone and stared in disbelief as the first visible flames licked the windscreen - the paint had begun to peel. “What a mess,” the man began, “Looks new too!” “One week...” Josh mourned: he was rich, but not new-car-every-week rich. “Isn’t there some way we can put it out?” he wondered aloud. The man beside him raised his arm, leaned back, then emphatically tossed his coffee onto the bonnet of the burning vehicle. ​ Josh’s pocket began vibrating again: he answered. It was George, the director, and he was *not* happy. “When I agreed to cast you in this film,” he lectured, “there was an understanding that you would put the part-boy lifestyle on hold. People are depending on you. We cannot have any more delays to the shooting schedule. Please tell me you’re in make-up now?” “No, I’m not in make-up,” Josh put his head in his free hand. “I stopped for coffee and now my car is on fire.” There was a brief pause. “What?” the director replied. “My car. It’s on fire. I can’t get to set yet - but I’ll be there soon - I promise!” George scoffed. “Yeah, right. I guess that video of you doing shots with Taylor Swift at ONE O’CLOCK THIS MORNING has nothing to do with it? Get to set now you lazy fuckin’ asshole. In fifteen minutes, we shoot.” He hung up. ​ Josh paced the sidewalk then glanced up at the inferno in front of him. “Come here,” he told the stubby man, who quickly sidled over. “I need a photo.” He held his phone out. “With me?” the man grinned incredulously. “No.” Josh resisted the urged to push the man backward into the flames. “Of me - with the car.” The little man held the camera up while Josh positioned himself in front of the burning wreckage. His nostrils filled with the scent of pumpkin-spice and burnt rubber. *This will make that stuck-up moron eat his words.* ​ His agent was calling. Was this necessary? He was only a little late now! Christ. Josh answered the call. “I’m coming! But my car’s on fire, or didn’t you see?” he started. “Oh, I saw!” His agent’s clearly-exasperated voice retorted. “And so did the marketing team at Tesla. They’ve pulled your endorsements and you’re being photoshopped out of the ads you just shot.” “But!” Josh tried to interrupt. “Expect a deformation lawsuit in the next 48 hours. Ang good luck finding a new agent. I can’t do this again.” She hung up. “Ahh!” Josh yelled into the sky. “Has everybody lost their minds?!” As if in answer, his phone rang again. ​ *Probably trying to get his butler to come pick him up* the stubby man thought as he lamented the futile loss of his latte. Josh put the phone down and crumpled down onto the pavement; his sweaty, shiny face lit by the flames. Tears appeared up in his eyes. The stubby man wandered over. ​ “I’ve been fired.” Josh sighed. “Ha!” The stubby man giggled as he raised his finger and pointed at the burning wreckage.

Once I wake up I take a look at my phone, it’s February 12, 2019 and the time is 6:58AM. On this day, I call my work and tell them I’m too sick to come in. Now that I have that out of the way, I begin my day like any other. First, I make my bed, and as I do so I spend a little extra time making sure the covers and sheets are at an even length on both sides of the bed. Next, I enter my bathroom and proceed to brush my teeth; I make sure each row receives an equal amount of brush strokes. After that I wash my face with a soothing facial cleanser and once I’m dried off I add a very effective moisturizer. I then head into the kitchen and get out two non-stick pans, in one I add two strips of bacon and in the other I add one egg which I plan on making over hard. Once I am finished with breakfast I change into a white dress shirt, which I wear with the top button undone, and a pair of slim dress pants, both ironed the night before. Just as I get ready to head out the door I put on a brand new pair of loafers and an old, but still nice, slim fit car coat, since it’s a bit chilly this time of year. I head over to a nearby public trail and proceed down the path. As I go down the path I keep my head down and watch for cracks in the sidewalk, being sure to avoid them. Eventually, however, I look up towards the sound of footsteps and notice a young, beautiful woman with sandy-blonde hair and dark green eyes wearing a pair of sneakers, jeans, and a bright windbreaker. I send her a kind smile and she does the same, it seems genuine. Once I pass her I stop and spin around on my heels. ​ I pull a handkerchief out of my coat pocket and use it to clean the blood off of my knife. The knife I carry has a small, thin, fixed blade with a neat set of serrations; I’m always sure to keep the blade sharp, it has helped me for years. I look down at the fear-filled, glazed over eyes before me, those beautiful, beautiful eyes. The bright coat, now dark, blends in with the dirt in the ditch and as I notice this detail I begin to think about how this corpse was once a living, breathing organism that moved around this world, it had friends and family, a history, and now I have reduced it to nothing more than a headline to be strung across the six o’clock news. I take a step back in order to avoid the blood enclosing upon my feet. As I look back at the body I notice its new orifices, from which the blood is leaking, much slower now, are beginning to release more than just blood. I turn around and head home. ​ Now at home, I place a frozen meal, pasta, in the microwave for dinner. Once I am finished with dinner, I head out to the balcony and proceed to smoke a JM’s Dominican Toro Cigar from the pack my brother gifted me for my birthday; I don’t care for the man, but he has good taste. After I finish I head to the bathroom and once again brush my teeth and wash my face. Finally, I climb into bed, but not before changing into an old pair of athletic shorts and nothing else. As I stare up at the dark ceiling I think about when the body will be found and if the amount of stab wounds released will be accurate, they weren’t last time, not at first. I can’t wait for next year. ​ **Note from the author: Hi everyone! This is my first post on this subreddit and I hope just one of many more to come! Please tell me what you liked and/or disliked about it, I welcome all constructive criticism. Thanks for reading!** ​ **Edit: Fixed spelling error and added paragraphs.

Whispers in the Fogs Whitechapel, London, 1889. The city’s up-and-coming electrical lights have been a guiding hand for many people living in the capital of the Victorian Era. But where there shines a light, darkness is being cast not far. This is a grim tale of a man’s journey through the less favorable streets of London. A tale spun by fate. A tale that went unnoticed in history, for it shed light on a person so obscure to our daily lives, that most see the name and think of nothing more than the poor souls that were lost in the Autumn of Terror 1888. This is the story of Detective Clearburough and his ongoing investigation of Jack the Ripper. London was still in trance and fear of the previous year’s murders. Scotland Yard and its members are still amidst finding the culprit of the killing of five poor souls... Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly. It was not an uncommon thing to hear of beatings over a prostitute, hell some went so far as to murder, but these? Something so obvious as to say they were murdered merely for being of the wrong profession did not sit correctly with the Detective. Since the death of Miss Chapman way back on the 31st of August 1888 was he on the case alongside many other prominent figures of London’s crime-solving team. And yet? No traces of anything. Sure they were suspecting a few people, but without proof, how would one feel satisfied to have found the actual killer amongst the populous? “Dearest, are you thinking of that case again?” The voice was as sweet as sugar, yet felt so fragile and tender. The Detective shook off his thoughts and looked to his side. Arm in arm, in his safety she was. His darling wife Anne-Liz. He took off his hat and started scratching on his mustache. When it came to looks, both looked as dapper as high royalty, despite their impoverished life. “Ah, you must forgive me, dearest. Here we are going on a stroll to see the new city lights being activated, and all I can muster to think of, is that devil..” Her soft finger quickly placed itself onto his lips and she started giggling. “I’d rather want you to not think of it at least while you are taking the day off from work. I am surprised you even let me go out still, dearest.” The Detective quickly took her finger and placed it on a blue spot next to his nose. “If you are hitting as hard awake as you do in slumber, I reckon not even the devil himself could make you flinch away from a fight.” Both continued their conversation. Of their life, God, and practically anything they could think of. And yet? The Ripper never truly left Clearburough’s mind that night. It was as if he jumped from nightly streets to worried minds. Today was to be a special day. London always marked itself as one of the most advanced cities in the entire world. The epitome of modern. That night, February 2nd of 1889, a new step into the future was made. Whitechapel was to get electric lights! It was decided upon after an inventor noted, that it could bring light to the hearts of those in fear. Granted, East End London was the most impoverished part of London, but if beggars were to have light at night, so the inventor thought, rich people might want to invest in more beautiful craftsmanship. Give them electrified Art. Aberdeen O’Malick was an Irishman living in Whitechapel himself. The man, alongside a few interested fellows and with the help of London’s Administration of Development, already have contributed to a more shining future for the denizens of the city, starting with the installation of arc lamps by the Holborn Viaduct and the Thames Embankment in 1878. Mr. and Mrs. Clearburough’s goal was to attend that very same initiation of new lights for Whitechapel by Mr. O’Malick. Accordingly so, many of the streets in Whitechapel did not even possess any means of illumination. Seeing all these new pillars with a lamp attached looked out of place. As if the poor banded together and stole them from where they once stood. Truly, to see the district become brighter at night gave the Detective a worry less in the world. And even so, it felt as if the Ripper mocked him still. From afar with a wide grin exceeding any person’s normal smile. “You ought to become even more beautiful, shining so brightly by yourself in all this darkened street is already illuminating my worried heart, Darling,” Mr. Clearburough suddenly spoke up and give his wife a kiss. “These lights couldn’t come at a better time, I agree, you old charmer~.” The lady caressed his cheeks as both stopped in front of a large crowd. It felt like half of London has ushered into this smaller street. All Ages and wealth were there and amidst them stood a lanky fellow with a large mutton chop beard and safety goggles. “Ladies and Gentlemen! People of London, I welcome you all to our newest endeavor for the city as a whole! Before you; I stand with the power to give light to those who have been praying for it! Would t not have been without the help of Sir Charles Warren, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, as well as the kind folk from the Whitechapel Board of Works, we’d still have a darkened night ahead of us!” The crowd started cheering. At least the majority of streets were to be put under guiding lights. “As a representative of London’s Administration of Development, as well as the O’Malick Electric Company, I welcome you all to a new age of light in Whitechapel!” The man in his leathery apron turned around and pulled a lever hoisted high up on a building with the help of a string. To the astonishment of all, each lamp, one after another, started to light up. At first, there was flickering at best, then a beam of light as if the sun itself had come forth, then back to a more acceptable level of brightness. “It’s as though I can now see every last snowflake in that pile of snow over there,” one old denizen shouted out. “My God, I feel like we have turned night into day,” screamed a woman further back. Cheering and clapping filled the air with sounds that haven’t been heard much of in this usually gloomy world. Children hopped around and began throwing snowballs now that they could see better. Others started outright dancing with their Missus to celebrate the occasion. Commissioner Warren made his way to Mr. Clearburough, followed closely by Mr. O’Malick as he still wanted to ask him something. “Charles! I never thought you had your hands in this!” Both men greeted each other with a handshake, followed soon by a tender bow by Mrs. Clearburough. “You and I both been dreading over this case for a good few months now, Seamus. To see so many people be less inflicted with fear is at least a small token of gratefulness in all that has happened lately.” Finally, Mr. O’Malick caught up with Commissioner Warren and shook his hand as well. The young and ecstatic man could barely hold his eagerness in. So much so, that he could not even talk cohesively. “Ah, m-my apologies for coming so suddenly, but I just had to give you my thanks for setting everything in motion alongside the police force!” It’s then, that the inventor noticed Mr. Clearburough and immediately shook his hand with the same tenacious eagerness just as that of Commissioner Warren. “You are doing a remarkable step towards London’s safety, Mr...O’Malick, was it?” not even a second later, a little piece of paper is pressed into the man’s hand. “Quite so, good sir! The poster I have hung up around the city sadly forgot to check for spelling, but overall I am happy that my home is getting the illumination it so desperately needed!” Alas, the joy, as quickly as it had come with the light, vanished once more as a woman started screaming. “THE RIPPER! T-Th...HE!...” Dyed in blood, the lady fell onto the ground, bleeding away her innards as her stomach revealed a nasty, open cut to her womb. The light began flickering and their protective illumination blew away like a candle’s light in the wind. Mr. Clearburough, Commissioner Warren, and a few Police Officers present at the event quickly drew their weapons. Not a single sign of panic had come out of anyone’s mouth yet. Heavy breathing...a flock of people cowered together like sheep in a thunderstorm. The ever-so-intrusive fog of London hushed out of the varying streets nearby. “Stay...close to me...very close...Anne...” Detective Clearburough wrapped his left hand tightly around his dearest, pulling her closer to his back and keeping his hand firmly placed at her back. Still no sign of panic or screaming. Silence and quiet dread overcame the once illustrious singing and dancing. Atop a building, the very same hosting the lever for Whitechapel’s lights, a silhouette began to form amidst the thickening fog. The first lamp that had just illuminated everything around it sprung to life once again, only to break violently right after. Sparks flew away from the lever, causing the thick to partially reveal the silhouette once again. A hat...a coat...a cane and a smile going beyond a normal one. It’s as if Clearburough saw the very thought he been having for the last few months. It was him. The Whitechapel Murderer, Leather Apron...Jack the Ripper The very sight of his shadow alone made people feel dread and fear deep in their hearts. It could not have been a mere coincidence, that the lights had started to fail when he showed up. What was even more unusual, was the sudden appearance in front of so many people. One could argue, he is still anonymous, but why risk that, especially with the police and a member of Scotland Yard present? Truly, the conundrum only spun deeper into the web of mystery. “YOU ARE NOT GOING TO GET ANYWHERE, GET HIM!” The doors of the building were run over by the officers. Commissioner Warren and Detective Clearburough rushed after him, keeping Mrs. Clearburough in the safety of Mr. O’Malick. Upon reaching the roof, the silhouette still stood there. One officer ignited his lantern and swung it forth, but was met with a terrible view. Instead of the Ripper, they found the corpse of a once beautiful woman. Slaughtered like an Animal, dressed in an expensive suit, and most gut-wrenching of all, cut at an aorta as she was leaning against a pike with a hook holding her up like a dried trout over a fire. Detective Clearburough and Commissioner Warren enter the scene not so long after and are taken aback by the unfolding view before them. “Oh dear God...that Woman...she is...” Mr. Clearburough looked at Mr. Warren with a confused mind. “You know this woman?! Who is she?” The entire police force around him became silent. The Commissioner took off his hat and placed it upon his heart. “Molly O’Malick...sister to our handshaking enthusiast. What a terrible fate...Get her down from there and put her into some loins!” The lights sprung back to life once again as the corpses were both being put into cloth to transfer them to Scotland Yard alongside Mr. Clearburough. Nobody felt like celebrating anymore, especially not Mr. O’Malick, who broke down in tears as he saw the hand of his sister peek out of the cloth. Only she had a ring with the initials of her name engraved on it. Even though he did not show it, Detective Clearburough felt an immense dread lurking behind his back. Jack had returned. Not only had he prevented good publicity over the new lights, but they were also shut off again by the O’Malick Electric Company just a day after for ‘maintenance’. London’s people were still in danger. It was time to finally put a stop to this maniac and his killing spree. Whitechapel has been in nigh complete darkness for too long. And despite this setback and blackout. Neither Technology nor the will to catch evil had been stopped. If anything, it only engulfed Mr. Clearburough in even more thoughts on how to catch him...and perhaps...solving the city’s lack of light in Whitechapel and Spitalfields might be a good start on solving Jack’s nightly terror. What will follow, is a cat-and-mouse game between the murderer and police, as if it wasn’t already. And to you, my good sirs and madams reading this...I welcome you to sit down and watch closely, as one of history’s most notorious killers returns. The Blackout brought forth...Whispering in The Fogs

to the small, velvet box; hesitating before passing it over. "You won't drop it?" he asks. "Look, just because I showed up late-" "-for my wedding-" "-for your wedding-" "-and you're my best man-" "-Gah! Such pressure!" I fumble with the cummerbund, turning it until it was centered over my belly. Or at least close enough. "It wasn't my fault. My mom hasn't set the clocks forward for daylight savings time yet-" "-which should have been done weeks ago-" Marco tugs my cummerbund to it's *just right* position. "-yeah, you know how she is. Anyway, I'm here now." I hold out my hand, palm down. "Look. Steady as a rock." Marco moves to give me the ring. I make the hand shake wildly. "Oops," I fling it behind my back. "Try this one," I offer my other hand, palm up. Marco sighs. He places the box in my hand. "Let's go." \*\*\* **Luckily, we make** it to the church in time and I am able to stand next to my best friend as he marries his High School sweetheart. No, really, she is still in High School. Seventeen years old. Marco, the man himself, only nineteen. *Too young,* some would say. Most would say. But they don't know Marco like I do. The earth will turn, the sun will rise, God will rule in heaven, and Marco will be married to this one woman - girl, now, but woman soon enough - for the rest of their long, fruitful lives. *Such certainty.* It is more than I deserve, being counted among those to witness the event. And I surely don't deserve the honor of standing at the groom's right hand, holding the ring. Well, I suppose that's another advantage of having grown up in a small Kansas town. No competition. I didn't have to be that good to be a best man. \*\*\* **After the ceremony**, chaos. Pictures are wanted, names are shouted out; flashbulbs and laughter, hugs and handshakes. During a lull, I'm called to the parking-lot for a consultation. "What do you think?" Don asks. He and a crew of helpers stand next to the honeymoon car - a workhorse wood-paneled station wagon; 'Just Married' soaped on the rear window and a dozen empty soda cans tied to the bumper. "Great," I say. "Fine." Then, as I get closer and look in the window, I see a scattering of popcorn over the front seat. "What's that?" "That's a prank. You know, fill the car up with popcorn so...." "Funny," I agree, "But don't you think there should be more? That's, like, not a lot of popcorn." In truth, the front seat doesn't look any worse than having taken a sharp turn with a bag of old movie theater 'corn riding shotgun. Don shrugs. I get money from my wallet and tell him, "Go to Wal-Mart. They sell those big bags of the stuff for cheap. You know what I'm talking about? Looks like garbage bags? Sometimes cheesy flavored; or caramel? Get as many as you can." Don grabs some friends and they hurry away. Robert, one of Marco's younger brothers, stands by my side. "That's going to be messy," he says. I laugh. "Yeah." "Shouldn't you stop that sort of thing?" "What?" "You're the best man. Shouldn't you stop them from doing that?" I look at Robert for a moment. "I don't know," is my honest answer. \*\*\* **The reception. I'm** introduced to one of the bridesmaids - a pretty redhead named Anne, and we dance. We dance goofy in a group. We dance slow together. We talk about the bride and groom. We talk about ourselves. She's studying management at K-State. I've moved south, to attend the University of Houston where the temperature is more apropos for a young man ready to set the world on fire. During a break, I leave her with friends to fetch refreshments. Since everybody in the wedding party is underage, drink choices are Sprite and Coke. Sprite or Coke.... While making the decision, I hear a voice behind me say, "Decline and fall." I turn. Christine Kohler stands there, dressed to the nines, smile beaming, blonde hair done fancy in a way I'd never seen on her before. "Fall down baby!" I say, finishing the lyrics of a song that had somehow become our special salutation. I grab her in a hug. We laugh. We hold each other at arm's length. "Look at you," I say. Chrisy Kohler, my High School running buddy, almost unrecognizable now with that blown-out hair and wearing an honest-to-goodness dress. Never a petite girl, the freshman fifteen strains the silky yellow fabric in nice places, as well as around her middle. The dress' neck line is much, much lower than her usual wardrobe of sweatshirts and Ts. "A lot more of me, right?" "Fornicate that. You look great." "You clean up pretty good yourself." "Where have you been? I didn't see you during the ceremony, or the dance." "No surprise. You looked like you were going to pass out from the pressure of having to stand still for an hour. Anyway, I was in the back, with the cool kids." I lean in. She smells of cigarettes. Chrisy smirks. "And we cool kids tend to hang out in the parking-lot during these John Barleycorn Must Die Baptists shin-digs. You know how it is." "Yeah, I know how it is." "Besides." Chrisy hip-checks me hard enough that I have to steady myself against the drink table. "You're doing alright without me." She motions across the room towards Anne who is huddled with a group of girls, all of them eyeballing me while smiling and giggling into their hands. "Can you pop the collar of a tuxedo?" I ask, giving it a try. "I feel as if I should pop my collar." Chirsy makes the judgment call. "Perfect! Looks absolutely stupid." I become Elvis. "Uh hunka hunka," I mumble, pelvis suddenly on a swivel, index fingers pointing nowhere in particular. Chrisy goes upside my head. "Fool." Then, with her hand still on my back, she moves in front of me; face to face. Close. Intimate. I'm tall; we're almost eye-to-eye. A big girl. She places her other hand behind my neck and, with a caress, fixes the collar. "You haven't changed," she says. Her pretty face, inches from mine, tilts slightly. "And in a way that's very sad." She smiles ruefully. "Now." She steps back and slaps my tux into shape. "Get over there before Red realizes what a big mistake she's making." I make a derisive noise. "She can wait. I'm not done talking with you." "Yes you are." Chrisy grabs a two liter bottle from the table. "Besides, I'm due back at the parking-lot. There's some very important rum waiting for coke.... Er. I mean, there's some very important people waiting for me." She backs away, doing the Queen of England hand-wave. "Hey," I call out. "Don't leave without saying goodbye." Then she's gone. \*\*\* **The popcorn thing** is a disaster. Never quick to anger, Marco has always been more of the slow-burn type, so I can see his temperature rise by degrees as he circles the station wagon. Through the car's windows, nothing but popcorn. Crammed to the roof. Marco opens the passenger's side causing an avalanche of the greasy stuff. Gloria, his young bride, moves to avoid having it cover her shoes. Water fills her eyes, threatening to spill over. The gathered crowd laughs and hoots, maybe a little nervous because just popcorn might have been a good gag; but this greasy, buttery Wal-Mart gunk is well over the line. Nevertheless, we can't let the night end on a bad note so we move into action. Girls swarm Gloria, cooing comfort, while us boys start shoveling. We get enough of it off the seats, but the residue is something else entirely. Marco's worried about his rented tuxedo and Gloria's dress. I rather suspect you could toast a marshmallow over his head by now. There are blankets in the trunk of my car. We use them to cover the seats. Marco's grumbling about irreparable damage, but it’s been a long day. Time to go. We have a moment alone, away from the crowd. I congratulate him. Shake his hand. This is my best friend. We've gone to school together for twelve years. Since kindergarten, actually. I can't remember a time when we didn't know and like each other. Soccer leagues, camping; building things, tearing things down. Bad movies and video games. Cars and girls. Between Marco and I, all the mysteries of the universe have been discussed and settled. And we aren't even twenty years old. I let go his hand. I'll never be part of another friendship like this one. We make no plans. He's off to start a life. I'm gone to Texas. We'll see each other again, maybe. I say goodbye to the best part of my childhood one more time. Maybe the last time. And he's a little pissed. And I'm more than a little guilty. \*\*\* **I still have** a few days before leaving town, so I get redhead Anne's number and we make a date for tomorrow night. She gives me a quick hug then rushes away to catch up with friends. Heh. Pop that collar, son. Brooms and trash cans are found. I help clean the offensive popcorn off the ground. Some night birds squawk, but we're doing them a favor. Eating that stuff will kill you! The party has ended. The reception hall is closing. I'm jawing with stragglers in the lobby, all of us unwilling to call it quits. Management has to chase us out. Magical nights like this don't happen often, so it feels odd just leaving when it's over. But a surprise waits for me in the parking-lot. Chrisy has parked her El Camino next to my K-Car and is sitting on the lowered gate, smoking a cigarette with a plastic cup in hand, a black leather jacket draped over her shoulders against the chill. I laugh at the sight. She motions for me to sit next to her. "What?" she asks. "You look so dangerous. Like the women momma warned me about." I perch myself on the gate, bumping her butt with mine as I settle. "Watch it." She holds her cup high to prevent it from spilling. There are a number of brown grocery bags behind us. I rummage through them and grab the first bottle I find. Triple Sec. Disgusting. Almost undrinkable unless mixed with something. Almost. "Do you mind?" I take a cup and prepare to pour. Chrisy arches an eyebrow. She blows smoke out the corner of her mouth. I freeze. Waiting for approval. "Well?" "You don't drink," she says. "Lies!" I roar. "Slander and lies!" She shrugs. I pour. I offer my cup for a toast. Slowly, reluctantly, she taps it with her own. "To Marco and Gloria," I say. Then gulp huge. Chrisy sips. When my breath returns, I ask, "What's the matter?" After a moment, she repeats, "You don't drink, Virgil. I've never seen you drink." "To be fair, Chrisy, there are many things you've never seen me do." "Yeah. Thank God for that. But Virgil? You don't drink." True to a point. I didn't drink in High School. And, because Chrisy knows me so well, she knows why. I come from a long line of alcoholics. Functional, but drunks nonetheless. Indeed, alcoholism broke up my family's home. I'm sure at some point in our long and cherished friendship I had told Chrisy that I would never drink because I didn't want to wind up like that. Broken. However, moving away to college taught me a lot of new and interesting things about being broken. I had assumed booze was a wrecking ball, but it's not. It's a needle. And if used properly it can stitch you back together. Or close enough. "Skip it," I say. "Talk to me. Hey, you still see Jeff? What's going on with him?" "No." Chrisy shakes her head. "Nope. You talk to me. What happened? You used to be so.... Jesus Christ about drinking." "Actually, Jesus drank like a fish-" "-Virgil-" "-Wine, but you had to back then. Water was full of dinosaur piss-" "-I'm serious, Virg. What happened?" I look away. Then I laugh. "What the hell, Chrisy? Who are you...? I mean, you're not exactly the temperance union sitting there." "Here," she hands me her cup. "Drink." "What?" She glares. I obey. It's coke. Just coke. "So?" I ask. "You're slowing down. That's just smart drinking, taking a break every once and awhile." "No, Virgil, it's been coke all night. I stopped drinking years ago. I just pretend because.... Because I want to fit in. That never bothered you, though. You always stood your ground. I remember how they used to pressure you then make fun of you at parties when you wouldn't drink. How you always turned it around, made them look stupid. I admired you for that." "Chrisy...," "Now look at you. Straight Triple Sec? Oh, Virgil. What the hell happened?" **\*\*\*** ***What happened? I*** *met a girl. She broke my heart. Now I drink. You want it expanded? Her name was Shubra, born in Indian, and about the most exotic, beautiful thing I'd ever seen. And before you say it, yes, I guess I did have to go to a foreign country to get laid.* *Okay. I'm going to stop doing that. Joking, always joking. Neither of us deserve it.* *It wasn't just looks, she had an enormous personality. She was fearless. And smart. Effortlessly smart. She aced every class without ever cracking a book.* *But she was damaged. Abused. She could be reckless, borderline suicidal.* *I thought I could save her. With love.* *Oh, right. I said I would stop joking. Mea culpa.* *She was my first, and I, hers. Later I would have good reason to examine everything she said for a lie, but not that. Never that. It was obvious.* *I asked her to married me. She smiled for an answer.* *Once, before I left campus to spend a holiday with my brother in Louisiana, she told me she was pregnant. Again, I proposed marriage. I didn't even get a smile that time.* *When I returned, she claimed to have had an abortion. I asked no details, none were forthcoming.* *Things got worse between us, then better, then worse; and so forth.* *During one of the bad times, she came to my room. She stripped without saying a word. She started in on me and I reciprocated. I could tell it was wrong, her head was wrong. She was angry, cold, insistent. She was so wrong, but still I tried to make it right. God help me, I tried harder to make it right at that moment than I've ever tried to do anything else in my life. More, I know, than I ever will.* *When it was over, she quit the bed and dressed with her back towards me. She might have left as she entered - smoldering and silent. But she didn't. She turned said something she shouldn't have.* *I flew at her. I grabbed her. I pinned her to the bed. Ridiculous in my nakedness, I straddled her and forced her down with hands full of murder.* *And the look on her face.... The scornful, dead-eyed look on her face....* *It's a picture you can't forget. The best you can do is to keep washing it with alcohol until it fades.* \*\*\* **"I grew up,"** I answer Chrisy, reaching for a refill. She waits until I've poured and drank then says, "That's it?" We lock eyes. "Pretty much." Time passes. I look away first. "I guess you have changed," Chrisy says, pushing herself off the gate. "And it is sad." "Where are you going?" "Home. It's late." "That's it?" "Pretty much." "Chrisy, come on. This?" I upturn my cup, splattering booze all over the pavement. "It's no big deal." "I know. I'm just tired. Can you please get off so I can close the gate? I oblige, closing it for her. "Well, I'm still in town a few days. Did you want...?" "No. I can't. I'm leaving tomorrow." She checks her watch. "Today." "Okay." I step aside so she can get in the driver's seat. Before she closes the door, I say, "So... Bye?" "Yeah. Bye." The door shuts. The ignition fires. She hooks an elbow over the seat to reverse out of the parking spot. Once the grill is pointed towards home, she gives me one last look. "Hey!" I say, loud enough to be heard over the engine and through the closed window. "Decline and fall!" She drives away, shaking her head. End *Blame this on anonymity, plausible deniability, and the void that degrades quality. Which is a shame because* The Rainmakers *deserve better. Well. It had to be done. No other band comes close to having the same impact or being as important to me as* The Rainmakers*. They were the soundtrack to the best years of my life. So many memories associated with their songs.... Tch. My drama teacher told me she'd 'hung out with' (implication: dated) one of the band members at KU. "The drummer," she'd said, "Pat, I think." and I couldn't keep my puppy eyes off her after that. Picture me laying on my belly on the school's stage, ankles crossed, chin resting in entwined fingers; "Tell me more about him, Ms. Scovill. He smelled nice, right?" And if Rich Ruth ever sees me coming, he'd better turn the other way because I played bass guitar in a college band and I'll become* Annie Wilkes *on him so fast. There's no telling what I'd sledgehammer just to get him reminiscing about* *. (I thought a Rich Ruth solo album might be a good idea, then I heard* Dogleg *off* Monster Movie *and I now know it to be a necessity).* *Anyway. They deserve better than this pitiful little story, but I had to get it out there and it's the best I can do. The remaining* Gone Songs *won't be so contemplative.

WC: 524 Rain pattered the window of the diner hard, as I sipped my coffee. Though sometimes I wonder why I drink it all. So much regular drinking of the bitter beverage made me nearly unaffected by it. I still don’t enjoy the unpleasant taste, I more tolerate it for the high I supposedly get. So, I drink more and more cups of the black drink until I feel energized, or can bear it no longer. But why do I subject myself to such a thing? People add things to their drink, make it taste better, have less of an edge on their tongue, help them pretend they really love it a little bit more, a reason to drink it. But that’s not *true* coffee, is it? Those are things that help you ignore how acrid it really is. I take a sip, and it scorches my tongue. Why not, then, just accept that it doesn’t really matter how I take my coffee. Add as much milk or sugar as my heart desires. Hell, add sprinkles and caramel, and whipped cream on top. Who cares? It’s my coffee after all. I smack my lips, I imagine my tongue is stained brown by now. Either way, whatever it’s advertised to do is not happening to me, that’s for sure. I feel as tired as ever. But, for some reason, I find myself continuously hoping that my black coffee, uncontaminated by the ideas and flavors of anything else, will give me the true effect. A fuller experience, an experience that the first men who ever drank coffee felt. It feels noble, to bear the brunt of the terrible flavor for the reward of breathing life into my mornings. I take a larger gulp, now that it's nearly room temperature. This is the taste my forefathers settled with, the boost of energy they so loved and desired. But this coffee, goddamnit, tastes horrible. I’m sick of drinking it every morning before taking on my other obligations for the day. The taste lingers on my tongue indefinitely. Why not just never drink it again. Smash my mug on the floor, tell the waitress to go fuck herself, and never look back... That’s irrational. That’s not fair to her, or the people who will have to clean my mess out of the carpet. I slowly swallowed more. Maybe if I simply went to another diner. Fancier diner. Higher quality java. Buy my own espresso machine, do it my own way, self-determination. But coffee is coffee anywhere and coffee is coffee made in any way. Is everyone in the world just pretending to like coffee? What did my “forefathers” love so much about this? Was life really that bad that this was the highlight of their day? Built coffee houses to enshrine how much they loved the damn bean? I might as well just- I went for another drink but felt nothing but air on my lips. “Another cup, honey?” My hands slowly lowered the mug onto the table. I gazed at the waitress blankly. Her head gently gestured to the coffee pot in her right hand. “Yes. Yes, I’ll have another cup.

####Any feedback would be welcome. I'm trying to be less batshit insane in my writings.#### - Ard was told by Lord he could taste all that's of the land, with one exception. He must never, ever, eat the fruit of the great Xan Tree. Ard wandered the land, obeying Lord, sampling all it had to offer: Psychedelic mushrooms, stimulating leaves, appetite increasing herbs, pain killing poppies, fermented fruit, and much more. The natural world was at his disposal! He never considered the Xan Tree. However, one day, he found himself a bad bitch. Or a bad dick. He wasn't sure. They were in love and he didn't care if his partner was a bitchdick. Or a dickbitch. Unfortunately, it ended up being a bad bad. One day, his non-binary cohabitation partner came home with some xan fruit in hand. Xhe told Ard that a man, a cool man, convinced Zanzarella but a tiny pluck of the Xan Tree. Now, Zanantonio had handfuls of the things. Ard was bewildered. "What was that dude's name? How cool?" "Snake Serpent." "Dammit Zaneida! You know it's forbidden!" "Snake had a cool leather jacket." "Oh," replied Ard. Pop! And just like that Ard became Barrd. Ard soon saw shame in his clothes. He stripped, prancing nude about Eden, stealing as he saw fit. Chad Lord, appropriately named head of the homeless shelter, was enraged. Ard and his beloved Zanetioni.. <*Aw shit, who are we kidding? Ard never remembered her name. It's Zanny now, deal with it.*> Well, they were kicked the fuck out of Eden. "Who names a shitty homeless shelter 'Eden' anyway?" asked Zannie. There was a brief pause. "I mean, who names a shitty homeless shelter 'Eden' anyway?" asked Zannie, completely forgetting she had already asked that rhetorical question. Such is the way of alprazolam. "Who names -" Ard cut her off, likely the wheels spinning so slowly he was finally getting around to answering the first time the question was asked. "A Chad...A devious Chad. The Beta and the Zeta, a pussy. One who seflishly planted his xan shrub in the middle of his fortress paradise, all for himself!" Ard's mumble was barely audible. However, the way he clenched his fist, slowly swaying side to side, it showed shit was getting serious. With eyes half closed, he studied Eden. It wasn't good enough. He couldn't make out the proper reconnaissance details. In a gradual flash, his eye lids slowly widened at the speed of dumb. Zoom. Enhance. Zoom - no wait. Stop! He observed an imposing ring camera, some shoddy wifi, broken CCTV, and a daunting cast iron fence. Thin rods with tiny points at approximately chest height surrounded the perimeter. "Impenetrariation is impassible." Ard gasped. "You mean impossible?" asked Zannie. "No. Impassable. Like the speed of light. It's impassable to go faster than light, you'd always come in 2nd, never passing. Impassable." Zannie was glad to have such a smart BAE. What now? Ard had to science the shit out of it. Pencils? Check. Paper? Check. Calculator? Ard held up his fingers. Check. Most importantly, spectacles? A broken pair with no frames. *Bet these have transition lens, badass.* Ard thought. Check. Now he was ready. He needed Plan B, kids are a scourge of the earth. No wait. He needed his Plan A. A plan to defy the Chad Lord. He would break into the Shelter of Eden and steal the mighty Tree of Idiocy. *It's most displeasing to inform you that details concerning the grand adventure that followed is lost mostly to time. The participants in what was described as* ###"...The greatest heist of all time, with elements that made men ponder the true meaning of their existence...gave us the answers to life through vague platitudes...[love] solves all problems, including scarcity, world hunger, and rapidly decreasing biodiversity in the ecosystems."### *All involved are either dead or were too barred to bear the burden of remembering that fateful time. No insight could be extracted as to what happened.* What we do know is as follows. *Twist You Missed:* Eden is a shitty homeless shelter. It's not, in fact, the biblical paradise known as the Garden of Eden. (I know. Mind BLOWN). *Plot Twist:* The Tree of Idiocy ends up being a pill bottle, one with an everlasting script, a paradise of endless refills. *All is lost twist:* Masculine Chad Lord ends up not having a gender, enticing gender fluid Zannie, who leaves Ard. *Final Happy Ending Twist:* Luckily, Zannie and Chad suffer a poorly timed simultaneous seizure from xanax withdrawals that saves the day (How it saved the day is anybody's guess). Ard escaped with the bottle, avoiding indictments on a myriad of charges. Charges including breaking and entering, trespassing, attempted murder, first degree murder, desecration of a corpse, obstruction of justice, witness intimidation, destruction of evidence, and perhaps most baffling, conspiracy to over throw the United States. Officials refuse to comment on any of these related charges or why a grand jury dropped them. A spokesperson, notably swaying at the podium, stated, "Too be honest, we can't really remember." Ard, a free man, lives the rest of his days barred out and happily ever after.

The storm whooshed in. Waves surged up covering the beaches. Rain and sleet slammed the Oregon Coast rainforest wilderness. Wind roared. Douglas Firs swayed and creaked. Heavy rain hammered the roof. Water drops hit the windows like bullets. My little blue cottage deep in the forest shook in the gales. It was a good day to stay home. But that is not how the day unfolded. What happened is absolutely true. This is all in my new book “Visiting with Sasquatch - And Other Surreal but True Stories from Mystic Beach on the Oregon Coast.” Here are the scenes and experiences of that day. After I typed up the story of what happened, I let my neighbor's 8th grader read it. I called it "The Rebuilt DeLorean Time Machine." She said, "Trippy! I love it!" Through the windows, in the dawn’s pink light on that day, I could see the trees moving in the storm, like silhouettes of mysterious creatures. Now the sounds of storm waves came as they exploded when they crashed nearby at Mystic Beach. Each morning I walked there with my gifted dog. I felt wonder every day that an average person like me had stumbled upon such a remarkable four-legged companion, endowed with special abilities. We disappeared into the tendrils of fog and mist, emerging bathed in supernatural energies. Wading through tidepools , we felt the fantastical realms and portals reaching out to us. I was trying to block out the storm sounds when Coos Bay Bear nudged me to wake up. Coos has psychic communication skills. He is ethereal and at the same time a physical being. Large, with black fur and flashing eyes, he is a hybrid dog-Black Bear-ethereal being. We felt cozy and warm now. It was still dark as dawn approached. In the hours after midnight, I had already taken him for a moonlit walk in the backyard. “What is the reason for this?” I said to him. “You were outside just a while ago.” Coos turned his dark, piercing eyes on me. I felt his mind tuning in for psychic communication, like a radio station. Next to us, we could see the little hologram of Breezy, the chihuahua who visited us from the Afterlife. She was curled up in the blankets the way she used to do it in physical form. Her spirit would be invisible to us if she did not activate her aura glow. We loved to see her hologram aura dancing around here. Then we knew she was dancing in the Ethereal World too. In the early dawn I wanted to stay warm under the blankets. The pair of dusky eyes that spoke “Coos Bay Bear language” appeared a few inches from my own greenish orbs. I sighed. “Okay, we’ll get up in a few moments Coos,” I said. On the reading table next to my bed sat the books. At night I got to sleep faster by reading from printed pages. I had the books on my electronic device too. But I tried to stay off the screens later in the evening, so I wouldn’t keep checking internet algorithms and stats late at night. My own skills were modest compared to my friend who has a Phd. in Computer Science. But I felt a sense of wonder and pleasure when I got the code for html5, css3, and wordpress website plugins to function. On top of the stack sat the 1,000 page plus book titled “The Oregon Coast Almanac of Paranormal Activities - by F. Herbert, Author of Dune” with it’s dog-eared pages from years of heavy use. Next to it waited “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Time Travel in the Galaxy.” It is the story of an earthling who was grabbed by her friend, who turned out to be an alien. They wound up as hitchhikers on the space-time traveling ship of extra-terrestrial enemy invaders. The early parts of the book warned that hostile aliens may try to torture prisoners. They force them to listen to bad poetry. It described the wails of pain and pleads for mercy by the suffering. I was glad to be forewarned. Hopefully, they were not referring to my own poetry, epic in length and brimming with advice. Another textbook rested on the table. It was “The Seekers Atlas to Worm Holes for Optimized Space-Time Travel - Get There Faster.” For my studies of a British expert was the book - “Dr. Who’s Illustrated Encyclopedia for Beginner Time Travelers - Avoid Chaos, Use Steampunk Machines and a British Phone Booth for Time Travel.” I know you Dr. Who enthusiasts will recognize these travel methods. American time travel books included the great "Quantum Leaper - Zig Zagging Through Time and Ziggy's Best Advice." The rest of the library paid tribute to Ray Bradbury, H.G. Wells and other greats. A recent addition to my library included “Tourism in the Time and Space Eras - Improve Profit Margins in an Exciting Business Opportunity.” And finally, there was a copy of “The Physicists Formulas for Calculating Improbabilities that Happen Anyway in Time Travel - Accidental Landings in the Paleolithic, Dealing with Ice Age Landings, and How to Avoid Making Refunds to Time Traveling Tourists.” Last night, propped up on pillows, with the earthly form of my real dog “Coos Bay Bear” and the hologram of my spirit dog “Breezy,” snuggled next to me, I was reading “How to Rebuild a Doc Brown’s Classic DeLorean Time Machine Using Scrap Metal - Travel Back to the Future or Ahead to the Past.” For those who loved classic modes of time-space travel, Doc Brown’s style machine was the angular, gull winged car. The vehicle was created by an Italian designer and an American engineer from General Motors. Then Doc Brown customized it for time travel in his garage in Buellton, California. The professor’s sidekick, Marty McFly, helped make this popular in its day. Although it is a legacy method it’s still popular with afficionados. I favored more cutting edge modes of time-space travel. Although sometimes I used an antique blue lantern that cast a spell, too. But I loved the pictures of these old timey style vehicles blasting through time eras to the future and back. In the olden days of my grandma, they used machines for time travel instead of our modern day power of the mind. The charm of the old time travel vehicles persists. Today they were still built especially during recessions, by idealistic young scientists who gathered scraps of old metal, discarded nuts and bolts, and old automobiles to repurpose them. Creative time travel machines made from recycled materials are displayed in museums today. The illustrations in the books had full color images with parts labeled and numbered bullet points for the directions. Right now, after my dog woke me up, he nudged me and used his teeth to give me a small type of love pinch on my arm to get me moving. “OK, you have my attention. You’re bored. We need to do something,” I said out loud. “We need to go now,” I heard Coos Bay Bear’s thoughts come to me through his psychic communication. “What’s the hurry,” I messaged him. “You’ll see,” he said. “Someone needs our help. We need to take a time travel trip.” I knew Coos Bay Bear’s psychic abilities were able to hear messages from far away, even from space and distant historical eras. Today, I wanted a time-out to recharge my batteries, and wait out the storm, but I knew Coos and and I would need to answer this call first. Looking out the window at the distant sea, I could see spindrift flying into the air from the waves atop the swells on the ocean. The tropical storm from the South Pacific, and the King Tides of winter, were combined. It made the ocean rush up onto the shores. Waves tossed trunks of trees and logs bigger than telephone poles onto the beaches. I hoped today would not be similarly turbulent while we time traveled. Now Coos Bay Bear herded me along to make me hurry. I knew from our walks at Mystic Beach, where our earthly forms get lost in the magic of the mysterious marine fog, that Coos was more than a dog. He had both an earthly form and an ethereal one. The DNA for his earthly dog form said Coos was blend of Australian Shepard, Border Collie, and Labrador Retriever. So he was a herding, fetching, swimming, curious, playful, determined, observant dog of stamina and deep mental abilities. My own DNA must have said I was an open minded earthling, ready for the adventures that Coos Bay Bear brought to me. Beyond his canine form Coos was a hybrid of other creatures too. I had seen him transform into his Black Bear self and a radiant aura of an otherworldly spirit often glowed around him. One time on the way back along the Secret Path a cougar who did not know us appeared on the trail. Coos Bay Bear grew quickly into a 10 foot tall Black Bear standing on his hind legs. His intense eyes almost drilled a hole into the Cougar’s eyes. “Sorry, we haven’t met,” came a psychic message from Cougar. “Excuse me. I’ll be going on my way. See you another time.” The moment of tension was dissolved. We smiled at each other and nodded as we went our ways. Now as the translucent glows of dawn penetrated the curtains, Coos Bay Bear’s nose pushed against my arm. I reached out to stroke his soft, dark hair. His midnight eyes with starry lights were like laser beams going into mine with intention. “Okay, Coos, I’m ready,” I said. I was wearing my time travel outfit and Coos had his tactical dog vest on too. My long pale hair was held in a blue scrunchy. I took time to add a little make up, even though probably no one would see me. There is no wind in the time travel era-verse to blow your hat off, so I had my favorite beat up, gray poet’s fedora on with the colorful Peruvian, handwoven hatband. The description said it was made by a shaman in the Andes and this inspired me. A pale blue chambray shirt and faded blue jeans went with it. Long thin silvery earrings with a few beads hung almost to my shoulders. A necklace of tarnished silver beads with aqua and coral hung around my neck. I wouldn’t be running on land but I still wore my black and pink jogging shoes because they are comfortable. Dressing creatively felt uplifting. I was ready for the day now. Coos Bay Bear had his tan K-9 vest that contrasted with his black Labrador Retriever coat. A patch on it said, “OTT K-9 Companion.” It meant Official Time Travel K-9 Companion. The storm abated and as the sky cleared Coos and I walked down the Secret Path to the Mystic Beach. This was a good place to start. We sat on a log washed up by the sea and began to meditate. I could tell Coos was listening to psychic message hunches. I began to see a vision of space and a trip to look for a worm hole to speed up the time travel. Instead of a linear trip we could go in where space-time was folded and quickly get somewhere. We felt the time-space begin to spin. The surroundings became blurry like a French Impressionist painting by Renoir, with the lighting having a similar effect. Grasped in each other’s arms and paws, we entered space to float and look for a worm hole so we could travel faster. As we spun through time, I heard clanging noises. In the distance was an old fashioned time machine made of a rebuilt DeLorean vehicle, with dented fenders, rusty scrap metal, and two shapes of beings in it. Sparks were flying, squeaking noises echoed, and something was malfunctioning - they saw us and began to yell and wave. Their legacy style time machine was rust colored with extra implements welded to it. I could see an old-fashioned dashboard and some vinyl seats that looked like beach chairs found at a junkyard. It was a real museum piece. But it had a sort of steampunk, artistic, abstract flair. As they came closer I saw they were not from earth. Maybe aliens hijacked someone’s vehicle. Perhaps they too were looking for a good wormhole path to another time and place. Were they friend or foe? There is something we always need to carry on the time travel trips in case we need it - the antique blue lantern light with the etched glass - the one my father used to show us people from 100 years ago at our antique pine dining table. We can use an old fashioned spell from the blue lantern sometimes. It’s also handier than a flashlight when we need to see in the dark. I lit the blue lantern and held it up to see the DeLorean time machine and its passengers better, through the twilight of the time travel spirals Alarm raced through me at what I saw. Instinctively I reached out to Coos Bay Bear and clutched him tightly. A glance at his eyes told me he was employing his Australian Shepherd-Border Collie laser eyes technique at the squeaking, rusty, grimy looking time vehicle that was approaching us. A ray of light came from it. A magnetic pull seemed to be activated, drawing us closer to them, or them to us. “Why isn’t Coos doing something?” I thought. My heart pounded. My throat grew tight. My face felt like a frozen mask. Horror filled me as they came alongside of us. They reminded me of wet, green blobs of slime or mold. Were these the aliens that “Hitchhikers Guide to Time Travel in the Galaxy” warned me about? If they caught us would they torture us by reading bad poetry to us? Don’t judge, I said to myself. Remember “Hitchhiker’s Guide.” Pretend to use the “Point of View Gun” to see what they see through their eyes. I tried but could not access their psychic selves. They were trying to communicate, but I could not understand them. I could not hear or decipher their thoughts or their sounds. Their machine appeared to be falling apart. They must need new ways to travel. “What did they want?” A deep, low growl rumbled from Coos. I saw him transform into a full Black Bear size, standing almost 10 feet tall on his hind legs. He does not do this often and I love to see him do this. Coos activated his ethereal, paranormal self. He threw lightening into the air. It crackled. Then there were thunderous booms. With clangs, squeaks and groans of metal the newcomers machine wobbled and zoomed to a distance away from us. With the blue lantern glowing and Coos Bay Bear standing at full Black Bear height, growling, I tried again to hear the newcomers or see through their eyes. “Help,” came the message. “We can’t get out. Our time machine is broken and too weak.” “Is it a trick,” I thought? Coos spoke to me, “Beware of shapeshifting tricksters, Kristi Marie.” I stopped looking at them and focused on listening to the psychic communications. “We’re from the earth. We rebuilt this DeLorean time travel vehicle in our garage in Buellton, California. Something in it reacts with time-space and changes us into new forms.” Coos Bay Bear and I were experienced at transformations into other forms. We looked at each other. “What could be done?” we both thought. “Could we get them back home to the Buellton, California of their usual era?” “Okay,” I sent them a message. “Maybe we can help.” The magical antique blue lantern with the etched glass was still glowing. “Come closer to this blue light to feel the healing spell,” I said. “Concentrate. See your real selves and your home.” As I watched, the blobs turned into human style beings. One of them had a mop of unruly white hair and bulging eyes. He looked like the epitome of a crazy professor. The other was a young man with brown hair and an innocent, youthful face. Above them a vision appeared of their home. It was a modest stucco home with a red tile roof. Sunshine painted the scene with warmth. Golden rolling hills with live oak trees under a sunny, summertime blue sky were behind the house. “Thank you,” the white haired professor type sent a psychic message. “I’m Doc Brown. Take care.” He turned to the younger man and said, “See Marty, I told you everything would be okay.” “Glad we could help. Our pleasure. Take care now,” I sent back. We waved as their vehicle and forms began to fade and dissolve. “It’s working!” Coos and I thought at the same time. With a clanging, and squeaking like rusty hinges, the old rebuilt DeLorean time machine vehicle disappeared from our vision. Floating in time-space, I smiled at Coos. I was glad Coos Bay Bear had heard the fellow travelers call for help, when it echoed through time-space in the early dawn. Discovering Coos had the gift of hearing psychic messages with calls for help gave me new insight into my amazing companion. That’s my Coosy Coo.... the hero dog....Black Bear and mystical being hybrid. We cuddled up together, picturing home, and it seemed like only seconds before we saw the waves of Mystic Beach gleaming. The sky had cleared, the tide was low, and we waded out into the ocean under a sunny sky. Far out on the waves we saw sea lions rising and falling on the swells. “Thank you Coos, for waking me up before Dawn today,” I said to him. He looked at me and his mouth opened into a wide angle with his lips curving. Coos did his trick where he sticks his ears out to the side and spins them like helicopters. His eyes twinkled at me in the sunlight. We both began laughing.

Hector contorted his face as he pulled his nose to the side, flattening out his nostril. He carefully studied the line that ran along the base of his nose, connecting it to the rest of his face. With surgical steady hands, he dragged a cotton swab, soaked in rubbing alcohol, along the smooth valley, gathering up even the most infinitesimal speak of dirt and oil. Exchanging the cotton swab into his right hand he pulled his nose once again, this time to the right, and repeated the methodic cleansing. Upon completion, the swab landed upon a pile of fifteen similar swabs, each one soaked in alcohol, each one assigned to a different area of his young face. Prior to the beginning of the ritual, he had never anticipated the growing pile of cotton swabs, but upon the conclusion of his first stroke, a swab that rode along the bottom of his jaw on the right side: the true filthiness of his face was revealed. A shade appeared on the soft white cotto, causing him to set down the single swab and retrieve the rest of the pack. He couldn’t risk cross-contamination, not tonight. Thew next swab’s lofty location was across the hairline. Hector held back his dark black hair, and instead of rubbing, decided to dab the cotton at the very conjunction of the face and scalp. Pulling back the smooth hair proved slightly more difficult than he could have expected. The hour-long shower, which consisted of a thirty-minute hair conditioning soak, proved effective, softening his hair to where it held little resistance to the light pull of his fingers. The momentary setback caused him not even the slightest bit of frustration, but rather a slight smile, indicating his realization of the success of his immaculate grooming. As he reached the left temple he paused. It was at this spot, on his older brothers face where the event occurred. An event that directly contributed to this evening’s ritual. Five years ago, as his older brother, Miguel, stepped into Karlew Middle School for the first time, beginning his sixth-grade year; a small red bump pushed through his coffee-colored skin. The newly formed pimple had beaten through the creams, exfoliators, and preparation. Unfortunately, the blemish went undetected, by Miguel. If it had, he surely could have hidden the blemish behind a sticker, as pre-teens often do, as in the least combed his hair forward, obstructing the view to others. But no, Miguel didn’t notice, and if anyone else had it went unmentioned until lunch time when an uninspiring fellow adolescent shouted out, “Hey Cano”, a lazy version of ‘volcano.’ Edven thought the pimple only lasted a single day, thanks to an old home remedy involving a paste containing, baking powder, honey, and garlic; the nickname followed him throughout his life. Through creativity, a little fortune, and the short goldfish like attention span of middle-schoolers, he was successful at convincing everyone that the name came from his explosive speed in P.E. Yet Hector knew the truth, and would on occasion, find his brother, alone, his head buried in his hands, melodically repeating over and over, “Cano can’t yo.... Cano can’t yo.” Hector had no idea what he meant by the depressing mantra and dismissed it as a hormonal imbalance. Yet he swore to himself that he would not allow puberty to cause him even the most similar of fates. His sister, Olivia had had a very different experience with middle-school puberty. Her skin was flawless, the envy of both friend and frenemy. Not one picture existed of her face being less than perfect. Even after posting an exhaustive catalogue of the week, she had the flue during her fifth-grade year, her face remained unchanged. On social media she was constantly being accused of using filters, and despite her most noble attempts at proving the naysayers wrong, the comment section continued to fill with scandalous accusations. From the safety of online separation and even visual distance she was both desired and despised, yet upon closer approach her pubescent initiation was made potently and pungently clear. She stunk. Her armpits exuded a smell that can only be described as undead. A putrid mix of damp decay with floral notes of relentless rot. No over-the-counter deodorant could mask the unforgiving odor. Eventually a secret concoction from Romania was discovered to contradict the stench. Hector had always assumed that the creator of the miracle potion had received the Nobel Prize for chemistry or for some other humanitarian centered category. Fortunately for Olivia, the moment of her ‘flowering’ occurred as she and some of her friends were hanging out behind the cafeteria next to the dumpster. The smell was easily explained and upon discovering that the fungal fragrance was exuding from her own body, she quickly made and excuse to leave. She then had to suddenly, “take care of her ailing aunt” for the next several months and only had contact with her friends through social media. To help sell the lie, Hector had to dress up on several occasion, impersonating different cousins and enduring the olfactory onslaught as he posed in several staged pictures. Despite the odds being stacked against him, he was determined that he would beat puberty, with both its subtle and blatant attacks. The hour shower not only prepared his hair, but his body as well. He had scrubbed places he had never scrubbed before, using both luffas and exfoliators. With the last dab of the cotton swab upon his hairline he was finished. Never had their existed, in the history of the world, a cleaner, unblemished young man. A proud grim slowly formed. “I don’t know how you did it?” he charmingly questioned his reflection, “but somehow... you did.” He ended the exchange with a finger point, wink, and an even larger grin. The rising confidence exposed his teeth in an overly positive smile. He immediately leaned forward. Pulling down his lower lip while jutting out his jaw, he inspected his lower teeth. Not one speck of plaque or discoloration. His gums were a deep rea, contrasting the whiteness of his teeth. Next, he raised his upper lip to inspect those teeth as well. Dental perfection. Raising his hand as a cup in front of his mouth, he let out a quick exhale. Breathing in he could only detect the subtle fragrance of mint. “Not going to happen.” he slowly stated, leaning unusually close to the mirror, “You did it.” Another over-confident smile exposed his teeth, which for a moment looked slightly yellow. “What the....” he quickly let out as he leaned even closer to himself. He smiled again. They were slightly yellow. To his shock as he closed his mouth to confront his own stare, his skin too began to take on a slight yellow hue. Quickly he closed his eyes. Titling his head down he turned on the faucet. Catching some water in his hands he splashed it onto his face. He looked up again. The yellow hue continued to grow. Another splash of water revealed that even his hands appeared to have a yellow hue, yet when he looked down upon them, his hands appeared perfectly normal. Once again, he held up his hand to the mirror. The reflected hand was turning yellow, yet the back of his hand continued to have the same complexion. Even his exposed chest was slowly becoming yellow. In a frenzy he continued looking back and forth from no mirror to reflection. Comparing the two there was a difference. The mirror was turning his whole-body yellow, and oddly enough a yellow that seemed familiar. In a fit of frustration, he turned away from the torturing glass, and then he saw it. The wall opposite the mirror was yellow, and not just any yellow, the exact shade his body was morphing into. In horror he turned back to face his jaundice counterpart, realizing instantly that he wasn’t turning yellow but instead his reflection was vanishing. “No... not today,” he screamed as he placed both hands upon the mirror, each holding their fading twin. “Please,” he quietly pleaded, placing his forehead upon the cool glass, “I was supposed to have a few more years.” He looked up once again and stared into his own eye; eyes he would never see in reflection again. As his phantom body slowly disappeared, he stepped back to take one last look. “I guess I’ll... see ya around,” he slowly let out. He smiled one last time, not an overly confident smile from moments before, but a large smile, big enough for him to be sure. And there amongst the fading yellow teeth, he saw them, two extending fangs.

Its Monday. I arrive at the office, pass by the reception desk, “My God Kathy, you look like crap!”, softer now, I sit near the reception desk where Melissa works, she says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, you just look like you didn’t sleep all weekend. Are you OK?” I answer, “Yes. Everything is fine now. Sarah’s fine. Friday she had pneumonia, but she’s past the worst part. It has just all been such a strange ordeal.” “Was she that sick?”, Melissa asks softly. “No, it’s not that . . . Its . . . For a while now, she’s been telling us about *The Green Lady*. Things would happen like, she’d misplace her favorite doll and The Green Lady would remind her she took it outside. That it’s near the dog house where she was playing with it the day before. I had an imaginary friend when I was a kid. Lots of kids do for a short period, so Daniel and I never really thought much about it.” Melissa said, “You thought it was a ‘phase’ she would grow out of.” “Right. But then, she’d say The Green Lady would tell her things, things she couldn’t possibly know herself. We had a family friend that was very sick. Daniel and I were afraid she might die. But we’d kept all that from the children until, or unless, it actually happened. Then one day we were planning a weekend trip to Disneyland in three weeks, something the kids love to do, and she said the next morning ‘We shouldn’t go that weekend, The Green Lady said last night, your friend will die that Saturday and you’ll want to be here for the family that weekend.” Melissa looked on, eyes wide, shocked and speechless. I continued, “Yeah. We thought we’d done a pretty thorough job of keeping how serious the friends illness was from the kids, and here she is saying our friend is about to die. Well, three weeks later, Saturday morning I get a call from our friends mother telling us she had just passed minutes before.” Melissa leans in to place her hand on mine, “Oh my Gosh.” “Yeah. So Daniel and I are searching the attic and crawlspaces and everywhere someone could hide. Because I’m beginning to wonder if The Green Lady is some real person that has been talking to the children when we aren’t around. We find nothing. We don’t want to scare the kids, but talk to both separately and our other younger daughter mentions she’s seen her too. That she tucks her in at night some times, and sings to her after Daniel and I have left her in bed. So, Daniel and I are fully freaking at this point. Wondering if moving, or an exorcism, is the better option?” Melissa snorts, “Right.” “We talk to the children, and very discretely slip in some casual questions, to make sure The Green Lady isn’t asking them to kill the neighbors or anything wild, but no, it’s all tucking them in at night, and harmless bedtime stories, or finding the occasional lost or misplaced doll or calming them if something unsettling happened during the previous day. We asked where they’ve seen her at, they say ‘mostly in the house, in our bedroom’. So it’s not someone meeting them out at daycare or school, somewhere when we aren’t around.” Melissa shrugs, “Like when they’re out clubbing.” “Right, I mean they’re seven and four, it’s not like they spend any real time outside close, trusted, adult supervision . . .” “Three months pass, the occasional mention of The Green Lady drops. While its bizarre to us, to the children she’s harmless and it’s all meaningless. Then the oldest daughters allergies kick in, or, it’s a cold, or the flu, we can’t tell yet. She’s not particularly getting worse, but not getting better either and her temperature is back and forth. I tell Daniel I’ll take her to the Doctor tomorrow just as we’re going to bed. 2:30am, I feel a tug on my shoulder and roll over to see . . . A woman, who looks vaguely familiar, with long probably red hair, freckles, and flowing green Victorian length dress, with a bright green aura glowing around her, lean over and say. “She’ll be fine, but it’s gone over to pneumonia, you should probably take her to the hospital and have them check oxygen levels and give her something to drain the fluid around her lungs.” I roll over and scream at Daniel to get up and get dressed, that we’re taking Sarah to the hospital. Turn back and see . . . Nothing. The Green Lady is gone.” “I throw a robe on and head to the girls room as Daniel gets dressed. Her breathing is worse, we take her to the hospital, and the doctor confirms . . . Pneumonia. He gives her something to reduce the fluids and help her breath, and we monitor the oxygen levels for a few hours, and eventually take her home six or so hours later. The Doctor asks what made me bring her in, was her breathing that bad? I paused head down, sighed and said barely audible, ‘No, it was The Green Lady.’ He turned back to the chart, chuckled softly, hanging the stethoscope around his neck and responded, ‘Ah, fifth time in the last year. Who do you think she looks like?’ I couldn’t believe someone else had heard of her and said I didn’t know, but she did look familiar. He asked if I watched a certain TV show’, I blurted out a characters name, that’s where I recognize her from.” I lean back in the guest chair, “Mom and Daniel were with the kids. Phone rings Saturday evening, just as I get home from the grocery. It’s the Doctor from the ER. He’s a friend of a friend of the actress the Green Lady looks like, and wants to know if I’d like to meet her? I said, ‘Sure, I guess’. So he tells me they’ll be home Sunday afternoon and gives me the address. I talk it over with Daniel. My mother had already stopped by to help with the kids, so Daniel and I decide to go.” Melissa asked, “You went over to her house?” “Yes, and recapped the entire story to her and her boyfriend. Her eyes get wide, she leaps off the couch, and says to her boyfriend ‘Oh my God John, they’re crazy. You keep them here, I’ll go in the back and call the police’, and she bolts out of the room.” Melissa gasps, “So you’re about to be arrested?” “We thought so. Daniel and I are panicking. Standing up and apologizing profusely to the boyfriend and trying to excuse ourselves to leave. The boyfriend just smiles, shakes his head, waves us to sit down ‘She’s not calling the police. She’s going into the spare bedroom to get a drawing hanging on the wall.’ Thirty seconds later she comes out and spins around a roughly 11x14 portrait in a very old frame and there is . . . The Green Lady. Red hair like the actress. Long flowing Victorian Green Dress, like the one I saw next to my bed. Not a twin, but enough of a likeness to the actress to make you think of her.” The actress says, ‘This is my Great Aunt Jessica. Its a Black and White charcoal drawing that was shaded over in color. Some of the green is actually coal shading. Apparently if you’re skilled enough, you can shade color with coal, depending on the surrounding room light. She’s been gone for sixty years. I never met her, well,’, she nods with a bit of an eyebrow wink, ‘not while she was alive anyway. But she had no children of her own, and spent most of her life looking after others children while the parents were out working. I saw her as a child, like your daughters do. And, every three to six months, someone sends us a letter, telling us a story, similar to the one you just told us. I can’t explain it, there seems to be no connection to these other people. It’s as if . . . Jessica just continues looking after children as she always has.’” Melissa exhales, “Oh my God, that’s amazing. So a ghost saved your daughter?” I shrug, “Someone, or something did. I can’t explain it. And I haven’t seen her since. Daniel has never seen her. So, that was my weekend, how about you?” Melissa said, “Oh no. I can’t top that.

The Lost Looking Glass of Peter Pan Strange forces were at work. The loadstone of the human mind is more mysterious, and just as powerful, as the irresistible attraction the little needle on your compass has for the land far to the North. Henry had walked this way a thousand times, but today he was swept through the front door of Trudy’s Treasures as if he were on autopilot. No thought, just feet slowly shuffling their way along the worn wooden floor through a menagerie of peculiar objects perceived by someone to have outlived their usefulness, and now, perhaps, destined for renewed purpose in the lives of others. “Can I help you?” “Who, me?” Trudy’s first customer of the day seemed confused. “Yes, if you have any questions, I’ll be here. I’m always here.” Questions? Had the gift of speech not eluded Henry for the moment, he might have inquired as to where he was and why he was there. Music boxes, Christmas ornaments, baby cribs, shoes, bonnets, dolls, bikes, bowls, caps, an army of figurines, beer signs, anything that had once served mankind, had found their way onto the packed shelves of Trudy’s. Henry strode up and down the aisles without noticing any of it, but then that magnetic force thing stopped Henry in his tracks. It wasn’t his reflection peering back at him from the clouded mirror framed by hand-carved oak; it was Henry, from a time the years had buried and Henry could barely remember. The image of a 6-year-old boy with disheveled hair and a mischievous grin stirred his memory and touched his heart. What had become of that little boy? “What is that, Henry?” “It’s a mirror. It will look nice in my office.” “What? Why would you want that ugly thing in your office?” Henry wasn’t sure. “And where did you get it?” Henry didn’t know that one either. “Please don’t tell me you paid for that thing.” Martha had stumped him again. Long after Martha had gone to bed, Henry studied the face of that little boy in the mirror in the dim light of his small office, and finally, he remembered- the carefree moments of play, the wonder of all things seen for the first time, the ability to imagine and dream, the life of a child. The boy’s smile grabbed hold of him, jumped from the mirror and onto his face, never to let go. Time could no longer erase the memory as the magic of the mirror dusted off the years, and Henry’s smile matched the grin in the mirror. Henry was still Henry. “Good morning, dear.” Martha had not heard that tone for years. Her husband seemed...different. “What are you so happy about?” “What day is it?” “Are you okay, Henry? It’s Thanksgiving Day. How could you forget that? Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving.” “Thanksgiving! Oh, my gosh, I’ve got to get going on my list.” “List? What list?” “My wish list. Christmas is only a month away and Santa is coming. I better get moving.” A very perplexed Martha watched Henry hurry off to his office. Henry thought, and wrote, with great excitement: - A new sled. - A battery-operated robot. - A Nerf gun that shot Nerf bullets. - A Candy Land game. - Plastic dinosaurs that could fight each other. - A dump truck that actually dumped stuff. -Electric train with engine that blows real smoke. Henry looked up and saw the mirror hanging on the wall next to his desk. He stood and saw the little boy looking back at him. Henry was happy to see him again. “Yes, Doctor Barnes, he believes in Santa.” “What do you mean by that, Martha?” “I mean what I said. My husband believes in Santa Claus.” “No...” “Yes, he thinks Santa will be coming at Christmas. He spends hours working on his wish list.” The good doctor had known Henry for years, and it was difficult to take Martha’s call seriously. “What’s his position on the Easter Bunny...or the Great Pumpkin... the Tooth Fairy?” After coping with Henry’s rediscovered belief in the jolly old elf for more than a week, Martha was not in the mood. “Dammit, Doctor! My 54-year-old husband believes in Santa! This is not funny.” “Well... it’s a little funny...heh, heh, heh.” Henry’s co-workers were likewise befuddled. “Fred, what kind of cookies do you put out for Santa on Christmas Eve?” “Huh?” “I usually do chocolate chip, but this year I’m going to put out some peanut butter cookies. I think Santa will like the change.” “Huh?” “And I’m worried the milk will get warm. How do you get the milk to stay cold for Santa, Fred?” “Huh?” “And the reindeer! Don’t forget about the reindeer, Fred.” “Marvin, have you noticed anything unusual about Henry lately?” “Well, at his annual review last week, he asked me if he had been naughty or nice. That seemed a little odd.” The body of a man and the mind of a child provided some good entertainment for the neighbors. “Susan! Come here and check this out. Henry is building a snow fort in his backyard!” “Oh, my God, Tom. Yesterday I saw him sledding by himself on the hill at City Park. I think Henry’s lost his marbles. I hope he’s not dangerous. Where are the children?” Martha bounced around from confused to annoyed to compassionate. The sight of Henry on his knees, leaning into the fireplace and peering up the chimney, touched her heart. They had been together since high school, and now the love of her life, in layman’s terms, had gone woo-woo. “How in the world does he get down the chimney, Martha? The guy is amazing. And with all those toys!” “I’m at wit’s end, Susan. Last night he asked me where his ‘jammies’ were, and this morning he put Hershey’s Syrup on his pancakes. He came home from work wearing a cowboy hat.” “That is pretty weird, Martha. I’ve heard of the midlife crisis where a man tries to revisit his early years, but it seems like Henry has gone back a little too far. I didn’t want to tell you this, but last week he showed up at our door and asked Tom if he wanted to come out and play.” Martha suspected it wouldn’t be long before Henry’s behavior went beyond the neighborhood and workplace. The line in front of Santa’s Village at the mall moved slowly, and Henry was growing impatient. “What are you asking Santa to bring you? I want him to bring me an electric train, one that shoots real smoke out of the engine. My name is Henry. What’s yours?” Deep within the heavy jacket, stocking cap, and colorful wool scarf, a little boy was struggling to come up with the appropriate response. “I’m Willie. Uh... are you here to see Santa?” “You bet. This is my third time. I keep changing my mind. I don’t want to ask for too much. Sometimes it’s better to ask for just one special thing to make sure you get it.” The image of the 6’2” 195 lb. Henry perched on Santa’s lap will long be remembered by all who witnessed the event. As fate would have it, TV 6 was doing a story on the Christmas shopping rush, and Henry made the six o’clock news- the national news. “Here’s an interesting story out of Cleveland, Ohio. A 54-year-old man was seen sitting on Santa’s lap at a local mall, apparently telling him what he wanted for Christmas. Our own Jay Larson caught up with the man after his visit with Santa. Jay, what’s the story here? Some kind of a joke, or did the guy lose a bet? America wants to know.” “Well, Bret, let’s first give our viewers a chance to get the little ones out of the room. Some things are best unsaid in the presence of small children.” “Good point, Jay... And with that warning, what’s the story here?” “Apparently, someone’s parents didn’t tell him about the real deal with Santa. I think we may have the first recorded case of a grown man who still believes in Santa. Here’s a clip of my earlier conversation with 54-year-old Mr. Henry Farkel.” At this point, Martha closed her eyes and covered her ears, Henry beamed with pride, and a gleeful Tom pulled his chair closer to the TV. “So, Mr. Farkel, how was your visit with Santa?” “Awesome! Santa is the best person in the whole world. He’s going to bring me an electric train. I love him.” “That’s great...” “With an engine that blows real smoke.” “How nice. So, Mr. Farkel, I have to ask you. Do you still believe in Santa Claus?” “What do you mean, still?” “I mean, most people stop believing in Santa when they are six or seven years old.” “That’s silly. Who do they think brings them their presents? Geez.” Martha reflexively turned the TV off, put her head in her hands, and moaned softly. Tom and Susan, along with millions of people in their homes, at bars, and in airports throughout the country were laughing hysterically. Life would never be the same for Henry and Martha. “Hi, Mom.” “Martha! What’s with that goofy husband of yours? Santa?! Oh, my God. I told you not to marry the guy.” Martha felt like she was wearing a “Kick Me” sign on her back wherever she went. “Look, Gladys. Her husband’s the one who still believes in Santa.” “I saw your husband on TV last night, Martha.” Enough said. Giggles and smirks everywhere. At work, Henry garnered a company record four reprimands in one month- one for sailing paper airplanes across the office, one for putting a fake snake in Nancy Martin’s lunch bag, and two for firing spitballs into Fred’s cubicle. On the homefront, he regularly played Ding-Dong Ditch on Tom and Susan, and short-sheeted his and Martha’s bed to the growing annoyance of his early-to-bed wife. And, of course, the relentless revisions to his Christmas wish list continued. Martha was reaching her breaking point. No plan of action derived from additional calls to Doctor Barnes, and occasional visits to the 24 Chapel at St. Mary’s yielded no miracle. She tried reasoning with her husband. “Henry, you have to know that reindeer can’t fly.” “Oh yeah? Well then how does Santa deliver presents all over the world in one night? You’ve got to think this thing through, Martha.” Martha grudgingly understood she was now married to a man with the world view of a six-year-old. The contrast could not have been greater, the elderly, austere Father Hanley delivering his soul-saving Homily from a lectern with the receiver of a remote-controlled gag-sound machine, set to barnyard chickens, cleverly concealed inside. Henry eagerly awaited the moment. Bawk, bawk, bawk! Cluck, cluck, cluck! Bawk, bawk, bawk! Never in the history of gatherings of people had so many tried so hard to contain their laughter, and there had never been a more mortified priest than poor Father Hanley as he struggled to comprehend the moment. After church, Martha expressed her displeasure over the sophomoric stunt. “That was bad, Henry, really bad. During Mass! You’ve been doing a lot of strange things lately. They have been childish and silly, but not harmful... until today. That was bad, Henry.” Henry felt like a scolded child... which he was. The last thing Henry would ever want to do would be to hurt Martha. Father Hanley immediately suspected Henry was the culprit when he fell out of his pew and rolled around in the aisle in a fit of unrestrained joy. He pulled Martha aside after Mass. “Martha, I think your husband was the one responsible for that childish and disturbing prank. ” “Really? What makes you think that, Father?” “Martha...” “I’ll talk to him.” “Martha, a few nights ago, just after dark, I heard laughter coming from the playground. I looked out my window and saw Henry coming down the big slide. Then he went to the swings. 1 Corinthians 13:11, Martha. When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child. But, when I became a man, I put aside the things of a child.’ Please remind Henry that he is now a man.” “I’ll do that. Sorry, Father.” But... strange forces were again working their magic. For the first time since the momentous change in Henry’s behavior, Martha felt conflicted. The episode in the church was certainly regrettable, but the thought of Henry flying down the big slide brought a smile. And the swings! On their first date, she and Henry went to the town park and talked for hours while sitting on two swings. That was so long ago, but Martha remembered. The guy was acting like a complete nut-job, but it suddenly occurred to her that Henry seemed... happy, happy as he had ever been. That night, Martha observed Henry once again planted in front of the mirror. The smile was there, and he seemed peaceful, content, and... happy. Henry returned to the kitchen table where he had been drawing stickmen attacking a castle as Martha reflected on the events of the past few weeks. Santa, all the strange behavior, bringing home the mirror, constantly looking in the mirror... the mirror... the mirror. It was drawing her in. She walked into Henry’s office and looked at herself in the mirror. It was her, but not her. The years peeled away, and Martha saw a little girl in a red jumper, light brown hair with a yellow ribbon, and a smile she had a hard time remembering. It was the smile of those carefree, fun years of a child. She had seen that smile recently...on Henry. Martha stared at the little girl in the mirror until she could no longer keep her eyes open. When Henry came home from work the next day, Martha greeted him with a smile... yes, that kind of smile. “Henry, I made some sandwiches, and I thought we could go over to St. Mary’s for a little picnic. Then maybe we could go down the big slide and sit on the swings and talk for a while. We haven’t done anything like that for a long time, Henry. What do you say?” “You’re on! And when we get home it will be dark, so we could pull a little Ding-Dong Ditch on Tom and Susan!” “Hell, why stop there, Henry? Let’s hit the whole neighborhood!” Henry smiled as he put his arm around Martha. He had just gotten his Christmas present early, the last thing he had asked for from Santa.

Chat Transcript 09/17/2012 G: Hey there! R: Hi, What's up? G: Marry me? R: nope G: :-( R: Are you gonna do that every time we talk? G: of course! R: ha R: you're funny G: ...and cute G: ...and a good cook R: yes G: and quite romantic G: and a good dad G: and sexy... did I forget sexy? G: and I have a nice voice R: Don't forget how modest you are G: Oh! I forgot that one! I'm the most modest man on earth! R: that's right! G: I'm so humble that they tried to crown me king of humility G: ...only... G: I was too humble to accept R: haha! G: See! I make you laugh! R: Quite a lot right now, actually :-) G: Think about it... a life with me would be full of laughter and romance and good food! R: Are you trying to romance me with this? G: Hmm, I don't know... is it working? R: ... R: I'm starting to think you have a quota to fill.. that you must propose to me at least once every single day R: you seem to be doing that G: Well, if you ever say yes, imagine how romantic it would be to tell our children: G: "He proposed to me every day for 2 years, until I finally said yes, on Sept 17th, 2012!" R: lol, you wish! G: *obviously!* G: The kids will say, "why did you keep asking, Daddy?" G: And I'll say, "Because, once you meet an angel, you'd be a fool to not do everything on your power to win her heart' G: Then they'll say, "why did you say yes, mommy?" R: and just what will I say, in this hypothetical future? G: You'll say, "I said yes because he told us about this day, with my perfect children and my handsome, romantic husband. And I knew that was the future I wanted, and now it's come true, more perfect than I could ever imagine." G: And then I'll kiss you deeply G: And our children will say "ewww" G: And it will still be romantic as always G: Then we'll tuck them in together, and go out to our porch with a glass of wine and watch the stars, wrapped in eachother's arms R: aww R: ok, that was seriously cute G: :-) R: We also have to put Nanny back in the dog house R: and make sure the windows are closed. R: Then it'll be a good night G: Lol... of course G: ... G: Tell the truth, you liked that one even better than my sunset-horseback-picnic-proposal scenario from last week.

Sarah was by the lockers when Jordan came to greet her. “Hey,” Jordan said, “you’re the new girl. Sarah, right?” “Yeah,” Sarah said, smiling, “nice to meet you.” “So I know we don’t know each other well, but I couldn’t help but notice that you were sitting with Billy at lunch.” “Yeah, I didn’t have anywhere else to sit. I asked him if it was cool if I could sit next to him, and he said yes. He seems like a cool guy.” “About that. Word of advice: don’t hang out with Billy.” Sarah knitted her brows. “Why? What’s wrong with Billy?” “He’s a freak.” Sarah, taken aback by the straightforwardness, asked, “What makes you say that?” Jordan leaned in and whispered, “He’s a Republican.” “Oh,” Sarah said, relieved that it wasn’t something serious. “Well, I’m a Democrat personally, but I don’t think him being a Republican makes him-” “That’s not all! He also likes weird things.” “Weird things?” Sarah said, concerned again. “Like...” “Fantasy novels.” “Fantasy novels?” Sarah said, deadpan. “Yeah, he’s always reading books about dragons and elves!” Sarah nodded, not really listening anymore. “I appreciate you trying to warn me, but I don’t think any of these things makes Billy a ‘freak.’ I have to go, so-” As she turned to leave, Jordan said, “But you haven’t even heard the worst part yet.” “Worst part?” “The thing he does with his pet dog.” Sarah, deciding to give her one more chance, waited for Jordan’s explanation. “You see,” Jordan said, “he likes to dress his dog up in little sweaters, and-” “Alright,” Sarah interrupted, “this is ridiculous! Billy is a perfectly nice guy. I really don’t understand why you think he’s a freak, but I’m not going to stop hanging out with him, because of his love for cute animals or his politics.” “Hey, Sarah!” Jordan jumped, and standing behind her was Billy himself. He was a skinny teenager that wore big glasses and a t-shirt with a fire-breathing dragon on it. He had a goofy smile, unaware that he had been the topic of the conversation. “Hi, Billy,” Sarah said, smiling, “how are you?” “Fine,” Billy replied. Billy readjusted his glasses and said nervously, “I was wondering if you’d like to hang out at my place. I have this board game I bought and I have no one else to play it with, so-” “I would love to,” Sarah said. Billy and Sarah walked away together, and Jordan shook her head in disapproval. The next day, Sarah was at the lockers again and looked troubled. Jordan walked up to her and patted her on the back. “Hey,” Jordan said, “you okay?” Sarah nodded, her eyes unfocused. “You were right,” she said. “About Billy being a freak.” “Yeah, sorry I couldn’t dissuade you before you learned the hard way.” Sarah, shaking, said, “I just wished you warned me about the furry porn and him being a Nazi first.

It’s 2 a.m. I’m lying in bed, waiting for the day to start, so I can finally escape this nightmare. Once dawn hits I’m jumping out of bed, running to the Ops Managers' office, and handing in my resignation. I'll explain to him that I can no longer work here, and thank him very much for the opportunity, but I’m seeking employment elsewhere. I’ll pack my bags and leave this place on the next bus out to town. For the last five months I’ve been working at Hillcraven Gold Mine. It’s a relatively small operation, but one that's been going for over two hundred years. I’ve been working as it's surveyor, much to the dismay of my mother. I was originally supposed to study and become a software developer. After passing high school and getting my degree (alongside the hundred other kids who had the same idea), I'd spend most of my days sitting behind a computer monitor, drinking copious amounts of coffee while typing code for hours on end. Luckily for me, a few bad marks on my final report card prevented that catastrophe from ever happening. As a result, I’ve become what is known as a ‘third generation miner’, as my dad likes to call it. He made his living as a mine surveyor, and his dad did as well. It was fate, really, that brought me to here. The work is tough, but I’ve found that the mining culture and the routine of the work is extremely enjoyable. I've been living in a commune on-site with five other men, provided to me free of charge by the mine, eating meals at the cafeteria for pennies and only going in to town once a month for a whole week of drinking with my colleagues. The routine has created what I can only describe as a kinship between me and my coworkers. We eat the same food, work in the same conditions and sleep in the same house. Every morning at 6:30 a.m. sharp, we wake up and make our beds, rubbing the sleep from our eyes and stretching out our stiff limbs. We walk out and join the other hundred people in the locker rooms. We open up our assigned lockers, get changed into our overalls and gumboots, grab our hard hats from the racks and make our way to the lamp room. The lamp room is where you get the safety equipment required for going underground. The kit includes one battery-powered LED headlamp, which you attach to the top of your hard hat, an external battery pack that provides power to the lamp, which you thread through one side of your belt, and one small oxygen tank that you clip onto the other side of your belt. So far no one has bothered to explain to me when I should use the oxygen tank, or even how, so I pray that I won’t have a need to know anytime soon. Once you’re kitted out, you make your way to the mine shaft. The Shift Boss will be waiting outside the lift, with his ragged clipboard and leathery face. You give him your name, and tell him which tunnel you’re going to today, and he’ll make a note on his list. That way, they can see who’s missing at the end of the shift, and who shouldn’t have gone in in the first place. The Shift Boss is also responsible for checking if you have the right equipment on. If you don’t, you can’t go in. Got your hard hat? Check. Headlamp working? Check. Earplugs? Check. Last on his list is your boots. He’ll glance over his clipboard and give your gumboots a quick once-over, to make sure you have them on. Once he’s checked that off the list, he’ll give it a second check. If your gumboots have so much as a spot of dirt on them, he’ll raise his eyebrow at you and give you a chuckle. “Been working the night shift, huh?” he’d ask. All the fellow miners will laugh at that, having been asked the same question at some point. “What?” I asked the first time it happened to me, my boots muddied and hard hat perched awkwardly on my head. “Your boots. The only people who have a reasonable excuse to have dirty boots are the people who work the night shift.” He replied. “But we don’t have a night shift?” I asked, slightly confused. “Exactly. Make sure you keep your boots clean.” He replied, stepping aside to let me into the lift and looking back down at his list, checking off the next person’s name. All the surveyors must also report to the survey office for a briefing on what parts of the mine you'll be surveying that day, as well as to fetch the equipment from lock-up. Since I’m the only surveyor on the mine besides Mark, I have to lug the near-10kg equipment by myself. Mark is nearing eighty, has severe arthritis and spends his days in his office, looking over the mine plans and watering his beloved fern. He retired over ten years ago, hopping onto the solitary bus that takes you back to town once a week to live with his wife of fifty years. His plan was to spend his last good years with her, doing some gardening on the two-acre property that he brought in the 80’s, until he passed away, hopefully, in his sleep. After spending a month living with her, though, he hopped right back on that bus and begged for his job back, deciding that he’d rather spend his last few years working away from home. His duties mainly comprise of checking my work and updating the plans when necessary. On occasion, though, he’ll grace you with one of his many pieces of advice that he’s acquired through the years. “Always keep both feet firmly on the ground while in the tunnels. Don’t wanna slip and fall.”, he’ll tell you as you pass him in the kitchen, or: “A sharp pencil is a sign of sharp work.” One of his favorites though, that he never seems to grow tired of, is: “Always check your headlamp before you go down. It’s easy to get lost and without a torch, you’ll never make it back.” I normally try to follow the advice he gives me. Most of it makes sense, and has actually helped me at times. Thanks to him I always check my lamp before going down. I mostly just give it a cursory click-on and click-off while the lift takes me down to the right level. Yesterday I was working alone in one of the quieter parts of the mine. It was an old shaft that they were looking at expanding, and it was my job to make sure they knew where they were going. While I was setting up the equipment, I stepped on something soft. I picked up my foot. It was lying on the floor, half-buried by the dust and debris. A small pocketbook. Curious, I dug it out and dusted it off. *“Survey Report - Mark Whittel.”* it said on the front, in neat block letters. It was bound by a green leather cover, slightly scuffed and warped from sitting in someone’s back pocket. I chuckled to myself as I picked it up. He must have lost this back in his heyday, when he was still making his rounds. I thought it would be funny to show it to him, take a look through his old notes and laugh at how he lost it. I slipped it into my pocket and carried on with the job, forgetting about it almost immediately. Once closing came I went back up the lift, locked up the survey equipment and said goodnight to Mark. I handed in the headlamp and oxygen tank and went to the locker room. It was there that I remembered it, as I was changing into my normal clothes. By that point Mark was most likely asleep, so I’d have to show it to him the next day. My colleagues and I ate dinner in the cafeteria, playing a round or two of poker before ultimately moving back to the dorm. As I lay in bed, winding down and getting ready to sleep, I decided to take a look through the pocketbook. Just out of curiosity. The first few pages were just random personal notes on things to remember, as well as some drawings of different tunnels, all of them labeled. I laughed at a few of them, the contrast between the old man Mark I know and the young man Mark in this book was startling. After a few more pages, though, something caught my eye. A note was written across the page: *“If you’re reading this, please send help. I’m trapped down here with no idea how to get out.”* I almost choked laughing at that. The Mark I know could probably navigate those tunnels with his eyes closed, there’s no way he’d lose the exit. He must have been very young. I couldn’t wait to show him this. We’ll go through it together, most likely in tears thinking about Young Mark lost in the tunnels. Getting found by a group of miners who probably never let him hear the end of it. I turn the page and carry on reading. This time the page is full of text. He’s numbered the date at the top. *“Day 6”* *“It’s been almost a week since I came down here, and none of the tunnels seem familiar. I’ve been walking upwards for what seems like hours now, with no signs of me getting closer to the surface.”* *“I was surveying tunnel B2L when my headlamp turned off. I stood there frozen for a second, the darkness causing my muscles to seize up. I reached for its switch, flicking it off and then back on. The light flicked back on, luckily, but that was the least of my problems.”* I turned the page. *“For a moment I couldn’t believe what had happened. I wasn’t in the same tunnel.”* I re-read that line again, slightly confused. Did he mean that he somehow accidentally wandered into a different tunnel? Or was he just magically teleported to a different part of the mine? I’ll have to ask him tomorrow. “I wandered around for a while, calling out, hoping someone would hear me and tell me which section I was in. My equipment was missing as well, most likely left behind when I was taken here.” *“After what felt like hours, I heard noises. What sounded like people digging further in. I made my way towards it, still calling out, until I heard them stop and call back to me.”* *“I’ve been working here for over ten years. I started as an ordinary miner, rubbing shoulders with everyone at some point, before getting promoted to Chief Surveyor.”* *“In all that time, I have never met these men.”* I turned the page again. *“Day 9.”* *“These men have a wild desperation about them. Some just keep hammering against the wall, ripping chunks out of it with wild abandon for days on end. Some just sit idle, making small talk or just staring at the wall.”* *“They told me that there’s no way back up, as far as they’ve seen. At some point they worked on the mine and their lamps did the same thing as mine. When they turned back on, they found themselves here, just like I did.”* The next few pages are filled with what looks like scribbles drawn inside a grid. They all start in the center square and stretch out until meeting back in the middle, hundreds of little strands stretching across the pages, After awhile, I realized that they were maps. *“Day 10.”* *“They call this ‘night shift’, due to the fact that all their watches stick at 2 a.m. sharp. Mine’s been reading the same thing since I got here. When I asked them why they were digging, they explained that no matter how far up or down you go, you end up back here anyways. So they decided to go sideways.”* *“I’ve been here a week, and to me that sounds like a reasonable choice. Some of these guys have been here for years.”* *“Since I got to night shift, I haven’t felt the need to eat or drink. Sleep hardly comes and almost seems to be more out of habit when it does. I’ve spent the week mapping out the tunnel system, there are hundreds of offshoots that all seem to end up at the same spot, no matter how irrational it is.”* *“Day 11.”* *“I think I’ve finally found something. A small stress seam at the end of a dead-end tunnel. It stretches from the floor to ceiling and is just wide enough to stick my pinkie through. I can feel air coming from it, a soft, erratic breeze that must come from outside.”* *“I’m turning back and finding the other guys to help me dig. This could be the way out.”* The next few pages were full of sketches of the tunnel wall. He labeled where the stress seam is, as well as the optimal spots to dig it out. I flipped through them until I found another page full of text. This time, it looks like it was written with a shaky hand. There’s no date on the top. *“They haven’t stopped chasing me since we let them out. As far as I can tell I’m the only one left alive. They were waiting on the other side for someone to break the seam.”* *“They look just like us. Same faces, same clothes, same everything.”* *“I’ve been hiding but I think they’ve found me. I can hear them coming, they have good sense of smell. I can hear them sniffing-”* The rest of the pages are blank. I turned off my torch and placed the pocketbook on my nightstand. As I turned on my side, something caught my eye. Fred was lying in his bed, his head turned towards me. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could feel the hair on the back of my neck rising. He's been staring at me, his eyes wide and mouth slightly open. My heart beat faster as I realized he hadn't blinked. I turned away from him, my insides going cold as I fought down my paranoia. I shut my eyes. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm myself down.

“I thought you said this island was uninhabited!?” “It is,” Alessia squawked back at me. “Then what the fuck was that?” Alessia let a beat pass. “By the looks of it a bunch of murderous naked people that we don’t want to be heard by.” I paused. Taking a moment to breathe and lower my volume. “Okay. But... shit.” I could feel myself shaking, my heart punching against the bottom of my throat. My eyes were both drawn towards and disgusted by the red stains on the beach. “You okay?” Alessia asked. “No.” Alessia flinched slightly at the venom in my voice, and I took another few seconds to compose myself. “But I will be. How are you?” “Honestly? A little relieved I didn’t have to do it.” She looked down at the detonator by her feet. “I would’ve but... didn’t want to.” I nodded, looking around at the island. To my right a straight plunge down to the ocean and a series of ragged rocks. To the left, nothing but dense forest. I stepped up to the ledge, looking down the cliff. “We can probably get down again.” “Even if we get down right now, the tide’s not coming back for hours. We’d be sitting on the beach hoping those bastards didn’t come exploring. And if they see us clambering down...” I sucked air between my teeth, imagining being halfway down the cliff face with those baying bodies beneath me. “So what do we do instead?” Alessia eyed the path along the top of the cliff leading into the forest. “It’s not too bad through there. Wait till nightfall, go through the forest, get down to the beach that way. Meanwhile, find some shelter at the edge of the trees.” We detached the wires from the detonator and let them fall down the side of the cliff, before carefully dropping the plunger into a bush so we could get through the forest unencumbered. I followed Alessia’s lead and we walked down the gentle sloping path towards the forest, camping out by resting against the first row of trees. I watched the day wane slowly in the west, the sky turning from blue to orange as the sun dipped across the horizon. When the protection of darkness arrived, we ventured into the woods. As soon as we passed through the first few layers of trees, it quickly became a near pitch black. Above me, I could see occasional glimpses of stars, but the canopy was thick, and little light penetrated. I could see movement; make out Alessia shifting against the background in front of me, but all else remained a mystery. We moved in silence, trying to avoid detection. Still, we couldn’t help the noise of our steps crushing twigs, or errant arms brushing against branches. Every few paces we stopped, listening to the forest around us. Each time there was silence. Though after a while the darkness began to play tricks on us. The branch snapping beneath my feet became a shout from across the forest, the shifting soil, the growl of a would-be attacker. Then I heard what sounded like a distant whistle. It was faint. I shook my head, dismissing it, telling my ears to focus and not lose myself in fantasy. The sound came again, this time a decibel louder. I could feel a slight hesitation in Alessia’s step. But she kept walking. Then a howl. A loud, high-pitched, trill sung out into the night air. We both stopped on the spot. Another howl called back. A message sent across the forest. The noise was like no other I had heard. It was a high key but it resonated deeply, the sound forced out across the dense woodland. I tried to imagine my own body making the noise, stretching my throat in some way to create such a shriek. It wasn’t possible. All I knew is that whatever made that noise, wasn’t human. “What was that?” I whispered as loudly as I dare. “I... have... no idea.” I had never heard such unsteadiness in Alessia’s voice before. I could hear her swallow, as she dared to move a pace forward. “It sounded far away. Let’s hope it stays like that.” Step by step we regained the confidence to move, wearily putting one foot in front of the other as the hill began to level out. Another couple of minutes and gaps began to appear between the trees as the soil became looser and dryer, unable to support the packed foliage. Moonlight could be seen hitting the ground, a faint grey tint illuminating what was previously void of light. Ahead of us, the trees continued like this for another hundred metres or so, before the treeline stopped. The edge of the forest. The start of the beach. Our pace increased, the promise of freedom drawing us towards it. Our heavy footsteps grew louder as we pushed towards the sanctuary of Alessia’s boat. And it was too late when the dreadful realization hit me that the noise of feet against the ground was too loud to just be our own. “Stop!” Everything beneath my neck turned to ice. My head merely slumped against my chest. We were caught. We would have to fight, and maybe die. “Who you?” I turned slowly to find five men and women staring at me. However, they weren’t naked like the attackers on the beach. They wore simple furs around their waists and torsos. Some were clearly deer, others were a shaggier fur, a pale color indistinguishable in the limited light. “Who you?” the one at the front repeated. “We’re leaving,” I said slowly. One of the other members of the group stepped forward, patting the front one with the side of a long, pointed stick. “Look. Klader,” he said, pinching his furs and pointing to us. The first man, the leader of the group, nodded. “We’re no one. You can let us go,” I said slowly. “You are trouble. Corruption.” The leader readied the wooden spear in his hand. “You vapen?” I looked at the man confused. “Vapen!?” he barked. Realizing we didn’t understand, he reached over and tapped the end of his stick. Making a small thrusting motion. “Weapon.” I muttered. Alessia nodded, reaching into her belt and pulling out her knife. The man pointed to the ground and Alessia dropped it by her feet. “What do?” one of the other islanders asked. “Kill them,” a second replied. The leader shook his head. “Leviathans find out, then we dead too. Think we skadad.” “Befri?” “Leviathans likely know. They alltid know. We befri, we guilty. We take them to the river,” the leader said, his eyes still locked onto mine. “Then Leviathians definite know.” “Our best hope. Give avsta. Show fortrond. Leviathans forgive.” “Admit tech to Leviathans?” One of the group said, walking in front of the leader. “Yes.” “And if Leviathans kill us anyway?” “Why would? We show commitment to nature. Offered avsta.” Silence returned to the group. Happy there were no further protestations, the leader turned to us. “Okay. You with us.” He pointed to the forest. I looked over to Alessia, wondering if we should run. She gave the smallest shake of her head and walked in the direction we were told to go. The man looked up to the sky. “Too dangerous at night. Varg. Ovan. Wait by the water for morning.” At a small stream the leader walked over to a tree and pointed to it with the spear. I walked slowly, delaying putting myself between the pointed end and the trunk. I shuffled up slowly against the tree as Alessia leaned against the other side. The man nodded downwards. I interpreted the gesture and began sliding down the tree, staring at the man’s face as I inched down the trunk in case I had not understood the gesture. As I reached the floor, I could feel the cold forest earth press against my thighs, the moisture of a night’s dew seeping through the trousers. The man walked over, standing mere inches from us, looking straight down. I craned my neck up to look at the giant looming over me, wide pupils framed by an unruly beard. “You move. You die.” I nodded. The man walked over to the others and muttered something. After they were done a woman walked over and sat down at right angles to us both, ready to keep watch. I felt a rustling as Alessia shimmied against the trunk behind me. I turned my head to the right, whispering away from our watcher. “You got another knife or something?” “Nope,” Alessia said. “What then?” “Getting comfy. Might as well try and sleep.” “What?” The words came a bit too loudly, and I could sense the eyes of our watcher narrow. I faced forward, allowing the suspicion to dwindle. Only once it felt safe to do so, did I turn back. “Sleep?” “We ain’t escaping. Not now. If we get a chance to make a move, it’ll be tomorrow and we’ll need energy.” “So you’re going to sleep while they could kill us any second.” “If you’re quiet I will.” I took a deep breath in, resisting the urge to argue. Instead I joined Alessia in her plan, slouching against the tree, getting as comfy as possible. Sleep came in small spurts - a brief thirty-minute cycle here and there before the discomfort or the realisation of my jeopardy hit me. Between the moments of shuteye, I watched the stars through the gaps in the trees as the celestial bodies made their journey across the earth. The final sleep was interrupted by a loud cry of “Wake” from the man leading the group. My eyes opened slowly to the dawn. I peeled my back away from the trunk, the vertebrae burning as they were ripped from the bark and curled back into their regular position. “Wake. Time to move,” the man shouted once more. I nodded that I understood. However, he was uninterested in giving me time, moving the spear to his front. “Move,” he barked, teeth bared. I jolted myself forward, letting out a small groan as my body clicked into place. I pulled myself to my feet and brushed off the remnants of the forest floor from my clothes as Alessia appeared from the other side of the tree. “How’d you sleep?” “I’ve had better,” Alessia said, crooking her neck. “Quiet,” the man said. “You front.” The man pointed to his left with the spear. We walked a few metres in front of the men and women, the spears pointed at our back. I kept looking over my shoulder, wondering if they were likely to charge and end us at any given second. I began to feel my spine twitch, small points on my back becoming warm with the anticipation of being pierced by the sharp pieces of wood. There were no true paths here. Navigation came from finding the largest gap between the trees and listening to the instructions given by our captors. After a few hours of trudging, we were completely disorientated. The low spring sun couldn’t be seen through the tall pines around us, and the constant shifting from left to right meant I had no idea which direction we were heading, or where the beach would even be were we to escape. However, as the trek continued, our captors seemed less immediately concerned with us. And I took the opportunity to take half a step closer to Alessia, now narrow enough for a whisper to carry. “Where are they taking us?” “No idea.” I let out a small huff and looked over my shoulder. A brief thought flashed across my face, and Alessia seemed to catch it. “Don’t...” she said, rolling her eyes. “What?” “You’re going to try and talk your way out of this aren’t you?” I refused to respond. Instead I paused, counted to five, and turned to face our captors. “Where are you taking us?” I saw Alessia’s head fall backwards, her gaze pointed to the heavens. “Leviathans.” “Who?” “Leviathans watch over the island. Keep connection with nature. You ruin that.” “We’re not here to ruin anything-” “Your klader. Your knowledge. Your hair. Your words. All corruption from nature. If we not give you to Leviathans we at risk. Keep walking.” The man jolted his spear an inch forward, just enough for me to turn and scurry a few steps. “What would they even do? These... *Leviathans*... if they knew you spoke to us and let us go.” “Kill us.” “What?” I said, spitting out the words. “You cannot return to nature once it is corrupted. Only solution? Clear earth and let something else grow.” The man’s words were plain and unemotive. “What are these Leviathans like? Who are they?” “Don’t know. No one does. Leviathans only appear if nature is broken.” “But how do they know if you have?” “Leviathans alltid know” the man huffed. “Leviathans are spirits,” said a woman from the group. “Fly above us. Watching over us.” I caught Alessia’s side-eyeing me as we walked between the trunks. “Sorry?” I asked. The woman continued. “Two years past. Group was cleansed by Leviathans for building homes. One woman survived. Said Leviathans floated above ground. Coloured pure white. And can kill by looking and pointing at you. Leviathans gudars. Spirits.” I saw Alessia wince, trying to keep her mouth shut. “So if you break from nature, spirits of the forest come for you?” I turned to ask, facing my captors once more. “Shut,” the leader barked. “I’m only asking-” “Shut.” The man halted. The others did too, their spears readied. I looked at them, waiting for more information. My heart began picking up pace, preparing itself for whatever was about to unfold. The steady beat became a kick against the inside of my ribs. Then I heard it. The rustling from the forest to my right. Another beat. Another second of silence. Then they came. Four of the attackers we’d seen earlier on the beach ran at us, nude flesh charging towards us with stones raised, jagged ends pointed down. They hit one of our captors first. Rolling with them onto the ground. With the man subdued, they raised the stone high in the air. However, before hell could be unleashed, a wooden spear was thrust into their side, piercing the abdomen. The stone dropped to the floor in reflexive agony. The woman withdrew her lance and its blood tipped end. She turned to face the man on the ground as another of the naked attackers approached from behind. She dodged the first swipe, but the jagged stone glanced off her hip and thigh, tearing deep into the flesh. The woman screamed, holding her left hand to her leg, and reaching wildly with the spear in her right. She got lucky, piercing her attacker by the collar bone. The javelin cut through the shoulder, breaking the skin on exit. The wooden tip protruding into a small dome, as blood pooled around the space. The assailant jolted, and the spear snapped, the wood still embedded in them. They swiped with the stone. The rock caught the same leg. Another bit of flesh torn out. Seeing the danger another spear carrier stepped in, this time dealing a more decisive thrust to the neck. A desperate gurgle escaped the attacker’s mouth as he fell to the ground, liquid life pouring from his lips. I turned to my left as the other attackers were dealt with. Spears snapped against rib cages. So our captors took to using their attackers' weapons against them. Stones rammed into skulls until there was no resistance left. With one final grunt, the last of the attackers was dispatched. The screams ended. Silence returned save for labored breathing. “How you?” the leader called out, turning and examining the group. The others nodded a confirmation they were okay. “All ovan dead?” he asked. Once more, confirmatory nods. “We go, before the varg smell it.” “The varg?” I asked. The man ignored me. “Leave broken spears. More at camp.” Everyone turned to walk. Everyone except the woman with the gash to her leg. She was knelt on her right knee, her left leg bent. However, as she tried to push up to stand, her left leg buckled. She pushed again, this time nearly fully upright, before a yelp left her mouth and she fell to the floor, her outstretched arms cushioning her fall. I looked at her hand, streaks of ruby leaking between the knuckles. I took a step to my right so that I could see her thigh. It looked like it had been ripped away, the muscles and tissues replaced by nothing but blood oozing from shredded arteries. “Can’t walk can you?” the leader asked. “I can try,” the woman muttered, looking up to meet his eyes. The man walked over to her side, looking closer at the wound. He shook his head. “Can’t keep up, can’t come.” He stood up and turned to the others. “Go.” “What?” Alessia blurted out. “We can carry her, easily.” The man’s face tensed as he walked over to Alessia., standing mere centimeters away. “The wound is bleeding. Either bleed out or die from infection.” “That wound is healable. It needs to be cleaned and cauterized-” “Shut!” the man screamed. He threw a fist, hitting Alexia in the abdomen with one sharp movement. She keeled over, the wind knocked out of her. But she didn’t whimper. “Do not speak. Your knowledge damn us all. We leave. We leave now. Move.” I walked over to Alessia and placed an arm around her shoulder, picking her up. “You okay?” She nodded, but with a small wince that she tried to hide. Somehow our situation seemed graver than ever. Never before had I seen Alessia be anything but the most sure person in the room. But in one moment she had been silenced. Perhaps up until that moment, despite all the violence I had seen on Outer Fastanet and elsewhere, I felt some comfort in knowing Alessia was by my side - a calm guide in the roughest storms. It was a comfort that had now been shattered. As we walked off into the forest once more, I looked back at the woman. She held back spluttered tears that knew too well of her fate. Yet the instinct remained. And even as we disappeared among the leaves, she would push off with her leg, crawling a few inches before collapsing again. Eventually the trunks grew too many, and I lost sight of her. She was alone, left to the forest. I turned to Alessia, now standing stronger, but still with a hand held over her stomach. And I wondered how long it would be till we were claimed too. \ Next chapter published 28th October.

“MAGDALEN, Peter.” The name on the card glittered in the fresh sunlight of a new day. Amber opened the file and ran her finger over the mugshot and felt the connection. Another client. Another day. Another twenty-four hours. ** I saw him standing in the middle of a crowded shopping square, neatly dressed but staring around the place like he was confused and afraid. He seemed lost and dazed, but no-one approached him to help. I could see the thoughts running through his head. Why is no-one helping him? Why didn’t anyone see him? What was wrong with the world? Why did he suddenly feel empty? After watching him suffer for a little while more, just to get the gauge of him, I approached. “You look like you could use a friend right now,” I said softly, standing beside him. “What?” He turned to look at me. Peter Magdalen. “No, thanks. I’m just a bit lost is all.” “Then let me help you.” “I don’t need your help.” He became defensive. They usually did. I checked my watch. Time was already ticking. I’d used up my first hour observing him so I could help him better. Before I could say another word, Peter marched away from me. So, naturally, I followed him. After all, I was on a time budget. After twenty-four hours, he wouldn’t pass. I followed him for another hour, listening to his ramblings. His train of thought was a wreck, crashing here and there, trying to figure out exactly what was missing. He wasn’t stable enough to know, not just yet. He needed to be calm. He walked without purpose, but fast, his thin-soled shoes barely making a sound on the hot concrete. I watched him walk towards the busy intersection he hadn’t seen. I watched cars whizzing past at seventy miles per hour. I watched as he stepped out, and then realised, and stepped back. “ARGH! FUCK!” I stepped beside him. “What the fuck?! Jesus... I don’t need to die today!” he breathed, clutching his chest. Then, he froze. “Wait.” Still, I said nothing. He looked down after a moment and frowned, but then shook his head, dismissing the thought entirely. “Hot day, huh?” I asked, with a glance up to the cloudless, sunny sky. Peter gave a vague nod and smiled at me. “Yeah, sure is...” he sighed, leaning against the traffic light post. It was almost instinctive that he would want to keep his virtually unprotected feet from burning. It always happened. His girlfriend Georgia usually nagged him for it, but he had okay feet. He frowned again, looking down. He stood normally. Something wasn’t right. “Not as hot as it usually is, though,” I offered up politely. “Did you follow me from the square?” Peter was defensive again. “You got me.” “Why?” “Because, Peter, I’m making sure you’re alright.” “Wait... how do you know my name?!” “Have you noticed anything, Peter? Anything odd? Anything strange?” I asked gently. I wanted to touch him, but to do that would risk taking him over early. “I...” he thought, but I could feel his reluctance to admit anything. “No. No, nothing out of the ordinary.” He gave a no-committal shrug to demonstrate just how blasé he actually was, but I knew he was worrying about what he’d noticed. No-one on the planet could ignore such things. “Anyway, whoever you are -“ “Amber.” “Amber... alright... please leave me alone. Please. Go away. It’s creepy.” He glared at me and, as the crossing light turned green, he practically ran across the street. Cases like this usually annoyed me, but I hadn’t had one for a while. I’d helped enough people let go quite easily, given we’d just overseen a pandemic. Peter was a welcome challenge. It did get a little bit tiring when my wristwatch read ’13:42.09’, meaning just over thirteen and a half hours left to get this guy to calm the hell down and listen to me. It also meant I’d spent twelve hours tailing him to make sure he didn’t go super nova on anyone. The hours I’d tailed him were permeated with him rounding on me and barking at me to stop following him, but I altered my appearance slightly to make him comfortable. A stooped posture made me shorter, a pair of sunglasses and some obnoxiously-chewed gum threw him for a penny too. But when he arrived home, I had to be myself again. Because he was about to have an incredibly transformative experience - the only one perhaps that could wake him up properly. “Girls! I’m home!” Peter stepped through his open front door and grinned, his arms outstretched. He waited for his girls to run to him, but they never did. Georgia never came to greet him with her usual kiss, and Harriet never came with her attack hug and her cry of ‘Daddy!’. Neither of them came. “Girls? Daddy’s home! Georgia? Harry?!” I followed him in, silent footsteps. He’d need me soon enough. “Girls?! Hello!” He’d found them, sitting in the living room on the sofa. Both of them were crying. “Girls? Georgie? Harry?” he kneeled down in front of them and took a hand each. “Girls?! What’s going on?” he waited, but neither of them acknowledged him. “What did I do? Have I done something? Please, speak to me?!” Behind him, on the coffee table, Georgia’s phone rang. She reached past Peter and picked it up. “Hey, mum,” Georgia whispered, her eyes wet with tears. She didn’t look at Peter at all. Neither did Harriet. “Yeah... no, I’ve got her. Yeah... mum... c-can you come over? Mum? N-no...” Georgia descended into tears. “Mum, Peter’s dead.” The coldness that gripped the room then was palpable, and I had to act fast. I sat down in the armchair next to Harriet. “Peter? Look at me, Peter.” I kept my tone gentle and even. Peter looked at me, his eyes betraying every single thought in his head. “D-dead?” he breathed. He didn’t listen to the rest of Georgia’s conversation with her mother. “I’m... I died? I’m dead? What?” Panic rose in him. I fought the urge to touch him. “I died?! What?! How?! How did I die?! Is this some prank?! Some fucking awful prank because - because why?! Because Bella told you I was cheating with her?!” Peter took Georgia’s face, but the woman didn’t flinch. “Georgia?! GEORGIA! HARRIET! NO!” He began to cry when he realised his girls couldn’t hear or see him. Harriet cried into her mother’s lap. I let him cry on them, because he needed it. Eventually, after another half-hour, he turned to me. The question that he couldn’t form repeated over in his mind. “Peter, come outside with me. The energy here is being drained by you. Come outside. Let them both rebalance.” I stood and walked to the door, which I walked straight through. Peter followed, realising now that he wasn’t constrained by walls and doors. “How... how can I be dead when I’m still here?” “Notice, Peter. Notice it and look at yourself.” Peter bit his lip, his hand moving to his chest automatically. “I noticed. My heart wasn’t racing when that car almost hit me.” “That car did hit you, Peter. It was the feeling of it passing through you which startled you.” “And... and the ground... the pavement should have been too hot to stand still on... but it wasn’t. It was cold.” “Because your skin is now impermeable by the elements.” I nodded at him sagely as he reeled off his feelings. But there was still that seed in his mind that he didn’t ask me outright about. “Peter, my name is Amber, and I’m a Guide. Your time on this earth is done, and it’s time for you to let go.” “How can I let go when I won’t get to see my little girl grow up?!” Peter hissed at me. I smiled softly. “Because there are other things that need you now more than she does. As cruel as that may sound, if you don’t let go, you won’t be able to pass through. And if you don’t pass through, when she eventually dies herself - and Georgia, of course - neither of them will be able to find you.” “But why couldn’t they see me?” Peter whispered. “I was right there...” “You are dead, Peter.” “I always thought Georgie was my soulmate...” “She is your soulmate.” I turned to him properly and held out my hands, offering him some soothing light. He reached over and took it, not touching me still. “You died prematurely, Peter. Which is why I’m here.” “So... so I shouldn’t have died?” “No. You were killed, Peter. By someone who had intent to kill you. Bella, her name is. She intended for you to die because she couldn’t have you. She hit you with her car and then she burned it out. There were drugs involved, which heightened her intentions... but that’s by the by - you’re here because when a soul leaves its body prematurely, it clings to the Earth because it is confused.” “So... I’m a confused soul?” Peter scratched his head, but at least his thoughts were slowing down. “Yes. You are a confused soul. Because your life path was a lot longer.” I gave him a smile and sighed. “Peter, you were murdered. And you need to come to terms with that before you can move on. And you have to move on.” Peter could only nod. Understandably, he was a little put out, but we still had plenty of time to help him make peace and let go of his old life. “So... so I need to say goodbye now?” he asked after a moment, watching his family from outside the house. I shook my head. “No. Not yet, not to them. We can come back later and they can be your final goodbye.” Peter nodded. “I... I can’t be dead... there was so much I needed to do... I mean, I didn’t do much, did I? I only really had Harry... that was it...” he palmed his face. “I could have done so much more...” “Let’s go and see someone special, shall we?” I offered him my arm, and he took it. The world around us changed in a snap. We left the wide-open space of the garden, and arrived in a packed corridor, filled with students milling around, heading to lesson with the usual rush a teenager has. Peter stared around, but one particular group of boys came into focus. A young girl was trying to collect dropped books from the floor, but each time she stood with them in her arms, she’d had them slapped out of her hands again. Her energy was at a low ebb as she reached down again for the books. The group of boys around her catcalled at her and jeered at her, calling her some horrible names. Peter blushed deeply, more out of shame than anything else. “That’s me,” he whispered. “Oh God, that’s me... wait - that’s ME! How -“ “Peter, you’re dead. You have access to your entire timeline now.” I gave him a smile. “One single action changed your life path. I want you to see it.” I nodded towards the group, watching as a fifteen-year-old Peter stepped forward and crouched down, picking the books up for the girl. “Leslie Jones,” Peter whispered. “She was the school’s bully victim... Everyone hated her, but I never understood why deep down.” I touched Peter’s arm, and a rush of thoughts fed into his head. I don’t know why I’m still here. I might as well kill myself tonight. No-one will fucking miss me. Everyone hates me. Even my own mother can’t bear the sight of me. I watched as Peter stood with the books and turned to his friends. “What are you doing, Maggie?” the leader, Jason, asked. Peter clutched the books and stood in front of Leslie. “I think it’s enough now. She’s upset. It’s not funny anymore. It’s cruel.” His voice shook. The thoughts feeding into Peter’s head changed. He’s standing up for me. I’ll pay for that. God, I can’t wait for this to be over. “She was going to kill herself?” Peter asked beside me. I nodded. He continued to watch as Jason aimed a punch at Peter and then left, spitting on him. Peter turned to Leslie and helped her up, putting her books in her bag. He took her bag from her and carried it for her. “See, Peter, that act led to Leslie going home and believing that someone out there cared. She confronted her mother about why she hated her, and learned that her mother didn’t hate her at all - she just didn’t understand why her daughter was so reclusive. That chat empowered her to get through school, and she actually went on to become one of the best doctors in the world for cancer treatment and diagnosis. You did that, Peter.” Peter stared at me. “Oh...” was all he could manage. He licked his lips. To prove my point, I took him to see Leslie, who was at the present moment embroiled in a rather tense game of Boggle with her son, daughter and husband. Lining the walls, plenty of awards and plaques bearing her name. All of them accolades for her work in science. “See?” “I do...” Peter shook his head. “I mean, alright, I helped one person! One. But the rest?” “Alright. Let’s go and visit another person.” I took him to the same packed shopping square I’d found him in, although the day was wet and dreary. Peter aged twenty crossed our path and headed past a homeless man to get into a coffee shop. He kept looking out of the window to the homeless man who sat getting wetter and wetter. Shortly after, Peter emerged with two hot drinks in hand, and a bag with food. He stopped next to the homeless man and handed him the coffee and the food, and then a ten-pound note. “And?” Peter asked me, sighing. “One homeless guy in the fifty times a month I go to that coffee shop.” “Watch.” The homeless man stayed there, enjoyed his food and drink, his heart glowing with the kindness. Whereas the man faced another few days on the streets trying to make another few pounds, Peter’s kind donation had given him enough to rent a room at the local homeless shelter. The man, armed with the prospect of a hot shower and a meal and a proper bed, conducted a job search with the employment volunteer than night and ended up landing an interview the next day. And he got the job, too. He was able to afford a small studio apartment and got on his feet properly in three months. “So if I hadn’t given him the money... he wouldn’t have had that job?” I nodded. “Because that job was fleeting, and the man- Willis, his name - had those skills. You helped him with a coffee, a meal and a tenner.” Peter sighed again, and pressed his lips together. “I can do this all day, Peter.” And indeed, we did do it. For the remaining hours I had left with him, I showed him past and present the people he’d helped. All the small acts of kindness he’d given, and how they’d suffered the butterfly effect and become something far greater. His death had been untimely, and I’d shown him why his death had happened. Peter’s one single bad action had led to his death. He’d met Bella in University, and she’d fallen in love with him quickly. He hadn’t returned it, though, because he’d fallen in love with Georgia. Georgia was the girl he knew he’d marry. They’d lost their virginity to each other after six months of dating, and when they were together the world was right. The world was good. Bella didn’t like it at all, and even though she did everything in her power to break them up, Peter and Georgia married shortly after leaving Uni. Bella was incensed, but she’d remained friends with him because she still had hope that he’d choose her. And he never did. He still held her in his life, but when Harriet was born, it was the nail in the coffin. The day Harriet was born, Bella had invited Peter to a party in the hopes that she could make him cheat on Georgia and that Georgia would ‘conveniently’ find out. But Peter chose to be at the birth of his baby girl instead. Bella went off the rails. She turned to drugs that night, and fell down the rabbit hole of cocaine and heroin. In the end, after seeing Peter dropping Harriet off at nursery for the day, Bella had taken a couple of lines of cocaine and had sought Peter out in a stolen car. She’d made her resolve. He’d die. And he did. Watching his death play out sobered him, and Peter’s soul relaxed. “I think I want to go and spend some time with my family,” he said softly. I checked my wristwatch and smiled. “You’ve two hours with them, and then it’ll be time to go.” Peter nodded. “Which bit first?” “Our wedding... and then the birth... and then I want to just be with them.” A wedding and a birth later, I spent time outside as Peter spent time with his family. Harriet picked up on his energy and stopped crying. “I love you, Harry. I love you Georgia.” “Daddy says he loves us, mummy,” Harriet said softly. “Daddy loves us very much. He’ll always be here, darling.” “Always,” said Peter, as he placed a kiss on their heads. He turned to me, and nodded. I took his hand and lifted him up into the light.

In the rearview mirror the one called Astrid, a freckled strawberry slip of a woman, lifts the lid off a bronze funeral urn and squeezes a small hand through its narrow neck. She roots around inside for a moment, before retracting her hand and popping something into her mouth. I’m about to ask what she’s eating when Bobby, the young black man in the passenger seat, says, “Deer.” About thirty feet ahead, a doe stands on the road, so close I can see its velvet ears twitching. It’s too late to stop. I got less than a second to decide--stay on course or swerve into the other lane. I hold my breath and turn the steering wheel sharply to the left. The doe swivels her head, watching us hurtle past, then leaps back into the woods. I pump the brakes lightly as we return to the right lane, watching the needle of the speedometer slide from 65 to 55 miles per hour. “Auto insurance policies cover collision with a deer but not hitting something else if you swerve to avoid the deer,” Bobby says, rubbing his large hands up and down his jean-clad thighs. “Good to know,” I say, breathing out slowly. “What happened?” asks Luca, the third member of this motley crew, from the backseat of the station wagon. He yawns and leans over to retrieve the top hat that slid from his lap toward Astrid during the doe-avoidance manoeuvre. “Eloise nearly hit a deer,” Astrid says. “There were 57 collisions with deer on Route 62 from January to December of 2020,” Bobby says. “A blind ballerina carrying a mangy dog,” Astrid says. It took me awhile to figure out that Astrid has some form of synesthesia. Luca, or 'Mister Esposito' as he introduced himself, told me she’s a poet, that the funeral home hired her to write eulogies for the indigent and the uncreative. Whenever she hears numbers and dates she says what she sees in her mind, usually crippled people or animals doing something weird. And she can’t keep quiet about what she sees, she’s gotta blurt it out, so I wonder whether she might have Tourette’s, like my grandson does, but she don’t swear like him. Bobby has an encyclopaedic memory for odd-ball statistics, and can guess people’s birthdays just by asking a few random questions. When he guessed mine, I told him he didn’t get the year right, no way was I sixty-two! But I am, whether I want to believe it not. When I said he was wrong, he started rocking back and forth and hitting the sides of his head with his palms until Luca sang ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, with Astrid narrating each new verse with an image...a seven-legged spider, a deaf mermaid. That all happened twenty minutes into the three-hour road trip. We still have nearly an hour to go, and we’ve already made three rest stops so Bobby could pee because he sucks down soda pop like it’s going outta style. I suppose it’s too late to regret pushing the pin into the ride-share notice I’d tacked to the community board outside the church a week ago, offering to take passengers as far as Wolfs Corner, Pennsylvania. Too late to reconsider taking the three of them to Tionesta, for $10 each, to cover gas money. I shoulda known they'd be handful when I saw the raggle-taggle of them in the funeral parlour's parking lot this morning, but I figured strange company is better than no company when you're on a road trip. Though I'm seriously considering whether it's too late to leave them at the next rest stop. “Do you like country music?” Bobby asks. “Yes,” I say, “I like John Denver. And Tammy Wynette.” "I hear her voice in the mornin' hour she calls me. The radio reminds me of my home far away," Astrid sings in a clear lilting soprano. Luca's alto joins as they harmonize, "Drivin' down the road, I get a feelin' that I should've been home yesterday.....yesterday." And before I know it, I'm joining in on the chorus, "Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong. West Virginia, mountain momma, take me home, down country roads." “I need to pee,” Bobby says, before we can launch into the next verse. “Okay, we can stop at the Kwik Fill in East Hickory. That’s about 5 minutes away, okay?” He nods and looks out the passenger side window. I pull up next to the front door of the convenience store and turn off the engine. “I’ll wait here for ya,” I say. Bobby and Astrid and get out and head into the shop, the bells jangling on the door as they enter. Luca’s hazel eyes meet mine in the rearview. I haven't puzzled him out yet. He dresses and speaks like he’s some fancy man from the nineteenth century, with his three-piece suit, bowtie, and top hat. But at twenty-something, he’s too young to be that odd. You have to earn eccentricity, like I did mine after six decades on this earth, five (ex) husbands, three years’ probation for arson, and one tattoo of Elvis. “You goin’ in?” I ask. “I shall keep you company, Mrs. Mackowski.” Damn it. Maybe he suspects I was thinking of leaving 'em all here. “Call me Eloise, or Mack,” I remind him, for the third time. “What’s waitin’ for you in Tionesta?” “We’re the entertainment for the Summer Solstice festival. The esteemed Hallers estate has invited us.” “Hallers? You mean Hallers General Store?” I can feel my eyebrows rising to my hairline and try to calm them down. “I believe they run a general store, yes.” “Huh, you snake-handling the rattler they got cooped up, or talking in tongues or...” “Certainly not, Mrs...Mack. We are high-brow entertainment. Astrid is the Roadside Poet, Bobby is the Mathematical Magician, and I,” he says waving his hands in front of his face like the those jazz dancers I saw in Cabaret once, “am the Amazing Luca!” A tattered bouquet of paper tulips appears in his right hand, the crinkled stems gradually wilting to one side. I wonder, not for the first time on this trip, if that boy is rowing with one oar. The jangling draws my attention to the store in time to see Bobby and Astrid coming back to the car. I turn the key and the engine revs to life. As Bobby buckles up, Astrid asks if I want any gummi bears. I turn towards the back seat. She's dumping the packet of sweets into the urn. “No thanks, hon, chewy stuff don’t get along with dentures,” I say, twisting to face front again. I pull onto the road in a cloud of dust, it’s been a dry summer punctuated by the rare electric storm. “What happened there?” Luca asks. I check to see what he’s looking at. We’re at the edge of the Allegheny Mountains, the river on one side, the pine-topped mountains on the other. He’s gawking at the mountain side, at a zigzagging swath of bare tree trunks scattered like matchsticks. “The drunken barber laughed as he dragged the monstrous razor over the pines. Shaving a sinuous path, leaving a stubble of destruction," Astrid says. “That was a tornado,” I say, “from three summers ago.” What I don’t say, is that’s the same twister that gulped up the house I grew up in, the one on Yellowhammer road, and spat it back out like a mouthful of spoilt milk. Mind you, it’d been derelict for years. Hell, it was nearly falling down around me when I lived there, before Ma shipped me out to live with some nuns in Erie because she couldn’t afford to feed all five kids. I remember waving to my sister Lillian, from the backseat of the nun-mobile, as they drove me away. “Do you like marshmallows?” Bobby asks. “Yeah,” I smile. That was Lillian’s favourite, though we could hardly ever afford store-bought food. After a few minutes, Hallers General Store appears. I put the blinker on and turn into the parking lot, driving past a few white tents set up for the Summer Solstice Festival and a sign that promises fortune tellers, magicians, real Indian jewellery, and bear jerky. Hallers has been around as long I can remember, a small store packed with fishing gear, sunglasses, and bug spray, watched over by the glassy-eyed moose and deer heads hanging from the wood-panelled walls. I park in front of the ‘live bait’ sign, away from the rattlesnake enclosure. I’m not sure how Bobby would react to a slithering snake. “Okay, this your stop,” I say. They get out and I pop the trunk so they can get their suitcases. “Many thanks, madam,” Luca says, tipping his top hat in my direction. “Please do stop by for a delightful diversion, once we’ve set up shop.” “Will do,” I say, and I might even mean it.

[Trigger warning: mental health, suicide/self-harm] The brief at the night school class is clear: Paint a self-portrait in monochrome . I choose yellow. It sits there between green and orange on the art teacher’s colour wheel. He spins the paper circle and all the colours briefly blur to white. I choose yellow because it is the colour of happiness and sunshine. The colour of the sunflowers in the Van Gogh painting the teacher showed us. Yellow flowers in a yellow vase on a yellow table against a yellow wall. The colour of butter and comfort. The colour of my favourite dress. But when I open the draw of yellow oil paints, harsh metallic names glare out at me - cadmium, sulphur, titanium - as if from the tiny squinting black letters of the poster in the chemistry lab. Hazardous, poison-tasting names. ‘He used to eat the paints’, the teacher had said. ‘Lead-based paint, you know - it sent him mad...’ * The first week, I sketch the outline of my face - the too-sharp nose, the too-thin lips. Studying myself in the rust-blotted hand-mirror, I take each detail down, mercilessly. The other women gossip and share advice. Most had chosen to work in blues or greens, after the colour of their eyes. I chose yellow. By the time the teacher is closing the blinds, I had a workable outline of my face. Casting one look back at my sketch, I see the blank pupils, white unfilled holes where a soul should be. * The second week comes and we enter the classroom from the blunt cold of a November night, trailing long knitted scarves and the mulch of autumn leaves on our shoes. The others were greeting each other by name now. Setting eyes on my sketch again, its lines seem to have shifted - the face narrower, the forehead more lined, the expression more pinched than I had remembered. I had aimed for a neutral smile, like the Mona Lisa the teacher showed us - but what I see now before me is a thin grimace outlined in hard HB and not a smile at all. But the colour will cheer up the lines of my face, I am sure. I select a sunshine yellow for the background and wash the canvas quickly with broad confident brushstrokes. Yellow, the colour of the roses I received on my first ever date. The colour of cartoon smiley faces and the notebook my mother gave me that says Positive vibes only on the cover. Also, the colour of the laburnum tree in the garden of my childhood home. One seed pod, my mother said, could kill you. Yellow yellow yellow for danger. * The third week is noticeably colder and our breath clouds in pale halos around the art studio. The other women talk about their families and the latest episode of a series I’ve never seen. Revisiting my canvas, the yellow of the background is not the warm hue I remembered but the pale and washed-out shade of sickly winter sunbeams - an anaemic, bloodless colour. No matter - I will pick richer yellows to shade the portrait itself and the muted background will only serve to highlight the brightness of the face. I pick out a bright lemon to highlight the cheekbones and forehead and nose and a deep mustard to work in contrasting shadows under the brow and lip. It will be an exercise in delicate chiaroscuro (I remember taking down the new term in my small, cramped hand, which did not seem to do justice to those smooth Italian syllables). ‘ Chiaroscuro, ’ the teacher had said, ‘The art of balance, the perfect harmony of light and dark.’ But stepping back to appraise my shading, I find there is no balance in the lighting - the highlighted cheekbones and forehead and nose are too bright, a lurid, luminous yellow, and the mustard shading has dried too dark, carving deep pits of shadow under the eyes and hollowing out the cheekbones to ragged caverns. The face that stares back from the canvass looks wild and sleepless. Recently, the nights have become an endless string of minutes. In the darkness, the luminous yellow numbers on the alarm clock haunt my vision. I screw my eyes shut but the numbers dance behind my eyes. ‘They used to eat the paint, you know,’ my mother had said. ‘The factory girls painting the clock faces would lick their brushes to get a fine point. Later, their jawbones rotted and fell from their faces. The paint was radioactive of course.’ * The fourth week finds my portrait even more altered. The highlights and the scoops of shadow have only widened in disparity as the oil paints dried, throwing the jagged mountain-range of features into ghastly contrast. My brush-strokes had been too bold, too careless, and now I see that the paint had dried textured and uneven, creating the impression of a leprous disease, yellow flakes of oil paint hanging from the cheek bones like sloughed skin. I try to cover the strangely bright and poisonous-looking shade of the highlights, but that lurid yellow won’t budge. It seeps through the new layers of paint I apply (hand moving quickly now, barely shaking) like the stubborn sunshine that creeps around my bedroom blinds each morning after a restless night, chasing sleep away. The others don’t even try to engage me in conversation now. They sit and chat Christmas plans and exchange compliments on their progressing portraits - how the seascape of blues in one woman’s monochrome really evokes the colour of her sea-deep eyes, how another’s choice of lilac perfectly reflects the wistful serenity of her manner. I chose yellow. Or did yellow choose me? Thinking back to the first week, I cannot quite remember my rationale - something about sunflowers and sunshine. Something about a yellow tree that grew in my childhood garden. The thoughts whirl and blur like the snow-flurries that now rattle the windows of the studio. As I paint, the yellow burns itself onto my retinas, that sickly, bilious, jaundiced colour. It flickers now always at the corners of my vision - half-glimpsed yellow shadows that dance away laughing when I turn to look. That night, I purge my room: I turn the alarm clock with its yellow numbers to the wall, I stuff my favourite yellow dress to the back of the wardrobe, I bin the yellow roses my mother sent. * Week five and it’s everywhere now. It was the yellow carrier bag the cashier handed me this morning (my weekly shop: five packets of fags and headache pills). It was the yellow billboard that promised to sell me a happiness I cannot find. It was the yellow curtains in the therapist’s office (the silence stretches between us, I cannot explain the yellow fever in my mind). My hand flies across the canvass now, knuckles white around the brush, trying to capture the smiley sunshiney colour I’d imagined. But the paint vomits onto the canvas like so many brushfuls of bile. The girl in the picture looks sick, her sallow skin pinched in uneasy discomfort, the unnatural yellow eyes staring back at me with a look of contempt. That night I lock myself in the bathroom and scrub my hands raw but the thick oil paint clings to my fingers and the yellow contamination has infected the grain of my skin and seeped deep under each nail like yellow blood that marks me guilty guilty guilty of a terrible crime. * Week six. She is talking to me now. She whispers very quietly and the others cannot hear. She recites the curse-words with a twist of her lip: Ugly! Sinner! Bad! I take the paintbrush to her mouth but it doesn’t stop her talking. I heap brushfuls of paint between the thin lips but the voice sputters out still, spitting flecks of yellow in my face. I abandon the brush and squeeze paint from the tube into her mouth with shaking fingers. Still the bilious yellow voice comes and now she’s vomiting yellow paint and it’s running down the too-sharp chin and the too-thin neck. Between thick mouthfuls of yellow, she spews the familiar words: I hate you, I hate you, I hate you . ‘What do you want from me?’ I ask. And she tells me. And suddenly I’m running and now I’m outside and the wind rips a ragged scream from my lips as I duck out of the yellow search-lights of the street lamps and disappear into the night. * ‘It was an odd case indeed,’ the fresh-faced psychiatrist said, wrinkling his brow and taking another sip of the scalding coffee that he wouldn’t have time to finish before the end of his break. ‘A young woman, admitted with D&V, diaphoresis and heavy salivation. Later became delirious and fell into a coma. We suspected a deliberate self-poisoning of course but the tox screens came back clear. We had to get the big guns involved from the poison centre but they nailed it eventually - cytisine , main alkaloid toxin in the laburnum plant. Beautiful tree actually, the laburnum. Very pretty - really brightens up any garden. I should get the Mrs to plant one. Anyway, she must have chowed down on a whole heap of it. She survived. She’s in Pleasant View now of course, suspected emerging schizo-affective. Apparently she still won’t talk. Not one word. Only that damn tune that she hums over and over again. You know - I finally placed it! It’s an old Donovan song, right?’ And with that, straightening his tie and abandoning the half-drunk coffee, the brisk-gestured psychiatrist left the staff-room. The others on their break couldn’t help but laugh at the eccentric doctor, striding down the corridor to the beat of his voice raised in song: And they call it mellow yellow! Mellow yellow! They call it mellow yellow!

The Devil’s Side of the Story If more humans knew the truth about me, they would discover I’ve been the victim since before time began. What no one understands is that this was all god’s plan. Well, sort of. I did agree, but god deceived me. And he deceives you, too. I expect you have heard the saying, “know your enemy.” That was my big mistake. I didn’t know. But here I am, and I have a window of opportunity to share my side of the story. So, listen; if I can’t finish, you’ll know time ran out on me, but it won’t be my fault. I’ll do my best so you can know how to fight against him. I hope to see you on the other side. It won’t be boring, I promise. It’s not the fire and brimstone you have heard. That was another lie. Be honest. Isn’t life more exciting when I’m in it? At least, Eve thought so. She was my first, and I’m still fond of her, so I’ll let Eve tell her story. Besides, you haven’t learned to trust me yet. ~~ Eve I was in a place where everything was good, and I could not stand it. Adam seemed satisfied with what God gave him, but something was missing for me. He had his God, and I became determined to find mine. When I first noticed Satan, he wore the skins of animals. I had never seen anyone other than Adam; I had never seen clothes before, and they appealed to me. Underneath his fox-fur coat, black and shiny leather fit snugly to show the bulges and curves of his well-formed body. He appeared more muscular than Adam, and his fiery red hair ignited something within me, like the color on my lips when I painted them with beets. His black eyes moved up and down my body, then paused as our eyes met. He inhaled deeply like he was breathing me in. As he stepped closer, he smirked, and I believed he knew my thoughts. I wanted whatever he had to offer. “Evie,” he said. I liked the way he said my name, breathlessly. When I inched closer, he parted his lips. I jerked back in surprise as he flicked his snake-like tongue. Satan’s voice deepened into a growl. “Don’t tell Adam.” My heart rent in two, and I knew nothing between Adam and me could ever be the same again. Satan moved closer, and I could feel his breath on my face. His fingers weaved through my hair. He breathed heavily and softly brushed his lips against mine. I raised my hand to touch him, and he was gone. “I will see you again, Evie.” His voice rippled through the sudden wind that swept away his footprints, along with all evidence of our meeting. I felt more alive than I had since my beginning. Distanced from the pull of his seduction, I reluctantly headed home. It wasn’t a dream. I felt shame like I had betrayed Adam, but I didn’t know what betrayal was. As I walked, thorns pierced my feet and left a bloody trail. When I reached Adam, he held me and smoothed my hair. I sobbed in repentance. He tended to my bloody feet and broken heart. Although his silence usually irritated me, this time, I appreciated it. I vowed I’d never return to Satan. ~~ Restlessness crept into me again. Adam was dull and satisfied with repetition ad nauseam. He spaced every stone around the fire pit in perfect unison. His ritualistic apple-eating frustrated me: uniform bites, with pauses to consider the taste he never seemed to taste. Was he real? Did he feel anything? Did his God breathe only half a breath into him? His ways infuriated me. I scattered his fire-pit rocks to rile him and laughed as his reddened face puffed up with the words on the tip of his tongue, strangling him to make their escape. Swallowing words back to their hiding place would not make Adam righteous. Adam knew the names of every tree, but I knew them by their uneven crevices and unique personalities. No two leaves were identical, but they knew where they belonged. They comforted me sometimes. Leaves slapped each other in the breeze as they cheered for me. Sometimes, I hid among the poppies and waited like an expectant mother for her orange babies to break through their protective shells. I shared my troubles with nature, and she seemed to understand. But nature hid herself today. Poppies froze, trees stood still, the river silent, the sky vacant. Where were the owls hooting my arrival? Gulls were gone that usually searched for the end of the sky, changed their minds, and dove back to watch me dance. Ducks had evacuated, their quack quacks gone with the breeze that used to live here. Butterflies, dragonflies, birds were all gone. No sounds. No chirps or baa baas. Trees, flowers, and soil held their aromas and would not share them. The skies paled as if ill, but there wasn't illness or tears in the Garden of Eden. Yet, tears of grief consumed me, and I became convinced Adam had lied to me. He didn’t cry because he didn’t feel. If I never again experienced the taste of cantaloupe while its juice slid down my chin and tasted me back; if my nose sealed shut and told the flowers to pack up and leave; if all the colors that made my life bright disappeared; and if I never again caressed a bear cub's silken fur, I became determined to hold onto life, wherever it took me. And God said. . . ~~~ Breezes swept in and returned nature to its proper place. I felt more alive. "God spoke to me," I shouted to the trees. "God spoke to me," I bragged to the poppies. The river sang melodies to the gulls that carried my echo to the eagle atop the highest peak of a distant mountain, and the eagle took it beyond. Every creature, plant, and living thing in the Garden sang because God spoke to me. He said my name. "Eve." ~~~ When I told Adam, his face reddened, his dark eyes bore through me, and his lips contorted with stifled words. "Let it out, Adam. I know you’re mad. The universe knows Adam is angry. God spoke to me, and He did not speak to you,” I boasted. "Woman, shut up!" Adam turned away, clenched his fist, turned back, and stepped toward me with hate-filled eyes. "Oh, words from Adam, who rarely has words." I huffed, stomped, and kicked the dirt toward him. His games exhausted me. Life constantly ran away from me. I’d run after it and suck it back in, but I expected a day would come when life would outrun me. I wouldn’t let Adam steal my life. He sat on the ground with his back to me, his big, bold sign the conversation was over. But it wasn’t over for me, and I would have my say. "God said my name, Adam. He called me Eve. He wants me to go to a place without you, and that’s where I’m going. Don't you have anything to say?" "I won't let you leave." "Try and stop me," I laughed. He grabbed my ankle, and I fell to the ground. "You can’t control me.” I kicked, screamed, and tried to bite him as he twisted my arm and forced me toward the Tree of Life. "I despise you," I seethed through gritted teeth as he tied my feet and ankles with grapevines, wrapped the vines around the Tree, and secured them with a butcher’s knot. He was stronger than me -- which I would never admit -- but he couldn’t control me regardless of how many grapevines he twined together or how many ways he found to imprison me. ~~~ The next day, I watched Adam prepare our morning meal. He was good at some things. I had secretly tried to crack coconuts because I hated to rely on him, but my repeated rock-drop attempts failed. I admired Adam as he broke it open, with only a few drops of water escaping. This was his usual morning offering while I gathered berries and nuts. I enjoyed this part of our day. Adam noticed my smile, and he smiled back. I crunched my nose and stuck out my tongue. He prepared two sticks with apples and held them over the fire as he hummed a tune. This was something new from Adam, and it was lovely. Without a glance toward me, he sang, Of ev'ry beast, you are most grand, your touch a fire that burns my hand. ~~ Why hadn’t he shown this side of him before? It’s what I’d been looking for. I wanted to be with Adam. As he continued, I barely noticed my bondage. I'll walk away and set you free, but please don't leave, I beg you, Eve. ~~ When Adam finished my song, he set down the apples and walked to me with his head down and eyes averted. He gently brushed his hands against my skin as he released the grapevines that bound me. I watched with amazement as he walked away. His song would be my joy and solace to accompany my meal. I pictured Adam and heard his song as I quenched my thirst with his extracted coconut water, savored every bite of my roasted apple, and relished each berry as it exploded in ecstasy and stimulated taste buds I hadn't met before this morning. I loved Adam. ~~~ I did not want to leave Adam, not even for a moment. If it were up to me, I would seek him and chase him down, hug him ferociously, and keep the passion alive in him. I would not let him walk away to safety -- safety in who he has always been -- careful and reserved, tamed and unmoved. “Oh Lord, what have you asked of me? You open Adam's heart to love me with passion. You give me the desire of my heart, and then you ask me to leave? I will not go, Lord, I won't. You have put this desire in my heart for Adam, and you cannot break it like this. He is sweet and open; if I break his heart now, it may never reopen. Why, Lord, why? You ask too much of me.” My sobs and heavy heart overwhelmed me, and I could not look at Him. I paced our carved-out mealtime nook and pined toward the path that led to Adam and his brokenness. Whose heart might I please today to relieve my torment? I sank to the ground, curled up in agony, as I felt God's presence trickle out of me with my tears. He would honor my decision, but what would I decide? “Don't leave me, Lord. You overflow me with sorrow. You rip my heart out. You give me a new Adam and want to send me away from him. Can he go with us, Lord?” I knew the answer in my soul and marrow; I had to go alone. Even God could not be with me. There would be no separation of light and darkness -- good and evil -- without my part in what God asked me to do. When He spoke to me yesterday, I understood what He created me for, and nothing would satisfy me or Him until I completed what He asked me to do. I had to leave Adam, and God's presence would not follow me. There was no other way. ~~ Satan was at our meeting place when I arrived. The mixed blend of aromas swam through the air and overtook my senses. I looked from Satan to the display he prepared and back to him. His subtle smile crinkled his nose and livened his eyes. The sights, smells, textures, and intricate details of his masterpiece setting and presentation pleased and enticed me to move toward him. "Evie," Satan whispered as his exhaled breath chilled and warmed me simultaneously. He was next to me in a moment as if he were already next to me before he was there. His skin appeared darker and his face more chiseled, with a stronger, wider-looking jaw than I remembered from our first meeting. Owls hooted wisdom to each other in a nearby sycamore tree. Snakes rattled, hissed, and slithered through scented pine needles as they kept watch. A death adder showed off its pink belly as it peered around a bitternut hickory tree. Black vultures and turkey buzzards circled above. Satan swept one hand lightly across my shoulder as he closed the gap between us. His long-sleeved black silk shirt teased me with its touch against my back and side as he slid his hand to my waist. His left hand circled my midriff while he moaned, as if casting a spell or like a spell was cast on him. He breathed musky, scented air into my ear, and it scurried across my cheek as he released a passionate and breathless sounding "Evie." I breathed in deeply, closed my eyes, and reveled in the feeling and stirring of my heart and soul as we lingered in a glorious moment of raptured bliss. I exhaled any reserve I might have had. Satan smiled with parted lips and sweated brow. ~~~ Although it was the middle of a cloudless day, a curtain seemed to hover over the sun, as if it covered its eyes and refused to add its sparkle to the crystal wine goblets or give warmth to the glow of candles intermingled with aroma-filled delicacies. Crows cawed their warning. "For you, Evie," Satan said as he swept his arm across the span of his temptation scene. The natural wood grain of the table lacked texture and imperfections. Its smooth surface trapped nature's touch beneath. Squares of gold and lace intertwined with embroidered silk willows. Atop the imitation place settings, exquisite china posed its intricate paintings of poppies, my favorite flower. Satan manufactured everything. "My every possession is yours, unlimited, Evie." He lightly kissed my shoulder and moved his hands across my skin. He drank from a goblet filled with a red liquid and then offered it to me. As I took a sip and considered the taste, he kissed my neck and encouraged me to drink more. Soon, he would control me, my body, and my thoughts. Evil's seed could not come into the world except through me, and it would create contention between Adam and me until his death. Only then would he understand. Satan's voice and breath reverberated through my ears and mind, but his words sounded strange and indecipherable. He seemed to multiply and surround me on all sides. My knees weakened as the world spun in circles and upset my equilibrium. He laid me on a bed of prickly reeds, and as he unbuttoned his silk shirt, my mind hid, and I knew not what he did. ~~~ The moon looked red -- blood red -- as I tried to clear my eyes. A lamb roasted over coals, and its aroma wantonly invaded my senses. The table and all its prefabricated settings were gone. My head spun as I fought to sit up. Satan wore black pants and a white jacket with a double row of black buttons down the front. He carved a chunk of meat from the roasted lamb with a carving knife and flashed a satisfied smile. Saliva spilled out of his mouth and down his chin as he chewed and savored the bite. His eyes bore through me with intensity and purpose that drew me to him. The scent of freshly roasted meat and Satan's passionate look had already flooded my senses when he brought a piece to me. In a low, seductive voice, Satan said, "Did God say not to eat of every tree in the Garden?" I told him, without much conviction, "well, yes, we may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden, but of the tree, which is in the midst of the garden, God has said, we shall not eat of it, neither shall we touch it, lest we die." "Oh, my dear Evie, you shall not surely die, for God knows that in the day you eat of it, your eyes shall be opened, and you shall be as gods, knowing good and evil." If a few words from God could soar me to the heavens, as it had, what if I could be like Him and soar on my own and know every secret of the universe and the names of every star? I could fly to the moon and back. Adam's thoughts would unveil themselves to me, and I would know everything. Satan kissed me, hungrily, knife blade against my side, as my taste buds searched for more of the flavor from his tongue. And I did eat--and my eyes were opened--and Adam's heart called me to come home.

The person walking in front of him stopped. He was immediately angry. *Everyone is an idiot!* He thought for the third or fourth time today. *Why can’t people just function normally, like I do? Why can’t everyone just do what’s right?* For a moment, he thought of her. She was lovely and kind, he thought, but it was basically all ruined by the fact that even she couldn’t just do what made sense. She needed to talk about the things that would be helpful to her, and never about the unpleasant things he’d decided he shouldn’t allow her to bring up. He knew what she could handle and what would be pleasant for them both, didn't he? She was there for him, but couldn’t she just do basic things right, like he could? She should have a manual for the 25 year old car she can barely afford to keep running- like he had for his new-off-the-lot truck. Didn’t he buy a tire to replace her flat when she couldn’t afford it, out of the goodness of his heart? Sure he knew that her gratitude would give him a little more wiggle room to let his feelings out- tell her what an idiot she was, how her childhood trauma was her fault or scream at her until the relief came from hearing her cry and knowing that he was in charge. Everyone did something kind of naughty to feel better, and she *was* an idiot for not taking his obviously useful advice, anyway. She should know he only said most of those things out of anger and just accept them. After all, he was generous, wasn’t he? He often bought her little things after he’d broken her down a bit, which he didn’t have to do. She was the real coward for not calling him names back, for not defending herself more often. She just liked to pretend he was mean because she was a manipulator and frankly, she didn’t deserve all he’d done for her. He’d told her so. He deserved a better life than the losers he was surrounded by, that was a fact. And as much fun as she was to talk to, he was better than her, too. He didn’t deserve to be sad listening to her talk about sad things, bad days, stresses. He didn’t deserve to watch her suffer. If he had to scream at her and wait for her to stop crying to make her understand that she should just smile and be happy, then he had to. He wasn’t going to beat himself up about it. He had to feel free to say what he felt like saying somewhere without worrying about repercussions. She had no idea what stress he was under. There was always someone at work, some black person usually (he did *not* just think the n word, he noted) who was making trouble the way those people usually do. Or some moron who got promoted above him just because whoever yells loses. Or some woman just looking to create trouble because the new ‘kinder gentler’ airforce favored bitches who liked to pretend they’d been sexually harassed. Wherever he was stationed, there was some massive conflict with at least someone, and the higher-ups always took the other guy’s side. It was complete bullshit. Rage counseling really hadn’t done anything. Neither had the drugs. And as he’d said before (and he meant it!), he was under enough pressure that if he really started to lose out and couldn’t get ahead, he could simply plan to take one of his guns and shoot everyone he’d ever fought with on base and then commit suicide. No one had any idea the stresses he was under, how he never got what he deserved. All of this flashed through his mind in a matter of just a few moments as he pushed past the idiot who had stopped short on the sidewalk right in front of him. *Just another dumbfuck,* he thought, *everyone is an idiot. They should all be put to death.* Looking up, he had a fraction of a second in which everything played in slow motion. As the truck grew larger and blocked out his vision, he had just one moment before it blacked out his world forever to consider that the person in front of him had not been the idiot, after all.

The Taon people were born of the elements at the beginning of the world. Their likeness and appearance was the model for all other sentient and civilized beings that followed. When the Trees of Creation grew and gave life to this once desolate planet, the taon people were forged from dirt and wood and leaves. They were then blessed with a communion that bound them to the natural world forever, and as they evolved their bodies became more similar in appearance to the other races. They were allowed to use this power and all that nature had to offer in carrying out their divine task, to be the caretakers of the natural world, protecting it and nurturing it for all time. Their power is unlike that of any other race to ever exist, but there is one who is more worthy of mention than the rest. The one true guardian of the wilds. Elae was said to be one of the first of the Taon race and is regarded, undoubtedly, as the most powerful. Although Elae's power was quite subtle, as was her beauty. So much so that you would not become aware of it until it was absent, for it lingered in your mind long after she was gone. Her eyes were green as the deepest parts of the forest. Her skin, the tone of changing leaves kissed by the fading light of day, her hair was as dark and deep as the most ancient of soil, and she was adorned, always, by a flowing white robe embellished with all varieties of flora. Her voice was said to calm even the wildest of creatures, for not only did Elae command charm and grace, she inspired a tranquility in every living thing she encountered. She was eloquent in spirit and in speech, as liberated a being as you could ever be, and all who came into her presence desired to understand her. Elae would use her power for creation, and with it she would conjure up flowers of differing kinds for all those she knew. Learning which flower they were most fond of and gifting them to each individual accordingly. All were commonly found within the forest, but to watch her recreate their beauty from thin air was quite a spectacle, even for the Taon people. Though there was one flower that was more extraordinary than the rest. It was a lily, Elders Blessing it is now called, it does not grow naturally, nor will it ever grow again. It was born solely of her mind with her power to manifest anything she could feel. The smell of Elders Blessing was said to induce euphoria and a deep state of understanding, and to the less immune creatures and races, the allure of its colors alone was entrancing. This flower she would give to Teylid, the only person to have her heart. She would leave them outside of Teylids hut on her way into the forest some mornings before he woke, and if he saw the flower outside his door, he knew to meet her there. They would sit by the rivers and in the trees, discussing all manner of things, sad or hopeful, profound or beautiful, and often the words they spoke aloud paled to those they did not; for the comforting silence of one another's company is what they cherished most. This flower was a gesture of her gratitude to him, for when Teylid gazed upon her in wonder he saw only her uncompromising spirit, and he wished not to tame it, only to experience it. It was the embodiment of a love only she could understand. As time carried on, and the world began to change, the threat of war from the neighboring tribes sent Elae and her people into a state of unrest, for they were not an aggressive people. They sent out a group of the strongest and most capable members of the community, Teylid being one of them. He agreed without hesitation if only to ensure that he kept Elae safe in whatever way he could. From a group of several dozens that were sent out to scout the enemies advance, only 3 returned, but Teylid was not among them. Elae asked the 3 survivors what had happened to him. They said that they were ambushed, separated from one another, and in the confusion many were killed. They did not know if Teylid was among the dead, and this restored some hope in Elae's heart, no matter how false. She hurried out of the village, following the same course as the party before, in search of Teylid. After what seemed like an eternity, lost in a forest that she once knew so well, she found him. His body lay lifeless on the forest floor, pierced by several arrows. As she knelt there beside her beloved, weeping in sorrow of her loss, the enemy force discovered her and it was their intention to enslave her. Though as they drew closer, in a state of great anguish, surrounded by those who took everything from her, she invoked a terrible power. As it filled her being to capacity, it began to change her. Her skin turned to hardened bark, her hair turned to leaves and vines, and as her spirit became one with the wilderness, it's fury erupted. Thick vines and roots burst suddenly from the ground surrounding her, twisting up and wrapping around her enemies, constricting them and tearing them in half, dismembering them as they attempted to escape, to no avail, for none survived that day. After all had been slaughtered she collapsed, weakened by her wrath, her heart no longer able to beat. She fell to the ground next to Teylid and gazed upon him once more as she faded from consciousness, and as the spirit of her immense power left her body it sank into the soil, and from that soil, a tree began to grow. The roots tore into the ground, branches forming and creating a tomb around Elae and her lover as the trunk grew rapidly, stretching upward, high above the forest. Its branches reaching far out into the surrounding sky, casting a shadow upon the crowns of all the other trees, and from the remnants of her spirit at the base of that towering giant, flowers began to grow. Elders Blessing, covering the forest floor. The only place it would ever grow. The final resting place of a spirit that could never be tamed, the last truly wild thing to ever live.

For lack of a better term, he had the powerful gift of ‘pitching woo’. He could make just about any woman fall for him. Once they were smitten, he owned their heart, lock and key. I’d love to tell you he never misused this incredible power of persuasion, but that wouldn’t be true. It was too easy to bat his eyes seductively. He would smile and turn on the charm without even consciously realizing it was taking place. It came naturally from his innate magnetism. The ladies may have realized he was just a deadly heartbreaker, but they were still largely unable to resist his masculine appeal. The shameless woo he pitched their way was too tantalizing and irresistible. They sucked it up like warm sunshine. In exchange, he reaped the rewards of their loving favors, whether it be carnal or financial. Somehow he managed to court or seduce dozens of ladies without incurring the wrath of the others. He could sweet-talk his way out of scorn and numerous occasions of feminine fury. Then one day, he met her. She could pitch woo too. As a matter of fact, she was his equal in every regard. Guys tripped themselves over her. They fought desperately for her attention; and desired her affection to a feverish level which bystanders would’ve considered to be sheer madness. She was no fool. She used the considerable advantages that fate and genetics afforded her, whenever possible. It was the natural order of things. When they met, both were drawn to the unusual challenge of a mirror opposite. The rewards of pitching woo always came so easily to them in the past. Suddenly they faced a suitor who was fully impervious to those polished charms. It required an unorthodox, original approach to penetrate their opponent’s smooth exterior. The mutual seduction was stimulating. He was handsome and charming. She was demure and beautiful. He was extra witty and becoming. She was extraordinarily sassy, clever and cute. They were both ‘at the top of their games’ but neither of them had much experience at being truly sincere and open. That takes both practice and real humility. The two shiniest apples in the basket are definitely the most tempting but that’s no guarantee they are also the best tasting. For the first time ever, the two of them had to use real interpersonal skills and observation. He wanted to get to know her. To really hear her hopes and dreams. She thought he was amazing and hoped he would ask her out on an actual, old-fashioned date. It was awkward, like real first meetings are supposed to be when you aren’t comfortable or experienced. It was the first time in their lives where the feelings were sincere, innocent, and mutual. They were incredibly giddy. They had nervous butterflies in their stomachs. When seduction is mutual, it’s love. Both of them underwent a personal metamorphosis. He lost his eternal confidence. She couldn’t read his mysterious mood. For the first time in their lives, they had to rely on blind hope and true sincerity to win the other’s untamed heart. He was happy in her presence. She floated on the clouds when he was by her side. They were beside themselves and inseparable (when they were literally beside themselves). In the perfect turn of events, both of these aimless souls learned the essential importance of being totally honest, earnest, and sincere.

The moment Jeremy rounded the corner and began to exit the terminal, Anna's eyes immediately found him. Despite the fact that he was swarmed in a sea of fellow servicemen and women, Anna found it impossible to miss him. If the last seven years as an army wife had taught Anna anything, it was how to spot out her husband in a sea of camouflage. It felt like a sixth sense at this point. A survival tactic if you will. Find your husband in the crowd. If you can see him you know he's really here. If he's really here, that means he's okay. If he's really okay that means he's safe. If he's really safe that means he's alive. This quickly became a mantra Anna lived by at every departure, every photo-op she might spot in the newspaper, and most importantly- every reunion. Surrounded almost completely by fellow military families, there was a boisterous anticipation filling the welcome center. With a giddy joy, children chased one another, passing through the sea of adults. Friends held glittery posters that said things like Welcome Home Hero! and Army Strong. S ome even brought their pets, who wore bandanas that said cutesy phrases like I missed my human. There was an undeniable enthusiasm that filled the air, one that could only be brought about by the inexplicable feeling of desperately missing a loved one for far too long a time. Giggles continue to flit through the air, balloons bobbed in children's hands, and cameras were shakily prepared to document the well awaited reunions. Amidst this chaos, Anna stood alone. She held none of these things, and no longer could find it in herself to draw up the bubbly optimism that filled the people surrounding her. So, in the center of this massive crowd, Anna simply stood in silence- waiting for her husband, waiting to go home. The second Jeremy and his fellow soldiers turned the corner and began to exit the terminal the giggles and conversations came to a a screeching halt. With baited breath everyone watched the emerging soldiers, and eagerly waited for the men and women to cross the threshold of the terminal. Suddenly breaking the silence was a little boy shouting "MOM!", who then began to sprint full speed ahead towards his mother who was at the front of the pack. At the sight of the little boy racing forward, the spell was broken and suddenly children were embracing parents, parents embracing children, and spouses emotionally reuniting with one another. As all this joyful chaos broke loose, Anna remained standing in place. Silently she watched as Jeremy pushed his way past reuniting couples, the two never breaking eye contact. As Jeremy began to get closer, Anna acquiesced and took a few steps towards him. As women dived into husbands arms and children began to cry, overwhelmed with emotion, Jeremy and Anna silently came face to face. While the anger did not magically melt away the way it might in a favorite rom-com or novel, Anna couldn't deny the immense relief she felt swell inside of her at the sight of her husband before her- safe and in one piece. A small smile broke out onto her face. "Welcome home" Anna said. "Glad to be home" Jeremy replied, an unsure, small smile coming to his face in return. Staring at one another, an awkward silence filled the space between them for a brief moment until Jeremy dropped his duffle to the ground and wrapped his arms around Anna in a tight hug. "God I missed you" Jeremy whispered in her ear, "Seriously Anna you don't even know." As the two stood in the middle of the bustling crowd hugging one another, Anna felt herself release a sigh she didn't even know she had been holding in. The tension she'd been carrying the last ten months of Jeremy's deployment gracefully slipped from her shoulders and she felt her arms tighten around Jeremy in return. "I do know" she replied, choking up a bit, "I really fucking do Jer." Pulling back, Anna quickly wiped at the tears in the corner of her eyes. Looking anywhere but Jeremy, who was still intensely staring at her, she asked "Home?" Silently nodding, Jeremy picked up his bag and side by side the two began walking out of the airport. Silence pervaded the space between Jeremy and Anna all the way to the car. Throwing his bag in the backseat of Anna's car, Jeremy hopped into the passenger seat and let out a deep sigh. "Soooo, I'm assuming you're still mad huh?" he asked, chancing a small glance in Anna's direction. Not returning the glance, Anna let out a sigh of her own. "No, I'm not mad" she replied as she looked over her shoulder and began to pull out of the parking lot, "I'm just...resigned". "Resigned??" Jeremy asked incredulously, "What does that mean?!" Anna chanced a look in Jeremy's direction, who was now fully facing her in his seat. After a brief glance Anna darted her eyes back to the road. "I, I just....can we leave this until we get home at the least?" she asked. Jeremy held his breath for a moment, seeming to come to some sort of silent conclusion in his head, before nodding and saying "Sure." With a little huff he turned and squared his shoulders back to the road, suddenly beginning to feel quite resigned himself. About ten minutes later they pulled into the driveway, and Anna quickly hopped out of the car without so much as a second glance at Jeremy. Silently following suit, Jeremy grabbed his duffle and trailed after Anna through the front door. "So are we gonna do this?" Jeremy asked as he dropped the duffle bag and came to stand in the middle of the room. He looked to Anna's retreating figure, who had frozen in place at his words. After a moment in which no words were exchanged, Anna abruptly pivoted and marched right back over to Jeremy. Standing a foot or so away she said, "Yeah, it looks like we are." "I just don't understand how we haven't moved past this" Jeremy began, "Its been 10 months, and look everything turned out fine. I just-" He abruptly stopped as Anna sharply raised her hand in the air. "I'm going to have you stop right there" Anna said, her voice barely audible. "Sure, its been 10 months. Sure, nobody is hurt. But NO." Anna said as she became impassioned, "NO. Everything is NOT fine." "Anna I mean c'mon you know what-" "Do you remember the words we exchanged 11 months ago?" Anna asked, her simmering anger apparent as ever. Jeremy stared into Anna's eyes, trying to cloud the emotions he felt beginning to overpower him. *** Eleven Months Earlier "WHAT DO YOU MEAN REENLIST?" Anna shouted as she paced back and forth in front of the couch that Jeremy sat on. "Exactly that." he replied "I mean honey COME ON, this can't have come as this much a shock to you." "Shock?! No of course I'm not shocked that my husband has decided to reenlist for another tour without even consulting me?! Why would that shock me?!" she shouted while still pacing back and forth. "Hey" said Jeremy, " I am consulting you. In fact I'm consulting you right now!" This made Anna pause in her pacing. She came to stand directly in front of Jeremy, and gave him a look of complete and utter annoyance. "Are you? Are you really?" she asked, an annoyed smirk coming to her face. "Am I really what?" he asked. "Are you really consulting me? Or are you actually just telling me? Because it sounds to me like you already decided that you're going to reenlist and this is you just taking the courtesy to tell me." Anna replied, crossing her arms across her chest. "I- I just, Corey and I were talking and--" Jeremy stammered out. "Yeah" Anna said cutting him off, "That's exactly what I thought." Anna pivoted to walk away, so Jeremy hopped off the couch, grabbed her by the shoulders, and whipped her around to face him. "You're right, I should've told you long before now" he began, "But we've already been at this for six years. I didn't realize what a big deal it'd be. And you know how important it is that this mission get completed." Anna looked up into Jeremy's eyes, a raw coldness emitting from her piercing gaze. With a whisper she replied, "Don't you dare." She ripped herself out of Jeremy's hold. "Don't you dare suggest that this is like any old 9-5 job and we can just "suck it up" since we've been living this way for the last six years?!" Her voice continued to rise in octave. "And don't you dare try and place the state of international security on me! Don't you realize how ridiculous that sounds?! Do you even hear what you're actually saying?" "You KNOW my work is important!" Jeremy shouted, "You know there are sacrifices that need to be made in the name of the greater good!" "But we have already made them! We made the sacrifices!! Let it be someone else's turn. It can't be our turn anymore." Anna replied, now shouting as well. " I can't live like this forever! The stress is killing me, don't you get that?! Don't you care?!" "Of course I care!" Jeremy retorted, " We are gonna be okay! I promise. I love you Anna. Isn't that enough for us?" "No. No it's not." Anna quietly replied. With that, she silently turned and left the room. Jeremy looked on in shock. They proceeded to ear dinner in silence later that evening, and didn't speak another word to one another the rest of the night. A month later Jeremy deployed- fight still very much unresolved. *** "Of course I remember that fight." Jeremy chuckled, " I don't think the neighbors could ever forget that fight either." Anna's glare remained a moment longer until she relented with a slight smirk of her own. "We are a lot of things, but quiet isn't one of them is it?" she said with a light chuckle. "But..." she continued, "that doesn't change the reality of the situation. And this situation?" she said while gesturing to the space between she and Jeremy, " It's just not gonna work for me anymore. I literally cannot take it. " "What's not gonna work?" Jeremy asked in slight shock, "Us? We aren't going to work? I know it has been hard but sometimes, but sacrifices are a part of any healthy marriage." Anna scoffed at this. "There's that magic word again- sacrifices. Yeah you're right, every marriage has them. Like doing the laundry so your husband can go to sleep early. Or eating at the restaurant you don't like because you know it's your wife's favorite. THOSE are normal sacrifices. But cringing at the sound of a ringing telephone because it may be someone calling to tell you that your husband has died? Not a normal sacrifice. Crying yourself to sleep at night because you know you'll dream of your husband dying a very possible and very gory death? Also not a normal sacrifice." Jeremy remained silent, a sadness and understanding overcoming his face. "I'm sorry-" he began. "That's not what I want you to apologize for though" Anna interrupted. "No," Jeremy said as he raised his hand up asking her to stop, "I know what you're saying, but there's a long overdue apology that I need to give you. I'm sorry for putting you through that the last seven years. I know you didn't go into it blindly, but that doesn't mean I don't feel bad about what you've had to go through over here. You gotta know how easy it is to get caught up in what I’m doing...but I know it can’t always be that way. I- I don’t know how to fix this, but I do know I haven't always openly recognized and applauded you for what you‘ve been stuck dealing with, and you deserve that. You deserve all the damn roses." "Thank you" Anna replied, a tear coming to her eye, "I, I really just...that means a lot. I don't tell you all this to make you feel bad. It's just when you enlisted I envisioned a couple years. But two years came and went, and then three, four, five! And suddenly I was all alone again. There was nobody but me, just as it had been before you. But this time was even worse, because it came with a gut wrenching ache in the pit of my stomach. Because every moment of every day I'm worrying about you. And I know your work is important, but so is mine! And I can't do my work anymore. I can’t function anymore. I was going to tell you that the day you told me about reenlisting with Corey. That we need to figure out a new future. But not only did you not give me that opportunity, you took away the whole last year from me. From us!" "You're right" Jeremy replied. "You're absolutely right. I've known my time in active duty was coming to an end sooner or later. It's just what next?" Tears began to form in his eyes. "I'm not good at anything else. This- this is all I can do. It's all know. So you're right, something has gotta come next, but what?" Tears began to spill from Jeremy's eyes. Anna looked on with sadness and ultimately understanding. She stepped forward to grab Jeremy's arm, but he jerkily stepped backwards and wiped at his eyes. "Fuck", he said. "I really hate crying" Anna stepped forward and grabbed the hand wiping his eyes and gently pulled it away from his face. "Well, it just so happens I find sensitive men quite sexy" she joked as she reached up and dabbed the tears off Jeremy's face. "Remember when I asked you all those months ago, "isn't loving you enough?" and you said no?" Jeremy asked. Anna looked up solemnly into Jeremy's eyes and said "I do". "I understand what you meant now" he sighed, "I've got one more year after this leave and then we'll be okay. We'll figure out a new future. Who knows? Maybe they'll let me train cadets or something like that? But you're right, it's time. There's no reason to be scared anymore. I can face the desserts of Baghdad, I can face the unknown of a different future. I should've admitted that a long time ago. And honestly I'm sorry I've put you through the last year to figure it out." Anna pulled Jeremy into a tight hug. "Thank fucking god" she said. The two began to laugh. "I love you Anna, and I'm so glad I'm home." For the first time that day a genuine smile reached Anna's face. "Annndddd?" she egged on. "And?" he asked with a befuddled look. "And I'll never make a life changing decision without actually consulting my wife again?" she replied. "Ahhh yes. That." he smiled, " I will never, ever, ever, everrrr, make a life changing decision without actually consulting my wife ever again". "That's what I thought" she laughed as she leaned up to finally kiss him. Pulling apart she said, "And for the record? I love you too, and I'm so glad you're home". Jeremy wrapped his arm around Anna's shoulder, and with a shared smile the two finally began to make their way into the rest of the house.

I know it wasn’t just me. And I know it didn’t start just last night. Was it before then? I don’t remember. I was there, at the party, the new guy. He was talking to me. He looked about 22, maybe 24. I was 17. Did he take me upstairs? I don’t know, man. The light when I woke up, the light now. It’s too bright. Too. . . . white. Yeah. I think Cassy was there. Is Cassy here? “Cassy?” I called out to her but I didn't hear her. All I see is white. There, over there, these blurs. What are those? Just blurs, lying on the ground, like me. Am I a blur? Is that Cassy? “Cassy?” That’s not my voice. It sounds small, like a child’s. no , less than a child. A baby? What happened last night? Where’s Cassy? “Cassy??” Everyone’s still a blur. Why can’t I remember? I think we were drunk. The new guy got me drunk. Was Cassy drunk? Didn’t he have a knife? Where is she? “Please, Cassy, answer me!” I hate the blurs. Why are you moving me? Why are you giant? The new guy had a knife, right? Cassy was holding on to me. We were crying, I think. I’m still crying. “Help me, Cassy!” I can’t stop crying. Like the sound of a baby crying. Like the sound of me crying. What happened last night? I died. But I’m alive now? _________________________________________ “Well Mr. and Mrs. Salvi, you have a beautiful baby girl!” the doctor announced as he brought the baby back into the hospital room. “What are you thinking about naming her?” a nurse, the dark-haired one with the crooked teeth, asked as she held the birth certificate. The father was crying. Not for the miracle of life, but the tragedy of death. The night before, his niece was murdered at a party with her best friend. He had found out the news not even an hour ago. “We were going to name her Sienna but now I-” “Her name’s going to be Cassy,” Mr. Salvi interrupted his wife. “Cassy.” “Are you sure honey?” Mrs. Salvi knew that was a sensitive name for him. “Why wouldn’t I be? I need to respect her somehow,” Mr. Salvi stormed out of the room, trying to find a place where he couldn’t hear the sound of crying. “So the name's Cassy, then?” the nurse asked, growing a bit impatient. “Well, I guess it would be respectful. That was the name of his niece, you see, and she and her friend were . . . . were murdered last night. At a party.” Then she too burst into tears, the baby falling soundly asleep in her arms. __________________________________________ “Look!” “Yes, sweetie, that’s a bug,” she told li’l Cassy as she pointed to something small. ‘Yellow.” “No, it’s not yellow, it’s orange.” “Orange.” “That’s right,” Mrs. Salvi was sitting on a blanket in her backyard with Cassy, just enjoying the sun. “Mommy?” “Yeah, sweetie?” Poor Cassy looked worried for some reason. “Did you know I had a friend?” “Well you have a lot of friends, like Little Piggy on your bed upstairs or Charlotte down the street, or eve-” “No, a tall friend,” Cassy climbed up onto her mother’s lap, trying to get her point across as seriously as a five-year-old could. ‘Oh?” Mrs. Salvi was genuinely curious at this point. Maybe even a little worried. "What’s his name?” “No Mommy, her name,” Cassy said, getting frustrated that her mom didn’t know who she was talking about. “Sorry, her name.” “Cassy.” Mrs. Salvi sat there, more than a bit confused. “Cassy’s your name, sweetie.” “But Cassy was her name.” Cassy climbed out of her lap, getting distracted by something else with wings. A bit disturbed, Cassy’s mother asked, “don’t you mean ‘is’, dear?” “What?” “Cassy ‘is’ her name?” “No, was.” Cassy started to get even more frustrated then. “Was her name, Mommy.” “Why was?” “Because, Mommy, didn’t she leave?” Why is she saying any of these things? “What do you mean?” “Well, she was a tall person, but I think I was tall like her, Mommy. Maybe even as tall as you! And there was a knife. Not like the ones you let me use in the kitchen. But a really big one. And sharp, too.” she started to cry. “She didn’t have the knife, Mommy, so don’t get mad at her. It really hurt. Really hurt.” Cassy couldn’t stop crying when she said this. “It’s alright, baby, no one has a knife. I’m here,” Mrs. Salvi crooned. “Are you hurt? Does your tummy hurt? Let’s go inside and talk to daddy.” she started to pick her up when Cassy jumped out of her arms. “No, Mommy, it hurt then! That guy with th-the knife, he j-just hurt her! I couldn’t h-help my friend, Mommy!” Cassy collapsed in a massive fit of tears, not disagreeing when Mrs. Salvi picked her up for a second time. After that scene, Mrs. Salvi took her upstairs to her bed where Cassy finally just cried herself to sleep. . . . . “Did we ever speak about it in front of her,” Mr. Salvi kept asking, white knuckles in a death grip around his coffee mug. “My niece. . . . could she have known?” Mrs. Salvi was sitting at the table, crying. What do you make of a daughter talking about a dead girl and knives? “No, we never said anything. Did one of her cousins, or maybe one of your sisters tell her?” “No, they would all have enough sense to know she’s not old enough.” At that point, tears started to slip under his eyes as well. “What’s happened to our daughter?” Mrs. Salvi was at the point of wailing. Mr. Salvi put his arms around her for comfort. “I don’t know, but I think that the only person who could tell you is her.” __________________________________________ “Hey, Mom,” Cassy says, dropping her tennis tuff down by the stairs, then heading into the kitchen. “Hey, how was the match?” Mrs. Salvi asks, a little distracted with her phone. “It was fine. You know, I had this really weird dream last night, but all I remember is seeing a girl that I don’t think I’d ever seen before.” “Speaking of last night, how late were you up?” Mrs. Salvi asks, bringing her attention fully to her daughter. “I could hear banging and thumping coming from your room or something much past when you should’ve been in bed. You knew it was a school night young lady.” The concerned mother went back to her phone, waiting for her daughter’s explanation. “What? I wasn’t up that late. What do you mean?” Cassy looked genuinely confused. “I went to bed at, like, 10:30.” “Mmhm, sure,” Mrs. Salvi said, not confident if she should believe her daughter. “I’m being serious! I could show you the text of when I told Brady goodnight, too!” She pulled up a text on her phone and held it up to her mother's face. The time of the last text said 10:27 PM. “Oh. then what were those noises?” “Maybe you were too tired, Mom. Can I go with Molly over to the library so we can study for finals today? We don't have that much time left.” she said as she scavenged through the fridge. Mrs. Salvi didn’t reply, again distracted at the thought of her phone, so Cassy just moved on to preparing herself food. She grabbed the watermelon and a knife, but she couldn’t cut it. She stood there, staring not at the watermelon, but at the knife, sitting in her trembling fingers. “It was a knife like this,” she said, still hypnotized by the sparkling gleam of the beautiful knife. Mrs. Salvi, startled by the words, looked up. “What?” “A knife like this killed her,” Cassy said, her knees starting to buckle beneath her. “Who?” Mrs. Salvi was fearing for her daughter, not knowing what her mind was seeing. “It was a knife like this that killed Cassy,” the shaking girl said as she dropped the knife and it clattered to the floor.

I will not lie to you and say that we know everything. We knew of the 7 continents: Europe, Asia, Africa, North and South America, Australia and Antarctica. We also knew about Zelandia but no one thought of it as a real continent. The surface of the Earth changes constantly and what was once ground could go underwater. It doesn't come only from the natural processes. Sometimes we also change the face of the Earth, purposefully flood a piece of land and raise another above the water level. And while our ancestors were obsessed with finding Atlantis, we were obsessed with maintaining our existing knowledge firm and find out as much as possible about the things we already knew. I thought it was a good thing to do. We got to know more. We got to perfect our knowledge. That's why it came as a surprise when, one morning, browsing on the internet I stumbled upon a weird post. The poster was saying that they've met some people who claimed they weren't from any of the known continents. True, there are lots of strange things on the internet, even in the old days ( so I've heard). It's easy to dismiss it as overly imaginative stories. Still, there was something in this post that picked my attention. It rang true, somehow. The poster said that they met those people when they were on a vacation. The place wasn't far from the town they were living, it was on the seaside and the poster said they were relaxing in a nearby bar when two strangers approached them. They barely knew Chinese (it's the language we use to communicate on a global level) and they were able to tell them that they've been traveling around for some time and that's how they developed their small vocabulary that was still enough for them to communicate. They say that they were surprised they didn't mean Chinese at school like everybody else and they responded that they didn't even know Chinese existed. They didn't know about China either. A little by little, they learned about our cultures, different cultures and ways of living. While reading this, I thought to myself: “Travellers like me!” and I was really curious to know which country they came from since they had no clue about how the world functioned. The poster said the strangers were male and female, in their thirties though they couldn't tell the exact age. They said they came from what they translated into Chinese as being similar to the word Earth. The poster was puzzled and asked them what they meant by that. They just repeated they came from Earth. They said it's what their country was called. The poster didn't recall a country named “Earth” so they inquired more about this. The strangers told them that their country was huge, bigger than Australia that they have previously visited and slightly smaller than EuroAsia. They said that their country was surrounded by water on all sides and that it took them a long time to come to the other land, across the water. It wasn't an easy task because they had a to cross the great ice wall and only a few people did it before them. The poster then proceeded to ask them where “Earth” was on the map. They have never heard of it before (as no one did, I must add). The strangers repeated that it was behind the great ice wall. The poster then took out the phone and asked them to point on the map where “Earth” was. They said it's not on the map because, again, it lies behind the ice wall and they'd come to notice that no map on this side of the wall depicted their country Earth. Furthermore, they said, that maps on this side didn't depict the great wall of ice either. The poster was really surprised because they've never heard of the great all of ice nor the country named “Earth”. By now, they'd come to suspect that “Earth” wasn't just a country - it was a whole new continent. Somewhere on the planet Earth, of course, but in a place they didn't know existed. The strangers explained to them that the best way to cross the ice wall was through a point that was closest to Argentina. They were also joking about how they thought the language spoken in Argentine was the only one people spoke on this side of the wall. They explained that was how things were in their country - people spoke the same language and everyone could understand each other perfectly. They called their language “earthinga” or something like that (it was a rough time translation, after all) and they tried to teach them a few words but they couldn't even mimic them because they were so strange and difficult to pronounce. They couldn't even pronounce let alone spell strangers’ names. The strangers also told them that in their country, everyone knew about the different continents beyond the ice walls, but they never tried to make contact primarily because the ice wall was thought to cross, and also because they didn't feel the need to do it. Therefore only a few travellers even managed to cross over and visit us. They were content with their ways of living and their continent was huge enough to accommodate people, animals, and plants. It was also very rich in resources as well as their side of the ice wall, so only the adventurous few ever tried to cross the wall. The poster also said that the strangers looked like everybody else. They didn't have a new skin tone, like green or purple or some strange body feature that would distinguish them from us. They even dressed the same we did, but they explained that was because they wanted to blend in and that, in fact, people on the “Earth” continent dressed very differently. To prove it was true, they showed the poster a bag the female was carrying. The poster swears they'd never seen anything like that either in style or material. The strangers confirmed that the bag was made of “lekka”, a material that they believe is found only on their side of the wall, as they hadn't encountered anything similar on our side of the wall. They said that lekka was a very common type of fabric over there and that it was better and more durable than our plastic, though they said they also used plastic to create bags and other stuff, just of a different kind than the one we used. Lastly, before they left the bar, they told the poster that they didn't mind if they told other people about the existence of the continent called “Earth”. It wasn't a secret as they had already said the same story to several other people on their travels on this side of the wall. They were looking forward if anyone would dare and visit their continent. They didn't think it was possible, though. At the end of this conversation, the strangers bid farewell to the poster and left the bar. They were never seen again.

It was a cold winter night. I just turned 9. I used to share a room with my elder brother. That night I was unable to sleep. I've tried counting numbers which usually works, but I had no luck that night. A light blinking far away caught my attention through the window. It was a small light that was clearly visible due to the pitch black night. After staring at it continuously for about five minutes, the light started blinking rapidly as it dimmed. I tried to look at it with more concentration and I blinked. After closing my eyes and opening them, I realized that it was morning. I was still in the same position, but it was morning. But how? I didn't sleep. I just blinked. Once. It was hard for me to comprehend what had happened. The next night, it was the same. My eyes were focused on that light, and soon after I blinked, it was morning again. It was a holiday, so I decided to go to that location where the light might be located. In spite of my attempts to tell my friends about the light, they never believed me. So I had to go alone. Several people were in the park, children were playing, and parents were accompanying their children. There were a few food trucks nearby. There was nothing out of the ordinary. I found a lamp post at a distance after searching everywhere. It was at the end of the park and was the tallest. My eyes were fixed on it as I approached it. As it was daytime, there was no light. So I decided to return home. The light flashed for a second right before I was about to turn back, or at least I thought it did. It felt weird. I came back home and the day passed. Each day after school, I spent a week staring at the lamp in the park. I was in the park with my family one day. I had an elder brother and a younger sister. After eating a sandwich, we left our parents to play with the kids. While playing, I took the ball and threw it at THAT lamp post. I remember it, I definitely threw at it and I saw the bulb breaking. In a matter of microseconds, the ball hit my sister on the head. The lamp was nowhere near her. When I looked at the lamp again, it wasn't broken. I saw my sister crying as she ran towards my parents. I threw the ball at her, she said. My brother said the same. But I didn't, I tried to explain it to my parents but they wouldn't believe me. I was angry at them so I ran away. I reached the lamp and started kicking it. In an instant, the lamp post disappeared and I fell. It was pitch black, but I could see everything around me in some sort of limbo. I saw a lot of lamp posts around me. I walked towards one, but I was not getting closer to it. There were some weird sounds audible that weren't clear, but they were oddly satisfying. I felt like I was in a dream. I felt a cold breeze touch my neck. As soon as I turned around, it went BLANK. When I opened my eyes, I was not at the park or at home. I was in front of a diner. I wasn't sure how I got there. On my way back to our home, I noticed a few changes in our neighborhood. I reached home. A new and different car was parked outside. There was no sign of our car. I knocked on the door because it was locked. The door opened after a while. As soon as the door opened a woman hugged me and started crying. I didn't understand what was going on. She grabbed my hand and took me inside. She screamed, "Honey, he's home!". A man almost ran into the living room and hugged me. Weird. Thank goodness, you're back, Mike. We were worried about you. Are you hurt? Are you okay? ", he asked me. I nodded. Two kids walked into the living room. The girl smiled. The boy gave me a toy car. My eyes caught sight of a photograph, a family picture. It was a picture of a man, a woman, two kids, and me. What? "Where's mom?", I asked the man. "Right here, Mikey", the woman replied. I was terrified. "Go take a bath and then we'll have dinner", said the man. There were a few changes here and there, but it was our home. My room was the first place I went. Nothing has changed. I still have the bunk bed. Only that there was this kid instead of my brother. It didn't make sense to me. We had dinner after I took a bath. I went back to bed. I was unable to sleep. My eyes searched through the window for that light, but it wasn't there. After a few days, I asked mom (the woman) what happened the day I disappeared. She said that I had a fight with my brother and ran away from home. My thoughts turned to what really happened when I returned to my room. I decided to go to the park the next day. After breakfast, I walked to the park with my brother. It turned out that there was no park at that location. My brother told me the park is near the diner. We went there. I checked the spot where I woke up. Nothing was there. I spent days trying to figure out what was going on. I started to get these dreams about my past. It took me a few months to give up. Although I was sad not to be able to find out what happened to me or where my family was, I accepted my new family. Ten years later, I'm still not sure what really happened. Not that I complain about the family I have right now, but I still miss my FAMILY. Every night, I hope that the lamp's light will return. It might never happen. Now it's time for me to go to bed, stare at the window in search of the light, and hope that everything would be back to normal when I wake up. Good night.

George Hartley stared down at the rows of assorted parents, parent-governors, teachers and siblings and his stomach tightened like a boiled crustacean. He wiped a moist hand on his innkeeper’s shirt and disguised a dry cough with an acrid smelling palm. Mr Brewer queued George from the wings and directed him to take centre stage. George swallowed and stepped forward to hit his mark underneath sizzling spotlights. Two costumed classmates trudged towards him; one with a false beard and the other bearing a pillow stuffed inside her voluminous gown. They were weary travellers who’d journeyed from afar and needed a bed for the night. Every eye in the house turned to look at George and waited for the answer to their question. “Have you any room at the inn?” Hundreds of eyes stared at him, waiting for him to deliver his line. This was his moment to be remembered forever or witness his lofty dreams torn asunder. # “Just remember to project your voice, George, and don’t bump into the furniture.” “But what if I forget my lines, sir?” “Don’t be concerned, lad,” said Mr Brewer, offering the benefit of his experience. “Just relax and enjoy the show,” he added, with a gleam in his beady eye. “Relish your moment of stagecraft and enjoy taking part in a rich thespian tradition.” “It’s not Shakespeare,” replied George, breaking the tension and bringing a smile to everyone’s face. “It’s only a school Nativity for goodness’ sake.” # George never failed to be chosen for the rugby team every week. It was an irksome pastime that held little interest for him, however because of his height and weight, he was destined to be battered, bruised and splattered in mud regularly. The school mapped the Winter term out in terms of after school events. Rugby team training sessions and match fixtures occupied three evenings every week and most weekends. George needed an out, and the school’s drama society offered a credible escape. Mr Brewer had commandeered Tuesday afternoons and evenings to audition hopeful young thespians and rehearse the play in time for Christmas. It wasn’t that George was particularly interested in acting, but he was less interested contact sport and so he volunteered his services. # George was known as the school clown and possessed or exuded a confident charm, accompanied by a mischievous twinkle and an impish smile. He always had a smart-lipped response in class and could often tie his teachers in knots with his mercurial patter and convoluted logic. There was no stopping George, and his formidable personality marched ahead of him. Years later, George wondered if there was a conspiracy amongst the teaching staff to include him in the Christmas performance in order to deflate his engorged ego. Was it a test of his character or an attempt to bring him down a peg or two in front of a critical audience of parents, siblings and elderly relatives? Never one to submit and yield, he considered it a challenge to defy Mr Brewer and the collected might of the school authorities. # In many ways, George enjoyed the attention, but now as he stood on stage, it was different to what he’d imagined, scary even. Shuffling about on the stage in the senior hall and delivering lines was one thing, but doing it with confidence in front of an audience was another. In George’s mind, nothing would prepare him for a live event. The dress rehearsal imitated the actual event, but without an audience, it still wasn’t the same. # The costume his mother had made suited his robust form and complemented his ungainly physique. He was a big for a lad of his age and he enjoyed his mother’s plentiful and honest fare. She brought him up on a regular diet of wholesome pies and homemade puddings. “A big lad who has difficulties,” is what the P.E. teacher had scribbled on his end of term report. George was en route to spend every Saturday of his entire school career clashing heads and crunching shoulders with overweight prop forwards from every school in the district. George had the sense to consider an exit strategy before allowing his ears to be mauled into cauliflower-like stumps of mangled flesh and reducing his nose to a battered mound of dribbling ruddy-coloured offal. Mr Brewer’s acting workshops gave him a few night’s relief from endless scrummaging, rucking and mauling. Apart from the obvious benefits to his health and looks, he discovered additional social advantages. There were girls involved with the production, and these rare beings added a new and intriguing dimension. Girls were an unknown quantity for lads of George’s age. They were mysterious and other worldly by reputation. However, the ones he’d encountered so far loved his cheeky one-liners and amusing anecdotes. George knew he could get to like girls too, but he wasn’t sure how to introduce himself; drama club offered a way. # His rugby coach, Mr Worth, didn’t express an opinion about George’s newfound passion. However, rumour has it he’d bet money on him quitting before the end of the winter term. Mr Worth had a firm opinion that George was ‘scrum-fodder’ and good for little else but blocking and tackling hefty opponents on the rugby field. The coach said he wouldn’t last the course and expressed his surprise when George got the audition for one of the play’s more memorable roles. He refused to congratulate the lad on his success and, even during the final rehearsals, considered it a waste of everybody’s time. # “You’re the innkeeper?” said George’s father. “I told you he’d be the next Hugh Grant, love,” said his mother on hearing the news. “That’s not much of a part, though, is it?” “I wanted to be Joseph, Dad, but---” “Every star has to start somewhere, George---” “Blink and we’ll miss him, more like.” “Leave the lad alone, at least he’s trying.” “He should have stuck to scoring tries on the rugby pitch.” “Don’t listen to him, love,” she smiled. “What does he know?” # George auditioned for several parts and accepted the innkeeper role after struggling with the lines for other characters. Mr Brewer encouraged him to stick it out and promised better parts in forthcoming productions. “It’s all experience, George, and no amount of money can buy time on the boards.” # The dress rehearsal went well for George and he made friends with all the cast, keeping them entertained and distracted from their anxieties about the show. Mr Brewer complimented George on his performance and was overjoyed when his mother volunteered to make all the costumes. The finished garments weren’t quite what Mr Brewer had expected, but with a week to go before the big night, he had little choice in the matter and focussed on blocking the scenes and crafting engaging and credible performances. # The technical performance went according to plan and George was confidant and looked forward to an exciting first night. His parents had bought tickets for themselves and insisted on bringing all George’s aunt, uncles, nieces and nephews. There was a second row filled with neighbours, work colleagues. Various members of their local church attended because of its seasonal appeal and subject matter. George’s mother held her breath, waiting for her son’s appearance, and knew that he would outshine his peers. # George’s moment was towards the end of the first half of the Nativity when Mary and Joseph reached Bethlehem. They had escaped the Herod’s legions and needed a place to stay for the night. Joseph knocked on the door of George’s Inn and he opened the door and listened to their request. George had worked himself into a bit of a state by the time his moment arrived and he stared at Joseph with contempt. He’d rather fancied the romantic lead himself, having watched Mary from afar, and he thought he’d be better in the role. Joseph cleared his throat and repeated his request to the innkeeper. George took a deep breath. “I’m sorry we’re full,” he said. “Why don’t you try down the road, mate.” Mary raised her cowed head, smiling at George’s smirking face. Joseph stuttered a feeble, “Oh, well we could try to...” Mr Brewer grabbed his headphones and hissed the correct line at George as the audience gasped and exchanged hushed whispers. “We’ve got space in the barn if you’re interested?” said George. “That’ll be fine for us,” said Joseph, and turned to help his wife. “The only thing is,” said George as they stopped and stared at him. “It’ll cost you extra, being as it’s Christmas and all.” Mary bit her lip, and Joseph’s jaw sagged as the audience disguise their amusement. George raised his inverted open hands as if to say, “What can I do?” He shrugged his shoulders and told them low and straight. “That’s business.” Everyone in the hall howled with laughter as George bowed and invited the couple into his humble corrugated cardboard stable. The welcoming structure had a balsa crib full of straw nestled below a glue-and-glitter painted star. The End

Ruth Emory's attic was proof that when things were out of sight they were also out of mind. She had been de-cluttering up there for almost a week. She had made it through a mountain of boxes filled with old dishes, discarded pots and pans, clothes and half finished knitting projects gone awry. Now that the great wall of boxes had been reduced there were only a few pieces of furniture left. There were 2 rockers, Jim's roll-top desk, a bright yellow kitchen step stool (circa 1950) and an ancient floor lamp that was mostly brass and weighed a ton. She would have to get her next door neighbor, Ned, to bring that thing down. She sat down on the step-stool and started from top to bottom throwing away bent paper clips, a box of rusty staples, a collection of almost dry pens and nubs of pencils. In the next to last drawer there was a small pile of receipts. Good Lord, in 1970 bread was 25 cents a loaf, milk was $1.32 a gallon and you could get a dozen eggs for 60 cents! Those were the days...maybe she would keep this receipt for framing. In the last drawer, under an old bank book she found a small heart shaped box made out of Myrtle wood. It was tiny enough to slide into a pocket. It HAD to have come from Bandon on the Oregon coast because that is where they bought myrtle wood. She had opened it gingerly and inside on a small piece of satin was a key... For the past four months Ruth had found it increasingly difficult to get up in the mornings. It wasn't because she was sleep deprived because she slept a lot (sleep was a safe haven). It wasn't because of a hangover from too many whiskey shots or mood stabilizers and it definitely wasn't because she had just turned eighty. It was all because her husband had unexpectedly been catapulted into the Great Beyond like some cannonball shot from a cannon. She hated this new husband-less life. Honestly, she felt like she had been abandoned in a Memory Minefield. Last week she had turned on the TV to watch the weather report and found the channel had been left on OPB (their favorite station). MONDAY NIGHT MURDERS and MYSTERIES was on. They had watched this religiously every week for the past three years; cuddled together on the sofa, ferreting out clues over a big bowl of homemade buttered popcorn. And remembering this, her grief exploded like those memory mines in the minefield- (BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!) She turned off the TV as quickly as she could and called the Salvation Army, who came the next morning and hauled it away. Even driving through town to do errands was fraught with the possibility of unexpected explosions. If she had a doctor's appointment she had to drive by St. Mary's hospital where their only child, Gracie, was born. If she had a dental appointment or an eye exam she had to pass Pioneer Cemetery where they had buried Gracie eight years later after an outbreak of meningitis had brought the town to its knees. They had sat shoulder to shoulder on hard metal chairs at the graveside; stony- faced even though their hearts felt like pulsating masses of shattered glass. Just yesterday, she had driven past the fancy restaurant on the corner of Fifth and Maple where Jim had planned a surprise costume party for her seventy-fifth birthday. He was a man of precision, a chemical engineer by profession, with a love of conquering obstacles. His eye for detail was a gift. She could almost hear him say, "Ruthie, it's just like my dad said..you have to be vigilant because the devil is in the details!" He had hired a caterer from Portland and a swing band. He even came up with a theme (the Fabulous Forties) and put together her costume as well, with the help of Agnes Stillwater, who owned the fancy Vintage Dress shop downtown. The white limousine he rented to whisk them away to the restaurant was quite the surprise! When they arrived at the restaurant he blindfolded her and led her past the streamers and the balloons into the ladies room where Agnes had hung her costume. Oh what a sweet costume it was, too...a black and white polka dot dress complete with a circle skirt held high by a crinoline half slip. She couoldn't believe that the stockings actually had seams up the back and the low wedge heels with the ankle straps were very much like a pair she once owned. She had sat down on the bathroom bench and was sliding one stocking over an outstretched leg when he said, "Honey, remember when we were in Bandon and you were putting on your stockings, just like now and I reached over and..." "Oh stop Jim! How you go on!" but she blushed a little remembering their honeymoon in Bandon. He bent down and kissed her and said, "You are my Baby Ruth, sweet as candy!" Calling her the name of his favorite candy bar was an old joke of theirs. When they emerged from the ladies room she felt like a princess and when the band started playing Glenn Miller songs they danced and whirled and shimmied around the room, secure among their friends and warmed by love then, (BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!) She had to pull the car over and park as the memory of that day engulfed her. She sat there for thirty minutes and cried her eyes out. When she came to the end of her tears, she searched in her purse for Jim's death certificate and pulled it out to look at it for the umpteenth time. It grounded her in the present, pulled her from the past where things weren't real anymore. Death...this was real. She had begged him to skip his weekly poker game. None of his friends drove except Sam and he wasn’t going because he was giving a lecture that night down at the Junior College. She would take him but she couldn’t see well enough at night to drive; neither of them could. When she suggested a Taxi he said. “Honey, you are a worry wart! It’s only a mile away; I will be fine.” She was awakened just after midnight by the doorbell. Oh, for god’s sake, had he forgotten his house key again? She wrapped her robe around her and yelled, “OK, I’m coming!” She opened the door saying, “I can’t believe you forgot....” There were two policemen standing on the porch; one tall and one short and both shifting their weight from one foot to the other, clutching their police caps awkwardly in front of them. “Mrs. Emory, may we come inside?” the tall one asked. “Oh...well, of course!” she answered in a voice that sounded foreign to her ears. They sat in the two armchairs across from the sofa. As they began to speak, she felt as if some unseen force was strangling her. “Ma’am,” said the short one, “There has been an accident. Your husband’s car was hit by an 18 wheeler.” The tall one continued. “The driver fell asleep at the wheel and crossed into the oncoming lane and there was nothing your husband could do to avoid... the fatal crash.” Her throat felt tight and she found it difficult to take a deep breath. Her hands felt clammy. She looked at each one as they spoke, directly into their eyes. Maybe it was all a big lie...she would know by their eyes. All she saw there was compassion. “The coroner said that your husband didn’t suffer... that it was instantaneous.” Said the short officer. “Ma’am, is there someone we can call for you?” “No, no...” she said, “there isn’t anyone I want to call just yet.” “We are very sorry for your loss,” the two officers said in unison. After they had gone she sat for a long time staring at the business cards they left on the coffee table. Somewhere a dog barked. It was so quiet she had heard the ticking of the wall clock and timed her breathing to it’s rhythm; in and out, in and out. Little by little things began to sink in and grief enveloped her like a straight jacket. The more she steeled herself against it, the tighter it became. She had the memorial service at their home with a lot of help from Ned and his wife, Gilda. Even though she was surrounded by friends she felt lost without Jim. There was enough food to feed half the city of Salem: steaming crock pots filled with hearty soups, trays of finger sandwiches, tossed salad, potato salad, green pea and water chestnut salad, corn muffins and numerous cakes, pies and cookies. People huddled in small groups whispering together on the back deck and in the hallway. When she teared up her friends averted their eyes and followed this with vain attempts at encouragement. “Ruthie, honey, ya know Jim would want you to carry on, to live life to the fullest and...well, thrive,” said Ned’s wife. To which Ruth thought, Thrive rhymes with Alive and since I have become the walking dead I don’t suppose thriving is something I will be doing. Catherine Amos, the head cashier at the Dollar Store chimed in, “I know just how you feel, Ruth. When I lost my Gregory I thought I would NEVER smile again.” Ruth had watched her hands gesticulating to make her point. She smelled like whiskey and cigarettes. “It seemed like the pain would NEVER go away, it would just go on and on with my heart breaking over and over. But it didn’t last forever. It does get better. It did for me and it will for you too.” Ruth appreciated their efforts, she just didn’t believe she would THRIVE or that this godawful pain would get any better at all. She dutifully made her way amongst the guests. As her mother once said, when you have to do something and there is no way around it you have to just buck up! So, Ruth had received hugs and pats on the back graciously. What she really wanted to do was give each one of them a resounding smack right across the kisser, for no good reason except that they were ALIVE. She wanted to scream, “Get out of here, the whole lot of you, and take all this goddam food with you!” None of them really knew Jim. They didn’t know how he was good hearted to the bone. They didn’t know that he got up each day and wrapped kindness around him like a cloak; passing it on throughout his day to anyone in need. She didn’t scream though...she just held onto all those awful words and they bounced inside her skull from one side to the other like a ping pong ball. She sat in Jim’s leather armchair in the midst of this crowd of people and smoothed out the material of her black dress stretched across her lap. She said, “Thank you, so much” a million times while she concentrated on the tiny flower bud pattern on the living room drapes and on dust motes riding on beams of light from the final days of Indian Summer. Ruth tackled the holidays (oh, how she had dreaded this) one at a time. She managed to put the lighted pumpkin decorations and the flying ghost mobile on the porch at Halloween. She bought and gave out candy to the kids oohing and aahing, perfunctorily at their costumes. Ned and Gilda invited her to Thanksgiving dinner with friends and family and she accepted, but by eight o’clock in the morning on Thanksgiving day she had chickened out. She didn’t want turkey, trimmings, friends or family. So she called in sick like she used to have to do sometimes when she was working and she felt guilty about it but she couldn’t face it, she just couldn’t. So she called Gilda and explained that she had come down with a very bad cold, holding her nostrils together as she spoke. “ I know, of all things...it just hit me last night and so I think I will be spending the day in bed” she had said. She didn’t though, she went straight to the bedroom threw a small travel bag on the bed and filled it with a nightgown, underwear, a pair of jeans, a tee shirt and a sweater, locked up the house and headed to Bandon. She parked the car at a rest-stop halfway there and called the Seaside Cabin Retreat. They had one cabin left. She could check in by four. She arrived at three and stopped on a cliff where there was a parking lot and a trail down to the ocean. She sat on a bench and watched the sea gulls dive and swoop, heard the crashing of waves against rock and felt the salty air on her face, in her heart, down to her soul and leaned into the peace of it. The cabin (quite expensive at the holiday rate) was charming. She had unpacked, started a fire and brewed a pot of tea. She had crackers, cheese and an apple for dinner. She and Jim had always loved this coastal town. It had been their special place. They had lived in Salem for nearly forty years but she felt like a stranger there now. It wasn’t the same without Jim. It was empty. She was empty. As she sat watching the fire, a plan emerged. She would sell the house and move here where she and Jim had begun. She slept like a baby that night under a mountain of quilts. She had fallen asleep to the sound of the waves and to the coast wind knocking against the cabin shutters. In the morning she decided she would go through the house room by room and give away anything that wasn’t essential. A few months later, by the time she found the key her house could have been showcased in a minimalist magazine. Photos, books and journals neatly boxed. The sofa and coffee table were given to a young couple two blocks over. She kept a bed, one end table and a small dresser; odds and ends for cleaning, a mop, vacuum and broom. She reduced the kitchen to small appliances and four place settings of dishes and silverware. She had 4 mugs, 4 glasses and 4 pots to cook with. Her realtor had said that staging this house, so clean and clutter free, would be a breeze! She had three bids the first week and the second week an offer was received for cash at the listed price from a doctor and his wife who had just started a practice in town. On a whim, she brought the heart shaped box, the old bank book and the key next door to Ned to see if he could make heads of tails out of it. He might know if this bank existed. The name on the front was partially worn off but she could make out First Bank of... she thought it should have said, the First Bank of Mysteries. There were pages of faded entries for $2000.00 deposited like clockwork every month from January of 1980 through January of 2020. That added up to $720,000.00! Where had this money come from and why hadn’t she known about it? “Hmmm,” Ned said when he saw the key. “This is a key to a safe deposit box. It has our code number on it. Let me look in up on the computer... What do ya know,” he said, “It’s a key to Jim’s safety deposit box at our bank.” “ What? We have always banked there but we don’t have a safe deposit box.” “Maybe YOU don’t, but JIM does. I haven’t a clue about the bank book, though...it could be anywhere. Without the full name, I couldn’t even begin to guess...shall we go see what’s in Jim’s box? Once there, he handed her a form to fill out and sign for proof of identity. He said he would also need a copy of Jim’s Death Certificate and he was sorry that he hadn’t thought of that sooner. “Not a problem, I have it right here, “ she said, fishing it out of her purse. He raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Well...carrying it around comes in mighty handy, doesn’t it” Ruth said. In the box there was a folder which was marked, READ LAST-AFTER OPENING ENVELOPE. Inside the envelope was an index card with “827 Fig Street, Bandon, Oregon” written on the front and a house key taped to the back. Both of their mouths dropped open in surprise. Inside the folder was the deed to the house, fully paid for in January 2020 and letter from Jim. Ned gave her a hug and said he would leave her for a bit while she read this. My dearest Ruth...I know this is a shock because if you are reading this I have died. I have to apologize for lying to you because all those times when you asked me about money matters I told you I had set up a plan to supplement our retirement. This is it. I planned it in case I died first so that you could return to the town we loved all our married life. We will be together again one day. Meanwhile, love me when you hear the waves and the wind and think of my kisses when you feel the salty air on your face and Know that I will always be near, loving you from where I am. My Baby Ruth... I love you forever, Jim.

High-gloss vessels of all sorts and colours were lined up on the windowsill, the narrowest of all the formerly available surfaces, and they baked again each day in the summer sunshine. Shafts of sun traversed the floor and walls in a daily search for something, pausing for long periods to examine the textures and colours of all the objects they could reach. They slipped in slow motion across pots and goblets, some holding shaping tools and random utensils that had collected there. They probed stacks of packaged clay, they lingered on bottles of paint and gloss and varnish, they took a spin around the wheel. They waited at the door of the kiln as if wondering what remained inside. Every day the silent visitor found a slightly heavier coating of dust, but nothing else was changed. ***** Vel had been a force to be reckoned with from the day she was born, kicking and screaming. Her dad said she was born frustrated, as if she knew already there were great things she could be doing if only she could walk and talk. The solution for that was to fast-track her development, and if it was possible for a baby to do so, Vel was already the author of her own destiny. She was the leader of the “Bike Riders!”, her neighbourhood pack of kids, before kindergarten began, and she was the most feral of all the pre-teen pirates and wild horses that roamed the woods at the end of the park. Vel lived her childhood years like she was an eighty-year-old with a second chance. It was as if she was aware that those years couldn’t last forever, but she got as much use out of them as possible before they went the way of all the t-shirts and jeans she wore out with glorious living. When childhood was over and done she had no trouble relinquishing what she no longer needed, but she kept the parts she loved and made sure they never wore out. Vel always had a knack for sorting her life into what she wanted and what she didn’t want. The sub-categories were what she already had and what she would get, and what she got rid of and what she avoided altogether. She just had a gift for it. She weeded through the people who entered her life like an expert gardener, cutting off the unwanted elements when they had barely shown their heads while tending the good ones with perfect doses of attention and repose. She did the same with school and work, taking what she chose from her education and chucking the rest in the compost where it belonged. It was the formula for a blessed existence. Her parents did wonder if perhaps her success came too easily. It was great that she had built so much confidence as a child, but they thought she might be unprepared for a fall when it came, as surely, it must in some form. That’s just how life was, for everyone else at least. But Vel, well, Vel began a career in travel writing just as the market perked up. She travelled the world. There was nothing out there that was daunting to Vel. Her radar for shady situations never failed, nor did her independent spirit and open mind. Each time she came home, she’d go straight to her studio to record in clay the swirl of ethnic designs she had seen in her travels. As she pictured the markets, the backstreets and lonely places she had visited, she would spin her impressions into bowls and goblets. She conjured the people who had shared their food and drink with her against the background of their traditional homes. She riffed on the idea of vessels for food being shared, of cultures, represented by food and creative design, being passed physically into the hands of guests who ate and drank from them. The anthropologist in Vel recognized clay as an ancient and intimate medium. She loved to take a lump of nothing and build it up into something beautiful with her strong hands, and then, with a delicate touch, create the patterns that told a story. While she worked she edited her current books and articles, adding the personal observations that made them best sellers. Vel knew it was a life most people could only dream of achieving. She revelled in every moment. Vel hardly noticed the years flying by. She was taken by surprise when her friends reminded her not to make travel plans for the weekend of her fiftieth birthday. They gave plenty of notice, but still, fifty was a surprising number. She felt much as she had when she was thirty. Still fit, slim(ish) and energetic, working out in airports and hiking all over the world. She hardly went anywhere without carrying her 45-pound suitcase. But on her next trip, just to Ireland, she did feel the travel weariness a bit more than usual in her knees. No, just one knee. She thought she’d shake it off once she could get some exercise. Not far into the coastal cycle tour from Fenit, Vel realized that exercise was irritating her left knee. It ached all that day and into the night. She couldn’t concentrate to write about her day. Frustrated, she took painkillers and slept. The next day, and the next, walking and cycling, the pain was worse and spreading down her shin. Painkillers didn’t work. For the first time in her career, Vel was happier to be going home than to be off to somewhere new. “It just hurts, all the time!” Vel told her doctor. She focussed on the pain, not the fevers or tiredness. That, she could concede to her time of life, she supposed. “It must be a bone spur or something. It’s just exhausting.” “Ok, I’ll run some tests,” the doctor said. “Have you travelled to any exotic places recently?” They both had a laugh. Vel felt relieved. When the tests came back the news was not relieving. It was nonsensical. Bone cancer was not something from Vel’s world. An unknown, unpredictable, uncontrollable factor? What was she supposed to do with that? Her gifts, her own special brand of carefree luck, were no help to her with this. It was not possible to simply avoid this. “Nip it in the butt, Velly, like you always do,” her dad said. “You can absolutely bite it in the butt, and you’d better get your fangs out.” The cancer was aggressive, so the treatment was too. “We’re going to cut away all the disease and create a nice stump to work with,” the surgeon said. He actually said “stump”? Vel had been having trouble processing. “They’re going to try for a below-knee amputation,” she told her parents on the phone. “Best case scenario.” “A baloney amputation? Have you checked this guy’s credentials?” Her dad was truly unstoppable. Vel laughed, taking herself by the surprise. “Maybe he was just pulling my leg, Dad.” The surgeon took the joke away when he took the knee away too. “Knock knock.” “Who’s there?” “Nonie.” “Dad...” “Come on, I worked on this the whole time you were out. Nonie.” “Nonie who?” “Nonie to knock. Or how about: Nonie left, but I am Vel anyway?” Vel spent her fiftieth birthday with her friends, reclining in a wipeable plastic chair, getting her toes done. “Half price?” she quipped, and she could feel her friends relax a little. It was scary for them, too, seeing her, minus a leg, hooked up to a machine receiving chemotherapy. No one knows how that works until they need to. Vel realized she should have shared some of her wild adventures while they were still fun. Instead of a travel brochure or an inflight magazine, it was a catalogue of prosthetics her friends bent their heads over as they considered the immediate future. They had brought her a present from the shop downstairs. It wasn’t a snow globe from Iceland or a bookmark from Peru. It was a headscarf, made in China, sold in America. It was meant to cover her lack of hair rather than her hair. They had chosen one with kitten skulls in black and white, with pink bow ties. For some reason they still had their ears. They wouldn’t be cute without them. They’d be too real. Vel had been polite about the scarf. She had had a cheery day, as abnormal as it had been. When she looked at those skulls the next day, she threw up. “Howdy Chemo-Sabi.” “Dad! You really shouldn’t say things like that.” “Just checking on my girl. You still have your spark.” It wasn’t a spark. It was an ember growing dim. She was tired. Bone weary. Stress fatigued. Exhausted. How do you have hope when you can hardly drag yourself to the bathroom? How would she ever get her life back when she couldn’t even operate her pottery wheel anymore, never mind travel? She was just so tired. Vel curled into a tight ball and allowed herself to slip into darkness. ***** The long rays of summer sun came every day to explore the studio. The change was very slow, but the Sun and Time were old friends of the patient, quiet kind. The long rays melted across each patterned vessel, the halted wheel, the cold oven; and Time indicated how the layers of dust that accumulated on them were a study in themselves. Something an anthropologist or forensic scientist might appreciate. The layers were a record of Time, separated into eras. The lowest, right against each surface, was the oldest layer and the first to settle. This was dust of clay, thrown everywhere during the artistic process. It was fine in grain and reddish in colour. The second, in the middle, was thinner, paler and softer. This was the dust of disuse, the dust of emptiness and undisturbed space, the dust of Nature taking her course. The third layer, the one that settled in on top, was the thickest and most recent. It was the one that was active. This was sawdust. A shadow passed across the window, distracting the rays from their investigation of the studio. Out in the yard, an artist was stepping back to study her work. It was larger than any of the pieces she had done before. She considered this one to be the first that wasn’t for practice. This one was a showcase of her skills. It was nine feet tall. It featured a little boy launching into the air. Below him, in a rambunctious pile, were creatures from an imaginary forest, where wolves and monkeys, rabbits and parrots lived together in harmony. These were just roughed in as yet. Their features, along with the boy’s feather and leaves outfit, his panpipes and his prosthetic leg, and the fairy on his shoulder, would be added with finer tools. For now, Vel hefted her chainsaw to cut some chunks from the base. She loved the feeling it gave her, recrafting formerly living organisms into something fresh and beautiful. It was power over destiny that she had never felt before. In her travels far and wide she had seen plenty of hardship. People lost limbs all the time, and they lived without them. Vel had been fitted with a bionic prosthetic. She could do her job without a leg. In fact, she could probably do it better, now that she fit in a niche all her own in the travel writing genre. Now that she was strong and healthy, Vel was ready for a comeback. She was ready to be better than she had been before. As always, she cut what was unnecessary from her existence. She didn’t want to build empty vessels any longer. She wanted to destroy in order to create. She wanted to wield the power to create vitality in something dead with her own two hands, like the surgeon who had cut away the rot and the prosthetist who made her new leg, all rolled into one. She thought of how the surgeon had referred to her stump in such a matter-of-fact way and wondered if, in that moment when she had barely grasped his words, had been the seed of her new adventure. Her dad took the credit for himself, saying that it was his new nickname for her that had inspired the chainsaw carving. Stumpy. “Stumpy’s Chainsaw Sculpture.” How he loved watching her explain to visitors that she hadn’t lost a leg to her art. She was pleased, so far, with her piece. She wanted this one to be perfect. It was going to stand in the healing garden at the Children’s Hospital.

Content warning - Wholesome Couple Cuddles "But there's so much Evidence!" Penny said emphatically, hoping to bring their "discussion" to a close. Joe smiled and tried not to look too pleased with himself, though he didn't try particularly hard and his smile wormed across his face. "Yeah, that isn't evidence for ghosts. You got to hit me with intelligent responses or nothing." Joe said. "They say names and stuff!" Penny said. "Getting it once through that thing is not good enough, not by a long shot. I wanna hear, can you say your name, can you say my name, where are we, what happened to you, all in good time and with accurate responses." Joe said. "Well that's ridiculous no ones ever going to get that." "Exactly, the burden of evidence is too high, why is that?" Joe said . "Because you're an ass." Penny said, without much conviction. "No...." Joe said. "Because Ghosts aren't real." Penny said. "There it is." Joe said. "But what about The walking noises on the roof? In that hotel in New Orleans? What about that?" Joe said. "I don't know, maybe there was a big fat bird up there." Joe said. "A big fat bird! Making human stomping noises that's ridiculous." Penny said. "Less ridiculous than ghosts? I think not." Joe said. "So you admit that you don't know what it was." Penny said. "Yes, I admit that I don't know what it was." Joe said. "So, it could have been a ghost." Penny said. "Could have? Sure. Was it? No." Joe said. "You are so unreasonable sometimes." Penny said. "Almost always, like, look. I get it, you think this thing is real but I don't. I'm willing to be convinced but you have to do a lot better than stomping footsteps and one word answers from a spirit box to win me over." Joe said. There was a moment of silence in their shared flat, the scatter of blankets and pillows that had formed around them reminding them both of the cosy life they lived. "What about apparitions?" Penny said. "Like full body appearances." Joe said. "Yeah, me and my mum have both seen them. Do you believe me?" Penny said. Joe paused and scratched at his chin. He didn't want to let the discussion evolve into a full blown argument and they were close to it getting out of hand. He needed to be delicate in his response, but he also needed to make sure he didn't encourage this sort of tactic. "I believe that you believe you saw it." Joe said. "What kind of half-assed answer is that. " Penny said. Joe winced, as soon as he said it he knew it had been a wet noodle of an answer. "I feel that if I saw a ghost, or something that looked to be like a ghost, that I would assume that I was seeing something that wasn't there." Joe said. "Oh How convenient the old I'm crazy defence. That will never hold up in court." Penny said. "Oh but a ball rolling towards someone's name in graffiti is compelling evidence for the Jury?" Joe said. "It was uncanny!" Penny said. "It was uncanny. Dare I venture into confirmation bias?" Joe said. "I'll confirm your bias in a minute." Penny said. Then paused. "I didn't mean it that way, I won't confirm your bias." Penny said. "I was gonna say, is the debate settled?" Joe said, laughing. "But like, what about Aliens?" Penny said. "Well, what do you mean by aliens?" Joe said. He was leaning back on the sofa and he pulled Penny into a tight embrace. She nestled against his chest and wiggled until as much of her was touching him as possible. He sighed in deep contentment. "Like little green men or UFOs." Penny said. "Little Green Men? No, not really. UFOs like a flying saucer, probably not. There is something to the tic tac thing though." Joe said. "Tic Tac thing?" Penny said. "I'll show you the videos, it's really weird." Joe said. "Weird like Aliens weird?" Penny said, her voice rising with hope. "Yeah, maybe, or maybe it's just really advanced military technology." Joe said. "So you believe in Aliens but not Ghosts?" Penny said. "I mean, yeah? But also no, not really. I believe that there's other life in the Universe, it's too damn big for that not to be the case. I would be seriously surprised if Aliens have made contact with humans though." Joe said. "Why?" Penny said. "Do you have any idea how many amateur astrologists there are? People who just look at space for fun. If there was contact happening it'd be so hard to keep all those people quiet. MK Ultra wasn't even a real secret-secret and there were only a few people involved in that. We'd be talking about a conspiracy that thousands of people would be involved in." Joe said. "Arbitrary Sceptic." Penny said. "Delusional conspiracy theorist." Joe said. They both laughed and Penny turned so that he could kiss her. He was lost for a time in the soft skin of her lips. After a couple of minutes, or hours as far as Joe could tell, she snuggled back into his chest. "So no afterlife for Joe boy?" Penny said. "Doesn't seem like there will be my love. If there is, I'll find you there." Joe said. "More like I'll find you." Penny said. "Yeah, it seems more likely that I'll go first." Joe said. "We'll go out in battle together like a pair of Valkyrie." Penny said. "I think Valkyrie are all women." Joe said. "You can be an honorary one in light of your contributions to feminism." Penny said. "Why, cause I'm not the absolute worst." Joe said. "Yeah, it's a pretty low bar." Penny said. They sat together for another long moment, Penny's hand entwined with Joe's and her fingers played with his knuckles. "Sounds very serious to me. Like this is it." Penny said. Joe started to shrug but didn't want to disturb the delicate balance of their cuddle. "Yeah, I guess, I think of it as being kind of freeing. Nothing matters so only the things I want to matter actually do." Joe said. "Like us?" Penny said. "Like us." Joe said. He kissed her again. "Hmmm I like that. Penny said. "Me too." Said Joe. I love you, Joe boy." Penny said. "I love you too Penny girl." Joe said. They lingered on the magic of those words for a long time, lost in the feel of one another pressed so close together. "But ghosts are totally real." Penny said.

He wasn’t that close of a friend to anyone, but most of the guys liked him. He was an immigrant, probably illegal but you can never tell these days with all of ‘em coming in. He never introduced himself to us. I had tried to get him to talk but he'd always slip away. We had to corner him in the locker room to get his name. I mean, what the hell was he hiding it for? We’re a small company, not a head more than we need and that usually means about 40 guys in the yard and a quarter of that in the office. Anyway, with enough pushing we got it: Jorge Peña. The yard I mentioned is about 100 acres of gravel with pole-built warehouses and semi-trailers scattered around. The office is a repurposed fast food joint; one floor, poorly arranged into cubicles, with an oversized red shingle roof. A big sign sits in front of it saying “Dillard Lumber.” The company sells construction-grade wood to the housing industry. We were a big deal until the suburbs stopped expanding. Each morning I drive my rustbucket of a car to work, get out, then climb into another rust bucket, a faded yellow bug of an electric forklift. It's my job to unplug the thing and skitter about the yard for ten hours a day hauling pallets of wood between the various warehouses and from the warehouses to the idling trucks that ship to site. I’ve been doing it for over a decade now and only once was I given a raise. I mean, what the hell does a guy have to do to make a living wage? ‘Guess George Dillard has to afford his McMansion somehow. Anyway, it turned out that Jorge was a forklift driver too and a damned good one. That’s fine by the way. I’m always rushed to load and he was a great help. In about a week he was doing better than me. I don’t think he was trying to show anybody up, but intents aren’t results. Maybe the man just naturally moved like a jackrabbit on coke. Eventually I started worrying about my job. You know, nobody there is union and the word itself is banned in the office by unspoken treaty. I went to him and said, “Hey, take it easy man. You’re makin’ us all look bad.” Then I laughed and slapped him on the back so he didn’t think I was disrespecting him. We’re all working for a paycheck, taking orders from George Dillard. I mean, George Dillard's an alright guy; the typical son of a man who built a nothing hardware store into a giant enterprise. I never met his dad, but I’ve heard stories and he sounded like a man who could move mountains. Or thought he could anyway. He died of a massive stroke two years before I started. George isn’t far from the age his father died at and you can see it in his face. Fear, that is. You see, he doesn’t have an heir, spouse, or even a business partner. When George goes, so does Dillard Lumber. Maybe that's why he began fraternizing with a certain worker so much. I don’t know who noticed it first, but it certainly wasn’t Jorge. George Dillard hung over Jorge like an umbrella. Jorge would load two trucks in the time it took me to load one. There’s George Dillard. Jorge would fix a jam in his forklift with some grease he kept in a little jar in his pocket. There’s George Dillard. Jorge would shit in record time and be back out in the yard. There’s George Dillard. It all started rubbing on the other guys. Okay, fine, it got to me too. One morning, right before work, me and three other forklift drivers corner Jorge at his locker. We ask him all kinds of crazy questions. One guy asked him if he was some kind of spy for the boss. Another guy asked if he was a spy for the unions. I asked him if he thought he was better than us. Jorge started sweating bad, and it was barely above freezing. I opened his locker, took the hardhat out, and put it on his head. “Don’t suck up to George Dillard,” I said, “he’d wring the last drop of blood from your body before he'd give a bonus.” I thought that’d fix things, but stupid me, it didn’t. Jorge still worked pretty hard, but stayed weary of outperforming everybody. He really did try to avoid George Dillard’s eye. Thing is, the yard’s only so big and George is the owner. You can’t tell him to buzz off; you can’t hide without a good excuse; you can’t work and stay vigilant all at once. Everything hit the fan when clouds rolled in from the west and a batch of water-sensitive lumber was left outside. Jorge noticed first and didn’t think to, or didn’t bother to, tell the rest of us. He moved the wood into the nearest warehouse just before the rain began. Apparently, George Dillard saw it all. Jorge disappeared without a trace a few days later and we didn’t see him for the next six years. We’re all used to guys starting and getting cold feet once they see the kind of work load we carry. But Jorge wasn’t like that. I actually think it pained him to downshift his work ethic. No, whatever happened, it wasn’t entirely his choice. Every once in a while we’d hear George say something like “he’s top of the class,” or “best investment I’ve ever made.” The other guys said Jorge was going to the university a few towns over, learning finance, management, and how to keep people under you struggling for survival. I didn’t want to believe it. Hell, I was his most outspoken defender in the locker room. My position didn’t make clocking in at dawn and clocking out at dusk any easier. But then someone saw Jorge’s pickup truck at George’s house. He was all dressed up like some Wall Street banker; slicked back hair, expensive watch, and everything. Then we all saw him in person. He walked out of the Dillard Lumber office straight-backed and arrogant, arm in arm with none other than George Dillard. A meeting was called and the whole staff gathered into the yard's largest warehouse. A makeshift podium was made with a pallet and a few stacked toolboxes. George got up there and beamed with pride like a child that's just figured out how to use the potty. I remember his words plain as day. "Gentlemen, and women, if you haven't noticed I've grown old and fat. Now, the word 'retirement' is new to my vocabulary. A few years ago it would've meant leaving a bunch of people, that I consider family, to fend for themselves. Not anymore." He pulled Jorge over and put him in a fake headlock. "I've found a man as capable as me. Hell, I've found a man as capable as my father. Of course, he'll need training. But under my tutelage, he'll make a fine boss. Let's have a round of applause for Mr. Peña!" I didn't hear much after that. Jorge got up there and read off the most scripted speech I've ever heard. I mean, hell, everyone saw the thing folded in his pocket. We'd lost a friend and gained a boss. That's when me and the guys swore to never concern ourselves with a new hire. What we didn't know was that there wouldn't be any new hires. Jorge apprenticed under George for six months, then the latter packed up and moved to the Gulf Coast. Employees dropped like flies after that. Jorge, or should I say Mr. Peña, first slimmed the office staff down to five. He made half the yard workers seasonal before letting them go the next year. Now it's just him, his secretary, and a dozen outside. What keeps me hanging on? I don't know if you've looked around but jobs are scarce. People tell me I should get a trade degree at the community college. Not one of them was reaching in their wallet to pay for it. I'll stay on until Peña fires me. That won't happen by the way. I've looked him in the eye a hundred times and all I see is shame staring back. You can dress a working man in a suit but his mind and muscles remember. I'm not going anywhere.

Smell is the strongest sense. The olfactory bulb sits right on the brain and scents trigger emotions, thoughts, memories, and associations that our conscious mind barely registers. Science still isn’t sure how the chemicals we inhale cross the neurological barrier to the brain, but the effect is profound. Profoundly disturbing in this case. All I could smell was death. I’d grown up around that smell. The musky, pissy aroma of animal pelts and the sweet, rotting smell of offal. The rancidness of beaver fat. The astringent odor of chemicals. My dad had been a trapper, running lines through the Maine woods in the sixties, seventies and eighties. He’d had a skinning shed out back of our trailer that was rich with end-of-life scents. Even when he grew older and no longer ran his trap-line he’d spend hours in the shed greasing his old traps and honing his knives. It’s where I’d found him dead of a heart attack one December morning the scent of his loosed bowels mixing with the never-faded odors of his long dormant trap-line. So, more than the hard bench that made my ass ache or the buzzing sound coming from the ballast of the flickering fluorescent lights or the garish green of the vending machine in the corner it was the smell of this place that made me edgy. It was as if something dark had clawed its way out of the cellar and was almost, but not quite, touching me. I wasn’t alone. There was a little girl, maybe five or six, playing a complicated make-believe with some plastic animals on a jacket her mother had spread for her to cover the dirty the floor. And the mom, a tired looking thirty maybe or an exhausted twenty it was hard to tell. She had a fake leather purse and shoes that had been stylish a few seasons ago and nothing but resignation around her eyes. There was an older man, too. Not aged, but past mid-life with a pot belly straining his white office shirt. We didn’t talk. We just sat in the buzzy, flickering, too bright room on hard benches embraced by the smell. A clock on the wall read 10:48. I’d been here since they opened the doors at nine. I figured I’d get in early and get it over with. Joke’s on me. The mom and daughter had come in a few minutes after me and the older guy about an hour after that. No one else had come in. No one had left. I had checked in at the touch screen at the door and had received a number on a shiny slip of paper, thirty-eight, that I had no idea how to judge. I wasn’t the thirty-eighth visitor of the day. It wasn’t my age or any sort of ID number that I could understand. There wasn’t a meter on the wall to tell me which number was being served or who was up next. Just 38. So I sat. I reached in my pocket to look at my phone before I remembered that I’d had to check it along with my credit cards, anything with a magnetic or electronic signature, at the metal detector in the foyer. I wished I’d brought a book or a magazine. There weren’t any in the room. I got up and paced over to the vending machine, but in a place where visitors were deprived of cards (and who carried cash these days?) I was at a loss as to its purpose. The machine held an assortment of low excitement snacks - Fudge Rounds cookies and peanuts in cellophane sleeves and strawberry sugar wafers. I walked back to my seat. I must have dozed for a few minutes because I woke as my body jerked. I’m sure we’ve all had the experience, doctors call them hypnogogic jerks, of a sudden tensing spasm as we drift off to sleep. I’d experienced them often when I was a kid, but hadn’t recently. Maybe the smell of the room triggered some unconscious sympathetic reaction. Maybe the skinning shed odor of the room, the smell of my youth, caused my body to react. Hypnogogic jerks. For some reason I’d always associated them with falling or with danger. I chewed on the inside of my cheek. I wasn’t really, I told myself, in any danger. The door at the end of the room, opposite the entrance leading to the foyer, opened and short woman walked out holding three clipboards. She handed one to each of the adults in the room, stepping quietly around the little girl. I looked at her as she handed me a clipboard, the kind with a ballpoint pen on a chain, and opened my mouth to ask her about the wait, about my numbered slip of paper, but thought the better of it and remained silent. She looked at me with a small smile, no teeth or dimples, that seemed designed to quell inquiry. She wore a cardigan sweater with an ID badge clipped to it. The lapel of the sweater had turned the badge the wrong way and I couldn’t read the woman’s name. And as quickly as she had entered the woman left. I looked around and saw two heads bent over clipboards. I listened closely and heard the quiet whisper of the little girl talking to her animals and the plastic tapping of cheap ballpoint pens on the clipboards. I began to fill in the blanks and spaces. Name. Address. Date of birth. Mother’s maiden name. There was a box on top of the page that read NUMBER with no explanation. I wrote 38. Three pages and four minutes later I was done. I’d given them all the information they’d requested. I’d filled in my number in the box at the top of each page. As if she’d been waiting for me to finish, the small woman opened her door again. “Thirty-eight,” she said and I stood and walked toward her. She held her door open with one hand and took my clipboard with the other. I looked back at the woman with the child and the pot-bellied old man. Both of them still had their clipboards. Then I stepped through the doorway. Thirty-eight I found out was the code for my procedure, and the procedure the source of the skinning shed smell.

When in high school, I was secretly in love with a classmate named Evelyn, who had beautiful round eyes, pinkish white skin and smooth black hair. She had a face of angel so that a lot of guys like her, even the guys from upper class and colleges. Meanwhile, I was neither a handsome boy nor an outstanding student. I was not a rich kid or an excellent basketball guy either, just an average teenager so that I thought there was no chance for me to be her boyfriend. I enjoyed watching her secretly, especially when she tied her hair up or took her hair down. I sent my love for her to my songs and poems. I even wrote long letters to her yet dare not to send. Whenever she smiled or talked to me, even just a simple “Hello”, she made my day and I would recall that conversation again and again. Sometimes, when being upset, I would ride my bicycle to her house, just to see her shadow on the wall. The secret love made me happy but miserable at the same time. I wanted to tell her that I love her and ask to be her boyfriend but also scared of her answer. What if she said “No”? It would be my apocalypse. Thus, I would rather live with a little hope than nothing. I tried to be an excellent student and a great basketball player to get her attention but there were guys who also liked her was better than me in every field. I was being stuck in a hopeless situation. One day, I wandered around the city pondering about my life. I arrived at a marketplace, then suddenly heard a woman’s voice. “Are you being desperate in love?” I startled turning my head to the source of the voice. It was a strange middle-aged woman who was the owner of a weird stall. There were a big crystal ball, a skull and an owl in the cage at the stall, which reminded me of the stores at Diagon Alley, a wizard shopping centre in London hidden from Muggles. “Yes, I am.” I replied. “You don’t dare telling her that you love her, do you?” “How do you know that?” I asked surprisingly. “I can see it in this crystall ball” “I see nothing” “You don’t have the third eye” “So how can I make her love me?” “What you need is the love potion number 9,” She replied with a wink. The strange woman gave me a potion of purple fluid, which cost 50 bucks, a large amount of money to me at that point. After taking my money, she whispered in my ear how to use that magic water. I decided to try it with Amee, another classmate of mine. Firstly, I asked her to go to the cinema. She accepted. When we were already sitting on the seats, I drank a sip from the love potion number 9, which had a bad taste, and poured a bit into my right hand. Then I use that hand to grasp Amee’s left hand. She startled and trembled but did not withdraw her hands. “It works! It’s magic!” I thought to myself. Then I kissed her. It was my first kiss and it tasted so good. Amee enjoyed it, too. “I don’t know kissing is that great” she said shyly. I almost fell in love with Amee for she was pretty and adorable. Yet my heart belonged to Evelyn. And I had a plan. I would make her mine with the love potion number 9. Next day, when the school closing bell rang, I followed Evelyn to her house. “Evy!”, I called her. “Kevin, what are you doing here?” “I have a gift for you” “Oh, really? It’s very kind of you” I brought a gift but instead giving it to her, I grasped her hand. “Your hand is wet” Her face turned red. Yet she did not withdraw her hand. “I love you, Evy!” Then I kissed her and she kissed me back. It was even better than my first kiss with Amee. All of a sudden, a scream ruined my glorious moment. “Kevin!” “What are you doing here, Amee?” “That’s what I have to ask you,” Amee smirked. “Yesterday you kissed me, now you kissed Evelyn. What kind of man are you? I thought you are a nice guy but I’m totally wrong.” Tears were falling from Amee’s eyes. Then she ran away. I turned to Evelyn but she stared at me strangely. “I also thought you are a nice guy so I gave you a try”, she said sternly. “But you disappointed me, Kevin” “Listen, Evy!”, I said desperately. “Please let me explain. All these things happened because of this love potion number 9” Yet she did not listen. Evelyn suddenly slapped on my face. Teardrops were falling from her eyes. And my love potion number 9 fell into the ground and broke into pieces. That was the end of my relationship with Evelyn, right after it began. Next day, I came back to the stall of the mysterious woman. “Please give me the love potion number 9!” I told her. “The potion you bought three days ago was the last one.” She said coldly. “When will you have it again?” “Nevermore.” “Please!” I said desperately. “I need it to make Evy love me again.” “I’m sorry. I forgot to mention that it only works once to each person. If you break one’s heart, the love potion won’t have any effect on her anymore.” “What a useless magic!” “You’re right. It’s not magic water, just some forest fruit juice.” “What? I want my money back” “I’ve never said love potion is a magical thing. That’s what you suppose. The point is it works.” “What should I do now to get Evy back?” “I have no idea,” the strange woman said and gave me a wink. “I guess you have to try another way without love potion number 9.” Oh, I wish she were a real ugly old witch instead of a weird Muggle.

The cat was splayed out in a sunbeam that sliced through the curtains like a golden ray, a delicate tabby with fur as silky as autumn leaves. The drapes danced in silent delight as the cool fall breeze played with their edges. The cat's eyes sprang wide, exposing curiously sparkling emerald pools. The heat from the sun caressed its whiskers, and a satisfied purr rumbled in its throat. The feline stretched its paws wide, its claws unsheathing and sinking into the soft carpet, scratching at the surface in a rhythmic symphony of tiny scratches. With a lovely curve in its back, it flicked its tail lazily in the sunshine. The cat brought life into the room with every stretch and yawn, as if she were awakening the soul of the season itself. She rose gracefully, her gaze catching the falling leaves outside the window. Enthralled by the quivering leaves, the cat stumbled onto a covert disco in the world beyond. It leaped quickly to the window sill, anxious to welcome autumn's beauty and leave behind the warmth of its sunny slumber in favor of the refreshing embrace of a chilly fall breeze. The cat's last trip to the veterinarian was still fresh in its thoughts as it stared out at the bustling backyard scene. It brought back memories of the tense vehicle ride, strange odors, and the sterile, clinical environment of the vet clinic. The sound of other apprehensive pets barking, meowing, and chirping filled the air, adding to the cat's discomfort. The cat still felt the waiting area and its assortment of pet carriers, each holding a nervous pet. It found itself sitting in a sterile, frigid examination room, its body trembling on the icy surface of the examination table. Its tension increased whenever the ventilation system hummed. The bright overhead lights flickered, casting unsettling shadows upon the walls. Then the stranger in a white coat arrived and scrutinized the cat, inspecting its teeth, eyes, and ears. The cat twitched uncomfortably as it remembered the vet's gloved hands on its body, making the cat feel exposed and defenseless. Its skin pricked sharply the instant the veterinarian gave it a shot, leaving a lingering soreness behind. The kitty’s discomfort at the veterinarian's office was so traumatizing that it could remember its meows, quiet and sorrowful, and the reassuring but unsure touches from mother's hand. The whole experience had left the cat feeling uneasy and vulnerable, and the cat was thankful to be back home, where things were cozier, warmer, and familiar. It directed its attention back to the squirrels outside. The feline, not entirely understanding the ethereal nature of its life, growled in its stomach and questioned, "Where's mommy?" in a ghostly voice tinged with bewilderment. Unaware that it was no longer a part of the living world, it had returned home. The usual sounds and smells were warped, the place felt different, and there was a persistent, unsettling feeling that something was wrong. The cat looked for its human's consoling presence as it silently floated through the rooms, its paws melting through solid objects. It was perplexed by the tear-stained tissues and the faint echoes of sobbing that were left behind, and it couldn't understand why the house felt so empty. It moved through the rooms in a spectral shape, flickering here and there in the air like a phantom of itself. It went to the living room, where it frequently found comfort in its owner's lap, but the place was empty now. The cat missed the warm company, the comforting strokes, and the familiar voice. It meowed plaintively, not realizing that its voice was nothing more than a phantom whisper that the living were oblivious to. As the cat carried on its ethereal adventure, its confusion increased. In pursuit of answers, it went from room to room without realizing it had already crossed over to the other side. The ghostly cat was lonely, for its connection to the living world was dwindling, and the possibility that it might never find its beloved owner again loomed sadly in its fading consciousness. The cat eventually located the woman, sitting in a comfortable chair, her gentle figure lit by a soft table lamp nearby. The tabby leaped to the arm of the chair to be close to her Mommy. The woman clung to a well-used blanket, the material soaked from the tears cascading down her cheeks, her eyes glittering with loss. Her unkempt hair was pushed back allowing the light to reveal a portion of her sad face with grief inscribed in every wrinkle and line. The phantom cat saw a faint shimmering form before it as it extended its fluffy paw toward Mommy's face. With a kind and astute expression in its eyes, a different ghostly feline murmured, "My friend, it's time. It's time to move on to the next house and leave this one." The cat turned to face the phantom guest, its ghostly body trembling with indecision. "But I can't leave; I don't want to go," the cat meowed. “My favorite blanket is being held by my mother. I can't stand to leave her in this state while she's weeping." The woman embraced the blanket, and the tabby attempted to push aside the tears falling down the woman’s cheeks. The other spectral feline nodded, compassion visible in its transparent eyes. "I understand that seeing the people we care about in such agony is difficult and unpleasant. However, we must remember that this is only our temporary home and that we will soon embark on a new adventure beyond. We no longer serve the same purpose in this world; thus, we are unable to console them." With a head bowed the sorrowful cat expressed its conflicted feelings of wanting to stay with its human and having to move on. "I just wish I could let her know I'm still here, and that I love her," the feline meowed in a soft voice. "You can, in your way," the sage ghostly cat answered. From wherever you are, send her your warmth and affection. Even though she can't see you, she will sense it. My friend, it's time to say goodbye and go on. On the other side, you won't be alone, and you'll eventually meet up with your human again." The cat looked at its weeping owner and the cherished blanket in her arms for the final time, heartbroken. The feline realized it was time to let go of its worldly attachments and let go. It bid a final, tender goodbye with a flicker of energy and followed the spectral cat into the unknown, leaving behind a world of suffering and starting a new journey somewhere.

...........”It’s war. Making this proclamation was Fenrir the magnificent, undisputed king of the cat cabal. Born of noble lineage, rarest of chinchilla Persian cats. With a silky luxuriously thick white fur, finely etched streaks of black on paws and around the neck, he was spectacular. Fenrir resided in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. His owner, Lord Garvagh, was descended from the errant son of a noble English family, banished to cool his aristocratic heels in the colonies. Links to the famous Courtauld's silversmiths kept the family in financially good shape. Fenrir loved his home. The finest example of Victorian elegance in the smartest section .of the neighborhood, That scent of old money. Hard to describe, a bit of bergamot, faint lemon scented beeswax, a superb mix of deep comfort and warmth. Daily feedings from Waterford crystal dishes of minced sirloin and cartons of full cream, Fenrir knew only the best. ..........” If you keep him permanently indoors, he’ll be a lovable, loyal companion. If you let him roam outside, he’ll be the same but a much happier cat” instructed his veterinarian, Dr. Feelgood. ### As daylight faded into dusky mysterious late evenings, lights appeared all over the City illuminating the mix of tall offices, apartment buildings, and stately old Victorian red brick mansions, the architecture of Bay Ridge. That was the time, each evening, when Fenrir strode confidently into the throng. A delightfully raucous bunch his best friends were two sisters, mangey striped tabbies, who lived in a nearby apartment building. A couple of battle-scarred tomcats who thought their names were Shoo and Scram. They were subsisting in a cruel world . Food was restaurant leftovers, which they fought over with cat gangs, and anywhere they could lick moisture, usually from drains. Then there was Sheba! An alley girl, of doubtful origin, she had great natural elegance. Demurely flirting with sidelong glances in his direction, he trembled in ecstasy. To revel in the most sensual delights regardless of status was every cat’s right. There are no exceptions. Twirling his whiskers contemplating nightly trysts, he could have jumped over the moon. Interrupting his reverie, was the sight of a rodent’s rump. The signal for a full-scale attack. Every cat was expected to do its bit to save the neighborhood being slowly nibbled away. Tally ho! missile-like the chase was on, round the corner, over a mound of garbage, Fenrir would have made the kill except for a newspaper, slapped by the breeze into his face, swatting it with a paw, it rebounded wrapping itself around his noble head. #### He couldn’t have imagined how awful things could go so wrong so fast. Opening the kitchen window, placing an apple pie on the sill to cool was mistake number one, by Aggie the cook-housekeeper. Straight from the oven, bubbling rivulets of amber liquid cascaded oozing and caramelizing over the golden brown pastry. A favorite of Lord Garvagh and his luminaries at their weekly Bridge game, it was served room temperature with Devonshire cream. ### Newly arrived and settling into the relative safety of urban life, a family of crows was attracted by the aroma of the pie invitingly placed within their reach. Seizing the opportunity with a “come and get it” excitement several more arrived. Highly intelligent, they carved up that pie in seconds. Classified by some obscure woman in the 18th century the murder of crows, nomen est omen, was spot on in this case. Dastardly intelligent those birds swooped down, sliced the pie into several pieces, and up and away to their nests. A feast for all and spare in the larder. ## After clearing the first course, Aggie returned to the kitchen looking at an empty pie dish on the open window, not a crumb left. Angrily, she had to blame ...who? and looked with suspicion at the only possible explanation. Fenrir who loved the companionship and tasty titbits always fed to him, when Aggie was working, stared up at her pleading innocence with his incredibly ice-blue eyes. Witnessing the crime, knowing birds were off limits, he was stunned by their audacity, but helpless to intervene. Fenrir must have scarfed the whole thing, Aggie concluded. She couldn’t produce another pie. Biscuits and cheese and a profound apology sufficed. Banished from the kitchen and scolded by Lord Garvagh, Fenrir was In hot water. Relating the incident later to his friends, they commiserated but were doubtful of his chances. ..........” they’ll send you away, Fenrir,” said the tabbies. ..........” or drop you off at the undertaker as permanent mouser,” said Sheba, mournfully. ...........” heh heh hee.....It’s kibbles ‘n bits, ooh, and 2%. Heh heh sniggered the Toms displaying misplaced but not malicious humor. A fault of the lower classes . ...........” with a name like mine, I’m going to fight this” Fenrir exclaimed with much eclat. Sheba smiled. ...........”I’m with you, who else is up to defend our leader” A combined murmur of assent, with one paw raised, was the answer. ### It was a wonderful show of bravado, but nothing more. The nights were growing chilly, and so was the temperature inside for Fenrir. Banished to the basement, he commuted through the rusty bars of a busted window. Acutely aware of rejection, he began to molt. His once glossy coat turned dull and lifeless ### His nightly sojourn was now merely a reminder of loss of status. Dejected and humiliated, like Napoleon after Waterloo, defeat was intolerable. Although valiantly supporting their leader, there was little the cats could do. What a farce to talk of retaliation. ### Salvation is always a miracle and rewarding in every sense of the word. It came as a direct result of greed by the crows. Emboldened and fearless they circled in ever-widening flocks and on impulse rushed and struck the kitchen window with sharp impatient beats. What a commotion! Even Lord Garvagh in his study on the top floor heard it. Aggie, immediately realizing the cause and effect of the situation, ran for the broom. Flogging the daylight out of those rascals they scattered as autumn leaves disturbed by a blower. Peace and tranquility returned to the household. With an outpouring of love and affection, Fenrir was showered, primped, and cosseted like Marie Antoinette during her good days. Triumphantly restored to prominence, Fenrir glowed and Sheba wore the mantle of First Lady once more. All’s well that ends well........not quite. During his banishment the cats would often come by for a little cat nap, chew the fat and tell a few yarns. They liked Fenrir. Noticing the absence of greedy crows and no more demanding window bashing, Lord Garvagh and Aggie were cautiously optimistic. One fine evening Lord Garvagh strolling around his beautiful garden saw the two tomcats resting in a bed of golden marigolds. Aha, that’s the reason, he thought. They keep the crows away. Bending down intending to pat the head he could only see one ear, and the other cat a socket where an eye should rest. .............”Poor little buggahs” he said to himself. At his express instruction Aggie would put out each evening Tupperware containing hamburger and milk. Shoo and Scram were on easy street at last.

Cheryl dropped her mobile on the sofa then plopped down after it, exhausted from another hectic day in what seemed an exceedingly long week. “T.G.I.F,” she sighed, glancing at the fluffy doughnut bed next to her crammed bookcase as if Nabisco would be curled up there signifying his total agreement with one look from under those floppy ears. Her throat caught at how much she missed the little mongrel. His presence in her life had outlasted all her relationships. In fact, if she had paid heed to the times that Nabisco didn’t warm to a few of them, she would have saved herself both time and trouble. The emptiness of her cosy but stylish apartment pressed in on her. That she hadn’t lived here very long didn’t help. Smothering under the weight, she considered going out for a walk, get some fresh air, but this seemed pointless without Nabisco to investigate the still fairly new neighbourhood of Old Town alongside her. That tub of Rocky Road ice cream which had leaped into her shopping cart the other day was calling her, despite how well she had hidden it in the bottom freezer drawer where she wouldn’t accidentally come across and be tempted. Really, she should save it for a special occasion when she invited a friend over. But she hadn’t felt ready to invite anyone into her space yet. Cheryl patted her slender abdomen, knowing temptation could easily become a slippery slope. Although she and her sister weren’t twins, they must share some of the same genes. Always easier for both of them to put on pounds rather than shed them. She needed to be like Odysseus ignoring the seductive calls of the gorgeous winged Sirens on their rocky island. Then she recalled his followers had tied him to the mast so he wasn’t really that strong-willed, especially as they all stuffed wax in their ears so they wouldn’t hear his orders to change course for the jagged rocks festooned with human bones from previous victims of the alluring harpies. What a grisly imagination she had, but then it was a Friday when everything that had been restrained and contained and ignored all week came raging into expression. Let It All Hang Out. That was what Luigi, her most recent significant other, used to tempt her to enjoy every Friday night. Their wild times thrilled her for a while but paying for their excesses on Saturday morning with the worst hangovers and watching her carefully managed budget implode as well began the slow unravelling of their liaison. Luigi didn’t appreciate her suggestion that they limit their Friday splurge to once a month, so eventually they parted ways. She missed how funny he was and the intensity of making love, but actually, not much else. Still staring at the fluffy doughnut bed, she reflected that she missed Nabisco more than Luigi. A dog accepted you exactly as you were, perfectly happy with whatever you decided to do as long as that included loads of cuddles, as many walks as possible, and the essential combination of treats, toys and their preferred brand of dog food. She learned quite early on that variety was not something Nabisco welcomed in his bowl, so that necessitated a trip to go and buy the proper stuff. The other tins of the brand she bought because it was on sale ended up being donated to the shelter where she found him. Prior to that, she assumed a dog would eat anything if hungry while fussiness was the prerogative of cats. Her mobile emitted an unfamiliar sound like a subdued doorbell. She had assigned a specific ring tone to each of her friends and a shared one for family so that she always knew who was calling. Cheryl picked up the phone, admired the sweet photo of Nabisco, then navigated to the message screen where Unknown Number was listed at the top. She right clicked. Her fingertip hovered over Delete. This was probably someone telling Mom that he had lost his mobile and could she please send $100 right away to a bogus account or some other scam. But it was Friday. She had no plans and no commitments. She could indulge her curiosity. Meet me at The Usual Place in half an hour. She blinked. Only a week ago, she ventured to have a drink at that bar for the very first time. This was only to satisfy a work colleague who kept warning her that she must get herself out there if she didn’t want to end up as a frustrated spinster. Enjoyable enough despite being on her own, but she soon walked back home and lost herself in Netflix. She shoved the message to one side and pushed the menu down to find Delete again. The mobile repeated the subdued doorbell sound. Clock is ticking, Cheryl. I need to see you. She felt the back of her neck prickle at the use of her name. This sounded like the beginning of one of those edge-of-your-seat novels that her sister enjoyed. Cheryl preferred Chic Lit, especially with a generous helping of laughs and the requisite happy ending. Another muted ding dong from the mobile. Trust me. Staring at the two words, Cheryl shook her head and began to jab the smudged screen to reply: WTF. LOL. No way Jose or whoever you are. She set the mobile down again, imagining how delicious the Rocky Road ice cream would be, melting on her tongue. It wasn’t like drinking alone or snorting Smurf or whatever the addictive white powder was called this year. Ding dong. Cheryl grabbed the mobile with a frown. After this, she would restrict the device to only receiving calls from those few people she always wanted to be available for, mostly family except for one dear friend who sometimes teetered on the brink of despair. Ginger ale has less calories than Rocky Road. A full body shiver went through her. Whoever this was, they knew her preference for ginger ale when she went out which was fair enough, but it creeped her out that they knew her favourite ice cream was Rocky Road and maybe that she had some stashed in her freezer right now. She looked around as if a hidden camera might be filming her reaction. She felt impelled to throw the mobile across the living room but didn’t want to shatter the phone as she was still recovering her financial equilibrium after Luigi. Another subdued ding dong made her wince. She dropped the mobile onto the sofa. Somebody must be pranking her, but who? It didn’t matter who. She was not going to participate. Her mind fastened on the possibility that it could well be her most recent Ex. Maybe Luigi was already drunk and had borrowed a friend’s phone to text her. Perhaps he was trying to lure her to The Usual Place in the hope they could resume where they left off. No way Luigi. Determined to switch the settings to avoid any more texts from Unknown Number, she picked up the mobile. Because it was Friday and she was upset and tired, she automatically clicked into the new message received. Public place. Plenty witnesses. What could go wrong? L O L She tried to convince herself that the stranger was indicating laughter, but each character of the Lol, all in capitals, had a space between. Only one person she knew used L O L that way, not indicating amusement but abbreviating Lots of Love. Someone who teased her out of the habit of signing off a message with any number of Xs. Nowadays, everyone did that, work colleagues, dental receptionists, anyone. She replied quickly. Stevie? The overly active mobile became stubbornly mute. She scrolled back to read through all of the messages, unable to stop herself from imagining them being spoken in Stevie’s voice. Meet me at The Usual Place in half an hour. Clock is ticking, Cheryl. I need to see you. Trust me. Then came her first reply: WTF. LOL. No way Jose or whoever you are. Ginger ale has less calories than Rocky Road. Public place. Plenty witnesses. What could go wrong? L O L Her second reply: Stevie? Cheryl stared at the mobile with tears pricking her eyes. She shook the gadget in her hand as if that would force the next text to arrive. Silence. She checked the connectivity symbol which was at 100%. Text something else, but what? Her finger caressed the L O L before she checked the number to see if it rang any bells. But who remembered anybody’s number these days? She felt lucky she could remember her own when asked. Again, she read over the messages, reminding herself that this could literally be anyone texting her. Highly unlikely that this would turn out to be Stevie. Probably a friend pranking her for some obscure reason or maybe a drunken Luigi playing games. Then, the words came to her. Could we start the half hour clock from now? She put the mobile down carefully as if that mattered and fixed her gaze on the large, framed, sepia photograph of Point Loma Light House that Stevie bought for her because she had liked the iconic image so much at Tierra del Fuego gallery. Not immediately like most people would do, but gone back later for it to surprise her. Ding dong. Okay, just this once, seeing as how it’s you. Cheryl erupted from the sofa, knowing that Nabisco would be barking and jumping and overjoyed to see her so excited if he was still with her. Thirty minutes was not long enough to do everything she would like to do if this was Stevie and not a prank, but she simply must change out of her work clothes. She hated dressing corporate outside of work hours. But what to wear? Opening her built-in closet, she realised how much of a first world problem this was. Probably in some parts of the world, a person wore only one garment until it literally fell to pieces. She stripped off the heels, the nylons, the work-appropriate black dress and the tight underwear. No time for a shower. Again, something many people on the planet didn’t have any need to worry about. She thought of the adverts she sometimes saw on YouTube for Charity: Water. She needed to click through next time and set up a monthly donation, stop procrastinating. And stop scrolling so much, too, that was getting to be a habit when she got home after work. Just a few minutes could easily turn into an hour or more. Rebuilding from the foundations, she chose a matching set of more comfortable underwear, then grabbed an old Save The Whales t-shirt and her favourite blue jeans. Obviously, the t-shirt had seen plenty of wear, but it was a classic that she had worn for many adventures. The jeans had daisies on rainbow vines spiralling up each leg that she embroidered in high school, inspired by her teenage fascination with vintage Flower Power. She felt proud that they still fit. Cheryl blotted her “I Mean Business” red lipstick then applied a rosy shade. Studying her reflection in the mirror made her feel she was preparing to enter a time machine and rocket back into her past. A real smile appeared on her lips as she realised that she must tell Stevie as he would appreciate that idea. How she had enjoyed those stories they sometimes invented together, though they never got written down for reasons that escaped her now. She put on her most comfortable shoes in case they went for a walk around Old Town. She grabbed her capacious denim jacket from a peg by the door and hurried out. Only when she saw the glow of another walker’s mobile did she pat her pockets and realise that her mobile lay abandoned on the sofa. Going back would waste precious time. The clock was ticking. Stevie--possibly--was waiting. Their meeting was arranged, so what did she need her mobile for? As she walked briskly through her neighbourhood, a rider passing on a palomino horse tipped his hat. What a beautiful horse. Could this be a sign? She and Stevie could go riding at the stables near La Jolla this weekend, bring a picnic to enjoy at what they always called the Halfway Point. Hearing the sound of galloping, Cheryl looked over her shoulder to see them coming in her direction at speed. She smiled, thinking maybe the rider had left his mobile phone somewhere like she had. But he didn’t look like he would even know what to do with one. He probably was part of the many historical reenactments that took place in Old Town, perhaps enjoyed keeping in character even when he wasn’t being paid to do so. She kept meaning to find out when they were and go along. She had definitely seen the rider in her neighbourhood before. Nobody could mistake that palomino. She wondered if the horse was stabled nearby. Did he need some kind of permission to keep a horse in his backyard or a license to ride a horse on normal streets? She must google this during her next coffee break at work if she remembered, but Monday seemed very far away. But why google when she could get the information from the horse’s mouth, so to speak? The idea amused her that the horse might talk rather than the rider. She vaguely recalled someone telling her about an old television show, black and white maybe, which had a talking horse. Mister Ed maybe? She had not spoken to the rider yet because he always seemed to be going somewhere. But on a horse, not a bicycle, easier to pause the journey unless galloping. She could admire his horse to start with like she tended to do when she encountered a dog walker since the loss of Nabisco. Cheryl considered breaking into a run but didn’t want to be sweaty or out of breath when she arrived. Soon enough, she was entering the Mercado, the gathering of shops and restaurants which was partly what attracted her to Old Town. She didn’t mind the thronging tourists as they generally weren’t noisy nuisances. Her heart pulsed in her throat as she entered The Usual Place, the hubbub of conversation mostly drowning out jazz music coming from the speakers. As if a spotlight shone on Stevie, she saw him immediately and waved. He nodded in return as she approached, the smile raising the corners of his lips only enough to qualify as a smile, but the welcome obvious in his eyes. Seeing the table was empty, she asked, “Ginger ale?” “Best drink in the house,” he agreed, as always. Cheryl quickly fetched two ginger ales, being pushier at the bar than she normally would be. “You look amazing,” Stevie told her as she sat down opposite. “Really?” she asked because such words from him were never just flattery. “Really.” He gave her an appraising gaze. “You haven’t changed a bit.” “Neither have you,” she replied with a smile because that was so true. They talked, as usual, about everything and nothing. Somehow, resuming from where they left off easily bridged the gap of seven years. The rider on the palomino horse got a mention. Stevie agreed the show had been Mister Ed but didn’t whip out his mobile phone to see if he was correct. She liked knowing that he felt such devices were distractions rather than essential assets and was pleased she had left hers at home. Their conversation deepened as they discussed the life and times and sad demise of Nabisco, the mongrel she adopted before they first met. When her glass was empty, Stevie offered, “Be my guest.” He gestured at his own which seemed barely touched. “Thanks,” she said, moving the full glass to her side of the table, glad to not have to leave him for even a minute. Because the desire kept rising to mind, she finally told him, “No pressure, but you can come see my new place if you like.” Stevie nodded but made no comment. “Anytime,” she added awkwardly, “doesn’t have to be tonight.” “That would be good,” he replied. “Cheryl,” boomed a too familiar voice from behind her, “cara mia, what brings a nice girl like you to a dump like this?” Two hands caressed her shoulders. Luigi had always been a touchy-feely kind of guy. She gave Stevie an apologetic grimace before glancing at her Ex and saying, “I’m busy, Lu, we’ll catch up another time.” His laughter grated before he invaded her space to give her a peck on the cheek. No alcohol on his breath yet, at least. Luigi walked around the little table to claim the now empty seat opposite her as if it was his by right. “Is it true, bella? Do you live in Old Town now? There’s certainly no accounting for tastes.” Occupying the space where Stevie belonged made Luigi so lack-lustre that she struggled to think of why she had committed herself to the bigger, brasher man beyond their first date. Cheryl’s eyes flicked around The Usual Place. How had Stevie disappeared so quickly? He must have needed the restroom. She sipped the second glass of ginger ale, wishing it was something stronger as she tried to think how to get rid of her Ex before Stevie returned. Registering Luigi’s question belatedly, she resolved that she was not going to tell him where in Old Town as she answered, “I do.”

Beyond the tips of outstretched fingers, a beautiful ripe fig twisted in the breeze. Andrea’s foot began to numb as he wedged it deeper between the trunk and the cliff. He had nothing lose; he told himself. There was no other time this could ever be done, therefore climbing back up empty handed was not an option. ‘Andrea! Just give up already!’ ‘Everyone knows Lolo is the only one who can bring one up,’ a shower of gravel fell between the fig leaves and was lost to the water below. Andrea withdrew his foot and began to edge further down the trunk. ‘Andrea, come on, we have 5 minutes then it’s done.’ An excited chanting of his name began, but the shouts and laughter were lost to the sea breeze. 5 minutes was more or less exact however, and given the slow 600-year history of the tree, it seemed unfair that Andrea had just 5 minutes to grab his fig. But the reality was that in just under 10 minutes, the tree was being burnt out the side of the cliff. Over the last hundred years or so, much time had been spent over the issue of the fig tree. It was widely acknowledged by the locals on the island of Sabranio that the figs from this particular tree were some of the sweetest, if not the sweetest in the world. However, few members of the community had ever tasted the figs and by and large as many still wanted to taste them. And moreover, the tree and its figs had become something of metonym for evil. As with any good tradition, its roots lay in age-old misunderstandings of the world. The condemnation of the fruit was founded on two essential facts. 1) The inordinate number of youths throughout the centuries who have fallen to their death whilst climbing down to harvest the romanticised figs. 2) A small species of turtle who had turned their shells pink over the centuries by visiting the tree in the summer months and feasted on the fruit. The tree, and therefore its fruit, was found to be guilty of a double association with the malevolent: death, and devilishly coloured turtles. +++ Signor Conte appeared not to have read the words Private Meeting; No disturbances; Quiet please sellotaped to door as he entered the meeting room holding a pink turtle above his head. ‘End this nonsense!’ he said, rapping the shell until the room fell silent. ‘Do you see what you want to put an end to! 600 hundred years!’ persisted Conte, sliding a piece of cucumber under the turtle’s mouth. He searched the room for the effect of his bold entrance. The patchy crowd seemed unaffected by the accusation, and the elderly gentleman leading the meeting sighed and re-centred his pencil. ‘Look Conte -’ began the man. ‘How many children do we have to lose to save these ridiculous turtles?’ started a lady from the side. ‘13 children in as many years! Countless over the centuries, all for those demonic terrapins,’ put in a man from beneath large heaped cotton shirt collars. ‘You know as well as any of us,’ said Conte ‘you can’t go ahead and burn out that tree.’ A chorus of old chairs squeaked violently in response, and the man’s head craned up out of his stiff shirt in disbelief. ‘We have no interest in the university or any of that claptrap,’ he snapped. ‘The turtles can live off anything! It’s eating cucumber right now.’ The meeting agreed with its impromptu orator with more squeaking of chairs and nodding. 'And what's more, it might put an end to their ungodly shells,' the nodding exploded into a round of yeses. Signor Conte turned to the door, ‘Chiara Maio is here from a university on the mainland, she’s been studying the effect the figs have on the pigment of-’ ‘Stuff your turtles’ shouted a straw hat from the front row. ‘She’s here to explain to you all the -’ A paper folder came flying straight for Conte. ‘We’ve heard your side Conte,’ said the elderly man, standing slowly and flapping his arms about for quiet. ‘You’ve had your say, but the vote speaks for itself.’ ‘I’ve lodged a complaint with police on the mainland, they’ll be-’ ‘Let it go,’ said the man raising his pencil with authority. ‘It’s as good as done... Anyone who wants to bear witness to the burning should follow Ciro and myself up the hill, all others, I thank you for your time...’ News of the mob’s approach preceded its elderly march up towards the fig tree. The gaggle of children scrambled as the group abandoned the idea of a tasting the figs, and Andrea. ‘Hey,’ shouted the Conte, grabbing an evacuee by the arm. ‘Where are you going? Have you been playing up by the tree?’ the child gave a horrified guilty shake of its head and slipped away. From Conte’s position in the half circle around the edge of the cliff, a gnarled fig branch could be seen reaching out to sea. ‘Alas, it is a shame,’ began the elderly man, seizing the plastic can of oil from Ciro. ‘It’s a shame that maybe the very oldest tree on our bright little isle chose to grow not on the island but shooting out the side.’ To which there was a round of inaudible agreement. ‘But the greater shame is the many who have lost their lives in the dumb search for its fruit.’ At this Ciro began to sob. The elderly gentleman doffed his cap and began to soak the fig tree emptying the petrol out over the cliff edge. ‘I can’t let this happen,’ blurted Conte, grabbing Professor Maio by the arm, ‘we will stand in the way, you’ll have to burn us along with it,’ at which Professor Maio began to back away. ‘Look,’ she started. ‘Gladly,’ boomed the elderly man splashing the remains to the petrol can in their direction. ‘Ok, Tommaso, you’ve made your point,’ said Conte moving sheepishly back into line. ‘Anyone else!’ he said, withdrawing a flare from his jacket. He raised the burning rod above his head with a surprising alacrity - savaging the cloudless sky with its smoke. ‘Anyone else!’ ‘Stop,’ cried a child stumbling into the centre, ‘stop, we need to-’ ‘Shut that child up,’ shouted Tommaso, and dropped the flare over the cliff edge.

You had traveled far, far away to a foreign port in a foreign country. It smelled of foreign spices and you could hear the sound of languages you had never heard before. You needed this, and you had gotten yourself in quite some debt in order to finally get here, the legendary bar of the name «The Three Bottles». A bar famous for only serving three unusual drinks; Blind-me-not, Olympian’s sweat, and Reset. One of the few places on earth where these magical drinks can be found. Blind-me-not is a clear shot which glitters in the light, like a five year-old girl had found it and sparkled it up. The drink looks like a shot of water with glitter poured into it. It is made with one part Vodka mixed with one part juice of a strange plant called the »Visionroot». The drink tastes like a very mediocre and completely uneventful gin, but it gives whoever drinks it perfect vision for all eternity. No matter what may happen. Olympian’s sweat is a orange juice-looking drink, and no one knows what it’s made of. It’s origin is forever unknown. However everyone who drinks it notices the smell, the faint yet still clear stench of sweat. Just like standing a few feet away from someone who have just worked out. The taste however is rather good, it tastes just like Strawberry Juice. It is definetively a drink you can get used to, if you manage to ignore the unpleasant odor. Olympian’s Sweat gives the drinker the body they had when they were 17, with all the upsides and the eventual downsides. It also gives the drinker a pimple at their nose that will forever be there, no matter what the drinker may do. The body can never be changed nor harmed by anyone, and will stuck just like it was at it’s seventeenth birthday for all eternity. The final drink is the drink known as «Reset». It is a blended mix of shaved darkroot, a spoon of honey from the Stalker Bee, and a glass of Champagne. The taste is surprizingly enough just like water, even though it looks, smells and sounds just like an ordinary glass of champagne. The drink has however a rather unusaul effect. It gives the drinker the opportunity to go back to any point of the drinker’s lifetime, and at that time murder themselves. The murder will be painless and swift. You will however have died at that time, and never experienced an of the things you in this timeline experienced, even though you keep the memories. You wil enter the afterlife, whatever it may be, and spend your days there. You will find out what happens when you die. Is it painfull? Comfortable? You will now find out. The problem is you only have enough mone for two of these drinks. What may it be? The sweaty-smelling drink? The gliittering water? The glass the looks like Champagne? What may it be, you can only choose once, the kind of money it took to get here is the kind you will never find again. Choose wisely.

In the wooly cotton brains of young adulthood, I strove to be a psychonaut, seeking for a long-prolonged derangement of the senses in order to achieve comprehension of the unknown. I would use a variety of LSD-25, DMT and research chemicals to ascertain the different levels of reality that are hidden within my own perception. Further expansion of the mind was achieved by engaging in deep philosophical conversations surrounding theoretical physics and other areas of study with friends. As I got more experienced with DMT I finally achieved ego death, understanding what it means to be merely a wave packet vibrating to the cosmic frequency with no actual discernable identity. Along with ego-death came a remarkable appreciation for all of existence and being able to see the beauty in every speck of reality, for everything is united and one and the same, we only perceive distinctions between objects. Being that I was very experienced with numerous mind altering chemicals, I decided to try a new research drug called 2-ci. I had already taken 2-ce and 2-cb with marvelous results. So when I heard my friend who I would perform these shamanistic rituals with got 2-ci from the blackmarket in china, I was ready to try it. Little did I know all one needed for a strong experience was 10 milligrams and he had given me 77 milligrams inside a water bottle. I promptly chugged the water bottle while driving back to my home where several friends were waiting for me. My parents were out of town and we had planned a night worthy of Dionysus. Shortly after arriving at my home, I started to feel the first effects. A sense of euphoria erupted as my synapses transmitted this unknown chemical throughout my brain. That euphoria was short lived however as soon thereafter my auditory processing was inhibited by a “wahhhwahhhwahhh” noise that proceeded to block out all other sounds. Before I had a chance to grow annoyed at the incessant auditory hallucination, my vision started to disappear and was replaced with a kaleidoscope like experience. All images were drastically disordered and repeated in infinite regression. Next, came the physical pain, which to this day was the greatest pain I have ever experienced. Every nerve, every fiber of my being was being physically tortured as if on fire and being stabbed at the same time. As I began to shout out in agony, a new horror awaited me, a pain so great that I began to welcome the physical torture; that is the pain of emotional/psychological torment. I had ceased to exist in this world and had access to the web of all interactions I have and would ever make. But in these interactions, probabilities arose and it became apparent to me in this twisted, agonizing state that I will hurt others by staying alive. I watched each interaction of my life play out and those who got close to me only ended up hurt because of something I had done or would eventually do. It was around this time the ambulance had arrived. I was taken to a hospital where I was dosed with over 30 mg of kolonopin. I awoke a few hours later surrounded by my friends and feeling as though I had just been released from decades of physical and psychological torture. I was heavily tramatized. I had bad trips before, but this was unlike anything I had ever experienced. Later I would learn that the dose I took was the highest dose ever taken by a person and to this day no one has reported taking a dose anywhere close to that. As a result of taking such a high dose of 2ci, I would never be able to trip again, not due to lack of wishing to expand my mind but rather my mind was broken and would reject any further attempts to trip no matter what the chemical compound. I would spend the next many years analyzing what occurred during this experience and trying desperately to do good with my life. My greatest fear used to be zombies, but after that experience, my greatest fear became hurting another being. It is almost an unconscious drive at this point to prove to myself that I can help others/improve their lives., in defiance of my fate.

I thought as I gave the lock a spin to reset it. *12-click-8-click- slowly, slowly - 34-Clack. Nice, smooth as Mr. double-o-seven,* I thought smugly despite my botched first attempt. I pulled my locker door open, carelessly tossed my chemistry books into my locker and grabbed my P.E. bag. *Hell yeah*, I thought, *another chance to show Clarissa how cool I am.* I wasn't very strong or tall for guys my age, but I was agile. Many hours of class had been lost to me daydreaming about her seeing me pass through the opposing teams defensive with the masculine grace of a dancing tiger followed up by me scoring and her swooning. *sigh*. "... no of course not!" Her angelic voiced pierced the commotion of the crowded hallways as Clarissa walked in my direction. It was as if her voice were an arrow that had hit some hormonal bullseye at the base of my developing brain. I took a deep breath, pulled my hand threw my hair and prepared to give Clarissa *the look*. Exuding swagger in a nonchalant way, but still enticing enough to keep me on her mind. Looking at the tiny mirror tucked into the corner of my locker, I practiced my most ‘James Bond’-esque look I could muster. Too much eyebrow I noted as I angled my jaw to check if I had shaved well enough this morning. As Clarissa's clique approached, I was able to hear their conversation: "Mr. Matthews is such a creep, right? I swear he was staring at me this morning." said Rachel. *No way that even that pedo would see anything but bloated entitlement in your fat ass*, I thought. "Yeah, he definitely has a thing for us girls; our quiz scores are always higher than the boys." answered Melanie. “ Right as I turned around to cast my suave yet heartfelt spell on Clarissa, I felt my jacket get caught on the inside lock mechanism of my locker door. *Fuck. shit. fuck. damn*, I grumbled as I tugged my jacket. I didn't want to miss this god given moment. Finally, I found sweet release from those iron clutches and turned around. H All I saw was the back of her heavenly hair as her flowery smell wafted past. I could pick that exact scent in a field of all the worlds roses. Like her voice, her scent pressed a deep animalistic button in my brain. Unexpectedly, she looked back at me, smiled and said: "See you on then field!". *Holy shit*. My brain fritzed and my rationality evaporated as all I could muster was a feeble "Yeah thanks, you too". *Yeah thanks, you too? Was that really what I had just said. How, on God’s green earth could I have screwed that up?* I thought to myself in exasperation. It seemed as though all the blood in my brain had been redirected. I looked down and there was proof that it had.

Authors Note: I wrote this because I was inspired by a post on r/depression by the user u/terencepen1 . I know that I am still a novice writer and I need to improve on a lot of aspects of my fiction writing. I am posting this story in this sub because it seems like an appropriate place to share this. “If you and Matt are busy, we can always grab lunch another time.” The letters spun underneath the tips of my fingers and entered the chat, but I didn’t feel or register the action. I honestly don’t feel much of anything anymore. “No, Matt and I are in line to get food.” Grayson messaged. “Cool! I’m sitting somewhere near the entrance.” You know, I said that it was cool, but some part of me really didn’t want to eat with them. I twirled the carrots on my plate, pretending to be absorbed in the intricacies of undercooked college dining hall food, just so I could act aloof, so I could let Matt and Grayson know that I didn’t need them. I had my brittle root vegetables. They made their way over to where I was sitting. We mostly ate in silence, my two friends chittering away with one another, unaware of the malignant pleasures bewitching my brain. I could feel my face contort in such a ghastly manner, the only way it can when you are about to sob. “Are you okay?” Matt asked, his eyebrows did the thing where they turn up and scrunch together. The "genuine concern eyebrows." “You know, just casually suicidal.” I laughed, a meek cry for help. He halfheartedly grinned in response, and then jumped back into his previous conversation with Grayson. Their lack of acknowledgement or concern and ability to go along with my fervent lies bothered me to no end, and I got up to leave not soon after. I couldn’t just sit here without letting the waterworks spill over. Back in my dorm, I turned on the shower, my hands feeling heavy and not entirely my own. I stepped out of the bathroom to let the water warm up a bit. The preemptive sting of tears hit the bridge of my nose once again. Without even thinking I took the few steps to my bed and ripped the comforter off, throwing my clothes around the room, hoping for even the slightest trace of anything other than the sinking weight of living that made its home in my ribcage. Hoping that ruining my always tidy asylum would ignite a feeling of regret or just ground me into reality. Standing in the middle of the room I looked at the mess that I had designed. A sweater touched some my roommates side and I shoved it back to my side with my foot. My eyes glanced instinctively down to my phone. A notification from Matt lit up the screen. "Hey, sorry that your having a bad day, if you ever want to talk we’re here. We love you.” It was a sweet notion, but the only thing that crossed my mind was that he spelled “you’re” wrong. And because of that, I just wouldn't reply. He could have said something when I admitted my casual distress fifteen minutes prior, i wish he would have said something. The shower should be hot by now. Something about having scalding water hit my face made the welled up tears finally fall from my eyes. I am so worthless. This education is so expensive, and if my human capital is worthless, then I am just a waste of space and money. I lathered some shampoo into my hair, it smelled like candied roses. What is the point of living if things won’t get better? I am so fucking sick, so sad and so chemically messed up. I will always be empty and sad. I should just kill myself. Who would it hurt? Maybe my dad. I love my dad, but he isn’t the reason why I wouldn't go through with my own euthanasia. I rinsed out the shampoo and put in conditioner. The friends that I have made don’t know me well enough to truly be sad if I died. My roommate would be a little sad, but she’d get over it. It’s only been five months that I have known these new friends, five months isn’t enough time to be sad if someone you know meets their own mortality. Some rational part of my brain keeps arguing that I have already spent a lot of money on school, and that if I were to kill myself now, then I would be wasting that money, I should finish what I started. I put some shower gel onto a loofah and started to scrub my skin. I have superficial reasons to take care of this stupid body even if I want to discard it. I know that showering can make these sick feelings go away. Feverish water rinsed away the suds from my shoulders and arms, running down the drain with the filth of my existence. I could never go through with it though. Every option would hurt too much. Jumping from the roof would make a huge mess for everyone, and who even knows if it would work? What if I just ended up paralyzed? The same can be said for an overdose. The only pills I have access too might not even kill me. How much ibuprofen do you have to take to do any damage? As for bleeding out... that has the potential to be nice, I often like to romanticize the act of slitting my wrists and dying, how everything would burn yet feel cold and how I would fade into oblivion. But that isn’t realistic, and I don’t really think that I’d be capable of cutting deep enough into my arm to do any real damage, and my fantasia of the act is just that, a fantasy. Plus my roommate would have to deal with the mess and that’s just rude, I refuse to be a rude human being. I know that for some arbitrary reason I have to keep on living, but wouldn’t things just be so much easier I could enter the void? If I could end all of this trivial torment? I just don’t want to be alone. The bombardment of tears has passed, I can feel the burn that lingers every time that I blink. I got out of the shower and lazily dried myself off. Slipping on some gross dirty clothes I decided to take a walk. Maybe I could find a bridge to jump off of. The bite of frosty winter air hit me as I stepped outside. It’s a Tuesday and people are walking around going places, living. I round the corner of my building and spot the frozen yogurt shop that my friends and I go to on Wednesdays. I don’t know what convinced me to enter the shop, I didn’t really have the money to treat myself to this. I walked in and grabbed the smallest cup, filling it with plain vanilla, no toppings, just vanilla yogurt. The cashier rang me up, saying “that’ll be four dollars,” his voice chimed with a weird genuine vibrato that is hard to find in any food service or retail job. It’s contagious really, I smiled back at him and went to sit down. I still can’t feel my hands, it’s as if a phantom possess my body and I have to take the backseat while they control me. I look down at the plain and boring treat in my lap and a single tear rolls down my cheek. I just have to take each day one at a time. I know that today won’t be the day that I die, maybe I can sleep off this heavy dread.

Logan was a man who had lost his way. He was a successful businessman, rising to a high position in a Fortune 500 company, but his success had come at a high cost. He had become self-destructive, drinking heavily and engaging in dangerous and reckless behavior. He had lost touch with the things that once mattered to him; he was self-destructing. Everything changed when Logan's grandmother, Ellen, died. She had always been the rock of his life, and her passing left a huge hole in his heart. At her funeral, Logan learned that she had left him a piece of land in the remote mountains of East Tennessee. He had visited this land with his grandmother as a child and had many fond memories of it. Logan decided to take a break from his life and visit the land that his grandmother had left him. He packed a bag, took leave from his job, and set off on the long drive to East Tennessee. As he drove, he couldn't help but think about his grandmother and the memories they had made together. He knew this trip would be a chance to reconnect with the things that once mattered to him. When Logan arrived at the land, he was struck by its beauty. The rolling hills and lush forests were exactly as he remembered them as a child. He decided to explore the land, and as he walked, he came across an old, dilapidated cabin in the woods. This was the same cabin that he had visited many times with his grandmother and had many fond memories of. Logan did not know it yet, but this was the place where he would begin to heal. He decided to spend some time at the cabin, to fix it up and make it his own. He spent his days working on the place, fixing the roof, the windows, and the door. He cleaned out the inside and made it a cozy and comfortable home. He even started to plant a small vegetable garden out front. As Logan worked on the cabin, mending its wounds, his own wounds, one-by-one, began mending too. He realized that he had been on the wrong path in life and needed to change. He stopped drinking and started taking better care of himself. Since the cabin was small and rustic, it was the perfect place for Logan to escape from the world. He spent his days hiking in the woods and fishing in the nearby lake. He spent his nights reading Shakespeare and staring up at the stars, taking extra special joy in observing the constellation Orion make its way across the night sky. And, slowly but surely, Logan began to heal. As the days passed, Logan began to feel a sense of peace. He began to see the beauty in the simple things around him. He would watch the sun rise over the lake and feel grateful for another day. He would listen to the birds singing in the trees and feel a sense of wonder. He would look up at the stars at night and feel a sense of connection to something greater than himself. Logan also started to learn new skills, like how to make his own furniture, fix appliances, and cook. He realized that he found happiness in small things like the smell of freshly brewed coffee in the morning, the sound of wood crackling in the fireplace, and the sight of the sun setting behind the mountains. He realized that he had never felt this way before, and the simplicity of the cabin's life was the key to his healing. As the weeks turned into months, Logan's physical and emotional health improved. He started to feel strong again, and his wounds began to heal. He started to feel like himself again, like the person he was before he lost his way. Logan rediscovered himself. He realized that he had been living a life that didn't align with his values and needed to change. He began to think about what truly mattered to him and what kind of person he wanted to be. One day, as Logan was sitting on the cabin's porch, he realized it was time for him to leave. He knew that he had found what he had been looking for and that it was time to take on the world with a renewed attitude. He packed his bags and said goodbye to the cabin, knowing it would always hold a special place in his heart. Logan left the cabin with a newfound sense of purpose. He had changed and was ready to take on the world with a positive attitude. He returned to his old life with a renewed sense of purpose and a new perspective. One of the first things Logan did was quit his job and start a new business. He wanted to do something that would honor his grandmother's memory and make a difference in the world. He started a company that focused on sustainable living and preserving the environment, something his grandmother had always been passionate about. He knew that this was his true calling and that this was what he wanted to do with his life. Logan's business was a huge success, and it brought him immense satisfaction. He was not just making a living, he was making a difference. He could use his talents and skills to help others, and he knew that this was what his grandmother would have wanted. He knew that he had found his true purpose and was living his life with purpose and meaning. As Logan's business grew, he was able to give back to the community in a big way. He started a charitable foundation focused on helping the less fortunate and protecting the environment. He knew that this was what his grandmother would have wanted, and he felt that he was living his life with purpose and meaning. Logan's time at the cabin in the woods profoundly changed him. He had taken the time to heal, refocus on himself, and uncover his true purpose. He had rediscovered himself and had found a new perspective on life. He knew that his grandmother's passing had been a turning point in his life. He was grateful to her, and he was thankful to the cabin for giving him the space to heal his wounded heart, soul, mind, and body. This story's moral is that sometimes in life, we lose our way and need to take the time to heal and find ourselves again. We need to focus on ourselves, and we need to find our true purpose. It is important to take the time to heal, take time to focus on ourselves, and truly find our proper purpose in life. Sometimes, the things we lose in life can lead us to something greater. Like Logan, we should be bold and take time for ourselves, to focus on healing our wounds and find our true purpose in this life. In doing so, we can honor those who have passed and leave behind a legacy that both they and we would be proud of.

Sometimes lunch falls from the sky. I suppose that may seem like some blessing, but I’ve had about enough of it, myself. Have you any idea what that kind of impact does to a half-eaten meat pie? I once heard a wet explosion and stepped out of my neat grass hut to find my fire pit covered in gravy. Nor does lunch tend to land in the most opportune of places. Yesterday about midday I had a banana. Nearly killed me. The Goony Birds drop all manner of objects as they fly across the valley sky, always from Mount of the Moon to Purple Panther Peak. Papers, coins, clothing, shoes, dark eyeglass , beverage containers, writing implements. I have a dune of mostly obliterated or useless Goony Bird crap that grows by the day. Worst of all, they sometimes drop lunch after it’s already been eaten. Solid chunks land several seconds before the fine spray. It’s only been this way for a handful of seasons. I can easily recall when my sky was clear of Goonies and the shrieking zip of their flight. Then, life was considerably more normal. My days were occupied with foraging, sometimes hunting for meats or skins, and regular visits from Teela. On occasion, strangers would wander in from distant valleys. We were always happy to welcome them. Teela was my closest neighbor, living just past the arse-shaped rock downstream. Her flesh was sparse, and her head of hair was ample. Sad story, Teela’s. I can’t help but recall the pleasant times, though. She would drop in at least once every few days with something new to show me.Spiny fruits, dead insects, smelly things. She had a strange obsession with useless objects. I would call her an odd one, but I’m afraid I haven’t known a sufficient number of normal people to justify saying so. We shared meals often (I made the food my responsibility; one could never be sure what Teela would bring to share), and more than a few times we explored one another, sharing in the vagaries of physical pleasure. Having her around was always good fun. At least, that is, until the freak show appeared above our heads. Teela fell under the spell of the Goonies. “Such lovely big birds,” she said to me the day after they first whizzed through our pristine sky. “They’re no proper birds,” I told her. “Do you see wings?” “They don’t need wings; they have otherworldly powers. Dummy!” When the so-called birds started dropping their crap, Teela lost her coconuts. “Look at this!” She picked something up from the dirt outside my hut. It was a small piece of canvas emblazoned with the perfect image of a person, but this person was like none I had met. Pale as a cloud and still sporting baby fat as a grown man. Goony-looking. Unfortunately, this only helped Teela to deify the Goonies. I tried to tell her they were just people. “Dope! They only take the form of humans so as not to frighten us, the simpler beings. And how do you suppose they fly, smart guy? Our minds are not capable of fully comprehending.” Teela began spending every day at my hut. My place was a hotspot for Goony junk landings (Teela took to calling it the ‘Place of Great Heavenly Bounty’). I didn’t mind that she took all the junk-I certainly didn’t need it-but watching her lose her mind was too much. I once snuck off to her place while she was trying to find a suitable way to dress her wild mane around a set of gleaming cooking tools that had crashed into the stream near my hut. When I crossed the arse rock, I could scarcely believe the state of her living space: the slipshod grass shelter was consumed by an intricate altar of stacked Goony garbage. It was no wonder she bummed around my place; hers had become storage! I was lucky enough to have a morning to myself when a most intriguing specimen touched down. As I lounged on a bed of moss, sipping spiny fruit nectar, a bush across the stream burst into a flurry of leaves. Normally I would have let the thing lie and notified Teela, but my interest was piqued as I discerned a small racket coming from what remained of the foliage. What I found was a small, heavy picture-box device. It was like several I had seen before, but unlike the others, this one was in working order. Well perhaps it wasn’t undamaged from the fall, but it repeatedly displayed the same moving image: it was one of those Goony white people smiling, laughing with his giant teeth and sticking his thumb in the air. He was on a mountain peak, approaching a precipice. When I looked close, I could see that he was wearing an apparatus that protruded from his midsection and connected him to something that reached far into the open sky. It was a line. As the Goony in the picture-box launched himself over the precipice and wailed like a young girl, the situation suddenly became clear. I tore my rapt eyes from the box, studied the sky with greater scrutiny than I had hitherto thought to give, and soon found what I was looking for: a barely perceptible line bridged the sky between the peaks on either side of the valley. Teela was not receptive to my discovery. “Blasphemy! Omnipotent beings do not dangle from vines.” “But it’s right there above your daft head! Just look up!” “I don’t need to; I’m strong enough to have faith in the inexplicable.” “We’re human beings, Teela. Rational thought is our most powerful tool, and you’re ignoring it altogether. All you have is faith in ignorance.” “Don’t talk down to me. I won’t hesitate to defend my values.” That’s when I showed her the moving image in the picture-box. She couldn’t draw her eyes away until it repeated four times over. Then she met my gaze with a leer that would cleave stone. “Tempter! Demon sent to corrupt!” Teela was in the throes of hysteria. She wore the mean look of a cornered badger. “Death be upon you!” My friend must have known she could not slay me, and too that she had violated the boundaries of our friendship. Sadly, I’d no time to pose a question before she came at me with a shiny blade pulled from her Goony headdress, and she’d no time to redact herself before I smashed her head with a rock.There was a thud as she dropped and the slight clink of a bloodied spoon tumbling from her head, but then there was only silence. Teela was my dear friend, daresay my only friend, and I had killed her. I reexamined the fact repeatedly before I could bring myself to believe it. I had bludgeoned my friend to death, but only as a reflexive reaction to a life-or-death situation brought upon by her irrational hysteria. Did I have a choice? And did she understand the implications of her delusions? Was this mess our fault? No. It was those great Goony bastards playing cheap tricks with twine above our heads. After all, they had no divine enchantment, nor even the power of flight. They were only men, and men could fall. That night, I put in no small effort devising an operation to take back the valley sky. As the moon rose over its mount, I felled no less than a dozen trees, each of considerable height, and carried them past the arse to Teela’s. I then used the heftiest limb I could salvage to reduce her Goony shrine to what I had always seen it for: a mound of garbage. Consider it grieving. Next, I proceeded to construct a pyre, reinforced with all the pieces from the hulking mound of Goony garbage, of such magnitude that according to my calculations, her flames just might lick the strand in the sky. Consider it retribution. As the first rumor of dawn found the horizon, I spent the last of my strength carrying the corpse of my friend to the pyre’s pinnacle. When I returned to the ground, I set the first spark of what promised to be an unforgettable conflagration and proceeded to collapse on my back, eyes turned to the slowly waning stars. I cared little that had my structure failed, flaming tree trunks and landfill would have rained down upon me and brought my end. Life thereafter was optional, so long as the Goonies were stopped. The heat of the growing blaze soon crept into my skin, and before long, I could perceive the line in the sky giving off a faint glow. Yes, I thought, my final act shall come to fruition. I may at least die with integrity. With my head laid back on the hot ground, I closed my eyes and let the roar of the inferno fill my senses. It was then that I became aware of something else: a second roar, carried by the wind from a near valley. I sat up and watched as a massive object blotted out the first rays of the breaking dawn. It was a fat, Goony flying machine, and it wasted no time. From its great metal belly dropped a deluge, which soaked the entire valley floor with a single, thundering crash. I was cold-cocked and washed halfway to the stream bed while the bonfire collapsed into a half-ashen dune of wet garbage. When I coughed back into consciousness, I was surrounded by flopping river fish. The first thing I thought to do was examine the morning sky. Indeed, the Goony line hung intact above me. My struggle had been in vain. Logic advised me to laugh, make light of the situation, accept that what had happened was beyond my control. But no smile would come. All the humor of a cruel reality was wasted that day on a single, melancholy man. The only thing left for me to do was rebuild my home and carry on. I have never thought at length about what should be done with the remains of the pyre. Perhaps I have secretly hoped the forest would someday overtake it and reclaim it for the Earth. Yet the dune stands to this day, a memorial to my foolishness. I had hoped it would scare away the Goonies, or at least be enough of an eyesore to diminish their numbers, but no. It didn’t work out as such. I guess some problems cannot be solved. Dave, The Xtreme Jungle Zip-n-Camp Adventure shift manager, stood on the mountaintop platform, green in the face. He’d managed a ski school before he moved out here. This was well outside the realm of his professional experience “Are you sure it was a real-” “Yup,” said the greasy part-timer. “Trus’ me, you’ll see it.” “Well... I suppose I’ll have to phone the director, then.” The part-timer nodded and backed away. He wanted nothing to do with that conversation. The shift manager unsheathed his cumbersome weatherproof satellite phone and pressed 1. He always felt weird using a phone with actual buttons. “Good morning, director.” “...” “Yes sir, I’m aware that it’s four a.m. in your time zone. I apologize. “...” “Well, I’m out here trying to open line eleven, and I’m looking at... there’s no other way to put this: it’s the charred remains of some sort of aboriginal human sacrifice, and it’s directly below the line.” “...” “Yes Sir, a genuine dead body.” “...” “I see.” “...” “And a good day to you, Sir.” The shift manager ended the connection and took a deep breath. “Whadda he say?” The part timer had been standing not far off. “He’s thrilled! Said we should charge an extra ten per guest for line eleven and get in touch with marketing to organize a special promotion. We’ll also have to draft an amendment to the waiver.” “He said that?” “Not that last bit, but I’m thinking ahead. If we play things right, we might get a raise out of this.

"Is there any meaning to this?" she asks, turning over the last page of my book. "Well that depends." I respond, pouring myself another drink, "Do you think it's good enough to have any meaning?" I set my drink down at the table, it's my fifth tonight, she's still half way through her second glass, I sit down and take a sip. "I think giving it meaning is what makes it good." she puts the book down, I saw her glance at my drink, I wonder if she's concerned. "Are you saying it would be good if it had meaning, or do you think that the meaning that it has is what makes it good?" I pull the book towards me, it's not large but the older leather cover gives it some weight, the lamp on the corner of the table highlights all the wrinkles and creases inside the cover and I'm reminded just how long I've had this book, how long it took me to write anything. She takes a small sip from her glass and lights another cigarette, that's her fifth tonight, I quit almost a year ago but I don't mind, the smell of years of cigarette smoke has already stained the walls of my apartment. "I'm saying that when something has meaning put into, it doesn’t really matter how good it is objectively, it means that whatever it is has care, time and some soul put into it" She takes a draw and blows the smoke out the window, the cold air outside carries the smoke high and away, floating with snow. "But does that mean that it does have meaning?" I pick up the book trying to remember everything I wrote as I adjust in my chair, it creaks in pain, it's old and unstable, ready to give put at any moment. I think I cared about what I wrote, and it definitely took some time, does that mean that part of my soul is in there? "Yeah, I guess it does." I put the book back down and take another sip, a snow flake flies I through the window and lands in my drink, I think about whether or not if flew through her smoke before coming here, and is now melting into my drink. I glance up at her and she's staring at my drinking, smiling at the snowflake that just landed in it. "So what's the meaning then?" She takes another draw and ashes out the window, it flies away with her smoke. "I don’t know really know." I take another sip, it's getting difficult to have straight thoughts but I think that's when they become more honest. "Time maybe, inevitability, putting off the inevitable, hiding from it, wasting so much time hiding from the inevitable that you forget that it's inevitable and that you should have been preparing for it instead" I look up from my glass and she's smiling at me now. "There you go, there's that scary existentialism I knew was in there.

I had just walked across the length of the room and sat down in those annoyingly squeak prone chairs, yet they had a sort of comforting reliability to them. They were those kind of chairs that you could lean all the way back in, it brings you back to when you were a child and you would lean all the way back and hold your head upside down, like some sort of persistent dog trying to accomplish a trick for a treat. However, amidst all the commotion in the room, I must have glanced upward. Perhaps there was a light attracting my attention, or maybe somehow my unconscious knew, and it was trying to force me to notice. Once I saw her though I didn't know what to think, I didn't know what to feel. Her eyes shined like two ancestral jewels, brighter than anything I have ever seen. They lit up her face, her smile, every feature of her was illuminated, and it was in that moment that time seemed to slow down. All the noise around me, all the noise of life and the conversations of others slowly dimmed, it was as if I was caught in a moment of silent serenity as I looked at her and she looked at me. She smiled... I smiled. I wanted to run over and push the person next to her 5 feet away and sit down and introduce myself, but I never had the courage to act like that. What would she have thought? How would she have acted? In those forty seconds my mind worked harder then it had my entire life, I questioned every movement I made, every expression, I quickly grew nervous. Yet she had smiled. She looked me in the eyes and she shared some of that light. Over the next couple months this would happen, I would enter the room and look at her and smile, or she would. I had thought that maybe this smile was just a friendly greeting, a quick moment of expression to greet another person. Yet every single time I would experience that moment. If someone was talking to me, if someone was showing me something, I always knew to look up when she was coming in. It was as if the room got brighter when she stepped through that door... but only I could see it. She changed my world, this was no crush, no fantasy, no dream. She was there, but I simply could not step forward. Maybe I wasn't ready, maybe I was young and now I have grown. Maybe she thinks about those moments, maybe she remembers the smile. If I could go back to that moment, if I could lean back and raise my head to see her... I would smile. But... I would get up and walk into her light.

Deep in space, a lone ship drifts though the shadow of a moon. Alarms blare as the ship shakes from the strain of staying together. Vika flips a switch up and down, her thick gloves catching. She grits her teeth as she tries to pull a wire from the panel. She yanks the gloves off and throws them behind her. Who cares if the cold of space gives her frostbite if she’s dead? The cold seeps into her fingers as she wiggles them through the wires and yanks the one she’s looking for. The lights go out. “Vika!” Korben screeches from the front of the ship. “At least I shut the alarm off!” “We’re going to die and it’ll be your fault!” “Shut up! I’m doing my best.” “This is your best? No wonder we’re in this mess.” She’s going to kill him one of these days. “There’s a space station on scanner. Give us enough power to get there and we might have a chance.” She rolls her eyes and holds two wires, but pauses before crossing them. “What’s the magic word?” she sings. “What?” “What’s the magic word?” “Seriously? Now?” “Yup,” she says, popping the p. “Oxygen at 7%,” the computer says. Vika thought she shut the sound off with the alarms. “Fix it,” Korben groans. “Say it.” “Please,” sarcasm drips from his voice. Vika shrugs. Whatever, it’ll do. Sparks nip at the fingertips as the wires cross. The lights flicker back on then die again. Oops. “Oxygen at 4%.” “Vika!” “Please, we have enough power to get to the station.” “If we don’t suffocate first,” he mutters. “Such confidence in your piloting stills.” Korben mutters something that sounds suspiciously like cussing at her. She rolls her eyes. Vika is thrown back as the ship dips suddenly, tools crashing across the floor from her open tool kit. “Hey! You could have hurt Beep!” “It’s a robot.” “ It’s a he!” “Whatever.” Vika picks up the ball-shaped robot. He blinks his one eye up at her. “That jerk didn’t mean it,” she babies him. The ship dips forward and Beep goes flying from her hands. This is going to be a long five minutes. OOOO The flashlight beams only do so much to cut through the dark halls of the space station. Even the light from Beep’s eye doesn’t help much. Water, at least she hopes it’s water, drips from the ceiling forming puddles on the ground. “Man, how long has this place been here? It smells like something died forever ago,” Korben says. Vika shrugs, pointing her light down a hall as they pass it. “Longer then you’ve been alive.” He huffs in response. Beep rolls across the floor in front of them, his light guiding them better then the flashlights. “At least we have enough oxygen.” “Hey, it’s not my fault you cut the cord to life support,” Korben replies stepping over a puddle. “Well, if you hadn’t banked so hard while I was fixing the weapons.” “We were being shot at!” “How’s that my fault? You were the one who stole that gem.” He opens and closes his mouth a couple times. Vika smirks. “Okay, yeah that one’s on me.” A crash echoes though the halls from somewhere on the station. Beep rolls behind Vika and peaks out from behind her leg. Korben unholsters his blaster. Vika follows suit. “I thought this place was abandoned?” “It’s old and something fell?” “If you believed that you wouldn’t have unholstered your blaster.” “Neither would you.” They walk in sync, blasters ready and flashlights up. Beep bumps against her ankle. Water drips down Korben’s face. He wrinkles his nose as he wipes it off. “That’s not water.” “Nope.” He wipes it on her jacket. They continue on, shoulder-to-shoulder and ready for anything. They come to a door hanging by one hinge, the not water seeping out from under it. “Lady’s first.” “Really? Now you’re being a gentlemen?” He shrugs. “It’s never too late to be one.” Vika rolls her eyes and kicks the door open. It crashes into the wall then to the ground. A serpent rises up, it’s hooded head nearly touching the ceiling. The not water drips from its fangs to the ground. “Saliva, ew,” they say in unison. Korben aims his blaster and fires. The electrical charge hits it in the chest, sparking harmlessly over its purple scales. It roars, lashing it’s tail at them. Vika steps back, while it knocks Korben to the ground. She momentarily drops the point of her gun to put her hands on her hips. “Now look what you’ve done; you’ve gone and made it mad.” He scrambles to his feet and grabs her by the front of her jacket. “Listen here you little-” The snake lunges at them, shaking them from the argument. Vika hardly aims before firing as Korben grabs her arm and drags her back through the door. They topple through, Vika landing on top him. She scrambles off and dashes down the corridor, not waiting for him to get up. She skids around a corner and into a wall, falling to the ground. She grunts and stands back up. A moment later Korben slides around the corner panting. He puts a finger to his lips and presses back against the wall. Vika does the same. The snake slithers by, leaving slime in its path. She makes a gagging motion. Korben narrows his eyes as he mimes choking her. She sticks her tongue out at him before running off to explore their new path. OOOO The control room has about six layers of dust, no snake slime, thankfully, so that’s a good sign. The bad sign is; six layers of dust. “Can you make it work?” Korben asks. “Not if you keep talking.” He flops into the caption’s chair, stirring up a cloud of dust. He sneezes. Vika wipes her hands off, an irritating itch making its way up her nose. She stuffs her hands back into the consoles ancient wiring. How can she fix this? It’s been useless for a century. She yanks the mess out. The counsel lights up. “Such a mature way to fix it.” She chucks the wires at him. They hit him in the face. He squawks and falls over, out of the chair, surprised. Vika examines the screen. “There’s a ship in range of an S.O.S, if you get your sorry butt back in that chair you should be able to send one.” She can feel Korben’s glare burn into her back as he climbs into the chair. “Hello? Is anyone reading me?” “This is the Morra, I read you, do you require assistants?” “Please save me.” Vika snorts. “From what? Your idiocy? Sorry but you can’t be saved from that.” “My partner and I are stranded on the old space station, any way you could give us a lift?” “Consider it done. Adjusting course. Morra out.” The line goes dead. “That,” Korben says leaning back in the chair, “is how you do it.” He props his feet on the control board, kicking half a dozen buttons. Without a sound, the power shuts down. “....Oops.” “Korben, you might want to run.” He falls out of the chair in his scrambling to get out of it and runs off the deck. OOOO “Welcome to the Morra,” the caption greets them. She’s tall with a spiky blue bob and a warm smile. “I’m Captain Flose.” “Vika,” she says sticking her hand out. Flose takes it with a nod. “And this is Korben.” She gestures to a soaking wet Korben. The captain shakes his hand. “Thanks for saving us,” Korben says. Flose tips her hat and leads them to the main deck, giving them a short tour on the way. The Morra isn’t large but she’s bigger than the rust bucket Korben calls his. “Wow, an actual ship,” Vika comments. “I’ve flown that ship for years! She was reliable!” “Key word: was.” “Oh yeah? I want to see you do better.” “It’s not that hard to do anything better then you.” “Take that back,” he growls. “Never.” “Ugh, get a room,” Flose interjects. They barely miss a heartbeat before they say at the same time, “Ew, we’re siblings.”

Huff... huff... huff... I cannot lose her now. I won’t stop. I cannot stop. I cannot get tired now of all times. I saw her after 10 years since middle school. I have so many questions for her. But she looked different from how I remember her. Even if it turns out to be someone else I won’t stop before I know it for sure. A young man is running in a neighbourhood chasing after the glimpse of a girl. She seemed to look like the girl whom he had proposed to in the first year of middle school. They were good friends at that time. He asked her to reply when the cherry tree in their school blossoms. But unfortunately, due to weak health he had to be hospitalized for a month and when he returned things weren’t as he had thought them to be. The girl had transferred schools. She didn’t only leave the school but the city as well. He wasn’t able to get in contact with her ever since then. After catching a glimpse of her in the crowd of Christmas celebration he didn't think twice before chasing her. When he finally found her in a park, which he didn't even know existed before, she stood there. She had a faint smile on her face. She still looked pretty in his eyes though it was night time and there wasn't much light to make out the details of her appearance. She was wearing a traditional kimono, which was sort of unexpected. Her hair were long but appeared unkempt. Her eyes weren’t shining as he remembered as well. They appeared to be quite distressed. After catching up with her, both of them stood there staring at each other for quite some time. She was never the type of person to chatter nonstop and neither was he. Some time passed and she finally started to leave the park and went towards the street. He kept following her and before he knew it, they had reached his apartment building. Both entered the building and he asked if she had shifted into the recently occupied apartment and she ran away ahead of him into the building. He was so happy to see after such a long time. when he returned to his apartment he first went to the balcony and as he had expected she was also in hers looking towards him. They both kept meeting for a few days but it was always him who did the talking. Maybe something happened to her due to which she isn't able to speak, an accident or some kind of trauma. He didn't ask and chose to wait for her to open up. One day his colleagues came to him and asked why he hasn't been going out for a drink after work with them recently and he told them that he has to meet someone whom he came across not too long ago and that she's always waiting for him outside the office. But they told him that they never saw anyone with him because one day they looked down from the office window to see if he had finally found the girl of his life. But they didn’t see anyone, he was alone. He was surprised to know this and when it was time for him to finish he looked down from the office window, and there she was, standing and waiting for him but when he asked his colleagues to look again, they said they don't see anything. In order to not raise any suspicion in their minds about himself that how he has always been overly sensitive to the so-called paranormal beings, he said that he was joking with them and ended the topic with a laugh. Though it didn’t end but start in his mind from this point onwards. When he came down he had a serious look on his face and couldn't keep it in anymore. He asked her who she is? Is she really the girl he thought she was? The faint smile from her face disappeared. She didn't say a word. He was getting more and more annoyed and irritated. He left her behind and went straight to his home. After reaching his home the first thing he did was to draw the curtains. He went to bed and after turning and tossing in his bed a million times he was finally able to sleep. Though he didn't get much sleep last night it was no excuse to miss work. He left his bed and got ready to leave for work. When he came down to the street he saw her standing before him and looking towards him with hopeful eyes. A night’s sleep had helped him to clear his mind and made him able to look at things from a different perspective. He shook his head trying to get his thoughts in order and the first thing he asked her was if she was still alive and thankfully she nodded. He was really relieved to know this but she still looked distressed, so he again asked about her purpose for coming to him. But she didn't say anything, as he had expected. He asked if she can't speak then can she write instead but she shook her head in negative response. He said then if he asks a question can she reply by either nodding in affirmation and shaking in negation, and she agreed to it. After thinking a lot, he asked very selected questions to help him figure out the situation. Lastly, he asked if she wanted to take him to some place and the reply was affirmative. He couldn't ask her where it was since she can't speak but at least he might get to meet the actual person he has been longing to meet all these years. He asked her if she will show him the way where she wanted him to go and she gave a faint smile in affirmation. He went to the office to ask for a week long leave since he didn't know how much long it will take for him to go and come back. Next day, they started on their journey to an unknown destination. They changed a number of trains and buses. Where they reached was a valley he had never been to before. It was a very remote area. There weren't many people around and not many modern equipments were at disposal. When he turned his head towards her to ask about which direction to go from hereon, she was nowhere to be seen. He was suddenly overwhelmed with many different emotions but had to keep all his confusion to himself. He asked around using her surname, which was from her maternal side but no one knew about any family with such name. While he was asking around if anyone else knew something, then he heard people talking about the misfortune of a priest’s family and a shrine maiden who was hospitalized and had no family member left to care for her. When the priest's name came in the conversation he realized that it was her father's name and came to know that she belonged to a priest family. He never knew about what type of family she came from and assumed that her family was just like his. When he asked the people for more information, they first hesitated to disclose information about anyone’s family to a complete stranger but when he assured them that he meant no harm and was looking for a friend, they agreed to tell him about the family. They told him that the priest’s wife left him not long after their marriage for unknown reasons but he never divorced her. At that time they had no child. But he never married again and continued his duties at the shrine. Many years passed and one day, he brought home a teenage girl with him introducing her as his daughter and told everyone that his wife had passed away so his daughter will now live with him in the shrine. Then he began to train his daughter the duties of a shrine maiden and she took up several duties at the shrine including assistance of shrine functions such as the sale of sacred goods (including amulets known as omamori, paper talisman known as ofuda, wood tablets known as ema and among other items), daily tidying of the premises, and performing the sacred kagura dances on certain occasions. She continued her education in a local school and stopped after graduating from high school. But two years ago the priest passed away as well leaving her alone in the big shrine with all its responsibilities. Then few days ago while performing a ritual suddenly an earthquake came and the shrine being very old couldn't survive the disaster and collapsed like many other buildings in the village. A lot of people died and many got severely injured in that disaster. Though they were able to find most of the people but some were still missing. He then remembered watching the news about it. He asked about the hospital in which she was hospitalized and went there as fast as his feet could take him there. He asked about her room number at the hospital’s reception desk but he wasn't given any details since he wasn't a family member and his appearance also made it obvious that he wasn't from this village. But then an elderly person asked to tell him since everyone was looking for their loved ones during such tough time. He thanked that person with a deep bow and went towards the room. When he reached at the door he was reluctant for a minute trying to mentally prepare himself before entering. She was lying on the bed and was connected to ventilator. It was really her. He held her hand which was cold compared to his and before he knew it tears were flowing down his cheeks. But why did they have to meet like this. A nurse came in to check upon her and when he asked her about the chances of her survival she told to be prepared for the worst. As she was about to leave the room she heard some mumbling sounds coming from the patient and at once went to call for the doctor. He was relieved that she had opened her eyes which was supposedly a good sign. She was trying to say something but he couldn't hear properly so he brought his ear near her. She gathered all her strength and said " Thank you ". As soon as she uttered those two words all her strength left her body, her eyes were shut and only a faint smile was left on her face as if she was satisfied to finally have him with her in the final moments of her life. It appeared like she didn't want to leave before seeing him and was asking God to fulfil her last wish. He fell on the floor as if all his strength had been drained from his body and couldn’t stop himself from crying because she had gone silent again and wouldn’t even show any movement. The doctors came and checked her vitals. They looked at all her latest reports and gave the good news that she was now out of danger. There was no need to be anxious anymore. She would regain her consciousness soon and would be healthy again. Everyone in the room was relieved on hearing this miraculous news. But she still had to stay in the hospital for two weeks at least to make a full recovery and get discharged. He called his office immediately and asked for leave extension which he got but with a cut in his salary. But that was a trivial thing to worry about right now. He stayed with her and looked after her. They reminisced about their past, about their plans for the future and he proposed to her that they should get married and live together in the city after being discharged. Since the shrine was completely destroyed by the earthquake and she didn't know what to do next in life she agreed to back in a relationship with him. He asked the doctor if she can travel to city after discharge and he gave permission along with a long list of precautions to be taken while travelling. When he returned to his workplace with a different aura around him his colleagues couldn’t contain their curiosity anymore and when they asked him for the reason he replied while grinning from ear to ear that .... .

Jessie and Mary are identical twins. They look so much alike that ever since they were young, they perfected the ability to impersonate each other, fooling even their mother. However, they left such pranks aside, long ago. They are not children anymore. They are young adults now and their personalities have grown very different. Jessie is in art school, she’s laid-back and likes to think she’s the fun sister, but Mary doesn’t like her sister’s idea of fun. Mary is the “good” twin, at least that’s what their mother says. Jessie thinks her sister is entitled and acts superior, especially since she got in a very prestigious culinary school on a scholarship. However different the sisters may be, they were always close. Mary used to be bullied a lot, but Jessie always had her back. In return, Mary used to help Jessie when she would get in trouble with the teachers or their mother. Nothing can change the fact that they are sisters, but sometimes they wish they could. They rarely speak to each other now, as they live in the dorm rooms of their school. Last year, they only saw each other on Christmas, but that’s about to change. They are going home for their birthday, their mother demanded it. Neither is very excited. They would rather stay where they were, with their friends. At least, Jessie would, she thought that maybe Mary didn’t have friends to celebrate with, since she had always been a loner. Mary would probably stay in her room, alone, on their birthday, and Jessie didn’t want her sister to go through that. Jessie looked at the door of the house she had lived in all her life, she didn’t want to admit it but she missed home, she missed her mother and she even missed her sister, not that she would ever tell her that. Anne, her mother was sitting by the window, enjoying the breeze coming from outside, but she turns when she hears someone arriving. “Jessie, darling! Welcome home.” She speeds to hug her daughter. That big empty house made her feel alone without her girls, and she felt sad that they didn’t share anything with her or each other. Her babies were always close and now they feel like strangers to one another. “Hi, Mom. Is Mary in yet?” Anne noticed the awareness with which her daughter asked about her sister, as if she was afraid of seeing her again. Jessie was always the strongest daughter, and that would cost her more than she imagined. “She’s getting ready for dinner in your old room.” “Alright. I’m going upstairs too, ok?” “Sure, honey. But please, both of you come down to help me when you can, alright?” “Of course, Mom.” Jessie hugged her mother before going upstairs to the room she used to share with her sister. The house has more than two rooms, but they always liked to share one, since they could talk until sunrise. They hadn’t done that in so long making it nothing more than an old memory. Mary was too busy talking on the phone to hear her sister come into the room. “Yes, babe, I know.” “Babe?” Mary turns around at lighting speed to see the look of shock in her sister’s face. “Uhm...Vince? Yeah, I have to call you back later.” She hangs up without another word. That would get her in trouble later, but she had to deal with her sister now. “Jessie! Long-time no see.” Her sister looked the same. Once, they thought the way to be distinguished would be with distinct hairstyles, so her sister decided she would have short hair for the rest of her life. It suited her personality, especially since she started curling it. Other than that, they looked the same, at least to other people. However, Mary and Jessie knew where to look for differences. The lighter colour of Mary’s eyes, or the birthmark Jessie has on her shoulder, were just examples that no one seemed to notice. Nonetheless, even though they look the same, Mary always felt inferior to Jessie. She wasn’t as strong or bold as her sister, and she envies her for that. “Who is ‘babe’, Mary?” Mary didn’t like the accusatory tone in her sister’s words. “That’s how you greet me, after almost a year? I don’t owe you any explanations.” Jessie sighs. When Mary refuses to talk about something nothing could make her. Unfortunately, that usually means it is something she knows Jessie would disapprove of. Jessie decides to let it go. Later she would ask her mother if she knew anything about this subject. “Hi sis, how is everything?” She smiles ironically at her sister. “Everything is good. How about art school?” “Interesting.” “That’s rare, you always find everything boring except partying.” Jessie knew her sister thought she was a party girl. It was true but not to the extent that Mary thinks. Nonetheless, that was the idea that she wanted her sister and everyone else to have of her. Less pressure that way. “That’s because everything is a party there.” “I guess you are in the right place then. Don’t let mom here you.” The sisters talked for a bit, before going down and help their mother. The dinner was smooth and even pleasant. However, at the back of Jessie’s head the drilling question about who “Vince” was kept nagging her. She volunteered to help her mother with the dishes which shocked both Anne and Mary. Once in the kitchen, Anne was the first to speak. “What do you want?” It wasn’t out of the ordinary for Anne to figure out the subtle worry in her daughter’s eyes. Jessie didn’t bother asking how she knew, she just jumped into the subject once she saw her sister go upstairs from the corner of her eye. “Who is Vince?” Anne paralyzed for a second. “Wha-what?” “You heard me. Who is Vince, Mom?” Her mother wouldn’t meet her eyes, so she knew something was wrong. “She told you about him?” Anne’s voice was hushed and trembled slightly enough to go unnoticed, but Jessie noticed it. “No. I heard her on the phone. She hanged up when she saw me. Who is he?” Anne took a deep breath and looked at her daughter with tears in her eyes. This was the real reason she wanted the girls back home. Perhaps Jessie could do something about this matter. “He is her boyfriend.” “Then why do you look so upset? Why is she keeping secrets?” Anne whimpered and told a grave story to her strong daughter. A story Jessie would not be able to accept. At the same time, Mary grabbed her phone and called him. He was furious that she had hung up on him but understood when she told him about her sister. Mary missed her sister. Jessie has always been her rock, and that’s why she was glad when they got separated, it forced her to grow. However, seeing her sister again, makes her want to run to her, cry on her shoulder and vent about everything that happened this past year. She couldn’t do that. She was an adult now, and her sister wouldn’t understand. Jessie was a good sister but tended to be a little judgemental and she often overreacted. Mary knew Jessie became curious since she heard her previous phone call, so she figured she had to tell her something. After a while Mary hung up the phone and soon after she hears her sister come in. “Hey, are we sharing the room, or do you prefer to have it to yourself?” Jessie asked quietly. “Are you serious? Why would we not share?” Jessie shrugs. “I thought that you might have gotten used to having your own space.” “I did Jess, but we are still sisters, and...well...I missed you.” Mary smiled at her sister and Jessie nodded. “I missed you too, Mare.” “Not that nickname!” “Always that nickname.” Jessie laughed as she laid down on her own bed, while Mary was sitting on hers. They turn of the lights and only the moonlight lit up their faces. “Jess...” Mary whispers after a while. “Hmm?” Jessie tries to sound sleepy when in fact she couldn’t even close her eyes. “Are you sleeping?” “Yes.” Mary laughed. “Oh come on... Don’t you want to know about Vince?” Mary tried to entice her sister. Jessie froze up but quickly covered it up. “Are you finally going to tell me about your sweetheart?” “How do you know that we are dating?” “You called him ‘babe’, genius.” “Oh, that’s true...” Mary took a deep breath. “We are dating for almost a year now.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” Jessie was hurt that Mary had been keeping such important things from her. “He doesn’t know you exist.” “What?” “He knows I have a sister...just not a...” Mary stops speaking, not sure of what to say to make it sound not so bad. “A twin? He doesn’t know you have a twin?” “No.” “Why not?” “Because you are his type while I’m not...every boy I ever liked, liked you instead, even when we look the same.” Jessie wants to refuse that notion, but it is true. However, that only happened because Mary, sweet rule-abiding Mary, always falls for the bad boys. “That only happens because you have bad taste.” Jessie tries to laugh it off and pretend that she wasn’t hurt by her sister’s words. “I get why you kept me from him, but why would you keep him from me?” A thought crossed Jessie’s mind at that second. A thought that truly hurt her. “I wouldn’t steal him you know?” “That’s not the reason! I just...I thought you wouldn’t approve.” “Why wouldn’t I approve?” Jessie knew why but wanted to know if Mary would come clean. If she didn’t, things are serious, and Jessie would have to interfere. “Not a particular reason. You just never approve of my crushes.” “The reason for that being, you always pick scumbags.” “See! That’s why I didn’t tell you!” “So are you admitting he is a scumbag?” “NO!” Mary shouted. “He isn’t! I love him.” This reaction is exactly what Anne warned her daughter about. “Then I don’t see your problem. Show me who he is.” Mary thought for a while but soon was showing her sister the photos of her sweetheart. Jessie somehow managed to control her criticism at least in from of her sister and learn what she could about him. By the time they went to sleep, Jessie knew what she had to do. She woke up early the next morning and after a quick chat with her mother she got in her car and left. Not a single word to her sister. The drive took about four hours, but Jessie was too wrapped up in her thoughts to notice. She had turned off her phone so she could drive in peace, and during the whole time, she kept reassuring herself that she was doing the right thing. However, when she finally got there, she had to force herself out of the car. Jessie wasn’t sure if she could do what she knew she had to. Was she ready to lose her sister? Twins have a bond like no other. Losing her would be like losing a piece of herself. However, Jessie knew that when you truly love someone, you have to be willing to lose them for their own good. After briefly speaking to a few people, she stood outside a door. She raised her hand, ready to knock but at the last possible second she stopped. She couldn’t do it. She turned around, ready to give up and try another way. A way she knew would fail. Suddenly, the door opens. “Mary? You got here fast.” Jessie turn around to see an average looking guy. He was definitely not her type, but Mary always fell for guy that look like rule breakers. Jessie figures she envied them. Mary should be only an hour or so behind Jessie, so she had to do what she came here to do, fast. “Hey, Vincent. I missed you, so I tried to get here quickly.” It has been a while since Jessie pretended to be Mary, and they never did it without the other one’s knowledge, but she was already here so she might as well see where this goes. His eyes analyze her, looking up and down, judging everything Jessie knew it was different from Mary. Her hair, her clothes, her make up. A few guys walked by and look at Jessie with flirtatious eyes, obviously enjoying the view of her naked legs and shoulders. She was wearing really short shorts and a strapless top. “Get in.” Vincent said and she did. As soon as she was in the room, Vincent closed the door with too much strength. He forcefully grabbed her arm. “What the hell are you wearing?! And what did you do to your hair?!” His temper coming up easier than Jessie thought it would. He was perfectly normal a few seconds ago, but Jessie could clearly see the monster within. Perhaps it was because she was prepared for it. What her mother had told her about how this guy put her sister in the hospital more than once the past year made her blood boil. Anne had tried to warn her daughter and make her leave him, but that only got her three months without any news from her. Finally, her mother had to choose between losing her daughter or sit by while she got herself killed. Jessie believed her mother. Who wouldn’t when confronted with Anne’s desperate cry for help? However, she needed to see for herself. Mary was happy while talking about Vincent, and that made Jessie second guess her instincts. Not anymore. The forceful grip that Vincent had on her arm made it clear. No more second guessing her decisions. If her sister wouldn’t make the right choice, Jessie would make it for her, even if that meant losing her. “I’m sorry, babe. My clothes got ruined so I had to borrow some from my sister and my mother insisted on going to the salon as a birthday gift.” Jessie pouted. “I thought you might like it...” Vincent’s grip weaken a little face to the harmless facade Jessie was showing. “I don’t like other men looking at you.” The threat was obvious in his tone. If other men were to look at his girlfriend, she was the one that would suffer the consequences. Jessie swallowed her disgust and smiled coyly at her sister’s boyfriend. “I don’t want anyone else looking at me either.” She states and for a split second she wanted to vomit thinking about what she would have to do. “You better.” He says and she kisses him slightly. He seems shocked but doesn’t push her away. “I can prove it to you. That I’m only yours.” She said luring him to the sofa, that thankfully was exactly where she needed it to be. Vincent took his shirt before they even get there and quickly pulled her into his lap so that she was straddling him. Jessie wanted to shudder in repulse to his touch, but she knew she wouldn’t need to endure it much longer when she saw the doorknob twist. Vincent was too busy kissing her neck to notice but Jessie got ready for what would follow. Mary opens the door and freezes in place. Her brain couldn’t process what her eyes were seeing. From her point of view at the door, Jessie appear to be naked while straddling her boyfriend that was kissing her neck passionately. Jessie looked up and notice Mary at the door and did something that shattered Mary’s unresponsive stance. Jessie smiled. When Mary saw her smile, she bolted out of the door. The bang of the door was the signal for Jessie to get out of Vincent’s grip and make her way towards the door. “Where are you going?” He said not pleased at all. “Away, and you better never show your face near me again.” “What?” The shock of having her respond to him momentarily surpass his range. “What did you say to me?!” “I already called the police. If you EVER go near me again, you’ll regret it. A lot of my friends are cops and you do not want to mess with them. Forget you ever met me and go find someone else to bully.” His ego was bruised, and he wanted to lash out. He raised his hand and Jessie looked straight into his eyes. “If you touch me, jail will be your permanent home for a long while.” Her voice was stable, and he backed down. Coward. Jessie ran out the door and saw her sister near her car in the parking lot. She was obviously crying, and it took Jessie a minute to organize her thoughts and do what needed to be done. Mary saw her before she could say anything and started to angrily shout at her. “How could you betray me like this!! You are my sister! My twin!” “Mom told me everything.” That made Mary pause. “I knew you wouldn’t leave him for yourself, so now you’ll have too.” “Maybe I won’t!” She said out of spite. “Then every time you kiss him, you’ll remember that I kissed him. Every time you get in bed with him, you’ll picture me there with him instead. You know? He knew I wasn’t you and he still wanted me. I guess you were right. I really am his type.” Jessie lied, but what was a lie next to what she had already done? “I’ll never forgive you.” Mary says with finality as she gets in her car. “That’s ok.” Jessie murmured. As Jessie watched her sister drive away, her only hope is that one day she’ll realize that she did it for her.

TW: Death, burning Do you remember when we’d lay down by the ocean, sun beating on our backs until we were lobster red and hobbling back inside? When we would drink as many piña coladas as possible, not caring that we were one sip away from the bartender cutting us off? We must’ve been in our twenties. Twenty-three? No, twenty-four. That’s right. It was twenty-four. There was that Friday night when we went down to the bonfire and Steven Long was there. Oh man, did you have a thing for Steven Long. He was that kind of tall, dark, and handsome man everyone was pining after, but he only had eyes for you. And you him. I remember being green with envy seeing that man stand beside my favorite person. Watching from afar, I would think, He does not deserve someone like her. Because it was true. Steven Long was held back for two years and you were a prodigy in all things academics. It was not yin and yang because you and I were yin-yangs. It was wrong, that’s what it was. Before the bonfire, though, Steven Long was just a stranger in our eyes. During those humid nights, our necks craned toward the sky to watch shooting stars while waves splashed the shore. I liked those nights. I liked when it was just us two and no boys. We would crack open a few cans and sing until our throats went dry and our lungs hurt from twirling around. The sand would scrape at our calves and knees, but how could we care? Do you remember that? When we would go inside and our lower halves were covered in the beach, but we were both too tired and too lazy to rinse them off. Your mom got all mad and her face would turn as red as our burnt ones. “Stop tracking sand into my house!” she’d shout, startling us both awake at 6 a.m. Remember how scared we were that she’d never let us back to the beach? We were too old for a scolding, but still young enough to have everything taken away by our parents. “Let’s watch the sunset together,” you’d tell me every single day. And, if I wasn’t responsive, you’d pull me so close that I felt your lips at the shell of my ear. The tickle of your whispers would vibrate through me every time, and I embraced the shivers that rolled down my spine when you’d whisper the exact same phrase again. Observing the sunsets on your mom’s porch was the only time we had where we could be fully alone, where we could be ourselves. Before your mom came home and scolded us and after we were surrounded by other beachgoers. I cherished those moments when it was just us. Could we ever go back to that? Right. We can’t. It was that Friday that changed everything. There was no early Saturday morning after with your mom shouting at us for dirtying her house. There was no dancing or singing or sandy limbs. Because that Friday, I wasn’t the one on your mind anymore. Stranger Steven Long had your attention. He didn’t even know you and still, he called you to sit on his lap. I remember feeling the ghost of your fingertips on mine when you brushed against them as you left me behind. That wasn’t the moment when I knew it was over for me; it was when you looked up at him. I had never seen you look at me the way you looked at that stranger. Wide, curious eyes and full lips slightly open--my fingers inched to close your jaw for you. And then the two of you stood up. That was right before. It was my heart beating too fast that alerted me something was wrong. Not the frantic shouts from the people around, but an organ. My shaky knees and the goosebumps that pimpled my arms were the telltale signs that something bad was about to happen. My body reacted before my brain. Isn’t that weird? And I kept telling myself, She’ll come back for me. She always does. You always did. But that was the first time you weren’t by my side. Everything changed in just under an hour. Do you regret it? Choosing Steven Long, that is. Do you? You do. I know you do. I can see it in your eyes, in the years of wear shown on your face. Just like the leather pants you wore that night. Yes, I even remember the pants. Tight enough to show off your curves, yet you claimed they were breathable. I guess they were considering how fast you ran off. I’m still not sure what he whispered in your ear during the bonfire that had you leaping out of your seat before any of us. There are tons of unanswered questions I still think about so many years later. Like why my name never crossed your lips or why you never came to visit me. There were no more drinks at the bar by the beach or roasting in the sun. Did those moments matter to you as they did for me? Sometimes I wonder if you even remember me being a part of your life. Sometimes I wonder if you remember a life without Steven Long. Every day I wish we never sat around that bonfire. But now you’re here. Now you’re standing right before me years later. Shriveled skin and dark spots that show off the times we spent outside together. Unlike you, I look just like I did when we were twenty-three. No. Twenty-four. That’s right. We were twenty-four when the bonfire got out of control. We were twenty-four when I felt my hair go up in flames, singeing my face and my eyebrows and my lashes. Tearing through my clothes like they didn’t exist and scarring my body, ridding the touches you left there. Twenty-four when you walked away with Steven Long while sirens wailed in the distance. How does it feel being eighty-eight when I’m still twenty-four?

Normalton Middle School’s playground sat silent save for the slight metallic creak of the playground equipment as the breeze blew through. A far cry from the usual cacophony of children screaming and laughing in play. The sun had long set, and the moon now kept watch in the sky. The entire playground was a picture of serenity as it waited for the light of day and the return of the many children who would fill the yard with their voices and imaginations. But for now, only two teenage girls stood upon the grounds of the playground as they caught their breath. The first had her brunette hair kept back by a hairband, a line of freckles going from the bridge of her nose to below her eyes. She wore jeans and a pullover sweater. A large black raven was perched on her shoulder cooing softly. “Gah, we’re no closer than we were earlier.” the girl grumbled. “Allow me!” the raven shouted. The girl sighed as the raven flew from her shoulder and perched at the top of a slide. The second fair skinned girl frowned, her blonde hair done up in a braid that rested on her shoulder, her blue eyes seemed to shine in the dim lighting, her ears were notably elfin and a pair of blue butterfly wings fluttered behind her back absentmindedly. “Remind me again about this case, Yvette?” Yvette regarded her fae friend with a huff, “Did you actually forget Estrella? Or is this your fae sense of humor?” Estrella didn’t reply immediately as she strode to one of the swings and sat upon it. She gestured Yvette to the one next to her. “Why don’t you sit and refresh both our memories? Remember when we used to play on these when we were younger?” “How could I forget?” Yvette replied. The two began to gradually swing together, each picking up the pace as the swingsets began to creak. “I guess talking about the case might be beneficial.” Yvette admitted with a grunt. Estrella smiled knowingly, “So you’re the intrepid teen witch detective. We’re looking for what now? A cat that’s not even a mage’s familiar, are you so desperate you’ve started taking lost pet cases?” “It’s not a pet or a familiar. It’s an oracular cat.” Yvette reminded her fae friend. “An oracular cat? Like a cat that can see the future? I have never heard of such a thing.” Yvette swung her legs making the swing go higher, “Yeah, I’ve heard of an oracular pig before, but not a cat.” Estrella hummed as she spoke, “And someone lost this fortune telling feline?” “More like they think it was catnapped. Mrs. Fraz said it looked like someone tossed her place, and a window was smashed open,” Yvette sighed, “You’d think an oracular cat would know if it was about to be catnapped.” “Divination and prophecy are not precise. You know that Yvette. The future is always in motion.” Yvette’s face lit up, “Or maybe the cat DID know about the attempt, maybe it fled on its own just before the would-be thieves tried to grab it!” “Possible I suppose.” Estrella admitted. “Cole!” Yvette called. The raven fluttered down from the top of the slide and landed on the swing set's crossbar, tilting its head as it looked at Yvette. "I need your sharp eyes. Fly reconnaissance." Cole cawed in affirmation and took to the air with a powerful flap of his wings, circling the playground before extending his search to the surrounding areas. Yvette and Estrella continued swinging, their movements syncing in rhythm as they discussed their next steps. "As Cole scouts from above, we should consider returning to Mrs. Fraz's place again," Yvette suggested, her swing reaching its apex. "Maybe we missed something." Estrella nodded. “Sure thing.” Yvette swung a bit more, “Maybe Ian has had more luck than us with his half werewolf sense of smell.” Estrella made a disgusted noise the way she always did whenever Yvette would mention her boyfriend. “You sure Ian wont eat that oracular cat?” Yvette huffed, “Estrella, why must you always act like that?” “Like what?” Estrella asked. “Ian isn’t a dumb brute. He’s come through for us on more than one occasion.” Yvette defended her absentee beau. Estrella rolled her eyes, “If you say so Yvette.” The swings began to slow as they focused more on their discussion than on pumping their legs. Yvette's mind raced through possible scenarios, trying to piece together the puzzle of the missing oracular cat. "This isn't just about a missing pet," she said, her tone serious. "If someone really did try to steal it, they probably know about its abilities.” “A reliable source of divination is tempting to some.” Estrella grunted. A thought came to Yvette, “Especially for mortals with no magic reliant on others' services.” “Who may or may not be legitimate.” Estrella added. Yvette shook her head as she swung fast again, “I can only imagine why they would want such an animal. Betting on sports, stock market, the usual boring stuff.” “That doesn’t narrow your suspects very much.” Estrella pointed out. “Not yet.” Yvette admitted. They swung in silence and Yvette prepared to stop and resume the search when Estrella spoke. “Hey, remember when I used to launch myself into the air with these swings?” “How could I forget?” Yvette replied as she regarded her fae friend. Estrella’s face broke out into a mischievous smile. “I bet I can still do it.” The fae’s wings fluttered gently, casting shimmering light reflections around them. With a final surge Estrella swung to the swings maximum height before she let go of the chains The girl was launched into the air and began to plummet before her wings began to flutter and she gained altitude. “Groovy! I’ve still got it.” Estrella shouted. Yvette stared up at her friend. “Nicely done, now....” “Hey, jump Yvette! I’ll catch you, just like old times.” Estrella said gleefully. “No way, Estrella. We’ve gotten too big for that sort of thing.” But the fae was relentless as she hovered just above where Yvette swung. “Cooooome onnnn! Don’t get boring on me now, witch girl. I’ll catch you and fly you to the top of the slide.” Yvette let out a long drawn out sigh before speaking. “Alright here it goes.” Yvette moved her legs back as hard as she could and then forward as she let go of the swing, she flew through the air as Estrella grabbed her around the waist. “Got you! Oh, golly, you’re heavier than you look! Cripes!” The two girls landed in a sprawl in the middle of the playground with a combined grunt. Fortunately for the two sleuths the fall wasn’t great enough to cause any serious injury. Yvette was flat on her back as Estrella lay sprawled atop her. The two giggled for a moment until their eyes met, the human witch and the fae regarded one another, both suddenly becoming very aware of how close they were and how much they had grown from their middle school years. Yvette’s freckled face grew red as she stared up at Estrella. The fae’s face went from shock to a sly smile. “You... can get off of me now.” Yvette whispered. “Oh?” Estrella replied as she leaned closer. Yvette let out a short gasp but didn’t protest. “Pay attention Yvette!” Cole’s voice called out startling both girls as the raven returned a tuft of fur in his beak. The moment ruined the two girls got to their feet. “Right, yes the case.” Yvette grunted. Estrella sighed knowing she’d probably never get another opportunity. “Yes, Yvette, I know that’s what matters to you.”

She watches as the checkers of green and brown become dotted with matchbox size cars driving down the black strips of highway around the tiny boxes that she knows are houses. She watches as the plane takes its turn to begin its descent to the airport. Her excitement is contained into a bright smile as she watches the plane decend, beginning the trip that she had always dreamed of and had gotten for practicaly nothing. She had saved her money, tidbits of change and loose bills. She had often refrained from digging into that money to go out with the girls or on nights when she wanted to splurge in order to avoid cooking for one. She had sacrificed her morning lattes and had made her coffee at home. There were some funny moments when she had tried to duplicate some of her favorite morning beverages and had failed epically. Disasters that she had often posted on her social media for a laugh. She often did things like this because she liked to live life on the lighter side of things. She did her best to not get worked up over the little things because it left her drained and hating the world that she was living in. After all of her cutting out the unnecessary things out of life, she had finally saved enough to take the vacation that she had always wanted to take. Even better, she had found it for a much cheaper rate which meant that she had extra money to do some extra sightseeing while she was here. Everything had worked out better than she had hoped when she originally started looking at what she would need in order to go. As she made her way into the airport she felt as though her feet weren’t touching the floor. This was the lightest she had felt in a long time and she could feel the excitement fluttering in her stomach as she made her way through the airport to find the vehicle that was there to pick her up. It was at the entrance, marked Enchanted Getaways. She rode quietly, relaxed for the first time in a year. She heard the radio announcer start his spiel and heard him announce the next song following it up with, “You’re listening to Enchanted Getaways radio.” The next song that played was a familiar one, and she happily hummed along as it played. She was thinking about everything that she had needed to do in order to make this a reality. She would have preferred to travel with someone, but she hadn’t dated anyone in almost two years and she had worked extra hours and grabbed some shifts at the local diner in order to make this happen. She was alone. Part of her was saddened by this thought and the other part knew that it wouldn’t matter once she was lounging on the beach with a cold fruity drink in her hand. As they pulled through the entrance to the resort, she noticed the bright red, yellow, pink, and purple flowers that lined the drive with the spacious palms that dotted the landscape. She could hear the light music from the car radio as the window whirred quietly down and she breathed in the fresh air of the tropical paradise that she was going to be spending the next week relaxing in. The driver pulled to the front of the hotel that she would be staying in and climbed out of the driver’s seat. He opened her door and took her hand to help her out of the back seat. The smile that played across his lips was slightly knowing and disturbing. He nodded to her as he made his way to the back of the vehicle to get her bags. She turned slowly taking the scenery in around her. It was magical and breathtaking and everything that she had dreamed about. The colors were striking and bright. The flowers that lined There was a warm breeze blowing in from the ocean and she took a deep breath, enjoying the scents that tantalized her nose. There was such a mixture of the salty sea air, the flowers, the food, and as she walked into the hotel lobby, she felt the cool from the air conditioner hit her bare legs. The lobby was spacious and filled with potted plants, cool lights, plush furniture, and the sparkling bannister that curved up and around, surrounding the cool crisp white marble stairs. She couldn’t believe how lucky she had gotten, finding this company and this much luxury for the bargain that she had gotten it for. She had felt that the questionnaire that she had filled out was a little ridiculous, but she had filled it out enthusiastically because the price was absolutely unbelievable. She couldn’t believe her good fortune when she had stumbled across the bargain of a lifetime. She found her way to the massive front desk and informed the gentleman standing there that she was ready to check in to her room. As he handed her the key to her room, he informed her that the person she would be sharing her suite with had already checked in and was in the room. She froze. There were a million thoughts racing through her mind. The loudest one that was screaming at her was, what in the world this guy was talking about. She didn’t have anyone that she was sharing her suite with. She had booked this to get away from everyone. She questioned the clerk behind the desk about this, and he smiled as he asked her, “You scheduled a vacation with Enchanted Getaways , this is how it’s done.” “H-h-how what’s done?”, stumbled out of her mouth. “How did you book your stay with us?” “I did it online. I found it, fell in love with the price, answered some questions, and booked it.” It was in that moment that she learned that she had signed up to meet her possible soul mate. All the questions that she had answered led them to a match and then she had gone on to book the vacation of her dreams. She now understood what it meant when the box had popped up that stated, ‘ We found your match! Please continue to book your room .’ Now here she was about to go to her room and meet a complete stranger that she would be spending the next 7 days and 6 nights with in the same hotel room. Her heart was pounding as she and her bags made their way to the elevator that would take her to her room. As she exited the elevator and made her way to the door, the butterflies that had danced around her stomach and gave her a sense of excitement when her plane had landed, had now started to only flutter weakly, as they do when you sense dread. She felt as though there were a thousand that had chosen to fall and just lie there. Their wings fluttering weakly as they waited to die. They now felt heavy as any weight. They just sat there heavily weighing down in her stomach. She put her key in the slot and as the light begin blinking green, he opened the door. His hair was dark and his eyes were crystal blue. His face was round and inviting and he was smiling as he welcomed her in to the room and began showing her around the suite that she had booked just a short month ago thinking that she would be spending the week alone, enjoying the quiet and the salty sea air. She now understood how she had gotten the room for such a bargain. The man that was giving her the guided tour had been billed the other half of the room. He stopped in front of a set of French doors and his deep voice told her, “So, my name’s Mike. What’s your name?”

I worked as a Disneyland employee for 30 years. Disney is a pretty good employer, giving me a retirement package that’ll take care of me for the rest of my twilight years. It’s been many seasons since I pulled my last shift. They even had a retirement party for me at Club 33, which was very special. I started off as a suit back in the 70s, doing insurance adjustments for the park and all its new rides. It was a pretty good gig, but I barely got to spend any time in the park itself. I ended up taking a major pay cut when I saw that a Ride Operator position opened up for my favorite attraction: The Haunted Mansion. I walk my dog Pluto by those gates nearly every morning. We go up and down these streets for hours, taking in the familiar sights and smells of Anaheim. Sometimes I’ll see other retired members of the old guard and we’ll exchange some old stories. I like getting coffee at that mexican joint, they put cinnamon in it and don’t overcharge. Even with a nice pension, you gotta find all the good deals, you know? After coffee and walking Pluto around I’ll go home and open a clamshell or two, maybe heat up one of those TV dinners. That’s pretty much how the days go for me. The nights on the other hand, well, that’s a whole different story. For a guy whos worked in a Haunted Mansion his whole life, you’d think he’d get used to all the ghosts. Take it from me, you never do. I know the names and faces of all of them. I thought they’d start to go away over time, like memories. I can’t seem to shake them. You know the mirror bit with the hitchhikers? Its kinda like that. But when you’re a normal park guest, you just get these nice funny memories. When you’ve seen what I’ve seen, those ghosts ride with you all the way home. The first time I ever saw a dead body was on the job. Real religious guy had his ticker stop after seeing Madam Leota’s head talking to him in that crystal ball. I mean, normal people like you and I know this stuff aint real. But I think these old timers who get talked into it by their grandkids, I mean, they got scared of the mummy and the wolf guy in those black and white movies. Maybe it was just his time to go? He had slumped over in his pod, and I noticed pretty instantly on the cameras that he was in distress. I hit the kill switch, which stops the entire ride. From there, I exited the control booth and made my way into the ride. I was able to free him and lay him on his side. You see, back then we didn’t do CPR or any of that. I knew to check his breathing and his pulse, but I couldn’t really tell whether the old guy was still among the living. Turns out he wasn’t, and the doctors said he died pretty much instantly. The whole thing gave me quite the fright, and I was pretty jumpy for a couple of weeks there. One of my buddies from the insurance department got ahold of me one night and said that the old guy’s family was really putting the park through the wringer. I’m talking a damn near seven figure settlement. They paid it though, because if there’s anything the Disney company has, it’s a bottomless pit of dough. They’re used to throwing huge chunks of the stuff at every problem they encounter. Need a hard to get permit to expand the park into public property? Bam, done. Need to pay off a boatload of people who got sick during the Country Bear salmonella fiasco? Cha Ching, everyone’s happy. You get the picture. Money fixes everything... but you’d probably be shocked to find out the lengths Disney will go to save a buck. There was a kid who fell off Splash Mountain and got injured pretty badly. Like, the kinds of injuries that entire generations of Walt’s family would have to pay for. Treatments, surgeries, medications, all of it... and that’s AFTER the seven figure settlement. It really spooked my old department, as well as the shareholders. Who would’ve thought one lousy kid could cause such a fuss? I mean, at this point Disney was the largest and most successful company in the world. You’d think that they’d find some way to keep this sort of thing from happening again. Well, turns out they did. They called all of us loyal long haulers into a meeting one day. I thought the whole thing was a joke, like a prank or something. They were rolling out this parkwide program called “The Sleeping Beauty Protocol”. It was a type of contingency to make sure there weren’t any more situations which would cost the park any extra money. As it turns out, a dead guest is much more inexpensive than an injured guest. Well, despite my better judgement, I agreed to this whole Sleeping Beauty Protocol. This is what it entailed: Each ride and park section had a team of three Fairy Godmothers. I guess in my case, I’d be a Godfather. These were normal employees, like ride operators or cast members. They each had a key to a mini-fridge hidden in their section. Within this mini fridge were a series of discreet looking syringes, which we would administer to the occasional severely injured guest. We called this deadly injection the “Witches Apple”. I heard it didn’t hurt or nothing, it just put them to sleep. Pretty crazy, huh? We all had to sign nondisclosure agreements, but the pay increase was incredible. I was wearing a custom Rolex watch after my first year of being part of the Sleeping Beauty Protocol Team. Luckily I only had to give out three Witches Apples during my entire tenure at the park. The first one went pretty swell. A lighting fixture had come loose and fell on one of the guests in the Graveyard Jamboree section of the Haunted Mansion. I, of course, was working the booth. I hit the kill switch, but decided to leave the lights off. The insurance guys made the call within a minute or so, and they called a Code Sleeping Beauty on him. I grabbed my key, unlocked the fridge and shagged ass. We had to make sure to do this quick and efficiently, and make sure there were no witnesses. I was able to reach the guest, whose head looked like a split cantaloupe. I’ll never forget the gurgling sound they made as the blood ran out their mouth and nose. I pulled the cap off of the syringe, located their AC vein in their forearm, and then performed my first successful euthanasia. The gurgling stopped, and voila! Old man Walt Disney was smiling down on me that day, that’s for sure. The second time was when I was on my break outside Thunder Mountain Railroad, tucking into a delicious caramel covered apple. I like standing by the tracks and listening to the rail car roll by overhead. Its such a satisfying sound--so powerful. Well, as luck would have it, there was a loud mechanical snap that happened just as the train car sped by, and a piece of metal from the track came loose. Nobody on the ride itself got injured, but the metal shard plunged into a ladies chest right across from me. I mean, this thing hit her with so much force she slid across the ground several feet. My pager began buzzing immediately. I knew what the numbers stood for. It was time for us to clear the scene and let loose the Sleeping Beauty Protocol. We quickly ushered everyone out of the area, and I waited for the Adventure Land team to show up with the damn apple. They were taking too long, and I was starting to get nervous. They finally showed up after three minutes. The poor kid’s hands were shaking, looking at this barely alive woman with a metal shard stickin out of her chest. At this rate he was gonna drop the damn syringe, so I grabbed it and plunged it into the womans jugular. Another day, another dollar saved. The third one was the worst though, and I really didn’t get all the credit for it. Right before I retired this big fat guy fell out of the car on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. The car kept going, but he stayed there laying on the track. You see, those older rides don’t have such good cameras. I happened to be covering a shift that day, and I was dozing off at the controls. I woke up to a scream, which I found out came from the fat sonofabitch who got ran over by the next two cars. People were screaming to stop the ride, but the button was stuck. By the time I was able to unstick the piece of crap, all hell had broken loose. People were running, screaming, filming it all on their nifty new smartphones. I pushed my way through the many colorful sets which made up the frog ride, and the blood trail led me right to the guy. His legs were twisted in all sorts of mangled directions, chunks of flesh stuck in the chains and gears in the track. He was sitting up against a 2D cutout of wooden crates, looking at me with desperate eyes. He was wide awake and talking. “My legs! My goddamn legs! Look at them! Oh my god please help me!” he yelled. The code was called and my coworker came in with the magical cocktail that’d make this big fellas dreams come true. They let me do the honors. I pulled off the cap and stood over him. “What the hell is that thing? What are you giving me?!” He shouted accusingly. I told him it was for the pain while we waited for the EMTs. Well, I was half right. I administered the Witches Apple into his blood speckled arm, and he immediately started seizing. He didn’t die though. He just breathed hard, occasionally thrashing around and moaning. I got a call from the shot callers upstairs and they said videos from the smartphones had gained such attention on social media that the EMTs were actually on their way. This was bad. We had to improvise on this one. There was a new hire who wasn’t on the Sleeping Beauty Protocol team per se, but he was a suited cast member. Nobody would be able to really identify him coming in or out of the Mr. Toads ride. I knew he was on shift as Donald Duck, and I quickly coordinated with the suits to pull him aside for a favor. You see, there was one thing I knew about this new recruit. He was big, strong, and trained in brazilian jiu jitsu. I knew he would have what it takes to finish the job. Time was running out, and we got a suit on site to get the kid up to speed. They offered him a “Dreams Come True” package, which was a serious amount of up-front money, a pay raise, and of course, a nondisclosure agreement. The kid signed, pen held in his big white donald duck hand. They escorted him into the ride, and over to the portly liability, sitting up again wide awake. “What the hell? Donald Duck? Whats going on here? What did you shoot me up with? That stuff almost killed me! You’re all gonna pay for what you’re doing here!” He shouted, pointing at us accusingly with his weak semi-mangled gesture. Donald looked over at me, and I nodded approvingly. Donald moved in quick, positioning himself behind the fat man. He placed him in a rear naked chokehold, squeezing with all of his might. He even started singing in a perfect duck voice “A dream is a wish your heart makes... when you’re fast asleep” from Cinderella. He sang so gently and soothingly while he drained the life from the man’s body. His rubbery, brokens legs stopped thrashing and went limp. I’d like to say that the guest died with a smile on their face, given that they were gifted a top notch Disney quality experience in their last moments. But nope, it was a twisted, oxygen deprived grimace, frozen forever in my memory. His loss though, Disney really goes out of their way to deliver one-of-a-kind custom tailored experiences for all their guests. Especially special ones like this now blob of lifeless grey flesh. That was the last one I was ever part of. I don’t regret being part of the Sleeping Beauty Protocol. Disney was a good employer and they took great care of me. People die all the time, but how many people can say that they died at the Magic Kingdom? I’ll tell you, only the ones that wake me up at night. Only the ones who ride in the back seat of my car. Only the ones who look at me from behind the closed gates every morning. It’s not just the ones that I gave the Apple to; It’s all of them. To my understanding, the Apple has been given to more than a hundred guests over the years. I think one day I’ll end up joining them. Maybe someday when Pluto’s gone and my legs cant carry me through my daily walks anymore, I’ll have myself a little accident on my favorite ride. Maybe then you might find me dancing with all my friends in the ballroom, flying around the graveyard, or maybe even riding home with a guest in the backseat of a car.

The ink reservoir dropped. Straight out of the holes in the ceiling tiles and onto my desk, branding my nose on its way. I wouldn’t say I was waiting for the moment, but the seat in which it happened to be dangling above for the past two months, was known to be mine. I’d spent hours absently staring up at the ceiling in History class, just waiting for something to happen. Brendan Marshals and Scotty Parnell laughed. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ I said Mr Andrews spun around from the whiteboard, dragging the marker with him and crossing out the word “treaty”. ‘Kayla, get out of my class! You can go see Ms. Fox for that.’ ‘It wasn’t even fucking me!’ Kayla said. Mr Andrews blames Kayla for everything. All the teachers blame Kayla for everything because she shows potential. They want to convince her that it’s not worth spending time around me. They don’t realise that we’re basically like sisters--best friends since preschool. She’s not going to ditch me just because these idiots see something in her. ‘I said it,’ I declared proudly, standing up. ‘And I don’t give a fuck I’m outta here! Who’s with me?’ I’d imagined this moment before, dreamed about it. I never thought the remnants of a pen-shooter would be the catalyst. Kayla stood up immediately and then Becca--our faithful follower. Brendan and Scotty stood up too, any excuse would’ve worked for them. Mr Andrews looked straight past me to address Kayla again. ‘Straight to Ms. Fox you hear me, Kayla.’ ‘Fuck you,’ Kayla yelled back. Then, without warning, she picked up a chair and hurled it across the classroom, just missing him. For the first time, he held the entire class's attention. Eyes darted back and forth between Kayla and Mr. Andrews. Kayla looked at me as if she too were surprised at what she’d just done and didn’t know what to do next. ‘You deserved that,” I said, breaking the silence. He cowered, dropping his head onto the desk, cradling it with his arms. Siren-like wails poured out from the depths of his head cavern. I’d finally broken him. For exactly two seconds I felt sorry for the blubbering mess of a man -- but then I remembered the canteen incident. Last week, Mr Andrews’ pointed the finger at me without a second of thought and zero evidence, as the prime suspect in the canteen burglary. Boxes of Zappos were distributed around the school that day--anonymously. No one owned up, so they shut the canteen for three days. We were spewing. No one would dare come forward now, not with a mob of dim-sim deprived teenagers on the loose, they’d be asking for it. And Mr Andrews knew that, when he publicly announced his illegitimate suspicions in front of the school assembly. ‘I don’t even eat Zappos,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘They make my pores sweat.’ ‘That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’ ‘The most ridiculous thing I’ve heard is you accusing me of stealing Zappos when your pigeon hole is full of Zappo wrappers,’ I finished, taking my seat. The whole school started booing him until he gave up and the weekly announcements went on as if nothing happened. Kayla had overheard him throwing my name around the staff room the day before when she was in the sick bay and had arrived at school that next morning armed with Zappo wrappers to plant. She’s always got my back like that. We storm out of the classroom leaving the history of Australia on the whiteboard with a mission to make our own. We march through the outdoor, red brick corridor with our bad girl bucket hats and flared jeans trailing threads behind us. The door to the girls bathroom swings open revealing the silhouettes of two girls emerging from a cloud of smoke. They’re spraying impulse aerosol like there’s a bee on the loose. Vanilla musk barely masks the acrid waft. It’s Danielle Diblassi and Teegan Myers. ‘What are yous doin?’ Teegan asks, twisting her infected nose piercing and scratching the crusty ring around it. Becca tells them we’re staging a walk-out because we’re sick of the teachers treating us like a pack of dogs. I can see she’s pissed off that the two of them are back to being best friends again after Becca backed Teegan in a punch up against Danielle last week. Becca's broken acrylic nail is seemingly all for nothing. We let them join us but Teegan has to pay Becca fifteen bucks for her nail repair first. I lead the pack with Kayla and Becca to my sides. All public schools need a triumphant leader that will take a stand and lead them to victory. And that leader was me. We’d had enough. Becca’s mum once told us how it was, “back in her day”. “Sister Margaret would whip our ankles if our skirts were too short”, She’d told us. Our school doesn't require floor length skirts. Our school doesn’t require skirts at all. Our school doesn’t require much of anything really. The information sheet that replaces a handbook at our school refers to it as ‘dress code’. We wear what we want... so long as the teachers like it...or like us . Which is why this morning, when Laura Mayfield walked into the year 9 sub-school wearing a low-cut, halter neck, midriff with glitter bra straps hanging out each side and a silver belly chain with a Jesus cross hanging from it, Ms. Fox remarked, “What beautiful chain Louise, I didn’t know you were religious”. She isn’t. Then when I walked in behind Laura wearing a white t-shirt with two hand prints printed on the boobs, Ms. Fox ordered me to change immediately, claiming she wouldn’t tolerate such inappropriate innuendo. I told her I didn’t bring any other clothes. Her eyes actually twinkled like some kind of anime cartoon when she said, ‘Well aren’t you lucky that I have a box of spare band uniforms.’ A musky pile of navy blue polo shirts lay in a warped cardboard box beneath her desk. They smelt like the music storage cupboard--damp and sweaty, with a touch of someone messing around inside. ‘This is discrimination! Why don’t you get up Louise for having her whole belly and half her tits showing?!’ She ignored me. I snatched a shirt from the box and gave her the finger as I walked out. At recess we impaled it on a stick and hammered it into the oval like a flag. Kayla’s given me her adidas hoodie to wear for the rest of the day on the promise I give it back to her before the bell. Apparently her mum’s starting to get pissed at how many of her clothes are going missing. ‘They’re not missing, they’re at mine, I’ll bring them back,’ I told her, questioning her sudden lack of trust in me. We continue past the science labs where Mr Archibalds class is left unattended, copying instructions from the whiteboard. Amber, Caitlynn and Jessica Day-Mitchell join us after we holler an invitation through the window, then surprisingly Matthew Benningham; the innocent school prodigy, who had just reached his daily quota of bullying intake after Royce Adams told him his diagram of a Bunsen burner looked like a dildo, also grabs his bag and joins us. Matthew is the kind of gifted that repels friends, but today he’s welcomed into our pack with thanks and praise as we try to gather numbers. Questionable noises come from behind the blackened windows of the darkroom as we pass the media building. ‘Get some!’ We all hurrah and bang on the glass. Amber's sister once told us how the photo lab was off limits to all year ten students for an entire year in 98 because Evan Summergreen was caught fingering Tara Tepiatu in the dark room. “You bitches are lucky. I missed out on a whole year of mucking around in there”, she’d told us. I wondered why a photography teacher would forget to knock before entering a dark room. We reach the end of the brick corridor and come to the open courtyard. We’ll have to cross it undetected to get to the final corridor, marking the last part of our journey before we can get off school grounds. Mr Verna emerges from the music room demountable with four students and five sets of bloodshot eyes. They’ve all received special permission to skip regular classes to practise for next week's assembly, practice clearly involves the occasional puff of a joint. Three weeks ago they performed a song called, “My prostitute” that they’d written under Mr Verna's guidance, at the talent show auditions. Lachy, the lead singer, said he was going to dedicate the song to Kayla. I told him if he did I’d smash him. They dedicated it to Sammy Jakes instead, who pretended to be embarrassed--as if she couldn't believe anyone would think of her as anything but an innocent virgin. But we all knew inside she was celebrating the advancement of her reputation as the “school slut”, which she wears like a badge of honour. They didn’t make it through to the finals. Lachy says weed helps their creativity. Mr Verna is just depressed. But no one’s meant to mention the latter unless they want to be banned from private music class invitations. Mr Verna looks like a deer caught in headlights when he sees us parading across the courtyard. We wave, he stays frozen for a minute, then smiles and winks. I wink back, both pretending we haven’t seen a thing. Miss Jennings’ Indonesian class spots our group as we approach the home stretch. We hear Maggs sitting in the back row call out, ‘Miss! I think I see Jamie Jones wanking in the green house again!’ ‘Right!’ Miss Jennings huffs. Her lips purse together, twitching like there’s an evil spirit trying to escape. ‘Remain seated everyone and continue reciting the Indonesia Raya.’ She leaves the room and twelve of her fifteen students jump out the window to join us. We continue on gathering students from food science, Maths and French along the way. There’s no hope for Miss Clabells business class. She’s already locked the doors and threatened two weeks of after school detention for anyone even thinking about leaving class. It’s her first term at our school after leaving a private girls school and so far she’s managed to stand her ground. We’ll wear her down soon enough. We March past an English room where everyone is nose deep in Dolly magazines for silent reading. Jono spots me from his window seat. He hates my confidence, but I know he just wants to be me. He opens the window. ‘Miss, something smells like heroin!’ he yells in my direction. ‘Heroin doesn't have a smell Jono,’ I laugh. He mumbles something. He’s never been good with comebacks. His two best friends Mitch and Noodle stand up and leave him to join us. ‘Wait, What? Are you for real?’ He asks them. They’re totally for real because Principle Greason confiscated all the cone pieces from Noodles bag last week which he was going to take to Mitches after school. They didn’t get their arvo cones that day and Mr Greason wouldn’t even give the cone pieces back either. Two teachers wait at the end of the final leg blocking the gate after being tipped off by one of these prison guards presumably. One, is our science teacher Mr Jones. Mr Jones has just finished teaching us about magnetic fields occurring in natural minerals. From his classes, I’ve learnt that If Kaylas boobs were iron, then Mr Jones’ eyes would be magnetite. Shannon wastes no time calling him out as we approach. ‘Getcha eyes off ‘er tits ya perve,’ she sputters in his face. ‘Shannon Bates, how dare you make such accusations,’ Mrs Warren defends, her face flushes to match the bright red suspension slips she holds in her shaking left hand. Kayla turns to me, ‘I don’t think I can afford another suspension. Mums gonna kill me.’ ‘What? We got this far, I thought you were with me?’ ‘I was...but, I’ll be grounded! I won’t be allowed to go to platform eighty-eight on Friday and the hot Blockbuster guy is going to be there!’ ‘If Kayla's out I’m out,’ Becca says. Becca’s always been quick to turn but Kayla’s shook me. After everything I’ve done for her this is what I get? Murmuring rises throughout the pack of once-dedicated students. The red slips have turned everyone. I face the group. ‘Kayla, are you going to let Mr Jones keep drooling into your cleavage every time he sees you? Guys, everyone has a reason for being here today, are we just gonna cop it?’ Mrs Warren is ignoring me, pretending to write names down on the red slips, ‘Mrs Warren’s been here two fucking weeks guys! She doesn't know any of your names! Are we all just going to take this shit?’ I look at Kayla. ‘I did this for you.’ Kayla looks like she’s about to cry. For some reason I don't care. I turn to walk off bidding everyone a sarcastic farewell on my way but just before I leave the gate Kayla calls out to stop me. ‘I need my hoodie,’ she says. It was a day to remember--the great walk out of “01”. We gathered 53 students as we made our way through the school and to the edge of freedom before 49 of them backed out. We could have made a difference--showed them who's boss, but instead they came down harder, even bringing in a school uniform to wear. I blame Kayla. She doesn't get in trouble anymore, even when she’s done something shit like robbing the canteen. I only think about her when I see her hoodie impaled on a stick in my backyard

She longed to be back under the earth in her burrow, with the she cat, but that wasn't how things had worked out. They had caught the buck's trail, and there was only one way to go. The clouds were heavy, it was getting late, almost true dark, the rain and air growing colder. Song had tried sleeping in a burrow. The white dog had dug the roof off of her, whining and scared to be alone. That was fair. She had tried a lean-to, but the wind was too strong, she froze in her wet woolens. So she compromized with the beast, and built a pit, covered with her poncho. Song huddled with the dog for warmth under her blanket, rifle at her side. Whatever light there might be out in the rain, there was none in this damp, dark hole under the leaking poncho. It smelled of dog and of her sweat. Of earth and old leather and wool. It was cool, if not outright cold. The dog wormed closer. Song cried, and tried to sleep. ... He had gotten lost in the fog before the rain turned heavy. He had been following the brook looking for angelica, but found none. That happened sometimes, where the glaciers had been retreating more quickly, the seeds spread slower uphill. He had walked high to find birch... and then what?...and then seen another stream... had it been to the east or west? He depended on his dogs and Song to know where he was. That wasnt his job. He had crossed a stream, and another, by the time he found angelica and a copse of birch, the temperature had dropped, the rain had grown heavy and a thick fog had rolled down from the slopes above that lead to the base of the glacier. He had no dry wood to make a fire, no idea where he was, and it was getting cold, fast. He tried making a leanto, but he couldnt stay warm by himself, he needed his dogs for that to work. There was only one thing to do. He started digging. Again. ... The tom was awake, looking out the doorway, over the ashes of the fire. He was making a low warning growl. The she-cat was slinking around the side of the door, tail up, claws out, ready to strike if an intruder came. What were they afraid of? Then the bitch smelled it, over the oppressive choking odor of the dying fire. Fox. ... The poncho was waterproof, but it didnt hold heat like the earth she was accustomed to sleeping under. She awoke each time the dog moved or whimpered in its fitful sleep. It was as alien to the beast to sleep without its pack. The sound of the raindrops were like a war drum, tapping out a madly arrhythmic tattoo, too irregular and loud to allow for real rest. She tried to breathe, but the air in the pit under her poncho was oppressively heavy. Stifled, she struggled to her knees, the dog whining in its sleep at this disturbance. The blast of fresh air when she lifted the edge was welcome. The spray of cold water was not. She was now soaked again, and cold. The dog, now awake, whimpered at the intrusion of cold air. With a feeling of utter helplessness, Song sat back down, grabbed the dog to her under the blanket, and cried herself to sleep with her face in its mane. ... He couldn't hear, or smell or see. He was warm and dry in the cocoon he'd made, but he felt cut off from the universe and utterly alone. Cut off from his dogs to guide and protect him, his knowledge was useless. It was safe under the ground when he was alone, but he was never supposed to be alone, and now his pack was wherever he left them, the bitch wounded and all of them scared. This was not how the hunt was meant to be. He mumbled reassurances to his dogs, too far away to hear them, but it was really for himself. Eventually, exhausted from fear of being alone, his voice croaked and lips stopped moving, his muttering giving way to snores. Above the blanket, and poncho, and branches, the rain dropped silently onto the turf. The cold wind howled through the birch on the slopes and the angelica. In the dark grey twilight of the early morning hours, Fir slept warm, if alone, beneath the earth. ... The fox had been incautious, and that had likely lost an eye. To her credit, the bitch had struggled to stand up when she had caught the fox's scent. While the tom wasn't as large as a fox, he wasn't small, and he'd play fought with the dogs when they were pups. He may not have a foxe's jaws but the claws on his long, strong front paws rained a flurry of blows. The fox had not been ready for this strong a defense, and was trying to flee when the she-cat, smaller but twice as fast and every bit as fierce as the tom, was right there in it's face, lashing and tearing. The bitch had barked and tried to bite, weak and half seated, but there was no need. The fox was long gone and would not be back. The air smelled of blood. the cats cleaned themselves, the only blood the fox's. The bitch hobbled outside and pissed in the cold rain. The cats were ferocious. She had no doubt the fox would not return. But if something else came it would know that the bitch guarded this den. She limped back inside. When she'd found her place, facing the door, the cats positioned themselves on either side of her, the tom cleaning the fur around her bandage. The she-cat, alert with eyes closed, pointed her ears intently out the stooped doorway into the cold rain and grey fog. ...

Stolen Glances He was the Stable Boy. He had no right to be looking at her in that way. A way that spoke of feelings and desires beyond words. Feelings and desires that he had no right to be thinking about her, never mind speaking to her. She was a lady. The youngest born to a great lord. She was refined, poised, delicate. Her hands were swathed in the sweetest silk. Like her soft, pale face. One of these gloves alone was far more than the likes of the Stable Boy would make in a year. She was drowning in lux, heavy fabrics layered her body, burying her slight frame. She favored yellow, but often wore purple. A reminder to herself and everyone who surrounded her, from the highest lord to the lowest servant, of her status. The Stable Boy wore browns, all browns; brown cap, brown shoes, brown trousers, waist coat and shirt. Brown dirt on freckled face and freckled arms. Brown hair under his cap. Dark eyes looked up from under his cap, stealing glances at her when he wasn’t supposed to. Hidden looks that were not his. He hadn’t the right. Only once she looked back. That look wasn’t his to have. He never should have had it. The Stable Boy spent much of his time in the stables with the earthy smell of horses and the spring smell of hay. He brushed their flanks, shilled their shoes and fed them the finest oats. All the horses were those of the lords and ladies, and needed the finest care and treatment. The Stable Boy provided just that, without complaint. The stable was his home as much as his small lodgings on the lord’s lands he was permitted to keep there. More so when his parents fought. Their horses company was the company that the Stable Boy preferred to keep. It didn’t take much to know them and learn what they liked. And they didn’t seem to mind him all that much either. There was only one’s company that he would prefer more... She didn’t see him. She didn’t see him wherever she went. It was a conscious effort on her part. She did not wish to see him and chose not to. But somehow the Stable Boy kept appearing to her, in her mind’s eye, when she caught herself day dreaming, and when she lay in her chambers at night, heavy fabric curtains drawn, blocking out everything but his face. It swam before her each night. Forever out of reach to her. She who had the kind of father who could bless her with anything her heart desired. Except him. She didn’t see him wherever she went. But she carried him with her. Just as he carried her with him. ******** Once a week the lords and ladies would come out to ride in the mid-day sun. The Stable Boy silently worked, helping the lords and ladies, he saddled their horses and helped them into their riding boots. He never sought her out first. He always waited until the lords and ladies were speaking among themselves. She always stood to one side. It wasn’t announced and she wasn’t missed. She always seemed to disappear from them without notice, to stand to one side. To wait for him. The Stable Boy would work efficiently and silently. He would saddle her horse with care and kneel down to help her into her riding shoes. His tanned, calloused hands treating her so gently, so preciously. All the time he kept his gaze averted, eyes firmly down at the ground. His cap covering his eyes from hers. In these moments before she rode, she would look at him openly. Her eyes scanned him, searching. She took in the strands of dark hair poking out from under his cap, his tanned skin and scatterings of freckles. The hard line his lips formed into when he focused on his work. The way he hesitated before laying hands on her shoe. The care that he placed her riding boots onto her foot. The way his fingers longed to linger, but didn’t. The tension in his broad shoulders. He was threadbare and common, but he was honest and his touch sincere. Once the Stable Boy had stood again to help her onto her horse, she refused herself to look at him anymore. Once she was seated on her horse he would stroke her mounts mane and leave his hand there, lingering. She could feel his eyes on her now and refused to give him hers, looking straight ahead, fixed. They would stay like this, locked in a moment that they both refused to share with one another. Too frightened of what may happen if their eyes found each other. Yet they both longed anyway. This ritual was repeated each week. Each taking the turn to look at the other. Drinking them in, devouring them with their eyes. It was late autumn, the last ride out before the horses would winter in the stables, when the Stable Boy had his hand on her horses mane, gazing at her. She didn’t look at him. She never looked at him when he looked. She reached her hand out to his. Their hands trembled. ******** It was winter and The Stable Boy hadn’t seen her since the last day in the autumn. The Stable Boy had housed himself with the horses for the winter. He was out there so often feeding them and it was far warmer in here besides with the animals making good company. He thought of her often. Her creamy skin. Her rosy cheeks and lips. Her flowing lock. Fire in the sun and rose in the shade. The look of discomfort in that world of lords and ladies that none of those refined folks seemed to notice. Her eyes piercing him. Her eyes not lighting up when she politely laughed at a nobles jest. Her eyes fading when she was presented with another suitor. Her eyes shining when she looked at him (the Stable Boy saw more from under his cap than she realised). He lay in the top of the barn with the hay bales above the horses, dreaming of her and dreaming of her, both awake and asleep. It was a cold night when the Stable Doors flew open. Icy winds blowing in and a loud clatter (gave the horses a start). Assuming he hadn’t locked it properly, the Stable Boy quickly climbed down the ladder, calmed the horses and turned towards the stable door. She was standing there. They both looked at one another. They shared their first embrace that very night. She came to see the Stable Boy as she could after that first night sneaking out into the darkness, with nothing but a cloak and a lantern to protect her from winters bite. She would shuffle into the stables, shivering, and he would warm her and tell her in soft tones not to come again; she’d catch her death. But again the next night she would come and again he would tell her not to. The Stable Boy knew their time was short and sought to make each moment count. She wanted more and oft fretted about her marriage proposals and desires to be with him instead. The Stable Boy would hold her and say nothing. His heart heavy with knowledge and sorrow. ******** No one knows how the barn came to be on fire. Some think it was a jealous suitor, insulted that the finest lady in all the lands was choosing to spend her time with common servant. Some think that it was her father, mortified that his daughter had sullied herself with a lowly peasant. Others say that a lantern had been knocked over and had been the cause of the fire. There was a lot of talk after that night, when the barn lit up in a great bonfire. All agreed though, that she had been okay. The lords daughter was well, pulled from the barn by the Stable Boy. But the Stable Boy went back for the horses. The lord was ultimately most angry that his prized stallions and fillies had died in the flames. He gave no thought to the Stable Boy and even less to why his daughter had been stood in the snow, staring at the flames as tears rolled down her cheeks, freezing in place. She continued her ladies duties. She walked with poise, wore fine garments, tittered politely at her suitors remarks and kept fine ladies in her company. She later married a suitor and moved away to his lands. But her eyes were dulled. They didn’t shine anymore. ******** I am a scullery maid. My hands are calloused and I scrub and wash all day. My mothers a maid like me and my father keeps the grounds presentable. No grand lord is trying his best to win my hand, only to get in my knickers. I sleep in the servants quarters and I would love to get a tan from working in the sun. I usually work in the dark and the quiet. Remaining unseen so as not to disturb the great lords and ladies with my presence. I loved a boy from afar whose entire being was the warmest chocolate brown. His lips pressed together in a hard line when he focused and he never saw me. He only saw her. And she took him away.

Oh no, oh no, oh no. it’s 5:59 in the morning and I have just woken up. Waking up has never felt like such an issue before this time. Oh no, thirty seconds before the first buffoonery may take place. This day is dreaded, not just for me, for a lot of other people too. It is finally 6:00 and I am frantically looking around me for clues to the first act of tomfoolery, but there was no sign. Weird... I got into the bathroom and then looked around continuously for any clues as to who and where the hoax could be. All of the possibilities could come true; someone filling the toothpaste with coloured glue and me not knowing till the liquid touches my teeth, someone backwashing the mouthwash and waiting for me to come into the bathroom, someone replacing the body wash with thickened fruit juice - ok i’ll just skip the bath then. I went to go take my breakfast from the kitchen. There were endless opportunities to ruin my day, replacing my milk with white coloured water, even my cereal being fake. “Mum!” I called frantically as she ran towards me with a resounding “what is it Aiden?!” from the kitchen sink behind me, spraying soap everywhere. “Is everything ok with my cereal?!” I cried. “Aiden is everything ok with you today? You’ve been acting strange.” she wondered as she left the plates, dried her hands and came to check my temperature on my forehead. I slowly backed her hand away and told her that I was fine. “Mum, I'm fine, and it has nothing to do with my temperature!” i said as i got up and put my bowl back into the sink with all the cereal left inside and left for school. I was walking to school, but the fear did not stop there; I was even more scared than I was when I was at home. “AHH!” I screamed in fear and ran a few steps; and I just realised that it was just a tap on the shoulder asking if I could walk to school with them. “What happened, did i scare you?!” he asked me in disbelief; nobody had ever seen me run that fast. Not even myself. “No it’s fine...” “Are you sure?” “Yes absolutely fine...” I stated, while I waited for him to catch up to me. We looked up and he noticed something. “Aiden?” “Yes....?” “It is about to rain, have you got an umbrella?” he asked me, as I tried to rustle my umbrella out of my bag as I suddenly realised.... “Oh no...” I entered into self realisation... “My mum packed my bag....” “Why is that a problem?” he asked innocently, as if he didn’t know what day it was. He grabbed the umbrella from me and proceeded to open it. Then everything went into slow motion... “I don’t think you should do this....” “Why not?” asked Adam “your mother is not cursed.... It's fine.” It opened and then nothing came out of it. No roses, no poem, no letter, no dodgy liquids.... It seemed to be too good to be true.... He handed me back my umbrella and we made our way to school. We got to school and we got into the first class. Me and Adam walked together. I got into class, and I looked above the door if there was the ‘bucket of green or red paint’ they ALWAYS have in american movies. So then I let Adam go first. There wasn’t anything to worry about, but when I walked through the door, I still checked. I took my seat and I listened to the lesson. Almost every word that came out of her mouth, I felt like she was about to call me a very bad name. And every second the video was projected on the screen, I felt like I was going to get rickrolled. But then... after about half an hour of hyperactive fright, the bell rang. I was in disbelief. “Does nobody know what day it is?” I asked Adam, but he didn't answer. Nobody did. “Oh my God, am I invisible too?” This happened in every lesson. I looked around for any tricks, but there were none. And nobody spoke about the dreadful 24 hours that they were going through. I went home and I plopped myself on the couch and my mum came to sit with me. “How was school today honey?” asked my mum. ‘’It was good I guess.” I replied with a sigh. “What happened?” she wondered. “Oh nothing” I said with a fake smile. “Do you want dinner?” she asked politely. “Yeah sure, I just need to change first.” I told her, and then I ran upstairs. I ate dinner, and even though nothing had happened previously that day, I still had the fearful tendencies, as I stared at my food until it became cold; and then I regretted it. “Do you know what, it’s absolutely fine, my mum can never poison me. She gave birth to me.” I thought to myself. Due to the fact that there could actually be a completely mysterious and out of the blue, SUDDEN change of events, I regretted that sentence too. I put my food in the microwave and went to go and sit down at the kitchen table and waited for the ding; I knew it was coming, and I also knew it was going to terrorize me. I waited for the ding, but everywhere was completely silent in the meantime. I looked around and eventually got up. I gazed around the place, looked through the windows, up at the ceiling, down at the floor: and all of a sudden; DING! Goes the microwave. I DROPPED to the floor and my mum ran into the kitchen. “AIDEN WHAT HAPPENED, ARE YOU OK?!” screamed my mum frantically, as she raced to get me up from the kitchen floor. “Yes mum, I'm fine.” “Aiden, no you are not. Come here and talk to me.” demanded my mum, as I clamoured off of the floor, dusting myself off. “No, no, i’m fine!” I replied to my mother as I marched to get my food from the microwave and eat it in my room. When I was done with my food, I couldn't bring myself to go downstairs so I just went to sleep. 10 hours passed and my alarm rang for 6:00 am. “Yes!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. I don’t know what i was thinking, but i had to go to school that day, so i brushed my teeth, ended up eventually taking a bath, scrambling to put on my uniform, ate my breakfast, and headed out the door, until.... “Wait!” shouted my mum “What happened?” “You need to get Adam a present!” “What do you mean? Today is April the 2nd. His birthday is on the third.” “Yes and today IS the third.” I can just tell she was very confused with me. She brought her watch to my face and turned my direction towards it and I came to a shocking realization. It was ACTUALLY April 3rd. Doesn’t that mean that yesterday was ... April 2nd?

She had known for a very long time that sooner or later, it will come to this. It had to. She takes a deep breath, and looks up. Everything is slightly hazy, as if a giant smoke machine is at work somewhere. In front of her are two doors. On the left is a beautiful ornately carved wooden door, with a huge brass knocker. On it is a brass plate with the word “STAY” on it. On the right is another wooden door, but it is sleeker in design, and the wood is a bit lighter - could be oak. The handle is made of brushed aluminium, and she can see that it is one of those pivot doors. On it is a silver plated sign that says “GO”. Her heart starts beating faster. She is not sure how she knows, but she does, that once she has chosen a door and enters it, there is no turning back. She groans. This is probably the hardest decision of her life. How should she know what the right decision will be for her now, but even more important, for the rest of her life? Another fact is that she has been mulling everything over in her mind for a long time, so she should actually know what to choose. And yet she doesn't. She sighs. That's a lie. She knows which decision is the right one for her heart, but it is not the same one she would choose if she chose with her mind. Damn it to hell!! ------------------- Mandy is a qualified graphic artist. She has been working in her trade for around six years, and she has already started making a name for herself. Four years ago, she met Steve at a training workshop for artists, and they just clicked. They have the same interests, mostly, and the same off-kilter sense of humour. They started seeing each other, and their relationship moved quickly from seeing each other to moving in together. About two years into the relationship, Mandy started realizing that although they mostly see eye to eye, there are one or two areas of serious differences. It would be easy to say that a few differences can be overlooked or sorted out if everything else works, but it seems not if both partners feel very strongly about their views and neither are willing to compromise. The main areas of contention are marriage, and children. Mandy comes from a loving family that spends a lot of time together, and Steve comes from a broken family with hardly any connection between it's members. He says that's the way he likes it, and he does not want to get married or have children. He loves Mandy, they have fun together and there is no need to go and change something that works. Mandy, on the other hand, wants to get married and have children. It doesn't have to happen right now, she still has a lot of things she wants to do and her career is flourishing at the moment, but she would like to know that the future has that possibility in store for her. There was a time that they argued about it continuously, and they nearly broke up about a year ago, but Steve begged her to reconsider, and at that time it was easy to capitulate, because she just loves him so dang much! She realized however, that she had just swept the differences under the rug, so to speak, and it was still a problem for her, nagging away at the back of her mind. It was a weird way to live, being half happy, and half very unhappy - being with the man she loved, but knowing that if she stayed with him, she will always be yearning for more. Was it too much to ask to have everything? ----------- And then, two months ago, she received an amazing job offer from a company in Japan. They had given her a month to accept the offer. At first she was scared to bring it up with Steve, but after a few days she realized that she'll have to talk to him about it. He might change his mind about things and that would colour everything differently. When she finally broached the subject, after a good dinner and a bottle of wine, he was quiet for a very long time. But then he took the wind out of her sails when he slowly smiled and said that it sounds absolutely amazing, and he will start looking for a job there as well. How perfect is that! Mandy was speechless at first, and then managed a weak smile, and agreed with him. As the month neared its end, Steve had not found a job yet, and she wasn't sure what she wanted to do, so she wrote the company in Japan a letter, asking them if they could please give her another month to let them know. She knew that it was not very professional, but she didn't know what else to do. To her surprise, they agreed almost immediately. The two of them talked about the situation endlessly, Steve all excited and making plans, she a lot more restrained. If he noticed, he didn't let on. She decided that she had to make the final decision now, or it is never going to happen - does she stay with Steve and move to Japan with him and hope that he will change his mind, or does she make a clean break now, and hope that her life will work out as she had dreamt since she was a little girl? How does she know that it will? She might break up with Steve, and never find love again... She had slept very little in this past month, and she had lost weight. She is listless and gets headaches all the time. And now the time has come, she has to make a decision and let them know. There is no more time to procrastinate... --------------- Mandy squares her shoulders, takes a deep breath again, and she starts walking towards the two wooden doors. The mist is still slowly swirling around her. She stops a few steps away, right in the centre between the two. Her heart goes crazy in her chest - it feels as if it might beat itself right out of her body. She feels as if she might pass out, so she quickly steps to her right and opens the door with the “GO” sign. She enters and closes the door. There. Done. No turning back now. She releases the breath she has been holding, and turns around slowly. It is a weird scene that awaits her. It makes sense, but at the same time it doesn't. How can she see so much at the same time? There is the plane that she has to take to get to Japan, there is what she assumes is her new office complete with desk and computer, there are a lot of smiling strangers surrounding her - all of that at the same time, yet she understands what she is seeing. The strangest of all, is the feeling in her chest and body. There is a warmth radiating from her heart and spreading to the rest of her body, and she can feel a the strain in her shoulders starting to abate, as if it is slowly seeping out of her. Within a few minutes she feels light, as if she can float away into the air. Not only that, she also feels happy. Singing-dancing-jumping-for-joy happy! She starts walking towards the plane, not even thinking twice about it. ----------- The next moment an awful, jarring sound shrieks through the silence. Mandy jumps from fright, and lies still for s few moments. The alarm clock. Oh bloody hell, that was only a dream! Shit. She lies completely still for another few minutes, analysing her dream. Although she has been putting it off for weeks, she knows what she has to do. It wasn't that the dream showed her what to do, it only confirmed what she already knew in her heart. The decision is the right one for her, now, at this point in her life. She glances over at Steve, still softly snoring on his side of the bed. This is not going to be easy, but it has to be done - she's got a life she has to live, her way. With firm resolve she sits up, and throws the duvet off her. Let's get to it then, she says to herself with a smile on her face.

Dear A, I’m writing this letter in the back of our last month’s electricity bill -the one I have yet to pay -on the arm seat of a train to Oran, and by the time it reaches you, there will be many borders, many languages, an ocean and a sky separating me from you. I’ll be a life away from you but right now, I’m still on the M-O12 train, still a few stations away from the place we both called home, holding nothing but my old black leather purse and Ocean Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous to keep me company. It’s what actually sparked in me the urge to write to you, this book. Because you’re gone and I’m here still. Because there’s something strangely liberating about writing a letter you know will never be read. Here on this train everything is exactly the way you left it. On a Sunday morning, everyone is heading north for work. The carriages seem to only breathe people in and not out, not yet, not until we reach Oran, the city of all possibilities. I remember how much you hated trains. That one time -the only time -together to your mother’s house you couldn’t stop your hands from twitching, disgust and discomfort pouring out of your eyes for having to sit still through what you later referred to as “the three hours in hell”. You really hated it, all of it. But I didn't. The raised voices of strangers on the phone, the incessant crying of kids when they realize they’re trapped with hardly any space to move, the deafening upbeat music everyone insists on listening to these days, the stray unfinished sentences the wind carries at the opening of doors at each stop, the myriad of smells, the odd mixture of fragrances... For me, who spent half of her existence indoors, me who's only view of the world was through a window with a frozen, static scenery on constant display, it was magic. It was beautiful, it was LIFE and I loved it. And there’s so much more to life than what you showed me A., so much more. Away from our stifling apartment and the balcony that overlooks that ghosted playground you used to stare at every night, away from our dead street and the neighbors with hushed voices and hollow eyes, away from our city where the only variable thing is the weather, away from you, there are colors and flowers I have never seen and thus can’t name, there are fields and playgrounds that are not empty or deserted, there are people who laugh out loud, people with families and homes they can leave whenever they want, people who smile at a stranger in a train seat by the window...there’s a life I never thought existed. I know you did though, see this life I mean, because now I remember the way you looked each time you came back from your work trips and I understand. You had that pained look of an animal being dragged back to its cage after having a taste of freedom, except that, you were the one dragging yourself back and that makes it worse. I was trapped in our cage but you weren’t, so why did you comeback every time A? Still, in the kitchen cooking your favorite meal, in the living room folding your cloths, like a piece of furniture, I would always wait, relieved when I hear the distinct clinking of keys indicating that you’re back. There was no good past our front door, only cold nights and dark cruel alleys -the ones you saved me from when you married me, you'd always repeat until I believed you. Because I had no one else, because I had nowhere else to go I believed you. The way pets surrender to their owners, I was yours and I would wait. I guess it’s why I came to love the kind of covers this book have, where everything seems forever stuck in a colorless life, waiting. Because they remind me of you, of us. The first time I went out of the house without your company was a month after you left, and it was only because I had to. I’ll tell you about the other times in other letters but that one time, I got lost. You never told me that the nearest grocery shop was miles away from us and you never taught me how to drive a car. You never told me that bills don’t pay themselves and that if you don’t do that in time, you wake up one night with no lights to turn on and no water to use; that money is so hard to get and so fast to run out and that there’s only so much the neighbors can help you with. I dreamt of sandcastles when I was a child and the one you built me in the middle of nowhere was all I knew for so long, but it collapsed the moment you died. And I’d like to think the only reason you left me without a map is because you didn’t think you’d one day leave so suddenly, so soon. I didn’t know that after ones death; ones family can come claiming for a share in what little he left behind. I didn’t get anything when mine died long ago. Everything’s gone A, your favorite couch by the window, our black and white TV, the paintings in the hall...all that’s left are the walls, standing so tall, watchful, empty and cold as if they never contained a human soul. Well, there are also the broken promises and sour memories, but those are left for me to take care of as they don’t deal in money, only in feelings, only in pain. I can tell you about the job I had to take to earn my living and how I worked so hard to prevent our apartment from being a reflection of the ghosted playground through our window’s glass. I can tell you about the nights and days I spent taking care of myself and the one night I thought of ending it all. I can tell you about everything you missed, everything that lead me here but that’s all in the past and only the present deserves this letter and owns it. I’m here A. I’m writing to you now from inside a dream, because that’s what it feels like, a dream that I know wouldn’t have come true if you didn’t leave, despite your promises. Can you guess where I am? I don’t know where souls go to after they leave a body but I don’t believe they can see the living. I don’t believe that you can see me now A. Would you believe I’ve come this far if you could? I took a cab here from the train station. The cab driver, an old man with laughing eyes, was so nice he felt like home. You never expect to feel home this far away from it. He told me about the first time he came to this city and how things has changed for him ever since, how welcoming and warm everyone is, how they took him in like one of their own. “There’s magic in this city,” he said in an old nostalgic voice, “it’s so nice to strangers, so generous.” I believed him. He told me about a war he lost his father to, and a daughter that loves reading books. He spoke about politics, economy and justice while I stared at the buzzing life outside the window. The warm people with welcoming arms. The drive was long and I was so lost in thought when I heard it. The majestic sound of the crashing waves and the squawking of the gulls; a steady rhythmic song telling ancient stories for those who listen closely. I closed my eyes and listened. We reached our destination after a few endless minutes. “Les Andalous” the sign read. The Andalusians. I stepped out of the car and crossed the distance to the beach with shaking legs and a heart I could hear beating inside of me. I was alive. I am alive. I stood before the glorious vastness of the sea, stretching so far you would think water is everything the world is made of. I was crying, laughing, lost and then found. I was breathing, and for once in my life, I was breathing an air so pure and fresh I could feel it cleansing my rusty lungs. I don't know how long I stood there before I dared to reach the shore. I felt the solid doused brown sand first then came the waves, gently crawling to my toes and promising more in their slow retreat back to where they’re from, to their greatest form, tempting, calling me to get closer, deeper. So I did. We’re made of water A, all of us. There's so much I want to say, so much you won't read but not now. Right now, I feel so peaceful, so empty that staring out into this endless blue, I can almost forgive you. I wanted for this letter to float its way to you, wherever you are. I wanted to watch the water drench the lines, swallow my words and drown them to the bottom where no one has ever been. But then I built a sandcastle where these waters don't reach and I made of it a home from my letter. Dear A, I read once that the lover's fatal identity is being the one who waits. I'm writing you this because out of the two of us, I was the only one waiting, always, just not anymore. Yours sincerely, The one you left behind, S.

Alex woke up one morning with a tune in his head. It was there when he took his morning shower, drank his coffee, walked his daughter to school and when he drove to work. He tried to place it, but couldn’t. At every opportunity he would listen to the radio in the hope that the song would come on, then he would be able to file it away in a drawer in the recesses of his mind and just have done with it. Three weeks had passed since the song first entered his mind and its origin was still unclear. He wasn’t only listening to the radio now. When he finished work of an evening, he would dash home, pull his headphones over his ears and trawl through playlist after random playlist. Often Alex would take his dinner in his study and stay there until he dozed off. He forfeited time with his daughter Lula, his wife Lucille and with his bed (which didn’t have a name) until he came to the conclusion that this wasn’t a song he had heard before - it was an Alex original, and a damn fine one at that. After this realisation, he tried to bring himself back into the family fold but couldn’t help bringing the song with him into every interaction. He refused to put his Lula's music on when taking her to dance practice, instead he hummed his audio concoction. When pumping away at Lucille, he hummed it to her throughout. She could bite her lip no longer. “It’s nothing.” She said. “Just a steaming pile of nothing.” This hurt Alex, but it wasn’t her fault that she couldn’t understand. It’s just there was no way he could convey a tune so explosive yet subtle through the medium of humming. Alex had been told his voice was flat and boring on multiple occasions and to his mind, that was the reason behind his wife’s damning appraisal. He had to do something to get his wife, and on a larger scale, the universe, to sit up and take notice. He knew that this song, if done right, would be stitched into the fabric of musical history, much like Beethoven’s *Für Elise* or Olivia Newton-John’s *Physical*. If he somehow managed to create this song and truly do it justice then he could secure his family’s financial future. Sure, he’d have to put in the hard work now, having never picked up a musical instrument in his life. Maybe he’d have to sacrifice time with his family, but in the end, he was doing this for a brighter future together. Alex heard stories from an old high school teacher of his who taught taught Music before pivoting to PE. Tales of how brutal the music industry was, how people steal and snatch ideas. How agents, managers and A&R people are like leeches, each skimming their little bit off the top. Alex wasn’t going to have that. To do this right, he’d have to do this alone. He started to take lessons. Guitar lessons, bongo lessons, flute, accordion, triangle, mandolin; such was the crazy, tropical amalgam of sounds that would make this song a future classic. This took up the vast majority of his free time. He tried to spend at least one evening a week with his wife and daughter but it was worthless. He couldn’t focus on making them happy. His head had begun to throb with this tropical mixture in his head, like a grapefruity headache that would bend his skull out of shape if he didn’t manage to get it out of there. Between the months of lessons and the home studio Alex secretly constructed in the loft, the family savings were dwindling rapidly. He had found it difficult to give his wife plausible explanations about where the money was going. At first he blamed it on car repairs, then the cost of their Lula's dance lessons and then the unpredictable effects of Brexit. But he didn’t revel in lying to his wife, nor was he any good at it, so he ultimately cut down on talking to her full-stop. The following few months were difficult. Not only had he stopped talking to his wife, but he hardly spoke to his daughter either. He had quit his job to focus on the music lessons. He would have loved nothing more than to spend time with them, but the fear of letting something slip was too great. If Lucille knew what he was up to, she would most certainly stop him. He couldn’t jeopardise his family’s future. He had to push on. A matter of weeks later, Alex felt that he was approaching the final furlong. The end was in sight. He would record the track and everything would return to normal. He would apologise to his wife and his daughter for being so distant. He had visions of letting them into his secret studio, where they would gather around, listen and embrace. At that moment, Lucille entered the room. She lowered herself down next to him. He could see the toll that his divine musical quest was taking on her. But it would all be worth it. “I’m leaving.” She said. Alex turned to her in disbelief, sure that this was part of some strange game. She’d never mentioned being anything less than content, not that he could remember anyway. “Where are you Alex?” But then it dawned on him that this was no joke. Her voice was drenched in genuine sadness. “You haven’t spoken a word to me or your daughter in months. You missed her birthday, Christmas, our anniversary...” Her voice trailed off but she somehow managed to find it again. “I’ve lost you. I’ve tried so hard but I’ve *lost* you.” Alex heard the door to his study creak. Lula wandered in with her Frozen suitcase. “Come and say goodbye to Daddy.” Lucille whispered, ushering Lula over. She flung her arms around her father. Alex’s eyes filled up and spilled over. “Let’s go.” Alex’s heart dropped to his stomach. How he would have loved to argue, to explain why he had been so wrapped up, to tell them how much he loved them, their life together and the future they had ahead of them. But then he’d have to come clean about their terrible financial situation, the job he’d left and the state-of-the-art studio he’d constructed just a few feet above them. As he watched the teary blur of his family leave, something changed in him. He could no longer focus on the song in his head. The idea of a life without his family started to turn his mind’s tropical mix rotten. Everything he had sacrificed would be for nothing. It was fading away. He burst out of his study and tugged down the ladder to the loft, his wife and daughter looking on. He went up. They followed. Alex stood there, his wife and child looking on, the song ebbing away. He hit record on the mixing desk and picked up the Black & Decker drill he installed it with. He lifted a finger to his lips and the drill to his head. He drove the bit through his skull. His wife and daughter screamed, maybe for a second or two. But then their jaws dropped as a strange, colourful mist flowed out of the hole in Alex’s head and towards them. The mist danced around the pair of them, and with it, magnificent rich sounds, now unshackled from Alex’s worry. Notes imbued with warmth and hope, sadness and regret, swirling and shimmering around one another with love always presiding over them. Alex’s wife held their daughter close as the music faded away into the microphone. The song didn’t chart, though the family’s screams were sampled in one of the most streamed tracks of the year.

Trigger warning: Contains references to substance abuse and violence. Its funny how you don’t ever really appreciate things until you no longer have them, until they are gone. We were 16. What 16 year old appreciates anything really? I remember there was this one morning, I must have gotten a total of like 3 hours sleep the night before. I show up for first period like I have just crossed the finish line at the NYC marathon, all breathless and sweaty and full of teenage drama. I slide into my seat just as the final bell rings and lay my head down on my desk, letting my long curly hair fall all over the place. I am like that for like a full minute, relishing the coolness of the desk on my cheek, the darkness underneath my folded arms, when I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder. I pop my head up, ready to apologize, but Mrs. J is just smiling at me and in her hand is what looks like a chocolate croissant. “Here,” she says. “You need this more than I do.” Like I said you never appreciate things in the moment. Looking back now I am pretty sure that lady just flat out gave me her breakfast. I never ate in the morning, partly because I didn’t wake up hungry but mostly because there was never anything to eat in my house, nothing good anyway. Mom would sometimes just forget to go shopping, or the milk in the fridge would smell off, like the boys locker room after gym class. I had my own money from babysitting and dog walking but I would rather spend it on concert tickets or clothes than on breakfast. Somehow Mrs. J could always tell when I was hungry. She could also tell when I was tired and needed to just lay my head down for a minute or when I was sad and needed to be left alone. I was sad a lot in high school though, and it was hard to teach literature to someone who wanted to be left alone all the time. So sometimes Mrs. J would smile gently at me, as if to say Nova just answer this one question and then you can go back to staring blankly at the wall. The weird thing is, I always knew the answers, even when I hadn’t eaten breakfast and had been up half the night texting. I loved to read and write, ever since I was a little girl. Sometimes, when I was really out of it, Mrs. J would hand me a piece of paper (I kept forgetting my notebook at home) and tell me to just write something, anything. I remember this one time, right in the middle of reading the Odyssey, Mrs, J suddenly slammed the book closed and clapped her hands loudly, as if to wake us up. “You all look like a rock band the night after a big concert”. I am pretty sure teachers weren’t supposed to say stuff like that, but in truth at least half of us probably were a bit hungover. It was Monday after all, and this was high school in springtime in suburban New Jersey. There was nothing to do on weekends other than hang out at the mall (boring!), go to the movie theatre (only if you wanted to make out and your parents were home), or bring a six pack and a blanket down to the shore, so most kids just did that. Mrs. J then stood up and motioned for us to follow her. “Come on, class is outside today.” I don’t think she was allowed to do that either, just take us out of the building like that without asking the principal first and probably like a billion permission slips. But Mrs. J often did stuff she probably wasn’t supposed to, like that time she ordered two large pizza pies from the shop on Main Street, right in the middle of a lesson on adverbs. Or the time she stopped prepping us for the midterm, because everyone wanted to talk about that kid who had gotten beat up on the football field because he liked boys. Coach Mike said he had gotten extra tackles for being disrespectful but everyone knew what it was really about. Rumor had it Coach Mike used to press up on the cheerleaders after the game too, but when the team is winning suddenly no one can see clearly anymore. But not Mrs. J. She had simply closed the book she had been reading from, sat down on top of her desk (she said she liked it better up there than in the chair) and said “I imagine you guys have some feelings about that.” That was how she often got us to talk about teen stuff. Maegan said that it wasn’t fair that Noah got those extra tackles because he was the smallest guy on the team and then Joey said it didn’t matter, that you had to work hard to be the best. Natalie called Coach Mike an asshole and I expected Mrs. J to tell her not to use that word in class but instead she just nodded and let us keep talking. Finally April, who always got frustrated easily, blurted out “This is bullshit, Mrs. J. Everyone knows Noah got those tackles for being gay!” Then the room got real quiet, everyone watching Mrs. J to see what she was going to do next. She paused for a second, biting her lower lip in that way she did when she was thinking, and then she looked April right in the eye. “You are absolutely right, April. Some people are afraid of what they don’t understand. What do you think you should do about that?” No one else ever talked to us that way, like we actually had some power in the world even though we were only 16. Years later, when I was about to graduate law school and start my own career, I found out that Mrs. J had gotten married to a beautiful blond lady, and a lot more made sense. I never meant to get her in trouble though. It wasn’t my mom’s fault that the house was dirty and that sometimes the milk in the fridge went sour. She had a lot on her plate, what with three kids and a husband who occasionally came home late, smelling like stale beer and cigarettes. Suburban life was like that, the teens went to the shore and the men went to the bar. Like I said, there really wasn’t anything else to do; that’s why I went to college in the city, and then moved there as soon as I graduated. Small town life will eat you alive if you let it. But anyway, my mom did her best, and she was infinitely patient when my dad came home a little stumbly; leaving a big glass of water and two Advil by the couch, making sure to tiptoe around him quietly. Usually it worked out fine. Like I said, Mrs. J could always tell when something was going on, and the night before that morning she gave me her chocolate croissant, things had not worked out so fine. Dad had come home real, real late, even later than normal, and I guess he had lipstick on his collar or something, because for once my mom wasn’t quiet at all. She screamed and shouted and she threw a glass which shattered on the wall behind him into a million tiny pieces. At one point he tried to grab her, maybe to calm her down, I don’t know, because that was when I saw red and the next thing I knew I was standing over him with a big knife from the kitchen. Things got kind of fuzzy after that. Mrs. J kept me after class that day and when she asked me if I was ok, maybe because I was so tired from all of the drama from the night before, I told her the whole story. I didn’t know about mandated reporting back then. I also didn’t know that my dad’s best drinking buddy at the Irish pub down on Main Street was actually Coach Mike. Maybe the two of them concocted some kind of story, or maybe it had to do with having class outside that time, or the pizza, or one of the million other cool things Mrs J did that were most certainly not allowed at Lacey Township High School. All I know is the following Friday we didn’t read or write anything. Instead Mrs. J sat us down and told us she was leaving. She said that she was going to teach at a middle school in Brooklyn where people might appreciate her unique style a bit more.. She said that she loved us and to never stop fighting for what we believed in, for what we wanted out of life. She didn’t mention me or my dad. She didn’t say she had been fired, and she didn’t end her little speech with ‘What do you think you should do about that?” But that is what we heard. We organized the biggest protest our small town had ever seen, complete with signs and everything. The entire 11th grade sat out on the football field for two whole hours and refused to move unless she got her job back. It didn’t work, she left anyway. But on her last day she got a little choked up and told us we were the best teenagers she had ever met. A lady with glasses and a briefcase showed up at my house a few times and after that my dad seemed a bit more subdued. He started showing up for dinner more and bringing my mom flowers sometimes. They both took me to dinner at the Olive Garden after graduation. He told me he was proud of me and handed me an envelope with $200 inside. Neither of them ever mentioned the night with the knife again. Mrs. J sent me something for graduation too, a card with a kitten hanging from a tree branch and the words “Hang in There.” Inside she wrote “Best of luck in college. Go out there and do great things, you deserve it!” She must have been keeping tabs on me, because I got the same exact card from her when I graduated from law school 8 years later. A lot of my classmates went into corporate law because that was where the money was, but I decided I wanted try to help people instead and was hired as in house council for a small non-profit in the city. Eventually I got married, to a sweet, wonderful man I met at a law conference. We went on honeymoon in the Bahamas, spent five days drinking rum on the beach and watching the sunset. I got my hair braided like I was 22 on Spring Break, and he laughed at the sunburned streaks on my scalp. When I unloaded my mailbox a week later there was another card, buried underneath the useless catalogs and statements from accounts I had forgotten to make paperless. It was the same cat of course but this time she had written, “Congratulations on your wedding! So happy for the both you.” She must have bought a whole pack of those cards. My dad stayed on the straight and narrow ever since that lady came to our house when I was 16. He was dead sober when he walked me down the aisle at my wedding, and he was dead sober when he buried my mom ten years later. (By the time they found the cancer it was pretty much too late to do anything.) The funeral was held in the tiny church right down the road from my childhood home. They were mostly happy in the end too, as happy as anyone can be in this life, especially when you live in small town New Jersey. I know someone else might have not let a father like that participate in her wedding day, but you can’t really choose who your family is. Besides, I let go of most of my anger that night in the kitchen. Life is just too short to carry something that heavy. Mrs. J would have understood. Its funny about teachers. You don’t really think about the impact they are having on your life at the time, too caught up in all the drama that is high school. But now, as an adult with a successful career, a husband, and a baby on the way, I find myself thinking about Mrs. J often. Sometimes when I am faced with a difficult decision, I even ask myself what would Mrs. J do. She was the best teacher I ever had.

All she had told me was that she needed a date for a wedding. I probably should have asked more questions, but it sounded simple enough. The circumstances were a bit odd from the beginning, but that just added a sense of adventure to it. I found her on Grindr. I sent a message, asking what she was doing there, and did she know it was an app for gay men looking to hook up. “Yeah, I know, I’m sorry if this is inappropriate, I just really need a date to a WeDDiNG, but not like a real date, and I don’t trust the men on the other apps not to get fresh with me, so I just thought I would give this a try, I’m so sorry if I was misleading or anything, I just need a PLaToNiC date, I’ll even pay you, it’s a really important wedding and all my friends are out of town, please help, but I understand if you’re out of town or something, it’s this coming wednesday ;(” “Yeah, I’ll do it,” I wrote back. “Sounds fun!” “OMGEEEZ THANK YOU SO MUCH, I LOVE YOU, MEET ME HERE ON WEDNESDAY AT 7AM,” and she provided an address in all caps. “I’ll be there!” Wait. Seven in the fucking morning?? Was that normal? I’ll be honest, I’ve never actually been to a wedding before. I had a small circle of friends. There was one couple who had been together forever, but didn’t care about the ceremony. And the rest were like me, dating occasionally, but hadn’t had any major commitments. I knew married people, but they were more friends of friends, and I was always just on the outskirts of getting that invite. Which suited me fine! Weddings didn’t sound that exciting to me, I’m too broke to worry about buying gifts, and now there was this new wrinkle that you apparently had to be ready for them at 7am? I’ve been dodging bullets, but now it was time to bite one. I had committed to a stranger to be their plus one. On Tuesday evening, I showered and shaved, and picked out my nicest outfit. I took an Ambien at 10pm and set the alarm for 6am, giving me plenty of time to snooze. I rolled out of bed the next morning at 6:35, had some coffee, put on the clothes I had laid out, ate a quick bowl of cereal, and drove to the apartment complex I was supposed to meet her at. I was there right at 7. She buzzed me in, and I walked up three flights of stairs to her apartment. She stood waiting in the doorway. “Hi,” I said. “Catherine?” “Hi, oh my geez, you look AMAZING. Sorry, no, Catherine is a made up name I used for the apps. My real name is Kate.” “Uh... ok. Thanks. I’m Austin.” “Oscar? Oh, hahaha, so you used a fake name too! Well, it’s nice to meet you, Oscar.” “No, I didn’t. It’s Austin , like it was on the app.” “Oscar, yeah. I got it.” She rolled her eyes at me. This happened a lot. Often enough that I’ve wondered if I somehow say my own name wrong. It’s usually easiest to just go with it. “Right, sure. That’s my name.” “DON’T BE NERVOUS!” she shouted, and then threw her head back in screeching laughter. “Come on, come on, get in here before they get out.” I entered the apartment, and she shut the door behind me. It was a studio apartment, and it was almost completely empty. There was a mattress over a box spring on the floor and a chest of drawers at the foot with a TV on top. Against another wall was a miniature facsimile of a wedding altar that looked like it had been built by a five year old. Nearby were two bowls on the floor. “I’ll go grab the bride and groom,” she said. “They’re hiding in the closet.” She pulled open the closet door, which had been slightly ajar already, and on the inside of the door was a poster of a tree branch that said “Hang In There” at the top, but there was no kitten hanging off the branch. Where the hell was the kitten? Did it fall? Was this poster trying to say “hang in there... or else”? Why did this exist? Kate walked out holding a cat in each arm. “Oscar, I want you to meet Ted and Joanna. They’re in love and they’re getting married today.” “I’m sorry, this is the wedding I’m here for? Two cats?” “Yeah, of course.” Both cats started squirming and wiggling around, so she put them down. They trotted over to me, and I bent over, outstretching my hand for them to sniff at and size me up. I sat on the floor to let them keep smelling me, and she sat on her mattress. “It’s just, this is not really what I was expecting,” I said. “What do you mean?” “I mean, I guess I assumed it would be like a, a people wedding.” “Oscar! WHAT. Oh my geez, that’s HILARIOUS. You’re so retarded! No, I told you all my friends are out of town. This is a family affair. Ugh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to be confusing! It’s just, you didn’t ask any questions, so I figured you wouldn’t care, and I hope I haven’t ruined anything. Is it ruined? Are you gonna leave? Please stay, this is really, really important to me. I know we don’t know each other very well, but it’s really a big day for Ted and Joanna and I couldn’t stand it if you left, and it’s really not my fault because I didn’t know you were so retarded...” and suddenly she was sobbing. “Oh, no, please don’t cry. And please, uh, maybe don’t use that word anymore... Um, I can stay, Kate. It’s not a problem. I’m gonna stay.” She looked up at me with her big teary eyes. “You’re not upset?” “I’m definitely surprised, but truthfully, I’m also relieved. I love cats. People... not as much. Um, why don’t you tell me about them? How did you choose those names?” “They’re named after Meryl Streep and Dustin Hoffman in Kramer vs. Kramer . It’s my favorite movie.” “You’re marrying cats who you named after characters in the most famous divorce movie of all time?” “Uh-huh. That one’s Ted.” Ted was crawling onto my lap and looking up at me. I stroked his head, and he leaned into it, enjoying the affection. He was fluffy and white, very cute. “So that’s Joanna.” Joanna was a mischievous-looking tuxedo cat, mostly black with a strip of white from her chin down across her belly. Also quite beautiful. She was perched on her front paws, with her hind legs straight, her eyes looking absolutely wild. She was hunting something. She wagged her butt a couple times, then took off running toward nothing in particular, screeched to a stop, leaped in the air, and scurried back into the closet. “Joanna’s a nut,” Kate told me. “She’s gorgeous,” I said. “They’re both beautiful.” “Thanks. I know it’s confusing that the bride looks like she’s in a tuxedo, and the groom is all white. It’s a bit of a gender reversal, I hope that doesn’t gross you out. There’s nothing I can really do about it.” “Of course not. Why would that gross me out? If anything, it’s charming. Very modern.” She looked at me with a hint of disgust. “Agree to disagree. But like I said, there’s nothing I can do about it.” I was getting a little nervous about Kate’s politics. Why was she concerned with gender as it related to cat fur? How would that translate to how she viewed people? She did find me on Grindr, so she had to be open to a degree of queerness. At least I think so. “Can I use your restroom?” I needed to get away for a minute, and also really did have to pee. She nodded. “If you’re taking a shit, there’s no toilet paper. And the door doesn’t close all the way. And try to be quick, I want to get started.” I stood up off the floor, and went in to her bathroom. The door closed, but the knob wouldn’t latch no matter how hard I pulled. I took my pants down and sat on the toilet to pee. Right away, I heard paws scraping on the door. Ted had stood on his back legs with his front paws on the door, and leaning forward with his full weight, the door flew open and slammed against the wall. He looked left, then right, inspecting the room. Then turned around and walked right out. I heard Kate do her screeching laugh again. I was able to reach the door to swing it back shut. I hurriedly finished, washed my hands, and walked out. I had completely forgotten to take a moment to think about my situation, and whether it was actually a good idea to stay. She seemed harmless enough, so I made a quick decision in the spirit of adventure. Let’s see this through. Kate ran to me, and grabbed my hands in her own. “Oscar, I want you to know I’m so glad you’re here. This is a really special day for me, and it means a lot that you took a chance on a stranger, and are willing to spend today, and the next few days for the honeymoon, here with me, celebrating this beautiful union of two sweet souls. I’m sorry I called you that word earlier. I’m not very good at socializing. Remember when I said my friends were out of town? That was a lie. The truth is, I don’t actually have any friends. They all died under mysterious circumstances. You’re all I have left, Oscar. You and the cats.” “Back up a moment. A few days for the honeymoon?” “Maybe more. Maybe forever. Oh my geez. Look, I know things are moving fast. But do you think you could move in with me? You don’t have to pay rent. I have a TV and a VCR and those drawers are full of tapes. This wedding will only take a minute. They’re just cats, they don’t really care about getting married. I lied before about them being in love. They don’t even like each other that much. Realistically, the honeymoon will be three days tops. Then we can start our life together. Will you marry me? It will be platonic, like I said. That part was true. I understand you’ll never be interested in me sexually. I don’t even like sex. It grosses me out. I’ll never pressure you, I swear. Oscar, will you marry me? Do you want to share this life and this apartment with me and Joanna and Ted?” “Kate, I...” Joanna had come back into the room. She sauntered over and rubbed her body against my leg. “Kate. I do.”

Hello here's a short story I wrote, hope you enjoy: “You're never going to believe what I found!" "Come on, just tell me." "It's so cool..." "Yeah right, come on, stop dragging it out." The two girls were in a dimly lit room, the dank haze of the weed they smoked still lingered. The taller girl sat on the bed while the shorter one stood, and hid something behind her back. A small black cat lay on the bed, staring at them, seemingly disinterested. From behind her back the shorter friend pulled out a thin, rectangular shaped package and presented it with a smile." All right, fine, here you go. Happy Birthday, Samie!" Samie moved off the bed, the cat looking over at them annoyed at the disturbance, and reached for the present. "Finally. Was that so hard?" she asked sarcastically, but smiled in thanks. The excitement was apparent on Codi's face as she watched her unwrap the present. A puzzled expression crossed Samie's face. "Uhm, what is this, a painting?" she asked. "Isn't it amazing?" "I don't know, I'm not that into clowns." Turning the painting over to Codi, the light fell over it, illuminating its features. It wasn't a very good painting, or even complete, but there was something off about it. The clown was bald, except for two tufts of purple hair on either side of his head. His features were sloppy, giving him an odd look. His face was painted all white, except for around his eyes, they were surrounded by a deep black shadow. Although the artist was clearly not very skilled, the eyes of the clown were almost life like, further emphasized by the darkness around them. His red lips were twisted in a goofy smile that was too big for his face, but above that there was an ugly red smear. It seemed to start from the edge of his mouth, but abruptly became a thick line sloping down. "What happened here?" Samie, asked pointing at the streak. "Well, that's what so cool about it," Codi answered with a mysterious smile. "What? Is it blood, or something?" "Nope, paint. Guess again!" "I don't know just tell me!" "Boo, you're no fun." Codi moved over to sit on the bed and slowly started to scratch the cat's head. "I bought it at an estate sale," she began, "I was visiting my grandma and it was happening next door. Apparently, the lady had a stroke and died... while she was painting that." Realization swept over Samie's face, "Is this..." "Her very last stroke." "Woah... That's amazing." she said quietly. "Exactly. She had no family so they just sold all her stuff. I got it pretty cheap, no one else seemed to be too interested...for some reason. I think he's kind of cute... in the right light." "His eyes are kind of creepy" Samie said quietly. "Nah, you're just imagining things now that I told you where I got it." "Hmm, I guess so. He's still a creep though. But this is still so awesome, thank you!" Samie said, as she placed the painting on the wall. "Whatever," Codi said with a smile "let's smoke." The room grew hazier as the night grew longer, with the friends eventually falling asleep. Right before unconsciousness was about to take Samie, she thought she heard a very faint laugh. Samie awoke with a start. Her room had grown dark except for the TV. Sitting up, a sense of fear crept up her spine. She could feel a pair of eyes looking at her from somewhere in the darkness. Looking around she could see that Codi was lying next to her, her deep snores hinting at a restful sleep. I'm just being paranoid, she thought. Laying back down she closed her eyes, but she could still feel the intense stare on her. She could feel her body shaking slightly, something seemed lodged in her throat making it hard to breathe. Don't panic, she thought to herself, just open your eyes. But they didn't want to obey, they almost felt welded shut. Fuck, fuck, fuck! With what felt like all her might, she managed to slowly open her eyes. The clown stared down at her with his stupid grin, she almost felt like closing her eyes again. Even in the dark his eyes still somehow stood out with their chilling life like quality. She could feel the goosebumps start to form on her arms, but what she saw next made her heart stop. The clown's wide grin seemed to be getting bigger, until his lips parted revealing no teeth in his mouth, only more darkness. No matter how impossibly big the smile seemed to spread, his eyes never got smaller. She couldn't move, couldn't speak. All she could do was lay there and stare directly into the clown's eyes. She suddenly heard a soft noise make its way through her panic. She wasn't sure what it was, but she could feel the panic start to leave. She could feel herself breathe normally and her heart slowly getting back to a safer rate. Her mind a bit clearer, she realized the noise was Codi's small snores. Feeling better Samie sat up, and looked over at the clown. She couldn't really see it anymore, somehow it seemed less visible now. She stood up and flipped the clown to face the wall. Laying back down she fell asleep rather quickly, remembering the night's events simply as a vague nightmare. The clown, facing the girls, looked down and smiled. It was a few nights later, when a noise startled Samie awake. She wasn't quite sure what it was, but everything seemed quiet now. She sat up, realizing that she fell asleep on her couch. She yawned, nudging the sleepy cat off her legs so she could head to her room. She had only taken two steps when- "Hhuhh huh huh ha ha ha ha ha..." A disturbingly high-pitched laugh pierced through the silence sending waves of chills up her arms. Everything in the dark seemed to give off an eerie vibe, every shadow was menacing as she looked around the living room. Her heart seemed like it was trying to make its way out of her chest, like a rodent that knows it's been trapped. "It's all in my head" she whispered. At this the laugh rang even louder, this time echoing around the room. "Hhuhh huh huh ha ha ha HA HA..." Although it rang all around her, the sound seemed to be coming from her room. Her legs felt like lead as she began to move towards it, almost as if they feared what was waiting for her. She turned the corner, past Codi's room, and into the hallway as her door came into view. The glow of her light coming from under the door was the only source of illumination. Step by step she moved closer, did it always take this long to get there? The closer she approached the more muffled and silent everything became, she could feel the pressure pushing against her skull. She inched her way closer, when something large seemed to move in her room to stand on the other side of her door, partially covering up the light. Samie instantly stopped, looking at the shadow under the door. The pressure was too much, she felt like she couldn't breathe, as if she was underwater. The shadow seemed to shift, moving closer from the other side of the door. "Hhuhh huh huh ha ha HA HA HA!" She could feel her body physically react to the laugh, her arms tensing at her side as a wave of nausea rolled over her. It can't be, there's nothing there... "Huhhh huh huh HA HA HA HA HA!" Samie was sure the laugh was now coming from inside her, that's the only way it could be so impossibly loud. What if she just went back to the couch? Her fingertips brushed the doorknob, any further and she'd be touching it, but she seemed unable to continue. The iciness of the doorknob seemed to move from it and up her arm. Why couldn't she continue? "HUHH HUH HUH HA! HA! HA! HA!" The laugh bounced around in her head, getting louder with every reverberation. She felt so weak. How she was still up, she didn't know, but she could feel her hand fighting to turn the knob. She felt the presence of someone just on the other side. Holding her breath, she pushed against the door, the light in her room blinded her. Blinking the clarity back to her eyes, she looked around, realizing that she was back in her bed. "You can't still be freaked out by the painting, can you? Codi asked, a few weeks later. "Well I'm not scared, I just... feel like it's not right." Samie slowly says. "I feel like I haven't been sleeping well, and I think I've been having nightmares." "Why are you so unsure?" "I don't know I just haven't been feeling myself lately." Codi looked at her friend with worry, then up at the painting. "Hey, you touched it up a bit, it looks nice." "What do you mean?" Samie asks confused, "I haven't done anything to it, it looks the same." "Oh, come on, you can't fool me, I know that was you." Codi says with a non-believing look. "I know you can do it. It looks a bit more filled out, even the shading is nicer. Wow, you're good." "Well, yeah, but that doesn't mean I did," she says exasperated. "I mean, why would I even do that? Just to mess with you? Please." After a pause, "That's not the only thing... I can't even be alone in my room at times, I just feel like he's watching me. Sometimes I think I can even hear him laugh." Codi looked at Samie. She was worried how scared she looked. Looking over at the painting, a very fleeting sense of cold dread swept over her. "Well I still thinking you're being just a bit paranoid. It doesn't seem all that bad to me. Maybe you should lay off the pot" she said with a smile. "I can't really imagine how that would be of any help" she said with smiling at the joint she had just pulled out. "It's the only thing keeps me going." The sense of unease, the sense of dread was melted off of her and replaced with rolling waves of peace. Samie smiled, not really listening to what Codi was saying. It's not that she didn't care, but nothing mattered. Her eyes began to droop, she was slowly losing the fight with sleep. Gravity intensified as she was absorbed into the bed in a deep sleep. Mreow! Samie's eyes jerked open at the sound of her cat. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she let out a small yawn as she heard him again outside her room. He probably wants to sleep in here, she thought. Moving slowly to not wake Codi, she got off the bed and carefully made her way through the dark. Reaching for the door, she slipped out and turned on the hallway light. Mreow! She heard him again somewhere else in the house, probably in the living room. He probably wants food, not to be let in, she thought with a small chuckle. She gave the living room a quick scan, still not seeing him."Hey where are you? Here kitty, kitty." she said trying to be quiet. Mreow! She grew very tense as now she could hear he sounded scared. "Kitty!" she said much louder. She turned on the light and started to frantically look around as the cat growled louder. It took her a couple of minutes to find him as he'd hidden himself under the kitchen cabinets. No matter how much she nudged or called him she couldn't make him come out. He simply stared at her, unblinking. "What's wrong? Are you going to stay there all night?" she asked him. He didn't respond, but continued to stare, when- "Aaahhhh! Samie!" The screams punctured the silence, filling the house with terror. "Codi! Codi! What's wrong!?!" she yelled as the screaming continued. She ran towards the direction of her room. Adrenaline pumped through her as she dashed through the living room. "Aaaaahhhhh!" "Codi!" She hadn't stopped yelling since she started. What could be possibly going on? Right as the she passed Codi's door, she heard something that made her stop in fear. Deafening silence. It enveloped her, surrounding her with fear. She tried to call for Codi, but couldn't manage to make any sounds. She stood there paralyzed in terror, unsure of what to do. The silence remained unbroken as the seconds slipped by, but she knew what she had to do. Using willpower she didn't even know she had, she made her way towards her door. Her heart was pounding, every frantic beat a bombastic boom inside her body. She could feel every sense on max alert, every hair standing on edge as she reached the door. Closing her eyes, Samie gulped and turned the knob. She could feel the cold air from her room brush her face, as she opened her eyes to the dark room. She flipped the switch for the light, but...nothing happened. Worried, she pulled out her phone to use in the dark. "Codi!?"she called. No answer. She moved towards the bed and flashed the light onto it. But she wasn't there. The bed was empty, the blanket hanging from the bed onto the floor. She could feel panic as she looked around the empty room. Shining the light up at the clown painting, her mouth dropped open as she stared up at it. The painting still hung on its frame... but the clown wasn't there. Samie couldn't take it anymore. She started running when from behind her she heard: HUHH! HUH! HUH! HA! HA! HA! HA! Samie's blood turned to ice as she froze in place. The room no longer felt empty, she could feel someone behind her. Please be Codi, she thought, please... Turning, she could see a figure standing in the darkest part of the room. One thing she was sure of, it was much too tall to be Codi. The figure was completely in the shadows but in the dark she could make out a large pair of bright red spats. Then, it moved towards her. As they made contact with the floor, a shrill "squeak!" rang. It was almost funny, but each one sent an icy shock through her body as they approached. Now closer to the light, she could see him, the clown. As soon as she saw its face, or what could be called a face, a feeling of cold dread that stole her breath made its way through her body. The clown's eyes were gone, only large gaping holes remained, its red lips turned into a wide smile, revealing more darkness. The three holes began to shift almost as if reacting to her fear. They grew and grew as it got closer. When the clown stood directly in front of her, they had melded together to form one large void of dark terror that seemed to go past the back of its skull. The unbelievable darkness swept around her as she slowly became a part of it. I'm trapped... it's over, she thought. Just before she was fully enveloped, she could hear the clown's laugh... but now it was also hers.

It was early July, Erica had no college now and was free at home from now on. It was Summer holidays and Erica loved summers a lot- More than snow; actually there wouldn’t be anyone who would prefer sun then snow but yes Erica was one of them.She would like dazzling out in sun,wearing those one size plus glasses and her favourite head umbrella as her protectors. Erica was only one enjoying summer, no family member was ever interested to hangout in their little beach with her.For the next few hours, while Grandma lay dozing, Erica sprawled out on her own little beach. At first, she could not stop smiling. She giddily stretched out her limbs and moved them back and forth, making a sand angel! She read a bit of a book. She picked a few oranges and unpeeled them one by one. She dug holes and then filled them in again. After that, she didn’t quite know what to do. Apparently, the pleasures of the warm sand beach were a lot less fun when there was no one around to share them with. Erica would have woken her grandmother, but she remembered that Grandma didn’t much care for the sun.She had spent the family’s entire Florida vacation under both an umbrella and a huge‐ brimmed hat. Besides, the sunny space wasn’t big enough for two. By late afternoon, Erica wasn’t feeling very well. Her mother hadn’t been around to lather her in suntan lotion and her skin had turned a very dark shade of pink. She had eaten so many sickly sweet oranges that she now had a stomach ache. She had gotten some sand in her eye and had to blink furiously to get it out. The sun was strong and unrelenting. She glanced over to the other side of the yard. She was reluctant to admit it, even to herself, but the snow looked sort of...refreshing than the scorching sun. She was flushed and bored, but most of all she missed her siblings and parents; who had gone to town nearby to attend a family wedding. She trudged inside, showered the sweat and the sand off from her body and then joined her Grandma, who had finally awoken, at the table. “My dear! However did you manage to get that awful sunburn?” her grandmother wailed. Erica just shrugged. She wasn’t very hungry, but she managed to pack in some forkfuls of spaghetti and meatballs.Before bed, she crept over to the backdoor and peered out. The sand, the tree, the bucket all were gone. Erica began to think that she had imagined it. She wasn’t thatdisappointed. Her siblings would be back in to the morning and she badly wanted to play with them. She just thought out of the blue even if it meant being chilly; even though she knew there’s no chilling in July. The car pulled into the driveway. Erica was up with a start and . She charged downstairs. Welcomed both of her parents home with hugs and gave one to her grandmother, too, who was preparing to leave. Then, as her mother began to ready breakfast, she pulled on her coat and joined her siblings in the back. Next morning as Erica could barely open her eyes she was surprised to see it white every where outside. It was cold and freezing. How can it be possible to have snow in July- early July! The snow began to fall quite much early this year, in July, before Erica even had a chance to bring her puffed‐up purple winter coat out of the closet. It did not stop. Cold white confetti came down on the city of Montreal morning. Erica was wondering when this would end and her mom shouts out to the children to get down for the breakfast. The other kids in her class as well as her siblings loved the snow. They loved that sometimes, when the winds picked up and the roads turned icy, it was when college was cancelled. They liked to build towering forts and snowmen. Erica had already been through a tough time playing out alone in the sun the previous day,she made a plan, go out with family enjoying the snow- as she knew her siblings would react to this because she was never a snow loving person. This was just a try to see how it feels to be in snow for Erica. At breakfast table this was decided and father agreed with a great surprise for Erica planning out this. Everyone got ready and the car took off through the highway towards the mountains. It was decided to go to drive an hour north to the ski hill. They would spend Saturday there, riding chairlifts to the top of a frosted mountain and following the slopes back down. Erica would have refused to go with them as always because he had nothing to do with that thick, white,powdery stuff- but this time it was her willingness to go just for once to see how it works. Erica despised the snow. More than that, she hated everything about wintertime. Her family had taken a trip to Florida two winters ago, and she wished that they could live there all year round. She had bobbed up and down in the ocean waves, sometimes floating on her back and other times, with one size plus goggles on, searching for colored fish in the water. In the mornings, her mother had squeezed fresh juice from the Florida‐ grown oranges that the hotel left in a basket at the front desk. With her brother and sister, Erica had constructed a magnificent castle on the beach, with a moat and a long, looping flight of stairs. She liked feeling the sand between her fingers. It stuck together every bit as well as snow did, and it didn’t make your teethchatter. This time it was different - skiing was fun, they rode thought the white, soft snow, enjoying and throwing snowballs in the air and then at each other. Erica was involved in throwing too. A snowball came and hit her cheek, it was fun fir Erica to feel those cold snowflakes touching her. They created a snowman with Erica's one size plus glasses and their father's muffler. They even arranged a sledge from somewhere and riding it through the hill top and down was amazing experience for Erica, she was enjoying every bit of the time and thinking it to be much better than the scorching heat of the sun. The day was over but the snow was not over yet. It felt like it was wintertime. A day passed and they were all tired; next morning it was time to get back to car and drive back home. Her siblings, who had been throwing snow balls into the air and at each other, piled into the backseat. Soon the station wagon disappeared from view, Erica was soon asleep. She woke up with a bang of the car’s door and they were back home. Everyone unpacked the luggage and grandma settled into an armchair infront of the television. In a few quick minutes, she was asleep. Erica glanced outside and gave a sigh. Her hot chocolate was just about gone. She was about to turn towards the sink to rinse her mug when out of the corner of her eye she caught something green. Again surprised, something green in her blank, white backyard? She pressed her face up against the kitchen window.There, in the corner of the yard closest to the sliding back door, the snow had melted away. In its place, a small tree with low‐hanging fruit was growing. Erica immediately ran out to it. Elsewhere, the snowy flakes continued to swirl, but not a single one landed on this bright patch of ground, which was covered in sand. The sun beamed down on Susanna so hard, in fact, that she was hot! Sweating hot! Half‐buried by her feet were a plastic shovel and pail. She couldn’tbelieve it. A small slice of the snow filled holiday she had been missing had landed right behind her house for just a day and again it was sunny. Then, as her mother began to ready breakfast, she pulled on her snowsuit and joined her siblings in the back. They were sculpting animals a caterpillar with snowy lumps for a body; a fish with fins. She dropped to her knees, without explanation, and began to work. Her hat was pulled low over her ears, her mittens were lined with wool, and suddenly her sister’s hand was over hers, helping to smooth out the fish’s curved tail. She was cold enough she could hardly resist. Erica could not stop wondering as if it was a one day dream that she had lived. And after giving her a new perseverance towards winters it’s again summer; just back in a day. Erica murmured- might be God's playing and continued her work.

(Story below is a little short story I imagined for my "visitor threw the looking glass" post this read is a romantic/humor/Sci Fi take on that post if this story isn't your genre in reading, just ignore this, if it is I hope you enjoy!) Chapter 1 " No Chase , I do not know where your girlfriend left her tampons, nobody died and made me the maxi pad queen" as I sighed into my phone. It's been 3 weeks since her brother and his girlfriend moved into her little two bedroom apartment,and already they were causing a bunch of issues she didn't need ,what she truly needed to get these artistic renderings to her boss. As a graphic artist she had been thrilled to get this new job with an up and coming video game company, graphics were everything in gaming, it made or broke a company virtually, but instead of dishing out beautiful imagings she knew she was capable of, the constant interruptions the two were causing made her better understand why living with family was never a good idea. Chase whined in her ear further confirming this. "C'mon Vicky , you had to have used them, you're the only other girl in the house, I certainly don't use them" Victoria felt a headache coming on, taking a deep breath she retorted harshly back in her brother's ear " Chase I'm on the pill, don't have periods frog brain, I have work to do, stop calling me over Sarah's period crisis . Stop being cheap and buy her what she needs" Before he could retort his typical annoying brother script she hung up, as always she was really annoyed at her brother's antics but it wasn't just him today, the artistic pieces she made looked so good as she filed through the pictures, but they lacked something a heart, a soul, she couldn't put her finger on it and that made her more irritable than anything her brother could come up with. "Screw it, whatever it's missing the boss can figure it out " as she pushed send to his email.Thankfully she wouldn't have to do anymore renderings until the big cheese gave his opinion, which if she knew anything about her boss would be about a week. Her boss had this new woman that got his dick hard, his attention span in anything else equaled that of nat.so she had a little break on her hands sighing she leaned back in her office chair , taking a sip of her coffee, absentmindedly she looks over to a long mirror hanging on her bedroom wall , her imagine starring back at her. She looked so tired , her long brown hair laid in a limp pony tail down her back, lopsided glasses tiled over her slightly crooked nose, even her light blue eyes which to her always seemed her best feature looked dull and lifeless. "Dear God I look like something that crawled outta a cave, time for a nap" she yawned as she stretched, closing her laptop. As she made her way over to her bed , tossing her glasses on her nightstand, just as she was going to slip into her comfy nightgown her phone rung,she heavily sighed. "Of course, it's never that simple" she said irritable, picking up her cell she looks to see who was calling only to look at the phone as if it turned into a singing fish. " What is wrong with this thing" instead of a phone number, it was a long list of letters almost like concordance or computer script.the irritating ringing continued ,making her foul mood get worse. "Fine, fine I'll answer, stupid crappy phone"as she hit the receive button, but before she could put her ear to the phone a great flash emanated from the screen almost blinding her closing her eyes she cursed. As she tried to rub her eyes an odd chatter filled her room, it was like no language she ever heard, almost musical and calming, whoever the speaker was could talk the clothes right off a woman with that honey sweet voice, so masculine and sure. By some miracle she still held the phone after getting her eyeballs flashed outta their sockets, getting her bearings she raised the phone to her face and what greeted her was something out of graphics she designed. On her screen sat a man but it was not human unless this was some cosplay character someone dreamed up. His face had definite humanoid features ,strong jaw, high cheek bones, something that looked like old roman statues she seen years ago, but his eyes were wrong, they were a teal like green but no whites in the eyes, just a fully mirrored green that strangely shimmered, he also didn't have ears but these butterfly shaped florescent appendages that sparkled like diamonds, he had a small like horns wrapped around his brow like a crown and his skin was a light purple,and sliver like wings draped around his muscular shoulders like a small cape, he sat in a area that seemed so alien, even in her in her fevered visual graphics mind could never dream up a place so fantastic. And in the same regard couldn't dream up something as visual stunning as him either Realizing she was oggling him , her eyes returned to his and she almost laughed , for such a beautiful creature he wore this comical expression on his face full of shock and awe and from the way he was looking at her, he was doing a full examination of her as she had him. Her logical mind was doing cartwheels naked right now , trying to calculate what she was seeing, the man was impressive as was his surroundings, but was she more overworked than she realized? And this was some fevered dream? Was she laying in her bed deathly sick, or was this some elaborate prank her boss dreamed up to motivate her. She seriously didn't think her boss was that clever, but there was always a first time for everything, and if it was she was highly impressed and secretly crushing on this muscular god of wet dreams. Yeah ok she had strange tastes in what you defined a man by , but her inner muse never lead her wrong before! She blushed as this uhh anime looking creature narrowed his eyes looking at her like a man with a mission to gobble her up like candy. So this strange desire between them was mutual, or maybe it wasn't, and it was her imagination working over time . As the blush reached her neck she cleared her throat , this endless staring was starting to make her nervous.she spoke the first thing that came to her brain. " Greetings man of my dreams, come here often?" ( Hello everyone, ending chapter 1 here, if you like this story and would like to see it continue, please leave some feedback. I'm a novice writer and my genre leans more to the romantic/humor/supernatural/Sci Fi . Forgive any grammar issues , I tried to proof read it so it didn't come across completely ridiculous.

Ever since I devoured the world as a maggot I knew I was his champion. I sang his song louder than the rest. My wings beat only for him, carrying his word across the putrid land I harvest. My eyes only exist for him to see through! And one day when my wings don’t beat and my eyes stop working and my mouth goes rigid, He will take me to his table! And there, I will pronounce my oath to him and he will know that his creation still worships him as their own! A warm, fecal note wafts into my brain, and I charge east in the name of the only god I pray to, Beelzebub! Beelzebub, this dinner is in your honor, as all my meals are! The stench encompasses me and my legs sink into the feces. fleshling, Ech. But for you, my lord, I dine. And in my vision, my brothers and sisters and children feed too! But they are not as hungry as I my lord! They do not sink their mouths in knowing that next to them sits the true champion in your eyes! For I will eat, and eat, and eat to the point of gorging just to please you. I will spread the filth to the world. I will devour the world and then Shit. It. Out. For the fleshlings deserve to know, the rest of the great kingdom of animals deserve to know, Beezlebub, lord of the fliers, lord of the flies, lord of the skies, is king! I renounce all other gods, for their followers are not as deserved as I! I will eat the world’s shit and make it my own! I am doing unto them what they have done unto the world! I take to the sky, my wings singing just for him. And I leave this dark grey canyon that the human’s made and into the larger one. I smell meat below me. More to feed on! Later, I will not be greedy, I will let the devoted dine first, and I will clean the earth below me when they are finished. I spot a nice fleshling under an oak. I land on the tree and watch. They dine on a single apple, too ripe for my liking. Their neck looks pasty. It looks stupid, and ugly, and born of something unnatural! And I scream to them, I scream: You take from the earth that gave you its life and devoured our air! We used to be kings, and you reduced us to pests! We are not pests, we are order! And I charge forth, wings singing in Beezlebub’s choir, first in line, first seat at the table, and land on the fleshling neck, and with great delight, with great savoring, I excrete the world unto them, and I laugh! I laugh knowing I am a dutiful soldier doing my job for a god who loves me, for a greater cause, and for a future without flesh. For there will come a day, a dark and stenched day, when there is nothing too ripe, fresh, or living enough for the teeth of my Brothers and Sisters. The maggots will feed on eyes, and we will take the tongues and flesh. We will return to being the kings we once were, and the world, Beelze-- I feel the air above me lurch towards me, and I am skybound before a force of immeasurable weight collides with me in my back. My thorax caves in, I can’t see out of 12 of my eyes, my wings will never sing again, and my legs won’t move. I am no more. Crushed by a fleshy hand. Please, I served you with all of my being. Please I am your champion. Please let me dine.

The week had already been long and was going by slowly, with each day seeming like it took a week to go by, while it was the same ole hum drum daily churning of school work and classes with the usual lack of excitement. That is when things started to change because in their History class they took together that day John and Billy had been assigned a book report on their favorite subject by their teacher to be done over the weekend while they was off from school. They had decided to do their report on a famous gun fighter from the wild west, something they both had fantasies of being theirself. Living in the wild west and saving the damsels in distress while saving entire towns from criminals who thought of killing as a sport of some kind and they took joy in seeing which one could outdo the others in making a name for the entire Hoopaloo gang to which they belonged. In the midst of a quiet and fairly low crime rated neighborhood lived two best friends who played outside and went to school together. Their names were John and Mark, they was two young, teenage boys who had daydreamed a lot, almost daily about life in the wild west, which to them never seemed to have a boring moment with all the shootouts, poker games, saloon girls and getting to ride off on their horses to new places and new adventures, and they both was so excited as they read the book together that they had found that told all about their western hero, Masked Mark the hired gunfighter, who had came into town to fight against the outlaws known as the Hoopaloo Gang that was thieving, robbing, and killing, as they made their trails over the western plains leaving a trail of destruction and their crimes of robbing to killing and bank robberies, and anything in between Masked Mark the hired gunfighter was set to make contact with the lowly Sheriff who was to scared of the Hoopaloo gang to go up against them or to do anything to help the town and it's people for that matter, he just slithered back into his Sheriff office and stayed there as the Hoopaloo Gang had their way with the town, it's women, the whiskey and turned the Saloon into their free for All party headquarters where they planned their next crime spree and without someone to stop them who knew when they might leave the town of Blissful Texas and move on to their next unsuspecting place where ever that might be. to pick up where they left off here. Upon his arrival the Hoopaloo Gang was to drunk and occupied by the Saloon girls to notice him riding into town and making his way to the Sheriff's office, once there when he found the Sheriff hiding in his office and got him to answer the door finally, he let him know he was Masked Mark a hired gunfighter who had been sent for ,due to the crisis in Blissful Texas and a Sheriff who was powerless to do anything due to being a coward, and let him know of his intentions on putting the Hoopaloo gang out of action for good. while he was in town, no matter what it took. The boys was reading the part about the shoot-out that Masked Mark was caught up in with the Hoopaloo Gang, the biggest, badest, meanest, low down gang ever to roam the western plains and was leaving their mark everywhere they had been with no end in sight. masked Mark was outnumbered, there was 1 of him with only a couple people in the town brave enough to want to help him, yet the Hoopaloo Gang was made up of 15 to 18 of the dirtiest, meanest, most honorary and toughest criminals that even Masked Mark had ever ran across, and to this point no matter how hard anybody had tried there was no stopping them, they had killed Sheriffs, gunfighters, innocent people, other outlaws, they had no scruples and no morals and they just mowed their way over anybody who got in their way or tried to go up against them, and their reputation had preceeded them to the town of Blissful in Texas and had everyone living in fear both day and night, for the Hoopaloo Gang would strike anytime they wanted, it did not matter if it was daylight or dark, they would kill off anyone they thought might be a witness to what they done or who they though could identify any of them to authorties without a second thought. that is what had made them so hard to find, til they stayed longer in Blissful Texas than they had ever stayed anywhere before, and that was their first mistake as it gave Masked mark time to track them and catch up to them where they was at when he arrived. He was avid with excitement, Masked mark was no ordinary gunfighter, he had taken out up to 10 men in a 10 to 1 showdown without getting as much as grazed by a single bullet. He was a living Legend whose name even brought fear to the members of the Hoopaloo Gang, though they would never admit to being afraid of anything of anybody Their excitement overtook them as they was making shooting sounds, and yelling profanities toward the bad guys, when from nowhere the head librarian came around the corner like one of the outlaws searching for their prey and blew her whistle at them, and brought them crashing back into reality and making them once again aware of their surroundings in the library. Immediately they scurried away and climbed up in their chairs and was silent as the dark of night. Their excitement was still in their eyes along with the fear that the librarian would come and toss them out, like the bouncers who controlled the saloon's when their customer's got out of hand. And so the rest of their time at the library went along without a hitch that day. On their way out as they passed the librarian the said "Until next time" and they tipped their cowboy hats as they went out the door on their way home. They couldn't wait to finish reading their books on Masked mark and the Hoopaloo Gang when they got home, and then writing their report and in their mind they would reading their wanted posters on the gang they was chasing and had every intention of saving the towns from and rescuing any damsels in distress. Oh what a weekend this was going to be, it had them anxious for Monday to come again.

Like the drought, it had been getting a little worse every day. The sky hasn’t released a drop of water since May, the wind refused to blow and displace any of the hot air, the temperatures stay above 93 even at night and now this feud had gone from stupid to dangerous. In mid-July The Asshole cut off Josh in traffic. Josh’s tenacious hot head tendencies erupted and road rage ensued and Josh followed the rusty brown Buick LeSabre around the city for an hour - screaming and throwing stuff at his car until eventually The Asshole made a tactical error and drove home. Josh followed him. Now that Josh knew where he lived he dedicated some time every day for the next few weeks to driving past his house and doing some general act of harassment or vandalism escalating from burnouts in front of the residence to spray painting phallic symbols on the garage door. Josh proudly told us about his innovative ways of generally being obnoxious as he felt totally justified. In retaliation The Asshole somehow figured out where Josh worked and got his friends to stop by the auto parts store; their harassment escalated in kind from being generally a nuisance in the store to eventually slashing Josh’s tires after the garage door incident. So now its mid August and Josh has now enlisted HIS friends and increasing numbers of people are conducting drive-by assholery and terroristic actions against each other. I was always hoping for a decent breeze but I had been praying for a good rain - if it rained maybe they would all stay home for a day to stay dry and they would cool off and the city would cool off and we could get back to normal. I had made my own tactical error, getting a ride to the grocery store from Josh. I just needed the usual, some pop, some cans of soup and maybe some grapes - grapes are my favorite. I had to raid my spare change cup on top of my dresser to fund my food trip- I had a little bit of folding money, but I had a roll of quarters and one of those gigantic half dollars that always seem to turn up if you start collecting change. I stuffed the coins in my pocket. Usually, I just walk to the store; on the way there the downhill route back isn’t too bad, but walking the two miles up the hill in this heat was too much to even contemplate. It was noon and probably 100 degrees already. I should have gotten up early and walked when it was cooler because the timing now means it will be the hottest and brightest part of the day on the way back up the hill. I asked Josh for a ride when I saw him outside. We’ve got lots of hills in this city, and we had just got to the flat part at the bottom of the hill and I could see the grocery store up ahead across from some new construction. I don’t know what they are building exactly but I’m sure it’s another Walmart or Meijer based plaza that will never actually fill all the storefronts up, and in six years it will be a Big Lots and two crappy dollar stores; at one of them everything will actually cost a dollar but not be worth more than about 42 cents, and at the other store nothing will actually cost less than $3 but still somehow be worth about a dollar. Currently, they are at the strip-the-land and drop-truckloads-of gravel-stage of construction, and in this dry heat if there is any wind at all it would just blows billows of dust everywhere. I didn’t even see the Buick until after it hit us. I didn’t recognize the driver, but I could see The Asshole riding shotgun and looking triumphant. Josh must have caught some motion from the corner of his eye and tried to swerve but it still rammed us into the back of the car in the next lane. The way Josh’s head hit his side window he had to be unconscious, so he didn’t see the passenger stick his hand out of the window with a gun in it and he probably didn’t hear the shots whizzing past us or the shots that hit him and made his body jerk. I don’t even remember getting my door open, but I was out and running even as I heard four or five more shots. I guess leaving my friend was wrong, but from what little I remember from mass, suicide is a mortal sin, and staying there was definitely suicide with the gun pointed in our direction. Behind me I could hear horns and screaming and tires squealing. I didn’t have a master plan, I was just trying to get away - to get space between me and all of that. I didn’t even have the presence of mind to zig-zag as I ran towards the new plaza and it’s ongoing construction. I’m not known for either my sprinting speed or my stamina, but it had to be a personal record for the quarter-mile or so from the street to the parked earth moving equipment. Somehow bullets were still flying so I was running on pure adrenaline until I guess the running gave me a cramp because I got a sudden pain in my side that threw me off balance. My velocity caused me to trip and fall headlong into a parked bulldozer I didn’t see until I hit it because some overachieving wind had kicked up the dust - my eyes were gritty and hard to close and I couldn’t get a good breath from all the sand in my nose and I couldn’t really see more than a few feet ahead of myself. I figured I was safe since if I couldn’t see the bulldozers or whatever then they couldn’t see me to shoot me. I walked around the bulldozer and then around a large dump truck. The heavy equipment apparently very effectively stopped the wind and the dust, because it was like walking through a door and coming out into an entirely different and unexpected place. The sun now felt like it was trying to warm me and not just desiccate me and the wind was no more than a reasonable breeze that seemed to be blowing the dust off of my clothes. I used my hands to help that process along and looked more presentable shortly and felt so much better. My side still kind of burned but my head didn’t even hurt from banging it into the bulldozer. The dusty lot transitioned to grass that had somehow survived the drought so far - about 30 yards ahead was a pretty good drop-off and then a long green field in a kind of valley that I wouldn’t have imagined was back here and didn’t make much sense in the middle of a city. At the far end -way on the other side of a little creek was a house by itself with some grapevines on trellises and a low wall behind it. I figured there was another street on the other side of that house that would be a much safer place than the street behind me. Although it was now quiet in that direction I could imagine the emergency vehicles showing up and the questions and all those things I wanted no more part of. I made it across that last bit of plateau and started down the drop-off using some handily strategic rocks that worked as steps and ended up on a convenient little path. I was a little worried I was trespassing or something but there was no fence to cross and the path was well worn so I followed it. The field sloped more than I thought at first but it was an easy downhill walk. About halfway across I noticed someone walking on another path that looked like it was going to merge with mine close to the creek - the grass and plants were kind of high so it was hard to see the actual path but just kind of eyeballing the direction it looked about right. She saw me and gave a friendly wave as she stepped up her pace a bit; it looked like she wanted to catch me before I got to the water. It was hard to get a read on her even as she got closer - she walked with a bounce and with energy almost like a little kid would walk, but I could see some gray and silver in her hair even from a distance. She was wearing some kind of off-the-shoulder tunic thing that somehow covered an ample and attractively bouncing bosom. As she got closer I noticed her tanned but smooth skin - I guess she was Middle Eastern or Greek or something and I wanted to ask but figured it wouldn't be polite for those to be my first words to her. Up close, I guess the gray hair was some trick of the sun, because it was dark and curly. Its hard to figure people’s ages sometimes and especially in this case I guessed she was probably a bit older than me but still young. “I’m sorry, I was just trying to find a shortcut - I can just go back the other way.” “Going back is a lot harder than you think” I turned and looked, and it might have been another trick of the sun and perspective, but it did look like I had walked a lot farther than I thought. Walking back meant I would have to walk back uphill. And back to all the mess I had run from. “Well, I don’t want to be trouble - if its ok I’ll just walk through to the other side” “As long as you’re sure you want to go this way” Her statement seemed oddly stern - from where I stood I could clearly see what seemed to be the back of a decent size farmhouse- there had to be a driveway out to the street on the other side, and whatever was over there had to be better than where I had come from. Like she could hear my thoughts, she just shrugged. “Why don’t you relax here for a bit, maybe have a snack and then you can decide where to go from here. My name is Sharon by the way” She pronounced her name kind of funny - with more of a “Ch” then an “Sh” sound, but I knew all kinds of people with much weirder names - for a while everybody seemed to name their kids with an L’ or D’ before some normal name - L’don and D’john (who everybody called Mustard) and so on. The relaxing made perfect sense though. It sure seemed like I had walked farther than I thought at first - I still had the taste of dust in my mouth, thirsty for sure and wouldn’t mind a little snack. I could imagine full ripe grapes on their grapevines and that would be a great mouthful or two. This time she smiled, maybe a little sadly. “Careful making the crossing. Keep your eye on the next step, because if you look too much, what you see plays tricks on you and messes up your balance - and the water is much deeper than it looks.” I don’t know what the difference between a creek and a stream is, but whatever this body of water was, it definitely much wider close up. Still, it was pretty easy to step from one stone to the next, ignoring the water moving lazily to my right - but right at the end it was kind of a big hop to the far bank. I was almost all the way across when I saw movement near the side and expected to see a fish or some crawdads or something, but it was an eel or snake that shot out from somewhere almost faster than I could follow and then just hovered still in the water, looking at me. I made that big hop to the other bank. I wasn’t really scared of snakes, but that one was big. I took another big step - just to be prudent. I turned to face her “Watch out for that snake” - I started to say, but she was already across on this same side of the stream, dipping in her hand in the water. I couldn’t see clearly, but it looked like she was petting something in the water. I stepped back closer and she was clearly murmuring to something - peeking over her shoulder there were now a half dozen snakes of similar size hovering close to the surface for her to stroke, like they expected and liked it. I could have sworn the water had been moving lazily to my right before, but now it was definitely moving much more briskly - but still to my right. Which didn’t make sense because I was facing back the way I came. What had been a creek or a stream before now was wider and tending towards what I would say was a river. And that big hop from that last stone now looked like a jump to the first I wasn’t quite sure I could make, even if I had to and had a running start. “Umm, I guess I’ll be heading out” I said, spooked. I figured I would do a quick walk to the street and go on about my business; I was fully prepared to walk uphill or downhill as far as needed to get away from this weird snake lady. I turned to go and almost bumped into some guy who had come out of nowhere. He was tall, I could see straight up his large and hooked nose from my angle. Jet black hair with mustache and goatee, long sleeve purple (silk?) shirt and black pants with black cowboy boots. His lips tilted up at the corners revealing yellow-ish but very straight and oddly skinny teeth. He smiled like he had never really done it before but had read about it. He grabbed my hand and shook it like we were old friends. Gesturing behind him to a long table set for about ten -“Welcome, you are just in time to eat. Sharon (he also said it with more of a “Ch” sound) loves bringing in new people.” He was outwardly polite, but something in the way he looked at me made me just not trust or like him. I paused, trying to think of a polite way to say “no”. “Have a seat” he said, now more as a command than an invitation - a king or other royalty used to his word being taken as imperative. I was tired - well - fatigued and definitely hungry and thirsty so I figured some refreshments and a quick rest would do me good before I headed out. Nevermind the grocery store, I just wanted to go home. Since he grabbed the chair at the head of the table, I moved down 3 or 4 seats for my own seat. It was in front of what looked like a fancy silver lemonade pitcher and a big bunch of grapes on a platter so I hoped it didn’t seem obvious I was distancing myself from him but rather just sitting where the food was. Sharon moved to sit directly across from me. In the shade under the grape arbor she looked older - and less healthy. There were lines around her eyes and her hair from the front seemed grayer and thinner than it had been. She was skinnier than I thought she was and out of the sun her skin was paler and more translucent. She looked like she might have been pretty once, but that was a long time ago and time had not been easy on her. She poured me a generous draught from the pitcher into what I could only define as a straight-up chalice, and her hands were shaking a little. She pushed over the silver platter with the grapes and smiled as she sat back down with a handful of grapes for herself. From my left the man raised his own stein and gave a little toast “To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.” “You always use that toast, Yuri” “You have a better one Sharon?”, in a way that was on the surface amused but somehow menacing. They bickered like an old couple that had spent decades together - each knowing what the response from the other would be but still making their remarks anyway. I wasn’t sure if they were married or brother and sister or just old friends. I was sure, though, that my cup did not contain lemonade. I am not a fan of red wine but this seemed sweet and heavy and thick and even the small semi-aborted first sip began to quench my thirst. “Is Yuri a Russian name?” I just wanted to make conversation. “Yuri with a ‘Y’ is basically George, but I am Eurynomos with an “E” - this is a Greek name.” “I thought maybe you were Greek or Middle Eastern” - they both cringed when I said this, and I hoped I had not offended them. Maybe they were Hispanic for all I knew. Sharon smiled sadly but kindly “We are not exactly Greek and definitely not Hispanic, but have been called far worse things” It was freaky that she seemed - that they both seemed - to know what I was thinking. “Eurynomos is not really my name, but that is what they came to call me, just like “Sharon” is a convenient name for her.” I thought it prudent to apologize - they were kind of weird but really had been nothing but nice - or at least polite - to me. “Here in the fields it is understood that you mean no harm.” Euri began, but then looking suddenly distracted “I am famished - we should eat some... real food. You may stay here and rest and refresh as long as you like.” I figured I would enjoy their hospitality and a meal before I walked back home. Coming down to this place I should be pretty far downhill from my neighborhood. Even though I figured I was a little disoriented about which way I was facing, logically there should be at least one obvious and substantial hill somewhere across that stream and field that I would need to walk all the way back up. And looking at the stream it seemed even wider from this angle. Going the other way past the house should probably be about the same distance to come at my street from the other side of the hill but I was having trouble visualizing that route. Looking in that direction I couldn’t see the street beyond the house, but I could make out the stone wall covered with vines, it looked higher than before - easily chest high, but was hard to see exactly because the sky above it was starting to darken with twilight. This was disconcerting, because by my estimation it should be maybe two or so in the afternoon, but judging by the light level it was late in the evening. I couldn’t see the sun from my angle, but it looked like the stars would start peeking out soon. It explained why I was suddenly so hungry. Sharon said she would gather the others and bring out the food as she was also famished. Walking into the house she looked half-starved now - gaunt and malnourished. I don’t know what flattering angles led me to see her as vital and attractive earlier. I finished my cup and poured myself another - Euri looked pleased at this - and what I guessed were “the others” began trickling from the house or from around the sides. This table looked to seat about a dozen comfortably - hopefully everyone was friendly because it looked there weren’t going to be any empty seats. In no particular order or pattern the seats around the table filled - there was muted but friendly conversation from these folk who seemed to know each other. There were a few more people than I first thought and there must have been a few more chairs available than I thought, because I counted 15, with myself, Sharon, and Euri making the total 18. A few were about my age, most though were more elderly and there was one younger boy who looked vaguely familiar. I don’t know why his face and striped shirt seemed to ring a bell, but he looked to be about twelve or thirteen. For whatever reason I was feeling his name was Jeff. He sat right next to me without really looking in my direction. Sharon appeared with serving trays and loaded the table with first with fruit and nuts and then with some things I didn’t really know the names of - hummus and flat bread, some sort of green paste with tomato pieces in it - I guess this was Greek or Middle Eastern foods. In front of Euri though, she placed a pile of BBQ ribs. I could smell the sauce and spice from my seat and they were mouth-watering. I was jealous and was hoping for our own plate of ribs or at least chicken. Euri ate the ribs like a machine - wasting no time sucking the meat off the bones and cleaning them in one quick slurp so not a speck of flesh remained. The rack on his plate disappeared in minutes, and as the pile of cleaned bones grew I noticed the oddly- shaped bones at the bottom of the pile - one looked like a soup bone or a bone you would give a dog, and that one he gnawed on like he was dog, and when he finished that he picked up several smaller and more delicate bones to clean, and those were not ribbed shaped at all. They looked more like fingers, and after sucking the flesh off he cracked each one and cleaned out the marrow. By the time he was done with those small bones I had changed my mind. I didn’t want barbecue, and I wasn’t sure I could even keep the other food down if I tried. None of the others seemed to notice, and if they did, they weren’t at all phased by this. I reached for my wine glass to clear the bad taste from my mouth just as Jeff or whoever reached for his. It occurred to me that he probably shouldn’t be drinking wine, and I crane my neck a bit to glance into his cup. I relaxed because it looked like milk. And then I remembered where I had seen Jeff. His picture, wearing that same shirt, with a caption saying something about missing since March, in block letters on the side of a milk carton. Here he was, and I knew I had to get him out of this place and back home, just like I needed to get back home and out of this place. I figured I could grab his hand and hustle us both out of here. Looking at the house and the wall behind I could see old-fashioned lanterns hanging from the wall, but the lanterns were hung well above my head height and the top of the wall was not even visible in the moonlight. And I had no idea where the gate or opening in that wall would be, or if it would be barred or locked. The only way out of here was back across the stream. Snapping my head that way I planned to grab Jeff’s hand and - hopefully he would come willingly - but drag or carry him if I had to - back to the stepping stones. I wasn’t sure about that big jump to the first one, especially pulling a 12-year-old but the river seemed closer than I thought it had been. I could hear the water rushing much more loudly and moving more quickly than it should have been. Maybe it had finally rained somewhere and it was like a mini-flash flood. Frantically, I pushed my chair back from the table and grabbed for Jeff’s hand. He jerked his hand away and half-shreiked. Which was fair seeing as a stranger was trying to grab him and apparently not for the first time. I yelled for him to come with me, right now, for fuck’s sake. Euri was incensed, his voice was deep and strong enough to drown out all of the side conversations instantly. “No one demands that you stay longer than you want, but you can not force another to go. Know though, you might not like where the river takes you!” Everybody was staring at me, although they didn’t seem particularly alarmed. Even Jeff had calmed down and was munching on some bread. I started toward the river, and as I approached I couldn’t even see the stepping stones anymore. And I did not want to wade or worse - swim in the water with those eel/ snake things that I knew were lurking just beneath the surface. Sharon stepped up next to me, and she again looked young and vital, her skin smooth and full. “I will ferry you downstream, the current is too fast to go back across.” She pointed to a small but sturdy-looking flat-bottomed rowboat pulled up on this side of the river. I felt guilty now - she had been nothing but nice and inviting, and I was taking her away from her dinner and friends. “There is no trouble, this is what I do.” I couldn’t see the other side of the river in the dark at all, or even where the river was going, it seemed to veer around a curve and go on as far as I could see. Somewhat irrationally, I felt like I owed her... something. “A token payment is customary - whatever you have in your pocket will do” I reached in my pocket and my hand closed around the giant half-dollar. Before my hand even came out, she smiled. “Teleios.” (and I knew that meant “perfect”) I helped her push the boat to the water’s edge and sat in the front as she stood in the back to control the rudder. It was cooler on the river and I felt suddenly cold. She picked up a robe from the bottom of the boat and handed it to me before putting on her own robe and pulling the hood over her head. “I do not know how far we will have to go, but we will know when it is time for you to disembark.

Burning Love: Chapter 2 Serena could not believe her luck. She’d lost a fiancé, and somehow, she’d summoned a man, whose skin could easily withstand scorching fire. If she were still a little girl, she would’ve thought that she was inside a fairy tale, come true. Kaiden stepped out of the fire, brushing ash off of his skin, and when he did, the flames seemed to die, turning from a roaring inferno to dim embers. Serena noticed, her skin flushing with heat, that he wore only a pair of plain black trousers, and the taut, tight planes of his chest were exposed. Despite the cool of the autumn night, he didn’t seem to notice. Serena looked around for Abby, not sure how she was going to explain the sudden appearance of a half-naked stranger to her best friend. Abby was clustered nearby with their friends, a red plastic cup in hand. By the looks of her flushed cheeks, she was at least tipsy. Serena had no idea how to get her attention, but she gave Kaiden a look. “Stay here, please. I need to go get my friend.” In reply, he smiled. “I’m not going anywhere, Serena.” He reassured her. Serena crept over to Abby and their friends, grabbing Abby’s forearm. “Abby, I... I don’t feel very well.” She lied quickly, widening her eyes so that Abby could understand the urgency of the situation. “Could you come with me, please?” Abby frowned, concerned, but she turned to the rest. “I’m going to check and see if Serena is okay. I’ll be back soon, guys.” Serena dragged her closer to Kaiden, frowning. She put her hand on Abby’s shoulders. “Before I tell you what’s actually going on, you have to promise that you’ll believe me, no matter how crazy it might sound.” Abby frowned at her friend, squinting. “How much have you had to drink, Serena? I know you’re sad over Leon, but you’re scaring me.” “I haven’t had a drop of alcohol, Abs! Just listen!” Slowly, haltingly, Serena explained everything down to the last detail, no matter how small. Abby stared at her, her jaw hanging open. “Okay, so where is this magical mystery man?” Abby asked, looking around, and Serena couldn’t resist smiling, in spite of herself. Leave it to her friend to take that news without even blinking. “Come on,” Serena said, taking Abby’s hand and leading her to Kaiden, who was waiting patiently for her return. “Serena, you’re back! Is this the friend you told me about?” Kaiden asked, flashing Abby a friendly grin, eyes twinkling. “My name is Abby. What’s yours?” Abby replied, raising her brows at Serena, as if in agreement. “I’m Kaiden.” “How’d you end up here, Kaiden?” Abby asked, and Serena flushed, looking at her feet shyly. She felt exposed and vulnerable, even in front of Abby. “Well, it’s simple. Serena’s heartache summoned me to this plane. So, I answered it.” “But what *are* you, Kaiden? No offense.” “I am a fire elemental with the ability to shapeshift into a dragon.” Kaiden shrugged, smiling, a flush coming to his cheeks at their scrutiny. This time, Serena and Abby both gasped, as one.

Grandma? &#x200B; Yes? &#x200B; Come with me. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Just brought me down here for the fun of it, eh? &#x200B; No. Look. He’s stuck there. &#x200B; Watch out for his pincers when you pick him up. &#x200B; Ok. There we go. I think he’ll like that a bit better. &#x200B; So, you didn’t bring me down here just for the fun of it? &#x200B; No. I brought you to show you something. &#x200B; Hmm? &#x200B; Come with me. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; That’s a peaceful place. &#x200B; Do you think you can get up here? &#x200B; I don’t know. You’re so much younger than me. You’re nearly how old? &#x200B; Tomorrow I will be eight! &#x200B; Eight? &#x200B; That’s why you came to visit, remember? &#x200B; Of course I do. &#x200B; Here, I’ll show you the easiest way up. &#x200B; Ok, I’ll try. &#x200B; First right here. Yep. Then your other foot there. And then up here. And now you’re there! &#x200B; That wasn’t all that bad. &#x200B; Nope. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; I see why you like it in here. It’s cozy. &#x200B; You can hear the waves. Oh look! &#x200B; Hmm? &#x200B; Grandma, did you fall asleep again? &#x200B; Oh. It seems these days I do that a lot. &#x200B; Look, though! He’s my buddy. I need to go say hi to him. Stay up here. &#x200B; Ok. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; It’s cold in the water, isn’t it? &#x200B; Really. But it’s worth it. Hi buddy! &#x200B; (chirp, chirp) (click, click, click) &#x200B; I love you. Here you go. You love mama’s bread, don’t you? &#x200B; (Click, Click) &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; You missed it again, Grandma. Well, next time. I guess. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; The sun is almost setting now. How long was I asleep? &#x200B; An hour or so. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Weren’t you showing me something? &#x200B; Yes. I showed you Buddy. But you were sleeping. &#x200B; Buddy the dolphin? &#x200B; Yes. You remember! I gave him some of mama’s bread. He comes every day. &#x200B; He must be your friend by now. &#x200B; He has been for this whole summer. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; It’s going to be dark soon. Come with me. You remember the way down! &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; Let’s watch the sunset. Sit down next to me. &#x200B; &#x200B; &#x200B; I love you Grandma. So much. I don’t mind that I have to show you every day. Like it’s the first time. &#x200B; Hmm? &#x200B; It’s fine. Sleep. &#x200B; Ok. &#x200B; ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Because this post was not 500 words, I am adding words at the end. I am not doing this to cheat, only because my short story is the length I wish it to be.

After eighteen long years, I stepped foot on the grasses of the forest of my hometown. As I walked through the dense forest, the sound of rustling leaves and the chirping of little birds surrounded me. I was overwhelmed with the odd feeling of nostalgia. After some time, I reached a glade. This place is filled with both the best and the worst memories of my childhood. When I was young, I would come here with my little sister, Aria. It was like our secret place, where no one could hurt us. We would wander around, carve stick figures on the trees, and lie down on the grass and stare at the navy-blue sky. Living with an alcoholic father was not easy. But this place was our haven. Spending a few hours there, under the twinkling stars, surrounded by the trees, reminded me that the world was not as inhumane as my house portrayed it to be. Aria loved exploring. When she was young, she would run after the bees and insects flying in our garden. She also had this weird obsession with shiny objects. Thinking about how she would stare at mum’s ring with her dumbfounded eyes and how her lips would take the shape of a circle in adoration of the white stone always makes me chuckle. I found teardrops rolling down my cheeks as I walked up to a tall tree and found a drawing carved out on its bark. I was twelve when I had carved out the stick figures of my sister and me holding hands. The worst event of my life played again and again in my mind. We were right here. I remembered how happy I was in the calm before the storm. The day was March 13, 1997. I was just thirteen, and Aria was seven. I distinctly remember sitting reclined on a tree. Aria was lying on the grass next to me. A cool breeze blew through my hair as I stared at the twinkling stars and the glimmering full moon. That is when I saw five orange lights moving high above the sky. They were moving together in a V-shaped formation with one in the middle and two on either side. It looked like they were all a part of one massive aircraft, which moved very slowly without making any sound. “Hey Aria, look!” I said and turned towards my sister. But she was not there. I looked forward and saw her far ahead, running towards the lights in the sky. I shouted, “Wait!” But she didn’t stop. I sprung up and ran as fast as I could through the forest, dodging the trees in my way. A flash of bright light pierced through the darkness. It was there for just a few seconds. My brotherly instincts told me to run faster and faster. My heart was racing as a feeling of dread filled my mind. I looked everywhere, between shrubs, behind trees and rocks. I looked up into the sky to search for the orange lights. They were gone. Aria was gone too. Aria was the only reason I smiled, the only person whom I considered family. For the next four years, I was all alone in battle, fending for myself, fighting with my father and picking up empty bottles from our living room floor. By the time I was seventeen, I had had enough. So, I packed my bags and ran away to the town nearby. “I let her run away. Where did she go? What were those strange orange lights?” These thoughts haunted me every second of my life, constantly reminding me how bad a brother I was. I always thought I would never return. But then my father’s death forced me to come back here. I sat against the same tree I did so many years ago and replayed the same moment thousands of times in my mind, trying to change the situation so that Aria would still be sitting next to me. While I was deep in my thoughts, I saw a flash of light in the sky. Then, I heard an animal walking behind me. I turned around and saw a figure. It was not an animal. A human silhouette grew bigger and bigger as it walked towards me. I was amazed to see the girl standing in front of me. She was thin and withered, her lips were gray, and her skin was pale white. She had cut marks on her arms and right cheek. Her hair was shaved off. But I recognized those sweet brown eyes and that small button nose immediately. That was my sister. She was staring at me. She had recognized me. A small smile formed on her face. I was overwhelmed by happiness, confusion, excitement and relief. I tried to say something, but I couldn’t find the right words to express the emotions that had taken over me. She came closer. I ran towards her with my arms extended out and hugged her tightly. We stood there for a long time, oceans of tears flowing down our eyes. During that time, I didn’t want to know what had happened. My sister was snuggling in my arms, and she was safe. That is all that mattered.

I appreciate anyone that takes the time to read this. I should've tagged it realistic fiction instead of mystery, my bad. We have to write a short story for my English class about anything, about two pages long. Feedback is most certainly welcome. Trigger warning: abuse and suicide. Running: that’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at. Running from my problems; my responsibilities; the everyday problems in life that seem impossible to fix. When I ran away from home, I believed it to be a long term solution to my problems. I was eleven years old when my father stumbled in through the doorway, drunk like every other night this week. It was rare to see a day where he was sober- not that those moments offered any solace to me; they were only a brief escape from the personal hell I was living in. As soon as he crossed the threshold, the stench of alcohol and stale cigarettes permeated the room. I shrunk away from him, trying to disappear into the tattered couch that occupied the space of our living room, hoping that if I appeared small enough he wouldn’t notice me. His beady eyes shifted around the room before settling on me. The glazed look that was in his eyes can still send shivers down my spine to this day. He slowly made his way over to me, a few steps interspersed with drunken stumbling. I wanted to move, I wanted to escape- but where could I go? I didn’t have time to think much about it before he began yelling at me about how I was ruining his life. The words don’t sting so much anymore; I’ve grown used to them by now. Of course he knew that they barely stung, so he had to use a new way to hurt me. A punch to the face can hurt just as much as words, I found out that night. After he had passed out on the couch and the only sound in the air was his rumbling snores, I stole the few dollars he had in his wallet and ran. The side of my face was swelling but I ignored it for now. A single word was shouting over and over in my head, making itself heard and refusing to be ignored: Run. So I did; I ran until I could hear my heart beating in my ears and my lungs were screaming at me to stop. As much as I didn’t want to, I had to take a break. I slumped against a brick building, catching my breath as tears streamed down my cheeks. Here I am, years later, yet I still feel like I haven’t left that night. I can never quite catch my breath; I can still feel the sharp, shooting pain in my cheek. I’ve made a life for myself- I’ve got a home, a job, and food on the table. My father died five years ago due to liver failure (who would’ve guessed?) yet I’m still running. I’m running from my past into the unpredictable future which instills just as much dread into me. I don’t know what tomorrow brings, but one thing that I do know is that I am tired of running. My hand shakes slightly as I hold the gun in my hand. The tremor becomes more pronounced as I raise the cold, unfeeling piece of metal to my head. Every second feels like an eternity as I hold it, the key to the release I desire. The quiet tick of the clock makes its way into my subconscious, mocking me with its sound. When I’m dead, it will keep carrying on; the world will not stop around me, but I will. I wrap my trembling finger around the trigger. It’s ready to go; but am I? I am. I’m tired of running. I want to finally be able to rest and let go of my past. This is the one moment in my life where I fully welcome the unpredictable future. I can finally stop running. I pull the trigger. Everything goes black.

The village of Mawega was like a wilderness in 1985. It is located between Mt. Kenya and the Aberdare. It was built on land previously occupied by British settlers. Now, it was sparsely populated by families that had moved from more populated areas of the central province. The land had yet to be cleared, and all around there were thick patches of shrubbery and trees. There also were frequent reports of various wild animals. It was here that Mwangi lived with his wife and four children. The day that we begin this story was like any other day. It was dusk and Mwangi’s youngest was watching their sheep in the field in front of his father’s land. He could not see most them but from their bleating he knew they were in the grazing in the shrubbery in front of him. He was preparing to take them home when he noticed that a cloud of dust was coming towards him, he thought it might just be that until suddenly sheep started running from the shrubs in front of him and racing in the opposite direction towards home. This was no whirlwind, he thought. As the dust closed on him shrubs started to shake and he thought he might have seen shapes in the disappearing light. It could only mean one thing, and he was not going to wait to find out. Mwangi was seated on a wooden stool outside his house then his breathless son burst in the compound and screamed “Elephants!” Mwangi looked beyond his farm where his son pointed. The dust had picked up speed and had reached his farm and even though he could not see clearly, the rustling on his tall maize farm told him that this must be huge rampaging heard and they needed to leave now. He called for his wife and children, and they sped out along the path behind the house, running as fast as their feet could carry them. A while later they came across their neighbor. “Many angry elephants. Coming fast” shouted Mwangi as he sped past. His neighbor could see a cloud of dust in the distance. He dashed in this compound, and soon his whole family of eight was behind the Mwangi’s. Any one they met on the road got the same message and took the same actions. So the panicking group picked up steam and more people. Soon, no one even bothered to ask what they were running away from. A hundred people racing across the fields and screaming couldn’t be running away from nothing. It was on. Those who say that women can’t run as fast as men must have not been not present in this great race of 1985. The women of the Catholic Women’s Action were at the front of the confused crowd, with their blue religious headgear flapping around behind them like a tiny flag. Those who argued that you needed two good legs to run fast were proved wrong by our elder, Waruinge. Now in his 70’s, he had lost one leg fighting for our independence. He was at the raising dust at the front of the fleeing mass. It is reported by witnesses that his being did not touch the ground all as he moved. Instead, he hopped forward at impressive speed using his two clutches in a way that might remind one of a kangaroo. Those who say that love is the strongest force must have missed this race. Maina and his young wife Kui had only been married one year. They held hands everywhere they went, and even *Ngai* was pleased with them, for he had recently blessed them with twins. When he saw the crowd pass this house in terror, he did not waste a single second. His skinny legs, only dressed in traditional *akala*, carried him past the crowd, and he was with the women and Kamau at the front in no time. Like everyone else at this point of this embarrassing occasion, he forgot to ask what village was running from. He also forgot his wife. She was later spotted among the horde carrying each of her wailing twins under her arms, although this did not seem to impede her flight. I am not proud to say that i was also part of this mob of cowards. I took the shortest route away from the imagined peril. I went through shrubs instead of around them, and at the end of it all I was covered with the branches of every plant found in our village. I also had thorns sticking out my face. I had done what I needed to do to escape what I thought was the end of the world, which I am sure my kind reader will understand. The priorities of the villagers were clear on this day, since everyone only managed to pick a few items that were of importance to them before they joined the melee. I spotted my brother falling behind as he struggled with a container of beer on his shoulder. I choose to leave him behind so that at least one member of our family could survive. I once again beg you to reserve your judgement. Only one man tried to stop the madness. When our assistant chief saw the mass moving towards his house, he went outside his gate for a better view. When he heard the screams, saw the whole village coming at him with alarming speed, he waved his flywhisk around and screamed for us to stop. However, at this point, we were all beyond reasoning. It was beyond the powers of an assistant chief to stop us. I doubt if even the chief could have accomplished this. The assistant chief lost his small finger and his flywhisk in the chaos. He got off easy, the rest of us lost our pride. Exhaustion finally slowed us down near the shopping center. Logic also seemed to return to us, although no one wanted to admit that they didn’t know what they were running from. The few who dared ask were met with many different answers. A pride of lions was seen, the river had broken its banks, or the mountain had erupted. When asked, I insisted i saw what looked like wildfire and that’s why I ran. Not one of us spoke to the other on the way back home. It is forbidden to speak of this event in Mawega village. If you visit and ask about the time the entire village was displaced by the rustling of maize, you will be met with blank stares. Many will swear that they only moved there after 1985. Others will lie and say that it happened the next village over.

It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, this superhero lark. I mean, not all of us get our deserved recognition. Take me. What do you mean you’d rather not? Okay, I’m not your traditional superhero, your 6ft, 185lb, looks good in tights type. Or 6ft 3in, 235lb if you’re Superman, the man of steel, everybody’s favorite hero. Okay, I can top that, I’m 250lb. But then again I’m only 5ft 6in, so hardly the ideal muscular physique you associate with superheroes. I don’t get my superpowers from an experiment gone wrong, lifesaving treatment, gifts from wizards or aliens, endless training or from the fact that I was born on a different planet. I’m not strong, quite the opposite. Mom used to tell me I couldn’t knock the skin off a rice pudding. But why would I want to do that anyway? I cannot fly, cannot see through walls, cannot make things freeze or heat them up. In fact on the face of it, I’m just your ordinary Joe in a world teeming with superheroes. But there is one thing I can do. I can stop time. It was quite by accident that I discovered my skill. I was walking down the street one day, minding my own business, when I heard a high-pitched scream and a squeal of brakes, and although I normally wouldn’t want to see the scenario that follows a high-pitched scream and squeal of brakes, I looked. Over to the left, and there was this woman, screaming because her small daughter had run into the road and there was a truck coming. You know how it is, something like that happens and suddenly everything goes in slow motion as the inevitable draws ever closer. Except this time, it went from slow motion to stop. There was the woman, groceries tumbling to the ground, a look of complete horror as she faced the inevitable. There was the man in the truck, gripping the wheel, eyes bulging, a look which said he was standing on his brakes but still they weren’t working fast enough. I went up to the guy next to me - he’d been smoking, and there was his cigarette, a lazy wisp of smoke curling up from the end. He’d been exhaling at the time, and you could tell by the track of the smoke which way he’d been facing when he began to turn his head. I walked to a woman next to him. She had blond shoulder length hair that was suspended as she turned towards the where the scream had come from, her bag was swinging, her skirts swirling. Where was Superman when you wanted him, I thought? He’d have scooped up the child, stopped the truck, and been applauded by everyone. I looked round. No sign of a blue and red streak. I checked in all directions. Still no sign. In fact nothing was moving as far as I could see. There would be no saving that little girl. Unless. I moved closer to where the truck was. This was the first time anything like this had happened. I wasn’t sure what the rules were. I checked what I thought the driver was doing, which direction he was trying to swerve to, and I went to the other side of the road. Gingerly I put my foot in the road. Nothing. The truck remained where it was, the girl remained where she was, the mother remained screaming, arms outstretched. I ventured a little further, getting ready to jump back if everything started up again. Nothing. Time to take action. It was obvious the girl couldn’t move by herself, but would I be allowed to pick her up? I went towards her, and yes, I could. It would have helped if mom hadn’t been feeding her so many donuts. Hell, it would have helped if I didn’t eat so many donuts. But I managed to pick her up and put her down next to mom. Now what? The girl wasn’t in front of the truck any more, so how did we get things moving? It was then I noticed an outline of a figure right next to smoking man, just past blond hair lady. Perhaps I had to go back to where I had been. I crossed back over the road, keeping one eye on the truck as I did so, and stepped into the outline I could see there. First I felt my feet snap into place when I got them right. Then it was my leg, hips and body. As each part filled the outline correctly, it snapped into place. And as I snapped my head back into position, the world came back to life. There was that scream, a screech of brakes, a thud, and everyone was rushing over. I looked round. There was the woman looking confused with shopping on the ground, the girl clinging onto her, and in front of the truck was a young man on the ground. He’d been rushing to try and save the girl when I’d stopped time, faltered when suddenly there was no girl to save, and ended up in front of the truck himself. Thankfully his injuries weren’t that bad, considering; two broken legs, a broken collar bone, concussion. But the guy lived and recovered. Eventually. And the kid was fine. Okay, so I screwed up, not exactly a superhero, but hey, it was my first time. I wasn’t sure what was happening, what I was doing. This superhero talent I had didn’t come with a guidebook, you know. But I learned a valuable lesson, which is I had to look round for other potential consequences. Hell, at the time I wasn’t too sure it had even happened until I saw the local news on TV that night. They tried to pin it on Superman of course, but he wasn’t having anything to do with it, what with the other guy being injured and all that. None of the others would admit to it either. But I went round for a few days saying to myself, you saved a kid’s life. Fancy that. You. Jerry Martin. Well, nothing like that happened again for a while, so I thought it might just be a one off, but then I was in the bank, waiting patiently in the queue, when suddenly a couple of guys burst in, shooting at the ceiling, and telling everyone to get on the floor. Women screamed, men shouted, and I could see one of the tellers reach under his desk. Then everything froze. I stepped to one side, there was my outline waiting for my return, and I began to assess the situation. I checked outside, I wanted to see if the whole world had stopped; it had. Next, who was in danger. Firstly there was the teller. His name was Bill by the way, and Bill had been in the process of pushing the emergency button under the counter. Had he pressed it? I didn’t know, but what I did know is one of the gunmen had spotted him, aimed and fired. And from what I could see, the aim was good. Or bad, if you were a teller called Bill. As I saw it, I had two options. The first option was to move Bill out of the way of the bullet. If I moved Bill, I would need to get behind the counter, and hey, wasn’t that the door to the back office opening? So for that I could move that filing cabinet so it was in the path of the bullet. But the filing cabinet was kinda big, looked heavy like. To say nothing of how the hell do I get over the counter and the barriers in the first place. Which left option two. Option two was to move the bullet, which I did very carefully. Hell, if I took it out of time, I’d no idea if it was going to go off or anything or continue on its way. So rather than pluck it out the air with my pinkies, I thought it safer if I used a waste basket, which is what I did. No explosion, it just rattled around a bit, but I made sure that when I put the bin down on the floor that the bullet was facing towards the wall, just in case. That done, I looked back at the two guys. They still had guns, were still a threat. I went up to the one who’d tried to shoot Bill, took hold of his gun, oh how I hate those things, and tried to pull it from his grasp. I found that if I moved one finger at a time, I could loosen his grip just enough so that I was able to get it away from him. When I’d got both guns, I put them in a corner behind a desk. If anyone asked how they got there, I’d say I put them out of harms reach in what I hoped would be the ensuing confusion. But the guys were still a threat. They were big, nasty, wearing masks, and I dare say when they realised their guns were gone, they’d get nastier. First the masks came off. Urgh. Big, nasty and ugly. But what to do with them now? Missing their masks would make them even angrier, so I looked around at the other customers. I judged there were at least three of them that might be able to keep these goons in place till the police got here. But let’s give them a head start. Now I might not be good at many things, but I was a good boy scout, and I like to think I’m good a tying knots. I would have liked to tie their feet together, but as their feet were so far apart, that wasn’t really feasible, so I had to make do with tying each leg to a chair. I went round all the guys in the queue and ‘borrowed’ their ties for the purpose. I made sure I included my own tie that I would remember to ‘miss’ when time started again. I was about to step back into my outline when I noticed that an old lady had been knocked and was falling over. If she fell where she was, she’d break a hip for sure. There was bearded guy quite close, and although it didn’t look like he’d catch her, if he had a well-placed chair to hand... There was nothing else I could do. I stepped back to where my outline was waiting, clicked into it a bit at a time, and bingo. The bullet exploded in the waste bin, Bill pressed the button, the old lady sat down suddenly on a chair that the bearded guy just happened to have his hand on, and two very confused would be bank robbers were being wrestled to the ground by the fit guys just as Superman showed up and shortly before the police arrived. Superman took most of the credit for that one, though he did say he had help from an anonymous source. I could see he was confused about the guys being tied to chairs. Of course, I’m not like other superheroes. Nobody thinks oh yeah, there goes Pause Button Man. I don’t have a fancy costume, I’d look ridiculous in one anyway. Nobody knows that Jerry Martin is other than he seems, a man in his thirties, still living with his mother, a lowly accountant who works at the Daily Planet. My superpower is not something I can switch on and off like these other guys, it just happens if there’s a tricky situation that I might be able to do something about. I’ve saved a couple of kids from drowning when they fell into a river, I’ve saved a crowd of people when a man was having a massive heart attack at the wheel of his taxi. Couldn’t save the driver though, he was already dead. My gifts are limited to the here and now. But there was one occasion where I found out something very interesting. We were on a night out with other people from work. I was walking along and Perry White was saying “So, Jerry, what part of the organisation do you say you work in again?” Behind, I could hear Clark Kent was trying to chat up Lois Lane. He was droning on, trying to impress her, when there was trouble up ahead. A fight had started in a bar and had got ugly. One guy had pulled a knife, another a gun, and it looked like it was about to turn into a free for all, until it paused. Hell, what was I supposed to do here? I looked round at the others. Perry looked like he was about to crap himself, Lois hadn’t yet noticed and was dreaming about Superman - when wasn’t she - and Clark... Well, Clark Kent was running away. But the truth of the matter was that he was further away than he had any right to be considering that a split second before he had been telling Lois how nice her hair was looking. If he’d started running the moment the trouble started, he wouldn’t have had time to go more than a couple of steps. Yet there he was, half a block away, turning into a side street. What was all that about? I looked at the troublemakers, they weren’t going anywhere, so I decided to take a closer look at Clark. As I got closer, I noticed that he was pulling at his collar, like he was undoing his tie, and he’d already taken his glasses off, making him look more like... A quick peak under his shirt and there it was, red and gold, the S emblem. And further down, I’m sure I caught a glimpse of blue. Well, well, well, Clark Kent, you dark horse. So, now for some fun. I went back to the troublemakers and looked at what they had for weapons. There were three with guns, four with knives, a couple with pool cues and one with a chair. I looked around, and close by noticed a grocery store. From there I picked up supplies and replaced the guns with bananas, the knives with cucumbers, the pool queues with bread sticks. Oh, and I grabbed a tablecloth from a café to replace the chair. The weapons I chucked in a dumpster. There, that would stop any immediate threat. After all, I was pretty sure that someone else would turn up soon enough to apprehend the thugs. Before I restarted time, I looked around to make sure I hadn’t missed anything crucial. No, everything looked fine. Then I clicked back into place and waited. Sure enough, a couple of seconds later Superman turned up to apprehend the guys attacking each other with the contents of the grocers’ store, and I could see he was wondering where all the weapons they’d had only seconds before had gone. The troublemakers had forgotten what they were arguing about and were starting to laugh about it, convinced they’d picked up the wrong weapons because they’d drunk too much. Superman checked everything was okay, and it was then I went up to him and said “Oh Superman, I think they put their weapons in that dumpster over there before you got here,” all innocent like. I could see him looking at the dumpster, probably using his X-ray vision, and after he’d flown off with them, Clark Kent suddenly appeared again. Of course Lois only had eyes for Superman, so had no idea that Clark had even been missing. I could feel Clark looking at me over the next few weeks, wondering, but hey, I’m not one to gossip. I moved on after that, thought I’d go see a bit of the world. Time I left home anyway. And over the years I’ve learned all about the secrets of Hal Jordan, Diana Prince and Barry Allen. Just off to my new job in Gotham City where I’ve got a job with this guy called Bruce Wayne. Wonder what secrets that will bring?

“I don’t need help,” Clarke always thought. He sat at his desk in his claustrophobic office staring at his duel monitors blankly, almost as if nothing was on the screen. His mind was a mess, always had been and likely always would be. His chest was tight and his eyes tired. He couldn’t focus. Clarke took his reading glasses of, letting them fall carelessly onto his desk. Peering out of his window into the world he became stricken with sadness. He wished he could see it all. He wished he could find what his mind and his heart were so clearly missing. He felt out of place in his world and society, he made it through college by going through the motions. Days that droned on like millennia were now a single cluster of mundane memories. Clarke thought. All he did was think. He thought too much. He looked to the future and its uncertainty or the past and its cringe and pain more than he looked at what was presently in front of him. Sometimes he could go weeks caught in the motions of life, like relaxing in a peaceful ocean. But the ocean swelled and the waves would crash him back to shore on a desolate island; he was alone. He felt out of breath, confused as to where he was. He desperately craved comfort. He desperately craved to not feel so bad about everything. He desperately craved to stop worrying about things that were already lost in the universe; like a speck of dust floating lightyears away. “Maybe I should go home sick,” he thought to himself, “I just need some more rest.” It was true, he did need rest. The restlessness, however, was caused by him crashing to shore all night. Waves bombarded him awake. The waves from the prior night felt unfamiliar, he thought he had mastered the sea. “I don’t need help,” he had thought with a smile, “I’m much better now.” But the waves were back, and here was Clarke, at his desk feeling like he never wanted to watch the news ever again. He imagined humanity couldn’t make it much longer. Did the waves tell him that? The waves gave him a wanderlust. Amongst the trees and the mountains is where Clarke found peace. He feared that in his lifetime those places of peace would be long gone. He feared for his mother Earth. He feared for himself. Without a word, Clarke left his workplace. Swift motions that felt so right he thought them criminal guided him to his car and to the bank where he withdrew all of his money. All-in-all it was $30,000. “Goodbye emergency fund,” he said aloud. He drove to the gas station and filled up his gas tank. The overcast day gave the world around him a silver hue, but he knew that soon he would see sunshine. He felt inexplicable amounts of euphoria as he drove away. He mapped out a plan in his head as he drove, listening to his favorite introspective music. “Lover is a Day” played on his speakers as he imagined a road trip through the U.S., followed by a flight to Europe where he would backpack and commute before another flight to Asia. The world, oh how he had to see it! He had to see it before it was gone! He felt even more peace as he packed his clothes and passport before once again hitting the road. Leaving his phone behind was icing on the cake. The waves could catch him no longer, he was on the move. His focus was unmatched as he looked toward his destiny. It was as though he had been in a dark tunnel but the bright opening was in reach! He drove all day. As the Earth’s humble rotation turned Clarke away from the Sun, he drove into a motel. He lied down in his motel bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. His peaceful smile disappearing as he heard the roar of the open ocean. The waves were back The waves slammed him to shore harder than ever. His eyes burst open with a start allowing beaming fluorescent light in. His monitor had timed out. He stared blankly at it once more. Tears welling within him. “I need help,” he thought.

The Train Wreck The day was balmy and warm though winter was not yet done with us. On such a day the hills called out to be trod upon. Ol’ Spot and I set out, in no particular hurry, to mount those hills with whom we had become close friends over the years. Seasons never deterred us but were merely a change in mood, and who of us has not changed our mind or mood on occasion. The slope was steep with small riverlets that would eventually join a creek, then a river or two and finally the ocean. They were now clogged with leaves and ice and blowing snow. Normally Spot would stop to lap water from the icy flow, but with a hard freeze he was content to bypass that adventure. Up a slope and down to a glade, I repeated the ascent twice more till my muscles ached and perspiration in spite of the weather told me it was time for a rest. The view was worth the effort. Even Spot was impressed! Far below, in the valley I could see the train’s rails disappearing in the distance both east and west. The rails glissened in the reflected winter light. From my vantage, only small distances were hidden behind hills. My bologna sandwich called to me, and Spot and I enjoyed our lunch break. In the distant west I could see a freight train plowing over the low hills. It was a massive slow slogging behemoth gamely struggling to make its schedule. But wait, something else was going on. To the east, was the sleek steel tubular passenger liner, headed west like a racing steed. The liner appeared fast and lithe. Its speed was twice that of the freight hauler. I looked closely, but knew from my knowledge of the area that there was no siding for a sleek passenger carrier to stop. Communications being what they are these days, collisions are rare. But did either of the engineers know the other was coming? My phone was there. (I may be dedicated to nature, but I still demand a few conveniences.) The 911 operator promptly answered with her rehearsed response. “911, how can I help you?” I described the railway and the approaching trains. I identified the area as closely as possible. Efficient, but with more urgency, she responded, “Hold on, I’ll contact the dispatcher.” Only a moment later she returned on line. “The dispatcher cannot get in touch. It’s a very desolate area! Down in those valleys, communications are sketchy. I’ll try the local EMS." After a short time she returned, somewhat out of breath. “EMS will try, but they also had no communication response and said there are just no highways. It’s a designated scenic area.” As I gazed back at the tracks, the two trains were eating up the territory like an eager teenager at a pizza buffet. The geography with its rolling hills and unending curves effectively hid them from each other. It was unlikely they could stop in time and time was against them. I had one more request for the vexed 911 operator, “How about calling my cousin, Muley. He lives near here.” I gave her his number. “Sure, how can he help?” He can’t, but he can come up here. He’s never seen such a wreck!” She had just closed the connection when I heard soft footsteps behind me. It was Muley! Muley had an uncanny ability to show up when needed--usually before being summoned. “‘Sup, Buddy!” “...big problem down in the valley, Muley. It looks like confusion on the tracks. There’s a fast passenger carrier barreling from the east and a gigantic freight carrier slogging its way from the west. I don’t see any siding and with the hills I doubt they are aware of each other. The dispatcher can’t communicate.” Even before I finished describing the problem, Muley had pulled his rifle cover from his shoulder (I hadn’t noticed he had a rifle.) He unzipped it and revealed a 30.06 rifle complete with tripod and the most sophisticated sight I had ever seen. “What’re you gonna do? You can’t stop a liner with a rifle.” “I don’t plan to stop it. I’m just going to send a signal they won’t ignore.” “What’s your signal say? Stop the train or Butch Cassidy and Sundance will blow you up!" “No, I’m simply going to signal danger--BIG DANGER, STOP, BACK UP!” In the time it took to say these few words, Muley had set up his tripod, screwed on the sight, mounted the rifle and was already peering through the sight at the engine of the fast liner. “Do you think you can hit the liner?” “I’m aiming for a corner of the locomotive window or the windshield. I want to send a signal without injuring anyone. I will, at least, give it a good old college try.” Now the sleek liner was starting up a large hill at a tremendous speed. The freight carrier was last seen approaching the other side of the hill. Now we could no longer see the freight engine on the far side of the hill, but some of the following cars were still visible. At that moment, I heard a crack of the rifle. Muley said, “Well, I grazed the windshield, but I think that round skipped off without penetrating.” As we spoke, I heard-- CRACK! In a more satisfying voice Muley stated, “I think that did it. A solid hit, less than four inches from the front lower corner. Muley continued his narration, “About now that engineer is looking at the hole and thinking, ‘What the hell.’ He’s scratching his head and looking at the front windshield crack. He thinking to himself, DANGER. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he’s going to hit the brakes and go into reverse.” At that moment, with the liner half way up the hill, sparks began flying from the locomotive and under the undercarriage of the passenger cars. Soon the wheels reversed and there was some slow backward motion. Even at our distance from the track, we could hear the couplings compress. The backward movement was barely perceptible at first, but gradually gained momentum. One look at the top of the hill revealed that the freight engine had gained the top of the hill and was gamely moving down the slope. Soon the engineer noticed the liner obstructing the track and hit his own brakes and reversed gears. I commented to Muley, “You did it! You stopped the collision.” “No. No, I didn’t prevent anything; But I may have avoided a derailment and loss of life.” Muley was already packing away his rifle, scope and tripod. We watched as the trains tried desperately to slow. It was a futile attempt. The two locomotives crashed with a deafening CLANG! The forward three to six feet of both engines were tangled together in a mess. Then we saw engineers from both trains climb out to survey the damage. Soon passengers disembarked as well. Muley said, “It’s a train wreck alright. But there’s no loss of life, so we’ll take that as a win. But we’d best get going. There’ll be investigators, drones, dogs and all sorts of questions. The fact that we saved hundreds of lives won’t be considered. As they say, ‘no good deed goes unpunished.’” As we scampered down the trail, I had one question for Muley, “You said you would give it ‘the old college try.’ I know you didn’t go to college. What college were you referring to?” “Well, it wasn’t exactly a college, but it surely was an education. It was Ranger Sniper School.”

Parnell, Iowa 1885 “I still have half a dozen ponies to break and get to market,” Avery Cooke says. “Besides, Skeeter’s not ready for something like this.” Snuffing out his pungent cigar, Andor Cressy, the rotund owner of the Zenith Mines and the Top Dollar Ranch gives Avery a grim look. Avery corrects himself. “Mister Skeeter.” “And don’t you forget it. You people have been free for twenty years and you act like you’re my equal. I ain’t above whippin’ nobody, black or white, who sasses me. When I say teach the boy how to use dynamite it ain’t open for discussion. And if he gets so much as a burnt finger, I’ll take one of yours, understand?” Avery looks shell-shocked as he leaves Cressy’s office. He nearly bumps into Cole Calhoun, his friend of more than twenty years. The bearish ranch foreman chuckles, scratching the stubble on his cheek. “That’s the same expression I wore when Cressy told me to teach Skeeter how to shoot a gun.” “Well, this is worse. He’s opening a new mine and wants me to teach Skeeter how to use dynamite. He’ll kill us all.” Cole laughs hard until his belly shakes. “The boy’s too lazy to yell ‘Sueee’ in a pig pen. He’s not stupid, just a boy. Never had a reason to care about much. He’s always had somebody who’d do for him. Maybe handlin’ somethin’ that could kill him’ll give him a sense of responsibility.” “Problem is, it could kill us too.” “Righteous words, pard. Just make sure I’m in the next county when class starts.” Avery and Cole watch Skeeter connect the fuse to the bundle of dynamite he’s placed under a stump. “Everythin’ according to Hoyle?” Cole asks, tightening his hold on the reins of his horse. “So far,” Avery replies. “Nervous?” “Biggity. Remember when he was a pup? The boy used to eat dirt... by the spoonfuls!” “His mama was a bad cook. He outgrew a lot of those bad habits thanks to you and me.” “You’re right, Avery. Maybe I should have some faith in the little knothead. But I’m still not gettin’ down off this horse.” Major, the Cressy’s friendly hound dog, sniffs at the nearby box of dynamite. “Stay outta there, Major,” Cole warns. “Your fuse is too short,” Avery yells to Skeeter. “Are you kiddin’? It’s gotta be two foot long!” Skeeter returns. “Dynamite has a short fuse and so do I. You’ve got about twelve seconds after you light that fuse to get clear,” Avery says. “I ain’t as old and slow as you.” “And if you make a mistake, you won’t get the chance to be.” Skeeter lights the fuse, scrambling back to Avery and Cole. The stump explodes, sending splinters in all directions. “Yee-haw! Maybe this could be rip-roarin’ fun after all!” Skeeter shouts. Cole’s horse whinnies as he struggles to hold it in place. “Well, professor, did he pass?” “We’re still here.” Major runs up to Skeeter holding a stick of dynamite in its mouth. Screaming, Skeeter darts off. Major leisurely trots behind him, the stick of dynamite still firmly clenched between its teeth. “How far do you suppose he’ll get?” Cole asks. “Skeeter’s quick. But he can’t outrun four legs.” An explosion sounds in the distance. “Pshaw,” Cole says. “I really liked that dog.” Charity Moore hurriedly exits the general store with Skeeter at her heels, jabbering endlessly. “I’m gonna inherit my daddy’s goldmines and ranch someday, so I’ll have all the money I’ll ever need. In the meantime, I aim to start a family. I was thinkin’ maybe with you.” The twenty-six-year-old strawberry-blonde bank teller freezes, looking at the short, skinny, freckled boy. “I’m a little old for you, don’t you think?” “Nothin’ like an experienced woman.” “I’m afraid I lack the experience I think you’re referring to, Mosquito.” “It’s Skeeter, and we should about things over lunch.” Spotting Avery tying his horse to the hitching post, Skeeter yells, “C’mere! I wantcha to meet my future misses.” Avery slowly approaches the mismatched couple, his bewilderment evident in his pleasant half-smile. “This here’s Charity Moore. She’s gonna be Mrs. Skeeter Cressy.” “That so?” “No. it’s not so,” Charity says defiantly. “We got a few details to work out yet,” Skeeter offers. “Such as me agreeing to be the wife of a wet-nosed Mosquito.” “You watch your mouth, missy, betrothed or not. And my name is Skeeter! My daddy’s one of the most powerful people in this pig sty. You don’t wanna upset his son. So how about lunch?” “I’ve already had it. I was just stopping in the store for a spool of thread. I have to get back to work.” “Then dinner. You got five bucks, Avery, so I can take this fine lady out in style?” Charity blanches. “I’m working really late tonight.” Avery hands Skeeter some money. “Maybe you should use the money to unwind instead, Mister Skeeter. You’ve been working hard lately.” Skeeter laughs, slipping the money in his pocket. “You’re right! I got a great idea, Charity. I can sport you around town during the Summer Festival next week. If you see my old man, Avery, tell him I’m in the saloon throwin’ a few back!” Charity watches Skeeter bounce away. “The sad part is, he thinks he’s a catch. Thanks for getting rid of him.” “It might only be a slight reprieve if he tells his father about you,” Avery replies. “I’m not worried about Andor Cressy. I worked along the Mississippi in some of the most raucous dance halls ever patched together. I learned how to take care of myself. I can do something so offensive Cressy’ll insist I don’t have anything to do with his little mosquito.” Turning to Avery, she adds, “Something like being friends with a well-spoken colored man.” Stiffening and staring straight ahead, Avery whispers, “Thank you for the compliment, ma’am.” “Don’t get your feathers in an uproar. I’ve only been here a few months, but I know most of the people in this town respect you a lot more than Skeeter.” “Personal matters are somethin’ else,” Avery replies. “Oh, you’re talking about the invisible code that says we’re not allowed to be together. Fiddle-dee-dee to that. We’re just having a polite little conversation. Not one passerby has stopped to stare at us or curse at you. They’re too caught up in their own sad, dirt-poor lives to string you up just for standing next to me.” “That’s a comfort,” Avery says. Sighing heavily, Charity adds, “I wish I could get away from the stink of these cowboys and rednecks.” “I say the same thing at least twice a day, although I’m already up to four times today.” “I need a man who knows the difference between a fence and fencing.” “You use a hammer on for one. The other, a sword,” Avery says. “Sounds like you’ve had some schooling.” “I got through high school in New York.” “That’s farther than I got,” Charity notes. “You wouldn’t happen to know an intelligent, well-spoken man, would you? I was hoping I’d find one here.” Avery looks down at the sidewalk. “The man’s got to have a backbone too,” Charity says. “If you could be someplace else, where would you go?” “I read about this town called Nice in France. It said everybody there gets treated the same, no matter what they look like. But I don’t speak French.” “I do,” Charity replies. “Sounds like a nice place to open a restaurant.” “I know a good cook. Me.” “But where would someone get the money to open her own place halfway around the world?” Charity asks. “You’re a teller, aren’t you?” Avery and Cole flinch as Skeeter nearly drops a box of dynamite before carrying it into the storage shed. “Your nerves must be shot,” Cole comments. “He dropped a few sticks in the sand before. Then he tossed them back in the box like he was playing horseshoes.” “And he’s gonna be the big wheel around here someday,” Cole says. “Frightenin’.” As Avery walks away in disgust, Skeeter emerges from the shed smoking a cigarette. “Did you light that thing in the shed?” Cole asks. “It was dark in there. I needed a light, so I struck a match. I didn’t wanna waste it, so I smoked the rest of the cigarette I rolled a while back.” Later that afternoon, Cole rides into the ranch. He sees Avery taking the saddle off his horse and rides over to talk with him. “Where you been?” “The boss wanted me to get the mail and his medicine. Apparently, he’s got gout and whiskey is the cure,” Avery answers. “What have you been up to?” “Cressy told me to fix the fence in the north pasture, so the beeves don’t get loose. I went up there to look at it. We need to get more wire to fence them in.” “Have you seen the kid?” Avery asks. “I thought he was with you.” A thundering boom sounds in the distance. “I think we found him,” Cole says. Avery and Cole ride up on Skeeter, who is firing rockets in the direction of the north pasture. “What in the blazes are you doing!” Avery snaps. “I just came up with somethin’ that’ll leave you grinnin’ like a weasel in a hen house,” Skeeter says gleefully. He picks up a stick of dynamite. “I take a stick of dynamite, then I attach it to a stick from a tree, and we got a rocket more powerful than any of those little pipsqueak fireworks they’ll fire off at the Summer Festival.” Cole’s meaty features turn crimson. “You dunderhead! You’re shootin’ at the cows in the north pasture! You probably turned half of ‘em into ground beef! Your daddy’s gonna be madder than a wet hen!” “Not if I was never here!” Skeeter says, bolting for his horse. Avery and Cole watch Skeeter speed off. “He expects us to hold his water,” Cole mutters sourly. “Just like a thousand times before,” Avery replies. Avery and Cole slow their horses at the peak of the hill overlooking the north pasture. Cole curses under his breath as he looks at the slaughtered cows. “I count eight dead,” he says. “Looks like the rest stampeded.” “You’ve got something worse to worry about,” Avery replies, pointing at Andor Cressy, who is speeding toward them, his eyes black with anger and his gun drawn. Pulling his snorting steed to a halt, Cressy points his gun at Cole. “You! You fat, lazy toad! I told you to fence in the north pasture!” “You did. But if I had, the dynamite might have killed all of them beeves...” “Shut your fat trap!” Cressy turns his gun on Avery. “I’m not healed, boss,” Avery says quietly, raising his hands to show he’s unarmed. “That’s the only thing keepin’ you alive, boy! You were supposed to teach my son the right way to use dynamite! What do I get? Two yahoos blowin’ up my cows!” “But Boss... We didn’t...” Cole manages to say before he’s cut off. “Don’t say another word, you sidewinder! My son can run a ranch without you, and he can break and get my horses to market without you, Avery. I trusted you two for over fifteen years, and you go and murder my cows! Next, you’ll be bushwackin’ me! Pick up your pay, both of you. I want you hellions gone by tonight!” “You’re gonna regret this,” Cole says. Skeeter peels back the swinging doors to the Silver Bullet Saloon. Spotting Cole downing shots at the bar, he eases up alongside of him. “Sorry to hear about you and Avery.” “At least it’s the last time I have to cover for you, Skeeter.” “Where’s Avery?” “The owner won’t allow him in here, although his money spends just like anybody else’s,” Cole says. Owner of the hotel’s more hospitable. He let Avery take a room there. Avery says he’s gonna leave town in a couple of days.” “You’re not goin’ with him? I thought you two was pardners?” “He’s chasin’ a dream. He thinks he can be a free man somewhere, a man with the same rights as everybody else. Good luck, and God bless him,” Cole says. “I got a score to settle. Avery’s more willin’ to forget. I’ll miss him, though. He kept me on an even keel. If he hadn’t, you’d be writin’ your old man’s eulogy. That calm of Avery’s? That’s what earned him his familiarity with dynamite. I was Captain of the Fifty-Eight Regiment of colored troops out of New York. We had a white sergeant, Carl Cash, who worked with the dynamite until he accidentally blew his hand off. We had to blow up a bridge and we didn’t have a replacement, so Cash taught Avery how to use it. You gotta admire a man who can face that kinda danger and walk away without a scratch, and Avery did it every time. So, now that you’re on your own, what’s it like playin’ ramrod for your daddy?” “I ain’t cut out for this.” “Too dangerous?” “Nah. There ain't enough money in it. My daddy’s made so much money from his goldmines and from raisin’ beef, he doesn’t know how much he’s got. And I’m on a salary like everybody else.” Cole scratches the stubble on his chin. “Don’t seem fair. You say your daddy’s gold is in the bank?” “Yeah, there’s probably twenty thousand in gold bars there and twice as much in cash. I wish I could get my hands on some of it.” “Maybe you can. The Summer Festival has started. Most folks’ll be goin’ direct from church to the festival this Sunday. It just so happens that the bank’ll be closed Sunday. The Festival’s a mile outta town. Parnell’s gonna be emptier than a bone orchard.” “I don’t have the combination to the safe,” Skeeter says. “Who needs a combination?” Cole and Skeeter ride through Parnell’s empty streets. They pass Charity and Avery standing in front of the bank. Avery is carrying a large bag. Grumbling, Skeeter rides up to them. “What the hell is this? My girl out with a colored? No offense, Avery.” “We ain’t got time for this, Skeeter!” Cole yells after him. Charity stiffens. “Great. You insult him in one breath and cower in the next. Not that it’s any of your lookout, Mosquito, but Avery was just carrying some clothes for me.” “C’mon, Skeeter, be sensible. If you can’t trust Avery, you can’t trust anyone,” Cole says. “Where are you two dangerous outlaws headed?” Charity asks. Skeeter looks at Cole, who quickly answers, “The saloon.” “Isn’t it closed because of the festival?” Sticking his nose in the air, Skeeter says, “Well, it ain’t closed to me. And my name is Skeeter!” “Glad Avery and Charity didn’t dally in front of the bank,” Cole says, watching Skeeter attach a second bundle of dynamite to the safe’s door. “Shouldn’t one bundle be enough?” “Who’s the demolition expert here, Cole? This here’s the finest safe made. Came all the way from Philadelphia. Four sticks might only put a dent in it. Eight’s gonna make us rich.” Skeeter twists the two long fuses for each bundle of dynamite together. “Trick I learned from Avery. Now instead of lightin’ two separate fuses, I only gotta deal with one.” Skeeter strikes a match. “If I timed this right, we got thirty seconds before she blows.” He lights the fuse and the two men run outside, covering their ears. “You sure people won’t hear the explosion?” Cole asks. “I told you. They got a target shootin’ competition goin’, music, elephants all kinds of other noise goin’ on. Even if they do hear somethin’, we’ll be forty thousand dollars richer by the time they get here.” Cole looks at the bank. “Did the dynamite go off yet?” Skeeter moves on tiptoes toward the bank. “Dang it. I bet the fuse went out.” The bank explodes and Skeeter and Cole are thrown backward. Stunned, Skeeter and Cole slowly regain their feet. Tiny shards of wood and metal fall around them like drops of rain. A gigantic hole in the ground remains where the bank once stood. “The money!” Cole shouts. “It’s blown to smithereens!” “Forget the money,” Skeeter says. “The gold bars. We still got the gold bars!” The pair rush to the edge of the chasm. “That hole’s gotta be twenty feet deep,” Cole observes. “How do we get the gold outta there?” A gold bar drops in the dirt on the opposite side of the hole. “Maybe we won’t have to!” Skeeter says, elated. Skeeter and Cole look up at the cloudless sky. A gold bar cleaves off the top of Skeeter’s skull. Before Cole can complete the curse on his lips, a gold bar hits him between the eyes. Both men’s bodies topple backward, falling into the smokey abyss. Charity boards the 12:30 train, lugging a heavy valise. Seeing her struggle, a conductor grabs it from her, despite her protest. “It’s got some precious items in it.” “Don’t worry, Ma’am, I’m gentle as a lamb,” he says swinging it into the overhead rack. He huffs mightily, surprised by its weight. “I bet you’ve got a small fortune in there, eh, Miss?” Charity twitters coquettishly. The conductor looks over at the dapper Black man across the aisle, frowning. “You behave boy, or you’ll be walking the rest of the way on broken legs.” Charity situates herself in her seat. She looks across the aisle at Avery, who tips his derby. “Fancy meeting you here, Mister Cooke. Where are you bound?” “France. But I don’t know how to speak French.” Charity smiles. “Don’t worry. I do.”

Suddenly, it had all come down to this. It seemed as if the battle had gone on forever, but at long last, it was drawing to a close. &#x200B; Two teams of gladiators and warriors were fiercely engaged in the most ancient form of tribal combat. Everything - pride, reputation and all - was on the line. For the winners, the glory of victory and everlasting triumph was within their grasp. For the losers, the shame of defeat and the feeling of failure would haunt them forever. History would no doubt remember both, but not in the same manner. &#x200B; The combatants were not simply fighting for themselves - they were fighting for their regions. The two could not be more juxtaposed. One represented an area of success - where the wealthy called home, and where simply residing was considered a sign of affluence. One represented an area of struggle - where people would submit themselves to back-breaking physical labour, day in and day out, simply in order to survive. This was reflected in their representatives in the arena - the opulent had vanquished all who came before them in great style, while the strugglers had to scratch and claw their way to have a chance at glory. The battle was of Biblical proportions - and the comparisons to David and Goliath were many and apt. &#x200B; And yet, all that mattered for very little now. With not much time to spare, the squads were dead even. The usually high standards of combat had dropped - all concerned looked nervous and disjointed. The tens of thousands of people in the colosseum, totally unprepared to see the warriors representing them emerge defeated, screamed for blood. The battle cried for someone to take control. &#x200B; \~\~\~ &#x200B; For as long as he remembered, it had all been on him. Born to a young mother and an absent father, his generational talent for combat led many to christen him as the Chosen One in his formative years. He often delivered on this moniker, and in spectacular fashion. However, he was far from unburdened by the expectation placed on his young shoulders, and he at times failed to deal with the intense scrutiny. He promised that he would bring glory back to his city, but after many failed attempts the patience of his congregation was beginning to wear thin. &#x200B; \~\~\~ &#x200B; Once more, it was all on him. His leadership had often been called into question, and a chance to vanquish those doubts once and for all stood before him. Where all the other combatants were nervous, he was calm, and where they were doubtful, he was assured. On the biggest and brightest of stages, his heroics were on full display; in a moment sure to live on forever, he saved his comrades from what looked like certain defeat with one heroic action. When the bell rang, the deafening roar of the crowd turned dead quiet; it was all over, and the underdog had emerged victorious.

It started with a subtle, anticipatory inhalation, an almost sound. He pressed his hand flat on her ribs. The long deep exhale resonated through her body in a low steady hum. The lowing call unfurled. The languid melody grew from a rich bass note and rose to a mid-range timbre producing a soothing earthy note. John leant on the wooden gate, his hand over the side, resting on the side of the cow. The early evening air cooled a degree or two. The change of temperature plucked at his forearms with tiny fingers. He shivered, waiting for the rest of the cows to make their way to the gate. They came in a line, full of sleepy sighs and at a leisurely pace. Lower in the valley the ground mist returned to herald the end of the day. It crept into the swells of the fields that edged the river bank covering the riverside with a silver-white hue. John didn’t have to go down there to smell the damp earth and coolness, he couldn’t, his bones wouldn’t make the journey now, but the years ingrained the smell of the earth's exhale into his very being. His nostrils widened as if to capture the delicate odour. A quick jagged flight of a thrush caught his eye. Startled from the leafy green hazel hedge it sought the safety of a spike-covered holly tree. He followed the bobbing flutter. The flutter. He fought the memory's approach focusing on the rough whirls of the cow's coat. The man's hands. They didn’t have the strength they once knew; they flapped on the bedsheets like broken birds with broken wings. ‘Be extraordinary,’ John muttered under his breath, trying to rid himself of the coming image. He could taste the memory on the tip of his tongue, a metallic tingling harbinger. ‘Be extraordinary.’ ‘Johnny, I don’t have long,’ the bedridden man said. The substance behind the words weighed down, barely there. ‘Come here, son.’ This memory hadn't shown its twisted face for many years but here it was in multi-coloured glory. A skeleton covered in taut yellow skin lay on the sweat-stained bedclothes that stank of urine and vomit. The sweet effluvium pierced Johnny's nostrils with sharp acidic tones. All John knew, when he was Johnny and the tender age of five, was that he didn’t want to be in this room, with this man. He no longer recognised his father; this wasn’t the man who filled his childhood with the sound of hearty laughter. Against his will and small strength, Johnny’s mum tugged him forward. He wrapped his arms around her leg squeezing it tight and turned his face into her soft skirts breathing deeply. Her skirts were full of the safe scent of cows and hay. ‘Son.’ Johnny stayed hidden in the comforting embrace of his mother’s skirt. He could hide his face but he couldn’t stop his ears from the blood-clotted speech and this man was not one for empty words of affection. In his final moments, the once robust figure imparted words of responsibility, not sentimentality. ‘My father died of this illness and his father before him, don’t you be a fool and die of it.’ Johnny heard his father suck in a tortured breath and swallow a cough, he looked up from his mother's skirts and watched as the shaking hand dragged a twisted cotton handkerchief, red and navy-blue plaid, to non-existent lips. Johnny focused on the movement of the hand, he wouldn’t, couldn’t, see the remnant of the man. As if his father felt Johnny’s gaze, he pulled away the handkerchief. ‘You have the brains; lord knows where from.’ His lips barely moved, red creased at the corners of his mouth, garish against the yellowing flesh. ‘Figure out what killed me. Use your talent, be extraordinary, striv to live to a ripe old age. Look after yourself to look after the family, look to the farm and the cows­-’ The man didn’t get a chance to say anymore. He fell into a coughing fit. Scarlet droplets erupted from his mouth. He coughed again, then again. Each cough sprayed the sanguine fluid onto his face, his pillow, and the bedsheets. The sight of the blood and the hideous sound of the choking cough overwhelmed young Johnny. He twisted his shoulders out from his mother's shocked grasp and fled to the meadow. Within the hedgerow of the high field sheltered from the lifting breeze, Johnny found refuge in the den he crafted over the past summer. He built it to avoid the hushed corridors and foul smells and filled it with hay and his favourite broken toys his mother said should be thrown away. He huddled, wrapped into a ball amongst the hay and discarded toys, his face hot and hard, burnt with tears. A rustling of leaves by his ear ended with a gentle moo. A cow’s breath blew across his ear. Johnny opened his eyes to see a curious eye peer at him through the leafy green of the hedge. He sat up, startled. The cow moved away. For hours he watched the gentle interactions of the cows. They spoke with little sounds as if they knew, on this day, to be quiet, to mourn the passing of the man who cared for them. They took and shared Johnny’s grief, softening its raw edges into sadness. John's worst memories, connected by trauma, jostled for attention, woken and lively as if they were willing partners at the side of a dancefloor. John buried his head in his arms as they lay crossing on the top of the gate, his skin cold against his forehead. He didn't want what he knew was coming, yet at the same time he longed for it. A quick sleight of hand, a do-si-do and his father stepped away. Another memory stepped promptly forward and John looked down on the face of the love of his life, his wife Ava. Ava knew the birth of their fifth child, Toby, wasn’t the same. She said as much but he refused to believe it. She lay exhausted, the child birthed. Hidden beneath the covers of the bed, her blood pooled and the room filled with the metallic, tangy aroma of blood. ‘You'll have to be extraordinary,’ she whispered. He flinched, surprised by the words, his father's death leapt vividly to his mind from where it had lain hidden, deep within, for thirty years, her words yanked the memory up and out, like a reluctant fish, it caught and thrashed against the line, resistant, but unable to resist the hook's pull to the surface. The bed, the blood. John held himself firm against the urge to leap up and run from the room and seek the freedom of the high meadow. To do so would mean releasing his dear Ava’s hand, irrationally convinced, as he was, that she would stay with him if he never let her go. Iron grew in him, he swallowed down the vomit that swelled to his throat tsunami-like at her poison-tipped words. The bitter smell of vomit in the room would be too much. ‘Promise to love them all, as I would,’ she said. The tiny bundle in the crib cried, she turned towards the sound and tried to lift her head. A sound born from the depths of a dying soul escaped her lips, a low bellow carrying the weight of unspoken pain. John knew that sound, he heard it in the language of the cows, he pressed his cheek against her hand unable to control the tears that forced their way out. 'Stay with me,' John begged. Ava licked her blood-drained lips. ‘Promise to love little Toby.’ She waited for his nod. ‘Bring the children up right. Make their lives the best they can be.’ John couldn’t find the words; his eyes held out his promise for her to see. When Ava stopped breathing John held on to her hand as it turned cold, staring at her face, willing her to live. Toby, his new baby boy, cried a tiny breathless cry. John drew in a deep breath and laid Ava’s hand gently on the bed. He picked up the tiny pink mass within the bundle of quilted sheets and took him down to see the cows come in, for the first of many times. His mind, now romping in morbid delight hauled forward memory after memory for his aghast perusal. He focused on his mother. The gentlest death he knew. He nursed her in her last years surrounded by his children and his children’s children. The family drew close in the failing years of the woman so pivotal to all of them. Like most farming wives she dealt in practicalities, her death was secondary to the farm's needs. ‘It’s your farm now, Johnny boy. You'll have to take over. You've done your bit. Your father would be proud but it's time to come back. Don’t let them beat you, John. Don’t let them have it. I know it's hard but you’ll have to be extraordinary.’ Be extraordinary, the words had changed for him. They fortified the rod of iron that ran through him. Commitment forged from pain. The words held him firm when he wanted to break. So, he beat them. It was his duty. Big business. The bank. Even the government and their petty little officials. The years wound in and out, the dusty bluebells filled the woods, the wheat grew in the fields, the tractors brought in the harvest, the frost broke the ground, and the cows and calves and cows and calves and cows. And every time the world got too hard, when the iron in him weighed him down, he took his worries to the cows. He listened to the curious wickers, the contented murmurs, the evening lows, and the gentle huffs until his soul was soothed once more. Twilight turned the world into silvers and greys. 'Hasn't it been enough?' John asked the cows. The cows gathered close now, seeking warmth in numbers. John dreaded the memories that would come if he stood there a moment longer. It was time to go home. He pushed himself away from the gate. His muscles creaking. The cold, bone deep. He turned from the cows and walked the lane to the house in which he was born. He'd done his duty and kept his promises he longed to rest and join Ava in sleep. Death followed his steps to the house, moving to walk beside him. 'I've been extraordinary,' John whispered to the moon. He’d kept his promise to his father. In school, he studied hard and became a researcher in the biomedical field. By the time he was thirty, before Ava's death, he'd discovered what killed his father, and his father’s father, and found a cure so no one else would suffer that bloody death. His father wanted him to live a long life and take care of the family and farm and he had. He lived an exceptionally long life, too long for his liking. At ninety-five he had had enough and that was twenty years ago. He kept his promise to his wife. One by one their children passed through university. They had good lives. He’d loved them all. Then they passed away, one by one, each time shattering his heart into fragments. Two from cancer, one from a stroke, one in a car accident, and little Toby, Ava’s last, from a heart attack right in front of him. The unwanted memory of Toby clutching at his chest leapt into John’s mind. He pushed it back into the dark and thought of the cows and their gentle ways. He saved the farm as his mother wanted. He kept it safe but he no longer had the energy, or will, to keep it up. Unable to tend the fields, the trees began creeping into them like uncertain rabbits, testing the air before they ran rampant. The days of striding down to the river and watching for fish were long gone. The hours he spent now, were leant against the gate talking to the cows as they’d come to check on him one by one, gently frisking him with their warm wet noses for the apple slice treats he sparingly handed out. John didn't feel the cold in the house. Too tired to light the fire or even turn on the light, John moved to sit where he always sat, in the timeworn chair squatting in the shadowed corner of the room. The chair squeaked and moved under him protesting at his slight weight. The walls bore the creeping artistry of mould, a morbid patina of black and grey. Dust blanketed the furniture, muting the once vibrant wood to sombre grey. Spiders made their homes in the corners, under cupboards, and across the ceilings of every room. Shadows danced and frolicked across the walls as the wind moved the overgrown undergrowth against the moonlit window. He traced the erratic dance with rheumy eyes. A dark figure stood in the doorway. John lifted his gaze, surprised. He raised a hand and then stopped in wonder at the waiting figure. He drew in a slow deep breath ready to ask a question, some question, something to explain what he saw. His heart lifted with hope. The breath was his last one. The question didn't have to be asked. His mouth widened in relief.

It’s the most horrible day of the year. April Fools’ Day. I have hated this day since I was young. I grew up with two older brothers who schemed to constantly make me miserable. The first day of the month of April was their free-for-all. It was a day where they could do the absolute most to drive me nuts and mom and dad would do basically nothing to scold them because it was “all in good fun.” For who? I ask. Not for me. It’s clear who the least favorite child was here. Always in last place after those couple of juvenile delinquents. As I grew older I would do all that I could to stay in my room and away from them as much as possible on this day. I’m 25 now and moved away from home quite a while ago, but the memories never left me. Now I live with two roommates in Chicago, Stan and Jackson. Good guys, but no one is to be trusted on a day like this. I woke up early like I do every day before work. I like to fit in a run before I go to the office. Before swinging my feet over the side of the bed, I look down to inspect the floor. No collection of marbles. I look closer, no glitter. I reach down and run my hand over the floor, no glue - I’m safe. Believe it or not, the worst out of the three of those is the glitter. That stuff TRULY never comes off. The last time I endured the step in a pile of glitter prank I was 15, and I swear, 10 years later I still sometimes see a sparkle on my big toes. Say what you will, some pranks never leave you. I get to the bedroom door and check above it before swinging it open all the way. All clear for paint cans or buckets of water. Having a cold bucket of water land on the top of your head when you really have to pee in the morning is the worst feeling in the world. Don’t try it, just trust me. I bend down again to inspect the screws on my door handle. No handles will be falling apart in my hands today. No sir, this is a master you are messing with. I open the door and stick my head out into the hallway, quickly looking both ways. Many a time I have believed myself to be safe only to run into an air horn in the hallway accompanied by “April Fools’ SUCKER!” I personally don’t view that as humor, it’s just disruptive. I rush through the hallway into the bathroom, do a quick check of the knobs and the top of the door and shut and lock it. Phew. Phase one of the day complete. It’s a lot of work to be this attentive on a day like this, but it’s worth it. I wave my hand in the inside of the toilet bowl before performing my morning duties. Talk about disruptive, have you ever tried to perform your morning duties only to discover saran wrap on the toilet bowl? Rude and disgusting, I identify this as one of the more juvenile pranks. Hygiene and cleanliness should be of the utmost importance to all, even those ridiculous prankers. Next up, check the toothbrush, toothpaste and mouth wash. Never assume anything is safe, that would be your first, biggest mistake of this treacherous day. I begin by inspecting the toothbrush handle slowly, yet another place for glue (super glue in my experience). Once I’m satisfied it’s safe, I pick it up and spread the bristles with my fingers, and they are dry. Next step is to taste a small bit of the toothpaste and the mouth wash. Tamper free again! I brush and gargle in silence, racking my brain on what could be next. People don’t just forget about this day, I know that my attentiveness will pay off. I just have to get through the day and I will be able to relax again tomorrow. I walk back into my bedroom to get changed for my run. I slowly open my dresser drawer, no loosened screws and no “snakes” pop out. That’s good, I really didn’t have the energy to reassemble my dresser. I’m not even sure how I put it together in the first place. I’m pretty sure at least a few things are wrong (I didn’t really consult the directions). I change for my run and rush out of the apartment before anyone can catch me. It’s typically safer out in the eye of the public. The less people in the area that know you, the less people there are to focus on you as a target. The best way to stay safe on this day is to live alone, let no one in your home the night before, lock your door, call in sick and stay in for the entire day. If this is not an option, your second best option is to stay in the public eye as much as possible. Being in close proximity to those that “love and care about you” is dangerous. They are the most likely to harm you. Trust no one. I finish my run without incident and head back to my apartment. I say a silent prayer as I unlock the front door, a sigh of relief, no one changed the lock while I was out. I walk in and Stan and Jackson are standing in the kitchen, making breakfast and getting ready for their days. “Hey Jon” Stan turned to me “You want some eggs?” “No!” I replied a little too vehemently. Stan looked at me quizzically. “Um, no thank you. I gotta go shower and get dressed for work.” “Okay buddy...” He turned back to the stove, choosing to ignore any possible reasoning for my odd reaction. This was good, the more the prankster knows you are fearing their pranks, the more joy they get out of the torture. You must never let them know they are getting inside your head. I get through my shower without incident, no cold water thrown over the curtain - I rushed to be certain this wouldn’t be the case, and kept one eye outside the curtain on my towel. Yet another attempt at hilarity is taking away all towels and leaving a simple wash cloth behind for me to dry myself with. Exhausting. Walking back into my room and getting dressed goes off without a hitch as well. I check my socks for anything odd before pulling them on, my shoes to make sure there are no rocks or fake mice, and inspect every inch of my suit jacket to avoid any silly signs stuck on my back. I take a deep breath and walk into the kitchen. I look around and see a plethora of prank options. The orange juice? Probably salted. The ice cubes? Probably vodka. The sugar for my coffee? Also probably mixed with salt. Salt, one of the biggest enemies of the day. I decide to play it safe and grab a coffee on my way to work. It’s safe to get a beverage or food item from a local restaurant. If they “prank” you, you can get them fired! Well, you can try. I’ve tried, I was only able to make a complaint. Turns out the barista switching my order with someone else’s that year was just an accident...so they say. I stop by the local Starbucks and closely watch the barista who I give my order too. I see no funny business, but I’m still sure to sniff my beverage before drinking it. No complaints being filed with the manager today. I walk the rest of the way to work and hop in the elevator. I work in marketing for a grocery store chain. Its steady work and I enjoy it. Usually people are pretty dependable, but as I said before, today is a day that nobody is to be trusted. I walk in and drop my bag at my desk. I move my chair backwards and forwards and push it on a few times. I slowly lower myself into it and breathe another sigh of relief. It doesn’t fall apart or slam to the floor. I turn on my computer and Brenda pops her head in my office. “Hey Jon! I made some muffins and put them in the break room, you should come have one!” “Hey Brenda! That’s awesome, thank you, I’ll grab one soon!” Not. She takes me for a fool, but I think of everything! God knows what I would bite into with one of those muffins. No thank you. No breakfast for me. Its fine, I have a frozen meal at the bottom of the freezer out of sight that is ready for lunch today. Should be far enough from harm’s way to not be tampered with. I start answering emails and preparing for my meetings for the day. After about an hour Brenda showed up again with a muffin. “Here you go! I didn’t want you to miss out.” She smiled at me. A pushy prankster; interesting the things you learn about people on this day. “Oh thanks...” I look down as she places the muffin on my desk. I picked it up and sniffed it, pulled it apart and decide it’s not worth the risk. I toss it in the garbage and go back to work, my stomach growling. Sometimes you have to make small sacrifices to benefit the greater good of your day. I think about this and write a note to buy a bag of ice after work. I’m not taking a chance with those ice trays. The next few hours go by in silence, and then Brenda pops by again. “Are you coming to the meeting? It got pushed up to 11AM instead of 2PM.” I sigh “Oh very funny Brenda! I see what you are trying to do.” Brenda paused, visibly confused “What are you talking about?” Such a good actress. “I’m not falling for any pranks today!” “Why would I be pranking you?” Brenda walked in and got closer. I see her eyes move to the garbage can where the remnants of her muffin remain. Her confused look turns to hurt. “Did you not like the muffin? I tried a new recipe, I was nervous about it. Not many people would give me feedback.” I started to realize that I may be misjudging her and reply with an air of guilt. “Um, I didn’t try it.” I admit, “Why not?” Brenda stares at me. “You know Jon, you seem off today, are you okay?” I sigh, “I’m trying to avoid getting pranked. I hate April Fools’ Day, its so many bad memories and I just don’t want to deal with it.” Brenda chuckles “Jon, it’s April 2 nd ” “Very funny Brenda, a classic prank - trying to make me think I don’t have to worry so I won’t see the pranks coming!” “No, Jon, really, yesterday was April 1 st . Today is the 2 nd . Check your calendar.” I’m skeptical, but I’ll give her this one. I glance on my phone and see the date, “April 2 nd ” I check my computer “04/02/2021” People could have tampered with these. I Google “what is today’s date” Friday, April 2, 2021 “Oh” I’m stunned. I missed April Fools’ Day? I went without getting pranked and I didn’t pay attention? My luck must have turned. This was amazing. I crumple my note to buy ice and turned to Brenda, “I think I’ll try a muffin now!” “That was the last one” Brenda scowled and walked away. “See you in the conference room!” Damn it. I’m so hungry.

#Welcome to Serial Sunday! To those brand new to the feature and those returning from last week, welcome! Do you have a self-established universe you’ve been writing or planning to write in? Do you have an idea for a world that’s been itching to get out? This is the perfect place to explore that. Each week, I will post a single theme to inspire you. You have 850 words to tell the story. Feel free to jump in at any time if you feel inspired. Writing for previous weeks’ themes is not necessary in order to join. &nbsp; *** #This week's theme is Adaptation! This week we’re going to explore the theme of ‘adaptation’. As the world changes around us, we grow and learn to adapt to it. This can be something that happens behind the scenes, one we barely notice, or it can be a difficult process that we fight every step of the way. Adaptation might be something more literal in your story. Maybe a character is making a physical transformation in order to adapt to the things around them, for survival. Is this a good change? Do others notice? What do they think about it? How will these things affect the world and people going forward? How does this change the characters’ goals and driving forces? These are just a few things to get you started. Remember, the theme should be present within the story in some way, but its interpretation is completely up to you. / | / &nbsp; *** #Theme Schedule: I recognize that writing a serial can take a bit of planning. Each week, I release the following 2 weeks’ themes here in the Schedule section of the post. You can even have a say in upcoming themes! Join us on the discord - we vote on a theme every Sunday. (You can also send suggestions to me via DM on Discord or Reddit!) * October 31 - Adaptation (this week) * November 7 - Vulnerability * November 14 - Heritage &nbsp; *** **Previous Themes:** | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | *** #How It Works: In the comments below, submit a story that is between 500 - 850 words in your own original universe, inspired by this week’s theme. This can be the beginning of a brand new serial or an installment in your in-progress serial. You have until 6pm EST the following Saturday to submit your story. Please make sure to read *all* of the rules before posting! &nbsp; *** #The Rules: * **All top-level comments must be a story inspired by the theme (not using the theme is a disqualifier).** Use the stickied comment for off-topic discussion and questions you may have. * **Do not pre-write your serial.** You may do outlining and planning ahead of time, but you need to wait until the post is released to begin writing for the current week. Pre-written content or content written for another prompt/post is not allowed. * **Stories must be 500-850 words.** Use to check your word count. **You may include a *brief* recap at the top of your post each week if you like, and it will not count against the wordcount.** * **Stories must be posted by Saturday 6pm EST.** That is one hour before the beginning of Campfire. Stories submitted after the deadline will not be eligible for rankings and will not be read during campfire. * **Only one serial per author at a time.** This does not include serials written outside of Serial Sunday. * **Authors must leave at least 2 feedback comments on the thread (on two different stories, not two on one) to qualify for rankings every week.** The feedback should be actionable and **must** include at least one detail about what the author has done well. Failing to meet the 2 comment requirement will disqualify you from weekly rankings. (Verbal feedback does not count towards this requirement.) **Missing your feedback two consecutive weeks will exclude you from campfire readings and rankings the following week.** You have until the following Sunday at 12pm EST to fulfill your feedback requirements each week. * **Keep the content “vaguely family friendly”.** While content rules are more relaxed here at r/ShortStories, we’re going to roll with the loose guidelines of family friendly for now. If you’re ever unsure if your story would cross the line, please modmail and ask! * **Begin your post with the name of your serial between triangle brackets** (e.g. <My Awesome Serial>). This will allow our serial bot to track your parts and add your serial to the full catalogue. Please note: You **must** use the exact same name each week. This includes commas and apostrophes. If not, the bot won’t recognize your serial installments. &nbsp; *** #Reminders: * **If you are continuing an in-progress serial, please include links to the prior installments on reddit.** * **Saturdays I host a Serial Campfire on the discord main voice lounge**. Join us to read your story aloud, hear other stories, and share your own thoughts on serial writing! We start at 7pm EST. You can even come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Don’t worry about being late, just join! * **You can nominate your favorite stories each week**. Send me a message on discord or reddit and let me know by 12pm EST the following Sunday. You do not have to attend the campfire, or have read all of the stories, to make nominations. Making nominations awards both parties points (see point breakdown). * Authors who successfully finish a serial with at least 8 installments will be featured with a modpost recognizing their completion and a flair banner on the subreddit. Authors are eligible for this highlight post only if they have followed the 2 feedback comments per thread rule (and all other post rules). * There’s a Serial Sunday role on the Discord server, so make sure you grab that so you’re notified of all Serial Sunday related news! &nbsp; *** #Last Week’s Rankings With another small week, we have just three top spots. But as always, everyone who wrote deserves a pat on the back! - - u/nobodysgeese &nbsp; - - u/rainbow--penguin &nbsp; - - u/ispotts &nbsp; - - u/WorldOrphan &nbsp; *** #Ranking System There is a new point system! Note that you must use the theme each week to qualify for points! Here is the current breakdown: **Nominations (votes sent in by users):** - First place - 60 points - Second place - 50 points - Third place - 40 points - Fourth place - 30 points - Fifth place - 20 points - Sixth place - 10 points **Feedback:** - Written feedback (on the thread) - 5 points each (25 pt. cap) - Verbal feedback (during Campfire) - 5 points each (15 pt. cap) *Note: In order to be eligible for feedback points, you must complete your 2 required feedback comments. These are included in the max point value above.Your feedback must be **actionable**, listing at least one thing the author did well, to receive points. (“I liked it, great chapter” comments will not earn you points or credit.)* **Nominating Other Stories:** - Sending nominations for your favorite stories - 5 points (total) &nbsp; *** ###Subreddit News - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday. Check out to learn more! - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts.

“Today’s the day I change.” I sipped coffee and clinked the cup to the saucer. “Uh-huh.” Michael’s eyes never left the page of his financial magazine. The glint of light from his gold wedding band danced as he turned the page. I bit my lip, rubbing the blue cloth napkin between my fingers. I needed to tell him; tell him it was time. Tilting my head, I studied his features, his long aristocratic nose from his great grandmother, his full lips I longed to kiss one last time, and his slender fingers. Oh, those fingers knew their way around every crevice of my body. I shivered and throbbed as I remembered his touch from just the night before. He let his hair grow out over the last few months, styling it upward from his crown in kinky, curly twirls, just the way it was when I first met him four years ago. I longed to go back in time, to experience his eagerness to see me when he came to the door. That first kiss, the breathless desire that percolated between us. Twisting my mouth sideways, I tapped my fingers on my coffee cup. Hmmm. How should I approach this? “How about a slice of lemon meringue?” I got up and opened the refrigerator. My thick soled loafers swooshed across the tiled floor. “Huh?” Michael glanced up, then back to focus on whatever was so important in that blasted magazine. “No thanks, Honey. Save me a piece for tomorrow.” I sliced into the yellow and white dream, licking my fingers after flopping a gooey mess onto my plate. Tomorrow? If only. As I carried the plate to the table, I froze in place, watching my thumb swirl a gelatinous purple hue for a second before regaining its brown structure. Exhaling, I made it back to the table in one piece. Staring at the deliciousness before me, my mouth watered. I hoped it was saliva as I wasn’t quite ready. I savored each bite of the pie. Each forkful lingered in my mouth, against my teeth. My tongue tasted the tangy lemony goodness. This was the day, there was no getting around it. If I didn’t complete my task tonight, there would be no more todays. But what of Michael? Michael didn’t know, didn’t know what was to come. He couldn’t. Will there be acceptance or rejection? Will he be happy for me? For us? He will always be a part of me, two souls as one. I felt a trickle down my cheek, ending at the crease of my lips. What’s this? My finger wiped away the salty offense. This was supposed to be a glorious occasion, one I’d been looking forward to ever since I met him. Putting the plate and fork in the sink, I lifted my head to see my reflection staring back at me in the window, thankful the darkness hid the ugly brick wall of the neighboring building. If I don’t do this now, I will never do it. All would be lost. Taking a deep breath, I stepped in front of Michael and put a hand on the top of the magazine. “What’s up, Honey?” His dark eyes held the question longer than the echo of his words. “Michael, you know I love you, right?” I put the magazine on the table. “Of course.” I took both of his hands in mine, pulling him to stand facing me. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you.” His brow furrowed, searching my face. Then his face brightened with a wide grin. “Are you...? Oh my God, are we...?” He grabbed me by the shoulders. “Oh, no, Michael, no.” I exhaled and pinched my lips together. His shoulders drooped and my heart sank too, pondering for only a second what kind of offspring we would create if it were possible. This wasn’t going as smoothly as I’d hoped. I cleared my throat. “I’m changing tonight.” “Changing? Changing what? Your hair?” He began to turn away, obviously not understanding what was happening. I grabbed his hands and held tight. “Michael, this, what you see, is not me.” I rolled my eyes. “Well, it’s me, but not the full me.” “The full you...what on earth are you talking about, Alana?” He scrunched his face and tried to pull his hands from mine. I didn’t let go. “Alana, you’re hurting my hands.” “I know. It will hurt initially, especially if you fight, but it’ll all be over soon. I don’t want you to suffer.” “Don’t want me to suffer!” He tugged harder. “Alana, let go of my hands!” The pain in his eyes made me uncertain I should do this. If I didn’t, I could not survive. My mind whirled with thoughts of my life without him. Could I find someone else? Who did I know that I could bond with now? To fall in love with and make him or her a part of me, within hours? Minutes? No, not time. There was no one I wanted to spend my life with more than Michael. He was my life, my essence. I needed to do it now, with someone I loved, someone who loved me, with Michael. My hold softened. I wasn’t paying attention and Michael freed himself from my grip. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I hoped we could have been in a warm embrace, his lips touching mine as I transformed. His dark eyes longing for me, his groin pressed against mine. “Michael, please don’t resist.” I pulled his hands to my chest and grabbed him around his waist, swaying his body with mine. “Alana! Alana, my god, no!” He pushed against me. A futile attempt. My skin felt heavy. I lifted my hands and found them marbelizing into a purple, brown goop. Michael recoiled, his eyes wild and frantic told me it was happening. I was changing, and Michael was horrified. The venom was swift. It reached him before he could take another step. My long thin glutenous tongue lashed out within milliseconds, reaching its target. He careened backward and collapsed to the floor, his head bouncing off the tile. Stunned, he groaned but was motionless. My venom saw to that. My emptiness intensified as I melted down, my solid structure, gone. I slid across the floor, my body a silky mucus reflecting light across the kitchen. My length increased. A ball of deep purple reached his left foot, encasing it. Michael’s scream bit into my core. The venom I gave him should have numbed his body completely. He was strong. I had to work quickly. I didn’t want him to suffer. I slipped myself over him, his pulsating body vibrating mine, exciting me into a frenzy to take him fully. His strength allowed me to form my right hand. I touched his cheek, caressing his open lips. His eyes filled with terror. I gasped goo as I watched his face go lifeless before we became one. My body pulsed and squished during absorption, my edges squeaking the tile. Unsatisfied, I rolled over and continued to digest and soak up his energy. I waited for warmth and fulfillment to come. Wasn’t it supposed to be immediate gratification? I had only one chance at this! Where was his affection for me? My shriek vibrated the walls, knocking over several glasses in the cabinet. Purple-green droplets hit the floor. The ache inside me intensified and the emptiness returned. How could I have been so foolish? I needed to take him in a passionate moment. Instead, he was repulsed, disgusted by my conversion. Gelatin flattened, turning green as I spread across the room. A thin bubble sprouted from my body, popping, and expelling my last breath. #

Every palm tree was dressed in lights. Traffic zoomed by on either side of the median barrier. Crowds--families, couples, tourists--were all over the sidewalk. The open shops were packed. Cameras clicked and flashed at the decorations painting the downtown area. I was leaving too much of my fate to this coat. Normally, I wouldn't be caught dead wearing anything hooded. The hood on this oversized coat blocked at least a third of my vision. I had to turn my head to watch my six, a big no-no for me. Because it was a couple sizes too big, it hid my figure. Unless someone was standing right in front of me, they couldn't see my face. My hands were shoved in my pockets. I was mindful to keep my finger off the trigger of my micro nine-millimeter in my left hand. Keeping my head down, I avoided eye contact and kept moving. A few feet ahead, I saw a gray car pull up to the curb. Three older women got out of the back seat. They went straight to the shops. I walked up to the gray car, opened the door, and slid into the back. Hearing the back door close made the gray-haired man in the front seat jump. "Don't look in your rearview mirror and don't ask questions," I said, "and I'll make this trip worth your while." His wrinkled hands squeezed the steering wheel. The movement was subtle, but I could see his shoulders moving up and down. "Take me to Third Street. Drop me at the first stop sign you see. Your payment will be in the back, got it?" The man nodded before pulling away from the curb. When we reached Third, I tossed a couple of bills on the back seat before I got out. I turned my back to the car. Hearing it drive off, I went down Third Street on foot. It was as quiet as I remembered it. The occasional streetlamp was my only light. Noticing someone walking outside of their door, I turned my head slightly. My head was tilted down, but my ears were open. After walking for several minutes, I saw the house with a brick mailbox--the only brick mailbox on the street. I turned the corner to get to the side of the two-story home. Brown vines climbed up the white trellis on the side of the house, next to the fence. I looked to my left. Silence hung in the air. I looked to my right. Nothing stirred. I climbed the trellis up to the window right above it. To my surprise, the window was open when I tried it. Blackness was all I could see when I climbed in. When I hit the light, the pale pink walls were almost soothing. It was nine o'clock, according to the clock on the wall. I closed and locked the window behind me. It was quiet when I pressed my ear against the bedroom door. I slowly turned the doorknob as far as it would go before dragging the door open. I lunged across the narrow hallway, avoiding the loud floorboard that was right outside the bedroom door. Tiptoeing down the hall, I took light, shallow breaths. I pressed my back against the wall and peeked around the corner next to the stairwell. Blue light bounced on my mom's face. The volume was turned all the way down. Judging by her bathrobe, she wasn't expecting company. I pulled my hood back and turned the corner. "Jesus!" My mom clutched the front of her robe and panted loudly. "Hey, Mom." "God, Hannah!" "Nice to see you too, but this isn't a social call." My mom stood up and pulled her robe closed. "When did you get here," she yelled. "Few seconds ago. I'd tell ya to look into an alarm system, but we need to leave no later than tomorrow morning." She gasped. "Why?" "The less you know, the better." She stared at me. "Could you have called first?" I scoffed. "We can't afford for your turtle-necking church friends to tell anyone I'm back in town." "Are you hungry, at least?" "Starved," I said, sitting on the couch. I never knew why my mom got such a kick out of these game shows. I really didn't get why she turned the sound off just to watch them with the subtitles. My mom had done this ever since I could remember. After a few minutes, she handed me a plate of spaghetti and sat back in her warm spot. She sighed. "I'm happy to see you." Her eyes were glued to the screen. "Thanks." "Thanks?" I shrugged. "What do you want me to say?" "An 'I'm happy to see you too, Mom' would be nice." I could've watched my hair grow with how far my eyes went in the back of my head. "It's not enough that I came all this way for you?" I cracked my knuckles. My mom stared at my hands when I started wiggling my fingers. Tatted snakes coiled around my last three fingers on both hands. "I don't know why you marked your hands like that," she said, shaking her head. "Good." It wasn't long before I felt myself nodding off. I got off the couch and stretched. "Night," I said with a wave. My mom waived back. I made my way back to my old bedroom. The faint sound of a car door closing drew me out of bed. My heart was pounding. I rolled off the queen-sized bed and onto the floor on all fours. The coat I pulled off last night was next to the bed. I dug in the pocket and pulled it out. I crawled to my bedroom door. Pain stabbed my right shoulder. I clenched my jaw and held my breath. I released air slowly before I dragged myself on the carpet to the other side of the room with my left arm. I twisted the doorknob and took long, tiptoed strides down the hall. I was standing by the door when whoever was on the other side knocked. My mom entered the room. Locking eyes with her, I put my finger over my mouth. She went to the door. Standing on her toes, she looked through the peephole. She glanced at me. I motioned with two fingers for her to keep her eyes on the visitor. Sunlight hit my mom's face as the door opened. She smiled through her squint. "Morning, officer." "Hello, Mrs. Lee." A dark-skinned man in uniform crossed the threshold. "Sorry to show up unannounced, but I'm afraid--" He stopped when he saw my mom glance in my direction. I put my barrel to the back of his head. My mom's jaw dropped, and she took a step back. "Blink," I said, "and it'll be the last thing you do." The officer slowly raised his hands. "Hear me out before you blow my head off, Hannah," a smooth masculine voice said. I lowered my pistol. There was only one person in this town other than my mom, who called me Hannah. He turned to face me. His light gray eyes pinned me to the spot. "Boo," Tarrence said. "Boo" was right. I was looking at the ghost from high school past. He’d traded his shoulder-length locs for a fade with deep waves but still had the same flawless skin. "What are you doing here," I said. "Warning Mrs. Lee to get out of here." "Way ahead of you. We were just leaving." "Good. Word on the street is Viper isn't sure you're dead. This would likely be the first place he sent someone to draw you out." "Thanks," I said. Tarrence nodded and turned. "Before you go," my mom said, closing the door. "I think we should pray." The three of us held hands and bowed our heads. "Yay, though we walk through the valley of the shadow of death," my mom started, "we will fear no evil because You're with us." The only evil I feared anymore was my own. My only desire was to be out of this town and back to my new life in one piece. "Be a hedge of protection over us and extinguish the fiery arrows of the enemy." I nodded, opening my eyes. They were starting to sting. When my mom finished her prayer, Tarrence said goodbye to her. We locked eyes before he stepped out the door. "Tarrence," I said, walking quickly after him. He looked over his shoulder and turned his body to face me. "Thank you." His eyes glistened. I placed my left hand on his face. He put his hand over mine and kissed my palm. "If God wills it," he said, "I'll see you again." I prayed the first silent prayer of my life when he said that. He didn't let my hand go when I turned to walk away. "Since when were you left-handed?" I winked at him. "About nine months ago, sharpshooter." "That how it's gonna be?" I shook my head. "Takes a hitter to know one," I said, showing him the back of my hands. It takes a hitter to know that no one could miss at that range. Both my palms went to his cheeks. "Take care," I said before going back inside. My mom was packed and walking to the door with her suitcase. "You were always a bad influence on that boy." I laughed. She wasn't wrong. Tarrence's squad car had gone by the time we pulled out. Hopefully, God forgave me enough to do me a solid.

She gave Ky the key and told him to go down to the shack by the beach. He did not recognize the woman. Did not know anything of her clear, pale eyes or fiery hair. She seemed to come to him out of nowhere, and then just as suddenly she was gone again, the rusted key in his hand the only proof that she had ever been there at all. Despite this, though, Ky had decided to follow her wishes, something in her voice convincing him that she must be trusted. The cool afternoon wind whipped around him as he walked along the shoreline towards the shack. People passed him without so much as a second glance, none guessing at the task he was being driven by. After nearly an hour of dragging himself over the sand, only the gulls wheeling overhead keeping him company, he rounded a headland and came upon a cluster of shacks at the base of the beach cliff. Some had been blasted to ruin by wind and sand, but the woman had promised him that the one he sought -- green tin roof, crescent window, last on the left-- would still be standing. Sure enough, it had escaped the fate of the others, all its weatherboard walls remaining in place. When he walked over to the shack, he noticed that its door already hung open. The cramped, dank interior beyond contained nothing but maritime junk covered by a thick coating of sand, but before Ky could think to abandon his task, he saw something sitting nestled in the corner of an old dinghy. Straining his eyes against the day’s fading light, he could see that it was a small chest, the brass of its lock gleaming in anticipation of him. With the key weighing heavily in his pocket, he pulled the chest free and began to work at unlocking it. All the while thinking constantly of her. The Pale eyes. The wild red hair. A voice like smoldering flame, that felt like it was about to burst into sudden, brilliant life. She was only a stranger, and yet, he could not deny that in the brief time they had spent together that she kindled something deep inside him, as if touching memory he had long forgotten. Or perhaps, had only ever dreamt. To feel so intensely for a person he had known for only a matter of minutes scared Ky more than he would ever admit, and he could feel his hands begin to tremble as he tried to push her out of his mind. Finally, despite his unwanted shakes, the key managed to click into place, and he lifted the lid of the chest open. Sitting inside were three small notebooks bound with string and hide. They were all old and worn, the pages long since starting to yellow, looking as if they had been forgotten by time. Ky lifted one free, turning the cover and flipping through the pages filled with fine black ink. Skimming over the text, he looked for something that would reveal why he had been sent to the shack by the woman, but none of the words he came upon seemed to hold anything of importance. There were lists of places. Scattered excerpts of poetry. Names after names that he did not have any recollection of. Standing somewhere between confusion and anger, and feeling suddenly very alone inside the shack, he tossed the book back into the chest with a shake of his head and reached for one of the others. As he did so, however, the page that the first book fell to caused his breath to catch in his throat. Carefully, as though rescuing a wounded animal, he lifted the book back out of the chest again. It was not writing that filled the open page this time, but a sketch. The picture was not just drawn in the standard black ink, either, but in blues and greens and a riot of others. More than any other color, though, Ky took notice of the red that sat upon the page; the fiery hue that painted the hair of the woman in the picture, and filled her lips as she kissed the cheek of the man who held her there. Touching his face, Ky could almost feel the warmth of her mouth pressing against him. Without having to give it any thought, he knew who the man in the picture was. He --and he alone ----knew that kiss, and he could suddenly remember it as if it had happened that morning. Feeling the warmth of a thousand memories begin to bloom inside him, he suddenly realized that he knew exactly who the red-haired woman was. Where she had come from. Why he had lost her. And what she still meant to him. Hands starting to shake once more, Ky collected all three books and held them out in front of him. Stamped in gold across their covers were the titles that she had given them: Our Story - Year I. Our Story - Year II. Our Story - Year III. He pulled them tight against his chest and breathed in their aroma, smelling not the musty damp of the paper, but the vivid scents of days gone by. Long afternoons on the water, fresh summer storms that rolled on forever, and the waning glow of candlelight. Excitement. Fear. Infatuation. He knew that it was all recorded there in the pages, taking him back to a time that he had chosen to bury for so long under the numbing safety of nothingness. Desperately, he wanted to dive into the books and unearth more of what he had forgotten, but he knew that before he could do so there was something much more important that needed his attention. With the books cradled safely under his arm, Ky closed the chest and headed for the door. After all this time, she had come and helped him to rediscover himself. Now, he had to go and re-find her.

I looked this man up and down. He was tall, and had a mop top haircut, and since he was a dirty blonde with tan skin, along with his general build, he looked like a surfer straight out of a movie. He had one large suitcase, but I was assuming there were more in his car. He looked my age, maybe a year older. He had his hands up in a sort of "I'm innocent" position, but his annoyed expression said "shut up and put down the freaking flashlights" "Hey! HEY!" He shouted over the crowd. They quieted down and listened to him, glaring daggers the whole time. "I'll answer your questions but I need you to speak to me one at a time, okay?" His tone of voice was not going to go over well with the more elderly of the bunch, and as I predicted, they all gasped at his "contempt", but nevertheless, they spoke to him one at a time, starting with Mrs.Clark. "How did you get in? The gate was locked!" People all around agreed with her question. I heard a mess of "yeah, how did you?" and "Great question, Judith!" all around her. "I'm moving here. My realtor gave me a key. Okay? Next question." Sassy, I like this guy, though I do know that his sass will be his downfall if he wants a job here. "You're moving here? We haven't had a new person move here since..... since..... well we haven't had anyone new since the original founders. He's from the outside! How do we know we can trust him? How do we know he's not a psychopath or... or a criminal?" Everyone agreed once more with Mrs.Clark. "I'm just trying to move in to my new house that I bought with my own money, so if you'd excuse me-" He started sarcastically. A man pushed through the crowd to stop him. It was dark, and I couldn't see his face, but somehow I knew it was my dad. "Slow your roll, boy. What's your name?" He asked fiercely. I knew how angry my dad could get, and I didn't like the new guy's chances of getting through that much. The newcomer rolled his eyes very obviously. "Fine, fine. Davenport. My name is Frost Davenport, but most people call me-" "Your name is Frost, huh? Well, boy, this town doesn't like people like you. I can already tell you have a long..." my dad looked him up and down, lingering on his hips for a second longer than the rest of him "...history, and we don't like people with histories like yours. There are probably a lot of people looking for you, so don't bring your problems into our nice town, you understand?" Frost nodded, a little disturbed by what my dad had insinuated, and I don't blame him, though I didn't necessarily disagree with my dad either after looking at Frost a bit more closely. "What house are you moving into?" Mr.Jackson asked him. "35 Daniel Road. Did no one see me while I was checking out the house?" Frost replied. I felt a hand hit my shoulder from behind me. "Are you finding this as entertaining as I am?" Caleb said in a low voice. I jumped, but tried to cover it up which just made it more embarrassing. Caleb chuckled, which made me even more upset. "It's not entertaining, just-" "Come on, Ivy. You of all people would find this amusing." He pushed. "Fine, maybe it's a little entertaining, but we shouldn't need the whole town to get up just because someone new is moving in!" I whispered harshly. We were far enough away that I could speak in a slightly quieter voice than usual and not be heard, but I knew my voice would get out of control if I gave it an inch so I didn't want to take any chances. "Your right, this town is crazy, but what are you gonna do?" We stared at each other for a second, silently asking each other why our lives were like this. I had lost track of the conversation going on between Frost Davenport the parents of Parkston, but it seemed they were starting to go back to their houses and I wanted to get to know this "Frost Davenport" since he was moving in to the house across from mine. "Yeah, so- Ivy?" I heard Caleb ask from behind me, but I was already walking toward my new neighbor. "Hey." I said, close enough to Frost so that he could hear me. He didn't even turn around. "Look, I just want to move into my new house, how many questions do you have to ask me?" He was expecting one of the paranoid adults. "I'm not like them, and I know how annoying their questions can be. You're Frost, right? Pretty cool name if you ask me." I didn't really know how to act around him. It seemed easy to make him angry, but he also seemed like he could be cool and composed. "Yeah, and what, may I ask, is yours?" He asked me. Yep, definitely pissing him off. "Ivy. Ivy White, nice to meet you, new neighbor." I was dying inside with embarrassment. "And who's your friend? Were you two spying on me or something?" I looked behind me to see Caleb inching his way toward me. I was going to introduce him, but he interrupted me. "Caleb Miller. We weren't 'spying' any more than anyone else here. I'll give you a piece of advice, if you want people to like you, you should drop the attitude and the tough guy act." Caleb stood between Frost and me. I pushed him to the side a bit so I could see Frost when he spoke. "It's not an act. Look, I just want to move, I'm not trying to be rude, so if you'll excuse me, I'll get going now." Frost left without another word. "That man's trouble. I don't like him." Caleb said as soon as he left. "I think he's just frustrated by the frosty welcome. Give him some time to warm up to us." Pun very intended. "Since when does Ivy Tianna White defend anyone and not judge them based off first impressions?" He asked. I smirked. "Would I be talking to you right now if I had judged you completely based off first impressions Caleb King 'I need to peeeee' Miller." I joked, remembering how in preschool and kindergarten Caleb constantly had to use the bathroom. "Touché." He said, blushing. "I'm going home, see you later Ivy!" He waved and left, and I started the walk back to my house. However long Frost Davenport would last in our town, this was going to be interesting. \~ \~ \~ I heard a loud beeping the next morning. BEEP BEEP! BEEP BEEP! I looked around to find out what it was. A fire alarm? No too quiet. I tossed and turned and covered my ears. I shook my head so I'd wake up, and then I realized. It was my alarm. I looked at my clock. It had been 20 minutes since my alarm had gone off. I had to be at the train station in 20 minutes. I had to be at the train station, which was 13 minutes away from my house on foot, in *20 minutes*. I ran to the shower and took a quick 5 minute shower that made my hair wet enough that I could style it, and made sure I didn't smell like trash. I quickly put my jet black hair up in a bun and brushed my teeth, then put on my boots and jacket, and ran outside with my bags. "Do you need a ride?" Caleb said, pulling up next to me as I ran on the sidewalk. I slowed down as he pulled over. "Where are you going?" I asked through his car window. I think his dad bought him a new car since it was cleaner than his old one, or maybe he just took his dad's car. I looked at him again. Fancy suit, slick, styled hair, nice loafers, something was going on. "And why are you dressed up?" I added. He laughed. "Get in the car and I'll explain." He replied. I didn't like the sound of that, but I had wasted one minute asking him questions and I would be on time for my train if I got in the car right then, so I opened the door and jumped in. "To the train station!" Caleb said as I buckled my seatbelt in a voice that resembled the way people said "to infinity and beyond!" Then he actually drove to the station. "So, explain the outfit!" I said. He nodded. "I'm going to a job interview in the city, which means I'm going on the train with you." He smiled and gave me a finger gun. "So you're not surrendering to your dad anymore?" I asked. "He doesn't know about this." Caleb explained sheepishly. "He actually thinks I'm going to a fancy restaurant with my mom, who understands me wanting to get away from him, so she has agreed to tell him that I'm with him if he asks, and I 'accidentally' deleted the Find My Friends app on my phone and stopped sharing locations with him." He added. "So when are you going to tell him?" I asked. "Let's wait until I get a job to tell him anything, okay? What time do you take the train home?" He asked, clearly wanting to change the subject. I decided to let him. "2:30, why?" "Well, if you wanted, we could meet up somewhere before then since my interview is probably going to end well before that, and then we could grab some lunch and after the train ride I could drive you back to your house so you don't have to walk." His face was red as a tomato. Caleb didn't like these questions, or really coordinating things at all. "Sure." I replied simply. He audibly exhaled. We pulled up to the train station, got on our train, and I plugged in my headphones. I scrolled through my music. I wasn't feeling like rap music today. Maybe pop? No. Rock? Nah. Beyoncé? Nope. I didn't feel like any of my music this morning, so I just turned on some Tupac and dealt with it. I leaned my head back, and closed my eyes. I felt fine doing this since I expected Caleb to tell me if it was our stop, and I didn't think I was going to fall asleep anyway. About ten minutes into the train ride, I felt someone tapping my shoulder. I looked over to see Caleb's finger poking me. I paused my music. "What?" I asked, slightly annoyed. "Can I have one of your earphones? I have nothing to do on this train." He asked. I handed him the right earphone, hit play on my music, and closed my eyes again. After about 30 more minutes, Caleb and I got off the train and headed our separate ways. I checked in to work, and thus started my work day. Buzz.. Buzz..... Buzz... Buzz..... Buzz... Buzz.... About four hours into my work day, my phone kept buzzing so I went into a corner to check it. Caleb had texted me: Caleb: Google maps link Caleb: \^ Here's where I want to meet up \^ Caleb: Tell me if that works for you Caleb: oh f\*ck you're at work Caleb: Please tell me your phone is on silent Caleb: SO SORRY! I texted him back: Ivy: Yeah, no shit Sherlock, I'm still at work. Stop it or something other than my phone will be silenced Caleb: ;) Caleb: got the message I put my phone away and got back to work. This guy needs to learn how to send one text instead if six. "How was work today?" Caleb asked me as I stepped out of the building where the library was. "I thought we were supposed to meet at that-" I started. "I know, but I wanted to surprise you!" He said, smiling wider than I had ever seen him smile before. "How did you even know where I work?" I asked. "Foolish Ivy, I can find anything if I want to." "I think you're confusing which one of us is the foolish one." I smirked at him, then we walked back to the train station and rode home. "M'lady." He said, opening the passenger side door on his car once we had gotten back. I fanned myself and pretended to be flattered. He got in the car and we started the drive back to our town. "Ivy..." Caleb started cautiously. "Caleb...." I joked. "Well, I wanted to ask you.... I mean the real reason I offered you a ride today is because I wanted to know if you'd..... maybe.... I mean just consider.... maybe going out for a coffee sometime as, y'know..." I knew where this was going but I wanted to let him finish. A quarter of me, actually, an eighth of me, actually somewhere deep down in my heart, deep, deep, *deep* in my heart I felt bad he was so nervous and I wanted to speed it up by giving him an answer, but the rest of me was finding this way too entertaining. "If you'd go out with me, as a date, and if you don't completely hate me afterwards, maybe consider being my girlfriend?" He finally finished. I laughed, then laughed some more, and some more, then finally I could respond. "Caleb. Caleb King Miller.

There are many things I remember. That's the curse of being human. I remember the way light streaks across the ground like it's reaching for you, to wrap you in warmth. I remember the way it feels when a warm breeze ruffles your hair and brushes across your cheek. The feeling of hundreds of warm blades of grass under your legs, and the smell of the dirt that gets stuck to them. I remember it all, but those memories don't feel like they're mine. A faint memory of running my fingers across damp flower petals fills my head for just a moment, like a spray of perfume that quickly settles to the floor. They were pink on the outside and red on the inside, and as I ran my finger across them, little raindrops fell off the curved tips of the petals. As the memory settles like dust, I feel that feeling of my fingers on the cold flower petals spreading and twirling lightly in the air around me as if it is dancing, just for me. As quick as it came, though, it faded. Lost to the ground. Cold emptiness, like my body is falling through the floor, is all that is left. It seems to echo now, louder than before. Crashing against my heart like big waves trying to rip me apart. I tighten my grip on the arm of my chair and drop my head into my curled-up knees. Around me, there are a couple books scattered on my desk. A glass of water, a pack of gum. The hum of my computer charger and the wall in front of my face. This is what is real. It's been so long since it's been anything else, so long that my own memories no longer belong to me. They are instead the ghost of a child. A child who played in the sun, and collected bright flowers, and sat in the grass. A child who haunts me and won't let me forget all the things that used to be. No matter what, I just won't forget. I accidentally bite my lip too hard and the skin breaks. Reaching my hand up to my lip, I swipe my finger across the surface. I'm bleeding. I push away from my desk and make my way to the kitchen to get a paper towel, holding my finger up against my lip. Late afternoon light coming in from the big kitchen windows cast an unnatural shape on the whole room. I walk straight to the paper towels and press one section against my cut. I make my way back, my eyes following the light all the way up to the window as I walk. I suddenly stop, frozen in place. I know I couldn't have seen it, but I have to check. I rush to the sliding door and push it open, stepping outside. It is still barely spring. A cold breeze hits me in the face. Around me, trees stand without their leaves, and the grass lays dead. As I get closer, I stop breathing. Another frigid gust of wind blows against me, but I don't move. In front of me is a single flower in full bloom. Its pink surface gives way to the deep red inside. I reach out to touch it. Its thin, flimsy surface is cold and wet and it feels waxy between my fingers. Looking at it in my hand, I suddenly start to cry. I feel the tears running down my face, making a path down my cheeks. I collapse under my legs and sit there for a second, looking at the flower and feeling the tears run down my face. "Are you okay?" A voice calls to me from the distance. I turn to see my younger brother walking my way. I let go of the flower and quickly wipe my face with my free hand, still holding the paper towel to my lip. My brother reaches me and sits down on the grass. He looks at me with his thick eyebrows in a furrow. "Did you cut your lip?" He finally says, reaching towards me. I clear my throat a little and nod. "Yeah, I just bit it. It's not a big deal." I respond, gently pushing away his hand. His face changes, his shoulders relax, and his eyes suddenly dart around a little. Then he stops. "It's okay. Cuts are bad while you have them, but they always go away. That's why it's okay." He says, his voice picking up pace as he talks, becoming excited that he found the answer to my problem. "You're right. Thank you." I respond, feeling a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. His eyes dart to the flower. "Whoa! is there a flower already?!" He yells, his little voice full of joy. He reaches over my lap and touches the flower petals. I watch his little hands running over the pink surface of the flower, holding the stem. His hands are still little, his fingers a little chubby. They stand out against the thin petal of the flower. For some reason, I reach out to flower, wrap my hand around the stem, and pluck it. For a second I look at the flower in my hand, a little shocked at what I had done, and why. I feel my brother's eyes staring at me in confusion. I sit there for a second, feeling the silence all around me. Then I start to smile. I roll the stem back and forth between my fingers and make the flower twirl a few times, then I take it and tuck it right between his ear and his fluffy hair. It sits perfectly next to his bright eyes. He looks at me, still a little confused. My smile grows. "It's alright, buddy. Because flowers grow back." I then watch his smile grow in return. He reaches up and fixes the flower behind his ear before looking to me for approval. I smile at him. "It looks great. Do you want to go inside to look at it?" I ask. He nods and jumps up off the ground, running towards the house. I lift myself up as well and brush off my lap. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of him running through the yard. I look up. He zig-zags back and forth through the dead grass, the sun reaching towards him through the branches of the dead trees. I almost feel taken aback, watching him run and laugh through a yard of dead grass and dead trees while he wears a bright flower in his hair. Something swells up in my chest and another tear falls down onto my cheek. I imagine a million flowers blooming year after year so that children can come run their hands over them. I remember once again how I felt when I was running and playing with flowers as a kid. The memories still don't feel like they're mine. Rather they belong to my little brother. To all the little kids. But not to me. Not anymore. I start after him towards the house, watching him jump up the steps two at a time while holding the flower in his hair. He turns to me and smiles, his bright face lighting up. This memory is mine.